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Allura 24

It's been two years; Everyone's confused and no body knows what to do any more. Everyone is just begging praying, for someone else to have the answers. Even our governments have lost control; even they are crying in complete confusion; no plans or back up and the whole world is confused, even the doctors, psychiatrists themselves and that's what I mean, by 'everyone'. But I'm trying to keep it together; I have done so for the last two years. There has to be someone out their or something, anything that has the answers. I'm driving, with my child at the back seat and I'm trying my best to keep her calm, because she is scared, looking at everyone else outside, being scared and worried. I'm determined, I will find the answers and all I can hear from everyone else is "help me please help me I'm so confused" and all over the radios, media; just cries of confusion. My car has ran out of petrol and I start to walk with my child, in my arms to a hospital near by. There has to be at least, some doctors or professionals that have kept it together. When I get to the hospital: it's just full of people, crying sobbing and mumbling, that they are confused and don't know what to do any more, even the doctors. My daughter starts getting scared and starts to cry and I take her outside somewhere quite. "daddy why is everyone confused?" my daughter asked crying "they are not well honey" I tell her "but even the doctors and other proffessional looking people are also doing the same thing and mommy she is also one of them" my daughter cried out to me "darling listen to me, the whole world might be confused but not me ok" I tell her firmly "ok daddy" she replies I steal another car and going past loads of crying people; hurling out "I'm so confused I don't know what to do any more help me!" wasn't really helping me at all. I drive for hours and hours trying to find anything and I needed a break; so I get out of the car, on my own, just for a moment though. to give my self some time to think. "I feel so confused...NO NO NO I am not confused I refuse to be confused!" I shout to my self I get back in the car and when I drive past the white house; so many politicians and leaders yelling, that they are confused and also yelling "the world is rudderless!" and I drive on. I break into a house; so me and my daughter can sleep in and rest for the night. My daughter a sleep soundly; I think to my self constantly, very hard that there has to be something out their, when everything goes upside down, there should be a secret organisation or group, that deals with this sort of thing or is that only in the movies? The next day I just felt terrible; for some reason and I was in a bad mood. Wherever I went or found, it was always a dead end or a complete fail. Then suddenly: I couldn't take it any more and I got out of the car, screamed angrily and then softly and quietly; started to mutter "I don't know what to do anymore I've tried everything for the last two years can you help me please help me!" my daughter becomes very scared, hearing loud and clear, at what I am saying and not even she knows what to do, because she's just a child.

My name is tim and I was a homeless man; I would have died in the freezing cold, if for not for the CIA finding a use for me that NASA can use. They took me in and took me to NASA headquarters; they also fed me and gave me a room to stay in. Then three other people were then invited, I was questioning why they were bringing a bunch of nobodies into their secret NASA head quarters. We were about to find out though, as the head of NASA were finally going to tell us after three days. In that time us four just got to knew one and another; as well as just living good for once. The other three names are Stuart, roger and mark; we were all nice guys born in America. Then all four of us were in a room and the head of NASA came in and told us, "a couple of weeks ago NASA had detected an anomaly; quite close to earth and our computers are failing to detect it. So we have decided to go up there our selves, too see what this strange anomaly, is doing so close to earth? but we have no idea what it is capable of and so we have decided you four; will be trained and fed to be suitable astronauts. Because frankly no offence to you four guys; you four don't have any friends or real family, that will cry or question if you do go missing or die, at the hands of this anomaly if it does have hands. Our computers here would not be able to keep track of you guys, because of this anomaly its blocking our technology transmissions in space, so you are literally on your own" the head of NASA told us We weren't offended but quite excited and we only had two weeks to train to become top astronauts. Your thinking right now; 2 weeks to become qualified astronauts? that is exactly what I was thinking. They fed us four guys with these special medicine drinks it had a glow to it and the next day, I kid you not; we had all grown 5 inches taller, muscular and not just in physicality; our minds were sharp and ready; our intelligence level grew to genius level and I we were all reading like a mad men, which we couldn't do before and our reactions were good as well, a bit like captain America. I was ready for anything and all the things I feared; were not so scary anymore like heights. They immunised us to every disease known to man and if humanity knew; what these people keep locked away from humanity itself; there will be a riot in every country in every corner. There was one thing they told me to do though, when we are up their, because we are so busy training for this mission, to get to this anomaly in space. NASA had no time trying to get to know us and just in case something does happen to us four up their, they want something to remember us by. So they told me to take a camera and record each of their lives; as well as my own also but not to the full extent; just the basics part of it, when we are up their. this was so, as a way of respecting us and our bravery. plus the rocket has been designed to sense if any of us has died and if it does sense a death; it will automatically go back to earth, with the recordings of us and that creature as the rocket will be on full cctv monitor, as well as our own space suits, ready to take back recordings back to NASA HQ. The time came to go; four of us ready mentally and physically, the rocket blasted up in space. It would take about, up to nearly one week and half to get to this strange anomaly or alien or what ever it is. Our job was to record it or take a sample, back to earth but if our lives were at true risk; we could turn back. All four us quickly adapted to space life and I wanted to record Stuart first, so I took him to a quite corner and we started. "so Stuart, just in case something happens to us, the rocket has been designed to automatically turn back too earth and with it; they would love to know the crew members who took part in this mission. As a way of respect for our bravery, so tell me a bit about your self Stuart" I told Stuart "I didn't really have such a good start in life; my father committed suicide and my mother eventually died of aids, as she tried to support me by being a prostitute. Then it was just foster homes and I grew up to work in a factory; and now I am up in a rocket, there isn't really anything good or exciting in my life but I am grateful, for this opportunity to be up here, its definitely going to be a highlight of my life" stuart told me "sorry to hear that Stuart,about your father and mother and I'm glad your here as well" I said trying comforting Stuart Then we stopped the rocket for a bit; to float around outside in space connected to a wire to the rocket, so we don't float off. We got a ball out and the ball was going so slow in space, we were all in our space suits. We were laughing and having a jolly good time and I thought, I would record another guy on camera, this time I chose Roger. "so Roger, just in case something happens to us, the rocket has been designed to automatically turn back too earth; if something does happen to us and with it they would love to know the crew members, who took part in this mission. As a way of respect for our bravery, so tell me a bit about your self Roger" I told Roger "Well there's not a lot of good, I was bullied all my life, people kind of walked all over me because of my nice nature and as you can guess, I never really hit it with the ladies. My mother and father died last year peacefully; I'm their only offspring but I guess, I'm making something of my life now, by taking part in this mission" Roger told me "your parents will be proud roger" I told roger who smiled back at the camera After we finished playing outside in space and had dinner, I finally was able to get mark on camera. "so Mark just in case something happens to us; the rocket has been designed to automatically turn back too earth if something does happen to us and with it, they would love to know the crew members who took part in this mission. As a way of respect for our bravery, so tell me a bit about your self Mark" I told Mark "I'm a bit of a loser, my child hood was violent and my older siblings were violent; my father was a drunk and still is. My mother is not such a nice person, I was bullied quite a bit in school and I don't really have any friends; except you guys in this mission with me right now. I haven't really done anything else with my life, up until now that's all I can say" Mark told me The week was nearly ending and as we were going nearer, to the anomaly, our computer on the rocket was taken over by that anomaly in space and back on earth, NASA head quarters were able to listen too it as well. "who are you who are you?" the anomaly spoke to us I replied through the speaker "we are humans what are you doing here?" "I have no reason to be here, I am just here" the anomaly replied and went off This was our first contact with the thing. As we got even closer; the anomaly made like a road, for our rocket to land and walk on, but then roger told me, if we get any closer to it we will die. Because this anomaly is giving off harmful radiation; as the computer system was picking up harmful radiation and none of our space suits; which are all radiation proof, will be able to protect us from it. As the radiation is too powerful; I decided though I wanted to meet this creature and I will do so alone or not. So I put on my space suit the only one who dared; to go out and walking on the ground, made by that strange anomaly, I had a 30 minute walk till I can fully see, that creature. As I started to walk; mark contacted me through my teleprompter built in my space suit he said, "hey Tim we had all given our life stories in this mission, except you, just in case you don't come back which is most likely. We would like to know how you lived your life, to take back to earth so we can respect you for your bravery" mark told me "My child hood was full of abuse and going to school was horrible, never had any clean clothes or good clothes and laughed at by other kids. eventually my life spiralled out of control and I ended being a homeless man, searching for food in dustbins and being laughed at even more, being beat up by random thugs; just because I am homeless man; begging for money all the time" I told them then roger started to speak "look Tim we had all suffered back on earth and we have got some proof of this creature; our lives are too much at risk if we go near it; please we need to turn back we have that right. Coming here meeting you guys, I have made some life long friends, which your apart of Tim, come back please. Coming here up in space we brought our emotional and psychological garbage up here, I think we should throw it away in space and move on." roger pleading with me "that place we call earth, I hate them, all of them and those humans, nothing but monsters. I am not doing this out of suicidal tendencies but my life; needs meaning and to see if there is a better life, else where. That is why I need to meet this thing; this creature this anomaly to know the purpose of it all" I told them Then I just started to ignore them trying to make me stop but I was hell bent on meeting this anomaly; when I finally did, it looked so beautiful and I was able to show it to the guys; back at the rocket and back home in NASA as my space suit, had a camera built in it and I said to this alien anomaly; what ever it is. "are you god!" I spoke out loud and started to bleed out my mouth; because the harmful radiation off this anomaly, started entering into my body "No I am not a god I am just here and am I killing you some how Human?" the anomaly replied "yes your radiation which you are emitting is killing me" I replied "I am so sorry I do not mean to send such things I cannot control it" The anomaly apologising Then the other guys; came out rushing out of the rocket as they saw blood coming out of my mouth filling my space helmet; running to save me as I was dying but the rocket had sensed a death, which was my death and went home automatically with out any of us. It was lucky that I recorded all of my colleagues on this mission and they had recorded me; so back home they would know who we were, the brave guys that went on this mission. And your wondering, How I am able to tell you all of this? so am I.

Please forgive my use of grammar, punctuation, and any other mistakes I'm going to make, I'm kind of young and writing isn't one of my strong suits. Anyway, on to the story! Throughout our short history of evolving, we developed this nasty little habit of thinking. Unlike other organisms, our thoughts protrudes out beyond the primal instincts such as feeding and reproducing, we developed a higher thought process. Since then, we have been hatching little things in our mind that would be later referred to as 'ideas'. Some of these Ideas got us into a lot of trouble, but it appears that burns from the first discovered fire was a fair price to pay for hundreds of years of problem solving and collaboration. Once we started to develop society for ourselves to live in peace with others, we turned out minds to different subjects. From the earliest civilization developing numbers for keeping track of resources, to developing artificial muscles that are stronger then our evolutionary protein strands; our thoughts have always widened throughout a variety of subjects. One of the most contemplative societies developed some of the most revolutionary dogmas and inventions of the mind. From new forms of government, to questioning the old tired physics of the world at the time. Not long after these men announced their ideas to the long awaited public they looked up and saw their next intellectual conquest. With their collective all seeing eye they pointed their gaze towards the heavens and started to wonder. What manner of secrets are the heavens holding for those brave enough to reach up and take them? These revolutionaries of the mind, these pioneers of critical thought, was the tip of the sword leading the charge into a new era. An era of reform, an era of rebirth. In this renaissance the interest in the wide black yonder was not only strengthened in the minds of the philosophers pursuing the mystery, but also fed the wonderlust of the somewhat ignorant people. Calculating positions of objects floating through space and naming everything they see, this was a great prelude to the next step in looking to the stars. The final frontier took a break from being in the middle of the limelight for a while until it took a giant heap of publicity when a noble man from a big political family looked up and said he wanted to go not just cause it was easy, but because it was hard. He was unable to see his dream fulfilled.

I didn’t know at that point in time if I had made the right decision that day in the dark room, but the newspapers days after led me to believe that I should be proud, and that my nation was proud of me as well. Don’t get me wrong, I am a humble man, but seeing my face strung across every form of media, from print to television, awoke an unfamiliar side of me. Whether or not I was thinking of the moral implications at the time, I am not in a position to say. The newscasters called me a visionary and a genius at the time, but I still viewed myself as only a photographer. Since then, years after the invention of the chrono-animism obscura, “photographers” have become depicted as witchcraft-wielding hedonists. I take no offense to these words. I believe it is an appropriate response from people who have lost their loved ones on account of my invention. I have heard once that French film critic Andre Bazin praised the work of the “New Wave” of cinema for understanding film’s ability to capture divinity. Some say that divinity is all around us every moment, but our poor, limited perspective as active participants in each moment prevent us from realizing this pantheism. Evolutionarily it makes sense for us to forgo this attitude. How could we survive if we were always in love? We can’t let it consume us every moment. We still need to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, get back to the mundane, get a little breathing room and break from being intensely alive. The point is through that cinema, and it is probably true of all art, we as inactive participants can see that divinity in the both the mundane and holy moments. When we photograph something we make it bigger than itself. Not in size, but in epistemological weight. Ideologically, wielders of the chrono-animism obscura are artists of the same vein as those film makers of the new wave; no different in their attempts to capture beauty. To those unfamiliar with it, the chrono-animism obscura made it so photographs were no longer constrained to a still frame in time and space, but now offered the possibility of entire self-contained worlds. One, unsatisfied with their current moment of real life could enter a photograph and spend an entire afternoon in a personal dimension and return to waking life unchanged. The afternoon they spent literally didn’t exist outside of the viewer’s mind. The process of inserting oneself into a photo involves holding the photo an arm’s length away. The photos the chrono-animism obscura produce are similar to film ones in that physically they are comprised of glossy paper, but different in that the surface of the paper held the image of a moment from all possible vantage points. Our senses, not used to seeing an object from all vantage points at once, leave us feeling dizzy. From there the viewer is required to take a leap of faith, embracing the dizziness rather than rejecting it, as they move the photo closer to your face. If done properly the viewer sheds their perspective, and the brain rejects its senses as appropriate tools to perceive that in front of them. A loss of the conception of time is the final piece to a successful photo-hop. My first successes with the obscura were exhilarating. Naturally the first photos I took were simple. Unsure of the capabilities I first tried capturing and reproducing the essence of a singular apple on a table of a cold empty room. The sweet, refreshing crunch of my first bite of fake fruit is a moment I would remember and cherish always, but with the obscura I didn’t have to remember it, I could live it again and again. Soon after my first experiment, the inventive process began to snowball and I was making pineapples and guava by the dozen. From there we learned that the photo was only a launching off point. It brought you into a specific place and time in your head, but where you pursued from there was your decision. You created the world in your head after the photo first gets you in. If you want someone to talk to, you can create them. If you want a shiny red corvette to be in your garage when you open the door; it’s up to you. In this way it is nothing new to lucid dreamers who are well versed in being the creators of their reality. After the first wave of commercial use and the excitement that followed, the US government decided to shun this renaissance of technology with the 49th and 50th amendments; calling the act of photo-hopping dangerous and an unfit use of time for a struggling, impoverished working class. People stopped showing in for work when they realized that the American dream, or whatever their rendition of it, could be obtained indefinitely like people of old could keep a photo album in their attic. With the accessibility of food, shelter, love, and other necessities certitude, a simple photo-hop away, struggling became one of the things society found least necessary. I do understand some of their criticisms however; there have been cases in which people have abused the ability to photo-hop, never leaving their fictional realm and, in some of the worst cases, leaving transfigured soulless beings behind. These husks shocked the wives, husbands, coworkers, and children that found them limp, eyes glazed over a page of their album. Following these first reports the FDA and DEA let down an iron curtain banning the photos from being created, possessed, or sold. I don’t appreciate the comparison of schedule 1 drugs to my portal to the mind. What I am asking you now, is to act forward with a little open-mindedness. I cannot reject the claims of news reports, so I shan’t try to. Husks are very much real. What I wish to argue against is those who demonize photo-hoppers. The media sees photo-hoppers “users, addicts, bums, and no-good blots on the town,” but if we were to look through another peephole we would call them “artists, philosophers, martyrs, and visionaries” and mean the exact same thing. My wife, Belinda and I spent many days utilizing the powers of the obscura together in the early stages of its development. We each had our favorite photos and would share them with each other. From the streets of Paris, to a spring-time baseball game we are able to experience anything we wish. In my favorite photo I am waist deep in the Pacific Ocean and the power of the waves overwhelms my senses. The smell of the salt water, the weightlessness it gives me, and the constant heavy hum of waves crashing makes me feel so incredibly small. Belinda is on the beach and she is waving to me. After a long while I am satisfied and decide to head in to my beautiful wife, and as I approach the beach sand sticks to my wet legs. I am dripping with seawater, and my darling starts to come into clearer focus. However, I have never made it any further to her in that photo. At that moment I always seem to exit. You see the process of exiting a photo is so simple it is quite genius. In fact beginners often unintentionally exit photos it’s so easy. If we accept the premise that the act of photo-hopping is experiencing the essence and unfiltered beauty of a moment, being outside of our typical perspective and limited senses, then hopping back into reality would require us to rejoin our traditional perspective. We do so by becoming those active participants, viewing the moments as no longer holy, perfect, and beautiful but mundane and ordinary. Simply put, you exit when you are bored. Some describe the exiting sensation as falling backwards without moving, and when the viewer refocuses their glance they find they are in the same position they were and a nearly negligible amount of time has passed. Einstein enlightened the world about the relativity of time, and it is extraordinary how a moment in one’s own head can seem like eternity. There are no side effects of a successful entry and exit other than minor vertigo. Thus these husks aren’t the vegetables we make them out to be. They are incredible in that they are only people who have never seen their headspace as mundane. They are able to recognize the infinite beauty and holiness of their creation. They left their perspective and senses and have not found a reason to return. As a photographer I can reassure you that, with the right mindset and precautions, there is no danger in photo-hopping. Although a science hasn’t offered a popular hypothesis yet, my theory is that these “husks”, and their souls, are “in a better place” as the old saying goes. For the first time though this better place, unlike any saying I’ve heard, is a place of their choosing! When I first encountered and examined these husks I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with gratitude at the idea that an invention of mine could give an eternity of self-legitimized heaven. Let me be the first to tell you, your soul cannot be trapped, or lost, or exist “in limbo”. It saddens me to bring it to these terms, and I know the press will depict me as a heartless monster, but I firmly believe that these people or at least their essence remains in their fantasy on their own free will. Belinda’s favorite photo was always a nature scene. In it is a small level trail that is littered with the leaves of maple trees. The sun, perched just behind the big leaf maples, illuminates each leaf turning it into a stain glass window. Beyond the maples higher up are mighty douglas fir trees that sway with the wind. Belinda says that when she uses this photo, she likes to imagine I am with her and we walk together, meandering down this trail until it eventually leads us to a small creek. The sound of the wind blowing through the trees is overtaken by the sound of trickling water. She says we sit there and have a picnic and talk about our favorite parts of each other. Belinda is as the media calls them, one of these husks. It might surprise you though that I am not saddened by this fact. I take this to mean that she has never felt a moment of mundaneness in our picnic. She sees an infinite amount of holiness in me even when, despite my efforts, I cannot manage to do the same for her. For this I am grateful. She may no longer be with me, in waking life that is, but it gives me a great deal of happiness that I am with her. I know that from here perspective we are still together right now by that creek. I know she is happy. Maybe the most valuable lesson I learned through the chrono-animism obscura that I’ve now been able to apply to my waking life is some Eastern wisdom I heard once. Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.

I was in a punk band back in those days. We called ourselves MK Ultra. Overeducated and underpracticed. We got kicked out of most of the venues we tried to play. But for those brief moments, when I was yelling "The government is a lie! Kill the body and the head will die!" into a microphone over off-tempo drums and noteless guitar riffs, I was a god. I was Thor, wielding the lightning bolt called truth. I was the deliverer. This was my calling in life. But then I sold out. Jackie Ortiz, who loved to be called Jackie O, stood to the side of the stage during one of my better shows. Her hair was plastered to her head with egg yolk, her lips painted black and the way she smacked her chewing gum making me wonder what it would feel like to have my tongue down her throat. She couldn’t have weighed any more than I could bench, and I’d never lifted a weight in my life, but something about those eyes, the judgement in them, the hate, the exclusion, it made me want to be her life. We were just about to play our last song, “AIDS Babies on the Republicans’ Dime”, when I got incredibly thirsty. In my haste, I could think of no easier solution that to drink my entire beer at once, regardless of the logistics involved. So, admirably, a solid twenty-five percent got into my throat, but the rest poured down my chest, over the stage, leaving a giant puddle in which the venue’s cables laid in a tangled mess. Reasoning that I’d need to do the same thing three more times if I ever wanted to rid myself of this thirst, I stumbled over to the drummer’s kit. Hobbled, really. Because, dear reader, this was by no means the first bout of thirst I’d felt this evening. This time I didn’t do so well. My intake was closer to fifteen percent, leaving the venue’s drum kit soaked in some shitty draft, and the kick drum’s mic wet enough to concern the venue’s manager, who stormed over in a hurry. “Hey, you fucking shithead, watch what you’re doing to my shit!” he said, in lapidary terms. “Fuck you!” was my best response, as I threw down my stratocaster, grabbed the mic and shouted “trickle down these nuts, Reagan!” before loudy slamming the microphone on the ground. Jackie O, as far as I could tell, was impressed. He was such a prick. Such a dirtbag. The way he looked, it made me sick, he was like a cock with legs. So of course, yeah, I dug him back then. I remember the first time I saw him. Did he tell you about this? He rambled into a microphone about the space race for a solid 5 minutes, played maybe two songs, then got kicked off the stage for being a drunken mess. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, like he was some big name rockstar, his scrawny ass getting dragged offstage by his stupid stud collar. And then he looked at me, or at the blurred vision that he had of me, and said something like “issall fur yooouuuuu, baby!” And I was hot. I was damned hot in those days. A little heartbreaker. Skinny pants, dark hair, perky tits, weirdly round ass for someone my size. So this wasn’t the first guy who’d ever come onto me. But, christ, for whatever reason, Sid got my interest. Maybe I thought he was the real deal, whatever that meant. Alls I know is I followed him out the door. Now, I ain’t sayin I threw myself at the guy. I played it cool. He was sitting against the brick wall, smoking a Parliament or something, and I sat down next to him and said something like “got an extra for me?” Dumb bastard was so drunk, he couldn’t find his own pockets, starts grabbing all up and down the legs of his torn-up blue jeans. Of course, the pack was sitting on the ground between his legs, so I made a sound like “ahem” and pointed at his crotch. Sid’s eyes lit up. Who the fuck did he think I was? He looked down at his own junk in without saying anything for a few seconds, then figured out I was talking about the cigarettes. He gave me one. We sat there without talking. I couldn’t tell if he was shy, or just too hammered to say anything that made sense. But then he said, “So, thanks for coming out tonight. Really, really good to see you here. Really good.

He sat alone in his bedroom, really nothing more than a confined box, throwing back Bud Lights as though they would lead him to some enlightenment promised to him earlier in life. A song referencing Dramamine was pouring from his speakers almost as liberally as his hand dispensed his beer. “Not today,” he told himself, as suddenly a deluge of repressed emotions of his brief twenty-three years threatened to overcome him instantly. He found himself overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings, and almost as quickly as the thoughts had arrived at the forefront of his consciousness, he found himself forcefully raising the volume in a desperate effort to drown out the increasingly loud thoughts in his head. “Not today,” he sighed.

Log #10 Year: 5,302 Day: 3/10 Hour: 4 Location: Tenro's Hold By some sad miracle, most of the original group is still alive. It's been almost one month since the demonic spawn occurred. Any living morsel within 25 square miles of the portal was known to of been annihilated within hours. With me, I have my young nephew (Davidson), and a group of about 10 civilians like myself. Many of the strangers we are accompanied by are expected not to make it through the night. Their flesh wounds are far too great. Our weapons are dwindling down to mere make-shift melee objects. Most of the others barely know how to swing a bat, let alone attack with a knife. We are practically defenseless against those..monstrosities The demons that walk the surface...they're heartless abomination of creatures. Most of them are over 3 times bigger then myself. Their lust for blood is something only night terrors are made of. Worst of all, those bastards appear in the hundreds...thousands...perhaps millions. I've witnessed over 50 deaths within the past month, most of which involve a massacre of a feeding frenzy. I keep telling Davidson that it will stop. I want to believe that...I must believe that. Hope at this point is hopeless. Starving to death seems to be more of a viable option over traveling..up there. The sight of seeing the young ones suffer is enough to drive you towards suicide alone. However..the mature must be strong. We plan on departing in within the next three days. The elder of our group speaks that the king and his soldiers are taking refuge at Morkenshire, about 50 miles east of our location. Personally, I think the old fuck has lost his mind. How any Tylron could be surviving up there is beyond me. There is no way of telling if it's safe to travel. We are all blind to what is currently developing on the surface. Maybe there is still hope..or maybe i'm just batshit crazy, like the old man. I wish it would end. Please, dear almighty, make it end...

Once upon a time there lived a very timid young girl. Her name was Terra. She lived all alone in a cabin in the forest. The cabin was very big and strong, so strong that it was indestructible. She felt safe there. She abandoned her hometown to live in there. She would usually read books or eat berries all day. She was very suspicious of other people. If she heard someone walking in the forest, she would panic and run back inside of her cabin and lock the door. The only thing Terra really loved was the antelopes that lived by the forest. She would always watch them. She made her own antlers out of wood and she would wear them on her head. When she wasn’t reading books, she would leave her cabin and pretend to be an antelope. She would eat grass just like an antelope. She wanted to be just like them. Terra was a very peculiar girl. She had a reputation back in her town, and many people even thought of her as a local celebrity. They called her The Antelope Girl. She hated being a celebrity and she would always run back to her indestructible cabin when people came to see her. The people from the town would sometimes leave food and gifts by her cabin because they loved her. One day, a hunter was out in the forest. He was hunting antelopes. He saw some antlers in the tall grass, and he shot his gun. The bullet ricocheted off of the antlers. He heard a girl scream. It was Terra! She was not hurt, but she got so afraid that she ran back to her cabin. The hunter tried to yell and tell her to wait, but she would not listen. She ran back to her cabin and locked the door. She felt safe from her enemy inside of the indestructible cabin. After that day, Terra promised to never pretend to be an antelope again, and she never left her cabin or took any risks ever again.

Home Television Association Presents: The Marquis Show: Episode 416: Rapist Frank [season Finale] (Inspired by Daft Punk's Da Funk)- "Ladies and Gentleman. We have a special episode of The Marquis Show for you tonight. For the 20th season finale, The Marquis is going to mutilate convicted Rapist Frank Lohan on live television! Thats right, you heard me! Frank Lohan! Convicted of 8 rapes, 2 being children ages 10 and 16, and the murder of 28 year old Denise Shelton, Frank was sentenced to death shortly after his trial had begun. And tonight, you will all be a witness to the consequences of his crimes! As always,here is DeVon Martin introducing tonights entertainment!"- Announcer. "Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls. Tonight is the 416th episode of The Marquis Show, the show that started the Death-Reality genre almost 16 years ago. And since then, we have gained a loyal audience and passionate fans and tonight, the Marquis is going to reward one lucky fan in an unimaginable way. Lets get the show started, shall we? Without further adeu, here... is... The Marquis!" The Marquis steps from behind the stage and into the spotlight. The crowed goes wild. He waves to fans and steps off the stage and runs through the audience. A group of young girls holding up a sign 'We Lovvvve U Marquis!' are shown on a jumbo screen. They notice themselves and wave to Mom and Pop. The Marquis high fives a row as he runs back and forth through the aisles. He returns back on stage and continues to bow and blow kisses before signaling the audience to settle down. They gradually calm down and he fixes his bowtie. "My friends... my dearest patrons. I love you"-The Marquis. They scream in excitement. "I love you all."-The Marquis. He smiles and looks towards the left and right, appreciating his guests. "You have brought me such joy this past decade. And tonight, i am giving America's most hated criminal, Frank Lohan, the Marquis Treatment. All for you. You have voted from the palm of your hands. It was a unanimous. 99% of you wanted to see this man tortured to the point of utter horror. And so it is with my great pleasure that I do this for you." The Marquis grabs a chain from the edge of the stage and yanks on it. Frank is pulled onto stage with a collar around his neck. A heavy set man, Frank wears nothing but a steel collar around his neck with a 20 foot chain welded on. The crowed begins to boo hysterically. One man even throws a large stone but misses Frank. The Marquis smiles and walks over towards the stone. He looks at the audience then points at the rock. He looks for the audiences approval. They cheer. The Marquis grabs the stone and looks at Frank. Frank is terrified. The Marquis walks over to Frank, calmly. Completely unsympathetic to the man, The Marquis swings the rock in his hand across Franks right jaw. Frank falls to the ground but holds himself up with his hands. He spits out a tooth and a decent amount of blood. The Marquis looks at his audience and smiles. He walks off stage and hands the rock to a "lucky guest". They begin to cry. The Marquis runs back on stage and begins his own torture on Frank. The Marquis walks over to a bench and gazes at it for a second before he decides to use a torch and brand. He begins lighting the brand with the torch until the steele turns red. He walks over to the chains and fastens it to the floor so Frank cant run too far. He then presumes to throw the key into the audience. The Marquis pokes Frank on his left buttcheek. Frank screams as the skin begins to boil. The audience cheers. The Marquis begins poking at random parts of Franks body. Frank flips around trying to hide each point burnt, leaving The Marquis more and more spots to burn. After 3 boils on his legs, 1 on his face, 4 on his back and 1 on the neck, The Marquis swings the brand like a bat into Frank's arm, breaking it. The bone splits in two and sticks out of his arm. Frank screams hysterically. His cries are silenced by the croweds cheering and applause. The Marquis walks over and gazes at another tool. This time, he picks up a surenge filled with bee venom extract. He walks to Frank and sits down next to his head. He begins to brush Franks hair. "Shhh, shhhh... this is the easy part, Frank."-The Marquis. He sticks the surenge through one side of Frank's lips and out the other. Frank wiggles his head in pain, trying to stop the Marquis from inflicting any further pain. A little aggrevated, the Marquis begins jamming the surenge anywhere near Frank's mouth, scraping his teeth, gums and tongue while trying to aim for his lips. Eventually, he sticks the surenge in and unleashes the bee venom. Frank's lip begins to swell. The Marquis stands on his feet and walks over to the table and grabs a pocket knife. He kneels down and slides the knife smoothly around Franks lips twice before stopping at the huge swell. He then proceeds to cut it off with the knife. When it doesnt neccesarilly work, The Marquis jabs the sharpened point into Franks lip and tears half of it off. With half a lip hanging off his face, Frank gibberishly begs for The Marquis to show him mercy and end his life. The blood rushes out of his lips like a mini waterfall. The Marquis backs away from Frank and watches him struggle for a moment. The audience eats it up. The Marquis stares at the pathetic Frank Lohan. A miserable creature. "Whats that Frank?"-The Marquis "..lea... urcy.. urcy.."-Frank "M-Mercy?"-The Marquis "...urcy"-Frank The Marquis looks at the audience. "Should I show him mercy?"-The Marquis the audience laughs hysterically "You heard them Frank. They came for a show. Youre out of luck..."-The Marquis The Marquis walks over to his table and looks at the arrangement. He decides on a turkey bastor and insecticide. He pours the liquid carefully inside the bastor, using a funnel and walks over to Frank. Frank, who is laying on his side in a mixture of his own urine, puss and blood is barely abled to move himself. "On your stomach Frank."-The Marquis. Frank jjust lays there, sobbing and petrified. "On your stomach now, Frank"-The Marquis. Frank ignores The Marquis's command. The Marquis lays a forceful kick into Frank's back. He screams more. The audience cheers more. The Marquis deals blow after blow into Franks back until he has no choice but to flop on his stomach to stop the kicking. "Good boy, Frank. Not sure youll like this any better though." The Marquis shoves the turkey bastor into Frank's rectum and pushes the liquid into his ass. The immediate feeling was a likeness to acid being poured in your ass. But without the boring reprecussions of skin deterioration. Frank flops around like a fish, puking on himself and screaming. The audience gives a standing novation, signaling the near end of Frank's life. They cheer, they cry, they praise The Marquis. The Marquis smiles and bows like a gentleman while Frank suffers unimaginably. Everything is perfect. The Marquis walks over to the table, grabs a .45 and shoots Frank in the head, blowing out half his skull in the process, killing him immediatly. "Who wants next?"-The Marquis. the end.

“The court recognizes that all your papers were submitted on time and all the forms were completed in full, and while I personally acknowledge your proposal was well-written and you gave an abundance of credible evidence and reputable sources to support your argument, it is the opinion of this court that your argument just isn't sufficient enough to validate the reasons to grant your request. And thus the court denies your request to commit suicide.” “But your honor! What about section five that states the government acknowledges the philosophies behind the 'social contract' and thus if I am to reject such contract it is well within my right -” “Sorry, unfortunately the court does not recognize that argument as valid. The spirit of the philosophy of the social contract is not so you can reject all of society and kill yourself. The social contract is something you take part of by being alive.” “BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE ALIVE!” “Unfortunately, sir, you must abide my the laws of this nation, just like everyone else. Feel free to start a petition or what not. All such rules can be found in the social contract. But our ruling stays. You are sentenced to a long and hopefully fruitful life.” It's midday and the morning rain continued its steadily pouring a light drizzle. The city streets are wet and shiny, the lights reflecting off the water. With the rain comes the cold and an ominous feeling. It is the feeling that it could rain harder, a thunderstorm could come. It is the feeling the roads being slicker could cause more accidents. Its the feeling of autumn turning into winter. It is a feeling of change hanging in the air. Raphael Orefice stares out the window at the passing traffic longingly. Many of the cars barrel through the intersection, splashing water as they go. The roads are to slick, there's no way they'd be able to stop in time. “Cheer up Ralph. So your day in court didn't go as you planned.” “It's Raph. Raphael. No ell.” “Oh sorry, Raphael.” “It's no problem. Can I get a refill?” Brennan came back with the coffee and filled his mug. “So what's your plans now?” “I don't know Brendan. I guess I gotta check the papers. Look up job postings. I guess if I gotta be alive I better get a job so I can keep on living. It feels like we spend the majority of our lives working. Big fucking waste.” “Come on, Raff. It ain't that bad. I mean, in actuality, assuming you have a forty hour a week job, you spend just as much time at home, more if you include sleep. And then there are always the weekends. So you literally aren't spending the majority of your life working. Most of your hours are for you. And even work isn't too bad if you make friends. Like talking to you is making my job a whole lot easier.” “Thanks Brendan. I appreciate the sentiment. Plus, technically, you're right. So I can't argue.” “You should try to see what the government is offering. Government jobs are very good in terms of both pay and retirement. You might want to consider it.” “Yeah, I guess I might look into it.” “And Raph?” “Yeah?” “It's Brennan. Two 'n's, no 'd.'” Raphael slowly sipped his coffee watching the cars outside splash around in the streets. It seemed very precarious to him. He felt that lingering gloom. He felt dread. He saw a young woman, bundled up with a chic umbrella waiting at the crosswalk. A big city bus was coming down the street towards the intersection. Raphael imagined the woman haphazardly stepping into the street, unaware of the city bus. He imagined running out of the cafe, darting towards the woman. Maybe she would be in the middle of the street as the city bus came. It would slam the brakes but the streets would be too slick. It couldn't stop. Raphael would dash out into the streets and push the woman to safety, out of the path of the bus. The bus would then plow into him. He would be mangled. Broken limbs, broken ribs. Fractured skull. But he could survive it. He'd be in a hospital bed. And the woman? She'd land in the middle of the street. What if a car was coming? Raphael shook himself from his dumb day dream. He laughed to himself. Took a sip of coffee. Looked at Brennan who was chatting to another customer and looked back at the woman at the crosswalk. Maybe she would be fine in the middle of the street. No cars were coming. She could get up and go to safety. Maybe she would visit him in the hospital. Bring him flowers. Be real thankful. She looked attractive. Young and attractive. A heavy sigh and Raphael looked away, up to at the gray sky. He imagined life on a moon colony. Maybe that would be different. Maybe he just needs more regulations. Life in a moon colony, everyone has a job, everyone has a set schedule, he imagined. It's like clockwork; everything has its place. Life on Earth? It's like a bunch of rats running around just trying to figure out the easiest way to get a slice of cheese. There is a semblance of order, but there is decay. The homeless on the streets proved that to him. He could be a vagabond. He could be a vagrant. There is room to be listless, to be without purpose on Earth. There is no set path. It is freedom, but freedom is chaos. There are no homeless people on the moon. Maybe they are lonely, maybe they have regrets, but they sure as hell have a place and purpose. Raphael thought he heard some distant thunder and looked back at the streets.. The woman was no longer at the crosswalk. Cars stopped at the traffic signal were given the green and started up, approaching in waves. With the rain, the traffic lights reflected in bleary streaks, the whole scene seemed like one big watercolor. An urban gray watercolor of traffic lights. Mechanical yet expressionistic.

Prompt: A man is wrongfully accused of murder and is sentenced to death. His thoughts in the final hours before he is executed. “Samuel Vitalis!” the warden authoritatively barked over PA system. Usually an unexpected announcement like this meant one of two things - good news or bad news. I was hoping for the former but I shrugged my shoulders and began to make my way to his office. “Hey! Watch where you’re going Vitalis. I will cut you up,” another inmate grunted as he bumped into me. I didn’t dare challenge his threat, I kept muttered an apology and continued walking. Ironically, it’s in prison where respect mattered the most; who you were and what you did disappears behind the concrete walls. Once you enter, your word is your currency and respect is your net value. Some people painfully learn this lesson. “Samuel, sit down. I’m afraid I have bad news for you”, the warden said as he motioned me to the chair. “As you know, your final appeal fell through, they could not find enough evidence to overturn your…” “Yes, it’s a shame. I guess the only the thing that separates a guilty man from an innocent man is the color of his skin. I didn’t expect much to come of it anyway.” I interrupted. The system was broken, why couldn’t anyone see that I was innocent? “Well, that’s actually not the only development. Since this was your final appeal, the DA’s office was pressing hard for your…your…execution… There’s a new governor and he reinforces his constituents decision, personally I think it’s to keep the donations flowing, but they’ve expedited your execution to tomorrow morning. I understand this scheduling is unprecedented but you’ve exhausted your appeals process.”, the warden rapidly explained. “I would advise you to make your final arrangements and pray that a media frenzy sparks a delay.” “Fuck.” The only word that could come out of mouth as a flood of emotions drained my body. I sat motionless trying to make sense of my upcoming demise. “Samuel. Samuel! Would you like to speak to a counselor?” the warden asked trying to shake my daze. “I’ve made peace with my situation warden, I don’t need a counsellor to explain to me what death is.” I replied as I got up and walked out of his office towards my cell. I couldn't think about anything, I tried to fill my mind with thoughts but I was blank. I tried to tell myself, ‘I was ready for this since I stepped foot into this hell hole; its been a long time coming. I never had a chance to begin with.’ "Inmates, please report to the cafeteria for dinner." the monotonic voice boomed over the speaker. That's when it struck me; this would likely be my last meal. I gathered myself and walked over to the cafeteria. It was likely that by now, the news of my execution would have spread like a virus. I kept hearing voices, “You're a dead man walking Vitalis." 'I've been a dead man for a long time", I would think in my head but I couldn't tell if this was my mind playing a trick. "Vitalis, how you doin'?", a familiar voice called out. In front of me stood Braun, a 6 foot tall black man on two life sentences who looked like he had been on steroids since puberty. He continued, "I heard about your case man, I'm sorry." I never imagined this giant of a man being a softie inside. "It's fine, it's still sinking in though." I replied casually. I don’t think all the time in the world would ever prepare me for a scheduled execution. He pursued, “Are you actually innocent?" "I didn't do it, why would I spill my own blood? Anyway, that was in another lifetime. After being in here for fourteen years, the only life I know is this." I stoically claimed attempting to steer away from that topic. But he insisted on knowing, “Come on man, tell me what really happened. Don't you want to die with a clear conscience?" "It was my older daughter's 23rd birthday and some thugs let themselves into our house guised as her friends. Towards the end of the night, I heard two gun shots so I picked up my pistol and started escorting people out of the house. Five minutes later, there was one more shot, I panicked and fired into the air to get people to hurry out. I immediately began looking for my daughters who were no where to be found. It was after searching the house that I found their bodies lying near a pool of blood. The police recovered four shell casings that matched my gun but all the evidence was circumstantial, witnesses were unreliable and someone leaked reports of me being an abusive father. The DA wanted to make a bold statement so they went for the death penalty. Before I knew it, they locked me in here for killing my only family. Now excuse me, I'm going back to my cell.” *Early next morning, a couple of hours before the execution* "I can’t fight this anymore. I can’t win. My end is here," I thought as I tried to distract my morbid thoughts with something more pleasant, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t escape my fate. I hadn’t slept a wink but I’d never felt this awake. Honestly though, I felt relieved; I was finally going to be free of this prison. I never really wanted to win my appeal, after fourteen years in here, I couldn’t possibly adapt to life outside prison. Too much time had passed, too much had changed. Somewhere deep inside me, I felt responsible for my daughters’ deaths. The night they died tormented my dreams every night. Maybe I was guilty, maybe I had killed them and I had chosen to black that memory out. The guards come to take me to the execution room. They tell me that the process is painless and that I would drift off to sleep. Like they know what it feels like... As I’m prepped for my final minutes on Earth, the warden confronts me, “Son, did you do it?” “I may as well have.” I whisper solemnly. I feel a sense of joy rushing through me as the doctors inject the first needle. The colors around me fade away as I feel the life in me disappear with each passing moment. Right before I wane into darkness, the warden asks me one last question, “Are you ready to die?” Probably not the best question to ask someone at that point but with all the drugs and chemicals kicking it, it didn’t make a difference to me.

The youth woke with a start, his hair plastered to his head from the cold sweat of his dreams. He sat upright, throwing the covers away from his body, though the room was eerily cold. The clock said 11:47. There was a rough deluge of water that fell from the heavens and thumped against his window, mimicking the racing of his pulse in his ears. “Just a nightmare,” he thought as he gazed around the room, drowsy, yet aware of the chill that swept over him in waves. He could just make out the shape of his door by the dim moonlight that trickled in through the window. As his keen eyes adapted to the darkness, they swept the room, until they found the tall mirror that leaned against the wall. In its impression of the room, a pair of dark eyes shone.. Darker than the shadows on the walls. “Hello.” spoke their owner. The youth strode to his strode across the cold wood floor until he stood face to face with the boy in the mirror. This boy looked like him in every way... Except his skin was paler. Where his eyes would have been was just a chilling black expanse that, when looked into, filled the youth with an all too familiar feeling of sadness and emptiness. This mirror boy wore a crooked grin. It was not the type of grin that you get from a friend, oh no. This grin spoke of knowing everything, and revealing nothing. It was a grin that spoke of plots. A grin that spoke of aggression hiding just below the surface. “What do you want from me?” spat the youth. “Oh come now, is that any way to greet a friend? I know you have more manners than that.” replied the mirror boy as he grinned a little more crookedly. “I was in the neighborhood when I saw your room and I was reminded of how dreadfully I missed you. I know you missed me too..” The blackness of the mirror boy's eyes focused on the youth's wrists, where they could just make out faint white lines from his last visit, and the one before that, and the one before that. The youth's eyes and face, which burned with hatred up until this point, faltered for but a fraction of a second before they scowled again, but the mirror boy's keen eyes saw everything. “I told you that I didn't want you here anymore. Everybody says that you're bad for me. I know you're bad for me.” said the youth. “And you thought that if your voice mingled with others and told me to leave that I would stay away? Silly little fool.” laughed the mirror boy. “No word you say or door you lock me behind will keep me away from you forever. How exactly is it you thought you would hide from yourself?” The youth knew as this shade in the mirror spoke to him that it was right. He had no hope. There was no escape from himself. “You say you want me out. You think you would be better if I wasn't around.. But I can see your pain... I can see your loneliness... Your frustration... And I can make it all better.” “You're lying to me, demon. Just like every time before.” said the youth as tears stung his eyes. “Maybe I am.” The demon grinned a shiny grin and cocked his head to one side. “But don't you want to know for sure?” “No. I don't. Go away.” replied the youth. “You say no, but your outstretched arms tell me a different story.” laughed the mirror boy. It was true. The boy noticed with a start that his arms had extended on their own, as if they begged for an embrace. He had no control over them, but with the assistance of a ray of moonlight he gazed on the pale white lines that etched across his wrists, and he wasn't sure whether or not to be fearful of what was to come, or intrigued by it. “If you insist,” said the demon through his grin, and with a confidence that can only be obtained through experience, he walked through the thin glass of the mirror and into the room, straight over to the youth and embraced him, just like he wanted. When the youth felt his touch, it burned like cold metal and... something else. The cold was familiar to the youth, as it was something he had felt many times before. It felt good. The youth liked the cold feeling on his skin. But he could not help but hear a voice in the back of his head. “you've made a mistake child.” it said. “a grave mistake.” The youth then remembered what the “something else” that he felt was: Fear. His heart raced and his pulse began to throb in his ears as he felt sick, his stomach tied in knots. The embrace was over and the demon spoke: ”There now. Was that so hard?” The youth decided it was time to speak his mind. “I've changed my mind.” he said. “I want you gone.” “It's too late, friend.” laughed the demon. “I'm already all unpacked.” The youth's anger burned in his chest and his eyes smoldered as he felt his rage rising inside of him. He screamed. “I SAID LEAVE! NOW GET THE FUCK OUT!” He threw his fist at the demon as fast as he could, but he hit only thin air. “Oh, temper temper.” the voice came from behind him. He turned and swung with all his might, but missed again. And again with the other arm. He threw a barrage of punches at the demon, but he was always a fraction of a second too late as his enemy sidestepped effortlessly out of the way. This continued for minutes until the demon had had enough. He caught the youth's wrists in his hands and held him there, struggling to wrench his arms free but failing miserably. “Maybe I can calm you down with a riddle.” said the demon. “I know you love those, because I love those.” He came close to the youth's face, staring into his eyes with expansive pits of darkness. The boy had a sensation as if he was falling through nothingness. “What kind of rubies flow like springwater?” He laughed as he squeezed the youth's arms, blood spurting forth as he cut them to ribbons. The youth screamed in pain the room swam before his eyes as he crumpled to the floor. His blood pooled around him and steamed against the cold of the wood. The demon knelt before his face as he cried and gasped for breath. “I told you I would make you stop hurting. I never told you how.” his grin mocked the youth. “blood was the answer to the riddle, if you didn't figure it out yourself.” he ran his fingers over the youth's cheek, bringing forth a quieter yelp of pain from his lips. “You'll be fine, friend.” he said as he stood and stepped over the shivering body and pool of blood on the floor. Before he walked back into the mirror, he turned back around and said “Just remember, this is what you wanted.” The youth outstretched an arm to reach for him to come back, but he was cold. his words froze in his throat and the room darkened as his breath escaped from his lips... The youth woke with a start, his hair plastered to his head from the cold sweat of his dreams. He sat upright, throwing the covers away from his body, though the room was eerily cold. The clock said 11:47. There was a rough deluge of water that fell from the heavens and thumped against his window, mimicking the racing of his pulse in his ears. “Just a nightmare,” he thought as he gazed around the room, drowsy, yet aware of the chill that swept over him in waves. He could just make out the shape of his door by the dim moonlight that trickled in through the window. As his keen eyes adapted to the darkness, they swept the room, until they found the tall mirror that leaned against the wall. In its impression of the room, a pair of dark eyes shone.. Darker than the shadows on the walls. “Hello.” spoke their owner.

