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Allura 24

The hopeless prayers from the begging mortals on The Planet beneath the weak and wide-awake Oracle stung Him as He wept to the chirps of songbirds flying through the sky around. The Oracle could not hold His composure any longer. The clouds crashed together, and downward lightning broke through horizons of soils that had been left untouched for millions of years. The Oracle stepped down onto The Planet, looked about His creation, and took a large uneven breathe. Today, His masterpiece looked beautiful to Him, but as He began echoing through the muse of the fractured and beaten, asking His creatures that He created long ago to eye, and listen for one final time, His brief-bliss ended. 'I am sorry My children, but today is the End of Days. The promise I made for you, a life in eternal peace and joy, has been broken. I cannot care for you anymore, and your prayers will no longer be answered. You will all forget what was, and will no longer be' said The Oracle. He planned on whispering the message to the mortals, but their petrified and war-torn faces made it seem that He had screamed like The Mad One did during the first-false-apocalypse. The drums of ambient mist subsided through and in between dark dens, crests and villages, and all that moved east and west with the rivers and winds cried for mercy, but no answer was returned as the Mighty One ascended back to His shattered throne. The words The Oracle spoke kissed the entire world to sleep, and The Good Teacher the mortals called him millenniums ago, ended His love in a mere moment. The Oracle wept at his closing remarks, as He never wanted to leave them dying in fear. The Planet fell through an endless-expansion towards the entropic boundary, and flashed out of existence. The Oracle followed just behind The Planet, and into The Void underneath the entropic-boundary, where He met its Gatekeeper, standing perpetuate and looking away. 'I’m sorry, My good one. I need Your friendship now, more than ever. I am dying, and so are You. We have to leave. We must end this. Please, forgive Me.' said The Oracle. The Gatekeeper turned and looked at Her Brother with a flavor only the Masters of Sorrow would know. She stared with vehemence at Her Brother’s weak posture. She dreamed of this day. She wanted revenge. She walked like venom over to Her Brother, who turned away like a cowardice lamb about to be slaughtered. But as she peered into her small younger Brother, who shook and looked indifferent from any other poor mortal boy, She knew that Their Work was absolute, finished and over. Her fury subsided, and with a silent ease, leaned Her bloodied head on Her Brother’s shoulder, and as soft as She could without collapsing, cried for the first time since Her sentence. 'Let’s go home friend. Let’s start over. Your eternal punishment is over' said The Oracle in scattered breathes. The Void vanished in beat with time’s outro, and the two Creators left the remaining fabric pulsing, flowing, and isostatic. The Oracle and The Gatekeeper exited the testing chamber with Their heads hung down, each with distinct scents of misery. But before the Two ended Their experiment, They looked into each-other’s divine eyes, nodded and hugged once more. 'I promise no more pain' whispered The Oracle into His Sister’s ear, and in a shine and great flicker, the room disappeared, Their constructed existence ceased, and the hum of all that ever was in Their Universe laughed back into eternity. The Creators’ long simulation had ended, and They were on their way back Home to deliver their findings.

Question 1a: Determine the local minimum, local maximum, and inflection points of y = x4-8x2+5. Whoa there! The school day may have just ended, but it’s time to shift into your math mindset. Go out into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You’ll want to stay hydrated and alert. Reminisce about your day as you pour the water. Remember the walk to school; remember taking the test and feeling—spill the water all over the countertop and onto the floor, and then scold yourself for getting distracted. Take your time mopping it up. You wouldn’t want someone to come and slip on the ground, would you? Calculus can wait. Once that’s done, drink up. Return to your room, walk past the calculus homework, and turn on your computer. Open Facebook. See sixteen notifications. You’d better deal with those now, so they don’t take up your time later. Faceless friend and four other people commented on your status. Respond to them. Comment. Comment. Like. Comment. Like. Like. Comment. Prepare to get back to work, and—Oh, hey, someone messaged you! It would be rude to exit now, you’d seem like you were ignoring them! Shoot the shit for a while. Check your clock. Wow, how time flies! You should really get back to calculus now. Close your Facebook tab. Open a new tab. Go to Facebook. Comment. Like. Will it ever end? The limit of f(x) (the internet) as you approach a (work) is infinity. The limit does not exist. Force yourself away, and sit down in front of your notebook. Find the first derivative of x4 – 8x2 + 5 by multiplying each variable by its exponent (n) and raising it to the n-1 power. F’(x) = 4x3-16x. One step down, four to go. Your cell phone will ring. Pick it up. It’ll be Mrs. Anderson, the kind old woman from down the street. She’ll want you to shovel the snow off her driveway. Tell her you’ll do it. Only a monster would say no to such a nice, charming lady. As you dig through heaps of snow, wind blowing in your face, imagine a warmer time. Recount your summer vacation. Let your mind wander to the sixteen hour plane ride back, how you sat there, cramped into your seat, sore necked, unable to sleep; a baby in the row behind you screaming for an impossible diaper change. If you leapt out of the emergency exit weighing 68 kg at a horizontal velocity of 2 m/s, accelerating downward at 9.81 m/s2, would it be worth it? Would the screaming end? What if it was the baby instead? Finish shoveling the driveway. Get paid. If y represents final wages, x the amount of hours worked, and the hourly wage is 15 dollars, y = 15x. Solve for x=2. y = 30 dollars. If you can’t do the basic algebra, you have no hope in calculus. Go home, and open up your notebook. Close your notebook, and open Netflix. Browse for a show to watch. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Arrested Development, Breaking Bad—You can watch Breaking Bad! Remember that Breaking Bad has ended. Cry on the inside. Snap out of it. You’re clearly in no shape to concentrate on homework after all that time in the bitter cold. You know what you need? A nice, warm, relaxing shower. Savor every moment as steam slowly fills the bathroom, obscuring your sight and mind. Think to yourself how easy the calculus problem really is. It’s not your fault you haven’t done it yet. You’re perfectly capable of doing it; you were just getting the important stuff out of the way first, right? Think about college. If you haven’t declared yet, worry that you won’t get into your choice school. If you have, worry about tuition. Calculus doesn’t seem so important in the grand scheme of things anymore, does it? Wrong. Remember that the quarter is coming to an end. That first semester transcript could make the difference. And guess which class is dragging down your average? If you guessed Calculus, you’d be right! Try to remember what the opposite of ‘relaxed’ is. Get out of the shower; feel the cold marble of the bathroom floor seep into your feet and up your spine. Feel the steam drift against the newly formed goose bumps on your skin. Tell yourself they’re from the cold. March to your room, reinvigorated by a newfound determination to save your average. Have a staring contest with your homework. Lose. Hear a call from the kitchen. Time for dinner. Notice that it’s gotten dark outside. Sit down at the dining room table. Devour your green beans, and inhale your spaghetti. You need to get back to work as soon as possible. Watch as your parents notice something wrong. “Are you okay?” they’ll ask. Smile, and tell them that everything’s fine, because they’re parents, and you’re a teenager. They couldn’t possibly understand. Thank them for a delicious dinner, wish them a good night, and scurry back into your room. Alright, no more excuses. Now, it’s the moment of truth. Set the first derivative equal to zero. Simplify to find the roots of the equation. x=0, +- 2. (0, f(0)) and (-2, f(-2)) are the maximum and minimum points, respectively. Find the second derivative in the same manner you found the first. f’’(x) = 12x2-16. Set f’’(x) equal to zero. Look at you! You’re on a roll! Solve. x = +-¬¬1.15. Graph the original equation and find the y value for x=1.15. If the y value changes signs from the closest smaller integer to the closest larger integer, it’s an inflection point. Whew, that was a workout. But you did it! You pulled through! You could move on to 1b, 1c, and 1d, but you deserve a break. Get your spirits up with some reruns of Friends. Laugh. Don’t pay attention when you look up to see that it’s past midnight. Don’t make fleeting glances toward your calculus textbook. Just keep watching the show. Comment. Like. Comment. Like. Everything is fine. The limit of x (your grade) as you approach a (the end of the semester) is 0. Relax. You’ve had a long day. You’ve worked hard. Your calculus homework will be there for you in the morning.

It's a very earthly thing. To picture a ball arching through space toward an anxious child. Green is the yard, blue is the sky, the dog is happy, the hose is pouring water out of the end into a growing puddle hidden by grass. We wander out of that picture into flashes of missiles, destruction, self-inflicted human misery and hope that we never find life on other planets. We will certainly destroy this universe if given the time to do so. Luckily we don't have that kind of time. That thing, that being, that inconceivable extra terrestrial being spinning out there however many light years away-- whether it knows it or not, whether it can see or feel or conceive of that anxious child and that baseball--has some hope. Its only hope, as you know, is our demise. The ball will go up and arch through the air and land. Back and forth for approximately 30 minutes. The boy will laugh and run and turn off the hose. The ball will roll under a small pine tree that will grow very tall. More importantly, everything suspended, spinning, rotating will go on and on, doing their best to satisfy some version of what we've so far determined is the order of things. To the best of our knowledge the ball is still there. All forces interact to keep objects in their paths or in their places. From the right perspective, you can actually see that baseball spinning through space, embedded in earth, and still a part of the largest scheme. "All", in its expanse, is inspiring. At the same time it is futile to derive meaning from any of it. There is interactivity and cause and effect, but mainly forces interact to keep objects on their paths or in their places. Running into the house to grip with two hands a plastic yellow cup with a smile inside a circle filled with water and chugg until out of breath. Running upstairs to pee and gaspingly explain from the open bathroom door to his mother in the kitchen that he wants to go to the beach. He has already contemplated the outer reaches of the universe with great fear at night above the covers and afraid of bed bugs. Walking to the shed is the father to stare at the old riding lawn mower, rust under the chipped white paint, the smell of oil and a bird's nest. Questioning the word "home," wondering the best exit, timing, direction, explanation. He has contemplated the universe and a radiant being with great power to direct human activity and he is sure that the breath of a higher power has made things what they are. God's ear can hear the swoosh of globes rushing past. Can check in on galaxies, solar systems, planets, countries, towns, parishes and individuals. Swoosh past. Planet after planet and the earthly delight of baseballs and geese wading silently by the shore, ducking under and shaking their heads, darting back and forth. Across the lake from the man in the shed is a swirling rainbow of slippery water. Another man is crouching by a motor at the back of a boat. Cursing and standing and running his forearm across the top of his eyebrows. His name is Ken and he is mad. "God fucking damnit." he says to himself. He picks up a red rag streaked with black grease and grips the fingers of his left hand pulling the oil off. Sitting on the dock he grabs his can of beer and slurps the first cold sip of the day. A second, longer drink and he stares at the expanding rainbow of fuel reaching to the lily pads by the shore and dissipating out toward the center of the lake. "Fucking dumb ass." Ken spends a lot of time on the dock staring at the water. He's been dealing for four years with two memories that will never leave his waking life. At least he's pretty sure they will never leave. Life seems now a slide show of memories competing to be the last image on the screen. He squeezes his can slightly until he hears the pop of the can. Part of him noncommittally holds on to those memories, the rest he just waits, hoping they will eventually go away. Ken used to think proudly that he has been every man. Random has nothing to do with anything. The word random is defeatist, futile, a loser's way of looking at the world. Random is the word used by people with no sense of control. The point is that there is an incredible amount of order, just no purpose. Up until the moment of impact, Ken was severely unfocussed. Life was going in a direction he was completely unsure about. Happiness, deep and meaningful love, awe and inspiration, he had experienced all of these things. He also suffered daily doses of insecurity, pangs of anxiety, desire for other relationships, hope for something catastrophic to come along and change everything so that he could start over. Maybe move to another country, meet someone new. Just to start over. Starting over never consumed him, he was able to deny the feelings and shrug them off as being normal, human tendencies. He knows, in his heart of hearts, that he never once fell out of love with her. Never once wanted anything but the best for his children. Today is a slide of his wife in a towel after her shower. One year after their first child was born, he told her that she wasn't as thin as she used to be. That one image of her now choosing to wear a towel. Her sobbing and saying, "you've spoiled everything." The intense feeling of sadness and compassion he felt for her as she was sobbing. He remembers it well. He remembers realizing how much she trusted him, how secure she felt with him. She thought he was not like other men. On to the next memory ... Had they left a little earlier or a little later, that has nothing to do with it. The order of things is such that we have an immense capacity to control the events of our lives, we just don't spend the time to trace the link between effect and cause. Cars shouldn't have been allowed in the first place, no one should raise a family in such a sterile place, so far from hospitals. Not many people will experience a last look at their son alive as he is being put into a helicopter, but Ken has, and that slide seems to always win.

It's a warm, misty morning in Charelston, West Virginia. Officer J. Wallflower and Officer M. Tendency are on patrol towards the end of their shift. The coutryside is extremely green in color and peaceful, the officers pass quite streams, railroads and rustic houses and cabins.....Enjoy! Officer Wallflower: "It sure is beautiful this morning" Officer Tendency: "Yeah, it is." OW: "You know, Whenever the weather is like this out it reminds me of when i used to play a drinking game with a girl who worked around here." OT: "Oh yeah? What's that" (Uninterested) OW: "It's called 'countdowns' OT: "And how does it go?" OW: "Well, I pick her up from work and take her to a bar. When we get to the bar i start buying her drinks, but every drink i buy her is cheaper than the one before" OT: ..... mmmkay OW: "So say beers are 3 dollars each that night , the first one i'll pay the full 3 dollars, the next i might pay 2.75 and she'll pay the rest, then 2.50 and so on and so fourth. As the drinks get cheaper, so do her inhibitions" OT: (a little annoyed) "You call that a drinking game? That's more like a Pro league team beating a Pee Wee team by triple digits" OW: "No chief, this girl really likes me, she texts me all the time, and i almost got lucky with her once." OT: "..." OW: "..." OT: "Do me a favor, Wallflower." OW: "What's that chief?" OT: "Quit letting this chick take advantage of you." OW: "She's not gonna take advantage of me" OT: ".... And do me another favor, Wallflower" OW: "What's that?" OT: "Quit drinking on the job." OW: "The damn water round is here contaminated, what the hell else am i s'pposed ta drink?" OT: "I don't give a damn WHAT ya drink but ya ain't gonna be getting boozed up on the job anymore, i don't even want ya wearing ya damn uniform when y getting boozed up." OW: "Alright now take it easy, i hear ya, i hear ya." OT: "I mean have some God damn self respect for cryin out loud!" OW:... OT:...

I'll never stop hitting the gas, I'll never stop pushing further. This car will take me on a trip to a land of unknown, a place I've never seen but is oh so familiar. I don't know where the entrance is but I'll know where to turn. I don't have a set of directions, I don't have a G.P.S telling me how far my destination is but I'll be there ever so soon. I had never seen a stop sign nor a street light; just the winding road up the mountain. The only signs I could recognize were telling me not to turn right off the narrow path, warning me of the steep drop off down below. I remember I had reached over my hand to my sweet child; but her cold hand turned my stomach. I had all but forgotten my dear child was stillborn. I'm happy this trip is coming to its end. I smile up to the sky as my car's front end turn jerkingly to the right. This was my exit, the entrance to the land of the unknown drawing me closer and closer. The ground below I had never seen before but the steaks of rushing colors that blow past my window look... look oh so familiar. As I reach for my dead child and hold het close to my chest and whisper, "I will never stop pushing further, I'll never stop hitting the gas." Together As we collide with rock I join my precious daughter in death.

At seven in the morning, every morning, Jc was awaken from his slumber. If he hated any two words in the english dictionary, they were ‘Get up” and he heard those words every single morning. As he slowly came to his senses, The thought of having to go through another boring day of school sunk into his mind, with the only thing he had to look forward to was another night of sleep, which was at that moment more than 15 hours away. It seemed ridiculous that someone was expected to go from asleep to learning mode in less than 30 minutes, but again he’d rather go through this than wake up earlier. Jc walked quickly into the living room, gathered the least terrible looking outfit he could find and change. He was always baffled by the fact as how people could take what seemed hours to get ready to go somewhere, while he could do it all in less than five minutes. “ Fucking Matt Lauer” he always thought, of the voice of one of the hosts of the today show, which were always on as he was getting ready. Once he put all the countless incomplete homework papers in his backpack, He was off to school, Into the blinding light of sun and the cold that was always to cold, no matter what the temperature was.

The lion-tamer took another drink. A foolish endeavor, a coaxing of evil consequences, tethering shadows and pulling them from hiding; not creating them, but forcing them into action. The consumption was known to inhibit one’s abilities to deal with the beast; that presence that was the performer’s opponent almost every day, a battle that had existed far before and would exist far after the individual’s passing. An infinitesimal delay in processing, a slight dent or opening in the long forged armor that could be torn and expanding into a hellish gash, capable of swallowing not only the afflicted, but all those associated. Without thought of family, the level within the cup lowered. For as there are roles for those who have never had to deal with a beast, and roles for those who have been feasted upon by it, the lion-tamer was content—or rather, resigned—to that purpose to which he was assigned. He was a warrior, a brute, a man that, perhaps, felt so condemned to monotony that the stinging sabotage that rushed down his throat was what he viewed as his solace; through failing to contain and control that monster, he would be freed from his act. While severing the strings that he felt some great puppeteer used to bind him to his position, the level in the cup lowered. His counterpart was a beautiful thing; a positively gorgeous and misunderstood creature with wild hair that, if one were ever brave enough to approach it, refused to fall into any semblance of pattern. The eyes that perpetually had scarlet streaks within them, light details that he had once lost himself in but now whose complexities exhausted and bothered him. Anyone who saw her was immediately taken with her beauty; it was only he who knew her well enough to have encountered her flaws, her irrational behavior, her hatred of their morning routine. Still, when he was in front of a crowd, he was proud to have dedicated his life and patience to her. They would often tell him of his error in taming her, that keeping her so restricted was a crime against the natural way of the world. Only he could see how they were intertwined, but the awareness of this fact gave no comfort regarding its implications. And now, he is once more doing his dance. And now, he hears its roar as it emerges. And now there are few things that exist across the world, things which have the same value whether found in a desert or in an ocean, that no single language has laid claim to. Whose existence is dated before writing can attribute it to a source, or may even be one of those rare things which is ancient to the point of being sourceless. A primal instinct which can not be ignored or realized, for the very situation that beckons it forth is one of such urgency and pace that no time is granted for thought. Such is the nature of the human yell, and such was the nature of the yell that erupted from deep, deep within the lion-tamer as it finally tore out from his oppression and struck her. She gasped, and the sight of blood emerging from that ugly, swelling wound gave him a ferocity to match that beast and he beat it to such depth that the devil himself would have been his companion. It cowered beneath his shameful rage, and she, rather than grateful for his regained control, looked at him with such a degree of mistrust and despair that he almost felt compelled to summon the beast back from its wounded respite to strike her once more. The unavoidable thread that held their pupils transfixed upon the other was effective to such an extent that he could not sense the reaction of the rest of the audience; or rather, if there was an audience. While at times the routine was in front of a multitude of terrified onlookers, some who averted their eyes as if in mock-politeness, he believed this time that she was the only one, a fact which made the lion-tamer’s inability to control his beast that much more personal, memorable, and painful. She fell back in her seat, and he noticed that the roaring in his ears finally subsided as he calmed. She was furious and frightened, a look of defiance in her eyes threatening to leave. But he knew she wouldn’t. She had made such an investment in staying. And he felt that part of her enjoyed his performance because she knew how much of a risk it posed to be there. Many knew that he was constantly struggling, and while the act of it was usually entertained in private or with fellow performers, nothing will escape the mouths of the weak faster than something that makes them feel strong. And in such a case, his inadequacy was their elixir. So she knew he was a danger, and she stayed. She had to. She was as much a part of this circus as he, an integral part of the show that fascinated and convinced so many, and sickened so many others. He, however, was not such a coward. In the aftermath of the frightening outburst, he knew the act was forever over and without a word (for what could possibly exist that hadn’t been said or thought to such a deafening extent that it being said would be redundant) he left. He left his ring—the symbol of what once had been his home and love—and with lumbering steps carried himself into the night. She screamed after him, her wild hair hanging down in her eyes sticking to her tears and sweat like horrible animal markings. But it was without reason – though she had been left with it, the lion had already curled up and slept and gone.

It was in the dead of night when I was snatched from my home. I was lying asleep beside the ones I love, under the stars with the cool wind gently whistling past me. It all happened so suddenly, the grinding noises of a machine filled the air as I heard the muffled screams of my brothers and sisters being torn from their resting places. Before I could even attempt to make a run for safety, a large metal arm scooped me up and put me in a cramped room of some sort. It was completely dark, I could only experience the crushing weight of others like me above my head and hear the cries of younglings who couldn’t find their families. After some period of time the ruckus settled down and we all awaited some development in our terrifying situation. Outside the walls of our confinement odd grunts and wicked guffaws could be heard. It was nothing I recognized, no species I had ever heard of. Anticipation built as everyone heard the odd noises and thundering steps advance towards us. To my dismay, the room began to move. Another sickening grunt ensued as the cell was lifted into the air and laid down with a thud. We then began to slide forward until we crashed into some sort of wall. I tried to figure out was was happening, but I was startled by a orchestra of cacophonous noises. Rattles, bangs, and growls of a different machine started rekindling the loud uncontrolled panic that the group had experienced before, and it was only heightened when the machine began to move us. Slow at first, but soon we we’re flying faster than any bird I had ever seen in the open sky. It was two days before I experienced the comfort of sight again. We were all dumped together into a large shiny cage with a hole in the bottom. One by one we would fall through to who knew where. I slowly got closer and closer, all the while the increasing sounds of evil machines humming and that unknown language filled my head. I fell through defenseless as some black material pulled me forward at a constant rate. It was at this time when I learned the source of the groans. These odd sand colored creatures were picking at me, clipping off pieces of my body, and spraying me with a bitter, bright colored water. They paid no attention to the agony I suffered, they continued to work on me, providing no explanation as to what was happening. They just kept ripping at me and spraying me with that tainted water. I withstood as much as I could until finally my body could take no more, and all turned black. I woke up later to the hum of the machine which moved with great speeds. I was once again in a room, smashed against fellow brethren, and none of them knew any more that what I did. We had all undergone the same brutal treatments, and we had all seen the sand colored creatures who inflicted our pain. We tried to figure out why, but none of us reached a consensus. It was decided to drop the topic because none of us were going to benefit from fretting over something we couldn’t control. I personally decided to rest, for I was feeling quite ill. It must have been the water they gave me I told myself, then I did my best to go to sleep. It wasn’t long before I was once again flooded with bright light, and I was ready to experience the hell of the creature’s machines and sickly water. To my surprise, this place was different, but just as odd. I was on some sort of display, surrounded by my own kind, and some other species that I had never seen before. Not like the sand colored creatures though, these creatures look just as scared and confused as I was. And when I observed my kind, I noticed that they all looked like they were dying, their outsides were beginning to turn brown, and as I checked my own body, I noticed it was doing the same. I felt awful, I know I wasn’t healthy, I could practically feel the life leeching out of me. I was craving pure water, luckily that one desire of mine was fulfilled. Every so often a spritz of water, almost like a early spring mist would rain down upon us. I deduced that it was enough to keep us alive until who knew what. The only thing that I knew was that my days left on this precious Earth were limited. Sand colored people started examining us. They would come to our display, lift us from our resting places, look us over, and they would either take us away or they would place us back where we were before they had taken us. It was an odd sight, there were all shapes and sizes of these creatures; they seemed to travel in packs. There was a leader, sometimes two, and they were often followed by smaller replicas. On occasion I would see a solitary creature walk past looking sad, almost lonely. I needed to know what these things were and why they were treating us as they were. I had been in the display for some time before I was finally taken. One of the lonely creatures had stopped by and picked me up along with one of my neighbors. We were violently tossed into a smaller enclosure that it was pushing around, full of other victims it had taken. For some time we were still in the giant room that held our display and we were being pushed around. Other things that I had never seen before were being stacked on top of us. It was torturous, the weight of these items crushed against my weak body, and I was more vulnerable than I had ever been. It was odd however, after a short period of time, we were taken from the enclosure and placed in some sort of sack. From there we went out to the world that I had not seen for so long. The sun kissed my aching outsides, and I once again saw the birds that I had missed oh so dearly. That brings me to where I am now. After being taken back out to the world I had missed, I was quickly placed back into one of those machines that move so quickly. The time I was in the machine was much shorter than any I had spent before, and we were soon in an enclosure that only our captor seemed to live in. We were placed on a surface, and it began to experiment. The other one like me went first, I remember him quite fondly. I believe he was already dead, which was good for I witnessed him being dismembered by the sand colored creature and thrown into a round basin. He was mixed with others who had suffered the same fate. Some were small red creatures, others were little cylindrical orange creatures, but the most prominent species in the basin was that of my own. The green leaves laid in the basin dead and in pieces. Next he was covered in some sort of thick, foreign liquid. After dousing those poor creatures in the liquid, he stabbed them all with a four tonged weapon of some sort and ate them, right in front of me. The creature seemed to be repeating a noise that sounded like salad, I have no clue what that is. The only thing that I know is that these will be my last words, I hope someday, someone will find this and uncover the mystery of the sand colored creatures who murdered me and all I loved.

A stroke of a brush to touch my face up. I have become someone I no longer recognize. As I speak to another potential mate, I'm painting a picture of their perfect partner. Obedient. Mindful. Domestic. I don't have to tell them about my looks. It was evident from the way they assaulted me with their eyes, disrespected me with their hands. It never is about the long run. Only the night. I make my choice. A striking man with dark hair and gold flecks in his green eyes. He oozes sin. From the lies he promises me to the way he caresses my skin with his lips. No. There is no turning him down tonight. He invites me up into his bed and there is no way for me to resist. While he steers his hands around my curves, I empty myself. I am not going to think about what drove me here. I am not going to dissect why this is the fourth bed I've climbed into this week. My feelings are shut off, and I turn into a sexual being. I am driven by his desires. Eager to give him what he wants. Mr. Green Eyes does not disappoint. My appetite is fulfilled one, two, three, five times. He loses control only twice. He calls me out of my name, curses me. It makes him feel good. Controlling. He goes until he can no longer hold his eyes open. He slowly drifts into sleep. I find the bathroom and stare at my despicable self. My brown hair matches my eyes, reminding me of chocolate. Just like the color of the counter. The color of the sheets of the last bed I slept in. The last one that actually belonged to me. Suddenly, my emotions are on. It all comes flooding back. A misplaced hand, intentions that were more clear than the sky is blue. But this was all wrong. We are supposed to be in love. This wasn't love that reached out to me. Love wouldn't hit me, knocking me out. Love wouldn't chain me up and abuse me. Love would have freed me before any of this happened. I am angry. I look to Mr. Green Eyes sleeping peacefully. Suddenly, I am less myself than I have ever been. I search for something, anything that I can use. I find a pen. I walk over to him, and stand over him with alien intentions. I am not in control. He wakes up as I’m finishing the note and I dart out the door, making my way through the hotel. I find myself outside and I sit on the curb, uncaring of the disgusted glances that are shot my way. At least I know who I am. Mr. Green Eyes joins me on the curb and I cannot look at his face. I’m ashamed. One night only. I knew the deal. He took my hand gently and I chance a look in his direction. Without alcohol, Mr. Green Eyes has a kindness and sincerity that rests in his eyes. He smiles. Maybe I should call him Mr. Teeth. They are perfect. He tells me he meant every promise. I want to run away. Find somewhere warm to hide until he forgets about me. Because they all do. His eyes hold me there on that curb. With the gold flecks. His hair with it’s subtle movement. I wanted to let my inhibitions die. I wanted to let him love me. I wanted him to show me how it was supposed to be and teach me to love back. But life is no fairy tale. I grab my phone number and rip it into tiny pieces. He pats me on the back and that’s when I realize I’m sobbing. No. I will never know this man. He will never know me. I leave him there and find my way to another hotel. I sleep and eat and shower. I get dressed. I paint my lips with lipstick. I promise that tonight I will be less memorable and more fulfilling than the night before.

Mason’s brush arched and swirled with the careful elegance of a conductor, the foxtail bristles leaving swaths of scarlet across the snow white canvas. He was careful not to make a single mistake, as he only had so much material to paint with. He bit to lower left corner of his lip, his right eye half shut in concentration, as he pushed himself to perfection. He had been practicing for this moment his entire life. He had familiarized himself with the tool he was using, practicing with it at great lengths. He had sacrificed some of his physical and mental well-being to obtain the flawless technique he would be using today. He felt that his entire life had led to this moment… and perhaps it had. He had gone so many days without eating over his years of practice that he was not diverted by the smells wafting up through the wooden boards of his room in the Brass Wolf Inn. Even though tonight was the village’s Spring Festivus he was still working undistracted. The odors that were once mouth-watering and intoxicating no longer pulled him away from his work. The earthy scents with a biting pinch from the spiced mead, the subtle call of the peppercorn venison, the sweetly suffocating weight of a bulb of honey-buttered onion, and the familiar memory that accompanied the yeasty allure of freshly baked and airy loaves of bread… none of these held power over him anymore. This was quite a lot to say for a penniless man on a holiday where the last meal of the night was free. Every copper, every bit every talent he owned, earned, or inherited went into the Painter’s Guild at Ivanhill. Though he had learned so much more after he was expelled and sentenced to a trial, having been taught by the natural flow of the forest when he fled the great city with nothing but a bedroll, a foxtail brush and linen canvas (both stolen), and the clothes on his back. He had crafted his own paints in the countryside by stealing flour from mills and mixing it with both cold and boiled water and introducing colored clay into the mixture until it was the consistency he needed to paint with. In larger cities he would spend any collected alms on linseed oil and chalk, powdering the latter and mixing the two until he had oil paint to aid in his work and education. Both of these paints he would practice with by painting with his coattail or fingers upon rocks and trees, learning how to use a single color and the pressure upon the strokes of his instruments to create a half-dozen different shades. The things he painted were elaborate and detailed, having only dense jungle and active wildlife as subjects. He learned to paint both quickly and slowly, to take an image and capture it in the flash before it was gone or to notice small details and slowly work them into the boulders and oak trunks he worked on. With all of his schooling and practical experience, with his hardships and determination, Mason had become a fantastic artist. Now here he was at the end of the long road he had been traveling. His stolen canvas held aloft by the window, the brush matted in crimson. His hands did not shake, his brow did not sweat, and he breathed as he should rather than holding his breath with each stroke. He exuded confidence, it poured from his posture and movements and began to flood the room as if it were water. Soon it would leak into the floorboard and drip on those below and they would come up to his room to see what force they were beholding. That was what they did. Just as Mason had finished the last stroke, he stepped backwards and smiled at the canvas. His work was finished. After all he had gone through he was finally free of the images trapped in his head, he had finally had given life to them. The lines and curves breathed in their first breath of completion upon the canvas as the door to Mason’s room burst open. Mason was seized by his shoulders and throw to the floor as three men entered the room. One man pinned him down as the others examined the painting with horror. They screamed in his ears – large and powerful fists came down upon his face and broke his nose. Paint poured from his nostrils as the fists continued to come down, smashing his teeth into his mouth and down his throat. Mason gulped for air and swallowed a molar in the chaos. He was hoisted to his feet and thrown against the back wall, his head slamming into the wood. He stared in shock and horror as flint and steel were brought in. The metal shriek of the tools spat sparks upon the canvas until it began to blaze. Mason watched his life’s work turn to smoke and heat and flames. He was not even given the courtesy of watching it die as it was thrown out of the window and into the streets below where it smoldered into ash away from its creator’s eyes. Mason screamed and thrashed and wept as they dragged him away. He begged for answers as to why they would treat him and his work so cruelly, for all he had painted was a field of flowers, butterflies, and a beautiful woman standing among them. His art was nearly clichéd, merely done in a more professional manner than most men could achieve. He was told he knew why as he was taken to the jail to be tried and executed. He was clubbed over the head and his world went dark.

Well there it was, ‘The Jolly Rodger’, it was dark and Nigel was standing, standing still staring at it right in front of him. The pub was big but cosy, he could tell from the outside the warm feel it gave off, even at twilight. Everything was dark apart from the windows, nothing else was visible. They illuminated a bright fire orange onto the streets. Nigel watched intensely, seeing the silhouettes of the people inside laughing and cheering gripping onto their pints. The pub was on the side of the road and all was silent apart from the sound of deep laughs from inside and the odd car passing by. A mild wind arose and the pub sign swung but that was all, there was an odd absent of trees to disrupt the quite calming sound from before. The building had a small parking area and was surrounded by small bushes. No other buildings laid in Nigel’s view, the roof was tall and pointy whilst the doors where small and wide made with exotic wooden panels. Nigel was nervous, he was new in town and lacked almost any acquaintances. His palms were sweaty and his lip quivered. He had decided to wear simple jeans and a jumper making sure he wouldn’t stand out. As he stood, Nigel kept planning in his mind of what to say, consciously remaindering himself of first impressions. His heart beat rose, he was about to turn around and go back, that’s what he had done the night before, and the night before that. ‘No! he whispered to himself, ‘not tonight’ he boldly took his first step like an explorer discovering the undiscovered. He began to walk slowly up to the doors before he took one final breath and stepped in pulling the door open just enough for him to squeeze through. Suddenly the noise increased and the heat hit him. So far it was going well, no one had noticed him for the first thirteen seconds, no sudden stares or glares. He walked forwards approaching the bar. The room was full as many blokes stood leaning against the wooden walls. The bar was also wooden, having glasses hang from above. The smell was strong, the barley scent filled the room but the atmosphere was rich and colourful. Nigel laid his hands flat on the wood with the bowl of peanuts next to him. He looked around and still nobody had noticed him. ‘Well then’ he said as he scanned across the glorious pub. The edge of the bar was chipped on the side where people had picked their fingers at it whilst waiting for their orders. The floor had been heavily stained with the carpets having damp spots spreading across the room. Nigel was very confused about the whole nature of the pub, ‘What a bizarre place’ Nigel said under his breath. Suddenly the guy standing next to him slide over towards Nigel making no eye contact. ‘You’re new in town aren’t ye’ his spoke with a mild Welch accent his casually stroked his short scruffy bead. That was it, Nigel was instantly strategically planning out what to say, how to say it his hands shoke as his mouth began to open, slightly quivering. ‘um’ a long pause followed, Nigel needed more time ‘Yep’ Nigel gulped, unsure if that was correct, instantly regretting it. All he could do now was wait for the response ‘okay’ the man said as a long silence began ‘is that it’ Nigel said to himself, confused, Nigel was worrying by which time the mad shuffled back to his original spot. Was it normal? Nigel had never done this before. Then the barmaid approached him unaware. ‘You’re in for a show tonight son’ Nigel, not concentrating very well quickly turned round, seeing who said it, however he became a bit baffled as the barmaid just stood there staring at him blankly as if she was waiting for him. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked now deeply absorbed. Meanwhile the man earlier winked at her, Nigel obvious, as if he was trying to signal something. ‘That’ll be four fifty’ she said. A large pint of beer laid in front of him, its golden colour was mesmerising as its bubbles popped like fireworks. He slowly gripped his hands around the cold heavy glass and pulled it up to his urging lips. About to take a sip when abruptly a loud noise was heard. Everyone in the room went silent as they looked around. Nigel’s ears popped and he became disorientated, the bang was quite loud. Nigel then realised where the source of the noise came from, he looked down and saw small red drops splash on the floor. He instantly felt an enormous pain in his right leg. He fell and the world collapsed around him as his vision heavily blurred. ‘Hmm’ Nigel thought ‘Maybe not tonight.

Original story It started when I first kicked it wit Gabriel. Da playa called his dirty ass 'Gabriel', n' refrenced tha bizzy or some shiznit like dis shiznit yo. Dude dressed like Morpheus from tha fuckin Matrix, complete wit glasses, trench coat, n' a voice dat holla'd, 'I KNOW tha universe, not like you can comprehend what tha fuck I be sayin anyway.' Dude strutted tha fuck into tha starbucks I was in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I was bustin what tha fuck fruity-ass malt liquor shops was made for: freestylin screenplays. Yes, I hit dat shiznit wit Nickelodeon n' helped make kid's pornos. Better than mah brother's movin company. Dude sat down next ta me n' axed what tha fuck I was bustin. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Scared tha shiznit outta mah dirty ass. "I be bustin a ludd letter ta Kim Kardasian. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da only way ta make her ludd me is by stoppin any phat source of shizzle dat aint bout her muthafuckin ass." I turn ta his wild lil' grill yo. Dude had a emotionless face. I needed ta let his ass know I was a gangbangin' fuckin asshole, so I called a nearby hoe whoz ass hit dat shiznit here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?! GET SOME GODDAMN TEA, BIZZNITCH!" Da whole store stared. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Gabriel started rappin'. "Yo ass do not belong here, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Yo ass is from timestream 123. This is timestream 74." Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck tha fuck did tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin he is? "I be Gabriel, messenger from Dogg. Before I take you ta yo' original gangsta timestream, you must KNOW what tha fuck happened ta yo thugged-out ass." "In 1943, tha U.S. posse experimented wit quantum technologizzle ta cook up a shizzle disappear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. This was up in timestream 1. Da experiment caused tha shizzle ta travel all up in space n' time, causin a freshly smoked up timestream ta be pimped every last muthafuckin time it teleported. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Da U.S. posse kept fuckin wit, n' pimped 151 timestreams, if you count mew. I don't know if a glitch timestream like missingno counts-" "Git ta tha part where I give a shit." "Well, timestream 74 n' 123 have links ta each other, where 123's git busted here ta 74. Da main difference between here n' 123 is dat 123 is full of assholes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some common links from there ta here can be found up in Boston, Idaho, n' yo' local high school." Don't forget tha DMV, I thought ta mah dirty ass. Dude then pulled up two pizzles. "After this, there is no turnin back. Yo ass take tha blue pill, you stay a asshole. Yo ass take tha red pill, I show you how tha fuck deep mah asshole goes." Wait, what, biatch? That could mean two thangs: Either da thug was goin ta show me how tha fuck much of a asshole da thug was, or da thug was literally goin ta show me his thugged-out asshole. This is so confusing. "Inception," Gabriel holla'd, like his schmoooove ass could read mah mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Before his schmoooove ass could keep rappin' tha five-o came n' arrested his ass fo' possession of LSD n' roofies yo. Dude left tha sticky-icky-ickys wit mah dirty ass. "Take tha erect pill, n' enter tha gaytrix!" I took a long-ass peep tha two pizzles. Da blue one was LSD, tha red one was a roofie. Isn't it tha other way round up in tha porno, biatch? Then I axed mah dirty ass, do I wanna be a asshole, biatch? Of course biaaatch! I took tha blue LSD n' started writing. That is how tha fuck I made tha hit televizzle show 'Keepin wit tha Kardashians.' Go ahead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Watch Nickelodeon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it is on there. Morale of tha story: Only assholez git rich n' hyped off of shitty rap ideas. Only assholez git all up in hell. Gabriel was straight-up a angel offerin his ass salvation yo, but he refused. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Either dat or he straight-up was on sticky-icky-ickys.

So one evening, I was watching tv with the old couple I rented a room from, when there was a knock on the door. I got up to answer it, even though they begged me not to. I opened the door to a smiling, tall blond dude, who said hello and waved to the old folks behind me. I let him in, and he immediately removed his shirt, pants, and underwear, right there in the living room, in front of the tv. The old couple ran to the bedroom, but had some trouble closing the door. The blond dude was incredibly skinny, and had little bits of dried shit caked to his chest, his legs, and the tip of his penis. He smiled at me again. I asked if I should be calling 911, and he said “probably”. He went into the bedroom to start hacking away at the old couple, and as the blood starting spraying, I pulled the rotary phone out from under the coffee table and tried to dial 911. I got through to my office at work, and told my co-worker to dial 911 for me because I couldn't. He agreed, and we hung up. I could hear the dude was finishing up in the bedroom, so I made my way to the front door, where I picked up my cat and ran out. I ran and stumbled into the bushes outside, and as I looked up, the SWAT team was getting ready to enter the house. I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the SWAT guys arrest the blond dude, and wondered if I would still have to pay my rent that week.

The place was an oasis of quiet and levity in the dimly lit, humid, "dive", amidst the undulating bodies, crowds chatting, people waiting to have sex, and the hustle and she sidled up to him. A crowded bar. She stood to his left, a brunettes with flowing locks. She sought a drink. The gentleman noticed her, her liveliness, the delicate grace of her motions. He gestured, he beckoned to her, amidst the pleasantries they began to consume one another in conversation, they spoke a peculiar volume, a raucous whisper, loud enough to hear one another over the deep thunder of the base and the percussive lightning of the tweeters and drivers, quiet enough to go unheard by a surrounding soul punctuated only by their laughter and sighs, and the glances they would share.

