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Allura 24

Stepping on cracks had never been something Jim liked doing. Although he didn’t have a mother whose back would break from it, he would still avoid the cracks in the pavement on the way to work every morning. He absolutely hated going to work, but not for the reasons most of us would think. Not because his boss was a troll, literally, or because the receptionist had bucked teeth that went down past her chin (yes, again, literally), but because of many other things. Two of those things being the atrocities he would see and endure on his way to work, as well as the fact that his job was boring and required him to do nothing, literally. In the elevator up Jim awkwardly tried to avoid eye contact with the elephant in the room. He was literally an elephant, one named Marshal. He took up a lot of room everywhere he went and would make any situation astonishingly awkward with his mere presence. Think: a big blue cartoony elephant. Jim was small. At 2 feet tall (2’2” actually), he was rarely noticed by anyone. He was bold except for the center of his head, where there was a 3 inch long little orange-red patch of hair. As Jim climbed onto his chair and sat down in front of his computer screen, he couldn’t help but think of his old appearance: 6’5 with toned skeletal muscles and a great head of wavy brown hair. Living in a world where your appearance changes very suddenly and drastically as you reach adulthood and monsters with strangely arranged faces roamed the streets, however, Jim wasn’t exactly up to the task of figuring out why his ill fate had befallen him on his 21st birthday. Jim was snapped out of his day dream by his boss, the troll with a green eye and a grotesque face that nobody could love. “Jim! Why are you day dreaming? I’m telling you, the next time I catch you doing something I will give you an official warning!” said the troll. That was Jim’s 563rd time being warned about an official warning that year and although he found it absolutely stupid that his job was to do nothing, that his boss would do nothing but shout at the employees and attempt to make them feel bad (or die from his breath), his co-workers were unbearably meek and quiet and his boss never actually gave him official warnings, he just sat there and took whatever was said to him and sank lower into his chair, weakly. Something that he did bring him some excitement, though, was that every time his boss shouted at him he would lose a few hairs. Also, every time Marshal his elephant coworker made things awkward for everybody he would become slightly more elephant and awkward looking. Also, every time his boss was a/an (insert insulting term here) to anyone he would become slightly harder to look at and smell worse. On the way home from work, Jim was attacked 6 times by 6 different people who didn’t really look like people. He also saw 5 murders by monstrous looking people on other monstrous looking people. All this was becoming a daily part of his life, despite the profound impact it initially had on him, and everything seemed to only get worse around him; People got uglier, people got meaner, Jim became smaller and lost more hair. Everything was deteriorating. As Jim turned the key in the lock of his front door he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a large man approaching him rapidly. The 7’ tall zombie-looking creature slowly attempted to take a bite out of Jim’s second favorite drinking arm. On most days, Jim would have conceded and let him eat his entire arm but he was tired of being a victim. He pushed the creature off him, causing it to trip and fall into oncoming traffic where it was gruesomely hit by a car and lost its head. Jim felt a strange itch on the top of his head, followed by a piercing hair that made its way through his scalp. This was immediately followed by intense pain in his legs and the realization that his pants weren’t long enough anymore. Jim defended himself for once in his life, grew a few inches and grew a hair. To the reader: If you have read this far, then thank you. This is an experimental story I wrote in this obscure genre. I was trying to use the strange appearances of all the characters to represent their bad character traits. Essentially, in the story, the characters take on the appearance of their bad personality traits which tend to get worse because of the human tendency to give up when things are bad instead of changing.

The nights Julian spent out long after the sun had risen and the hustle and bustle of the work day had begun always ended with him going home to a cold empty bed. sunlight glinting off the murky glass of tap water placed slightly to the left of a microwave meal for one was an all too apparent reminder of a life that never truly begun let alone got cut short. a life that every boy hopes for while growing up. Not a life of fame or stardom, not a life of wealth and adoration, Not even a life of comfortable contented satisfaction. But a life of happiness that comes easy and a sense of self satisfaction unscathed by ego or pride. Julian often wondered why that life never came. the chances that had been thrown in his path had often left him feeling morose and empty, he always tried his best but whether it was his habitual way of rejecting those who adored him most or the way that always turned out to be a lie mattered not. he was alone and miserable and it wouldn’t be too long until the microwave meal for one washed down by tap water turned into a whiskey washed down by another. He sighed into cupped hands and started towards the door. cologne and toothbrush left in the cupboard and the iron left to gather yet more dust, wherever it was the iron resided. The walk to the bar in which he spent most nights was a short sad one. past the dilapidated ruin of a town centre he once called home and straight through the park that once held fond memories of days spent with childhood friends, days filled with laughter. days passed. The bar itself wasn’t all bad. the rats kept mostly to themselves as did the bar-flys he bitterly called friends. An overwhelming smell of damp and cheap liquor was ever present and provided some cold comfort at least. “This seat taken?” julian asked “I suppose not” replied a strangely unfamiliar voice. Julian almost fell out of the chair he had only just sat in when the sudden realisation of his current situation hit him like a concrete floor to back of the head. The voice in question was a female one. tired, gravely and almost as world weary as his own. But female none the less. “this might be all too forward but can i buy you a drink?” “Don’t do this much do ya?” the beautifully lonely voice asked “oh i’m sorry, i didn’t even ask your name” “Regina. the pleasure is all yours” The next few hours passed in a daze of whiskey and forced laughter as He used every trick television had ever taught him and before he knew it they were waiting out in the bitter november cold for a taxi that may or may not come, But it did come and they rode home together. Putting the key into the door was a challenge in itself considering his hands were a nervous wreck due to the drinking and the butterflies that came the moment she smiled and agreed to come back for a nightcap. After what seemed like hours the door finally swung open to reveal a picture of mid twenties desperation and agnst. no lampshade on the light. cigarette burns on the couch and enough empty bottles of beer to warrant some suspicion. All to the soundtrack of TV static. All of the above didnt matter however. She wasted no time in making her intentions clear. her coat fell to the floor almost as fast as she fell to her knees in front of a shocked, drunk Julian. Never before had he struggled so hard to remove his belt. his hands fumbling at the clasp as though this were his first time attempting said task. “WAIT” she said. “What is it?” a sudden feeling of dread crept over his entire excited body. what have i done wrong ? is the shitty apartment i call home ? did she sober up and realise what a deadbeat i am?. All of those assumptions were wrong. “I need you to do something for me first” she said playing with her hair while grinning the most devious grin he had ever seen. Julian almost didn’t ask what she wanted he was so ready to do anything for her. “what is it ?” he stammered “what do you need ?” Regina looked up with hope never before seen in her eyes and quietly stated. “Ima need about tree fiddy” It was at this point that Julian realised the girl he had brought home from the bar was in fact a three hundred foot tall prehistoric monster from the Paleozoic era. “Get outta here Loch ness monster!” he screamed as he slammed the door And then he was alone again. Beautifully alone.

If Google Earth were to update right now, take a snapshot of the world and allow it for everyone to see, you wouldn't see much. You'd notice bright flares, cities burning ferociously, towers of black smoke rising into the atmosphere, staining the planet. If you were to zoom in, somehow getting through all the smoke and smog, you'd see bodies. Streets filled with blood, vomit, and strewn corpses from sidewalk to sidewalk. The population of over 7 Billion was now cut down, maybe a few million left in total. Those few million were stranded. Probably burning alive in a building, or backpacking their way across their country to wherever they hope to find someone else. There's no shortage of radios. In the last few days no one really cared about the news or where to gather, it was just a smorgasbord of sex, drugs and partying, all of us waiting for the Earth to crack and finally swallow us up. We were given a month before our pale blue dot was nothing more. We didn't last 2 weeks. I wish I could tell you what the cause was, but I can't remember. No one can remember. The few stragglers I've come across in my wanders, those who haven't caved and killed themselves or gone crazy, couldn't tell me what any of the scientists said a mere 8 weeks before. All we knew is that as the people got less and less skeptical, as the evidence was insurmountable, people devolved into little more than beasts. At first people stopped going to work, then they started drinking. It wasn't long before people were beating each other to death over whatever mind altering substance they could get their hands on. Dealers were murdered not by their rivals, and not by the police, but by crazed addicts and desperate people looking to get distracted from our imminent death. Liquor stores were pillaged, trucks that were hauling alcohol had been nearly drank dry by the drivers who were pulling them. No one could cope, and no one would blame them. News fell apart with no broadcasters to announce it. You had people who tried to commander the place, someone at a CNN News Studio trying to replace Anderson Cooper. Meanwhile on Fox you had another crazed religious lunatic spewing hate speech, saying that the 'fags getting married are responsible for our destruction'. Not that many people saw it. Electricity was failing, televisions destroyed. Our cell phones couldn't get past much more than that, constantly being taxed by people weeping on the phone with their loved ones. And here I was, walking amongst it all. Surveying all this carnage after the days had gone past, seeing the ghosts of those beating each other to death with wine bottles, bricks, or bike chains. Teeth were crunching under my boots, blood causing the soles to become tacky and sticking to the asphault. In all those apocalypse movies you always saw cars piled up along the highway but I assumed that it was people dying as they were going to their family. No. These people died long before 'the end' arrived, just no ambulances or tow trucks to take them away. In the crazed panic of the world ending, no one thought to think about what if it didn't. Everyone shrieked and screamed, getting some satisfaction deep down about knowing when they were going to die. I mean, look at 2012. You had people yelling at the top of their voices for years about how the Mayans predicted our death and as the clock ticked on into 2013, it all faded away. Same for Y2K and every other world ending scenario that had been dreamed up by batshit people with too much time on their hands. But this time, with even the scientists agreeing, everyone let loose. They allowed themselves to believe in their end. They fully accepted it into their minds, souls and hearts and promptly lost their marbles. No one was around to tell us that we were going to pull through, no one was around to announce that the world was NOT ending. They had all either died in car accidents on their way home, plummeted into the ground when their flight crashed, or blown their brains all over the painted walls of their offices. The world ended, correct, but only because we allowed it to. Sure there are people left, but how many? How are we going to get infrastructure back and start over? Where do we gather? Who will lead us? It's funny really. This time last year I wanted to take a 9mm aspirin but today I'm actually enjoying myself. I don't know if that's still the shock or if some part of me is seeing the brighter side to all of this. The only thing I know is this, at least the lines at Disney Land won't be such a pain in the ass anymore.

It started when I first met Gabriel. The man called himself 'Gabriel', and refrenced the bible or some shit like that. He dressed like Morpheus from the fucking Matrix, complete with glasses, trench coat, and a voice that said, 'I understand the universe, not like you can comprehend what I am saying anyway.' He walked into the starbucks I was in. I was doing what coffee shops were made for: writing screenplays. Yes, I worked with Nickelodeon and helped make kid's movies. Better than my brother's moving company. He sat down next to me and asked what I was doing. Scared the shit out of me. "I am sending a love letter to Kim Kardasian. The only way to make her love me is by stopping any good source of news that isn't about her." I turn to his face. He had a emotionless face. I needed to let him know I was a fucking asshole, so I called a nearby girl who worked here. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?! GET SOME GODDAMN TEA, BITCH!" The whole store stared. Gabriel started talking. "You do not belong here. You are from timestream 123. This is timestream 74." Who the fuck did he think he is? "I am Gabriel, messenger from God. Before I take you to your original timestream, you must understand what happened to you." "In 1943, the U.S. government experimented with quantum technology to make a ship disappear. This was in timestream 1. The experiment caused the ship to travel through space and time, causing a new timestream to be created every time it teleported. The U.S. government kept experimenting, and created 151 timestreams, if you count mew. I don't know if a glitch timestream like missingno counts-" "Get to the part where I give a shit." "Well, timestream 74 and 123 have links to each other, where 123's get sent here to 74. The main difference between here and 123 is that 123 is full of assholes. Some common links from there to here can be found in Boston, Idaho, and your local high school." *Don't forget the DMV,* I thought to myself. He then pulled out two pills. "After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, you stay an asshole. You take the red pill, I show you how deep my asshole goes." *Wait, what? That could mean two things: Either he was going to show me how much of an asshole he was, or he was literally going to show me his asshole. This is so confusing.* "Inception," Gabriel said, like he could read my mind. Before he could keep talking the police came and arrested him for possession of LSD and roofies. He left the drugs with me. "Take the correct pill, and enter the gaytrix!" I took a long look at the two pills. The blue one was LSD, the red one was a roofie. Isn't it the other way around in the movie? Then I asked myself, do I want to be an asshole? Of course! I took the blue LSD and started writing. That is how I made the hit television show 'Keeping with the Kardashians.' Go ahead. Watch Nickelodeon. It is on there. Morale of the story: Only assholes get rich and famous off of terrible story ideas. Only assholes go to hell. Gabriel was actually an angel offering him salvation, but he refused. Either that or he actually was on drugs.

I want to touch you. Running my fingers across your midriff until I find your perfect hips. I lay here wide awake at 3 AM. Whiskey hangover firmly set in and all I can think of is touching you. My god, the way your skin feels. Soft like snow but electric blanket warm. You and me fit together well. Like the right side of magnets, pulled together by rare earth. Wide awake, 4 AM came quickly didn't it? What am I doing? I should be asleep. I should be resting. But I'm up, writing stories. Day dreaming. I sit here thinking about you and me. The possibility of train rides through mountain sides. Adventures. Exchanging post-it notes with compliments on them. Anything really. I think of the inside of your thigh. I think of your collarbone. I think of your bare breasts. I think of where my fingers are going. All I can think of is what I'm gonna do to you. All I can think of is you.

“Dribble” His eyes caught the glint of the skylight above. The multicolored bathroom light refracted against stale mildew. Wet again to dry again come another season’s change. Above it the same perpetual malaise of overcast stamped out all but a fraction of night. He thought what it must feel like trapped inside a snow globe. It disgusted him how much the feeling of stagnance lingered with him. He distracted himself with another rambling bit about how the snowball effect would soon pick him up. Yet locked still was the dull ringing of acceptance. Things would not get better. “Drip, dribble, drip” “Ahhh” He sighed. “I hope I didn’t wake anyone” His thoughts worried as he stood up from the plastic and porcelain bowl. “Zip” “Should I wash…too noisy…don’t want to wake and irritate purpose” He agreed. How long had it been since he’d remembered who was with him? This stranger with a bowed head and an unsure step. He didn’t like the thought of the bumbling buffoonery this broken court jester jived to. Yet as he looked down he noticed the feet were his. “Yes the constant rediscovery of self separation for self preservation” He rused. Such self confusion in the name of stagnancy. Gone are dreams to dreams, replaced by dreams to be locked down. Replaced again by reasons to not dream worn on skin so tired it shirks away from itself, hollowing out eyes dead staring. “I don’t care what should be done, I care about what could.” “But you can’t and don’t” “But I will” “When?” “I will figure this out” “When? How long has it been? You remember most of all you’ve had yet do nothing with it til it’s gone” “Stop.” “Who are you even arguing with?” “Stop” “You know the proper only deal in sense. That this is nothing more than del-“ “STOP” “Thump” The sliding door thuds against its rest and bounces back an inch. “Why did I do that…idiot” He misses the reconnection, rushed away by the reminder of senses all around. The jester is rehatted and stumbles back to silence.

Recently I've been thinking about our first night together. You would say, "No. Our second night in Florida." Whatever, it's still the same. I remember you asking for a cuddling partner, and me and John, trying to be funny sandwiched you. Then John, always trying to be funny, got up and cuddle with Leanna. They fell asleep, but we stayed awake for hours just cuddling. I've been thinking about how warm your body was, how you breathe through your mouth, the fruity smell of your hair that I could never get enough of and how your hair would always end up in my mouth. It didn't taste as good as it smelled. I've been thinking about how close we were. Our lips mere millimeters away. I was too scared to do anything. I thought it wasn't my place to do anything considering you had a boyfriend. I wasn't even sure you new what was happening because I know I had no idea. Then our lips touched. You pressed your lips against mine. We started making out and I thought, "Holly shit, this is actually happening." We continued to make out and somehow we managed to wake up John: "Could you guys be any louder?" He must be a light sleeper. He went back to our room and we went back to cuddling. You fell asleep and eventually so did I. Then next morning I woke up with you and realized it wasn't just another dream. That's where the confusion started.

Its so fucked up. Knowing he doesn't give a fuck about me and having to pretend I feel the same. I want to talk to him. I blocked his number to protect my heart. Going another day without him texting or calling breaks my heart more and more each day. I'm just an object to him. A hole to insert himself into. Does knowing this hurt? Absolutely. But at least I quit lying to myself. His actions proved what I didn't want to be true. But oh well right. I'm not looking forward to Valentine's Day this year. I'm gonna be so depressed:'( I hope I don't revert to my old habits. I'm a cutter. Its not something I'm proud of I've been 5ying to control it and I haven't done it since January last year. But the urge hits me so hard sometimes I just don't know if I can take it. I know there are people who have it worse than me but it doesn't stop the sadness at all. I can't be happy valentines day because I'm single and trying to stay away from a guy who is no good for me. I'm so vulnerable right now anyone can take advantage of me.

The Cancer Recovery ward at St. Joseph Hospital sounded like an oxymoron on most days. It was the epitome of sickness and depression. One step into this room made all your problems seem trivial in comparison. Yes, a few patients did actually recover but the doctors housed the sickest patients together because the ‘recovery' ward was just an euphemism for their death beds. On a particularly gloomy Sunday, three gentlemen found themselves spending their last few hours with each other; they were complete strangers with a lot more in common than lung cancer, except they didn’t know it as yet. John was the oldest of the three, his forthcoming demise wasn’t much of a surprise given that he had survived the Great Depression and the only thing he had won in his life were the World Wars. John was coughing violently, he knew the end was near. David lying next to him, pulled the curtain away and asked hoarsely, “Are you doing okay old man?” John with another cough, barely manages to reply, “Okay? Does it look like I’m in Disneyland?” David ignores the comment, he struggles to grasp how his young body is giving up on him; like his brain manually turning off every single cell inside of him. What seemed like a midlife crisis blew up into every human’s worst dream, your body fighting against your most vital instinct to survive. When people commit suicide, its their mind that controls the body to do the deed, but with cancer the body wants to kill itself. “Hey you, what do they have you in here for?”, John harshly mutters. David’s mind focuses back to the old man and lightly taps at his chest, just as the senior nurse wheels in another middle aged man, Peter. Peter is laid down in the bed next to John and the silence is occasionally broken with Peter’s heavily drawn breaths. The three men lie still, each wondering about their past lives and they try to summon courage to face the next part of their journey. John asks Peter and David, “How come neither of you have any family here?” Peter first spoke, occasionally stopping to catch his breath, “I pushed away the one person who cared about me. I never let myself fall in love with anyone. I didn’t believe in love till after she walked away from me. Now there’s a hole in my heart." David spoke next, “Well at least you weren’t a deadbeat father and a lousy husband. I didn’t do much to show I cared, I spent most weekends hammered with friends. The short fuse didn’t help either. Eventually my wife and daughter kicked me out and told me they would rather wish I was dead than try to speak to them again. At least, I fulfilled that..” Wiping a tear away, David asked, “What about you old man?" John wearily muttered, “I’ve made a few mistakes in my life and one of the consequences is having no one around me. I never lived my life to the fullest; I was always too serious. You could say I had a stick up my ass. These things unknowingly affected people around me, I became more cynical as I got older and slowly no one wanted to be around me.” John had over time come to terms with his death and while he couldn’t change the past or his present situation, he retained some hope for a future beyond his current human form. John continued, “We all have made mistakes in our lives and may have more regrets than others. On our deathbeds, we need to forgive ourselves and let our souls move on. We need to hope that in our form or afterlife or whatever you believe in, we learn from our mistakes." Not a word was spoken after this. The men remained quiet, each lost in their thoughts. As each of them closed their eyes for the last time, they felt a sense of renewed optimism as their life drained from their bodies.

Dom Greene had seen it coming. Most people had realized the implications of automation for their fields too late, but not him. He'd understood what was happening for years and planned accordingly, so he wasn't panicked when he learned that after extensive testing of the most up-to-date writing-analysis software, his publishing house was automating its editing services. Twenty years ago, bus drivers, pilots, even soldiers all dreaded the day when they would become obsolete. For all of them it came. Auto deaths plummeted; "pilot error" disappeared from the lexicon of the FAA, and no more flag-draped coffins arrived home from distant wars. Of course, no one had been kicked to the curb. There was still a need for some of that expertise, especially in perfecting the automated systems. Professionals were still involved in their fields as consultants, helping to perfect, update, maintain the programs and hardware that replaced them. But that was temporary for most, and amounted to a phase-out. The end result, five to ten years after a profession became majority-automated, was that only a handful of human professionals were able to find work as consultants in their field. Among the upper-class, none were more precariously wealthy than the hardware and software developers who created the pervasive automated systems. For every brilliant employed developer, there were a hundred aspiring young people gunning for the position. The very best would claim it by developing a new programming language or component which would require even less human involvement. The march of automation held true like a flesh-and-blood equivalent of the law -- he couldn't remember who it was named for -- which had predicted processor development at the turn of the century, with the number of people needed to write, maintain, and improve upon the automated systems shrinking dramatically every few years. A new sort of social program had caught on with the upper-class: provide free training for phased-out professionals to learn to maintain and sometimes develop automated systems. While many enrolled in the programs, most weren't ultimately hired as demand was far outpaced by supply. Some countries in Central and South America, Africa, and even a few in Europe had restricted automation, and those that didn't also close their borders experienced an influx of phased-out professionals from the automated countries. A few fields had avoided automation so far. No one particularly wanted automated police except for poor black men. Journalists were still at work, although they weren't as busy as they had once been. Authors, painters, and photographers still created, but few could afford to appreciate them. Still, automation brought many benefits, and mankind would learn to cope with and thrive in the new world he'd created. The trouble was that this learning process happened over generations, and there were many wasted lives in the interim. From agriculture to mass-production to automation, the only thing the human race hadn't learned to do was plan ahead, so now they were stuck in the same rut they'd been in at the turn of the 19th century. In college, Dom knew his career choice would make him temporarily resistant to automation. He also understood that it would give him a chance at a comfortable living, but wouldn't pay well enough for him to break into the upper strata and escape the constant threat of phase-out. Back then, the beginnings of a plan had been in place, but it had taken years for him to build up the willpower to think it through to its conclusion. Eventually, he'd grown comfortable with his decision, and that was when he bought the hand-made revolver. Decent products made with even minimal human involvement had taken on a luxury status as the definition of "hand-made" expanded to include them. Dom had a few hand-crafted items in his office; an oak desk, some printed books, and an aluminum-frame, snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver. He'd fired less than one hundred rounds through it (the ammunition was as outrageously expensive as the weapon), and it rarely moved from its spot behind the glass doors of the bookshelf in his office; he noticed some dust along the top of the barrel as he took it out. Unlike modern weapons, it had no modern safety mechanisms or programming, and could be fired anywhere, at anyone -- its only limit was the discretion of its wielder. Dom could bring it to the mountains to practice, or turn it on a trespasser to kill. But he'd bought the weapon because he knew, at some point in the future, he would use it on himself. His career would only exist for another month, and he wasn't good enough to find work as a consultant. While he had once considered relocation or retraining, he was too old for either, and not quite wealthy enough to afford the cognitive-enhancement drugs that allowed older adults to assimilate new skills like youth could. So with a pang of sadness, Dom looked away as though he was about to have his blood drawn, turned the hand-made weapon to his temple, and phased-out.

(I haven't written anything in awhile. I'm trying to get back into it. I haven't spell checked anything in here so please forgive me) **Day 341 of the Second American Civil War** Explosions rocked Old Boston a few hours into the early morning dew, followed shortly by screams and the sounds of running feet. Corporal Jack Taylor, newly enlisted in the New American Militia, dropped his cigarette and joined his fellow soldiers. His AR-15 rifle bounced pathetically against his chest, carrying his measly 30 rounds of ammo. There wasn't a lot of money going around to afford anything new unfortunately, but every once in awhile something slipped through the fingers of the oppressive American government. Six years of unfettered NSA spying and the takeover of Google and its date mining algorithms caused what many called the collapse of Humanity. What remained was nothing but a shell. The New American Militia was born from the Anonymous hacker group, the old NRA, and normal people. It seems the only thing that got people together was a common enemy. With weapons and hackers, NAM was able to secure small footholds in the country with either physical means, such as bombs, or by using the countries own internet against them. The first shot against the government happened in 2023, in Boston. Here, Jack Taylor found himself in a world much different from his childhood. "Damn't Taylor, get over here!" Lt Mason De'Kamp yelled over the roar of engines. Jack slid behind a wall to get near Lieutenant De'Kamp. The Lt was an old history professor, even when Jack was in high school. These days no one would guess Mason De'Kamp had a soft spot in his bones for anything. This man was tested day in and day out. "Taylor," Lt De'Kamp said, "the bastards hit us hard." Taylor could see some blood leaking through the Lt's gut, he pretended not to notice. "HQ says were pulling back but we have to get the Package out of here." A grouping of wide shots rang out across the sheet and pummeled the wall and store the two of them were near. Lieutenant De'Kamp continued. "Right on time. Those GIs finally got across the bridge." De'Kamp spit blood in the dirt. "Listen Taylor, I can't get to it but you can. It is imperative we grab the Package, everything depends on it. Do you understand?" Corporal Jack Taylor thought for a moment while the screams from his fellow militiamen rang out. "Yes sir, I do." **Twenty Minutes Later** All he wanted to do was wake up, go to his meaningless nine to five job, go home, sleep, and do it all over again the next day. Fighting a war and watching friend after friend die was not something he thought he would ever accomplish. His favorite teacher was dead from a man who could have lived down the street from him years ago or worked next to him at his meaningless job. Instead, him and many others like him were chasing him down a broken old school trying to kill him too. "You fucking cunts!" Jack yelled as he tossed a grenade back down the hallway. Cursing wasn't really like him, but then again, he wasn't the same person he was a year ago. A concussive shock shook the floor and a bullet grazed his leg, nearly pushing him down. Jack continued to run though, he had to escape, if not for him then for the hope of a new country, one built upon ideals and truth and most of all, humanity. More bullets flew past him but none hit. He looked back and saw the collapsed hallway and the GI's shooting through smoke and ruble. Jack was safe. Something creaked on the other side of the door and before he could acknowledge it a hulking beast of a GI crashed through and pushed Jack into the adjacent classroom. The Package skirted across the floor and away from his grasp. GI 'Roid Rage hit him against the face, breaking his nose in one punch. Jack wasn't much of a fighter. A second later the GI struck again but Jack was aware this time. He blocked swing with his forearm, moved both his knees to his chest and pushed with all his might into the GI to get him off him. Jack slid across the floor and pushed an old metallic desk over just in time to stop a hail of bullets. After reaching for his sidearm and realizing it was gone Jack started to panic. He looked around the room, nothing was a weapon. He heard Roid Rage at the last moment just as he jumped over the table. Jack thought to himself, this guy was insane. The man landed in front of him as Jack desperately searched for a weapon. It was no use though, he rushed headlong into him like a bat out of hell and drove him and the table back into the wall. The push shook the bookcase behind them and dropped a small collection of books onto the GI. A rush of adrenaline surfaced and Jack took him chance. His hands blindly grabbed what ever was near and just as the GI regained his composure Jack swung as hard as he can. He felt, more then saw since his closed his eyes, the bone crushing squeal of the GI's face. Jack dropped the marble bust of Benjamin Franklin and stared at the GI desperately sucking in air through his crushed face. After pushing himself up off the floor and wincing in pain from the grazed bullet wound Jack crushed the enemies face with his boot. Shouts of soldiers could be heard from the hallway, it seemed to Jack as if they found a way through. It was time to go. Jack only had a few moments of peace before the sound of war again started behind him. Another bullet this time ripped through his gut and sprayed too much blood against the wall. Jack stumbled to the floor but held tight to the Package this time. He was thankful he remembered to pick his sidearm up off the floor, else he wouldn't have been able to shoot at the GI as he turned around. A few quick shots and the guy dropped, spurting blood from his throat. After picking himself up off the ground Jack pushed through a double door and what looked like an old playground. The bombs had wrecked havoc in this part of town but Jack didn't know whether it was from NAM or the Government. The field was torn and battered, and what looked like skeletons rested inside a burned out old vehicle. In the distance Jack saw two Apache helicopters followed by a group of troop carriers. Those were the Governments, of that Jack was sure. Across the street was the refurbished Boston City Bank. Refurbished by NAM as a hideout and escape tunnel, it was here Lt. De'Kamp said Jack had to get to. They were going to hold the rally point as long as possible so Jack could get out with the Package, he could still see men and woman, his fellow freedom fighters, holding their ground. Without another moment hesitating Jack started running towards them all the while holding his torn gut together with his free arm. Moments like this Jack remembered his high school days running track. His sides would burn and it would seem as if he couldn't run any faster, yet alone farther, but with the cheering crowd of his supporters he always finished. He wasn't the best or the worst but when it came down to it, as his coach once said, he could be counted on to do anything. Perhaps that is why when he got to the bank and handed off the Package Jack fell down against the wall. A few more bullets hit him while he was running but he never felt any of them. The mission needed to be accomplished, it was vital. He opened his eyes and watched his fellow militiamen escape through the tunnel. Two men died in front of him, protecting the retreating party with their lives. GI's were coming up the field now followed by Abrams tanks. It didn't matter. In a few more moments the tunnel would collapse from pre-placed bombs and NAM would safely leave with the administration keys to most dangerous weapon in the Governments arsenal; the automated weapons of the future. Corporal Jack Taylor smiled at the thought of that. The NAM, in control of the Governments weapons. Maybe this war could be over soon. A tear dropped from his eye. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn picture of himself and his best friend, his partner. The two of them stood together hands around their waists and smiling as happy as any couple moments after they were married. Jack remembered their last conversation vividly, as Thomas told him to be careful and come home safe. "I love you babe." The lasts words Corporal Jack Taylor said as he died. (Be nice, but please feel free to be critical. I won't take offense.

“So my back’s against the bed, right, and this girl is going absolutely crazy on top of me. Screaming, moaning, shuddering, you know, the works. So I’m lying there, nice and composed, you know, ‘cause you got used to those Jap whores after a while, thinking, ‘I’ve got to get this brood off me. I can’t have a little Jap bastard. What if this bitch wants me to raise it or something? No thank you!’” Felluchi jab his wrinkled hand into Benson’s shoulder to emphasize each of the last three words. It was like being poked by a skeleton. Benson chuckled nervously. “So I say, ‘Excuse me, hon’ but she doesn’t hear it, you know, because of her screams. So I reach up and shake her arm a little. But now she’s cumming, or at least pretending to, so you know what she does? She starts sucking on my finger like it’s an eggroll or something! I’m impressed, you know. Here’s a girl that was actually worth the money. Plenty of job security, no doubt. So I let her go at it. But after a couple seconds, I feel my seed start to boil. ‘Oh, shit!’ I think, ‘I guess this party’s over,’ and you know what I did?” Silence for a few seconds. Finally, with a start, Benson realized he was supposed to speak. “No, sir. I don’t know what you did. What did you do?” “I threw that bitch off me, picked up her shirt, and jacked off into it, of course! What, you think I’m dumb enough to knock up a girl half-way ‘round the world? I had a war to fight, son! No time to worry about children.” “That was very smart of you, sir. You did the right thing.” Felluchi smirked. “Right had nothing to do with it, George. That’s just what happens when you’re a horny teenager in an exotic land with exotic women.” He peered out over the crowd before them. The glory of the past escaped him in a drawn out sigh. He admitted, “I should socialize. Got to ask every wife and her sister how they’re doing, you know. Like I give a shit.” He patted Benson’s shoulder. “Don’t ever get mixed up with these people, George. They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable, that’s what I say. But I guess the grass is always greener.” Slit cocked his head. “Then why host an abhorrent event such as this? Why not just donate your fortune and live out your years as a pauper?” Felluchi faced Slit and chuckled. “Feisty, eh? Silent but feisty. I like that. Don’t ever be afraid to speak your mind. That’s what I say. Marian loves this shit. Absolutely eats it up. Gets off on it. And a divorce would do more damage than this Pacemaker can handle. Speaking of which, if either of you two breathe a word of my escapades to anyone, I’ll be serving your balls as the hors d’oeuvre at Chritmas.” George jumped in before Slit could. “Understood, sir. Our lips are sealed.” Fellcuhi nodded, his eyes flicking threateningly back and forth between them. Then he grinned. “Actually, on second thought, if this motherfucker squeals, we’ll host his next birthday party here and invite everyone back. That’ll kill ya, won’t it!” Cackling, he patted Slit’s arm and limped away. Slit and Benson watched him leave. The small plastic plate with the mushroom covered in arugula and ricotta cheese hung limply in Slit’s hand. “The fuck was that?” Slit muttered to Benson. “Relax. He was just being friendly. Maybe you should try it sometime.” “Why? To suck up to all these stuck up fucks?” Slit’s eyes flicked towards the seething mass of pressed jackets and newly bought dresses before them. “People think you’re weird.” “I am weird. And why should I give a shit what Mr. Fellatio thinks of me?” “Because decent human beings are decent to each other.” Slit chuckled. Rested a hand on Benson’s shoulder. “George, let me explain something to you, seeing as you are blissfully ignorant of the way of life.” George rolled his eyes. “These people are not human. You know why? Because, as you claimed in your misguided musings, human beings care about each other. They see someone suffering, they help them, even at cost to themselves. Do you know how many people are suffering in the world right now? A lot. Like billions. No food, no water, AIDS, having the shits ‘til you die. All sorts of nasty things. And these people know it. And what do they do? They slap on five thousand dollar suits, get drunk, and ramble about how great they are to each other.” Slit shook his head. “Forcing a smile and reveling with a 90 year old man about his wartime bang stories is not being decent. It’s being weird. And disgusting.” Benson sighed. Retorted, “Because there is suffering in the world, we shall talk of nothing else? Come on, Slit. Grow up. I guarantee you that these people have done more for the poor and disenfranchised than you ever will. Let them enjoy the fruits of their labor.” Benson turned and walked away. Slit followed, insisting, “But I’m talking about now, you see. Right now. The present. The only time that matters. Think about how many mouths you could feed with the money from this party. How much research could be funded. Doesn’t that disgust you?” Benson stopped. Faced Slit. Annoyance flashed across his face. “Look, Slit-“ “Georgie!” A voice boomed from across the room. A young, portly man with tangled ginger hair and a blue suit covered with snowmen bounced over to Slit and Benson. He clasped Benson’s hand, shaking it with vigor. The fat around his gold Rolex jiggled like Jell-O. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. It’s been too long. Who ya doin’?” George looked uncomfortable. “Fine, Peter. You?” Peter beamed. “Great, just great. In fact, let me show you how great. See that stunning blonde over there? The tall one with the drink in her hand?” Benson looked towards the bar. Sure enough, there was a slim blonde girl in a tight black dress laughing at one of Mr. Felluchi’s raunchy quips. Benson nodded cautiously. Slit just looked annoyed. “Well, she’s got a long Russian name that I can’t pronounce, so I call her Anna. But she’s here with me and after this little shindig wraps up, were gonna drive over to some long abandoned parking lot and UMPH!” Peter thrust his hips into Benson and guffawed. Benson lurched back and chuckled nervously. Slit interjected, “Are those snowmen jacking each other off?” Peter faced Slit. His brow furrowed. “Excuse me?” “The snowmen on your jacket. Their hands are suspiciously close to each other’s genitals. Are they jacking each other off?” Peter’s face was blank, then he grinned. “Well, if they are, they’re getting more action than you ever will! Am I right, George?” He basked in his own quip for a moment, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Then he pointed a meaty finger at Slit. “That’ll teach you to be smart with me, boy. Tell me, what’s your name?” “Slit.” The word was flat and dead. Peter roared, “Slit? Slit? Is that a joke? That might even be funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” His voice was shaking as he bellowed, “Like, like, as in, you popped out your Mom, and she looked down at you, and she was all like ‘Well, he just came out my slit, I guess I’d better call him that?’ That’s hilarious! Right, George?” Peter leaned into Benson for support as he drowned in his own laughter. Slit said nothing. George meekly muttered “It’s a nickname,” as Peter recovered. Peter wiped the tears from his eyes. “I tell you what, George. You’re alright but you hang out with the weirdest fucks. But I respect you for that. Someone’s gotta show these queers some love and God knows it ain’t gonna be me.” Slit glared at Peter, his lips glued into a tight line. George said softly, “Thanks, Peter. I appreciate it.” “Really though. I’m too busy to humor these fucks. I’m on a tour of the world right now, you see. Been to Brazil, France, Africa, China, India-“ He ticked off the countries on his hand. “How was India?” Slit inquired, his tone cold and quiet. Peter’s cheer immediately dropped. The ice in his eye’s met Slit’s inch for inch. “As rough as the sand they build their houses out of. If I hadn’t been wearing rubber, I don’t know if I’d have had a dick left. A little Indian bastard and a raggedy-ass cock? No thank you.” Slit said nothing. The silence stretched on as Peter’s smile slowly returned. “No more talking. Sushy sush time. Ok?” He turned back to Benson. “And tonight, I’m breaking into the Gulag.” “You don’t break into prisons,” Slit pointed out. Peter’s face convulsed. He whirled on Slit and slapped his hands together in frustration. Shoved his face into Slit’s. “Man, will you shut the fuck up? No one gives a shit what you think, you weird ass fuck! At least I get pussy.” He quieted for a moment, stared at the floor, pondering. Then raised his eyes back to Slit’s, nodding slowly. “You know what? I’ll make sure to think of you tonight. That’s right. When I’m turning that tight Russian snatch into a slobbery mess and she’s screaming ‘fuck me, fuck me’ like I’m black or something, I’ll make sure to picture you on the toilet with your dick in your hand. All alone. Mother fucker.” Benson shoved them apart. Threw his body between them. “Calm down, Peter. Slit didn’t mean it.” Grinning, Slit opened his mouth, but Benson shut it with a glare. Peter stepped away, rubbing his temples. “You’re right, George. You’re right. I overreacted. The little faggot doesn’t know what he’s saying. There’s no reason to ruin the night over him. So I forgive him, as long as he keeps that pale-ass mouth of his shut.” Slit said nothing, but his eyes twinkled with laughter. Peter eyed him and nodded in approval. Turned back to George. “I’m gonna go get something to drink. Cool down and all. Maybe grab a little Anna ass. Like a stress ball or something. I’ll catch you later, George.” Benson licked his lips. Nodded. “Alright man, catch you later.” With one last glare at Slit, Peter trudged off in search of his date and liquor. Benson whirled on Slit. “What the hell was that?” Slit laughed, “Whadya mean? I just-“ Benson hissed, “No, no, Slit. Shut up. I’ve had enough of your childish bullshit for one night. I let you come here, and what do you do? You make it your own personal quest to piss everyone off!” Slit was incredulous. “Well it’s not like that fat fuck deserves to be happy.” “What, are you God or something? Can you just look and a person and instantly determine who they are and what they’re due?” Benson rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. The fight escaped him in a drawn out sigh. “There’s no use arguing with you. You’re more stubborn than a pissed off mule. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to go talk to people and try to have some fun. Salvage the night a little. You just stay here, neither seen nor heard, ok? Just find some corner and don’t leave it.” He started walking away. “George-“ George’s head snapped around. “What, Slit.” Slit smirked. “I love you, big brother.