(I'm on mobile right now, so please forgive the shoddy formatting.) Depot Town Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted as a house show by the tenants, but the night was clearly devoted to the attendees' thirst for cheap beer and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and a black cardigan. Within minutes of arriving, it was obvious that I was simply not punk enough to be there. Not even my tactfully applied black eye shadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had one ounce of underground grit to me. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. My notion of not belonging was exaggerated by the sheer volume of forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty-shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. But, as I always do when caged in unfamiliar social circles for an evening, I drank three beers in quick succession and relished in my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was a guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our mutual recognition of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a wool trench coat and a gaudy septum ring. His saving grace might be the lack of a fedora. Kristov quickly admitted that he'd recently chosen to live a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, but he must have sensed I was interested in his explanation. That, or he sensed I would engage him if he desired to explain himself, regardless of my interest. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad all of the time. But the last time I got drunk, I threw a chair at someone's head. And then I punched him until I watched two of his teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't even remember if he did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my Raison d'Etre. I wanted so badly to relate with this person, feeling honored that he had chosen me, to share something so intimate with. My heart pounded like a junkie - I wanted more of his exposition, more intimacy, more feelings. But as I always do when caged in unfamiliar social circles for an evening, I blurted out the most mundane thing I could muster. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's good, that's growth". I could feel us both wince at my reply. And another opportunity for me to genuinely connect with another human being left as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.

This story starts off at ground zero on the day of me hitting rock bottom. I had burned all my bridges, with nowhere to go, no one to call and I began to realize that I had no one to blame. There was one friend who I believed would help me if I asked him, so I jumped into my car and raced over to his house. He lives across town in an upper-class community and his house is immaculate inside and out. I'm so jealous of his house and of how much he puts into it. His house is big, beautiful and well-kept and I would never derserve to own or live in a house like that. I pulled up to the curb of my friend's house and saw him outside watering his amazing lawn. I honked my horn and rolled down my window and yelled to my friend: "God...!" (My friends name is God) "God, I need your help, I messed up real bad!" My friend dropped the garden hose and ran over to my car and said: "Brian, I knew something like this was going to happen, of course I will help you, slide over, I'm going to drive." "Um....what?" I said: "No, no.... you don't need to drive God, I got it! I'm already here, just come around to the other side and get in." God smiled at me and said: "Brian, I love you. I want to help you..... I'm going to help you, but in order for that to happen, you have to let me drive. I have a place I would like to take you, someplace safe." Well I got angry as I replied: "Safe? Safe! Look God, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm going through withdrawl, I'm bitter and resentful, and I'm mad at the whole wide world! I don't think you understand what I need from you. See God, I need you to come with me to my home and I need you to change the mind of my spouse. Make them look at me with those adoring eyes again. Make them overlook my frequent infidelities and lack of comittment. And if I'm late coming home some nights, or even just don't make it home at all, mane that ok with them too. Maked them stop nagging about my smoking, drinking and drug use. Give them the strength and desire to love me more and more each day in spite of what I do or say. Then I want to take you to each of my friend's, and I need you to change their hearts about me also. Then we need to go and see my boss, and he needs to learn to overlook the sloppiness of my reports, accept the work hours that I select that work best for me. Then I need you to show me how to get all the euphoria out of getting high but without all of the psychosis, paranoia and negative consequences. I need you God to keep everyone off my back and keep my life together. So seriously God, please get in! We have a lot to do, a lot of stops to make and I'm tired. I want to be home and in bed within the hour....!" "Oh B!....." (My friend God calls me "B" sometimes) "Oh B! That's quite a plan. We could do that, but I tell you what, let me take you some place you can rest a while and later we can talk about all that other.........'stuff'. You have to trust me on this B, the only decision that I am asking you to make is to just slide over and let me drive. Can you at least just trust me that much?" And so I went out on faith, but mostly because I was so tired, I let my friend God drive. A short time later, we pulled up to the Midnight Mission and we got out of the car. "What is this place?" I asked God, and he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me dead in the eyes and said: "This is my house Brian; I want you to stay with me for a little while. Here you can heal your wounds and let go of the hurt and pain. We will spend each day getting to know each other and you will make some lifelong friendships with other guests that I have staying here. You will transform from a taker to a giver and your heart will be full always. You will learn how to smile and laugh, and at times you will cry, especially when you realize just how much you don't deserve any of this. You will fall in love with me and I will be your first manogamous relationship. Your strength will be forged out of fire and tested, and I will prepare you to do great and amazing things in my name. You will bring lost people to me by telling them what I did for you when no one else would even look at you. I will remove from you the desire to smoke, drink and do drugs, and in time you will even surrender to me those things you think I don't know you secretly lust for. You will be on time and your word will be more reliable than any contract. The whole world will know your name and you will tell them all about me, and that's merely the beginning. So what do you say B? Will you stay with me?" Well how could I say no to that offer? I said: "Yes!" "Great, you just made the best decision of your life, now go through those doors and ask for Jackie Breland, and tell him that I sent you, and remember to call on me for whatever you need. I love you so much Brian, and I will see you soon." Then my friend God gave me a huge hug and started to walk away. "Wait God! I have a question.....If THIS is your house, then who's big, beautiful, well-kept house was that where I picked you up?" I asked. God just looked at me and smiled and said: "That's your house B, I've been taking really good care of it for you until you are able to receive it, and that's just one of the many gifts I have for you my friend!" The End By: Brian D.

When the klaxon had stopped blaring, the crew wandered to the Earthside cupola, somberly watching the indigo and malachite land as it flowed past. The ICBMs streaked across the darkening horizon, fading away as they dropped through the exosphere. "Impact in 10 seconds." A man sobbed softly. Peter squeezed Valeriya's hand, holding her close. The group held their breath until the first blinding dot appeared. Tiny, yet enormous flashes speckled the terrain, giving them eye spots that would last for days. At that moment, every American and Russian, Englishman and Chinaman and mourned together as hundreds of millions of souls whimpered before silently perishing, snuffed out in an instant. Billions more would die under the choke hold of a nuclear wind. The shouts from ground control faded away as the EMP's effects effectively shut down their electronics, quieting them. There was a radio silence.

Amelia leaned up against the taxi and stared as the sheriff and repossession team emptied her home and memories onto the front lawn. Her father was fighting back tears, as he pleaded and begged the officer for another chance or more time; the alcohol on his breath disgusted the sheriff, but even he didn’t lack the empathy to arrest a man who had already been so thoroughly embarrassed in front of his family. Amelia’s mother stood with her back to the whole ordeal, chain-smoking cigarettes and massaging her temples with the free hand. The next thing her father slurred was what set Amelia off. “[…]if you’re gonna’ jusht throw us on the st-street like a bunch of bums, at least… at least look at my fuckin’ daughter in-in the eyes.” He pointed at her from across the lawn, but the sheriff only glanced at her and back to the belligerent man who was sending spit in every direction. Meanwhile, Amelia’s jaw was dropping at the nerve it took to use her as a prop, regardless of her father’s shaky history. She felt like storming towards the useless man and screaming every infuriated thought that entered her head, but it was no use; he’d already spent on alcohol what he hadn’t on gambling, and she had already spent every emotion she ever felt. So, she stood there, as hollow her house was. As a repo man carried out the stuffed dog that had sat in the corner of her room since she could walk, she looked back at her mother and felt the urge to ask for a cigarette.

“ I dream About you once and a while, you suppose that means something?” -unknown I close my eyes. Hoping to have the sweet embrace of sleep grasp ahold of me so I can Seemingly pass on to the next day. I fall deeper and deeper into a state of weightlessness till I’m greeted by the dry thud of your presence. Your sweet scent brings memories for sweet nothings and hollow pleasure, it’s nauseating to think that I wasted so much time under your spell of false hope. Yet I miss them. I’m not sure if I miss you or I miss the fun we had. All I know is I miss you for all the Right and all of the wrong reasons. I kept the hat you gave me for our two month, third week and second day anniversary. You liked to keep everyday down in a small book you kept in your purse. You wrote down every sweet nothing I whispered into your ear, every time I kissed your neck, even every time you saw me look at my cell. It confused the hell out of me. Even when It came to our love life all you wanted to do is rush to get home, rather than embrace the time we had. You talked nonstop about building a family and buying a house, plus you even talked about how orgasmic the food is rather than enjoy my company. I know, its selfish of me not to think of our life together or the dog we got but you seem to be in love with being in love rather than with me. I saw how bad it was when you called me your everything yet you were so quick to tell my replacement the same. You move so fast through each relationship that when you come to the end theres nothing to build to expect of a lifetime of disappointment. So why did we move so fast through of love when we had a lifetime to build to it. What im trying to say is I dream of you once and a while, you suppose that means something.

I attempt to open one eye, the mucus build up makes it near impossible to bring anything into focus. Crusted particles consume my eyelashes and each waking blink is almost too much to take. My head is throbbing, and not the "I drank too much last night" throbbing, but more along the lines of "Someone pummeled the fuck out of my head" throbbing. The floor beneath me is cold and firm, the walls bare, bleak and colorless. I finally start to regain my senses when suddenly I begin to question "Where the fuck am I?". After a few minutes of systematically blinking, trying to break away from the previous night's debauchery, I am finally able bring my almost limp body into an upright position. I immediately notice that my nose passage is blocked as I attempt to bring fresh oxygen into my lungs. I bring my fingers to my nostrils and too my dismay, I come to the realization that my nose isn't working because of all the coagulated blood up in there. I just continue to sit there, same spot, no movement. "What went wrong?" I think that same question to myself everyday, always in the morning, always when my mind is fresh, when my thoughts aren't clouded by the ensuing bittersweet reality of Heroin.

When the waiter poured my wine and offered a casual "Say when" I did no such thing. Instead I watched as the wine filled the glass, eventually reaching the top and overflowing onto the table cloth. He looked at me as if to say "Say it. Please say when", but I remained firm as the wine ran off the sides of the table, soaking the carpet and pooling at our feet. Soon it collected around our ankles, then our knees, and still I said nothing. Sweat beaded the waiter's brow as the wine reached our waists and began pressing at the window panes. "Say when!" his eyes demanded, "for God's sake say when!" The bottle faltered in his hand but still I said nothing. Still the wine continued to flow. There was a sound of splintered glass as the windows gave way and the wine gushed onto the streets; a claret tsunami. Traffic was overturned, buildings toppled, people pulled beneath the crimson riptide. Soon the Earth was a ruby, glistening against a jeweller's black velvet. "When", I said.

This story is unfinished and certainly unpolished. I'm just looking for feedback of any kind. Or, feedback on whether or not it's even worth pursuing. Depot Town Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted as a house show by the tenants, although clearly devoted to the their guests' thirst for Pabst Blue Ribbon and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and black cardigan. Within minutes of arriving, it was obvious that my little pink number didn't stand a chance. I was simply not punk enough to be here. Not even my tactfully applied black eyeshadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had an ounce of underground grit to me. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. This notion of not belonging was only exaggerated by the volume of forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty-shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. It was at the very least entertaining to watch. And so, I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I drank three beers in quick succession and relished in my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was a guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at a bar called Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our mutual recognition of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a wool trench coat and a gaudy septum ring. His saving grace might be the lack of fedora. Kristov gave a breathy confession that he'd recently subscribed to a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, said nothing. I guess it just seemed like the type of topic that ought to be sustained by the initiator. But he must have sensed I was interested in his explanation. That, or he sensed I would engage him if he felt like explaining, regardless of my interest. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad, I'm so sad, all of the time. But the last time I got drunk, I threw a metal folding chair at someone's head. And then I punched him. I punched him until I watched two teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't remember if he even did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, I looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. My heart was pounding like a junkie. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my raison d'etre. I wanted so badly to relate with this person. I wanted so badly to share with him the last time I felt like dying, and that I thought his exposition was beautiful in the same way I find abandoned buildings to be beautiful, and that I felt privileged to be the one who was listening to him in that moment. But as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions, I miraculously rematerialized into a fucking stone. I offered this person a sentiment so mundane I swear to god it died as it slid past my teeth. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's good, that's growth". I could feel us both wince at my reply. My fingers pinched the base of my wrist as yet another opportunity to authentically interact with another human being left as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.

The boy ain't had no face, he ain't have no legs neither he had no spine to speak of though he always says he done fine. I dunno sometime by the river shore I start thinkin' maybe this boy'd be better off sayin' a few words to the god that made his broken heart Lee's always playin' in the woods, Lee's always throwin' sticks 'round always from the ground right up to the air like someday he gonna touch the sky what a sight what a sight So one day, I call him 'round I says, "Lee, come to the river" and he came like a dog to a bone And I said now, you take a swim and he was no stranger to this so he said, "please, Bill, I ain't ready to meet the god that made me." I says, you need a go for a swim before I throw you in He take off his jeans and slowly walk in and I swear it was like Jesus bein' baptized again I ain't never seen no boy or man hold his breath like that not even a hand to hold him an' he never did come back up I consider him lucky, he's probably gotta face on his soul now I start screamin' so as ain't nobody 'spect nuthin' Lee's drowin'! Lee's walked into the river said he wanted meet the god that made him and he never come back up! Now, his mamma cried for days but she know he in a better place I know I did the right thing now there ain't no boy gonna be right growin' up without a face.

Once there lived a land of sea creatures along a great and wondrous river, at least great to these sea creatures in their point of view as it was their home. The current flowed over them, very mysterious to them as the current went its own way, caring not anything else but that. The sea creatures knew they had to cling to the reef, or be swept by the current. This was their way of life, what all of them had been told at birth. One creature said at last, "I am *tired* of clinging, though I cannot see it with my own eyes, I trust that the current knows where it is going I will let go and let the current decide my fate, staying here I will eventually wither and die" The other creatures scoffed at this idea, "*You are a fool!* you will much sooner *die* letting go as that current you worship will throw you against the rocks and *kill you violently"* And the One listened to them, but did not accept what they said and let go of the reef, and the current carried him and tumbled him across the rocks, and while this was painful, he refused to cling again. Finally, the current lifted him above the rocks, and he was bruised no more. When his fellow sea creatures downstream saw him, to them he seemed a stranger, they rejoiced, "See this, see this a *miracle* a creature like ourselves, yet he flies above the reef like a *god* see the *Messiah* he has come to save us all!" The One carried by the current replied, "I am no more Messiah than you, the current can set us free if we just have the courage to let go." The One was carried further by the current beyond their view, leaving the members of the reef to create legends out of the one who showed them a miracle.

Sorry for any and all grammatical errors. This just came to me and i thought id share. enjoy. there comes a time in all of our lives when what we have just doesn't seem like enough. rich or poor. single or not. we look at what we have and see it in the palm of our hands and wonder why. why is this all i have. then we look up into the stars and over the vast openess of the ocean and say, "why am i not out there." and we feel a stirring in our stomachs and the drive for adventure rears its head up and with a questioning gaze stares into our eyes. and it flexes its wings and for a moment we sit there. motionless. wonder and desire filling our soul till we feel the heat behind our eyes and a tingling in our bones. then, after a moment, our eyes glaze back over and we turn back to our phones, and our televisions, and our 9 to 5 jobs, and we step in the footprints we've dug into the carpet of our "comfortable" and "socially acceptable" homes and the adventure within us lays its head down and shuts it eyes and breathes out and returns to its rest. then day by day we continue this path these mechanical motions and our footprints become pits that keep going deeper and deeper until one day we look up and all we see is the walls of what we've done and the comfort and conformity its created. then suddenly we look at our hands now wrinkled and with our now milky eyes and we look up and see far far above us the stars that we saw so long ago and we hear the waves crashing and again we are filled with wonder. then that great beast within us raises its head and flexes its muscles and with it we raise our hands and grasp the ledges far above and we heave ourselves to the surface with all of our strength and for moment we float. At that moment, as our fingers touch the stars and our toes sink beneath the silky waves and lights like rain fill our reality. then suddenly the lights dim and the water recedes and were left with the drone of the machines that have finally failed to keep us alive. and the sobs of those we've touched along the way rise up and fill our ears and we want to yell at them to go. "go and grasp the stars and swim the seas." we want to say. but our breath has left us and the beast within lays its head along side ours. and in that moment all that we are left with is the lingering taste of a dream and a beast that never learned to fly.

[Places and Companies are fictional] It was just like any other day. I had my morning coffee at 6:30 before heading off for work. I do IT for a regional company called ExpressPark. They build parking meters for cities all across the Midwest. I live in Zionsville, Indiana. It’s a small suburb north of Indianapolis. Nothing ever happens there. It’s a grey smattering of office buildings and chain restaurants. It is just a reflection of my personality, an uneventful state of apathy. Is it ironic or sad that I am indifferent about that? Work is work. Again, just like Zionsville, there is no variety in day to day activities. I am doomed to an unending cycle of computer problems and printer malfunctions. I’m just the IT geek to everyone. No one gives it a second thought. Not that I mind. I would rather eat lunch alone than talk sports with the former high school quarterback still stuck in his glory days. Still, although I am content with my life, I feel like it lacks something. I ponder this thought on the way home. As I stop at a red light, I look out and see two twenty-somethings smoking cigarettes in front of a drug store and listening to music on a boom box. Their heads are banging up and down to the heavy guitar, their long hair whipping back and forth. They didn’t care about the damages to their lungs that the cigarettes would cause or the fact that a boom box is comically outdated in 2014. I wished I could let go like that. Listen to music from a boom box. Headbang. Smoke. Quit my job. Drop all of my dress clothes off at Goodwill and get some wax black skinny jeans, and a leather jacket. Meet up with these two and rock out in front of the drug store. It could break me out of the constant indifference that haunts me. I could feel alive. It’s been so long since I’ve felt true happiness, or had fun. There’s so much I’ve never done. There’s so much I’ll never do, if I continue to live this way. I’ve never been to a crazy party, been drunk and in love, kissed someone in the rain, smoked pot, or pulled an all-nighter with a friend. Do I even have friends? I take a long look at the headbangers. Something holds me back. Something tells me not to do this. My job is safe. There is no risk in keeping it. Just keep saving money. I can use it later in life. I can retire, have some good years at a beach house in Florida before I die. That sounds good, right? Before I can answer my own question, the light turns green and I drive off, always left to wonder what might have been.

I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. I don’t have a watch, but there is one attached to the shoulder of this vest. There’s a bell tower too. I heard it chime a little while ago. The person who had been sitting here before me had good taste. I had eaten his gyro and drunk his rich espresso with relish. I wipe my hands over the blocks of explosives taped to my chest. I stand, my feet padding their way down to the water’s edge. I didn’t know this type of thing happened anymore. I saw this in a movie once and the chatter of locks shaking in my hands drives the reality of the situation home. I feel as if I have been born again, out of the womb of a black sedan driven by men with masks, but into a world with no love for an infant such as I. I could hardly stand for the weight, and when I looked I saw the fear plastered in every feature of the people crowding the market. I thought I might have seen a look of relief as hands folded into each other, spiriting them away, but my own mind may have put these looks there. Because I am relieved. I left my home and the grave of my wife and child trying to find something, some kind of reason, and now it has all been stripped away, all I want it to walk this beach. The ocean is the kind of blue that leaves tears in men’s eyes as they awake. A wave washes over my toes. The sunshine feels like the embrace of the world. The bells are sounding. My grandmother once told me the church bells ring to help angels find their way home.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the stench of dried blood and an oppressive musk was heavy and I coughed a few times as my eyes started refocusing on the dimly lit room around me. *"I was dreaming..."* I sat up in my rough bed, the heat of the summer night forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. I checked my alarm clock, the red glow of the LED display was flickering slightly. *"It felt so real"* I pondered apon my recent experience with the dream when I put my attention towards the thick odour in the room. It was the middle of summer and a hot room did this, especially when the clouds persisted through the night and trapped the heat in from the previous afternoon. I pulled off the remaining sheets and opened the window to release the odour from the room. I felt the wind enter the room on my face, it tickled my cheeks and that small relief was enough to keep me from closing the window again. It was only a few more hours until sunrise, and I could not leave the window open for too long or the room will be too cold for a comfortable rest. I decided to turn on the lights to illuminate the room. *click *"Holy shit..."* The lit room from the celing light revealed a much different perspective of the room. My fingers were covered in blood, and everything I had previously touched had darkened brown stains. I looked down on the floor only to notice my stomach had massive cuts that were actively bleeding. The realization of the upturned room was startling, my stomach was still bleeding, blood was now nearly pouring out of the cuts and it spilled onto my fingers. I slid onto the floor in pain and attempted to grab something for support. *"Oh god"* I looked at my stained hands, the nails were extended and sharp, revealing small nubs on the tips. I tasted blood in my mouth, only to find my teeth to be sharper and my tongue to be longer. I could no longer breath and I felt like everything was falling apart. The world slipped underneath me and my vision went black. *"I was dreaming"* I sat up in my rough bed, the glow of the summer mid morning sun forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. The window was open and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing in and replacing the stale air from my room. I shut the window and pondered apon my recent experience with the dream I just had.

A HERO OF WAR The bright shimmering moon illuminated my bedside table,” The book of war” my little red diary lay in the centre surrounded by other personal mementos. Its obvious disorder was a source of comfort but that book had an enchanting ability to transport me into a world of heroism and adventure. I held an insatiable appetite for that stuff. Memories have faded I can’t recall everything…”Pazzck!” The loud bang of lightning, a cloud of bombs pitter pattered outside. Wait this isn’t home? The melting brown sludge slid off the walls of our trench our knee high boots filled with a toxic concoction of our own filth. The panic Intensified “Get Down!”. An enemy sniper was perched on the enemies crows nest; we were awaiting the inevitability of death by our own stupidity. The faint screams of missiles soared over us “Bang!” A dense green hazy fog fell from the sky dimming our precious sun light.” Gas!?...Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” An unsure struggle of fumbling to put on the on the intricate mask. Yet a man was still screaming from the deep bellows of his lungs. Wheezing for air he coughed rapidly, each time worse than the last, coughing so much the boy gagged. He looked me straight in the eyes; his red blood shot eyes filled with an ocean of water, his eyelids have redden with irritation, like an internal wound. I stole an awkward look at his face as he stumbled towards me, arms outstretched and crying in pure sorrow. The boy fell to the ground landing on my feet almost as though he was commanding me to mark his last few agonising moments. I was paralysed to the spot and fixed my petrified eyes on him as he twitched frantically. Still alive and the deep murky red water surrounded his semi-submerged face. We tossed his still warm body out of the trench into No Mans land. We ran still dazed by the blast and a horrific sight, a spinning trench with no left or right just a twisting labyrinth of death. Why was I so stupid? A hero of war is what wanted to be and after they’ll see and when I come home my country will be proud of me is what I thought tricked by the worm tongued men in suits. Their golden lies like sweet nectar. Continuing on in our escape of the trenches I climbed into a truck and we drove away never to return to that murderous maze. Why wasn’t it me? We danced with death and lived to tell the tale. Who died in the poisoned gas? Every single time I close my eyes I see his face pleading for mercy, even when I blink I am reminded of his last lunge, his last attempt for air. For a brief second I thought of home in this stalemate, a awkward silence of war .No hope to get out I held tightly on to the picture of home knowing my return will be soon. A snowflake gently fell from the sky; I was dazed by this phenomenon of a dancing snowflake. Catching the cold dead snowflake, I peered down at my dirty black hands; it quickly melted like a broken memory. Looking up from my hands the biome around me changed a cold fortress of death lay in front of my allies wearing their white camouflaged Coats. We were not suited out for this pointless quest. The harsh icy winds cut like swords covered in salt, leaving a deep frozen scar making us venerable to the harsh cold I Do not fear our enemy. I hate my hate my country, I returned home after our stalemate in the cold to see that their was no welcome home, no glory for what we have done .But what have we done to receive glory to my family all they see me is a hero of war just medals and scar and so proud of, But that is all that family sees the rest of the country couldn’t care less of my well being .I questioned why I even lived or why I continue to live with this broken shell shocked mind. Every bang a bomb, every person an enemy.

No one ever said that life comes with a manual. Life doesn’t come with a step-by-step guide to tell you how to survive when you have nothing else… When you have no one else… So tell me what are you supposed to do when you lose the one person who was always there for you? What do you do when you are well and truly alone with no one there to help you through the rough times or to pick you up when you fall down? Well like I said… No one tells you that part; you just get left to do it all by yourself. I remember it like it was yesterday… Two years ago, me and my mum were inseparable. She was like my best friend… The one I could go to when I was sad. The one I could explain everything to and would understand me even when I didn’t. I never imagined her leaving. But guess what? People leave. With no explanation. No reason. No goodbye. Since the night where all I could hear was the continuous beeping of the heart rate monitor and all I could see was her lifeless body lying on that hospital bed my life has been a downhill spiral of foster carers and care homes. Last time I checked I haven’t been in one for longer than 2 months. One memory that I will never forget is every night my mum would run her soft fingers through my hair and whisper “Mummy’s little angel.” If it’s one thing I learned from her leaving it’s to remember to tell the one’s you love how important they are to you because pretty soon, god will want them back. Now it’s time to leave. Just like she did. It’s time to let my soul fly away with the birds. As my bare feet hang over the edge of the rocky cliff and the soft morning wind flows through my hair I remember my mother’s last words.

He didn't remember much about his life, and nothing from before he was six. They told him it was normal in children to forget things from such a young age, but he didn't believe them. After all, the things he *did* remember were in such bright, sharp detail, when he delved into his mind to them, it was almost like living the events over again exactly as they happened. The day the Men came and took him to the facility was a particularly bright memory. He had dreams of it, dreams that were so detailed it was as if he had stepped back in time. Over and over, he would relive the terrible moment. *He was sleeping, and having the most wonderful dream. In the dream he had a mother, and a sister, and a father who went to work during the days and came home at night to tell his family about his day, and the boy would listen intently, and his sister would look at him and start to ask a question, but the boy would not hear the question, for at that moment he was woken by the sound of splintering wood and the startled shrieks of the other boys in the orphanage, the sounds of heavy feet on the wood floors, and dark silhouettes in the darkness, and then rough hands gripping his arms and pulling him off his bed, still in his pajamas and no shoes, not even socks, and the boy too afraid and confused to even make a sound and then men carried him out the door and into the street to a car parked at the curb, and the door slides open and the boy is thrown inside impersonally, and his entire world is pitted into darkness as the door slides shut again, and he feels the car start to drive, and it drives and drives...* He always woke up then, when the car started to drive. he didn't know why, but it was the way it was, and he couldn't do anything about it. The car had taken him to a large white building in the middle of a desert. He had been carried inside and put in a room with a bed and a dresser and white walls and no windows, and had been told to stay there. As soon as the goons had left the boy had tried the door, of course, but to no avail. Later that first day a fat lady in a white smock had entered his room carrying a tray of food, and the boy had tried to run for it, out the open door, but the lady was fast for being fat, and she grabbed him as he tried to dodge past. She had fat, oily fingers that made the boys skin crawl, and he knew he never wanted her to touch him again. The food was flavorless and stale, and the boy hardly touched it after the first bite. And so it was for the next four years of the boys life. He never saw another soul, except for the fat lady. She never spoke to the boy, and didn't have a name tag, but that was okay with the boy, for even if she had told him her name, he would still have called her the fat lady. Every night he dreamed the same dream. The day of his abduction to this horrible place, and every night he woke up as the car began to drive. Everyday he had the same horrible food, and spent the days scratching pictures into the white wall paper of his room. Then one night, something changed. The boy had always remember everything about his dreams, and he always felt as though he was a camera inside the eye of his past self, with no control, only the ability to observe through his own eyes the horror that ensued. But this night something was different. *He was woken from his wonderful dream by the crashing noise, and the boys shouting, and he sat up, ready for what was to come. But he could feel his hands, his feet, he could blink when he wanted to, and he raised his hand to look at it, and it obeyed. He was so stunned he didn't even flinch when the men grabbed him. They took him and threw him in the car, and it began to drive...* He woke with a start and looked around the room. It must have been daytime, because they only turned the light on when the sun came up, and they turned it off when the sun went down. He stared up at the ceiling, questions filling his mind like a swarm of ants pouring out of a disturbed ant hill. What had happened? What was going on now? Was it just another part of the dream? A part he had forgotten? How could it be? How could he do it? What did it *mean*? With the many questions, however, came fewer answers, and the boy groaned in frustration. Just then the Fat Lady came in with his tray of food, and he sat up and watched her until she left, then he grabbed up his tray and slowly munched on his food, thoughts of the dream change running wild in his mind. That night he couldn't wait for the lights to go out. And when finally they did, it took him a long time to fall asleep. A funny thing happens, the more you think of sleep. Not sure why, but if you are trying to go to sleep, the absolutely worst thing you can do is think about going to sleep. Unfortunately, the boy did not know this, and spent much of the night with is eyes scrunched shut, willing himself to sleep. For hours he did this, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up and went to staring at the ceiling, wondering what it would be like to have windows, wondering what season it was, if it was raining, snowing, what? *He was awoken by the sound of the crash, and the other boys, and he immediately sat up and looked around and realized; HE HAD DONE IT! He was in the dream, and he felt the same surge of power rush through his body, and he had control. He heard the thumping feet on the wood floor and quickly jumped off the bed and sprinted for the other side of the room. There was a window there, and he pushed it open and had just gotten one leg over the sill when a beefy hand grabbed him around the neck and pulled. The boy fell back into the room, choking and spluttering, and then the two men had him on either arm, and they carried him past all the silent, gaping boys, out the front door and to the car, and the darkness closed in, and the car began to drive...* He woke with a start, and immediately noticed the change; he was in a dark room, and the floor was cold on his bare feet. The mattress he had been on the night before was gone, replaced by a small cot with a small wool blanket that he could barely see in the gloom. Where the white walls and door had once been was now cold gray stone and a steel door with a small slat at the bottom of it. What was this place? What had happened? He tried to think to remember, and suddenly a blur of images came to him; an angry thin, gray woman, yelling at him, a smaller gray room with shackles that attached to his bare, sore ankles, the Fat Lady smiling cruelly at him. But those images weren't *his*, were they? They couldn't be. Could they? Why was he in the gray room now? When had they brought him there? He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He was not stupid, and his imagination had always been his most important tool in that plain white room. And now, slowly, a thought began to form. A thought so impossible, so amazing, so *dangerous*. And the boy smiled. He could fix it. He could fix it all.

Borrowing from classic tales of good vs evil, 2B NOT TO BE is a fantasy action adventure that mixes the styles of TOY STORY and STAR WARS. Set in the magical world of a writer's desk, it's the story of a unique group of friends who have to come to terms with being replaced by modern technology. When struggling author Tim Addison's deadline approaches, the dreaded writer's block has left him bereft of ideas and hope. His brother-in-law, Andy Stevens buys him a new laptop computer for Christmas to reignite the fire that burned inside and help him get back on track. With his old school ways, Pencil, Black, Blue and Red ballpoint had been with Tim forever, seeing him through the good times and the bad. But all this was about to change in this fun packed action adventure. 2B Not to Be is currently averaging 4.3 out of 5 in reviews on Amazon and reached #1 in the action adventure short story chart. I'm giving away FREE electronic copies of the eBook. If you would like to leave your contact details in the comments section or visit my website at Robert J Hardman I can email it to you. Thank you very much for discovering 2B Not to Be and I hope you enjoy the story.

There is a road that stretches lazily out from the driveway of our little house for 22 miles until it hits the sea. It rolls and climbs underneath a canopy of ancient redwood until the final few miles, where a stellar explosion of orange and pink cherry blossom guides it kindly towards the water. Its gorgeous at this time of year. The colours are burnt, vivid and warm. The air is clean, crisp and fresh. When it’s sunlit, it looks like heaven, man. I don’t know why I’m saying all of this. You know it like the back of your hand. You love it as much as I do. We’ve meandered sleepily through the bends on our bikes a thousand times. I’ve built this sort of routine that I’ve been keeping up for the last 7 weeks. Firstly, I’ve stopped working. I don’t mean that I do a little bit of work, sometimes – I mean that I do not work, at any time. I do not open my computer or answer my phone unless it’s my mother, my sister or Matthew. My office sits dusty and functional. There is an unopened pile of mail on my desk and the sketches from my last project are half finished all over the whiteboard. I pay any outstanding invoices when they arrive but I don’t send out new ones. It’s not really a decision I make actively. I just don’t consider working. It rarely enters my stream of consciousness anymore and I assume that gradually I will forget the memory of it altogether. I have enough money. I don’t need much. Instead of that, I wake every day at 5.30am and pull on yesterday’s jeans, my boots and rifle around for a clean t-shirt. I float on autopilot down the wooden stairs, through the open living room into the kitchen, where I flick the radio onto a show I found that plays old jazz and has a really funny host that must be 75 years old. I brew a very strong black coffee. While it bubbles and brews noisily, filling the house with a rich, dark aroma, I feed Charlie cat who loops gracefully in and out of my legs impatiently until I’ve given him a can of tuna and some attention. I then make a single honey sandwich on the thick, brown home-made bread that my mother insists on delivering every Monday afternoon. It’s not really about the bread. I think she thinks that she just needs an excuse to come out here to see me. When the coffee is done, I pour it into my flask, wrap the sandwich in foil and throw both into my rucksack. I wrap my neck and mouth with my scarf, turn out all of the lights, let Charlie out for his morning ablutions and lock the door behind me. I slip out into the drive and kick my bike noisily into life. In one motion, I roar out into that same road that we rode together a thousand times, and disappear. When I first started this routine, I’d just ride. It wasn’t really a ‘routine’ as such – I’d roll slowly and deliberately through the road’s varying graduations, waking up under the trees until I hit that beautiful stretch downwards towards the sea. Of course, it’s too early for traffic up here at that time so I’d rarely see anyone. You know what I’m like. It suited me perfectly. But about two weeks in, I started to commit to it a little more. I started to give it a little more of myself. Every day, I’d ride a little bit harder than the day before. I don’t know why. Then, I started setting myself daily speed tests to outdo the last – and now, frankly, it’s out of control. At this point, I fucking burn that road, man. I destroy it. I watch the speedometer climb militantly towards and then easily past 100 miles per hour every single morning. I am fairly confident that it is impossible for me to ride that road any faster or more aggressively than I do now. The bike will not give me anything more than 107 even though I found the handbook in the attic and it said that it was built to hit 111. But she’s an old machine, so I guess I can give her that. I lean heavy as hell into every corner as if it’s the last I’ll ever take. I’m gutsy and brave with my decisions because I did the maths – at that speed, I’m covering more than 145 feet per second. I’m hurled noisily past anything that might have the audacity to share the same space as me, tearing around them and into the apex of the bend, and level out onto another straight, swaddled by a thick, heavy swirl of deep autumn reds and oranges. The temperature has dropped in the last ten days and now it’s only a few degrees above zero at dawn. My arms and chest are tender and stiff as the wind and the cold batters my body, and it feels like all of my senses are heightened. The air feels like it’s freezing my lungs. I am completely aware that at any given time, I am one split-second, one spot of bad luck or mechanical failure away from certain death. If the initial impact doesn’t kill me, then my skin will be razed happily from my body by the asphalt, my muscles stretched and torn and my bones shattered as my ragdoll body is thrown towards those solid trees, or into the river, or over the drop of any of those sheer ravines – but I am utterly unafraid. Occasionally, as I force the old bike to maintain such phenomenal pace, draining every ounce of agility from its strong frame, I’m ambushed by a crosswind or an unsuspecting animal that jumps out into my path, and I need to remain completely focused to pull a clever swerve, or we’ll both be killed instantly. I stopped wearing my leathers and my helmet about three weeks ago so that firstly, I’d be lighter, and secondly, so that I’d be completely unburdened by gear. The freedom is unreal – and I’m faster than before. I have to wear sunglasses to keep the wind out of my eyes, though. They help with the glare sometimes too. The sun creeps above the sea on the last four miles in the morning and the light blasts in all kinds of directions across my face through the space between the trees. As a result of all of this, I’m a far, far better rider than I was 7 weeks ago. I’m actually quite brilliant now. Often, as the bike screams and begs underneath me in fifth gear, I lose myself entirely and I think of you. The noise, wind, momentum and machinery fade quickly and I am left with you. Your heart shaped face. Your golden hair, and the arch of your back. How utterly good and kind you are. Your affection for children, Charlie cat and my mother. She absolutely adores you. Your patience and your laughter. Your perfect cup of tea. How talented you are at painting. How you could do anything with your young life and you choose mostly to give it to others. Your thoroughly absurd dress sense – but absolutely immaculate taste in music. How bad you are at singing, and how hilarious I find it. The wind and sunlight through your hair in the dunes when we walk my sister’s dog for hours on Sundays, jeans rolled up to your knees, strolling carelessly along the shallows of the coast. The first time that I met you — and those first days that I fell in love with you. The weeks we spent living in that tiny box apartment before we moved out of the city — and how I knew I would do anything — without reservation — to share the rest of my life with you. About the way that I love you, and how it’s an absolute, and with no equivocation. In those moments, I am a shooting star, burning through a clawing, crawling version of time that is drenched in syrup and molasses — and I fly through a complete, echo chamber silence with you. And then it’s shattered. I hurtle back into reality as I scream into another bend, tearing like a spirit possessed through the voluntary chaos that I create every morning — 145 feet of bone-shattering concrete per second — a single moment of misfortune away from catastrophe. I pull sharply through the cadences and the rhythms of the bends beneath the blossom down towards my sister’s house on the sea. She’s given me a key because I’m there so much. It’s usually before 6am when I arrive, and so I park up, let myself in, fill and boil the kettle for her and take her old dog Alfred out onto the beach. Alfie is my best friend and he is almost always the best part of my day. He misses you too. He just doesn’t carry it in the same way that I do.

Mother walks among us; Abandoning her oaths. She searches for her children Or so the stories go... De'shaun wandered through the deciduous forest, his footsteps drowned out by the sound of persistant rain. As it drizzled down, both his spirits and tattered clothes were dampened. And he could see no end to the forest labyrinth he had been abandoned in. The crimes one must commit to warrant banishment to the labyrinth known as, 'Eranas' (free man's last breath), were very strictly laid out in law, posted in every town and port around the fair country. No man may conspire to or attempt to enter the Castle on the Coast No man may conspire to or attempt to look upon the Castle's Queen or other inhabitants Even at eight years old, De'shaun could not recall, in court or at any other time, why exactly he went to the Castle on the Coast. It seemed, according to the Law and its enforcers that he had, of his own volition, attempted and succeeded in entering. Although what he did when he got there, he could not say. All that remained of his perilous adventure now was his endless torture in the labyrinth. And a single enchanted apple that would sustain him for as long as his sanity held within this place. And all the while he was unaware of the eyes that watched and judged. The eyes of The Castle on the Coast. De'shaun took shelter in a small borough, covering himself in moss to keep himself warm as he settled down for the evening. He took a few lazy bites from the apple as he looked up into the canopy. He was sure he had been here for several months, it could perhaps be his birthday. He could perhaps be nine. As he fell asleep, he dreamt of endless orchards, whose branches plucked and picked at his skin and whipped him as he stole their fruit. Meanwhile, a young woman stood overlooking the view from one of the castle's western bastions. In the distance she spied Eranas. It maintained a constant haze about it, as if it were enchanted. She had always wondered whether it was true, the stories she'd pieced together about the infamous forest. And that morning she'd seen people speaking with their hands hiding their mouth, but every so often they would be overexcited and she could read the lips just mentioning Eranas. She wasn't sure which was more torturous, her curiosities never being satisfied or everyone's blatant abuse of her inability to hear or speak. Together, these things made her feel like a ghost in her own home. Upon further reflection, however, she decided what was worst of all. Her, seemingly, complete insignificancy. She spent another twenty minutes or so reflecting moodily in the dying sunlight, her lips pouting slightly as the cold began to seep into her pale skin. She was startled, as always, by a slight tap on her shoulder. She turned to see her mother, the Queen, smiling. She patted her daughter's long, auburn hair before gesturing with her arm to follow her, “Come with me, Emeray, there is much to discuss”. Emeray nodded and followed her, unaware of the consequences her silent compliance fostered.

I’m not sure if it’s madness or genius. I like to think of it as genius. Of course I do. Or should I say you? I hope it’s you. If it’s not you (future me), please do not read. The following notes are thoughts you had, at one point or another, about… well… nothing (or anything?) really. A touch of philosophy, maybe some science. But you don’t know enough about science to be able to come to conclusions about the unknown. As much as you’d like to know everything about everything, it simply cannot be done. The eternal struggle. Languages may be learned, courses in physics, chemistry, etc. may be mastered, but your desire will never be fulfilled. Is that a good thing? You love learning. Or at least you fucking better. About anything. Except English. Why waste times on learning how to properly convey your thoughts to another person? They may say they understand. Maybe they do. Maybe not. What does that matter? In areas of science, it may matter, but if you are not able to talk about your area of study, perhaps it is not something you should not speak about. At that point it’s clear you (3rd person) will not be able to make a serious breakthrough in that field. That is another thing that (hopefully used to and does not presently) scares you. I digress. Wait… did I really just say that? Am I trying to sound smarter than I really am? Time for booze. Look at this, I am actually editing something that I hope nobody else will ever read. Or do I? NO. I don’t. If you’re still reading, please stop (but I know you won’t. Maybe you will. This is, after all, just random thoughts I am having while watching an absolutely mindless sitcom on TV. How interesting can it be?). TV. Is it art? Or is it just making our society slowly descend into an Idocracy? Ha. A movie reference. Figures. My life seems to be currently (at least partially) engulfed in television. The very idea of watching actors pretend that things are happening in “real” life seems too crazy to be true. Not only is it true, but it is one of the biggest industries in America. While a 777 disappears out of thin air (yeah, that happening right now. Day 6.), society is still concerned about the drug abuse of some piece of shit that can pretend really well. Is that jealousy? Id live to be an actor. Get paid for acting. As if some dramatic story is really playing out in front of millions. Two sentences ago I meant to write love. Well, I don’t care about acting any more. Now about racism. Sexism. All the –isms that exist. Why? What the fuck do I care? Well, I don’t know why, but I do. Wait. I’ll get back to this. Something on the tele made me think about school. I was the best in elementary (even though that doesn’t matter at all). In high school, I could have been the best. Not giving a single shit about anything and managing to graduate in the top 5% of one of the biggest high schools in the country? Bravo. What happened when I went to college? I know I partied too much. But still. I could have gotten the grades if I just put the smallest amount of time and effort into it. I just made excuses. I didn’t do homework, didn’t study, didn’t give a shit. And now I have a 3.3 overall. I take back what I said. As much as it hurts to say it, I am smart. I hate to admit it. I don’t want to be conceited. Be humble you piece of shit. Why do you act so dumb around people? Saying you don’t understand things when you do. Do you want to be normal that bad? Well, you’re fucking not normal. At this point, I’m starting to think I’m crazy. Switching between “I” and “you.” Well, I don’t know if that’s true of not. I feel like an evil genius. Minus the evil. Even if there is two parts of my consciousness in an argument, they are both loving. As much as I continuously dumb myself down; as much as I am driven mad by those who surround me, I could never hurt anyone. I love life. WHY? I have an amazing girlfriend. I can speak to her intellectually. But I don’t. Damn my humbleness. Actually, it really isn’t being humble. It’s being selfish. I think. You/I need to do something with my life. I know in time I will look back at this and be embarrassed for myself. Because no matter what I say, it will be stupid. If you/I add on to this in the future, don’t forget to talk about the –isms. You said you would.

The five young men were gathered around in a group. They were the best of friends, even though they'd only recently met each other. A year ago, not one of them knew another. They'd all met while travelling around the world, and quickly gotten to know each other. They were young too, which probably helped establish such a strong friendship. The oldest wasn't a day over 20. Steve was the only one to have been with a girl, which the others were constantly asking him about. Some sitting, some kneeling, and John, whose words they all hung by, standing, they all passed the time by smoking and joking with one another, until John got a call. He nodded a few times before turning to his mates. They all looked up at him, and saw that his face was white. They knew what was coming, and after a moment, it did. John uttered the words they'd been dreading.

The street was wet from the rain that lingered throughout the night. The rain fell slowly, curling in the air before making a satisfying tap onto the cement road, creating puddles and a chilling atmosphere around myself. It was at this time I drifted into thought. The ability to think to one self was perhaps the greatest gift ever given to a conscious being. The free will to imagine, concentrate and dive into an endless pool of anything you could possibly comprehend is the closest escape from reality a human can possible get to. I stopped at the end of the street, taking a right turn onto the next. It was a noticeable street because it only ever had one light accompanying it, and that light has been broken ever since I can remember. Walking onto the darkened road is always something I look forward too. It is an old road, about 200 meters long and is surrounded by small patches of trees on both sides. The darkness conceals you from every eye, especially at this time of night. It is to see, without being seen. The rain continued to fall, the sound only interrupted by a car in the far distance making its way to its destination. The car, however was the least important thing on my mind. As my journey on the road continued, I started noticing more and more on the street itself. I noticed the rain tapping on the topmost branches of the trees, making a louder and sharper sound. I felt the wetness of the road, imagining myself stepping in a puddle as the soft splash creates ripples underneath my feet. I looked up and saw the rain falling, lit by only the moonlight from the top of the tree coverings. I felt safe, accompanied by a near force that would surely show itself. Quickly spinning to my right is when I saw it, something in the tree line.. A blur created by a large creature blocking the light. I felt drawn to it, it was as if it was pulling on my existence and pressing itself against me. I could hear the beasts breath, hot and wet. I could feel its heartbeat, slow and powerful. But worse yet, is I could *see* the beast... It was a *dragon*. 10 feet tall and slowly pacing towards me. I stood in disbelief, my emotions carrying me to places I have never been. I felt something push into my mind and connect inside of me. My own thoughts were spinning with endless possibilities of what could be happening. The connection between us suddenly tugged and information started to flow between us. I could hear indistinguishable voices like whispers. This was impossible, this doesn't happen. *"But dragons don't exist"* And that was when the connection between us was lost, and the dragon was no longer there. The rain had stopped, the street was dry and the wind was no longer cold. The street was bright, looking up in disbelief I saw what I had never expected to see. The light was on, bright orange and glowing. The once dark street was illuminated once more. The light flickered a few times, right before buzzing and completely shutting off. *The street was dark again, and I was concealed once more.