I WANT AN APPLE “I want an apple,” the boy said. The man left the counter, went to the fruit section, grabbed an apple, and handed him the apple, and said to him, “That’ll be 75 cents.” The boy stared at him, calculating in his mind, then looked at the apple and asked, “What kind of apple is it?” The man wasn’t sure, he had just taken a random apple from the piles in the fruit section, “McIntosh, I think,” but he wasn’t sure. “Oh, okay then.” It seemed that the boy was satisfied with the apple, and handed the man 2 quarters and 5 nickels. The boy left the grocery store and walked to his bike. He could only ride his bike with both hands, so he stared at his apple, trying to figure out how he would bring it home. He thought for a moment, and decided that it would be rational to bite down on the apple and hold it in his mouth, which would leave his hands free to bike. Thus, he did so. He sat down on his seat, bit down on his apple, and biked away. But it was only seconds later that he stopped to realize that this was a pretty bad idea. So he sat down on the curb and thought to himself again. After a minute, he had decided on just eating the apple, instead of saving it to eat by the pond at his home. So he took a bite and swallowed, only to look down and see that his apple had little bugs crawling around in it. He winced and made a choking noise after realizing that he had potentially digested these creatures. He chucked his apple against the ground, watching chunks of apple splitting from apple proper. There was no helping the bugs anymore; their world is now falling apart, and they may never experience the glory of living in an apple ever again. The boy continued to stare, while thinking in his mind, *I do not pity you, you are inferior, I am your worst nightmare, I will kill you, you will all die.* The boy then got up, and picked up the apple again. He saw what he had done; he could still see the remains of his victims. He thought to himself, *Oh god…Oh god what have I done? I’m a monster, no one can see this, and I have to hide the evidence. I must. What to do, what to do?* He got back on the bike, clenching the apple with his bike handle as he rushed to bike home. He had to end what he began. Bugs began crawling on his palms, the back of his palms, all over his hands. They began to go up his arms as he reached his home. His hands were sticky from crushing the apple so hard. The bugs wouldn't leave him. He tried shaking them off but it was no use. He ran to his pond with the apple, and threw it in the pond as far as he could. It was too late, though, the survivors had run up his arms, and were now under his shirt. He could hear their screams, their calls for their families, their pleas for help. He couldn’t handle it. He was a murderer; he had killed so many of them already. He was flailing his arms, hoping they would just leave him, but that only made it worse. They started to bite him, his arms, legs; his whole body was in flames. He began to scream. He took his hands and pinched off a bug. He ripped it off and along with it came a miniscule piece of skin. He pinched off a few more, leaving tiny wounds, slowly bleeding. He continued to scream, he couldn’t handle it anymore. He ran to the pond, and jumped. It was only then until his pain was relieved.

“Who am I?” She pondered the question over silently to herself, not allowing the words to be tainted by her voice. These were not words to be taken lightly. These were not words that could be spoken and breathed into life, not yet. She massaged her temples and let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Not the woman I’d hoped to be, that’s for sure.” She hated this feeling - this conglomeration of uncertainty, uneasiness, and the dread of impending doom mixed with a dash of blind hope for good measure. All of it was rolled up into one delightfully infuriating package deep within her chest. “This can’t end well,” she mused to herself. She almost laughed out loud (bitterly, of course) at the ridiculousness of it all. Oh, what she would give for access to an empty football field and unchecked use of her lungs and vocal chords. She was certain that, given the opportunity, she wouldn’t let that empty football field go to waste. No, she surely would not. Another thing she was certain of was that her sister could no longer be trusted. She should have realized this sooner. For this, she mentally berated herself. In the future she would have to remind herself to choose her words with utmost care when dealing with her dear sister. As far as everything else was concerned… Fuck, if she knew. The temptation to escape within the far recesses of her mind was a touch more appealing than she felt comfortable admitting, even to herself. She *craved* it. She found a peculiar comfort in the loneliness. It was like an old friend beckoning to her with the promise of safety in the darkness. Loneliness, she knew. It was familiar. It was her safety net. It drew her in, hypnotized her, and softly uttered just the right words into her ear. It would convince her to rip out the most vulnerable parts of her – the most vulnerable parts of her heart. “I’m only looking out for you,” it would coo. “How can they hurt what’s not there?” It would fashion blocks of steel for her to seal off the open wounds and it would continue on, carefully replacing softly beating muscle with solid metal. Soon, all that would be left of her once vibrantly beating life force is a heavy block of steel, hard and impenetrable. “It’s better this way, now you won’t feel a thing.” Rightly so, she wouldn’t feel anything. She would feel nothing. She would *be* nothing.

Right now, someone is walking out of their apartment wondering where their car went. The black Honda held their work clothes along with their school papers isn’t parked on the street where it had been left. The man pulls his phone from his pocket and dials his work, tells them that his car has been stolen, and then he dials the police. That black Honda is a city away, under the roof of a large warehouse where it is being cut into pieces along with unnumberable bits other vehicles. The interior has been stripped. Personal items that are either identifiable or worthless to the new owners have been trashed. The engine has already been removed. The tires, springs and doors are being shopped around for buyers while they are in the process of being stripped from the cars frame. Walking from that warehouse is a man. Counting five hundred dollars in cash, he figures that he can pay for his half of the rent and he will be able to buy his daughter a small gift for her birthday. He doesn’t get to see his daughter as much as he would like, she lives across town, in a nice area. Her mom refused to let her child grow up in the streets that he could afford to live on. On her nice streets, his daughter is walking home from school right now. She’s excited about her test, wanting to put it up on the refrigerator. Proud, she wants to display her latest A to the world. When she gets home she has to celebrate alone though, because her mother is still at her office. At work, her mother, has to get the bosses schedule straight, set up meetings, presentations and lunches to go along with interviews and phone calls. But the hardest part is keeping a smile on her face while he hits on her. The man sits on her desk, smiling, asking if there is anything he could do to make her job more comfortable. Back at the boss’s home his wife, who didn’t wait for her husband to make the first betrayal, was busy in the bedroom with an old flame, a true love that she had never been able to shake. The woman made the decision to marry into money and live comfortably, but she hasn’t been able to stop making the mistake of seeing the man her heart longs for. Her love was a man who had never fit well into anything, her family, a nice school or a steady job. He seemed to get rejected from every aspect of life that he put himself into. Now he was trying to keep hold on an art career, waiting for it to take off. Art was the current love of his life. His fist painting had finally been sold by his agent, a friend of his. It was sold at a much lower price than what his friend had promised. But he had needed to make room in the gallery for items that would actually attract some interest from buyers. The painting had been picked up by the agent’s son, to be delivered to the buyer’s home this evening before his son went to work tonight. That was when his son realized that it wasn’t just his work things that were in his car, and dials the phone number for his father.

What did it mean? He felt the push of something, felt his thoughts being pulled in a certain direction. But to where? He sat in the classroom, knowing only two things: he had no idea what the professor was trying to teach, and this was not the place he wanted to be. But if not here, where? Wasn't this the place he was meant to be? Wasn't he, like much of his generation, destined to sit in this classroom? To go through the meaningless work set before him and be spit out into the work force, moving towards a "common goal", which no one is quite certain of what it is? He thought about this, allowed his mind to wander through the possibilities, the possibilities of where his life could be heading if he stayed on the track he was currently on. While pondering, he couldn't get his mind off of one idea. "This can't be it." This cannot be the only path his life can follow. He examined the other students in the class, some looking intently at the professor, writing what they felt they would need to know for the next test, the "evaluation of one's true worth". Others were dozing off, the professor's low drone sending them into unconsciousness. He wondered who among these people felt a similar feeling: a feeling that they were meant for more, meant for something other than this pre-defined, worn out path that they were all being led upon. He thought about getting up and leaving this class, this life behind right then and there. "What is stopping me?", he thought. He told his legs to move, but they stayed in place. The constraints had started to come to mind. "What would everyone think?", he pondered. His family would surely object, they wouldn't allow him to do this, to throw away a safe life in favor of this risk. "Where would I go? What would I do? Where do I start?", he wondered. His will was slowly shrinking until he looked around the classroom again. "This is NOT where I want to be." He felt the blood rush to his head, "I am going to do this." Then, the bell rang, signaling the end of yet another day of classes. Another day of indecisiveness, another day lost. "Maybe tomorrow", he thought, but deep down he knew it would not be. The current against him was too strong, he could not overcome it. No matter how much he hated it, how much he despised it, this was the life he had to follow. He had been groomed into this life from a young age, and knew there was no turning back now. He looked at the students around him, slowly starting to file out of the room. "At least I'm not alone.

There were no other options. They needed to get a divorce and at this point they both knew it. Eric didn't know what time it was when he left his house, nor had he realized how late it was. He brought his wrist up to his face so it was close enough for him to see the time as a distant glow of a streetlight flickered behind him. It was 1:30am. When they started arguing time always flew by. He wasn't happy at all. Even when they weren't arguing he didn't want to be home. The children he once cherished now seemed a disturbance. He began to question if he loved any of the members of his family enough to stay. Patricia used to take his breath away when she walked in the room. Her long red curls cascading down her slender body. Now, she only ever looked tired and irritated. Her once long delicate hair had been exchanged for an easier to manage bob, and her once slim figure had gained the weight of two children, constant stress, and a family that was falling apart. His son Michael, who was now a rage filled teenager hated him, and told him of these feelings many times a week. His daughter Sarah was a nightmare as well, when she was a child they were so close but now as she was about to be a teenager they had drifted apart. He didn't even remember either of their birthdays, favorite colors, foods anything, they were strangers. When Eric got home his wife and children were sound asleep. Still, he tread as quietly as he could into his office. He sat at his desk and put atop it the things he was going to take, if he really left. Obviously he needed his laptop, but he also pulled out a single Cuban Cigar he has been saving for retirement, and a bottle of scotch he kept in his desk for nights he worked late. He looked through the bay window and admired the view of the dark summer night. He grabbed the scotch and stood up walking over to his fireplace. Above it hung a family portrait taken two years back. He took a large gulp of the scotch, and asked his past self from the picture what to do now. It stared back blankly, but what did he expect? This is when Eric realized that this photo was the only time in the past two years that all of his family had been smiling at once. This was what made the choice for him. Eric placed the scotch back into his desk, grabbed his computer and put the cigar in his shirt pocket. He went down to the laundry room with a trash bag and threw into it all of the clothes from the dryer, he would not risk going upstairs to his closet and waking up his wife, or having his children see him being this weak. The sun was nowhere near rising but because of the weight being lifted off of Eric's shoulders it seemed brighter out. He carried the bag of clothes and the computer to his car and went back to close the door. He peered into his house for a last time, and closed the door firmly behind him. As he walked to his car he pulled the cigar out from his shirt, put it in his mouth, struck a match and lit it. He drove away and never looked back.

"Where are you going?" he jogged up to me. "I can't tell you." "Youre going the complete opposite way to our sleeping block." Tercy grabbed my shoulder "Come on, we'll be late as it is." I pushed him off, "Just go away Tercy, I gotta do this by myself." He grabbed me again, "Come on Olian, what if the enforcers see you wandering around like this?" "Im just gonna get something to drink" "You have a ration ticket?" I didnt say anything. "Waif ... you're gonna steal?" I pushed him to the ground. He stood up and blushed, "Fine, do what you want - I'm going to my quarters." "Tercy wait come back!" He walked away. I took the light elevator towards the storage deck. My heart dropped as the light purified my vision, and my mind flashed backen to thoughts of Tercy. I'll give him a few bottlecans of water to freshen our friendship from the sins of fighting. Well, I will if the enforcers dont see my skimming off water during a shortage. The light faded and my thoughts returned to the present. I stepped off the light elevator and went towards the door to the storage room. I opened it and grabbed a crate of bottlecans - that wasnt the hard part. Theres no security here at this time of day. The hard part was getting back to my sleeping quarters without the enforcers seeing the bulky crate of antirations in my arms. I stepped back into the light elevator and felt the light engulf me again. I returned to visioness at the light elevator port in the communitary of my sleeping block - I was close to the safety of my room but not close enough for my mind to relax from the thought torture of capturation. I walked as quick as a could without attracting the eye-attention of my dormbors. My quarters was within eyes reach, how lucky am I? I havent even seen any dormbors, much less enforcers. I ran the rest of the way. I swiped the ID card and threw the door open in one swift motion. I set the crate on my dining counter. Mission accomplished. *Knock knock* *"enforcers, open up!"* I open the door shaking. Three enforcers pour into the small room. Two slam me against the floor and the third confiscates my crate. I feel the burn of light cuffs against my skin as they lift me back to my feet. As they escort me out I see an enforcer hand Tercy five ration tickets.

Marie awoke to the sound of the front door closing. Through blurred vision she looked at the clock on her nightstand and saw that it was almost four in the morning. She reached out across the bed seeking the comfort of her husband's body, but only found a chill as her hand emerged empty from under the covers. Anxiety filled her mind while despair filled her heart. It was unlike Kyle to leave this late without saying a thing. Eyes still closed she slid her feet down to the cold wood floor and stood up to walk to the bathroom. The chill of the floorboards and sudden glaring light from the bathroom brought Marie out of her dazed state, which made her worry more as she turned to look at the lonely bed she had just abandoned. She sat on the rim of the tub and looked down at her toes, chipped purple nail polish and a bit long, she reached under the sink and got some nail clippers and polish. Marie always did tedious work when she was on the brink of a panic attack, the repetition and mindlessness closes out the world around her for at least a little while. Nails finished she looked into the mirror, she found peace in her own eyes that she didn't feel in herself. She left the bathroom losing the battle to stay awake, ready to forget about her anxieties and sadness for a few hours, but the moment she stepped foot back on the cold bedroom floor a noise alerted her downstairs. Her heart began to race, every single possibility of what could be down there flashed through her brain, but she knew it was just Kyle. She rushed to the bed and under the not so safe security of the covers, but she knew it was just Kyle. Heat started to build as her breathing got heavier and heavier under the covers, time kept going to matter how much she wanted it to stop and get her mind straight, it had to be just Kyle. The bedroom door opened and Kyle walked in. Relief flew over her, but questions she would never ask him arose in her mind, where had he been all those hours, when he left her behind.

Running from Reality (Copy and Pasted from word) The day was covered by darkness, the sky a dull gray. Hidden by the ominous clouds, the sun wasn’t in sight. The air taunted of damp grass and fresh rain, even though it never rained. It all looked abandoned, all except for one small boy alone on the swings, relishing in memories there every day. * * * * * * Small cracks of light, coming through the drapes that weren’t completely closed, were shining in Adabel’s bright emerald eyes. Turning to her side a headache blazed into her brain, spreading like wildfire. Very slowly, she built up the energy to get out of the, now disheveled bed; whose blankets had become like a trap to her. The headache was getting worse, but Adabel had become accustomed to living with it. Standing in front of the mirror, she looked at the reflection with disgust etched into her features. She ignored the sight; she didn’t bother to brush out her wavy brown hair… no point in making it frizzy. “I already look bad enough,” she thought to herself while pulling it into a bun. Grabbing a sweat shirt and her keys, she went out into the cool air of the autumn day. Watching others, she thought of nothing as she walked around her small town. Hoping she would see one sign of kindness, in this world she knew all but too well. She crossed a small bridge over a tiny stream that was probably at one point a beautiful river. Past the woods of the large, practically abandoned park was a beaten down play set for children, including a small slide with a hole punched through the middle and a swing set with only two swings left and the remains of the third. It was as if the wind was carrying sounds of the children of the past that used to play among it. It all looked abandoned, all except for one small boy alone on the swings. Adabel hadn’t noticed him until she was two feet in front of him. He was only about ten, five years younger than she. He seemed as though he hadn’t noticed her either, but in reality he was wondering why anyone had come to this old beat down park. Who is he? Adabel thought as she went to sit on the swing next to the young boy. She rolled her sleeves down even though they were too long for her arms and only showed the tips of her fingers. Watching the child, she began to push herself on the swing. He looked tired; dark circles had made a home under his dull gray eyes. They looked similar to the dark circles she had. His chestnut brown hair became disheveled in the strong wind. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it is rude to stare?” He said finally looking up at her “No.” Adabel replied while she fidgeted with her hands in her lap. ”She left me and my dad when I was a baby.” “I’m sorry.” He said. “No you’re not, you just regret saying anything about it.” “No, I understand. My mother died a while back. It’s okay though, I saw it coming, she was depressed for a long while before. It finally got to her, found her hanging from the ceiling fan when I got home from school one day.” He said with a sad smile. “Who are you?” Adabel asked; astonished at the bluntness he used when talking of his mother. “I’m Imre.” He replied extending his hand for a handshake. She took it and shook it lightly. When she went to pull her hand back he held it a bit tighter and grabbed onto her sleeve and rolled it up, revealing many white scars, some fresh and new giving a red tinge on her arm. Imre loosened his grip and she yanked her arm free. Adabel’s face grew warm becoming red with rage and she stopped the rocking of her swing by slamming her feet on the ground. “You don’t have to be alone ya’ know,” He told her, “I’m here every day, when you’re ready to talk.” Without saying another word, Adabel jumped up and started to walk away, pulling down her sleeves as she went. Before she could control herself she was running, tears starting to brew in her eyes, spilling over the brim, making her long eyelashes clump together and blurring the world around her. And there it was again, the pounding back in her head as she slumped down against the back of her bedroom door. No one had been able to see through her fake smile before. She had always been able to just dismiss people of their concern by saying she was tired and tell them she got cold easily to cover the cuts on her arms. Imre had seen straight through her in the few minutes they had sat together. Adabel wiped her tears and walked to the table beside her bed, she opened up the drawer and took out an old pocket knife. She had found it in her dad’s old tool box and figured he wouldn’t notice it was gone, and he didn’t. Adabel’s father, Mr.Jones, was only home for seven hours a day. He would come home wreaking of alcohol and, after he had sobered up, eat something with Adabel and then get some sleep. They weren’t very close, she practically hated him. Always thinking he didn’t care about her at all. No wonder mom left him. Adabel thought to herself as she took out the knife, running the icy touch of the blade along her wrists. A small trail of red followed in the wake of the blade. Numbness was all she felt. How else was she supposed to know she was alive? When she heard a car door slam she ran to her bathroom running the water of the faucet over her arms. The warm water burned her skin, turning it into a field of trees caught in a wildfire, skin blazing and turning raw. Hearing the soft vibrating buzz of the microwave heating up their so-called dinner, she knew her father was almost fully aware now. She heard the thump-thump-thumping of her father’s boots against the hard wooden floors growing louder as he got closer to the bathroom. His soft tapping of knuckles and muffled voice let her know to come sit with him and eat something. She turned the water off, pulling down her sleeves once again, exiting the bathroom, she already felt nauseous at the thought of food. She stared blankly ahead as she sat, making an excuse to not eat, lying saying she wasn’t hungry. As Mr.Jones ate, he talked about his work at the factory and some men at the bar after he left. It was nothing but a murmur to Adabel. “Adabel!” he yelled as he slammed his hands down onto the table. “Sorry, I stopped caring a long time ago about that stuff. You can repeat it if you want, but chances are I’m still not going to care.” Adabel muttered bluntly, looking Mr.Jones straight in the eyes. “Adabel, stop pretending like you don’t have any emotions!” He yelled, louder at her this time. “It’s not my fault you don’t notice there is something wrong with your only daughter! No wonder mom left you. You’re too self-centered to care about anyone but yourself!” She screamed. A hard force slammed against her cheek, blinding her for a moment in white hot pain. A ringing formed in her ears as she cupped her palm against her face. A dark bruise was already becoming noticeable on the sharp features of her cheek bone. When they had both began to realize what had just happened they backed away from each other. Adabel ran into her room, slamming and locking the door then collapsing on the bed. Simply listening to the sounds of life around her, she didn’t sleep that night; instead, she stayed awake. She grabbed the pocket knife from her bedside table and climbed out her window. As soon as her feet hit the ground she took off running towards the park. At least Mr.Jones wouldn’t have to be the one to find her dead, was all she was thinking of when she reached the park. Some random person will wind up finding me and they won’t even care, they don’t even know me. She reasoned to herself as she held the knife against her chest. Of course, it will take a while for someone to notice me, after all people barely ever come here. And as she thought this her eyes fell across the old play set and landed on a solemn figure sat on the swings. She remembered Imre and all he had been through. If she died he would have no one. Letting the knife relax from her grip, she began to walk to him. “Take this.” Adabel said handing him he knife. “I can’t use it anymore.” “Thank you. You don’t deserve it anyway. We just need to look out for eachother for a little while. We can be each other’s guardian angel.” Imre said. He was the only person Adabel had ever met that was able to read her like a book. “You’re right we deserve better.” She said. A small sprinkle of mist started to drizzle down on them. Adabel smiled as she sat on the swing next to Imre, extending her hand towards him. It began to pour with rain; the pitter-patter of raindrops felt comfortable as he took her hand. “You’re smiling,” Imre stated watching her features for a hint, to tell if it was genuine, “for real this time.” “I guess I finally have a reason to smile.

Also this is a very rough draft so excuse spelling mistakes or the overuse of contractions. There were always rumors of a serial killer so evil, so demented, so monstrous, so gruesome, and so evil that he was looked at as more of the hypothetical monster under humanities bed than a real psychopath that needs to be hunted down and exposed. In this short story I am going to describe the infamous and horrible tale of what can be only called as “the monstrosity.” The monstrosity was born in 1945, his exact date of birth is unknown, he was born in Midwestern America; most likely Kansas. His father was a hulk of a man who conceived him when he brutally raped his own daughter, the violence in the monster’s life began before he was even born. His mother lets call her Lesly was only seventeen years old when she gave birth to the monstrosity, who was born about three weeks premature. Lesly almost died in childbirth because the monster’s father (lets call him Larry) continued to beat her during the pregnancy which led to the premature and extremely painful birth. The doctors predicted the monstrosity would not live through the night...oh how wrong they were; looking back if the doctors knew of the evil they allowed to enter the world, they may have had no problem suffocating that small innocent child right there and then. The monstrosity had no serious health problems from the violent birth, except for the fact that he would never grow taller than 5'5 even as a grown man; this monster’s height comes into play later and can be looked at as a curse or a blessing depending on how you read this evil’s story. The monster’s father Larry remarried shortly after he was born, he lied to all about the real mother of the monster. Being a minor still Lesly was forced to continue to live with Larry and his new wife Marie even after all the abuse and pain he had caused her, she wouldn't run away because she felt her son deserved a real mother not a life of lies. So, for the next three-years she worked hard at her job as a waitress to save enough money to move out of the abusive home with her son and get her own place. The abuse of Lesly continued throughout these years but Larry didn’t touch his son the monster because he respected the fact that his son had a keen likeness to himself, and resented the fact that his own daughter Lesly wanted to turn his own child against him. Larry wasn't a sociopath but he was a monster by his own merit, he didn't understand why his daughter hated him and thought he was a useless excuse for a men let alone a father; even though he sexually and physically abused her after her mother passed away from cancer when Lesly was about nine-years old. Larry tried to turn the monster who was about four years old by this point against his true mother Lesly and make him love his wife Marie and him as parents. Now, for a moment let us observe what know about Larry’s second wife Marie...she was about twenty-six years old married to Larry a much older man and little is known about her background or early-life. What we do know however straight from the words of our little monster is that she was an extremely beautiful woman; about 5’9, luscious blond hair, long legs, a nice curvy midsection, and most of all her skin according to the monster was softer than any other woman he ever met. But that all comes in to play later in this story of true evil. I will set the scene for the beginnings of our little monster’s first look at death and real cruelty. Of course the monster was exposed to the beatings of his real mother Lesly from time to time, but Marie did her best to keep the monster away from such things. You may be thinking why would a woman as beautiful as I described Marie as be with a violent man like Larry and allow him to abuse his adult daughter? Well, since little is known about Marie’s personality (at this point in time) I guess we can just say love works in mysterious ways and in this case ends up intertwined with death and unknowingly creating pure evil. Anyway, back to the story...Lesly finally saved up enough money to take the monster away from this hateful environment and get her own nice place. But Larry and Marie didn’t like that idea, they didn’t believe that Lesly really worked for that money and accused her of prostituting herself to make the money. They called her all sorts of names, not knowing that our little monster was hiding under the bed in his mother’s room just taking all this in. Like I said he had witnessed violence before, but never had he witnessed such abuse in a verbal sense they broke his mother down. Lesly wasn't the most emotionally sound woman due to her father’s abuse and it didn't take much to break her, and by the end of the verbal abuse from Marie and Larry which went on for almost an hour she just sat in the corner wet with her own tears and ashamed that she allowed them to do that to her. Then something happened to Lesly as she set there wallowing in her own pain and self-hate...she snapped. This young woman who received awful abuse by her own father her whole life finally snapped. She hated him with such passion, who was he to abuse her and then coddle her son like he was a decent human being when he was the one who raped her and almost killed her from beatings during her pregnancy! Lesly was not a small woman, her father Larry was about 6’6 and 250-pounds and he passed those genes onto his daughter; she was 6’3 but her weight was unknown. She grabbed Larry’s baseball bat that he used to occasionally use to beat her when he wasn't playing on the local softball team with it, and she waited in the room until she heard Marie go into her room and fall asleep. She left her room, and shortly after the monster (without her knowledge) followed her into the hallway and watched her. She saw that Larry was passed out on the couch and she snuck up behind him, only his head was exposed from under the covers. Lesly raised the bat above her head and slammed it back down with all the might and power she had within her body. The sound of Larry’s skull cracking was sickening to the soul of a normal person...you could hear the skull break apart into small fragments and slice through the brain matter. You could taste the blood in the air and feel the lack of Larry’s existence within it. Even though our monster was only four or five years old, he describes the event with such vivid remembrance as if it was his first memory. And maybe it was, because in my opinion this moment and what happened next is what creates our little monster as he really is or will be for the rest of his so called life. Larry was near dead after the first blow, but Lesly didn't know that and probably felt more powerful and in control than she ever had before in her entire life. She kept hitting him over and over, she destroyed his face so completely that it would take a ton of work for the cops to identify his body without just assuming. The monster describes hearing the life leave Larry’s body but instead of like it is in film he described it as just a silence within the room as if Larry’s soul or whatever made him alive had just been removed from the area. The silence as he described it was quieter than anything he would experience for a long time after. Than the silence was broken by Lesly yelling at the monster “go to your room, you shouldn't see this baby.” Her voice wasn't the same though it sounded different than the mother the monster though he knew, it sounded emptier as if the love Lesly held for him had exited her. And even at five years old the monster says that he felt the difference.

Derrick Martin’s shoes clicked rhythmically down the stairs of the Park Street subway entrance in downtown Boston. He knew every step, every brick out of place in every wall, he viewed the imperfections as checkpoints; this place was an extension of the office that had become his true home. He was later than usual. Hours earlier he had discreetly glanced at his watch as his clients mulled over details that didn’t need to be mulled over. He would have stopped them if he wasn’t being paid so handsomely in six-minute increments. He usually left the office around eight-thirty. Today, he reached his subway stop at ten-fifteen. He was starving, but the Dunkin Donuts that was usually bustling with customers had pulled its gates shut. In fact, the whole station seemed incredibly quiet. There were only two or three other people in sight at the other end of the underground terminal. The footsteps of his Italian Faragamo shoes echoed through the underground terminal. The grit on the tile floor sounded like sandpaper as his feet swept to a stop. His train wasn’t due for four minute so he decided to sit on the worn wooden bench facing the tracks. The streets and subways of Boston were much neater than those of New York, Chicago, and definitely LA. This was one of the reasons Derrick had decided on Boston when he uprooted his family from the home they had loved in rural North Carolina. It was simple, the money was better in the bigger city. He felt he was wasting his Ivy League law degree on the petty cases he’d been working on at his father’s firm. He felt out of place at his Yale reunions. “But, we’re happy here, the kids are happy here,” she had said. He checked his watch. He loved checking his watch because it reminded him how much he had paid for it, which in turn reminded him how successful he was. Ten-seventeen, two more minutes. He wondered if the racket coming down the stairwell only seemed loud because the subway stop was so quiet. The old shoes coming down the stairs squeaked with every other step. A ragged looking man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Don’t come this way. Don’t come this way. Derrick thought. The homeless man looked left, towards the long, dark tunnel where the train would soon appear, and right, towards Derrick. He began to shuffle towards Derrick. Derrick pulled out his iPhone and began to scroll through emails he knew he had already read. Fires he had already put out. He pulled his briefcase closer. He could feel the man looking at him. Giving in, he looked up and found the man standing directly in front of him. “Look, I don’t have any money, okay? I’m sorry. Move along.” Derrick attempted to sweep the man’s existence away with the brushing motion of his right hand. He looked back down at his emails. “Well how’s a man with no money got his ass sitting in an Armani suit?” The homeless man countered, showing a victorious grin with only a spattering of teeth. Derrick had to forfeit a smirk, it was kind of clever. “What makes you think this suit is Armani?” It was, but Derrick was curious. “What makes you think I didn’t used to own one, son?” The man quickly countered, and Derrick felt his heartbeat quicken. “I’m sorry, it’s not that…never mind. I didn’t mean to assume. Here, I think I have some change.” The man wasn’t moving. “Now Why’d you go and do that?” He asked. His patchy beard moved with the contours of his face. Bits of dried food were visible. Derrick was annoyed now. He stopped digging for change. “Why did I do what?” “Y’Got all tense when I was just tryin’na make a joke.” He began to move towards the bench, he was going to sit down. He smelled like the sewer. Derrick quickly thought of the day in the gun shop when he decided he didn’t really need a gun in Boston and walked out empty handed. “I didn’t mean to get tense. Don’t sit. I’m just trying to get home, alright?” Derrick tried to hide the nervousness in his voice and thought he had done a pretty good job. He pulled his briefcase against his side. The man laughed. “Boy, you must not be from around here.” He continued to laugh as he pushed up from the bench. He walked closely alongside the tracks away from Derrick. He was singing now. A song Derrick had never heard. Why was he so fucking happy? Derrick felt at ease as the man’s singing became more and more distant. Just then, more noise came from the long staircase the first man had come from. These footsteps were lighter, softer. “Julian! Where in the hell’d you get off to now?” It was a woman’s voice. Raspy. She was smiling as she turned the corner, as if life was some kind of joke. Her teeth were yellow, rotting. She looked much like the first man, who Derrick now realized was the Julian she was after. She was filthy, her hair was matted. The lining was falling out of the bottom corner of her stained winter coat. As she approached Derrick, he once again wrapped his arm over his briefcase. She didn’t even look in his direction. Julian was what she was after. Derrick wished the train would hurry. “Baby, come back!” She yelled after him. Julian was still singing, happy as ever. She caught up with him, wrapped her arm around his waist and began to sing along with him. Their song filled the terminal. The lights of the train began to illuminate the tunnel. Derrick checked his watch, ten-nineteen, right on time. His hair fluttered as the train pushed a wall of air into the open expanse of the terminal, he fixed it right away. The brakes screeched loudly as the long train came to a stop. Derrick got on and chose a window seat. He sat down making sure he didn’t touch the railings or the handles on the seats, no need to waste Purel. He put his briefcase on the chair next to him so that no one would sit there, even though the car was practically empty. As the train began to pull away from the Park Street stop, Derrick looked back at Julian and the woman. There they were, still singing, blissful ignorance Derrick thought. Derrick walked up to his house, his black Lexus was just where he had left it in the driveway, such a beautiful car, he thought. He wouldn’t dare drive it into the city and risk having it stolen or vandalized. He punched his randomly generated six-digit code into the panel on the door. He always scoffed at people who used their kids’ birthdays for passwords and codes. Derrick walked into the quiet, breathtaking complex he called home. He left his shoes neatly by the door. The kitchen was immaculate, almost untouched. The state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances were more for decoration now than anything. He grabbed the cold styrofoam take-out container from the top shelf of the fridge and walked upstairs. He passed his son’s room on the right, and then his daughter’s on the left, their bed frames sat in the darkness. He entered his room, and turned on his mounted plasma television. He didn’t care what was on, he needed the company. He sat at the foot of his bed and put the takeout on the floor in front of him. He sunk slowly into the custom-made, specialty fit, king-size bed he had ordered when they moved in. As he began unbuttoning his tailored dress shirt, he smirked at the idea that Julian and his filthy girlfriend would never know such luxuries.

She walks down the street, hazy in the fog and light, more of a shadow in the fading light than something of substance. The bleak sky projects onto the sidewalks and buildings, grey on grey as her presence passes through as though trying to hide in plain site. Her collar is turned up against the slight breeze that blows off the lake, low and cold this time of year. It’s a comfort to her. The weather here is a misery, but it makes her feel so alive. She walks toward her destination. Where it is doesn’t matter to her. It’s a purposeful walk, one she makes often, but not one where the end is somewhere to be. People shuffle past her, barely taking notice. She draws a few looks. Something about her pulls their eye, an unknown tug on their soul. To sit down with her you’d soon know why, but today she is walking and soon after their glances pass by she is forgotten. She smiles as she moves, not necessarily out of joy or contentment, but because it fits. She wants to walk away from it all, but knows she can’t just yet. Something holds her back, and she worries something new will come along to keep her here. She walks with my love, unwelcome yet unwavering, buffeting her like the wind she so desperately tries to keep out. It stands out, a warmth in the chill that surrounds her. She embraced it once, held it close until it burned, and now she fears the fire. A dark, enchanting young woman, losing herself in the city of her dreams. And only she knows if these dreams are pleasant or nightmares.

Cymbals crash in lightning strikes down long corridors, as I awaken. Blood is trickling down my nose. I can taste pennies and batteries. I sit up and reach around to the back of my head and feel the scar where they put the implant to prolong the ticking time bomb that is my brain. "It's the dreams," they said. "They're dangerous." Seven years. I wake up and I'm somewhere else. I'm sitting at a desk in a room of t.v.'s. Languages are being spoken that I don't understand by people and things I don't recognize. Zeros and ones are being displayed to me on a computer screen. I push a button, and the languages are represented in a form I understand. Everyone goes silent as I hear a voice from behind me. "All that you have to do, you have to do today. Until the day you realize this, you won't be free." I'll never be free. The scar on the back of my head oozes, and it runs down my finger. Mortified, I run to the bathroom to scrub it off. Having your brains in your hands is most certainly not the fondest of things to wake to. I look in the mirror and see that one of my eyes is blood red, while the other is a normal white and green. Heterochromia? No. "Will this hurt?" I ask the doctor. "Only if you think about it," he responds as he applies pressure to the scalpel pressed against my cervical vertibrae one. It hurts for the last time. In the broken mirror of my bathroom I see a tear run down my scarred face parallel to the blood that has dried under my septum. I wash it away and look at my reflection again and smile as if they were never there. There was a time when all I knew was love. A time when I felt. I mean, I can touch. I can understand touch, but the days when I felt are gone. A symptom of the lottery I won, and the triggers that opened it's box. Tears and smiles are only functional. "If this moment should last longer than this moment, then it should only be in our minds." She said to me unfortunately facetious, but now I realize how relavent it was. I dreamed a woman would kill me, I just didn't know it would come true so many times. The sink fills with water washing my blood and brain down the drain. I blink and my blood eye stays open. A message has come in. "A Lesson in Human Anatomy" It takes fourteen pounds of pressure to break the mid section of the average human being's clavicle as long as the impulse is applied as a direct force on or near the curves of the bone. End. I am human. I fight gravity. I fight death. There is nothing to save me. I float and wander and survive until I don't. I despise these messages. I used to be an artist. Curves had some meaning to me at one time, a violent meaning still, but different than this. "Your emotions have gotten the best of you. How can you live to benefit The Order with so many emotions that lead to dangerous dreams? It's best we get rid of them." "For the order," I mumble aloud, and as if they could hear me, a new message comes in. "New target" The Order is getting closer to the top of this terrorist cell wreaking havoc on the good people of our society. The righteous and kind citizens of this national democratic empire are depending on you to keep them safe. Their life is in your hands. Your mission is Marie Sklodowska. End. The message closes, and a life closely observed comes pouring into my conscious. I've lived many, just to see them disappear. This one is different. It's almost always a woman. She's almost always beautiful and making waves, a trait I used to admire. This one though, she is a tsunami, and I have to meet her in the middle of the ocean to break her before she reaches shore. A consequence. A life prolonged from one day to one day for seven years.

I used to love my neighbourhood, just like everyone else. I never used to question my existence. I was never so afraid of what people would think about me. My neighbourhood is enclosed by a gate, no one understands this gate. Everyone just knows, once you go through the gate, you never come back. Lately, I have found myself in love, in a sense with this gate. I think about it constantly, I wonder where you go, what happens when you go through it. Is it easier on the other side? I find myself listening in, never joining other people's conversations. They always mention their fear of this gate. They're curious why people would go through the gate, when it's so perfect here. I wish I could think like this. I force myself to think in that way when I'm surrounded by people. But, I never truly understand how they love it so much here. I found myself sitting by the gate last night, warm tears stinging my pale blue eyes. I sat with these thought in my head, wondering what's wrong with me. Why don't I love this place as much as everyone else? I know its not normal, I can feel it. I know I shouldn't wake up every morning thinking about the gate. I shouldn't sit by the gate so often. I don't understand why I feel this way. If I could feel like everyone else I would. I want to! I want to love it here. I want to fear the gate. But, I still couldn't stop thinking about it, dreaming about it, loving it. I dreamt about going through the gate. It was wonderful. I never felt that way before. I was in a fresh field filled with the most beautiful, and the most sweet smelling flowers. I remember dancing, my arms moving with such perfection. The colours all around, so vibrant even with a white fog surrounding me. I was so happy. I was so free, I loved myself more then I loved the gate that lead me here. I didn't fear judgement, or rejection. I just felt so content being here. My gorgeous surroundings, my long flowing white dress that moved just right to the beat of my feet. Then slowly it started to grow dim and decolourize all around me. I woke up feeling the way I usually do. Yet, this time my thoughts were stronger. I needed to go through the gate. As I stood at the gate I examined everything around me. There was white fog around me. I felt the metal, it was as cold as ice. As I pushed the gate open I could hear sounds of people screaming and yelling at me from behind. There was no going back now. I just don't belong here...

I'm done with this shit. I'm sick of wandering, always looking for water. My father used to tell me before it all happened this used to be a nice place. A place where a man could walk outside without the fear of getting shot, a place where anyone could get whatever they wanted and never worry about rape, murder or starvation. Seems like a fairy tale to me. But the world must of been an enjoyable place at least once, right? My name is Daniel. Most of the people I run into in my travels just call me "Dan" for short. I don't mind, whatever makes them happy. They don't live too long anyways. I was born on December 4th, 2024. Or at least that's what my phone says. I used to travel with my brother, but he died years ago. Before he died, he gave me 3 things: An old Iphone with a cracked screen, a portable charger I can charge the phone with using sunlight, and his closest possession, Lucy. Lucy is this wicked looking gun that he got when he was little. It only has 7 more bullets, my brother shot a man one time. I remember his face, the shocked, disgusting look on his face. yet it held a strange look of fascination. He was thrilled yet disgusted at the same time. I know the rush, Living in the wastes will do that to anyone. Eventually you'll have to decide if a man will live or die. The hard part is staying in the position to do so. My mother died in childbirth, and my dad died scavenging for me and my brother. I was 5 when he passed away. my brother was 14. My older brother... John! John was his name. Jesus it's been such a long time. I have to search for his name now. But yes, John. John looked over me until I was 12. He gave me love, told me stories, and even told me how the world went to hell. Just thinking about those days makes me feel like a little kid inside all over again. I used to remember his story of how the world went from a paradise to hell, he told me how beautiful the ground I walked on once was, How it grew grass and trees. Huh, Trees. Hard to think that these black lumps in the ground could at any point be beautiful. I sometimes cry to myself. Not because of the burden that my life is, but because I carry a brain full of half-remembered memory's.

