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Allura 24

Fear is like a seed. It starts out small, but with time and without restraint, it grows inside me, consumes me, and leaves me an empty husk of my former self. When I was a young child, I had no fears. I could climb the tallest tree, swim the longest lake, run the longest distance. My father smiled at my innocence, and my mother laughed at my youthfulness. Then my mother got very sick. She had fourth stage pancreatic cancer and died just two weeks after she had been diagnosed. This all happened when I was just twelve years old. My father turned bitter and violent. He never hit me, but his harsh and condescending words hurt as much as a whip. My mother was an incredible piano player, and my father forced me to follow in her footsteps. I practiced hard and often, but my father was insatiable; he would scream and hurl profanities at me every time I missed a key. That’s when I learned about fear; fear is the ugly clang of my fingers slipping on the piano keys, knowing that every mistake I make is just one more thing for my father to add to my list of failures. Fear is the icy gust that makes my skin prickle as my sharp-tongued father slams the door. Despite my protest, my father entered me in multiple piano contests. He told me that he didn't expect me to win, but that maybe the judges would find me so abominable that they’d take pity on me and give me a prize anyway. A few minutes before I took the stage, my stomach clenched up; at my very first performance, I discovered I had crippling stage fright. I realized fear is the suffocating vice that crushes my lungs and leaves me gasping for breath. The once friendly applause of the crowd now sounds like a wild chant dooming me to failure. Fear is the acidic taste that fills my mouth as I prepare to take the stage. The gentle melody of the other performer’s music now sounds like a clock, loud and patronizing, counting down to the moment I will take the stage, and how much longer I have until I must return to my father’s condescending words. Fear is the pounding of my heart and the inescapable glare of the spotlight, focused only on me. The heat is suffocating, but not as much as the thought that if this performance isn't perfect, my father will scream at me until his voice and my self-esteem are worn away. I sat down nervously and played my song. I made no mistakes, but my playing lacked any feelings or emotions. Fear had shut me down; I couldn't have stopped playing if my life had depended on it. After the show, a boy slightly older than me congratulated me on my performance. I would see him see him many times throughout the next year; his name was Tyler. I went to my father expecting to get a fake smile to appease the judges (in years past, his shouts and abusive nature had worried the judges, which had led to awkward confrontations), but he just dragged me into the car. “What on Earth was that crap?! Did I waste my precious time teaching you how to press keys? No! I taught you to win! Clearly, you don’t have your mother’s talent. I guess you’ll never be good enough. I should have known better.” The rest of the drive home was spent in an angry silence. Fear is the salty tang in the air as bitter tears stain my cheeks. As many more terrifying piano recitals came and went, I grew very close to Tyler. I was with him every day from six to nine for five years, and he became my closest friend. I trusted him with my life and told him all about my verbally abusive father. He seemed to be the only one who understood my unhappiness; he had a mother who was equally strict, although she had abandoned him a few months before he and I had met. We ended up dating and moved in together when I was eighteen; although my father couldn't control me, I could still hear his insults repeated in my head. Without my father there to hurl insults at me, I began to do it on my own. Tyler had started out very kind and understanding, but soon became frustrated with my crazy ramblings; he would often beat me when I muttered about what a failure I was. It was then that I learned fear is loving someone who will only hurt you. Fear is the slap of realization that my life will only get worse; just as bitter a feeling as Tyler actually slapping me. Tyler soon called my father to our house. When he saw my disheveled appearance, he laughed and told me I looked close to snapping. When those words passed his lips, a strange look came over his face. The next day my father was found dead, and I was convicted as the murderer after. I had been deemed medically insane and a danger to society. It is from this penitentiary that I tell you my story. Fear is an ocean. Its tides ebb and flow; sometimes there is only a prickling of doubt, sometimes there is an overwhelming urge to hide and never come out. Fear is the shock of losing my desperate hold on the cliff of my life, plunging into the frigid waters below, the weight of my past dragging me down past the crashing waves. The ocean of my fears has swallowed me up, and I have been imprisoned. There is no escape; I will stay forgotten, alone in this room until I lose all sense of time and hope. Falsely kind faces smile at me and tell me that I’m alright, and I’ll only be here for “a short while”, but I know that I’ll be here forever. Fear is the realization that no matter what they say, I won’t be all right.