Stardate: no clue. Warp drive is fucked. Life support systems are on life support. Best I can figure, electromagnetic something or other must have flared up. Whatever that means. This area is totally empty of any stars, planets, comets, asteroids, or any other names we've come up with for rocks floating in space. I'm only realizing at this moment what a terrible idea it was of society to start letting dumbasses like me pilot these metal death traps. Looking out, I can see another ship drifting by and I guess it got hit by the same wave of bullshit. I have to assume the other poor bastard in there is as hopelessly unintelligent as me. The only plan I've got is to see if I can jump across the void to the other ship. I've got nothing to change my direction once I take that leap. I am not scared, yet, because I have not convinced my brain that this is real. When I was a kid, we hadn't even made it to Mars. And here I am, with a flat tire in as close to nowhere as one can be. There's no way any of this is real. My mind is racing, and I'm trying to keep it that way. If it settles down, it will start to feel what it has already realized: I'm fucked. I'm thinking back to my younger days playing pool in my friend's basement. I never paid attention in physics or geometry and they say pool is all geometry. I'm not sure if I'm the cue or the cue ball, though. I'm pretty sure that other ship is the pocket. So I guess I'm trying to scratch? The analogy is falling apart. I never played pool by the numbers anyway. Always went by feeling. I open the hatch and the little air pressure left in the cabin rushes out. I lucked out and the angle to the other ship seems pretty well lined up with the hatch. I'm trying to picture everything in such a way that the leap seems easiest. Only my ship is moving, I decide. The other one is stationary. A metal island in the dark cosmic ocean. My mind is starting to slow. The reality is starting to take hold. If I don't jump know, I'll be a huddled mess in the corner of my ship until I asphyxiate. I get my mind racing again thinking about the odds that I am even within sight of another ship. It's got to mean something. Maybe I've got a guardian angel that looked away from the controls for a bit and is trying to rectify the situation without giving himself away. No way that's true, I think, but I trick myself into feeling it just enough that I am ready. I don't think of my wife. I don't think of my kids. There will be plenty of time for those thoughts if I miss. Dammit, I shouldn't have thought that. It's now or never. I jump.

The boy had no idea how long he sat in the corner, waiting. It was cold, and even though he had a blanket, there was little it could do against the stony chill that seemed to emanate from every wall in the room. The food had come, cold porridge in a wooden bowl, through the slat at the bottom of the door. He hadn't even touched it yet. All he wanted to do was sleep, but it was too cold, to uncomfortable. Before, he had had a bed, an actual, real bed, and he would have given anything for that plain white room right then. He sat shivering in the corner, the thin wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and let his mind wonder. If he could only get some sleep, maybe, just maybe, he could get away. After all, it was after he had changed things in his dream that he had found himself in the cell instead of the white room, and from the look of his clothes and the sporadic memories, or images, as he referred to them in his mind, he had been in the dank musty cell for some time. For hours he sat, huddled in the corner, his only friend a rat who had found it's way into the cell somehow, and even the rat had barely touched the horrid porridge, and had left and not returned. It was a long time before anything happened at all, and when it did, it was not but the slat at the bottom of the door sliding open to reveal another bowl, and then sliding shut again. The boy realized that this was breakfast, and that he had stayed awake all night. Surely sleep would find him soon. It did. But he had no dreams. He woke to a small tapping noise, like a birds beak on a window sill, and he took a moment to come to and get the sleep from his eyes and brain. Then he realized; *he hadn't dreamed*! How could that be? He always dreamed. Always. And always the same dream. So what happened? It was then that he realized the tapping sound. He sat very still for a moment, and began to notice a rhythm to the tapping; three quick taps, then two slow ones, then three fast, then four slow. He didn't know what they meant, but something about them lifted his spirits and he almost laughed out loud. But he didn't know why. The tapping seemed to be coming from the wall on his left, behind the cot, and he slowly crawled over to it, pushing the cot out of the way and putting his ear to the brick wall. Suddenly the tapping stopped. The boy pulled his head away from the wall and looked at it as though a face was going to appear in the cold smooth stone. For several minutes he sat crouched there, then he had an idea. It was so obvious, he kicked himself mentally for not thinking of it before. He scrambled back to the bowl of porridge and grabbed the spoon, then moved back to the wall. He hesitated only a moment, then he began to tap the same rhythm into the stone wall. *taptaptap. tap-tap. taptaptap. tap-tap-tap-tap.* And repeat. He did the whole sequence three times, then stopped. After a few seconds the tapping resumed from the wall, and the boy couldn't help but smile. There was someone there, someone on the other side of his wall, and they were trying to communicate. But what? Suddenly another thought came to him. A crazy, wonderful, brilliant, dangerous thought. But he needed to sleep. He needed to dream. And he hadn't dreamed the last time he slept. He need to sleep, and he needed to dream. He spent the rest of the day tapping on the wall with the other person. He had decided it was another boy, probably his age, maybe even from the same orphanage, someone he might recognize. Hopefully one of the boys he had gotten along with, and not one of the bigger bullies. That night, when the porridge came, he forced himself to eat some. After all, how was he to get any sleep on an empty stomach? Then he curled himself into as tight a ball as possible and wrapped the wool blanket around himself like a cocoon, and prayed that sleep would find him quickly, and that he would dream. He stared at the stone wall for a while, then closed his eyes and started counting to a thousand. And suddenly, he was back in the orphanage... *The noise woke him, and he was ready for it. He quickly jumped off the bed and ran to great the two men coming to get him. "I am coming with you," he said to the two men. He saw the looks of shock cross their faces, but they simply stepped aside and let him walk between them. The one on the left grabbed his arm as though to guide the boy, and he ripped his arm free. "I can walk fine, thanks," he said as condescendingly as possible. The man did not try to grab him again. They made their way to the car outside and the boy climbed in the back. And the car began to drive...* He snapped wide a wake, and had to squint at the light spilling through from the balcony. He let his eyes adjust a moment, then looked around... and his jaw fell to the floor. He was in a huge room, quite possibly the largest room he had ever seen occupied by only one person before. The walls were a bright yellow, and there were paintings hanging sporadically across the walls. There was a door way that led out into the hall, he knew, from the memories rushing into his head, and the hall was one of many in the mansion. The sunlight was spilling through the balcony doors, and it fell warm on his face. the bed was a huge four-poster, with curtains pinned back on the posts so as the let in the light, and the mattress was so soft and warm, and the blankets thick and wonderful. He jumped off the bed and walked out onto the balcony. And this time he *did* laugh out loud. He was standing on a cliff on the sea, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The waves crashed against the base of the cliff and billowed in white and blue and green, and the sun was rising over the water, the bright yellow sun, and it warmed everything it touched. He simply stood there and let the warmth wash over him for moment. Suddenly he heard the shuffling of feet from the room behind him, and he spun around and almost screamed. "Your breakfast for you, young master," said the Fat Lady. She held a tray of food in her arms, and the smell, a smell the boy could remember, but had never truly had. It was amazing. The sweetest, most mouthwatering smell ever. He walked into the room cautiously, eyeing the Fat Lady. "Put it just there," he said, pointing to the small table by his bed. He knew this was where he always had her place the tray. The fat lady put the tray on the table and made a small bow, then simply stood there. "What do want?" the boy asked harshly. The Fat Lady flinched at his tone, and he had a memory, somewhere, and image. A very confusing, disturbing, image. Of them on the beach together, and he was laughing, and was sitting reading a book, and he felt something for her, felt that she could be something to him. The boy pushed the images from his mind. He had seen what this lady could do, what she would become, had he not turned things around. "Get out out," he snapped at her. He saw her look at him with a hurt, confused look on her face, but then she made the same small bow and left. He went over to the table and, sitting at the edge of his bed, began picking at the food. Then he checked himself. What was he doing? He was there on a mission, that was it, and he needed to get it done. Right? But how, really, and the food was just sitting there. What could it hurt to eat a bit of it. The first bight was delicious, like heaven in his mouth, and he took his time chewing. then he swallowed. Then he took another bite. And another. Soon the entire tray was polished off, and he lay back on his bed a moment, and his eyes felt heavy. But he had just woken up, hadn't he? Why was he so tired? He had something to do, he couldn't go back to sleep, not now. Not now... *The dream was different. He wasn't in the orphanage, he was in the house, with his imaginary parents, and the father sitting at the dinner table talking about his day, and his sister, sitting across from him, looked at him, and the question, the question he had never heard, came from her lips. "Why?" Why? That was it? Why? And the boy thought about it a moment, then replied, "Why not?", and a smile began to form on his sisters lips, and then he was smiling, but then the world was shaking....* And they were gone, and there was a face above his own, a face he did not recognize, the face of an old man with not hair and a crooked nose, and he tried to move, but couldn't. He looked at his feet and hands and saw that they were clamped to the chair he was now sitting in, and he turned his head this way and that, taking everything in, trying to find a way out. "You cannot escape, not here," said the old man, a cruel smile revealing crooked yellow teeth. "Here, you can't even sleep, so you can't change it." The boy looked at the man, shocked. How did he know? Who was he? The boy tried to ask a question, but nothing came out of his mouth. He felt as though every fiber of his body was on fire, and sizzling for action, needing to move. He was awake. So awake. He felt as though he would never sleep again, and the thought made his heart fill with dread.

Two she-wolves fought over a limb, snarling and ripping as they did. Occasionally they would forget the corpse altogether, tumbling into the latecomers who (as beggars could not be choosers) were left to dispose of the still-warm innards. The alpha male guarded the face and chest, sitting at ease with paws out in front, eyes constantly on wandering pups who tested his patience. Any pack member he deemed too close was subject to a few lazy swipes of his claws, teeth exposed in a menacing show of rank. Every now and then he would feign a yawn but snap his jaws shut, a loud crack that caused his pups to scarper and the bitches to whimper, blood smeared snouts hidden deep inside flesh. Not 10 feet away lay a handgun loaded, cocked and impotent. *If a shot is fired in the forest and no one is present to witness it, does it make a sound?* The wolf whose brains now lay spattered over the ruby red autumn leaves, turning them black, would tell you that it *does*. The power in the buckshot had propelled the beast to onto its side and there it had stayed, twitching uncontrollably as it drowned in its own blood. The pack had not mourned, nor were they spurned on to seek revenge. Cold and calculated they had kept formation, following the scent upwind, quickly filling in gaps created by short-lived disharmony. A few adolescent males had stayed with the dying creature however, nuzzling and pawing but once the death spasms stopped and the stump no longer wheezed red, they too slunk away. The hill they had stalked him up was dense with trees and plants, carpeted with leaves of a range of deep autumn colours. He, clambering, had flustered up a storm of dying debris as he shot round after round into the air (feeble attempts to scare away the horror that haunted him) to no avail. Rustling leaves caught his attention as he fled, every crunch simply fire in the fuel that supported his aching legs. Still, he ran despite the snarls and yelps that seemed to perpetuate from nowhere, pressing fear deeper into his core. The pack had smelled him less than a league away and he had noticed the howls getting closer and closer every minute. It wasn’t until eyes, flashing red in the moonlight, had begun to pepper the darkness of the thicket that he had run. He had still been in possession of his handgun then; it was lost, dropped as they attacked his arms when they surrounded him at the top of the hill, where the silhouetted trees were at the thickest and not even the sound of traffic could be heard. The handgun had remained unfired until the wolves, 17 heavy rounds in the magazine, something he did not expect; before he followed the trail up through the plains to the forest he had intended to use it on a more human-like target. Police sirens were floating in the chilled night air, faint and feeble as they blared somewhere in the distance, clearly looking in a very wrong direction. A dusty path leading away from the edge of town was the one he had picked in case of emergency and, as it so happened, the once quiet evening had offered him a level of emergence too invasive to ignore. He had taken luck by the hand when the sirens had first screeched at the front door to his cabin. How on *earth* did they find him there? Not even he knew where it was at the best of times. He had not been near civilisation in almost a year, wandering only *away* from the closest town (he selected those who had become lost and dragged them further away), aided by a shittily drawn map pieced together by the hopeful, confessional ravings of his victims. The police had, of course, broken the door down and found copious evidence but no one to pin it to. Spreading out they had scoured every room, destroying as they went with shouts of ‘The cunt’s not ‘ere, sir!’ and ‘Clear!’ cutting through the thick and musty air. Meanwhile, he had dropped into the tunnel and scarpered, shotgun strapped to his chest, handgun in its holster and the map fucked somewhere on his table. He had been careful, he had rested assured at nights knowing that nothing in the cabin could be traceable or lead to him but now he felt a snagging doubt slipping into his step, corrupting his mind. He would stop at intervals in the tunnel (it lead up through a well just over half a mile after the start of the trail) and freeze, focussing his hearing to see if they had followed him. Like the worst game of hide and seek, no one had followed him and he had finally made it to the well, allowing for his escape to the hills. “Look at this stuff, sir. It’s him. It’s got to be. That....is *fucked* up” The policeman pointed, a gloved finger raised towards the obscenities (he had once called it his Wall of Fame) that were thumb-tacked to the wood. Each depicted a gory scene of torture, each victim contorted in agony, features distorted in pain. None looked very alive, at least for not much longer after that specific picture. There was proof, you see, thumb-tacked to the wall of fame. The sergeant began to silently remove the collection, one by one, face down. “It’s guys like this that get what’s coming to them.” A woman, now a man, blood and pain, then a child. He looked at it with a hard stare. “Crime is easy. Getting away with it is easy.” Less and less the horror that adorned the wall sullied the cabin’s inside. It had once been a pleasant home to some pleasant people. “You see,” he spoke to his men now. In his hand was a photograph of a girl no older than 20 who was crying, smeared in her own blood. Fingers that had held the photo had left behind a bloody, but clear, print. “You see, it’s not running away from the crime that’s difficult. Any wild animal can run. It’s *living* with what you’ve done that tests you. You look over your shoulder and lie and hate and writhe from the thought of it. You know that one day you will find yourself backed into a corner with a ghost of everyone whose throat you’ve slit or brains you’ve bashed in. Every time you’ve lied, every frown you’ve forced. You know one day that it will all come back to bite you on the ass. Each ghost just a razor sharp tooth in the mouth of a beast you reared. And when they find you, they *will* have their revenge”.

Skeeter’s paws twitched in his sleep. Running through his canine brain were images of his owner scratching his neck while he devoured the soft food that was in his bowl. Then the two of them were out on a hike and Skeeter was off of his leash, running ahead and sniffing the strange smells in the air. Looking over his shoulder he saw Her, his owner, on the trail behind him, smiling. At that moment he heard a howl. Something was hideous about the howl, it sent shivers through his spine and caused a whimper to escape his sleeping lips, he somehow knew it was the sound of a supreme horror, a voice from some outer void. In his sleep, Skeeter felt a weight on his chest, he dreamt that it was Her, his owner, rolling over and laying an arm or leg upon his body. With a snarl Skeeter was drawn back to reality. Pawing his chest, sniffing to see if he was still alive, Loki stood over him. Skeeter knew the reason his fellow canine was checking on him wasn’t out of sympathy. He quickly twitched and in a cloud of dust he was on his feet snarling back at the animal that was just standing over him. Hair raised on the back of both of their necks as they began to circle each other. A deadly circle, eyes locked on each other with each step. They each waited for the other to make a move, to counter the lunge. The moment was broken by a growl. Not a vocal sound, but a gastronomic rumble. Both Skeeter and Loki looked over to see Bandit laying with his head on his paws, watching the two of them. Bandit, along with Loki and Skeeter, was merely a hollow animal. Rib cage showing through his matted fur, cheeks sucked in, spine prominent on his back. All three animals were on the verge of starving. Loki and Skeeter looked at one another. Both knowing that if there was a fight between the two of them the survivor would be injured and facing off against Bandit, even their victory would be a death sentence. Skeeter still stared hard at Loki; he couldn’t show reluctance to fight. It had to be known that if either of the other two remaining animals tried to take advantage of Loki while he slept that he would do what he had to do to. Loki understood. He was in the same position as Skeeter. But he couldn’t back down either, couldn’t make it seem that he feared either remaining animal. Then fortune must have been upon the trio, because Loki’s nose caught a putrid stench. Turning his head from the other canine Loki trotted in the direction of the disgusting odor. * * * * * Bandit didn’t know if he had what it would take to kill either Loki or Skeeter. He had seen the other animals he had grown up with torn to shreds already, a cat and a small dog, while he could do little but fight for his own life. When his family was taken from him by vagrant, hungry, animals Bandit was still a marvelous physical specimen. He had been taken running most days of his life. His owner trotted him through a familiar course evenings after returning from a place that smelled of food. For an hour the two of them would pound their feet against the concrete. Afterwards they would return home, eat and rest. It wasn’t eating that Bandit missed most of all; it was his owner, his couch. After running they would sit on the couch and watch the box of colored lights. Bandit would lay his head on his owners lap, have his fur pet. The simplicity of life was the most amazing virtue, he never had to worry about food or comfort, least of all safety. His owner took care of everything that needed to be taken care of, Bandit was merely his pet. But now, after all the chaos, Bandit was forced to take care of himself. When he saw the two animals circling he watched out of sheer boredom, not hoping that either would be injured. Merely praying that this nightmare would end and he would hear his owner whistle. As the two animals circled, Loki’s ears perked up and he turned away, headed pointedly in the direction of rubble. * * * * * Loki barely could think straight sometimes. He wasn’t known for his balanced sanity before it all happened. Locked away in a kennel, constant barking echoing in his skull, he was jumpy before the world was ripped apart. Men, the larger animals that locked him in cages, carried guns, drove in cars, flew in planes. Men destroyed everything. Men left their buildings, their homes, the entire world a flaming heap of rubble. Those powerful animals, who hated Loki because he wouldn’t bow to them, were finally consumed by themselves. They didn’t care about anything but themselves, Loki knew that first hand. When they unleashed hell, he was left in a caged kennel, forced to claw his way through the chain linked fence that tried to hold him at bay. The same chain linked fence that held so many others inside of it. Now, after pawing one of his surviving brothers to make sure he was still animate, his nose had caught a scent that he followed instinctively. Loki couldn’t guess what was at the end, what caused the stench, only that he was drawn to it. When he centered himself above where the foul scent emanated, on a pile of broken concrete that had once been a building, he began to claw the rubble away. Piece by piece the stones rolled aside and the rancid smell gained strength. * * * * * Skeeter followed Loki, curious. Bandit got to his feet and trailed along. At first when their noses caught the aroma they gagged, then something inside for them caused them to help pull the rocks away from where the disgusting odor came from. The first black finger was barely recognizable. Bandit’s teeth snapped it into his mouth automatically, crunching the bones between his teeth before swallowing it. As more of the crushed, dead, human hand was unearthed Bandit, Loki and Skeeter snarled and snapped at each other as much as they did at the little flesh that they found. At a point Bandit and Loki rolled off the pile, not inflicting any real damage to one another, but allowing Skeeter to get a full mouthful of forearm down his gullet before they raced back up the pile to push their noses into the putrid feast. The three animals, the former pets, crunched and gnawed on bones and rotten flesh. When they were done, when the rancid scent was only on their breath, the three huddled in a small corner of rubble that remained. Each dreamt of things that were appalling in their own way. None of their minds were capable of realizing that even though the world had fallen apart their meals came still came from their faithful owners. None could comprehend the idea that the hand that had comforted and controlled them, the hand that kept them upon a leash was still the hand that fed them.

9pm SATURDAY A friend who I desperately want to fuck invites me over for bloody marries. Just me and her. I see her roomy earlier in the day. She says other roomy (the one i want to fuck) is really excited about tonight. I arrive somewhat fashionably late due to a clonazapam induced nap and said girl's best friend who's a cute young Chinese girl with the brain of Woody Allen and Larry David bitches about everything the entire time. It's hard to be too irritated with her. Then after the Mexican food arrives and has been paid for, the boyfriend shows up. Loser pot dealer who watches anime and sleeps all day. I try to find common ground... We all smoke a joint. I sense my time to leave and since i got bad acid before from this specific proprietor, this time "the girl", the girl I came for in the first place for bloody fuckin maries. That's how she spelled it too. Marie! It's BLOODY MARY! As in a biblical reference in a drink… brilliant! Gives me 4 "for sure good" hits of acid for the journey home. 240am - 2 hits lots of rubbing face-smoosh, kinda touched "myself" alot but i do that anyway 5:12groove to the music 3:11 slight headache-right rear 3:24 getting lazy 3:28 debate do i take the other two? want visuals! 3:35 moved speakers so I could feel the music 3:36 #3 3:57 #4 still nothing really. Goin all or nothin. 4:00 smooshy face again. realized I didn't wait the 60-90 minutes before next dosage. 4:10 I think I've been burned still nothing really 4:51 played with my electro loop pedal. fuckin bad acid or somehow I'm immune. 4:47 the end. 5:12 trying to fall asleep. keep coming up with complex scottish and irish movie ideas for only a second and then i forget them. I'm a director bossing people around then i realize I'm fantasizing and i talk to my fantasy cast about not being real. 5:42 every thought is brilliant to look at but fleeting and meaningless. 5:48 real talk the shadow from the red light is casting an evil goat face on my ceiling. 6:08 fetus sandwich sketch comedy feel horny but oddly don't feel like masturbating. weird that those two thoughts followed each other. im a fat naked black woman on the floor trying to come up with ideas 7:01 weird dream sleep thoughts suddenly hot and have to take off my clothes cover myself in blanket kinda wanta see sunlight and go for a walk. wheres my weed. i have none! cold now. 7:12 I'm torn i can't go to bed but if i go out side there won't be music or it wont be as good as it is in my room. I don't think i can exist in the normal world anymore without the entire discography of metronomy playing as a score in my brain. Wildest most interesting conversations and brawls between tough men in old saloons i don't know and have never met 7:27am On acid you can mentally get 1/100th of a million different thoughts realized. No visuals:( Fuck you LSD and fuck you too Timothy Leary.

You have fought to remain alive, from the beginning of your existence you have had to fight to guard your life. You've had to cling onto your urge to *live* to *survive* that has been natural to you from birth. When you were young, you were still learning how your world worked, but you mostly focused on yourself as that's all that really mattered to you. Survival is difficult, many others seek to end your survival just to satisfy their own desire for survival. You've done little wrong, why do so many insist on trying to hurt you, is that not wrong? Nonetheless, you know it is what is, and you have little power to change such things. You've wondered why the world is so cruel for a while now, ever since you found out how cruel it is. One day, you find a light, a beautiful light that you can not understand. Oh, but the great beauty you see in it, you want to get closer, it beckons you and so you are beckoned. You cannot understand the Light but you want to believe that it pervades your understanding, so you try to touch it. Sadly, you were a moth, and turns out someone set up a moth trap. I guess nature is cruel. I guess in theory you *could* have avoided the light.

English III 5-28-08 It was late May and the 2012-2013 school year was coming to an end. There were two weeks left of school. So far today everything was going fine. As students were half way through the last period they seemed restless. A tall adolescent entered the building at exactly 3:04pm. He had no backpack or any other school-related school supplies except for a big fluffy jacket. Underneath the jacket he had one automatic machine gun and two pistols. If someone would have spotted this figure wearing a jacket in the summer they might suspect something. The staff was obviously oblivious. They also might have identified him as Jake Stevens. Even if they had tried to stop him it wouldn't have mattered. Jake had made up his mind. He circled the hallways wasting time waiting for school to let out. At 3:59pm he positioned himself at the end of a hallway. One minute later the bell rang and all the students came out of their classrooms. A boy and a girl holding hands exited the doorway to his right. Jake fired a spray of bullets at them hitting them both in the back. Screams went out through the hall almost simultaneously. Panicked students ran away from the shooter. Jake fired a continuous clip into the crowd hitting random targets. Jake heard the ringing of the fire alarm going off all throughout the school. Jake quickly reloaded as though he'd been practicing. Bodies littered the floor in front of him. He started walking slowly down the hallway. To the right he caught the glimpse of someone hurriedly entering the boy's bathroom. Jake swiftly turned and went into the bathroom. As he looked at the bottom of the stalls he noticed someone lifting their feet up. Jake stood still in front of that stall. "Dear God" is all Jake heard before he fired a burst through the door. Blood instantly started seeping onto the floor and Jake saw a body slump down to the ground. Jake left the bathroom and turned down the hall towards the library. When Jake went in to the library he viciously shot three people taking refuge behind a bookshelf to his left. "Put the gun down and give up!" It was the last period of the day and freshman Leroy Stevens was eager to get out of his AP physics class. Two minutes until the bell rang the class lined up at the door. Leroy found himself at the back of the line. When the bell rang students began rushing out of the door. Leroy heard screams and the sound of fireworks going off. "Some idiot is letting of fireworks in a high school?" Leroy thought to himself. The fire alarm soon followed the firework noise along with continuous screaming. "Oh great, now there is a fire. I have to check this out." Leroy exited the classroom and started heading towards the commotion. Leroy saw people falling down and blood coming out of them. Shocked, Leroy sprinted into a nearby bathroom. Leroy ran into a stall and began climbing upon the toilet. Leroy heard footsteps coming towards his stall. "Dear God" is all Leroy could say before a barrage of bullets blasted through the door and struck him in the chest. He felt his body go down, but he felt himself going upward. He looked down and saw his whole body motionless, covered in blood. It was the middle of the day and police sergeant Jeremy Jenkins had just gotten off duty. On his way back to the station he got an unexpected call. "Reported disturbance at Jackson High. Shots fired, repeat, shots fired. All available units please assist immediately. " Jenkins was stunned and took a moment to take in what he had just heard. He flipped on his sirens and sped towards the school reaching his destination in a mere thirty seconds. Jenkins parked his cruiser in the empty street in front of the school. Jenkins hopped out and pulled out his gun. He entered the front doors and saw the shooter go into the library. He rushed towards it and heard a burst of fire go off right before he could get inside. "Put the weapon down and give up!" Jenkins shouted to the boy. The boy had an automatic machine gun in his right hand. He threw it aside and put his hands on top of his head. Before Jenkins could get to him though he pulled out a pistol from inside his jacket and fired two shots and Jenkins. Jenkins had dove behind cover before he could be harmed. Jenkins looked out of cover and saw the boy holding a gun to his temple. "Don't do it!" Jenkins yelled but he was too late. The boy pulled the trigger instantly killing him. His body fell upon a bookshelf knocking over several books.

I had been sitting in that waiting room for what felt like forever. The last thing I remembered was that I was on the plane on my way home to see my family and friends. All of a sudden I got a stinging headache and couldn't see because of a bright light that filled my eyes. And then I was here. In this waiting room. I looked around and realized I recognized some of these faces. These people had been with me on the plane. I wondered why I was here and what they were doing here as well. As I observed the room, I noticed that things seemed off. Some of the people didn't have the lower part of their bodies, some were holding a limb belonging to them. It didn't seem to bother them, they looked more confused about this whole situation. The speakers hanging to the ceiling would occasionally announce a name and a person would walk through a big white door. Finally I heard my name announced. I stood up, looked around me and walked through the door at the far end of the room. I was greeted by a smiling woman in blood red scrubs. "This way", she said and walked to the corridor on the left. I followed her until we arrived at what seemed to be an office. "In here", she said. I walked into the unlit room, found a chair opposite to a desk and sat down. The woman shut the door and I could hear her walk away. I wondered why she hadn't turned on the light, I couldn't see anything. I sat there for a moment, still confused to what was happening. All of a sudden, a light seemed to be turned on. I looked around until I saw a lamp in the corner of the room. "So, you are here now. We have to find a place for you, I guess", said a voice behind me. I turned around to face the desk and I saw a giant of a man sitting there. He had ruffled hair and a long beard black as coal and wearing a plaid shirt underneath his white robe. Even though he was sitting, I had to look up to see his face. He did not seem old, but it was visible in his face that he was experienced with life. "Uh... Where exactly am I?", I asked. „We don‘t have time for games. You should've looked it up when you first came in here", he answered as he flipped through some files. "I just remember being on a plane and getting a terrible headache and the next thing I know is that I‘m in this waiting room. I don‘t understand what‘s going on", I said. "I am trying to sort out this situation for you. Would you please?", he replied. I was so surprised that I couldn't say a word. Neither one of us said anything for a while, the silence only broken by the sound of the paper as he scrolled through his files. "Ah, yes. Here it is", he said. "I'm going to have to make some calls. If you would please go back to the waiting room. You‘ll be called again". The door behind me opened. I stood up, turned around and walked out. The door closed behind me and I walked back to the big white door and to the waiting room. There were still many people there. I looked around to try and see if there were any signs or brochures with any information, but I could not find any. I took a seat. Shortly afterwards a woman who looked to be in her late thirties sat down close to me. She seemed scared. "Do you have any idea where we are?", I asked her calmly. She looked at me and watched me for a while before muttering her reply. "N-no... I don‘t...", she replied. I could see the fear in her eyes. "What are you so afraid of?", I asked her. "Nothing!", she replied. "Well, I have he-eard stories ab-bout this. But I don't believe tha-ats happening he-ere." "What stories?", I asked her. The talking seemed to calm her down. "Did you get the headache and see the white light too?", she asked. "Yes. What does that have to do with anything?". "They say it‘s death". "Death?". I was shocked. I didn't know what to think. "Yes", she replied. "A bright white light. The light at the end of the tunnel. Haven‘t you heard?". I admitted I hadn't given it any thought. I was about to say something when I heard my name on the speaker system and forgot it. I stood up, walked to the white door and was greeted by another woman. "Sorry to keep you waiting", she said. "Would you follow me please?". I followed her as she walked straight ahead. We walked for long and turn after turn we finally stopped in front of a grey door. She looked at me and smiled as she opened the door to another unlit room. I looked in and the room was empty except for a sofa chair that seemed to be made with leather and a made up bed. "This is your stop", the woman said. This did not make me any less confused, but I walked into the room and she shut the door. I expected a light to be turned on, but after standing there for a moment nothing happened. Somehow I managed to find my way to the chair and sat down, thinking someone would come soon and explain what was happening, but nothing changed. No light was turned on, no one came. I stood up and tried to find the door, but no door handle was to be found. I tried banging on the walls and call, but the sounds died out as soon as I made them. Realizing that this would not help, I made my way back to the chair and sat down and waited.

All of us have a muse. Just be thankful that most us can't see them. She's been with me, as long as I can remember, a pale woman, never a girl, always just a few steps away from me, no matter where I am. She never speaks to me. Not in words that I can hear, but I can feel her in my mind, when I sit down to write, when the ideas start to flow. When I was little, I used to try to convince my mother of Her reality, it was always dismissed as a game, a little bit of play acting. She had an imaginary friend when she was young too she'd say with a smile. After a while I could see the worry on her face whenever I mentioned “The Woman.” - I never really had a name for Her, didn't understand what exactly She was, I didn't have the words. Not back then. - And so I let it drop. I stopped mentioning Her, started to try ignoring Her, though as I got older this grew more difficult. I'd see Her every time I looked over my shoulder, every time I looked in the mirror, and I soon came to realize that She was beautiful, Her plump lips always slightly upturned as if we were sharing some private joke. Though this smile never seemed to reach Her eyes which were a pale shade of green, always fixing onto mine when I looked at Her. Her hair long, and richly black, and She always wore the same long green dress, old fashioned, like something from a story book without the lace and the ruffles. I've always been creative but mercurial, my passions shifting from one pursuit to the other, first drawing, then painting, playing instruments, anything that involves an expression of myself. But my true love has always been writing. When I write I lose myself in the story, it pours out of me like a torrent. I'm almost never at a loss for words. But I find it so draining. A few hours of writing and I feel like I've been working a full day, bone tired fatigued. And I never really understood why until I was in my late teens. I was home from school and rattling around my empty house, Mom was working and Dad was out of state. So I decided to go down to the local coffee shop and try to get some work done. There'd been a particularly complex story that I'd been working on, my first real attempt at a novel, and I wanted some time to proofread, but I didn't like being alone with Her. As I pushed through the doors of the shop, I noticed something odd. A man who looked to be in his late fifties sitting and typing feverishly, this in itself wasn't strange. But what was behind him was...There was a woman standing there, similar enough to mine to be her twin, the same generous features, the same green eyes, but her hair was red, a brilliant fiery red. As he wrote she leaned in close her lips pressing against his ears, her hands resting on his shoulders, she seemed to be whispering something, though he was not responding, simply typing away. I started to approach them, to talk to him, to her, but then I saw her nails. They were long, curving slightly downwards, sinking into his flesh through his shirt and as I watched I could see a faint pulsing glow rising upwards along them, from him into her and he began to droop visibly, reaching to take a deep sip of his coffee, fatigue suddenly registering on his features. I fled as soon as my mind registered this, pushed back out the doors and ran all the way home. I didn't stop till I was in my room, throwing myself beneath the covers and hiding there for all the good it would do me. They looked so much alike, that strange woman and my Muse, was She doing the same to me? I let the idea go, tried not to thing about it. To force it out of my head then one day on the front page of the paper I saw a story about a local writer who had died “tragically early.” The picture was of the man I'd seen at the coffee shop just a few months previously. His age was listed as thirty-five, but he'd apparently been quite prolific, eight novels to his name. The cause of death was hear attack. This couldn't be right I told myself, from the picture alone he seemed to be on the cusp of seniority, sixty I would have believed. I went to the computer, googling his name, confident the paper had been a typo. It was not. The information was accurate. There were all kinds of theories about his appearance, about his gray hair, including drugs, but I knew better. It was her, it was whatever she had been taking from him. And I now knew what I had to do. I had to see if She was doing the same to me as his woman had done to him. I had to know. I set up a mirror on my desk, she never appeared on film, placed it just in front of myself, so I could glance up at a moments notice and I began to write. Nothing at first, my interest more on staring at the mirror, trying to catch her then the act of writing itself. But finally I found the rhythm of it, the words pouring forth once more. And I glanced up. And I saw Her, looking back at me. Her nails in my flesh, her lips on my ear, I could have been the man in that shop in that moment. I threw the notebook away from me, vowed never to write another word, hoping to starve her. But the ideas, they just kept coming, flooding into my consciousness at the worst moments, drowning out everything else. I lasted a little over a year till I had to give up. I sat down at my PC, and I typed, for hours, the words flowing forth like a river breaking a dam. When I finished I could barely move the short distance from my chair to my bed. I collapsed, not even having the energy to pull the sheets over me and woke sixteen hours later, the bed beneath me, and my clothes soaked with sweat, my entire body aching. I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, trying to tell myself it was nothing, just a fever, it couldn't be anything else Then I looked into the mirror, and I found the first streak of gray. I was sixteen. My mother nearly fainted when I came downstairs, she immediately drove me to the doctor. He told us he couldn't find anything wrong, said it was probably just stress, nothing to worry about and sent me home. I learned my lesson then. I didn't try to bottle it up anymore...Eight years later, that's still my only streak of gray, but I easily pass for thirty. My face is lined my bones ache. Every time I set pen to paper or finger to key she feels a bit more solid, I can feel her touch even now, feel her lips brushing against my skin. It's addictive, her presence. Comforting almost. feel a little bit of myself flowing out of me every-time I write but I can't stop. I don't want to stop, and I know that She'll take me if I do, I'm sure of it. She'll take me all at once instead of in pieces, my face the next in the paper.

“Dick, your mistress needs you.” Came her voice, from the other room. He was sat in the kitchen, shoveling microwaved rice down his throat- it’d been a long day at the post office. He’d not even changed from his uniform. “Richard is eating dinner” he called back. Silence, and then she called back, louder than before. “Dick, your mistress needs you now.” He could almost hear the whiskey on her voice. He stood, threw the remaining rice in the trash, and walked through to the bedroom. There she was. Jane was sat on the bed, dressed from head-to-toe in tight, black lingerie. She held a whip, and various ropes and gags lay on the bed before her. “Into the position, Dick” she instructed. He fell to his knees, tired from the day’s work, as she gagged him and tied him, instructing him to lay on the bed so she could stretch him, a kind of cruel star-jump. He couldn’t move or talk. He was so tired of this. The ritual began, and Richard’s mind wandered to other things- Jane began to thrust herself onto and upon him, her body contorting in it’s dance for satisfaction. He was put to work in whatever position she saw fit. Something was different tonight, though. After some time (Richard had been thinking about the overdue bills he had) she turned, and slapped him. He was kicked back into reality; reminded that he was her slave. “Mistress loves playing with her favourite toy” she said, a faint grin creeping into the edges of her mouth. She stood and walked to the cupboard. He tried to ask if they were done for the night through his gag. “No, no, we’re just getting started” she replied. This hadn’t happened before- what was she doing? He squirmed to see better, but the ropes kept him locked in place. He gave up and looked towards the ceiling. Let her do as she pleased, he’d learnt. Two years in and he didn’t know if he loved or feared Jane more than anyone else he knew. Hell, the bondage stuff had been fun at first, when they were teenagers learning to love eachother. He heard the click of the old CD player they kept on the bedside table, and rolled his head to look. Jane stood, smiling faintly at him. She clicked play. Loud electronic music began to blare from the machine. Fuck, he hated that stuff. She turned it up until it was deafeningly loud. He swore the bed was vibrating. She then raised a box into his field of view, and sprang it open- “a toy for my slave” she said. It was a large black dildo. Richard chuckled. She had to be joking, didn’t she? He looked at her and didn’t get a smile back. She silently walked away from his side and towards the foot of the bed. He tried to call out to her but the gag and the music covered his whimpers. She got onto her knees at the end of the bed- his legs stretched either side of her, each foot tied to an opposite corner. She looked up at him, and grabbed his cock. He squeamed and motioned ‘no’ with his hands by shaking them left to right as much as he could. She didn’t listen, slowly lowering the huge object down, below his field of view. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He tried to pull his arms free but they were trapped, he tried to yell but he was voiceless. The piercing pain as it was forced into his ass filled his entire body. He pushed and pulled with every part of his body- LET ME MOVE, he screamed in his head. The pain was pushing deeper into him, he tried to look down at her but couldn’t see. He yelled in pain and she called up to him “Mistress is punishing her naughty slave”. Naughty Slave was the one whose bank account had paid for the toy being shoved up his ass. He kicked with his legs and felt the right one come loose. Still searing in pain, he swung his leg until it made contact with her side. She screamed, fell from the bed, and the pain went with her. He lay, panting and crying. “I wasn’t okay with last night, Jane” he said. She sneered. “Stop being a pussy Dick, it was some fun.” “It wasn’t fun for me, and I didn’t ask for it.” “Sorry for trying to have some fun”. How did she always do that, turn everything on him? He sighed, got out of bed and headed to the kitchen. A bowl of basics cereal and UV milk. He sat at the kitchen table and switched on the shitty old TV. The usual doom and gloom. Time for work. The work day passed uneventfully, as always. People telling him how shit the postal service was and outraged that their letter from fucking Scotland hadn’t arrived yet a day later in London. Mike asked him if he fancied a drink afterwards, and he’d leapt at the chance- he didn’t fancy confronting Jane after last night. Half an hour passed and his phone vibrated: Jane Loughtan: Where are you? Richard Craig: Stopped for a pint with Mike after work x Jane Loughtan: Why didn’t you tell me? Richard Craig: Didn’t realise I had to tell you where I am 24/7 honey, haha x Jane Loughtan: I made dinner, Dick, now it’s going to be cold. Richard Craig: Sorry hun, will microwave it later x He shook his head and switched his phone off. He needed a break. “The ‘made you dinner’ bit again?” Mike asked. “The same as always” he replied. He gulped down a mouthful of bitter. Mike knew him well enough to know his and Jane’s routine; argument, fall out, the next day she’d be the girlfriend from heaven, rinse and repeat. “What happened this time? Did she bring up the money again?” Mike asked, sipping his soda. “No, no, she’s stopped on that one for a while.” He grinned- little did Mike know that she hadn’t stopped telling him she was sick of their “fucking rat hole of a flat” and that he was a “poor piece of shit like your dad”. “It was- look, Mike, you don’t wanna know.” Mike leant forwards and gave him a small smile. “Mate, tell me what’s up. You’ve looked like shit all day.” Richard thought for a moment, then began to speak. Hell, who else did he have to talk to? “We were doing the usual last night, lots of bondage and all th-” he cut off as a boyish grin sprang across Mike’s face. He chuckled and took another gulp of soda. “Sorry mate, it’s just funny- what a tough life Dick has, his girlfriend loves whips and chains!” Mike sighed and took another mouthful of bitter down. He continued. “So we’re doing the usual, then she goes and gets out this..dildo” Mike’s jaw dropped open. “Nah, she didn’t you’re kidding!” “Shoved it right up my backside”. Mike burst into laughter, slamming his fist on the table. A few started pub-goers exchanged glances and looked over to their table. Richard looked at the table and sipped his drink. Mike continued to laugh for some time, eventually wiping his eyes and regaining composure. “Mate, I wish I had your problems. My girl won’t even go down on me.” He replied. Richard stood and excused himself, walking to the mens room. He locked himself in a cubicle and sat down. Locking everything out for a few precious minutes helped. He counted to five in his head, repeated his name to himself. Maybe Mike was right- his girlfriend was kinky, what did he have to complain about? He’d been with her since the end of University while most of his mates still hunted for girls every Friday night. He was living the dream in their eyes. Flat, girlfriend, steady job. He rubbed his eyes and worked up the courage to leave the bathroom. He froze. Jane was stood at their table, a huge grin on her face, chatting to Mike. He shivered. “Honey!” Jane screeched, throwing herself at him. He righted himself as her weight was thrown onto his shoulders. “I thought I’d give you a lift back from the pub” she said. “Well, I wasn’t planning on leaving just yet” he replied, as she wrapped her arm around his. “Honey, I have a surprise for you back home” she said, her immaculate smile plastered over her face. He never saw that smile outside of other people’s company. “Don’t worry about it mate, catch you at work tomorrow” Mike said. Jane’s nails dug into his arm, clutching him tightly. He felt like an accessory as she led him out of the pub and into the car. “I’m sorry about last night, honey” she said, glancing over at him as they drove home. “It’s alright” he replied. He ran his hands over the pink felt of the car seat. “I know you were just being a silly honey last night, she replied. Silly honey having one of his freak outs over nothing” she cooed. That was it, he thought. He was overreacting over nothing. They got back to the flat, she hadn’t made dinner. She sat in the lounge and put on a movie, telling him that he looked tired and should go to bed. He tried to sleep but lay restless in bed. Two years later, Richard’s life was better than he could have dreamt. He and Jane had a beautiful baby boy, Tommy. They had moved to a house in Essex as Richard had moved from the world of postal service to accounting. He worked for an independent businessman who wore a suit to casual events- that was how you knew he was successful. Richard sat on the sofa, bottle feeding Tommy. He looked at his baby and thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. No matter anything else, he thought, he had made this life, and that was worth more than all the money in the world. Tommy’s eyes slowly eased shut, he was asleep. Richard sat still. He felt so contented, for the first time in too long. Just as his own eyes began to ease themselves closed, he heard the slam of the front door hitting the wall from being opened too hard, like she always did. He’d repainted that patch of wall three times. Tommy was woken by the slam, screaming and crying as babies tend to do. Jane stumbled into the front room. Her low cut top stopped just shy of her nippes, her skirt almost up her ass. She wore thick dark high heels. Her hair immaculately dyed red. The look had cost him over two hundred pounds, but she “had to have it” or else the girls would think she was poor, she’d said. “Why the fuck isn’t Tommy in bed, and why is he crying?” She said, venom in her eyes. “The slam of the door woke him up” he replied, looking straight into the venom. He took a lot of shit from Jane, but he wouldn’t stand for her blaming upsetting Tommy on him. She stood in silence for a moment, wobbling on the spot (the air of alcohol was poignant to say the least) before telling him to put Tommy to bed. She kissed him on the head as they passed. Richard calmed Tommy, gently lowered him into his crib, tucked him in and wished him good night. He was out like a light. Richard smiled to himself for a moment. When he came back downstairs, Jane was pacing the front room. “We need a new car” she said. “We got the ford two months ago” he replied. “They think we’re poor, they think we can’t afford the convertibles they have.” “Why do you care what they think?” “Why the FUCK don’t you mind your own business” she said. He chuckled, she always got like this after a few drinks. She snapped him a look and marched up to him. Her face aligned with his chest, but she still made him feel like an ant. She looked him in the eyes for a few seconds. “You’re fucking pathetic, you know that.” she said. “What now?” he asked. “You’re not a man. A man treats his lady. A man buys things for his lady.” “I’m not made of money, Jane” he said. “Fuck you, but you could afford those new shirts last month?” “I treated myself to a new shirt, didn’t I pay for your entire makeover that month as well?” “Oh, so it’s all about the money, how much I cost you?” “No, I’m just sayin-” “Fuck you Dick, I hate you.” He couldn’t win. She somehow turned every argument on him. Richard felt like people had been doing this to him his whole life. Everything was always his fault in the end. She slapped him. His face lit up red but he didn’t really feel it anymore. Was this who he was now, he thought. No, enough is enough. He slapped her back. “Mr. Craig, you knew that Mrs. Loughtan was intoxicated when the incident occured?” “Yes.” “Yet you still reacted aggressively when she acted irrationally and slapped you?” “This is correct.” “What, exactly, Mr. Craig, do you think, gives you the right to hit a woman?” “She hit me first”. The courtroom collectively chuckled. “Mrs. Loughtan then tells us that you forcibly raped her.” the courtroom gasped. What was this, a fucking panto? Richard gulped down some lukewarm water and tried to stop himself shaking. “This is untrue.” He replied. “In your mind, Mr. Craig, what happened after you slapped Mrs. Loughtan.” “She ran to the kitchen and came back with a knife.” “To defend herself?” “To force me into having sex with her”. Even the judge couldn’t control himself with this one, he cracked into a smile. The barrister took a moment to flash a smile to Jane, and then continued. “Mr. Craig, do you expect the court to entertain this ridiculous fiction?” “It isn’t a fiction. I was raped on the night of the incident.” “Mrs. Loughtan drugged you to make you erect, then?” “..No?” “Then how did she force you to have sex with her, Mr. Craig? It hardly seems likely that you would be able to perform sexually if you were being ‘raped’” he accompanied the last word with air quotes. Richard took another gulp of water. “There are others ways to pleasure a woman than with your cock” he said. The courtroom session was over before it had begun. Richard’s lawyer had told him at the very beginning - a woman cannot be convicted of rape under British law. “Rape is legally defined as being committed by a penis” he said. “That’s the law. There’s only so much I can do for you Richard.” He nervously moved his instant coffee from hand to hand, glancing at the folder of papers he had lay upon the table. “I didn’t use my penis” Richard replied. “Good luck to both of us proving that, Dick” In the end, the jury had decided that while they believed that this seemingly mild-mannered and quiet man could fool the odd passerby, he was still physically taller and stronger than Jane, and men are liable to ‘act out’ when angered- “men are inherently dangerous animals, as evidenced by the rape culture we are surrounded by” had argued a member of the jury, her cleavage pushed high. “If we are to believe Mr. Loughtan’s story (she pointed towards him) then where do we stop? Men are capable of fighting their way out of a situation, women are not. A man can not be raped.” Richard silently begun to weep.