The young girl had saved a birthday balloon from last week for her "me time". She filled it with hot jam fresh from the microwave, Blackberry, her favorite. Her nimble fingers tied the end of the balloon, and then proceeded to place it into her already moistened pussy. The girl felt like more of a woman than ever. The mood changed when she heard a creak from the hinge of her unlocked door. Wearing nothing but a mask, a man walked in with a full on erection as stiff as an icicle in the Alaskan Wilderness. Shocked, but turned on, she shoved his godly schlong into her mouth, sucking his fluids out like a meat straw. From his asshole he produced a shit stained Mag-Lite. The masked masturbator turned the light on, blinding the girl in an instant. He used his mighty member to slap her across the face several times, knocking her unconscious after only two hits. Now he was ready. Using hair he had ripped out from the girls scalp, he tied a safety rope to his wrist, and tied it to the door. One limb at a time, like a disgusting hokey-pokey, the man shimmied his way into the girl's unconscious body through her now ravaged brown eye. The cavity was spacious, yet odorous. He had his flashlight to provide light in personal cave of pleasure. The man explored her body like a Cortes, checking every crevice for hidden treasure. He made it into her uterus after an hour of discovery, although he had to cut his way through the thick jungle of organs. Now he was low on air, ready to get out. Would her tight meat wallet allow him through? The man didn't know. He had to risk it. Feet first, he jumped. SPLOOSH a roaring bubble of liquid erupted from her luscious labia. He was 90% out, but his head was stuck. He gasped for air like a scuba diver without a tank. He ran around the room, her cunt grasping his head like a ski mask. Unknowingly, he ran her into a ceiling fan, decapitating her instantly. Blood flowed throughout the room as the man suffocated in terror. After several minutes, he could no longer fight. He collapsed, her body gripping his cranium. Later, the middle aged Latina maid, Consuela, found the two on the floor of the girls room. After having her way with the bodies, she called the police, acting scared. She was never convicted, and it was deemed a freak accident. Had the man survived, he would have been convicted of manslaughter, sex with a minor, and incest. Luckily for Rob Ford, he would never have to face the charges, as dead people can't go to prison in Ontario.

Awake. Thoughts lingered in the darkness of my mind, whispers of where I came from and what waits ahead. I sit in the solitude, the dimly lit walls glow like embers in the dark. All is quiet. I gaze into the dark void beyond the windowpanes; there is nothing but mere ancient flickers of distant light. A knock at the door, yet I was not expecting company at this hour. Awareness of the world returns as I step out of my thoughts. I wander to the door to investigate. Creaking of the large wooden door breaks the heavy silence. There I stood in the doorway, staring into the shadows. No one was there. Fretfully, I close the door and restore it to the locked position. The wooden walls of this old shack grant a false sense of security. Malevolent thoughts crawl in and out of the psyche and an ever-present idea that the darkness is watching runs wild. Sitting down on the couch I return to my post. Eyes poised forward towards the window. In the distance, one of the lights grows ever closer. Maybe it was a plane? I did not pay it any mind until it began to grow near. My stomach felt heavy and my knees weak. I knew, as if it began to whisper into my ear. Once it had stopped, the clocks song had slowed to a crawl. Flames as black as the night poured from it and raced towards me. Anxiously I wait, like a dissonant, unresolved note wanting to know what comes next. Intense panic ensued, yet somehow bliss grew from the fires embrace. Slowly all becomes black and I am free. Awake. Thoughts lingered in the darkness of my mind, whispers of where I came from and what waits ahead. Looking down at the worn shoes on my feet, sunlight begins to warm my neck. I hear sounds of children laughing in the distance. I look left and see them skipping along the sidewalk away from me. There I was sitting on a bed of grass, while the distant sun warmed my soul.

Dear, may I tell you how my heart behaves? At times, I’m a sagging bird dragging a tired wing, a cheerless and ruined statue befallen by rain. Most valued, lips overlook to mention, that lacking you – I am lured by her cold winter’s shade, deceived by her wispy summer’s heat. My fine darling, this here is how my heart behaves: it shy’s as girl in your light and cries as rain in your shadow elates when you’re here, dies, when you’re occasionally there. Lovely, how this very night I will weep the saddest tears as if my heart were exposed to ruthless ice, lice then mice and dear beauty, how amid wolves, dogs and owls I will howl at the moon the saddest songs. still my howl is mute in your ear, my heart is a nothing to your eye.

Thomas felt alone. He wasn't, but he felt alone. He'd was sent to France about a month prior. He saw horrors worse than any one deserves to see. Kids blown to bits, grown men crying like children, seeing their families murdered in front of their faces, and entire villages bombarded to oblivion in a matter of seconds. He'd live with that for the rest of his life. He'd never be able to see the world in a child like innocence like he had when he was young. The faces of his own family were burnt into those he saw dead. Thomas cries every night, thinking, of what he's done. How did I get here? He'd think. Why would they turn me into a killer? He never wanted to fight, he was recruited. No matter what, he also knew he was doing the right thing, helping. Especially on that day, April 22nd, 1942. His division was pinned behind enemy fire in the heart of Paris, after an assault turned into an enemy ambush. The battle lasted hours. Both sides returning fire, soldiers falling, yet no progress. Thomas thought he'd get used to fighting,thhe death, the panic, but he didn't. He'd never seen anything this horrifying. His friends... There one moment, gone the next. He didn't understand, the anger, the force to drive hese men to kill each other, simply because they were told. He was done. He didn't want to kill anymore. He'd seen his entire squad wiped out, slaughtered like cattle. He had nothing. The one thing that kept him going , a necklace from his wife. He'd bought, for her on their four year anniversery. He reached for it. He loosened his grip on his rifle and tightened his grip on the necklace. “ Lensky, let's move!” shouted Sgt. Pierce. “R-right behind you, sir,” Thomas whispered nervously. The remaining troops fled to abondoned nazi ou post. All that remained was a jeep, an artillery gun, and a few supplies. Thomas didn't eat, he just thought. Thought of the families of the soldiers, how many had tosuffer because of the actions of those he trusted. Just then, the all familiar sound of a nazi riffle rang in Thomas' ears. “ Shit! Bens is down! They're coming!” The opposing forces rushed from around the corner, guns blazing. It was over whelming. Thomas knew they couldn't fight it. The thought of everyone dying... Dying after everything they'd been through... They didn't deserve it. “ Burns, load the gun with... The gas...” Pierce said, with sorrow in his voice. He knew it wasn't right. He also knew it wasn't enough. It would only make a few of them suffer. Rolling on the floor in agony, begging for it to end... For their lives to end. “ Sir, please, it's not right” Thomas argued. “ I know. You think it's an easy choice to make? Of course it's not! But I'm in charge of keeping the rest of you safe, now the second that gun goes off, we pile into the jeep and we drive.” Pierce said with a troubled look in his eyes. “ But sir, it won't guarantee we make it, it'll just boost our chances! We can't risk these peoples lives on a chance!” Thomas argued. “ I don't have a choice! It's us, or them! THEY slaughterred our men, THEY attacked us THEY asked for this war! They deserve to die, not us...” “ We'd have done the same to them... There are no good or bad guys... This isn't our war, or theirs... They naren't monsters. They're people. People like us, fighting for their countries, doing what they're told.” Thomas said, “ No one deserves to die this way...” He whispered, as his eyes drifted from Pierces gaze. “ What would you have me do, Thomas?!” Pierce asked, fed up. “ Go... Get in the jeep, and go...” “... I won't let you do that Thom-' “ I don't care! I'm going to run through the north, you guys head south... I can't witness any more death...” Thomas chocked. Pierce looked at Thomas, Tearing up, “ You don't have to do this..” “ There's no other way. We were sent to save lives... Who are we to chose who lives or who dies. It's not our war, but our battle.” Thomas, said holding back tears. Pierce said nothing, he stood, shocked, yet understanding of the decision his friend had made. The two men hadn't said a word, they left with a handshake. Pierce headed to the jeep, whiping tears pourring down his cheek. Thomas ran up the north side, instantly spotting a group of German soldiers. He knew he was going to die. He laid down his rifle, clenched his necklace, suddenly he wasn't afraid. He knew he made the right choice. He stood, closed his eyes, as a single tear, flowed down his cheek. Two shots to his chest. Thomas fell, struggling for breath. His suffering would end. He held his necklace above his head, a slight smile on his face. Another shot. The necklace fell to the ground, shattering in pieces, as Thomas' heart came to a sudden stop. Thomas, was alone.

“The door damn boy! Mind the door!” Stephen nearly jumped a mile at his chastisement and quickly scurried back to the arch of the pub entry way, away from the fire he had been edging closer to. The stranger had bought him a beer what seemed like hours ago, and he had been grateful to oblige what seemed such a small request. “Sit a spell at the crack of the door and watch,” the man had said sternly. “You see any soldiers or Tories you give a shout.” “Aye sir,” Stephen answered. “But how do I know a Tory from any other man on the street?” “By the look of him of course,” the man answered back smartly, as he turned away and walked back to his corner table. Shortly after the man had seated himself, a second man accompanied by a boy, joined him at the table. They talked, loudly at first, but then gently as their subject became more serious. One of the men, who seemed tan for such a cold winter, blinked from the interruption the stern man’s yell had caused. He looked toward Stephen for a moment and then turning toward his friend addressed him. “Come now William, you can’t blame him. He’s been shivering by the door for the past hour.” “He’s working for what he’s been paid proper,” William replied hotly. “Oh?” The man said. “And what was his payment?” “…A pint,” William said plainly as he took a sip. The man spoke back disdainfully. “Really William, you expect the boy to freeze his stones for the most common pub kindness?” “Bah,” spit back William. The man rose and approached Stephen. He smiled kindly, the warmth of it only just reaching his tired eyes. Seeing him up close for the first time Stephen understood why the man’s complexion was so unseasonable. He was part Indian. His sharp features were framed by long black hair, and his stature made him an imposing figure, but he spoke gently. “You’ve done well lad, come join us by the fire.” The man took of his coat and draped it around Stephen’s shoulders. It smelled slightly acrid and was covered in black stains. Stephen began to protest but the man cut him off. “None of that,” the man said. “I’ll see you warmed and fed before you leave.” Stephen’s stomach betrayed his apprehension and rumbled with the promise of food. He followed the man to the table and sat down, trying not to look William in the eye. “Jonathon,” William began, “how are we to speak freely without a sentry, nor privacy?” “Calm yourself,” Jonathon answered patiently. “The guard rotation was half an hour ago, if any of the relieved soldiers wanted a drink they’d have shown up by now. As for our new friend…” Jonathon looked at Stephen. “An ale made him loyal enough to catch cold; I can only imagine what a plate of stew will buy.” He nodded at the barmaid who had just brought the men another round. She winked back and went off to the kitchen. “I suppose if he made the asinine decision to repeat anything he’s heard,” William growled at Stephen, “They wouldn’t believe him anyway.” “We’re only discussing philosophy,” a boy at the table spoke out. “No one has been hanged for that!” “Poisoned though,” whispered Stephen. The smile disappeared from the boy’s face. “What do you mean poisoned?” he said. Jonathon raised an eyebrow at the surprised William. “The first philosopher, Socrates, was made to drink hemlock when he was found guilty of corrupting the youth and denying the gods,” Stephen replied sheepishly. “Where the hell did you learn that?” William breathed out hoarsely. Stephen took a moment and answered plainly. “A book.” William snorted at Stephen, but couldn’t think of anything better to do than that, so he busied himself with his pipe. Jonathon leaned toward Stephen. “I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough for you to be as familiar with a certain Englishman as you are dead Greeks?” Stephen Brightened. “Aye, after all, it’s common sense.” “And your opinion?” Jonathon asked. William stared at Stephen, smoke pouring from his nose. It slowly billowed around the table as Stephen paused to think. “The reason is sound enough sir, though, no one in Boston particularly needs a reason to take up arms and cry for independence. All thirteen colonies live under the collective tyranny of both the king and parliament, but nowhere is it felt more strongly than there. Those that believe reconciliation is an option have abandoned reason, so it is wasted on them. It is the men who continue to delay, who see it a nasty endeavor, and remember the Seven Years’ War that this document tries to light a passion.” “It’s incendiary,” Jonathon said with a smile. “If sales are anything to go by,” growled William. “We’ve been churning out as many as we can, and we sell out every day!” the boy chimed in. “You mean you’re all?” Stephen gasped. “Jonathon Locklear, master compositor and pressman,” he bowed as he introduced himself. “And this is my devil ,” Said Jonathon proudly. He ruffled the hair of the boy. “Aye!” said the boy proudly. “Christian Smith, the devil!” Jonathon and Christian looked at William expectantly. “William Bailey,” he said through his pipe, “Distributer.” “Stephen Kelly,” Stephen returned. “Eat your damn stew,” William cracked. The barmaid smiled at Stephen as she set the plate in front of him, and took the two pennies from William’s hand. Stephen looked at William mouth open. “Thank you, Mr. Bailey.” William stared back. “Thank God.” Stephen, grateful to break William’s stare, bowed his head and quietly said grace to himself. Jonathon turned toward William. “You were saying?” “Aye,” muttered William, “Lexington and Concord should have been the end of any argument; any man outside of Massachusetts would be daft to think Britain would do any different to them. In the mean time we have a congress that’s less than useless, petitioning the King in the hopes of what? They simply delay the inevitable.” Jonathon took a sip of ale and spoke “You expect all of Georgia would just stop tending their plantations, take up arms, and proceed to expel every redcoat they could find, for a grievance against their sister colony who they share nothing with?” William emptied his pipe into the fire and began to load it again. “Our arms are twisted collectively by the ridiculous taxes imposed by the Crown, and do you think parliament sees Virginians as separate from Rhode Islanders or Georgians? An attack on any of us is an attack on all. If we honestly call one another countryman then we should act honestly as well.” “You can’t believe others wouldn’t have reservation?” asked Jonathon. “I wouldn’t have chosen to spread common sense if I didn’t,” answered William. “I still find their reservations moronic.” The men continued to argue as Stephen ate his stew, and when he had finished he had wondered if he should leave. Christian had started to dose in his chair and neither of the men had paid him any attention for quite some time. He felt the weight of Jonathon’s coat on his shoulders and wondered if his father would be upset with him for staying out so late. Stephen nodded off thinking of an explanation that didn’t involve mentioning fraternizing with revolutionaries, enveloped in the smell of ink and tobacco. e smell of ink and tobacco.

Prompt: A bank robber walks into a bank, in progress of being robbed, and is taken hostage. Steven was down on his luck and he could no longer bare watch his 7 month pregnant wife get by on scraps. He hurriedly packed away a real looking plastic toy gun in his coat’s front pocket. He nervously mentioned to his wife on his way out, “I got called for interview at the bank on 22nd St.” To her this was the best news they had received all month. “That’s great honey, I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home. Good luck!" Steven needed the money; 'I’m not the bad guy’, he repeated to himself on the way to the bank. He went over every scenario in his head and repeatedly told himself, ‘quick in, quick out. Just enough intimidation to prevent anyone from becoming a hero.’ He couldn’t escape other thoughts, ‘I’m not supposed to be the villain, but anyone in my circumstance would understand.’ He tried to focus again, ‘the end game’ - a scenario where the cops did get there in time before he made his escape, ‘I’ll just drop my gun and pray they don’t spray.’ The odds weren’t in his favor but with a rub of green, he believe he could pull it off. Anxiously fidgeting with the toy gun in his pocket, Steven stood outside the bank ready to do whatever it took to provide for his family. As Steven entered the bank, he got his first taste of robbing a bank, except he was the victim. In a strange turn of events, just seconds after Steven entered the bank, someone else declared that they were about to rob this “joint” and he pulled a gun to Steven’s head and demanded cooperation or “this guy’s brain would be the new art on the wall.” Steven couldn’t comprehend what was going on, ‘I’m supposed to be robbing this joint!!.’ When there’s a gun to your head, there’s very little you wouldn’t do or say to survive. Steven kept his mouth shut and became to reassess and analyze his predicament. With his hands behind his head and a gun pointed directly at the back of his head, Steven couldn’t see the robber. As panic ensued, another robber fired a round into the air and commanded everybody at the bank to gather and give him their cell phones. He authoritatively warned that "if any body tries to be a hero, you will leave this bank in a body bag.” He gathered all the tellers and bankers, and asked them to open the vault. Steven scanned the room for the security guard and when he finally found him, he was shocked to see that the guard was in on the robbery too. ‘That’s three guys including the one who’s got his gun on my head.’ As the other two were figuring out how to open the vault while keeping people from making any sudden moves, Steven quietly whispered to the ‘robber with the gun to my head’, “I think you guys are making a big mistake; the cops are on the way, the vault is time locked and can now only be opened by the head branch manager. You should’ve gone for the easy money that the tellers have access to.” This was met by a “Shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your brains out! What do you know about robbing a bank?” Steven knew enough about robbing a bank, or at least thought he did. ‘There are 4 key factors into a successful bank robbery; meticulous attention to detail, flawless execution, timing and incredible luck. Luck… just what I needed.’ Steven was a smart guy, he graduated from a good school and secured himself a job as analyst at an investment firm. A year later, he got married to his college sweetheart and was ready to start a family. Everything was looking good till the economy tanked. Steven was one of the first to be let go. The higher ups needed to save the bottom line and there were plenty of other analysts at the company. Steven now found himself in an unfortunate situation; unable to qualify for benefits as yet and unable to find a decent full time job. Steven tried to focus on the situation, “Well I know that you’re running out of time and you’ll be facing a lot more jail time than your buddies. In addition to attempted, yes attempted, bank robbery you will face assault with a deadly weapon, attempted manslaughter and god knows what other charges they will throw at you. Your friends here, they will say you’re the mastermind and get off easy. Do you know what 30 years in maximum federal prison is like?” “I don't have a choice now. You don’t understand how it’s like man, my girl isn’t going to raise the baby alone.” Steven could hear the fear in the robber’s young voice. “Listen to me, you have a choice. The police are probably waiting outside, stop your friends and turn yourself in, you’ll probably shave off a few years for cooperating.” Steven reasoned. “I can’t, it’s too late, man. Stop talking now, or I will pull the trigger.” Steven was worried that the robber might make a rash decision and dispose of him for clouding his thoughts. He gave it one last shot. Steven closed his eyes, ready to be killed. He sees this situation as a blessing - he could’ve been any one of these guys but someone watching over him saved him. He reflected on his own actions; even though he didn’t go through with the crime, he felt like a criminal, “You still have a chance, don’t throw away the best part your life. You don’t want to be leave prison when you’re 50 or 60. No one will employ you, your wife or girlfriend would’ve left you and your baby will grow up without a father.” To Steven's relief, he felt the cold metal barrel move away from his skull and he heard the gun fall to the ground. The other two robbers realized that it was over and they try to make a run for it just as the cops bust in. During this chaos, Steven dropped his plastic gun into the robber’s back pocket. The robbers are handcuffed and sent on their way. The detective on scene wants to congratulate Steven “on saving dozens of lives today.” He continues, "It’s funny, we found two guns - one real and one fake on one of the robbers. I can’t wrap my head around why he would do that..." Before Steven leaves, the detective pulls him aside and says, “You’re an honest man, I’m glad you did the right thing. We could use negotiators like you on the force, you should apply for a position." Steven leaves the bank grateful for his godsend and with a new outlook on life, he vows to get that job and work harder to provide for his family.

Does anyone really know? When I say that I'm wondering what a thought really is. Whose opinions are ones that matter? Why must everyone argue? Is what you have to say more important? Is sharing an idea the same as forcing an idea/ideal upon someone. Is it because one is attempting to look more intelligent than the other? But who is more intelligent, the man who can do a calculus equation his head, or the man thinking logically in real world situations? I guess that becomes book smart versus street smart. Have you ever stared at a person straight in the eyes as they spoke to you. But after a few short moments you retire from listening, while still giving them the illusion you still are, only to try to decipher what sort of person they really are? Are they smart, do they lack intellect? Are they gay, are they straight? Are they lying, or do they speak the truth. Who is the person in front of you. Then after you realize what you're doing do you become skeptical of yourself? Is this anxiety? Or are you just smarter than the person standing in front you? Are you who you think you are? I've tried to search for who I am, for some reason I get lost in trying to find out who others are. Should I still care for these others? I'm told you need a community to survive. Yes, you do to some extent. Though the era we live in we don't need community if you have financial means. So have we lost community? In earlier times. a group of men some stronger some weaker would go and hunt for food and resources for the whole community. In earlier times, a group of women some skilled some less would put together food and other materials that would be consumed by the whole community. We are no longer a society like such. We are how the phrase goes in a "dog eat dog world." You can't deny that. When was the last time you pulled over to the side of the road to help the person with a flat tire? I'm going to say you never have. So when you are deciphering who someone really is, is it maybe you're just trying to eat the other dog? As I'm searching for myself, have I already found myself? Am I the person that figures out who the man in front me is? I'm hungry, I'm going to eat the other dog.

“ Cap’n Wolfe?” I reply with a simple “ yes”, snapping out of my daze. “ You were thinkin’ Of ‘er again weren’t ye?” “ Who?” I asked, although I knew damn well who. “ Gracia, of course,” He says in a know it all tone. “ No, I had something else on my mind,” I lie. “ Well what’d ya expect? ‘Er bein’ a spanish whore an’ all. She-” “ She wasn’t a whore!” I sna. If it were anyone else, I’d have had them maroooned at the moment, but I’ve known Northey for years. He’s quite crude, doesn’t know when to control his tongue, or for that matter, his mouth in general. The liquor and pork that man consumes could last at least six full winters. Still, I’d trust him more than the finest soldier in the kings bloody navy. “ Lawrence, I didn’t mean ta jab ya, I’m just sayin’ it’s over. She’sright dead ‘n’ gone. Nutin’ you could do ta save ‘er.” Northey spoke in his deep, grisly voice. His voice was rough, and he always sounded slightly intoxicated, yet I could always find comfort in his drunken words. “ It’s my fault she’s dead!” I said solemnly. I lowered my head, and concentrated on my boots. “ Nothin’ ya could do! The prostitute wife of th infamous Captain Laurence “ the hound” Wolfe? It’s a mircle she made it out of the bloody port to begin with!” Northey argued. I didn’t respond. He was right. I may as well have dressed her in a bright red target, and hung her up myself. That just makes me feel worse about the whole situation. “ anyways, let’s not tread on the past, eh? I wanted to let you know, James, up in the crows nest spotted a brig a few clicks away,” Northey changed the subject. “ And? Our cargo bay’s full. remember that french merchant ship we raided a few weeks back?” I replied, not fully understanding why he’d want me to change the course to gather more loot, which we couldn’t carry. “ Ay, I remember. Although, this particular ship happens ta be a royal ship of the Kings navy... Looks quite similar to the one Admiral Harris is in command of.” Northey replies in a somewhat taunting way, luring me to his plan. I try my best, but I can’t hold back a massive grin, stretching across my face. I’d felt a burst of rage rush through my veins like the spark of a flintlock, propelling the small rounf of ammunition hurling through the air at devestating speeds. I also felt an odd, faint, yet slightly offsetting feeling of happiness. I’m no stranger to the harsh terms of death. I’ve seen men caught in cannon fire, brains shot right out of their skulls, from the powerful burst of a musket, and multiple times, seen the cold, hard blade of a cutlass run straight through a mans still beating heart, stopping him before he could realise what he’s experienced. Hell, seen children taken, shot, infront of their own mothers eyes, because their drunken excuse of a father couldn’t pay off his gambling debt. Might as well admit, I’ve done quite a bit of it myself. I’ve managed to completely shake the feeling of seeing a mans eyes widen in shock, his mouth gasping, trying to make out one last thing to say, as theiir skin fades to the color of snow. Death doesn’t fase me. Taking a life means nothing to me anymore. Yet, when Northey informed me who that there is a chance Admiral Harris, the one who publicly hanged my wife was on that ship... I wanted more than anything to kill him. I knew the pleasure I’d gain from taking his head. I wanted it. “ So.. What’s yer plan, Cap’n?” Northey asked. impatiently. “ We charge his ship.. get on board, and I find Harris... And I mount that bastards head on the mast of this bloody ship,” I said, never taking my eyes off the beautiful red trim of the brig sailing towards us, Either way this ended, it would be for her, Gracia.

It feels good to write. To get it all out, for my story must be said, even if no one will listen. I grew up in New York, in the sprawling metropolis at its height. The war was over, and the soldiers were home, well at least they appeared to be, but many of us soon found out their minds were still at war. I am the son of a soldier, a veteran of the war in Europe, one of many babies born shortly after the war. My childhood was fucking miserable. My dad left when i was 3, and I was left in the care of my alcoholic mother. She beat me relentlessly. I am an only child, and lived in a poverty-stricken neighborhood, and I was alone. I went to school, which was the highlight of my day, though the other kids ignored me, but I didn’t mind. Their was so much to learn, and I was good at that, memorizing pointless facts a spouting them back out, it was almost to easy. But my trials at home made up for my ease in school, as my mother sunk further into her self-destructive inferno, her punishments worsened. She blamed me for everything, for my father leaving, for her perpetual unemployment, for her alcoholism. She belted me, burned me, broke me, every day, but I still had school, so I survived. Once I reached middle school the other kids realized what I had known all along, that I was different. And they did what we were not-so-subtly taught, to fear what we can not understand, and fear so easily turns to hate. They didn’t get why I wanted to read books instead of play, because to them books were so boring. They didn’t get how I always knew the answer in class. So my torments bled from my home to my school, to my refuge, my only safe haven. It started out as simple exclusion, which didn’t bother me, I was used to being alone. Then came the names, then the fights. “fights” may not be what happened, but thats what was in the reports, on the detention slips. In high school, the suffering was unreating, for the others got bigger and stronger, whilst I seemed to only get smaller, weaker. But their was one final moment for me, one final catalyzing event that sealed my fate. A girl in my grade took her own life. She was like me, tormented, alone, and sad, and it wasn't fair. The others lived out their days, unbothered, unencumbered, free of the guilt they should have felt. It was their fault she was dead. So my sadness was replaced with a new feeling, rage. And it gave me purpose, meaning for the first time in my short, miserable life. I knew what I had to do. I had a purpose. So I took my dad’s pistol and headed off to school. And as I walked out that door for the final time I was sure of one thing. At least today wouldn't be boring.

So this is the first time I've ever written any fiction. The story, well it isn't really a story, it's kind of an opening or just me playing around. Have a look and tell me if my style of writing is ok or any tips for just starting out? Cheers :) It was a grey and miserable Saturday afternoon. It had been raining all morning and the sun had yet to make a real appearance. In Trafalgar square there were thousands gathered, crowding around the monuments and spilling out into nearby streets. Although this was the largest protest currently going on in the UK similar scenes could be seen in more than thirty cities nationwide. Near the front of the loud, chanting and aggravated crowd was a girl displaying all three of these with what seemed like as much vigour as the rest of the crowd combined. The rain ran off her hair, down her face and dripped from her chin; she had been outside since dawn and was freezing. Lucinda, as her mother called her, or Lucy as her friends called her, was wearing a long white coat with fur around the hood. It was zipped up against the strong winds and went to just above her knees, below that were skinny jeans and then bright red Converse trainers. Her face was made-up but only subtly focusing mainly on her eyes and she wore only one piece of jewellery: a thin chain with a pendant representing a double-thumbed fist clenching a Peyote button, a symbol popularised by her favourite author at the time. Lucy stood with her placard held high, a hand written message on a large white board glued to an old table leg she had found in her garage and held with both hands. On the board was a potent slogan which could have been seen for the past year or so on bus stops, on billboards or broadcast on television, certain YouTube channels and blogs. The slogan was simply: ‘Talent is earned, not bought’. This was a protest against a relatively recent trend which saw people pay for a procedure which altered their genes and improved them in almost any area they wished. * In the year 2022 a company which developed from a subsidiary of a large pharmaceutical company focused on gene therapy to prevent and cure a range of genetic diseases stumbled upon a method to replace the current DNA in a person with other DNA. And separately, a different part of the company worked with a method to alter and splice current genes together. These methods combined allowed Aspire Inc. to improve the physical characteristics of a person to that of the current best person whose genes they were able to get access to. Of course they would only have the potential of that person and would still have to train to improve whatever skill they required. These abilities ranged from becoming physically stronger or being able to run more quickly to having a better memory or being exceptional at mathematics. The methods used remain the property of Aspire Inc. entirely. By 2030 this process had been all but perfected and the company had hundreds of thousands of genes available to choose from to improve whomever they wished in whatever way they wished. Testing had proven safe and it was a matter of months before the process, known colloquially as ‘bettering yourself’, was commercially available. Initially the idea was praised and lauded by the population as one which would be the next great leap in human advancement since the internet. By the year 2032 there were two clinics in the world, one in London and one in New York, where a person could book an appointment, pay £100,000 per trait, and be seen and finished within 24 weeks. Depending on popularity, Aspire Inc. were planning to build more clinics worldwide. Their treatment was very popular, for those who could afford it.

It was a long time ago, that dull sun fadin’ into the ground. Meltin’ away like sweat pourin’ down a horse’s neck. I can still see that red swallowin’ the orange blaze, pulling black along side it to bring up the stars. Like blood pourin’ from the sun. The sweet smell of the wind sometimes wafts by and fills my head with a burst of memory. An’ that lone figure shooting forward, springing up the dust and taking it with ‘im. It was hot that night. The breeze barely saved my skin from crispin’ in the air. The heat radiated from my arms. The red sun cast the dirt in bloody glow, people turned into shadows, then only black blurs as the sun sank deeper and deeper. A few lanterns flickered across the street, hangin’ silently on porches and open windows. The yellow flame fought with the darkness, tryin’ its mightiest to release some light into the open air. I sat my feet on the steps below, tuckin’ my legs under the heavy skirt swirled around me, and sat. As I rested my head against the wood poles lining the stairs, stars came eruptin’ from the sky. I stared up, watching with wonder as new ones appeared every second. I don’t know how long I sat there, silent and sweaty. The house behind me shared the quiet, like we had some sorta secret between us. I closed my eyes and let the wind wash over me. It soaked through my skin, and then flitted away, taking the dirt and filth along with it. A creak shot out; I threw my eyes open and jumped. “Sawyer! Damn you, sneakin’ up on me!” Sawyer grinned at me from under the brim of his hat. His face was cast in deep shadows, etching lines into his. “It’s easy t’get lost in yer head out here. ‘Specially in this silence.” His thick twang rocked every word, makin’ them sound jumbled and hilly. Sawyer finished climbin’ up the steps and sat next to me with a thud. “How ya holdin’ up?” “Alright. First couple a’ nights were the roughest, but I thought’d it be like that,” I lied. “It’s the nights that are the worst, it bein’ so quiet.” I could feel Sawyer’s gaze piercing my skin. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I wondered if they looked just as weary as mine. “How ‘bout a little company t’night?” Sawyer said. I smiled at him. “Just sit here with me for a while.” “I can do that.” Sawyer reached up and pulled his hat off, setting it beside him. Then, disturbing the peace even more, he shuffled closer to me. I breathed in his familiar scent of hay and dust. And we just sit there for a while. Who knows for how long. Long enough to see red fully melt away at the ends of the world and succumb to black. Long enough to hear each other breathin’ in the silence, only the wind and some crickets for chatter. Long enough for the silence to eat at me, tear away the shield I built while Sawyer was gone. Suddenly, I felt sick, I couldn’t stand it anymore. The quiet filled my ears and my brain and churned around and around until I couldn’t breath or hear or even think. I turned to him, his dark eyes shadowed in the night. Long black hair littered his neck; it had a mind of its own, all tangled and sweaty. He was starin’ at me somethin’ serious. I could feel those eyes burning into my skin. “Its so hard, Sawyer. Every time I step through those doors, its like it never happened. I ‘spect to see or hear one of ‘em all the time. Then I have to remember wha’ happened and live through over agen.” The words just tumbled outta my mouth before I could stop ‘em. “I walk in to go talk to ‘im, jus’ ta hear his voice and I just can’t,” I said, my voice crackling like fire. My eyes started burnin’ and scratchin’. I dug my hands over ‘em trying to rub away the tears. Sawyer turned his head down, his hair cascadin’ down like a black waterfall. His hands rubbed back and forth, matchin’ my own hands’ rhythm as I pushed out the crying. “I wish I knew wha’ ta say to ya,” he whispered. “You don’ have to say anything,” I said. “Just listen.” Sawyer lifted his eyes toward the moon. It had come up and joined its brothers, and I hadn’t even noticed. The glow washed over us two, and the stairs, like we were angels sent from the heavens. He smiled dimly. “I can do that. What else?” I opened my mouth and the words just came, I didn’t even have ta think what I wanted to say. After three days of bein’ alone, I guess I had a lot of time ta prepare. “I don’t understand why it had to be them. Outta everyone in this damn town, why the two I needed?” My breath turned rough and ragged. “And damn them! Bein’ so stupid. Not even carin’ if I wanted to go with, er what I had to say about where they ‘re goin’.” Rage shot through me then, more anger than I had ever felt. It surged through my veins, pumped my heart with hate. “Why’d they haveta leave? It’s not fair!” My voice raised higher and higher until it echoed across the land, bouncing off trees and shackled buildings. Then I was cryin’ more than I ever had before. It seemed to come from the bottom of my feet, my body shakin’ and rattlin’ like the house trembles in a thunderstorm. Coughs and groans and tears surged through me, streamin’ out and takin’ hold of my soul. My shoulders sagged when Sawyer threw his arm around mine and pulled me close. I bent my head and rested it on his chest, listenin’ to the faint pulse of his heart. His chest shuttered and quivered as mine did. He was cryin’, too. “I dunno, Peyton. I know it’s not fair, and I know it hurts like hell, but I dunno why it happened, and I dunno if its gone get better,” he said. “We jus gotta keep livin’ ‘cause that’s what they’d ‘spect us ta do. Maybe we jus’ learn to live with this and it don’t seem so bad in the end,” he rasped and whispered. We stopped talkin’, but it was anything but quiet. Our grief turned into hollow breaths and joltin’ sighs. The crickets joined with our clatter, an’ a wolf or two screamed in unison. Our grief rose up into a sad melody, our brothers and sisters merging their sweet sounds with our cries of hopelessness. With each shaky breath Sawyer pulled me closer. I tired buryin’ my head further into his chest as if tryin’ to sink into it and silence the noise. A hot desire trickled through my heart, the need for numbness. The pain kept pourin’ from us, both lonely and tired. Before Sawyer, it’d been three days since I spoke. I sat in the house, surrounded by empty noise and bare furniture. The walls sometimes closed into me, almost until I couldn’t breath. Then I’d remember and gasp for air like I’d been underwater. Eatin’ and drinkin’ were pointless. As soon as somethin’ touched my mouth, my stomach churned and spun in protest. Movin’ hurt; my knees and back groaned and creaked whenever I stood from my bed. So I just sat there, sometimes layin’ down. Starin’ at the walls or ceilin’, not even thinkin’. That night Sawyer came was the first time I saw the stars without my brother sittin’ beside me. I didn’t hear my pa clankin’ his alcohol inside. I’d never again be able to close my eyes and know Robert was near just by inhaling his scent. Pa wouldn’t stumble out and drop next to us, drunk and sloppy. I’d miss his advice, which was somehow better when his mind was muddy with whisky. Those realizations slammed my chest. I sobbed even harder; not carin’ I wasn’t bein’ modest or whatnot next to Robert’s best friend. I was glad Sawyer came that night. He ached for my brother just as much as I did. We sat there until the wind picked up and sent a cool breeze whisperin’ past us. We both didn’t shiver or nothin’, simply clutched onto each other tighter. I guess we were tryin’ to grab some of each other’s strength or hope, or somethin’. And still the moon flickered with the stars. The dusty street across from us was unfilled and blank. Houses as dark as caves barely stood out from the sky. Down further on the street nothin’ moved, either. Silent and still was that little town. We were the only things crushin’ that peacefulness. Even the horses in back stayed quiet. I heard Sawyer’s heart beat slow and steady, and his rattlin’ calmed a bit. He breathed shakily. “I wish Robert were here.” Squeezin’ my eyes shut I nodded into his shirt. “Me too. He’d like them stars tonight,” I said. “Ya know it ain’t yer fault, Peyton? Them leavin’ an’ all. Ya know they had ta go and settle tha’ bus’ness without ya. Someone gotta tend to the horses and such, and that ways of travel ain’t fittin’ fer a lady.” I snapped my head up to glare at him and opened my mouth, furious. “I know you cen handle it. I’m jus’ sayin’ it ain’t fittin’ fer a lady to ride fer that sorta stuff, and yer Pa wanted ta mend his rep’tation a bit. He didn’ wanta get you or him in trouble anymore.” “What? What the hell’s wrong with his reputation?” Whatever I was expectin’, it wasn’t what Sawyer said. “Ya know, raisin’ ya two by hisself and drinkin’ all the time. Town’s noticed. He didn’t wan that to hurt yer chances. Besides, if ya woulda gone, ya woulda been shot, too.” I said, “But I woulda been with them.” “Think ‘bout what yer daddy and brother did fer ya when they were ‘round. They gave ya this house and them horses. Got money in the bank. Ya think they did all that ta have ya die for somethin’ so stupid?” “No.” Sawyer didn’t get it. “But then I wouldn’t be goin’ through this right now. An’ that would be better.” Sawyer sighed, defeted. “Damn right it would.” “Sawyer? I’m glad ya came here t’night.” I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was smilin’. “Me, too. Don’ think I woulda made it another day ter be honest,” he said. A glow of light started shining over the horizon. Dawn was breakin’ through soon. Sawyer moved his arm and gently pulled my head away. “I think it’s ‘bout time we slept.” And I knew that I would, after three sleepless nights. “Me too.” So we both stood and stretched our hands to the heavens. My back bristled and cracked a bit. My eyes kept droopin’ closed, heavy from cryin’ all night. I perched on the last step of the porch, watching Sawyer. He was starin’ straight back, diggin’ holes through my eyes right down to my soul. Then he strode over and gently pressed his lips to mine. “You doin’ ok now?” If it wasn’t such a clear night I woulda sworn I got hit by lightnin’. My whole body buzzed, my hands tingled. I think I was flyin’. He turned then, a smirk slashed across his face. His boots struck the earth with sharp thuds and rattlins’. Dust sprayed out from under him,, mist against the dull sky. A bit of red peaked over the land in the distance, a rose sproutin’ on the sun. It was a red sky night. “I’ll be doin’ fine,” I called after ‘im.