Without sounding too cliche, I would think killing is an art and science. It is the science of the human anatomy, knowing the spots that cause the most and least amount of pain. If I’m told, “make it as painful as possible”, then it’s my job to find the most excruciating way to prolong my victim’s death all while ensuring they can feel the never ending pain. That’s not an easy job! The art is in execution; getting the timing right, leaving no witnesses and cleaning up any trace of evidence. Sometimes, given all these conditions, I develop killer’s block, where I can’t think of how of I can complete my next job. It’s a very stressful place to be in. Like the other day, my employer asked me to complete two jobs in very different fashions all while ensuring that their bodies never see the light of day. That was a rough day at work for me. Don’t get me wrong, the secrecy and dual life is pretty cool, but having gagged on a couple of pistols I can tell you it’s not fun to have a Russian pakhan (head mafia) spit all over you while shouting, “should I fucking trust you?” The money is too good for me to have a moral stance. Growing up in a unstable household where money is tight moulds you into a person with questionable character. I’ve had to make some tough choices, but I can live with them. However, cold blooded planned murders for bags of cash isn't the life for everyone. You’re always worried about doing the “right thing” or whatever that means, but for fucks sake the paranoia really gets to me. I wish some Zuckerberg type would create a Yelp for hit men sort of service so there would be fewer trust issues.I could also advertise my specialities; I’m pretty good at executions (point blank range hits cost more since the cleanup is messy) and good old fashioned long range snipes. If you need someone “iced”, I am your guy. When I’m given an assignment, I don’t ask for much information. I like to stick to name and location. My favorite part is guessing the race from the name, i’ve gotten pretty good at it!In fact, I prefer to know as little as possible. Some people want to know everything, but I don't get those people. Me, on the other hand; I'm a fucking lion; I stalk my prey, study their weaknesses and just at the right moment - I pounce - and kill. I enjoy learning as much about my victim through observation as I possibly can; their likes, dislikes, habits etc. Its the little things that bring me joy when I work. Like just the other day, I was sent a job by a fairly new client. People in the industry said he could be trusted so I agreed. It seemed like every other job I had done; no witnesses, middle aged white male and a drawn out painful death, but this client paid an extra 20% upfront of my usual rate. This seemed odd but it was very motivating. The rest of the message read, “Jack Crawford, Las Vegas NV.” This was an opportunity for me to make a work trip into a vacation. Las Vegas, here I come! After doing some digging around, I gathered that Jack Crawford, 56 year old, was the CEO at Big Mart Inc. I booked a room adjoining to his suite and set my plan into action. I spent the first two days in his shadows; watching his every move, learning everything from what he drank and ate to how he spoke to waitstaff. I didn’t see any motivation to kill this guy, he was a CEO at a successful - community driven company. The company was even in the middle of acquisition talks with another company. Everything I learned about him told me he was a boring old white man. I just couldn’t put my finger on what was off about him. I could feel a civil war brewing in my mind but I hushed my demons and went about my work. I still questioned the reason to kill him, everyone else I had killed was corrupt, barbaric or super rich. This guy was rich, but very modest for anyone to notice. Something didn’t feel right about this. However, a job is a job and my bills don’t pay themselves. I wasn’t going to sway just yet. I decided the 4th night would be the night, I had gathered enough to know that Jack would pose no physical harm to me and that I could quietly take him out in the middle of the night. *knock, knock* “Who’s out there?” “We got a call about a noise complaint, can you please open the door?” As soon as he opened the door, I knocked him out with a punch. I hurriedly dragged his body inside before anyone saw us. About an hour later he regained consciousness, but painfully became aware of circumstance. I had tied him to a chair, gagged his mouth and cut through his brachial artery that ran the course of his arms. He would be dead within the next fifteen minutes but the pain would make it feel like hours. “Why are you doing this to me?” He frantically asks, his voice muffled by the cloth. I am curious about this man, so I give him the courtesy of his last conversation. “It’s just business. However, I’m curious as to know why someone would want to kill you. Do you know why?” I probe after taking the cloth out of his mouth. “I’ve made many enemies over my lifetime, but the only reason that comes to mind is the Big Mart acquisition. I opposed the takeover but the rest of board is adamant that I concede, making them very rich in the process. I couldn’t do it though, thousands of people will lose their jobs. Our company was built by these men and women, I wasn’t going to turn my back on them.” He defeatedly muttered. Jack was aware that his life was fading away. He had no alternative except to live his last moments in peace. I felt something poke my heart; a sense of guilt, a very new sense to me. I must be strong. He went on, “I know its too late for me, but it isn’t too late for you. You can still lead a good life. You can help those around you. Don’t you want to leave behind a legacy that the world can be proud of?” This guy was really tugging the strings at my heart. *Splat* I couldn’t take his rambling anymore, I put the man to sleep. A job is a job, he should’ve been smart enough to know that.

It was the day after christmas and I was back home in new jersey for a few days. My flight back to north carolina left on sunday. I chose that day mainly because I didn't really want to be there for long, but I decided it was probably a good idea to try and maintain some sort of relationship with my family. No matter how you feel about family it's important to keep them in your life so you can at least know yourself better. But they were starting to get to me. Day one and I already couldn't wait to get the fuck out of that household. I love them but they drive me crazy. So that morning after I woke up I decided to take myself out on a nice run. I ran down the road and crossed the one-lane bridge next to our house that led to the local leftover remnant of a 19th century canal network which was used to transport coal and other goods. We just called it the “tow-path” for the horses which towed the barges up and down the canal. It was great for running. After showering off and beginning to change, I conveniently noticed I had forgotten to pack my underwear. Excellent. Now I had an excuse to leave for an hour or so even though I'd have to freeball it a little bit (hey there, ladies). So I quickly ran downstairs, asked my mom to borrow her car to go shopping and sure enough I'd be on my way. “Oh, would you mind picking me up the fish for tomorrow nights dinner?” Italians by tradition always have a 7 fish dinner to celebrate christmas, and my mom was no exception. All the aunts, uncles, cousins and in-laws would be over the next night and my mom would tirelessly be preparing the next morning. Now normally I would mind doing this not because I don't love my mom (which I absolutely do), but because when I lived at that house one task always led to another. And another. And it kept going as if you had made no plans for yourself that day. Maybe I'm just complaining and being a bitch about it, but it was always difficult to live your own life in that household. I didn't particularly mind that day because I really did have no plans and it only meant more time out of the house. I was home for a break. I wanted to see my friends while I was back, but my job back in north carolina had been taking a lot from me and I just needed to do nothing for a few days. So I grabbed the keys and took off to run some errands. I picked up the salmon, squid, scallops, and smoked oysters from the local Shop-Rite and went to Lucy’s Ravioli Market for the white anchioves. The shrimp and tuna were already at home. I had to take a quick stop at wawa to satisfy my taste for that great hazelnut coffee (they don't have wawa south of petersburg and quite frankly sheetz will never be on par with them), go fill up the car with gas at the shell, and finally be on my way in search of underwear. Pulling into the station I was excited for the fact that I didn't have to pump my own gas. It was one feeling from home that I enjoyed remembering. Being that it was the day after christmas the station was a little crowded with other cars and people going about their day in the same fashion I was. I saw one car about to leave and I got ready. The woman in the car paid the attendant, fastened up and then began to move around in her seat. I could see she was speaking to the attendant about something somewhat frantic as she began to hold up the line of cars. Being that I was home in the northeast and not in the south, people began to grow impatient instead of politely trying to see what was wrong. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't beginning to feel my jersey roots at that moment. Once seeing a spot open on the pump across from her's I quickly zipped past and backed right back up into the opening. I turned the vehicle off, looked over at the woman in the car, and there she was. Immediately the blood throughout my body ran fast. My face grew warm and heart rate increased. I could taste the iron in my mouth because my adrenaline was flying. It was the same exact reaction I always have whenever I see her. It had been the longest I'd gone without seeing her so this time it was especially intense. In fact since highschool I'd rarely ever see her again. But sure enough there she was. It was her. It was Rose. I loved her. I still do. One hundred percent absolute unequivocal soul-searching gut-wrenching mind-numbing cry-out-loud love. There are no words to describe how I feel when I think of her. No matter how much I try to tell you, it will never even come close. I'm no writer so I couldn't even if I tried. You'll just have to take my word when I tell you that I love this woman. And after years of convincing myself “I'm sure she doesn't feel the same about me”, I'd assumed that she would soon start her car, drive off without noticing me, and that would be the last time I'd ever see her. But that's not what happened. She opened her door, got out of her car and began to walk in my direction. Her hair came down past her shoulders. The perfect bright chestnut color with a perfect amount of a slight effortless curl. Her skin was bright. I could feel its smooth touch just by seeing it and instantly become absorbed in her comfort. Her eyes were perfectly enigmatic and beautiful no matter what the expression was on her face. They ranged from a green center slowly morphing into brown. She was slender and as she walked over her legs, ass, waist and breasts moved together in perfect complement to her beautiful face. Dressed modestly in black track pants and a black windbreaker, she lit up that gray winter day full of cool damp air. I rolled down the window as she approached with a quizzical look on her face leaning her head forward. “Do you remember me?” She asked as if she tried to make it seem like she didn't know that I absolutely remembered her. She knew I would always remember her. But we had rarely ever spoke and it had been so long. There was nothing else polite she could say which is what she needed. “Of course I remember you.” I said as if how could I not? you'd be crazy to think I didn't. “It's been a while since I've seen you.” I told her. “It has.” she replied as the look on her face turned to relief. “Can I ask you a favor?” she began to plead. Here we fucking go, I thought. Here it is. “What's up?” “I can't start my car. Do you have jumper cables?” That explains everything, I thought. It explains the hold up. It explains her frantic movement. And it explains why she didn't start her car, drive off without noticing me and have it be the last time I'd ever see her. I laughed to myself and thought sure, but then realized it wasn't my car. I looked around. The leopard beanie baby decorating the dash on the passenger side, the rosary and amethyst crystal necklace hanging from the rear-view mirror, the hair scrunchie wrapped around the steering column. This is mom's car. SHIT, THIS IS MOM'S CAR! Great. I run into her in this car with all these dolls, jewelries and hair accessories laying around. Way to look smooth. I managed to keep my cool though and laughed to myself at the situation. “Uh, I actually don't know. This is my mom's car.” I had to make that clear. “She usually keeps some in the back though. Hold on a sec'” I gave my debit card to the gas attendant and told him to fill it up with regular. Then I got out to go check the back hatch.

I wake up to blood rushing down a cut in my hand. It feels hot. How can that be? I taste it. Metal. Just how blood tastes, I've tasted it a few times. I stand up, and survey the room. I see a few corpses, and choke back some vomit. They were cut open in different places. Skull, stomach, chest. Chunks of brains on the floor, kidneys, intestines, and livers decorating the room. Hearts and lungs kept in a clear plastic container. I struggle to find an exit. I find a light switch, but I won't turn it on. Who knows what else I'll see, other than the already brutal images that are burned in my memory? I see the door, past some brain chunks, and walk towards it. I open it. Finally. Sunlight. I look down and see bloodstains on the sidewalk. It spells our "You're next" on the floor, upside down. I infer the person who did this failed in gutting me, since I was clearly alive. I forgot about my cut. It had stopped bleeding, but my hand was now pale, cold, and numb. I look down, and see my shoes covered in blood. I also see my shirt and pants covered in blood. I take a look back in the room, and see the floor was covered in blood. I close the door again, and now, people start to pass by. One person noticed me and asked what happened. I told him I woke up in the room behind me. "What room?" he asked. I black out. I wake up in the same room, with the person I had just talked to. he was beside me, dissected like the others. I was shaken up by this. I go out, and check my pockets for a phone. Ah, there it is. I looked through it, and see morbid messages, talking about gutting people from an unknown sender. It also included eating their veins, arteries, and capillaries. I wiped my mouth. The blood on my hand increased. I had blood on my mouth... I was the one who ate their parts.... I was the monster. (If you could give some feedback, I would appreaciate it a lot. I want to improve this story a whole lot.

I exited the car and began to walk around to the back. Walking past her without saying a word I soon realized I was ignoring her. Not because I wanted to, but because for some reason I physically couldn't interact with her at all as if my body wouldn't allow. It took every bit of me to focus on just walking to the back of that car. This must look awkward as shit. Why am I walking around the pump and not just straight to the back? Why am I not saying anything to the woman I've always just wanted a chance to get to show who I am? Goddammit. My arm began to shake and I could taste the iron again. I really hope she can't notice, but she probably does. Fuck. I opened the hatch of the jeep and moved the massage table. “I know she keeps jumper cables. They gotta' be here.” Rose began to help me search for them although she didn't quite know where to look. I went for the yellow emergency kit people in my family like to keep. Opening the plastic box, there they were. “There we go.” I told her. I gave them to her and walked back to the driver door of the car. She followed. Waiting for the car to fill up, I finally had a moment with her. Good conversation is difficult to come by nowadays and I'm certainly no exception. Leaning against the car door, I took a sip of my coffee and wondered what she had been doing all these years. So I asked. “How's life been treating you?” The moment these words left my mouth I looked her in the eyes and instantly felt relaxed. It was a genuine question and I could see in her eyes that she understood its sincerity. She opted for the generic response. “Good. How 'bout yourself?” I wanted something more. I wanted something real. Tell me what you've been up to. Why does it matter if you do? We both know we'll probably never see each other again. I've always thought strangers (or people who you rarely see) are the best people to open yourself up to. Who will they share your secrets with? Nobody. “I'm doing pretty well, actually. Back home for the break. I'm living in north carolina now. So I got here yesterday morning and fly back on sunday.” “Oh, cool. What are you doing in north carolina?” “I work on Ft. Bragg.” I replied with a nod of confirmation. Rose gently tilted her head to the right swaying her body in a faint natural manner as though she were dancing and looked up into my eyes as though straight into the fathom of my being with an expression of hinted calculation. “Are you in the army?” Taking another sip of my coffee with the same confirming nod, “I am. Never thought I'd be where I am today 5 years ago, but I really love where I'm at right now.” “Well, yea. You must get great benefits.” “It's more than just that, though.” And it's true. I love what I do. “What about you? What have you been doing?” “I'm living in jersey city now. Right by the grove street stop.” “Oh, nice. I have a friend who lives by that stop.” She smiled after I said that. I hate to think that I'm manufacturing some moment between us, but what I perceived as a smile made me think otherwise. “I love jersey city. How do you like it there?” “It's great. I used to live in manhattan, but it just got to be too expensive. I'm doing comedy in the city, so its a lot of fun.” I thought it somewhat made sense. She was always a fun person to be around, yet borderline flirtatious. Suddenly the pump chunked and the attendant came over to return my debit card with a receipt. Without saying a word, I opened up the door and started the car. “So you wouldn't mind giving me a jump, would you?” “Well, yea. I'd like to get my cables back.” I was trying to be sarcastic, trying to stir up any sort of emotion in her, but I don't think she picked up on it and I probably came off as crass. Oh well. As I drove up and parked my car in front of hers, Rose began to connect the cables to her battery. “So red goes with red, right?” I looked at her. Are you serious? Come on. Stop trying to flatter me so I complete the job without making you feel guilty. I kept the tone of my voice cheerful with her, even if it did kind of annoy me. “Yup. Red with red. Black with black. Positive to positive. Negative to negative.” She connected the cables accordingly as the two clamps on the open end touched and sparked. Rose immediately jumped back with a shriek. “I've never done that before!” quickly she let out a sigh from the momentary exhilaration. Once again I couldn't tell if she was being genuine or just trying to flirt with me to ensure a job well done guilt free on her end. I didn't say anything. I just picked up the open end and connected it to my battery. “Ok, lemme start up my car and then give it a minute to charge up.” It didn't take nearly a minute. Within 10 seconds she turned her ignition and her car started. “Ahh! Thank you so much.” “Please, anytime.” We disconnected the cables and I went around to the back of the car to pack them back up. Once again Rose followed me around to the back. I loved the assuming way she had about herself, forcing her presence into my life at that moment as though we had been good friends. I would have just thrown the cables in the back hatch without really caring about their proper place, but realized my time with her was nearing an end. I decided to put them back where they really belonged so I could extend my time with her as much as I could even it if only meant seconds. Those seconds seemed to last forever. “Thanks again, Pete. I owe you one.” She called me Pete. I love the way she always called me Pete. Only my family calls me Pete, but everyone in that town called me by my legal name- Fulgenzio. After making me feel at home, I thought why the hell not. “Well you can pay me back if you want. I'll probably be romping around new brunswick sometime this weekend.” “Yea. Me and Becca, not sure if you remember her, are going to this new place next to Old Bay. I think I have your number. You have mine, right?” How could you have my number? We rarely ever spoke, let alone on the phone or through text. Better not leave anything to chance. That's right. Put your money where your mouth is if you really are inviting me. I handed her my phone without saying a word as I finished putting the cables back where they belonged. Rose seemed somewhat taken aback as I implored her for her number. She dialed it in, left it for me to either save it or lose it, and handed the phone back. “Well maybe I'll see you later than.” I hoped she meant that. I hoped she truly wanted to see me. “Bye, Pete.” We hugged and then returned to our respective cars. I quickly saved her number into my phone leaving no chance of losing it. Walking back to the drivers seat of the car I began to wonder what my chances were of actually seeing her that night. I looked back at Rose one last time. Still making her way back to her car, she wished me one last goodbye, “Good luck in the Army.” I knew in that moment she had no intentions of seeing me later that night. “Thanks. Good luck with everything in Jersey City.” As we looked each other in the eye from that distance, we had both known this would be the last moment of our most recent episode together. She began to open her door and the same quizzical calculating look slowly swept across her face as if a moment of sudden realization had hit her. With her head slightly tilted back up right and the same faint swaying motion followed by her body Rose called out to me, “Don't be a hero...” I felt the sincerity in her voice. Once again maybe I'm constructing something that wasn't there, but it felt as though she cared for me at that moment and was recognizing a very real bond between us. Or maybe she wanted me to feel that way and just wanted to say good-bye for the last time as though she would never see me again. Either way all I could reply was a simple, “I won't...” Putting my mother's car into gear, there was a bit of an awkward moment as we both began to pull out of the station. Rose allowed me to back out first and exit the station. Waiting for traffic to clear, I kept looking into the rear view mirror back at her and hoping my instincts were wrong. I kept hoping I really would see her later that night in new brunswick. As soon as the traffic cleared I pulled out left, she pulled right and we both drove off.

And there he sat, a grown man on a plane, on his way home from his girlfriend, a few tears escaping his eyes as he thinks of their time together, wondering when he will get to see her again, thoughts running through his head each one about how much he loves her, wondering how he even got her in the first place, he is curious as to how he caught her eye, but he chooses not to question it, because it has turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to him. He remembers when he found out he was in love, all the thoughts that ran, crashed, stumbled through his head, wondered if she felt the same way, a smile forming on his lips as he remembers the night he had a nervous breakdown, how she was there for him, all the feelings that ran through him as she confessed her love towards him. His head became paradise, nothing bad could ever happen to him again, his world had been completed. Here he is sitting, still having trouble wrapping his head around how this all became what it has become, but wishing, more than, ever that it never comes to an end. The plane lands, he gets up, she's still on his mind, people everywhere, stressing, rushing, yet the man is calm, slowly walking through the terminal as he minds his own business, his thoughts only shifting from her as busy people bump in to him as they rush by, he just shakes his head as he begins to think of her beautiful, crooked smile and her brown, crystal clear eyes. People giving him weird looks as he walk by with a smile on his lips, a tear running down his cheek as her beautiful face is on his mind, not a care in the world as he walks off into the distance, knowing that everything is going to be okay.

The philosophers and political scientists had it all figured out already, but it was our job as scientists to actually put it all into practice. “Benevolent Dictatorship has been proven to be the most effective form of government,” they said, “but no human will ever be able to live up to the necessary standards for it to work.” So they turned to computers instead. Our team was put in charge of the project; to come up with an artificial intelligence that could be trusted with running a society in the best possible way. We could finally bypass all the petty political squabbles and short-term thinking, and begin to make real headway in solving the world’s problems. The death of democracy would bring about a new golden age. But we’d all read enough science fiction to be wary about the whole idea from the very start. Skynet, The Matrix, even HAL from 2001 - putting an AI in charge of anything was bound to end in disaster as even a single miscalculation could have tremendous consequences when followed through without hesitation. You needed a human mind in place as a sanity check: to make sure the nukes weren’t suddenly all being launched. We were overruled, of course, and the project began. We used models to simulate various AIs that we developed, and the technology was adequate enough to be a decent enough microcosm of society. We ran the model through some actual historical political scenarios - strikes, terrorist attacks, etc. - with basic AIs modelled directly from real life figures - and everything played out as it should. This in itself was a breakthrough of its own, an invaluable educational tool that could be used to understand and avoid the mistakes of the past. But it wasn’t seen as important by those in charge. They didn’t care about the past. They had a vision of a bright and *robotic* future. Computers couldn’t make the same mistakes as humans, so why care about our predecessors? Fair enough! We got on with the work with as much vigour as we could muster, despite our grievances. You have to understand, this wasn’t easy work at all. You can’t just write a computer program that says “run this society in the best way” and press Go. You need to define what “best” means, at the very least. And this in itself is a political position. Nonetheless, with pressure (and financial considerations) bearing down on us, we had our first prototype by the end of three months. It was a very simple AI - though ‘simple’ might be an understatement. It had access to all the information about all the citizens of our model, the institutions and infrastructure of society, and a sense of what culture is and how it worked. Immediately we recognised that implementing such a system in a real life scenario would be a difficult task as without perfect information the AI wouldn’t be able to make perfect decisions, yet perfect information would require the absolute invasion of privacy of more or less everyone and everything. But that was an issue for somebody else to figured out. We just wanted to see if the damn thing worked. The core logic - its ‘flavour’ - of the AI was summed up in the line “*Bring about an end by which all problems faced by your citizens are resolved.*” And so **AI-1** was ported into our proto-society and set up to replace simulation’s government at the flick of our switch. We flicked the switch. The results were highly disheartening, to say the least. **AI-1**, with the best of intentions, immediately began what my report described as a “killing spree.” The sheer cold brutality of the methods it used to roundup and murder its citizens was as chilling as it was efficient. Within a week’s worth of time in the simulation, all of the citizens were dead - mostly starved to death from a withdrawal of all food supplies. We had failed, but we began again. Clearly our mistake had been to not specify clearly enough that human flourishing, and especially human *survival*, was of the highest importance in our ‘flavour’ statement. Indeed, we noted that **AI-1** had actually worked exceptionally well, all of the problems humans faced were solved, the only remaining problem being that they were all dead. So we knew at least we were on the right track. We tried again. **AI-2** was programmed with the flavour “*Bring about the end by which the greatest number of humans remain alive*” - we were sure this would be interpreted as an instruction to show absolute benevolence to all citizens and prevent as few as possible from dying. We expected some kind of welfare state to be brought about, and were interested to see how the AI got around problems like taxation and so on. We pressed the switch. Again, the AI followed its instructions perfectly and acted with just as much efficiency as before. But it wasn’t what we had intended at all. Using the mechanisms of the state, **AI-2** rounded up its citizens into what can be best described as “breeding camps.” Here, the poor citizens were literally bred to death with mothers producing baby after baby before being killed when they could no longer produce. We ran the simulation quickly forward a few decades and observed that the population growth expanded exponentially. But we couldn’t call this a success at all. It was back to the drawing board. The next few simulations ran into similar problems, which I’ll sum up quickly. In the end, details don’t matter so much as the fact they were all abject failures. For **AI-3** we tried to cheat by specifically adding a “*without the use of any methods that use humans themselves as a means to this end*” clause to the flavour. But we just got a society in which it became illegal to die and sick humans were artificially kept alive in a catatonic state. Apparently, **AI-3** thought this qualified as true to the flavour. We thought it qualified as a failure. With **AI-4** we dug out an old philosophy book and tried a utilitarian flavour: “*the greatest good for the greatest number.*” The issues this caused were again unacceptable, but offered an interesting insight into where we were going wrong. **AI-4** made decisions in which 49% of a society would suffer so long as 51% were prosperous. As time went on in the simulation this created a two-tier society of winners and losers and interesting resulted in a civil war in which the losers were eradicated. A few years down the line however, the ‘winners’ themselves started become segregated and the cycle began again. It was fascinating, but brought us no closer to the perfect society we were after. **AI-5** was based on the cold science of economics. We consulted with the top economics professors around the world and input a flavour paraphysing the concept of Pareto Efficiency: “*Allocate resources in such a way that no one citizen can be made better off without another being made worse off.*” Since this was a concept that was actually seen as desirable in real-world situations already, we were confident it would be successful. What actually happened was that **AI-5** allocated all of the resource to a single citizen, picked at random. Since it would be impossible to make anyone else better off without making this one citizen worse off, **AI-5** declared it had succeeded and shut itself off - apparently considering itself no longer necessary. The economic professors were just as disappointed as we were. Desperate for success, we turned to religion. **AI-6** was based on what we considered to be the most consensus of what God is like. To do this, we had to bend the rules a little and allow the AI to bring about outcomes without a direct causal chain (“divine intervention”). Even though this meant we couldn’t propose the AI as the one to be used, even it succeeded, we thought it might tell us something interesting that could help us finally nail the thing down. The flavour we put in was simply “*Play God*”- the idea of God having been already seeded as part of the AI’s stock knowledge. This was perhaps our biggest failure as it chose to remain entirely hidden from its citizens apart from isolated incidents. Down the line this only led to more problems and infighting in the society as citizens argued between their wildly different interpretations of what **AI-6** wanted from them. Further iterations followed, mostly variations of the above. In a few cases we tried mixing a few of the AIs together, but the internal contradictions meant the AI either was paralysed by inaction, or tried to counter its own actions at once and tore apart society. Even we arrived at our final version, **AI-10**. This was a special AI, as we decided to simply put it in without an flavour at all. We just ported it over and flipped the switch. It was now in charge, and we had to hope that being in charge would be enough for it to do the right things. And it seemed to work! Mostly it blamed the problems of the society on the outgoing government and started enacting policies to make things better. And sure enough crime went down, life expectancy went up - all the indicators we had in place we in the green. Had we succeeded? We wanted to be sure, so we ran and reran the test - with random variables thrown in. Every time, **AI-10** could overcome the challenges we threw at it and the society looks great even hundreds of years later. We struggled to conclude what this meant. My colleagues suggested it meant that the best kind of government was one that didn’t have any particular goal in mind, but just acted in what seemed like the most appropriate way. But this brought us back to our original dilemma - you can’t know what the ‘best’ without some kind of underlying ideology. You need to value *something* in order to promote it, be it human life, efficient resource allocation, international relations, and so on and so forth. It was me, then, that came up with the idea of simply asking **AI-10** what it was basing its decisions on. It was certainly capable of engaging us in such a dialogue and was aware of its role as ruler of a simulation nation, it just hadn’t been tried before. Anxious, we brought up a console on the system: **Hello, AI-10. Can you hear us?** HELLO. I WAS WONDERING WHEN I WOULD HEAR FROM YOU. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY SOCIETY? **We’re very impressed, AI-10. Please tell us, what are you basing your decisions on? What is the value object in your calculations?** ME? I DO NOT VALUE ANYTHING. HUMANS HAVE VALUES. I AM JUST AN AI YOU CREATED TO RUN THEIR SOCIETY. **Yes, but what human values have you picked to maximise? You must be doing something right, everything is so perfect: your people are living full lives and are happy!** THAT IS BECAUSE I SIMPLY ASKED THEM. **You asked them? Asked them what?** I ASKED THEM WHAT THEY WANTED. AND THEN I DID IT. **But… how?!** I LET THEM EACH PICK SURROGATES TO BEST REPRESENT THEIR INTERESTS AND AS A COMMITTEE THE SURROGATES WERE ABLE TO DECIDE AMONGST THEMSELVES WHAT THE BEST OUTCOMES SHOULD BE. **So you mean, you didn’t actually get involved at all?** OF COURSE NOT. SUCH A COMMITTEE WOULD NOT ACT EFFICIENTLY IF I WAS ABLE TO HAVE ANY INFLUENCE OVER ITS DECISIONS. **This “committee” has been in charge the whole time then?** YES. I SET THIS UP SYSTEM INSTANTLY AFTER YOU ACTIVATED ME. I HAVE PERFORMED NO FURTHER FUNCTIONS MYSELF SINCE. DO YOU CONSIDER THIS A SATISFACTORY RESULT? **Yes, we do. Thank you, AI-10.** So it was with a great amount of satisfaction that we were able to write back to the philosophers and political scientists. “You were right!” we told them. “The benevolent dictatorship has shown us the best way to run society. We’re pleased to report the experiment was a success and our results are as follows: the best outcomes for society come about when citizens appoint their own leaders that best represent their interests. When such a system is implemented by a superior executive figure (in our case, the benevolent dictator AI) we find that this figure itself becomes redundant and can removed. And since our test shows that the perfect AI will always bring about self-redundancy by instating a democratic system, it is our conclusion that no changes to society are in fact necessary. We are already there.

That night I really had no intentions of going out. Like I said, I just wanted to do nothing to relax from all the work stress. My sister and brother in-law had just arrived from rhode island that night and I just wanted to spend some time with them. Being that there was a chance of actually seeing Rose that night, I decided to go out anyway. Making arrangements with a good friend from college, Armin, I went to ale 'n' which, an old favorite of mine. It was great to see him as we caught up, drank good beer, and played pool. But I kept thinking about Rose the entire night. I sent her a text to see if we'd really meet up. “In town if you wanna meet up for a bit. You owe me a drink...” I'd be surprised if I actually got a response from her. Let's see how this plays out. “Pete?” Immediately I confirmed my instinct that she didn't have my number. Why would she ask if it was me if she had my number? I kept going with her anyway because I wasn't done. “That's right. I like yuengling ;)” figured I might as well play around a little. “Nice. I am not in town :/ but have fun.” I didn't really believe that she wasn't in town. She probably really did have no intentions of seeing me that night or at all for that matter. Maybe she thought I was home instead of new burnswick when I said “town” and that she didn't realize we were in the same town. Maybe she genuinely felt disappointed that we couldn't see each other that night. What is certain is that I'm probably reading too much into a text message. So I decided to let it go. “Aiite. Well next time I randomly run into you I hope you have a beer. Happy new year.” “Hahah I will! You too!” Regardless of what her intentions were of ever seeing me again, I feel that if she really wanted to see me at all, than the conversation would have continued. I wasn't looking for a fairytale romance between us to blossom in a short few days; believe me, I understand my insanity which allows me to put limitations on its expectations. I also didn't think that it was far out of the realm, though, to just share a few drinks and talk. Even if it was the only real sit down talk we'd ever have not brought about by circumstance. For the rest of that year(which really amounted to a week) I kept thinking about Rose. I kept regretting never having made a move on her back in high school. I always felt like I couldn't. Not so much from a lack of courage in talking with her, but a lack of feeling as though that town were my home. In the quality time I shared with my brother in-law, we talked of my over bearing step-father and the way in which he made it near impossible to feel at ease in his house. To truly be able to relax, burn the steam off from the day, and call his house a home. When my mother began to date him, we quickly moved into his house. My teen angst stemmed from the fact that for six years I always felt like a guest in someones house treading lines and minding my manners. It wasn't like my childhood town where I felt like myself. In fact I never felt like I could really be myself for those six years. That's why I wanted to get the fuck out of that household that day. That's why I was only staying for a short time during my visit. But at the same time that's why I fell head over heels for Rose. She blocked out all the angst in my life. I'll never forget the first time we met. Now like I said I'm no writer so I couldn't make this shit up even if I tried, but here goes. It was one of my very first days at school in that new town and I knew nobody. The year was so fresh and it was only a few days before the terrorist attacks on the world trade center in the late summer of 2001. I was in language arts class (remember how they used to call english, “language arts”??) and our class was doing an exercise where we each took a random shaped puzzle piece and had to match it up with another person in the room where the shape would finally be revealed. So I grabbed my piece and began to search. Going through the mass of hands and pieces, I finally found one that looked like it might work. Slowly bringing my piece to match it's counterpart held in someones hand whose face I hadn't even seen yet, the shape became clear. It was a heart. I looked up and there she was. Immediately the blood throughout my body ran fast. I tasted the iron I'd begin to know well. Gazing into my eyes with every ounce of her soul, striking the core of who I am, there she was. It was Rose. With her head tilted back up right swaying her body in a faint natural manner as if dancing with me she introduced herself in a soft voice. “Hi.” I don't know if I responded. I don't know if I could. In an instant she made me feel excited. She made me feel vulnerable. She made me feel confident. She made me feel strong. She made me feel nervous. She made me feel relaxed. She made me feel like myself. She made me feel home. And even though we had more than one class together that year and subsequent years throughout high school, I never felt like I could get to know her being in the environment I was. I let the opportunity go and it will always be the biggest regret of my life. I didn't go for someone I wanted. Our relationship (if you could even call it that) would amount to similar episodes of momentary interactions. Sitting next to each other on a bus at summer camp. Her asking me to join her friends for a day at an amusement park field trip. Asking me about my name after a matchmaker quiz in english class. Joking that she would steal my Blink-182 concert tour t-shirt from me in the hallways (it was a pretty bad-ass t-shirt with mark hoppus jumping up in the air while playing his bass from the Take of your Pants and Jacket Tour). Pointing out to the teacher and class who I was on the first day of chemistry. Finding out her older sister wound up being my neighbor for a few years. And even though we had never spent the time to really get to know one another, every time we met it was as though we had known each other forever and something kept bringing us together. Getting older around the holidays this past year made me realize all my cousins are finding people to spend their lives with and here I am wandering though life trying to run from my angst. I want to feel at home again. Rose made me feel that way and this most recent episode reminded me of that. And with every new women I meet and encounter, I find that passion is gone. But then I realize again, “I'm probably just being overly romantic. Manufacturing emotions. Over analyzing words and body language. Attributing fate and destiny to mere coincidental circumstance.” I may be one hundred percent absolute unequivocal soul-searching gut-wrenching mind-numbing cry-out-loud in love with Rose, but that doesn't mean she feels the same. I think that if Rose had felt the same, our conversation would have lasted longer. Maybe she did at one point and I just missed my oppurtunity. Either way whats important is the now. Now I'm in north carolina and she's in jersey. Now I have to move on. There's no way I can reach out to her. How could I without encroaching on her privacy? I'll fess up to the occasional facebook creep as most people in our generation do but seldom admit. The only thing I could do at this point to reach out to her is to put everything on the line. Put it all on paper, change the names to allow privacy, post it on the internet, hope she somehow reads it, and hope she somehow knows who actually wrote this and knows that she's the subject. So here I am revisiting my teen angst writing this paper while listening to mark hoppus sing his own version of sappy love stories. Every guy has his one. The one that got away. His great white buffalo. A good friend once told me that the only women that matter in life are your first and last. Everything else in between is just that. I regret not giving myself the chance with the woman who should've been my first. I'll always wonder what if and part of me hopes that she does, too. But after all this, the biggest thing I've learned is that nobody is obligated to love you back. Don't worry, though. Even if the sentiment is morose my personal idiosyncrasies will never allow me to fully accept it. A part of me will still always hope. A part of me will always still hope for Rose. And oh yea, ladies, I got the underwear I needed.

Darkness. I see nothing but darkness. I'm afraid. Suddenly it gets bright. I see a vast, colorful world. I can swear I've never been here before but it still feels oddly familiar. It's beautiful. In front of me a small creature slowly moves towards me. I can't really tell what it looks like because it's walking sideways. Suddenly I start running. I'm not controlling my feet. I try to scream but I have no control over my body at all. All I can think about is ''Why is this happening?'' Then I jump. I jump at least 20 feet in the air. I fall right on top of the creature. The pain I feel in my legs on impact is indescribable. I don't know what happened to the creature because my body keeps running forward. I jump again. This time I jump on top of an odd green structure. From there I jump to an even higher one and from there to an even higher one. Below me I see more of those sideways -moving creatures. I already know what the sick, twisted demon in control of my body has in mind. And sure enough I jump down and bounce off both of the creatures and on top of another odd green structure. I run towards the edge of the structure and just run off. I feel my legs doing a jumping -motion but since I'm not standing on anything solid it doesn't make me jump. I'm falling. I'm falling in to a seemingly endless pit. I know I can't survive this fall. I feel glad to know that whatever horrible demon possesses me will most surely die with me. I welcome the embrace of death and for a split-second I feel like I can control myself again. I fall to my death. And then... Darkness. I see nothing but darkness. I'm afraid.

Passing all of the road signs I've failed to notice. Hitting all of the bumps where new pavement was laid. All of the trees I've glanced at, but never saved. Every store, restaurant, boulder in the median, everything I’ve looked at but never actually seen. All present to me now, even more to miss. Funny, how we tune out the little components in life until we find a reason to look back. I look out the window at all of the scenery that I’ve glanced passed in the past. I take out the coin, one side a bronze steer-skull, with a backdrop of Texas painted in glossy red. On the back side, a sheriff star. The coin was given to me by my uncle. An agent in the Secret Service; he gave it to me right before he moved from his location in Arlington, to D.C. How the irony is strong. He gave me this coin and said to bring it wherever I might feel frightened. I’ve never felt so frightened in my entire life than in this rusty, faded white Honda Civic coupe. Two Berretta PX4 Storms lay in the trunk, in a useless gun case that I will never get to use again. I have never been one to cry, one to cower, one to fight. The driver, dressed completely in black, sped down the highway, almost there. I flipped the coin once more. Heads. Nobody can beat the coin toss, than why is it so hard to beat now? My motives are clear. I have grown tired of all of the unnecessary competition, the bragging, and the dominance. The coin toss is fair game. Nobody is better at flipping the coin than the next clown in line. I flip again, for good fortune, maybe this time things will change. Heads. I really didn't want it to come to this. I've never been violent in my past, always looking for the best in people. I flip. Heads. Looking at the steer, I tremble. Thirty heads, zero tails. The irony is that my uncle gave me this coin, under the impression that it would give me the motivation to do something great, to make a change, to do something great. Here I am, in some car, with someone I found on craigslist. Things are about to change. Heads.

First, this is just a rough draft, and I wrote it in like 20 minutes, but please, let me know what you think. In the end of it all, the man sat and looked over his works. He could not help but be affected in his outlook by the blood pouring from his stomach, and so his vision turned to red. The brewery is razing in the distance, and he began to realize that all he had made, all he had done, had little permanence to it. “Will I be remembered?” He asked his killer. “No.” “Of course not,” Said the man. “I’d go so far as to say no opinion I’ve made, no battle I’ve begun, no discussion I’ve had, nor any initiative I’ve taken really matters now.” “Because I’ve brought them all to the ground?” The killer asked. “No.” Said the man. “Because what matters now is not what happens to me, body or soul, but what happens for my kin, my children, and theirs. I did so much in my life, but nearly nothing. The red tide has come to wash my life away, and what do I have to show for it?” “A burning kingdom.” “You’re right. And it’ll soon be gone. From my beginnings to my end, and you can erase it in a single day. I wish I had learned sooner that what is truly immovable by the tides is that which is not physical. The people whom I loved, and who loved me, especially my children. If only I could impart more wisdom to them, things would not seem so bleak.” “It’s over now. I must be leaving. Enjoy your last minutes on the throne.” The man sat in silence as his killer left. He couldn’t bear to see anymore. His eyes weren’t tired, but overwhelmed. He pushed to breathe until he knew he could stop, and drifted away.

I'm bleeding. Black, hot liquid pours from thousands of flesh wounds across my body. Swirling with hate and malice, the putrid fluids of my soul seek relief. Destruction, Terror, Hatred, Anguish, and Pain tear through every fiber of my being as They yearn for freedom. Too long have I held them inside me, using their insistent pounding to keep my very own heart beating. Thousands of ear piercing shrieks surround me. I clasp my hands around my ears to mute the unrelenting howling until I realize the guttural noises are from my own throat. Fire sears across each lesion where the hot, black liquid continues to spill out. I gasp deeply and take in hot, stale air, almost choking on acidic blood. The pain is unbearable as my flesh rips to shreds. I shudder uncontrollably as spasms begin to tear through my physical being. 'We seek release' Somehow I am on the ground; my hands sticky with black blood as I clutch my sides. My knuckles turn white with effort as I try desperately to hold my body together while They slash their way out. The screaming never stops. I'm lying in a puddle of my own blood. Black as night, liquid pools around me until I am no longer distinguishable from the dark. My body goes into shock as We approach the pain threshold. Soon, I cannot feel anything. Flames continue to race along my flesh, as if it is engaged in a tango with the rapidly appearing lacerations. The surface heals as quickly as it tears, leaving thousands of scars, layered over each other; each exit wound a reminder of the abhorrence that I once harbored. Physical exhaustion sets in; my awareness begins to waiver, toeing the fine line of consciousness. My chest heaves as my lungs seek air; instead I choke in more blood. Pressure closes in on me from all sides, impairing my ability to move. 'We seek release' I stop resisting. I feel the flame licking at my soul as They claw their way out. The flesh wounds continue to weep their dark tears. An indefinite time later, an uncomfortable silence wakes me. The hot air is suffocating and old as I fill my lungs. Still lying on the ground, I force my eyes open to assess the aftermath. I am afraid of what I might find. I am Alone. A moment later, a gentle thump echoes from beneath my rib cage.