"2, 29, 47, 8, and.. 8" "Holy shit" "...and this year's bonus number is... 7" "HOLY SHIT" 27th of December. All the gift wrapping has been gathered in a pile after opening, now lying in a bin bag in the hall. Just across that hall, in the living room, the Bradbury family is watching the Christmass Lotto, an annual family tradition. They each have a ticket, Billy, their only son, and Thomas and Mary. The London, two bedroom, apartment is full of excitement, more so than it has been all year. The Bradburies don't tend to entertain many guests, Thomas hasn't made many new acquaintances working as a construction worker for Mister Mulberry over the past seven years. The usual, overly extravagant blonde is reading out the numbers in her overly extravagant dress. The Bradburies watch it all on their bleak, old television from their bleak, old positions in the living room. Thomas on his armchair, the only thing he inherited from his father. The remainder is on the couch. The number seem to match up with his ticket, Thomas sits up from his habitual, reclined position, eyes wide and mouth ajar. "Holy shit" "...and this year's bonus number is... 7" "HOLY SHIT" Thomas, now standing completely erect, shocks the couched Bradburies. "What is it?" Billy asks with his childlike curiosity, Mary remains casually seated, void of excitement "We've won" Thomas replies coldly. "How much?" Mary, colder still, inquires further, with her Londonian accent, typical to the lower classes of the lower class. "The big one.." Billy and Thomas, now both standing, release a yell that could be heard all the way down in central, where the live broadcast is being held. The television switches over to the traditional old British sod singing some traditional old British melody, almost as if in reaction to the lads' exclamations, now fighting to see which is crowned as the loudest. The front door swings open, Thomas, with lucky ticket in hand, runs into the street, soon followed by little Billy. Mary, still inside, grabs the phone and starts calling her mother-in-law, she'd be glad with some good news after her husband's death. She watches as the two males run through the empty street singing and dancing, holding up the ticket as if it were an ancient relic of the greatest importance. Their care-taking of the ticket would be similar to that of an archaeologist just having found the teeth of Jezus Christ. The kettle, Mary realises that she's left the kettle to its own devices. Rushing over the kitchen she grabs it by the handle, with the telephone in her other hand, she multitasks three cups full of tea. 7 teaspoons of sugar for hers, none for Thomas or Billy. Switching priorities again to the Bradbury parade on the street, she steps back to the window to watch her husband and son dance around with glee. The phone does not seem to make a sound when it slips from Mary's loosening grip and onto the floor. Shocked, Mary finds a man looking over the prone bodies of Thomas and Billy. Next to the man, a car, blood on the bonnet.

Dear Reader My name is Sam. I don’t know who you are, but I hope this letter finds you well. I am not accustomed to writing letters, especially to people I don’t know, or have never even met. That may seem redundant, but I find that it is often difficult to truly know people, even people whom you have been acquainted with for the better part of a lifetime. And so, I find it less redundant to say that I do not know you, nor have I met you, but I do hope that in time we may become, in a way, friends, for though I may never see your face, or hear you speak, or hug you, the simple act of reading these letters will be enough to instill in me the sense that you are, in fact, a good person, and that I made the right choice in choosing you. The reason for these letters, I’m afraid, is slightly complicated. These letters, for there are more to come, are a bit more like a memoir, a story of my life, or at least certain events in my life that have had the greatest impact on me, as a person. It all started about two months ago, when I found myself in a small night club in New Orleans. As I was sitting at the bar, a man walked in. Now, mind you, many men and women of all sorts entered the bar that night, but this man was different. For one thing, as soon as he walked in, everyone in the bar stopped talking at once, and looked at him. I won’t lie, I was staring too. He was a tall man, and by tall, I mean I simply have never met a man as tall as this one. He must have been over seven feet. He had dark hair that seemed to be doing its own thing that particular night, and black eyes. At the time I attributed it to the poor lighting of the bar. He had on a long wool coat with the collar up, and a scarf hung loosely around his neck. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and looked around at the crowd staring at him, then he took a step, and all the clamor and chatter started up again instantly. He walked over to the bar, three stools down from me, and leaned in to order a drink. His drink came, and he sat, and drank it. It wasn’t until he looked at me that I realized I was staring. I immediately looked down at my drink in embarrassment, and then took a drink, and risked a look back. He was still looking at me, so I went back to my drink and focused very hard on what a nice amber color the liquid was, then I emptied my glass and asked for another. I had had a rough day at school, and I really needed to get my head out of my ass. What was I thinking, staring like that? My mother would have been disappointed. I continued to sip on my drink and wallow on how horrible my day had been, when there was the scratch of a barstool being pulled out right next to me. I looked over, and it was the man. He had his coat hung over his arm now, and he was wearing what looked to be a rather expensive suit underneath. And he was looking at me intently, as if trying to remember where he had seen my face before, which I figured was not a good thing. I continued to focus very hard on my drink. I would not let this man ruin my night. Then he spoke, his voice a deep, powerful rumble. “What is your name child.” It was a demand. And what the hell was up with the whole “child” thing. I thought up several angry remarks in my head, but all that came out was “Erm, Sam.” He nodded as though I had said something deep and meaningful that required some semblance of thought process. Then he spoke again. “Do you know who I am?” What the hell? “No. Who are you?” He made a little “hhmm” sound, then sipped his drink again, all the time staring at me. This guy was seriously creeping me out, and I was about to walk out of the bar, when he asked a question. The question. I consider that moment the pinnacle. The turning point for me. If he had not asked the question, I would not have even thought about the answer, and thus, that particular train of thought would have gone un-discovered by me, and I would have continued my mundane life and probably got married and had a billion kids with the one-of-my-dreams. But that’s not what happened. He asked. I thought, and I answered, and from that point on, my life would never be the same. I must apologize, for at this point, dear reader, I am sure curiosity, that wretched beast, has got the better of you, and your desire for the question is overwhelming. However, I cannot, in good conscience, reveal the question, for if I did, it would undoubtedly send you down a path that you are not yet ready for. Not yet. Perhaps by the time more of my remarkable story is told. Perhaps. Forgive me, but at this point in the story we are yet barely acquainted, and thus I must tread with caution, for although I chose you, and believe me, I did my research, I am still hesitant. I am a cautionary tale. I would wish this life on nobody, and yet everybody. But we will get to that. But I am rambling. Sorry. It is like I have two combatting persons in my brain, one yet a child, and the other a well-aged learned scholar. Thus on occasion my writing becomes sporadic. But back to the story. The man asked. I thought, then answered. And he smiled. His teeth where perfectly white and strait. But there seemed to be too many of them, his smile a little too big, and his irises where still pitch black. It seemed to me that the lights in the bar had dimmed all around us, and the noise lessoned to a barely audible hum. I looked around and could make out what seemed to be the silhouettes of them all. Even the bartender, some seven feet from where I sat, was just a shadow. And honestly, I started to freak out. I looked at my drink, then back at the stranger. I tried to stand, but couldn’t move. My hands where free, but it was as if I were glued to the stool, and I did the only thing I thought logical. I threw my glass at his face. I expected him to be stunned for a moment then beat the living hell out of me, as there was obviously no way for me to run at the moment. But nothing happened. One moment there was a glass of a rather nice scotch souring towards his face, then nothing. It simply disappeared. I sat stunned. What the hell was going on? The man was still smiling. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. Not a business card, or a credit card. A playing card. The Jack of Hearts. He set it on the bar and slid it over to me, face up. I looked at it, and as I watched, the picture began to move, the two heads turning to look at me, and I got the feeling I was supposed to do something, but all I could do was stare. The pictures slowly began to rotate, until the heads were no longer opposite, but overlapping, and then they simply molded into one, and the Jack looked at me…and smiled. It was just like the tall man’s smile; too big, too many teeth. It thoroughly creeped me out, to say the least. I looked at the tall man again, and he was pulling what looked to be a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. “You are a very special person, Sam.” He said all this while pulling out a cigarette and putting to his lips, then lighting it…with his fingers. Really. He snapped, and there was a little flame jumping around on his thump. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, exhaled, then continued talking. “It is not every day that Jack meets someone he likes. Actually, I can’t honestly remember when the last time was.” He cocked his head to the side a little, thinking. “I think it was some time ago, some fellow named Martin…Lovely fellow. Got shot. Very sad. Nice man though. Helped make a lot of changes to this country. Anyhow. The point is, you should feel honored is all.” He leaned on the bar and sipped his drink, and I remember thinking this was one hell of a dream, and I better remember when I wake up, cause I need to write this down. I turned away from him and leaned on the bar, then thought of something. Honestly, I did it because I had never done it before, and what the hell, this was a dream anyway, right? Plus it was apparently a good way to relieve stress, and at that particular moment, I was pretty fucking stressed, to say the least. I asked for a smoke. The man looked at me, smiled that too big smile, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the pack, handing me the whole thing. I flipped the top open and pulled one out, handing the pack back to him. He then reached over and snapped his fingers, and I held the cigarette to my lips, and he lit it while I inhaled. I thought, honestly, how bad could it be. I sucked, inhaled, choked, coughed, and reached for his drink. He was laughing then, hysterically, but he let me sip his drink, which helped a little, but I was determined not to give up on it that quickly. I sat for a moment, then took another drag, this one not so bad, but I was getting a buzz something fierce. I looked over at the man, and he was still watching me. Then he began to pull on his coat, wrapping the scarf around his neck, the whole time still watching me, and it was a bit disconcerting to say the least. I realized he was getting ready to leave, and I was confused. “Why are you going?” I asked. “What was the point of all this? I’m not really sure I even know what this was. What’s your name at least, so I can look you up later or something. Will I see you again?” I asked all this in a bit of a hurry, and it came out in a jumble of words. The man just laughed, then looked at me. “I asked you a question, and now you have many. That is not how this works.” “But what the hell is this?” I interrupted. “It’s like you walk in here, throw off my entire perspective on life, then leave, and that’s that?” “Quiet.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, and his voice was stern, like he was scolding a child. “You have many questions, I know, and yes, we will see each other again. At least, if you are worthy. I am not yet sure about your wits, or lack thereof at the moment. That is your first…test, so to speak.” I shall not lie, I was pissed. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Coming in and just uprooting everything, and then saying I had a test coming up? What the hell? All I said was “What test.” He looked at me, smiled, and stood up, throwing some money on the bar as he did. Then he spoke. “You have been selected for something, and unfortunately, due to the delicate nature of this something, I am forced to be less than completely forthcoming or, shall we say, candid, about exactly what it is you have been selected for. Therefore I set a test. I am going to leave. Tomorrow at noon, I will be at the meeting spot, a place I have already divulged to you, and if you are not there within an hour, I will leave, you will never see me again, and your life will continue as though you and I had never met.” I looked at him with a blank stare, confused. What the hell was this big bastard talking about? What meeting place? He had hardly said one word that wasn’t a cryptic lot of shit, and I was really having a hard time with it. I am not going to lie and say that I simply nodded or something and this bloke was pissing me off, so I told him so. “What. The. Fuck. Are you kidding me? Is this a joke? Did Jess put you up to this? Oh-ho god I am going to kill her, that sneaky little shit. This really isn’t funny, okay? Seriously, what the fuck dude.” My mother would have been proud. The man simply smiled at me, then turned for the door. I watched as he walked away, then out the door. As he left, I felt myself get released from the stool, and I stood up, rubbing my butt. Any normal, sane person, would have ignored what the guy was saying as bull, and walked away. Like I should have. But I am not a normal, sane person. Apparently. Because even as he was walking out the door, I knew I was going to find him, or at least do my damndest to.

He awoke, and he was terrified. As far as the eye could see were small canisters containing humans, just like the one he had risen from. The room was cold and dark, save for their blue glow, while the ceiling was barely above his head as he stood. There was no end in sight, no discernible wall or doorway or exit. He could clearly make out the humans near his canister, though. Beside him a woman, with luscious blonde hair; the other side two children, a boy and a girl of similar age. He was suddenly aware of a deep rumble in the distance, a sound that filled him with dread for reasons he couldn't understand. He began to panic, more so than he thought he might ever have done before. Looking down he began to shake the woman, to rouse her from her slumber. When she wouldn't respond, he began to remove the various tubes and contraptions that were protruding from her body. Suddenly, she awoke with an almighty gasp. She stared at him straight in the eye before going into shock, writhing in the man's grip. As soon as she had awoken, she went limp. The man was now acutely aware of the terrifying rumble again. It was louder, making his way towards him. Where was he? And then, all went dark. * From his position on the beach, the man stared out to sea. As far as the eye could see was crystal clear water, while the Sun radiated down upon him, basking his body in unrivalled splendour. He arose from his seat filled with ecstasy and joy. Here he dwelled in paradise, with his every desire and need catered for. He couldn't remember a time when he had been happier, or perhaps there had never been other such time. But as he walked along the beach, the idyllic setting began to fade. The sand smudged into darkness, the sea turned a cold grey, the sky disappeared before him. As his world dissolved around him into blackness, he was scared for what felt like the first time. * This was the moment he would betray them. Perhaps they would adjust to their new lives? But most likely not. His family walked with him, his wife with the incredible blonde hair that had first attracted him to her all those years ago before it had begun, his children with their youthful ignorance that helped them bring light to the situation. He would've felt regret if he did not know what was coming. They each climbed into their canisters, alight with a blue glow. Into the distance he could see thousands of people, what remained of the human race, doing the same. They had been trained for this moment. They knew the procedure. Nevertheless, he made sure to check on his children. Despite his actions, he did not wish a greater ill upon them. “See you on the other side,” he lied to them both. “I love you.” His wife, meanwhile, had been quiet. He couldn't blame her; no one had thought it would come to this. But it had, and for some it was a more distressing experience than others. For some, like himself, it had even brought out traits that he did not know existed. He took a loving look at his wife, his last he thought, and she returned his gaze with a look that seemed to hide a tinge of sorrow. It didn't matter. None of this mattered. They smiled at each other, nodded, and both lowered themselves into their canisters. The man attached the last of his tubes and prepared for his deep, unpenetrable slumber. He was moments from drifting off, from escaping, before his wife appeared above him. He tried to speak, but his body was powerless. “I know what you did,” she whispered as she pulled a tube out of his body. * “Will they know?” “Yes.” “How can you be sure? “The machines are good, but they cannot account for such anomalies in each fantasy. By leaving them, they will forever mourn your absence.” The man pondered this for a moment. “Will I know?” “No. Prior memories are erased, and if you are woken you will be killed.” “Good.” * They had made the decision to spend an eternity together, but it was an eternity he did not want. Here was an opportunity to start afresh, to begin a new life, with no repercussions. They made the necessary arrangements for the new life the four of them would lead together. It was a life she had chosen. He wanted more. But there was another way. And soon, once his mind had wrestled away the horror of his upcoming actions, he would betray them in favour of an eternity in paradise.

No sound, and even though Jack’s eyes are closed he knows wherever he is its very bright. And forcing his eye-lids open with more energy than he had ever used before to do such a task. He brought up an arm to shield himself from a light that most surely wasn’t artificial but was at the same time. As if the light was coming from all around him but nowhere at the same time. He tried to speak but found that no words escaped him. And he slowly sat up and looked around to get his bearings. Wherever he was, he’d never seen anything like it before. There appeared to be an expansive stretch of nothingness before him. A long and vast whiteness, He was sure this was a dream, that this feeling of unrelenting sadness gripping him, deep down in the pit of his stomach was just a nightmare that had yet to reveal the punch-line. Where am I? He thought as he stood up. It took a lot of energy to accomplish this task, his bones and joints were sluggish and clumsy. Once he managed to get to his feet he became dizzy, to the point where he had to put his hands on his knees and bend over for a minute to let it subside. Squinting through half closed eyes he tried to look around again and though the light was still very bright it had abated slightly and he could finally stand up straight again. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He tried to call out again but the words still wouldn’t come. He knew he was speaking but he couldn’t hear anything coming out. “There is no use trying to speak.” A woman’s voice came from behind him, seemingly out of the nothingness; A very familiar voice. He slowly turned around and was sure that this was a dream. The sight of her made his heart drop, stop and melt all at the same time. He couldn’t remember her name but he knew that he had known this girl very well, knowing every inch of her body and most of her personality. She just smiled sadly and took a step forward she moved with a grace and sadness that brought a breaking dread to Jack and he squinted as he watched her move about as if she were gliding along the floor that wasn’t there. This is a dream? He thought to himself and he wasn’t very surprised to hear her speak again. “In a way it is. In a way it is not.” He frowned and looked around again. Where are we? “We are everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. We are together again, but apart forever.” She smiled and stepped closer. He suddenly didn’t want her to come any closer and he felt tears forming in his eyes. What do you mean? She merely smiled. “Is it too bright here? Your eyes haven’t adjusted yet. It will take some time.” She glanced around and as she did the air around him seemed to shift and change. And now he was standing in the middle of an old bar. Four pool tables off to the right, and a bar in the middle. The girl was now behind the bar. “Do you remember this place?” Jack looked around the room. It was empty aside from them. He nodded slowly. It’s where we met. But I can’t remember your name. After all these years, I’ve known you. I’m sorry. She just smiled sadly again. “That is not important. My name is no longer a part of your memory.” She moved around the bar and poured a double of whiskey. “This was your favorite wasn’t it?” Jack instantly felt something churn in his stomach and he shut his eyes for an instant he heard a sort of siren blaring and then he opened them again, the room had changed once more. They were in his apartment lying in bed. Her head on his chest, her short hair brushed away from her upturned face. “This is where we spent our first night together.” She smiled. And he felt like crying even more. I remember you saying that we had to do this or we’d never know if it was worth it. He thought. “Was it worth it?” She asked and kissed his collar bone lightly. An icy chill ran up his spine. He shuddered. Every single second of it. “Every second.” She sighed and he felt her cool hand intertwine with his. “I need to tell you something Jack.” I know, This isn’t a dream… He felt the tears now, they had been escaping the corners of his eyes for who knew how long. What happened? Where are we? He shut his eyes and the blaring siren slipped back in for a moment And the voices of people shouting in the distance. “You are dying. People say that your life flashes before your eyes before you die…” Her voice was getting distant. Further away and Jack squeezed his arms around her holding her close. The body he held tightly. Don’t leave me. Please Don’t leave me! The sirens were stronger now piercing the walls of his subconscious. “You have to make a choice.” She said. Her voice was distant and muddled now. “I Hate to give you such a cliché ultimatum but you have a choice to make.” Jack nodded his head, the room around him swam and rippled seeming to meld the moldy ceiling of his apartment with a starry night sky. “Stay here with me. Or go back.” Her voice was coming in a little stronger now. What happened? Where’s back, why aren’t you there? “Do I really have to say it?” She sat up on her elbow and looked down at him. And he knew there from the sadness in her eyes and the way she smiled soothingly down at him. He reached a hand up and ran a thumb along her jaw-line. “All you have to do is choose. There is still time. Go back.” And with that he knew what he had to do. He brought both hands up to hold her face gently in his hands and he pulled her down close to him so that their noses were touching. And he was able to find his voice. “There is no life for me, without you.” And he smiled. She frowned for a moment and scrunched her nose up. “Are you sure?” She asked. And he smiled. “From the moment I saw you, Ash...” The ambulance rumbled along the lonely stretch of Arizona highway, and the coroner’s van behind it. “Jimmy, turn off the siren… We’ve lost him.” The paramedic paused checking his watch. Sat up and removed his rubber gloves. “CPR is unsuccessful. We can’t work him back up.

The birds begin their famous song just as the sun reaches its tendrils over the peaks of the distant mountains. The mighty weathered rock eagerly greets the first rays of a new day as the frost disappears from their chilled surface. The snows have not yet fallen, but the cold refuses to be banished by the warming rays now streaming from above. Through the night it has cast its frigid winds through the valleys and peaks, settling into rock and wood. It seems today will be another winter day in the Appalachians. The cold of the new day finds its way through thin wall of a small green tent, past the layers of polyester and goose down, and to the skin of the rather wild looking man. He feels the prick of the cold air on his chest. Slowing coming awake, he realizes that sometime in the night, he had rolled off his sleeping pad and was now laying on the unforgiving rock of the mountain side. The once unpleasant prick turns to a painful bite as he sits up and the sleeping bag falls away, exposing his thinly clothed chest to the bitter air of the morning. Shivering, he leans forward to open the door of the tent. The green nylon of the wall becomes a frame for the landscape before him. Putting on his last pair of fresh socks, he slips them into his boots. He laces them snugly, letting his fingers do what they have done so many times before. His warm feet find their familiar places in his cold leather boots. Standing in the cold morning air he sees the sun rising in the crook of two distant mountains. Its red-orange rays spread through the clear blue sky, giving all they have to offer to the frozen earth beneath his feet. He lights his tiny alcohol stove and withdraws his last meager ration from his pack. On a normal day his breakfast would be brief and eaten on the trail, but today is a special day. He uses his last drops of alcohol to warm the water to rehydrate his last meal. Eating his last bite, he rinses his pot and packs it away along with his stove. Everything has its place within his pack, and he puts everything where it belongs. Rolling up his sleeping bag and pad, he puts them in the bottom. His kitchen goes next, along with his few pairs of extra clothes, long ago dirtied on the trail. His tent now empty, he pulls out the two stakes and removes his hiking pole from the apex, watching it as it falls to the ground. Strapping the bundle of green nylon to the bottom, he sets off for his last day on the trail. He reaches the trail and takes his first step of today’s trek onto the path worn by thousands before him. Today however, the trail is a clean slate, free of boot prints. Today, he is alone. The ancient cedars and pines tower over him as he continues his consistent pace. He puts one foot in front of the other, always moving forward. His feet are hardened from many months on the trail; thick calluses cover their soles. His legs are strong and his gait confident. Each placement of his feet is careful but sure, missing loose rocks and avoiding fallen debris. His pack rests on his hips, all the straps adjusted perfectly so he barely feels the load. His arms move deftly as his sides striking out his hiking poles, stabilizing him. The familiar sound and feel of boots striking frozen ground resonates though his ears and legs. The ground passes under his feet, irregular and dependable. Looking up, he sees the white blazes painted on the trees at eye level. These beacons of hope and assurance line the trail, leading the way on the right path. Hundreds pass him as the miles slowly, but steadily tick by. The trail winds and twist between the trees. Around massive boulders and across frozen mountain streams the blazes lead him. The once rushing streams carrying water from the top of the mountains are now silenced by the cold. Their white semitransparent surface gives him warning to watch his step. The boulders stand unyielding as reminders of the power and scale of the sleeping beast he now treads upon. A gap in the wall of the forest appears to his left. Peering through as he passes, he catches a glimpse of the peak that marks the end of his journey. It is just atop of the last ridge. The last ridge seems to him the longest. He rounds another bend and thinks that this must be the peak, but ahead there is yet another bend. Until the last one appears before him. From Springer Mountain, Georgia he set out just under six months ago. Finally, now the end, the peak of Mount Katahdin, Maine, is beneath his leather boots. He set out with his life on his back to conquer the mountains, to reach the end, to prove to himself he could do it. Now here at the end, he would give anything for ten more miles on the trail that made him a man. Standing at the top of the finial peak, he gazes out behind him. He sees the trail that brought him here and remembers it well. As he stands a feeling spreads though him, a feeling like he had never felt before. It was a warm feeling in the cold of the evening. A voice speaks to him, a voice that he cannot remember hearing before, but one he knows he will never forget. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” “Yes, yes it is.” For it was true. He had never seen such a beautiful thing.

He almost never moved. His body lay sculpture still as his eyes scooted around audibly in his slick stone skull. He had sick circus elephant skin that was worn and loose with penciled wrinkles, and covered in poorly healed wounds. He had thick yellowing nails that crusted out from the back of his thin black fingers like pastries forgotten in the sun. “Here you go man,” I said to him while holding out three whole cigarettes. Instantly appeared his filthy (seriously crusted in syrupy street filth) hand, and just as soon as it appeared it disappeared, with the cigarettes clutched inside of it, back under the blanket. There was no gratitude. In fact, in the sky of his jaundice yellow eyes hung a dark sepulchral sun that beheld me with a scalding contempt. I couldn't envisioning the man under the tree. His queen sized mattress, right there on Heliotrope avenue, right there on the sidewalk. He had no concern for the people passing by. He had no concern for the oniony, ash covered filth that gummed on to him, and no concern even for the urine that he perpetually trickled onto his own blankets. A week later I took my normal walk down Heliotrope toward the entrance gate at the north end of campus, and he was not there. For six straight weeks now I had seen the man under the tree and this was the first time he had been absent. All his stuff was still there; the lumpy torn mattress, the adhesive blanket, a half burnt pillow, cups filled with some black guttural phlegm, a couple matchbooks, and a bottle of green liquid. Surrounding it all was a thickly scribbled ring of cigarette butts that explained the coconut colored perforations that dotted everything. Two days later, on my way to class again, I walked down Heliotrope anxiously wondering if he was going to be there. From across the street I could already see that he was. Under his green city tree was a cloud of silver susurrus smoke, and on the mattress was his dark immobile lump. I thought of the contempt he bathed me in the last time we crossed, when I gave him those cigarettes; those three cigarettes. I had looked into his yolky eyes and saw reflected back at me, through the murk, a sense of my own fraudulence. I smoothed over my pockets searching for my lighter and cigarettes. I kept searching long after I was sure I had left them in the car. In my folly I somehow discovered a single cigarette in the side pouch of my bag. As I excitedly took it into my hand I looked up and found that I had covered a good distance. I found myself maybe only ten paces away from the man under the tree. He was hunched onto his left elbow, trying to suck the bright glowing ember of his cigarette right through it as if it were a straw. His yellow eyes were rooted low on the horizon and he saw the cigarette that I had dangling by my side. He transferred his burning wrinkle sucked cigarette from his right hand to his left, and without glancing up he took his two now empty smoking fingers up toward his closed mouth in an obvious gesture. “I don’t have any man. This is my only one,” I pointed to the cigarette effusing my honesty. Some other mouth of mine said , for surely if I had any autonomy these words were impossible, “You got a light?” Did you really just ask this man for something? -- Why shouldn't I ask him, he smokes, and I see he’s got matches -- But why would you take his matches? -- He’s just a person right? Plus matches are free. -- At a gas station! This filthy fucking guy can’t go into a gas station, you don’t even know if he can walk -- He was gone the other day, remember? We looked at his shit -- You don’t know how he moved. -- You think his family came and lifted him to a barbecue? -- Maybe he got carried to the hospital, you saw the stuff in those cups -- And what? They just dropped him here? Just dropped him off back at home? As these regrets and rebuttals swirled -- through the pensieve membrane came a dark and adhesive elephant skinned hand, that held, instead of a lighter or match, a stumpy flickering cigarette. This was the same cigarette I had seen him pass between his hands as I approached him. His sticky black fingers held it up to me, pinched into a perfect bow. I could reject it as unsuitable, say it was okay, explain that I was suddenly fine, but then he’d know I was too pious, too clean to share with a man like him, just as he had known before. I wanted to prove that I was repentant, that I was not disgusted, that I was accepting of all creatures. I would have to take it. I had to take it. I reached down to take it, expecting that he would offer me a side to take it from, but he did no such thing. I wanted to grab the side that hadn’t been in his mouth, but for me to grab that end I would have to squeeze my fingers up against his, and I’d possibly end up squeezing the already precarious perched ember clean off the thing as well. I contemplated snatching it directly by the lit ember, even willing to burn myself before touching him; but then he’d truly know of my imposture, and he would think that I thought that he was some abhorrent blight, only deserving of easy gestures that didn’t at all inconvenience me. I sacrificed for him, for his dignity, for my dignity, and I reached out and took the small piece of exposed filter, that had only moments before been in his mouth. As soon as I had committed to the action, and felt its damp warmth between my fingertips, I saw, as if from afar, that the cigarette was being intentionally pried back from my pandering fingers. The very same man under the tree who had just held it out in offering was for some reason pulling it back away from me. As he slid the cigarette butt from my fingertips I watched as a single strand of delicate umbilical slime form between us. It stood for a moment intact, and then, as it severed, I looked back toward him for explanation. With his moist lips like dewy obsidian he took the still burning cigarette and began brushing off the place where I had just touched with edge of his urine stained blanket. He brushed it off a few more times with his fingers, then he held it out again. One hand pointed to an appropriate spot on the cigarette, and the other hand held it up creating a shield around the now restricted area. There was no time for figuring. I shot my confused hand toward the designated spot, but somehow, instead of on the cigarette, which had been beyond a doubt at the exact point only an instant before, I came down directly onto his syrupy fingers. Fingers that I concluded must have been slid up purposely just as I had reached. When he felt my fingers touching his, he violently recoiled, he flinched like a cockroach had run up against him, and he dropped his own still burning cigarette onto the mattress. A small chemical flame sprouted instantly, and the cigarette began sinking down through the top layer of nylon on the bed. I watched it spit out green chemical light right next to his face. He regarded it while remaining totally still, stone still, and I saw that he was not going to flinch at this; that he was never going to move at all. I bent over and grabbed the cigarette with my left hand, out of its burning plastic crater, and then I started padding out the fire on his mattress with my empty palm. It went out easily, and all that was left was swirling rubbery black smoke, and a penny sized hole. The cigarette had died in the scuffle, and I reached out and placed it delicately back down on his mattress. As I pulled back my arm trying to stand up, I felt his all fingers latch around my wrist, pulling me toward him. I looked back at him for the first time without furtive eyes. He was smaller than I thought, weaker and sicker. He was dying here, hiding in plain sight. Still, as soon as I felt his gummy hand wrap around my wrist and I felt his twiggy fingers dragging me down with that magnifying but insignificant insect strength, all concerns for his situation were totally abolished. I was ready to absolutely fuck this guy up, and he saw that in my eyes. His black sepulchral pupils became like raisins on a yellow paper Easter plate and I yanked my wrist from his flimsy grasp. Just as soon as I slipped away from his spiny gelatinous fingers, just as soon as I wrenched my wrist free, I felt pity overcome me again. He saw the vain fury slink from my eyes, replaced again with my same feeble innocuous concern. Upon witnessing the transience of my emotions, and the sponginess of my convictions, the man under the tree burst into a silent but cavernous infant’s smile; the smile of a wingless cherub. It was a deep smile that used his whole face and it had warbled up through the refuse of some trenched and viscous sea.

The clean, cold snow falls slowly on to the streets of Chicago. The snow crunches loudly under William’s feet. The sound echoes of the large buildings surrounding him, making it sound like a crowd of people all pulling Velcro apart. His eyes dart back and forth, always on the lookout for danger. His breath puffs out in front of him and begins to condense on his thin beard. Two rabbits are hanging off his back, his pace is hurried, it will be the best dinner he has had in weeks. The tall skyscrapers eventually give way to old neighborhoods. A light blue two story appears in the distance and William’s face cracks the ghost of a smile. As he nears he takes in the boarded windows that clash with the white trim running along the roof. “Home at last,” he whispers to himself. Once inside he begins skinning the rabbits, one will be dinner and the other will be saved for later. He is a small man with thinning light blonde hair. He is days past his fortieth birthday, but the events of the last few months make him look closer to fifty. His clothing is a mash up of whatever can be found. A pair of faded jeans and a sweat shirt with Boston emblazoned on the front show their age. The house sits on the North side of the city, a short walk from what used to be Wrigley Field. A sturdy black pistol sits next him, reflecting light from the quiet fire. William has barely survived these last six months and being a bit of a loner has not helped his situation. Blankets of all colors cover the walls in an attempt to keep what little heat inside the house. Above the fireplace hangs a child’s blanket with a monkeys head on it. Over across one of the windows hangs one with the Chicago Cubs logo splayed across it. The red C clashing against the blue in the flickering light makes for a haunting reminder of days long gone. He falls asleep in the chair, trying to keep warm on this cold Midwestern night. Ah, not again, he thinks. I can’t keep sleeping like this, I’m going to wake up one morning and not be able to stand. William stands and stretches the kinks out of his body. His shoulder pops, and he lets out a groan. His body isn’t holding up like it used to. One of the perks of getting old, he thinks. He moves to the wall near the door and looks through a peephole out into the new day. His tracks have been covered nicely by the fresh snow, and all seems quiet. He can hear the sounds of the gangs roaming the streets. A patchwork of communities has sprung up throughout the city, some controlled by gangs, others free. William has always stayed apart though, living like this even before the disaster that befell the world. Many died in the first few weeks, mostly from hunger and fighting each other. Suddenly a scream rings through the clear air, carried by wind that gave this city its nickname. William hurries over and collects the pistol, checking the ammunition as he shuffles back to the peephole. What could that be? The thought runs through his mind, as he waits tensely for the person attached to the scream to present themselves. Suddenly, around one of the buildings on the next block, a figure comes streaking down the street being chased by a large man wearing the colors of one of the local gangs, bright yellow. He has a baseball bat and looks to be gaining on a small woman. William can do one of two things; go back to his chair and stoke the fire back up, or intervene on behalf of the person being chased. He usually keeps apart for a reason. As they near, he can see now that the woman being chased is holding a baby. That makes the choice easy. William waits for them to near his home, and as they are running past he steps out and two shots ring out in the crisp morning air. One bullet catches the large man in the shoulder, the other through the back of his neck. He dies instantly. Deep red blood gushes from the wounds and stains the snow in a slowly spreading pool. The snow retreats from the blood as if it poison. Steam slowly rises from the body and young woman stares in horror at the sight. She slowly sinks to her knees in shock. “Come on, get up. Get inside while I take care of this body, someone will be along shortly to investigate the gunshot.” William walks over and pulls the woman to her feet and nudges her towards the door. “You should get the baby in out of the cold.” That snaps her out of it, and she glances down at the bundle in her arms and back up at William. He smiles at her gently and gestures towards the door. As she walks slowly towards the door, William begins his brutal work of moving the body into the park across the way and burying it in the snow for someone to find later. He then grabs a shovel and starts throwing snow on top of the pile of blood. When the street again looks white and clean, he heads back inside. The woman is crouching by the fire with a look of apprehension in her pale blue eyes. William slowly puts the gun down and away from her. She has light brown hair that is cut short and is wearing baggy clothing that helps to conceal her form. She has a thin face with a small nose and prominent cheekbones that make her look very striking. William continues to stare intently at her. “I’m not going to hurt you, my name is William. What’s yours?” William says, as he slowly gestures to himself. “My name is Linda.” She states quietly. “It’s nice to meet you Linda. Would you like some food or water?” William asks with a gentle tone of voice. “No, thank you.” “Why was that thug chasing you? The gangs don’t usually concern themselves with regular people very often; they are usually too busy fighting each other to worry about one woman and her baby.” William moves over to his chair and stares at her thoughtfully waiting for her answer. “This is Vincent Wilson’s baby….” Linda stares at the baby as she speaks the name of the leader of one of the gangs that controls the city. “Well, shit.” William stares at her in shock. I can’t keep her here. That will bring a whole army of goons down on us. I need to figure out how to get her and the boy away from here. Williams mind races with the beginning of a plan. “That is definitely a problem then. You need to get away from the city. As long as you remain here, you will be in danger. Let’s get some food going and we can figure out what to do in the morning. No one should be nosing around here for a few days.” William starts pacing as he speaks. “Can you protect yourself?” His voice has on an edge to it and Linda shies away from him. “I just want to get out of the city with Michael,” Linda says as she clutches the baby a little tighter. William rubs his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, I know this is happening fast, but you don’t have much time. How do you expect a baby to survive in this new world if you don’t have any plan? Let’s just button up for the day and night, and reassess the situation in the morning,” says Williams as he starts to gather blankets for an impromptu bed for Linda and baby Michael. It has been six months since a massive solar flare knocked all of the electronics out throughout the entire world. The government could not keep control and now the former United States is in anarchy. “Thank you for helping me William,” Linda says as she walks over and squeezes William’s arm. “You’re welcome.” In the middle of the night, William is awoken by movement off to his right, where Linda and Michael are sleeping. He could see Linda’s figure get up and quietly make her way to the door and exit out into the icy night. William gets up and checks on baby Michael, he is sleeping soundly, and then walks over to the peephole to check on Linda. He sees a group of men outside with dyed blue rags tied around their arms, and Linda is in the middle of them pointing back towards the house. What the hell, thinks William as he runs over and grabs his pistol. He checks the ammo, only six shots are left in it, and there are at least ten men outside. He calls out to Linda, his voice ringing off of the buildings. “Linda! What is going on out there?” His voice sounds harsh as the reality of the situation slowly sets in. “I didn’t say I was Michael’s mother. I stole him from Vincent so that I could get in with one of the rival gangs. These gentlemen here have a vested interest in gaining an advantage over Vincent.” A smile slowly spreads across her face as she regards William. Though she is smiling, Linda’s eyes have become the cold and unforgiving eyes of a machine. “It was no accident that I went by your place trying to escape. You aren’t apart of any community, you live out here by yourself. No one is going to miss you, and you make the perfect scapegoat for little Michael’s death. These men are going to kill you and take Michael. There isn’t anything that you can do to stop it from happening.” There is a loud crack, and a red spot slowly spread across Linda’s chest. Her smile wavered and she turned to regard the thug with the smoking gun standing behind her. Her body topples into the snow like a doll discarded by a bored child. All the men’s faces are hard, with scars and scowls giving them a menacing look, even though each face is different, they all have the same dead eyes and blank expressions. They are more like robots than men. William shuts his eyes and looks back at baby Michael. He walks over and regards him with sadness in his eyes. Michael’s eyes open and stare at William with a wisdom that can only be found in the eyes of an infant. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help Michael, but I don’t think I want to be here anymore after everything that has happened. I can’t save you.” William reaches down and strokes Michael’s soft cheek, and adds some more wood to the fire. The orange flames lick at the new piece like a thirsty man who just spilled his water. William walks over to the corner and slowly slides down to the floor. The pistol is still clutched in his hand and the weight of it is somewhat reassuring. “I truly am sorry,” William says to the silence of the room. For the first time in a long while, William is not alone. A gunshot echoes as the cold, harsh light of morning bathes the city in fire.

Dmitri’s Canal He was an honest man, tall and slender, with a solemn face, looking almost devoid of life. I say he was honest because, with such features, could he have been anything else? His thick eyebrows swept the dust off of his face, which had long ago forgotten how to express happiness and receding hairline pushed his hair back and further exaggerated his large forehead. He was an honest man in that he was good-natured. Benevolence was his defining quality, but sometimes that too much of that good-heartedness hurts, sometimes you want another form of honesty, a form of honesty that’s firm, unforgiving, and straight to the point. His benevolence and his timidity made him an honest man, although it can be said that the honest man, or this type of honest man, isn’t always happy. So, for him it was a Tuesday, a normal Tuesday, as all Tuesdays are; without purpose, leaden, and slow to the start. It was a Tuesday that envied all the other days of the week, as so many Tuesdays tend to do. Now Sunday, there’s a day, but unfortunately we won’t be opening up Sunday’s blouse, button by button, biting our lips, and taking a peak. We’ll have to settle for Tuesday. So, it was a Tuesday, and in a meek, worn-down, yellow, wooden house, with a sad little veranda, and a rusty door handle. The window frames were fairly rusty also, and stained curtains pierced through the windows with a muted expression. There was a canal across the street. Now, at this point we don’t know whether it was sewage that flowed through the canal or regular rainwater. The smell suggested it was sewage, but then again, it could have been so many other things. We can even infer that a bird flew into there, maybe even more than one. He had just woken up, overflowing with indecision, his face marked with a blank expression; and expression between languor and despair, devoid of any passion. He did not make his bed, as tended to be the usual occurrence with him, walked to the kitchen while the floorboards squeaked. They squeaked one after the other, louder and louder, almost as if they were screaming at him, trying to warn him of something, as if they were trying to warn him of the impending ugliness. It was almost as they sobbing out high pitched words: "Don’t go to the kitchen, stay in bed Or it will get into your head." And again "Don’t go to the kitchen, stay in bed Or it will get into your head." It seemed as if the squeaking; their screaming and sobbing lasted for minutes on end, although they eventually stopped. Their moans and warning were silenced by a fear, this fear which oozed through the floorboards just enough to shut them up, this fear, which knew all of his joys and pleasurable absurdities, this fear, which was so at the base of all of his anxieties, slowly followed him into the kitchen, as it did every day. It was always there, even preceding the morning coffee, and just in time for the day’s first insecure thought. His face always shied away from emotion, he did not, but his face and his body did not let out an ounce of it. It’s always a shame when people mistake tortured men for stoics. This body, devoid of emotion, went to the cabinets and pulled out to spotless mugs. He poured coffee into the two irresistibly clean mugs and walked outside. He sat on a green plastic chair on the veranda and waited, feeling exhausted. Maybe breathing tired him out, maybe just living. His neighbor was late; she told him she would have coffee with him that day. He liked coffee, as much as he could like anything. Chatting; not so much. He could see her getting out of the house, confidently walking over the lawn with a cigarette in her mouth and sit down next to him. “I see you just couldn’t wait to get outside. It’s kind of alright outside, weather’s not too bad.” It’s not that he didn’t want to respond to her, it’s that he didn’t know how without offending her, or at least thinking he had offended her. He said nothing, just looked at her and nodded. Melissa was quietly sipping her coffee. The first time he saw her he thought she was a prostitute, or something of the sort, but it turns out she was the assistant manager at a grocery store, and not a particularly nice grocery store, either. It was one of those grocery stores that had brands never heard of before and people who resembled those brands. That grocery store she worked at; a sad creature it was, feeding on the dead souls, enticing them with a deli section half stocked shelves. But getting back to the main point; they were sitting and enjoying their coffee. He wanted to talk to her, to touch her breasts, but he didn’t want to ruin an already good day for him, or at least he didn’t want to think that he ruined it, for her at least. Even if there was no dialogue between the two, he still liked that there was someone there next to him. They finished their coffee and glanced at Dmitri’s canal one more time before they went their separate ways. No one ever knew why it was called that. She would see him later, or at least that’s what she said. He went to lie down after that. The fear again oozed from the floorboards, seeping through the room they came to him in flashes. These warm flashes of darkness that precede every negative thought and self-doubt, these warm flashes, which felt a little bit like discouragement, like somebody telling him he wasn’t good enough, somebody close and dear, were periodically coming to him. Lying covered with a thick blanket, he cringed, woefully he cringed at the flashes and the jumble of words they brought. His mind was filled with words, arbitrary words he said throughout his lifetime, that were said to him throughout his lifetime. Thousands of words every minute, hundreds every second, and each word’s context came to him also, every word uttered into his head made him cringe even worse. It wasn’t the warm flashes of darkness, or even the words they brought, but rather the situations in which these words were said; their memories made his heart beat hard and darkened the shadows under his eyes. He got up, and decided to go to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, that fear of his followed him. Melissa came over the next day, she felt like having some more coffee in silence. The door was unlocked, the fear wasn’t lingering there anymore inside of the house. Two coffee mugs, unwashed, were present in the sink. Dmitri was in the canal, in the bottom of the canal. Melissa went home.

I don't know if this should be considered a short story. To be perfectly honest, I just want to help people. Is that possible? I don't know enough yet. I will soon. Depending on how you see "soon." I would like to become a doctor. Should I put this in r/rant? I don't give a shit about money. Yeah, it's nice to have. Who doesn't want a boat? I just want to educate the generations to come. If they have the knowledge we have, shouldn't they be able to figure out why the problems we (my generation) had were unsuccessful in solving? Sorry if my grammar is atrocious, I'm pretty drunk... again. It's the only way I can deal with what I face on a day-to-day basis. Oh yeah, I said I would talk about the "-isms"... well guess what? I'm not going to. If you believe in segregation based on the specific arrangement of your chromosomes, guess what? YOU'RE STUPID. People are the same. Male or female. If you're asking why I don't mention race, it's because it is simply a skin pigment. Hardly a racial issue. Anyways, I digress. Yeah, I said it. Why do people care about money? Should you not be more concerned about educating your friends? Your foes? Just because you don't like them doesn't mean they can't be useful. The earth is but an ant colony. Not in a literal sense. If all the ants in a colony were put together, they have the approximate computation power of a single person/brain. Think about the power the human race would have if we were able to work as a single unit? One "super unit." One that does not concern itself with computations and approximations. Can you imagine? I'll write again when I feel like it. I don't know when that will be. >>To the one person who gave me an upvote: you have inspired me to continue to write. I won't concern myself with numbers. If I reach one person, it was worth it.