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to be experiencing some turbulence. I have turned the seat belt sign on and ask that you return to your seats.” You glance nervously back and forth, having never been one for flying, and the grip you have on the armrests tightens, sitting in the last row of the plane was definitely not a good idea. “Don’t worry, this will all be over soon,” the older looking gentleman next to says. He hasn't said a word to you until just now, and his voice made the statement sound like an omen. The man leaned back and closed his eyes, a smile playing across his lips. you decide to ignore the man entirely and go back to looking nervously ahead. That's when you notice that one of the pilots is urgently speaking to a flight attendant in hushed whispers, they keep glancing up at the passengers with fear in their eyes. Just as you and the pilot make eye contact the plane jerks violently down, seemingly dropping from the sky. Everyone is in hysterics all around you, everyone except the man in the seat next to you. He chuckles and says, “Looks like my job is just about to start.” You lock eyes and his pupils seem to enlarge until all you can see is black, so black that it seems that they are sucking in light. The man stands up, walks into the aisle, he walks to the front of the plane touching shoulders as he passes. The people he touches fall silent, limp, lifeless. Soon your the last one alive, he turns to you, laughs, and says, “ Check your watch.” Looking down you see 12:36 PM. Then he flicks you in the forehead and you slump face down. A few minutes later you come too, look up and see everyone is alive and docile, the seat belt sign is not on. Thinking it was just a dream you relax slightly and take a breath, then the plane hits turbulence and the seat belt sign flicks on. Scared now you look at your watch and see that it is 12:32 PM. You glance nervously back and forth, having never been one for flying, and the grip you have on the armrests tightens, sitting in the last row of the plane was definitely not a good idea.

So I went to my vball friends house for pizza and pop. : And at about 10:30 my bud gets a text from the BABE : And hes like...

'I know you'd understand if you just listened!" "I don't WANT to listen, I don't want to understand! Just leave me alone!!" I heard the screen door slam behind me as I fled out into the evening, away from the screaming and the shouting and all the excuses. Bullshit excuses that I was just supposed to accept and acknowledge, and why? Because she spoon fed them to me? Because she thought they made sense? They didn't make sense to me, or to my sisters, but what the fuck did that ever matter to her? Some mother she was, marching him in and out of my father's house, in and out of his room. "BITCH!" I screamed back at the house as I made my way down our long, twisting driveway. I realized I was crying then, and it only made me more angry. Why should I shed tears for her? For what she was feeling? Did she care what I wanted, or what I thought? Did she care how I felt seeing her move on like he'd meant nothing to her? My chest shook with a sob as I made it to the end of the driveway. It made me so angry that I couldn't help but scream, pounding on my chest, trying to make my body respond. I wasn't sad, I was angry. I was furious at her, and at him. Not that drunken slob who'd taken his place, but at my father... He'd been the greatest man I ever knew, and now he was gone. Just gone. Like he'd never been there at all. Gone forever and where was I? Still living in his stinking double wide trailer trying to pretend my thirteen years of lessons about pride and honor and being a good man actually meant something. Does a good man go off and die? Does a good man strand his family? Leave his wife in the hands of some filthy gutter rat? Leave his children at the mercy of her fancies? Fuck it. Fuck all of it. I'll just leave and never come back. Our driveway spit me out into the trailer park, which was nothing more than a long, hillish "U" shape that had two exits, both