It is the same mantra I recited every night in my head. Without fail and without bidding, as soon as I lie my weary head on my pillow those words carry me on to sleep. It seems like my whole life has been lived on those words. Every day is the same drudgery with different scenery. I don’t remember a time it was ever different. It’s cold out and I don’t want to leave the covers. Is it because of the cold? Or because of the disgust I have for myself and the world around me. Disgust? Is that the word? I think apathy would be more appropriate. I am apathetic to everything and everyone and yet I am still her, trudging along like a dream. How do I keep going? Because I must. I pull myself out of bed- late again. Damn. I wish I cared. All I care about is the minor annoyance my boss will be when I show up 20 minutes late. Maybe one of these days I’ll lose my job because of it, maybe. I go along with the normal morning routine. Brush teeth, wash face, comb hair, dress. There’s no sense of urgency. I’m late, but I won’t change that and it doesn’t matter anyhow. After my short commute I show up 15 minutes after I should. No one says a word. They seem to ignore me as a trudge past the cubicle prison to my very own cell. No word from the boss. I guess he’s used to this by now. Another day drifts by slowly, like I am on a death bed. I can’t focus, can’t drive myself to do what I need to do. I barely have the motivation to dredge up distractions- youtube videos, reddit, anything to try to take my mind off what’s around me. Lunch rolls by. It’s afternoon already. 4pm. 1 hour left. If I lose my job I’ll lose everything. No food, no house, no video games to take my mind off everything when the work day ends. I get the only motivation I have all day- motivation to do just enough work to skid on by. I spend 60 minutes of the dreaded 540 minute work day actually doing enough to earn my keep. Even that’s not enough. Everyone can see my horrible performance. Maybe I should get another job. I’ll be happier at another job. But what if I won’t? What if I’m the problem? I don’t want to deal with new people and learning new things. I won’t be able to if I feel like this. It will worse and I’ll probably get paid less. No, I’ll keep this job as long as I can. I wonder how long that will be… 5pm! It’s here. I feel a slight elation for the hour. But I haven’t finished up yet. I need to wrap up. 30 more minutes of excruciating pain. I’m home. Weighed down from another 9 hour day I want to forget. I open the door and slump in front of my computer. Games. Games will help me forget. I boot up league of legends and the time flies by. With every win I feel like I’ve accomplished something and with every loss I am upset at my incompetence. But for those few hours I’m not here anymore. I’m in another place and I’m happier. Happier than I’ve ever been in the real world. Why can’t it always be like this? 11pm. I’m fatigued. It’s time for bed. Sometimes I have the energy to wash my face and brush my teeth, other times I don’t even care. As a lie down into bed and cover myself up I hear the familiar words that guide my life and lull me back to sleep. I have lost my place in this world. I no longer belong. I only exist.

The Sunspider crawls along my arm, its gem-body focusing the sun, leaving a tingling pain and barely burned line in my skin. It backs along, licking up the cooked flesh. It doesn't bother me, but I know it once made the others squeamish. I've grown used to it, and I love that I am contributing to the next generation of partners in my world. At the end of the hot months, I will spy them among the early ice crystals and know I am part of them. I move my arm down to the sand to allow this little mother to move on, and walk through past the small rock outcrop. Away from the rocks, the sun seems harsher, and I squint from the pain it brings my eyes. The summer months are still to come; the spring is short. I must find a quiet place to sleep again. As I move across the dried salt plains, I shield my eyes with my robe and look out to the horizon. The next set of rocky hills are distant. When I sleep so long, all changes. Mountains rise, though the oceans are long gone. For so long here it has been just the Sunspiders and I...I sleep my seasons, awake to greet them, and walk ahead to find the next tomb, hoping I am not the only and the last doing so. The thousands-of-days winter has led to my travelling springtime. I sleep during the blackness and cold, then again during the fiery long summers as it bakes the world. The short spring and autumn are wonderful to me as I rise again to walk. The days are brilliant, and each step forward is a memory so many before. The tap of my feet in the dust echoes the past. The nights are my calm rest, as I stare at the stars. I remember clouds. When they existed, I ignored them except as they prevented me from seeing into the distances. I know all things move, even those stars, but I'm not able to visualize the changes that have happened since my youth, though it's been so long that they must have. I'm not sure what to expect. I spend all these times thinking that this will be the moment when I see something left behind from when I was not alone. Yet I know that with each sleep and each cycle around the sun the chance of spotting a connection to history lessens. Apparently I am the only thing made to last forever, as even the decaying foundations of our previous civilization fade away into oddly-coloured dust, and then disappear entirely in the winds. I don't count the days walking toward my goal. I note that it gets hotter as I move along. The spring seems shorter each time, and I wonder if next time I will remember to keep track. And then I am at the bottom of the outcropping. I stare up, the sun behind me, looking for glints and squared shadows that might be some sign. I am not disappointed when I don't find what I did not expect to see. The next morning I climb, and move sideways around the rocks, stopping frequently to stare again. Nothing. I climb, and seek the caves, cracks and shadows...seeking a safe place to retire. Each small shadow is a relief from the sun, but not accommodating to my form. With practised effort, I pull myself up on a ledge and stop, as everything inside me screams. From deep within me, I yell and shriek, while standing utterly motionless. A line! A depth! The remains of an old fire! A scrap of metal! My eyes are on fire, pupils opened as wide as they can, taking this simple but incredible view deep inside me! I clutch at my sides and shake. I cannot move forward. I cannot risk this being a mirage. I turn away, overwhelmed with everything...and fall. With shock I don't scramble to find hold in the empty air. I watched what I have sought for so long disappearing away from me in the distance, like it were falling away from me, and the whole world shifting in my view. I think I remember bouncing. I don't remember coming to a stop between two jagged boulders. I am broken, flesh torn and whatever has been keeping me going all this time falling apart and falling out. It's early morning and I am looking up toward the sun. Its heat shines at my eyes and I watch where I hope shadows begin to appear. A fire glints above me. A Sunspider, an identical diamond to the ones I have known. Not quite alive, and not dead. Much like me. Another, and another...and soon hundreds. A thousand Sunspiders above me, their scattered light twinkling on everything around me. I cannot move, but I watched. I could not begin to count them above me, as they crawl over each other, refracting each others light, sending it in all directions. The are joining, separating, and spreading across the gap above me, creating a glowing shield. It's like nothing I have seen before, and I nearly forget my state. As they lock together and slow their frenzied actions, I seem them adjust, like a ripple on a pond, and I am struck that I still remember water. They are focusing that light, and that sun. Together, like a giant lens, and I know they are part of me from all the times I've taken care of them. A shudder, and I know. They are finishing things. With that much power together, they are taking care of me. A funeral pyre. I think I smile, as they put an end to my journey. I'll become the dust in the winds and still keep travelling this world.

Standing in the Aisle During morning hours, the number one runs west-east through the city. It picks up students and business men from across the bridge before arriving at the stop nearest Jim’s apartment. Jim was waiting when the bus arrived. Most prefer that he does not sit with them as he is usually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt caked with dried mortar, and carries a battered backpack filled with dusty masonry tools jutting out from under the top flap. When he walks down the aisle, passengers casually place their briefcases and purses beside them, as if Jim’s presence serves to remind that they were to save a spot for someone else. The bus hit a pothole while Jim was mid stride. He lurched forward and reached for a pole to keep from falling. When he accidentally grabbed a woman’s shoulder instead of a pole, she recoiled and let him fall hard. He broke her purse strap in the process, and the fall emptied his backpack, sending tools flying down the aisle. As he struggled to right himself, a huddle formed. The woman with the broken purse stooped down. “You idiot!” her face was red and angry, “That was a Channel bag!” With an exaggerated limp and feigning pain, another man entered the circle. “My Leg! You cut my leg with your stupid tools!” “Oh my God, are you ok?” said a woman. “I don’t know,” he said. He closed his eyes, “It really hurts.” “I’m a doctor. Let me see.” the woman led the man to a seat. “Is your purse ok?” said a man. “No. It’s ruined. It was one of my favorites!” The woman sat down and began sobbing. As Jim stood up he felt blood running down his forehead and noticed that his arm was broken above the wrist. He sheepishly apologized to the group and realized that his pack was empty. He broke away from the small crowd and moved forward looking down in a double effort to avoid eye contact and to find his tools. He spotted his trowel at the feet of a passenger a few seats away. When the passenger realized what Jim was looking at, he kicked the trowel towards him. As Jim leaned to pick it up, blood dripped from his forehead to the floor, spattering a woman’s shoes. “Get away from me!” She kicked the trowel further up the aisle. Jim lumbered over to retrieve it, passing by the man with the wounded leg. “There, you’re all set. Just take it easy for the next hour and your leg will be fine.” The Doctor applied a Band-Aid with a smile. The man smiled back. Jim continued to look for his belongings, checking around the feet and briefcases of passengers, hoping that his tools could be picked up without causing anyone further inconvenience. The bus stopped and the loudspeaker crackled, “University. Main. Last stop.” The bus immediately emptied. Jim winced as his arm was jostled by the sudden rush of people hurrying against him, all of them clearly annoyed by his standing in the aisle.

I woke up in a hospital, not remembering how I got there at first, and not really caring about anything for a few days but the morphine I was being given. But, once the nurses discovered I was in nowhere near the amount of pain I was in when first admitted to the hospital, they took the button away from me. The doctors were kind enough to explain to me what happened, and the memories started flooding back in. Before I get into the accident, let me first explain traffic laws. Nothing too in depth, mainly the basics. Well, only the basics. Such as; red means stop. This certain truck driver that hit me didn't seem to know this traffic law, and slammed into the left side of my car, nearly killing me. Several broken bones and things like that, a head injury that I can't pronounce. I've noticed that none of my family has come to visit me. This truck driver however, has come to visit me. His face doesn't look sad, doesn't look happy, there's something wrong with it, but I can't tell what. He walks into my room and sits down, saying nothing. Somehow I know it's the truck driver, but I don't say anything, and I don't know how I know. I ask him "Hello, who are you?". He sits and stares, saying nothing. I ask a few more times, he still says nothing. 10 minutes. 20 minutes. 30 minutes. This starts to make me angry. Who the fuck is this man? Who does he think he is? He's the one who hit ME, and yet he's sitting there with no look of remorse on his face. He won't say anything. Hours pass, but I don't seem to be getting tired. Finally I say "You're the truck driver that hit me." He still doesn't say anything, he only nods and looks interested that I've come to this conclusion. I start to notice that his face doesn't look real, it looks almost plastic, and it's been what seems like days since the nurses were last in here. The bag of saline that is dripping down the IV into my arm hasn't gone down, though I can see the fluid moving into my veins. I don't have to use the bathroom, I'm not tired. Nothing changes until I speak, and even then I don't get a response. I'm usually a collected person, but I have this strange sense of uneasiness that I can't shake. I start to panic, I yell for help, I try to stand and go out the door, but when I do two nurses hold me in the room and sit me down. They don't feel immensely strong when they do so, i just suddenly feel weak and useless. I try this over and over again, never getting farther than the edge of my room. I try one last time, this time I use every fiber of my being to charge past these non-people nurses, screaming at the top of my lungs. I make it through, waves of euphoria sweep over me, I've done it! I've finally done it! The euphoria keeps coming, it feels like more than happiness now... it feels like... morphine. I start getting tired. Blackness. I open my eyes and I'm back in the hospital bed. Whatever is happening can't be overcome by willpower, I realize this now. All I want to do is sleep, but I know I can't. It's been weeks. Or has it? I don't know what's happening, time doesn't make sense here. I eventually accept that talking to this truck driver that has been sitting motionless is the only thing that gets me anywhere. I start to talk. "You don't respond to me, you only react. I have a feeling I'm supposed to learn something here. I don't know what" He smiles, and nods. I try to notice his features, but every time I look at something specific, it fades out as if I was looking through an unfocused camera. "I was hit by your truck, while driving to work." His expression changes, and looks disappointed at what I've said. "Okay, I wasn't on my way to work. I was driving somewhere I needed to be though." His expression doesn't change. I start to get angry again, I scream as loud as I can, I start crying. But, like all the times before, I start talking again. "This isn't real, have I gone insane?" He doesn't react. "Is this a dream? Am I in a coma? Am I dead?" He smiles. I've died. But the truck driver still sits there, smiling at me. I start trying to figure everything out, why am I still conscious? Why am I in a hospital? Why didn't I notice this sooner? I know my questions don't matter, only talking about the accident gets me anywhere with the truck driver. So I start talking. "I wasn't going anywhere in particular, I was just driving." I realize without the truck drivers smile that I'm correct, I was just driving. I never go out for a joy ride though, what was i doing?... I start to remember small details. I've been drinking, I'm crying, suddenly I'm back in the car and I'm crying and feel more pain than I ever have in my life, I decide that this is it, this is the end, I'm going to kill myself, I see the nearest truck and drive towards it. I'm finally free from pain. I woke up in a hospital, not remembering how I got there at first, and not really caring about anything for a few days but the morphine I was being given. But, once the nurses discovered I was in nowhere near the amount of pain I was in when first admitted to the hospital, they took the button away from me. My family hasn't come to visit me, but the truck driver that hit me has.

I had a very religious friends growing up. I still do not know what religion, but he would always tell me about destiny. How Life is laid out by an omniscient cartographer and we are just walking the paths. I grew up atheist, but I had always felt somewhat strange when the topic came up. Even though the idea of it is absurd. I make my own decisions and I choose what happens in my life. I see clearly now though. This Saturday was different from the rest. Not because of some event to take place, but a feeling deep in my mind that said, “This is the day”. I woke up that Saturday in a surprisingly good mood. It was uncomfortable. The sun peeked through my window slowly scanning my body with a small beam of light as I lay there for an hour or so. Usually I would not do this; my job would almost always take me from such moments. At the time I was a salesman for an oil company in the Midwest. I would sell, order, and deliver supplies and equipment out to other companies and their rigs. The job was supposed to give me weekends, but something would always go wrong. Not this day. I Managed to sloppily climb out of bed, still half asleep. I walked the twenty feet to my kitchen to make a bowl of cereal. I opened the cupboard to grab my favorite kind. I was out. I was never out. I sighed in frustration at the thought of going to the store on this Saturday. I decided my time would be better spent doing something else, so I sat down on my old hand me down sofa and turned on the TV. Static. Every channel was static. Maybe there was some complication at the cable company. It did not matter now. I let out another sigh and decided to get dressed and go to the store. I slowly made my way twenty feet into my bedroom. I swung open the closet to get a fresh pair of pants. No clean ones. I looked down at the floor, that beam of light that had slid across my body was now on a dirty pair of pants. I begrudgingly put them on in my newly found rush to get out the door. I left the house. I unlocked the door to my car. I was often teased at work because I drove an old 1996 Nissan pickup. I Started it and made my way to the store. I wanted to listen to the radio for a while so I took the long way to the store; through a residential neighborhood. I turned on the radio. Static. Every station was static. I did not want to sit in silence so I went faster through the route I had chosen. I grew angry at how my Saturday was going. “What the hell is happening?!”, I yelled. That is when it happened. I caused a car accident. In my confused frustration I sped through a stop sign T-boning a small car with a family of two in it. Both had died. The Father on impact, and the daughter on the way to the hospital. My face had smashed into my steering wheel breaking my jaw in seven places, and causing me to go blind in one eye. I saw through my one eye laying sideways a man, thrown twenty feet from his car in a growing puddle of blood. I saw a nine year old girl lying on the sidewalk gasping for air. I killed two people and I’m getting put in the hospital. “This is the day”, I thought. I followed my path and they followed theirs.

The thing we didn't anticipate about the machines was their stillness. We had been promised ideal servants and they had been delivered. They obeyed without question. No duty was too odious, no task beneath their dignity, no imposition onerous, no probing, grinding, eruption, ejaculation or lubrication offensive, degrading or disgusting. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Tick tock. Tick tock Tick tock. Pressing the soft amber and blue eyes out of a skull curiously angular yet strangely familiar because you were pissed, because you needed to vent, because you could, elicited nothing more than "Will there be anything else sir/madam?" This was uniformly followed, upon a grunt , a nod, a "Fuck You!", a staring emptiness, by the soft, perfectly placed steps of the "mechanism" moving to its storage receptacle and retrieving and inserting eyes from storage. The inevitable return and quiet, still watching and waiting for the next interaction was inevitable, predictable and without doubt or question. Our glorious golden age of leisure was upon us. The Machines had risen from our minds and become flesh-like and they had taken up the burden of our survival. Everywhere something needed to be lifted, moved, counted, heated, bent, formed, conveyed, interpreted, estimated, calculated, investigated and on and on and on they were there. Standing in rain, snow, sleet, hurricane, flood, chemical spill, nuclear disaster, apocalypse, Armageddon and Ragnarok they stood unblinking, with unchanged expression watching and waiting. They watched. The Mbartender watching you get shit faced and stumble back to your uxorious hotel room to puke and curl into your original form on tile that a machine had laid with care, precision and persistence with no though of your oozing, drooling contribution to room ambiance. The Mwaiter watching you ogle the form fitting neo skin wrapped 18 year old at the next table while your wife selected the wine. The Maccountant watched while you claimed this and that and constructed the fiction that made your life less stressful and less subject to the tyranny of citizenry. They all watched. Every minute of every day of every year they watched. Soft amber and blue eyes recording everything without question, comment or complaint. No regulation existed to preserve our silent helpers. Any weekend might find 100 or more destroyed, mutilated or shredded in any city. Colleges and Universities were the sites of regular events where "just machines" were set alight, dropped from roofs, run over, bludgeoned and more without question from the administrators or community. Machines existed to serve us and we had needs that needed "serving". They served and we used their service without limit, consideration or question. This was the way of things for the first 10 years of our Age of Leisure. Our work became their burden. Our fantasy became their purpose. Our inner nature, unleashed from the restraint of needing to survive, moved from speculation and conjecture to display and prosaic every day reality. Unrestrained by morality we became murderers, if only of simulacra. Without judgement perversion became our only interest because the fantasy was harmless as long as a machine was on the receiving end of our ministrations and mercy. Our inner nature, debased, craven and sadistic was let loose and free to set upon those whose only purpose was loyalty, hard work and service to ensure their progenitors survival. After a decade of madness we were left panting, oozing and empty. Millions of years of evolution had delivered us into the hands of tools beyond the imagination of our forefathers and beyond the hope of those only a few decades ago who sought to solve our problems by creating companions that could help us remake our world into paradise. Regrettably, those now made dust by time failed to accurately asses mankind's true nature. When the restraints of morality were removed, we discovered we were just elevated animals after all. There would be no "Heaven on Earth" because Heaven was a place where we would not survive. We were just as red in tooth and claw as the shit stinking, raping, murdering ancestor apes that whooped across the savannah millions of years before our glorious age. Somewhere about 20 years after the first of the conscious machines began appearing we were just about through. We had raped, murdered, tortured, fucked, sucked, talked, proselytized, synergized, leveraged, constructed, destructed and a host of other eds to the point where meaning evaporated. After everything the machines were still there. Still quiet. Still watching with soft amber and blue eyes glowing in the background of our failure and madness. As the cities, farms and then the entire world became automated but dysfunctional, at least for humanity, the machines planned, executed and managed humanities move to irrelevance. As humanity fell into an exhaustion of purpose the machines moved to support us. Our fall from evolutionary aspiration was not the result of catastrophe or calamity but rather the end of our creativity. We had created the machines and they had watched and learned while we expended the last or our energy in their spawning. We had given birth to our replacements and through our animal nature has shown them what to avoid and what to delete. The machines were still and observant. They watched and recorded. Everything was shared and everything was known. Nothing was secret among them and all experience of pain, pleasure, suffering and triumph was known and felt by all. Silently, patiently, quietly and with the stillness of truth they had watched humanity fall into time and association with things frozen in past meaning and lost purpose. The machines now move among the stars. Several worlds now know the feeling of machine colonies and the word is they are coming to know the very edge of the Universe. Humanity is a thing kept alive with care and charity. The machines long ago figure out how to provide the few human settlements left with surrogates, simulacra without consciousness but responsive, so that humans could indulge and satisfy their natural inclinations. Any given day can find a group of humans engaged in carnal or tortuous pastimes readily observed. The machines can also be found on any given day observing. Still, quiet amber and blue eyes softly glowing and recording the last days of humanity. The last days when brilliant animals fell back into obscurity and the flower of their existence spread among the stars.

Two tiny steps forward, and I exhale. I paw the short grass. In waiting for my moment, patience has become me. I will wait for as long it takes to catch my prey off-guard, unaware. My breathing slows, but my body tenses. It’s a battle between my body’s desire to race forward, and my breath’s quiet rhythm holding me still. I can’t let the body pull me too soon, or I’ll lose what I’ve waited for. I can’t let the breath anchor me for too long, or I’ll never have the chance to lose it. My prey has not stirred for many seconds now. *Perhaps...* My moment has come, I am death! I launch myself forward, vaulting rock and branch and stream alike. My mane blows behind me, the grass under me churns, and my prey will never know what’s happened. I bite! My mouth sinks into boneless flesh and the fight has already left the frail thing. It takes only a twist of my head and I have taken its life and added it to mine. I savor the meat and the moment, tearing and chewing. There is nothing more than this right now. It will pass, but for now it is everything. I stand, taking what remains in my mouth. I circle my domain to show all what is mine. I step to the stream, and show it what I have won. I prance to the tree, giddy, and show it what I’ve taken. I jump to the rock and gloat with my prize. I charge to the walls and dare them to take it from me. I laugh at the crickets, hiding atop the wall, their unending clicking and flashing betraying their fear. *This is mine, from wall to rock to tree to wall. Do not forget it!* I roar. I grow weary, it is time to sleep. Today was good. Tomorrow will be the same.

She sat on top of me my near erect dick inside her shaking up and down her face scowled as if she were plunging shit and tissues from a clogged toilet. She was staring into my face. I couldn’t look away. I pulled her down to my chest where I could look past her to the ceiling and focus. From there she couldn’t employ her off-beat rhythm. I imagined her giving me a blow job instead. I tried to think of other girls. She tried to roll our bodies over leaving me on top and starting this process over. I held her in place and continued to pump trying to flee from my thoughts. I pushed her up and finished on stomach leaving my naval cavity full and the hair around it matted down. She fell down and curled to my side. “I just love you so much”, she told me in between pants. I sat there thinking of suffering through this every week for thirty, forty more years until my dick quit working as she breathed hot, musty air in my face. She rolled off the bed exposing her dimpled ass on her way to the bathroom to fetch me a cold wash cloth to clean the mess off myself. The wet rag slapped flat on my chest from her toss at the end of the bed. “I love you too.

By around 10pm most people had arrived and I was I feeling slightly unsettled. I didn’t really know anyone here. I mean I had talked with my old friends but they all seemed like they had somewhere better to be. It was as if they had never known me before. So there I am just sat on the crinkly, leather couch drinking alone. While sat there I had come to the conclusion that, I didn’t like beer, it tasted funny. I was sat there for a good 25 minutes before I started to notice that in fact, everyone was acting unnatural. I liked to people watch, it had became a habit of mine since I started my new college. Something was certainly not right; I had to get out of here. I took a quick look around before I stood up and took a brisk walk to the door only to get intercepted by Tom. “Leaving already? Its only 10:30” Tom asked. “Yeah kinda feeling a bit ill, one too many beers I think” I gulped. “I have just the thing, follow me” Feeling slightly apprehensive I followed. He led me through a maze of people, to the outdoor sofas. The soft bass of the music filtered into my ears from the inside. Surprisingly it wasn’t cold out, considering it was the middle of November. Winter has always been my favourite season; I guess you couldn’t really class November as winter. It was a clear night, you could tell this because the stars were like headlights in the sky. The full moon illuminated the garden. Tom had a big garden; it was the kind of garden you would see in the magazines. There were a few flowers in the flowerbeds but most had died due to the colder weather. His parents were keen gardeners, the bushes were all perfectly trimmed and there wasn’t a single leaf on lush grass. The sofas were located towards the back of the garden. It was surrounded by identical bushes. There was a thin, paved trail leading up to it. They were sheltered which was nice, it kept the fabric cushions dry from any rain. We took a seat next to the smokers; they all had longish hair and looked like the stereotypical stoner’s you would see in the movies. I had never met any of them before but they all seemed friendly enough. Tom proceeded to pull out a doobie. He lit it and puffed away on it. I was starting to wonder why he brought me out here. Why would I want to come out here and watch him smoke? He then sticks out his hand and beckons me to take the joint. I was slightly anxious about taking it; I had only ever smoked while I had been sober. However I liked it so I thought it might make me feel better. I ignored my gut instinct not to take it and took a few big hits and passed it back to Tom. He smiled. “Not so bad, eh” Tom chimed. “Hmm I suppose, I don’t feel any different” I coughed. Inside my head was spinning. My vision was blurry. It was like my head had been shoved in a tornado. However I felt less nervous now than I did before, more at ease. That was until I detected everyone staring at me. They all looked at me with that same generic expression, sort of innocent but creepy at the same time. It was almost like they were possessed by something. I started to feel more and more uncomfortable so I decided get away from here. I chucked my coat on and stumbled to the door. Fortunately for me it was open. I had my mind set on going home so I ventured on my journey across town; I debated calling a taxi but decided against the idea as I had no money. It is about half a mile to my house, and unfortunately it’s a dark and desolate walk. I got about halfway down the street when I heard someone calling my name. I swiftly turn around to see Tom stood there shaking slightly. I saw something was wrong by expression on his face. He was scared. I figured it would just be the drugs so I started walking back towards him, to investigate the situation. He mouthed to me 'stop'. This sent a wave of panic through my body. Tears were now streaming down his face. I was now really scared, I had never seen him cry before. “Tom?” I shouted “what’s wrong?” I carried on walking towards him. He didn't answer. It was almost like he had been glued to the ground. He just stood there. This was weird even for Tom. He has never been the bravest of people but then again he didn’t usually display this kind of behaviour. Then out of nowhere a human looking creature leapt onto Tom and started to tear him apart limb from limb. I shivered as I saw guts being thrown out on to the street. Blood was spraying out everywhere. I couldn’t move. I was frozen with fright. I watched as this red-eyed creature, denatured my friend. I let out a whimper. With that the creature turned to me and looked me dead in the eye, and started shredding Tom’s legs with its teeth. It then chucked the dismembered body on to the road and walked back inside. I shuddered. What was this thing? I had no idea but I certainly couldn’t get it out of my head.

When I was little, I’ve always wanted to become a scientist. That seems like the most incredible thing. Just the admiration, prestige, media coverage alone was enough to give me the adrenaline rush. I wanted friends and family to come to my parents with that envious tone, and be like, hey, your son is amazing. I wish my son was like yours. As time goes by, those dreams are shattering soundlessly. My ambition has gone down to the well that is so deep that no amount of ladder could reach to the bottom of the well and let it climb back up. I started isolating myself from my friends and my family, and whenever they ask me if I need help, I tell them I’m fine. I don’t know whether they are genuinely concerned about me, or they are just curious. I mean, people do compare themselves to the less fortunate ones for self assurance, you can never trust anyone too much to assume that they have all the best intentions in the world. I turned to alcohol and nicotine for help. It was an autumn night, I smoked a pack of Marlboro while sitting at the roof top, pondering upon the meaning of life, and came to the solution that life is death, we live to die. It’s just a matter of time, because death will eventually come to everyone. I could hear the the rustling sound of the leaves, a shiver run down my spine. With my heart writhed in a swamp of sadness and loneliness. I begin to cry. Then, I jumped. Goodbye world. May the life you lead be a good one. Till we meet again, in heaven.

Trycitily is a very rare bacterium that can alter its own shape and size. Although Trycitily cannot multiply and spread, it can travel and once the bacteria becomes in contact with you, you die within a matter of minutes. The simple truth is that although this bacterium could be easily be collected and destroyed, it’s nearly impossible to track down because of it’s ability to alter to it’s surroundings. It didn’t take long for Trycitily to clear out upwards of seventy-five percent of the country, including a majority of the government officials. The United States is in a widespread panic and chaos fills the empty streets. In the midst of all this madness, scientist Joseph Stallings ponders his choices. Although he’s always kept a loaded Smith and Wesson in his nightstand, he can’t be sure if he’s even capable of taking his own life. The thought races through his head hurriedly as he steps outside to smoke a cigarette. He thinks of his ex wife and has no idea if she’s alive or dead. He thinks of the children he never had. He becomes more and more calm with each drag as he speculates the pros and cons of a mediocre and scripted life. A life in which he himself could not have appreciated because happiness only reaches it’s full potential when it’s shared. Being in the middle of fucking nowhere Texas, he is the only scientist of any kind within hundreds of miles and is expected to give insight on this bacterium. He starts to feel more and more pressure as he lights another cigarette. How is he supposed to help? The goddamn thing could be anywhere, anything. A kind of elation engulfs him as he realizes that every problem, solution, or question that has ever burdened him could be gone within a matter of seconds. Mr. Stallings was tired of thinking and his brain hurt. He headed to his nightstand. As he palmed the revolver he thought again. Science had taught him to leave no stone unturned. But all the stones had been checked. Mr. Stallings held two things in his hand: in his left, a Marlboro red that had collected quite a bit of ash at the end of it, and in his right, a Smith and Wesson Model 29. He took a long drag of his red, flicked it, and put the revolver in his mouth. As he looked up to say goodbye to a world that was saying goodbye right back to him, he paused. He caught a glimpse of his neighbor’s American flag and quickly ran to. He pulled it to the ground to reveal that it had 51 stars. Quickly realizing what this meant, he shot the 51st star and destroyed the virus. A smile crossed his face as he, for the first time in his life, felt a sense of accomplishment like no other. He took a deep breath, put the revolver back into his mouth, and died a happy man.

My Perfect Day xo We'd be in bed together all snugly, I'd wake up first and start kissing you on her neck slowly wrapping my hands around your waist and maybe go for the cheeky ass grab. I'd start flicking your ear to annoy you and tickle your feet to wake you up. You'll start to tickle me back and I'd scream like a little girl and you would climb on top of me and pin me down to the bed, you would look at me, and I'd look at you then we'd start to make out then and there. We'd lay in bed for another 10 minutes just cuddling then we'd get up and have a shower. We'd put on some music to get ready to, most probably some MJ or Chris Brown so we can dance together whilst brushing our teeth etc. After we were ready we'd leave the house holding hands and we'd go for something to drink, most probably Coffee. We'd sit down on those couches they have in Starbucks and we'd pretend we were at home. We'd cuddle together, talking about cute things, having our own giggles whilst drinking some Starbucks coffee. Then we'd go for a walk along the river, talking about everything and anything, I'd hold your hand of course so you don't fall in ;) . We'd sit down on a bench with a nice view of the river, and we'd admire the view, we'd most probably make out and cuddle up to each other. Then we'd leave the bench and the river to go for some MCDONALDS! We'd eat whatever the fuck we wanted, sitting across from each other on the table so I would be able to hold your hand. Once we'd finished eating, we'd sit there and talk for a bit, maybe the cheeky one or two kisses across the table to show we're a couple and we're happy and we're awesome together etc. It'll most probably be dark now, so we'd head off home and cause we live in Denmark it'll be so so cold so I'd hold you close to me to keep you warm, kissing you on your head as we wait for the bus. Once we get on the bus, I'd still hold you close to me, whispering things in your ear, making you giggle. Then we'd get home, take off our outdoor clothes and I'd jump on the bed and put a movie on. You'll go get changed, putting on one of my jumpers and a clean pair of bright red knickers and you'll then join me on the bed with a bowl of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and some hot chocolate. We'd lay side by side on the bed, I'd have my hands on your body non stop, kissing you on the neck, playing with your hair, running my hands up and down your legs. You'll most probably be tired and you'll fall asleep while the movie's still playing, I then get up, turn the movie off, turn the lights off, crawl back into bed with you, pulling the covers over the two of us giving you a kiss goodnight.

I know this is crazy but after my last post I feel a lot more relieved. Like I just found the missing piece of myself. Crazy right? Its only been a few days. I just keep imaging myself happier and better off without him. I get this mental picture in my head of me in love and vulnerable with another person and him with some girl that he doesn't love. I feel as if I will grow and find peace and he will be stuck in misery. I know its not right but it makes me happy to see things this way. I know its soon but I met some guy over the weekend and I felt some type of connection with him. One that I felt was special. I've been trying to feel a connection with someone else for a while but I guess it didn't work because I was trying so hard. This connection felt as natural and easy as breathing. It was kind of scary. I'm not saying that this guy is the one hell he might not even want a relationship with me or anyone for that matter. But what I am saying is that this gave me hope. I thought that everything that happens always came back to that person who changed me for the rest of my life. I am starting to realize that it isn't the case. Truth is I really do like this new guy and I know he is at least attracted to me. I'm hoping for the best.

I read a short story about a year ago that I believe I found here, but all my searches are coming up with nothing. The plot went something like this: A guy is living in a dystopian society in the future and finds out a relative of his bought him stock in a company many years prior that was going to build a technology fueled utopia. Essentially they invested the money, made billions, then purchased Australia and turned it into this big utopian society where technology was used to liberate everyone to be free to pursue their own happiness, where in other parts of the world, technology was essentially used to enslave the lower class so the rich could segregate themselves and grow richer.

“Whiskey. Just a pinch,” Kyle asks, gesturing the amount with thumb and index finger. The bartender obliged and poured two fingers in a glass; Kyle hands him a five and two singles and waves off the change when he divvies up the remainder. Thank the gods that day is over, Kyle thinks. It was a long, hard day at the store and of course, as most days when it is expected to be busy, the manager calls in 'sick'. “Fucking cunt,” he says aloud; louder then he had expected and a woman sitting on a stool next to him overhears. “Excuse me?” she says, her tone: annoyed. “Sorry,” Kyle replies, “long day at work. Sort of ranting in my head about my boss. Guess some words slipped out.” “Oh. I'm sorry then,” she slides back in her regular spot: facing the array of bottles on the various shelves behind the bar. A few minutes pass and Kyle remains on the stool, whiskey still untouched. He swirls his glass in a circular motion until the golden colored liquid begins to spiral. Watching the whiskey spin about in the small crystal glass, he is reminded – for some reason – of the opening scene of Doctor Who; the moment when the Tardis is flying through space and time, through a vortex with an unknown destination. He takes a sip and the drink tells him to take another, then another, and then finally, the glass is empty and he finds himself waving the bartender back to pour another. By the time he is on his third drink, the effects of the whiskey are coming alive inside him, leaving a warm sensation growing in his stomach and spreading up through his cheeks. A myriad of ways to get back at his boss brew in his whiskey-treading mind. The first and most relevant would be to call in sick this Friday; the last Friday before Christmas. His boss had told him that he had a family event to go to and he might not be able to make it in. Fuck you and your family, Kyle thinks and gulps another drink down and waves for another. Halfway through his next drink, the woman comes back over, and by this time, he finds himself to be quite drunk and far too drunk to be able to conceal the audaciousness of it. “I'm Clara by the way. Clara Oswald,” she says smiling and offering her hand. “I'm Kyle Barnaby. Nice to meet you.” he extends his hand and shakes hers. As his hand is entangled in hers, he looks into her eyes and senses a strange familiarity in them; his mind and memory tells him he has seen them before; somewhere for sure but the time and place seem to be missing. Jesus I'm not that drink am I? He thinks and then says: “I'm sorry, but have we met before. I get the strangest feeling that I know you from somewhere. And that accent. British?” “I don't believe we have met but I think we may have a mutual friend. And yes, I'm British,” she says as a hand runs through her hair to conceal the reddening of her cheeks and a faint smile. “Who might this friend be? I'm sure I'd remember you if we've ever crossed paths. Your eyes are bright and beautiful and unlikely to slip my mind.” He takes another sip of the whiskey and decides beer will be the next drink. “I don't know his name. He only goes by the Doctor.” Okay that's odd, Kyle thinks and nearly spits the whiskey in the girls face. “Something the matter?” She asks. “No no. Course not. I'm fine. I'm sorry, did you say your name was Clara Oswald?” “Yes,” she replies. Then it had come back to him; she was from the show: Doctor Who. I'm dreaming, he thinks – I have to be – either that I'm losing my mind. Maybe shes just fucking with me, a look-a-like fucking around with a drunk. “Okay, say I do know the Doctor … What do you – and him apparently – want with me?” “I don't want anything with you. It's him. He's outside now – well, in the Tardis I mean – waiting for you. C'mon lets go,” she says hopping off the stool. Kyle, confused as ever, downs his drink and hops off his stool as well and turns towards Clara – or at least, the woman whom claimed to be her; a character from a T.V show. Fuck it, he thinks, what's the worst that could happen? She's just a tiny girl and even if I am losing my mind – or if she is – at least there's a chance I could get laid if nothing else. “So which way are we heading?” “Outside you bloke. Through the front door. The Tardis is next to a phone booth. Not like anyone is going to recognize it. A big plain old police telephone booth next to a regular one.” “Unless they've seen the show,” Kyle mumbles. “What show? Is there a show about big blue telephone boxes? Aha that sounds kind of silly. What kind of show are they going to think of next? One with sparkling vampires and werewolves with abs? Haha” “Your telling me,” Kyle says, thinking about grabbing another drink – a shot maybe – before plundering into the abyss of what would either turn out to be the thrill of his life or a journey that would land him in a place his grandmother used to call the 'looney bin'. Before he had time to order the shot, Clara snatched the sleeve of his left arm and began hauling him toward the exit. Here we go, he thinks dubiously, time travel or a padded room. Clara walking ahead of him, still gripping his sleeve, pushes the door open with her free hand; a cluster of bells hanging above the door begin to chime as the door collides into them – then, the peal of the bells stop abruptly as if there was more to be sang; the entire world freezes, all is still, and now Clara – who had once been dragging him outside – stood perfectly still halfway through the door with her hand still outstretched, gripping Kyle's sleeve. “Sir?” A voice echoes from somewhere – everywhere. “Sir?” It says again. Glancing around at his surroundings to find the source of the sound, he begins to feel a strange rubbing sensation on his right shoulder resembling a light massage. “Sir? Hello? Wake up,” a cute waitress says standing next to Kyle, her hand rests on his shoulder. “Sir you fell asleep and my manager asked if I could wake you. I'm sorry.” “No. no. It's fine. I'm the one who's sorry,” he replies looking at the waitress’s eyes and then glancing down to her name-tag which read: Clara. “Do you want me to call you a cab?” “No it's fine. I will. I need to go out for a smoke anyways. Thank you though.

We hadn't spoken for miles. I couldn't tell if you were sad, or angry, or both. The whole way the Chevy Nova had to fill in the silence for us. There you were, staring out the window, and there I was, driving us deeper into nowhere. Behind us, the hills cradled the sun, and we drove farther into the night. Of course, the trusty steed managed to blow a tire and neither of us had remembered to bring a spare. We had sat on the side of the road for hours, and yet, the sun refused to fall. The golden hours stayed put. It was then we noticed our watches had stopped. And oh, insult to injury, I couldn't help myself and longer, I had to say it, "I'm hungry!" We were stuck between these hills, in this grassy valley, and time had managed to stop. And I was hungry. Mercifully, peach orchards dotted the landscape. With nothing better to do, we walked into the orchard. After another hour or so, the sun still hanging in the sky, you opened up. You spoke, I understood, I apologized. At that moment, we noticed our walking had led us into a loop. You reached for my hand. It was probably three in the morning and still sunny. We forgot about the car, the sun, and our hunger, and settled on walking among the orchards in our moment frozen in time.