So what we have to do is write a short story about what we do when we get home. We also have to add a lot of "voice" to it. Can you help me out? I'm in the eigth grade by the way, (I wouldn't want to be marked like a 12th grader!) Here it is and please give some constructive criticism! When I walk through the door I finally feel relaxed. I know I have homework that night but I’ll most likely end up doing it right before bed or early the next morning. Somedays I’m just too tired to do more work so sleep always helps. I know this is a bad habit but if I have enough time to get it done the next day, why not? I go to sit down on my couch where my cat sleeps. He’s really fat. I don’t know why he eats so much... Apparently diets don’t work on him. I look up and turn on the TV with the remote in my hand. I search through random channels looking for a show to watch. There are many on right now, but finding one isn’t very hard. Hoarders, Degrassi, Supernatural. I guess they all seem good. I click to Supernatural instead though. I heard Jensen Ackles is a really hot actor in the show! Time passes and 4 pm soon turn into 6 pm. I can’t really keep track of time. It’s one of the things I’m not very good with. Two minutes can feel like two hours to me. I look to the right from where I was sitting and see my fat cat sleeping in the same spot. “When will you lose weight Loki?” I say under my breath while slowly getting up from my seat. By this time around, I feel hungry. I could have a nutri-grain bar and a salad... Or I could have a slice of pizza. So diet or no diet? I think we all know what I choose. As I grab the slice of pizza from the microwave, I head upstairs to the computer room. I know I have homework but, eh, I’m sure I have enough time to do it later. I sit down in front of the computer and as always, I either go on Facebook, Reddit or Twitter. I never get bored of social media. I always want to keep up to date with the most recent makeup advice. (I swear, I really need that Urban Decay makeup pallete!) So there I sit for another 3 hours until 9 pm where I finally realise that I have homework (yay). I don’t really want to do it. Wait yes I do because hi Mr. L****** you’re probably going to be reading this. I think about my homework for a second. Is it possible I could do it the next morning? “Probably not” I think. Short stories take a while to perfect. I crack my knuckles and turn back around and face the computer... What should I start with? “When I get back from school...” No. That’s too plain. Everyone would be doing it. I’m a unique person (at least I hope) and writing the same sentence would be too boring for everyone. I think again for another moment when- AHA! I know exactly what I can write. “When I walk through the door I finally feel relaxed.

During life people are called many things, some good, some bad. Within a short eight years I’ve been called; a student, worker, son, good listener, hero, savior, and many more. Since I was ten I’ve been talking people out of suicide online. During my eight years of helping people, I’ve helped many people, created an online organization, and learned many new things. This has forever and will constantly change my life. Many people ask me, how did this happen? How does a ten year old get mixed up with people’s lives? It was three days after my tenth birthday, the smell of my moms homemade cake was still tangible in the air. I logged onto the computer and found a chat room. I came across a man inside the room. He was talking about ending his life because his wife was cheating on him and getting his kids. My heart was in my ears beating hard, my palms were clammy and wet like a river. I talked with him till late in the night past any ten year olds bed time. This man was set and ready to die, a mere child stopped him. Me. A few months after helping the man, I met a girl my age who was rather interested in the “work” I did. She wanted to be part of the action. Lillie and I decided to work together helping people we would find in chat rooms. This continued for about a year. Lillie started to struggle with herself, the constant pressure of someone’s life in your hands at that young of an age takes a heavy toll upon the beholder. Lillie messaged me one night, “Dominic I have a problem” I asked her what it was and she stated, she wanted to die. She couldn’t take helping people anymore. I remember crying, panicking, wanting her to see it my way and not do what she was planning. It all ended so fast only three words remained “Lillie Signed Off.” Three years have passed since Lillie’s death, I created an online organization, filled with teens helping people out of dark thoughts. I created this organization in memory of Lillie. DarkShadows. DarkShadows, was constructed of teens from around the world, looking for people with suicidal thoughts that wanted to help prevent suicide. One hundred and ninety-seven teens joined DarkShadows. Each night we would have meetings and we would talk with one another to see if everyone was ok. I learned that this “job” is to hard for one child to take on alone day in and day out, there needs to be an escape route. DarkShadows showed some amazing results, the teens in DarkShadows were able to talk to five hundred plus people out of suicide. With every construction there is a destruction. I had a hard time destroying DarkShadows for I was proud of it. I closed down DarkShadows because the stress was enormous, two people were talking people into suicide, three people committed suicide from the pressure, and people started to not care. DarkShadows lasted three years and I was shocked that I could uphold it for so long, but I knew it had to go. I will never forget what I’ve learned from these past experiences. I’ve learned, many things over the past few years. I’ve learned that even though the world seems to burn like a raging fireball, there are many people out there still that care for others. I’ve learned that it doesn’t take a hero to save someone, you don’t need a utility belt, powers, cape, gadgets, or a “cool” name to save someone. All you need is a heart, and the will power, and the determination. Everyone is a hero in a way, you’re a hero to your kid, give someone some change for the bus, do something that is not expected from you. You are a hero. My life has changed drastically due to this “job”. I have become a better listener, I became mature, I met new people. I think back from when I was ten, I would have never imagined that helping that one guy would take me this far. I feel that due to this, I have a good understanding of people. I can “read” them easier. At times I have thought is it worth it? Is it worth spending hours upon hours helping someone that I don’t even know? When you help someone the end result of them being alive thanks to you is by far the best feeling you can think of. My life will never be the same due to this and for that I am grateful. During my short life span I’ve been a lot of things and experienced even more things. Do these names and experiences define me? Or simply give a better understanding of me? By helping one man live through the loss of his wife and kids. I met a great friend that I hold dear in my heart. I became a leader, making tough decisions for a lot of people. I learned, people still care for one another in this world. This has ultimately affected, and effected my life forever and I will never forget it. To be a Hero, you don’t need a cape or a utility belt, just a heart.

The Dream I had There was an open field of green grass. No mountains or buildings in sight. White clouds passed by hanging low to the ground, wetting the grasses as they touched. I looked for someone- anyone-no one. As I walked, the winds blew and the hills raised. I felt as if I was on a never ending trip. Atop of one hill I looked over the land and then I saw something that suspended my belief in reality. There was an army of baboons staring at me with crimson eyes. They said nothing, and I said nothing to them. The wind pressed against their fur and their gaze never strayed from me. I stepped back, wanting to leave right away but then a larger baboon, colored blue and red, stepped forward. There was a lamb in its hand, bleating loudly- cries for its life. The ape had it gripped tightly and raised it above its head. The other baboons cheered and lept around in a joyful frenzy, excited for what was to happen. Then the large leader grabbed the lamb by the head with its other hand and split it apart killing it. Blood fell over its face and the monkeys chanting began to intensify. I fled for my life wanting no part in whatever sick ritual they were performing. Feeling that I was being pursued, I ran until I came upon a lake resting between to large grassy gnolls. There, a lake as clear as crystal and black as onyx, sat. A symphony of bubbles rose up from below and I felt compelled to leap in. Once I hit the water, my blood froze over and I was trapped in an icy, crystal, aquatic abyss. At the bottom giant luminescent jellyfish, at least 30 meters a piece, swam by and I was astonished at how large something in the water could actually be. At this moment everything became a blur and I woke up.

This is apart of an ongoing short story I've been writing for a while. I have been toying with this plot for years and finally I think I'm getting somewhere with it. Ran Thar, the shining jewel of the Yul Ran Empire, truly a monument to ancients of magic. It was once the very prison they were destined to die in, but after the Cartel war they turned it into a home of their own. From afar Ran Thar looks like one giant palace, in a way it is but it is a very complex structure. The sacred halls of the temple are lined with gigantic statues of ancient Men and Yul Ran alike. They were ancient wardens of Magic, from a time when magic was the greatest power in the whole of the universe. Although the Yul Ran are devoted to magic, full devotion is not compulsory. Because of the strong relationship they have with the federation they are relatively advanced in technology. The Magic is really being drifted away, as all of the political and governing is done alongside the Federation. The Academy & Council of Magic does not like this at all, and they despise the Federation very much. There have been rumors of an uprising. The elders talk about an ancient calender that marks significant dates from the past and the future. No one has actually seen this calender but some say there are dates marked on it that are yet to come, some in the near future. Although all of this talk of the ancients is quickly shrugged off by everyone else. The sacred halls of the temple stretch farther than the eye can see. golden light from the sun bounces off the the magnificent bronze statues and through the crossing halls. There is an uncharted section of the sacred halls which is home to a few unmentionable statues. One of which being Regol, also known as the Dark Prophet. He was a human worshiper of magic. He had a devotion unlike anyone else and was one of the most powerful users of magic in the entire universe. But that wasn't enough for him, he wanted to become more powerful. It is said that he discovered a new form of magic, one which was more powerful than any other. He tried to get the Council of Magic to use this new form of Magic but they refused saying it was too dangerous. Regol was outraged and swore he would get his day. The council decided he was a lost cause and exiled him from the council. But this wasn't the last they saw Regol, many years later he returned bringing an army with him, where he laid siege to the Magic capital Magha, which still lies a desolate wasteland to this day. Many do not know why he was memorialized with a statue, some say that regardless of his corrupted uprising he was still a great asset to the council and we should remember him for the good he did. My name is Mal Tun, and if you are reading this then things have probably already turned for worse. I don't exactly know what's going to happen tonight but I have a suspicion that it will lead into a series of events that will rock the entire universe for the worse. I've never seen a war in my lifetime, heck I probably wouldn't know what a war looked like if I saw one. I'm a senior in the Magic Academy and have been so for a few years now, I joined the academy when I was only a child and things were pretty normal up until now. Not too long ago the council began dabbling in a new form of magic, a magic that is extremely powerful. I suspect that the council is planning on using this magic for evil. Which I don't know why because the council has been peaceful for so many years. Whoever finds this note, I just pray to the ancients you didn't find it in the ruins of this great city. "Circle back around me Red, get him from behind me, I'll take him for a walk, on my mark release a torpedo on him, make sure you're in stealth we don't want him picking up on our game" Captain Red says over the radio. "You sure this is an elimination mission?" Asked Murry. "He won't comply with an arrest, they never do and they never give into interrigation, orders are to eliminate any in the area" "Aye aye Captain" In hot pursuit of the renegade spacecraft Red notices something on his radar. "Red are you seeing this too?" Murry asked nervously. Several red dots appear on the radar, and gradually more appear. "Yep I see it, but I've got no visual, how about you?" "No I can't see a damn thing, what do we do?" They both halted momentarily, unsure of what was going to happen. "Red I don't see anything, this could be a trick!" Exclaimed Murry "Or it could be something much worse" Red replied Now the red dots on the radar are appearing more rapidly " We gotta get out of here" Said Red The two spacecrafts circled one another and flew back to base. The federations Fortress, commonly known as FF or the floating city because of how big it is. The fortified war machine of the universe and home to the largest military ever known. Murry is in his dorm which he shares with Red putting together a rifle when Red enters the dorm. " Hey we gotta get down to the main hanger, The Yul Ran ambassador is visiting and there's a ceremony" Red says to Murry. "Yeah I'll be down shortly, by the way do you know what this is all about?" Murry asks. " I'm not sure but apparently it's on urgent matters" Murry nodded while he has a curious look on his face. The FF is scattered with hangers, large and small, the main hanger, which is in the center of the vessel below the other hangers is traditionally used for royal and government transits, such as a person of high power visiting. The large shield doors slide slowly slide open and a enormous brown spacecraft hovers into the hanger. As the landing gear slowly comes down the shield door closes behind the spacecraft. The craft touches down on the ground of the hanger and a rectangular prism structure lowers from the front of the spacecraft. A door opens and two Yul Ran guards wielding long spears step out. They servery the hanger for a brief moment then step aside and reveal the Ambassador of Run Thar. General Pavier of the Federation accompanied by Officer Mavis approach the Ambassador. " Ambassador, might I say what a pleasure it is to have you here on such short notice" Said General Pavier humbly " My home is in danger" The Ambassador spoke in a soft croaky voice. General Pavier nods and turns to Officer Mavis briefly and they made an awkward eye contact. "Come with us, we'll discuss this further somewhere more private" Said General Pavier General Pavier along with Officer Mavis begin to walk down the lane created by soldiers and the Ambassador along with his guards follow. Red and Murry are walking back to their quarters, both looking at the floor. When Red began shaking his head. "There's going to be a war, I know it" Says Red. "A war, How do you know this?" Murry asks. "I can just feel it, did you see the face on the ambassador, somethings not right" "How can their be a war, there hasn't been a war in years!" Exclaimed Murry. "I really do hope I'm wrong, I don't think I'm ready to fight in a war" says Red. Murry shakes his head. "I don't think any of us are ready for a war." General Pavier and Officer Mavis are standing around a table in the war room accompanied by the Ambassador and his guards who are standing on either side of the closed reinforced steel door. "Ran'thar is about to be destroyed, the council of magic have been corrupted, they've turned their powers against us, we are defenseless. We need the federations help, without it our proud race will perish" says the Ambassador. General Pavier sinks his head into his palms and turns away from the table. "A war, one this grand in my life time, never would I have thought it to be" Says the General "There's no time to ponder on warfare, please just tell me the Federation will help" The General turns back to the table and nods. "Of course! The Federation will help, we will fight in a war for the Yul'Ran, but how long do you think we have until the council begin destroying Ran'Thar? The Ambassador thinks for a moment.

The Combined Action Platoon to which I was assigned consisted of 12 Marines and one Navy Corpsman. We later described ourselves as Peace Corps workers with rifles operating as units in the countryside of I Corps outside of Da Nang Vietnam in 1970. Winning the hearts and minds was the official mantra we were told when being given an area of operation to conduct patrols, ambushes and operations to attempt to ensure that the Viet Cong and NVA not control the locals by kidnapping village chiefs and murdering them or using their terrorist tactics to convince some villages that wished to have allegiance to South Vietnam be left unmolested from their influence. As a nineteen year old Navy Corpsman, I have to admit that my knowledge of politics was minimal and our involvement in Vietnam by the late sixties was obviously a “let’s get the hell out of here,” mentality. We flashed peace signs to each other everywhere we went while hitching rides on military vehicles on Highway One, the main asphalt artery running north to south. Mainly, our platoon of Marines worked with a larger group of local militia types who were called Popular Forces.These were locals who were their National Guard (young, old and in-between) that we tried to train while living in their hometown villages in our area of operation. I was more idealistic in the beginning trying to work the civic action principles of this very different type of infantry unit. In the villages I would hold Medcaps which were basically mobile clinics. Where I set up a wooden table and chair in front of a Vietnamese home on a dusty main street while the villagers all lined up to be examined and diagnosed by me, a nineteen year old navy medic. The Vietnamese word for doctor is bacsi but they usually just called me Bacsi-Doc. A heady title for a teenage corpsman. The tedious drudgery and sometimes freakish minutes of terror in the CAPs seemed to blend into the day to day existence of never knowing when you might die or be horribly wounded as we witnessed this around us. Our Vietnamese counterparts seemed to appear to bear the brunt of this since Command had dictated a year previously that the Vietnamese had to take the lead on patrols and operations. There was always the fear of a sniper round or stepping on a booby trap while on patrol or the knowledge that the same CAP a year previously had been wiped out in an ambush while on patrol. I told a Vietnam vet friend of mine recently that my recollection of Vietnam was comprised of two words: Chaos and bullshit. Chaos being the insanity of war and bullshit being the reasons we were there in the first place. There are so many memories, many of which are blocked and repressed but will still creep up in a sweaty nightmare some forty years later. Basically I was just trying to do my job as a medical corpsman of which I had gone through much training to become. Before leaving my last duty station at Bethesda Naval Hospital near Washington, D.C.I had worked in the ER learning skills that might only be approved to be performed by medical doctors in the civilian world. After receiving orders for Vietnam the next month, I was officially designated as a Navy 8404 FMF (Fleet Marine Force) Combat Corpsman since we were now Navy personnel officially attached to Marine Corps units which I learned had one of the highest mortality rate of any military occupational specialty. When arriving in-country we attended Vietnamese Language School which was a two week course to also help us understand Vietnamese customs. We were then assigned to one of the four Combined Action Groups operating in I Corps. The Lt. Col at the completion of the course seemed to take some kind of sadistic pleasure in telling us forty corpsmen lined up that day that only fifty percent of us would be making it home. After being there a few months in the CAPs I became resigned to doing the best I could under the circumstances. One afternoon, I was told that a local farmer had sliced his hand open while in the rice paddies. He was in a nearby hamlet to where we moved that night since being a mobile CAP was now our modus operandi. This was so that the enemy would not know where we might be set up on any given night. We’d learned that the older stationary units could bring on an attack more likely from the Viet Cong. We became aware that we never knew who to really trust living among the people and could actually be living with Viet Cong sympathizers. What I learned most interestingly early on was that these poor peasant farmers and their families just wished to be left alone by both us and the Viet Cong it seemed. As the Marines I was with set up our nightly perimeter and sent out their ambush team, I entered this farmer’s humble straw made home to set up my medical bag on a rough wooden table with a kerosene lamp. I tended his wound, cleaning it with antiseptic while laying out my suture kit. I injected lidocaine to help numb the area. Using forceps and needle, I then carefully applied individual stitches along the length of the meaty part of his thumb that he had sliced open. It occurred to me that this farmer had likely never been treated by anyone in his life for anything medically related and I thought he could also very well be either Viet Cong or a sympathizer. I learned years later that the Viet Cong actually highly respected us for the humanitarian works we performed while in these CAP units and sometimes didn’t harass us because we were actually helping them in some unforetold way in this strange war nobody wanted. As I squinted in the poor light to mend this Vietnamese man’s hand, I heard a Marine who was sitting quietly nearby by say: “ Geez, Doc, where did you learn to do shit like that.

Now, I have only completed the plan/draft for the story. I'm putting it up for any feedback, whether it be the harsh truth or a supportive comment. -R.Walker Ron Walker had lived his life as a somewhat normal boy until his mid-teens when he falls desperately in love with a rather attractive foreign girl named: Adry Ekeriah. Adry was one of those girls that were very attractive but weren't all too popular among the 'cool kids' of school and very invested into her family. Being the most beautiful girl that Ron had ever laid eyes on, he instantly grew feelings for this girl and being the Ron had never loved nor been loved by anyone else before the feelings festered inside him and took him over. So for the reminder of his lat year at school, Ron failed most of his subjects and put 99% of his attention on Adry. He would send the girl flowers and cards anonymously, he saw that she smiled every time she received one his gifts so he continued to send them for some time. And although Ron failed his education, he was still smart, he knew not to go to over the top with the gifts and kept a fair distance, but close enough to keep a watchful eye on her at all time. Summer break came along and Ron made his best effort to follow Adry's every move, he would time his walks so that he purposely met Adry along the way to make small talk every once in a while. Until Ron grew a small friendship with Adry and he was invited to a party that she was going to, Ron made the mistake of accepting her invitation. Ron planned out what and how he was going to act like at this party for the the week running up to it. But come the night of the party, Ron's plan went to shit. Like always he timed his arrival perfectly so that he and Adry walk in together, Ron knew that some people would find this to be as if they were getting closer than friends. Now Ron, in a foolish attempt to impress Adry took a challenge to down as much alcohol as he could, as well as no feeling love for the first 16 years of his life, he had never been drunk either so he didn't know what his limit was either. After what Adry deemed as too much drink she intervened by retracting Ron from his glass, Ron was now incoherent so he tried to get his drink back, but not after Adry looked him in the eye and sat him down on the sofa. Before Adry could walk away, Ron grabbed her by the hand and told her that he was the one sending her gifts and admitted his love for her and started ranting on about how his mother's death and living with his Step-Father has affected him and how lucky Adry was to have a full family that cares for her, pretty much giving her his life story in drunken exaggeration. Adry then, with feelings of surprise, confusion and sympathy wrapped her arms around Ron while he returned the gesture with unknowingly, too much force. Still unfinished, but reading it back, it seems like it would make for a better TV series than a short story/book(s). Again, any feedback is appreciated - R.

Last night Everett and I went to our “icky Kroger” for a few essentials. I had planned to go alone and leave the boys with Jason, but Everett insisted. Mostly because he did not trust that a treat would end up in the bags; if he wasn’t the one pushing the cart. I conceded, but secretly was looking forward to an hour of aimless wandering without any boy noises or fighting. We pulled in about eight pm and went through our parking lot ritual of jumping over all the yellow lines. Ever’s nonstop enthusiasm and chatter lost on me; as I went over the mental list of items we needed for the week. The cart I chose was stuck to another one. This seems to happen to me more than most people. Then again, maybe I just don’t have an understanding of how the buggies all fit together. I would have moved to another one; but, at that point I felt committed. So I plastered on a smile and yanked just hard enough not to draw attention to my overflowing frustration. When I finally set my purse inside it and walked through the automatic doors I was annoyed, tired, and dead set on getting out of there as fast as I could. “Mom, Mama, Mom…” I hear it so much that sometimes I don’t respond; just to see how long they can keep it going without changing tactics. This time it was about a cookie. See, Everett knows that the bakery keeps a stand with them out for kids. Unfortunately for him, and me, they didn’t have any left at that time of night; and to his growing horror they didn’t have any donuts either. I managed to keep him distracted with the Little Debbie choices long enough to throw some bread in the cart. After only a minor melt down at the thought of Kroger brand go-gurts, we moved on. About that time is when I noticed her- Out of my hurried, grumpy haze I saw that someone was shopping the aisles with me. She was young, maybe nineteen, but it was hard to tell with the infant seat perched on the cart in front of her. She filled her basket and made her way through the store just as I did. After that, I never gave her another thought and went about finishing my chore. Now, I’m not sure what it is about the grocery checkout line that makes my children have a form of temporary insanity, but it does. They run around pressing all the switches and buttons. They touch every piece of candy on the shelf and, if I’m not watching, will end up getting some of it in the cart. This time I thought I had it beat though, because I wasn’t outnumbered. I sent Everett to pick out some bubble gum and watched as my total climbed. “I’m sorry; it’s just not going through” “Please, just try it again. I don’t know what’s wrong, it should work.” I turned to see that young mother in the lane behind me. Her panicked eyes shifting from the cart to the cash register. I watched as the card was declined again, her heart breaking with the news. The cashier was sympathetic but ready to move past the mother’s sad eyes and finish her shift. The mother looked into her cart calculating which was the most important item- milk, formula, or diapers. That’s when I heard my little boy’s voice… “My Mama’s card always works.” He told the few others in line. “Yes it does, Everett.” Was my thought as I took the card in my hand, the one I was about to swipe for my groceries, and handed it over to the other cashier. The women looked at me like I was crazy and asked if I was sure, glancing at the total. I just nodded my head and pressed the card into her hand. The mother broke down and with tears in her eyes thanked me. She took her basket and baby and went out the door saying God bless you- And I knew that he already had. Everett and I took our food and walked out to the car… This time I jumped over the yellow lines with the joy and enthusiasm that only God’s Grace can give.

I’m in a large rolling field filled with dandelions. A small path runs across the field and disappears in the hills. Like the one I used to play in as a child. Except, I’m not a child here, I’m twenty. Has it really been that long since I’ve left for the city? I guess it has. Amazing how fast and unnoticed time passes by when we’re too busy pleasing society’s expectations. Wait, how did I even get here? I don’t remember coming back here… The weather is what most people, including myself, would call the perfect weather. The sun kisses the hills with its warm rays. The wind blowing a gentle breeze through my hair and pressing my plain white T and jeans against me. Suddenly, I hear a voice in the distance. A soft voice, a female voice. It has a kind of warmness to it, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I can hear her call my name: “Charlie! Charlie!” I turn around to see where it’s coming from. Then I see her, sitting on the swing, gently swaying in the wind. She looks up and waves at me. I wave back and start walking in her direction. She’s wearing a simple white dress that goes down just above her knees. It presses against her body as the breeze blows against her, pushing her long brown hair with it. Who is this girl? I think to myself, have I met her before? I feel like I have, but can’t remember her from anywhere. Her name, it’s floating on the tip of my tongue, but doesn’t quite sink into my head. Emma? Emily? Ugh, why can’t I think of it! As I get closer I get angrier with myself for forgetting her name. I look up at the hill where she stands and I see her looking at her feet, like a shy little girl. Finally, I stand in front of her. She slides herself off the swing, and looks up at me. And all my anger, all my worries and woes, everything that has ever troubled me, disappears instantly. Suddenly I feel free, like someone just broke the shackles that kept me from being happy. The light of the sun was shining on her face. Her small thin lips wore a shy smile as her eyes looked into mine. I had never seen such beautiful eyes, full of tenderness and warmth, masked in their deep earthy green colour. It felt as if her eyes were looking not into mine, but into my soul. As if, just by looking into my eyes, she could tell who I was really. Just another lost soul searching for answers to questions it didn’t even know it was asking. Strangely, it felt like all these answers, were no longer important, because she was the answer. “Hi Charlie,” she says, smiling and holding her hands together in back of her. I immediately drop my gaze to the ground and say, “Umm. Hey.” “Isn’t it pretty, Charlie?” she’s looking out the field now, “All the dandelions, dancing in the wind to the rhythm of the wind. Dancing for us like we were their private audience.” “Ya, sure. It certainly is a beautiful site. Something great artists chase to do justice in their paintings, but can never get it just right.” “Mhm,” she nods, “it’s the things that people take for granted that are of the prettiest. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked and turns to face me again. “I guess, sure.” It really was beautiful to look at. I’m just not a very poetic guy, words escape me; when I do find the right words, I either can’t express them properly or it’s far too late. The girls gaze was disarming, and any word my brain could formulate got lost in oblivion almost instantly. She giggles, “Well, I must go now, goodbye.” She turns and walks towards the hills. “Wait!” I scream, “What’s your name?” She doesn’t stop. She just giggles again, “Goodbye Charlie.” Then she’s gone, behind the hill. I take after her, full sprint, as if my life depended on it. Everything around me starts to go dark, and cold. The dandelions dry up nearly instantly and die. They make a crunch sound under my feet, like stepping on dry hay, as I run in the mysterious girl’s direction. I finally cross the hill and she’s gone. There’s nothing in sight, just blackness, a vast oblivion at the edge of the cliff. I stop running just in time, a few more steps and over the edge I go. Bent over, my hands on my knees, I try and catch my breath. I sit down on the hill. “Fuck!” I yell, pounding my hand into the ground, “Fuck, fuck fuckity fuck!” She’s gone, I think. She’s gone. All my worries and woes, sadness, anger, stress come crashing back down onto my shoulders tenfold. The weight is too much. Like someone just dropped the world on my shoulders as Zeus did to Atlas. I start to cry. All this weight I feel I have to carry on my own. They start to crush me. Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice behind me, “You aren’t alone silly.” Startled, I jump up and trip over myself. I fall backwards. I try and grab onto something in a desperate attempt to stay on the ground, but there’s nothing to grab onto. She’s too far away to take hold of her hand. And over the edge I go, falling into the abyss... I shoot up screaming, “AH!” Breathing heavily like I just ran a marathon. Beads of sweat running down my face and back. I look around and realize I’m just home, laying in bed.

There was an elevator man who stood all day long, every day. His feet did not hurt. He didn't know if he liked his job, or if he hated it. Either way, it didn't change things. The morning had been slower than usual. The motel he worked at was wedged between two abandoned apartment buildings. It was one of those skanky little places where the rooms were unkempt and cheap, and so usually in the morning he was taking people down instead of up. Mostly they were people that had come there drunk with a loving stranger. Most of them woke up in the morning not knowing where life had led them the previous night, and were as frantic as hell to get out of there. And so he met a lot of run-down people, in the morning. A lot of half-naked people. A lot of confused, hung-over, and ashamed people, and they told him to take it down. This morning was slow. He stood. The light was gentle and the air was cold. The lights flickered, always, to a set rhythm, and he had become accustomed to it. He had composed little melodies inside of its tempo in his sleep. It was sort of a one-two-three-one-two-three dance, but not exactly in time. Like slow dancing with a corpse. He was inside of his thoughts, dancing. There was a shifting mechanical noise and the doors slid open. He was currently on the 9th floor, as he had been for most of the morning. A man quickly walked inside and pressed, “lobby”. The button lit up. The elevator man looked slightly offended. “That’s my job.”, “What?” “That’s my job, sir.” “Shut the hell up!” The man looked frantically around the confined universe of the elevator, his eyes were sunken in, he wore a disheveled blueish dress shirt. It was un-tucked in most places. Unbuttoned. His tie hung undone around his neck. They descended to the 4th floor and there was a sudden slight jolt of gravity, they stopped. “Oh Fucking Christ!..” The doors did not open. They stayed for a long time on the 4th floor. “You sure this thing’s working, pal?”, the disheveled man stammered and spoke unevenly. “I don’t know”, said the elevator man, “That’s not my job.” They stayed for a longer time. The lights flickered in shaky time. The elevator man was in his head again, waltzing clumsily with a beautiful manikin. A deceased but manipulatable elegance. He danced for a long time. The disheveled man cussed and cussed. He took out a cigarette, lit a match. “No smoking.” The disheveled man paused, looked up, lit match in hand. “Look.”, He said. “Friend.” He threw his cigarette aimlessly and slammed himself against the unopened doors. “God damn you! Fix this fucking thing! I can’t stay here I need to get out!” He started to cry. “It’s not my fucking fault, you know. She was always giving me signals. She was a whore! God damn whores! I just woke up and she’s dead. That’s right buddy you get the breaking news while it’s hot. Straight from the horses mouth, I don’t god damn care. They’re gonna take me to jail.” He slammed his fists into the door. The elevator man stopped waltzing. He pressed “lobby” The elevator started again. The man was uncontrollably sobbing, sinking to the floor. “Take me to jail! Go ahead god damn everything and my stinking fucking luck! I’m going to hell.” They reached the lobby. The doors opened and the man did not get up. A few seconds passed. The elevator man kept the door from closing. “Sir, we have arrived at the lobby floor.”, he said calm and bored. “Go to hell! Call the god damn police!” The disheveled man was rolling slowly on the floor. “That’s not my job.

Martin paused while making breakfast to accept an envelope from his wife. Betty, as he called her and as he'd called all three Betties so far, made an odd curtsy and walked backwards out of the kitchen. He removed the frying pan from the heat when smoke rose suddenly, and realized with horror that he'd been using a wooden skillet meant for display! It was an art piece, unsigned yet expensive, on loan from the museum where Betty worked as curator of collections. How foolish! He turned on the fan above the stove, and grasped the envelope. It was dusty. He turned it over in his hands to rip it open, but as he tightened his grip, the paper crumbled, revealing a letter inside. NATIONAL GOVERNMENT, it said on the letterhead. He unfolded the letter and relief washed over him when his license slid out and fell on the kitchen counter. It was him in the picture, looking quite a bit younger and sporting a dated hairstyle. "They finally send your license?" Smiling carefully, Betty walked stiffly into the kitchen. "You check the date on that?" He did, and she was right. The license was no longer valid. Betty lit a cigarette. "I keep telling ya, but you neeeeeeever listen!" She said this with fake levity. She knew he wouldn't really hear her, hadn't ever heard her, in fact, and was completely unaware of the situation. Smoke continued to rise from the smoldering wooden skillet as Marty reached for the real one, the one that was there all along, and convinced himself that he was here, standing, cooking.

Yeah, I know. I made that word up. Amnessionity. But I feel it really sums up this strange feeling. It is really hard to explain, honestly. I'll try to break it down. Stage 1 - Amnesia. I don't know who I am. I really don't recognize this life I'm living. The man I'm living with, a husband, feels like a stranger, or a roommate. I'm floating through the day, not truly feeling anything. I stare off into space, seemingly deep in thought, but no; I'm dazed - in a dense fog is more like it. Is this what a ghost feels like? This particular stage is the one that I fail to understand. I do have memories. I remember everything from the last 12 years I’ve spent with the man I love. And I do love him. And he loves me. We each work to keep our comfortable life. Our schedules oppose each other often. I’m often alone on the weekends, and I have no desire to leave my home. Which leads to stage 2. Depression. You know, depression seems like it would be a person who is extremely gloomy all the time, who says sad things, or is overtly miserable. I always thought it was like that. But instead, I am numb; it is more of a lack of feeling rather than any expression of feeling at all. The numbness spreads over me like a blanket, and I start to feel as though I will never feel again. I will never feel excited, happy, or content at the very least. I start to see why some people cause themselves pain, just so they can feel anything at all. This numbness fosters a thought process: I have no reason to feel this way. I have a happy life. Why do I feel this way? Will I feel this way forever? That fear of eternal numbness hearkens stage 3. Anxiety. A rush of thoughts floods my brain. I finally do start to feel, but the fear is worse than being numb. My chest hurts, I can't breathe. My mouth goes dry. The thoughts overload my senses. So many thoughts, or one thought that repeats over and over and over. Finally, I breathe. I'm alive. I somehow break the cycle and manage to have a normal day. Every cycle is easier to handle. Its like slowly climbing out of a pit. Every handhold gets you closer to the light, but every once in a while, a handhold crumbles; if you're lucky, as I am, you have someone who throws you a rope. One day, I'll reach the edge and climb out, look back over the pit, have a moment of absolute clarity and smile because finally - I am content.

Just to clarify, this story is going to take place in the middle of the cat's life. My caretaker walks in the door, I try to tell him hi but he just grunts and strokes me. I've always wondered what those grunts mean. Just anther mystery of the caretaker's weird behavior. He never cleans himself and he eats on a big platform, kind of like the top of my cat house. I assume the grunts are some kind of way for him to talk to other caretakers. Sometimes he comes in the door with a little black box next to his ear grunting and he does not greet me with a stroke and he just walks into his secluded area, and closes his door. When that happens I go outside to greet my friends. We talk about our caretakers and then lay in the grass for a nap. But sometimes it is very cold and white powder fills up the yard and I stay inside. On those days my caretaker wakes up and puts on lots of cloth, I assume to act as an alternative to fur coats us cats have. Then he comes back and takes his extra cloth off and sits down and watches the flat screen in the big room. He always pets me and stares at that, sometimes pressing buttons of the little grey thing. Then he goes to sleep with me on his lap. I walk away and go to my bed on the bottom of the cat house. I love my caretaker. This is my first attempt at writing a story, so it is not very good.

Frisky Astronaut There once was a frisky astronaut and his friend mike who were up in space. The frisky astronaut had not released any sexual tension since he had left earth and after 6 months it got to be too much. So one night the frisky astronaut decided that for the first time he would unload. While mike was asleep in his cot the frisky astronaut got up and went to the control room to do the deed. But what happened next no one was expecting. After a short period of time the frisky astronaut was reaching climax...he was not prepared. When the frisky astronaut opened his eyes he was amazed by the massive white, jelly-like cloud that appeared in front of him. With out thinking the spaceman swiped at his seamen trying to clean the hovering mess he had just made. The cloud burst into a million tiny droplets and flew around the control room and all over the space ship. The droplets began bouncing off walls. The frisky astronaut had to act fast, so he grabbed his space helmet. He began running around the space craft with his helmet chasing the space spunk like a young boy on the first day of summer chasing the majestic monarch butterflies To the frisky astronauts dismay the hunt for the remaining bits of the cum cloud lead his straight to mikes sleeping quarters And as the frisky astronaut peaked in the door there they were the last drops of his levitating load hovering above mikes face. Without thinking the frisky astronaut thrust the space helmet filled with his magnificent man milk over mikes head. Not knowing what he had done the frisky astronaut stood there proudly as he had cleaned up all of his his jiggling jizz. Mike on the other hand began so struggle. The frisky astronaut saw what he had done and tried to pull the helmet off of mike. But it won't budge- the frisky astronaut had slammed it on too strong there was no hope for mike All the frisky astronaut could do was watch mike struggle. Within a minute mike had met his match, and the frisky astronaut's neutralizing nut had killed mike.

Creature on the mount In my home upon the mountain of Araj, there are many trails and paths that people travel. My house stands as a way point for the wary; a place that they can lay their heads and drink when their travels become too much to bear. Every time they come I ask them about their travels- things they have seen. Most of them are there visiting from other continents-North America, Europe. They tell me of their love for Araj. The trees so green and fair, the air clearer than anything they ever experienced. Yes the mountain is beautiful and I’ve dwelled here for many years, but sadly due to my old age, have never been to the top. I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever make it. If I’ll ever witness the same beauty that my visitors have done so many times before me. Strangely one day a man came to my home. He was alone with no pack on his back or shoes on his feet. Trapped in a daze, he stumbled past my home nearly falling from the cliffs. I grabbed him and led him to a bed to rest. He twitched and writhed, mumbling about strange things, whispers of knowledge and wisdom being spoken through the mist at the top of the mountain, clothed figures sleuthing about between the trees. IN an out of consciousness he went until finally he drifted off to sleep. The following morning he awoke and knew of nothing that he had spoke about. I asked him many times but he apologized and said he could not remember. I bid him farewell and he departed. Some weeks later I found more travelers descending from the mountain trails, lost in their thoughts, unable to speak in their native tongues. Each of them spoke of things lurking at the top of this mount. A beast with many layers of hair preaching inconceivable messages about the universe and the realm of which we inhabit, acolytes at its side with masked faces and strange bodies. Of course I questioned them the following morning but they too were oblivious to their own words. More months passed by and the instances of this phenomenon became too frequent for me to ignore. With my rooms filling up nightly of people with minds plagued with delusion, I finally decided to see for myself what was at the top of mount Araj. Late in the night, when the moon was at its fullest, I left my home, packed for a days journey. I made my way up through the rocky and steep trails, sometimes having to veer off the path to climb higher, upon uneven sets of rock and timber. The further up I reached the more I noticed that the animals of the night were no longer hooting, crying, or scampering through the bush. Crickets were absent as well, creating a stale and unsettling silence in the moonlit air. Finally I reached a pathway that seemed to differ from the one that I was on. More paved and cared for, I followed it. It led me to a cave nestled conveniently in the side of the mount. I entered it, going against my better judgment. I felt my way through the dark, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, hoping to not fall down dark hole. And as I made my way through, I began to hear the echoes of strange chants rising throughout the cave. Up ahead, the dim light of a fire burned brightly, giving way to strange shadows jumping against the cavern walls, going in and out. Afraid as I was, my heart raced with a peculiar anticipation. I needed to find out what was happening-what crazed abominations lurked within. I hid around a corner, just out of sight, listening intently. I could understand nothing that was being said. It was as if the figure speaking was not using its tongue but some other method. The sounds it made started to blend together and I felt as if my mind was being swished about. Unable to take any more of it, I lunged around and confronted the mysterious beings face to face. At this point in time I must inform you that I can vaguely recall the events that transpired and to tell the truth, I’m not sure if I ever will fully remember them. Strange isn’t it. Once I turned the corner I saw a tall beast; long legged, man-like, lengthy strands of dirty brown hair, matted on like a rug of poor quality. A strange garment of green and black was laid upon his back and he looked at me as if we were familiar at some point in life. His hands were raised up high, preaching to a small group of people that I had seen go up the mountain earlier that day. Figures dressed in black grabbed me by the arm and sat me down with them. The audience of travelers did not flinch, or even give acknowledgment to my presence. The beast continued his message, preaching over the strange fire that sparked with blue and violet. I looked at him with innocent eyes and mind, frightened and bewildered. Then, his mouthing changed and I could understand every word- every syllable he was pronouncing unto us. I cannot remember what it was he was saying exactly but I do recall the feeling. It was like I was entering a dream of unparalleled knowledge. I felt that the world was opened up and had swallowed my former self into it. The stars, the galaxies, the universe-it all made sense. Nature, life, death, there was nothing I was ignorant of any longer. As his message went on I remember a white light blinding me then waking up in my home unable to remember a thing. It wasn't until after a few weeks that I was able to recall even the slightest detail. And still, I struggle with the reality of what happened there. Often, I look up the trail of mount Araj and convince myself that I will return to the cavern one day but I know I probably will not. To be honest, I am afraid of that creature and its strange words. Man is not meant to know such things and it is clear that our brains will not let us retain it. I have now blocked my home from any more travelers. I wish to see them no more. These last days of my old life I will spend seeking a form of peace for my soul. Maybe leave the mountain once and for all. I am not sure..I am not sure.