onto the same highway. I made my way towards the back of the "U", still wiping tears from my eyes, somehow quieted by the chorus of insects that rose around me. I hated that place. It was low rent and smelled like dogs and garbage. White trash. Filthy. I was better than that. My father had always told me a man must never be too proud to live within his means, but what did he know? If you ask me, a man must never be too proud to live, but he was dead, so what the fuck does that say? I sniffed hard, wiping the rest of my tears off my face, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I reminded myself where I was going. Where I was walking. I reminded myself that I'd left the darkness in my house, and now I was walking towards light. It was light surrounded by dog shit and trash, but it was still a light in the dark, and somehow it made me warm. It was unseasonably cold, but I began to feel almost happy. Almost. There was only one thing that made me happy anymore, and it was that light. Her light. The light in her eyes and in her smile. She'd lived down the street from me her whole life. We'd grown up together. Cameron. The most beautiful girl I'd ever met. I'd known that I loved Cameron whenever we were six and she gave me a thimble, like on Peter Pan. She said she never wanted me to forget my first kiss. I carried that thimble in my pocket every day until I was old enough to put it on a necklace, and I was still wearing it then. I brought my hand up to touch it, turning it over and over in my fingers at the end of its chain. It was too small for me to fit on my finger anymore, and that thought made me smile. I could still remember her six year old smile, that day I'd fallen in love. She'd grown up, just like I had, and she had her own set of baggage. My hand closed tight around the thimble as I remembered the last time I'd seen her. She had a bruise on her neck, and a scratch under her eye. Say what you want about my low-rent love, she was a fighter. Her father... My teeth gritted. I didn't even want to think about him. Thinking about him made me think about blood, and anger, and killing. I didn't want to think about that, because one day I might actually do it. Slip down to her house in the middle of the night and in through the back door that's never locked. Up the stairs, and skip the creaky ones, so I could stand at the foot of his bed and watch him sleep. Watch him drunkenly twitching and rolling around, groaning about his life and how much he hated it. Watch his whore wife sleep unmoving, feigning ignorance just like she always did. Maybe she'd even lay there while I slit his throat. Just lie there with her eyes open, watching me, never seeing a thing. She was so used to being beaten and kicked that it was second nature for her to deny knowing. Maybe she'd just go back to sleep in his blood when I was done with her filthy, abusive husband. I shook my head. I hated those thoughts. They weren't me. I didn't want to kill anybody, but I couldn't deny some people deserved it. He deserved it. Deserved it for what he did to her. A real man fights for those who cannot fight, and knows how to pick his battles. My father's words again, but this time he was right. I'd seen him pick battles plenty of times, and he'd always won them, whether with his words or with his fists. He was a small man, but fast, and he never took shit from anyone. Anyone except that bastard with the pistol... I almost started crying again, and it made me mad. I gritted through the tears and started walking faster, almost running as I came to the hill just before her house. She didn't know I was coming to see her, so I had no idea if she'd even be home, but I knew I had to try. I couldn't see my mother anymore, listen to what she was trying to tell me about loneliness and solitude and hurt, and about how Hank was a good man too, just like my father. Imagine, actually comparing that slop to my Dad... She must not have known him at all. I crested the hill and caught the sunset full in my face, and for a moment I just stopped. I hated my neighborhood, but this place, this one spot... it was my place. The sunset was beautiful, and from this hill, right before Cameron's house, you could see the whole skyline. It stretched on for miles in both directions, all colors of gold and orange and purple, stretching on and on and on... It was beautiful, and it helped me forget. For the few minutes before the sun fell into the sky, I could think about nothing but the colors. I could lose myself in the clouds, and in my thoughts. I looked right at the sun tonight, daring myself to go blind, unwilling to blink or look away. That's when I saw her. She was walking quickly, almost running, just like I had been, and her