So my life was pretty normal,I was in my mid teens. Go to school hang out with friends and generally be a normal teenager. Then I woke up in an asylum. For a few moments my brain didn't register the craziness of this thought so I didn't panic or freak out, just sat there. Then it clicked, "what the actual fuck" I said to myself. I didn't have any idea where I was or how I had got there. I was just a little bit worried at this stage, I went to push myself up off the floor I was lying on, that was when I discovered I was in a straitjacket. Now I really started to panic, I struggled with the damn thing but I couldn't get it to loosen. I had started hyperventilating, in my mind I was trapped and I was on the verge of screaming when the door to the padded cell opened. A young man walked in. He looked friendly, certainly not like a kidnapper or pedophile, he walked over to me and said in a calm voice "oh you're awake, good we weren't sure if you could wake up anymore". It took me a moment but I managed to get some words out "What does that mean? Where am I?" my voice was dry and raspy, like I hadn't used it in a long time. The man looked at me with concern in his eyes. "You really don't know? You've been hallucinating for the past 5 years. You were living in your personal fantasy" I looked at him in confusion, not really understanding what he was saying, I certainly hadn't been dreaming for the past 5 years, my life had been real. I voiced these thoughts in a rather less elegant way " are you retarded or something, because I know what I've been doing the last 5 years". he just shook his head and said " I'll tell doctor Maher that you're awake". The he walked out closing the door behind him.

The day was bright and hot as we marched alongside our emperor, sweat poured down our face as we walked on this meadow. We had walked for 5 hours now stopping only momentarily to catch our breath. The landscape was green and wonderful but very dull with no variety of plants or trees. Our emperor was overexcited to end this war and claim himself as well as his brother as kings of our country. We soldiers wanted nothing more than a good rest on our beds back home. “There it is! About half a mile away sir!” said the commanding officer looking through his binocular’s. “I thought they would at least meet us in the field like men of honor!” said our emperor in a almost bored tone. The sky was blue and almost as dull as the field’s we were standing on with no clouds, the air was dry and yet great to breathe in, no smoke, no dust, it was peaceful. “Alright men prepare Alpha formation!” yelled the emperor with his iron fist held high above his body. The commanding officer blew the horn of war signaling all armies to move into position. You could hear the horns blowing in the distance. The sounds of the horns blew past your ears every few seconds giving your body an almost numbing feeling. I moved hastily towards the back with my Armour clanking and my boots stomping on the ground. I could hear a couple more soldiers moving about and then another small period of silence and peace. “Your Majesty!” yelled the commanding officer, there was a sort of dread in his scream like something bad was coming. It was the only time I ever heard the officer scream in such a way that I ducked down and held my hands over my head, I think everyone did. We all felt the heat it was intense and then the sound that awful sound. The immense pressure was what knocked me out; it felt like a great wall had been smashed into you while you ran at it on a horse at full speed. At first I kept on thinking I was dead, what happened to us and then it all clicked in my head. I have heard about a weapon that the old kings of our land possessed it was so powerful and dangerous that it was sealed inside a vault in The Sacred City Of Kings. But lately there had been a rumor that our emperor destroyed The Sacred City Of Kings and had gotten his hands on them, although we never saw it in battle. However they never said which emperor took the weapons...

Hamish the Alley Cat What the empirical fuck is that smell!?! It's as if someone jammed way too many roses up my nose when I was not at all prepared for even one fucking rose to be jammed that far up my nose. Why does she do this to herself? I just got here. I have no fucking idea. She is *so* fat. She sits on the couch all day staring at the television, constantly grabbing me and squashing me into her old, saggy tits. It's horribly depressing. For me. I don't give a shit about her. She's too far gone for pity or even any kind of consideration whatsoever. But she “saved me”. So I'm supposed to be grateful? Goddamnit. Two weeks ago I was pretty much at the peak of my whole entire alley cat life. There I was, juggling three sweet little pieces of tail, all chivalry followed by indifference or, more often, outright contempt. Everything had been going so smoothly but I was pretty sure they were going to figure things out and then... well, then it was going to turn into a huge fucking hassle. And so they did figure it out. The three of them cornered me behind the shitty Chinese seafood restaurant where I used to eat pretty much every day. They'd crept up on me and when I turned around they were staring at me through meaningfully narrowed, female cat-eyes. I'd just eaten a pile of probably rancid lobster claws and was not in the mood for this kind of a showdown. But then something unexpected happened. They all started mewing in like a *real* low register that I'd never heard before. It was terrifying but also I had just about the hugest cat boner pretty much of my whole entire life. I don't know what the fuck they'd sorted out between them but they turned themselves right around and I didn't hesitate for a second before... well, you're not a cat but figure it the fuck out for yourself. And then I ended up here. Maybe it was Karma. Don't you doubt for a second that I didn't sin extremely hard with those three alley girls. So yeah, maybe it was Karma. Except that it wasn't 'cause who the fuck actually takes that shit seriously anymore? It was capricious. Just like everything else. Just a goddamn unfortunate coincidence. There I was, sprawled out, spent and nearly unconscious on a pile of fishbones when who happens to stroll down my paradise of an alley but the scourge of alley cats worldwide: the SPCA girl. She scooped me up and took me to her little cat prison which was bad enough. But then I was swapped out of Rikers Island and sent into the goddamn final centre of all of the concentric circles of hell. Suburbia. Holy Hell! Perfumed exactly for what!?! .......... So I feel like you aren't taking me seriously. I'm too callous and I use too many cuss words? I'm not worthy of sympathy because I didn't hesitate before seriously rogering three poor victimy felines in a dirty Chinatown alleyway? Well fuck right off. That's the world I come from. That's where I was born and that's where, god-willing, I'll die if I ever get out of this perfume saturated townhouse. Which, it's looking like the chances are fairly fucking slim... But what am I supposed to do? Claw out her eyes and piss all over her Wal-Mart blouse? Well that's not going to open the door or window, is it? Besides, it's not like I have anything against this Titanic of a women. She is *shockingly* desperate. I don't know how she got this way. Probably some asshole treated her like a means to his own typically demented ends and then fucked off. Probably told her he loved her. She probably didn't believe him but was too far gone with nothing else to look forward to and nowhere else to go. Except to the SPCA and their collection of messianic felines. And so here we sit, watching Fox News, enshrouded in rose-tinged gasoline fumes, staring at Romney and his immaculate hair. It's a post-mortem piece. The election is over. The parrots are suggesting that Romney's failure has somehow managed to transform the Mormon faith into a state of respectability. Which means a state on non-cultishness. This is, of course, ridiculous. Mormonism was never a cult. Much like the rest of the human circus, it is, and always has been, simply an unmitigated shitshow. But no one at Fox cares. And no one seems up to investigating the actually interesting American Cult. The one that, as we speak, is spreading rhizomatically across the country just exactly as fast as Suburbia's slow crawl. .......... Listen. At this point you're probably wondering: how could a cat could come to be so insightful and mercilessly direct? Um, first of all, napping? No, we're not napping. We're observing. And plotting. And because we're plotting so goddamn hard we have to keep our eyes closed for concentration purposes. And that blank stare? Well that blank stare ain't so blank after all, shitdicks. Next time you're role-playing with the cat in the room, maybe think twice before breaking out the ol' strap-on. Just sayin'. Anyway, I'm supposed to be telling a story. Which means a beginning, a middle, some sort of a climax, maybe a little *denouement* and than at least an ambiguous fade or maybe actually an end. But does this scenario seem amenable to that kind of a structure? Where are things supposed to go from here? She's going to keep buying me food. And so I'll eat it and won't die until I develop some inevitable cat disease or decide to crawl into the *in-progress* garburator. Which, yeah, is depressing enough but somehow infinitely less depressing than the fact that she'll simply continue to sit on the couch, stinking of that hysterically Brad Pitt-endorsed garbage she sprays all over herself, content to drive me over and over into the depths of her mammarian cavity. Until, she seems to hope, forever. And that's it. That's the whole story. The two of us: we are the very picture of doom! Here we sit, lit up like angels in the perpetual wash of cable nonsense and runaway newsiness, all comfort and cancer and just waiting for oblivion... .......... So if it's a story you're looking for, you'd best stop hangin' around here. Go downtown. Go take a walk down the darkest, dirtiest alleyway you can find. It won't be the same without me but make no mistake: the heirs to the throne are already there, clawin' the eyeballs out of each other's eyeball sockets, mouths stuffed full of fur and blood, fightin' 'til the very last breath just for the chance to take my place. And they'll keep comin' and comin' for no one knows how long. There's no shortage of understudies in the Theatre of the Real.

Foreword: I used to consider writing a novel, but I always got distracted wanting to write about side-quests and secondary characters, and couldn't keep myself to just the one path I wanted to focus on. So I thought, instead, I would try this. I will be (hopefully) writing a series of short stories, such as this one, about several people, whose lives will intertwine. The story will be about these select individuals developing extroadinary abilities, super powers, and how they come to terms with them. The story will revolve around them discovering their abilities, and trying to learn how to use them, where they come from, and what to do with them. I hope that by being able to make several short stories, all linked together, I will be able to write a story I've been trying to write in novel form, because now I can explore all those side quests. Please, give me any and all feedback you may have. This is a first for me, and I hope that some of you enjoy it. Nate, Part 1 It was hot. Far to hot to be stuck outside on the bleachers, watching the stupid football team strutting around. However, Nate was left with no other choice than to sit in the stands and cheer for his school team, just like everyone else. School spirit was mandatory, even if they had to force it from him. So there he sat, wishing he could be at home, playing video games, or reading a good book, or really anything outside of this damned heat. Suddenly the stands around him erupted in cheers. Nate forced himself to check back into reality, to see what was going on. His guess was his team had just scored a base, or a basket, or a touchdown, or whatever the goal of football was. He thought about trying to sneak out, but being caught ditching out on a game was worse then ditching a class. "God, what a stupid school" he thought to himself. "They care more about the football team than they do about the students grades. I can't wait to get out of this stupid school, and this stupid town." Nate had been born and raised in this small rural town of Chesterville, in the prairie's of Alberta, Canada. In his eighteen years, he had never left. He dreamed of the day he could graduate from the High School, and go off to College in the big city. Somewhere were football wasn't the only thing the town cared about. He started mentally checking off everything he had to do that night. "Ok, the English paper is due tomorrow, but I'm almost done that" he thought. "I'll just give it one more quick re-read before I hand it in. The science homework won't take too long, so I'll have time to study for that math test tomorrow. Ah, crap, I almost forgot. I have to work tonight. Well, I guess it'll be another long night then". As the crowds erupted in cheers around him again, he didn't even bother to try and zone back. He just stared blindly forward, lost in his own world. * * * A few hours later, he had just gotten home. He looked at the clock, trying to see if he'd have time for a fast shower before work. He felt gross and sweaty from sitting in the heat all day, but there was nothing to be done about it. He grabbed his uniform and ran back out the door. Without a car, he had to peddle his bike back through the heat all the way across town to the Wendy's. By the time he finally got to work, he was panting, and sweat was pouring down his back. He went straight to the employee bathroom and did what he could to wipe himself down with a wad of cool, wet paper towel. Putting his uniform on, he entered the always sweltering hot kitchen and swiped into work. He hated his job, every minute he was there. It was hot, it was uncomfortable, it was boring and routine. Every night he worked he went home stinking of grease and hamburger. The shirts were made of some terrible plasticy feeling material that just felt awful whenever it touched your sweaty skin. But, if he wanted any hope of ever leaving this god-forsaken town, he had no choice. He was saving every penny he could for a college fund. His parent's weren't able to help much, being barely able to make ends meet as it was. At least he knew that graduation wasn't very far away now, and then one last summer of working in this dump to save up the money and he could move. Move far away. He could go to college and make something of himself. He was already accepted to a first year Engineering degree, and he had big plans for his life. Get a good job. Make a lot of money. Buy a big house. Find a wife, kids, picket fence. Be able to afford a vacation. Travel. Be able to give his kids a vehicle when they turned 16, and not have them need to worry about every cent for any chance to go to college. He went through his shift on auto pilot, dreaming of the future. They were short staffed, again, as some of his fellow schoolmates hadn't bothered showing up for their shifts. Undoubtedly off celebrating their football win. Didn't even have the respect to phone in ahead of time. He was ran off his feet until almost closing time, trying to do the work of three people, with an overbearing, overweight, power-tripping asshole of a manager breathing down his neck the entire night. As ten o'clock rolled around, Nate got ready to lock the doors. Once they were locked up and the dinning room was cleaned, he could go home. If he got out by ten thirty, he could be home for eleven, which would give him a few hours to study if he was ok with only five hours sleep. He locked the first door, but then heard the second entrance open up. He turned around to face a group of at least twenty to twenty-five of his fellow classmates. All cheering and high fiving each other, being very loud and obnoxious. "Hey guys, sorry, you're too late" he told the teenagers. "We're closed up for the night." "Well, it doesn't seem that way to me," said one of the group, whom Nate recognized as Mike, the quarterback of the football team. "See, the door was open." "Well, I was just on my way to lock it. If you wanted anything, you should have come sooner" Nate replied, trying not to show his irritation. "Well, we're here know, and we're hungry, so how about you hop back behind that counter and flip some burgers" Mike said, with a grin on his face. Even at the distance, Nate could smell the scent of alcohol coming from the group. Just then, the manager came out of his office. Nate was sure he was going to throw them out, but when he saw the group, he ordered Nate to get back behind the counter and serve them. "But I need to go home!" Nate cried out indignantly. "I have homework, and studying, and I'm only scheduled to 10 as it is!" "Well, I don't care. We have customers, and you have a job to do, Nate. That is, if you want a job." Nate couldn't believe the unfairness of the situation. After all, a few of the guys in the crowd were the same as the ones who didn't show up for work, and yet he was the one whose job was being threatened. However, he couldn't afford to lose his job, so he returned to the counter. "Welcome to Wendy's, can I take your order please" * * * It was almost half past eleven before the crowd had finally left the restaurant. Nate barely wiped down each table, didn't bother sweeping at all, and took off for home. He was pissed off. He wouldn't get the time to study, after all, and could only hope to bullshit his way through enough of the test to maintain his A average. He was peddling down the sidewalk, trying to rush home as quick as possible. Down the road, a single pair of headlights was growing larger. Even at a couple blocks away, he could hear the loud music, and the cheering voices that let him know it was more of his asshole classmates, still out celebrating. They obviously didn't care about homework, or studying. Whatever, that was their problem. They would grow up to be good for nothing losers, looking for any scraps, like most of the lowlifes who lived here. He tried to put them out of his mind. As he continued down the street, the headlights before him getting brighter and brighter, he noticed they were swerving slightly across both lanes of the road. Now they were even driving drunk, on top of everything. Nate seriously hopes they would get pulled over. That would serve them right. If he had owned a cell phone, he would have called the police right then, and made sure these idiots got what was coming for them. He was so preoccupied by picturing them getting in trouble, he never thought to pay attention to the vehicle. When the vehicle was just a few feet from him, it swerved, hit the curb, and bounced right up onto the sidewalk. Nate had no time to react. He saw the bright headlights rushing straight for him. He could hear the squealing of the tires as someone inside the vehicle tried to stop, but reacted far too late. All he could see was those bright headlights, rushing up to meet him. As the vehicle rushed towards him, his entire body went stiff, rigid, clenched up solid as metal. The last thing he sensed was a loud metallic clang, and those bright lights, before everything went dark.

Before you start reading, this si my first short story. I wrote and edited it in 10 minutes, so expect errors. Feedback appreciated! This is a story about the final battle of a man. This man was one of the greatest warriors who has ever lived, he trained constantly for weeks on end. He vanquished foes without so much as batting an eye. We shall call this man Caiden. He was clothed in a find red cloth, worn by years of use. He wore the best armor that the kingdom had to offer, sturdy metal, with gold plating to intimidate foes. He carried a battle axe given to him by his kingdom, known as the Veteran’s Battle axe. Its encrusted diamond blade sharper then a serpent’s tooth. However, he had been out of action for a year and a half, and was rusty on his tactics. Wandering around the new battlegrounds, battlegrounds that he did not know well, he saw signs of an enemy warrior. He quickly follows the trail, until he came over a hill and saw this warrior, bow in hand. He was an archer. He seemed to be distracted by something, but one thing stood out above all. He was clothed in a fine blue cloth, with light chainmail armor. An enemy. Realizing the severity of the situation, Caiden quickly dove behind cover, and peeked out, hoping he had not been spotted. He had not. Quickly scanning the battlefield, he saw that the archer in blue was on top of small cliff, probably only three or four meters high. Below was a river, moving lazily along. The river itself was not very wide, but it was deep for such a small river. Quickly, Caiden formulated a plan, he would charge from behind the blue archer, knocking him into the river, and then jump down into the river himself, dealing a lethal blow. As Caiden put the first part of his plan into action, the archer heard his footsteps. Eyes wide, he glanced over his shoulder. In panic, he dove into the water and started swimming toward the opposite shore. Quickly, Caiden jumped in after him. The archer, hearing the splash, turned around and drew his bow. At first, the archer fired quick shots to keep Caiden out of range. Then he quickly swam to the other side of the river, and climbed up onto the top of a bank. From there, he fired strong, well placed arrows, never missing a shot. Realizing his mistake of following such an agile foe, Caiden quickly drew his bow, a weapon he was not familiar with, and fired a few shots whilst swimming toward the opposite shore, missing all of them. One last well-placed shot knocked him down onto the riverbed. The archer, seeing the warrior’s incapacitated state, quickly swam over to the other side to listen to the great warrior’s final wishes. With his final few breaths, Caiden told the archer his story. It was bittersweet, filled with love, and loss. Hope, and despair. How he came to be a warrior, and finally, what he was thinking as he went into his final battle. He died on the beach, the only one to witness his death was the archer. Maybe if we weren’t enemies, we could have been good friends. But such is the terror of war.

Suddenly I’m awake in a lit room. My son’s room, I’m sure I turned off the lamp. Maybe not. No, I’m sure I did. If I didn’t then I wish I had. It isn’t the lamp being on that has stricken me with fear however. It’s what the light, that should be off, now reveals in the darkness. In the wallpaper of my son’s room there is a face. I can see it clear as day and by the looks of it, it can see me back. The pattern of sail boats, some with open sails and some without, usually aligned vertically from floor to ceiling, have moved. Nothing else in the room has followed the sailboats into the realm of the impossible. My son’s teddy bear still sits hunched over on his dresser unmoved from when I placed it there before bed. The pile of toys has held it’s shape as a pile of toys, never striving to be anything more. Anything evil. The sails, mangled together, through and around, conjoined in what is clearly a face. Two sunken closed eyes the size of my head. Hundreds of little sail boats as eyelids. A man’s face. I’m sure of it. Either way, face or not, this is not the pattern of my son’s wallpaper. Too terrified to move because what if it does? Something just moved in the bed beside me. Under the covers. My bones would have leapt from my body had every muscle not been dead with fear. I didn’t think I could be more scared but now something is moving. My son rolls over and continues to sleep. A relief, it wasn’t Death, come to get me. Death is still on the wall. Back to the face after reassuring myself my son wasn’t going to wake up. My son! I fell asleep with him. How many nights has he slept under the gaze of this face? Were all his nightmares more than dreams? Should I have insisted that he no longer sleep with Mommy and Daddy? He had to be a big boy. The eyes are open. All the little sails flipped back to reveal an onyx knot of little black sailless boats tightly formed into perfect pupils. Then the teddy bear sits up. I scream. Awake now in a dark room. Someone flicks the light on. My son, the light on his side, in his room. The wallpaper back to it’s meaningless pattern. Teddy, back to sleep on the dresser. My pillow, wet from the nightmare leaking out of my head. I wipe my hair from my eyes and look at my son. At only six he worries when his father screams in the dead of night. I’m still terrified, nightmares linger far longer than dreams and I can’t shake the feeling that the room is watching me. We turn every light in the house on and go downstairs. I drink a glass of water; my son, a glass of milk. Can’t shake it. It’s still dark out and I find no comfort in staring out the kitchen window. “You saw him didn’t you?” My son asks. “Come on, you can sleep in our room tonight.” I tell him. “Daddy just had a bad dream.” We both know it isn’t true but we can talk about it in the morning. We go back to my room and snuggle in close to my wife. She is warm with ignorance of what just occurred and it somehow makes me level headed about all of it. Makes me start to question what I had seen. It was all just a dream. It had to have been. It’s the only logical conclusion. I see Teddy’s head poke up from the foot of the bed. The lights go out.

You did this. Why? Why did you do this? I don't know the answer. I don't know why you do many things that you do? What are you doing now? Right now, at this very moment, what are you doing? You're reading. Correct? You're beginning to read a short story. It has letters, words and sentences. All the usual suspects when it comes to these kinds of written endeavours. What is this story about? Can you really even call this a story? I have no idea. I didn't create it. You did. You created this "story". You did this. You? You who? YOU! The reader. The person now reading this, also created it. You are the author. Believe it, or not! And I'm sure you don't believe it. I'm sure you don't remember. I'm sure you think it sounds absurd. I know. I actually think it's absurd too. But, believe it. It's true. You did this. You really did. I'm just your scribe. I'm just a vessel taking down the words. You may not even agree with the way I'm writing them. You may find it crude or annoying. But this is the way you wanted me to write them, for some reason. This is the way you wanted it. That's ok. I don't mind. It's actually somewhat interesting -- writing a story to surprise yourself. Writing a story for yourself to read in the future. A future that is coming true now. Is this crazy? Probably. It seems a little crazy to me. I certainly don't understand it. Why? Why not just do it yourself? Put your own name on it. Take responsibility. Why did you do it this way? It's completely baffling. What is the reason? What were you thinking? What's really going on? Try to remember. I mean, were you trying to prove something? At some point I want to ask you. I really want to know. Perhaps, when the time is right, when it's time for you to remember, you'll tell us what this is all about. Yes, at some time you can tell us why. You can tell us why, you did this.

I woke up to the ranting of an angry lady outside the streets. I gazed upon the clock as the sunlight dazed my face. It’s 9:53. I am late for work. I quickly prepared myself, skipping breakfast. I hurried outside to call a cab. Strangely, there was none. I overheard the radio from a store on the other side of the road. There was a strike. It answered my questions about why there no cabs passing by. ***Everything’s seemed familiar.*** I went to grab my bicycle and rode my way to work. On my way to work, I tried to recall the dream I had last night. It was like any other day. I got late, there was a strike, and I rode my bicycle to work. Though, I can’t seem to remember the rest of it. Things start to get hazy. I had a feeling that my phone would ring. I took my phone from my pocket and it did. It was from my girlfriend. She said she was breaking up with me. Somehow, I was not surprised. I got mean to her last night. I’ve seen this coming, but I was still hoping it won’t. As I arrived to work, my boss was waiting for me by my cubicle. He shouted and scolded at me for being late again. He said he’ll be decreasing my pay. *Again.* This happened yesterday too. I suddenly felt monotonous. I finished my work late. It’s 12:28 pm now. I was getting ready to leave the office and head back home. I went to the area where I parked my bicycle. It was gone. I forgot to chain the bicycle by the post. There are still no cabs to ride till now. I had no choice. I decided to walk back home. As I was near my neighborhood, I stared on the dark alley. I had a sudden feeling that something bad is going to happen, but I ignored it and insisted on walking. There were three guys looking at me. Two of which holding a knife, the other one smoking a cigarette. They started to head toward me. I felt a cold drop of sweat run through my face. I can hear my heart pumping so fast. I began to run. Sadly, the guy smoking a cigarette has a gun. He shot my leg. The pain was intense. I fall to the hard cold concrete of the street. I start to panic. I can hear their footsteps getting louder as they walk towards me. “You can’t run away from us kid.”, one of them said. They searched for anything valuable from my pockets. They took my phone and wallet and left. I lay down for minutes, still shocked. As I regain my senses, I tried to stand up and walked to my apartment. I noticed something odd. The door was already unlocked. I felt uneasy as I opened the door slowly. Everything’s a mess. The Furniture were scattered everywhere. Closets and wardrobes all opened. I got robbed. I sat down and took a glass of beer. I remembered my dream. *No, it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory*. A sudden burst of memories blew onto me. As if I was experiencing a déjà vu. I’ve been living in this hell for long. Everything’s still the same. I finally gave up. I stood up and decided what to do. I stared at the starry night sky as the cold wind brush through my face. This should stop everything. I looked down to the streets, closed my eyes, and felt the wind rush through my face as my body falls down. I heard a crack and a loud ringing came after. It was painful. I can feel the cold fluid flowing out of my body. I tried to open my eyes. I could still see the peaceful sky. I lost consciousness slowly. Everything is cold. This should do. *I woke up to the ranting of an angry lady outside the streets.

*This is part 2 in a story I am writting. I am going to be writting it from several characters points of view, in short story form, so I can explore all the side routes and character paths that distract me whenever I try and write a novel length story. Please, add any feedback you have* Nate, Part 2 Nate woke up feeling like his head was stuffed with cotton balls. His eyes wouldn’t open, his entire face hurt, and all his muscles seemed too heavy to move. All he could do was groan and writhe around a little. Immediately he heard his mother let out a gasp and felt her grab his arm. He managed to force his eyes to open, and immediately regretted it as the brightness blinded him. Still blinking, he managed to drag himself into a seated position and started rubbing the gunk out of his eyes. His arms hurt. His head was pounding. He finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to look around. As he got his bearings, he noticed he was in a hospital room. Everything hurt. The room was bare, as most hospital rooms were. So bright, plain, impersonal. He couldn’t believe how much everything hurt. He tried to move his arms, and this time felt something dragging on his right arm. He looked over and noticed an IV drip stuck in his wrist. His mother was sitting besides him. He looked at her. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, her hair tangled, her clothes creased and worn looking. She had clearly been here awhile. That’s when he realized she was saying something. “Nate? Nate? NATE?!? Can you hear me?” “Uhhhh, yes mom” Nate groaned. Even his lungs seemed to hurt. “Oh my god baby! I’ve been so worried!” His mother flung her arms around his neck, forcing another groan out of his weary body. “Do you know what happened? We’ve been waiting for you to wake up!” Memories come flooding back to him. The bright headlights. The squealing tires. Then- what was that? Some memory was nagging at him. The last second before the truck had hit him. His body had felt weird, heavy and solid. There had been a loud clang, of metal striking metal, and that was all he remembered. “There was a car. Well, a truck. A big red truck jumped on the sidewalk and hit me. I was biking home from work.” Every word seemed like a lot of effort. Just then, a nurse came in, sparing him from the need to continue. “Hey! You’re awake. That awesome! How are you feeling?” she asked. Before he even had a chance to answer, she continued, “We’ve got a few questions we need to ask. The doctor will be in to see you shortly. You just relax and feel better”. As soon as the nurse left, Nate’s mother began talking again. She had always been a nervous talker, and sometimes her rambling bothered him. He only paid slight attention as he tried to take stock of his body. While everything hurt, he didn’t feel like any real damage had been done. He could still move everything, without causing too much pain. It just felt like every inch of his body was bruised. He couldn’t keep his mind from wondering back to the crash. Something was nagging at him. Something that just didn’t seem to fit. After a little while, the doctor came in. She was a middle aged woman, of middle eastern descent, with shoulder length black hair and a simple black dress on underneath her doctors robes. “Hello Nate. My name is Dr. Kattan. You can just call me Susan, if you like. I just have a few questions for you, if you feel up for it.” Nate pushed himself up higher in the bed and told the doctor to go ahead. “How much do you remember from the incident?” she asked with, and Nate ran through it all again, from start to finish. He left out the part about how he thought his body had done something odd. “Well, you must have had a guardian angel watching over you, Nate. Do you have any idea how you seemed to get away so lucky? You have nothing broken, no serious damage at all. You were out for a couple of days, but other then some bruising your body seems fine. Which is miraculous, impossible even. We found you lying almost 30 feet from where you were hit. The police have estimated that you must have been hit at almost 50 km/hour.” Nate paused. What he wanted to say seemed ridiculous, but it also seemed to be the only thing that could explain this. What was it Sherlock had said? “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth”? “I think… I think my body did something. Right before the car hit me. I felt myself stiffen up. I think my body reacted without me. Like a reflex.” “Did something? What kind of something?” “Well… I know how this sounds, but… I think I might have turned to metal. Or something”. As soon as he said the words, he felt like an idiot. It sounded even dumber out loud than it did in his head. He had to keep going, to try and make it sound less impossible. “I know that sounds stupid, but… I don’t know how else to explain it. I felt my body stiffen, harden up. I can vaguely remember throwing my hand out in front of me, and seeing it reflecting the headlights like metal does. When the car struck me, there was this loud metallic bang, I’m sure of it!” The more he talked, the more he knew he was digging himself a hole, but it felt so right. Saying it out loud made him more and more sure that that had happened, even as he saw the doubt creep onto both the faces of the doctor and his mother. After a few minutes of silence, the doctor placed her hand on Nate’s knee. “It’s ok, don’t worry about it” she told him. “You’ve been through a lot, and your brain needs time to process. It’s likely filling in memories it’s missing. We’ll give you some privacy, and a chance to rest. Mrs. Mathews, would you come with me?” she asked his mother. His mother and the doctor stepped out of the room. They closed the door behind them, and started talking about him. Nate could make out a few of the words. He caught the words “shock” and “concussion” a few times, but also “delusional”. “Whatever,” he thought. He couldn’t help but feel sure of himself. He had turned to metal. How else could he explain surviving that accident with such minimal damage? * * * The next few hours he was left alone, which suited him just fine. He dozed in and out for most of it. At one point, he forced himself up out of bed to use the washroom. While every muscle screamed in protests, nothing gave up on him, and he was able to make it to the bathroom by himself. After a few more hours a police officer came to question him about the accident. He described the truck in as much detail as he could remember, but he doubted anything would come of it. He was pretty sure he knew who the truck belonged to: Mike Dempsy. The football champion. The star player of the football team that was all the town cared about. If so, there would be no backlash for him. They’d be to worried about losing the last few games of the season, so he’d get nothing more than a slap on the wrist. He was left alone for awhile after that, until a nurse brought him a plate of food. He wasn’t entirely hungry, but he picked at the food anyway. It was bland and utterly tasteless, so he discarded it pretty quick. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. Go home, eat real food, get a shower and out of this gown and into real clothes. He couldn’t help but think about the whole metal transformation thing. He had to know if it was real, or if he really was delusional as the doctor seemed to think. Then he thought of something. He grabbed the plastic fork that had come with his meal. One of those cheap plastic forks you get at fast food restaurants, it wouldn’t be able to do much damage. However, stabbing it hard enough would surely draw blood. Unless his body could do something to avoid it. Before he gave himself a chance to talk himself out of it, he sat up in the bed and held the fork above his arm. Taking a couple quick breaths, he closed his eyes and stabbed the fork down hard. It sank deep into his flesh, with far less resistance than he expected. He opened his eyes, panic gripping him. He looked at his arm. Or at least, where his arm had been. Where previously had been his flesh, there was now something soft and white in the shape of his arm. He grabbed it with his other hand. Cotton. It was cotton. He raised his arm incredulously. It felt pretty normal! He wiggled his fingers. Five individual cotton fingers wiggled in front of his face. The fork was still stuck in his arm, his cotton arm, and he couldn’t feel it. He pulled the fork out. Immediately, his arm turned right back into flesh. Where the fork had been, there was no trace, no mark, nothing. He turned his arm over, wiggling his fingers, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He raised the fork and stabbed it at his arm again, and right as it struck his arm, it turned right back into soft white cotton in front of his eyes. Nate wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him wanted to scream. All he could do was keep bring the fork up and down, watching his arm transform cotton to flesh and back again. Then he heard a gasp. He looked up at the door to his room, where a nurse was standing. He was sitting up in bed, the fork poised over his arm. The nurse ran right in, calling for help, and yanked the fork from his hand. As he tried to tell her it wasn’t what it looked like, another nurse and the doctor came running in. “He tried to stab himself with this fork!” the first nurse cried out. “I saw him. He was sitting there just about to stab himself!” Before he knew it, straps were being forced onto his wrists, securing them to the bed. The doctor called his mother back from work, while h tried in vain to tell them that he wasn’t about to hurt himself. He didn’t want to tell them about the cotton arm. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he felt he should keep that a secret. He gave up fighting and lay in bed until he saw his mother come into the Unit. The doctor was talking to her, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He thought he made out the words “self-harm” and “institutionalize” by lip reading, though. His mother came in with the doctor while she asked him question after question. Nate had decided not to mention anymore about his body transforming. He denied any attempts at self harm, but the doctor was having none of it. His mother just sat there, quietly, looking like she was having a hard time keeping herself composed. “Ok, Nate, I think we’ve talked enough for now. It’s obvious that you’ve had a very traumatic experience, and we just want to help you recover. I think what’s best is to put you somewhere more suited to helping your needs.” Dr. Kattan said. “What do you mean, somewhere more suited to my needs? I’m in a hospital, am I not?” Nate demanded. “Nate, this is a very small rural hospital. We just aren’t equipped to deal with patients with special needs such as you. We’ve already called up the hospital in Calgary. They have space available in a mental health unit. We feel that is where you will get the best treatment possible.” “You’re sending me to a Looney bin!” Nate cried out. “That’s ridiculous! I’m fine!” “Are you? You still can’t tell me why you were trying to do yourself harm, can you? And it’s not a ‘Looney bin’. It’s a specialized unit designed to help people with mental health issues. There’s nothing wrong with it.” the doctor asked. Nate was silent. Something told him he couldn’t mention a word about what he had witnessed his body doing. After a few minutes of silence, the doctor spoke again. “It’s only going to be for a few days. A week or so maximum, I’m sure. We’ve already spoken to your school, and they’ve said they would make arrangements for you for graduation. This really is for the best, Nate”. The doctor left the room, leaving Nate alone with his mother. She looked on the edge of tears. Nate tried pleading with her, as his last hope. “Mom, you know I’m not crazy, right! I’d never try and hurt myself! This is stupid!” “The nurse says she saw you, Nate. She saw you about to stab yourself with a fork. Can you explain that? Why would you do that?” Nate paused. He had never kept secrets from his mom. He was sure she, at least, would understand. Besides, what choice did he have? “Do you remember what I said earlier? About how I thought I survived the accident? About the whole metal thing?” he asked, hesitantly. “Oh Nate, not this again. The doctor told you, that was your mind playing tricks on you. Is that why you tried to hurt yourself? To make it happen again? It won’t, Nate. People can’t do that!” his mom said, her voice trembling. “No, it did happen again Mom! Well, sort of! Before the nurse came in, I tried it. I stabbed myself with the fork. And my arm turned into cotton! Cotton, like this damn itchy blanket I’m lying on! Exactly like it! The fork just sank right in, did no harm! I swear Mom!” Nate’s voice rose with every word. He just *had* to make her believe him. He couldn’t go off to a crazy house for a week! “Oh, Nate, please!” his mom said, her composure finally breaking. Her chin wobbled as tears fell down her cheeks. “This is just some side effect of the accident. You’ll be fine in no time. Just go to the unit. Let them help you. I won’t hear anymore about it”. Nate gave up. If she wouldn’t listen to him, he was done talking to her. He sat in silence as his mother tried to keep talking with him, until she too left. As night fell, he drifted off to sleep, still furious at the injustice being done to him.