One April morning, a single white feather floated down unto a green pond along Big Boot Bayou, landing at its center and sending ripples over the surface in all directions. Toad saw this and panicked— “HIDE ME QUICK!” he yelled. “Dem boids, dey come tah roost again, have mercy!” He jumped frantically from lily-pad to lily-pad and finally onto the pond’s muddy bank where he collapsed from exhaustion, his throat inflating and deflating as he gasped. “Oh, Lawd… (pant)…dem boids… (wheeze)…dey come again tah roost in dat can’py up yonder …Ay…gone get gobbled, I knows it.” Toad lay with his yellow belly draped over a gritty stone half-sticking out of from the mud and with his limp limbs dangling off both sides. He whimpered helplessly. From the near by water’s edge, a mighty voice rumbled, startling Toad, who then sprang straight up into the misty air shouting “NO GOBBLE TOAD!” repeatedly the entire time airborne. He conked his head against the stone. That shut him up. If it had been a squawk he had heard, then Toad’s froggy heart might have ruptured, and then he would have leapt his last leap). “Gone get gobbled..I knows it. gone get gobble fo sho” toad whined dazedly. From the waters edge the might voice spoke again; “you picked a fine morning to set the whole swamp to panicking. Look around. The bayou is just as peaceful as I ever seen it and your carrying on like there is a fire.” “Its woist dan dat,” toad replied without looking at who he replied to. “Worse than fire?” “Yea, a feather!” “A feather?” “Dat’s what I said.” Toad snapped, and then he turned around and saw, about a jumps distance away from him, the enormous flat head of an alligator facing him, smiling at him with a mouth full of honed points. “I saw me a feather fall in da pond; dem damn boids comin back to roost again in yonder tree tops. Ooo, Gator, you bet your leathery hide and take dat to da rivva bank, mon frere.” “You’re jumping to conclusions“ “HAHA!” Toad interrupted. “Clever devil, you.” “Apologies— no pun intended,” Gator said. “But you should try to calm yourself. Stress, alone, can make you croak long before your time. Besides, there is nothing to worry about until there is something to worry about, after all.” “Nuttin to worry bout till dey somtin to worry bout?” Toad mocked and then muttered “Couyon” beneath his breath. “What was that?” “Ima frog!” he raved. “And boids find we frogs to be good eatin, yeah, and dat feather I seen dis mornin’ floatin ‘top da watah— dats bad joo-joo, dat is. Dem boids comin, and I’m as sho of dat as a toitle is slow on its feet and when it thinks.” “Worrying won’t help” Gator attempted to explain, but suddenly the stone on which Toad sat began to shift and tilt, and Toad again began to panic. “The swamp is sinking!!” he yelled. “Lawd have mersaaay! If it ain’t somtin its somtin else.” A slow drawling voice came muffled from inside the stone. “Who said that?” “Now da rocks is a talking” Toad carried on. “Dats bad joo-joo, too!” “Would you stop that.” Gator scolded. “It is just Old Shelly. All of your shouting just woke him up.” Toad looked down and understood. What he thought was a stone was actually Old Shelly’s shell. Old Shelly’s decrepit head poked out and he craned back as far as possible to look up at Toad, who was looking down at him. “What do you want Shelly?” Toad sassed. “I might ask the same of you, you cocky sack of warts, but with that mile-long, whip-smart tongue of yours, I will never hear the end of it, if I do.” Toad unconsciously flung out his tongue and licked his forehead between his eyes, an embarrassing compulsion that he would enact usually when he felt humiliated. Gator’s broad grin widened. Shelly continued. “It is like Gator said, I was napping until I heard all the fuss and belly-aching and carrying on about feathers and birds and bad joo-joo. I tried my damnedest to ignore it but when I heard you bad mouth us turtles, I had to see for myself the fool doing all of that whooping and hollering. And I should’ve known it was you. Now, we turtles ain’t so quick, but let me learn you something—you don’t get to be my age by being no fool.” Toad leapt from Old Shelly’s back and faced the old turtle “dats easy for you to say, toitle! You got dat cozy shell you can hide in where dem boids can nevva getcha!” “What birds? Where?” “I saw me a feather just dis morning. Bad joo-joo!” “Well, lah-tee-dah,” Shelly said. “When I was about your age I saw a coil of freshly shed snake skin, but never in all of my years living around this here pond have I seen a livin slitherin serpent, not once.” “Dats likely cuz you spent all dem years in dat shell.” “Think what you want. That’s what you’re going to do regardless of what anyone tells you.” Shelly retracted his head back into his shell, slowly, as old turtle are wont to do, grumbling as he did. “Wait!” Toad leapt at Shelly and tried to force his body into the whole after Shelly’s head, his webbed feet kicking at mud for purchase as he failed trying to squeeze his body into the shell’s opening while shouting “you gotta hide me, Shelly, Please-OH PLEASE! Dey has to be room in there for me.” Old Shelly jabbed his head outward with surprising dexterity butting his head against Toad’s. The force knocked Toad toppling backward, bouncing across the moist mud like a skipping pebble. He tumbled uncontrollably into the wall that was Gators grin. “Don’t disrespect me, you yellow-bellied cretin. And keep your crying down. Let and old timer have his dignity and his rest.” And Shelly withdrew. Exhausted now, Toad hopped limply toward the river away from the pond. “Goin get gobbled by dem boids, I knows it,” He whined. “Hey Toad” Gator called, and Toad turned to face him. “I was thinking... We amphibians need to stick together, you know?” “What’d you call me? Insult me will you! Why I oughta—“ “No, no, no” Gator explained. “What I am trying to say is that you and I are alike, different, but alike, and I want to help you.” Toad brightened. “You mean it? You’d help me keep hid from dem boids, Gator?” “Of course” Gator assured. “How? How? How?” Gator answered by simply opening his jaws wide. “NO! NO! NO!” Toad protested. “What is the matter? It is just like the shell you were trying to squeeze into, except without the grumpy turtle.” “S’pose I do hide in dere…but you don’t lemme out?” Gator thought for a moment. “You will just have to trust me.” “I get it!” Toad said. “This is a trick, a duirty rottin trick.” “What would I want to eat you for? Can’t you see how big I am? Big Gator needs a big meal…” Gator trailed off. “Just forget it. You can either trust me or try your luck on your own when the birds come…and they are coming!” Gator turned his large body as if to dive back into the water. Before going in, he turned to Toad once more. “Believe me when I say I am not trying to trick you. I’m trying to help you.” “Wait!” Toad said. Gator waited. “I trusts you…I’ll do anythin to keep from dem boids.” “I know your nervous, but don’t worry about a thing.” Gator said and opened his jaws wide imploring Toad to go inside. Toad advanced then quickly halted. “S’pose I want to come out every once and again? How would you know dat I want to come out?” “That’s easy.” Gator said confidently. “Use that tongue of yours to tickle the top of my mouth, and I will let you out as soon as I feel it.” “Promise?” “Oath of oak,” Gator replied and opened his mouth again. Toad hopped inside, past all of the many sharp points of Gator’s teeth. Once inside Toad felt, at last, secure. Once Gator closed his jaws, the frantic tickles started immediately. Toad tongued the roof of Gators mouth, he sprung against the backside of Gators clenched teeth, he tongued some more, he jumped some more, he tired himself out, he went limp, and finally Gator gobbled Toad down into his gullet, where no bird could ever get him.

INFO: I'm writing this as a school assignment for my english literature class. I'm wondering what you guys think about it. Please come with feedback about how I can improve it, grammar mistakes etc, as english is not my first language. It's based around the poem "Haul away" by Mark Knopfler. It's probably bad, but I did my best! The Captain’s Wife We all knew what happened, but no-one spoke a word about it. Women on board a ship brought bad luck people used to say. I don’t know if that was true for the captain’s wife but she certainly did not lift the spirits. They had been fighting non-stop for a month before she left, the captain and the captain’s wife. He tried his best to brush it off, but we could all see the anger and the sadness in his eyes. She preferred to avoid the curious glares of the crew, staying locked up in her chambers after they had clashed. What they were fighting about was hard to tell, it seemed to change every night. I guess, when two people who should not have been married in the first place is stuck together everything becomes something to fight over. When she left, no-one spoke a word about her. The captain was an old man. He had become a rich man as well. He had been steering his trusty ship safely across the seas for four decades now. «A smooth sea never made a skillful sailor» he always said to the young boys. And he had been through many a stormful night over the years. But his wife was sadly a storm he could not handle. When she left, no-one spoke a word about her. Before we left port he had been full of life. Freshly wed, a big cargo loaded up with promise of a fine payment for safe transportation. He loved his crew like they were his own sons, and everyone aboard threated him with the utmost respect and kindness. Therefore, when she left, no-one spoke a word about her. One could hardly blame her for fighting with the man though. The captain was not suited for a social life, at least off the ship. A man who had been so long at sea as the captain had not much to talk about other than, well, seafaring. The captain’s wife cared little for seafaring. One could hardly blame her though. She wanted to settle down somewhere, build a house and have children. The captain wanted the same as well, it seemed, but deep down we all knew he wanted to remain at sea. It was a windless night when she left. The captain and the captain’s wife were fighting again. Over what was hard to tell, but everyone could hear the shouting. The crew had grown accustomed to it, so it was no wonder everyone let out a sigh of relief when the fighting came to a halt and it became quiet. Suddenly a loud splash was heard, and the captain appeared before the crew soon after. You could see in his eyes that he was upset, but made no effort to speak. He looked at his crew, at his ship, at the sea, before retreating to his chambers. No-one spoke a word about her. No-one would say a word that day. Not before the day after quiet talking could be heard around the ship, but no-one dared make mention of the captain’s wife. The rest of the journey went on as normal, and when they arrived in port they unloaded the cargo, restocked and started on the journey back. All but the captain, who chose to only send his golden wedding ring back home.

For it would be the 9th day, going on the 10th of his survival. Lurking through the woods, he loads his bow and fires upon a bore. His ticket to surviving for the next three days. After gathering the remains of his catch, he gazes of to the west, a town is in view. He moves foward but hesitates. "Only a fool would venture off into the open, crowded lands." But he then focuses in, squinting his eyes. But then he notices something, his eyes widen and he falls to his knees in awe. It is the town that he once called home, the town in which his family was raised and ate dinner and sang songs. He moves foward towards the town. He reaches the end of the hill, and moves towards what was once a place he called his dwelling. When he reaches the entrance there is trash everywhere. Broken glass from all the family photos and sement from the downed walls. The home had been ransacked. He takes a seat on an old wooden chair in the dining room for a rest. As he looks around he puts his head down on the table in front of him and starts to weep. When suddenly there is a bright glow in the doorway. He looks up and there in the doorway is a woman standing. Her hair is flowing, but there is no wind. Her body, glowing, but there is now sign of any sunlight. His face is suddenly dry, and he smiles. She holds out her clean, white, smooth hand in front of him. He grasps it with his dirty, bloody, and infected hand. To the western shore she leads him. On top of the water they stand gazing into eachothers eyes. They then begin to slowly begin to dance, her head on his shoulder, as they begin to sink ever so slowly until they are completely submerged. Nevermore did he rise above the shore.

I was watching cosmos the other night. And you know what? I learned the damndest thing. Have you heard of this thing called, "the multiverse"? No? Well, it's some scientific craziness that I couldn't understand, but what they where saying is, that it's likely that there are other parallel universes! Crazy, huh? Parallel universes. Can you imagine it? Somewhere out there, there's a version of us that never split up. That fight never happened. You never called him, or went up to Seattle to visit "a friend". Imagine how long we'd've been together by now. All the things we've done. Or "they've done"? I dunno. Honestly, my heart breaks to think of the universe out there that still has Becky. I bet she's amazing there. She'd be, what, 24 now? God. Oh, and you can be damn sure we'd still be together too. A perfect little family. Ugh, why am I bringing this up? What else? What other universe? Oh man, what about some universe where I wasn't so afraid of you way back when? We'd have been high school sweet hearts! Haha, now that would be something. I probably wouldn't have gotten arrested my freshman year of college if you were there to keep me from being an ass. But man, how amazing you ended up my making my sophmore year. And so many years afterwards. Yeah, that's probably a great universe. Geez. A multiverse. To travel to another world. You know, somewhere out there we never did figure out. Somewhere out there I turned 40 without you, like I turned 30. That's a sad place, huh? But you know what? None of those other universes interest me. I know it was rough for us. At times, at times I thought we really were done forever you know. God, we were so stupid. Thank god we were so in love that somehow we always found each other when we needed to. And in the end, for me, it was all that wasted time that allowed me to cherish the time we did have as much as I did. I missed your soccer mom days, but god damn did we enjoy ourselves when your youngest went to college! Haha, you always were a fox. Nah, those universes can have the stupid me. What kills me though, is that now scientists tell me that it's entirely fucking possible that somewhere out there is a universe where you never got cancer. Somewhere out there I didn't lose you so fucking slowly. I'd still be cherishing every little minute and looking at your wonderful face instead of this stupid headstone. Heh. See? I still get worked up when you're not there to calm me down. Well. It's about that time. Sleep tight you. I'll be back tomorrow.

I wrote this a year ago and got a lot of positive feedback from my friends and family but i never thought to put it out into the public like this. I hope you enjoy it. Once upon a time in the land of Umptyscrunt, there was a beautiful princess that was loved by all. Then one horrible day, an evil dragon appeared, and with his evil army of shapeshifting minions, he kidnapped the princess. Everyone was sad and they asked the greatest hero in the land, Sir Lancekillabunch, to save her. Sir Lancekillabunch agreed and set off on his quest with young and hopelessly unheroic squire Gerald. Not long after they left the kingdom, Sir Lancekillabunch mysteriously died. For like, no reason. He just fell over dead, leaving Gerald all alone in the wilderness. With no direction and no idea where he was, Gerald wandered the wilderness until he found a hut. He knocked on the door and was answered by Helga the Witch. Gerald asked for help finding his way home, so Helga used her magic to find a spirit guide to show him the way. It just so happens that the guide she summoned was the ghost of Sir Lancekillabunch! But instead of taking Gerald back to the castle, Sir Lancekillabunch told him that it was his duty to save the princess and he would help him do it. So Gerald took Sir Lancekillabunch’s sword and together they set off once more to find the dragon’s lair! They searched the lands high and low, fighting dwarves and monsters along the way. After spending days adventuring with little progress, they found a road sign with directions to the dragon’s lair. To get there, they had to cross the Troll Bridge, which was guarded by… the Butthole Troll! To get passed the troll, Gerald had to answer its riddle. *lots of farting noises* the troll asked pointedly. However, Gerald doesn’t speak Butthole, so he kicked the troll right in the balls and ran across the bridge. “By the way, the answer was ‘a chicken’” said Sir Lancekillabunch. Now they were nearly at the end of their quest. They climbed the mountain to the peak, straight to the dragon’s lair, coming face to face with an army of hideous, disgusting, sleeping guards. On the tips of their toes, they silently charged through the motionless fray and after several seconds of intense sneakery, they made it inside. The inner lair was a large room with almost nothing in it but a rug and a door at the far end. “The princess must be in there!” said Sir Lancekillabunch and Gerald ran to open it. He threw the door open and to his surprise the princess was actually there. With no plot twists or anything. He grabbed her by the hand and turned to lead her home but was met face to face with a giant cartoonish looking dragon! “I heard you were coming so I hid under that rug!” the dragon roared. “If you want the princess you must first defeat me!” Gerald took up Sir Lancekillabunch’s sword in both hands and drew it back for a mighty swing but his sword got stuck in something behind him. He turned to see that his sword was thoroughly thrust into the princess. As she lay dying in his arms, her face contorted revealing what she truly was, a shapeshifter in disguise. With its final breath, the shapeshifter whispered in Gerald’s ear “you’re princess is in another castle… but I would have loved you the same…” Gerald looked up at the dragon. The dragon looked down at Gerald. “You can have her now” he said.

The door creaks open, shrill and loud. Once making him cringe he is now unphased; however a distinct smell not of lilacs or dandelions in nature pierced his nostrils sending shivers down his tall spine. Once more the toilet was clogged, filled to the brim with the excrement of fellow, lifeless coworkers. He used to think of these animals as pigs, alas he has no more energy for such thoughts. So he sits and joins the mess not by choice but because he is left no options. Eyes straight ahead John stares and to himself he mutters the word written so boldly upon the door, with such vulgarity, such disdain and such obscenity "fuck" he utters... "Fuck". There is no purpose no rhyme or reason and the meaning fades the more he bothers to ramble on until he is done. Lost in thought at this point the smells of death leave his mind, he washes his hands and once more shrill and loud the door creaks open, and under his breath he scoffs at his own joke "out of the frying pan and into hell". --Not part of story-- Please feel free to give me constructive criticism and any ideas on how to improve this particular intro or where you think this story should go (I already have a lot written but I am still interested in your thoughts). Also just let me know if you like it or not (Mostly just say you like it please ^_^).

“Left hand or right?” From the sound of the voice, it was an enforcer. Every other week, he probably found himself in a situation like this, holding a hammer, or an icepick, or a shovel, prepared to scare, maim, or kill for the highest bidder. Today was most likely no different. “You sick bastard. You’re crazy! I already told you, I can get Richie his money. Call him up, tell him, for the love of God, just stop!” The man’s voice was ripe with panic. He was in over his head. Every gambler hits rock bottom someday. And as the weight of a five pound hammer crunched the fine bones inside his hand, Marco had hit rock bottom. I had seen the descent. “He said it doesn’t matter. He said to make an example out of you, one that every no-good deadbeat will understand. You know what we do to people who cheat, Marco?” It was a rhetorical question, one with an implied answer that involved a hole in the desert. But Marco was the type to keep his mouth running. “I ain’t no cheat, man! Lady Luck shined on me, and then she cut out my heart. I know you’re gonna kill me regardless of circumstance, so I don’t have much reason to lie. I won that hand fair and square.” Marco was indeed today’s luckiest loser. The series of events that had brought him to this point were strange indeed. The enforcer just made a noise that resembled human laughter. “That’s a good joke. You drew a full house, a straight flush, and then a royal flush, all in the same game. Now, I am not a mathematician, as you can see. My business is hurting people. But even a guy like myself can tell how unlikely that is. How stupid did you think we were, Marco?” Mick judged his quarry to be guilty, but he wasn’t there to give him a fair trial. The truth was unknown. Maybe, against astronomical odds, he had legitimately won the game. But if so, his luck had run out. His fortune had turned to misfortune very quickly. See, that’s where I come in, hiding in an armoire. I’m the poor sap Marco’s wife hired to keep an eye on him. I had tailed him, kept watch on his activities, saw him squander a fortune. I felt bad for the wife, but she wasn’t paying me to stop him. No, she paid me solely to provide surveillance and photography of his transgressions and many sins. I got the impression she wanted a divorce. But if I didn’t do anything soon, she would be a widow. At the time, I thought I was the best in the business. My ear to the ground of the criminal underworld, an ex-cop with a mostly honorable discharge, up until that day, I felt untouchable. What was some angry unfaithful husband going to do against a private eye with a gun and a badge he didn’t know was expired? Nine times out of ten, they’d always back down. But this was no cuckolded spouse. There were six bullets in my gun. I wondered if I should just let Marco die, leave him to his unhappy fate and inform his wife she’s a widow. Instinctually, I knew the whole job had gone rotten, that the money wasn’t worth the risk any more. But something in me told me I couldn’t abandon a man to such an awful death. I unholstered my revolver, and burst out of the armoire. I leveled it at the man’s back. “I’ve got a .357 pointed right about where your spine ought to be, pal, and I like making cripples. Means I don’t have to kill you. Let’s talk.” I spoke, and the enforcer tensed up at the unexpected company. He dropped his box-cutter, and began to turn. “Keep your back to me, friend. I’m not going to risk you making any sudden moves. You got a name?” “I am Mr. Smith. This man owes a debt to Richard Smiler. You will come to regret becoming involved his business.” His voice was almost robotic. Behind him, Marco moaned. He was cut up in a dozen places, his hands deep purple, and useless. His one remaining eye stared at me. “You know, I used to be a cop once. I used to put away people like you. I used to collect evidence on Smiler. We could never get enough for a warrant though. You know what I learned after they discharged me from the force? Warrants, trial by jury, Miranda rights, they don’t mean a damned thing. All that matters is that the wolves are cut down so the sheep may live.” A man with a gun digging into his back tends to listen to what they’re told. “This isn’t right. You can’t just shoot me in the back. That’s not honorable.” The enforcer spoke, and cold cynical laughter rang out. This time, it was mine. “You’re really going to go for that argument? It isn’t honorable? You torture people for money.” I wondered if it was right to kill this man. I certainly wanted to. I cocked the revolver. With one trigger pull, it would be wheelchairs and colostomy bags for the rest of his life if I wanted to make it so. “Who are you? This guy, he’s a deadbeat. You leave now, I forget your face, and this all goes away.” I never saw a hit-man plead for his life. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the unique nature of the situation. “One thing at a time… First off, my name’s Granby. I’m a private detective. Second, I knew Marco was a professional loser. His wife, nice lady by the name of Neria hired me to keep an eye on him. And as to you forgetting my face, believe me, you will. Have you caught on to why I’m telling you all of this? When this pistol goes off, it’ll punch through your skull. After that, it pretty much just turns everything inside your head into scrambled eggs. You won’t remember my face, you won’t remember anything at..-” I informed the enforcer of what was to come, until he rudely interjected. “A private eye? Just a private eye? Are you some sort of idiot? Let’s say you kill me. Smiler sends two men after Marco, and his pretty wife. I’m sure at some point, one of them will squeal, and mention your name. You’re a dead man.” The enforcer was right. Killing him would be a death sentence. But I was tired of the grind. Of the endless stakeouts in parked cars, watching husbands violate their wedding vows in low rent motels. I felt the bloodlust inside, and for a moment, I wondered if I had lost the plot. But the feelings of self-doubt passed, and I steeled myself. “It’s as good a cause as any to die over. We’re both dead men. But the difference is what we’re giving our lives for. You’re going to die here, for the cause of cruelty and greed. Myself, well, I know how Smiler runs his operation. The emaciated bastard rules everything from here to the coast. I knew a girl, escaped from one of his so called massage parlors. I still feel sick every time I think about what they did to her. After she left protective custody, we found her a week later in a shallow grave.” I told him my rational. Yet, he laughed when I spoke of the girl. The trigger pull weight of my revolver popped into my head. It was three and a half pounds. “I knew that girl. It is indeed a small world, Granby. Smiler was very specific about how the job was to be done. She lasted three days before she died, you know.” “You’re not going to last three hours.

I was day dreaming fondly of my old home and how I missed it terribly. I’ve spent 3 years in this hell hole. Everything changed when *They* came. Everyone’s world came crashing down. I was jarred back into reality when I heard a loud scraping sound followed by a large container being set down before me, it was open on one end. The container was set down gently and I looked up quickly; my enclosure was being quickly sealed again. I walked up to the container praying to see a familiar face, but I wasn’t. “Christ,” Inside was a young girl who looked to be 15 or 16, curled into a ball, weeping softly to herself. I sighed heavily as I knew *They* were playing something cruel upon me, by giving me a virgin. Normally I’d be given someone older. Someone understanding that I got to see every so often, but not today. I could tell she was a virgin by seeing how she had no scarring around her midsection, and her breasts where still quite firm. I sat by the opening of the container and sighed heavily. giving the girl a moment to process what was going on. After a short while I told her that it would be best that she leave the container. It was (truthfully) the only way she would survive. She stayed planted for another few minutes before nodding and coming up to me. Her skin was fair and her hair was long. She was naked. Years ago I would have even gone as far to say she was beautiful. But nothing was beautiful anymore. She walked past me and sat down a few feet away, eyeing me nervously. “Do you speak English?” She nodded a yes. “Do you know why you’re here?” She nodded. “I sort of do…” Her words were cut off by a shadow coming over us. It was one of *Them* standing watch over us. “We haven’t much time,” I began to hate myself at this point. “I need you to come here.” She hesitated, but looked at the *Thing* standing on the other side of the enclosure. Standing. Keeping watch. She sat next to me and I held her. She began to tremble. I prayed *It* would go away. I counted the seconds, each one seeing like a millenia. She began to tremble more. It was obvious it wasn’t going to go away until I did what was expected of me. I looked to her and tears began to fall from my face. “Please forgive me…” I quickly grabbed her wrists and forced her down onto the floor. She didn’t fight back. She I could tell, was holding back her tears. I pressed myself forward. I wish I could be gentle, but I wanted it to be over soon. For her sake and mine. She cried out and writhed around. I tightened my grip and went as quickly as I could. My mind flooded with visions to block out the scene that was unfolding beneath me. I thought about the day *They* came. How I almost died getting *Here*.... but I knew none of that would help me. I forced myself to think about my mother’s apple pie. My childhood back home. My first car. I forced those memories into my mind to drown out the noise underneath me. TO ignore the fact we were being watched…. I continued to think about the first time I had sex. My first true love… and that was when I finally felt a release. As soon as it was over I flung myself from atop of her. She had fallen quieter than a grave and was looking at the ceiling with blank eyes. It didn’t last long as she curled into a ball and choked back tears. I walked to the far reach of my enclosure, looking beyond the *glass*. I hated myself. I hated everything. I hated her. I hated living. *It* finally left and I relaxed what little I could. I looked beyond the *glass* some more and became fixed upon a sign on the wall. After 3 years I had become somewhat literate in *Thier* language.

P1: “I don’t like the way I feel right now. I doubt everything, but I think I’m being thoughtful but its like my thoughtfulness leads to doubts.” P2: “What doubts do you have?” P1: “I’m worried that I’m my ego is getting too big and I’m not really who I think I am.” P2: “That’s interesting.” P1: “Five minutes ago I felt great… I felt like I was winning in life. I was thinking about ways to tell other people that they can do it too. Someone told me today that they can’t be smart like me and I tried to tell them that they could be just like me. But who am I to have an ego? Why would anyone want to be like me? I have flaws-big flaws.” P2: “I would guess that’s where your doubt came in.” P1: “Yes, I guess. What do you think?” P2: “I think it’s normal to have doubts.” P1: “That’s obvious…” P2: “I have a friend who asked me to read a story she wrote. I’m not sure what to tell her. It needs a lot of improvement still.” P1: “What’s wrong with it?” P2: “It’s hard to describe exactly what is wrong with it. The story has promise, but I think she will be sad if I tell her I think it could be better written. The descriptions are too descriptive or something, introduces the reader to too much at once, and the dialog isn't believable, kind of flat. I wonder if I write that way… I think she should read it out loud, record it, and play it back. I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I probably won’t say anything.” P1: “Sounds like you know exactly what is wrong with it.” P2: “Not sure. What if it’s really good and I’m a bad friend with some unconscious desire to undermine something good?” P1: (snort) P2: “What? What if that’s true?” P1: “I know you and I know that the only thing you want to do is help her do it better. We’re alike you know.” P2: “How so?” P1: “We both have doubts.

Splash Far down below, the waters moved lazily toward the ocean, indifferent towards my decision. I could take comfort from that at least. Some things would change, for sure, but mostly the world would continue on. The whole world, in all its psuedo splendor, would take this in stride, and nothing could dent it's armor. The wind was cold and constant this high up, just as it should be, and this too reaffirmed the lesson I have learned during the past few years. It is only now that I realize it is the most important lesson one can learn in life. Most of the time it just isn't about you. It never was, and for the fast majority of eternity, it never will be. I take a few breaths to shake some of these thoughts from my head. There's no time for feeling like this now. I'm five stories above the Union River at five in the morning. If I wanted to spend today thinking, I would have stayed in bed instead of climbing the struts of this railroad bridge. Even still, the birdsong that is audible holds me another moment. I wonder if the birds know that they sing in key, or if it's just how they've always grown up. How do they decide when to sing? What does the concept of rhythm even mean to a bird? For a moment, I imagine the notes on a guitar that would match their chirping, even if I would never hold one again. It dawns on me that I am waiting. Not waiting like a child for his schoolbus, but the kind of waiting one does by a phone when they've had too much to drink and calls a past lover.. expectant, but not hopeful. Maybe the world is just waiting on me. I sigh and look down again. I feel tired and heavy, and I don't want to dissapoint the world anymore. Maybe that's what this feeling is. Maybe I'm trying to figure out how I feel before I jump. One last mystery to hold my mind to the world, if for a moment. Well, two if you count playing birdsong on a guitar. Many more if you count everything left undone.. or unpondered.. or unspoken. The air is colder now. The wind in my ears louder than I thought it would be. It even occures to me that I am not screaming. Most people do, but I never have been the type. Maybe the people who scream while falling just get all the attention even though they are in the minority of people who jump off of bridges. Is this my last thought? I wish I could take it back. I want my last thoughts to be happy. I want to play birdsong on my guitar. I want more time to think about how I feel.. I want to spend the whole day staying in bed.. but the water is so close now. I close my eyes and smile, because this too, is one of those moments where it just isn't about me. Splash.

It was the type of sniffles where my nose was so plugged up a blast of compressed air wouldn’t even get through ; the type of sniffles where I could be sure that if I did not wipe, or sniffle every few seconds, there would be a little drop of snot resting the tip of my nose. All day, every few seconds I wipe my nose with a tissue just to keep from getting a puddle on my special ergonomic keyboard, and then I feel it; the tickly feeling at the tip of my penis, after hours of drinking water to stay hydrated, my bladder is stretched, like a little pink balloon, stuck on the helium tank. I walk down the aisle of gray cubicles, sunlight pouring through the frosted glass offices. The offices get smaller as I get closer to the restroom, but the cubicles remain the same size. I hit the handicap button for the bathroom door, not because I’m handicapped, but because I don’t trust my coworkers and their germ encrusted fingers. With a mechanical whir, the door opens, I enter the bathroom and my heart sinks. In the second stall, under the half-assed doors that stop a full foot from the floor, I can see a pair of scrunched-up polyester dress pants on top of a pair of scuffed black dress shoes, the ones with the square toes, Eccos or something. Even with my stuffed nose, I can discern a certain olfactory character to the air. I sidle up to the urinal, two steps followed by that funny shuffle as I square myself and and unzip my pants. As I relax, I felt the slight delight as the balloon starts to deflate. Suddenly there is another tickle, this time up, between my eyes and slightly down. I feel the slight tickle of snot as it trickles down my nasal passage. For ten years now I have been an adult now and unlike elementary school, the tell-tale whitish streak up my sleeve is no longer acceptable, so in general I tend to avoid the sleeve wipe technique. Regardless, I was peeing, so while the sleeve wipe technique may have worked, the sudden lateral movement could not only cause the “white streak on sleeve”, but also the embarrassing “splash mark on pants.” So I do the next best thing, instinctively, I sniffle; an instinctive explosive inhalation of air, through the nose and the roof of mouth into my lungs, to avoid expelling nasal mucus. Following that sudden inhalation is the realization that I just inhaled the aroma my Ecco-shorn, polyester-clad, stalled neighbor expelled. I feel as the sudden inrush of air passes over the back of my tongue, down my throat, pairing the greenish mucus with the odor, plastering it to my air passage. Each successive breath will expel it out, like wind through an alpine valley, past each of my thousands of taste buds, through my teeth and past my chapped lips. The balloon is only half empty, and slowly I realize that at the rate I am urinating, there will be at least one more sniffle. I shift my weight from foot to foot, settle into my stance, and cry a little inside.

I wouldn't mind any feedback so I can improve my writing. If you liked it or hated it please don't hesitate to tell me what and why! THANK YOU! "He won’t see! We’ve done this like three times already." her voice was deep for a girl, but very sexy, at least he always thought so. He let her pull him by his right arm as she led him down the white and brown checkered hallway. They ducked under the office window and then dipped behind a set of lockers just in time to avoid someone walking by. She turned around from her squatted position behind the lockers, held her index finger to her lips and made a “shhh” gesture with her lips. Her lips were beautiful, at least he always thought so. He pointed with his head to check if the coast was clear and she eased herself forward and looked right then left. She gave a subtle tug on his arm and they moved quickly to the left and out the door. She pushed it open and released her hold on his arm. He wished she hadn’t let go. She stepped outside and stood up and he followed. She turned and looked him in the eye for a moment then pecked him gently on the lips. He smiled then playfully spanked her ass. She ran towards his car but he got there first. He leapt in the driver’s side and pushed the lock down on the passenger door. She pulled on the handle a few times before he let her in. He always thought that was funny and he smiled. She punched him hard in his right arm and he almost felt it go numb. He turned to face her still smiling, he couldn’t look at her without smiling. She began pulling at the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Hold on" he said. "He hasn’t left his office yet I don’t want him to see" "Fuck you I told you he won’t see! Why would he look out the window to the parking let alone right at YOUR car!" "He might and thats all it takes!" She punched him again in the chest, softly, flirting. He didn’t move for a moment and then he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her onto his lap. She reached down and hit the lever to lower the seat and they fell backwards with a quick jerk. Their heads bumped softly and they laughed. "Shhh!" he said and held up a finger to his lips. "You’re serious?" "Yeah don’t be too loud!" "Yeah cuz he can fuckin hear us from his third floor office you fucking bitch" "I feel like you want us to get caught!" "What the fuck no I don’t" "What the FUCK" he said in a high pitched mocking tone. She knew the tone. "No I dooooon’t" he said and made a face. She knew it. It always made her laugh. She hit him playfully again in his ribs and he pretended like she broke it. "Where’s it hurt where’s it hurt I’ll kiss it" she said in frantic playful tone. He pointed to his ribs, then to his stomach, his leg, his chest. They were kissing, their eyes closed. He stopped kissing for a second. She kissed him once more then paused with her lips still touching his. He opened one eye and moved his head slowly to the right. He was looking at the principal’s office window. She caught the joke and said "You’ll pay for that you-" and he winked and kissed her before she could finish. "The principals not at his desk right now so he must be out for lunch already." he noted in his head. He slid his fingers down her side and rested them on her hips. He checked one more time, the window, just to make sure. He saw the top of the principal’s head begin to appear at the window as it would if he was walking towards his desk. "Fuck" he thought. His eyes shifted back to her and he kissed her again but his mind was elsewhere. "Fuck" he told himself, "whats the fucking asshole doing in his office still? GO TO FUCKING LUNCH!" he yelled in his mind. He stopped moving for a moment, and looked into her eyes, faded blue, but beautiful. He kissed her again and pushed her head back with his as he lifted himself upright. He pulled his lips off of hers and began to unbutton her shirt. He kept his eyes on his fingers but his thoughts were on the principals office. He kissed her bare chest and she leaned back on top of him and kissed his lips. He peered around her head and saw the principal still sitting at his desk. "Shes right," he thought, "what are the chances he’d look out the window down at the parking lot, let alone this specific" before he could finish that thought, he saw the principal turn his head towards the door as if he heard someone knocking at the door. He watched just to see what would happen. He saw the principal stand up from his desk and walk towards the door. He saw the door open and the principal stand there for a moment talking to the visitor. She stared at him with a face of flirtatious disappointment but then she saw that his face was serious. "This is a dream" he thought. "Hey why’d you stop?" she asked and he realized that he hadn’t moved his body for some time because he was watching the window. "Shhh" he said briefly. "I’m starting to think you have a crush on him you fucking queer" she laughed. "Why do you keep staring at hi-" he reached his hand up and gently pushed her cheek towards the window. As she turned she saw what he was looking at. She saw the silhouette of a man in the far corner of the room, to the right of the window, opposite the wall the desk was facing. She watched the principal shut the door and walk back to his desk. As he turned, he spotted the intruder and shrunk back in fear. The intruder stepped calmly forward and raised a long knife. The sunlight reflected off the blade briefly before it was thrust into the principal’s chest. The intruder caught and lowered the limp body to the ground and then stood up. He wiped the blade and wrapped it in a black cloth before turning to face the door. He exhaled and placed his hand on the doorknob, twisted, flicked off the lights, and took a step into the hallway. They saw him turn to the right and pull at the mask. He began walking down the hall and walked out of sight just as the mask came off. The couple sat there in the car looking at one another. Neither one spoke, neither one moved.

"I love you." She was looking at me. Looking into me even. Her eyes wide with the soft hope that comes with saying those words. This girl, here and now, has opened up to me expecting me to do the same. What was I to do? A girl's emotions are a frail thing, and one would have to be a monster to betray such trust. "Do.. you love me?" I was taking too long. The panic was starting to show in her face. Her mask beginning to slip. I know how I feel about her, but what was I to do? To say? I did the only thing I could. The only possible choice I really had. I lied. I lied because I didn't want to hurt her. I had seen the brief regret in her face during that silence following her question.. the doubt. I had to make it right. I never wanted to see her sad again, never wanted to see her dreams broken. To tell the truth would be only heartless. I have grown accustomed to her smile. Her happiness bringing me my own in a way that only the strange magic of the mind can fathom. In that moment of confession, she was so perfect.. so sure of her life. The only thing I could hope, in the most secret corners of my heart, is that she could be as happy as she was in that moment forever. Who am I to take that away from this beautiful girl? This kind, and loving girl? I had no choice. I am not the one who deserves her affection. I was never good enough for her. Too far gone for my own angel. What cruel god could create such a perfect human being.. and make her have pity on me? In that moment, every fiber of my being screamed I love you too. I love you so much it keeps me up at night. My heart.. my mind.. my soul.. all said I love you. I said "No.

Unfinished but quite hilarious. Looking for feedback and editorial advice. **The Autobiography Of Hank "Wank" Joe Gooch Jr.** (A short story by *James Portwood*) My name is Hank Joe Gooch Jr. but my friends call me Wank. Here I am, just a layin' in a damned hospital bed, waitin' for my organ transplant ta heal up, with nothin' ta do sept doodle in this here notebook, at least when Jerry Springer ain't on anyways. Hell my cousins was on that show once, Charlie Bob and Susie Ann. Ya see Charlie dun said he was gunna divorce Susie cause she wanted ta get plastic surgery ta look like a mix between Kim Kardashian and one of them asian ladies, tiwaneeze or somethin' like that. Well needless ta say ole Charlie didn't want no part of it seein' how she'd have ta lose bout a hunerd n' fiddy pounds, and he likes 'em thick and juicy. Aww hell I'm a gettin' carried away in my recollections and what not. This is spose ta be bout me. I was born in the great state of Mississippi July 13 1966. The only state that has a confederate flag in the corner of the state flag. HELL YEAH the south can't rise again cause we never layed down brother! Jackson, Mississippi born and raised, damn the south is great, just gets me all fired up thinkin' bout it. Well I bet yall are a wonderin' how I come by the nickname Wank. It's more of an alias really, it keeps the law dogs off my tail. Well I musta been bout 7 years old when my daddy took ta callin' me Wank. Ya see I just couldn't keep my hands off my pork rocket long enough ta keep the dogs from eatin' my squirrel stew. Well I was a hidin' out in my sister Charlene's closet one day just a goin' ta town, skinnin' my hog with a pair of her favorite cut off jean shorty shorts on my face. Well I was full on a strokin' and a chokin' when my ma caught me and grabbed up my ballsack and drug me hoopin' and hollerin' to my daddy. She told'em what I done and he started beatin' the shit fire outta me, with a stick he was carvin' into a Cherokee peace pipe. He beat me till I had knots on my head big enough to hang Christmas tree lights from then broke that stick off in my asshole. I still got the splinter ta prove it. After my ma was gone he looked down at me and said "Boy you spank your monkey more'n anyone I ever seen, we shoulda named you Wank instead a Hank." I recon I took ta likin' bein' called Wank right then and there, so that's what I told everybody ta call me, and it stuck. Well bout 5 years later I musta been bout 12 years old I recon. Me and my buddy Chili Ray was hangin' out. His real name is Billy Ray but he likes chili cheese flavored pork rinds so much we started callin' him Chili Ray. Well we was doin' normal shit, like puttin' bottle rockets in cats assholes and throwin' dogshit at old people when we got ourselves an idea. Chili Ray's pa kept some dynamite around for fishin' and odd jobs and whatnot. We was gonna steal a stick of it and go to the junk yard and blow up an old septic tank. Well Chili Ray got the dynamite and I managed ta get my hands on four mason jars of gasoline. Now we had to make ourselves a plan, we couldn't go in there half cocked with our dicks hangin' out. We decided to stash the goods in my pa's shed and wait till midnight so we could sneak in all ninjee like. Well midnight came round and we both snuck out, I brought the goods and we met at the junkyard. Now this junkyard had the meanest fucking pit bull I've ever seen in my life, and we just happened to run into it. This dog was snortin' and slobberin, ready ta rip our heads right off and skull fuck'em right there. So whacha think we did? You're damn right buddy we ran out fuckin' asses off. Now I may not have mentioned this before but Chili Ray is one fucking fat sumbitch, he must have been 200 fuckin' pounds. So needless to say he couldn't run worth a damn. At one point I looked back and Chili Ray was face down in the dirt kickin' and a screamin', and that dog was rippin' chunks outta his ass while he's shittin' all over the place. So there I was ass and shit flyin' everywhere and I got an idea, I thew down the gasoline and lit that fuckin' dynamite and at the top of my lungs I shouted "HEY YOU STUPID ASS MUNCHING MUTT FEETTTCCCHH". Well I chuncked that stick of dynamite as hard as I could and sure enough that dumb ass dog took off after it, bout 5 seconds later BOOOOM dog guts everywhere. Well about that time officer dipshit comes walkin' up covered in pit bull and hauls our asses to juvy. Apperently some asshole saw us sneaking around the junkyard and called the fuzz on us. Life in juvy wasn't all that bad, me and Chili Ray watched each others backs and we got ta learn all kindsa sweet shit. Like how ta hotwire cars and roll doobies bigger than a turd. But the most important thing I learned there was about love. Our juvy officer was the most beautiful women I've ever seen in my life. Now I may have only been 12 but she made my dick harder than a diamond in a goats ass. I'm talkin' double D tits and and ass so tight you could bounce a roll of nickels off it. I musta beat my dick raw thinkin' bout her and I still do. One day I had the bright idea to grab that ass and she slapped the fuck outta me. She left a hand print on my face deeper than the grand fucking canyon, but it was worth it. She smiled at me, looked around, then whipped them titties out. Now what do you think I did? Well boy I passed out fucking colder than a Eskimo's dick, and didn't wake up for three fuckin' days. She never showed me her tits again but I had the fever, pussy fever that is, but it would be 4 long years before I could taste sweet pink taco. It was 1982, and I had just turned 16. Me and Chili Ray couldn't wait to get some highschool pussy, we were so tired of givin' eachother dutch rudders it ain't even funny man. We only had a month till school started and we needed some wheels in a bad kinda way, so we had to devise ourselves a plan. I had 500 bucks saved up from sellin' weed and Chili Ray had 200 bucks he won at a moon pie eating contest. Now I had my eye on a particular car, a 1974 Ford Ranchero, cherry as fuck with minimal rust. This beauty was sittin' down at Skinny Bubba Teeboe's Used Auto Sales and BBQ shack. Well Bubba wanted 800 bucks and not a fucking cent less, fucking greedy dog fucking, ass raping, cock smoking, turd munching piece o' shit. Well inspiration struck me like it kinda does sometimes, I had just heard my great aunt Sheela tellin' my Ma the other day she'd pay a hunnerd bucks for some feller ta lick her pussy clean and fuck her till her pussy blisters had blisters. She said she was tired of the dog licking peanut butter outta her grand canyon as she put it. Hell she hadn't had any dick since her husband died from suffocation when she rolled over on him ten years ago. Old great uncle Fred, the coroner said he had almost managed to tunnel out by eating his way through her left ass cheek, but his poor belly just couldn't hold anymore ass meat. Well I personally nominated Chili Ray for the task seein' as how they both weighed bout 400 fucking pounds, it seemed to me he had a much better survival rate. I'll admit I was more than a little jealous that Chili Ray was gettin' laid before me but I was just too young to risk dying under my great aunt's jelly rolls. Well I set the whole thing up with ole great aunt Sheela and after explaining the situation she said she was gonna buy me the Ranchero out right! Only catch was Chili Ray had to spend every Saturday night until school started with her doin' the devil's business, it seemed like a fair deal to me. Man I can't explain what it's like driving your first car, it's like gettin' pussy for the first time. A man never forgets those two things in his whole life, it's like freedom, cheese burgers, and nascar all rolled into one unforgettable moment. I pulled into the highschool parking lot with Chili Ray at my side for our first day of school. It was actually the tenth day of school but only losers show up to the first day school. Chili Ray had been depressed for a few weeks now, my great aunt had passed away after their second Saturday together. Apperently from a mass orgasmic heart attack he gave her, he said she was the love of his life and he'd never meet another woman like her. It always cheered him up talkin' bout her so I drilled him for every nasty detail about the two nights he spent with her, and man that was some freaky shit. Well Chili Ray was feelin' better now so we decided to head to class. Hell I don't even know what classes I took, too many words and numbers and shit for me, I was there for one reason only, that sweet poon tang. Well months of pointless book learnin' went by and I still hadn't got my dick wet yet. It was startin' feel like a lost cause man, none of these bitches wanted to give up any pussy but I was makin' good cash sellin' weed when I decided to show up to school. It was on one of those rare days when I saw her. Betty Lou was new in town, the daughter of the new preacher of the Third Baptist Church, and the finest piece of tail I had ever laid eyes on in my young life. I knew then and there that I would get that pussy or die trying. As it turned out it wasn't all too hard to get that pussy, all it took was half a joint after school and she was suckin' my hog like a starvin' hobo. Betty Lou was a slut and after few months of fuckin' like jack rabbits, I found that out. My dick turned greener than a moldy hotdog, man I was pissed off and my dick hurt like hell. Gonorrhea mother fucker, that's some nasty shit, there was puss coming out of my dick before I went to the free clinic, they gave me a shot of penis-illin or somethin' like that and I was good to go. Highschool flew by, probably because Chili Ray and me dropped out in our sophomore year. School just wasn't for us man, we were free birds meant to roam. One day not too long after we dropped out Chili Ray told me he was goin' to hitchhike to Tijuana, Mexico, to find himself or some faggot ass shit. I told him he was too fucking fat to hitchhike and that he didn't need to go find himself cause you could spot his big fat sweaty ass from the moon. Well I guess I just went too far cause Chili Ray just started cryin' like fucking baby, he left for Mexico alone and I lost my oldest friend. 1987, and 21 years old. Man I was tougher than a goats ballsack back then. I had been mostly sellin' weed and doin' odd jobs to get by, the normal shit, like burning down people's houses so they could collect the insurance money, sellin' pictures of my dick to Catholic priests for 20 bucks, sellin, dogs and cats to Chinese restaurant, fucking my sister, man the list could go on and on. Anyways you get it, normal shit. But one day my weed connection Juan said I could be making way more cash working for his uncle who owned a traveling circus. The circus was just a front for the real cash flow, they were actually drug smugglers working for the Mexican cartel.

Hey guys, I wrote a short story that I was hoping to get any feedback/criticism on. This is my first time writing a short story and also my first time posting to Reddit, and I appreciate any feedback. As they did every Sunday, Nora brought her daughter Jill to a new place for their mommy-daughter day. Jill skipped along side her mother as they made their way towards a towering glass building. Nora knew that Jill looked forward to Sundays because she was mostly absent during the week. It's a sacrifice, but I'm doing important work. She would tell herself that while trying to justify that what she was doing was the right thing. After all, it wasn't like Jill's father was around to support them. And these weekends together would make up for the lost time during the week. The automatic glass doors swooshed open as Jill leapt through. "C'mon mommy!! Huurrrryy!" Jill was energetic, curious, and intelligent like her parents. She was only four but was already reading like a second grader. "Oooo" Jill coo'd as she stared at a sphere hovering above a small pool of water. "Where are we today mommy?" "This is a One World Science Exhibition honey." It was after the last World War that the leaders of the world realized our eventual fate. Whether it was because they had finally smartened up or because nearly a tenth of the world's population had died, they finally decided to cooperate. Military funding worldwide was redirected towards science and technology. Together, the smartest minds in the world would come together and invent ways for us to flourish as a species. This was the start of the One World movement. A movement uniting the world towards one goal; longer healthier lives for all people, regardless of race or religion. One World Science and Technology Exhibition's opened up all around the world to showcase the remarkable breakthroughs that were being made and to foster a sense of unity. "There are places like this all over the world honey. It's like a celebration of what we as humans are capable of imagining." Jill's eyes darted from one exhibit to the next, eagerly bouncing in anticipation. "Stay with me, Jilly." Nora took her hand and led her to each exhibit, explaining the basic idea behind the invention and how it would benefit humanity. In the distance something caught Jill's eye. Her mother could tell that she wasn't listening to her anymore. Jill was silent. She stared intently down a dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway was a girl, barely Jill's age. She stood staring back for a moment and then walked around the corner. "I see you've noticed the main exhibit. Let's go take a look." Nora led Jill towards the hallway and around the corner. Against the wall was a cylindrical glass tank filled with water. And floating in the water was the a little girl. The same little girl that Jill had just seen in the hallway. "What.. who is she?" "This is Summer. She is the whole reason the One World Exhibits exist" Before Nora could continue explaining, Jill whispered, "She's lonely." "What was that honey?" "She's lonely and she doesn't understand what's going on." "Well I imagine she would be quite lonely Jilly" Nora knew Jill's imagination could run wild. "No mommy, she's telling me..." "Jill, Summer can't talk. She's been in here for over hundred years and no one has heard her talk." "But mommy..." "Listen Jilly..." Nora led her right in front of the glass tank. She took her hand and placed it on the glass. "Summer isn't alive. Do you know what that means?" "Yes mommy" "She died a long time ago and her body was preserved using technology." Jill was silent. Staring past Nora and straight into the blueish glow of the tanks water. But something was wrong. Nora turned around. Her eyes went wide as they stared straight at Summer's lifeless face. She was such a beautiful young girl. Much too young to have had her life taken from her. Her features were soft and her skin a light blueish gray. "Mommy..." Nora stood entranced by Summers face. "Mommy... she's not dead" Her eyes opened. And Nora screamed.