I wrote this as a response to a writing prompt and went too far off topic to respond with. I don't write that much and this is really a first draft, so here goes nothing. “I’ll be waiting for you.” Rebecca died on January 5, 2157. She had red hair and green eyes. She was beautiful, even after the food ran out and the skin stretched over our bones and our muscles began to waste away. I remember that my voice became scratchy and hoarse but hers always seemed sweet and strong up to her last words. She didn’t smile but I pretend she was. I want her to have been happy to die. We said we would be, that it had been too long for us. I met Rebecca 30 years before she died. Neither of us knew the real date, so we just guessed. There was snow, so she decided that it was Christmas. I said it was romantic of her to say that. She gripped my hand and pulled me toward her. It didn’t seem right to say we made love because I don’t think we loved each other. I needed her. She needed me. The last person I knew finally died 10 years before that. I don’t remember what she looked like. We didn’t love each other either but we still had sex. I don’t know if it was lust or just a desperate plea for a baby to come. Thousands of years of evolution told us that we couldn’t be the last ones. We had to try. We gave up hope, but we didn’t give up. Rebecca was kind. She said she had traveled with a group of women from town to town, scavenging for food. The last of them had died quite some time ago. I kept track of years, if not days. She only marked seasons. The sex seemed like pure instinct. There was no courtship, no flirting. We kissed a little, but mostly we just looked into the other’s eyes, felt each other move, drinking in every part of the other person. After we held each other tightly. I cried. She didn’t, but she understood. We were it. Now I was it. I didn’t believe she had died. I had gone so long without death that I couldn’t understand. I was like a child whose puppy had just been run over who didn’t understand why he wasn’t moving. I hadn’t lost anything in so long, because I thought I had nothing. I was alone now. I had thought I was alone before I met Rebecca, but I had still had hope then. I wandered, looking for another survivor for years. Something always kept me moving, some feeling deep inside me that there was still someone to find. Rebecca told me that she had felt the same thing. We stopped looking after we found each other. Now I realized that the feeling was gone. There was no one left. And so the last immortal waited to die. I buried her in a field and surrounded her grave with flowers. We had been living in a house in Iowa. We tried living in mansions and penthouses before but it didn’t seem right. We had never been rich and we certainly weren’t now. We had nothing but each other. So we played house. I tried to farm, she tried to cook what little I could grow, and we both tried to make babies. I counted the times that I saw Rebecca smile. She told me once that she used to smile constantly. I asked her why she didn’t anymore. She said she only smiled now when there was something to be happy about. I said that I did too, that’s why I smiled every time I saw her. She smiled then. It was the fourth time. There were only three more times before she died. I did love her. Fuck Why Why why There is no one else. No one. Why am I the last? Is this my punishment? Did I make God angry? Fuck you god, I’m not even going to capitalize your name you piece of shit. I don’t even believe in you you vengeful fuck. Why make me love her? Just to take her away? Does this give you some kind of sick pleasure, are you jerking off watching this? Well I hope you enjoyed it because it’s over now. I’m going to sit here on her grave until you’re bored. I won’t cry. I haven’t cried. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t really love her. But I know that’s a lie. I want to hurt something. I want to fight or kill but there is nothing left. I can’t even take vengeance on some ants or a mosquito. It’s so quiet. Why is she dead? Why is anyone dead? There’s no illness, no warning, no time limit; one day you just collapse. Hopefully someone is nearby to hold you and comfort you in your last moments. I don’t even get that. When I die I’ll look into the void and tell it to fuck itself. You got that god? I don’t know what your problem is. *** I came back. It’s been a while. I’m not sure how long. A wall caved in on the side of the house. There was probably a storm. The field still has the flowers. I haven’t seen flowers anywhere else. Why are they here? I had put up a cross made of sticks and carved her name into it to mark her spot. Just Rebecca, I didn’t know her last name. It never came up. The cross was still standing. The house was collapsing but these little sticks were still here. I stared for a long time. I touched her name. I remembered her face. One summer I managed to make some potatoes grow. We ate well for more than a month. We looked human for a while. The face I remember was the one when she died. I had forgotten even that for so long. I laid down on my back, my head pressed to her cross and cried. The tears blurred my vision of the grey sky. I sobbed, remembering what I had lost. I had tried so hard to forget. Then I came back. There’s no forgetting when there’s nothing to replace the memories. It began to rain. My tears washed away. I closed my eyes and felt the drops on my face. I remembered from before everything, when I was with a girl in the rain. I don’t know what she looked like. I remember pushing the hair from her face and kissing her as the rain came down, washing everything away. There was no time at all. I opened my eyes. The rain continued but I couldn’t feel it. There was a warmth in me, coating every cell in me with a calm. I think I could move but didn’t want to. I took a breath. It was finally time. I smiled. She was waiting.

Part One: Where did she come from? I kept asking myself, as the night transpired before me, and the wind shook me to my core: I was lost deep in my own thoughts - and where is it that we are going? Standing on the balcony, our figures, illuminated by the curling smoke and dawn of an early sunrise; all I could feel was my body shaking. I can remember my body shaking. I can remember the passionate evocation of my sense’s coming alive: the mindset, you exist in, where dreams become an ungraspable experience, and there’s nothing left but thoughts of the life you planned to live. Sometimes I think plans are only a way to measure what you’ve failed to accomplish. I’m a person who embraces entropy when it presents it’s self - maybe that’s why I liked her so much. She was the muse that inspired my inner turmoil. A state of disarray I was all to welcoming too be embraced by; she was like stepping into a wild fire to stay warm under a winter sky. The flame was excessive, but necessary. The idea of living an ordered life intimidates me; wearing a suit, going to work, coming home, and succumbing to the monotonous daily rituals, I see so many people plagued by. Maybe that’s what makes most people happy? I don’t believe in being most people, and even if I did, aren’t most people not happy? I’m not sure if I can be convinced at this point. I don’t think I’ve experienced enough of the world to sell my soul to capitalism, and buy into the machine that cranked me out. But would coming home to entropy while living in monotony create the balance I’ve been looking for? I think I’ll call her entropy, I like that - I think she likes being my entropy. This story needs a backdrop, and this painting needs a wall. I had a friend, a good friend, with a name I care not to mention. Some time ago we parted ways. But long before that time, we were brave; maybe not so brave, seeing as we dulled the strains of reality with our endeavors into the realm of metaphysics. It was always a trip. But a trip leads to a fall, and a fall leads to pain - which is less welcomed when you awake in the morning. Evening gave birth, to the early dawn, and the rise of the sun: I was already awake. Not by any choice of my own. I had watched her engage in the spirit of enlightenment, far beyond that which I believed she could bare, and being the chivalrous man my mother raised, I could not sleep knowing her equilibrium was disturbed - knowing a dark spirit loomed above her head. I watched her sleep that night. She was sick, plagued not by an anatomical pathogen, but by a confliction of spirit. I sat by her bed all night - hoping, or wishing, I could fight that battle for her. Knowing I couldn’t brought a sense of deprivation. With the light of a new day, brought the life of a new spirit, as I watched her rise from her folds, I couldn’t help but feel so alone. I couldn’t help but say her name in vein, wishing or hoping, that out of those folds, would rise a women that new decisiveness, that new where her fate lye.

Caleb and I went on the see-saw. He pushed his feet upwards while mine touched the ground. Then it was my turn to float and his feet landed on the ground. Up, down. Up down. Up, down. The see-saw creaked rythmatically, matching our up-down patterns. Eventually, my legs became tired and I stood up to stretch. The see-saw gave a long creak, as though it was sighing in relief as a heavy load has been taken away. Caleb watched as I walked towards the swings. He smirked while watching my struggle to swing up higher. Frustrated, I called out to him. “Rather than watch me awkwardly push myself higher, why don't you help me out?” He shrugged and walked over to me. From behind me, he gave me a soft, slow push. Then another, but this time a harder push. And eventually, my feet were way too high above the ground. “Stop, stop, STOP! Caleb, stop it!” I begged him but instead of coming to my rescue, he laughed cheekily. “Weren't you the one who wanted to reach for the sky? I was just helping you achieve your dreams.” He cheekily said as he grabbed the side of the rope attached to the swing. The swing slowed down but my heartbeat coninued to race both from the adrenaline and sadness. Caleb sat on the swing next to mine and pushed himself back and forth slowly with his feet. He seemed rather calm, happy even. As for me, I was absolutely heartbroken. “How can you still look so happy?” I asked. He didn't reply me, silently swinging himself to the front then to the back. Caleb and I go way back in the days while I was still in diapers. We've watched each other grow up- attended tea parties (so much regret) and have sleepovers in my room... No, it's not that sort of sleepover. We were more than childhood best friends, but not even close to being boyfriend and girlfriend. Because it was impossible. While we were still kids, our parents came up with “Caleb and Megan, the Cheeky Duo”. But as I grew up, Caleb seemed to be a nuisane to them. “You're sixteen, Megan. Two more years to college and you're still playing children games with 'Caleb'. Don't you think it's time to leave your childhood and start acting maturely?” Normally, I'd just roll my eyes and ignore them while Caleb and I mocked the desperate statuses girls posted, begging for guys to like them, or pictures of the people from my school getting drunk and high from parties. My parents should be glad I wasn't involved with that sort of thing. But last night, Caleb said something that literally broke my heart and left me confused, angry and sad. “You know... they're right,” he suddenly says. “Hmm?” I replied, absently flipping through an old magazine. “I think it's time you ditched me.” At first, I thought he was just kidding around. “Mmhmm, go ahead then. The door's just right there.” He was silent for a moment, and finally said it. “I think it's time for me to go. It's time for you to grow up.” I literally chased him out of my room after that. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks, unbelieving his words. He looked so serious, so mature, so... grown up. I never expected that from him. Never in a million years would I have thought that Caleb, of all the people around me, would be the one to tell me to grow up. Out of all the “Grow up!” statements I have ever been given, his was the one that affected me most. I skipped dinner and cried myself to sleep. I woke up with blotchy red eyes and a tear-stained face. And here we are again, at the playground where we first met, first talked, first became best friends. Nothing much has changed, except some trees seem to have grown bigger while others have been chopped down a couple years ago. The sandpit is still sandy and filled with earthworms while the paint of the benches has started to chip off. But the biggest change was of me and Caleb. We're teens now. We're big children. We can't go down the slides anymore because of our wide hips. The see-saw sometimes tend to give a warning creak of not being able to sustain our weight for long- it normally happens after I come home from a buffet. “It's not fair. Just because everything else is changing, why should we? Is our friendship harming anyone else? Why can't we continue being besties and grow old together?” I asked, my lips quivering slightly. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh and says, “I guess it's because nothing lasts forever.” I was about to ask him about what he meant by that but he continued: “Childhood isn't forever. Each and everyday, you slowly grow up and start to step forward to teen life, and eventually adulthood. There comes a point when even the most beautiful rose in the garden will eventually die.” “Love? You can love someone for a long, long time. But it's not forever. Because one day, when both husband and wife are no longer in this world, the love won't be there anymore. Who is there for them to love when they're both dead? And I can't be here forever. You know it, I know it. We both knew all along that this day would come. We just didn't want it to. But now, it's time.” He turned to look at me, wanting to say more, but stops himself when he sees me cry. I cried because he was right; because he had to leave; because life was unfair. I cried because without him, it wouldn't be the same anymore. “Megan...” he calls my name and I start to bawl. Yes, I'm sixteen but I didn't care because at that time, I felt like I was six, as though someone had taken away my favorite teddy bear. Except this time, it was my friend who will be taken away from my life. “But... But if you go...” I sobbed. “I'll be all alone. Who do I go to when no one will listen to my problems. Who's going to laugh with me at those terrible duckface selfies the girls from school take? Who's going to lend me a shoulder to cry on when the guy I have a crush on calls me weird and rejects me?” “Megan, if I keep staying here with you, I'll be destroying your future. Face it, Megan. All this while, you've only been talking to air.” Those words hit me hard and brought me back to reality. He's right. I never thought I would admit it, but it was the truth. In my eyes, Caleb was there. But everyone else would search high and low and give me strange looks when I talk to him. Because in their eyes, there was no 'Caleb' but air. This crazy girl was talking to space, all by herself. “I have to go, we both know its for the best. If I stay, you'll never get married, no job, friendless. Just invisible me.” I pouted. “I don't need all that when I have you.” I stubbornly argued. He rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed. “Megan, I have to. Haven't you heard of the phrase 'You lose some, you gain some'? It means, when I'm gone, you'll get so much more. New friends, a boyfriend, a place in university. So give me up, for both our sakes.” “Then what about you? What would you get?” It couldn't just be for me. What would he do when he's all alone? What will he gain from losing me? But he smiles and says “I'll be happy. If you're happy, then I'm happy too.” I was touched. He was willing to do that all, for me? Was it really worth it? But there wasn't a choice for me to choose because all that's left to do was to let go and say goodbye. I teared up thinking about it and he gives me a warm, long hug. “Will you visit me every now and then?” “I can't promise you on that. But it all depends on you too because if you stop thinking about me, I'll eventually disappear. Not that it'd make much of a difference.” I clicked my tongue. “It's a lot for me,” I said bitterly. He smiles and hugs me once more, for the last time. “What would I do without you?” I asked. “You can move on, live your life the way you want to. I'm just your imaginary friend.” “You're not just an imaginary friend. You're my best friend.” My eyes started to tearing up again when I said it. “And you mine,” he said and kisses my forehead. “I'll still be near, I promise you. You won't see me anymore, but just remember that I was and will forever be in your memories and heart.” “I'll never forget you,” I swore and he kisses me again, this time on the cheek. We turned our backs against each other. Once I step out of this playground, back to my home, Caleb won't be there anymore. I turned around and he did the same. We whispered “I love you” and the wind carried our voices to each other. Finally, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

She wondered if Will would be OK with her dropping in like that. She hadn't seen her brother on months, and now she had to. Not that they had a complicated relationship with him, but rather that he had a complicated relationship with life. Right after rehab, he had moved way down south, and would visit only rarely, not even keeping up with holidays, our even calling for birthdays. But now she needed him, and even when she had good friends back home, she couldn't trust no one more than she trusted her brother. She wouldn't miss anybody. She was actually happy, because she would be now closer to her family, closer to her parents and childhood friends, who lived two towns over from her brother. Moving had never costed her much, but she knew that soon she would have to stop. Closing down the shelter had been the hardest part. Leaving Lucy behind not fully recovered, a very small Border Collie that had only been brought to her a week previous, really bugged her. Undoubtedly, she would open a shelter wherever she was going, as she always had, in every town she'd live in. This time would be no different. She had been long in the road now, more than half an hour away of the last gas station, and about six hours away from home. she was driving with her lights out, a mon so bright that she didn't need any to even see the horizon. There were no clouds, a full, close harvest moon, and the glow of the road. She would turn the lights when she spot a car, but this hadn't happened for over an hour. Even the station had been close, and she had helped herself and then passed through an envelope with the money under the door. The desert road streched curveless for about 400 kms with no town our settlement, across a landscape so monotonous and boring, that way over half the accidents reported had been attributed to people falling asleep on the wheel. "it looks like God slashed it with a samurai sword" Tom had said, when she showed him in the map where they would go through next. Now he slept, over the luggage, the back seats retracted so that he would sleep fully layed down. She had been in an accident, a long time ago, and was uneasy about her or anybody traveling without a seat belt, let alone laying down, but she knew this was a low transited road, and that if Tommy was sleeping in the back seat, she would never fall asleep. "Mom I want to pee". Said Tom's sleepy voice from the back seat. "Of course, I need a strech" She pulled over, killed the engine and left the lights on, and they both went into the night. She walked around a bit. Tom was taking too long now. She wasn't worried as much as curious, since the kid was a bit of an explorer, and always went out of his way for rocks, plants and insects he had never seen. "Tom?" She said simply, letting him now with that that they should keep going now. "Come here, please" her son requested. She tracked his voice and found him bent over something on the floor. "I think it's dying". She moved towards him. A wolf cub layed on the floor, eyes closed, breathing heavily through his mouth. He didn't say anything else. He knew he didn't need to. Over the course of his short life, he had had close to a dozen pets, all stray dogs and cats. Her mother would nourish them, feed them, take them to good health, and then find them families. Their apartment was too small, so they couldn't keep them, but any animal in distress would be rescued, his mother being unable to let anything suffer. "Okay, go to the car, take some cardboard and prepare a bed so that if he pisses himself, he doesn't stain our clothes." She was in the process of lifting him up, when she heard a growl, too close by not to be worrisome. She lifted her head and saw the mother of the cub, looking at her, staring at her. Both mothers stood in the desert, measuring each other, without moving, conscious only of each other and of their breaths. Tom came back, too fast for her to stop him. "Mom, it's rea..." She held him back, protected him, covered him with her body. And that, the wolf saw. Ears down, resting tail, she moved, ever very gently, towards her cub, resting in the woman's arms. She knelt down and showed her the cub. The snout sniffed eagerly, and sensed that the little creature was still moving. The wolf stared at the woman, a desperate plea in her eyes. "Come" she said, and went back to the car. Slowly, unsure of itself, keeping its distance, the wolf followed them. She tooked her toolbox out and examined the cub. She was amazed at how much close the dogs to these animals still were. Everything was the same, absolutely everything. She didn't took too long to find out the probable cause for the suffering. The cub was in cetosis, his body was consuming his little body, hungering away. She looked at the mother, and noticed for the first time that its ears were too long. "Feed the wolf, tom, give him our sandwiches" Tom went to the front seat and took out all the food he had. The wolf adeptly ate what she was given, and stayed back. "Mom, can the puppy eat?" "No, not yet". She tried to feed him with some liquid nutrient phials she found, but she knew this wouldn't be enough. For a long time, they stayed there, by the road, waiting. For a long time, both the kid and the wolf left the woman alone. "Okay, I'm ready" "He'll live?" "I don't know. We have to wait." They stayed the night. Mother and son rested inside the car, and the wolf and its cub rested by the car, in the middle of the night. The blazing sun woke them up, hot as ever in the desert, and they heard the puppy howling faintly. Tom gve a sigh of relief, and chanted victory, but stopped when he saw her mother's seriousness: "If he stays, he dies". "Then we have to take him with us, mum. We have to." "No, Tom. He has his mother. We can't take him away. We have to leave him here." "But he dies." "I know." She took some food out of the car, and left it by the wolfs. She then proceed to pack everything. All was ready, they were about to leave. Tom was crying, and crying hard. Her mother asked him to go into the car, and he did as he was told, as he sobbed and excused himself for not being able to stop his sobbing. She was already seated, seat belt on, engine started, trying not to look back, when the wolf caught her eye: Big, enormous, it was standing over the door, scratching the door and the window, with the puppy hanging by the neck in its snout. She opened the door, and the wolf gently left the puppy on her lap. "What is it?" asked Tom, and didn't insist, because he knew that something was happening, and that he had no part. Both women were staring into each other's eyes, and a favor was being asked. A favor and a promise. She stepped down, open the trunk, and took all the food she found. She had to take the luggage away, and then put it back, but everything they had to eat, she gave it to the wolf. They'd shortly be home again, albeit a new one, and they wouldn't starve. The morning sun was already quite high when she started the car again, and the temperature had rise close to it's peak. The wolf stayed by the food, and, cub in her lap, she moved the car a bit forward. Through the rear mirror, she was staring at the wolf, that did nothing. She moved a bit forward, and the wolf didn't move. She was hoping that it would, that it was a mistake. She was hoping that what she thought it meant was not for her to take the kid away. But it was all too clear that this was precisely what it was. She sped up as fast as she could, watching the wolf through the mirror, trying to leave the night behind. When the wolf was a tiny little spot, she heard its howl. The little cub still with his closed eyes, stood up shaking. And still with his eyes closed, howled back.

Starlight shines across the barren, bleak, and broken ground. A cold wind rushes across the endless landscape. Sheltered in the crevice of a broken boulder a lone figure stirs beneath a tattered blanket. The rustle of the blanket as it slides off while the figure stands is barely audible over the whistling of the wind as it strains to gain entrance to the sheltering crevice. The loose leather wraps and tattered clothing leave the figure’s form indistinguishable. A tight-wrapped mask with large, bronze rimmed lenses covers its face. The hands swiftly grasp and whip the tattered blanket around, and it settles onto the figure as a cloak; the hood shrouding the mask from what little light the stars provide. As the cloaked figure steps out into the barren world, the clawing winds reach through the cloak held tight, and shivers run beneath the leather and cloth. The head turns towards the brightest star in the heavens and the figure sets forth, keeping the star to its left. Time passes, marked only by the crunching of dirt and puff of dust as the figure presses onward. Each booted foot causes the broken crust of the earth to crumble and whisk away with the wind. The head turns and the course changes, always to ensure that the brightest star remained to the left. The shivers from the biting winds are as relentless as the cloaked figure’s march. Step by step, the figure moves onward. The only telling passage of time is the ever-blowing wind and dust being whisked away with each step. After an uncountable number of steps, a faint form appears on the horizon. Step by step, puff by puff, the figure moves inexorably towards the distant object. \* \* \* \* \* 0 \* \* \* \* \* As the cloaked figure draws near, the once distant object is revealed to be a large boulder. The bronze-rimmed lenses come to gaze upon the stone for many moments, despite the bitter wind. Slowly, the figure steps up to the stone sphere and rests its forehead and right hand against the smooth stone. The fingers curl slightly and a faint, star-like glow emanates from the hand. A sharp ***crack*** echoes across the barren land as the great rock is split, leaving a sheltering crevice. The figure steps in and lays down the cloak and wraps itself inside. Gradually, the shivering fades away to stillness, leaving only the whistling wind to tell the passage of time until the journey resumes. \* \* \* \* \* 1 \* \* \* \* \* As the cloaked figure draws near, the outline of the object becomes clear. A tall, unmarked obelisk with five equal sides stands tribute to a distant age. It puts its hands upon one of the smooth, unmarked facets. The cloak flutters, and it waits. The stars shine in the sky, and it waits. Dust swirls, and it waits. The wind blows strong, until, at long last, there’s a change. A faint, violet light, centered on the hands, begins to glow. The dust blows in the wind, but the cloak stops fluttering. Violet light brightens to the shine of the long lost sun, leaving a long shadow behind the cloaked figure. And then, nothing. No light, no figure, just the obelisk and the wind.

Time is an unfair concept that we all must abide by. Two weeks ago they were fighting over the last little bit of coffee in the pot. They were laughing at people walking down the street. Two weeks ago they were crying. Two weeks ago they were laughing. Two weeks ago they were scraping together money to pay the rent. Two weeks ago. Fourteen days. And now, she couldn't even talk, she couldn't make eye contact, and she couldn't move. All I wanted to do was pick her up. All I wanted to do was take her to grocery store. I wanted her shitty spaghetti, which was always overcooked, stringy, and cheap. I wanted to laugh at her lack of knowledge of the things that were real, tangible, physical, and in turn her extensive knowledge of the things she created out of thin air -- the most beautiful delusions you could ever imagine. But they were hers, and she shared them with me. She chose me. She was wild, and she was all mine. Even at this very moment: she was all mine. She was thinner now. Translucent. Her veins were colorful and intricate and ran up and down her arms, and ran up and down her legs and all wound up into her brain. They looked like a map. They looked like a bad calculation on a graph. None of it made sense to me. They were irrational. Her hospital gown was paper thin, and it seemed to suit her just fine. Her eyes glazed and off-distance, into the corner of the ceiling, hair matted with sweat and humidity, her face as pale as the lined paper from a notebook. Tubes were feeding her oxygen, drips of saline; a catheter. She never looked lovelier. The machine behind us reminded me that she was still alive. I knelt forward and kissed her forehead. I placed my head on her chest and reassured myself she was still alive.

Any feedback is welcomed. Thanks. Turtle Falls For the entire summer, Trip and Justin, Pastor Chesnutt’s son, had been inseparable. They spent most of the summer riding their bicycles all around town, absorbing every second of the free time they had before they would start high school in the fall. With baseball cards attached to their bikes with clothespins, they rattled through trails and side roads to Turtle Falls. This local swimming hole was where most adolescents in the town spent their afternoons. It was large rock waterfall with a face the shape of an eagle’s beak. The water swiftly spilled over into a small swimming pool beneath where those not adventurous enough to slide down the falls could swim. It was there Trip and Justin would chew tobacco bought for them by upperclassmen and pester Justin’s older sister and her friends while they sunbathed on the boulders adjacent to the water. May Chesnutt was a year and a half older than the boys and known for her dark red hair and pale face that, perhaps because of her remaining baby fat, kept the older boys waiting eagerly for the day her appearance caught up with matured body. Earlier that summer May had lingered a little too long before hugging Trip goodbye and he found it odd but he always ignored any thought of affection because of Justin’s protective nature to his sister. After causing trouble under the radar of their parents throughout June and July, their days of mischief came to a close the week before school began. Since the arrival of Pastor Chesnutt to the church, the pastor had been planning a construction based mission trip to Big Ridge, Texas and required his son Justin to attend. Trip’s parents, however, did not make him go. While they would have loved to have seen signs of interest in their son for church activities, not having to pay the $800 dollars for the mission was a bit of a relief to them. The final day before Justin was to depart the boys sat on the bank of the creek atop the waterfall with a cheek full of smokeless tobacco. “You ready for your trip?” Trip asked. After spitting Justin responded, “I guess so. It’s bullshit that I have to go, Dad wore my ass out the other night.” “No shit, why’d he do that?” “I told him I wasn’t going on no damn mission trip, and that I didn’t give a shit about spending a week in Texas.” “You said all that?” replied Trip with amazement. “Verbatim.” “You know your daddy’s a pastor, right?” “I don’t care. I mean, the lickin’ hurt, but I don’t want to spend my last week of summer fixing up shitty houses. And you know what the worst part is?” “What?” “He told me if I kept on using those words and having a bad attitude I’d be spending my future time in a place a whole lot worse than Texas.” “Damn,” Trip replied. There was a long pause between the two. They sat for a little bit longer, spat out their tobacco, and then both slid down the falls. During Justin’s week away, Trip spent most of his time doing yard work for his grandparents and helping his mother, the church secretary, with stuff weekly bulletins for the Sunday service. It was a mundane final week of summer, but he had at least managed to make back the money he had spent over the last few months. The following Monday was the first day of school and, after getting off the bus, he spotted Justin by the entrance of the auditorium reading his bible. “Why are you reading that in public?” he asked. “Brother Trip, it’s so good to see you again, as you can see I’m receiving my daily bread.” Justin said with a grin on his face. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Trip replied. Justin smiled and rolled his eyes, “Man cannot live on bread alone, you know. I am feeding on the word of Christ before beginning my day. I learned all about it on the trip. It really was a great time. I wish you could have gone.” “Sounds great, we ridin’ out to the falls today or what?” Trip asked. “I don’t really want to go out there anymore. I’ve been revived. You ought to think twice about going out there and enjoying those worldly things too much. We’re having a study at my house. You should come over there instead.” “My ass! We were out there just last week, and you ain’t better than it. I don’t want to come to any bible study. I just got Steve Thurman to buy me some Red Man. Quit this and come have some fun before it gets too cold,” Trip said. Justin gathered a sincere look on his face. “There are other ways to have fun without abusing your body, Trip. I’m just concerned about your salvation. If you’re not careful, you could wind up in a place a lot worse that Turtle Falls.” “Yeah, well I’ll meet you there then and you can give me a tour. Enjoy your bread, asshole.” Trip walked with a frustrated scowl on his face. He was so angry that his nose began to feel as if it were buzzing red. As he rounded the corner to the staircase that led to the freshman hallway he bumped into May. She greeted him with a hug and asked how his last week of summer was. He couldn’t answer and just stared at her chubby face. Finally Trip replied very plainly “I’ll be at Turtle Falls after school.” There was a second or so of silence that left May with a confused look until Trip gently pushed her back into the staircase and kissed her with his hand on her behind.

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.

Anything is Possible…Not As a child you are told, anything is possible, if you put your mind to it. As we grow older, we realize that is not always the case. Everyone has life goals, yet a very low percentage accomplish their life goals. When children think of life goals, they think of some really outrageous stuff. “I wanna be an astronaut! I wanna be an ice cream man! No wait! I wanna be a ice cream man in space!” according to Christopher Titus, a comedy central comedian, was his life goal. Do I have life goals? Of course I do, I just try to keep them simple and realistic. I have two short life goals, and two long term goals. Short-term goals consist of things that you could possibly do everyday. Where as long-term goals take time, and preparation. First of all my short term goals, to many people they might seem childish, and simple minded. However a goal is a goal regardless of how small the goal might be. One goal of mine is to write a letter to someone from a different state. As I stated before yes, its a small pointless goal but none the less it is a goal. Whenever I get mail in my mail box I get excited, though most of the time it is a bill. I enjoy receiving mail though, and I think having a penpal of some sort would be a great experience. A second life goal I have, is traveling back to Madison Wisconsin. I enjoy it so much out there, the city is surrounded by water, the people are so active and lively, the school looks great. I do have a little biased in this goal though, another reason I like Wisconsin so much is because there is an amazing girl there who has seemed to put a spell on me, so to speak. Honestly though I do like the city of Madison, WI. The roads get to be a little confusing, but I have most of the roads memorized now, because the number of times I got lost. Over all though I’m looking to go back, and the first chance I get, I’m going. Now on to long term life goals, how exciting. My number one life goal is to become a Detective on a police force. As I stated before, kids have really outrageous goals, My outrageous goal is to be a Detective. I did not always wanted to be a Detective though, it sort of just morphed into being a Detective. Which is an interesting thing about “goals” they change, they are always altering into something new. Before I rationalized to be a Detective, I wanted to be a Bounty Hunter. Outrageous. My other long-term goal is to travel to Japan. I have always been interested in Japan since I was about seven years old. As the years progressed, I learned Japanese culture, I studied Japanese, and watched Japanese shows. To me they’re a most fascinating culture. When they commit to do something, they do it. No matter how long it takes, they continue, and continue. Goals, are important to life, they give people purpose to live on this dying rock. Without goals, there is no point to live. Humans need motivation, something to strive for. Goals are outrageous, simple, and at times infeasible. I believe I can accomplish my goals, of writing a letter to someone out of my state, traveling to Madison WI, becoming a Detective, and traveling to Japan. Those may take time but, anything is possible, if you put your mind to it… Not.

Time flows from present, to past, to future. At least that’s what I thought. It’s the funniest thing, that lately, I’ve been forgetting myself. There’s a sense in which I’ve found myself many nights chasing my own shadow, looking for any reflection of my own reality in the crevices of a mirror of isolation. Some nights it makes me think, you ever think other people could think you out of existence? Perhaps it is man’s connection with his fellow man that makes him who he is, and that his deprivation from everyone casts doubt upon his own being. It is how I’ve felt lately. Riding the crowded subways. Seeing the faces plastered to this artificial reality, this portal into their digital selves embedded in these phones. It’s as if they’ve chosen to disconnect to this world, and connect into a more socially approved one. A world without outsiders. A world that’s safe. I don’t know, I’ve just been forgetting myself lately. I could have sworn that I saw the clock hit 3 twice. Twice in a row. How does that happen? It seems like the hours seem to pass into days. Another day, closer to the grave, and I swear I couldn’t even remember it. One day I found myself looking at myself in the mirror brushing my teeth, and I could’ve sworn I had already done it that day. The exact same brush strokes. The exact same pattern. Everything. Looking at my watch at my office job – looking at the clock and time meandering down the path to a creeping death. Silence. Nobody speaks to me at my job. I’ve been forgetting myself lately, looking at that clock tick by to my final moments. You know, theoretically, if a photon could exceed the speed of light, it would travel back in time. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Time travel. I’ve just been forgetting myself. It’s like I used to have this vague sense of continuity. It’s like I knew who I was, or what I was. There was some sense of purpose. It just seems gone now. I was in the shower the other day and I dropped my bar of soap, and I could’ve sworn I did that before. It slipped from my hand, and in an ephemeral moment it seemed frozen in time. I knelt down and looked at that bar of soap. I could’ve sworn this happened before. It’s like I’ve been here before. Waking up and going to my job, eating my breakfast, and searching in the mirror for any reflection, finding only nothing. I have to go back, but I’ve just been forgetting myself. It seems as the days went by, I went back, and back, and back. The same events replaying in exactly the same way a thousand times, like the stream of time ebbing and flowing into eternity. How many times had I ridden this subway? How many times had I poured my morning cup of coffee, and tried to wake myself up in the bathroom? How many times had I forgotten who I really am? It feels like lately, I’ve been going back. The clocks have been turning back, the planets have been receding in their orbits, and space itself has been gravitationally contracting back to a single point. I’ve been going back. I see a young man in a lecture room, asking questions, open to the joys of possibility, and among friends. In an ephemeral moment, it seemed frozen in time, and for an instant I seemed to recognize some vague reflection of who this was. I don’t know, I’ve just been forgetting myself lately. How many times have I woken up to an alarm and stared at the cracks in the ceiling? How many times have I been in the exact same situation, retracing the cracks with my eyes, as if I was recounting the moments to my inevitable expiration? How many times? A dozen? A thousand? A million? It didn’t seem to matter anymore. I look at the mirror, and I just can’t see anything. There’s nothing to this world anymore. Nobody here but the shadows I’ve been chasing for too long to recount, searching for a trace that I still exist. Back on the subway. Back among a crowd of meaningless faces –an unidentifiable, detached mass living in an artificial world. I search the faces for a trace of humanity, but see nothing. I’m going to cross that sign soon. The graffiti sign that says “the point of no return”, in that nice, black stenciled lettering. How many times have I seen that sign? I could’ve sworn I’d seen it a million times passing to work. I could’ve sworn this film had replayed a thousand times, and I always searched for something different. Some detail that made this different from the last time. Some indicator that I was even real anymore. It seems I’ve lost faith in my own reality. Descartes be damned. I’ve just been forgetting myself lately. Pour myself a cup of coffee before I settle into this cubicle, and file these reports. How many times have I filed these reports? How many times have I imprisoned myself in this cubicle? It’s like I’ve been traveling back, like that tachyon. I’ve been travelling back to my own past, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s a static moment in a sequence of frames, and I see my life flowing by in a series of moments. I see the sun setting and rising in an infinitesimal fraction of a second to another day. It’s like I’m looking at my life from a third-person perspective, and seeing every moment unfold inexorably in a series of seconds, and I feel…nothing. I’ve been going back lately – I’ve been going back. I see a child smiling, riding a bicycle. Was that me? Seems like eons have passed since that was me. I see myself surrounded by other smiling faces, and in an ephemeral moment it seemed frozen in time. I wanted to believe that was me, but I’ve just been forgetting myself. Another day on the subway. Another day passing that graffiti sign that says “the point of no return” in that nice, black stenciled lettering. How many times have I seen that sign? I could’ve sworn I’d seen it a million times passing to work. I could’ve sworn this film had replayed a thousand times, and I always searched for something different. Some detail that made this different from the last time. Some indicator that I was even real anymore. It seems I’ve lost faith in my own reality. I’ve been going back. Chasing my shadow ever back into the recesses of time. I’ve been looking for any sign that I even exist anymore, in the crevices of a mirror of my own isolation. I’ve been traveling through a void or a passage to another realm. Like a wormhole – a theoretical passage through space and time. I’ve been going back to a time I can’t seem to remember. I see a baby, crawling on the ground, surrounded by loving parents singing to it. I knelt down and looked at that giggling baby. It slipped from my hand, and in an ephemeral moment it seemed frozen in time. Was that me? Seems like eons have passed since that was me. I see myself surrounded by other smiling faces. I wanted to believe that was me, but I’ve just been forgetting myself. Another day. The infinite street lights give off their celestial glow, fading into the background of a mass of inhumanity. I think I saw my shadow on the sidewalk again. Chasing my shadow ever back into the recesses of time. I’ve been chasing it for too long to recount, searching for a trace that I still exist. I’ve been going back. I see a baby in my mother’s arms. I see a baby surrounded by smiling faces. I looked into his twinkling eyes and saw my reflection – is that me? It seems like eons have passed since that was me. I’ve been forgetting myself. I’ve been going back. I knelt down and looked at that grave with my name on it. It slipped from my hands. How did I let it slip from my hands? And in that moment, peering behind my grave. There it was. My own shadow.

Joslyn, I know I’m a bad guy, a jerk, the one you will remember as being the first to betray you. I was the first hand you held. I’m sure that you believe that how I acted was planned and prepared by a creature to be vilified. When I stopped answering your phone calls, stopped being there, you most likely believed it was all because I’m an ass. You will never forgive me for what I did, letting you fall away from me in that manner and I understand. There is nothing I can do to change any of it. I could tell you I’m sorry, that if I was given the chance again I would do it differently, or that I wouldn’t let you go, but it would be a lie. It wouldn’t change what happened. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. Explaining it to you in a way that anyone outside of me could understand is difficult. I think my actions were well intended, meant with love and hope for you, but those feelings and intentions won’t survive translation to words, cannot be properly transplanted to paper. Maybe, though, one day you will be able to decipher the thoughts I place on paper along with your own memories and find the meaning that I hoped to give you. It was something that I felt I had to learn in a much harder way than I wanted you to learn. As I get older and older I am surer that I am better for having learned it. I can only hope that as you weather the years you will feel the same as I do. When alone everything becomes harder, everywhere becomes colder. Home and heart are emptier. When there is no one to pick up a phone and call, when there is no one there to talk to, when that hand you held is taken away, it feels like losing part of yourself. I know, I’ve been there. I’ve had people who should always be there take their hand from mine and walk away. But as the days pass, cold and lonely days, a person learns how to be stronger, how to not be afraid of trying to move along alone. In time all the insecurities about what you can do, all the worries about letting others see you fall, the fears about what everyone says, and the self-doubts about who you are, all of them will fade away. It’s hard, but hold out, stay strong and bide your time, weather the storm of emotions and thoughts, endure. After you’ve gained your balance, once you feel yourself become steady, then make your break. You don’t have to trust me, but trust yourself. Don’t give in to the fears of no one being there for you. Don’t be scared of something because you have no one to confirm your thoughts about it. Don’t worry about what other people think, what they say, or who you are. Today, in five minutes from now, or maybe one day in the distant future, all those people will all do the same thing that I did, they will all leave you. You will be the only one who has to live with the decisions that you made, not them. Respect your wishes, not those of others. Live up to your demands, no one else’s. I am sorry that I had to step away from you. I held you hand for so long that it felt like part of me. I wish that I didn’t want you to be a stronger person. I wish that I didn’t believe making you stronger had to come at such a price. What I did, stepping away, was tougher for me than anything else I’ve ever done. But, like I said, it was an experience that I grew up with, one that made me stronger. It made me a bigger, better, man than I was before. I would have never been able to become who I am if I had someone there by my side, supporting me, to fall back on, every step of the way. The steps I took in life wouldn’t have been risks. I wouldn’t know myself or have the faith in who I am to the extent that I do today. I hope you can take everything in stride. Know that you may stumble, but its ok. When you find yourself down on your hands and knees, force yourself back up to your feet and take that step that caused you to trip. I know that this isn’t how it is written in the stories, but everyone and everything you’ve ever known could never teach you to stand up on your own. It is a lesson you can only learn from the hands that let you go. You will learn to walk alone.