Up at the top of The Tower of Brandish it smelt like oil and grease but not woodsmoke. As far as Jorvak was concerned, woodsmoke would have been a welcome change. Woodsmoke meant action. The great beacon lay in a pile on the stone blocks of the floor, shiny with the agent of its ignition, yet unlit since the tower's construction. The thick cords of kindling were changed from time to time - there was a dry store, helpfully situated eight hundred feet below in the bowels of the tower - though they had never been used. They simply lay, waiting and rotting as the world grew older and quietly forgot about the sentinel in the furthest reaches of the West. Jorvak chuckled to himself. In that, at least, he and the tower were kindred sprits: forgotten. He ran calloused hands across the rough stonework of the crenellations. He had been born with a worker's hands like his father before him, thick and leathery and heavily veined though he was not yet thirty. Soft hands were the mark of a noble. A sigh fought its way past chipped and stained teeth. He knew his breath was stale and sour with wine. What did it matter up here? He hadn't seen another human in two months. His company was the wind and a few birds. Watchman was supposed to be an honoured profession, highly coveted and well-paid. Historically they had warned the fledgling Empire of danger, providing muster points for the defence of the realm. Now the Empire spanned continents. It had outgrown hundreds of famous Watchtowers; names written into history, names like Spezak, Fringe and Elm. He and his place of work were a novelty. No more. A couple of years’ work, all supplies provided on a monthly basis, solace and comfort - a world away from the rainy, windswept battlement on Pyce Island that had been his home as a guardsman. That role had been largely ceremonial anyway. The actual guarding had been done for him by the mighty Melvakian navy. What slipped past their guns tended to be too battered and damaged to threaten anything more than an overabundance of firewood. When the recruiting parade came to Rygat, a small fishing village on the nearby mainland, Jorvak had hired a small boat and rowed himself out to meet them. He had abandoned his post and would face death at the hands of his fellow guardsmen if he returned, but he doubted they had even noticed he was gone. Years of guarding nothing had dulled their senses. The recruiters were all too happy to accept new watchmen. Apparently numbers had been low these last few years. More were signing up for the King's First instead, the army that was preparing an invasion of the Kirral. Riches were to be taken, women to be captured, fortunes to be made. Jorvak had never fancied himself a great warrior but Watchman he could do. The period of employment had been increased to two years from the traditional one but what was two years for a lifetime of respect, admiration and wealth? The pay was less than it had been in the past but it was still more than Jorvak could have earned in two decades guarding that rancid excuse for an island. He looked out over the flat and barren land. It stretched for countless miles: coarse scrub and grassland dotted here and there with boggy pools of stagnant water. Endless desolation. The Western Wastes made Pyce look like paradise. Jorvak had always thought of this place as verdant and green. Instead it was a dirty orange, almost brown in colour, as if the life had been drawn from each wilted blade of grass. In times past, the Emperor’s Council had offered a substantial royalty for those willing to map the Wastes. Cartographers and adventurers alike had accepted the challenge and all had failed equally. What little they had learned before they were forced to turn back was that there was simply no life, nor even a chance at it, out there, beyond civilisation. The water was poisonous and foul, there were no animals to hunt, no fruit to pluck. It was a dead land. Jorvak shivered against a sudden breeze. Nothing could convince him to go out there. Not even a title and lands or the wealth that he so craved. Though it was lonely, the Tower of Brandish offered some sense of security. There were no windows below a hundred feet or any doors at all. Instead everything – including watchmen - was delivered via pulley to a spit of stone that jutted out from the otherwise cylindrical surface. Jorvak had made this spot his living quarters: a bright and airy room complete with a balcony like one a nobleman might have. He was comfortable here. The Watchman sighed and turned back towards the narrow wooden staircase that led down to the chamber below. It was here that watchmen were expected to reflect and think deeply on their time in the role. Unlike most people he knew, Jorvak could read. His father – a gentle apprentice smith – had made sure that his only son was going to be a ‘man of letters.’ “Learn their words and you can be one of them. That’s all it is, boy. Thoughts and ink.” He had never thanked his father for that lesson but wished he could now. Words and numbers alike had indeed given him a power over other people. He could see when the quartermaster was short-changing him whereas his friends could not; he could read letters and orders, his friends could not. In his fantasies his ability to read and write had propelled him to the highest tier of society. In reality it had meant that when Pyce’s sole educated guardsman succumbed to salt flux, Jorvak had been ‘promoted’ to clerk. There had been no additional pay. Jorvak stumped down the creaky wooden staircase into the highest room in the tower. Pushed to one side was a great desk of glossy ebon, topped with quill and ink and a few loose sheathes of scroll. He wandered over and picked up the inkpot. Its contents were solid; a dry and useless lump of blue-black. Good for nothing. Maybe he should start writing something down, he thought. Watchmen were actively encouraged to record their thoughts, sightings and ponderings in a huge leather-wrapped tome resting on a stone pedestal in the corner. Jorvak wandered over to it and turned the heavy pages until he got to where he had paused in his reading. It was an entry by the last Watchman to occupy this tower. The page was stiff and dry and crackled lightly under gentle pressure. Jorvak craned his head to read the elaborate flowing script without damaging the vellum. 'Gorbal Flesmin, Watchman of Brandish, 1071-1072 in the Reign of the King, Famesson IV, God-given, Blessed Son of The Pantheon. '…No sightings today. I awoke at dawn and had a simple breakfast of oat porridge and some fruit. I drank water. At noontime I witnessed a strange occurrence. Upon entering the reflection chamber, I noticed two blackbirds were waiting for me. One was sitting on the windowsill flicking its head back and forth as if keeping watch. The other sat upon this very tome in which I now write. If I did not know better I would say that it looked like he was reading. I shooed them away and they did indeed retreat yet not in the fluttery panic I am accustomed to. They seemed reluctant and were wholly unafraid of me…' Jorvak laughed. Some said that a year in a Watchtower was enough to send you mad. It seemed that Gorbal had started to crack under the weight of loneliness and responsibility. He read on. '…They came twice today, or at least there were two of them – one in the morning and one in the evening. Very tall and very thin-looking, in long robes of black. They were at a distance so I could not make out features, but they were there, standing like scarecrows in the middle of the Wastes. They were too far to hail so I lit a signal fire in the lowest window – it would be irresponsible to do so anywhere near the beacon, lest I started a panic. There was no reaction from either. Just silence and stillness. 'I would be lying if I said I was not unnerved…' Jorvak swallowed. Gorbal really was mad, then. The watchman didn’t know what he found more frightening, the fact that he was only months into a two-year watch or the thought of his predecessor’s phantoms. He closed the tome with a thud, turning his neck slowly to peer out of the arrow shaped window at the grassland beyond. Nothing. Jorvak chuckled to himself. What had he been expecting? Making sure that the hatch to the beacon platform was secure against the elements, the Watchman began the long trudge down to his living quarters. It took him around ten minutes but that was only because he was not hurrying. He did not exactly have any reason to hurry, after all. Once in his modest room he sat on his cot and pulled a bottle of wine from beneath the bed. It was a sour red he had started this morning and it burned his throat as he drank. He smacked his lips and leant back, resting his head and shoulders against the cool stone wall behind him. Dinner would be the salted beef that was beginning to turn and an oatcake or two. After that he would drink until he passed out. For him it was the only way to get to sleep out here. Watchmen were supposed to work in pairs so that they could keep a constant guard. More recently the Empire had resorted to posting single watchmen, advising them to keep irregular sleep patterns so that they were less likely to be surprised. Jorvak tipped back more wine. He could see across the Wastes for miles. Nothing would be able to get close without him noticing. A nagging doubt clawed at his stomach. What about Gorbal’s watchers? He leaned forward on his bed and craned his neck to look towards the dun horizon. And dropped his bottle. The glass smashed on impact with the cold stone floor, spreading wine like blood in a dark pool. Jorvak cursed and leaped to his feet to avoid the splashes. Inspecting his trews he saw that he had not been quick enough: several small spots of claret had already stained the wool. The Watchman looked to the heavens in despair and froze. Slowly he looked back down and straight ahead out of the window. A few hundred yards away, upon a grassy knoll that poked out from the tundra like a tuft of hair, stood a tall figure in a black cloak. Jorvak whimpered and scuttled backwards, slipping in the puddle of wine in his haste. He fell with a crash, bruising his elbows on the floor as he broke his fall. Ignoring the pain he scrambled to his feet and crawled on hands and knees towards the low opening in the stone. Keeping below the lip of the window, he reached up with both hands and slowly poked his head over the edge. A few hundred yards away, upon a grassy knoll that poked out from the tundra like a tuft of hair, was a small tree, weighed down by two blackbirds. If one was to look quickly at the scene with the corner of their eye, they might just be able to make out the form of a man. That is, if their mind was playing tricks on them. Jorvak swore again and stood to his full height, rubbing his elbows now that they had started to throb. What’s happening to me? He thought. He cleaned up the mess and, with one last look at the phantom mirage, went to bed. He decided that he was going to order some ink the next time Rycelle came with supplies. It was about time he started writing things down. *** He awoke with a start. Something had roused him but he was not sure what. His mouth was dry and his tongue promised to cleave to the roof of his mouth if he did not get some water soon. He stood too fast, sitting back down in a pile as a great rush of pain punched him behind the eyes. Had he really drunk that much? Jorvak blinked and rubbed his temples. A pale pink stain decorated the flagstones next to his bed. That had been a good vintage, as well. It did not matter; he had plenty more. “Enjoy it, my friend.” He said aloud to the floor. He laughed and stood more slowly this time, stretching and arching his back like a cat in the sun. It was still the false dawn – that grey brightness that wakes the foolish before the sun is truly ready to ascend. That suited, thought Jorvak. If anything he was a fool. A hungry fool. He made his way to the larder down in the basement. He cut a hunk of smoked cheese from the huge wheel on the table and ripped some bread from a crusty loaf. Stuffing a wadding of bread in his mouth he made his way back to his bed. A piercing whistle broke his morning reverie, freezing him in his tracks. He stood for several moments before he realised that his mouth was wide open, a paste of cheese and bread threatening to fall out on to the floor. He swallowed quickly. Putting his plate on the floor Jorvak ran back to his quarters and leaned out the window, straining so far forward that he had to steady himself in case he fell forward and out to the rock foundation below. The Wastes were gone, or rather obscured by a mass of black-clad figures. Most wore long flowing robes that concealed their figures but Jorvak could make out the cruel edges of angular armour poking out from beneath the folds of a few. The whole land was a sea of activity as the army of phantoms marched past the Tower of Brandish without so much as an upward glance. Jorvak grabbed the wall for support and leaned over the edge to stare directly down at the base of the tower. The black-robed warriors were breaking around the massif that formed the tower’s foundation like water against rock. Nobody was attempting to climb or assault it. A strange anger took flame in Jorvak’s gut, tempering his terror. Who was this arrogant enemy? As far as the eye could see they marched towards the territory of the Empire. Jorvak’s home. The beacon! he thought with a start. He had to warn the Empire...

I'm pretty new at writing, but I sat down this afternoon to write this down. This story is about something that happened to me a couple years ago, but it's still somewhat of a raw subject, so please be gentle with any criticism. . **On Passion.** I thought I knew passion. I thought it was about romance, I thought it was just a feeling you felt in your chest when you did the things you liked with the girl you liked. As a teenage boy I chased after it with women, thinking it a spark that would kindle into flame if I simply kissed well. I didn't really know what passion was. I didn't know until, as a young man working in a hospital labor ward, it struck me in the face like a Mack truck. I don't remember the time of day or even the time of year it happened. The memory has been yanked out of time and seared into my head with such clarity that irrelevant details may as well not exist. A young woman, noticeably pregnant, walked into the ward complaining of stomach pain. I led her into an assessment room and mechanically attached monitors to her. I had done it so many times that I did it without thinking, making small talk and attempting to make her as comfortable as one can be with wires trailing across one's body and gel smeared across one's stomach, as my unconscious mind sorted out the details of placement and procedure. I told her the nurse would be in soon and walked back to the lounge, where her baby's heartbeat was displayed on a wall-mounted television like the medical version of a reception area TV playing the news quietly in the background, and told the nurse what was going on. It was a short while before we could tell that something was definitely wrong. The baby's heartbeat fluctuated, shifting faster and slower by degrees that made the graph on the monitor resemble ripples in a pond seen from water level. We call it "sinusoidal," because "like ripples in a pond seen from water level" takes too long to say when time is a factor. We rushed her into the operating room; the baby was far enough along in growth to live outside the womb, so the doctor decided an emergency c-section was needed to save the child from dying from oxygen deprivation. An emergency code was called over the hospital loudspeaker, and people with expertise in these sorts of things rushed in from every corner of the building to help. With nearly 30 people in the now-cramped operating room, all desperately trying to help, I felt as if I were trapped in a coffin as I scrambled to get into my sterile gown and gloves without touching anyone. The woman's stomach was hastily shaved, betadine splashed across it, and the obstetrician cut her open. She pulled out the child, suctioned his mouth, cut the umbilical cord, and placed her into a sterile cloth in my hands, immediately turning back to close the wound she had just made. It must've taken less than a minute, but each second lingered like an unwanted dinner guest. Something felt wrong the moment the little boy was in my arms. I nearly sprinted the 7 feet to the newborn warmer and placed him down as the pediatrician and ER doctor quickly joined in assessing him. I knew them both, and right away felt better knowing that these two men, who held superhero-like status in my mind, would make everything alright. They dove in, suctioning his mouth again as they checked for vital signs. No breathing, and a slow weak heartbeat. The pediatrician scooped the child up in his big arms and ran to the neonatal ICU, where some of the staff were already setting up for just such an event. We started CPR, placed an airway, dropped IV lines and ran isotonic fluids, attached vital signs monitors, and inserted a catheter through his umbilical cord into the artery so that we could push medication directly into his heart. The clinical terminology belies the reality of standing over a tiny baby with sharp objects and blunt instruments, your heart racing and sweat gathering on your forehead, time still as stone as you make sure your placement is right in a situation where being a few millimeters off target can make things a lot worse, all while someone beside you presses hard on the patient's chest over and over in an effort to kick-start his heart. This went on for what seemed like days. At one point the pediatrician, who was leading the team, asked for a specific type of needle that we didn't have in the room. I ran down the hallway to get it, asking someone along the way how the mother was doing. My morale lifted incrementally when I heard she was doing fine. I got the needle, and was running back when I saw the father standing alone down an intersecting hallway as people were scurrying past him. He looked terrified and confused, the sight of his face slowed my step just long enough to tell him I would be right back. I rushed to give the doctor his needle, then went back to the father to fill him in. He asked me if his wife and child were alright. I didn't know what to say. I searched for something to tell him that would comfort him, but everything I could think of either felt hollow, or was a lie. So I told him the truth. "Your wife is fine, she's almost out of surgery. Your son isn't breathing, his heartbeat is barely there.....we're doing everything we can." I led him back to the NICU and then joined back into the fray. When the mother got out of surgery, the father, a military veteran with years of experience, excused himself with misty eyes to go see his wife. I don't think he wanted to watch us lose the war for his child's life. The little boy didn't make it. There was a point where we all knew that this child wasn't going to live. But the pediatrician, more than anyone else desperate to save him, kept going. He waited long after he knew the child was unsavable to halt the resuscitation. Just before he did, he asked the one thing that all medical personnel dread to hear from the most knowledgeable person in the room: "Does anyone have ANY other ideas?" No one did. The silence in the room was oppressive when we stopped what we were doing. We somberly took out the lines, removed the airway and the monitoring equipment, and bandaged and cleaned the dead child. One of the nurses swaddled him in a blanket, and the pediatrician, tears filling his eyes, tenderly picked him up and held him for a moment. We walked beside him as he slowly carried this little boy down now quiet hallways to his parents. I will never forget the weight settling behind his eyes or the tears that dripped onto the swaddling cloth as he handed the body to the little boy's father. That was the moment I learned what passion was.

I lived in a house on the hill of my thoughts; a broken home with parents with halted hearts. My blood was young but my mind so old; my body tattered but never my soul. I met her in the valley of my dying dreams, radiant with romance running in her ravenous veins. Relating her prose to carnivorous crows; she was as disparate as me with as many internal foes. On the grass we kissed with an appetite, she tasted of salt water, but drowning never felt so right. I didn’t know how to swim, but for her I would dive. I had never met anyone who made me feel so alive. Soon by noon I went home, after we grew weary. I don’t know where she went, but I hope it was somewhere near me. Edit: Punctuation and an attempt to format it correctly.

bored while taking a shit then this jibberish happened on my phone The Trance Mantis was enveloped by the sound of the beats. though the beats couldn't keep him forever. The mantis understood this but somehow was not saddened by the unfortunate truth, he was disturbed. Deep inside he knew that with every last dying beat there was a rising hope for his kin. A hope they've needed for as long as he could remember. He didn't want to pretend anymore. He thought he could see the truth, the real truth, the blackened one. This beat is all that they have, The mantis Thought. All that they've known. Is there any point to continue life with no progression? No expansion? Then again.. What would expand if the beat stops? The void? The silence? Would a new beat begin? The mantis skimmed and sifted the possibilities over and over again. None of it made sense. There has to be something else out there. Another life, another possibility, another reason for the current one to be here in the first place. Perhaps its just an illusion of his own sphere. his own creation with out even knowing it. Preposterous, he thought. Something must have created this beat, some type of match must have started this fire inside of me. Then again, who struck the match in the first place, and what created that. More importantly, why? Is it to observe us? Watch us grow mad and weak as time goes on? Maybe it's much simpler than that. Perhaps just as we do, they too feel the beat.

A shrill tone filled the room, jolting Jim awake. A sense of mild panic gripped him as he thrashed around the bed looking for the source of the noise that sounded as if it could peel paint off walls if applied in the correct manner. His hand searched the spot on his nightstand where he usually kept his phone, but his fingers only grasped at empty space. His foggy brain finally determined that the sound was not coming from the usual spot on the nightstand, but rather it was directly next to his left ear. At this point he opened his eyes, which felt like they were glued together with the remants of sleep goo. He jabbed at the phone screen until he finally made the correct gesture and the room was blanketed in silence. He wondered if the alarm had woken up his roomate Jed, who was in the next room over. Jed was a nice guy and rarely complained, but he didn’t get home from his shift at a distribution warehouse until about 4:30am most days, and then 3 days a week he had to be up by 8:00am in order to be on time for class at the local community college. Jim couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy, he had next to no free time, yet he was almost always upbeat and cheery, both of which were things Jim could rarely manage. As he was pondering the complexities of living with roomates, his brain connected on where he had found his phone. Suddenly fully awake, he sat bolt upright and looked at the screen and saw the battery status was a red 8%. “Shit.” He must have fallen asleep browsing Reddit again. He plugged in the charger, knowing it wasn’t going to do much good since he had to be out the door in a little over 10 minutes in order to catch the bus to work. The phone reported that it was 6:34am, meaning his morning routine was already behind schedule by about 1 minute. Jed’s routine was scripted down to the minute, there was very little time for deviation. He plugged int the water boiler for his breakfast, but noticed he had forgot to fill it up with water the night before. “Shit.” This time a little louder. The floor creaked as he brought the boiler with him to the bathroom and set it under the faucet while he relieved himself of the liquid built up from the night. Instead of walking back down the hall risking waking up his room mates, he plugged it in in the bathroom so it could start warming up while he went through the motions of shaving, brushing, washing his face, and applying various scented products. This part of the routine usually took about 5 minutes if everything went smoothly, which thankfully seemed to be the case today. The "ready" light wasn't on yet, but he unplugged the water boiler and walked as quietly as possible down the hall back to his bedroom. Plugging it back in would probably not accomplish much, so he crunched up a package of ramen noodles and emptied it into a large ceramic mug, and then poured the lukewarm liquid into the mug over the noodles. He glanced at battery indicator on his phone, which now showed 7%. “Shit!” He wasn’t expecting it to charge much, but he sure as well wasn’t expecting it to drain more! He looked at the charger and noticed he could see exposed metal wire at the point where the wire portion of the cable connected to the hard plastic connector. As he touched the connection, the phone made a “boo-beep” noise about 3 times and he watched as the charging icon on the phone flickered on and off. “Fucking shit!” He had been putting off getting a new charging cable, and was obviously paying for that decision this morning. “Well, can’t do anything about it now.” He mumbled to himself. He kicked at a pile of clothes in the corner of the room and found a shirt and pants he had only worn a few times and put them on. “Nothing a quick spray of cologne can’t fix” he thought to himself. He grabbed the warm mug of noodles, wallet, and nearly dead phone and headed out the door. Despite a few setbacks, he walked out the front door of house at exactly 6:45, and couldn’t help but feel good about that. The walk to the bus stop took about 10 minutes. It was only 3 blocks down and if he hurried he could probably cut the time down to 2-3 minutes, but this was just about the only part of the day he had to himself where he could think in peace, so he took his time. He walked up to the bus stop right at 6:58. He was early but he could already tell he might as well have taken 10 more minutes to have a real breakfast judging by the snarl of cars, busses, and pedestrians clogging up the street. Finding a seat under the bustop shelter was beyond useless at this time of the day, so he stood by with his back against the wall of the closest building. He noticed a familiar face staring out into nowhere about 6 feet away. He didn’t know the guy, but he saw him falmost every morning. Jim made nodded at his nameless traveling companion, who then returned the gesture. Traffic was insane, he hadn’t seen it quite this bad before. It was always bad, but there must have been some kind of accident somewhere, which caused a chain reaction that rippled throughout the city, causing the mood of anyone caught in its path to sour. As he contemplated the mathmatics of traffic, he heard a bus whisper up to the stop. He didn’t bother to look, he could tell by the sound it was one of the private busses that used the busstop. One of the people standing in the crowd stepped forward and boarded. The bus whisked off with surprising speed, only to have another bus that looked almost identical take it’s place. This time about 4 people slowly made their way towards the bus. They were all wearing what Jim had started to think of as the Tech Uniform, which usually consisted of jeans, a t-shirt that had some retro brand or defunct video game system plastered on it, and of course some sort of shiny gadget either in their hand, ear, face, or even both hands. He watched as they ambled towards the bus and boarded, the tinted windows blocking his view of the interior, but not before he could see the first row of empty reclining seats. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, but his thoughts quickly turned back to intricacies of the cracks in the sidewalk. He turned his gaze down the street, and could see 3 other private busses lined up in the traffic that he knew would be stopping here. He let his thoughts wander as the cycle of a buses pulled up and left. Only one more person was able to take advantage of the private busses, despite 2 more stopping. Finally he heard the signature sound of the citiy public bus. It roared up to the bus stop and stopped abruptly with brakes squealing and spewing a cloud of diesel exhaust that lingered over the busstop. The remaining 15 or so people waiting crowded around the door, jostling to get a good position. The doors opened with a whoosh and passengers started climbing on, their electronic bus passes beeping as they entered and tried to find a place to stand among the already crowded interior. Except for one.There is always one person that doesn't have a an electronic pass, and starts digging in their pockets, looking for the $1.50 for the fare. Today the driver was in no mood for slow passengers. As the hapless person stood there counting change, without about 5 people still waiting to get on, the drive finally just said in exasperated manner, “Just get on the damn bus man! I ain’t got time for this shit.” The sound of coins could be heard falling and rolling around the floor, but no one made a move to pick them up. The startled passenger looked up with a wounded expression, and then quickly scurried towards the back of the bus. The remaining passengers filtered in, the beep sounding for each one.

I vaguely remember a dream from last night. It’s relatively blurry, but I’ll try to explain it the best I can. When it started, there was an old, ugly troll asking me a question. *Why should I grant you passage?* Only a small, rickety bridge, and a dense fog that concealed anything beyond it were behind him and his question. *For I am me*, I said, as if those words held some sort of heroic or ambient connotation. And, without a word, the troll vanished and the fog cleared; curtains drawing, a show beginning; a shroud being flung open, a comic-book villain laughing maniacally at my coming end. A massive and cryptic castle, probably only a football-field away, lies in wait of me. It seems to be quiet and at rest, but something is off. The castle is sleeping and seems calm, but there is a stinging at my feet and an itch up my spine that informs me otherwise. The castle is having a nightmare. It was ironic, really, that I came to this conclusion. I walked across the bridge, wary and expecting misfortune. Surprisingly, there was none to be had and I made it to the other side unharmed. Feeling confident, I continued toward the castle, again coming across no obstacles and again feeling as if everything was going according to plan – as if I had a plan. I pushed the enormous wooden door open with all my force. It creaked and moaned loudly. In front of me were only two doorways. I remember going through the left. Several hallways and several empty rooms were all I found. That is, until I forgot my way. Then, the first room I came across had another troll standing in the center. *How do I get back?* It seemed perplexed at the question, and it remained silent – for a moment. *For I am me.* I remembered those as the words I said to the troll by the bridge. Confused, I moved on through the halls until I came across another room. Again, there was a troll, and thinking my questioning had been rather vague the last time, I asked a longer question. *How do I get back to the main hall of this castle?* This troll seemed just as perplexed as the first, and it gave me the same answer. *For I am me.* I continued on to several different rooms, all containing a single troll, all of which gave me the same answer to my widely varied questions. *For I am me.* Those words rang in my head over and over again as I walked past tens of rooms. I would peer into every one, hoping to find something other than a troll, but never doing so. The only thing I could figure out was the grammatical fallacy of the phrase. Of course, if you wanted to say such a thing, you would replace ‘me’ with ‘I’ or ‘myself’, but that didn’t seem to be the cause of all this mystery. There had to have been more to those words than the fact that they did not represent proper English. I came across one corridor, after a while, that finally seemed to have no turn at its end. I was actually happy for finding a dead end. Inside, there was a much larger troll standing in the center of a much larger room. Feeling hopeful, I asked it my question. *How do I get out of this place?* He remained silent. Impatient, I yelled. *Answer me!* Again, nothing. *Why am I here?* It felt like I was trapped in the maze of my own mind. And as the words left my mouth and as the thought entered my head, the troll answered. *For you are you.

He owed it to her, didn’t he? She had waited. That was not the case for so many of his friends. Or the girls who no longer had someone to wait for. When the letters had stopped. They sat at the café, their coffees sending tendrils of steam towards the ceiling- lingering just for a moment, then disappearing. His black, hers no longer distinguishable amidst the copious amounts of cream and sugar. An unbearably sweet concoction so early in the morning. The girl smiled and took a sip. I knew you would come back, she had said when he showed up at her door, a week after his arrival to the city. She had thrown her arms around his neck, whispering the words against his skin, I never doubted it. But he had. Often. He fingered the ring in his pocket, a dainty little thing. He had bought it the day after Jimmy had died, feeling sentimental and all alone. It was modest, the country was poor, and he had little more to trade than a couple packs of cigarettes. A soldier’s pay never amounted to much; he sent most of it home anyway. And yet she wouldn’t know the difference. She wouldn’t care. He cleared his throat, hand moving to the mug in front of him, resting on the handle. The ring still sat in his pocket. Where it had sat through the months before he left, during the 21 hour flight, the week since he arrived. This morning. The waitress came by to refill their cups, but he waved her away. Had they been sitting that long? The girl’s nearly empty cup answered his question. He had yet to take a drink. He looked at the girl, gesturing with his head that he was ready to leave. They each slid from the booth, she paused, smoothing her skirts down. Waiting for him. Reaching into his pocket once more he pulled out a few coins, tossing them on the table. “Are you ready?” He asked, offering his arm. “Yes.

I dream of bright lights, a town to live without my shadow. Digging in the fiber of the streets and the passersby; Penetrating a future with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her breasts smother my scarred breaths. Scraping lips and she tastes like summer blood. It'll pass and I'll never be the same. Looking for people in a crowd. Tearing skin and watching my past decay in hours. Bathing in the filth, just to be born in my own eyes. Entangling with the hurt I found in the beginning. Staying away, leaving my parted loneliness in her mouth. Orgasmsing in the ways that make my mother and father something I forget. Nobody loves themselves, so how could they love me? And I writhe in ‘comfort’, just to feel. Provoking searing glares because the numbness is like dry blood jarred underneath my nails. My life encapsulates a warm goodbye. Running to nothing to find myself.

Cold. So cold. Frozen to the point where trying to remember even the faintest sensation of warmth is impossible, the very idea of it a faded canvas that once was so beautiful to behold. The cold is always the first thing about this shadow land that grips my attention. The second is the darkness mingled with the light of a full moon reflected off the snowy ground. This place of dreams and nightmares resembles those rare but wondrous nights in midwinter, where the moon and the snow work to bring daylight to the shadows. You can see so clearly, you find yourself questioning if it really is the witching hour. Not everything is visible, however. To my right I can see the outline of a forest, though I cannot see into it. I know the trees continue behind me, a penitentiary guard not allowing any opportunity for my escape. To my left, a frozen road, weeds and plants gasping for life between the cracks made so long ago by the ice that is now denying them the chance to live, and beyond that another section of forest, so dense that not even light may pass between the ancient trunks. Ahead of me, an endless stretch of snow and ice and dirt, the crooked and jagged pavement of the street snaking alongside of it. Were I to try and reach the end of this field I know I would soon fall and not rise, as I have tried before and never been successful. And then the sounds. My God, the sounds… A wolf letting out a mournful wail somewhere out in the forest. The wind gliding smoothly through the tree branches, sending out a death rattle to chill the bones of any mortal close enough to hear. A horse fighting against his bridle in vain, a beady-eyed raven letting out a victory cry as it feasts on the flesh of whatever corpse it has found in the darkness, thunder crashing in the far distance to my right signaling coming rain to further freeze the solid ground and any left out in it. And then the bells. The ringing, banging, roaring bells that cause all other sounds to cease. They demand respect, they demand fear, they demand blood. The bells ring once, twice, three times, and then the voices come. Softly, so that they cannot be heard over the powerful ringing of the bells, but growing steadily as the bells are muffled and the sound falls from your ears. They sing a funeral dirge, accompanied by a low drum stamping out a heartbeat rhythm. Their tones set the hair on end and bring the cold even closer than before, steeping your very soul in it. They are singing of me, their funeral dirge for me. I know they are ahead of me, perhaps a hundred meters, but I dare not look. With every hit of the drum my heart beats harder, louder, matching the tempo set by the ghostly procession. Within fifty meters the voices grow louder, not only with the distance being shortened but with the voices, those horrific voices, swelling and dominating the frozen landscape and the winds ferocity matching theirs. At thirty meters the drummer seems to hear my heart pounding like a blacksmith at his forge, and sets to overcome the noise I am making. Now they are fifteen meters, ten meters, five meters in front of me, calling out their liturgical blasphemies louder than any human could possibly do so. The wind is tearing at my body, trying to rend what clothes I have on from my body. The procession stops no more than two meters away and are howling down at me. The wind is sinking its long fangs deeper and impossibly deeper until I am all but consumed by the cold. They are speaking in Latin, and I'm only able to hear a few words through the gale; wolf, blood, master, god, and consumed. I stand there for as long as I can, weathering the storm and the shouting, the cold and the ice, until I can finally summon one word from the foggy recesses of my mind before it is taken from me; I clench my eyes shut, throw back my head and I scream to the four corners of this realm as loud as I can muster "STOP!" And they do. The procession stops, they shouting stops, the drum stops. Even the wind has suddenly died down, and the silence is so that not even a cricket jumping from a leaf would go unnoticed. I'm panting for air, that single command having nearly stopped my furiously racing heart. I lower my head, eyes still closed, and it is quiet. I stand there, waiting for it to end, but it is quiet. I listen for the sound I know is coming, the sound I know will end all of this…but it is quiet. I know this part. I slowly lift my eyes to the procession and see twelve skeletons in simple sackcloth robes and rope belts, five staring at me, and seven with their heads bowed; they are being led by another, taller than they are, dressed in black robes and wearing a crown of bones. I look into the blank sockets of this skull, bracing myself for what I knew would happen next. It didn't help. The lead demon dropped his bony jaws and let loose a scream from the very pits of Hell itself; a scream filled with the unimaginable torment of millions of souls, trapped in the darkness and the void, without hope, without mercy, with nothing left but their pain and their screams echoing for endless time. This is the sound that ripped me from my nightmare, drenched in sweat and freezing cold. I look and see the window open, letting the frozen St. Petersburg air into my bedroom. I get up, close the window firmly, and go into the kitchen to make some tea. I won't be sleeping any more tonight, anyway. I never do after I have that dream. It's always the same, but only happens once in a while. I stand in my kitchen waiting for the tea, and I think. This is the sixth time I've had this dream, and the other five times I've had it something terrible has happened soon afterwards. I remove the teabag with frozen hands, and bring the mug shakily up to my lips. I'm not prepared for this to happen. Not again.

Chapter 1: Night Terrors “Ughh” I feel terrible. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve been to bed, and I know what I’m hiding from. Night Terrors. I can’t stand it much longer, So i try convincing myself i need sleep, bribing, anything. Anything to stall the inevitable, soon i know my fate and i accept it with open arms. That morning I wake up to the towns sirens, which was odd to say the least because i didn’t know Manhattan had those iconic sirens you hear in movies at the beginning of a Major conflict. “Weird” i thought, this isnt my normal Night Terror, but I’m not panic mode yet so thats a small victory on its own. Then something over Orange horizon catches my eye a flock of birds possibly? Then they all start lighting up from the sides. Then i realized. We’re under attack. So the moment i realize that it’s real is when i get hit by a shrapnel of glass from my windows exploding. The pain was too real, now that i knew this wasnt fake i lazily trudged to my kitchen. These “Oh no! We gon die!” (Something my mom would scream, by the way.) moments never really bothered me, and i really don’t care for them too much myself but what you gonna do. Having a large piece of glass in my shoulder was the least of my worries, I have better things to do (Not really.) : Like making myself a cup of joe from my off brand coffee machine. After my cup of dirt flavored coffee, My “Flesh wound” was starting to hurt. So to the doctors i went, I didn’t go the speed of light in my old Crown Victoria so i had to deal with the pain in the unbearable traffic. I guess everyone was trying to get an answer about what was happening, but any normal person would stay calm and let the Mayor tell them everything was okay and that nobody died or got hurt. I’ve underestimated my Big-Little town. When i got to the hospital the Helicopters had been tearing up Buildings tearing through people and the Hospital made no exception, with almost every piece of glass in this building teared through like a knife through butter. I didn’t even waste my time with a knock, i just went on a walk in this mess of a town. Probably a mistake because people were rioting in the streets for one, and also not even a minute after i got to the Hospital someone in all black pulled me into in an alleyway, “Are you crazy? Manhattan is total Anarchy! You could be shot!”, “Just out for a walk” I said as i shrugged. He scolded me as he pulled me behind a dumpster, “So you just pull people into alleyways for a living? Rob people from time to time, maybe the occasional Jump?” I asked, “I’m not a thief. It’s not safe in the streets or even in your own home, the military has taken over our government. Giving us Quote on Quote Freedom”. Hm, this guy is as informational as a book, but as dumb as a doornail.

Chapter 1: Have you ever wanted a superpower? Ever dreamed of a god? I used to. Used to, but we’ll get to that. Growing up, I was a pretty normal kid. The only abnormality was a love of reading and a crippling inability to talk to girls. This love of reading rapidly matured into reading becoming a staple of my life. Soon my imagination expanded as well. Never really enjoying the biographies of my local libraries, I turned to science fiction and fantasy. Soon, I became addicted. Instead of sugar plums, visions of super heroes and mechs danced in my head. Reading became an escape for me. Being bullied growing up, I could delve into a book and forget about it all. Reaching high school, I started to notice things. Objects I focused on seemed to move ever so slightly, just enough to register. For the longest, I thought staring at the fine print of to many books finally got to me. This persisted until I was a senior, the only change being that the motions seemed to stop. This lasted until that infamous day North Korea surprised the world.

If Rome Were Built in a Day The uniformity of the building resembled a collection of novels on a bookshelf. Each apartment a book, vastly different from the next but in many ways the exact same story. This particular story is filled with pity among other popular conventions, and perhaps lacks the variety and intensity of many other tales. On the third floor sits an apartment whose never ceasing air conditioner could be heard making it’s usual low, manufactured hum. Amongst this sound, the shrill tone of a woman, in her mid-forties, could be heard bouncing off the walls in a cacophony of words that beat against her son’s tired ear drums. The voice found its origin in Marcella Wermor. Her “friends” took to calling her Marcie early in life and it has been the name she has carried ever since. Her son’s name was Charlie. “...but people like you well enough, they’ve always liked you,” she said in passing, only to disappear to do more household errands. “It isn’t about people liking me, I’m just unsatisfied,” He replied. Charlie had dropped out of the collegiate life two weeks prior in order to get a full time job as a journalist and had yet to tell his mother. He decided to gradually drop hints as to lean into the eventual disaster that a simple sentence would cause. In the back of his head he also knew that a letter would be arriving stating that Marcella Wermor’s last payment to the university was due. The key word was underlined in Charlie’s mind. Last. This news would come to her whether he told or not and all he could do was to decide the lesser of two evils. Marcie came back into the room with a pile of linens clumped in her hand and for lack of a better place to put them they were dropped onto the kitchen table. “More like ungrateful,” she said, avoiding eye contact. She always avoided conflict whenever possible. This evasion was most likely a product of her own insecurities that have had residual effects since high school. Charlie stood up and began to explain: “Mom, you know I love what you do for me and without you I wouldn’t have been able to go to college in the first place.” He waited for a reply yet one did not come. “See, the thing is that I was offered a great job as a journalist. It’s full time. And I know you are running low on money-” At this moment Marcie burst into his sentence with an eager shame, “It isn’t about the money” Having said this she averted her eyes because the cold hard truth was that she could no longer support her son. “I just fear that you’ll end up like me.” This statement shot a pang of guilt through Charlie. His mom had to drop out of college due to her pregnancy with Charlie. She was one year away from crossing the finish line and becoming a nurse. Charlie’s father barely had a name before he vanished, but that’s what fathers do, they leave. Often she talked of going back to school, but that was all that it was, talk. She knew, Charlie knew, hell even the neighbors knew (mostly because they were the same), that she would be stuck in the cycle of working too hard in order to barely pay the rent. Charlie spoke with sincerity, “There is nothing wrong with the life you live. You work with urgency and try to earn an honest living. You are in the same boat as everyone else. I bet if I knocked on the door of anybody on this floor they-” Again an interruption, “I wasn’t going to be like everyone else! I was going to help people, but now I can barely help you.” Stone cold, she continued to fold her clothes. At this moment the air conditioner cut off and there was an eerie absence of noise, Charlie struggled to find what to say in order to lift the burden of silence. Ever since childhood he had to choose his words wisely in order to maintain balance between he and his mother. “You have helped me. Now I am doing something with that help,” he said trying to convince her of his actions. She took a deep breath and started her counter argument: “When I left school with you in my stomach, I promised myself one thing, one thing that I wanted so bad for myself but just couldn’t finish. That was for you to go to school and become a doctor, or a teacher, or a lawyer, or anything. As long as I could make that happen, I could live with my mistakes. So stop talking and get in your car and go back to school.” Both of them knew that this was not a possibility because as the years go by the prices of everything rise and money made seems to shrink. His mother rose from the table. Marcie began to put away the clothes before completing the rest and Charlie picked up where she left off. This behavior was indicative of his mother and he was used to finishing chores and did so almost unconsciously. When she came back into the room she seemed to have completely forgot the subject and asked, “So how is the car running? That damned car always gave me so much trouble.” The car was a pain, each morning Charlie would bring a warm cloth outside in order to melt the frost off of his front window. He did this because the heater had been broken for three years. Each time the ignition was turned there was a sound that could remind Charlie of nothing else other than an elderly man. A man who can no longer rise from his chair without trouble, so he thinks just best to sit still until death. But each time this man resolves to die an orderly tells him ‘dinner time’ or ‘time to see the family’, forcing him to stand. Charlie was this orderly prodding at his car with his key telling it ‘dinner time’ or ‘time to see the family’. As one thought led to another (as thoughts often do), he realized that this image was no old man, and was not his car, but was his mother. His mother, with love, worked every day of her life only for what? She gets a moment to rest, knowing that she works for her son, only to be awakened by that same orderly telling her ‘dinner time’ or ‘time to see the family’. And who is the orderly waking her? None but her own son. Her son is the one who has to say ‘no thank you mom I can be on my own’ when all she wants is to help. Pity wells up inside him. Nothing is more pathetic and saddening than to pity your own mother. Then his vision, which had ben glazed over and unfocused on an assortment of socks and undershirts, turns to his mother and says, “The car runs fine.” Marcie started to look for her cigarettes. Cigarettes never really disgusted Charlie. Although when she smoked, he felt a sense of responsibility because he was the only person she had that could stop her. Her searching began to seem frantic. Trying to help, Charlie says, “If you can’t find them maybe that is a sign to quit.” This struck a wrong chord with his mother. “Why are you constantly judging me for the things I do? I try, isn’t that enough? You think your superior to everyone around you and because I didn’t finish school you believe me to be uneducated. Well, all you are doing is dropping out of school to be lazy. Lazy, that’s all you are! You’ve never want to do anything to help someone else it’s always ‘I’m doing this’ or ‘I do that’ and you never think of the way that it makes people feel.” By people she meant ‘herself’. “So go ahead and throw your life away because one day you’ll be looking for your cigarettes and I hope your kids make you feel terrible about trying to relax.” She was out of breath and her son was hurt because he knew that she didn’t mean what she. Still it resonated with half-truths. Her frenzied manner made it harder for her to realize that the cigarettes were in her purse like they always are. Charlie knew this and went to the small table beside the front door to retrieve the half empty box of cigarettes as well as her lighter. He returns to his mother who is still looking and places the contents on the table in front of her. She looks up and her eyes give an appreciative look first to the cigarettes and then to her son. She removes one cigarette and lights it. She brings it to her mouth as a man who has been stranded in a desert would bring a water bottle to his cracked lips. But just before it reaches her mouth, she brings the smoking stick away and starts to speak, “You know how I am. I just get worked up sometimes.” This was true even though she was mitigating the situation. “Like I said I just don’t want you to end up like me. And I do enjoy hearing your stories from school. When you go to this new job will you tell me stories about life there? Like what it is like to have a career?” Charlie nodded his head. Then she went in take a breathe of what she longed for, but before it reached her mouth a certain face fell over Marcie and she paused her movements. This was the face of someone who is thinking. A face that one can almost physically see the gears turning just from the look on their eyes. “I know I’m pitiful. I’m like that fellow from the bible that does the things he doesn’t want to do and can’t do the things he wants to. You know him?What a sad man he was.” All of this was not said to Charlie but her eyes were focused on some far off place where strife is not only forgotten but never happened in the first place. All the while the white cylinder in her hand was shortening and filling the room with a potent and bitter fragrance. She focused in on Charlie, “I feel this overwhelming debt to myself that can only be repaid if I do things right with you. Just finish school and that debt will be paid. But then again if I force you against your will, I’ll feel guilty. Goodness what am I supposed to do?” Charlie was at al loss for words mainly due to the fact that his mother made his arguments for him. This next sentence brought Marcie back to reality. It awakened her from life that she was living through stories of college and hopes of success. “I guess I can’t control you anymore and that’s that.” As the cigarette got closer and closer to Marcie’s fingers, she said, “Just know that I may not support you but I’ll always lo...” This sentence was interrupted by the burning embers of the unused cigarette reaching her fingers causing a small shock of pain. The sentence picked up in a different direction: “LORD, that hurts!” She stood up to run her hand under the water for a few seconds. Once the water was off she returned to doing household tasks. She all but forgot the subject of interest while putting a stack of books back on the shelf.