Chapter 1 (should I continue this story?) At the age of five, I already knew I was different. Sometimes I imagine that I was from an alien planet. Wouldn’t that explain why I could do strange things? Everything around me felt unreal. I was living in a dream world waiting to wake up. But don’t get me wrong, I still love the same things any eighteen-year old girl loved. Movies, clothes, boys, all of the above. I might think that I was an alien but I could love like a human. I discovered my power when I turned eight in a not so pleasant circumstance. In fact, it was a nightmare. I never knew his name. To me he was always The Scary Man with Weird Eyes. He was always around our school staring at us girls, and licking his lips when we stared at him back. We all felt like we were meat on a buffet table and he was taking his pick on who to eat first. He looked greasy with long stringy flat hair, black piercing eyes and a skulking build. A few parents had complained about him and soon he stopped coming around but it was not the last time I would ever see him. The next time I saw him was a week later when I woke in a dingy, dark and musty basement. There were no windows, no sunlight so it must have been a basement. I did not remember how I got there. I was walking home and then something grabbed me. It got dark and here I was. I was awake for a few hours in this smelly room, in the dark. I was alone, hungry and scared as any little girl would be. I had no idea he was the one who had taken me. If I could see better, I thought maybe I could figure things out. I was free to move around but when I kept bumping on sharp things, I stayed at my corner hugging my knees. I cried myself to sleep wishing my mom was here to tell me that everything would be alright. Sometime later, a sliver of light entered the room as a door creaked open. Someone was coming. It was him wearing the same crazy smile as he stared at me and licked his thin lips. He came close and knelt before me. I didn’t move. I was so afraid. He touched my face and I peed in my pants. His fingers travelled to my throat and he squeezed my throat gently. I gasped and tried to pry his hands away. He was hurting me. His smile never left his face as he kissed my head. My precious little girl, he whispered as he tightened his grip. You are all mine to play with. We will have a wonderful time. His voice was like nails scratching on a floorboard. My fear exploded right there and then as I looked into his eyes and caught a glimpse of what he wanted to do to me. That’s when it happened. That moment our eyes met, my fear turned into something else. I was curious. Who is this man? Then I no longer see him. I was looking at myself. I was holding my own neck and I was breathing my scent. What just happened? My own eyes were looking back at me in confusion and fear. I let go of my neck and stumbled back. My body felt heavy and huge. I looked down at myself and saw big dirty hands. I touched my face and touched a man’s face. Then I realized that I was him. I was in him and he was in me. The little blond girl in front of me scowled and lunged towards me. Easily I deflected her and she fell back against the wall. I struck her face and she fell unconscious on the floor. I hope that will not leave a bruise. For a while, I stood there and stared at my body. My head was swirling with his memories. Images of little bodies naked and cut up into pieces flashed in my mind. There were no bodies buried, all had been dissolved in acid. Over thirty girls before me. I gagged. This man was a demon. A hungry, disgusting demon who preyed on little girls like me. And was I stuck in him forever to live in his sins? No, I would not accept this fate. If I could get in him, I could get out. Somehow, I knew this. First, I must save myself. I could not let him back in without making sure that my body was in a safe place. Swiftly I carried my body out of the basement and out of the house. My little self was still unconscious. Once out of the house, I recognized the street. It was not far from the school. I ran towards the school. I knew the house of one of the teachers as once she had taken care of me there when my mother was late. I ran all the way as fast as I could. Once I reached her house, I gently laid me down on her porch. She was home, her lights were on and I could not risk her opening the door and seeing me with myself. The last thing I wanted was to end up stuck in jail and not be able to get back to my body. The next thing was the crucial part. How do I get back? When we changed places we were looking at each others’ eyes and we made a connection. Do we have to stare at each others’ eyes again? Noises were coming from inside the house. I feared I was running out of time. I held up my little body and shook it. Come on, wake up and look at me but I was out cold. Laughter from inside the house grew louder. Someone was coming. I had no more time. I dropped my body on the floor and ran. I ran and hid behind the trees as Mrs Hurley came out with the garbage. Her eyes widened when she saw me on her porch. She screamed for her family to come and immediately carried me inside. I slumped against the tree sobbing. I could not possibly be stuck in this killer’s body. And he was in my body. What mischief could he conjure up in that innocent façade? I hurried away before the cops arrived. A few blocks away, I felt dizzy and had to sit down. My mind was swirling and everything was changing shape. The world spun uncontrollably and I fell on the ground. Then the world changed for me. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at my mother’s face and she brought me close to her as she cried and kissed my cheeks. I smiled as I held on to my mother tightly. So that was how I discovered how I could push myself into another and control them. I did not have to look into their eyes again to return, it just wore off after a certain time. I would experiment more as I grew up mostly with animals and I found that after I left them, a little piece of them stayed in my soul. It was nothing physical but at times a small ability. For example after exchanging souls with a cat, I had suddenly developed a keen sense of smell and an extreme dislike for dogs. As for the Scary Man with Weird Eyes, I never saw him again and I hope that I never will. However, sometimes I would look over my shoulders feeling his eyes on me once more. Nevertheless, there was no one there. It was all just my imagination. Then the day came when I turned eighteen. That’s when the real nightmares begin.

He looks out the tinted window of His personal limo for one final glance of the brilliant city lights that ironically contrast the cimmerian gloom of the city’s dark urban structure. It’s an eye full of mental stress for Him and He wonders what will become of those that still have hope, He has no clue why such nihilistic destruction is being brought upon them. To Him though, to Him it’s a gift. He will drink to that thought and He pours Himself a conservative amount of fine Sauvignon Blanc and His face twinges as He gulps it all down. He hates the taste of white wine but He has to get drunk and this is the only drink available that’s suitable for a person of His stature. Feeling warm and cozy in His expensive suit that was tailored by a famous designer whose name He could not recollect nor could He care any less for. Wondering how hard the tailor must have worked on this suit to sew every stitch to perfection so his work may eventually tread in the domain of art, but only to be bought and worn by a person like Him who could offer absolutely nothing to society. Such people were detestable to Him, they lacked the principals of honour and because of such reasons their work was destined to something so undeserving. He pours another glass and now everything seems a little bit blurry and watching the freezing furious flakes of snow free falling from the aura of the nightly black made His head spin. Tired and impatient He puts down His head and takes glances at His watch. Appraising His thoughts and the time in His mind: Ten – nine – eight (and millisecond after millisecond time ticks so slow) seven – six – five – four (and millisecond after millisecond time ticks so slow) three – two – one and now it is 1:00 am, we should reach our destination in about two more hours. Damn we’re only 33 percent there and another hour until 66 percent. Damn it one more hour – that’s 60 minutes which is also 3600 seconds. Then another hour after that – that’s 120 minutes which is also 7200 seconds. He sighs and sinks down in the leather seat and takes quick glimpses at His watch every 5 minutes to calculate their progress in a percentage. He unintentionally slows down time as He obsessively counts down every minute but by doing so He frees Himself from the bounds of mental conformity and gives Himself one final chance to freely divulge His mental deformity. Wanting human interaction before the end he rolls down the glass partition that covers Him from the driver. It’s a damn cold night Tariq. Yes sir, I know sir, should I turn up the heating sir? First of all stop calling me sir, and no the heating’s fine. It’s just a cold night you know? Not that physical type but that unforgivin’ type that sends chills down our spine and mercilessly weighs upon our soul. Dammit Tariq, can’t you go any faster? Yes sir. Okay sir. He sighs. Okay Tariq. He looks at His glass of wine and awaits the welcomed malice of being drunk from a lake of bitter boundless. 30 minutes, 1800 seconds remain – duration 83% completed. To Him it is an auspicious time and a brand new golden age so He avidly waits for humanity to start writing in its brand new blank page. His thoughts of extremity pass through the glassy streets of now urban dissonance and all the high structured buildings standing in their utter brilliance. Yonder through the newly constructed shelters for fallout do His thoughts pass about. Evacuation escalation - such horrible times and His mind pounds with excitement as the prospect of death surrounds Him as numbing feral waves of coldness cling to the pits of His dumb limbs. He waits for His God given gift for opting out with none of the sin. He sits back with eyes closed to put His mind at ease but death does not come so easily so His eyes shoot wide open and out of His mouth comes- Please. Sir? I didn’t mean to fail. I didn’t mean to lose Faith in the end, but it was uncontrollable. All interest was lost Tariq, and the expectations were just too much. My calling is somewhere else. Heh. It’s most definitely not here anymore. So please let’s just finish this one final stop and leave. So where will you go after this sir? I’ll be returning to base, and then I’ll be starting all over in a completely new place. Okay sir. Okay Tariq. The limo stops near a rustled up coffee shop. His perspective changes, the weather changes, and His personality paces through undetermined cold heartedness. Duration 100%.

I've always enjoyed writing for school. I've always enjoyed writing rants on social media about social and environmental issues. But I've never really used writing as a creative outlet, which I decided to change tonight after my MicroEcon study group. Would love any and all criticism! Would also love to hear any recommendations on shorts stories/books to read! Just Moments Prior: The season is fall. We're at my log cabin in Colorado, along a creek. Works been rough lately, but I longed for these days. To talk beyond the common superficial bullshit we're constantly surrounded by, these damn peasants. Incessantly talking like drones filled of nothing. We’d converse of art, philosophy, religion, history, conspiracy, and how you clawed my back and bit my ear the night prior. I'd stir from a restful slumber as a glorious girl curls against me trying to steal me of my warmth. I might give you a swift, yet gentle little spank on the bottom for that. There would be soft light falling in through all of the windows, which would be ajar of course. White linen drapes dancing from the wind with the sounds of leaves rustling outside. The jays would be singing and chipmunks scavenging as winter impedes. You kiss my cheek and rub my chest. I watch you near the edge of the bed, as you put on your bra and then head into the washroom. I finally make my way to the kitchen and start up a medium roast and whole-wheat toast, our favorite. I then take a moment to look outside at the billion years of perfection – the stream, the grass, the trees, the clouds, the sky, and the mountains. I take a deep breath from the beauty and then feel you grab my waist to hug me from behind. I turn to see you wearing one of my white button ups from work. I pull you in close and run my hand up your side, behind your shoulder, and then through your hair. Staring into those deep blue eyes that are staring into me. I then acknowledged that you’re wearing my business shirt. This isn’t a trip that calls for business casual, strictly casual seduction. You always nailed that look. You then went to finish cooking breakfast and poor the coffee. I always take it black. I started a small fire in the den. Once you finished cooking, you brought the breakfast on a tray. After breakfast I didn’t give us the chance to clean up. I kissed you up your neck, put your hair behind your ear, and gently played with it. I then leaned you back against a plush pillow on the couch. You unbuttoned a few more as I caressed your inner thigh with slow, wet kisses. Due to the teasing, I caused you to pull my hair slightly. This didn’t cause me to break. I continued to retreat up your thigh away from where you wanted me. I went closer to your knee, lazily dragging my tongue and kissing ever so frequent. I changed legs and started the same, a few inches below your knee and worked my way down. Exhale, this gets up both every time. I moved down closer and closer to that radiating warmth that begged for me. What cause me to break wasn’t your gentle moans or hair pulls. It was when I laid my tongue down quite close to where you lay open. This caused your inhale to shudder, your breasts to rise, and back to bend. I couldn’t resist any longer. I went down. And when I did, your hand in my hair shifted to grab the couch and your other hand flew to squeeze my traps. Your back bent in and your stomach melted. Your moans became louder and breaths deeper. I made one of my fingers wet and gently slid it inside. I pulled my head away so I could watch how each movement caused you to dance a different way. Your face buried beneath your hair and eyes closed from breathlessness. I slid my briefs off and picked you up by the waist. Wrapping your legs around my waist, firmly grabbing your rear. You grab my face and slide your tongue down mine. I then swiftly slide myself inside you as you continue to dissolve. Your face pulls away from mine, eyes closed and mouth agape, trying to find air to breath. I slowly lower down to the ground, on the soft rug near the fire. I put you on your back but I don’t let your legs down, I hold them close. I penetrate you, deep. You lost another breath or two. Slow and filling strokes turn to fast and shallow and back again. You scream which causes the jays to fly from our sill. While on my knees and inside you, I wrap a leg around my back and place one over my shoulder. I place my hand on your throat, you melt when I’m in control. As I vary the movement in my hips, causing your mind and body to go numb not know what’s to come, you scream quite a few times more. Being completely satisfied many times over, you beg me to cum inside of you. I willfully subdue. After we caught our breath, we talked about the birds who chirped and how you clawed at my back and bit my ear, just moments prior.

2:42 AM - Armod: Yo 2:43 AM - Armod: Ft 2:43 AM - kalizar: yo yo yo yo yo yo 2:43 AM - kalizar: lets play a game 2:49 AM - kalizar: weirdo 3:09 AM - kalizar: so you say yo and then completely dissapear 3:09 AM - kalizar: do you just have some kind of chat schedule? 3:09 AM - kalizar: like you opened hootsuite and scheduled "yo's" and "whats up" and "how are you doing" like 47 times per day to me? 3:10 AM - kalizar: how do you say yo, and then i say yo, and then just nothin 3:10 AM - kalizar: like you just wanted to say it? 3:10 AM - kalizar: did you get raped just now? 3:10 AM - kalizar: you were like YO and then a giant gorilla raped you and broke your computer? 3:10 AM - kalizar: thats probably it 3:10 AM - kalizar: im gonna assume thats what happened 3:10 AM - kalizar: so the other day 3:10 AM - kalizar: i was walking along 3:10 AM - kalizar: the sun was shining 3:11 AM - kalizar: it was hitting my skin like a warm blanket 3:11 AM - kalizar: so comfortable 3:11 AM - kalizar: all of a sudden 3:11 AM - kalizar: an alien spacecraft came down out of no where 3:11 AM - kalizar: one second it wasnt there, the next it was 3:11 AM - kalizar: it made a giant WHOMP sound as it appeared 3:11 AM - kalizar: i was so startled i didn't know what to do 3:11 AM - kalizar: but before i could make up my mind, a door slowly opened from the spacecraft 3:12 AM - kalizar: it was metallic and shiny 3:12 AM - kalizar: it slowly descended upon me 3:12 AM - kalizar: down 3:12 AM - kalizar: down 3:12 AM - kalizar: down 3:12 AM - kalizar: it came 3:12 AM - kalizar: almost like it was mocking me 3:12 AM - kalizar: i wondering what could be on the other side 3:12 AM - kalizar: i imagined creatures from books i had read 3:12 AM - kalizar: but nothing prepared me for what i saw 3:12 AM - kalizar: ... 3:12 AM - kalizar: .... 3:12 AM - kalizar: ..... 3:12 AM - kalizar: it was a toaster 3:12 AM - kalizar: seriously 3:12 AM - kalizar: a toaster 3:13 AM - kalizar: it quivered with delight as it looked upon my surprised face 3:13 AM - kalizar: WHAT ARE YOU DOING MORTAL 3:13 AM - kalizar: wh.. what? 3:13 AM - kalizar: i stammered 3:13 AM - kalizar: WHAT ARE YOU DOINGGGG 3:13 AM - kalizar: idk why it held the G out 3:13 AM - kalizar: um 3:13 AM - kalizar: im just sitting here 3:13 AM - kalizar: ya know. 3:13 AM - kalizar: chillin 3:13 AM - kalizar: CHILLING??? 3:13 AM - kalizar: said the toaster 3:13 AM - kalizar: yes sir, chillin. 3:13 AM - kalizar: ON MY PLANET WE EXECUTE CHILLERS 3:14 AM - kalizar: BEEP BEEP BEEP TOAST IS DONE 3:14 AM - kalizar: the toaster was beeping and booping left and right 3:14 AM - kalizar: i wasn't sure what to do, but i knew it wasnt just sit there 3:14 AM - kalizar: i got up and looked into my bag 3:14 AM - kalizar: i had a straw, some tweezers, and a glock 40 cal 3:14 AM - kalizar: "better use the straw" i thought 3:14 AM - kalizar: i pulled out the straw and made a mad dash for the toaster 3:15 AM - kalizar: FOR GLORY!!!!!! i yelled as i jumped through the air 3:15 AM - kalizar: unfortunately i cant jump very well 3:15 AM - kalizar: so i landed way short of my goal 3:15 AM - kalizar: the toaster whipped around to face me 3:15 AM - kalizar: WERE YOU TRYING TO POKE ME WITH THAT STRAW???? 3:15 AM - kalizar: um. 3:15 AM - kalizar: no 3:15 AM - kalizar: i said shyly 3:15 AM - kalizar: the toaster knew i was lying and laughed with a thunderous noise that id never heard 3:16 AM - kalizar: HAHAHAHA PUNY HUMAN. I WILL DESTORY YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE RACE!!!! 3:16 AM - kalizar: he left me there and flew thru the air like a metallic superman, his cord dangling behind, unplugged and flapping 3:16 AM - kalizar: wow. 3:16 AM - kalizar: i really should have taken advantage of this straw more fully, i thought. i mean i had way more potential 3:17 AM - kalizar: after collecting myself and brushing some of the rubble from my jeans, i began to wonder what i should do 3:17 AM - kalizar: when all of a sudden, it came to me 3:17 AM - kalizar: "I SHOULD GET REALLY DRUNK!!!" i exclaimed! 3:17 AM - kalizar: i headed to the nearest liquor store, and picked up the cheapest stuff they had 3:17 AM - kalizar: "bottoms up" i thought as i took a giant swig 3:18 AM - kalizar: i coughed and looked menacingly at the bottle 3:18 AM - kalizar: "this is what $1.53 gets me i guess." 3:18 AM - kalizar: after getting sufficiently tipsy i headed out the way the toaster had flown 3:18 AM - kalizar: not knowing what my future held 3:18 AM - kalizar: a path of death and destruction followed the toaster, and left a good line to follow 3:18 AM - kalizar: all of a sudden a pink aura came over me 3:19 AM - kalizar: a feeling of sickness and a burning smell was rising all around me... 3:19 AM - kalizar: SCHNAAAAP 3:19 AM - kalizar: all of the hair on my body had been burned off 3:19 AM - kalizar: i laid in a simmering heap, quivering with fear 3:19 AM - kalizar: i had no idea what had happened 3:19 AM - kalizar: SCCHCNANAAAAP 3:19 AM - kalizar: another body appeared beside me 3:19 AM - kalizar: SCHAAAAAAAPPPP!!!! 3:20 AM - kalizar: people were appearing all over the place. dropping from the air like popped balloons. 3:20 AM - kalizar: SCHANAAAP SCHANAAPAP 3:20 AM - kalizar: bodies 3:20 AM - kalizar: bodies 3:20 AM - kalizar: bodies 3:20 AM - kalizar: everyone was alive, but just barely 3:20 AM - kalizar: i looked around, and there he was 3:20 AM - kalizar: the alien toaster 3:20 AM - kalizar: he was teleporting people here 3:20 AM - kalizar: he stood in the middle of a huge gauntlet 3:20 AM - kalizar: pieces of toast guarding his every side 3:20 AM - kalizar: i looked down at my straw and i knew what i had to do 3:21 AM - kalizar: i bent the straw once 3:21 AM - kalizar: bent it again 3:21 AM - kalizar: bent it a third time 3:21 AM - kalizar: i made the straw into the outline of a potato, and set into motion 3:21 AM - kalizar: i ran 3:21 AM - kalizar: i ran hard 3:21 AM - kalizar: i ran so hard that i didnt know where i was anymore 3:21 AM - kalizar: all i knew is that this potato straw was going to get shoved so far up that toasters ass he'd question his sexuality 3:22 AM - kalizar: running 3:22 AM - kalizar: running 3:22 AM - kalizar: BAM 3:22 AM - kalizar: ... 3:22 AM - kalizar: ....... 3:22 AM - kalizar: what was that? 3:22 AM - kalizar: i came to and noticed that a toast guard had hit me with his butter sword 3:22 AM - kalizar: YOU HEATHEN!!!! cried the toast guard 3:22 AM - kalizar: I WILL DESTROY YOU! 3:22 AM - kalizar: he came at me with all of his crunchy toastyness 3:23 AM - kalizar: fortunately he was just a piece of bread 3:23 AM - kalizar: i simply jumped into a large puddle and when he tried to follow he puffed up to twice his size 3:23 AM - kalizar: NOOOOO he screamed as he slowly came apart 3:23 AM - kalizar: i laughed as i ran again. 3:23 AM - kalizar: "i aint afraid of no toast" i thought to myself. 3:23 AM - kalizar: i ran as hard as i could toward the toaster king 3:24 AM - kalizar: the toaster king spun around as he saw me with a devilish look on his face 3:24 AM - kalizar: SO WE MEET AGAIN he screamed 3:24 AM - kalizar: without hesitation i jumped towards him wielding my mighty straw of justice 3:25 AM - kalizar: "taste my plasticy justice!" i screamed as i hurdled toward him. 3:25 AM - kalizar: all of a sudden, a gust of wind grabbed me and sent me upward 3:25 AM - kalizar: up and up and up i went 3:25 AM - kalizar: i was so far above the earth i wondered if i would ever come down 3:25 AM - kalizar: but just as fast as i thought it, i had a new thought 3:25 AM - kalizar: "uh oh" was about the thick of it 3:25 AM - kalizar: i was falling fast towards the earth 3:26 AM - kalizar: but just as i thought i was through, the toaster jumped vigorously towards me 3:26 AM - kalizar: i landed inside of his toast slot 3:26 AM - kalizar: the metal cavern was like, totally lame 3:26 AM - kalizar: LOL i thought as i looked at my straw 3:26 AM - kalizar: i ran for the side and jabbed the straw as hard as i could into his cold insides 3:27 AM - kalizar: BRRRZZZZZERZRZRZZZZZZZZ 3:27 AM - kalizar: electricity came flowing from all places 3:27 AM - kalizar: everywhere i could see was a buzzing nightmare 3:27 AM - kalizar: BZZZZ 3:27 AM - kalizar: BRRRZZRZRZRZZZZZZZ 3:27 AM - kalizar: BOOOOOMMMMM 3:27 AM - kalizar: ... 3:27 AM - kalizar: .... 3:27 AM - kalizar: ..... 3:27 AM - kalizar: ...... 3:27 AM - kalizar: ....... 3:27 AM - kalizar: i awoke 3:27 AM - kalizar: hello? 3:27 AM - kalizar: HELLO? 3:27 AM - kalizar: i was alone 3:28 AM - kalizar: as i looked around, i remembered what had happened 3:28 AM - kalizar: was the toaster still here? 3:28 AM - kalizar: had i survived? 3:28 AM - kalizar: what would happen to mankind? 3:28 AM - kalizar: everything looked alien 3:28 AM - kalizar: i sat up and rubbed my head with my hand 3:28 AM - kalizar: CLONG 3:28 AM - kalizar: what???? 3:28 AM - kalizar: i looked down. 3:28 AM - kalizar: my hand was metal 3:28 AM - kalizar: i shot out of bed as fast as i could 3:28 AM - kalizar: the nearest mirror confirmed my suspicions 3:29 AM - kalizar: i was a toaster 3:29 AM - kalizar: HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN 3:29 AM - kalizar: my brain was racing 3:29 AM - kalizar: but it was metal and made out of toaster parts so i couldnt think of much 3:29 AM - kalizar: toast guard came storming in 3:29 AM - kalizar: CALM DOWN MASTER 3:29 AM - kalizar: "master????" i thought 3:29 AM - kalizar: YOU KILLED OUR KING, SO WE LEFT EARTH. YOUR BRETHEREN ARE FINE. 3:30 AM - kalizar: WE NEEDED A NEW KING, AND YOU WERE THE STRONGEST EARTH WARRIOR 3:30 AM - kalizar: SHOW US THE WAYS OF THE STRAW 3:30 AM - kalizar: i had defeated the toaster kind, but i was now trapped 3:30 AM - kalizar: the straw was my only hope 3:30 AM - kalizar: i looked down 3:30 AM - kalizar: my metal hand still grasped it 3:30 AM - kalizar: wait, no one ever explained how i got turned into a toaster... 3:30 AM - kalizar: it didnt matter. 3:31 AM - kalizar: i knew what i had to do 3:31 AM - kalizar: i lunged at the closest toast gaurd, taking him out with one swing of the straw 3:31 AM - kalizar: "lol sweet" i thought 3:31 AM - kalizar: i jumped into the nearest spaceship and started it up 3:31 AM - kalizar: idk how i knew how to work it, that's not really important. 3:32 AM - kalizar: i flew as far as i could from the toast planet, when suddenly i was a planet i recognized 3:32 AM - kalizar: earth 3:32 AM - kalizar: well i mean at least it looked like earth, im not a expert in astronomy 3:32 AM - kalizar: i flew straight for it as fast as i could 3:32 AM - kalizar: once i landed, i stepped out and headed home 3:32 AM - kalizar: everyone didnt want to see me though 3:32 AM - kalizar: everyone was disgusted 3:33 AM - kalizar: people were yelling that they'd get their "straws" 3:33 AM - kalizar: i didnt understand 3:33 AM - kalizar: "oh yea" i thought. "im a toaster" 3:33 AM - kalizar: i ran for the nearest house and broke down the door 3:33 AM - kalizar: i grabbed their ugly toaster who obviously hadn't been watching its weight and threw it out the window 3:33 AM - kalizar: "goodbye fatty!" i yelled as i threw it 3:34 AM - kalizar: wait a minute...... why did i call that toaster fat???? 3:34 AM - kalizar: too late, the owners of the house were home 3:34 AM - kalizar: i didnt have time to ponder 3:34 AM - kalizar: i threw myself on top of the counter and took the spot of the whale toaster 3:34 AM - kalizar: after the family came home, everything died down 3:34 AM - kalizar: everything was calm 3:35 AM - kalizar: i had just saved the entire earth, but i was a toaster 3:35 AM - kalizar: i knew what i had to do 3:35 AM - kalizar: i toasted the family's bread as best as i could. 3:35 AM - kalizar: im still here 3:35 AM - kalizar: toasting things, watching, waiting. 3:35 AM - kalizar: the toast army could return at any minute to challenge earth again, and when they do, ill be here, ready. 3:36 AM - kalizar: i keep my straw in my slot. its totally melted now, but i could probably bend it back or something. 3:36 AM - kalizar: i defeated the very thing i became. but at least the world is safe. for now...... 3:36 AM - kalizar: THE END.

This is the prologue to a story I have been writing during the quiet hours at work (don't tell). Premise: Following an attack on home soil, two brothers find themselves in a drastically new world - one governed by small communities and militias fighting to restore order across America. In order to survive the dangerous and often lawless surroundings the two brothers find themselves in, they must do what they can to survive: They must kill to survive. tl;dr: Two brothers in apocalypse America become assassins for warring factions in order to ensure their survival. ~~ Prologue I still remember my first kill. I still remember the feel of the knife in my hand, the sweat covering my brow. I remember the excruciating pain in my legs of internal conflict between the need to move with haste and the oxygen starved muscle. Most of all though it is the hunger that I recall with tremendous clarity. That hunger that erodes common sense that defies lawful sensibility and is bred from desperation. I was sprinting through a dense pine forest somewhere south of New Hampshire in the beautiful yet decaying heart of fall. Some 200 meters away was the man I was instructed to kill. One Tom C Drake: murderer, plunderer and accused rapist was fleeing on foot panting, sniffling and sobbing. I can still remember that stench: that blend of fresh leaves, red oak, fear and blood as I gave chase. It’s disconcerting to ponder on such memories and to think that at the time I believed this man was born without conviction and was discolored with the shades of immorality. A man ill deserving of the gift of life. At least that’s what I tell myself. In reality though I am no better than one Tom C. Drake: murderer, plunderer an accused rapist. The truth of the matter is that those were the birth of desperate times and Tom was simply a man a little faster in his pursuit of desperate measures. The unbiased truth is, though I try to seek humility through meditated and ultimately self destructive justification for my actions, as the distance between my victim and I declined, my knife found its way into his spinal cord, as with the velocity of a freight train and the precision of a surgeon my blade entered this man and sent his soul searching for high heaven; the only thought, the only pure and uncontrived thought that crossed was that this mans death was necessary because with his death I would receive payment of enough rations to feed my brother and I for some weeks. As the adrenaline rattled my internal works continuing to seep through my circulatory system it gave me no comfort that Tom C Drake didn’t die instantly. Removing the knife from the man I rolled him onto his back and for a time I sat with him, or at least tried to practice composure. Such seconds, minutes, hours I’m not sure were amoung the most trying in my seventeen years of existence. I still recall the bright green colour of his eyes as it reflected off the mid afternoon glow. The man was much older than I at the time and I recall with near perfect memory the shock he endured to learn his killer was but a young man more than capable of being his own son. No words were exchanged, just clear and undeniably comprehended non verbal understanding. Tom C Drake’s death assured the survival of myself and my sibling. Nothing more, nothing less. I was paid to kill a man and I assured his blood would seep into the soil of a deep pine forest. Though I try to fashion ethical excuses to shade my guilt, Drakes death was one born out of desperation, survival. Kill or be killed. And to this day that shame scars my very being and that death remains instrumental in the construction of the man I would become.

I turned off the radio as I pulled up. I never cut off Neil Young for anything less than an emergency but I think this qualifies. I turned off the car and opened the wood paneled door. As I gazed out over the lake, where I had spent most of my childhood, a breeze drifted over the water. The smell of the pine trees and the old wood cabin brought about a sudden rush of memories. I stood for a moment and began to walk, past the canoe in which I used to paddle across to the local store, past the fire pit in which had burned a thousand happy memories. I took off my shoes and walked down to the lake’s edge. I felt the sand between my toes and in that moment the rush of childlike wonder, innocence, and freedom came to me as if through a haze. I turned and took in the entirety of the camp, the old swings we used to jump off, the mounds of dirt we used to shoot our BB guns at, the rocks we would play on, the table where we would eat cold cuts and the occasional moose meat stew, and the dock we would sit on when we got older and smoke cigarettes lifted out of our mothers purse. I remember the way this place used to make me feel, as if the birds in the trees where flying with me through a sky of infinite possibility. Now it just feels numb, like a photograph of a younger brother I had lost. I can recall the memories and know the way I once felt but I cannot feel it in my soul. I just feel empty. The lake rippled as I looked across to the old house once owned by my friend Dan. The windowpanes broken, roof losing shingles, a derelict skeleton of a once beautiful home. I remember swimming over there every morning to visit my childhood friend. But that property had not been properly kept up, after Dans mother passed the property was bought by a rich stock broker. To my knowledge he hadn’t been there even once. I found myself full of resentment for time, taking away the person I used to be, the places I loved. Stealing all the fun I once had and replacing it with a cold hollow feeling as I slowly worked myself to death. I used to think I would never sell out. `I would work outside, breath fresh air, see mountains. It was a slippery slope from there. I told myself that an internship was just something I needed to pay the rent while I worked towards my real goal. Then I told myself the full time position was just more money for the same amount of work and of course I would still work towards communing with nature and finding my true calling and regaining that happiness that I once knew. Eventually a full time position turned into a promotion and then another. Before I knew it I was 15 years down the road. I wasn’t in contact with any of my old friends but I told myself people grow apart and it was normal. Somewhere along the line Dan had got himself a wife and we had been growing apart ever since, she didn’t like me. Slowly I found myself alone. Parents claimed by age. Fiancé taken by cancer. I realized I was without ties to the human world. I had no friends at work and my old Aussie Shephard mix, Bear, was getting sicker and sicker. Then one day he couldn’t make it up the stairs anymore. He could hardly make it outside to pee, he was in pain but I couldn’t bare to let go. He was my only tie to life, the only thing that made me feel real. Eventually I knew I had to do it. I brought him to a veterinary hospital and he died with his head in my lap. I could hardly contain my grief. I thought of his ashes in my car. I went and got them brought them to the cabin and tried the door. It was unlocked, nobody had been here in years. I walked over to the bed in which I slept every summer back when I was happy. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with only one sentence on it. I laid it on the bedside table and laid down on the bed. The springs creaked and sagged. I rested Bears ashes on my chest and reached for into the waistband of my pants. Don’t be afraid, this is the answer. I can be happy again, together with my dog and my memories forever. My fingers fumbled in nervousness and then as my hand found the cold metal handle. It was a source of inner calm. The note reads ‘John O’Malley a sinking ship on the turbulent ocean of the mind.

It was another one of those days. Another one of those days when the sun shone down onto the pavement, subtle dances of light playing across the faces of passer-by's as they walked down the road, puddles from yesterday's rain now mere phantoms of their former selves, jewels of grey that looked like kidneys if you squinted but sometimes like dead cats too. A cool breeze blew, lifting up skirts, old men craning their necks to see and laughing their own hollow laughs that mean nothing to anyone but themselves. Harping up and down, stringent and controlled, but carefree in their own right, these chortles embodying entire lifetimes, from missing the one up whose skirt you could look without condemnation to a subtle jovialty expressed towards a life of gentle breezes such as this one with no reproach to anyone. Chains and links clattered from the back of a school bus as it hissed its way down main avenue, the noise temorarily drowning out the sound of birds that sang throughout the afternoon unless it rained, like it sometimes did, at least judging on past experience. Eva rested her head against the bench and felt every knot and bump in it, gliding her neck against it, feeling the soft tender warmth that it gave off after a whole day spent in the sunlight but only brief thirty minutes spent in the shade. Above her a cedar tree spread its bony limbs like a whale or a bird or a bat or something else entierly. The warmth, in conjunction with the breeze and the chortle and the clanging of bus chains made Eva forget all about similes and other points of comparison for the blooming branches above her. An orange tree grew proudly across from where she sat, behind a bench that housed a smiling old man that leaned against his cane and occasionally smiled. Beside Eva, on the empty side of the bench, lay a closed novel, its cover becoming an unwilling host to a single cedar leaf that had released itself from its foundation and drifted down, born aloft on the sensations of a dwindling and yet seemingly unconquerable summer. She raised the back of her head from the backrest and stretched, the sudden replacement of the warmth of wood for the temperate breeze startling her briefly, and cradled the novel in her hands, careful not to let the leaf slip, alas it render this whole exercise pointless. Bearing the novel now in her hands like a tiny leaf frog she held an eternity of sunny days ago she used a pinch of her thumb and forefinger to lift the leaf from the cover. It stuck, offering an irk of resistance. For a moment she tried to lift it with the least amount of strenght possible, just to see how much it could withstand. Not much, because it broke free of its moist coffin on the second, and ever so gentle tug. The bottom of the aforementioned leaf was dry and already withering, some pesky caterpillar having made its home inside of it, the once taut green skin now a deathly brown. Crushing in the first of her hand, she aimed to see how much of it she could still feel when closing her eyes. Tiny triangles of dead plant matter scratched against her skin, the touch of it reminiscent of the sensation one gets when crumpling an already overdue note telling you that you've got cancer.

Minute by minute the time passes. All I can do is hold tight to my rifle and wait. Wait for the sound. For the signal. The go ahead. A single ping, that's all I need, then I'm cleared for egress. Egress. Leaving a place. The act of doing so. All there are right now are words. The armor is getting uncomfortable. Biting into me in awkward places, pressed tight to my form because I'm packed in a metal air vent. My mouth still tastes like metal and the iron stink of blood is all I can smell. It was never supposed to happen like this. Never, never ever. I remember snippets. I remember being a child. I remember being taken from my home. My mother and father were killed. It was terrible. It was the worst possible thing that could have happened. I was so scared, so terrified, so alone except for the strong arms of the woman who took me away from them. Women. It's always women. There are no male Operatives. Males don't take to the genomodding like females do. Then I remember her face, the woman who took me. Knife, is her name. Knife Violet. A noun and a color, it's how they name us. A noun a color and a serial number. Knife Violet, seven foot three inches tall, two hundred seventy one pounds naked, serial number 3356Z33Z5C. The woman who ended my life before it had even began. Her face, cold and empty and impassive. Nothing behind her eyes. Not a shred of morality or regret, no guilt. I envy Violet. She's free. Free of thoughts. Free of pain. Free of everything that I am currently burdened by. She is truly what I wish I was. A tool to be used, not a thing with free will and a broken mind and twisted notions of justice. Then the woman, the Commander. Oh, Commander. My Commander. The softeness of her skin. Her cheekbones, her soft green eyes, the way her lips looked when she smiled that cruel smile of hers. I remember her next, yes. She wasn't informed until after she was brought in how us 'Operatives' are gathered. When she was informed, she was almost executed. She almost rebelled. Then something stopped her. Next memory, a scrap, a flash. Seven years old. Taken on an operation. They had used me to kill a dozen people. Terrorists making bombs, hitting schools. One of the operations I feel no guilt for, that one is. Those people, regardless of their ideals, were going to attack civilians for the sins of the government. Sins of an interstellar multi-planet government alliance. After the killing, she took me to the park. She got me ice cream. She said no one could ever know what she was doing with me. Oh Commander, why? Why would you torture me? How does this serve the lord our god? It doesn't, she answered. God isn't real. It's just a layer of control. A layer of control laid down on you, wrapped around you. She held me while I cried. I'd never killed before. She pressed an injection gun against my neck after I calmed down and said she was sorry, she sobbed her apology. Click. Hiss. Drugs in my blood. The last hour and a half gone from my head, for the most part. Except for scraps. Blurry flashes. I shouldn't even remember that much but my brain is different in ways they didn't realize. The drugs don't work right on me. Commander... I remember. Eighteen years old, a scrap there. A gunshot wound on my arm, minor. Just a cut really, a deep one. We had to hide a while, wait for pursuit to stop. We tucked ourselves in a tiny cement maintenance room off of a subway tunnel, planted intellimines and waited. While there, she cleaned the wound and sutured it. Commander, age: 31, height of six feet three inches, weight unimportant, serial number... I can't... I can't remember. I can't remember. But I remember I kissed her. I remember it wasn't the first time I'd kissed her, but I also remember that while I knew I had kissed her before, I couldn't remember the kisses. I had been wiped so many times to protect her, to protect myself. We made love, in that cold cement room. I gave the big middle finger to god, to their ideas, to their tortures and I kissed her like it was the end of the world. I felt her moving on me. I don't remember what her lips tasted like, what she tasted like far lower than that. I don't remember how warm her body was. I remember red, red hair just like mine. A shock of it on her groin and the close cropped stuff on her head. I remember her sobbing when we were done. I don't want to make you forget again, Red. Red, that's me. Mercy Red. Age... twenty. Twenty years old. Height, five foot one inch tall - the smallest of all the genomodded operatives. Weight, one hundred ninety nine pounds naked, thank you, muscle density. Serial number... 6604B22B63I. Numbers are important. I can remember numbers. I remember her birthday. I remember the date we first made love. I remember the date when my lips first touched hers but it's all... it's all numbers! It's all fucking numbers! I can't feel it in my head! I can't! They made her take it from me! Take it all! So I raised the injection gun to my own neck and smiled at her, holding back tears. I love you Commander. Click. Hiss. Torture. She did it because the second one of us tried to leave our little secret army, the government would know something was up. She was trying to protect me. I willingly allowed her to erase herself from my mind to protect her. Now, in this air vent, I wait. I wait and I stare at this picture of her. She is in a bed, her bed, a bed I don't remember sharing with her once. When she set up the camera I don't know. But there is my tiny form against her, my shaggy red hair a god damn mess, and there she is. There she is, from head to toe. Exposed, vulnerable. I am asleep, she is awake. Her eyes, her soft green eyes, catch the moonlight coming in slats through the blinds and god, she's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I don't remember loving her, but I know I do. I know I love her so much. But as I stare at the picture, I realize it's all faded. The emotions. It's like a dull ache in my gut, all the time. A splinter in my mind. I remember... oh god, the last memory I have of her is one that wasn't erased. Blood. Blood on her face. A clean hole in her temple. She said to me before I went, before I ran, right before the gunshot rang out and I turned for just a second to see her limp body falling... Kill them all, Red. Kill them all for me. I love you so much. I'm so sorry. Kill them all. Now the ping, in the speaker of my helmet. I flick a switch and the muscular enhancement systems of my armor go live. This is the end game. My final move. The queen scraping across and empty board and their king can't run, he's backed into a corner, my pieces on all sides. Play chess with me, oh you bastard people. Play a game with me, with my life, with my commander! I slip from the vent and my rifle comes up. Click, click, click. I used to hate killing. I'd cry. Now it's just downright pleasurable. I'll kill whoever I want, whenever I want. The bullets fly, but my armor is dumping so many chemicals into my blood that time is moving real slow around me... or, I'm moving real fast. It's what they made us for. Us few, proud, brave. The Temporal Distortion Field Manipulation Suit does all the work, but my body was custom tailored to survive the processes. Built since I was a child into this thing, this weapon. A dozen men fall in under two seconds and I move on, stalking down the hallway. The bridge of the ship, nestled in the middle, explodes behind me. The ping was the three second marker. Everything has to be perfect. The synchronization has to be flawless. The blast doors are dropping on a special part of the ship. A secondary, eject capable bridge on the underside of the massive Eden class super carrier Dream. I force myself to run so fast my muscles begin to tear under the strain but it's irrelevant. I will heal. I always heal. My ass hits the ground hard and in a shower of sparks I slide. I fire another two dozen rounds from my magnetic accelerator rifle. Blood is in the air. I've accelerated to such a speed that as I plant a foot and slam my arms back, I can see the drops of red almost suspended in air as I rise, leaving deep dents in the metal floor. The rifle is cast aside. Pistols come out, cameras on each. Seventy men, seventy men in the secondary bridge. Soldiers. They were expecting an attack. Forty rounds in each pistol. Perfect. Cameras on the end of each one go live. My vision switches over to those cameras, my synthetic metal replacement eyes going dark. They can't even get their guns up before I'm turning in a circle, aiming in both directions. Commander. Oh Commander. My Commander. They're dead. I don't even care. I march to the five men, the emergency pilots, and I draw the blade from my back, and I behead each of them before they can scream. While their corpses fall, I throw the blade aside and the blast doors seal me in. An Eden class super carrier. Dream. The primary military carrier, holding more than five hundred thousand people, crew and soldiers. A floating fortress. Coordinates are set. I hesitate. I could join you, Commander. I could join you where we could forever be together. But you want me to live. I shall live. Ejection. Clamps release. Auto-bolts unscrew. Emergency explosives detonate. I am sailing away into space, the engines going hot, moving me into auto-orbit. I watch then, on the monitors connected to the external cameras. All engines are going full power on the carrier. It accelerates slowly, breaks the atmosphere. I prepare to fire its nuclear payload. Enjoy your nuclear winter, Generals... "Let this be a message," I whisper into a microphone, broadcasting to anyone on the planet who might listen. It will be relayed to other planets. "I am coming for you, those who made me, who took my Commander from me. Escape if you can, but I will find you. My name is Mercy, and I'm afraid... I can't remember the meaning of my name.

...There it goes again, those girls came again, crowded in the class like they owned it. Being the most successful AND the coolest student in the school sure is awesome, it's like there are imaginary spotlights shine on you straight 24 hours. Being cool...just like him, Stephen V. Devidson. Wait! You think I'm introducing myself? You are wrong, not even close. Move your visions to that row of students next to the windows, now to the corner at the back of the class. Yep, the little buddy that is now enjoying himself with light novel and high quality musics came out from a set of Beat by Dre is me. Jimmy Wu, the loser among losers. Let me explain why I'm the loser among losers, although I'm an average student when it comes to study, I never befriended a girl, never touched one, never talked to one, never DATED one for 16 years! Even boys avoid me for a very simple reason: I'm an otaku. An anti-social, an anime lover, a gamer and a NEET that never wanted to leave his house without an acceptable reason. Anyway, I should stop talking about myself because it may bore you to death. Oh gosh, look at the time, I put all my entertainments into my bag because it's about time to start my first class after summer. [The bell rings and students go back to where they supposed to, followed by a teacher walked into the classroom] "How you kids been doing this summer? Had fun?" That's my homeroom teacher, Sis Katie Walker. There's a reason why we call her that. "I really understand you teenagers, so...do you guys had some 'fun' with the girls?" The whole class went silence and I screamed "shit" loudly in my mind. "Come on guys be honest! Ain't teenagers these days like to have romantic relationships even before they are old enough to get their driving license?" The whole class kept their mouth tight, it's just a matter of time before she became crazy. "YOU SIR, ZACK. ANSWER ME!" So this time's victim is Zack, may the God bless you. This happen all the time, it's a symptom when she get rejected by guys and being extremely sarcastic "Wh...what do you mean by that? I...I don't even have a girlfriend... Miss Walker..." Are he out of his mind or what? That's the taboo of the class. "Zack...How many times I told you kids, use 'Sis'." Zack shocked and knowing his doom is near. "I'm only 39 and still single, as a punishment for you to not remembering it, you need to hand copy the homework I gave before holiday 2 times and hand it to me next week OR I DOUBLE IT!!" The whole class sympathy him and his foolishness, the homework is 500 words essay by the way. [Sis Walker calms herself down and continue] "We wasted so much time, I felt so sorry to let her stand there for so long." She said that while walking toward the door. "Come in, introduce yourself." A slender figure walked in. "Her name is Utako Kurosaki, she will become one of you kids starting today." The slender figure revealing a blonde haired girl, a Japanese? is those hair dyed I wonder? Her face, combined with a pair of glasses, looks so ordinary that I can't have any comments on her. Her body...is this what people called surf board? "My name is Utako Kurosaki, I'm transferred here because of some family issues, please take care of me." Although I thought a transfer female student can be attractive and the whole class will became crazy right after the Japanese-style introduction just like in the animes, I was wrong, she is so normal that the word "lame" is much more suitable for her and the class is silenced with the boredom of the girls and the disappointment of the male students. "Emmm, oh well, you can sit beside...what his name again? Whatever, just sit beside that kid." Her finger pointed at me with an insult-like statement, the empty table beside me finally found its owner I guess? The last row of tables excluded me were always empty, that's why I somehow can understand the tables' feeling of being alone, if they are alive. The girl walked to the empty table, she wipes away the dusts on the table as soon as she sits on the chair, without knowing the chair is actually just as dusty as the table. "Alright, let get started by taking attendance." Sis Walker calling each student's name, one by one, while I slowly move my eyes toward the transfer student to check her out, just for my own curiosity. Then, our eyes met, what a romantic situation ain't it. She then whispered softly and coldly. "What are you looking at? HENTAI." With this awkward situation, I had again concluded that I'm the loser among losers and somehow...a pervert? To any readers that take time to read my story, thank you. This story is actually an exercise for me to write essays for school, so instead of votes, I want comments, any comments will be accepted, negative or positive, just tell me what mistakes I made and I will correct it next time, again, thank you.