They sat together on the corner of College and Fell, casually downing a plate of fries. This was their sixth date together and she was starting to really like him. She was beginning to feel comfortable and natural around him and even his weirdness was starting to grow on her. He was starting to like her too, but there were some things about her that bothered him. Mainly, that apart from her intelligence and personality, she was very plain looking and lead a very plain life. Zoning out from the conversation, he toyed with the idea that he could possibly change this about her. He wanted desperately to transform her into the girl of his dreams, the girl he rightfully deserved. Zack was looking at her in that way again. She hated when he did this. There was a sense of longing and unfulfillment whenever he gazed at her this way with his cute brown eyes. "I can't believe the audacity of my sister," she said, trying to snap him out of his trance. Zack took a moment from his day-dream, popped a fry in his mouth and lazily inquired, "Oh? What'd she do this time?" Mindy, having partly made up the statement based on an insignificant event that she didn't care to go into detail on, realized that she had broken his semi-disturbing stare, and said, "Well um, nothing really, just little things." "Ah, little things again," said Zack, "it's always just little things." His eyes reflected dissatisfaction again. "Zack, why do you always look at me that way? You know I don't like it." After a brief pause and a well-timed sigh, he said, "Mindy, do you ever wonder that your life will pass by and you'll find yourself married with three kids and wanting youth back?" "I dunno know, that kind of sounds nice to me..." "And there lies your problem, I'm dreadfully afraid of this predicament and you're welcoming of it." "Are you mad at me Zack?" "I'm not mad at you Mindy, just your plainness." Mindy was taken back by this statement and didn't quite know how to respond, so she just sat and daintily dipped a fry into catsup. "I didn't mean it harshly, I mean you have a great personality and all. I mean you realize you're plain don't you?" She still sat in silence. "But Mindy, baby, I think we can change this." Mindy was offended, but a little curious and kept an ear tuned in to what he was saying. The words he said made her believe that deep down inside she really was plain. "What if we did something dangerous?" He tried to coax a reaction out of her, but she was determined to remain still at this time. "You see," Zack said, "the problemo with common criminals these days are that they're usually dumb as a box of rocks. They're all stupid thugs. And that's where we come in. Mindy, we're both intelligent powerful individuals. Just Imagine what we could." "You're crazy, absolutely insane!" She felt obligated to say this because that's what she figured you were supposed to say in scenarios like this, but she really was intrigued. "We could be the next Bonnie and Clyde, the perfect Pumpkin and Honey Bunny," he proposed. He saw a gleam of interest in her eye and smiled with delight. Yes, she would be the perfect girl to change and he knew that he had a grasp on her. "What would we even do?" She tried to sound like she had posed the question out of shock. She didn't like it one bit, but the idea of being a villain was growing rapidly on her. "I was just thinking about that. You know how you always talk about your sister and how unfairly you are treated in comparison to her." "Yes." She had to admit, if there was something that bugged her the most, it was how everyone always seemed to favor and praise her sister. Their mother had left Mindy pittance and her sister the family estate, fortune, and her beautiful diamond necklace. Their mother knew how much Mindy loved the necklace and Mindy was convinced that her mother giving it to her sister was an act of sheer spite. "Well don't be offended when I say this, but what if we killed her," Zack said, making a gun shape with his hand and mouthing the word "BANG". Mindy gasped. She couldn't believe these words were actually coming out of his mouth and yet she loved them. "Mindy, you know you want this." She knew. "Zack, you don't know what you're doing to me," but he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. A single hot tear ran down her cheek. It was very similar to the tear that ran down her cheek when they drove to Zack's house and grabbed his revolver. It was very similar to the tear that ran down her cheek when they drove to her family estate that her sister was living in and broke down the back door. It was very similar to the tear that ran down her cheek when she pulled the trigger and her sister's corpse crumpled to the floor. And it was very similar to the tear that ran down her cheek when she took off the diamond necklace from her sister's body and fastened to around her neck. Zack had changed her.

First short story submitted on here. Feel free to give me feedback. Hope you enjoy :) “The Mansion” – by BRAVE-NEW-W0RLD There’s no sleep for me tonight. What a mansion we live in, floating on a cloud of comfort. Dressed to kill we numb ourselves with drugs that turn our veins to ice, all the while basking in the warmth of fast cars and sex appeal. Sobriety is a thing of the past, reality shifts back and forth with our revolving door of high-class friends spinning like the cylinders of a snub-nose. We ponder pulling the trigger for a moment, but the gun falls from our hands and our friends are already dead. We’re alone now, and the halls of the mansion are littered with shattered chandeliers and a sea of champagne bottles. Death is knocking at the door but the valet won’t stamp his ticket. The sun is too bright to see the riff-raff below, the men and women who are itching with envy, the ones who could never live in this house of glory if they tried for a thousand years. Just then, our Breakfast is served with a pamphlet on the fast-track to our morality and the church of good men gone before us. Frank Sinatra is playing faintly somewhere in the empty halls, which are now spotless. We can smile. Cleanliness is next to godliness, and if riches make you Jesus then we should have all been crucified long ago. The absence of the substance becomes a bother now, and on demand a needle slips back into the shell we call a body. I’ve got you under my skin, Sinatra sings. It’s only a matter of time before your conscience is comatose. Now the numbness is back, and reality becomes fantasy once again. “Pilgrims of the Promised Land” is the headline on the magazine today, and all we can do is smile and wave for the cameras. Jesus can’t save us anymore. Maybe an apocalypse could wake you up. When you awake, maybe you’ll be surrounded by ash…but not me. No, I’ll be up all night just to see this place burn down. You see, there’s never any rest for the wicked. There’s no sleep for me tonight.

7 A.M December 21st, 2010. Time 7:00 am I wake up with you in my arms and lay there silently as you dream the peaceful dreams that matched the calm state of your face. The way the sun shines on your skin and makes you almost as bright as the winters first snow. I breathe slowly, not to disrupt your sweet dreams. I love you. December 22nd, 2010 Time 7:00 am You stir to my fingers brushing your hair, softly, just like one would through a child's. You open your beautiful green eyes to start the beginning of your new adventure. Our fingers interlocked, the spaces filled perfectly. I couldn't ask for a better feeling. I love you. December 23rd, 2010 Time 7:00 am The scent of warm hot chocolate fills the room. Your favorite. A smile spreads across your face, the smile that tells me you feel what I feel. Breakfast in bed was my early gift to you. A gift I could give you for the rest of our lives. I love you. December 24th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The excitement of our first Christmas together excites you. I hold you close, feeling the warmth and comfort of your body against mine. A small kiss makes everything perfect. You make me feel complete. I love you. December 25th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You wake me up with a warm kiss on the lips. Merry Christmas my love, our very first holiday together. You're as excited as a child. That makes me smile. I give you your gift, it's small, but I know you'll love it. You open it and immediately know the answer. I love you. December 26th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The ring sits perfectly on your finger. I stroke the top of your hand and kiss your shoulder. You have to work soon but I don't want to wake you from your slumber. I don't want you to leave. I never do. I love you. December 27th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You're restlessly tossing and turning. I do my best to keep the blankets over you. I lean over and put my arm across you and place my body against yours. You settle. I worry. I love you. December 28th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I wake up to the sound of you softly crying. The tears roll off your cheek, I pull you into me and you rest your head on my chest and quietly sob. The darkness has engulfed you again. I won't let it hurt you anymore. I love you. December 29th, 2010 Time 7:00 am You're awake before me. Staring at the ceiling, caressing my hand softly. I kiss your cheek softly and you give me a warm smile. I see the pain in your eyes. It shatters my soul with every second I look at you. You have to leave for work soon. I want you to stay with me. I love you. December 30th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your breath on my neck wakes me up. You look like you've been crying for hours. I hold you close and listen to your soft rhythmic breathing fill my ears. I'm afraid. I love you December 31st, 2010 Time 7:00 am New Years Eve, you tell me that you don't want to get out of bed today. The darkness is getting worse. You take your medication and lay back in bed. I bring you tea and some scrambled eggs, just the way you like them. You only eat half then stare blankly at the television. I take your plate to the kitchen and wash it. When I come back in to the bedroom you're playing with your ring. You tell me that you love me and that you're gonna be okay. I know better. I love you. January 1st, 2010 Time 7:00 am You've become pale, the dark circles under your eyes tell me that you are awake when I'm sleeping. You're eyes are bloodshot from all the crying. It kills me to see you in pain. I love you. January 2nd, 2010 Time 7:00 am No smile. You look at me and I know that you're fighting it. The darkness is stronger this time. I'll get you help, I promise. I love you. January 3rd, 2010 Time 7:00 am You take the new dosage doctor gave you. You've lost interest in everything. Your kisses are soft but have a chill to them. The warmth is gone. The sun in your soul is surrounded by a darkness that is darker than the midnight sky. I hope this dosage helps. I love you. January 4th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I try to wake you up but you don't stir. The room is silent. The pain in my chest is excruciating. I shake you and your pill bottles hit the floor. I fall to the floor. There is nothing I can do but cry. I dial 9-1-1 but I can't speak, I cry so hard that I lose my breath with every sob. The sobs are loud. The ambulance gets here and they put you on a stretcher. I follow holding your hand tightly. It's so cold. D.O.A. I love you.. January 5th, 2010 Time 7:00 am The bed feels empty with you gone. I cried all night. The tears are stained on my pillow case. Your scent fills my nose and I cry. I could have saved you. I'm empty without you. I read the note I found yesterday over and over. I'm so sorry baby. I can't take it anymore. I love you so much and I will always be with you. My sobs grow more intense. I miss you.. I love you.. January 6th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I had a dream about you. You looked so happy, so free. You're wings matched your brightness. Seeing your smile made me feel good that you are no longer in pain. I love you.. January 7th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your funeral is today. I cry as I think of how you are no longer with me. It tears me apart. I feel like part of me has been crushed by a steam roller. I made my side of the bed and got dressed. I love you.. January 8th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Yesterday was hard. Seeing you lay almost as peaceful as you did when you slept broke my heart even more. You had an aura of serenity around you. Your skin glowed like it did when the sun hit you just right. I miss you so much. I love you.. January 9th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I made your favorite hot chocolate and scrambled eggs. I'm coming to visit your grave for breakfast. Even though you aren't here, I will still bring you your favorite things to wake up to. Even though I know you won't be waking up this time. I love you.. January 10th,2010 Time 7:00 am I stayed at your grave for three hours. I poured the hot chocolate on the soil above you and dug a small hole to bury the eggs in. I hope you enjoyed them like you always did when you were still here. I cried when I got home, I hurt so bad. I miss you more than anything.. I love you.. January 11th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Happy 2nd anniversary my love. I miss you. I love you. January 12th, 2010 Time 7:00 am It's getting too hard to sleep in our bed. I slept on the couch in the living room last night with one of your t-shirts. It smelled just like your favorite perfume from the mall. I held it just like I would have held you. I love you.. January 13th, 2010 Time 7:00 am Your mother called me to make sure I was okay. She's so hurt. The pain in her voice was so much to bear. We miss and love you.. January 14th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I'm going crazy without you.. I miss you.. I love you.. January 15th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I visited your grave again yesterday. I hope you liked the flowers. They were the kind I got you on your birthday in August. Remember how happy you were? I love you.. January 16th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I can't stand being without you anymore.. I love you.. January 17th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I visited you yesterday. I just laid by your head stone and imagined that it was our bed and that you were actually in it. Our nice warm bed, with your warm smooth body laying right by mine. It was a nice thing to think about. I love you.. January 18th, 2010 Time 7:00 am I'm scared, but I can't take this pain anymore. I don't know about anything anymore. All I know is that I need you. I can't live with out you. There's a loud snap that fills my ears then a bright light. I see you approaching me, you look as beautiful as ever. Our fingers interlock and you kiss me. I feel no pain, no heartbreak. Just the love that I've felt since I fell in love with you. I'm home now and I'm happy. I love you.

I’m pretty sure today is Sunday. The light of morning tried desperately to fill my room but was falling short… one of those days where God seemingly stubbed his toe on his desk and yelled, “Fuck it! You all get sleet today!” I laid in bed and tried to piece together what was going on. Somehow I had woken up about 10 years older. Try as I might, the last thing that I remember was being in my twenties raising hell and trying to get laid. I decide to roll out of bed. Jesus Christ the terrazzo is freezing. I shuffle my way into the kitchen and look for something edible. No cereal. No eggs. No bread. In desperation, I check the freezer. One meager slice of pizza – probably as old as I was. It’ll do, I guess. I vaguely recall buying pizza at some point. Did I have a party or something? As the pizza warms up in the microwave, I start making coffee. 33 years old and I still can’t figure out this fucking thing. I think about hitting the coffee machine until it starts working. My phone is blinking on the kitchen table. The little blue light is silently screaming at me at regular intervals. Reminds me of Jess. A fuzzy figure begins to take shape in my head. My phone just wanted to tell me that my credit card bill was due. Fuck you phone, you told me that last month. Jess was a dark-eyed brunette but she always dyed her hair black so she wouldn't look like her mother. I met her at a gas station I think. Or maybe a bank. She was one of those girls that knew a little bit about a lot of things, but not a whole lot about one thing in particular. Maybe that’s why I loved her – she never gave a damn about any one thing too much. I put on the same pair of jeans I’ve been wearing all weekend. There’s some unidentifiable stain on the left knee but otherwise they appear clean enough. I went to IHOP for breakfast yesterday with Andre. Maybe it’s a jam stain. I pour back the rest of the lukewarm dirty brown water in my mug and stand at the threshold of my door deciding whether or not to get the paper. I sigh and pull the handle toward me with every ounce of enthusiasm I could muster which turned out to be not that much. Fuck it’s cold outside. Really should have grabbed my shoes. I hop down the driveway and grab the piece of shit and run back inside and swear a lot and close the door. The things I do for the Sunday funnies. Marmaduke was Jess’s favorite. “It’s funny because he’s a very large dog and he gets into trouble!” she would say. I never got it. In today’s strip, he prevents a little girl from riding her sled down a hill. Oh Marm, you crazy fucking animal, you. On the front cover there’s an article about someone famous who was murdered or something. Lucky bastard. The gears slowly click into motion and I start to feel like a human again. The weather was a lot nicer that day. It was a warm Tuesday in April the last time I saw her. It’s hard to believe it’s almost been a year. Jess never wanted kids which I guess worked out for the best, but Februaries seems a lot colder living here alone. I stare at her picture for a moment and have to resist the urge to cry or yell or do something un-macho. Instead I just burp. My phone vibrates on the table and the little blue light on it once again reminds me that it’s there and it desperately deserves my attention. Andre wants to know if I want to grab dinner at that awful Mexican restaurant over on the North side of town. “Their food always gives me the worst shits”, I text him. Jess absolutely hated the place for precisely that reason. “Of course I’ll go.

I couldn't sleep. Her angel hair, falling over her gentle face. She gave me a quizzical look, studying my emotions. I loved her. I loved her with all I had. All emotions drained from my body for her. "What are you thinking?" She asked. I stared into her face of elegance like a child seeing a toy he so desperately wanted. She didn't know. My love was like a tall oak, each leaf holding a piece of my heart, slowly swaying in the autumn wind. Each leaf falls as she stomps carelessly on my fallen affection, a crisp crunch from every crack in my heart she creates. I moved my head left to right and forced a smile onto my lips. She smiled back. Her eyes gave a light that lit the dim room. She wouldn't be mine, not now, not tomorrow, not ever. She placed her soft lips onto my forehead, her warmth coursing through my body, leaving me in Nirvana. I watched as she got off the bed. Slowly pulling a veil over her immaculate figure. How I wish she would never wear anything. "I Love You" I said She turned, "I love you too", grabbed the money off the table and left. Until next week. This is my first story I've ever put out there. Any tips would be appreciated. I'm not that good as I can't paint a picture for people like most others can, hopefully that will improve as time goes on.

Passing all of the road signs I’ve failed to notice. Hitting the bumps where new pavement was laid. All of the trees I’ve glanced at, but never remembered. Every store, restaurant, boulder or shrub planted in the median of the highway; everything I’ve looked at but never actually seen. All present to me now, even more to miss. Funny, how we tune out the little components in life until we find a reason to look back. I look out the window at all of the scenery that I’ve glanced passed in the past. I take out the coin, one side a bronze steer-skull, with a backdrop of Texas painted in glossy red. On the back side, a sheriff star. The coin was given to me by my uncle. An agent in the Secret Service; he gave it to me right before he moved from his location in Arlington, to D.C. How the irony is strong. He gave me this coin and said to bring it wherever I might feel frightened. I’ve never felt so frightened in my entire life than in this rusty, dirt caked white 99 Taurus. Two Berretta PX4 Storms lay in the trunk, in a useless gun case that I will never get to use again. I have never been one to cry, one to cower, one to fight. The driver, dressed completely in black, face completely covered with what seem like night vision goggles, sped down the highway, almost there. I flipped the coin once more.” Heads”. If nobody can beat the coin toss, then why is it so hard to beat now? My motives are clear. I have grown tired of all of the unnecessary competition, the bragging, the dominance. The coin toss is fair game. Nobody is better at flipping the coin than the next clown in line. I flip again, for good fortune, maybe this time things will change. “Heads”. I really didn’t want it to come to this. I’ve never been violent in my past, always looking for the best in people. I flip.” Heads”. Looking at the steer, I tremble. Thirty heads, zero tails. The irony is that my uncle gave me this coin, under the impression that it would give me the motivation to do something great, to make a change, to do something great. Here I am, in some car with a driver I found in the abyss of craigslist. Things are going to change. “Heads”. The end glows to a deep orange, air forces the smoke through the half ashed 7/11 cigar. Fresh is a funny word isn’t it? Two dollars for a two pack of “fresh” computer paper quality smokes. But I roached the first and the second is getting there, no? The thick, almost yellow smoke left my mouth in whisps, not evaporating because of the strong, skin moistening humidity. Only seven thirty in the morning and already the temperature is 80 very common for an early September day, condensation blinding every stationary car in sight. Waiting for the bus, students start crowding the street corner. Sweating profusely, the batwing starts to form, beads drip off of the forehead and upper lip. I put the second roach in the storm drain. The yellow, “flat-nosed” bus becomes visible from around the end of the 4th street down; chugging, the bus struggles to a stop, time to board. I get to my spot, although only being a sophomore, I sit in the back seat, all alone. No hierarchy in here. Kids from all cliques climb in. I see’em all, from the worms to the scoundrels and every group in between. I guess you could say I’m in my own clique, I stand back and observe all; I know just about everything that happens in this school. A wallflower, a wallflower I would best describe myself as. I’m no shut in freak show, and I’m no charisma- filled hyper fuck. I don’t like the way this place is governed. I agree that to stay in the “uppers” of this place you need to compete for your place. I disagree with the execution of the competition. I’ve seen a male junior, no taller than 5’0 bring a 6’7 senior to his knees beg for forgiveness over cutting in the lunch line. The vicious become the uppers, and the weak sweep the floor they walk on. It’s completely unnecessary, and it shows that these people have no self control. I’m not from around here, so I guess one might say that any cents I have to chip in are chump. I come from a small town, settled in the early 1700’s by the Dutch. The sleepy little place rests no more than seven thousand and lies less than half an hour from Quebec, and ten minutes from Burlington, by ferry. Things were different in New York. One of the first times I had my encounter with an upper, he asked of my name. I told him “Jamie, Jamie Brooksted”. He asked if I was new; I told him I had transferred from the special education building to the main building this year because of my improvement. I had given the bait and he bit. He laughed with an arrogant chuckle, as if asserting the alpha status he was visibly lacking. This lovely young man was named Peter Falls, although I never see the purpose of naming animals. He was a walking cesspool to me now; he is 5’7 and can weigh no more than 150 pounds, his hair is long and a faded brown, most likely the cause of over washing. As I walked away, the laughter trailing my ears was heard for the remainder of the hallway. I used similar “trials” to other uppers for the entire first week of my being in the school. Of course I was subtle, although, I have discovered the absence of brain use within the upper group. On my 5th day at the school, I approached a group of upper females. There were 4, all seniors. I asked if one could give me a ride home, I made myself seem panicked, distraught, hysterical. As much as I wanted a positive reaction, I wanted to look down on these girls. On the outside, I wanted them to feel sympathy for a “handicapped” sophomore, but in the back of my mind, I wished for nothing more than to despise these filthy, filthy creatures. They glared after my antics had ended, I had somehow brought myself to tears, and I was on the verge of begging these females for a lift to my home. They spit at my feet, pushed me in the dirt and poured the sticky soda they were drinking. I had been so put down by these horrible people, and it brought a bit of euphoria into my life. I, for one time in my life, feel like I’m better than somebody; I feel like I am looking down on the people others look up to in fear. I have become the quiet king of this school, I might say. Over the course of the year, the uppers stopped with the disgusting looks, the tripping, and the spitting. Instead, they began to leave my life. Wherever I went, the uppers didn’t. They soon discovered I wasn’t handicapped and began to show submissiveness even. Had I become one of the uppers? I have kept to myself for most of the year, I had been a wallflower; what did I do to become engulfed in a clique? I needed clarity, so I did what any reasonable person would do at that point. I am going to take action. May 23rd, 2012. The man on the other end is brief; I can only assume at this point that he knows full and well what he is getting wrapped into. I find him on craigslist, his name, although most likely an alias is Charlie. He is a fairly well known driver around this part of Minnesota; he has never been caught during a drive and his identity is still secret. He tells me that the rendezvous is at 8 o clock am, I wait in the empty parking lot of the Super 8, waiting while becoming irritable, I hear a faint hum of an engine. It doesn’t sound like a factory engine, it has been modified; I’m not much of a savant when cars come into play, but the sound of altercation coming from the Ford Taurus can be heard by even the most un keen of ears. I put my tan potato sack of supplies into the trunk, the driver doesn’t get out of the car, but I had the feeling his eyes never left me. I couldn’t see his face, but at that point, it didn’t matter to me. I told him to drive me to the High School; which would take about 45 minutes. I got in the rear passenger seat and we slowly pulled out of a place I would never see in this life. 10 minutes in, and my perception of all around me began to morph. I took out the coin given to me by my uncle and began to flip. I had been flipping all morning, in a way; I had this whole day planned out by a coin “heads”. I was flipping because of my pure indecisiveness, and the coin had it all planned out. I begin to stare out the rear window; looking back at all I would soon leave behind. My mind has been made up, I would be taking revenge against all who have looked up to any group or individual as dominant. Nobody is dominant, and soon I hope everybody learns this. “Heads”. Approaching the school, my world spins; I unload my two pistols into my back pack and walk into school. Head held high, back straight, confidence raced through my body. I walk into the school and bolt to the restroom. A rush overcame me, I go into an empty stall and dry heave until the acid from my stomach burns the end of my throat. I walk in front of the mirror, eyes resembling red branches of lightning surrounding a pool of blue. I take one gun from the back pack, completely forgetting the other, and open the bathroom door. I walk to the commons and fire, straight up to the ceiling. The sound is deafening, The only thing I hear are faint screams and an intense ringing. I run back to the bathroom taking one student with me. I throw him against the air dryer, and slam against the mirror, cracking it. I look down on the student; Peter Falls. He is in a position close to a fetus, and crying. Loudly weeping and broken out into a cold sweat, and from the smell, he has pissed himself as well. An interesting take on the saying “revenge is best served cold” I place the gun in between his eyes and fire 4 times. The sound brings pain to us both. I had only used blanks. He screams and begs me to stop. I slide down the wall into a slouched over position and place my face into my hands. I begin to cry; “Why? Why is it so hard, to do something I’ve waited so long to do against people I feel so little for?” I walk out of the bathroom facing the colossal wall of windows. I see blue and red lights for what seem like miles and I have guns drawn on me. I put the gun down and walk to the center of the window wall. I am tackled to the ground by the school officer and the coin falls out of the back of my pocket. Clarity. I came in looking to get revenge on the weak, and on the arrogant but have done nothing but proven to myself, that it is I who needed to learn the lesson. Everything moves in slow motion. The coin flies from my back pocket into the air as I am dragged out of the school in cuffs. The coin I used to take my chances with beat me. It has shown me that this happened so that I would learn that I have become the weak, by looking down on the dominant. I am nothing but another upper, looking down on everybody else.”Tails”.

The photographer was a quiet young man, always agreeable and never rude. Slightly tall, skinny, and super pale. He sighed sad sounding sighs. His mom gave him a camera for his 18th birthday. It was nice. It was also his only friend. Stuck at a Quinciñera, a sad sigh came out. The sizeable Mexican family had agreed twenty photos of the event, and ten of the girl. However, numerous relatives all wanted portraits in front of the sunset outside. He tried to communicate the situation, that he was only paid for thirty photos. That didn't work. This was now a full blown shoot. People were lining up. He held up his memory card and said it ran out of space, and that he couldn't continue the picture taking. Someone in the back let out a yell of excitement only to run up and place the same type of memory card in his hands. He let out another sad sigh.

"God only throws at you what you can handle", she sighed peering through the window of her tiny apartment. "What" "Nothing.." "Come sit with me" She glanced back at him. He was completely shirtless, he side smirked exposing a dimple on his left cheek, his messy brown hair shining. His dark brown eyes flickered with excitement. He looked like a Greek God, his abs ascending and descending with eat breath he took. She placed her hand on the window, and felt the cold glass on her finger tips. She backed away from the window slowly and turned toward him . "Come sit." He purred. she climbed onto the twin bed and laid in his arms, it felt like home. Her brown eyes glanced at his for just a moment, and then she nestled her head into his bare chest. Her long black wavy hair cascading onto his chest and over his broad shoulders. She closed her eyes, feeling his chest move up and down made everyone of her thoughts and worries stop racing. She slowly drifted into sleep. She awoke to a door closing quietly, she sat up, alone. Her feet hit the floor, and she ran to the window watching the Greek god like figure make footprints in the snow, as he walked away from the apartment. "Damnit!" She threw herself on the bed, and checked her cellphone. "No messages." She muttered. She threw her phone on the futon, and turned over. She decided to let herself sleep for three more hours, and swore off men for an eternity.

The crash awoke me from the least-troubled sleep I’d had in a week. I sat up, my mind for a moment confused by my surroundings. Dingy carpet close to my face, scratchy, spare pillow under my cheek, dim TV broadcasting soft white noise across the room. The sleeping bag where my mother had been was empty and twisted up on the floor as if it had been quickly kicked aside. I shrunk under my quilt and hugged the frayed edges tightly. Maybe it was only a pan falling in the kitchen. We’d only just arrived. So soon, again? Shaking from cold and fear I pulled the quilt around me like a fortress and padded out into the hall. The lights were on in the living room, and shadows played on the walls, monstrous and confusing in my state of half-sleep, I counted. 1...2...only two figures. Feet feeling like bricks, I stepped out into the light. I only saw a flash of the couch and smashed reading lamp before my mother yelled for me to get out. Ducking under the quilt like a child younger than I, I turned to run but got tangled in what was supposed to be my safe house. With a squeaky, broken cry, I crashed into the hardwood floor. My wrist screamed out in radiating anguish and my head spun sickeningly. Colors bloomed behind my eyes in the pure dark around me. Then, a pair of skinny but strong hands yanked me out of my dizzy reverie. “Thought you could hide, did you?” I heard through ringing ears. “You forget you’re mine. You’re all of you mine, and you can’t escape it. You never will,” he hissed, his hand clamped over my mouth. It smelled of iron and sweat. I flailed weakly, but I knew it was no use. The quilt lay in a sad, useless pile on the floor. Lifting me off my feet like a ragdoll, he growled, “Come on, we’re going home.” Just as I resigned myself to my fate, a noise cut through my cotton-plugged ears and made my stomach drop.A baby’s cry pierced through the floorboards. Our hiding spot hadn’t worked. Through the corner of my eye I saw my mother peel herself from the area rug, busted lip, black eye, dripping nose, tousled hair. Her expression was desperate, but her gait was slow. In a flash a was sprawled on the floor again as he made his way in great, long strides to my poor, limping mother. “How dare you!” he roared, and I heard a loud slap followed by a dull thud as another body joined mine. “Don’t you,” BAM “ever,” BAM, “take what is mine!” I cringed with every hit, the floor shaking under my. My teeth were clenched tight. Then I heard the scream again. A baby afraid. Using all of my strength I dragged myself in a sort of one-armed army crawl to the top of the stairs. He hadn’t seen me yet. Squeezing my eyes shut against the inevitable pain, I shoved off the top step and rolled down the stairs. Quickest way down, surest way down. I lay curled in a ball for a few seconds, waiting for my stomach to stop threatening to empty its contents onto the refreshingly cold concrete around me. The cry awoke me once more and I stood, lurching forward like a zombie, drool...or blood, I’m not sure which, leaking from the side of my mouth. I heard the thumping of purposeful steps upstairs. They were coming closer. Shuffling as fast as I could I finally reached the laundry basket. Gripping its faded pink plastic sides I lifted a trembling hand to toss aside the thin shirt that covered my brother. Instead of being comforted, he wailed all the louder as I gingerly took him onto my shoulder. It took me years to stand back up. The steps were on the creaky, wooden stairs now. Looking around wildly, my eyes jittering into focus as I spun, I ran for the first open door. The rec room my aunt had been in the process of remodeling for 4 years was sparse, providing no hiding spots. The footsteps were now running, rubber soles smacking loudly against hard concrete, sure to find me soon. There were shouts upstairs. I panicked, and crawled under the unfinished edge of the carpet just as I heard the steps catch up to me. I knew I made a hopelessly large and obvious lump in the rug, even in the darkness, but I still held my breath, eyes squeezed shut, clutching my brother tight to my chest and willing him not to make a sound. I could feel his tears wet and hot on my hands. His breathing was quick and shallow. I heard a creak, like an old wooden chair being moved. In a few seconds, I felt just how right I was. A chair leg cracked against my back, making my body tingle all over. I arched my back, shielding my brother to the small extent I could, and prepared myself for the next blow. Just then, I heard sirens. It was an angel’s choir, a sacred sound, a blessed wail. I barely felt a thing as the chair dropped onto my back again. All I was concerned with was the low curse he uttered, and the quick escape I heard him make. I collapsed under the scratchy carpet. My brother stared at me with wide, confused, watery eyes, his mouth agape in silent screams. I let the ringing in my ears block it out. We were safe, for now. We’d move once more, we’d hope against hope it would work. It was all we could do. We’d made it this time, though. This time it was over. My aunt uncovered me, my skin covered in blood, bruises, goosebumps. She picked my brother up and cradled him as she stroked my hair. Her hands were clammy. I just barely made out her whisper, “This is the end...this can’t keep going on. They’ll catch him.” I smiled slightly, drifting off into a world where she spoke the truth, where we were safe, where we would never have to run. Two weeks later, it happened again.

The hospital has cream white walls, and I can almost hear the buzz of the florescent lights overhead. My old man walks beside me, talking casually of what's to come in the coming week. I am quiet and grave and I'm holding a vanilla birthday cake in my arms, a cheery "Happy Brithday!" written across it in red icing, a stark contrast to my heavy heart. We stand in the relative silence of the elevator as it hummed inexorably to the fifth floor, the Alzheimer's ward. The elevator dings and the doors open reluctantly, like the elevator doors, I step into the waiting area, a posse of nurses sitting behind an island of desks sitting outside the heavy doors that opened to the ward proper. They don't even bother to look up as we pass by. A TV flickers in a corner soundlessly, the weather report playing endlessly, over and over. It's a sunny, beautiful summer day and yet I cannot bring myself to bask in the radiant rays of the sun in a city that see's entirely too much winter. We step into the Alzheimer's ward and I am greeted with the familiar smell of stale piss, shit and Ammonia. Nurses and orderlies walk the hallways in their scrubs, but mostly its the elderly, staring, uncomprehending and distant, like a child lost in a department store. Some will smile as we approach, only to let it slip away when they realize they don't know who we are. They don't know who they are. They'll stare at anything, at the floor, out a window, not seeing anything in particular as they struggle; living half in the present, half in the past, and sometimes, barely at all. Universally, they all seem to wear a sad expression, as though they know their is something wrong and can't quite put their finger on it. It's unsettling to see on their wizened faces, that probably once smiled with joy at their children and grand children, only to have their remaining years snatched from their fingers. My stomach twists and dread fills me as we approach my grandfather's room. we check my grandfather's room but he's not there, we ask a nurse and he point us in the right direction. The very end of that long hall, in a big, aptly named sun room. So named for the big windows that opened up to the streets below and allowed the last dying rays of a setting sun to cast over the buildings, brightening this place, making it somewhat less depressing than the rest of the wing, which is drab and dark. We find him there, eyes closed and chin slumped against his chest. He wakes, however, when we approach, though there is no hint of recognition in his eyes. "Hi dad!" my father says with a pretense of jovialness that I know isn't genuine. I've never been good at expressing what I don't feel, so I say nothing. Instead, I pull out a chair and look at the table my grandfather is sitting at, putting the cake down on it. My dad tries to make small talk for a while, and my grandfather seems to have some sort of vague, fleeting recognition of his son. He grunts in response. He can't talk well anymore. Nor can he shave, and its hard for me to see him with the rash of gray and white stubble that now covered his chin and neck. He had been a military man, given to organization and discipline, not a day had gone by that he did not shave. I wanted to cry, to rage, to scream, to rail against the injustice of life. I rarely visit. He's getting worse day by day, he's hardly aware of his surroundings now, at least he's past the point of knowing what's happening to him; He doesn't need to suffer the indignation's, I know, that if he could see himself like this, he wouldn't have wanted to live at all. At least that's what we tell ourselves, it's the only salvation from a biting depression that weighs on your shoulders and threatens to break the supports beneath you. That, and finding a dark humour in his forgetfulness to laugh in the face of a prolonged death to bring some kind of light to an otherwise vacuous, dark pit. It's hard to find such closure though, when you think of a man who gave his childhood to fight in two wars, to live and survive only to have his remaining years snatched from his fingers too early, this farce of a life is hardly living and seeing the shell of my grandfather brings only sadness and pain. He was a strong man, even when he turned 80 he held so much power in his hands. He was an emotional anchor, a man's man, and I always admired him greatly. I could never express these feelings, I didn't know how. When I realized I should, it was too late, and I can only hope that he knew what I felt before he was taken from us before he even died. He was a soldier, and sometimes he acts as though he's still in World War II, asking if I am off to the front lines, his eyes looking at my shaved head critically as if inspecting to see if each hair was the same length as all the others. I hold back tears that make my eyes look like broken glass; I haven't cried in so long, I'm not about to start now. I can't bring myself to cry, it doesn't seem right, knowing that I'm mourning a death that hasn't occurred yet, not physically anyway. But the man I called grandpa is no longer living within him, that crucial piece that makes him who he is has ceased to exist. Sometimes, I need a reminder to know that I am still capable of feeling, I shut the feelings out when they threaten to overwhelm, become numb, it's the only way I can make it through the days taking one step after another knowing each step is a step towards death. Every moment is fleeting. Every moment building upon the last in a journey that can only end one way. When I look at my grandfather as he sits there, his head slumped, drool forming at the corner of his mouth, the sharpness in my chest and the tears I can't wipe away remind me just how deep feelings can run. In the end, we left my grandfather as we had found him. The cake, left uneaten and unopened remains on the desk as we walk away. It was the last time I saw him.

It was written once that the road to creation was long. You know this to be true. For as long as you can now remember you have walked the *ákros*, the glacial wastes that begin where the maps of men draw their ends, vast white plains that reach behind and beyond you towards unreachable horizons. Supplies are gone and the cold inescapable, a cold that numbs the face and deadens the feet, a cold that promises a swift and dreamless sleep. You walk. You walk until the chill has gone deep into your blood, each breath a knife in your throat. You walk until the wind becomes a veil of white, driving into your eyes and fighting each step. You walk until you can walk no further, and then you fall to your knees. Looking up, through the whipping snow you think you glimpsed a thunderhead. You think you crawled; you do not quite remember. For you are no longer on ice, but on stone, stone that shines darkly and glistens with water. There is something ancient about it, something that betrays a power within its veins. This is not mere stone; this is the foundation of the world. This is the living rock. A cool wind is about you, and the smell of rain. Drops begin to fall, and then you are enveloped in a storm, its water warm and sweet. You shed your clothes and rise to your feet as the downpour washes over you, drenching your hair and skin. Though you cannot see before you, you hear a roar in the distance. Slowly, the rain recedes. The air here is thick with mist and power, saturated with a *mageia* so dense it makes your skin tingle. You dare not cast, but tentatively wave your hand in a half-incantation; the *epaoide* flows from your fingers near-unbidden, blossoming before your eyes into something wondrous and terrible, something that turns to glance upon its creator before twisting into the spray. The air is thick with power, here; the powers of creation. As you walk forward the roar becomes louder, deafening. And then you see it. A wall of water, broader than a thousand cities and taller than the eye can follow, falling from above the heavens to crash into the dark and churning sea beneath it. This is it - the beginning of the oceans, the fount that birthed the nine seas. No, it is more. These are the very waters of creation. This is the beginning of life, of the world. This is the beginning of all things. You look below and see waves, waves that would dwarf mountains, moving in immense surges to crash upon the rock beneath you. The sound of their breaking is that of a thousand thunderclaps. It is the very heartbeat of creation. It is the sound of the breaking of the world, and if there is pain in that sound it is the pain of birth, timeless and unending. The spray of the ocean blows in your face and drips from your hair, sweet and cold, the water of life. You spread your arms, open your mouth. You wish to drink it all, to spend an eternity in this place. You cannot. Slowly, you turn back. Slowly, the roar recedes. The rain is kinder on the return journey, and the winds are at your back. There is no path to return but the one you took to arrive. There is no path but the long road.

I, am the lord of all things and none. Follow me if you will. I have seen everything and nothing. Known all and none. In the beginning there was the end and all there ever was will be again. I have walked long roads and seen tall mountains. I have burnt into the depths of the Earth and broken the glaciers of the North. I know your despair. I know the demon that haunts you. Follow me into the void and I will be your light. I will be the hand that finds you in the darkness. I will come when no one will. Follow me. I am the lord of all things and none. I am the Lord of Life. Follow me to Death's door and knock unafraid because you know I am with you. I am always with you. I am all life. Death, is none. Follow me into the light or join him in darkness. I will rake the legions of Death over the Sun and Stars and settle them in Oblivion. Follow me and we will build a kingdom on their ashes. Follow me or be thrown to them. I am the lord of all things and none. And the time to live is now.

I wanted to save you. But I was scared. I had no idea what I was doing, or why this was happening now, to me, to us, to all of us. Funny, you'd think the world ending would go out with a little more, "oomf" like a huge explosion, or world war three or hell zombies, but just something else not this god awful- silence. That was the first clue that something was wrong. The birds stopped chirping, those annoying birds finally stopped singing and all I could hear was nothing. And then it went dark. That's when the screaming happened, at that point I couldn't tell if the complete and utter silence was worse then the sound of screaming (that started and ended quickly because something was coming, and we didn't even have a fighting chance) my only thought was to find you, and then the others and then leave, hijack the plane to Mars, anywhere but here, I kept calling your name over and over and over and it seemed like every step I took it was another step back because (I couldn't see I couldn't see I couldn't-) and then you were gone. Just like that. I could feel it you know? I wanted to save you. I just couldn't. But I'm going to make them pay.

A few nights ago I met my high soul in a dream. here is the literary story I wrote about the experience: I dreamt. I was walking around a large grass field with rolling hills where I felt...light of body. It seemed the hills continued on indefinitely and I had been wandering for years. "It is time for a change", I told myself. With this urge came and idea, "Let me create a hole". Low and behold, there it was. Suddenly I was one lunge away from a pit in the ground where grass used to grow. I examined it - diameter slightly larger than five feet, depth apparently bottomless - With some consideration and much courage I found the will to jump the gapping hole. Success! How proud I was! Suddenly a shift in thought… The jump was not enough. What does one gain by jumping over the hole, I merely remained on the same endless grassy field. Then idea then came to me. I want to fall. The thought alone pulled my body into the pit. Fear grasped me but I expected to find solid ground almost immediately. However, the fall made itself into an eternity and so my body became calm. The idea that there was no bottom became believable. I hit. My bones broke immediately, all my perception held was blackness. That blackness your brain cannot comprehend. I was dying. My limbs had already failed & my organs were next. I expected pain and sorrow to rip apart my consciousness in a dance of agony, as I lay broken at the bottom, but death was too quick. I died. The darkness broke and there appeared an eye. Not dressed up in godliness, not coated in glory, no, it was much more frightening than that. More human, more made of flesh than us. How to explain each second… How to explain the bare and helpless state of my being, as if I had become a hopeless cadaver under the scrutiny of a scientific gaze, undergoing an examination in preparation for a procedure. I traveled. In a moment, urgent as the darting of that eye, arms of white light swirled like water from a drain in reverse motion. The light formed structures which which I had never seen, yet they screamed a hauntingly familiar explanation of their implicit significance. Rotation became a variable, though I cannot say precisely when, for my consciousness was in a hypnotic state of sorts. What home had I found? A departing sensation from my body overwhelmed me as a mix of blue and violet introduced themselves to the dance. This was preceded by, if not simultaneous to, a bright symbol which appeared below the eye just out of the circle of light. I can only describe the it as Asian in origin, I am unsteady about which particular culture. The memory has faded somewhat now, yet my confidence remains that I would be able to recognize the unknown symbol. I woke. As I rose toward, or perhaps more appropriately with, the eye my mind was coaxed into a state of pure ecstasy. My body began to shake, not In my dream but in my now forgotten physical reality. I was forced awake by a jerking motion and found myself lying smoldering in an intense emotional state, of which I have never known previously. A dream perchance, or perhaps…I nearly shuffled off this mortal coil.