face was a silhouette against the setting sun. My tears vanished, and I smiled bigger than I thought I could. I couldn't move. I was transfixed in my own contentment and happiness as she saw me too, and started running. She was sprinting by the time she got to me, and I couldn't even say her name before she threw herself into my arms. Threw her arms around my neck. Everything was gone. The sunset, my mother, her father... It was nothing. They were nothing. There was nothing but this. But her. But us. I wrapped my arms around her as tightly as I could and pulled her so close I swore I must've hurt her, but she pulled every bit as hard. We were giggling and sobbing and trying so vainly to become a single person. She was the sunlight. I felt her in every inch of me, right to my very core. Her tears were salty on my cheek, but she was laughing, giggling my name into my neck and through her kisses. I don't know how long we stood there, holding one another, not even speaking. The euphoria subsided slowly, and eventually it was just us, glowing in each other's arms, bathed in the diminishing sun. We were sweating, and we were tired, but neither wanted to be the one to let the other go. We couldn't. Wounding her was something I couldn't even fathom. I would die for her, especially in that moment. My crippled moment. The moment when I was ready to leave everything behind. Leave my mother in her grief, and my sisters in theirs. Leave my father's memory in the fire and all his lessons in the dirt. I couldn't leave them, because a real man must be a man despite everything to the contrary. And a real man only knows what it is to be a man when he falls in love. I pulled her tighter as I felt my father's hand on my shoulder, and his kiss on my forehead. This was the reason to stay. For her. For her image of me. For her to know that I was strong, and true, and noble, all for her. For her to see me as the man that would eventually save her from this. I was thirteen, and she knew it, and I couldn't do anything yet, but I could hold her. I could kiss her. I could tell her she was beautiful and that it would all be OK one day. I could let her cry on my chest and feel better, and know that one day she could be my wife. That I would be her husband. People say you can't know things like that at thirteen, but I knew. She knew. We felt it. Finally our grips lessened, and we pulled away, still holding hands, staring into each others eyes. So many words passed in that silence. We didn't need to talk. We felt. I felt her love in her gaze, and she felt mine. She made me both strong and weak at the same time, transfixing me like that. I loved her more than I loved myself. I kissed her gently on the lips, and we turned to walk into the sunset. I never looked away from her, and while I could feel the night growing all around us... I knew I'd found the sunlight in the dark.

Dear Mr. Taco Joint Cashier, I am writing to congratulate you on your diligence in regards to the missing sour cream in my burrito. While I can't say your suspicions were accurate, I do see that it was indeed possible that I was trying to con your place of business out of a tablespoon of sour cream. I'm sure any other cashier you would have simply given a new side of sour cream to a customer who claimed they had not received any. But, not you, old boy, you have instincts about these kinds of situations. As soon as the words came across my lips, "Could I please have a little side of sour cream?" your sixth sense went haywire. "Surely this must be a sour cream thief," you thought. "What is your name?" you asked coyly, knowing full well that you had me dead to rights. "Kyle," said I. Thumbing through your pile of receipts you see the name, "Kyle" and the words, "Grande Vegetarian Burrito w/ Sour Cream." For a brief moment, you think your suspicions might be misplaced, but no, you've still got a card to play. "Well, we charged you for it," you say, just loud enough so that all the other could bear witness. "We've got him on the run, now, boys!" you think to yourself. "Well, I've eaten two-thirds of this burrito," I reply, "And there doesn't seem to be any sour cream here." Clearly, that wasn't the response you expected. Your demeanor shifts from smug righteousness to what can only be described as forlorn despair. As you reluctantly ladled that dollop of sour cream into the tiny plastic cup and handed it over to me, I almost took pity on you. Indeed, I felt sincerely regretful that I couldn't reveal the truth to you at that moment. For you, kind sir, are truly a shining star among men. But, alas, you had the misfortune of crossing my path. A shining star you may be, but not even a shining star can withstand the darkness of a black hole.