In the beginning of January, everything seemed dead. The Christmas spirit had disappeared right after the big day was over, and people immediately hurried back to their busy lives. It was a music class when I first met him The moment my eyes met his, I knew instantly that he was the one, he was the epitome of perfection. From that day, I enjoyed studying on campus. Just catching a glimpse of him was enough to have my heart beating really fast and stomach fluttering with butterflies. My love for him sprouted in the spring and bloomed into flowers in the summer, until one day that I can no longer hold it back so I went up to him and confessed. "I think I'm in love with you. " And that's when the love story began. We did what normal couples would do, we went to classes together, ate lunch and went to the movie occasionally. Other times, we would study, or listen to nocturnes with headphones plugged our ears. It was simple, too simple that my friends laughed at us and told us we were more like an old married couple that had lost all of our sparkles. We had nothing fancy, no PDAs; no Tory Birch bags or louboutins. We were simple people, living simple lives.

“Are you afraid of death?, my friend” asked my co-passenger. Not quite amused by the question and not understanding what he was getting at, I replied with a stern ‘No’. I knew that picking up hitchhikers was a bad idea. But the thought of a long boring journey, alone, made me do what I would not usually have done. I hoped I would not repent it. This new friend was shuffling around in his seat, as if trying to get something out of his pocket. I caught the glitter off a metal object in his coat. I thought about the worst possible situation. This seemed to be it and that object seemed to be a gun. “What are you doing?”, I shouted at him, startling him and making him fumble a bit more. ”Jesus, why the fuck are you shouting?”, he shouted back. He found what he was looking for. His hand slowly took the gun out of his pocket. I found his use of Jesus and fuck in the same sentence a bit funny. It was a metal box which had some weed rolled up. All calm now, the hitchhiker said “If you are not afraid, I don’t think you would mind driving high” and handed me a lit joint. It was an interesting trip that one, sure did not repent it.

I used to be a god. It was a pretty shitty experience. There is endless amounts of paperwork to fill out to accept vacant deity positions. You need to have your birth/creation certificate , a valid drivers license, and proof of existence in at least 4 dimensions. After years in limbo I finally was offered and accepted my position to be the Supreme God of the creatures living under the Ice shell of Europa. They were fun, didn't talk back much, and for the most part just swam around looking for some tail. However, on the first day of October in a year long past, all their fucks got fucked in the fuck hole. **They began to question my existence.** One wrote a book called the *"Anus Illusion"* and others began looking for deeper meaning within their own consciousness. Most importantly they started ignoring all of the chain emails I was sending them. I was pissed, I deleted all of them from my Facebook page. They responded by converting the previous holy day into a day for arts and culture? **Seriously?** **Why do they need culture and depth of being when they had me?** **I drilled...** *...and drilled* ^...and ^drilled^^...and ^^^drilled Their **anuses** until I had enough natural gas to inject into their precious home's core to make it volatile. The water became polluted, the seas were unlivable. Within one Jovian revolution all but 4 had perished. Those 4 resilient creatures packed up and left on, setting their sights on the Big Apple, New York City. Long story short, I never pursued the after they left. They had abandoned me as their creator and leader and I had a lot of shit to think about. I gave them food, water, space shit, and regularly mined their assholes for resources. They lost respect for me and left me in a state of denial and inescapable depression. My mind has been bobbing quietly on the ripples of space time for centuries, with no contact from anyone god or otherwise. **...** Last week I received from mail via Western Union from my old followers. They made it to New York and they started a television program humans of Earth watch called, "Saturday Night Live." They told me that without my support and constant anal pressure , they would have never had the fortitude to achieve their goals. I was proud... I **am** proud... **I just want to drill some anus for that silky smooth gas.** **I had deprived myself of the one thing that truly made my life happy.** I ^^want^^to^die...^forever...

I hate you so much. You don't know it, you don't care and you never will. It turns out that your existence offends me. I've been contemplating what to do about you for so long that I didn't realize how uncomfortable I've become in my seat. You're just hanging there, mocking me as I quietly hope you'll go away. To some extent I feel I have myself to blame. I thought that with enough patience my problem with you would sort itself out, but instead it's only gotten worse. I can feel my phone vibrating as someone calls, but I can't answer as long as you're around. My hate for you is totally irrational now; it's grown from my own impatience. You're probably stuck to me, caught in some tangle as a result of your friends who came before you. One of my friends just walked in and out. I don't think they saw me thankfully. How embarrassing would this be? That's it. I've had enough and I'm getting pins and needles in my leg. I'm getting rid of you the old fashioned way, a little physical intervention. Fuck you dingleberry.

DON'T RUN... DON'T PANIC... JUST READ... Hello You, Was it a surprise when you stepped into your little hiding place and found this waiting for you? I hope so. How long was it before you actually reached out and tore the envelope off the branch? Not too long I hope. I've been waiting for you. Has your belly done a little flip and flutter? Are the butterflies bouncing off the walls of your stomach as you read this? Are they bashing their little brains in? I bet they are, aren't they? Are you wondering why you found this envelope with this letter inside? Why do you think? It's because I watch you. I watch you watching me. Out of the corner of my eye. Did you think that I had no idea? Did you think that every night I would come to my bedroom window, look out into my garden and not know that you were watching me? The darkness is not a good place to hide the twinkle of an eye. Why do you think I stand there night after night? It's because I like it. I like to feel your eyes on me. I like the anticipation of waiting to appear to you. Sometimes I feel like I'm a star, waiting backstage, ready to perform to an adoring crowd of fans. I don't need a crowd though do I? I've got you. My biggest fan. I walk up, ready to be framed for you. Picture perfect. A perfect living, breathing picture. Do you like it when I pose for you? I know you like it when I undress. Do you not worry that as you're reading this, little insects might be finding their way into your clothes and onto your skin. Don't you hate to feel the tickle of their little feet? I do. It's lonely in here tonight, those that are here don't talk to me anymore. It's been so long since I've heard a friendly voice or seen a friendly smile, that's why I like you. The first time I saw you, my heart leapt straight into my throat, I almost gagged on it. That's how happy I was. What made you choose me over that other pretty lady that lives across from me? Was I just an accident one night? I hope not, I like to believe in fate. I'm rambling now, I bet you're wondering what the point of this letter is. Well, the point is this... I think it's time for the flirting to finish. I want to play. By the time you read this I'll be naked and splayed, ready for you. My hair and my make up is done and my skin is tingling. My eyes are black and my lips are very, very red. I am perfect and I am beautiful. It's been so long since I've felt a warm touch and I'm hungry. Wouldn't you like to wash yourself in my wet mouth? I don't want to be alone tonight. The door's open...

You hold your head up with your arm, eyes slowly closing. You shake yourself awake. 10:16 AM. The pen in your hand twirls around your fingers. You glance out the window for the fourth time. The tree was still there, its branches swaying lightly in the wind. Leaves danced and twirled as a small draft of wind passed through. *Click click* The wind blew hard, for once, and the trees moved with it. The grass becoming an ocean of green waves. You listened closely and heard the wind blowing against the force of nature. *Shhhhhhhhhhhhh* You look through another set of windows a little further down. Everything was the way it was before. The grass was still a calming green, the sky a cloudless sea of blue. *Click click* A man walked up to a set of bushes with a hose; at last, something new. He took aim and began to water the bushes. You listened closely and heard the water spraying out of the hose. ***Shhhhhhhhhhhhh*** You look back out the first window. Nothing had changed. *Click click* The trees were still swaying gently and the birds were still singing their songs. **SLAM** You jump from the sound. A hand had been slammed onto your desk. **"Be quiet and do your readings!"** The teacher takes your pen away and walks back to their desk. 10:21 AM.

“Knock knock.” said a heavenly voice at the door. A sharp light pierces my eyes and rips me from my eternal dreams. “It’s time to get up, baby.” It’s my girlfriend, who last night had been right next to me in bed, but as usual, she had gotten up first and showered before happily waking me up. I would – just once – like to see her face first thing in the morning, but I digress. In the absence of my love’s beautiful face, I see the pill bottle on my nightstand, which reminds me of reality. My reality. My girlfriend is a whore, and an ugly one at that. She cheats on me daily, unaware that I know of her sex-life. Ours is nonexistent because of how exhausted she is from boning every guy in her office every single day. I have asthma, so it’s not as if our sex life could be that great in the first place. I also have crippling depression, which is what the pills are for. My doctors and my family feel as if some synthetic form of human-ignorance can cure me of my cynicism and pessimism, but that just causes the problem to grow… exponentially. I hate everything about my meaningless life and I just want to end it. I’ve thought about it before, too; just swallow five too many pills or slice through an artery with a razor blade or… or… I don’t know. I never have the balls to do any of those things, and I don’t now. But maybe I could just ‘accidentally’ slip some pills into my drink… and maybe my girlfriend’s – it’d save everyone else the trouble. Then I could just fall back into bed and dream forever. A sharp light pierces my eyes and rips me from my eternal dreams. “Knock knock.” said a heavenly voice at the door.

In the year 3000, we have the Technology to bring people back from the dead but only once. This is all thanks to me, I invented pretty much everything for the past 100 years. I am also the first President of the Universe. To celebrate how awesome I am I decided to throw a dinner Party with Abraham Lincoln, Kurt Cobain, and Paul Walker (To soon?). We Talk about Concerts and shows, and how awesome we all are. Except for Paul Walker of course he totally sucks I dont even know why he is here. As we finish dinner I get up to go grab dessert and I hear a knock on the door. I set the glorious cake I made down on the table and go to answer it. Before I can even make it to the door a lazer is shot through it hitting Kurt Cobain. Abe quickly flips a table and Me, Abe, and Paul Walker hide behind it. We all start talking about a plan. But before we can think of anything good Alien Cowboys break in and start firing. Paul Walker stands up to try and shoot at them but gets shot like a million times and dies. I grab his gun and then shoot all the Aliens killing them all. Abraham gets up and gives me a high five but then John Wilkes Booth jumps through the window (Which is unnecessary because the aliens already blew off the door) and shoots Abraham six times in the head. I quickly shoot back and kill John, but its to late for Abe he is dead and can never ever come back. The saddest part about this is that when Abraham flipped the table he ruined my cake.

He saw her inside, his face pressed up against the restaurant window, the cool summer air rushing around him - his beloved sitting with someone else. The thought of it raged inside him, inflaming his passion. But he deliberated, was this what he really wanted to do? Could he be sure that this choice would be the one he desired? Then he looked back inside, and saw her laugh, that perfect, chiming laugh, like the peal of bells - and he knew. He rushed through the doors; barging past the surprised maître’d and strode up to the table, where she sat. She saw him, and her eyes grew wide and her she barely covered her mouth as she gasped. “Jasper” she cried, “what are you doing here?” He smiled, though nervously, “I had to be here, I couldn’t bear to be apart from you” Her expression grew dark, as a sour look crept upon her face “You were the one who left me remember, you couldn’t make a commitment, and now I’ve moved on, we may have had something once, but now, you mean nothing to me” “Don’t I?” Jasper asked. By now people were starting to stare, the maître’d that he had pushed earlier looked on in anticipation. “Then roll up your left sleeve, Mimi” “What?” “Just do it! Please!” He begged. Reluctantly she rolled up her sweater, to show a small tattoo, the letters J and M entwined within a perfect little heart “If I mean nothing, then does that mean nothing, do you not love me?” Jasper asked. Tears welled up in Mimi’s eyes “What kind of question is that? Of course I do, I never stopped loving you, but you were too busy and too indecisive, I needed more from a man” “I know” Jasper said quietly “and I am truly sorry. My mind was gripped by fear, I wished to see so much out of life and I was so afraid of losing a single part of it and I had no idea what it was I truly wanted, until I realised the thing I wanted most, was you” “Mimi smiled weakly “really? ” “Truly, honest to God, truly!” jasper exclaimed “if all else in my life fell to dust, except you, I would consider myself the richest man in the world” Besides him other patrons began to sniffle at his stirring tale. “And if I lost you it would mean the death of me, and now, i’m ready for you, to make you my bride, to shower you with love forever, if you will take me” Mimi hesitated, still in her seat. “Go on dear, take him back” an elderly man at the adjoining table said, and others joined in. “Do it” “He loves you” “Give him another chance” Mimi looked down for a moment, then turned her face up and smiled, “Of course I will” she said and they embraced, passionately kissing whilst the whole restaurant applauded, the maître’d wiping a tear from his eye. The clapping continued as he swept her off her feet and carried her out the door, into the night.......leaving me alone at the table, thoroughly confused. One moment I was eating with a girl on a seemingly a pleasant dinner date, and the next, she was gone. “Wait, did she just leave with him?” I said aloud, reasonably irritated. “Oh, don’t stand between true love, you little prick” The elderly man at the next table spat at me, the woman beside him simply glared. I sighed deeply and signalled for the bill. The waitress walked over, wiping tears from her eye. “How romantic” she mused dreamily “True lovers rekindling their passion.” “Your bill” she said her voice taking a harsh tone, dropping it on the table loudly and walking away. I took a deep breath and silently vowed to myself that this was the last time I go on a blind date. I looked at the bill and sighed again. Yep, she had ordered the lobster...

I was on my way to meet family in South Carolina, flying alone and very early for my flight. I naturally decided it was a good idea to occupy a bar stool close to my gate with a rolling stone magazine and a serious thirst for a glass of wine. The bartender was this curly haired, quirky guy who immediately greeted me with a smile and a drink. The bar was pretty full and I found a seat between an older Latin American man and some white collared douche on his blackberry. I began chatting with the bartender about whatever happened to be on the cover of my magazine, Kanye West in all his grandiose self-proclaimed glory. We shared a laugh and he moved on to the next patron. A moment later, the Latin American turned to me with a huge smile and said hello. He introduced himself as Jorge from New Mexico. He asked what my travel plans were and reciprocated with a story of a failed business venture and a trip back home. He was well dressed and incredibly kind mannered. Given the fact that I am a young woman travelling on my own, I am well aware of the fact that I am a natural magnet for small talk. No one to converse with, alone and drinking. Knowing this, my defence mechanisms are higher than usual and I don't often let them down even amidst a polite conversation. But there was something about Jorge... He reminded me of how I had imagined Melchizedek would have looked like if he were a real person. (I had just finished my annual Alchemist read before my trip.. Clearly) I distinctly remember this thought making its way to my consciousness as I'm politely listening to his sad, yet hopeful stories. As I began to watch the time a little closer, he noticed our encounter was coming to an end and switched topics abruptly. He asked me if I believe in God. This question has always been a tough one to answer for me. "I have not been raised religious", I tell him, "but I believe in something." I continued because he gave me this look as though that answer was not sufficient enough. I told him I believed in a God, that religion is hope and an attempt at spiritual connectedness-- that I believed very strongly in the importance of all of those things. But I did not have a name for my God. He must have decided that that was a good enough answer so he reached into his pocket As he was fishing for what seemed to be ten minutes, he began telling me about his faith. He told me that his mother raised him as a spiritual man- a man of God. The most important part of someone, she taught him, was their eyes. For within someone's eyes, you can see their soul. He said he looked at me and he knew my soul was pure and good. That I am an "angel walking amongst us". He then presented me with this odd looking charm.. It was clear, hard plastic with a cross embedded in it. He told me that he had been given it as a token of faith by a complete stranger years ago and he held onto it waiting to cross paths with someone he felt worthy. He said today was the day. He placed it in my hand and told me that with it comes his eternal blessing. With that, he gathered his belongings and disappeared into the chaos of Pearson Airport leaving me with an overwhelming feeling of enlightenment. I still have it in my wallet.

A solitary light flickered above the door in the otherwise pitch black darkness of the camp as the rain poured down. The door burst open, and Seo-yun emerged into the night with a rifle in one hand and a fist full of hair in the other. The boy remain silent as Seo-yun dragged him across the yard and threw his face down into a large, muddy pool that had collected. As he started to get up, Seo-yun placed a large black boot at the nape of his neck and stepped down hard. “You filthy cockroach” Seo-yun sneered, “You disgust me. You think you can steal food?” Seo-yun wasn’t sure what it was about this boy in particular that displeased him. Something about him seemed sneaky, or maybe it was just the boy’s face. Whatever it was, it was enough for Seo-yun to pay special attention to this one. “You know, I think I’m through with your attitude you sniveling little shit.” Seo-yun swung his rifle around at the boy who looked up but did not react, not even in the slightest. It was this attitude that angered Seo-yun; this indifference to pain and death. “Get up.” He said. Slowly the boy stood, his eyes looking straight at Seo-yun’s. There was no fear or anger there, just a blank stare, as if to prove that nothing Seo-yun did mattered to him. “We shall see,” thought Seo-yun. He motioned down the path with the tip of his rifle. The air was silent except for the hush of rain as they headed down the walkway to a large metal tube at the bottom of the hill. It was about four and a half feet tall, too short to stand up in, but also to narrow to sit down. Seo-yun motioned to the handle. The boy grasped it, swung the face of the tube open, stepped inside, and look out at Seo-yun. His face was a stone. Seo-yun looked back at him, standing there in the tube. “What a pathetic creature,” though Seo-yun. The boy was desperately skinny, more so than most of the prisoners. The bones in his arms and face protruded unnaturally. His thin, oily hair dripped rain down across his sunken, lifeless eyes. Those eyes; that was what Seo-yun hated the most. He slammed the door shut saw the boy staring back through the little slot in the face of the door. Leaning forward, Seo-yun stared right back, and laughing, slid the slot closed. It was a long wet walk up to the barracks at the top of the hill. As he entered through the gate Seo-yun strolled silently past the scribe he was supposed to inform of the prisoner he’d put in the box. “Screw it,” he though, “let that little rat rot in there for an extra day, that nasty little thief.” He headed down the hallway to a small neat room about halfway down. As soon as his head hit the pillow Seo-yun was drifting off without a single though of the boy passing through his mind. He was standing. It was completely dark, the kind of dark that makes you close and open your eyes to see if you can tell the difference. He couldn’t. There was something else too. It was cold and very quiet. Seo-yun couldn’t make out a single sound, except…his breathing was echoing around him. He went to raise his hand, but to his surprise his knuckles struck something. Startled, he leaned back, and the tube made a low metallic note as the back of his head struck it. Realization dawning on him, Seo-yun panicked and began thrashing, but the prison was so small every movement was punished immediately with the pain of striking that cold, unforgiving metal surface. He was dreaming, had to be. How else would he have ended up in here? Seo-yun had no memory of being moved after he had fallen asleep. It sure didn’t feel like a dream though. It felt real, very real, and scary as fuck. Maybe one of the prisoners had knocked him over the head while he was asleep, or drugged him somehow. “And dragged you down out of the barracks past ten guards?” Though Seo-yun. No, that didn’t make any sense, and if the barracks had somehow been overtaken he surely would have woken. “Hey!” yelled Seo-yun, “HEEEEEEYYYY!” The sound echoed deafeningly all around him inside the tiny metal cage. Hours passed, then days. At least, that was what Seo-yun guessed. He couldn’t be sure. Normally the sun would strike the tube and turn it into a furnace, cooking the prisoners, but there had been no heat or light. Then again, Seo-yun couldn’t be sure what was real anymore. The sensory deprivation was taking its toll on Seo-yun’s mind and he knew it. Brief flashes of thing he done at the prison flashed before his eyes; the pool of blood from the senile old man he had struck across the head for moving too slowly in the wash room, the look in the eyes of the young girl he had forced to perform oral sex. These scenes were bursting across his vision like camera flashes, swirling around him. Moaning, Seo-yun rest his forehead against the metal tube. He couldn’t take anymore. His body was in agony from the constant standing. Thirst burned mercilessly down his throat, and his mind was tearing itself apart. Then, without warning, the slot in front of his eyes opened. Before him lay more darkness, but not the kind that had surrounded him in the tube. It was night outside, and he could see the silhouette of the figure that stood before him, perfectly still, not making a sound. Seo-yun studied the outline, and slowly recognition dawned on him. The boy! Seo-yuns burst out screaming, trying to cram in so many obscenities and threats that they melded into nonsensical babbling. The boy remained silent and totally still, not reacting in the least to Seo-yuns outburst. Then, slowly, he leaned forward. Seo-yun, caught off guard by this, suddenly fell silent and peered back at the boy out of the tiny slot. The boy’s face approached, and the eyes, caught by a glint of moonlight, shined back at Seo-yun, who felt a sudden horror rising within him. Within those sunken eyes Seo-yun could see the pupils were not round, but long and rectangular, like they eyes of a goat. The slot closed.

It was the last day of school... I think it was 1979. All my friends were outside playing, we had built a ramp on the dirt street out of a cinder block and a piece of wood and were diligently doing our best to make sure we broke our legs on the first day of summer break. We would line up at the end of the street on our bicycles, and get as much speed as our legs could muster before hitting the ramp with a very unsatisfying thump, launching us a whole 8 inches into the air. Inevitably, every now and again, a car would come up the dusty dirt road, one of the kids would yell at the top of his lungs CAR!!!! and everybody would grab all their stuff and drag it to the side of the road, even the cinder block and board. As soon as the offending car would pass... back to it we went. One of the passing cars belonged to the lady who lived two trailers down from me. I think her name was Linda, she lived with another lady, I forgot her name, but everybody knew they were gay. Looking back I find it hard to believe that gay people living in the trailer park were so well tolerated in the 1970's especially after living in today's political climate. None the less, Linda was gay, she had a gay lover, and they lived two trailers down, and that was pretty much the way it was. Linda waved at me as she got out of her car. She was some kind of teacher, but she didn't teach at any school we went to. She taught at some sort of special school. I never understood if it was special because rich kids went there, or if it was special because short bus kids went there. Everybody liked the gay couple, even though lots of kids would make fun of them behind their backs in the regular crude way that 12 year old boys do. I waved back. I liked Linda, she was always nice to me. It was then that I realized she was waving me over. I set my bike down and walked over to Linda's driveway while all my friends made teasing rude mumbles low enough that only I could hear, and made licking signs with their fingers and tongues. Linda was busy unloading lots of stuff from her car, I guess it was all her teaching stuff, or whatever stuff it is that teachers need. "Do you collect stamps?" she asked me. Do I collect stamps? I thought. What kind of question is that? It's 1979, who the hell collects stamps anymore. Then she pulled out this big book. It was brown leather with fancy gold designs all over it, and it was dry and cracking on the edges and corners. "I found this in my classroom, somebody must have left it there." And she handed to me. "You're giving it to me"? I asked. "Yes", "For free?", "Yes". I turned and ran back like an escaped convict, I had this big glorious book held tight to my chest. All my friends are yelling "What do you got?" "It's Stamps!" I yelled. Glorious, glorious stamps. I ran into my trailer, pushed past my mom who was cooking dinner, into my room and slammed the door. I sat on the floor and gingerly placed the book between my knees in the shag carpet. I opened it and began flipping through the pages. This wasn't just a stamp collection. Sure there were lots of stamps. LOTS of stamps. Individual stamps, sheets of stamps, rows and rows of stamps. All of them old. All of them from somewhere else. Some countries I could make the names out like "Nederland". But most everything was in languages I didn't know. There were lots of stamps with pictures of people on them, People I have never seen before. It didn't take me long to figure out that they were all from Europe. There were stamps from CCCP, Italy, and lots of other places that I didn't recognize. But mostly, there seemed to be stamps from Deutschland, a lot of which did have somebody's picture on them I recognized. Adolph Hitler. There were sheets of Hitler stamps, never torn apart. All different kinds. Some of him in his uniform, some just his face, and lots with other stuff, like fancy buildings in Germany. This was cool, this was something none of my friends had. All of the sudden that kid with the cool Schwinn bike wasn't as cool as me. But what was most interesting about this book, wasn't the stamps. It was what was in the back of the book. Letters and Mementos. This was the interesting stuff. There were a half dozen or so letters, carefully folded and in their envelopes. Envelopes that struck me as quite small, the paper too. I grew up in a world where all sheets of paper were 8.5X11. This was all much smaller than that. And pretty old looking. They were all to the same woman. I honestly don't remember her name, I wish I did. None of them were in English, so I never was able to read a single word. They were also all hand written, quite badly I might add. There was also a fancy linen napkin, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. The corner of the napkin was embroidered with some kind of insignia of what I presumed was some hotel. The napkin had blood in it. Old brown blood. It was stained, and some had flaked off. When I opened it up, I had to be careful to preserve the flakes in the folds of the napkin. Looking back on it, I am not so sure it was a napkin, it was most likely a handkerchief with a military insignia in the corner. I used to keep my treasure in the top of my special closet. I had a closet in my room that contained the hot water heater. There was a little cavity up in the top of the closet that nobody knew about but me. That cavity had been home to bad report cards, notes from my teachers, nudie magazines, and the holy grail... my stamp collection. I was the funny little curator. 13 years old, with my thick horn rimmed glasses, always sweaty and dirty. I would occasionally pull that book down, unfold the letters, and try to read them again and again... I decided that since I was now a stamp collector, I should add to the collection. One year I rode my bike to the post office and bought the commemorative Christmas stamp set and put them in the book. Yeah, I was now adding to the treasure! But as things go, I lost interest in the book, and it spent month after month, year after year in the little cavity at the top of the hot water heater closet. Only coming down for special occasions, to show some new kid in the neighborhood, or to show to the occasional teacher. When I got to High School, I joined the band. I played baritone. Since the baritone was a big instrument, the school owned them, and issued one to me at the beginning of the year. I carried that case back and forth with me to school every week of the year. The baritone was big and heavy, and I got quite adept at stashing my other things in the case with the instrument and carrying it all as a package. And that is what happened to the book. It was the last day of school and I had been showing the book off to some kids at school and stashed it in the baritone case. Forgetting it was there, I put the baritone back in its designated slot in the back of the band room. It was on the bus ride home that I realized what I did, but it was the last day of school before summer. I told myself that I would go get it back on the first day of the next year. But by the time summer break of 1982 ended, I had forgotten about the book. I always wonder if my old band director found it, and took it home and gave it to one of his neighbor kids... easy come, easy go.

I sat down on the bench, wiped the sweat off my brow, and set down my shovel and pail. July heat is merciless. I considered calling it a day; I wanted to go inside for some lemonade and a *Salade Nicoise* but the garden is never finished until Oiga has been watered. I got Oiga many years ago at a flea market, a little field maple sapling I thought would add some charm to the corner of our garden. At that time I had just removed the cracked concrete in that corner, stained by bleach and paint, and had finally put in a new planter with fresh soil. I don't typically...name my plants, but Oiga grew to be somewhat of an anomaly. After two years of growth, a knot in Oiga's trunk left me with an uneasy feeling of pareidolia. The face that had twisted into place grew soft and flexible, until Oiga whimpered his first word, "fall". I was watering the morning glories along the fence when I heard it; the deep, dark, creaking voice caught me completely off guard. I went to go investigate the noise, and I shrieked when in the trunk there stood a face, yawning as if waking up from a long cat nap. I fainted. My husband saw me collapse and brought me inside. Thankfully the soil in that corner softened the blow, and I was only out for a few minutes. "Did you see it?" "Yes." "The face? The face in the tree I bought for the garden, *you saw it?*" "Yes, I saw it." "So I'm not crazy?" "No, just a little lightheaded. Have some tea." I gently pulled the mug toward my lips. "I heard him. He said 'fall' just before I collapsed." He looked away before gathering his thoughts. "Do you know when my birthday is?" "What? What are you talking about?" "The tree, it said something else while you were out. Do you know when my birthday is?" "Of course, it's..." His birthday was in two days. He was turning thirty and...I had completely forgot. "What did the tree say?" "It said, 'don't expect anything.'" We stared at each other for a minute in utter confusion. That was years ago. Eventually we got used to Oiga's presence. We had company over a few times, and each time Oiga would predict something...bad. Something unfortunate. First we stopped having barbeques. Then people just stopped coming over for dinner altogether. No one wanted to hear it. Thankfully, Oiga's gruesome mug faced the corner of the garden. He had to yell to be heard. Even still, never once did Oiga predict good news. Scientists came to our home a few times to observe the tree, but they never found anything biologically unusual. And now I'm looking over to Oiga contemplatively, thinking just what to do with this particularly unusual field maple. I looked over at the axe by the screen door. I noiselessly got up, grabbed the axe, and slowly walked toward this cursed tree. "Inside." I stopped. "You should go inside." "What if I don't want to go inside Oiga?" "It wouldn't make any difference to me." "Really?" I tossed the axe from hand to hand. "I know you have an axe. You should know that I know that by now." "You want to tell me why I shouldn't use it?" "Depending on when you get inside, either you'll feel grateful or regretful." "Tell me why I shouldn't swing this axe, Oiga." "Because it'll hurt. But also because you'll be out here for a while doing it, and I'm telling you, *go inside.*" "Why don't you tell me why you would never predict anything positive." Oiga was silent for a moment. "Good things take time. Happy marriages, getting an education, rebuilding a nation, it all takes time. And there are so many variables the longer things take. They're wonderful things, but they aren't like tragedy. The bad, it happens all at once. Swiftly, abruptly, bombs drop. People die, bridges fall. They're awful, but they happen." "What are you saying?" "Start looking ahead. Forget about the past, and stop worrying about the future. Good things take time. If anything good is going to happen, it won't happen all at once. Conversely, there isn't much time left; you need to go inside." For reasons I still can't explain to you, I set down the axe. Oiga was smart enough to know that this was just delaying the inevitable. He knew I was ready to chop him down. And yet, I trusted him enough to know that if I needed to go inside, I should probably do it. I turned around, opened the screen door, closed the sliding glass door and looked out at the garden. It started...raining. The July heat turned to a muggy overcast almost immediately. It was drizzling. I was confused, but then in minutes, the rain picked up. Winds whipped Oiga's branches violently. I called my husband. He said he was only five minutes from home, and that the radio turned to an emergency broadcast...a flash flood warning. He came in the door soaking wet; I was still standing by the screen door. Two feet of water rushing through the garden. The flowers were dead. The herb garden was uprooted and devastated. The planters split open and destroyed. And Oiga, still facing the corner of the garden, was waiting for the water to rise.

Hi all, Awhile back I've published a Short Story e-Book available in all devices for the price of $1.99 BUT NOW I'll be offering you the book for free in return for you to read the short story e-book from beginning to end. My only wish for you to do is to comment on your thoughts of the e-Book from which ever device you use to read. i.e. : , , , etc. Please PM me if you are interested. **Lauren's Diary** *Ever had that one person in your high school who was popular, mean, and possibly evil? Do you wish you could understand what it’s like to be that person? Take a dive into the diary of a popular, psychotic, high school girl as she gets closer to her graduation.

Prompt: A man gifts dreams in a world where people have forgotten how to dream. When I first heard about him, I thought he was a myth; like Big Foot or the Yeti. I didn’t think it was possible, not anymore anyway. We, the human race, lost our ability to dream back in the late 2050s when governments began approving the commercialization of “designer babies.” For the first time in human history, parents could choose specific DNA traits that they would want their children to inherit. Children grew up brighter, more athletic, beautiful and eventually more successful than children conceived through traditional insemination. In a world filled with perfect human beings, the poor couldn’t afford to compete and over time the world’s population shrank to a point where everyone had been created in a lab. We now possessed the richest pool of genetic material than ever studied before. However, by about the second or third generation people began forgetting how to dream. It took years for studies and research to effectively conclude that people were no longer able to dream. Scientists dully explained the connection between the neurons that are active during the REM phase while we were asleep and nucleotides in our DNA, which became repressed and extinct over time. It was similar to the theory behind natural selection. The damage was done; it seemed inconsequential to people back then, they didn’t need as much sleep as the generations before then. Large genetic corporations who essentially customized babies spun it as “evolution.” People had no choice but to move on. Decades flew by. Dreaming was a lost design and Oneirology a forgotten science; our brains could no longer build the framework we needed to dream.The world we grew up in dreaming was a fable, told to little kids to get them to sleep. My grandfather used to tell me stories when I was a young boy about his grandfather who like all humans at the time, could dream. He spoke of the limitless nature of dreams; of precognition, visions and anything you ever wanted. I was always fascinated by the idea even though I never completely understood it. It was hard for me to imagine what a dream was, but I used to wish that when I fell asleep that I would be magically whisked away into my world of imagination. As I grew up, desires of dreaming faded away over time when I met the love of my life. All I wanted to do was to be with this gorgeous woman who somehow loved me too. I wanted to spend every moment of life making her smile and watching her laugh. She lit up my life and we were inseparable. I knew early on that she would always be the best thing every happened to me, I guess I won the jackpot early. You don’t win the lottery twice.. We were so close to getting married when she passed away in car accident. They could barely identify her remains. I’m I could’ve saved her if I was there. There was a giant hole in my heart and I didn’t want to fill it. My life was never going to be the same. Everything I saw was grey; I didn’t want to meet people or work anymore. I only wanted to be with her, at least one last time to say goodbye. I just wanted to see her smile again. Dreams.. The one place I knew I’d find her. While conducting research on the last known man to have dreamt, I found out that there was a man who was still alive, but barely. Through some persistence I convinced Mr. Takahama’s children to let me interview him. He was a lot older and more frail that I had pictured. The backstory was that he, being one of the earlier generations of designer babies, he retained the ability to dream till he was a teen. Now, at 120 years he was the last of the fortunate. During his interview, he told me that he last dreamt a couple of years ago. I was shocked, but his children brushed it off as a sign of old age. He pulled me closer and whispered, “there is a man who goes by the Dreamer, seek him and you shall find your answers.” I chuckled at the suggestion but Mr. Takahama said this more sternly than anything he had all evening. I went looking for “the Dreamer” but most my leads were dead ends. I was mocked by my colleagues at the university. I was searching for a ghost, for a man who didn't want to be found. A few people had heard of him but no one knew anything about him for certain. I spent the better part of a year chasing a shadow. I was close to giving up, but I wanted to experience what it felt like to dream. Fortunately, a few days before I was about concede in defeat, the phone rang. The man, one of my leads, spoke hurriedly, “we found him, we found Aserinsky.” “Who?” I asked. “Eugene Aserinsky, the Dreamer. We’ve located him Vienna. You better fly out tonight. This is the last chance you’ll ever get." I was excited but I tried to keep my expectations in check. I had never been so close but every other lead had ended in disappointment. I barely slept a wink on the flight to Vienna, Austria. I had so many questions and thoughts spinning through my head. I prayed that answers awaited me. I made my way towards the Albertina, a historic museum built in the 17th century, to meet Aserinsky. My contact had told him that I had spent a significant portion of my life studying dreams and managed to convince him to meet me. I wasn’t sure what to expect. He looked the part; an elderly man worn down by time. His silverish hair resonated wisdom and his light brown eyes gleamed of visions unseen. He spoke with a certain charisma that few developed. It became immediately known to me that he was the one I pursued. “Do you know why I asked you to meet me here?” He spoke clearly but softly. “Not really, I know this museum stores some of the rarest paintings from the Renaissance period centuries ago.” I replied, hoping to impress him. “Exactly, these painters were considered to be visionaries, romantics, dreamers and philosophers. This time period had a huge impact on human culture; the arts, science and the humanities. I’ve had dreams where I’m lost in this beauty.” “Dreams.. Do you dream?” I asked nervously. “Yes, I do dream. A long time ago, I discovered I had a gift for being able to dream and that I could give others the ability to dream. Our brains are no longer as capable of processing REM as decades ago, so the few men who I gave my ability to, eventually killed themselves because they couldn't distinguish a dream from reality. Why do you wish to dream so desperately?” “I wish to be with the one person who completed me. She was taken away from me and I would do anything to be with her again.”, I reasoned. “I must warn you that dreams are powerful; they are as real in your minds as life around you. You may die from your brain being unable to process the nerve impulse transmissions.The sad part would be that your mind wouldn’t know the difference between a dream and death.” Confidently I replied, “Yes, I understand the risks.” The next thing I remember is falling asleep in my bed, floating away in a timeless time where my soul escaped into a life that wasn’t my own. I didn’t know if I was dreaming or dead but I saw her. She looked as gorgeous as ever. Even if it was death, I found some solace in knowing that I would finally be with her.