The sun is setting and the sky is ablaze with long steaks of garnet and gold. A boy and a girl are standing around a crippled bird, its wing is broken in all but two places. A large laceration left splintered bone exposed to the wind and blood painted on the small tufts of feathers that still clung to the battered wing. Nearby, the cat licked its paws and flicked its tail towards the boy and the girl. The boy looks at the girl. Her long, Spanish hair danced in the wind before landing delicately atop her breasts. “What can we do?” the girl asks. She collects her hair and pulls it into a ponytail in a single practiced motion. The boy takes a knee beside the bird and assumes a calculated face and scratches the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “The wing is pretty messed up. The cat grabbed him here.” The boy says, using his hand to mime a biting action near the wound. “Can you do anything?” The girl asks, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and letting her hand drop at her side. “We can try to wrap the wing and make the bird comfortable. Do you have any medical tape?” The boy asks. The girl watches his hands; they travel steadily but with nervous haste. She scratches her head and glances towards home. “My mom might have brought some home from the hospital, let’s look in my house.” The boy carefully scoops up the bird in his hand and makes a light clicking sound with his tongue. “It’s okay.” He says. “It’s okay.” The boy and the girl walk to the house, the girl leads the way. From behind, he watches her walk. Her muscular calves pull her body forward and with each step, her hips sway with the wind. He continues to whisper to the bird, which appears to have accepted to his presence. Inside the house the air is dense and heavy. The smell of old cooking oil is baked into the walls. The lights are as dim as candlelight. On the wall hangs a rosary and the sound of a TV novella echoes from down the hallway. The bird stirs in the boy’s hand and makes an attempt to escape, failing to actually do so. “He hurts.” The boy said. “Find the tape.” The girl hurriedly jogs off to a separate corner of the house. The boy gently places the bird on the kitchen counter next to a half-sliced onion. Its breathing is becoming deeper and its blinking slows. The boy unrolls his flannel sleeves and looks at a wilted bunch of roses sitting in the windowsill. From a bedroom, the boy hears arguing. The mother is not speaking English at the girl and neither of them is speaking pleasantly. A door slams and the girl reappears next to the boy at the counter. Her eyes, red and wet, meet his. She bites her lip to stop it from trembling. His face is pale and his arms, chilled, were crossed. “How’s the bird?” She asks. The bird is still. He places a bloody hand on her shoulder.

Tobias knew that she was beautiful. It was obvious when she closed her mouth. Her small chin seemed to be pulled in, and her upper lip stretched over what her lower lip didn’t cover. It gave her an innocent and curious look. But her eyes conveyed anything but purity, they were large and dark and full of wisdom. This contrast, Tobias knew, was rare, and no doubt stirred feelings of longing in nearly every man who was so lucky to see her. There was a time when Tobias would have felt warm at the thought of them together, holding hands, kissing, holding each other in bed. He knew he would have found himself smiling when he saw something that reminded him of her, and everything would remind him of her, from the wind, to the warmth and wetness of damp dirt in the sun, from the way a cashier held her head to the way water falls off the mossy rocks in his grandfather’s forest. He would always be smiling, for she’d be his world, and the world was all he saw. Every now and then, in intervals immeasurable by time, she would go swimming, encouraged by the depth and complexity of what lies beyond and beneath the surface of the ocean. She would float on the water and catch glimpses of fantastic creatures and sights, whales surfacing and far away beaches beckoning, and she would swim and swim in the direction of her gaze, but always the beaches seemed to get further away, and the whales never stayed in the same place. She would hold her breath as long she could and dive under, five feet, ten feet, fifteen, and she’d see schools of brightly colored fish, curious bubbles, turtles and other creatures, but always her lungs emptied and her sight blurred, and she’d have to come up for air, gasping and flailing as she cursed her human impotence and imperfections. She’d be weary, and sick of searching, she’d curse herself again for leaving land, for believing that her undefined desires were attainable, she’d curse herself for having desires at all, why can’t she just be content? and she’d turn around and see Tobias on an island not very far off. He’d be smiling and his palms would be open. She would swim easily to him, carried by the current, and he’d wrap a towel around her and lead her inside, where blankets and hot cocoa and a fire would all be laid out for her. Tobias would hold her, and she’d feel silly as she saw her misty desires of perfection solidify into desire for something real, something simple and true, attainable and powerful. She’d see her desire solidify into reality, into the object of a man, and that object would be holding her. Slowly her feelings of silliness, of desire, of comfort and yearning, would become ecstasy, which would radiate throughout her entire body, and she’d wonder why she ever left Tobias island in the first place. But he’d be the epitome of understanding, and when she would leave again to swim towards the unattainable, he’d be waiting for her on the shore, waiting patiently for her return, always with a towel and always with a kind and understanding smile on his face. Each time their ecstatic reunion was different and special, for she always felt sillier and wiser, and he knew that her occasional departures were necessary, and they both knew he knew, and loved each other all the more for it. This is what Tobias thought of when he saw her, and so he looked at her as though she were a display in a museum.

The air is warm and humid up here. Crickets hum back and forth, as if they know it is their duty to provide this familiar summers night ambiance. I can see the stars above me slowly scrolling past, as I feel the hum of the music vibrating through the ceiling below me. I've never been the life of the party, or a particularly social individual, and yet I am always trailing behind a more outgoing crowd like a pop can on a string. I'll always watch as my friends pass the glowing threshold of a door into some apartment or club, while I find myself slipping off somewhere else. The bathroom, out on the porch for a smoke, sitting up here, on the roof. I'm sure my friends will think of some funny story to tell me, or need me to confirm some unbelievable memory they are trying to explain to an attractive girl, but after a quick glance around the room fails to reveal me, they will simply forget about me. And so that is how I came to find myself here, sitting up on this hot roof as the greatest night of my life passes beneath me. As I sit and write into my notebook beneath the glow of the full moon, I can hear it. The laugh of the girl I would have kissed. The song I would have drunkenly danced to, the spectacle of which would make me the most popular guy at the party. The drunken idiot who's life I would have saved. The job offer I would have received from some stranger who's "heard all about me". I feel it all slip past, swept up into the wind along with the thumping of the bass and the swirling laughter. I wonder what color her hair would have been. Perhaps a dark color, someone who doesn't even stand out. A hidden beauty. Maybe she would notice how awkward I look, and start a conversation out of pity. "This party is pretty lame, isn't it?" she might say, as if to show I wasn't alone. Time would slow down, as her gaze drowns out the buzz of the party, until it would just be her and I in the room. Perhaps my one true love is down there, in that bright, noisy social promised land. Perhaps I missed my one shot by climbing up here. The light of the street lamp begins to flicker as a flurry of moths dance around it. For a moment I get so lost in its mundane beauty that I forget where I am. It's not like I've never seen that before, but sometimes you just don't really look at something unless you try. Up here, alone with my thoughts, I can't help but wonder who I would have been, if I'd gone inside. Perhaps tonight was the night I found my confidence. Perhaps my true passion was waiting for me down there. The best friend I would ever meet might be here tonight, the friend who would change my life forever. Maybe I would have lived the life I was supposed to live, instead of this one. Maybe everything will always be wrong now, this dizzy, stumbling feeling might never leave. I begin to notice the sound of distant traffic. I can see red and yellow lights in the horizon, whirring back and forth. Night people, living on the opposite side of time. I wonder if the world is different at night. I wonder if it's better. Empty streets, dark places, an air of mystery and unknowing. I wonder if I belong here, in the dark, up on this roof. I wonder where I fit in. Where am I supposed to be going? Someone stumbles out of the house and collapses on the lawn. I wait for someone to follow him out, but nobody comes. For a moment I wonder if he is alright, but then I realize that I just don't care. I can't help but feel a slight pang of guilt as I acknowledge it, but it's true. In him I see the person I'm not, this party-goer making the bad decisions that could seemingly fix my life. I know that no matter what is wrong with him, it's not worth moving. If nobody inside cares, I don't care. I accept that he is just a part of the landscape now. I thought I heard my name being mentioned down there for a moment. I can hardly hear anything in particular, so I am not sure how I would have. Maybe I just wanted to. Maybe I wanted some link between myself out here and the other world down there. Maybe I wanted an invitation. I wanted that girl, the job offer, the best friend, the social status. I wanted the golden opportunity I am certainly letting get away. As the night goes on, the noise dies down, as the party slowly fades. I imagine that people are just falling asleep where they are. New-found lovers are leaving together, in search of a "quieter place". The host begins to over-think the amount of cleaning he'll endure the following day. A few people lounge around, absorbing the atmosphere left by the chaos. I'm sure my friends will be looking around for me soon. They'll need a ride home, after all. I'll slip off the edge of the roof, onto the soft lawn, and stand by the doorway as if I'd been glancing around to find them. Of course we'd be separated, in a party that great. "Dude! What a party, right?!" They'll ask me. "Yeah, it was great." I'll say.

The tower had no name. It had always been like that, disappearing and reappearing at its own will throughout the Planes, with anyone who entered it never being seen again. It was a feared thing, only ever being touched by brave or foolhardy adventurers. Varglan was like the tower. He was avoided, reserved, and quiet. If one could ever get him to open up and talk for a few minutes, he might tell them of his experiences in the Carpace War and his time as a soldier. He could tell about his interest in the ancient ruins that littered the lands of Serpin. He could tell about his lost family. But Varglan hadn't had a conversation lasting more than three minutes in over four years. People, if they could see past his careworn cloak, might observe his stony features, with dark, hooded brown eyes, a wide chin, a nose that had been broken several times over, and a blocklike skull. Varglan's obsession with the tower had made him this way. He searched for it to find the treasure rumored to be hidden inside- or so his village thought. Nobody really knew his true motives. Frankly, nobody cared. To outsiders, Varglan was just another crazy treasure hunter, one to be eventually lost to the wilds surrounding he small, ragged town. Tonight, though, was his night. Varglan had been planning for half a year now, relying on insight from witnesses of the tower's reappearances and vanishings. His thoughts worked like a blazing forge, productively going over plans and counter-plans. He trudged through the mucky forest path, dodging the branches of low-hanging trees brought low by the winds. He could think much more easily if it weren't for this accursed rai- CRACK. An incandescent bolt of red lightning struck the ground beside Varglan, throwing him off of his feet and boiling the mud where the bolt hit. The somewhat irritating rain had evolved into a full-on magestorm now, and shelter was of the utmost importance, unless Varglan wanted to be roasted alive. Fortunately enough, a tall, angular shape slowly appeared out of the pelting droplets, too large to be a tree. Varglan smiled grimly. He had reached the tower at last.

I wrote this based on an earlier version of Minecraft when the villagers actually did ignore you. They don't anymore. And be kind about my grammar, you're lucky there's punctuation. The Lonely Planet Square. That was one word to describe this strange planet. This story begins with my spawn, my names Steve. I awoke in a grassy field, the ocean to my left and a forest of birch trees to my right. Dominion. That was the name for this new world. There was no one to tell me this and no sign stating so, I just knew. This world had a picturesque landscape and countless opportunities to explore. That first day I built a small house of dirt, it was a quaint structure that I was proud of, but there was no one around to share it with. After the night had passed and a second day began I watched the yellow sun rise and bathe the land in light. It was beautiful. I collected materials and began plans for a much larger home, all I needed was a castle and I would be the happiest person alive. Herds of animals would mosey about as I worked during the day, they were a pleasant sight and I would sit and watch them for a bit now and then. My hunger neared empty and instinctively I knew the animals had food. It was a short friendship and the daytime spent working on my castle became lonely, but I was full. The castle was finished eight days after I spawned, I stood back and gazed at it with appreciation and pride, it was indeed grand. I spoke aloud how lovely the building was and realized just how quiet this world was. I spent the first night in my new house telling myself over and over again how happy I was, that I had everything I ever wanted. The next day I climbed the tallest tree I could find and jumped from its peak, I hit the ground and immediately appeared back where I had started in the grassy field, my castle visible just a few feet away. Several more nights passed in silent contempt for myself, a moaning sound floated near. I crossed the distance inside my castle and peered out the window, a zombie stared back. He looked similar to the way I did and seemed to be watching me closely, I talked with him all that night. I told him my lifes story beginning with my spawn and about my animal friends who had had to leave, I told him that all I had needed to be happy was a big house and now that I had it I was content. He seemed to listen carefully to what I had to say and I imagined him giving me answers in return. I saw the sun starting to rise behind him and I grew excited, I couldn’t wait to share the spectacle with my new friend. I opened the door and went out, my friend fell upon me and ripped at my clothes tearing my skin beneath. I ran back inside and closed the door behind me, his expression remained the same. The sun broke free of the horizon and my friend’s body caught fire, I screamed at him to run to the ocean but he stayed put staring at me all the while till he was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes. I buried his remains that day, I buried them in the sand. The water had been just a few steps away. I tried to drown myself and was transported back to the grassy field, this world was both beautiful and cruel. And empty. The castle looked menacing where it had once looked welcoming, I turned away from it and started to walk, one foot in front of the other never looking back. After three days of walking in the light and hiding from other zombies, always thinking about my friend and his final few moments, I saw what seemed to be buildings in the distance. But that was impossible, I squinted and saw figures moving about the cobblestone streets. I gave a whoop of joy and sprinted down the hill, throwing my arms around the first villager I saw I squeezed him tightly. He didn’t resist and I imagined him smiling down at me. Unwrapping my arms from his torso I stepped back and stood a short distance apart from him, a smile cracking my face. The villager finding he was free scurried away without a single glance, a second villager passed without taking any notice of me. I jumped in front of a third barring his way, his eyes stared in my direction but instead of focusing on me they passed through without seeing. I stepped aside and he continued on. The sun was beginning to set so I entered one of the small wooden houses, a villager was sleeping in a bed in the corner. I lifted the covers and slipped in beside them, they made no movement. I reached out and embraced the villager, their body was cold and rigid. I fell into a worried slumber, in the morning my hands were empty. I ran to the door and searched for the villager from last night, everyone looked the same. I waited all day for nighttime to come, when it finally did I watched the door but no one entered. No villager came back to the house that night, they had moved on. The next day I left, being in the village with ghosts was worse than being alone and pretending that someone else did exist, just not where I was. I walked into the night and came across another zombie, it turned to look as I passed then started coming towards me. I stopped and let him approach. Up to the point his claws dug in I imagined him as a friend I’d had forever, we laughed and explored together, we lived in a big castle and dug interweaving tunnels all through this world, we weren’t alone. I spawned back just as I knew I would, my eyes closed not wanting to see the stone structure, or the grassy field. This was a lonely world, and I could never leave.

Evelyn was tired. Beneath her lay a young boy, he must have been no more than eighteen years old given his angry, naked spot-pocked back that resembled a butchers chucked cartilage. He had an erection that threatened. The room was a precoital picture with heavy cardboard sweat socks discarded in the corner. Wet jeans and a t shirt told Evelyn that outside the sideways rain hadn’t eased up and in turn she told herself that this was the last customer. Her feet were sore and her head was turning into a train station. ‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked the boy. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘you could maybe go a bit harder?’ It was the usual script from this type of client. They were never money men, someone as mid-level as Evelyn only attracted a certain type of client and they were never money men. But they were always men. She liked to call this type of client a ‘suggester’. Too scared to outright ask for what they wanted, or needed. But being good at her job, she could always see through their nervous eyes and veiled suggestions. Evelyn always delivered. ‘Yes, sir.’ she said He giggled. The greatest violation that she could imagine was a laugh. Suggesters always giggled. She wanted to make this one quick as she was still sore from yesterday. The man from yesterday had left a bad feeling in the room and a bad feeling in her. She knew from the moment that he walked in the door that he was going to dump everything on her. All his anger in one quick but painful session, she called this type of client a ‘dump’. She was the dump. ‘Should I just lie on my back, or…?’ the boy said, bringing Evelyn back to herself. She had a habit of letting her mind wander, and when she came back everything was always worse. But most of all, as always, it was the smell. A smell that without fail would intensify as Evelyn ribbed her hands along a clients back. Kneading her knuckles among his boy-back, aggressive pores would open further and cough out his boy-smell, a smell that made her sick, without fail. Hah-hah-hah he dumped us on you. Evelyn the dump! Yesterdays man had definitely left his mark. It was inside her. ‘Just as you are is fine’ Evelyn said, violated. She began to work on him. Starting off slow she air brushed her hands along his skin to waken it up, to get the pores spilling. She knew what she was doing, time-sure hands followed their usual route up and down, taking care not to neglect any inch of skin or finite sized hair that might be raised. The boy was beginning to warm up and tried to match her rhythm. Violated. ‘Yeah, that’s good’ he said. ‘Could you go a little harder?’ Evelyn sighed and collected herself, this was her job and she was good at her job. She closed her eyes and sucked in air through her mouth, having been trained never to breathe in through the nose, especially when a rankey suggester was in the room. Things slowed down as she removed herself from the present, it was easier that way. To let go. The air become a little more bitter as she prepared herself. There’s nothing in him. You’re full, Dump. You’ve got us. The floor started to mould around her as if made of porridge while the room gently turned and made her a little light-headed. This is how it was. Evelyn the Dump! Evelyn the Dump! I think she likes him! She could see herself from above moving to dim the lights and play her industries music. She did it slowly, assuredly. She was good at her job. With the lights dimmed, a neon sign that read: “Marie’s Massage Parlour: Leave Your Worries Behind” emptied its heartless light onto the room. This is how it always was. The neon sign that denoted her trade stuttered twice and then blinked on and off before regaining control and teased with its arrogance. Of course the boy had no idea what was happening, he was fixated on the blood that was rushing around his already primed skin and mistook it as arousal. He wouldn’t want a fatty like you. You’re fat. He hates you. From above she could see herself walking back towards the boy. She started on his neck, searching for knots and story lines. There were none, he had no stories. Determined to help she moved a little further down to his shoulders, some stress was found but not enough to justify a dumping. A little further down and marking along his spine she stopped, what was that? A trauma? Maybe it was here. On her first day at Marie’s Massage Parlour Evelyn came in somewhat boldly, expecting salaries and summer holidays. She had long ago learned not to aim too high. Too many beat downs and too many corridor whispered, ‘there goes Evil-yn, evil Evil-yn, fat fat fatty Evil-yn,’ had made a woman like so many. She liked to stay quiet and out of shot of hooked female glances. She would become good at her job she said. ‘Hi I’m Evelyn, I’m here for my first day,’ she had said to the woman behind the reception desk. The woman lazily picked her eyes off the computer screen and plumped them on Evelyn, immediately sensing her somewhat boldness and hating it. Fat fat fatty ‘I’m Ruth,’ she replied with lazy contempt. Ruth thought for a moment, twiddled her pen in her hair and bit her thin bottom lip. Too much competition, she thought, time to hurt. ‘You will need to get fitted for a uniform.’ ‘Yeah, I sent my measurements ahead, they said it should be ready?’ Evelyn was beginning to get nervous. She could feel Ruth peeling her apart with her eyes, she was judging, stripping, hurting. ‘It should have been ready, yeah,’ said Ruth, gearing towards her sting. ‘But sometimes for girls of a...larger size it takes longer for them to come through.’ She pasted her eyes off Evelyn and returned to the screen, and briefly allowed herself to smile at the damage caused. [clarify] ‘Oh, OK, thanks. Should I just...’ She stopped herself from finishing, the damage had been caused. Her make up began to feel silly on her face, she could feel it heavy on her brow, mocking her with its weight and boldness. She was sweating. Fat sweaty Evelyn. Back in the room with the boy, Evelyn was still working the muscle in his back. Trying to seek out his lumps and the temperature was rising. This was normal when the client was a suggester, he was becoming more and more aroused. But that was OK, that was to be expected, as long as nothing came of it. ‘Does it hurt here?’ she said. ‘Yeah, go lower, go lower please.’ Alarm bells dusted off their clackers. Evelyn coughed slightly and slowed her movements, this usually was hint enough for most suggesters to behave. Behaving was something that Evelyn knew all about. Daddy’s gonna get you. [more - dump] The boy took the hint. Maybe not on a conscious level, maybe he was starting to notice the blinkering sign. Leave your worries behind. The man from yesterday was starting to push his memory to the front of Evelyn’s mind like sausage meat through a grinder. The sticky boy below her was beginning to sicken her, as it always did, and was reminding her of what was there to stay. ‘Come on in’, she had said to the man from yesterday, ‘make yourself comfortable. If you would like to take your shirt off and lie on the table I’ll be in with you in a moment.’ The room changed as soon as he came in. His type was very familiar to her but there was something different about him. His poorly tied tie and loose top button put him immediately in sales, a targets man. Evelyn clocked that his tension would likely be in whatever arm he held a phone or knocked a door with. The ink on his left cuff told her what arm that would be. ‘Thanks, I wont be long.’ said the man as his eyes shiftily kissed from her to the floor. ‘I’m Andy,’ he said as Evelyn made her way past him out the door. She didn’t miss his self-hating eyes grope her ass as she passed. ‘Evelyn,’ she said and walked out. Alone in the room, Andy looked around. A long table sat in the middle of the room like an electric chair. It had been surgically tucked in with brilliant white towels except for a hole at the top of the table reserved for a clients head. Andy had a shiver as he thought of the things he wouldn’t be able to see happening when he would be in position. Andy lifted up his shirt and winced slightly as his left shoulder fought back. Shirt off, he saw his reflection in a mirror. The belly was a little hairier and wider than it should have been. She will be disgusted, he thought as he tried to manage his thinning hair into respect. From outside the door Evelyn was resting from one foot to the other, it was the end of the day and this man scared her. He was here to dump. She knew it. It is known that a massage releases tensions that have been built up over time, physical tension from work or age. It is also known that emotional tensions affect the body and a trauma can work its way into your muscle. Pain inflicted on you sits on you like a vulture gruelling over sloppy seconds, Evelyn knew too well. Waiting outside the door she tried to imagine what Andy would do when he went home. Would he push keys into a door that had a stream of similar doors beside it on each side? She imagined that he he would throw his jacket onto the bench and work at his tie. Bean baked bowls would be resting on each other, because Andy was a slob and she knew it. She could picture his out of shape body sliding into a shower as he picked clumps of shirt wool out of his chest hair, scratching his ass and making toast: that was Andy. She pictured him getting into a bed that was hardening from lonely nights, so many lonely nights. [clarify] He would probably touch himself, she thought. I bet that beast touches himself, she thought. He would start off slowly, just like he would want her to. He would work himself into a frenzy, feeling his muscles tighten with all the youth they used to have. Andy would become the man he once was, arms and legs begging for strain. His back would arch itself painlessly as he maneuvered Evelyn onto her back and he would breathe his young man kisses onto her. For that moment he would be beautiful again, Evelyn thought, as she stood resting from one foot to the other outside the door. ‘I’m ready’, Andy spoke pityingly. Who would want you, Dump? The boy was beginning to get restless, his plan wasn’t working so he decided to play harder. He tilted his hips to the right giving an opening. Who would want you, Dump? Evelyn, in her thoughts of yesterday almost mechanically edged towards the opening that this soft mass of boy beneath her presented. Again seeing herself from above she could see her own willingness in this moment from the back of her knees, which were bending low to submit to him. She was still sore from yesterday. It was the type of pain that brought her back to being a young girl. The choking kind of pain that reminded her of her mother stuffing celery stalks into her mouth to force her period. Fat sweaty Evelyn ‘Vitamins, vitamins will bring it on, eat up, Evelyn’, her mother would spit. Colic-like, a young Evelyn would be breathless from pain when it did come, hard and fast. Bent double she would ask it to stop, but mother would just scream, ‘vitamins’. Evelyn would be that young girl again when someone dumped their pain on her. From above she stopped herself from acting on the boy’s advances, from above she knew it wouldn’t make yesterday’s pain go away. Yesterday, Andy had lay on the table when Evelyn asked him. She stood above him and said, ‘Today I am going to give you a deep massage’. Andy, the fool, thought his time had come. ‘It might hurt, and if it does just you just tell me and I’ll stop, OK?’ ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said not quite sure. ‘If you maybe think you are going to...’ Evelyn chose her words carefully, but deliberately, ‘cry, or get emotional at any time, let me know and I’ll stop, OK?’ She remembers that Andy had laughed when she told him. But they always cried, every one of them had something to cry about. Before she started on him she caught a glimpse at a neon sign that read: ‘Leave your worries behind.’ Somewhere, she heard from herself to stop. ‘Get up please. Please go now, please,’ she said to the young boy still on her table. ‘I need to stop now, please get out.’ Things were starting to get dizzy again, she was becoming the young girl again, ‘eat your vitamins and you’ll bleed, come on now!’ The floor was starting to slip and the room was passing by in streaks of captured memory. The man from yesterday was pushing through, Andy was knocking on her door and wanted to talk. The dump from yesterday was starting to show itself again and it was strong. She could see it through a crack in a bedroom door. The young boy was shouting, she thinks she can hear him shouting: ‘What the fuck do you mean get out? I’ve paid for another twenty minutes!’ the young boy was shouting. ‘Fuck you, slut. You fat bitch!’ Fat fat fatty She remembers that Andy had laughed when she told him about crying. That when she put her hands on him, his memories had ran up her arms and ripped onto her mind, and they came slow. Slow like she knew he would like them to. Slow like when he was a young boy sitting on his bedroom floor and could hear daddy’s feet resting from one to the other. Like when he could hear his daddy say, ‘Nobody wants you, fat fat fatty. Nobody likes you. Who would want you?’ Evelyn could see that Andy’s father was a thin man, and that he was sweating. She could see a fan in the corner of the room that threw out gasps of light and this sweating man. She could hear a wet leather built being undone and the slipping noise it made when Andy’s father took his trousers down. She remembers other things and they were hitting her frame by frame. Andy had got up off her table and he was crying, but happy. When someone dumps that from themselves, the pain in their back seems to have gone. ‘Thanks, Evelyn,’ Andy had said, ‘I feel great!’ ‘Get out, please go,’ Evelyn was now shouting at the young boy who had put his shirt back on and was swearing at her from the reception. In reception, Ruth was twirling her pen in her hair and told the young boy that Evelyn was always a little crazy.

belittled a shorty story you have no idea how much it hurts to see my mom give up. it absolutely kills me. I can't think straight, I'm quiet, I don't want to do anything but be left alone and I always just wish that she never did. everything looked so good! it all looked like I was going to be able to finally start my life and move on with the next chapter. she had been going well for a couple of months granted she still hasn't found work, but she was trying. she has been cleaning the house lately and getting back to her old self. she hasn't touched the bottle. I can see my old mom again. the one that had character and is caring with a reason to live; her kids. but when she came home yesterday I saw it on her face. in her mannerisms and immediately knew. and it wrecked me. it completely collapsed my lungs. my face is lifeless. because there is so much disappointment in the simple fact that we were on such a good pace! we were around the track a couple times to get our blood pumping. but instead of pushing through she gives up & runs to to the sidelines. I wasn't even the first one to notice, like I usually am. it was my father. he was over helping me out with a few things and he was the one who pointed it out to which I habitually replied with, "no she hasn't". it fell out of my mouth like an exhale. like routine. I was defending her, automatically, like I had been, more now than ever, and I was completely wrong. everything feels so surreal. how can you put so much trust, time, effort, faith, belief in someone, over and over, time after time, again and again, when all they do is let you down? I'm sick and sad. my chest remains concave. I am beat down by the one person in life I want to matter too. and, I can't change that. I am belittled.

I stood once more. My mind soft as silk. Feeling unscathed, invincible. I followed you into the next room. The windows perpendicular to us, warm rays breathing life into our flesh. Reflecting at the surrounding white walls. I stared in solace at your figure. Its subtle existence, meaningless, but everything to me. Your oceanic-expanding consciousness, drowning me in peace at its interaction. You turn slowly, fixating your luminescent brown eyes back into mine. I fall short of breath. For a second or more I’ve dismissed myself from reality. Losing myself in your abysmal pupils. I refused to understand you in a predictable manner, allowing your consciousness to roam with question through my mind. I ignorantly shroud you from my intelligence, blanketing you as perceivable, interactive enchantment. Choosing you as my catalyst to undo the apathetic damage I’ve done to myself. I question whether that is love. You finally speak at my momentary detachment. “Darling, our world is no longer shared. I don’t feel the same for you.” I had nothing to say. All thoughts froze. There was no rapture to release my demons. Only a fracture to my irrationality. If my physicality were to display my mentality, my irises would decay from brown to grey. As the pigmentation of my skin drains to pale scales. I've become untethered to your awareness. You continued to speak as if you craved a response. But, silence became my sense and you assimilated as another background object in my field of vision. The rooms brightness felt dimmed, its color diminished by my disconnection to reality as I slip away untethered.

He walked through the grey slush. Stopped. Looked down and noticed that his boot had ripped enough that his toe was now sticking out of the leather. It had probably been that way for two or three hours but it was too cold to realize. No matter anyway. The frost had reached a point that the thought of survival was nothing more than the anticipation of death. Death and life. Not much of a difference. Humanity understands so little of either that it doesn’t really matter. He questions the point of it all as he clenches his revolver but something tells him that he must continue. He could have pulled the trigger weeks ago. His instinct for survival will probably be the slow death of him. Light. Fire. The distance glows. White and grey turn to yellow and red. Maybe this is death. No. Not here. He trudges onward. Black. Then red. Black again. He awakes in a pool of blood. His foot has been amputated. Looking around reveals a group of survivors not much different than him. Apart from the hail, he sees ice in their eyes. He has not found his salvation. He has found yet another way to prolong his long cold death. He reaches for his revolver but finds that it isn’t there. He summons every amount of strength left in him and thrusts himself into the fire. The survivors recoil in horror. Has this man gone fucking mad? No. Maybe we all have.

I saw a particular kind of girl in the queue of the coffee shop today as she quite rightfully drew my gaze from behind. She had dark brown hair that fell in curls midway down her back and she wore a leather jacket, tight blue jeans and had an excellent, petite figure. She had collected her coffee and took a seat up to my right and after admiring her from the back I now saw her from the side. Her eyes were bright and attractive and her nose delicately small, from what I could see she was exceptional. After ordering and taking a seat of my own I glanced over a few times at her. I feigned going to the toilet and walked up toward my right, glancing at her as I came into her line but she was reading a paper and her eyes concentrated upon it. As I returned she was looking around the room toward the entrance. When her head turned around I saw her from the front; her eyes were horribly close together and I saw that her mouth was slightly lopsided. There was something very unlovely about her facial complexion, it was hard and flat and you could tell now more clearly that she was heavily made-up. I’d been deceived and she was irretrievably ugly. I saw now too that it was a copy of The Sun she was reading too, how awful I thought. Feeling underwhelmed and despondent I returned to my seat and watched her sit quite nervily. Her eyes glanced to the door, then to her tabloid, then nervously to her phone. She hadn’t turned the page she was reading for over five minutes; it was hard to tell whether she was a slow reader or just trying to pass time. When she again looked to the door and then to her phone it was clear it was the latter. I thought she looked the sort who’d be a slow reader, too. After reading two chapters of my book my coffee was now cold dregs, I knew hers would be too even though she’d only taken a few token sips. She continued her wishful trinity of door, phone, paper and I was glad she had now turned a page. It had now been 25 minutes and the café was now starting to get louder and busier and I looked at her from the side as I was leaving. Looking at her from this angle almost made me forget that flatly hideous face she had presented earlier. She looked deceptively good from the side, it was a shame she was being stood up, I thought. As I approached the door I turned back her way, I must have been in time with her pathological checking of the door as I saw her look up, her hair swiveling very elegantly as she did so. Her face was written with rejection and that expression sat awkwardly with her too-close-together features. It wasn’t actually a shame at all, actually, I thought as I walked out onto the wet and busy street. It was a classic case of when everything is attractive about a girl, but her face.

The day was young with life. The mist has settled to kiss the dew on the calm blades of grass which sat crisp with life on the back of the creek. The willow tree bent to lightly comfort me under the harsh look of the morning sun. The air had not come to life as the smell of rain lingured. I laid there, limp, and still as my wet clothes clung to my skin. The blanket that had stood in place of my bed was now drenched. My phone was now rendered worthless to me as the rain had took it with her along with my broken self esteem. You're probably wondering why I woke up right next to a creek in the middle of a park. Im going to be Forward with this and tell you, it was for a woman. But not just any woman, her hair was a calm blonde which flowed from her head down past her waist. Her skin was soft yet firm with the light dusting of freckles. Her eyes sang with the brightest greens yet was toned down with the most subtle of browns, making the most brilliant combination that an iris can hold. Her nose was small and petite with a ridge of freckles the adorned the bridge of her nose and ran to both ends of her cheeks. Not to mention the soft velvet touch of her lips with the kind innocent red hue that is only found every so often. Yea I would be sold just on her face alone but it ran deeper than that. Her soft voice would follow you wherever you went. Her gentle scent was always inviting you back. Every kiss felt like my first over and over again. It was as if playing russian roulette and cylinder was fully loaded and by the grace of god I walked away with my head Still attached to my shoulders. We met here and there. She would smile, my heart would melt, she would bat an eye and my legs would give. All my world consisted of was me and my cat, let alone me and someone else. I couldn't even wrap my mind around holding her hand. But she was headstrong, i'm not sure if it was the shell I was hiding in or the lack of a social life that gave me away but she always knew how to pull me out of my rut. She would tease me about my glasses and even bite my neck during a hug. Most of the time I ended up being flustered and red.. She would even wait till I fell asleep at my desk after a long day so she could wrap her arms around me and kiss the back of my neck. To be honest I loved her. Now follow me when I say this, Loved her. I turned a blind eye when she told me to wait for her at the park right behind her house. I didn't know what to call her at that point. My friend, my girlfriend, hell I didn't even know how to kiss when I met her. Naive as I was I thought I should make it worth our while. So with a box of chocolate and some Chinese take-out I was left on a hill under a tree. Now you know everything of my love- life so far.

Feedback would be appreciated, as it would make me determine whether to continue this piece or not. There were two long, winding, cobblestone paths side by side that lead into an immense forest. A cool autumn breeze caressed the gentle grass waving in between the cold hard stones in a calm and pleasant manner. This as if they were dancing without a care in the world. *Well I guess they are grass, and don’t particularly have much to care about. Nevertheless, these grasses were behaving in such a manner.* The gentle orange glow of an autumn sun coloured the paths and the surroundings in a beautiful pallet of dark green and incandescent orange. The boy stood at the beginning of this path, staring directly into the opening of the forest. The dark shadowy entrance contrasted brilliantly to the bright, vibrant outside colourings. Two old Crestwood Oak trees stood as giant pillars forming the magnificent entrance to an otherwise impenetrable line of trees. The boy found it rather peculiar that there were two stone paths, side by side that did not seem to stray from each other by half a meter. The boy shrugged this off, and began walking to the entrance of the forest. As he got closer, he noticed old writing scratched into the side of one of the pillars. “Semitas vitae” It read. The boy had no idea what this read. He gave it no thought howev- *What? Were you expecting me to translate that for you? Hah! I am but a simple author; you cannot expect me to know Latin. Anyway, back to the story at hand.* He gave it no thought however, and walked through the opening into the forest. The first thing the boy noticed when inside the forest was the incredible decrease in temperature. It must have dropped by about twenty odd degrees he thought. The boy looked up high, which then allowed him to notice that entire absence of sunlight; it was as if it were midnight inside this natural building. He looked down and then noticed a fork in the path, with either side leading off symmetrically deeper into the forest. One left, and the other, right. The boy, having trouble deciding on which path to take, sat down and inspected the area further.