We were together again. It was so nice to smell you, always a hint of incense or something exotic, and to hear your voice, always calm, I don't know how you do it. It felt so real. It felt so nice. You inhaled slowly, first through the joint, and then through your nose before letting it all out, smiling, and passing it to me. I gave you a cheeky smile because I know you like it. You are my best friend, my secret lover, and some of the biggest moments in my life have been with you, but most recently travelling India together, where I felt I learnt the most about myself, about you and about us. I'm not 100% certain to where we were, my mind was telling me Amsterdam, maybe because I had been there so recently it was affecting my thoughts, but the dirty concrete steps and the smog surrounding the yellow street lights in the night told me otherwise. But I'll stick with Amsterdam. We weren't talking much, but it wasn't an awkward scenario, we were just content with being quiet. We do that a lot, and I like it. I like that we just enjoy the moment together in silence. Trying to recall what happened is a bit of a blur, but for the most important parts, I remember quite clearly. A man came out, and shooed us off his steps, at least I think they were his. He was dark skinned, and seemed to be talking Hindi? Though, I still believe I am in Amsterdam. We ran off, and found a truck, I don't know why we got in but we did. It was one of those Ford F2 somethings. A big white one.. we've never driven together in one of those, so I don't know why we did now. I felt like we were running from something, my heart was beating. We ended up in a back alley somewhere, though I didn't feel I was in Europe now, more like Australia because it was night but I wasn't cold, and the ground, concreted for a parking lot was clean. We sat under some trees- I remember looking at the bottle-brush flowers. Definitely Australian. What are they doing here? And how were we still smoking this joint? All we've been talking about to each other for the past month, is how much we miss each other. Constantly reminiscing, but so much happened in India, it's hard not to! I said something about India. I can't even remember what. Something along the lines of "God I miss..." or "Haha, How funny was..." It's not important. It was your reply that startled me. "What? I haven't been to India." And you laughed. Am I going crazy? We spent nearly 3 months there! How can you forget that? That's why we have gone from friends to... this, we changed together! Although I wasn't nearly as alarmed as I felt. "You know, *India*?" I said, coolly. You did that calm laugh thing you do, "Ha. Ha, nope! But that sounds like a lot of fun! When are we going?" You winked at me. You were excited TO visit India, this makes no sense. I tried to explain, but still I was so relaxed, I don't even understand my own actions, why wasn't I shaking you or crying for perhaps losing a chunk of.. life? "Yeah, we went to India for nearly 3 months, best time of my life. Best time of your life, and something we will never forget." "Huh." You said. "Well, I'm looking forward to it." And then, I felt like as if I was watching myself. "You know I live in Scotland, right?" "You do?" You asked impressed. How didn't you know? We talk nearly every day. "I've been there for nearly 10 months now, I'm actually in England right now." Holy shit, I *am* in England. "It's probably about 10.30am" I felt like I was completely separated from myself now, just watching. I continued talking to you about our lives right now, about India and about the amazing things we experienced, you'd laugh and say things like "That sounds like something I'd do" or "I can't wait". And then I woke. It was indeed 10.30am. I rolled over, grabbed my phone and checked my facebook. One notification. I'm not a popular person, but it was from you, a message, from you! "I dreamt I saw you last night" What a coincidence! I replied, explaining in much less detail that I had too! "I think, our brains are connected somehow." You wrote. I'm not surprised you have that opinion, we often think the same things spontaneously. "Perhaps, in an alternate universe, we don't go to India together, but somewhere else." What a beautiful thought, that somewhere, somehow, we will always have some sort of significant impact in our lives together. The movie *Cloud Atlas* came to mind. It is now less than a week before I return home. You don't know yet. ************************************************************************** *This is my first story.