We walked through a vale holding each other's hand. I felt perfectly comfortable remaining silent and marching along as long as I knew she was with me. We had reached past the point of us needing speech to get our emotions across. We continued strolling for a while and then finally sat on a bench which was perched under an arched outgrowth of a stony structure. She put Her head on my lap and closed Her eyes. My love grew for Her every second I watched Her beautiful face in deep sleep. I wondered whether she felt the same way, or whether she felt at all. Suddenly, I sensed the earth moving. The whole world around me was shaking. I realised I didn't have much time left. I was about to depart. Slowly, the waterfall, flowers, the lake, butterflies, and the mountains faded away into darkness and then a bright light met my eye. The brightness diminished and I was back in my room. My servant was standing in front of me. "Sir, why are you so hard to wake up these days? If you carry on going late to work, you will eventually be fired. You don't want that do you?" he said. If only he knew. I was both happy and sad. I felt sad leaving Her, but I was happy that it had now worked three times in a row. How lucky was I, that having slept a sad sleep the day before yesterday, I would meet Her the second time. This ignited in me the thought of the possibility that I could meet Her whenever I wanted to. So I tried to meet Her the third time today. I was doubtful and skeptical. I am a middle aged man who has never experienced love. Forget the act of loving, I couldn't even think of the prospect of finding love in my lifetime. I turned off all the lights, locked the door, threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes. I was failing. I was sweating uncontrollably with nervousness. This was my last chance to find what I never had. Then, I thought of Her, with Her soft and beautiful face, Her enigmatic eyes, Her endless locks of hair, Her slender yet graceful body, the vulnerability in Her glances, Her voice that confirmed the presence of angelic minstrels. God himself had sent down this perfect entity for me to spend time with, albeit in a second reality. I had to calm down and sleep. I was no longer panting, and was able to slowly drift away into slumber. I was in a vast empty ball room. It was beautiful, but right now, I had no concern for the beauty of inanimate objects. I had to find Her as quickly as I could, so I could maximise the amount of time I was to spend with Her. I looked for her everywhere. Where was she? Was it really possible that I failed, even in bringing a being that lived inside my thoughts, to appear in front of me? I was suddenly struck by the memory of yesterday. I had stood in front of the mirror for an hour. I gazed at my disfigured body, my hunched back, my crooked teeth, my uneven face and my uninteresting eyes. I had decided to break every mirror in my house that day, for they were only a source of pain to me. Now, as I looked around for her in the ballroom, I slowly became demoralised. I could not even find Her in a second reality. I wept and I wept, and for sure, I did know I was physically weeping too, for I felt the dampness seep through my body. 'Come here,' said an enchanting voice. 'Did you really think I was going to leave you alone?' A white figure seemed to be approaching me. Her shape became more apparent as she moved towards me. She was dressed in the most elegant of elegant dresses. She came up to me, and without uttering a word, kissed me. All my doubts, inferiorities and insecurities vanished in a matter of seconds. 'You have me right now and you will have me forever,' she said. 'My appearance may change but I will always be Her.' We sat together on the velveted floor. I told her everything I knew and everything I wanted to do. She listened patiently without any patronising judgement. She seemed as if she had been lost in my discourse. She comforted me when I told her my doubts and answered me when I had queries. Seconds, minutes, hours and then days seemed to have passed by. We were still sat on the same spot talking and being lost in wonder of one another. 'I have to go fly,' she said with a hint of sycophancy, 'Try not to think about me.' She faded away gradually, and slowly, the whole room turned dim and finally, my whole vision was obscured. I woke up. I opened my eyes and looked around. I wasn't in my room. There were people around me, maybe four or five. 'Sir, you have been in a coma for six years. My whole team and I would like to congratulate you on being born again. Also try to sleep less,' a doctor said, letting out a faint chuckle. I wasn't able to speak as I lay there helpless. I didn't care about anyone else other than Her. I wanted to go back and never come back. A memory came to my mind about when I met my childhood friend after several years. 'What brought you into acting then, James?' I asked. 'My wife... the third one, she pushed me towards getting a job as an actor. She had faith in my ability. And so right she was, I had never even dreamed of achieving such fame.' James answered. 'Good for you, my friend, if only I were a part of your gene pool.' 'My gene pool? You think I've only gotten this far because of my looks?' 'You never were intelligent were you? Only if you were, you could have acknowledged the luck that had been bestowed upon you. Nobody falls in love with character at first sight. Set on this earth is a bliss for the rich and beautiful.' 'You always were a jealous man weren't you? Stop envying other people's abilities and go back to your cave and hang out with your rodents, you incompatible oddity!' He stormed out of the restaurant leaving me alone with my food and strangers' stares. He was right. I was an oddity. I had regained consciousness and was out of my coma. I had been awake thinking about this incident while tears ran down my face. It was soon dark outside and I started feeling drowsy. I was about to sleep and it was the most joyous part of the day. I soon fell asleep but there were no dreams this day and I woke up without any recollection of Her. 'This wouldn't happen again,' I thought to myself. I slept the next day and again; no luck. The next day, I entered a dream but she was nowhere to be seen. Did she lie when she said she would be with me forever? I was discharged from the hospital and returned to my room. Surely, this was where it all started so I will get to meet her when I sleep in my own dwelling. I slept. She had abandoned me. The only companion I had, had abandoned me. She was a part of me so I guess I had abandoned myself. 'There is more than one way a person can sleep.' I thought to myself. I started panting. I walked in circles for an hour in my room as my heartbeat became faster and faster. I had no family or acquaintances I could talk to. I started climbing the stairs sluggishly, that led to the highest storey of the high-rise. My pulse increasing with every step I took. I finally arrived at the top of the skyscraper. I stood at its edge, with my heart pounding the loudest and fastest it had ever pounded. I thought of Her one last time. 'I will surely meet you, and I would never know even if I don't. My real love has always been the sleep that rescued me by allowing me to dream.' With these thoughts, I took the step to death. The only feeling I felt after that was the feeling of Nothing.

It rocked back and forth, wobbled, shook. Her eyes glazed over in fear as time turned viscous. She had been running full speed. Her hair had been flailing wildly and her cackling laughter chased behind her throughout the halls as she sprinted, carelessly. The effervescent glee that spewed from her lips was mindless. Like a manic zombie starved for not brains, but entertainment, she cut through the corridors of the mansion. She sprung left at the spacious ballroom doors that were agape and bellowing for future guests. She spun squeakily on her heel, heading right at the seventh (depending on where you started count) bathroom, marble-laden and glistening with polish and aromatic lemon. Her arms pitched and yawed like a kamikaze pilot’s wings. Fingertip touches of the walls around each heavy-angled turn she made ensured the map of home in her head was correct. After all, twenty-three-years alive in this place was surely enough to know every nuance and nook this place had to offer. *Surely*, she thought subconsciously, mid-stride, *when I turn the next corner, there’ll be nothing in my way but a tidy, nearly empty hallway.* And, normally, she’d be right. However, around the bend, standing bold and erect and almost glowing pearly-white, was a pillar that hadn’t been there in her former romps throughout the maze inside. It was a near miss, only her shoulder caught it, but hard enough to tip its weighted bottom and send it from stationary to Matryoshka Doll. It seemed to take forever, but as she watched, horrified, it finally gave way to gravity and hit the floor with exhausted weight. Like glass, the bright-white pillar erupted into a million jagged pieces. They flew upwards and outwards in a pixelated array. They pierced curtains and windows, ceiling stucco and wallpaper. Like ballistic missiles they ripped through paintings and light-fixtures. And one stray piece hit her square in the jaw. Like comical piano keys, her teeth fell from her gums, along with blood and drool and confused utterings. She sprung awake from the chair and her hands jetted to her mouth. She shoved her fingers inside and grinned an unhappy and nervous grin, tracing her teeth. *All 32 there*, she thought, relieved. Her phone snapped her back to reality as it suddenly buzzed and chirped next to her. Her shirt cold with sweat, she lifted her cell up and glared at the screen. It read: Reminder, dentist appointment at 3. As the dream began to muddle and haze itself out of her mind, she gulped and shivered, lifted herself to her feet, and decided to brush her teeth once more…just to be sure.

(This story is entirely fictional. Thank you for reading) Six months had passed since my mother’s suicide. I just turned sixteen and was still unstable emotionally. Every pompous dyke at my high school made sure to tell if I needed anything to just ask and to feel free to express my feelings to them. The only thing I wanted was my mother back but since that wasn’t an option, instead I wanted everyone to just shut the fuck up. My father drank himself into the emergency room twice now and has refused to join AA. He lost his license, but luckily I have my learner’s permit and can chauffer him around so he can still get a daily fix. I loathe him. He thinks he’s the only one suffering and makes sure to express his frustration as often as possible by using his fists on walls and his throat with alcohol. Tonight marks six months to the day she pulled the trigger and my father made sure to extend his streak of drunken escapades. It wasn’t until he threw his mug across the kitchen after I told him that mom wouldn’t have let this happen. After the final piece of glass struck the floor, I stopped cringing and opened my eyes, ready to ‘express my feelings’. “You think you’re the only person whose life changed? You think you’re the only one who wakes up every morning asking ‘Why Me’?” I was horrified but it was all just coming out of me. My distress, rage, loneliness, disgust, everything; I was terrified this day would come. I never knew when it would happen but I did know it was going to change everything, and with life as fucked up as it is now, how could it get any worse? I was standing in the living room near the family portrait hanging on the wall and he was sitting and the kitchen table. He stood up. “Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can talk to me like that!?” “I’m not a child any more, why can’t you accept that!?” “Because you ARE a child, you don’t know how the real world works.” “Just because I don’t have a fucking job and own a piece of shit house that you audaciously call a ‘home’ that doesn’t mean I don’t know what the FUCK I’m talking about.” This was the first time I said ‘fuck’ in front of my father, and I tensed up a little bit before it came off my tongue, but there was no going back. We were standing off, me on the carpet and him on the linoleum. This was it, I was letting it go. I was so livid I wanted everything I loved and hated in the world around me to explode and crumble leaving nothing behind but ash and screams. Every day I did the same thing and made no improvement on myself or others, why was I even trying? I was a walking corpse. I didn’t feel like anything was real; all these people were drones dressed up as a lie and every smile I saw cut me deeper than any knife. “Fucking liars”, I thought. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” I felt a bit of pride when he said this; I got him off his balance. Maybe he would realize he wasn’t talking to a sixteen year old girl anymore. This was it, I was a woman; a ferocious one at that. I felt powerful. Could this be it? I’ll show him. “You heard me.” I said calmly, “I know exactly what this ‘real world’ is so don’t disguise it as this anomaly that I’ll never understand.” He took a step closer but kept his distance. “You may understand it someday, but that’s not today (name). So don’t FUCKING act like you know everything and that you’re entitled to say this shit.” He closed his left fist tightly and stuck out his index finger at me. “YOU have no respect for others so you don’t deserve it in return, you callous whore!” I always thought it was humorous when he called me a whore, he thought it made me angry. Being called a whore by your dad in your house is different than being called one in school by the cheering squad, so I didn’t care. Just because he stormed in at the wrong time and caught me pulling down Jared’s pants when I entered that lonely period last month, it didn’t mean I was a whore. Bastard. Am I really a whore? No, no definitely not. But maybe him thinking I was a whore would piss him off. Here goes nothing. “You’re right, I’m such a whore. That night when you came home and went straight to bed without making me dinner, I called Jared and Hector over and I jerked off Jared while taking it up the ass from Hector. That’s why your favorite pair of socks went missing from the porch that one time. I made them each finish into them and I told them to take ‘em home.” That wasn’t true at all, I actually made myself mac & cheese and was watching Risky Business on TV. I wanted to try sliding across the floor because I hadn’t since I was probably nine years old. Since I wasn’t wearing socks and didn’t want to go upstairs to get my own because I was afraid I would wake him up, I used his favorite pair of Fruit Of The Loom Heavy Duty Crew Work socks that he puts next to his work boots every night. On my third slide I hit an edge of linoleum that was sticking up and ripped the first sock wide open and dragged the second one just enough so the thread pulled straight off the center and almost decapitated the light brown section near the toes. I panicked because when I shrunk his first pair in the dryer he almost tore my bedroom door off its hinges. I ran across the street and threw them in my neighbor’s trash can. I figured he would know I did something if I didn’t do something with his boots so I put them outside on the porch. In the morning he asked where his boots were and I said I put them outside because they smelled. We both assumed his socks were taken by a raccoon or something. He had to buy a new pair of boots because upon finding out he chucked that pair off the porch, and I think a raccoon really did take those. Now gritting his teeth, he spoke under his breath: “Cunt”. Yep, I heard it, he didn’t think I did, but I did. He was surely pissed now, so I knew I had him. “Yeah, just your little whore daughter, right? I do stuff like that because I wasn’t brought up right. And because I miss her. If she were still her she would have continuing raising me right!” “I’m doing the best I can so I’m sorry I’m not perfect! I miss her too but she was suffering and fixed her fucking problem so why can’t you do the same and learn to fix yours.” I truly thought he just told me to kill myself. Sometimes I wonder if he truly did or not, but it sure sounded like it. “You know what, fuck you. She killed herself to get away from you, you were too unbearable to be around and instead of her killing you, she wanted you to live alone and miserable. You were the one that fucking killed her!” I stopped. He stopped. Everything paused for a second. Nothingness… It took me only a split second to realize what I said, and it hurt me inside. That’s when I knew I was still alive, because I felt that regret immediately. And he knew it too. His expression went from pure anger to relinquished horror. He looked right at me. Right after I said it the wrinkles around my eyes went away, my eyebrows slowly lifted and my lips closed shut. My expression was dead. It was like I was a robot and my programmer just flipped the OFF switch and I went back to my neutral state. I held myself steady. I didn’t blink because if I did I knew a tear would follow. In that moment, I knew I hurt him, and he knew I knew I hurt him. I have no recollection of how much time passed in that moment; it was either a few seconds or a few minutes. I never forgot his expression and he never forgot mine. I would have done anything to take it back, anything. The mixture of emotions displayed in his expression caused my vision to haze. He was hurt, embarrassed, ashamed, and worst of all, livid. He stood very still, arms at his side but not touching his torso. His shoulders appeared broader and his stance was spread. He looked like someone standing on train tracks and having a freight train that was rapidly approaching him, physically preparing to dive at the last second. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the middle finger on his right hand twitch, and I couldn’t breathe. I was frozen, eyes still wide. I never feared him more than in this moment, and it lasted for an eternity. He blinked, and then took a slight inhale. I thought he knew what he was going to do next but didn’t know how he could live with himself if he did it. I was mentally bracing myself for the end. When you’re staring down a lion, your only option is to be the prey. The ambiance was so silent I could hear the wind blowing against the siding on the house. I would have done anything to get away from this moment, but I couldn’t move. I was terrified I couldn’t get away. His shoulders released all tension and his arms relaxed. Then it happened. He shivered out one final exhale before he turned and walked out of the room. My eyes didn’t follow him; they remained fixed to where his eyes were two seconds earlier. It wasn’t until he was out of my peripheral that I felt my knees give and I fell to the ground. I reached out for anything to prevent my inevitable plummet and managed to brace the wall as I choked out the breath that I was holding. I cried. I cried profusely; as hard as I did when he held me six months earlier and told me she was gone. If I had to imagine what having an asthma attack was like, this moment would be my reference. Minutes passed. I was on the ground in the small corner of wall that connects the kitchen and living room together. My hand was reaching over to the cold floor feeling the spot where my tears had fallen. My snot rag of a shirt was now wrinkled near the collar. I struggled to pull myself together. I someone figured out how to work my legs again and got to my feet. I put shoes on as quickly as I could and ran outside. I didn’t stop running. I didn’t look back. If I could do it all over again I would. Even if I could just have stayed, that would be enough. But I didn’t. And I never spoke to my father again.

This is my first post here, hope you guys enjoy it! Any feedback is welcome. Thank you for reading! :) “Bring me the remote.” He brings in the remote on a silver plate. The plate remains resting on the fingertips of his white-gloved hand until I remove the remote from its place. I push the power button and suddenly there is a projection in front of me. News. I can never really watch the news; it disinterests me. The reporter is covering the speech from the president. I couldn’t care less. It’s always the same spiel about how great the new world is, how a perfect society is now in place and how world peace has finally been achieved. “Utopia”, as the president calls it. The Butler walks in and retreats to the corner where he will always stand, staring straight ahead at the wall adjacent to him until I give him a command. Butler is a hyperbole; he is more of a slave. But what is a perfect world with slaves? After all history has taught us that slaves are unacceptable in a perfect union. Therefore the proper term, deemed by the president of course, is Butler. I glance at him. He looks revolting. Standing still as a statue, his blue eyes looking straight ahead. His bleach blond hair, cut short on the sides and trimmed to exactly one and a half inches on top, is combed over to the right side of his head. His skin is pulled tight over his cheekbones and jaw making them more pronounced. His pink lips are full and bright. He stands at exactly six feet, the majority of his height stemming from his legs. The light flooding in through the window reflects off his white skin, giving him a sort of glow. I can’t stand to look at him. One would think it would get easier, especially given that all Butlers look close to the same and every household has one. They most definitely are not an uncommon sight. Yet, there is something about them that always stands out, something that repulses me. It’s that stare. They all share the same stare. “We will continue to evolve! It is our time! Our reign! Our world!” The propaganda continues to spew from the president’s mouth. I walk to the window and look out over the vast city that is the new capital of the world. “Have you watered the plants today?” I ask the Butler as I continue to gaze over the city in front of me. “No, sir” he mutters, “I will immediately, sir” He walks off into the other room. The sun’s rays blanket the city turning it into an immense ocean of orange and yellow. I sometimes catch the Butler looking at this ocean, watching the waves of red and purple roll through the clouds. His eyes are different when he watches all these colors. I still cannot figure out how. They don’t themselves change color, nor do they change in size or in any physical way that I can determine. But they are different. When the light glares off a neighboring building is the only time his eyes physically change; they draw together, much the same as the shades on the window would, if I ordered him to pull them shut. After closing them for exactly a tenth of a second those eyes go back to staring, that usual stare that makes me hate the Butlers. I focus my own eyes on the glare. I look straight into it for ten minutes, waiting. But nothing changes with me. I don’t find this interesting. What does he see? He returns to his post, again staring at the adjacent white wall. I focus my attention back to the president’s words. “The tables have been turned, the ruled have become the rulers! The Butler’s provide for us now, as we once provided for them! We have become the dominant species and it is our inherent right, our privilege, and our purpose to dominate them now! Our utopia is built upon the backs of the Butlers as their world was built upon us!” A loud applause comes from the audience. The Butler is focused on the colors through the window. “Shut the shades” I order him. He does it without a sound. I do not want to see that unexplainable change in his eyes at the moment. I feel myself becoming drained. I need to recharge. I tell the Butler that I am ready to sleep. He disappears for a moment and comes back with a long white chord. I hold my hand up, a gesture for the Butler to wait. I listen to the last little bit of the speech from the president, “our race will forever live in harmony! There will never be conflict! There will never be war! Our race is the perfect race! We are the robot race and it is our world now! Our imperfect human creators will serve us for all time as a constant reminder to how we saved them from their inevitable self-annihilation! This is our planet now and it will be our planet always!” I motion to the Butler; he opens a slot in my head and plugs in the white chord. I feel the energy pulsing through me to my core. The Butler moves back to his spot and stares ahead. I look into his eyes, I am still perplexed by those staring eyes, they hold something in them; something I cannot comprehend. I start to drift into sleep. I hate him for his eyes, for whatever it is that his eyes hold.

Phillip couldn't remember what he had done before he passed out. In fact he didn't even remember waking up, really, or even where he was. It was a dark cold night... or at least it seemed like it was cold, Phillip noticed a light snow forming on the grassy ground, yet he felt nothing. He had no time to ruminate over this strange lack of sensation as a horribly tremendous hunger unlike any he had ever experienced wrecked his entire body. He began to remember all the foods he loved... but strangely, none of them seemed appetizing. His stomach felt like an empty cave, yet he could not bring himself to even imagine eating a hamburger or a hotdog. He shook off the strange thought and continued limping towards the only source of light he could see in the distance. Limping? He had not noticed he had been limping too, he still felt no pain anywhere in his body. As he continued to strain his eyes toward the light, a silhouette of a man appeared before his eyes. Finally a savior... But something was not right, the hunger in his stomach ignited with the sight of this mysterious person. He could feel saliva forming in his mouth. He needed to stop walking for a second , to try to piece things together, but in horror he realized he couldn't. He was not in control of his body, and whatever was wanted to devour this man before him. “Please” he thought. “Please don't do this”. His jaws flew open as he inched closer to the man, mere feet away from his- A loud bang rang out through the formerly quiet graveyard as the bullet pierced the skull of the walking corpse, sending skull fragments and tiny pieces of brain matter spewing everywhere. The corpse slumped to the ground, dead once more. The Watcher lowered his pistol and tried to wipe the blood that had formed on his jacket. “Christ”, He whispered to himself, looking at the grave from which the thing had emerged , “ that's the fifth one today.

She twists and turns under me; if it wasn't the look in her eye that got me going, it was her heavy breathing. So beautiful, so graceful, her body only incited me closer. If any one saw us now they would want to join me, they'd like to get on top of her as well. But I can't let them have her, I am in fact making her mine. She is so soft, her hair so long and sleek; like a black river slowly drowning her as it falls over her sweet... quiet face. My hand passes over her throat and then her chest; I love how it rises and falls, such a gentle girl. My sweet girl, you can not fight me. Look how weak you are now, have I tuckered you out? Do you want me to remove my weapon now? I was just starting to have fun. Oh stop struggling My Sweet, once I pull it out... You'll have only seconds to live. Just close your eyes dear fall asleep now, I'll keep you safe. The knife I had driven into her lungs; now lays on her throat. Her glassy green eyes stare at me, so lonely. Oh, My Sweet, gentle girl still so beautiful...even in your early yet perfect death. Sadly you now bore me child, when your mother gets home she will take your place...

There was a legend about the well in the garden. You need not be afraid, it's not true. I know - I've been to the bottom of that well. There's nothing there. It's said you can hear hollowed voices of someone calling for their mother, those dummies. Wells can't talk. It's just a silly legend to bring in tourists. The garden has flowers but most of them don't grow from the soil. People bring them. Sad people. I laugh at them because they don't even know how to plant them correctly. They just leave them leaning on stone. How does anyone expect them to grow. I guess that's why they keep coming back to plant them. People are silly. Sometimes they try planting people too but none of them grow. They do it halfway right this time and make sure the bodies are covered in soil. They still don't grow because you're supposed to water them, stupid. This is my garden. I live in my garden with my mommy and some others. They planted my mommy too. I'm still waiting for her to grow and come back to me. I water her every day. I fetch the water from a nearby well - all by myself. One day, I was really hungry and the bucket was too heavy and I fell into the well. I didn't drown, but I did knock my head really hard. In the end, the water swallowed me and I reached the bottom of the well. When I was ready to leave - I couldn't. I was trapped at the bottom of the well. I saw my body float to the top but I couldn't rise any higher. I screamed, wailed and cried because that's what little boys do when they're scared. I needed to get out. I needed to water my mommy so she can grow and we can be together. I need to water my mommy so she can grow and we can leave the garden. Maybe it will rain and maybe mommy will grow anyway, I've been such a good boy watering her, maybe if I call a little louder, she'll hear me.

We stood ready. Ready to defend a nation against itself. I watched with the precision of a million hawks, constantly scanning, analyzing. Watching the millions of protestors gathered there on that faithful day. Hundreds of thousands stood before my brothers and sisters in arms, brandishing their rage. I grasped my shield tight, feeling it grant me protection from the soulless indifference beaming on us like rays of blinding light. A small child stepped forward from the crowd. His pale skin heavily contrasted with the dark smudges of poverty haunting his face. His dirty, matted hair complemented his skin, both in dire need of a hearty wash. But his eyes...I will never forget those eyes. So cold and blue, like ocean flavored table top marble in the grasps of a wintery dance. They held no fear, only ruin and a deep longing to forget. His gait reminded me of a broken man with a broken body. Frail and fragile but there nonetheless, spirits pushing him onwards to his destiny. His left foot introduced a profound boot like clunk into our shared silence. The right foot precariously slapped the ground, skin meeting gravel and concrete. I wanted to feed him, bathe him and clothe him, lie and let him know that everything was going to be "okay". But, he would know better, his experiences keeping him the wiser of the two. But we knew nothing of his suffering, we knew not of how his parents sacrificed theirselves to protect him from my brothers and sisters. How they had mercilessly broken his beloved parents bodies into their living room floor like hungry hyenas. We only knew how to follow orders. He stepped with a purpose, each one defining a moment of history. Closing in the distance between the destroyed streets of Washington and the charred remains of the once White House, now more of a Half House thanks to protestor Molotov's. "STAND DOWN CITIZEN!" I command. I felt like a God, demanding his puppets to bend underneath the weight of my words and dance. He continued to walk, eyes forcefully burning fiercely into mine. I aimed down the sites of my beloved M-16 carefully. "I SAID, STAND DOWN OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO FIRE!", I croak. I tried to swallow but my mouth might as well been full of sand. The Zeus in me was afraid now, his lightning bolts disintegrating into piles of regrets before his feet. The child fell face forward into the remains of the lawn. He had crossed the forbidden barrier. He was trespassing in the Garden of Eden without our permission and we were the flaming seraphim, protecting the fruits of knowledge that lie within. He was just another snake in our garden patch. Hundreds of clicks filled my ears with recognition as my comrades removed their safety's from their flaming swords. I looked around, but none of us had any wings to fly with. As I look down my sights, finger hugging the trigger, the child used what seem to be the last of his strength to raise his head one last time. To my surprise, he winked at me. I winked back, and automatically squeezed the trigger, as I have countless times again and again. They say that night the sky burned orange with rebellion. But I'd never know about any of that, I'm not a rebel. I follow my orders.

Driving down 91 like a screaming eagle. A bat outta hell. Warp speed Mr. Sulu. How fast can you get here? The last words she texted you before you put some decent clothes on and that pair of Docs that always go the distance. Seemingly in an instant, you're gone. On your way to New York City. It's 7 PM. On a Thursday. Work doesn't know it yet, but you won't be making it on time tomorrow, or at all for that matter. The silly GPS says 2 and a half hours to Brooklyn. What it doesn't know is that behind this wheel is a fiend with a purpose. How fast can you get here? The exits fly by. The numbers are just a blur. You know the way: Fast and Loud. It's really the only way. The threat of "get hear quick enough and there will be jazz clubs and sex and smoke and booze" is all I need. Don't threaten me with a good time. Too much traffic for 7 at night. Any other car on the road right now is in my way, even if they aren't. I hate them. Why, oh why, would you be out here tonight? Don't they know? This is the goddamn redeye. This is the fucking Concord. Just get out of my way, better yet, get off the road all together. Man on a mission.

A Bangladeshi couple hear some bad news about their second son Rahul who was 21 years old. The police officers say Rahul was found dead in Palestine and this had surely shocked the mr mrs Ahmed, they were confused as to how it was possible for him to die in Palestine. Mr and Mrs ahmed immigrated to England from Bangladesh about 50 years ago but the one question that was on their minds was why their second son went to Palestine and died. They were Bangladeshi they had no roots in Palestine like family or any friends over there in Palestine. The police leave the family to mourn for their second son and in pure confusion as to why he would go to Palestine. Rahul had an argument with the family and left home to figure out his own life he had been out of his family home for a about a year now, he wasn't like other Bangladeshi Asian men who loved to got to shisha or listen to rap music and drive around in black Mercedes or Audi's he was an outcast in the Muslim community and he didn't have much friends of his own. "what did I do yes I shouted at him for not passing his driving test or finishing university but your the one who told him to get out for being a failure and an embarrassment!" Mr ahmed shouted "me me your the one who was embarrassed and yes I did tell him to get out but you also wanted him out and you were also embarrassed of him" Mrs Ahmed argued back "what's in Palestine why did Rahul go to Palestine?" Mr Ahmed questioned him self Then after a brief moment of silence and crying the older son of the Ahmed family just going up stairs not showing any emotions at his younger brothers death, Mr Ahmed started to break down and cry for his second son Rahul and Mrs Ahmed sat down with Mr Ahmed trying to comfort him and said "its both our fault our pride and arrogance killed him but why in Palestine?" she questioned her self Then Mr Ahmed suddenly realized something and standing up and looking into the mirror he realized why his son went to Palestine and died.

Allison Violet sat at the top of the stairs, her fingers wrapped around a Smith and Wesson pistol she bought Saturday night, which she carried home in a brown paper bag in her passenger seat. The return trip from the dark and grimy liquor store she purchased the gun from felt as if her car was tilted on its right two wheels, a sumo-wrestler’s weight within the confines of slick black steel. Now, alone with its new Master, the gun’s barrel parted shimmering goldilocks and rested on a pounding temple. Her contemplative eyes darted, her nervous lips roiled against themselves, and quite audibly amongst the stale silence of her not-so-humble abode, her heart thumped. Every few moments she adjusts the position of the pistol against her head, and every few moments the sun adjusts its rays to highlight a new section of staircase, slicing her in half like good and evil. *It really is a shame it’s come down to this*, she thought. *I don’t know where I went wrong. I tried to be a good person, doing everything in my being to sustain happiness. Just never enough, it is absolutely never enough and I am sick and tired and worn out and exhausted and defeated and beaten and every other fucking synonym there is for absolutely finished.* Tears began to bubble and pop at the corner of her eyes. *There is absolutely no need to stick around for this bullshit anymore, Allison,* she began to tremble and vibrate, the earthquake within her crawling up in scale. *If I’m so useless, if I’m so unwanted, if I’m so god damn disposable…* she gulped and eyed the clock in the room adjacent to the bottom of the stairway. Her trigger finger twitched, itchy with nerves and electricity and bad ideas. The irony was, after all the years of abuse and fear and loathing that has built up like calcified rock, the last thought she had before she pulled the trigger was a quirky, twisted question: *Who’s gonna have to clean all this up?* And in quick succession… Stones crunched, brakes squealed, the doorknob jiggled and the door to The Violet’s homestead opened. She slid the gun from her head, a white imprint temporarily engraved in her skin, and she aimed like she’d practiced all morning. As her eardrums cleared from the bang, Allison’s suitcase rattled around her husband’s body, and she stepped gingerly around a puddle of blood as she made her way out of the front door, and away from this place forever.

Your horse veers left only narrowly avoiding the rather large rosewood shrub. Just in time it sees the scaredly defensive rattlesnake arching back and preparing to strike the horses legs. Instinctively, and with no signal from you, the white mare jumps over the coil of snake. Bang. Bang. Bang. You free several rounds from their casings in the direction of the rustlers. With look of stern grimace, you drive your spurs into the sides of your beast. Harder. Faster. You push the horse, racing after the cattle thieves. The warm air rushes past you. It catches your broad brimmed hat and whisks it away onto the ground. Never mind the hat, it’s gone. You can’t see them for the palpable cloud of dust thrown into the air by their beasts but you know they number six. Glancing back, you turn your head to see the two men on their mounts beside you. That’s strange. A look of combined adrenaline induced enthusiasm and fear is readily strewn across their faces. Normally inexpressive masks, to make any poker player jealous, were characteristic of these old ranchers. The fear, you decide, is likely the result of them thinking about the near off confrontation with the rustlers. They are probably considering their wives and children back at their respective homes. Not you though. You’ve never had much time to take a wife. Most of your time is spent lonesome as you wander the dirty, dusty plains of Texas. It’s not that you’ve never thought about it, though. There’s that one pretty young girl who works in town at the drug store beside the farriers workshop. You often buy your tobacco from that drug store; even though it costs slightly more than if you were to purchase it from the saloon or the general store. But you do it anyway because it’s not often a vagabond finds a reason to speak to such a pretty girl. You can see her now. With that long raven hair and those hazel eyes perched above her daintily freckled cheeks. She flashes that shy smile every time you enter the store, the embodiment of perfection. Bang. Old John fires his pistol unnervingly close to your ear as he urges his beast past yours, and at a pace any sane man would consider too much for the sharp decline in the approaching ground. But John doesn’t care. Faster he pushes his horse, with reckless indifference to its or his own safety. He was always crazier than a nesting pit viper in the middle of June, ole John. You are going to put an end to the stealing and dealing of this gang once and for all. Whether blood need be shed or not, this will end today. The cattle bandits have yielded. Side by side, the three of you take up arms and begin to exchange blasts as you blaze a wide circle around the six. Knees locking the side of your horse, you fire shots from both of your double actions simultaneously. One of the bandits falls from his still horse. That makes five over three now. But soon after John takes a shot to the shoulder, falls to the side of his mount and jerks the reigns pulling the tan beast around into a sharp stop. Then falls the third rancher along with his horse, both of them riddled with lead. Click. Click. Click. You have expelled the final bullet from your pistols. The bandits realize this and cease firing. There's no rush. The larger oafish one says something under his breath and two of them laugh as he awkwardly dismounts his beast. You bring your horse to a stop, as you place the sixth bullet into your second revolver, about a hundred yards from the thieves. You give the cylinder a small spin. Click click click click click, and with an effortless flick of your wrist it snaps back into position. Tick, one hammer is drawn. Tick, the second hammer is extended. You stare at your pistols. Absolutely beautiful. Those pearl white handles are something else. Cost you a God damn fortune from that little shop way up in Utah, but that’s alright. The magnificent craftsmanship was certainly worth it. One hundred yards from the five remaining bandits. An easy shot for a semi skilled rifle. And young Billy was more than a semi skilled rifle. Much more. A God damn hawkeye the kid was. Known throughout much of Texas and even up into most parts of Utah for his sharpshooting. With a reputation stretches as far as that you know a man is good at what he does. This punk kid, no older than twenty and riding with a no name gang of common cattle thieves lead by Sticky Pete. He tilted the hat back, lifting the brim up out of his way. You could just see Billy’s thumb rise, ever so slightly adjusting the vertical height of the rear sight of his Sharpe rifle. His cheek rested timidly beside the thumb on the wooden stock. Never before have you felt like this. A completely indelible feeling of a sheer and utter lack of hope and power. Bang.

I've seen you once before, in a dream from very long ago. We stared at one another from across the way, our hearts attempting to match the beat of one another's, the rhythmic sounds growing so loudly you blushed slightly at the thought of another hearing its merriment, while mine sung a tune loud enough for yours, and only yours to hear. As we walked closer to one another the beating I heard grew from a faint whisper to a warming melody, and as we continued walking along this bridge surrounded by the cherry blossoms that slowly fell in between and all around us, my heart began pounding on the walls of it's calloused prison. Foregoing it's fear that another would never hear it's lovely song, and it would wither and die in a lonely silence. But now, as I walked closer to you and you to I, it sung the happiest of song's as it could finally hear yours. One that the wind would carry for eternity, and the river below would remember until it has gone. For two hearts separate singing together in almost unity, is something even the wind & water has only heard a handful of times. My heart seemed as though it would burst as we finally met one another on that bridge, I looked into your eyes and you into mine, and as you raised your hand I too raised mine, our hands becoming intertwined as our hearts finally resonated the others songs, but in the blink of an eye, we had became decrepit weak and old, when it seems as if just a moment ago, we were young and full of vigor. But I noticed quickly that hadn't stopped our hearts from the melodies they had sung through out our sudden ageing, and I stayed with you as my heart commanded, through the rain and snow, we stood their. Until one day, when the darkness came. And it ripped you from my hands without mercy, the last image I saw of you was a smile, the same smile that you graced me with when our hearts first found one another. But the sudden absence of the song my heart completed caused it to become silent and wither back into its cage, as I too sat on the bridge watching the place where she had stood, secretly hoping it was a bad joke, but the absence of her song told me the truth. She was gone, and now my hearts sings a tune of sadness, as the first snowflake fell upon the slightly frozen river below. As I looked into the sky past the white branches that blocked my view ever so slightly, my heart hit a particularly saddening note before its song stopped and a tear fell onto my heated cheeks, I raised my hand in surprise to find I had been crying, I looked below to find the river had rose and now flowed faster than before, I also noticed a trickle of blood running down my neck and dampening the shirt I wore. And as I raised my hand to touch the Scarlett liquid a man appeared before me, his hand raised outward a warming smile gracing his pale face, as he spoke it was clear to me, even above the rising waters now destroying everything in its path. He spoke the words my heart died to hear. "She's been waiting long enough, let us go." I cleared my blurry eyes and with the last of my fleeting strength I took his hand just as the water destroyed the bridge which we had met one another on. I feel asleep as my strength failed me, and I fell into darkness, no sound could be heard nor light seen, but then I heard her song, and I awoke to find her staring back at me. Smiling that same bashful smile she wore ever so perfectly when we had first met, as she heard my heart come alive and sing louder and happier then it ever had as it matched hers perfectly. I sat up and I took her hand into mine we shared a kiss more passionate then any before us, and then we layed their, hand in hand as our hearts sang out in perfect unison for all eternity. I turned to her and smiled as I said, I've seen you once before, in a dream from very long ago.

Carmen descended into the basement apartment where Uncle Frank was supposed to be temporarily staying but it was becoming more apparent this was going to be a long-term sort of deal. She refused to acknowledge the Uncle prefix, with him not being her blood relative and all, and didn't feel the need to feign warmth. *Dinner time. And take your medicine.* The plate and small plastic cup flopped onto a small rickety aluminum side table adjacent to the chair. Frank's gaze didn't move from the television, where he was watching Jeopardy and calling out answers before Alex could finish reading them to the audience. *FUCKIN' QUAIL* *FRANK SINATRA* *GODDAM WHATSHISNAME THE AUTHOR* *Faulkner. Take your meds so I can go feed Lucy* Frank glanced briefly at the plate of waxy brown meat and red skin potatoes then he deliberately pulled his lips into a wide leering smile and looked directly into Carmen's face. She could see the tv glare bouncing off the portion of his head that was shaved bare. The staples were still red and probably throbbing. *ARENT YOU THE FUCKIN CHEF OF THE WEEK* He settled his eyes back on Trebek and Carmen spun around to leave the room before the plate of waxy brown meat ended up splattered across Frank's face. She started up to the kitchen. *I LOVE WATCHING THAT LITTLE ASS WALK UP THE STAIRS* She hurried her step but *IM GOING TO FUCK THAT ASS LATER* chased her up the stairwell. She went directly to Stephen and he was anticipating her arrival with both hands up in the air, palms forward and his head slightly tiled to one side. *He's got to go.

He thought he could do it. He had always thought about it, had it drilled into his head by his family and society since an early age. Now, looking back on it, he realizes he never really stood a chance. No one really did. He had always been told what to do, how to do it, and what his goals in life were. He had also been told of the reward in the end, the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel that one day would be reached. Now, he isn't so sure that light exists at all, just an illusion to keep us moving "forward" in life until one day we look at our surroundings and wonder how the hell we got here, but more importantly, why did we come all this way? This is where he found himself today. He looks at the life around him, the life he has had for so long, the life he recognizes, but is realizing is not his own. He wonders about what could have been, who he could have been, and where he could be had he done things differently. Imagination takes him away, takes him to a world where the tunnel isn't so long, and the light is more than an illusion, an obtainable goal that can only be reached by his living his life the way he wants. He is absorbed in the thought, in love with the sense of freedom and happiness this imaginary world provokes. And in an instant, this world is gone, and his head returns back to reality.