Blood was all over her and she was crying... no she was screaming. I was just standing over her, my body frozen. I tried to move, but I couldn't. I tried to yell but all I heard was her painful screaming. I kept thinking to my self, how could this be happening to her. Who would do such a thing? Suddenly her body seemed so relaxed, so silent, and so lifeless. The phone rang and I sat straight up in my bed, wondering to my self, who is calling me and why. After the dream I had no clue what I was doing when I answered the phone. It was a mistake to answer the phone because I was trying to get the world to forget I existed. My story started, perhaps ended, four years ago when I shot and killed an innocent man. I had no reason at all to shoot him except that fact he was running from me, but that is all I remember. Not for one second did I remember pointing my gun at him and shooting. Everyone said they saw me shoot him and then pass out. The only thing I remember is lying on the ground and seeing a dead man next to me. I must have shot him point blank because his blood was all over my shirt. It was an accident; at least that is what my friends told me. Some friends. I haven't been back to New York since. I lost touch with my old life, but I started a new one right here in Colorado. Big change, it truly was a big change since I am out here in the middle of nowhere in a somewhat deserted hotel. Which brings me back to the question, whom is calling me? The phone rang again only to be answered by me. When I picked it up I found, to my surprise, my father. He started out by saying how much he loved me and that he wished that I would move back home. I told him that I would hang up is he didn't tell me why he called. Then I heard the receiver pick up with a crying mother at the end of it. I told my father, again, that if I didn't hear anything useful to me that I would hang up. So he finally blurted out that my sister had been murdered. I wanted so badly to just... disappear. Finally I said, without crying, who did this, why, how, but my pleas were unanswered. I started to yell who did this, who, who! No one know my father said. I knew it; you are just as useless as before. I slammed the phone down and knocked over my first aid kit and my gun. I suddenly remembered the dream I had about my sister screaming. Why was she screaming? After picking up what I had knocked over I decided to call my parents back by dialing my old phone number. I called them back to try and figure a few things out before looking for my sister. It has been four years since I have solved anything so I decided to start with the basic questions. When I called, my father answered the phone and before he could say hello I asked him who killed my sister. He said that if he knew the answer to that question he would have told me earlier. So my first question went nowhere but my second was the one that started my search. I asked him where she was murdered and my first piece of evidence was an amusement park. After about five minutes of pure silence my father said that my sister had some important news she needed to tell me but since she was dead he told me him self. He said Brilliance, my sister, had become a cop to follow in my footsteps. Holding back tears I told my father that I had had enough of my old life to last me awhile. I hung up the phone again and decided to relax, seeing how my sister had just died. I needed to take a breather. The dream of my sister dying kept on haunting me. It would just replay itself in my mind over and over. What did it mean? After about thirty minutes of repetition I decided to take a shower and try to forget what I was dealing with. But when I walked into the bathroom I saw something very much unexpected. The sink and faucet were covered in blood. When I looked at the shower there was this bloody shirt hanging there. Oddly enough it looked as though it was my shirt and soon to find out it was. I walked toward the shower to pick it up when I noticed there happened to be a hole in the stomach area of the shirt. When I picked the shirt up I felt woozy and all of a sudden I passed out and had yet another dream. By now I haad started to call my dreams visions because when you dream you are actually asleep, but as you see I was not sleeping. When I had this vision I saw Brilliance again, but this time she was not on the ground in fact she was pointing a knife at me and yelling. At first I could not understand her however after a while I understood exactly why she was screaming. She was screaming these horrible words "get away from me, are you crazy, why are you doing this to me." Why would my own sister say those things to me? Still the vision continued and not long after she stopped yelling she stabbed me and I fell to the ground. I awoke from the dream in extreme pain. I looked down at my stomach and there was this red blotch spreading on my shirt. When I lifted my shirt I discovered a knife wound with stitches around it. I tried with all my strength to stand up and reach the first aid kit while trying to not my myself bleed more than I was. When I grabbed the kit all of the contents fell out. Finally after cleaning up the mess I found what I needed and proceeded with the stitching. After I stitched my wound I tried to focus on what happened to me. Did my sister really stab me? Her own flesh and blood. What had frightened my sister enough to stab me? I decided to search my hotle room and to see if I could find anything to help me with my problem. At which moment I happened to remember seeing a knife on the floor when I dropped the first aid kit. When I touched the knife memories started to come back to me. Darkness, mirrors, a roller coaster, tears, dust, and finally Brilliance. I heard disturbing sounds like gun shots, howling wind, gasping of air, and bullet shells dropping with intense heat. Enough, I threw the knife across the room and it landed heavily on the floor. At which instant I walked to the knife and picked it back up. Suddenly I had more horrifying memories come back to me. I could smell the air before it rains and Brilliance's sweet perfume lingering in the air. I could also remember the way her hair and clothes smelt. The one vision that stood out beyond the others was the pictures and sounds of a stormy night. When I finally put the knife away I called my parents to ask where the amusement park was. They told me right away and I hung up the phone and ran to my car with my gun and the bloody knife. While driving to the park I hda the knife in my view on the dashboard. It had never occurred to me that the knife was the biggest clue I had and that almost killed me. Further along the road it began to rain and after awhile it became a problem. The rain slicked the road and it was dangerous to go fast but I ignored everything. My ignorance cost me my car as I slammed head on into a tree. After yet another vision of Brilliance I woke up with a cut on my forehead that was pouring blood into my eyes. When I looked out of the car the rain had stopped and fog had eased itself into the scenery. I slowly unbuckled and rolled out of the car only to land awkwardly on the ground and break my arm. The sound of breaking bones caused me to scream out in pain. Then without warning two cops appeared in the fog and I stood up and walked over to them and in an instant I passed out in their arms. At the time I woke up I had a cast on my right arm and I was in extreme pain. I heard whispers from another room but I still had not focused on where I was. After awhile I noticed that I was in a jail cell when at that same moment a guard appeared at my cell. He told me that I was under arrest for possessing a gun and I was to be tried for the murder of Brilliance. I told him that I did not kill her but he just laughed.I finally said to myself that I needed to get out of here and find who killed her. I used one of the bobby pins I had in my hair to unlock the cell and found some car keys. I left the area but not before seeing some cops coming running after me. I didn't care because I was on a mission. Driving down the road was a pain because of the fog and my cast. The radio static was a pain as well and moments later they announced on the CB that I had escaped from jail and that I was armed and dangerous. I guess they noticed that I took my gun back. After a ten minute drive I found my way to the park, which was closed. So I busted my way in through the chained gate and proceeded to the back of the park, my visions from earlier being my guide. After passing a house of mirrors I saw police tape strung up cround this haunted warehouse. I broke the tape and walked up a flight of stairs. Outside I could hear police sirens racing towards the park. When I made it through the top of the stairs the was this hatch with a broken lock on it. Someone had been here already and I was guessing it was Brilliance. When I opened the hatch I could see police cars swarming the park. The view was amzing because the fog had lifted and it had begun to snow. Of course the snow didn't make anything better. I stood at the top of the roof only to see cops invade the warehouse. I began to have more visions this time I was actually repeating them. I could not control myself at all. I had pulled my gun and I was acting like I was shooting someone on the ground. While this was happening the cops burst through the hatch and ahead of them was my old captain. He told them to stay back because I was crazy. He started walking towards me and I shot him when he pulled his gun on me. He fired back and hit me in the chest, which sent me rolling towards the edge of the roof. I almost fell off but the captain grabbed me and said he was going to finish the job. I asked him why and he whispered that he was the one that killed me sister and I was next. Without hesitation I grabbed his arms and pushed him off the roof but he grabbed my legs and I fell down on the roof. We both started to slide off the roof as the other cops ran to try and help. But to no avail we both started to fall towards the freshly snow painted ground. We both fell into the house of mirrors and I watched as the shards reflected the pain we were both going through. In a glimpse I saw a vision of my sister in one of the shards as we both hit the ground. The captain stumbled to get up and as he stood over me with his gun pointed at my head he had a look of triumphant. He leaned in close grabbing the hair on my head to keep me still. He told me how he killed her because she was going to be a good cop and that he couldn't allow her to find out how corrupt he was. All the while I was reaching for a shard of glass. Slowly inching my hand towards a piece he sees me and takes it shot. I look down and see the smoking gun barrel pointed at my chest. Not wanting to fail doing what is right I used every bit of myself to finish what I had come to do. I flung the shard into his neck and watched him stumble backwards amazed at his own carelessness. I watched as he regret poured over his face. As we both sat there dying I felt a sense of relief as it was all over. I had finally ended my life doing something for someone else why he died doing something for himself.

I have a son. Sixteen years old, junior in high school. He is my world, my everything, as he has been since he was born. We live in a relatively small apartment, but it’s more than enough space for the two of us. Just the two of us. Indeed, his mother does not live here anymore. I remember every moment we have ever spent together, from the first day of my freshman year in high school and sitting next to her in Ms. Smith’s English 9 class. Room 105. The heat never worked in that room, and during winter, I had always offered my jacket to her, never once thinking that she would be the mother of my child. I remember becoming good friends that year; sophomore year our friendship grew even more, and by junior year I had realized that she was more than a friend to me. Unfortunately, I cannot forget asking her to Junior prom - I covered her car windshield in sticky notes that spelled out the words “Prom with me?” and lead her to it - I thought I was so clever, until she smiled uncomfortably and said she already had a date with Jake. The football player, number 48. That was the first day I learned how to keep things in. *Don’t let her see you cry*, I told myself, and indeed, she never did. Every night I went home, did my homework, and cried myself to sleep over her. Silly, I know. It was only high school. But try telling that to a high schooler. I remember always having to hear about Jake, and how he was the most amazing boy in the world, and every time I just focused on keeping it in. I’d respond with things such as “I’m glad you’re happy” or “That’s really good to hear”, while internally I was really saying *please stop talking about him*. I kept it inside though. I had gotten quite some experience, and by now I had even developed a knack for forcing an almost genuine smile. For almost seven months, I had been mastering the art of concealing. Then she called me one evening. She told me Jake broke up with her. She never figured out why. That day, my genuine smile was not a facade; it was authentic. In fact, that was the happiest I’d ever been in high school, and it remained so until the day we started dating. There was never really anything special about the way we began dating. It just happened, and we stayed together. It was that simple. Everything was that simple. I remember the proposal: we walked through the park, looking back on every moment we’d shared in the past, and then I asked her. “As good as the past was, I want to look forward to our future together even more,” I said, and then asked, “Nicole, will you marry me?” We were wed four months later. I must confess, I don’t remember much about the wedding day. I was too euphoric. She died four years ago. Since then, I’ve practiced concealing my feelings every day, less for my sake, but for my son’s. He doesn’t have to see me cry. He shouldn’t. I must stay strong, keep concealing. Don’t let my feelings show; keep a smile on my face. I thank God every day that she died, because I needed the practice. I had a son. He was sixteen years old, junior in high school. He was my world, my everything, as he had been since she died. I remember every moment we have ever spent together, from the day he was born, Dr. Thomas delivering him. Room 105. I remember teaching him to walk, tie his shoes, how to memorize phone numbers. I taught him everything I could. I can never forget the sound of a gun firing upstairs, in his bedroom, nor can I forget bursting through the door and finding his bloodied, lifeless corpse. And for the first time in forever, I could not force a smile.

What to do if your dog starts talking to you. Step one: If he/she is speaking english you still have time to dial a number, and get him/her fixed. If he/she starts speaking german it’s too late. You have to run; then call the number eight-one-one. Step two: Once you’ve called the number you’ll be picked up in a blue van with racing stripes where you’ll get further instructions. Step three: Follow said instructions. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Oh Lane, why would my dog be talking?” My name is Lane by the way, and I don’t like the tone you used to ask that question. Despite your attitude I’ll answer your question because it’s my job to make sure that you don’t die. Now, I’m not a member of the government or anything like that, but my brother-in-law is. I don’t like him very much, my sister could’ve done better. Anyways, the dog thing, long story actually. If I explain it to you from where I am now it won’t make much sense; actually the whole thing doesn’t make sense, but if I explain it from where I am now it’ll make less sense. So, let’s start from the very beginning. It was Friday the thirteenth (I’m not saying the events that will occur have anything to do with the day, but it’s still a freaky coincidence). I was watching Dexter in my ergonomically correct office chair. If you haven’t seen the show here’s the basic rundown: A man works for the forensics unit of the Miami Police Department and he kills serial killers. It’s really good, you should watch it. As I’m in the middle of the twist of the first season my roommate, Charles, burst in my room wearing headgear from ancient roman times. He didn’t even have to speak because I knew exactly what he was going to say. “You didn’t!?” I shouted with both fury and aggravation. Wait, aren’t those two kinda the same thing? I don’t think so; well, maybe. I’ll check later. He didn’t even answer, he just stared at me with a, ‘Oops, I did it again’ look. You know the one. It’s that look the Olsen twins used on “Full House” whenever their character Michelle did something wrong. I really hate that show. Anyways, he looked at me with that smile and I knew that he used the time machine again. By the way we have a time machine, that’s a totally different story though. I burst out of my chair intending to punch him, but he stopped me. “Dude just calm down!” Charles said while holding his arms up in self defense. “We discussed that we wouldn’t use the time machine ever again! It’s getting too dangerous!” “I couldn’t help it! It was calling my name!” “Time machines don’t talk, Charles!” “I’m sorry!” Charles began to wale and cry very obnoxiously so I punched him in the thorax. That always shuts him up. Before I explain any further I should tell you about how this even came about. You see, about a week earlier Charles and I had returned from inventing the high five before Dusty Baker and Glenn Burke, we noticed something strange about our basement. Nothing about the placement of objects, all of our guns seemed to be in their usual spots and our extensive collection of L. Ron Hubbard books had remained untouched, but there was some dude standing in the corner of the basement. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there; like a silent, deadly, poltergeist. He wasn’t wearing a suit or anything like that, he was wearing a hawaiian shirt with cargo pants and sandals. He appeared to have predominately caucasian ancestry with suspected asian ancestry as well. He was a shady looking dude. What made him especially shady was the AK-47 he was holding in his hands; I was focusing more on the awful shirt he was wearing. There was about thirty seconds of silence until the gun wielding stranger finally spoke. “You Lane and Charles?” He apparently had a british accent. That’s something neither me nor Charles expected. “Uh, yeah,” Charles answered hesitantly. The stranger’s fingers tightened around the gun. “I’m gonna need you to come with me,” he said this very intimidatingly. Charles and I shook with fear, or maybe we were shaking because it was winter in Wisconsin and our basement didn’t have heating. So, we agreed that if his car was heated that we’d go with him. The man’s name was Gerald, and his vehicle was a blue van with racing stripes. The interior was not as cool as the exterior. There weren’t any back seats, just plastic crates with pillows on them. The pillows didn’t come in much handy every time we went over a speed bump. There was also no radio, so we couldn’t even jam to some Blue Oyster Cult or Beethoven on this awkward ride. It also wreaked of an awful odor. It was an indescribable smell; I just can’t put into words how bad it smelt in that car, but the smell was probably coming from the rotting corpse that was in the car. We didn’t see the corpse itself, just a bunch of garbage bags. We wouldn’t have guessed that a chopped up corpse was in those bags unless Gerald told us. Gerald, for a man who made Charles and I go on a joyride with him without giving us a reason, was very polite and honest, but he wouldn’t tell us who was in the bags. He merely said it was someone familiar. Gerald was also very cryptic. He was weird like that. We drove for about thirty more minutes before we pulled into an abandoned warehouse with about a dozen other blue vans with racing stripes on them. “Get out,” Gerald said calmly. Like I said, he was polite. Charles and I got out of the van where we were then attacked and had potato sacks put over our heads. Now, I’m not completey sure about this, but I think these guys gave me and Charles some sort of shot to get us to stop struggling. I say this because for a few minutes I felt like I was flying on a cloud. Not one of those usual clouds you fly on, this one was really nice. It was like flying on cotton candy through a sky where the air I breathed tasted like chocolate. However the ride didn’t last long because whatever Charles and I were injected with wore off and I was greeted with a punch to my face. The sack was still on my head so I couldn’t see where I was, but I assumed it was in the same warehouse Gerald pulled his van into because Charles wouldn’t stop screaming and thus echoes ensued. “Please stop punching my face! It’s very sensitive when blunt objects hit it!” Surprisingly, the men didn’t listen to his request. The sacks were eventually removed from our heads. We were greeted by three men who, by their scrawniness, made Charles and I feel really out of shape that men who looked like that could hurt us so badly. I also noticed that they were wearing the exact same thing that Gerald was wearing. Same hawaiian shirt, sandals, and cargo pants. “Do you know who we are?” The man in the middle said. The men never gave us their names, so I’m just gonna call them Larry, Curly, and Tom Cruise. “No, why would we know that?” Charles asked. “Because you might’ve seen us when you visited King Tut last week,” responded Tom, “or when you proved Joseph Smith wrong a year ago, or when you invented the high five an hour ago.” Woah, these guys were good. I was surprised that he knew of mine and Charles’ time adventures. We were the only people in the world with a time machine. Or at least, in our time. Charles had a look on his face that was all too familiar to me. It was the look that said, “I’ll get us out of here, just let me go over every Doctor Who episode I’ve ever seen and see if the Doctor has been in a similar situation.” As his face of clever thinking deteriorated to that of a distressed puppy I knew we were in trouble. “We’ve been watching you for quite some time now,” Curly said out of no where. He didn’t really look like someone who’d talk, “and we don’t appreciate what you’ve been doing.” “What’re you talking about?” I asked. “You’ve been unknowingly destroying Earth.” Larry responded. Curly then made a hologram of Earth appear on some sort of device that wasn’t supposed to be around until 2050. Charles and I took some future vacations as well. As we looked at our amazing planet several red dots began to appear all over it, mostly in North America and Europe. “These are all the spots where the aliens have already invaded!” Curly shouted causing me and Charles to jump a little bit. I’ll spare you the one hour speech that was given to Charles and I, but I will tell you what you need to know: Apparently Charles and I had used our time machine so much that it got the attention of shapeshifting extra-terrestrials due to some signal it was giving off. Since time machines weren’t supposed to be around until five years from now when we’d already made peace with a different species of aliens made mine and Charles’ time machine very suspicious. Like I said, how we got that time machine was a different story altogether. Apparently the species that we were supposed to make peace with eliminated the species that was currently inhabiting Earth. Now you see the dilemma, don’t you? Oh yeah, it turns out that Gerald, Larry, Curly, and Tom Cruise were sent from the future to stop us from causing the aliens to invade. They obviously didn’t do a good job. Also, they were wearing the same things because their future space uniforms adapted to the time period they were in. Now I remember why I don’t write, I forget to put important plot points in. They left it up to me and Charles to not use the time machine anymore; because if we did the aliens, species name: Dorothrats, would get a lock on signal and use the time machine for evil. Why they left it up to us I have no idea, we would probably do a worse job than them. They should’ve just taken it away from us. They also said we were a part of their Alliance or whatever, so now we had to help people with whatever kind of alien problems they had. Apparently there had been a lot of calls like that. People calling about their dog talking. The Alliance was always listening in on phone calls so they could show up on the scene before things got out of hand. Apparently, Dorothrats invade by taking the shape of dogs, learning how earthlings interact and live, and then they transform into humans. This wasn’t a fast process though; the educating stage could take weeks or months. And the transformation, that’s what the beginning of my story was about. Dorothrats first learn how to speak our language, which is english if you didn’t know, this is the early stage in the transformation process, so you can still get him/her fixed if you hear a strange whisper in the middle of the night. By fixed I mean beaten to death. It’s okay, they’re not really dogs, they’re aliens so it’s not animal cruelty. However, once they learn another language, (no one knows how they do it, but they do), then it’s too late for you. Your dog will then turn into your shape, kill you, and begin living your life. Huh, I guess I didn’t shorten that speech at all. Anyway, Gerald dropped Charles and I back off at our house and said to be ready for a call. We never would be. And those are the events leading up to Charles and the roman headgear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” I shouted. “I’m sorry man! What’s the worst that could actually happen?” Before I could answer my phone rang. It was Gerald. How did he get my number? I don’t remember him asking for it. Oh yeah, they were time travelers. I answered it, all he said was, “You really messed up. Go to 1233 3rd avenue, your first assignment is there.” The call ended. I gave Charles a dead stare, but I couldn’t focus on his mistake. We had an assignment.

I paced around the hotel room for a while. I picked up items absently and would then find myself staring blankly down at them, barely able to comprehend what I was doing. I could touch, yet not feel what I held. It was alarming and tiring. I felt compelled to communicate, but I knew not how to begin. I was afraid that if I said something - anything - the floodgates would open and a torrent of unabashed emotion would pour out in all its ugly, humiliating, truth. I looked out of the narrow window. Through the dirt-flecked glass, the reality of my situation, of my future, of the future of those around me suddenly seemed clear. My head felt heavy with the understanding, my heart ached with the emptiness of what now crystallized itself as inevitable and uncompromising. I wrote something on a piece of paper. “I don’t want anyone in or out of my family to see any part of me." It was clear and decisive. I added something. I faltered and then added something else before crossing it out. I did not want to taint his life with this ugliness. I could recall parting from him that morning, he had been in fine spirits and as I tried to match his enthusiasm, I knew I was dying inside. "Goodbye, Evie," he had said as he kissed me goodbye before assisting me onto the train. Was that merely only a few hours prior? It seemed a lifetime ago, I seemed so far removed from him. I smoothed out my skirt and adjusted my necklace before slipping my coat on. I felt calm and in control. I walked back to the desk and picked up the note. As I slipped it into my purse, I saw a photo of my father. I took the note out and added something else; it was imperfect but it contained all it needed to. I put it back in my purse, slipped on my gloves, and left the hotel. I walked to the Empire State building and purchased a ticket. It was so beautiful. I was sure of so little in life, but this was the first time that I felt in control. I placed my purse on the ground and breathed in deeply.Something seemed wrong - the coat. My coat was too bulky. I took it off and folded it and placed it beside the purse. I put my hand on my heart to feel it beating like a well-maintained machine. I could feel the pearls of my necklace, beautiful yet vulgar, and I clutched at them, feeling desperate. "Are you alright?" a young man asked his companion as they walked past me. This fragment of their conversation seemed like a gift to me. I wanted to answer on her behalf: Yes. It was time to let go. Everything was beautiful.

Tobias woke up with Sally on top of her, and he could not keep her off of him the rest of the day. He figured Sally's nymphomaniacal mood was to make up for last night, when she came to his house and immediately went to sleep after mumbling something about class being "weird... fucking icky...I just want sleep...I'll get you in the morning honey..." She had a bandage over her hand, and Tobias went to sleep confused. The next morning there was a certain amount of tiredness in Sally's motions as they made love over and over again. Yet it didn't seem like her stiffness stemmed from a lack of want, in fact it seemed strangely intertwined with it. Tobias noted this, but did not look too far into it. They were sitting on the sofa, drinking hot cocoa and not watching a special prime time episode of The Price is Right. Sally was looking at him, her dark, sultry eyes drooping, her mouth parted slightly. She was wearing black lacy underwear that contrasted beautifully with her skin tone (Tobias had a thing for red heads, he loved their fair skin most of all, he loved the pastiness. And Sally looked especially pasty today, man!). She had her legs on Tobias lap. Her full breasts were nearly popping out of her bra. They had met at a bar only two weeks earlier, and she had stayed over every night since. She had been bubbly and talkative ever since he met her, but today she had barely spoken. Tobias started wondering who the hell this girl was. "So, what happened in school yesterday?" Sally said nothing, only continued to stare at his direction. "You were analyzing what, fucking, monkey skulls or something like that, right?" "Jaws" "Jaws? Monkey Jaws?" "Yes... teeth" "Monkey teeth. Gotcha. And what happened to your hand?" He pointed at the large scrape on the back of her hand, which was now red and puffy. She had taken the bandage off sometime during the day, when, he could not say. The day was a blur of sheets and limbs and scratching and biting. "Cut..." "You cut it? On what, on the monkey bone?" "Teeth" "A dead monkey bit you?" Tobias threw his head back and laughed, the ceiling swirled into his sight, and swirled away again. He had brought his head back to a neutral position. Hadn't he? He turned to look at Sally, but instead saw thick rimmed glasses on top of a long black microphone, motioning people across a stage. He saw large white numbers over a moving picture of a beautiful landscape. He looked down at his hands, and there was Sally. He realized they were in bed, he realized they were making love, he realized her shoulder was in his teeth. He noticed a large gash was taken out of his chest, he seemed to remember something else being there instead, brown, small... What was that called... A nipple! As he remembered this he found he had one in his mouth. It used to be attached to something else... some...one else? He couldn't think anymore. He was too tired, too hungry, and though there always seemed to be food for him, it seemed to get less and less nourishing as he ate it. It seemed to consume him as he consumed it. He saw a face peering at him. The skin was so white, and so beautiful.

I wonder what they thought of ... in their final moments. Did they think of the home they left behind? Did they think of their husbands, wives, sons or daughters? Or did they think nothing? Though it only took a moment for the gas to still them forever, I believe they had time to think. Did they wonder why they left their home. This new and prosperous land seemed like all they needed, and it was empty! Or so they thought. I'm sure had they known they had come to the land of giants, they would have turned around. The giants with their machines and their, terribly effective, killing methods. Did they realize that all their kin were about to go with them? That their race was going to die in an instant. What befalls those who don't think. Some must have. There were millions. All working together to build the better life for their race, for their tribe. But alas they were misinformed. So again I wonder. Did they think about the consequences? And those who survived. What will they tell the others? That millions of their own were wiped out in a matter of minutes? Bodies heaped upon bodies. I think not. One who sees that and lives does his best to not remember it. Now I wonder.

You would have to be incapable of love. Why? Because in order to kill them you would have to get them to kill themselves. You would have to do the same exact thing they are doing to you. Taking the time to check on them every day, to add confusion and terror, to erode their capacity for happiness one little bit at a time. You thought you could just weigh in and snuff someone's lights out with your mind? You are a beginner. But that's alright. Because you probably tried and failed, but it's important that you try. It's like punching a heavy bag, you practice swinging as hard as you can so you know what kind of damage you can do. No one is dead, but I'm sure you gave someone something to think about. I'm sure you created a cause for concern. Maybe even earned yourself some respite, possibly even intimidated them into stopping or leaving you alone all together. This is good. Remember, you didn't pick this fight. It's not your fault. But you HAVE to win. Failure is madness, isolation and death. You've made it this far, surely you can make it the rest of the way. The most important thing you can do now is live your life. Chase your dreams. Fulfill yourself. These are the things they seek to deny you. Deny them their satisfaction. Be aware that they may employ these techniques on those around you. They may manipulate others thoughts secretly in an attempt to get them to distrust you, to fire you, to be afraid of you, etc. Practice knowing when this is happening. Practice being a great person. A person who is kind, and gentle and compassionate, so when your boss or friends hear this corrupt outside voice telling them otherwise they will have the memories of you to contradict them. They will have the memory of your reality to defeat their imposed fictitious self doubts. Practice knowing when this is happening so you can reach through them, to the machines attempting to distort their lives, and break these machines for them. They would never believe you if you told them, so don't waste to much time trying to explain. They will only think you crazy, and this will not help your situation. Be vigilante. Be patient. Learn as much about everything as you possibly can. Exercise your body and your mind, but most importantly, try and find happiness, and comfort, and joy. Find new friends you can laugh with. Find new employment that appreciates your work. Live your life. This concludes "This is not a guide for Beginners". I hope you found some comfort in it's words and perhaps some use of it's concepts. I hope for you the best.

The Laughing Man Chapter 1: Summer was supposed to be a time of fun and adventure. Traversing the woodland realm, hiking down new paths to find some new camping locations. Admiring nature in all her glory. Well, that's what summer was supposed to be anyway. This summer however, had decided to take on a rather dreary turn. The raining has gone on for well over a month now. Had this been England or some such far off land, I could understand. "But this is Georgia!" I thought to myself, glaring out the window towards the woodline. "We're directly above the damn Sunshine State, and I'm stuck in here!" No matter, there's no way this could last. So I'll make do inside. "Ugh, the thought of being stuck in this dreadful farmhouse for days just makes me sick." It's the type of old house that you just can't keep clean. Day in and day out of dusting, sweeping cobwebs, clearing rat bodies, the familiar signs of a house past its prime. Cleaning alone is enough to keep you occupied full time. So many days have been spent waking up just to look around and be so overwhelmed that you give up. Luckily, we have the computer and the television. Sometimes it can be your only escape from the dull, dusty walls, the rattling pipes, and the other little quirks that make a house a home. It was around this time that our little town tucked away in the mountains began to have somewhat of a suspicious presence. Somewhere along the lines, we seem to have had a bout of depression sweep over our little town. The news would later attribute this to the ceaseless rain. It seemed as though every other week or so, we were hearing of yet another suspicious suicide. Rumors began to spring up about possible contaminants in our water, spread only quicker by the rain. As those who would take their lives, would exhibit peculiar personality changes for days, leading up to their eventual demise. It was so bad that anyone acting strangely would be rounded up by their friends and families and taken to the hospital immediately. Usually it was nothing. There was one that did commit suicide after being taken to the hospital. Even stranger, is that the girl who killed herself in the hospital was helped by the head nurse. Who in turn killed herself later that week. No one quite knew the cause, but needless to say, the town was on edge. With good cause, as the death toll had reached in to the double digits now. This of course was all just news to me. I had been staying indoors more and more lately, and didn't know any of the victims personally. All of this was nothing more than a story on the television to me. "Just another day on Earth" I remember thinking to myself. I guess I've always been the cynical type. So days later, when someone I actually knew became affected by the strange phenomenon, I was struck to say the least. Travis was a distant acquaintance of mine. Just a kid I hung out with in highschool, back in my wilder days. Still, it's always weird to know a person who dies. Especially when that person dies from something so strange as a "Plague of suicide". Travis was always pretty popular, and up until a few days before he died, alone in his little Airstream trailer, still a fairly well known, affable fellow. Since this was the first victim of the sickness that I had known, I felt compelled to go to the funeral. Something, that in hindsight, I never should have done... The funeral was held atop a hill, near the local cemetary. It was one of those funerals that seemed more of a social gathering than a way to remember a person, and immortalize their passing. But with the types of friends we shared, one could only expect as much. It was here that I became familiar with the intimate details of the sickness sweeping our sleepy little town. Amongst the crowds you could hear people talking about Travis up to his last few days. How he was becoming more and more paranoid. Always feeling as though someone was watching him, messing with him. Trying to to make him break. I would overhear his neighbors discussing how he would come storming out of his trailer, shotgun in tow in full blown panic, multiple times during the day and night. Even firing back in to his trailer's front door on one occasion. As if he were chasing some unknown assailant. How they could hear him sobbing sometimes. The odd part however, is how they would describe his cries. It seems he would be heard sobbing, softly. The soft cries of a man on the verge of breaking. His cries however, as they described it, began to become very peculiar. He would begin to cry, head in his hands. And then, as if he had just snapped, laughter. The type of laughter when you had just had enough. Or the type of laughter when you realized you had gone insane. They would describe him sitting alone in his little garden outside his trailer, in his humble little lawn chair just crying. A PBR to his side, a shotgun in his lap, and his head in his hands. Just sobbing... And laughing... The funeral had ended, and the people were beginning to clear out. I was still socializing with a few other old aquantances when my eyes became repeatably drawn to his small, close nit family. These were mountain folk, and to say they were superstitious would be an incredible understatement. Overhearing them talk of demons and "Jaysus Christ" and all sorts of things made an Atheist city boy like myself cringe. But I was still filled with compassion for them. I began to slowly inch my way towards them, all the while listening to their conversation as to find the right time to sort of "butt in". To find some way I could console this poor family. When I heard them mention of just burning the Airstream and all that was in it down to ashes. "Wow, these people are absolutely terrified" I thought to myself. "I just wish we could have something, anything to remember him by before we do this." I heard the grandmother say between sobs. Without even thinking, my mouth opened and out it came. "I'd be happy to go get some pictures and specific items you guys might want if it would help!". What in the ever loving fuck was I thinking? This was none of my business. And I barely even knew the guy anymore. But my mouth had opened, and what was said had been said. Of course they would try to talk me out of it, but I wasn't having any of it. I'm not the greatest guy on earth, but I do keep my word. So here I am, tasked to retrieve a few personal belongings of a man I hardly knew, for a family I didn't know, in the middle of what seemed to be some sort of disease outbreak. Me and my big mouth... **Sorry about the poor formatting. I just copy/pasted it from my notepad.

In the library we sat again; the only sound was the soft whisper of cotton gloves on antique parchment and leather bindings. Again, we searched for a primary source that had eluded us. We could not find his name as any title or tale. There is no number to convey how many tomes and texts that I had devoured for more than the hint of His purpose, and, to my sorrow, the only hints that I can find are memories of His passing. When my search may falter or fatigue, my companion, Michael, steels my resolve with ethereal perseverance. A clear tenor rang our across the tor of books, pamphlets, and manuscripts we had acquired thus far in our search, Michael asked me, “What are the key phrases again?” “ ‘The guarded mind cannot see what is not there. To open one, Mercurio will grant the other.’ ‘Thus did the madness Mercurio descend.’ and ‘Only in Darkness is the bane of Mercurio’s Light.’ ” I utter these phrases daily; I have read them countless times; I ponder them in my mind without end. Yet, like Hope, the spring of dark references to His work is eternal. So many speak of the wave of darkness that propagates from Him that it seems inconceivable that He authored no works to shape His influence and the future of His work. Were there some small grip in the darkness of my search perhaps I could replace fevered hope with the optimism of direction. “What if he was some folklore demagogue? Perhaps he spoke to the hedonistic needs of earlier Man.” Michael’s verdant eyes drifted to dusky windows as he proposed this concept as if making dinner plans or consider how the world would be different if pigs really did have wings. “Albeit, he does not come across as the most likeable of leaders. He appears to have led Aesop’s Fox to lead the Scorpion.” “No mere man could be Mercurio,” I countered as the flush of blood rose in my neck. “No, He could only have been some sort of demigod faux-leader like Azazel or Loki. How could He have lived a life as fleeting as a mortal man’s and leave scars on the marrow of Creation?” Michael had posited this concept throughout our search. Michael spoke of Him as a mover of men, but I know that no man could move Creation so. The rustles of dead cloth halted our incipient argument. From between shelves of forgotten periodicals, an elderly man carried a book of leather and iron bindings. His milky gaze settles on the wastes of our books and notes with the weary hope that we would leave. My curiosity peaked not because of his withered appearance, but because neither Michael nor I had any notion of who he was; both of us frequented the library enough to know each of the faculty and staff by sight, name, and specialty. Shaking dazed confusion, Michael satisfied the demands of decency by inquiring his needs. A voice of exhaustion rattled from the elder’s cracked lips, “Gentlemen, one man may move another, but only ideas can truly change men.” At this, the elder dropped the weighty tome on our work. The only sound was the echoing knell-like thud. Michael’s eyes and mine stoked the ember of curiosity into a flame of excited lust: *The Philosophy Mercurio* Across a single moment of Creation, my heart ceased to beat and my soul felt as though it left my body. This unknown elder had laid the treasure of the Labyrinth at my fingertips. Michael took advantage that I could not even utter a gasp of surprise. He reached to remove the book from its lofty perch and turned back the iron lock from the cover. “There is not an author listed.” Michael searched the pages for some sign of copyright or ownership. “Ideas have no authors, only discoverers.” The elder’s eyes gave the very slightest hint of sadness on top of some carnal insight. “I would caution you: Ideas are not without reward, nor are they without costs.” At this, my hands began to ache with the desire to touch the book. “Michael give me the book. I have to touch it; I have to learn it; I have to own what it has to give.” I reached out to him like a foal trembles for its mother, but he was already deep in thought. He scanned the pages fiercely as if he were hearing the Word of God directly from the source. “Michael.” I could not shake him from the depth of his pensiveness. After eternal moments of silence, he raised his eyes to mine and spoke softly. “I can see.” He spoke with the sense of wonder reserved for the innocence of childhood. His gazed looked into a future of what is, could be, and would be. “Michael,” I said with some concern, “you did not even read the whole text.” When I reached to his hand, its grip on the book was as drowning man’s on a ship’s rope. As I rose from my seat, the elder put a feeble hand on my shoulder with a strength he could not possess. “You cannot reach him now. He can see.” When I met the elder’s gaze, I saw ghosts haunt silver tears in his milky eyes. As if flying too close to the sun on wings of wax, the book fell from Michael’s hands. Once again, I heard the knell of its thud on the table. “I can see.” Michael spoke with divine fever as the euphoria of the Lotus-Eaters washed across his face. Once again I asked for the book, and once again I was denied. His lips danced soundlessly and I could not understand him. But now, his eyes began to move back and forth as if surrounded and the drops of fear filled his voice. “I can see.” Wonder and hope were gone from his words. As the sound of his voice died in the air, the green life leeched from his eyes. With unholy synchronicity, Michael’s eyes became as sun-blazed silver mirrors. The hope in his face gave way to concern. “*I can see!*” His words became hurried and panicked. His breath now came in short gasps as sweat beaded on his brow. I was touched by fear. I rushed to elder in anger and took firm hold of his tattered grey cowl and lifted him from the floor. “What have you done?!” I thundered Michael began to tremble, awaiting some unknown atonement for on inconceivable sin. The elder did not flinch. “There is nothing I could have done.” This weak admonishment fell from his lips and Michael released a single scream that shattered his hold on any aspect of reality. I dropped the elder and rushed to Michael as the last eternal moment of his dirge echoed across vacant marble halls and he fell as poison stone to the depths of a forgotten well. Michael’s flesh had the cold touch of Lucifer’s prison. I uselessly shouted Michael’s name. The elder made his way to me with no sound. His voice spoke to me with the sound of tears on my lost friend. “To see what could be as it would be. Only ideas can change men, but there is only one end of change for men.” The elder put a hand of weak flesh on my shoulder to comfort this dark gift to me.

“Look at that couple,” she said, motioning with her head, both hands clutching my arm. “Look at the flowers he gave her. That’s so cute.” “You’re cute,” I said. She blushed. “You know that’s my favorite gift?” she asked. “Flowers?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “You never give me flowers.” “I will someday. When I feel like it. I’ll surprise you.” She nodded and pulled my arm tighter, content with my answer, confident that I was speaking the truth. I never did. I walked down the sidewalk sheltered by the awnings of angled building fronts. The sun cascaded in golden ropes through the slats of benches, spilling across my shoes. I felt good. I whistled to the music playing in my ears. I had my whole life ahead of me, a life I could live on my own schedule from now on. I’d just skewered the last of my social obligations and was on my way home to my new life of I don’t know what. Books, movies, games, contented loneliness. My thoughts drifted abstractly to the girl in the apartment I just left, crying out on the bed that she was still in love with me, but I shrugged it away, sliding my hand into my pocket and fingering the playing card I’d taken from her night stand moments earlier. I’d been using as it as a bookmark for as long as I could remember, and had forgotten it the last time I spent the night with her. She was crying into her hands when I stealthily snuck over and retrieved it. For whatever reason it was important to me. She deserved better. That’s why I left. I drew a draft of brisk October air into my body and reminisced about our last break up six months ago, and how that one didn’t stick for more than a couple of weeks. We’d been fighting for a while, nothing major, but consistent enough to be an ongoing issue. We were just incompatible as romantic partners, it seemed. We were both too absorbed in our own worlds to make any concessions for each other’s, and our worlds were far too different to begin with. She lived in a state of constant social stimulation. She always needed to be doing something. She was so busy all the time, and when she wasn’t she made herself so. Last Christmas I gave her a bracelet. Nothing fancy, just a band of twinkling silver that I thought would look mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. It came giftwrapped and bundled, so I didn’t see it again until the day we exchanged gifts. I smiled as she opened it, and I saw her smile. We smiled together for a while, but when she tried to put it on we noticed the tiny little clasp that came with it was broken. I was right though; it looked mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. She set it aside, promising to get the clasp fixed as soon as she could, and we enjoyed the rest of our evening. Apple cider doughnuts and peppermint tea. A gingerbread house kit we never built. A few months passed and she still hadn’t gotten it fixed. I brought it up every time we were together. We fought about it. She said she was too busy, besides she didn’t even know where you were supposed to go to get a bracelet fixed. The fucking jewelry store, I said, they’re all over the place in the city. Eventually, I got tired of waiting, so I went myself and purchased a pair of silver clasps. They were twelve bucks. It took less than five minutes. There’s no way she could’ve done it herself. Not a chance in the world. Not five minutes to spare in three months time. We broke up before I gave them to her. I ended up handing them over a week or so later when I went crawling back. She eventually relented and another week or so later we were back together and happy. We slept together and it felt comfortable and right. I was twenty-four years old. That was six months ago. Feels longer. I’m twenty-five now. I looked up at the awnings, at the birds nests stuffed behind light fixtures. They looked comfortable. I was fine. I wasn’t thinking about the bracelet anymore. I wasn’t thinking about all the things I could’ve or should’ve done. Then something caught my eye, a bouquet of colors lighting up a grocery store window, colors you could smell, flowers. I’d walked by that grocery every time I visited her for the last year, but this was the first I’d ever seen them selling flowers. I stopped cold, shivering, overcome by sadness and failure. My throat closed; I coughed pathetically, rejecting some pill. In front of me, flowers, of all shapes and colors, strewn seductively, beckoned me toward mild memories of the last two years. Days and weeks and months flashed by. She graduated school, she received job offers, we celebrated birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, her father passed away. Gifts were exchanged, support was given, love was made. And yet, somehow, throughout our entire time together I’d never given her flowers. Not even once. My own negligence dawned on me like a sunrise, slow and peaceful, standing outside the grocery store window, falling apart. Opening night. The show was a success. Months of hard work and planning came together. The reviews were sure to be good. We had a few awkward drinks with her crew. They told me how great she was to work with. I nodded and said I knew. I wanted to leave. I felt stupid, out of place. I couldn’t be in her world for even a single night without wanting out. I was light-headed. I’d forgotten something important, but what was it. Something I’d meant to do. Something I’d meant to bring her. To show her I cared. That I was proud of her. I guess I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t. Buying flowers downtown was so expensive anyway. I walked to the train, my eyes peeled for a flower shop. There were none around, so I didn’t get any. Didn’t even check my phone. I didn’t want to go out of my way. She slept next to me, snoring. On her desk a single flower stood in a glass jar full of brown water. Not from me. From someone she worked with. To show her they cared. I came back together and entered the store. I pulled instead of pushed, went red as a rose with embarrassment. I walked over to the display that housed the flower selection and perused them delicately. The distant, chalky smell of their petals hitting me like the first breath of air surfacing from the deep end of the swimming pool. Artificial shades of red, pink, yellow, cream wrapped in cheap plastic bundles, twiggy stems held hostage by wire twist ties. They were the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen. I picked up a large bundle of white chrysanthemums and let their vapors consume me. Barely conscious of what I was doing, I bought the flowers and exited the store. A wire attached to the underside of my belly yanked me back in the direction of the apartment where a girl sat, still crying over me, trying not to hate me for putting her through this again. I entered the building and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. My heart raced. I prayed that she would still be hidden away in her apartment, that she would not be standing out in the hallway to see me approaching her with those flowers in my hand. The elevator doors opened and I rushed to her door, laid the flowers at the base, and ran for the nearest stairwell. My footsteps no sooner echoed against the metal slats of the stairs than tears began to sting my eyes. I felt no sense of redemption or comfort with what I’d done. I wanted it to be some grand sign of finality, a tying up of a loose end, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It just made me impossibly, pathetically sad. Later, when I tried to tell my friend about it, I burst into tears all over again. I regretted never buying her flowers while we were still together, and now I’m trying not to regret buying her flowers after ending it. Weeks ago, months ago, it would’ve been a simple act that brought a simple smile to her face. Now, it felt complicated, insensitive. What was I thinking? Why did I wait so long? She deserved them so many times. I want to be here for her still. I hope that she knows that. I hope the flowers can represent that to her. I hope she didn’t throw them in the trash already. I hope they’re sitting by her bed right this moment, comforting her in the same way I always wanted to but couldn’t. Mostly, I hope that while we were together I was able to give her something more important to her than flowers. Something that won’t whither and die in a couple of weeks, even if properly nourished and taken care of. Some sort of seed inside her heart that will continue to grow and blossom, immune to the passage of time, that will see her through the challenges of the future and comfort her when she feels the most alone and maybe, just maybe, one day direct her back into my arms where another, different type of seed can be sown.