“What’s wrong with you? Stop calling me, Gwen. Just STOP.” The breakup was a week ago, the text was three hours old, and her response was already percolating. An agitated Gwen Lundgren shuffled through design printouts next to her laptop as she waited for a Skype call scheduled for 9:30 Minneapolis time, 3:30 London time. After several seconds, the ruddy, smiling face of Tykon’s International Marketing Director Erick DeMint flittered up on the screen. He was a personable, handsome thirty-something with vibrant hazel eyes and an unruly shock of straw-colored hair. And although she had never seen the entire man from head to toe, that didn’t stop her from fantasizing. There was something different about the background today. “Gwen? How are you?” His accent made her shift positions in her chair. “Erick, I’m great. Happy Friday. Where are you?” “Took a day off. Can you believe it? So I’m working from home. This is my lovely office. Out that window is my lovely yard where I plan to spend the rest of the afternoon. And later my brother Timothy is coming over for dinner. Oh, and tomorrow morning my wife and I and Samantha are going north to spend the week at a country inn we love near Northampton.” The mention of his wife and daughter grated what she hoped was an imperceptible degree of enthusiasm off her voice. “You’re a busy person. Sounds great. How old is Samantha again?” “Nine, but of course she thinks she’s nineteen. Had the nerve to ask us if she could get her eyebrow pierced the other day. Nine years old.” “My sister is going through the same thing with her two girls. They both want to be Miley Cyrus when they grow up.” Genuine laughter. “God, no. Tell her we feel her pain.” “I’m sure you’re a great father.” “Oh, I have my days, but thanks. What about your weekend? Taking the boyfriend out on the town?” “Unfortunately there’s no one special in my life right now. Well, there was, but….I don’t know. Not the luckiest person in the world when it comes to relationships.” “An attractive young woman like you? That’s hard to believe. Stay positive. You’ll find someone or someone will find you.” “Thanks. Well, so, should we go over the concepts I sent? You’re making me feel guilty about talking business on your day off.” “Don’t worry about it. This was on my calendar long before I decided to…” Erick turned in his chair and then turned back. “Sorry. Thought I heard something. Anyway, back to the concepts. Okay. I really liked number three. Nice work. I felt it captured what we were trying to….” He turned again. “There. Did you hear it that time?” “Sorry. Is anyone home?” “No. Kara’s at work and Samantha doesn’t get home… I apologize, but let me go check. I’ll just be a second.” “Not a problem.” One of life’s great mysteries was solved as Erick stood up and walked to the office door. He was trim with a very cute butt, just as she had imagined. She could hear his footsteps as he walked through rooms in the house and conjured up an image of him coming out of the bathroom wearing only a small white towel and a tender smile, approaching the bed and…Erick popped back into the room shaking his head. “It’s an older home,” he said, sitting down. “I know it doesn’t sound very macho, but sometimes I get a little freaked out when I’m here by myself. Okay, where was…I was commenting on design number three and why I was really drawn to this one.” Although her attention was focused on Erick’s face as he talked, Gwen caught a glimpse of a quickly moving shadow cross the window over Erick’s right shoulder. Most likely….obviously a bird, she concluded, and chose not to say anything. She really didn’t want to be distracted from the praise he was lavishing on her design, her abilities to capture just the right tone, how clever she was to distill a complex concept into a few beautiful images. She was wading in his warm words. There was a distant clang, as if something metal like a pan had fallen to the hardwood floor. “I heard it that time,” she said. Erick’s expression became one of concern and he turned around several times. “I…I think someone’s in the house. I can hear footsteps.” “You’re sure your wife didn’t come home early?” “Duh. That’s probably it. Like I said, I get a bit spooked here sometimes.” He turned and called out. “Kara? Hey, is that you?” There was a muffled but discernable “Yes,” from another room in the house. Erick’s body relaxed and he smiled nervously. “Sorry about all the drama. I’m just going to see what’s going with my wife and then we can finish up here. Hold on.” As much as she enjoyed her conversations with Erick, this was taking longer than she had planned and it was bumping into another meeting that was about to start. Gwen leaned back in her chair and toyed with a pen while waiting. A shadow moved across the hallway beyond the office threshold followed by a murmur of voices and then two loud thumps, which sounded like someone pounding a fist on a countertop. She leaned forward, eyes now zeroing in on the hallway. There was another flitter of a shadow and then a door closed somewhere in the house. This was followed by unnerving silence. “Erick? Hey, what’s going on? Erick. Are you okay?” Gwen took in a breath and held it. Someone sneezed in a nearby cube and her muscles clenched up as if she’d been stuck with a pin. “Erick?”