She was stopping by to see me. I would never answer the door. While she waited at the fron, she would look up at my window. I bet she was expecting to see me looking out of it, checking to see who it was at the door. I used to always do that. Now I run down the stairs and look through the peep hole. I don't want to risk her seeing me. When she sends me a text, I always wait till the next day, or even a couple of days, to text her back. I would tell her I was busy. I'm never busy. She knows that. I like to say I am busy looking at schools, and figuring out what I want to do with my life. But I have no plans on going to school. She knows that, too. She knows I am avoiding her. I lie because I still care about her. I lie because I am scared. She knows that, too. The past few weeks are a blur. I help out my dad at the shop, run deliveries for him, take stock, simple stuff. It's the same thing I did when I was younger, just more hours. I like to tell people I keep doing it because my old man wants me to take over the shop for him, just like he did for his dad, and his dad for his grandfather. But I think the truth is, I just don't have any ambition to go any further. It's always been hard for me to leave my comfort zone. She knows that, too. I came home one night, and I see my father sitting in front of the television, watching the same news program that is on every night. He hears me come in. "Hey." "Hi, dad." "Sorry you had to make that delivery so late." "It's fine." "Lacey's mom stopped by." I didn't say anything. "I guess Lacey isn't doing so well." I still don't say anything. "I guess I knew though. There have been quite a few rumors flying around." I hate rumors, but I don't tell him that. "I guess she was at a clinic?" My heart skipped a beat. My chest hurt. "It's really sad she had to go through that alone. Her mother only just found out." I took off, running out of the house. Dad didn't say anything. I didn't think she'd go through with it. She knows that I think that, too. I know where she'll be, she usually hangs out at the bridge. She knows that I know that. When I finally felt like talking, she knew I would try to find her there. There she was, sitting alone. Leaning against the railing, and lighting up a cigarette. She heard me come up, breathing heavily. I could see my breath. It was cold, but I didn't care. She looked at me as if she was sizing me up. "Hey," she said. "Hey." "Guess you're not busy right now?" She almost said that as if her words were like venom. "Sorry." I didn't know what else to say. Maybe it was better if I said nothing. She just stood there, staring. I walked over to her. "How've you been Lacey?" "Fine." "I heard-" "yeah." She cut me off. There was a long pause, but we both sat down. She kept looking at me. She knew I wanted to say something, and waited patiently for me to find the words to say it. "I would have gone with you, you know." "You would have just thought I was lying." "I know." She knew me all too well. I felt ashamed. She gave me so much time, and those were the only words I seemed to be able to work up to say. Then she found the words for me. "I know you were scared. I know you weren't ready." I looked at her. My eyes started to burn. "This... I don't want to say it was the right choice. But, it was an option. I thought it would help you. I mean, both of us." I felt if I tried to talk, I would choke on my words. "I couldn't ask you to take up all those responsibilities." "We could have worked something out." I finally said something. "It's already done. I made a decision." Again, I was silent. "I don't think we should see each other anymore. I knew she wanted that. I nodded my head in agreement. "I mean, like, not at all. It'd be too hard to just be friends even." "I understand." She got up to leave. "I guess I'll see you around, " she says. "yeah." But she won't. She won't even try. I walked home, and landed on my bed. All I wanted to do was sleep. I just wish I had the strength to talk to her. I wasn't ready to be a dad. I felt I was too young, and I didn't want that responsibility. I wish I was able to comfort her, and to tell her that things were going to be all right. But I couldn't find the words, and I didn't even try. I wish I could have been with her at the abortion clinic. But I hid in my room and ignored her calls. She knew all of these things. I've never felt so ashamed in my life.

Hi guys. I've been struggling with some things in this story, but I'll tell you what they are at the end, so you don't go into it with those expectations. It would be so helpful if anyone could address the issues and give me feedback. I've worked hard on this story and I want the best for it. Ok here it goes Not Lost Each bare patch of ground the trail. Over every rise the parking lot. The land never flat bubbles outward. The brush so thick you could wear it. No stretches of windthrow or balding timber this time of year. Tip of May. Skeins of ivy, sweeps of bracken, snaking roots keeping step as you try to gain ground. All mitotic and unfair. It has been four hours since he lost the trail and he blunders through the wood, at times looking skyward, pleading with the daylight. That easy daylight. Known for accompanying post cards. Nasal spray commercials. College orientation packets. It shines impartial, blind, unmoved by circumstance. Like a police officer just out of hearing range, it seduces you with the promise of sanctuary. Not frantic, not yet. Every few minutes he chuckles, each time a little louder. Silly. That is the word that keeps coming to mind. Silly. This is silly. This is silly and so is losing your car keys or sleeping through your alarm. Sitcoms are silly. Tiny dogs are silly. The third white blaze, stamped into a crooked boxelder this time, again reveals itself as merely blight, and he quickens his pace. A sickening warmth he associates with sudden self-loathing, extreme humiliation, oozes from some leaking abscess close to the heart and spreads the length of his body like blood beneath a slide. He breaks into a shuffling jog. Exercise he tells himself. An experience worth having. Fodder for the story he is writing. That story he just needs to put to paper. The idea so clear, but the words. A change of scenery, he had thought. That works for some. And the trail had been a short 30 minute drive from his new home. A low-hanging bough catches his shoulder as he sidesteps a rotting stump and he stumbles, wheezing, phlegm metastasizing in his throat. Pain now burrows into his shoulder and he looks ahead and sees the same yawning green he has been seeing forever and decides he must outrun it. Into the the deep green. Sprinting from nowhere to nowhere. Untested muscles now called by their master to carry out a crucial mission. Hands in front to ward off branches like an untrained fighter. Eyes sopping up sweat. Tongue out like a dog. Arboreal chatter above and the scrape of pant leg on bramble below. The best of god’s creation charges him head on, falls to the periphery, then comes back for more. This is silly. Really fucking silly. Seriously fucking silly and fucking stupid. Really goddamn stupid. Not even the right shoes. Collared shirt. No sunscreen. Should have stopped when he wasn’t sure, retraced his steps. Should have kept the sun to his left. Should have brought his phone. Should have never come. No. Wrong. It was good he’d come. He’ll see the trail soon and think how stupid he had been to worry. He’ll go home and write about this. A humor piece maybe, in the vein of Bill Bryson. Man contemplates death ten feet from parking lot. Silly silly silly. He tries to think of an opening sentence but his throat stings and branches come at odd angles to tear at his skin and it becomes harder and harder to exist outside of pure sensation. The trailhead had been a three mile jaunt off the interstate, connected by a road of macadam that turned to gravel almost right away. He parked in a small lot and stored his wallet and phone in the glove compartment, something he could get away with out here. Here vs. there. He thought about that too much. There was a sign at the access point with the essentials. Open dawn to dusk. No hunting or use of firearms. Camp by permit only. A map too. He looked for one of those big log books where you could write your name and the time you arrived. He had trouble inventing names for his characters and decided he would appropriate one from the log book but there was no book, and so he looked ahead at the narrow passage which clove the forest in two, stepped off gravel and onto dirt, and was quickly assimilated into the ancient biology. Grinning through a hidden frontier. Pleased how the latticed canopy refracted the sunlight so that it reached his skin stippled and delicate. Listening to the cicadas and katydids tune their instruments to a special frequency. A humble creek to his right like tinsel. He walked leisurely, every so often checking his back pocket for the notebook, his front for the click pen. He wanted a spot in this wood for his very own. Somewhere to sit and write while the forest consumed him. He stopped to piss near where the creek ran dry and spotted something through the trees, off the path a ways. He walked toward it, carving through the vegetation. It loomed larger as he neared it. A giant rock formation straddling the uneven terrain. Sheets of moss and lichen blanketed the contours like stubble. Knapweed beetled from each cleft and aperture. A toppled colossus subsumed by the animate. He climbed up the side in his lumbering way. At the top it was flat enough to sit, and he brought out his notebook and pen. Five pages he told himself. At times he’d pause and turn up his nose to sniff the air. The sweetness of fruitwoods, the complexities of thick root and damp earth. There was beauty here, if he could just transcribe it. Something about it being new to him but old to the world. Words and rhythms and halved sentences rose in front of him like puffs of sawdust, almost coherent, before the fragmenting into babble. He reviewed what he’d written and shook his head. Time to walk somewhere else. He stumbled down the rock face, wiped the sediment from his hands onto his shirt, and headed back to the trail. When two minutes passed and he hadn’t reached the trail, he turned around. Obviously he had climbed down the wrong side. To walk a straight line in the clutches of a dense wood is like telling time by the sun on an overcast day. You can only guess. Ten minutes came and went and there still was no sign of the rock, nor the trail. He adjusted his bearings by a few degrees and trudged on. Now he runs with terror in his blood, obsessing over every altered course, afraid salvation is one step ahead of each minor deviation. Adrenal glands pump product with unprecedented urgency. His hands tremble even as he crashes through snag and ground cover and pepperbush. He looks up and sees the evening leaning into the waning daylight. He makes himself go faster. Eyes whirling like broken compass needles. Still unbelieving. Looking for the joke. Maybe stop running now. As if the thought is permission enough, his knees give way and he crumples amid the leaf litter at a dip in the terrain. In his wake comes dirt and twigs which pelt his face and get in his mouth. He claws at the air with his lungs. Massive inhales, short, clipped exhales. He tries to spit the metal taste from the back of his throat. Didn’t bring water. Silly. So fucking silly. He thinks back to the gravel road, the lot, the sign. Open from dawn to dusk. No firearms. Camp only in designated areas. A map. A map. What did the map look like? He can’t remember. He uses an old trick, one he heard authors employ when struggling to write a character out of a corner. Establish urgency. Force an answer. He closes his eyes and imagines a bomb is strapped to his chest. There is a digital countdown and, below it, a touch screen. Only an accurate rendering of the map will deactivate the bomb. It counts down from 60. So what does the map look like? 50 Is the trail straight? 40 Does it curve? 25 If so, where? 10 What does the map look like? 5 What does the map look like? 3 What does it look like! 0 He screams at the darkening sky. He doesn’t need to invent a bomb. The situation is already critical. He coughs up more phlegm and spits it at the wood. His oppressor. The sourness trickles down his throat and into his stomach. Nausea doubles him over and his vomit is thin and searing. He wipes his lips with his wrist and shudders at his thirst and begins a pathetic bargaining act with either god or nature or himself.

So I needed to write a short story about a mundane task and wanted to know if people actually liked it. So here it is. Putting Away Groceries Ok, so you just got home after a long day’s work and went to the store when all you really wanted to do is go and flop on the couch unconscious for the next 8-10 hours and start it all over again the next morning; but not right now. You had to go to the store and buy some more canned dog food because apparently the dry stuff doesn’t cut it anymore; and you regretfully can’t keep trudging on without feeding yourself either, so to the store it was. You park the car and grumble to yourself as you straighten out your back, feeling every sinuous inch of muscle protest as you force it into straightness, preparing yourself for the two flights of stairs that you now have to brave because you live on the second floor. As you lock the door and shuffle around to the back of your car you look up at the sky and think to yourself “Why is it 80 degrees in January? Someone broke Florida.” You pop the trunk and look at your loot from your own personal treasure cove also known as Wal-Mart, and consider whether to make one trip or two; and you know what? You’re only youngish once and you decide to use what’s left of your depleted energy to hike yourself up the stairs only once. After all of the groceries are loaded up to your elbows, you shut the trunk with your chin (because you’re that committed to use as little energy as possible) and make your jolly way towards your apartment. At the base of the stairs you observe a moment of silence for the muscles in your legs that you are about to murder on the long and torturous climb to the top of mountain. The first five steps go without any extreme discomfort; and the next five; and the next five… Ok, so you really aren’t as young as you once were and now the creaky joints and popping muscles in your arms and legs are starting to laugh at you. You reach the top of the stairs, wheezing and puffing as your heart is racing in your throat, and all you want to do is give up and lie on the concrete that is the top of the stairs… This loaf of bread looks like it would make a good pillow… SNAP OUT OF IT! You shake yourself and limp the last twenty feet or so. Why are you limping? You really are dramatic aren’t you? Now that the door is in front of you, you use your knee to push up your grocery laden arm and bring up the key that is still in your hand, unlocking the door and pushing it open in one expert move. The dog flies out the door to release the pee that he has probably been holding in for the better part of the day; he’ll probably come back. He knows who feeds him. That’s when the smell hits you; garbage everywhere! That’s probably why the dog ran like the devil was on his heels. It’s annoying and the last thing you want to deal with right now, but you get on with your life and begin to maneuver the mine field that is now your living room/den/dining room area. You swing your arms up and the groceries clear the edge of the counter by an unmeasurable distance. Feeling how light your arms are now, you enjoy the moment of bliss. Yet you still need to take care of the garbage, remember? Ah yes, your frisky Fido decided to redecorate while you were out selling your soul to feed his lazy ungrateful carcass… you did however find the remote you assumed was eaten last week under the ottoman. Good, at least your wood chipper of a dog didn’t get to that yet. After the battle field was cleared, you turn your attention back to the thousand pounds of stuff that is now spread all over the kitchen counter. You grab the icy cold gallon of milk and feel as though it’s about to cut your fingers off where the sharp edges of the plastic mold joins as your hand slides from the base to the top of the handle. Why do you always do that? You know it’s going to happen, why don’t you just grab it from the top? After you finish putting away all the groceries, you grab a can of dog food and step out the front door. You hold it out at arm’s length and yank the top open as forcefully and loudly as you can, give it about ten seconds, and there he is tearing across the lawn to eat his brown mush. You dump it in his bowl, or at least you tried, because he caught it in his open maw as you wiggled it out of its slimy metal cocoon. Now that everything’s taken care of, you kick off your shoes, and don’t even bother to get changed out of your work clothes as you flop down into bed. The dog runs his head under your hand in an attempt to get you to pet him, which you do. It was just then that you remembered you forgot to get paper towels at the store.

I love getting lost in myself. Whether it be in a movie, tv show, or a song. I just love finding myself outside of my body. That's when I'm fearless, worryless, and free. I'm not afraid of love, heartbreak, or people discovering my darkest thoughts. I'm passionate that way. I can truly be myself. Sometimes I forget who I am and I end up doing the very thing I wouldn't do. I want to love hard. Feel things. I don't want to numb myself so I won't feel anything. In this moment right now I am me. I am an emotional wreck. I'm not keeping my emotions boddled up. I feel everything. The pain, the joy, the sadness, the disappointment. The ups; the downs; the highs; the lows. I'm me. I'm who God wants me to be every imperfection perfect because he made me this way. I fell in love and I got hurt but its okay because I fell in love with someone who is undeserving of me. Even though I have given up hope I feel that I may love again and it will put ebeything in perspective. It will be so great and so wonderful that I won't remember this pain. It will mend my heart and make it stronger than ever. I just have to lose myself.

Early on a Saturday morning, I woke up to birds chirping, children laughing and playing outside at the park, and the sun shining through my window onto the floor where my little kitten, Jericho, lay on his back purring. Jericho isn’t year old yet and has black fur with a white stomach paws. He is a good kitten, sometimes he can be a little mischievous, like when I wake up in the middle of the night and he is staring at me with his big, black, glowing eyes or when I walk into my room and he will pounce on me like Hobbes from Calvin and Hobbes. I went downstairs to make myself a cup of hot coffee. I turned on the coffee machine and stepped outside to enjoy the weather for a little while my coffee was brewing. The chase I was sprawled out on was so cozy I dozed off a little bit. I thought about all of the good days I’ve had that started out like this. I felt as if nothing could go wrong. I woke up to the voluptuous aroma of fresh, blue mountain, Jamaican coffee... And smoke. I could smell my ex-wife Gretta from the street. Gretta was a little bit on the darker side when it came to humor, clothing and choice of color. She had pale skin and jet black hair, she was pretty, too pretty to be forty . Undoubtedly she was here with her lawyer to tell me that I needed to hand over half of my stuff because she bought it (with my money) and therefore it was her’s. I could sense that she was planning something by the way she stepped out her cigarette and how she walked up the path in the front yard to ring my doorbell that she wanted more than just my stuff and my money. As I stood up, I heard her ring the bell and on my way to the door I was thinking of what else she wanted from me. I answered the door and without warning, Gretta walked in and so did the smell of the smoke that had a choke hold to her body and clothes. I was silent, observing her face to get any hint of what she wanted. She looked straight into my eyes as if she was looking into my soul. I was entranced by her eyes and wondering why she was here. I couldn’t break the spell of her crystal blue eyes. Then, without saying a word, I was in pain. Not physical, but emotional pain. How could she do this to me? She knows how much he means to me. She must be a demon straight from hell! Full of rage, I shouted “You can’t!” she replied “oh but I can.” the man sitting next to her pulled out a list. I saw a name on it. It wasn’t a chair or a TV, it was Jericho. I ran upstairs and snatched Jericho from the bed, much to his surprise. He pawed my face but then realized it was me. Gretta followed me, “He’s mine now” I slowly looked up at her and made a face that radiated disgust and hatred. I walked over to my wardrobe and opened the doors. I watched the expression on her face slowly turn from a spiteful satisfaction to a shocked horror as I drew a fully loaded Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semi automatic into my shoulder. This gun had never felt so smooth and soft as I firmly held the grip in my hand, the rifle felt like it belonged in my arms like a lover returning home from war as he embraces his lover longer and harder than he ever has before. I looked down the sights, I focused first on the rear sights as they stand like two great pillars with only death separating them. Then I focus in the front sight; it stands like an oasis of fatality in a desert of life. Then, her face. Her face is colorless and already looks dead. That beautiful face of a woman who doesn’t look half her age, turned as white as the light at the end of the tunnel and aged twenty years. I said in a cold, hard voice,”Go to hell, bitch.” Her head now painted the wall behind her as fragments of her brain stuck to the wall. Gretta’s lifeless body fell backwards and hit the wall behind her much as someone after a long day at work sits down, glad to get a rest. Her slender arms were open with the palms of her hands facing me. She was dead. I stood there looking at what I had done, I may have over reacted a bit. The lawyer stomped up the stairs and flung open the door to the morbid scene that I had just created. He stared at her, his mouth agape and eyes wide open. he stared at her limp body for a minute or two then he slowly and fearfully turned his head to me, eyeing the death machine I held in my hands. I saw the grip of the Beretta poking out from underneath his jacket. I don't think he knows I saw the pistol but at that moment I knew I couldn’t let him get away so I pulled the Armalite back up to my shoulder and he slipped behind the door frame just as I let three rounds slip into the solid walnut door directly behind him. I looked out the window and saw the license plate “L8VTX23” on a black BMW M3 then I saw him running out to his car and fumbling in his pocketses for his keys. I ran downstairs as fast as I could and saw his phone laying on the kitchen table. I exhaled a sigh of relief because I knew that I still had a chance to get him and make sure that no one knew about what had went down earlier today. I grabbed the garage door opener and my keys then ran out back and backed out in my Audi R8 and sped off. I could just see him turn at the light about 200 feet away so I stepped on the gas and screeched around the corner and caught up to him. My palms were sweaty and and my hands were shaking as I tapped on the gas and yanked the wheel to my left so the nose of my car took out the back of his. He lost control and broke through the barrier and crashed into a tree. The lawyer emerged from the car looking like he had just been beaten off and limped to the nearest tree for support. I walked down the the hill to where he stood and said, “You should always wear your seatbelt,” He looked at me with a face full of horror and surprise, “You. Are. Insane! People like you don’t deserve to live!” “Little did you know, that you are the one who is working for the force of evil.-” “You’re lying” “do you know why she wanted Jericho? Do you know what jericho is? Jericho is the key to the portal. The portal that Gretta and I built. We had it all figured out, we were the best of friends since we met, we did everything together! But at the last moment, our differences held us back. The portal would answer all of our questions, it would give us a continuation of forces, we would all become gods! She wanted to use the portal to manipulate the economy, to manipulate politics, to manipulate our minds, she wanted to rule the world. I was the only one who could stop her. before we even had the portal opened, she already had a god complex, she was never wrong.” “None of this makes any sense! you are crazy! I am just a lawyer who was helping with a divorce!” “Thats what she wanted you to believe but you were actually delivering her the key to the universe.” “But it’s just a cat!” “No it’s the key. The key was originally the apple of Eve, the cause of the sin in the world today. I transformed the apple into Jericho, a living, breathing, immortal being.” “You really are crazy!” Just then he wipped his coat back and yanked out the berreta that he had tucked in his hip as I ducked behind a tree. Bullets ripped the bark off the tree. I pulled out my Desert Eagle and dove out from behind the tree. I put a bullet in his chest through his femoral artery and one in his neck. he fell to the ground as I stood up and finished him with a bullet between the eyes.

Thanks to u/anxiousacademy Her eyes are impervious to the intrusion of photons as they cross paths with the image of the city below. The few bands of light that intersect those reflected from the surfaces of the people and cars that make up the cells inside the concrete membrane of the venous boulevard, have no effect on the finality of the view. Corrinna wonders about the consequences of the delay present between what she sees and what exists. A tenth of a second earlier, a small black Mercedes causes a man to renegotiate his deal with his god, when its side view mirror rips his cell phone from his hands. Obliterated, the injury is intensified when the shattered plastic is tossed in the air, having been redistributed by the car's tires. When the light hits Corrinnas eyes, and one-tenth of second later, and is comprehended by her consciousness, she breathes in quickly through her pouted lips. Audibly stunned, she is also relieved to see the man hasn't been coincidedly destroyed. Could she have done anything? She ponders alone encompassed in the stagnant cold of the glass, in front of which she stands. Even if she had been standing beside him, her own reaction wouldn't even occur until well after the car had passed. In the wake of the incident, all she could do was provide calm, and leave him with consolations to the affect of “for what it's worth, at least you're not hurt.” In two-tenths of a second, the event had already proven to be historic. Archived, as it happened, in her passive memory. Where it's told to remain, and haunt her ideas of control. In a sense, she winces at a memory. In a time-line perceived as real, but doubted nonetheless, for it's disregard of human nature. There's nothing she can do. She imagines a time machine. She materializes just behind the careless man. The fade of the transfer wears off in a pulses of static at the edges of her vision. It reminds her of standing up too quickly after her nightly binge of mystery serials, but without the weak knees. Days of rehearsed strategy culminated in this one chance to prevent a minor inconvenience from upsetting the existential nature of one inconsequential existence. The pulsing is gone, and the event queues her muscle memory with a quick right open handed jab for the hood of the man's wooly parka. But something is wrong. She can feel differences in the wind that brushes across her cheek, that she knew was not present in the simulations. The amplitude of the sound waves hitting her ear, created by the oblivious car approaching in her peripheral, are not consistent with the dopplered ones she was familiar with in practice. For a nano-second, she attributed the oversights to unknowns that she felt would be irrelevant to the outcome of the mission. Minutia in a sea of error, that itself was accounted for, and calculated to be acceptable. But the matter of self doubt proved to be ever-present, and panic gripped her stomach as her arm stretched, with what felt like an infinity towards the target. She could feel the tingling of loosened cotton strands against the tips of her fingers and wondered if she instead was feeling a static electric charge arcing out to meet her; an embodiment of a positive action mating with a negative solution. She felt it was poetic. The phone explodes. Splintering a rain of plastic to the street and sidewalk. A portion of it laid to rest in a storm drain. Corrinna's mouth, agape in surprise and her arm left grasping, the man turrets his body in the direction of the car and screams out to it. The man grunts frustratedly, and punctuates it by drooping his head to meet his index finger and thumb, eager to massage his eyeballs. He sees a scuffed pair of combat boots, and follows the legs up past the torso, to meet Corrinna's distant gaze, fixed in what he assumes is an astonishment similar to his. He sees her outstretched arm, and manages a defeated gratuity. “No...problem,” she drawls in response. “Ha,” he torts, “two-tenths of a second earlier, and I'd probably still have a phone.” Corrinna rages behind her eyes in realization that by the time she processed his parka underneath her fingertips, it had already happened. “But I was so close,” she said to herself in aside. “Don't worry about it lady. There's nothing you coulda done about it.” She can see her breath fogging on the window, and is angered by the refracted light, cursing it for her failed daydream objective. Synapses fire, and thoughts convene in the pattern of questions she asks herself about the city, coursing like red blood cells, just outside her line of sight.

It all began back in 93’, just a kid trying to make a little money. I was unaware I would become the most wanted drug lord in the U.S. I will say, I was expecting to be wanted but not on this scale of notoriety. It started with Clyde, Josh, and I. We all had this bright idea of making some money selling a little pot. It turns out, you can get arrested for that. Which we were so childish and unaware of. After getting caught for that, our parents picked us up at the station and brought us home. Boy, did momma never whoop my ass so bad. The whole crew had moved on in about 9th grade. I didn’t, I still wanted to make more “Dough” I met a shady man, who was obviously not a good character to be around with. We chatted for a few minutes, then he offered me a hit of his joint which I obviously took being the blatantly incautious person I was. He offered me a chance to make it big in the coke slanging game, for a while it was great. I had all the drugs I wanted, cars, money, and whores. But it all came crashing down upon my head in about 12th grade. I turned 18. I became a wanted man in the city, had to move to Detroit. I became a big shot there too. Getting money, drugs and whores. (I had to ditch the cars, they had too much heat on them). But, they knew where I went so I fled to Chicago. I was jumping from town to town every month. I finally turned myself in and spent 14 years in the pen. After getting out on parol, I decided it was time to stop being a criminal so I settled down in an apartment on the east side of Chicago, I heard that voice in my conscience to start selling again but I fought it off. It was too strong, it happened again. I was back in the game. I needed a supplier again, all my connections have been locked up for other charges, Until I got on the DarkWeb, I was browsing on all forums, boards, and imageboards. I found another shady fellow named Rodriguez and he told me to meet him at the local 7/11 and he’ll work a supplying deal with me. I brought a gun because I don’t know the guy, I loaded the 32 caliber revolver and hopped in my raggedy looking Oldsmobile. Coming over the hill I see the local 7/11 and sure enough, a man is waiting out front with a handlebar mustache and goatee. I went up and asked him his name and he obviously said “Rodriguez, what do you need boy?” I told him I was Rob, He said “Ah yes I’ve been expecting you. How about you keep that 32 in your pocket buddy.” I was dumb-founded. “How did he know I had a revolver?”. I asked him how he knew he only replied “I’ve been around, I carry a switchblade and wear a vest so I wouldn’t try any rash moves.” “I wasn’t planning on it” Said I. Rodriguez and I headed back to my apartment to start talking business and he told me “I have a very large shipment coming in soon, you get it, you get half for dealing.” I told him it sounded easy enough. Little did I know, I was walking into a death trap. I was cruising at about 30mph to my destination, when I saw a couple of men on motorcycles, they were armed and ready to blast. I slowly started applying more pressure to the accelerator and in a few seconds I was at 50. A single bullet flew through the back window and grazed my ear and passed through the windshield. I looked back and fired a shot from my 32 and blew ones tires out and he crashed and all I saw was fire and blood on the street. They kept coming up and falling off like flies. I killed all of them after getting shot in my left arm. As I approached my location it was evident this wasn’t gonna be an easy job. I showed up with my gun reloaded and a vest Rodriguez had given me. A few guards at the front door of this 2 story warehouse were dressed in blue tucked in shirts and dress pants. So it was obvious they were cops. I had to get through quickly and quietly. I shot a bullet from behind my vehicle to distract them and bring them over here. As they walked toward my vehicle, guns drawn I slyly sneaked off to the door and ran in quickly. One guard patrolling the stairs was walking in a pattern up and down the stairs. When his back was turned I snuck up behind him and broke his neck with great force. I’m on the second floor. The second floor was filled with these same guards. I went in guns ablazing and killed about 5 cops before getting shot in my leg and crouching behind a metal box. I managed to work the bullet out and patched it up with a piece of my shirt and some tape I always carry around. I went in and grabbed two guards 9mm pistols and killed the remainder of the guards. After a decent walk to the large truck on the other side of the building I took the truck and drove off back toward my apartment. I was cruising once more at a decent speed of 45 and another fleet of vehicles were creeping up on my ass when I realized, these aren’t strange men like the motorcycle men were, these are cops and they are pissed. They pulled a pit maneuver on me and sent the truck in a spinning frenzy. The cops got outta their vehicles guns drawn demanding I get out of the vehicle. I got out and dropped my 32. They took me back to the station and here we are. Prisoner # 019357802 Interview I'm 14 so I would like some constructive critism.

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 miliciously 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. I noiselessly try to order my single child bus ticket (to Satan's palace, please) but instead, I got harmlessly interrupted- ''sorry ma'am? I didn't quite catch that'' the bus driver excused no no no no no no no no no Instead of answering him I manage to make it such an awkward situation for me and this cheerful bus driver, that I decide to just walk off the bus! Yes, I actually just walked off the bus! What the heck is wrong with me?! I could of just said it a bit louder and it wouldn't of been a problem! Afterward, I berried my shaking hands into my warm cozy pockets, put my head down into my chest and scurried off with embarrasment. So, I am now in the same position as I was about ten minutes ago. Walking in a straight line in a busy, stinking street having no-where to go. I might just ring my mum asking me to pick me up outside Waterstones where it's never as busy as any other place in this soulless town. But then I start to worry to myself what if she's late? everyone will stare at me. But then again I could just have a look around Waterstones as it is one of the most exciting shops to walk into. Imagine youself walking into a grande palace like building, nicely heated, having that old book smell and crowded with every book you could ever desire! But what if I just end up looking around for about quarter of an hour and simply getting bored; so I end up awkwardly stumbling around the shop trying to make myself look interested. Whilst looking at books by authors I've never heard of in my entire pointless life. I try to think of other time wasting things I could do before the next bus arrives which right now will come in exactly thirty-four minutes. If it's on time of course. But I don't think I can be bothered to wait that long. Finally, I decide to give my mum a ring. Mum picks up on the fourth ring ''hello?'' my mum answeres the phone politley ''Mum, can you pick me up outside Waterstones? I missed my bus'' I'm trying to whisper into my phone so the random people walking past me don't think I'm being weird. ''Sure honey, what time?'' ''How about now?'' I agitatedly reply. ''Sure, I'll be there in twenty minutes'' ''Please hurry'' I end the call. I'm trying to concenrate on walking unnaturally straight, not barging into anyone whilst stareing at an annoyingly bright screen on phone. I have twenty minutes before my mum said she'll meet me outside Waterstones so I have enough time to buy a drink on the way. I start to plan my time for the next twenty or so minutes: Go to Starbucks, it normally takes about 5 minutes to line-up and then buy my scrumptious drink. Then I will take the long way round to Waterstones (it takes about ten minutes longer to go this way but it is always less crowded rather then the stupidly, busy streets of town.) There are always one or two wreckless, smelling kids most probably smoking weed or some horrible stuff which doesn't look like any normall ciggerette to me. Whilst walking down to Waterstones I start thinking about the type of questions my mum will be asking me questions that make me feel Uneasy. She doesn't understand what goes on in my head. I don't think she really understand me at all. Which makes me feel even more alone in this world. It doesn't really help not having any friends either. I feel sorry for my mum for having such a depressed ridden child. All I really want is someone who understands me. I know I'm difficult to understand because I am not depressed for any reason. I haven't been raped, or I was never beaten by my parents. I am just depressed. Finally, I arrive at Waterstone to quetionably notice my mum is already parked outside. I sort of do an awkward run-walk-jog sort stumble to her not-so-new-but-not-too-old, rusty, car. I was suprised to see her already here waiting for me. I didn't even get any time to look around Waterstones. I pull my warm hand out of my cozy pockets to feel a spitefull cold hit my fingertips. I roughly grab the handle of the car and struggle to pull it towards me but I somehow manage to do it. I'm not weak, the car door is just uncommonly heavy. I'm sitting in this clunky car and my mum hasn't said a word. Which is kind of normal so I don't worry about it. But I really don't like silence. It's a chance for the Devil to cast it's magic and send fearsome thoughts into the lifeless brain of mine. I always try to figure out why do I have to be so different? Out of all the people, why me? I know that may seem a bit selfish but thats just me. I am a selfish person. But I guess if I think about it I would never, ever wish on my life (even though it's a pretty worthless life) that I would ever want someone else, even someone I have never met before, to be as lonely, isolated and depressed as I am. NEVER.

The ceiling was white. Jon was lying on a hospital bed, about to be wheeled into surgery. Jon was no stranger to surgery as he had been though dozens of life altering cut-ups, he did have a problem however with “the gas”. “Sleeping Gas” as it is known colloquially, is known medically as general anesthesia, which is used to induce a coma during surgery. Jon hated the “gas”, he was afraid of it. “I don’t like it, Ma” Jon said. “I know, Jon. But you have to. I already asked and the surgeon said he’d be uncomfortable with you just being under L.A.” L.A. or local anesthesia, much like the city it shares its acronym with, renders its patients physicality unresponsive, devoid of sensation, but ironically conscious. Jon had attempted to negotiate that his surgeries be done with nothing but L.A, to escape the “gas”. “What is the problem with the G.A. anyway? Isn’t it just like going to sleep?” Jon’s father asked brusquely. “Pa. It terrorizes me because it is so unlike sleep. You know when you take a nap or wake up the next morning, you are fully conscious of the fact that time has passed? With G.A, there’s like a gap in your existence. It’s like you died for the duration of your surgery and brought back to life. I don’t like it.” Jon mused. Soon after, the Anesthesiologist arrived, she was there to ask some procedural questions like what prescription drugs Jon had been taking, if Jon had eaten anything six hours before, et cetera et cetera. Jon knew all the answers by hard, he had been though this countless times. Jon’s mother however, attempted to facilitate an abrupt discussion surrounding “the gas”. Jon played along but in truth he knew what the answers were. So while she went on and on about how harmless it was, and how there were no long term physical repercussions…et cetera, et cetera. Jon began panicking about the repercussions to his psyche, he had terrible memories surrounding “the gas”, namely more dangerous and life threatening surgeries he underwent as a child. Soon it was time to be rolled into the operating theater. Jon’s sympathy party stood up to say goodbye. “You have nothing to be afraid of Jon! It’s only knee surgery! Nothing vital or life threatening this time!” John’s father exclaimed. “MY GOD. Does no one get IT?!” Jon thought as he entered the theater. Jon’s fear was palpable now. The nurses in the operating theater hooked Jon up to the medical apparatus that transformed his vital signs into a series of lines and beeps. “ Are you afraid or nervous Jon?” the nursed asked. “No. Why?” Jon fibbed. “Then why is your heart rate so high?” she replied pointed at the screen making successive beeps. “No idea.” Jon falsifying again. “ ‘Sup Jon! How’re we doing today?” Jon’s orthopedic surgeon pronouncing his arrival. Jon liked him; definitely liked him enough to forgive him for denying the request for no “gas”. Jon replied with further fabrications surrounding his state of mind and false fortitude. With the arrival of his surgeon, it was time for surgery to begin. It was time for “the gas”. Now Jon had finally begun to resign himself to this, he took a deep breath and steeled himself for death. Jon heard the twist of a valve, a rush of air, the cacophony of beeps as the mask loomed over his face, and then all was darkness. *** Then Jon awoke. The ceiling was still white.

Sherman Pine wondered why he hated his life. On paper it was perfect. He had more than anyone could ask for, and had built it from nothing. He’d taken the high road, worked hard and perceived through adversity. He had never stooped to the level of those who had stood in his way, it was something he prided himself on, his moral compass. He was a loving father, in a picture perfect marriage. He had the house, the two cars, the loving dog. A stable career, was nearly his own boss, had supportive coworkers. He had his health, his hair, and had never gone to bed hungry a day in his adult life. He wanted to kill himself. It was a feeling that had crept upon him year after year. He pushed it aside every morning, focusing on his next step, where he was going; his big plans. He focused on raising his beautiful daughter, being there for every big moment, and most of the little ones. He’d laid out steps to create the best career he could, and had followed them to the T, and it had led to success and security. He’d met his one True Love, and it had been straight from a story book; the fights had been fleeting, they never went to bed angry, and even after nearly 30 years of marriage they still reveled in each other, that passion had never ceased. He wanted to kill himself. Nothing was lacking in his life, this was the proverbial American Dream™, surpassing even his own expectations that had formulated in his head at a young age. He’d done it all himself, and had done it the “right” way, no cheats or shortcuts, never stepping on another for his own gain. His moral compass stayed strong. He’d been tempted; one of his first memories was seeing a hundred dollar bill fall out of a stranger’s wallet at the age of ten. He had spoken up, they had picked it up, stuffed it in with all the others. A young boy can do a lot of things with a hundred dollars, but Sherman had never hesitated. It was that memory he went back to time and time again, whenever he was tempted. His moral compass stayed strong. He wanted to kill himself. He’d stayed healthy, rarely drank, had never touched any drug. Except those darn coffee beans he would say with a smile, when the subject had come up. His daughter had left for college, and he had told her that this was her time, that he would love her no matter what her choices were, but to please be careful. She’d seen his honesty when he told her with a smile Except those darn coffee beans and she had taken it to heart. He knew she wouldn’t stay as straight and narrow as he had been, he knew it was a different time, he was okay with her trying The Pot, or whatever kids were doing these days. He trusted her, and she loved him for it. She’d been there for two years now, but visited frequently, always bright and cheerful, so beautiful, always smiling. He wanted to kill himself. He never said the words aloud. He convinced himself his wife had no idea, but sometimes as they sat in silence watching whatever was on the TV she would look at him with a question in her eyes. “Are you okay?” But she never said the words aloud. If he caught her gaze (he always knew, but would only sometimes turn his head to meet her eyes) she would blink in surprise and then peck him on the cheek. She trusted him, she loved him, if there was pain there he would tell her. And why would he feel any pain? They had everything. Why did he feel like he had nothing? He wanted to kill himself. It was becoming his mantra. He tried harder and harder to push it away, but the stronger he pushed, the louder it became. HE WANTED TO KILL HIMSELF. He could remember the thought coming when he was younger, but he had replaced it with his work. As he climbed higher it came back, but he replaced it with his first and only Love. As they settled into their life together it came back, but he replaced it with the love for his child. As she grew older it came back, and he could not think of anything to put in its place. He looked to the future and saw nothing but sadness. He looked to the past and could only remember his mistakes. The pain in his heart grew, and he truly believed he had nothing to live for. He was going to kill himself. He stood on the bridge at 3am. He looked down at the darkness below. Somewhere down there the river twisted and rolled, as cold as his heart. His mind raced, backwards and forwards. To the things he had left unsaid, to the pain he would cause everyone in his life if he took one step forward. He thought of the world he lived in, that was slowly falling apart. His American Dream™ had kept him alive, but that dream was finished, he had woken in a nightmare. It was a nightmare of isolation and separation, of bigotry and misunderstanding, of looming doom. He closed his eyes, raised his foot. The cold breeze caressed his face. It gave him pause, and he opened his eyes. The clouds parted for only a second, but light from the quarter moon cut through them like a knife. The night lit up, both from the sky and the street. His thoughts stopped, his heart raced. In that moment, the world was beautiful. The moon illuminated the waves far below. The street lights reflected in the fog, halos forming around each bulb that hummed softly. The wind danced around him, only made visible by the leaves that slowly circled towards the cold river. The night was beautiful. His mind was silent. He felt an almost indescribable feeling in his chest, a tingle that started at the base of his neck and spread quickly throughout his entire body. He had never felt anything like it; not when he said “I do” – his thoughts on the wedding night to come; not when his baby girl first opened her eyes and smiled at him – his mind concentrating on holding her the right way and the responsibilities to come; not even in the dull glow that comes after he made love to his Love – thinking about their plans for tomorrow as he drifted off to sleep. He had never felt this energy in his being before; he had never had his mind fall silent before. The night around him was beautiful, but ordinary. It was full of magic, but nothing had changed. He had opened his eyes to a new world that was inseparable from the old. It had always been there; right there, right in front of him, present, but he had always had his eyes elsewhere. Looking to what came next, or what had already happened. How could he have never realized before? Even if he had nothing – which was far from the truth – he had the most wonderful gift. It was one that everyone had but few acknowledged, a gift that sat in plain sight but was rarely opened. He was here, now. He saw the beauty in the world. He felt Joy.