I think I am going insane but I am also a psychiatrist, I'll just treat my self, solve what ever is eating me alive. I put up a mirror so I can look at the psychiatrist which is me. I kept telling my self that I am not insane but for some reason that always made me feel more insane. The reflection of me started to talk and I started talking back to it. I started talking to my reflection about my child hood and friends that I had and any imaginary friends. "remember Charlie the imaginary friend of yours, yeah I remember Charlie the imaginary friend of mine but my mother, what about your mother, she always use to give me a beating because of Charlie" I said to my self looking in the mirror But it wasn't my mother or father even though both very violent and yes I grew up in a unhealthy family, violence seemed to flow through my family but all families have a bit of violence in them, don't they? but it wasn't them that were the root of my psychological problem. Then my reflection said to me to talk about my sexual abuse and I shouted back "no no, that's degrading its humiliating" I said to my reflection, but my reflection shouted back and in vengeance it was pure louder and angrier than mine "yes yes tell me about your sexual abuse you weak boy" my reflection said to me "I don't know I don't know! but I am the psychiatrist this is so fucked up, I am trying to help my self, I am a psychiatrist and a patient to my self how lame!" I said to my self But its not the sexual abuse that I got from the older lads at my school that were the root problems of my insanity that I am trying to solve about my self. The biggest challenge in all humans, is the challenge about the 'self' your greatest enemy is your self. Then I started looking at loneliness, I am a very lonely person and I just can't seem to get along with people, in social situations and dating. I look at the mirror and I tell my self "what's wrong with me, what's going wrong in my mind?" I actually said this a couple of times and my reflection replies "you know the answer, just say it your self" my reflection told me Then I started, self medicating with drugs and eating tablets and talking to my self more and taking antidepressants. I ordered it all to my self by the orders of a psychiatrist, which is me, that's right me. I sound insane for a psychiatrist and I started to question how I even managed to become a psychiatrist. "what's wrong with me what's wrong with me, come on, you help many insane people but you can't help your self!" I shouted to my self Then I became silent, did I just call my self insane? I did didn't I, what if I am insane? can an insane person help another insane person? I admit I have had a crazy life and a fucked up, upbringing and sometimes I even contemplate too committing suicide and I help other patients who are suicidal just like me. I am the psychiatrist come on, I can solve this, I am not a puzzle to my self. Just say it and declare it, its ok life is harsh and weird, just say it. "I am insane, I am an insane suicidal psychiatrist that helps other suicidal insane patients" I told my self Then my reflection replied "yes your are, because If you weren't insane then you wouldn't be talking to your reflection wouldn't you" my reflection told me "now how does that make you feel, psychiatrist?" I told me self "I feel liberated, I feel free as well as a hypocrite" I replied to my self in the mirror Then a suicidal patient of mine was about to come in and I stopped what I was doing.

The water lapped gently across the bow of the small, one-masted vessel tied to a tiny unassuming river dock. The sun was an hour or two from rising and already a thick fog rose from the brackish water, the stench of fish and algae mingling with the smell of sweat, rum and urine that seemed a staple of any boat. The crew sat on the upper deck, waiting for the signal from the captain to shove off, their cargo already stowed. The first mate, Pegg by name, a short muscular rat of a man with a gnarled black scar across his nose and a disposition to match leaned in close to the captain and whispered “Sir, it is almost time for the tides to change, if we are to make it north without interference we should-“the captain raised his hand and cut him off, silently scanning the cobblestone streets for something. As if by the will of some god, just as the hand fell to his side, from the mist emerged two figures, one supporting the other. They slowly got closer and the crew could see that one was bedecked in the garb of a kavassi soldier, steel cuirass catching the glint from streetlamps and articulated gauntlets and greaves clanking softly with every motion. The man next to him is what drew the attention of the crew however. He wore a blue roughspun peasant shirt, brown standard issue trousers though dirtier and far more tattered than regulations allowed, his feet were bare and bleeding and his hair was long and wild. He limped alongside the soldier, obviously in considerable pain but with the erect pride and purposefulness of a career soldier. The captain walked down the gangplank halfway to meet the two guests. The soldier, a corporal by the look of the dual gold stripes on his sword sash, reached for the purse on his hip. He unfastened it and tossed it underarm to the captains waiting hands. “Count it if you want its all there” he said with a slight air of distaste “You don’t git far in my line o work by blind faith lad. Aint nothin ta do with yer honor” the captain replied, face downturned and hand in the money sack. He looked up after a moment and with a grunt replied “very well. Bring him aboard… by the way, consider yer favor spent.” “so it is.” The soldier turned to the other man, and holding out his arm for a handshake said “Sgt. Ingram, its been an honor sir. Regardless of what the frekkin’ brass said, you did the right thing sir.” the man firmly grasped the others forearm in a handshake the captain had only ever seen used between soldiers. A formal gesture of respect and honor usually. “Karl, I told you… It’s not Sergeant. Not anymore at least” “nonsense, Sgt. You’ll always be one in my book.” “youre too kind Karl. But you have risked so much already by letting me out of that cell. You know what you have to do.” the one called Karl shifted slightly in his armor, as if he were a child getting lectured “yes sir but… I don’t think it’s just… I mean we can-“ “No. If they find me gone you will be one of the first blamed. They want an example and I would rather you avoid my fate too. You know what you have to do” “yes sir” at that, the man grabbed Karl behind the head, at the base of the skull and pulled him forward. Their foreheads touched and the position was held for a minute. A typical Kavassi gesture of farewell, typically intimate, it was reserved for family usually, although like all gestures, some groups had adopted it for their own purposes. The grip was released and the man, who was henceforth to be known to the crew as “traveler”, slowly limped up the gangplank bringing a stinking scent of body odor, manure, blood and dirt with him. He turned when he reached the deck and Karl said “Sgt Ingram, if anybody asks, this repays our life debt” the the man, apparently called Ingram the captain noted, looked with sad almost paternal eyes at the young soldier standing on the docks and said mournfully “Karl, there was never any debt to pay. It was war after all. Now, go. Quickly before the watch finds us” Karl turned swiftly on his heels and at once faded into the mist. The first mate made his presence known and, walking slowly, arms held outstretched to the sides declared “whats this now? A Kavassi soldier fleeing the capital? And a Sergeant no less. Tip your hats lads; we are in the presence of royalty.” A roar of laughter began to echo from the half drunken sea dogs “so what was it? Killed your superior? Boned a provincial’s daughter? Haha I got it! You got drunk and ruined a general’s party! And here I thought you legionnaires had no conception of fun!” The new passenger turned to the captain and said matter of factly “no time for introductions captain, we need to shove off right now” The first mate, obviously wounded by this blatant refusal to respond to the taunts dropped his arms and began marching towards the new man, scowl on his face “Look here boyo, you may have passage but that don’t mean I trust you. Way I see it you could be a government spy. And I don’t take kindly to spies. So… I’ll ask again. Why are ye lookin’ ta leave the capital… Sergeant” and at the sneering use of the mans honorific, a wad of tobacco and spit flew from Pegg’s mouth onto Ingram’s bare feet. Ingram looked down, then turned to stare at Pegg. “Listen, I do not know what I have done to offend you, and I am sure you cannot dredge up enough brains to figure it out yourself, but right now we are at risk of having something very bad descend on all of us and I, frankly would love it if we avoided that. So stop waving your cock around and help me out. Maybe afterwards you and me can tussle. Lord knows it wont be hard knocking out whatever teeth you have left.” Pegg took a step back, then his brow furrowed and his lips fumbled for the right phrase as he raised his fist to strike. Ingram took a step back and raised his arms in a defensive stance, the sleeves slid halfway down his forearms revealing a red and raw stripe on either wrist. Manacle wounds always festered for a while and it seems that Ingram’s were no different. Pegg yelled out “you sonofabitch, nobody fecking talks to me like that” and stepped forward just as a booming voice echoed over the sound of jeers, catcalls and riverwater “Put yer damned fist down ya bloomin idiot!” Pegg froze and turned to face the captain who stood there holding a rusty revolver “this man is our guest and I expect a little more hospitality from you. Ya heard?!” Pegg turned away and muttered something under his breath “EXCUSE ME Mr. Pegg. I believe I asked ya a question.” Pegg, defeat across his face exclaimed “aye, cap’n, I heard ye” “good. Now, boys we ourselves have secrets we want to keep. I doubt the good lords of kavass would take kindly to the supplies we have stored belowdecks eh? Lets do as the man says and shove off. Make it quick damn ya!” the men scrambled to their positions and began to untie thick ropes and unfurl a large square sail as others scrambled to their positions belowdecks, presumably to secure the illicit cargo they had obtained. The captain, an imposing giant of a man who stood near as tall as a sarkin with a thick red beard turning white on the fringes and a salt stained leather coat that seemed a size too short, holstered his aged pistol and ambled over to Ingram. Ingram eyed him warily, as if he were sizing up the man who held the volatile first mate in such a firm grasp. “ya needent be mindin Pegg mister. Hes a hothead and an imbecile but cant find no better man to have in a scrap, and though he got porridge for brains when it comes ta dealin with most folks, he knows the sea like a mother hen knows her young.” “that’s always valuable.” “indeed it is. And while yer a guest here, I caint always promise that ill be watchin yer ass. Best to not piss off the men any more.” Ingram stared firmly ahead into the blackness of the night, down river and away from the city. “well, smugglers often have a reputation for… never mind” “oh no. ill have it said, you were saying somethin’ bout my crew?” Ingrams jaw clenched and he inhaled deeply before slowly turning his head to face the captain “nothing. Its just… I never thought I would ever be in the company of liars and thieves, much less requiring their aid.” “nay. Reckon ya didn’t. never figured id be doin’ this either, yet here we stand. Best get yer mind right boy. We do this and you aint a kavassi no more. Yer yer own man and all that hive mind shit ya learned goes with it. Seems ya aint much for that shit ya got crammed down your throat anyway. Nah, don’t tell less you feel like it. Aint gotta know.” The captain waved his hand as Ingram opened his mouth to speak before continuing “now, I know that ya aint too keen on my men and that’s alright. We aint courtin ya. But ya best realize that right now we are all that stands between ya and whatever fate them stickups in their tower had planned for ya. A little respect would be nice” Ingram clenched his fists, then unclenched them before slumping his shoulders and stating as slowly as possible “yes. Of course youre right. Forgive my rudeness. Your hospitality is most” “stow it. Ya said time is of the essence. Why?” “karl, a former… protégé of mine freed me from the brig after I was asked to stay for a time. He was appointed as my jailer. If they see me missing, it will be his head they take. They want an example and in their eyes he is just as complicit as I am in the crime.” “a fine tale. What does that mean for us?” “it means he has to give them no reason to suspect him. We have 5 minutes before-“ and as he spoke, a harsh whistle broke the silence. Three blasts sounded followed by the tramping of boots and a cry of “HALT THERE!” the captain turned to Ingram and said “yer man sent the watch to us?!” Ingram, already heading for the nearest rope grunted “worse, he sent the barracks guard” The captain pulled out his pistol and roared “alright boys! Cut the ropes, pull the plank and all ahead full! Looks like we o’erstayed our welcome in the fair city!” he then turned to ingram and said “ya know anythin’ about sailin?” Ingram, fumbling with a fairly complex knot said “not a damn thing but get me in a fight and im as good as gold” The captain grabbed at his purple grox-leather belt and produced a falchion, imperial designed and in fairly good condition, all things considered. He charged forward and with a bellow swung the falchion downward, severing the knot in ingrams hand, as the coils fell to the deck he said “no time fer that. Take this, its as good as yers. Make sure these bluebellies stay offa my ship damn ya!” Ingram nodded and as he hefted the falchion and dropped into fighting stance the ship began to move. The Guard, fully emerged from the mist and fog began to sprint towards the end of the docks, while a few dropped to one knee and took aim with long flinted rifles. Two shots rang out from the rigging and a halberdier and a lad bearing a short sword and buckler both fell. The riflemen began to shift their aim when a thud arose from the aft section of the vessel. The ship lurched and froze as Ingram looked and saw a grappling hook attached to a stanchion on the docks and the deck of the vessel. There was a man or two already attempting to shimmy up the rope to get on deck. Ingram ran to the hook as fast as he could. Another chorus of shots rang out and wood splintered around him, causing him to stumble for a brief second before rising again. He got to the hook just as a man, a boy really, with a leather breastplate and a steel sabre was clambering aboard the vessel. He got his bearings just in time to see the disheveled madman bearing down on him at full sprint. Ingram leapt from his feet and tackled the lad, sending him sprawling. Ingram recovered first and, grabbing his falchion from beside him where it lay on the deck cut the rope, resulting in a loud splash and a sudden bolt of motion from the ship. That’s when Ingram felt a arm close around his neck as the boy grappled with Ingram. They fell to the ground and Ingram rolled over to free himself. The boy, however expected this and ended up on top of Ingram, straddling his chest and pinning his arms with his knees. He delivered several successive punches to his face and reached for a dagger when Ingram, seeing his chance, brought his head crashing into the boys nose. The lad reeled in pain and Ingram threw the boy off of him, rising to fight just as the boy grabbed the falchion and held it to Ingrams throat. “Nicholas Ingram. I hereby place you under arrest by the authority of kURGH…” the boy sputtered and spat blood from his mouth as a loud shot echoed in the air. “Oh im sorry. Did I interrupt yer concentration? Forgive me but lad. On my ship, my authority is the only one that’s recognized and, frankly… I don’t like yer tone” the boy fell to the ground coughing up blood and gasping as the captain approached, pistol smoking in his hand. “hey Traveller. Yer reckless as hell but yer good in a fight. And truth be told I been needin a sworn sword since Kiril, my last one got the fever. Ill get ye some gear and call these damages to my vessel… and crew… even if you help keep some fellow lowlives away from my cargo. We’ll take ye north and to freedom.” “how far north?” “furthest im goin’ is Clearwater. But we can take ya there. Tis a busy port and a fella can find some decent work to be had. What say ya? We got a deal?” “looks like I have no real choice do I?” “well we could gut you and leave you for dead in the river so them soldiers don’t think to chase us.” “at least you are honest about it” “you will find sir, that even among thieves, there is still some honor.” “Very well. I accept.

“My eye itches.” “Well, then pull it out.” Nathan struggled to get his fingers around the eyeball, and Jonas came around the back of him and pulled it out with one quick movement that left Nathan dumbfounded and staring blankly at the lake in front of him with one eye. “That will be 200 dollars, please.” Jonas examined the eye and then flicked it out towards the lake. A ripple ran across the water and then began to bubble and a mesh of algae flapped onto the beach like a wave and combed the sand until it reached the eyeball and then flapped back into the lake. Nathan watched and then removed a small bag from inside his jacket. He counted out four gold pieces, while wiping blood from his cheek. “You got a hanky?” “I have four. They will cost you 25 dollars a piece.” Nathan shook his head and poured the bag onto the towel he was sitting on and rummaged for the silver. “You know, we haven’t got long.” Jonas said. He looked around at the lake and the desert on both sides and towards their backs. “They will be here soon, and we’ll be left with death. Death in these bodies.” He ran his hand through his hair and it left a look of disgust on his face. “Already rotting.” His hand had pulled back skin and pus and he wiped it on his leg. “They – the people who live here, used to believe in genies. These wizards that dwelled in pots or bowels or something would grant wishes and used pottery as bodies. We could do that.” “We can’t do that. We need a charge. Anything. Something to return us to the Earth. Otherwise…” Jonas made a gesture with his hands that said “poof”. “I don’t want to die up here. 1000 years. 1000 years. No return. We were promised a return. We deserve it. And now all we need is a bolt of lightning.” “Years back there were machines. We had all the machines in the world. All the return trips in the world. Why didn’t we take them, Jonas?” “We forgot. Didn’t remember where we were from.” “I just thought we were vampires or something. Like genies. Make believe things…why do you want money? We haven’t got much time to live.” “I don’t know. Habit, I guess.” Jonas poured his bag of gold and silver into Nathan’s lap. “There you go.” Nathan picked through the gold and held a piece up to the sky and looked at it. “This one’s from 2004. It’s a quarter. Remember them?” Jonas scanned the desert behind him and said “Yeah”. “What do they want? I mean, the people that are coming? Why do they want to kill us? We’re already dying.” “Most likely money. That’s usually why these people want to kill.” “There’s hardly anything left to buy here.” “I don’t think that was ever the point. Not the point at all. In fact, the history of this place could be defined by that. These people strived for nothing. A waste. Look around you at what they left.” “There’s life still left.” “Yes. That character over there in the lake that ate your eye. Fancy that as a riding companion. Or the creeping things left in the woods to the North. Lava. Lots of lava teaming with the very same Fire Walkers that are hunting us now. And even they want money. No, if there’s anything underground left alive, it’s better than this. This is the afterbirth. We were the kings. But I fear there may be nothing left below either. I used to…feel them.” “You don’t feel them no more?” “I don’t. I don’t even feel you. I feel nothing but this body. Even if there was a charge, I think it would just kill us. I’m walking into the lake.” “Why?” “Why not? See for yourself.” Jonas pointed out towards the desert where flames were moving in the distance. “That’s your death, otherwise. To be burned alive or drowned? I prefer drowning.” “I can’t decide.” “Then I will for you.” Jonas hunched down and picked up Nathan and dragged him down to the lake. “Just like the eyeball, boy.

I remember having lived before. And, I think, a bit later. All though not much later. I am pretty certain this world nears an end. Or pherhaps its just my existance. It doesn't really make much of a differense. I do hope though, that its only me. This place, this plane of existance on this planet where i have lived my lives is a beautiful place, and I hope it gets at least another few thousand years before expiery. I could not tell you exactly howe many lives I lived. -Six, for certain, not counting my current embodiment. Flashes of memories that doesnt really fit elsewhere could suggest hundreds of lives. Some times when woken from deep sleep, I truly think I have lived all the lives there is. Yours too, and your parents, your kids and your pets. Every and all lives of men and mer, beasts, fish and bug. I have been the mindless plankton, drifting forever in the currents. I have been a great sabertoothed bear, larger than any bear the world can reminesence today and only a bear because no other mammal would fit the description. I have lived the short lives of mayflies and fleas, and the slow lives of rododendron and captive pandas and the small eterneties of trees . I have ripped flesh from bone with enourmus teeth, flown in and out of freezing clouds on hot-air currents and smelled the differences of earth and rock in the darkness beneath. In those seconds between the dream state and being consius, I have watched the boiling oceans settle and mountains grow. Through thousands upon thousands of eyes I have seen contintents break apart and sink, then rise and sink yet again. I have seen the world spanning forests grow and prosper and wither and die, just to feed the lesser forests that came after. I saw evolution happen in every direction, and even when seen from all angles, I could not [recognize] a plan. I have seen, and feldt and used, magick, first in its purest form, the almost purple light-crystals that raced across the night sky in the days of giants and elves. Later in more crude forms, trapped in stones on the tip of pompous mens staves or generated through blood offerings or the now forgotten tower on legendary Atlantis. I remember the disapointment of every conscius mind when the last raw magick was burned and the world became less. But this is something I can only barely comprehend when awake, and the dreams are washed away. The certainty ebbs, and it is only dreams, except for the beformentioned at least six lives. I remember them mostly as you would remember your own life, through the memories of sight and smell and sound and thoughts. Not their entire lifetime, of course, but years and decages of toil and trouble, and occasional happiness. Discernable lives, hard lived, very different from each other. Despite its beauty, our world has never offered a very comforting life. At the point where physical danger cease, the mind-terror form. We either struggle to survive or we struggle to live, to find meaning where hunger was, to tear down the walls that fear built. You would not belive me as to wich life is preferable. The reason I belive that my time nears an end is the lack of fear. I have vauge notions that I've felt this way before. After long stays in sickbeds, Right before sharp fangs close around my jugular. While looking into eyes so awash with fear there was nothing left for me, wondering wether the sharp noise or the piece of metal would hurt more. I am calm, but not as you would think of the word. The seemingly unmoving ocean will have a myriad of life, right under the surface. Uninhabited forests are never silent for the buzz of insects, desserts holds the ghosts of past, flashing visions into your [pheripical sight]. Your heart beats faster when you submerge in hot water, increasing all your body functions as your mind gets slow. The calm am feeling must rather be compared to an area of empty space, far from the path of any celestial body, barely in the light of few and distant stars. This body is too young. It should not feel this way. But this mind is old, too old. Too tired... I am tired, I realize. Tired of this world? I don't know. I can not truly remember. I am tired of walking. I have seen most sights this world has offered (I can not remember any of me being the traveling type) I am tired of talking. I have said or heard all the words and all the meanings (One of me lived on his tounge, spinning thruths and weaving lies among men who thought themselves gods, walking underneath the white marble walls of the mountains they had built) I am tired of creating, as is the definite of man, and mans definiton of God. (I can almost remember, even in waking hours, the days of Indigo Rain, when magick left the heavens. The light-crystals dissipiated into a rainbow-colored fog that covered all the sky (How I wish I could have seen earth from somewhere else in those days) and glowing, light blue drops fell to earth for many generations. In those days, even the simplest mind could manifest a thought with some focus and willpower) I am tired of being, and it suddenly feels like I have never truly slept. There's no recollection of darkness after an ended life, and the dreams given by night offer no respite. My mind grows heavy as I try to contemplate the possibilty of them being real, but I quickly dislodge the thought. It would not do to loose what sanity I got left. I am tired, and I think you can see it in my eyes. I have settled on observing, wich is not difficult in an age where everywhere is always under monitor. You, all of you, make do in a world that is not fair to you, and you don't back down. You live hard lives, in fear and struggle, but descernable lifes, and beautiful lives. I am proud of you.

Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted by the tenants as a house show for local bands, although equally devoted to everyone's thirst for cheap beer and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and black cardigan. It was clear mere minutes after arriving that my little pink number didn't stand a chance. I was simply not punk enough to be here. Not even my tactfully applied black eyeshadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had any shred of underground grit to me. The sentiment of disconnect was only exaggerated by several forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. And so I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I threw back three beers, fidgeted fervently and embraced my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was this guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at a bar called Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our brief acknowledgement of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a grey wool trench coat and gaudy septum ring. Kristov has pale skin and black irises. Kristov likes Joy Division and writes slam poetry. He gave me this breathy confession that he'd recently subscribed to a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, said nothing. I guess it just seemed the kind of topic that ought to be sustained by the initiator. But for the sake of this recount, let me say that over my dead body was I about to politely endure any straightedge superiority propaganda. But Kristov ultimately concluded that I was most definitely interested as to why he now so nobly abstains from Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or maybe he just if he felt like talking about it. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad, I'm so sad, all of the time. But the last time I got drunk I threw a metal folding chair at someone's head. And then I punched him. I punched him until I watched two teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't remember if he even did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, I looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying. I felt like dying for weeks." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. My heart was pounding like an addict with an itch. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my raison d'etre. I wanted so badly to relate to this person. I wanted so badly to share with him the last time that I felt like dying, and that I thought his exposition was gorgeous in the same way I fall in love with stories of passionate criminals, and that I felt this great, misplaced privilege to be the one who was listening to him in that moment. And so began the manic panic for an encapsulating reply. But I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I miraculously rematerialized into a fucking stone. I offered this person a sentiment so vapid I swear to god it felt like cheap plastic sliding past my teeth. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's really good.". I could feel us both wince at my reply. His discomfort was almost audible. My fingers pinched the base of my wrist. My teeth bit the inside of my cheek as another opportunity for me to authentically interact with another human being passed, just as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.

It wouldn’t last for forever. Everyone had the thought in the back of their minds at one point or another. The gods of pop music had fallen. N’Sync, The Backstreet Boys, and Destiny’s Child all had their moment in the spotlight, but that moment had passed. The executives of the music industry knew this. They also that music of the present was paling in comparison to music of the past. Justin Timberlake is a dancing monkey compared to Bob Dylan. TATU became small when Simon and Garfunkel were mentioned. They needed to solve this problem, so they came together to create a plan to continue to milk the cash cow. This plan that they eventually came up with was called Project Tween. Project Tween was kept secret amongst the group. It was truthfully brilliant, and all they needed was a lot of money and some scientific help, which can easily be bought. The idea was to create millions of highly advanced androids that could take the place of girls between the ages of 10-13 throughout the country. These machines would be indistinguishable from the girls. The main goal of the tweens is to boost the sales of all of the people involved in their creation. The creators have also created a name for their organization; The Illuminati. Originally the Illuminati consisted of only music agents who wanted to save their careers and make it big but over the years, members outside of the music realm had been added to the secret society. The mission of the tweens is to infiltrate the homes of the parents of their target. There, they will sprinkle the real girl with “pixie dust”, a military grade sleeping agent that will allow them to sleep for 3 or 4 years and feel like it’s only been a night, and bring them back to headquarters. From here, they assume the identity of the girl. At this point, they’re programmed to be hooked on whatever music receives the most money, no matter what the quality. They will want everything that has to do with the artist they are programmed to support. They will buy posters, merchandise, concert tickets, and, most importantly, they will use social media, such as Facebook and Instagram, to spread photos and videos of the artist, and posts about how in love they are with him. This is an attempt to contribute to the author’s following and fan base. This will get him or her more endorsements, late-night appearances, and general fame. One of the scientific breakthroughs of the tweens is their fueling system. The tweens literally need Starbucks coffee to survive. The CEO of Starbucks is one of the main funders of the Illuminati, and he wanted to make sure that he got the most bang for his buck. They will also treat the beverages like they are pop stars, and blog, tweet, and post about them. So here we are in the year 2014. This system has carried on seamlessly since its inception in the mid-2000’s, and originality has begun to fade. Artists no longer have to try to create meaningful songs. Their loving fans exist to boost their lyrics to the heavens. Stars have also become worse role models. They’re aware that, no matter what, their fans will love them. They can get into bar fights, drag races, and drug circles with little to no consequence. If they’re caught, they won’t face jail, but will merely go to “rehab” and write a song about how they’re the victims. But these “artists” aren’t aware that the fans are robots. They think they’ve captivated the hearts of girls all across the country by being themselves. They think they deserve the fame, that they’ve earned the fame. Honestly, they’re just regular people who happened upon a stroke of luck. Anyone can lip sync an hour-long concert with a million mindless machines in the crowd, but only few can inspire with true music and meaning. Few can end wars or invoke social change with just a guitar and a message, and these people are rare to come by in the field of generic artists out there today.

"They were known as our creators. Beings that granted us the gift of existence based upon their own image. These beings known as gods." The idea of Gods; how preposterous. Science has come so very far. The world is now swarming with technology. We live side by side with immortal being created by humans known as robots; these robot have consciousness and intelligence which are comparable to those of us humans. Yes, truly science and technology has gone very far, but this all came with a price. All these scientific experimentation has caused many problems for the human race, the most prominent one being that it has effectively sterilized any animal to roam the earth, destroyed all ability to reproduce. Thanks to science the human lifespan has been significantly increasing generation after generation but alas no human can truly be immortal. Humans are bound to go extinct. Soon enough, the last human died and that was left were the robots that we have created. "They were known as our creators. Beings that granted us the gift of existence based upon their own image. These beings known as Humans.

“Do you want some coke man?” I smiled and shook my head no. “Some ecstasy?” I realized I had stopped walking. I took a long look at the three boys. I really wasn’t in the mood for this. “That’s not me”, escaped my lips as I took a few more steps. “Come on man… sit down … smoke a joint?” beckoned the leader of the pack with an accent that puzzled me. I was already pleasantly high. The prospect of more was unnecessary and unappealing. I had scoped out this narrow lane earlier in the day and was anxious to reach my destination. As rough as the trio looked the leader’s eyes seemed trustworthy. The giant thug sharing the bench to his left was nearly passed out and the younger, thinner boy to his right appeared harmless. The essence of primrose trapped in the moist, motionless air permeated the vicinity. My olfactory nerves convinced me things would be ok. “What the hell”, I muttered and walked toward them. A canal and its reflected light softly dancing behind them added to the exoticism. The leader nudged the brute toward consciousness and made a space for me between the two. I only had a hundred and fifty Euro on me and as a betting man I wagered with myself that I would walk home with zero soon. My habit of being ‘real’ with all walks of life had so far done me little harm. I called upon myself to reinforce my pact with serendipity and eased on to the wooden bench. The brazen young man’s name was Kofi. All three were from Suriname. The dark olive color and virility of his skin was strangely comforting. We chatted as he broke apart his buds and prepared a large joint. The thug seemed to abhor me. He infinitely repeated how gangster he was in broken English and flashed his knife ad infinitum as well. It was a bit comical the power Kofi held over him. The pack leader rebuked him with increasing force for his lack of hospitality. I simply showed the angry youth respect and interest. I somehow made it clear to him that I all I could do was trust him. We both understood if he wanted to rob or kill me I would put up no defense. The younger member of the group was strongly under the influence of a hallucinogen and spoke to me rapidly in his native tongue. My sincere return of his gaze sated him. “You’re with us tonight American”, Kofi said with a smile, “This is our city… We do is what we want”. He lit the joint and passed it to me first. Rather than indulge I passed it on to the muscle who appreciated my deference. We sat and smoked. I puffed lightly as I was unsure of the exact contents of the roll. All the while the thug praised his gangbanging skills when alert enough to do so. After a reasonable time had passed I informed Kofi I was off to the Red Light District. This was my first night in Amsterdam and I intended to experience it on my terms. “We show you the way” said Kofi. He then barked orders out to his underlings and we were off. Ten steps later the giant was emptying his stomach on to the small road. The other two enjoyed very much the sights and sounds of the tough guy reduced to near infant status. I sensed the opportunity to escape and said my goodbyes. I knew the way. Earlier in the day I had plotted and explored the route to sexual release. I crossed the canal and headed north alongside it. It must have been three in the morning. This part of the city seemed asleep. Once again the scent of flowers was strong. Jasmine it seemed this time. Surprising it could flourish it in such a northern climate. The buildings all seemed the same from the walkway. Three or four stories high and true sturdy shelters which entirely muted any activity within. I walked along for a kilometer or so and all remained quiet until my desired neighborhood was in sight. I arrived one canal east of my intended entry point. Large groups of people sat at tables outdoors carousing and partying with the energy I once possessed. I walked directly past a couple of bars and not one person gave me a glance. Finally, I saw my beacon. To my left was an erect cement cylinder two feet high with glowing red pin lights lining its upper circumference. When I saw the third pillar of expectation I took a left. I was surprised at the emptiness of the narrow walkway. The well trodden old bricks of the path were each surrounded by a generous moss which reflected muted neon purple. Not a single woman displayed herself as I slowly walked toward the canal intended to guide me. A left turn at my canal of dreams brought my loins to life. People were milling about and the prospect of open windows looked much better. Not twenty paces later two round brown eyes were locked on mine by way of a mirror. It was the first time in my recalled memory someone took note of me before I had the chance to size them up. I nodded my head as I passed her below ground lookout post and admired how her skin shone bronze contrasting her white breast supporter. Black lighting increases most human’s allure without doubt. I took a left at the next street and was instantly pierced by dozens of eyeballs. Most were behind glass but a few uttered nearly inaudible invitations in sultry voices. A subtle sensory overload granted force by testosterone enveloped me. Finally I got past the eyes and began to notice bodies. All this transpired within fifteen meters. A graze against my right arm shocked me into immobility as a jack-in-the-box witnessed for the first time would. I nearly screamed but quickly noted the black silk glove teasing its way under the sleeve of my t-shirt. I looked into the eyes of a raven haired knockout nearly my own height. “Come inside?”, oozed out of lips unlike any others. I paused, looked intently into her eyes, and begged for release. Literally thirty seconds had passed since the first sales pitch had been presented. “You are truly beautiful”, escaped my lips as I bowed my head and continued down the lane. The moss’s glow was overpowered by the light swimming on the bricks. This street felt right. The declined lips had initiated a carnal desire which could be sated at my whim. I felt the benefits of a true smile for the first time in years. I made a quick choice to continue my walk in the center of the lane.

“You’ll find the air is rare out there.” She was spinning in the cafeteria. High above the blank-white tables and blood-red benches she spun slowly, singing an old pop song. “And no one cares, when you fail.” She wore half a life suit. The top half was just a tank top that clung to her breasts. “Because no one’s there, out in space, way out there.” Wine floated passed me, as I yelled “You need to come down. Use the ladder.” “Fuck.” She giggled. “You. I’m not scared of you.” “I’m the only one left. You’re drunk. It’s still in here. Come down.” It was a computer virus. It had taken over the entire station. It was on a warpath. “I’m safe up here. No doors. See.” She spread her arms out and waved them like she was flying. I assumed she had more than just the wine. “If it opens the air locks you won’t be.” I had a phone. I could look up everything that was going on inside. I could tell you where the air locks had open. I could tell you where doors had come down and bisected personnel. I could tell you where forklifts had run down crew. I could tell you which bloody messes were cleaned up and which were still floating around different bays and rooms. But I couldn’t tell you whether the phone was lying. “There is a meeting of general staff in the atrium. Please direct all personnel to the B wing. Thank you.” The virus interrupted from the intercom. A similar message appeared on my phone. “He’s at it again.” “You can’t kill me, I’m already dead.” I could only hope that she had taken enough of whatever to put her out for good. I could not leave a woman behind. But a dead woman would not bother my conscience one iota. “Briggs? Helena? There is a general meeting in B wing.” Another blast of the intercom with an old recording of the Captain. The projector turned on and blasted a bright glow of white against Helena as she spun in the air. It had been knocked off the table and now it was beaming a portrait of a meadow onto her. The virus spoke again. “Failure to meet in the B wing will result in fines.” “I’m a daisy!” Helena bleated. “There is no meeting in B wing. We are leaving the station. The station is being..FUCK, will you get down from there!” I yelled. I had put down most of my equipment and was ready to put on the rest of my suit. “There is no where to go! Where are you going to go? Out in the shuttle? See how far that takes you. You are out in outer space, silly! Besides, you’re just a cook!” She giggled again and then tried to catch butterflies that flew passed her on the projection. “I’m not giving up. The cook is probably dead. I’m Briggs. Now, there’s a station near here...” “Light years!” She screamed back. “It doesn’t matter. There is a distress beacon. It is POSSIBLE that they could be here in days. I have food, water, and tools. The doors are all safely disarmed. We have suits. It’s another twenty steps and we’re out of here. Now come down!” “You come get me.” “Alright!” I climbed out of my suit and began ascending the ladder. I could see her smile from some 100 feet above me. At the top, I made for her, but she floated passed me and murmured “Ah, ah, ah.” Looking down I could see the entire cafeteria. And then I saw the bodies. Two of them. One of them was the cook and the other was Helena. Both had been crushed against the floor. The cafeteria shook as the entire bay began to slowly spin, restoring the gravity.

The inbox outweighed the outbox by a large margin. Perfect. Nothing could please me more. There is no truth in data entry, only a process. There is a beautiful simplicity to it. No deception. No lies. Only a list of facts, figures, rows, and columns. Don’t get me wrong, I get deception. I live and breathe it. I can be anybody I want to be, and at any given time. It serves me well, but I lose myself in the people I become, so I can only be around people for so long before I retreat to solitude to find myself again. That’s why data entry is so beautiful. There is only one way to do it, so I have no reason to alter my method, and therefore I don’t have to alter my personality. As the flow of pages found the outbox taller than the in, I could hear someone approach from the hallway. The creaking steps moved around the corner and down toward my office, and soon whoever it was would be at the door to my office, but there was no way to know who would show up, and therefore I had no way of knowing who I would have to become. They knocked. That narrows it down. It must have been one of my subordinates. “Enter!” Iyelled. “Hello sir, I have the reports you asked for.” He said timidly. Anyone with half a mind could see the fear in his eyes. He came as close to my desk as required to put the reports down, and no closer. It’s important for my subordinates to fear me, so I  didn’t break my scowl for a second. He refused to meet my eyes, but if he had, he’d see my glare. It was a piercing look I had perfected that said “I’m going to rip his face off and eat it.” He then left the office as quickly as he could without another word. I ran fingers along my forehead applying even pressure. My fabricated anger was fading. I tried to regain my composure, but it was difficult. It’s hard to be a man I despise, and the higher I climb on my rise up the corporate ladder, the more subordinates I have, which means I have to be that man more frequently. So the further I go, the more I hate myself. At least that version of myself. In general I consider myself to be a pretty good guy. I’m nice to my neighbours. I love my wife, and I never kill a bug if I don’t have to. But still, I find it difficult to be genuine. Every action is a decision. A decision based on a calculated assessment of consequences and beneficial outcomes. There is no internal compass. I am a collection of facades. Each presented to different individuals as I see fit. Every person knows me differently, and they all seem to like me. If an individual doesn’t like me, or cannot provide me with something I want, I revise my process. I bank that information and use it in the future to create a better archetype to build from. I heard footsteps again, and I hoped it’s only a secretary dropping off more paperwork for me to complete at my leisure, but the footsteps were strong, powerful, and directed. The door thrusted open without notice, which meant it was Bachman. Before he spoke I changed my facade again. I projected strength and confidence with a nonchalance that implied equality yet didn’t suggest it. I casually leant back in my chair and smiled as he enters. “Bachman, what can I do for ya?”  “My wife is on her way up, I thought I’d hide out for a bit.” “I know that game. My old lady’s been breathing down my neck about god knows what.” I laughed. “When did it change?” “As soon as she got that ring, she got you, and she knows it.” “When you’re right, you’re right.” He sighed. “Well I better head out.” “Lemme guess, important fictional meeting in ten?” “Nahh, I used that last week. I’ll come up with something.” “Of course you will.” Bachman closed the door behind him. I rubbed my face clean, and stared back at the computer screen where personality was non-existent. I love my wife. I really do. She’s all face value. I see her, I see everything she is, everything she isn’t, and all that she is capable of. I love her like I love excel spreadsheets. There is no deception. She will only ever do the ‘right thing’ and is ready to tell anyone they are wrong. Her beliefs are infallible. I don’t have beliefs, but I’m a good guy, I’m nice to my neighbours, and I’ll never kill a bug if I don’t have to. I pressed forward with my data entry, filling out spreadsheet after spreadsheet in complete comfort. Until I grabbed the last sheet and placed it neatly atop the outbox pile. I pressed my fingers against my forehead and applied even pressure, and called my wife. The phone rings twice, but I knew she’d pick up. “Hello?” She asked. “Hey sweety.” “Hey, what’s up?”  “I’ve just had a really bad day.” “Ohh, I’m sorry.” Her sympathetic tone eased my wavering mind. I had made several calls to her throughout my tenure at this company, and they usually followed the same general pattern. It could be relied on, and I loved that. I love who am when I’m with her. I am the guy I am supposed to want to be, and that’s as close as I can get to true desire, so I’ll take it. “I just needed to hear your voice.” “Anything I can do?” She proffered. “Never change.” “I’ll try.” She laughed, and we both hung up. I shuffled the papers into a neat pile and rose to take them to their final destination. I would have walk past Bachman’s office, then by all the cubicles (and every subordinate), and finally to the receptionist’s desk to drop off the documents in her inbox. Every facade would come into play. I would have to mesh everyone I am, and everyone I have to be into the same person. I would have to convince everyone I was who they believed me to be, and I am certain many of them would do the same. Our fabrications would clash and consequences would result. Some would be positive and some would be negative, but the best pretender would win. I would win. I hate who I pretend to be. I often wonder at what point the person who I pretend becomes who I am? If the only person who knows the real me is me, then for all intents and purposes, that isn’t me at all. Even I have a tenuous grasp of my own personality.  As I stood in front of my office door, readying myself for the inevitable confrontations that may or may not occur, I ran my fingers across my forehead, applying even pressure, and preparing the necessary data to pretend. The door opens and I set myself to my task, and all the while telling myself that this isn’t the real me. I’m really a good guy. I love my wife, I’m nice to my neighbours, and I’d never hurt a bug if I didn’t have to.

(This story has a hidden meaning, hope you get it). For some reason I am not able to dream. When I sleep all I see is darkness. My cell is so dark that I can’t know if I am asleep or awake, either way, I spend these countless days huddled close to myself. I am shivering, I am cold, even though my cell is warm and humid. I lie naked in the darkness, ruing the day I let them catch me. Those bastards! Everytime I think about them I clench my teeth. My fists turn pale with suppressed rage. But I have more hatred toward myself. I! I who pledged to kill them all! To be defeated by that crowd of blind fools, it is too embarassing to bare. My stomach still hurts where I was wounded, but I am still breathing. Why? Why has God cursed me? Why have I woken up in this cell? I rather death before this humiliating confinement! I have given up, this cell will consume me, I know this if nothing more. I have no space even to stand, it seems to grow even smaller as the days go by. I no longer care to count the hours, it has seemed like I have been here for many months, but I know it is only my mind torturing me further, for I have been here merely days, this I know, because I am still alive. I have gone mad and now the days seem never ending, the darkness and lack of windows does not want me to know day or night. I have truly gone mad, I wish to die, but I lack the strength even to harm myself. It has been so long since I have eaten I no longer feel hunger, I only crave light and wind, I only crave to stand, to run, to move my bones before they turn to splinters, to stretch my body before it turns to dust. I can no longer contain my madness, I kick at the walls, but no one answers. Maybe they have forgotten about me, slow-witted as they are, perhaps they don’t remember they left me here. I do not care if they kill me, I am not afraid of death, I know God has left me. What have I to fear? Death is only freedom, all I wish for is to leave this dark and horrid cell. I do not care if they come for me! Come! Craven bastards, do with me as you wish, but have the mercy to let me feast my eyes with light before you do! I hear a bone shriveling shriek, the doors are opening! The white light is blinding, it is all I see, and I can’t help being brought to tears. I have lived in darkness for so long I have forgotten what light looks like, it seems, the further I stare into the light, I forget about the darkness, I forget my pain, I forget about my enemies, I forget my name.

It was my first visit to this dentist. I noticed that the office was just a tad off. There were a number of teenagers, who seemed too young to be working in a dentist’s office. Rock and roll music was playing, I believe Led Zeppelin, and it gave the place and air of a club house. The dentist would see me shortly, but I was pretty sure I was seeing him at the reception area sniffing like mad. It could have been a cold, but with my extreme paranoia, coupled with the music and the teenage kids, I assumed he was a coke addict. I may or may not have been on cocaine at the time. I can’t remember. It gets fuzzy at this age. One does not come to such an assumption (that a dentist is a coke fiend) lightly, but it was a new dentist and no one likes the dentist and the mind wonders with nothing but a Time magazine and a Keurig coffee. Finally, the time approached and I was called in to receive my cleaning. I was approached by a beautiful blond who instructed me to lie still while she began my cleaning. I couldn’t help but notice all the women in the office were beautiful blonds. My theory on coke use soon was compounded by a theory of wanton women cleaning teeth and giving happy endings. But no happy ending was given. I was left alone after the cleaning to talk to the dentist. Most dentists and orthodontists will leave the cleaning and maintenance work to staff and just come by to just look at your mouth and make the extreme decisions that make their PhDs worthwhile and notable. The dentist approached me and commented on my shoes. He liked them. In my mind, I formed an idea of a swinging dentist who ran a brothel, snorted cocaine, and occasionally dabbled in same sex couplings. There’s nothing wrong with the latter, but I was in no mood to shoot down a PhD. I don’t think I would have it in me. Heterosexual or not, there is something about doctors orders – you take them. He began talking and I volunteered the information that I was a smoker. I wanted him braced for any staining and bad breath. Dirty smokers do have some nerve coming to see dentists when they have no care for not only their teeth, but there lungs, heart, etc. I felt bad for the man and his being forced to look down the barrel of a tobacco’d maw. He didn’t seem to mind the admission, however, and he related to me that his friend had tried to quit smoking and told him that it was tougher than giving up cocaine. For those that thought the paranoia was just paranoia – AH HA! “Really?” I said. He went on to tell me about the friend and then began asking me about work. I explained my job the best I could. Having little or no interest in one’s own job makes it a hard conversational piece. But he nodded in all the right parts and continued sniffing. He could have had a cold or he could have been smuggling smack out the back on donkeys, anything was possible. He then began talking about some of the dumb things he did as a kid. I laughed along until he got to a part where he was explaining his carefree youth. He started the story on the end of another story about toilet papering houses. His mood was jovial and with each word you heard a laugh at the back of his throat, like he was explaining some elaborate joke. He began: “Then there was this one time. Me and my buddy, well we decided to get all dressed up in Mormon garb and go biking around town.” It came out as the beginning of a joke. And with my idea of a coke-addled polygamist bisexual I was ready to assume the worst: that this man had dressed up as a Mormon missionary with a buddy as a joke. It was at this point I decided to not return. But to just take the tension out of his admission of mean-spirited religious joking, I: “You mean as a goof?” His face turned sour. He then “No. I was a missionary in the Mormon church.” My reality from coming into the office to that moment was shattered. This was not a coke sniffing polygamist bisexual, but an upstanding Mormon of the utmost decency. I felt like a royal bastard. The man had to have thought I decided the only reason you would dress up in Mormon gear was as a goof. I began back peddling. I began explaining how much I admired the Mormon religion. I pledged allegiance to Mitt Romney… The man had his hands in my mouth – what else could I do? The moral of the story is never assume a dentist is a coked out polygamist bisexual who runs a brothel and makes light of other religions – because you would be wrong. Most of the time.

Headed west with the sun on my back in the early hours of the morning in my old Honda Accord, the first rays of light were just starting to filter through the trees when I came up over a hill. Miles of open road stretched to the horizon before me like a runway and the adrenaline fueled kid I was back then smiled and put the pedal to the medal, speeding off into an odd future I was still blissfully ignorant of. My old Honda Accord topped out at 124... and I didn't read the owners manual for that bit of information. I was a wild kid. I thought I was invincible, like many teenage boys do. Looking back, I can't say I ever got burned, but I've felt the fire, I've seen the flames, and my story will come.

GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK. It's a dark and stormy night, yet toasty and warm inside this cozy room. Tick Tock, Tick Tock, grandfather clock swingin' back and forth. "No! I don't want to go to grandpa's house mom! I told you! I hate it there!" "Daddy and I need some time alone, sweetie. Besides, it will only be for a couple of hours." "Come here little boy," whispers the the old shriveled nude grandpa. His leathery silhouette oscillating under the candlelight. He beckons at the boy with a decayed finger. Yet the boy, frozen in fear, remains still. The grandpa grows impatient, raising his decrepit voice. COME HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT! The boy reluctantly draws closer to nude grandpa. The ticking of the grandfather clock begins to syncopate with the swinging of grandfather's cock. Tick Tock, Tick Tock. His long flaccid cock swinging back in forth like the pendulum of an old clock. Tick Tock, Tick Tock. The boy cannot escape the hypnotic swinging of the grandfather cock. TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK! The boy moves closer, his eyes inescapably affixed to the swinging meat pendulum. Suddenly, the swinging stops. The grandfather rises from his rocking chair, his frail nude body exposed before the boy, scrotum a bobblin' . The once flexible length of meat rises and hardens to a rock, dark voluminous veins growing beneath the hardened surface, feeding blood to the monstrous sausage. BONER POPPIN'. The trembling boy drops to his knees. The grandfather smiles. THE END.

There's always that one kid in the group. There seems to be something wrong. Sometimes you question if he's got some mental handicap or not. This is my story of Trevor. He was that small kid. Between me and the other guys, he was small. Trevor was under five foot eight. The other boys, Owen and Tommy. They were significantly taller being about six feet each and myself at six three. He was kind of socially awkward, although everyone loved him. His sense of humor was that of a young boy. He always cracked a joke. No matter how lame or hilarious it was, Trevor always got the laugh. He's the kind of guy who laughs at his own jokes. Trevor loved the girls too. Though he rarely had girlfriends. He definitely made you think another way. He was our best friend. We all were best friends. Tommy, Owen and I always did "hoodrat shit." We were always tearing down signs, went into abandoned places. We even sneaked into the rival high school's news studio. We drank, smoked cigarettes, and got high once in a while like we were cool. And we were. We lived up to our ancestors high school antics. We loved Trevor. Trevor was the completer of our gang. For a high school project they had to reenact the Banquo's ghost scene of Macbeth. so naturally we got crazy in helping out. Owen became Lady Macbeth. I was a murderer with ketchup on my face. And Trevor was Banquo's ghost. Things got out of hand and next thing we know, the gang had driven to a very special place. In our town there was a minor league baseball field. Knowing that the field had been moved north one town, we went to the old field. We begged and begged Trevor to indulge into our "spoils of war." An admissions sign, a number sign, burned exit sign. Something to remember this. He would not. Trevor has morals that lack in us other three. Trevor was joining us. He didn't smoke a cigarette, steal anything. Nothing. We continued to urge him into these bad things. Now you think he wouldn't be the type of guy to hang with us. So why does he. Then I realized that, we need him as much as he needs us. The three of us are opposite from him alone. So why did we hang out with Trevor? Maybe it's because he needed us to protect him. Maybe we felt like we needed to protect him. Without us, they'd eat him alive. Trevor was a baby bought up by us. His gang. His wolves.

“Tell us Roger, what do you think you will sound like?” “My song….hmm…” Roger closed his eyes, and began to drift between his memories. Flashback. A young Roger was staring up at a T.V. screen. There was an interview with a man dressed in a crisp suit regarding his latest invention, the life song. Life songs were a strange concept. A song formulated by the memories of a person. It was an one hour soundtrack of a person’s life and by listening to it, one could hear the entire collection of memories stored in a person’s brain. All the ups and downs of a person’s life converted to major and minor keys, and peacetime and turbulence into tempo. By listening to one’s song, you would be able to feel every experience ever felt by that person. However, process only worked on dead bodies, after all neural activity had stopped. It had hardly been released worldwide a month ago and it was already being called the greatest trend of the 22nd century. As Roger watched the man talk about the complexities involving scanning the brain for prominent memories, Roger felt a calling. What an idea! A person’s whole life nested into one clean hour of universal expression! Back to the present. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it. I prefer not to over think these things, sometimes it’s just better to let them happen.” “Words of wisdom from a wise man. Now, we’ve all heard of your career, but where and how did it begin? Do you have any advice for people who’re also heading in this direction?” Flashback. Roger was 17 now. He was in a crowded room with white walls. There was a large tube like structure near the back, almost like an MRI scanner. It was hooked up to a computer and what appeared to be a confusing series of switches and dials. Roger was interning at a small local company that produced life songs. Roger stepped up to the dials for the first time in his life. He watched an old man’s body being loaded into the scanner and fidgeted as he prepared to debut into his desired career. As he put on the headphones and scanned the memories of the person, he realized how difficult it was. Finding the right memories to represent the person’s life, adjusting the pitch and rhythm to correct the flow of the song, censoring out unnecessary details, everything had to be perfect. After six grueling hours, it was complete. As Roger listened to it, he was severely disappointed. It sounded all wrong. He wiped the disk clean and started over. Day after day, Roger tried again and again. At last, four days after he started, it was complete to perfection. Roger put on the headphones to listen to his masterpiece, featuring the life of the old man. He pressed play. The beats pounded in his ears. The soothing melodies blended into the harsh instrumentals and the tempo shifted and danced with the mood. Roger took off the headphones and stood in stunned silence. He had witnessed something sacred and understood the importance of it, and he wanted more. Back to the present. “My career huh? Well, my career started out when I was just 17 years old, interning at a now extinct company started by a few family friends. It was hard at first and I wasn’t very good at it-“ “THE Roger not being good at life-composing?” “Well, even the great have to learn. Over time we get better at whatever we do, we develop skills which we didn’t have, skills which we now take for granted. And, if there was any advice I wanted to give, this is it. Just work hard, keep trying and you’ll make it there one day.” “Words of inspiration. Now, Roger, we all know that you’ve been around since before the first life song was produced. What all of us are wondering is, how, in your opinion, has the world changed as a result of this technology?” Flashback. Roger was now a successful young man. Working in one of the most prestigious record labels, Roger had it all. Money, success, fame. His face appeared on magazines. People would ask for his autograph. He had his pick of women and lifestyle. Despite all this, Roger felt a deep seated uneasiness and dissatisfaction. Roger felt as though by extracting the memories of a person, he could see who those people really were on the inside. He saw the sanctity of people’s lives being violated. For example, he had once met an elderly woman who had signed a document requesting that her life song be never extracted, and her mind untouched after death. However, her family members countersigned it minutes after her death, hoping to know what she truly sounded like. Roger was introduced to the true face of disillusionment that day, as he saw the faces of the woman’s family shift uneasily. The woman’s song was a cacophony of confusion and depression, the few relaxing melodies spread out across large intervals, lasting only a few seconds. There was also a movie star (a former particular favorite of Roger’s) who’s song revealed the actor’s true personality, shallow and callous. These sort of events tended to distress Roger. He had seen people for whom their song had become an obsession. They lived their lives just to make it sound good. Everywhere he turned he saw mothers who disciplined their screaming children by telling them that their life songs would sound terrible if they didn’t comply with their parent’s demands. There was even an artist, who led his life specifically to make it sound in a certain way, without giving regard to any human aspects of life. While all this lead to good songs, it was only superficially good. Like popular music on the radio, it sounded good just to sound good. There was no depth to the sound. Roger felt as though people had forgotten how to appreciate reality without thinking about how it would influence their songs. As a result, Roger wasn’t entirely sure about he felt regarding the “22nd century’s greatest achievement”. Back to the present. “Well, the world is always changing, so it’s hard to tell. But I’d like to think that for some people, they take it too far, they forget what life is and only remember what their song might be.” “There’s some food for thought! Now, before we wrap up here tonight, do you have any final comments?” Flashback. The alarm clock rang loudly as the sun shone in through the curtains. Roger slowly sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Roger got up and threw the curtains back. He threw the curtains back and marveled at the beauty of the sunrise. Slowly he walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Roger was by no means a member of the youth. His hair had finished graying, his skin had become wrinkly like a raisin, and he lacked the energy he once had. However, in exchange for age, he gained wisdom. Upon finishing his morning rituals, he went to his closet and sifted through his collection of clothing, looking for the appropriate articles. He finally settled on a simple yet comfortable monochrome shirt, and inconspicuous pants. He got into his car and entered the destination into the autodrive. As he sat back he began to reflect upon his life. Roger remembered staring up into a bright T.V. screen and watching an interview with a man who had invented the life song. Roger remembered that awe and hoped that some people would be inspired with the interview which he was scheduled for today. He stared absent-mindedly out the window musing over his life. Outside he saw many people with headphones on, ignoring the world around them, drowning themselves in their own plastic fantasies. Roger wondered if they had even noticed the perfection in the world around them. Roger was drawn out of his thoughts as he arrived at the front gate of the T.V. station. He opened the door and walked outside towards the building where he was enthusiastically welcomed by a young man waiting for him. Back to the present. “Final thoughts? Well, there’s just one thing that’s been bothering me these days.” Roger paused and cleared his throat. “It might sound ironic coming from a man of my profession, but, I believe that with all this technology around us, Silence is a…a, truly forgotten art” The interview ended uneventfully and the audience was left to reflect upon Roger’s statement. The following year after that passed rather quietly. Roger announced his retirement though, due to his experience his advice was still greatly sought after. Unfortunately, all living things must come to an end. Roger, being a living thing, had run out of time, and died peacefully and content. After his death, Roger was carried to the neural noise controller. The machine booted up slowly. Roger, being a man who had listened to the life songs of various people every day for over a decade, was having his life song being broadcasted internationally, by people who eagerly wanted to know what he would sound like after absorbing so many different sounds. Finally the machine booted up. Roger was reverently loaded into it. The lights flashed and the machine let out a soft glow. Roger’s successor worked carefully as he converted Roger’s mind into sound. At last, it was done. A buzz of excitement could be heard as it began to play. It started out with a crescendo, building up to a symphony of violins and drums all in the exposition. However as the song progressed, it quieted down. Gradually, the sound became a hush. The distant hum of life passing by in the background was heard. Eventually even that disappeared and all that could be heard was the faint sound of birds chirping and leaves cracking. The faint gush of a waterfall could be discerned from the peaceful sounds of nature. If you closed your eyes, you could see sunlight beaming down from the gaps in the trees as nature grew and continued, without anyone influencing it in any direction. There was a melody, but it was not made of instruments. It was pure nature. Roger’s song reflected his inner peace and tranquility. His ability to live life without worrying about how it may sound, without forcing it in any direction, and letting things flow. There was a subtle beauty in the tranquility of his song, but it was lost among the noise of the masses, who strove to best each other and to attain “beauty” without once stopping to realize why they did so.

I remember the first day I met Mellie. Her real name was Melinda Hudson. We were both twelve. She was a shy, awkward girl with bright red hair and light green eyes. She looked like a girl on fire. She always sat alone far from the other kids, her thin shoulders bent over, holding her peanut butter sandwich with both hands as if it might fly away any second. She hadn’t taken a bite yet. She was just staring at it. I don’t know what attracted me to her. Was it her bright hair that looked like it was on fire? Was it the contrasting quietness that she portrayed despite her hot looks? My power created so much noise around me that her peace had an extraordinary effect on me. I approached her. I was bold and sat down beside her without permission. She looked up at me with questioning eyes but did not say a word. I opened my lunch bag, took out my sandwich and started eating. She started to eat her own sandwich as well and there we were just sitting there side by side, eating our sandwiches in blessed silence. For a whole week, we continued to eat together. I found her at the same spot and sat down beside her every single day. I ate my lunch with her and I didn’t even know her name. It was strange that I felt so comfortable with her as if I’ve known her my whole life. We started our friendship with that awkward silence. I introduced myself the week after. She smiled shyly and told me to call her Mellie. From that day on, we started talking every day. Six years later, we still had plenty to talk about. Until I killed her and there was nothing else to say. Oh Mellie, you were my best friend and my soul mate. You understood everything about me. And you knew I was keeping something from you. Yet you never pushed me. Just being friends with me was enough. Like everyone else, I had a mother and a father. I was the only child and my parents traveled often for business. Then on a fated business trip, my parents died in a car crash. Report said they were trying to avoid a deer and crashed headlong to a tree. The deer survived and my parents didn’t. Mellie was there to hug me while I cried. Mellie stayed with me for days and nights bringing me food and holding me to sleep. Without Mellie, I would probably have drowned myself in sorrow. I never thought I would ever lose my parents. My mother’s older sister, Morgana came to live with me. She came to get her sister’s affairs in order. My parents were rich and there were a lot of legal things I didn’t know how to handle. Since my father had no family, all the money they had would go to me and Morgana. She had a younger brother, his name was Philip. My mother talked about him a long time ago. She said that he was a free spirit who preferred to go where he pleased and that usually meant far from the family. It was impossible to find him and he didn’t care one bit for the family’s money. She spoke of him with more love than she did of Morgana. I’ve never met Philip. I’ve met Morgana only three times in my life and all those times, I thought she needed to get the stick out of her butt. This woman was uptight to a hilt and very proper. When Morgana arrived, she shook my hand briefly and gave me a withering look. Sorry about your mother, darling but these things happen. She took over the house and I started to plan my escape. Morgana was very different from my mother. While my mother was warm and loving, Morgana was cold as ice. She didn’t bother to hide her dislike for me and Mellie. She hinted that Mellie should spend more time at her house with her own family. It didn’t take me long to realize that I have lost my home and it was time to move on. I had enough money from my inheritance to go to any state I want for college. I was not bound here and there was no reason to stay. Mellie supported my idea and wanted to go with me. We started to plan together and after a month of planning, we were set to go. There was already a nice cozy apartment waiting for us in New York and our applications to NYU were accepted. We were both stellar students so admission was never an issue. Mellie’s parents were ecstatic that their precious daughter would be attending NYU. They trusted me; well they trusted my money since I offered to pay for Mellie’s education. Everything was ready and in a day, we would be off. I had decided to tell Morgana at the last-minute to avoid any problems. I didn’t know why I would think that especially since Morgana should be happy to get the house all to herself. But somehow I had this feeling that my plan to leave would be a big problem. Morgana was always watching me. Whenever I entered a room, I could feel her sharp cold beady eyes watching my every move. I got this eerie sensation that she needed to know my every move and me moving out would mean that she could no longer watch me. It was weird I know but that was how I felt. I found Morgana in the drawing-room reading. As I entered, she looked up but didn’t say a word. I sat down in front of her. Mellie was coming in half hour to help me pack. Morgana continued to stare at me, her lips pursed. “I’m leaving,” I said. The direct approach was always best. Morgana frowned. Ignoring the frown, I continued. “I’m leaving for New York tomorrow with Mellie.” I forced a smile and rambled on. “You can stay here for as long as you want. We are really excited, we got into a great school and we’ll find some part-time work and-” “No,” Morgana said cutting me off. “Sorry, what?” I was taken aback. A part of me expected her to feign disappointment while secretly relishing the fact that I would be gone. “You can’t leave this house?” Morgana said coldly. “Why not? I’m turning eighteen next month and I can go to any college I want,” I said. “This house is different for me now.” I hesitated before adding, “Since Mom and Dad died.” Morgana laughed and I wondered what was so funny. “My dear, I think college should be the last thing in your mind,” Morgana said getting up and pouring a glass of vodka. As she nursed her drink, her eyes never left me. I waited for her to explain. “You are an extraordinary girl, Helena but you should know that extraordinary doesn’t always mean that you are special. Sometimes it just means you might die earlier.” A shadow casted over the room at Morgana's words. The flames in the fireplace flickered disturbed by a wind that wasn’t there. I shivered at the sudden chill that had entered the room. Suddenly I was eight and huddled in the dark basement waiting in fear. My aunt’s face reminded me of the Scary Man who trapped me and wanted to do untoward things to me. They had the same eyes. Eyes that wanted to rip me into shreds and have a party afterwards. Instinctively I stood up and backed away. “Where do you think you are going?” Morgana said. Instantly the doors slid shut. “How did you do that?” I gasped. “Are you that arrogant to think you are the only one with super powers?” Morgana waved her hand and I was lifted in the air as if I were lighter than a feather. I screamed and flailed as I flew across the room hitting the wall hard. I collapsed on the floor out of breath. I was stupid to think that I was the only one. A small part of me was happy to know that my aunt was just like me. Perhaps our blood was the explanation for all I was going through. That small part of me disappeared as Morgana grabbed me by the hair and dragged me across the room kicking and screaming. I struggled to escape from her grip but this woman was strong. Pieces of my dark hair was ripped from my skull as she held me strong in the center of the room like a lamb about to be slaughtered. An image of Morgana drabbed in metal armor her long black hair blowing in the wind and brandishing an unearthly huge sword over my head flashed in my mind. I blinked and she was back to being Morgana but there is a knife now in her hands. Smaller but sharp enough to slice my throat. There was a strange symbol on the blade itself, two parallel waves. “Let me go, Morgana! I’m your niece!” I played the family card. She laughed again. “I think you should know by now that I am not your beloved aunt. This may be your Aunt’s body but she is long gone, love.” The process of understanding was a painful one. I looked at Morgana or whoever it was that killed my Aunt. She made the mistake of looking back at me. Almost instantly the world turned and I was in Morgana and she was in me. Before she could react and gained control of the situation, I stabbed myself in the heart with the knife in my hand. Morgana screamed as my hand continued to hold her tightly by the hair. I held on to my consciousness amid waves of pain to return to my body and then I was back as I stared at Morgana’s lifeless body on the floor. I wasn’t sure if I should cry. I never knew my Aunt Morgana. I’m sorry she had to die. I didn’t even know why this thing wanted to kill me. I pulled out the knife from Morgana’s chest and wiped the blood on her shirt. I didn’t think she would mind. I stared at the symbol. It looked familiar. The door opened startling me out of my muddled thoughts. Mellie walked in and stopped dead at her tracks when she saw me standing over my Aunt’s body with a knife in my hand. I gulped. “Erm…I swear this is not what it looks like,” I said. “I stabbed myself, I mean I stabbed her. Wait…this is what it looks like…” Mellie walked towards me frowning without saying a word. “She attacked me!” I said. “And she’s not my Aunt, not really. I don’t know why she attacked me, this is her knife.” Mellie took the knife from me and silently studied it. I could not read her face. It would be horrible if my own best friend didn’t believe me. “It’s ok, Hel,” Mellie finally said and I sighed in relief. “I know it’s not your fault,” Mellie said and hugged me. I froze. I pushed Mellie away and tried to grab the knife in her hand. But she was faster than lightning. Gentle Mellie kicked me hard in the stomach and punched me in the face. I tasted blood in my mouth. I was having a really bad day. Mellie giggled. “How did you know?” she asked fingering the knife. “Mellie don’t do hugs,” I said. “She likes her personal space.” “Shucks, I screwed that up, didn’t I?” “Who are you and what do you want from me?” I yelled. “I want you to die,” the thing in Mellie hissed. I threw a cushion at her. Seriously that was the nearest thing to me. In my defense it hit her squarely on the face. “What did I ever do to you?” “It’s nothing personal. It’s just part of life. You are what you are and we are what we are. Our sole purpose is to end your life cycle.” “Get out of my friend,” I said. “I killed you before and I can do it again,” I said nodding at Morgana’s body. Mellie laughed. “Are you going to kill your friend too?” she sneered. “It was easy for you to kill your aunt. But can you drive this knife into your friend’s heart?” She had a point. “I can do other things to you. You won’t die but you are going to wish you are.” “Tough words coming from a rich brat. Come and try, little girl,” Mellie said. “The time for talking is done.” She swung at me with the knife and I fell back to avoid it. I threw the vodka bottle at her. She ducked and it smashed against the wall. “You are wasting good vodka!” she yelled and lunged towards me. Her body slammed against mine and we both fell on the floor. She was strong. She swirled the knife around her fingers expertly and plunged it towards my face. I grabbed her hands, the knife was inches from my head. With all the strength I have left I threw her off me. Before she could get up, I swung my right leg and kicked her squarely in the face. She dropped the knife and I slid on the floor to grab it. Still at the back of my mind, her question was there. Could I really kill my best friend? Before I could think it through, Mellie rushed towards me. She drove me against the wall and my hand, the one holding the knife was positioned right at her gut. Mellie smiled as she continued to press me against the wall, her one hand squeezing my neck and one hand holding back the knife. If it wasn’t for the knife in between us, this was totally a lesbian moment. Mellie grabbed my hand. Thinking that she was going to try and pry the knife from my hand, I held on to it as tightly as I could. “Say goodbye Mellie,” she said. And before I could fully understand what she meant, she took my hand and drove it into her gut. And at the split second, the thing left Mellie, left her to feel all the pain and the confusion wondering why her best friend was holding the knife that was stuck in her. Mellie gasped and collapsed. She was having a hard time breathing. I held her in my arms and cried. She couldn’t form any words but her eyes had all the questions I could not answer. As she died in my arms, I kept saying I was sorry. Again I was back in the dark basement, alone, and scared. But this time it wasn’t the Scary Man who was there scaring me. It was me. I was the one who scared me.

THE COMPANY OF MELROSE "Terribly sorry Milkmaids; you caught me stand-up dreaming." "It's no nuisance. How may I assist you?" Melrose turned from the wall. "It's that house again, Milkmaids. The one from before." "Being shitehawks again, are they?" Milkmaids mentally scoffed. "Why... yes. But altogether, not at all." "Sir?" "It's deadly quisling; I'd never have believed it a week ago. For all of that cacophonous rubric to simply stop; no working of 'why', or 'what for'; it simply doesn't sit well by me, Milkmaids. Not at all." "Would you care for me to politely temper them, Melrose?" "No, no. Novelty of the soup and all that. Perhaps just stud over there; see if you can see anything." "Yes, of course. Will that be all?" "Bring me my circulations also, if you would Milkmaids." "Yes, Sir." "Thank you." Melrose turned to factor the wall once more. He scrutinised the bullet in his hand; with only a pallid, sickly slat of weathered sleep; mouthfuls of miscellanea; covert, beaten and overgrown. It scarred him. It was the wretched, crippled thumb of a workstrong hand; one which might otherwise have clenched into united brilliance. Dustless, without purpose, but categorically *there*. There was the bullet, which wasn't before. And gone was the sound that was. A jarring and reverberant thumping; like broken benches struck by glass mallets. It would begin in the witching hour; sometimes a sliver sooner, sometimes later - but despite its behaviours, it would persist for exactly twenty-seven miscellanies, and stop abruptly. Novelty no more. But now, Melrose had become restless. He had been lying there that night, anticipating it; unable to keep his eyelids fastened together for more than a moment - and nothing. Had he constructed a madrigal? A scientific endeavour? If it was either of these, perhaps it was now complete. But why so late? Why had he never seen the fellow? Melrose simply could not sit idly by and let these disquiets remain unanswered. Not with the flower show two days hence.

I chose to write this story because the author of World War Z states that zombies can survive underwater for a long time, but doesn't say anything about what was done to clear them up. Yes, there are references to other famous books/movies in here too, I hope you will enjoy it :) Deep Sea One part of the Z war, or World War Z, as some like to call it, that rarely gets mentioned in history books is the cleanup of the seas. When the war was long won on land and humanity was mopping up the last remnants of zombified human remains, a silent war was still raging under the seas, a war that few ever heard of and whose soldiers are forgotten, relegated to the annals as "cleanup crews". Giorgio Pellizzari led one of these crews, the Poseidon #8, in charge of "disposal, removal and elimination of human remains". Now retired, the imposing Italian man still sports a fierce white beard that contours his sun-baked face. His blue eyes, specks in the midst of gnarled rough skin have a lively, unbowed look about them. "The first thing you have to understand about our work is that the sea covers 71% of the planet, and with man being a land animal and all, it is naturally difficult to make any sort of impact on such an immense, untamed body. Think of navies in the past, of the Spanish Armada in the 16th century, not all of the king's cannon could do a thing to prevent the sea from taking them all.” “ I think it was the first prerogative of our job, even before the heathen ones, we respected the sea itself. Whenever we submerged we were completely at it's mercy." Sitting in his living room, by a warm fireplace, it's hard to believe that this man has come from the coldest hell on earth. Following his exploits in the Atlantic, Pellizzari became somewhat of a legend in the diving community and is credited with having paved the way for the reclaiming of the seas. With the solid education he received while in the COMSUBIN (Italian Navy's special forces) and his technical know-how of diving equipment, Pellizzari was the ideal choice to lead the "Poseidons", as they came to be known. Something about the naval decor of the room, or maybe the set of crossed iron spears that loom over the fireplace hint that this man was something more than a mere cleanup guy. He speaks with a deep voice, accented by his Tuscan origins. "Of course, a few divers could do little against the millions and millions of heathen ones that found themselves at the bottom of the sea. If even we fought every day for the rest of our lives we would never be able to finish off all of them, that's why we relied on the tugboats, before the divers...The tugboats were regular fishing vessels, at first we used the modern diesel-powered ones, but you see, today diesel is a luxury, and the little we got was used to operate the machinery. I've got to say, the sea offers all the propulsion you need, for free. We took to converting them to sail, or we found what sail ships we could outright.” “Three or four tugboats would lower their nets into the ocean, preferably where the seabed was flat and sandy and start dredging the seabed, back and forth, scooping up all the heathen ones they could. When the nets were well full, they would be hoisted up by a mechanical crane and lowered directly into the firebreather, a barge with a large rectangular incinerator on top. The abominations, with their disgusting bloated bodies would tumble down into to the fire and their ashes would be thrown to the sea. We would scrub the nets and repeat, over and over until the last monster was fished out of the water. When the nets would stop bringing them up, we would send a small detachment of divers to scout the area and pick off any lucky survivors with their spears.” “Now you will say, well, that's pretty easy! And I would say you are right! It was a joy to see those horrible creatures get consumed by the tonnage, my boys even drew a large dragon on the side of the firebreather and when we let them burn they would shout, holler and cheer." The image of a fiery barge incinerating zombies is sure spectacular, yet I feel the urge to enquire as to the actual fighting the divers had to do. Giorgio nods, he knows what I'm about to ask. "The thing is, not all of the seabed is flat, or sand. In fact, most areas are full of rocks, wrecks and all sorts of deathtraps for a net. Those were quite precious commodities so we avoided wasting them and only lowered them when we were sure they wouldn't snag onto anything. When they couldn't lower the nets, that's when we were truly called upon, that's when they asked to deploy us, the Poseidons." Before trying to understand the way in which zombies were fought underwater, it is important to ascertain how they interacted with the ocean's floors. Although zombies are immune to the lack of air, their sense of smell and hearing are mostly rendered useless at the bottom of the ocean. While on earth a Z could hear a man from half a mile away, underwater they were nothing more than bloated mobile masses, walking endlessly in a slow motion, sappy fever dream. Although this made them easier to kill, it is also a testament to their resilience, a Z could walk alone for years under the sea, marine life completely avoided them, even sharks dare not approach them. A standard Poseidon formation as it came to be known after the war quickly became the accepted method of effectively fighting Z under the water. The formation was composed of "Heavy" and "Light" units, acting in unison to bring down the threat. The first ones to submerge would be the "heavies". These were deep sea divers completely clad in a massive bronze and aluminum diving suit with a large copper helmet enveloping their head. On each side of the helmet each heavy had a "Ulixes" torch, a model that could light up even the most deep recess of the abyss.Their weaponry consisted of a large bronze shield and an inox iron spear, resembling that of an Ancient Greek hoplite or a Roman legionnaire. For backup, every heavy was armed with a 10 inch diving knife, one edge serrated to cut through netting and obstacles, or on occasion Z himself. While the heavy was slow, he could stay submerged for up to a day thanks to his carbon-scrubbing rebreather and was almost completely immune to bites, scratches and whatever the Z's could throw at them. After having made contact with the seabed, the heavies would gather into serrated ranks, their shields held in front of them and the spears poking out, forming an impenetrable phalanx. Following the heavies, the "light" units would submerge. Unlike their invulnerable brethren, the light divers only wore a neoprene diving wetsuit, which depending on the climate could be switched out for a hermetic one. Most "lights" sported a handheld torch, which they used to find Z and signal the heavies, together with a short spear or an axe. They had GAV inflatable jackets and lead-weighed belts to enable them to sink or float at will. Under most circumstances they looked exactly like a modern scuba diver, complete with fins, air tanks and diving torches. The light divers traded armor for mobility and were therefore the skirmishes of the formation, fanning out and attacking Z at will, harassing him and retreating, luring him toward the grinder of the waiting heavies. Giorgio was one of them. "Once the lights would gather enough Z's they would start luring them towards us". He explains; “In an ideal scenario we would have a good visibility and we could see them approaching and prepare our phalanx to face them. Still, as I've already told you, the sea makes her own rules to the games that people play. One moment we would have visibility as clear as day, the other a current of plankton would envelop us, making them impossible to see even if they were an inch from our nose. What guided us was mostly the torches of the light ones. They would signal to us where the heathen ones were and from where they would be approaching. It was important to have our phalanx always facing them because if the demons found our unshielded side it could often spell disaster. Many men I lost to an unseen bastard who crawled into our side. If the lights did their job good though, that often wouldn't be the case and we could face all of the fiends upfront... That's when the fighting began. The lights would scatter, either floating up and beginning their ascent or retreating behind our ranks, most of the time they would float above us, illuminating the zombies from above with their torches. Then the wall of dead would be upon us. It felt like a train smashing head on against our shields, we would hold fast, our lead-laced boots digging into the ground, our shield protecting us from their rotten teeth. The funny thing is, this was nothing like the combat you see on land, it was all in slow motion, slow but continuous, fluid movements both ours and Z's. It was a deadly struggle and yet there were no screams, no gunfire it was silent as night down there. Once Z had been stopped in his tracks we would raise our shields and start stabbing at their head with our long spears, killing them rank after rank putting them down into the seabed where they're supposed to be. What our spears couldn't finish we did with our knives, our boots or even our bare hands. Once I saw Morotz, one of my biggest lads, crush the head of a Z in his ironclad fist." Although the Poseidons were unrivaled fighting machines, losing only 15 of their 300-strong unit in the whole war, operating at depths of up to 2000 meters under the sea demanded quite a complicated logistics system to keep them alive at that depth and to make their fighting force effective. That's something I ask Giorgio, who indeed seems to be well-versed on the subject. "Due to the slow nature of the fighting that took place down there, it often took days to clear an area of heathens, which is why we set up "camp" a few hundred meters under the surface. Now "camp", is nothing as you imagine it. It's intended as a pressurized hyperbaric chamber, suspended by cable to one of our tugboats. When the fighting was over for the day, we would all ascend to "camp" where we could decompress, lose the nitrogen in our system and make preparations for the following day." Decompression is necessary to every diver, from the deep sea heavies to a recreational scuba. When a person is submerged for a certain amount of time little bubbles of nitrogen start forming in the bloodstream and if one was to emerge suddenly, these would expand owing to the reduced pressure and obstruct vessels and veins, risking to kill the person. An experienced diver knows this sickness very well. "We took decompression religiously. I would have rather left one of my guys behind and have one less heavy than risk a decompression sickness on my hands. It's a horrible way to go and it would spell the end of whatever operation we were conducting, not to mention kill the morale of my guys. Sometimes, when an operation was over we had to decompress for days, these were pretty boring and most of us stashed all manners of books and magazines in the hold. It was a down time to our work, we trained to kill but all we had to kill in there was time. It did give me time to think however, as it's in here that I thought up the phalanx, the light and heavies and all that was our fighting doctrine, every time I emerged in the chamber I had ample time to learn from the mistakes we made and perfect our tactics. In the end, a ship is only as good as it's crew and I could use this time to deal with my men on a personal level. I could see who was in a good mood, who wasn't and why, I tried my best to keep their morale high, that's when they fought best." I now move on to another topic. I feel like I've explored the past enough and I'm sure it must have been quite taxing for Pellizzari. I ask him about the future and what he sees of it. Considering the Poseidons have now been disbanded, replaced by professional Navy units. "I was assigned mostly ex Navy guys myself, or whatever deep sea divers had survived the Z war, cable repairmen, ship technicians, even the occasional recreational diver, they were all welcome in my crew...Now that our job is mostly done they all moved on to other pursuits, there are many damaged oil rigs out there, still broken and leaking, cables tore to pieces by the undead.They're wherever mankind needs them to be honestly, and I think it's all for the best. Today I look at my son Giorgio and I hope he grows up in a world that is more than thrusting spears at things. I hope he will develop a culture and master the arts, I hope he will find a job that has nothing to do with the heathen ones at all. Should they rise again, I warn them, while many shall kill them on land, I shall hunt them to the deepest abyss down to the pit of hell itself if necessary. I’m about to leave, Pellizzari has given me all that I needed and a very significant piece of history, not to mention a lesson learned shall the Z’s decide to infect humanity again. Before I go I have one last question, something unrelated that has always fascinated me. I ask Pellizzari if he’s ever seen things down there, things that no one has ever seen before. I was half expecting a sardonic remark, something sarcastic or funny, but the man gave me a look that was all the opposite. He seemed to pause on this one and then, almost by surprise gives me an answer I was not expecting. “Once, and only once. We were at 5,000 meters down and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a hallucination caused by the nitrogen in our blood, but I’m pretty sure we all saw it. It’s eye was as big as one of our shields, tentacles, numerous and thick as a tree, they must have been longer than one of our tugboats. It came close, I think it was just curious. We poked at it with our spears and one of my guys pierced it’s eye. It left in a flurry, an abomination never to be seen again. Never forget, that to this day we know more about the surface of the moon than we do what lies at the bottom of the sea.

Hello, my name is I was going to die. Plain and simple. I hadn’t even had sex yet. What the hell. I closed my eyes and thought about exactly how much this was going to suck. I was standing in the middle of a road in Ojai, California. I have no idea what road it was. I was in the bloody remnants of my school uniform, my tie hanging mostly undone, and the shirt looked like I had been attacked by a dinosaur and somehow survived. That would have been great. It would have given me hope that maybe, somehow, I was going to survive the predicament I had found myself in. After all, if you can take out a dinosaur, you can take on anything. Unfortunately the dinosaur thing was just in my head. The truth is I had just got the shit beat out of me. Not by a dinosaur. But we’ll get to that. So I was standing in the middle of the nameless road. The moon was extremely bright for some reason, and it had an ominous red tinge to it. But that was just a coincidence. My hands were duct-taped behind my back, and there was a chain wrapped several times around my ankles, which led out behind me. And was attached to the back of a blue sedan. I looked over to my left and saw the limp forms of my two best friends, one of whom I had kissed just the other night. Ya, good times. There were three guys standing by the car, talking in hushed tones. I couldn’t see them, as I was facing away from the vehicle, staring as hard as I could at the very interesting something that was heading my way. But I knew that there were three of them, because I was very much alive and well and conscious when they beat the shit out of me, and then dragged me out onto the road and taped up my hands and chained my feet. It was a shitty way to end an evening that had started out perfectly wonderful. I was going to ask her out, you see. The girl, one of my best friends for going on a year now. But it just wasn’t meant to be. I heard a door slam. An engine started. I closed my eyes, and felt the slack cut out of the chain, and it bit into my ankles. I was going to die. Perhaps I should explain. ***** My name is Declan Finn Carter, son of Michael and Susan Carter, brother to Darrel. My parents liked names with ‘D’, not really sure why. If they had had a girl they probably would have named her Dianna or something. But whatever. I guess some people are just like that. Anyhow. Son. Brother. Death. I am sixteen years old and a junior in high school. My brother Darrel should be my twin, and technically he is, but we don’t look alike, and are birthdays are on different days. He was born on November fourth at eleven fifty-five PM, and I was born on November fifth at twelve oh-two AM. Just our luck I guess. We don’t consider ourselves twins. The only thing we have in common are the eyes; both hazel. Otherwise, he is big, at six-foot-three-and-still-growing, and borderline fat, as he plays lineman for the football team. But he wears it well, and he has light brown hair that is almost always shaved. My brother is a genius, though you wouldn’t guess it if you saw him in public. But sit him down just one-on-one, give him a coffee, and bring up the time space continuum, and you’ve got the next four goddamn hours set out for you. Better pack a lunch. Me? I’m five-foot-ten-and-stuck, with dark, almost black, hair, and the physique of a… actually no, I have no physique. I am skinny as hell, and could eat a cow and stay that way. I tried sports once. Sort of. I was standing in line for the basketball signup, then I realized what I was doing, and walked away trying to look like I had a purpose. I got lucky and only got harassed for about a month after that. I really don’t have any gifts, not like my brother. In fact, there really isn’t much that I am good at. I just sort of slouched through life. I figured if I could keep everyone’s expectations low, I could surprise them on occasion. My parents are both dentists, which is really annoying, because they spot if you didn’t brush your teeth from like a mile away. They both work at the same clinic, which also happens to be located right across from the high school, which means that if I don’t get out the door soon enough to walk, I get to ride along on the dentist express and walk across the street to school, which sucks, because my mom is a cheek-kisser. It doesn’t help that I have a fan club of jocks who watch out for me, just to rid me of any self-confidence or dignity that might have bubbled its way up in the night. My dad saw them grab me and put me in a dumpster once. I managed to convince him that those guys were really my friends, and it was just a prank that we did to each other. He bought it hook, line, and sinker, but at the time he was reading Cosmo, basically a married man’s porn, and thus not really listening to me. Turned out he had been listening though, and had seen the guys who threw me in the dumpster walking down the street one day, and asked them about me. They assured him that they were, in fact, my very closest friends, and my dad invited them for dinner. They politely refused, but began coming by the house to try and get me to ‘hang out’ with them. It was bad. I could only put it off for so long. I actually started doing homework, just so that I had a real excuse. But it wouldn’t last. Finally they stopped coming to the house, but school was still hell. I had one friend at school. Sort of. His name was Aaron Patton, and he was one of those shy, quiet, insecure guys that liked to smoke a lot of weed and hang out on the swings at parks. He was about six-foot-five, but a real softy. He got a lot of crap for being what you call ‘goofy-looking’. So we got along. Most of the time that we hung out though, it was just sitting around; him smoking weed, me reading a magazine, and not much talking. Just…chilling, I guess. Beyond that, we didn’t do much. He was good at school, at least average, and was looking forward to some community college where he could find more people like him. I didn’t really see that happening, as he was sort of a one of a kind. I had never met his parents, and didn’t even know their names. I didn’t even know his middle name. But that was just the nature of our relationship. And even the word ‘relationship’ is pushing it. So life was going, and I didn’t really see a future for myself. I figured I would end up working at some convenience store or something like that for the rest of my life. That was if I got lucky and graduated. I had at one point had dreams of leaving Sauk County, and even Wisconsin, but then I just gave up. I don’t know why. I just did. Then my parents got offered some over sea’s work or something. They had sat me and Darrel down and tried to explain, but all I got out of it was that they were going away for about a year or so to Guatemala, or Shangri-La or something. And honestly I was like ‘cool’. But then they dropped the bomb. Turns out they didn’t trust Darrel and me in the house alone for that long (No idea why), so we would be going away too. But not with them. My dad handed us both pamphlets. The cover of it showed two green hills that looked remarkably like the Windows default background, minus icons, and had orange writing over the front of it. Spring Valley Preparatory School. What the fuck? Dad yelled at me. They don’t like swearing, and apparently I had said that last bit out loud. Oops. I opened the pamphlet and was faced with an enormous, fake, braces filled smile, on a kid who looked like the poster boy for the ‘before’ photos on a Pro-Activ commercial. There was some stuff about sports, and some other stuff that might have been important, but I couldn’t concentrate, not with Gollum smiling at me like that. Jesus. Dad said that we would be attending for one year, and if we liked it, we could stay on for our senior year. They both really tried to play that last part heavy, so I was figuring they just wanted to be rid of us for a while. Whatever. I was cool with it. I shouldn’t have been. If I had known what was coming, or if I could go back in time, I would have pushed the old me off a cliff, just so that the future and or present me wouldn’t have to go through what the future me would go through. Or had gone through. Or…well, you get it. Bad shit was coming. And I was going to be at the dead center of it. The last month of school was awesome. I didn’t do shit. I slept in class, and the teachers didn’t care. I left for lunch and usually didn’t come back. Who cared? Apparently my previous transcripts had been enough to get me into this stupid prep school, so I didn’t give two hoots about the rest of this crap. It was a bad move on my part. I spent a lot of time with Aaron, and almost got high, but decided against it. To be honest, I never touched the stuff because, well, I was scared. I didn’t like the idea of something altering my already fucked up brain. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but whatever. It did to me, at the time. Makes even less sense since I drink. I started to look forward to the start at the new school. It was a chance to restart, reinvent myself, be cool, make friends. It was going to be great. I spent the days in class, when I wasn’t sleeping, staring out the window daydreaming about the people I would meet, particularly the girls, and the friends I would make, and the more-than-friends I would make. I like girls. A lot. On the last day of school, I got a going away party. From my ‘bestest friends’, the jocks. I was walking out to go to lunch and not come back again. I had cleaned out my locker slowly over the last month, and all I had with me was a backpack with a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, some pencil bits, and an old notebook that had hardly anything but doodles in it. I had said goodbye to Aaron in English, second hour, and he had grunted something that sounded like ‘good luck’ and that had been that. I was walking across the parking lot when I heard someone call my name. “Yo, Carter! You gonna leave without saying goodbye to your best friends? That’s sorta rude man, wouldn’t ya say Mick?” I turned around and saw the four of them walking towards me with bags of fast-food, the medals on their letter jackets clinking loudly. Usually there were five, but I guess Dumpy had taken the day off from humiliating kids for a minute. I didn’t really know their names, I just had nicknames. There was The Boss, Beef, Blondie, Asian, and Dumpy. But like I said, Dumpy was a no-show today. I swore and turned to run for it, but Asian was faster (he was a receiver) and he grabbed my backpack which, due to the straps around my shoulders, acted in this particular moment as a sufficient leash. Damn you traitorous backpack. I struggled to slip my arms out of the straps, but by then Blondie and Beef had grabbed both my arms and lifted me up so that my feet were off the ground. The Boss got right in my face, and I could smell the fries and ketchup on his breath. Good smell when it’s not the remnants from someone’s mouth. Particularly one as fowl as The Boss’s. I tried not to puke, and closed my eyes, hoping they would just do what they needed to do, and be done with it. “I was really kinda hoping for at least a note or something,” The Boss breathed, his breath wafting over me. I really was trying hard not to puke, honest. “I thought maybe you had a little more respect for old friends than that.” He was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were their usually cruel beady blue. “Well, honestly,” I gasped, trying not to inhale the stink of his breath. “I figured I could write you a letter, ya know, to let you off easy, so as to not make a scene or anything, ya know?” I hated my mouth sometimes. But he just smiled more. “Well ya shoulda known I’m not that kinda guy, Carter. I can take it.” He looked around at his cronies. “But I wanna talk in a more…private setting. Wha’d’ya think?” And they put me down, keeping a firm grip on my arms, and wheeled my around, shoving me towards the edge of the parking lot. Great. I knew exactly where they were taking me. Cliché as it was, even for them, we were heading to the little alcove where the dumpsters where kept. Nothing like a party to send ya off. Jesus. We got to the alcove, and, Blondie and Beef still doing their best death grips on my forearms, came to a halt. I’d gotten my feet under me finally, and stood there while they wheeled one of the dumpsters out of the alcove. It is at this point that I must describe for you the layout of the Baraboo High parking lot. There was a main parking lot, right in front of the school, obviously, and then off to the left was a small road that went downhill to a smaller, extra parking section. This hill is the important part of the layout, as it is at probably a thirty degree angle, which is pretty steep, considering, and it has a slight curve. At the start of that curve, from our end, was a speed bump. Well, it used to be speed bump. Over time it had become more of just, well, a bump. Kids would ride their skateboards down the hill just to hit the bump and get some air. This was not looking good. “How about a nice sendoff for ya, huh Carter?” The Boss was smirking terribly, and the cronies where laughing. “No. Nonono.” I was panicking. My unmotivated brain had been thrust into overdrive by fear and adrenaline, and I had put two and two together pretty quick. “Come on man,” I pleaded. I never pleaded. Not usually. “Come on, do something else. Beat me up? Ya know, smack me around a little -” What was I saying? I didn’t want to be beat up. But I wanted to not die more. The Boss just laughed. “Throw him in,” he said, stepping aside so the cronies could do their work. My feet left the ground and then I flopped on my back in the dumpster, one of the bags under me bursting. I pulled my arm up and saw it covered in ketchup and something brown. Shit. Probably not, but still. Yuk. Plus, people don’t put shit in dumpsters. The Boss was looking down on me with a particularly evil twinkle in his eye. He probably couldn’t believe he had thought of this. I know I couldn’t. “How ‘bout a snack for the road, huh Carter?” He reached into his fast-food bag and pulled out a burger, unwrapped it, then pulled it apart. “You hungry Carter? I bet you are. Here, I’m such a nice guy, I packed you a road trip lunch.” He laughed at his own joke, then tossed the halves of the burger down on me. One landed face down on my face. I fucking hated this guy. “Any parting words Carter?” I looked up at his smiling face, and the faces of the cronies surrounding him. I really did not want that to be the last thing I saw. That would be horrible. And how would I explain it to St. Peter? How did I croak? Funny you should ask. I might have been wheeled down a hill in a dumpster by four brainless Jocks straight out of the Goonies movies. Would you buy it? Then again I guess it really isn’t something you can make up. I closed my eyes.

Upon my arrival to that military town out west, it was apparent I was in a new place. The geography was different; there were actually hills and bluffs to look at, and long drives to take on winding roads through the Texas Hill Country. I was always five minutes from the nearest dirt road and knew of a spot we would take my 4x4 off-roading at night to the top of the tallest hill on the edge of town and look over the city lights. By tradition, we'd stay up there until the cab of my truck had completely filled with smoke. On that hill I found a peace that I couldn't find in any of the bars in town, a peace that kept me going back to that spot for years, multiple times a week, just to soak it all in and relax at the end of my days.

Complete silence. The moon is directly overhead, and the massive sphere that we call home is peaceful and quiet, except for the rowdy teens that sneak out to see the world in the darkness. "Hey guys!" a deceptively deep voice calls out "Let's see if the Donut Shack is open!" It is 12:00 am, and the only people still outside are the three teenagers looking for something to do at such a time. Of the three boys, one is obviously in charge, he walks a couple feet ahead of the others, but at the same pace, his skin is light, but distinctively darker than the others, he is the only one who knows where they are going, and the only one truly accustomed to the utter darkness in which they were enveloped. Stitch, the shortest of the group, began his usual complaining "Do you guys have any extra socks?" he asked, in his stereotypical whiney tone, "I think there might be a hole in one of mine." Gus, the reasonable, yet quiet one, was the first to respond. "No" he said, in the monotonous manner to which he was accustomed, and so they continued to follow their friend. By the time the boys reached their destination, they were all tired and cold, but in luck! The Donut Shack closed at 12:30, and they had arrived at 12:15, beating the hypothetical buzzer. As the threesome arrived at their marvelous destination, their hearts plummeted like a penny down a well, and they stepped back out just as quickly as they had gone in. The three boys had walked all the way to the shop each with the same feeling in their hearts, they possessed an unspoken, yet sacred bond, a bond so deep that nothing in the world could break it. These three boys all wanted the same thing in life, and they had marched through the cold darkness to get it. The Donut Shack had already started to fade out of sight, and the three boys shared a moment of silence, emboldening the sadness which they experienced. The three boys are you, they are me, they are everyone who ever has lived or will live, and all that they ever wanted out of life was the one thing they couldn't get. A maple bar, the only doughnut that was currently unavailable.