“No. I’m okay. Everything is fine.” It was Erick’s voice coming from somewhere in the house. “Made a mess I need to clean up.” She waited a minute, her heart racing, then called Erick’s name several more times, but there was no response, no movement in the house at all. Do I call 911, she wondered? What’s 911 in London? Maybe he just decided to go…no. He didn’t…he wouldn’t just leave me hanging. Would he? A passing cube mate made the un-asked for observation that she looked pale and asked if she was okay. Distracted, Gwen nodded and then, part hurt, part still concerned, terminated the call. The screen went dark and there was only her own vague image floating in the blackness of the monitor. An hour passed, then another. Too unnerved to work, she began making inquiries as best she could from another country. She was finally able to track down Erick’s boss at Tykon, who said he’d gone on holiday with his wife, which was actually a plausible explanation after what he’d told her, but still…. Three weeks passed. Gwen emailed and called Erick every day, but received only “out-of-office” replies or was dropped into voicemail. Her time at home was spent checking London newspapers online for any crime that might relate to Erick or his family. She knew that something was not right with Erick’s sudden disappearance, that possibly a crime had been committed, but she had no evidence and could not find anything concrete on which to base her feelings. She called his boss again and was told Erick had taken a brief leave of absence for personal reasons. Personal reasons? Like being dead? It was a chilly late fall afternoon as Gwen strode along Nicolette Mall in downtown Minneapolis in the direction of the Dakota when she heard a familiar voice rise above the din of traffic and call out her name. “Gwen.” She spun around and to her astonishment saw Erick walking across the mall in her direction smiling and waving. He was wearing a long black coat with a red scarf around his neck and his hair was shorter, but she knew it was him from the instant their eyes met. Stunned, she stood like a boulder in a river of pedestrians flowing by, her attention fixated on the approaching man. “Oh, thank God I found you,” he said, putting his arms around her and squeezing tight. For a moment, she was too shocked to react, but then quickly wrapped her arms around him and pulled him even closer. “My God, Erick. What the—“ Before she could finish he put his lips to hers and kissed her passionately. She responded without hesitation. Several moments later they separated, and Gwen tried to formulate a coherent question from the dozens that were swirling around in her head. “What’s going on, Erick? Why are you here? What about Kara?” “There’s plenty of time to talk about all of that. Right now, however, I would like to take you to my hotel room.” Two hours later Gwen sat on the edge of a bed, a sheet draped over her naked body, pleasantly exhausted, but still shell-shocked. The sex had been loud and satisfying, but perhaps lacking a degree of…intimacy. She looked toward the bathroom door where Erick was taking a shower and tried to imagine various scenarios that ended with Erick coming to Minneapolis from England alone to find her after having disappeared for three weeks. None of them made any sense. Wearing only a white towel and a wicked grin, Erick set down on the bed next to Gwen and kissed her cheek. “That was unbelievable,” he whispered. Gwen blushed, but remained guarded. “Can we talk about what’s going on, Erick?” “Over dinner. I promise. Let me get dressed and we’ll have a quick drink from the mini bar and then go downstairs. I’ll tell you everything. Promise.” Eyeing him sideways, Gwen got up to dress. The bored waiter set their entrees in front of them and walked away without a glance. “Bloody moron isn’t very interested in a tip, is he?” said Erick just a bit too loud. “How’s your martini?” “Too good. I might have to order another one. So….” “So. Well, it’s not really all that complicated, although it is rather depressing.” His expression darkened. “That day of the call—“ “The video call?” “Right, video call, Kara came home early, as you know, and then confessed to me she’d been seeing another man for several months and that she wanted a divorce. That was, of course, a huge shock. I felt like I’d been run over by a tram, but the part of her story that sent me entirely over the edge was that the other man was my brother. The…bitch had been screwing my brother. Well, I was in complete and utter insanity mode. It’s horrible to say, but I wanted to kill them both. Honestly, I had no idea this was going on. Call me stupid or blind or whatever, it came as a total shock. Anyway, I simply couldn’t deal with it and left the house immediately. I’m so sorry, Gwen. I’ve just been in a state of absolute inner turmoil the past few weeks, I can’t even tell you. But then I thought about you and the feelings I had felt whenever we talked and realized it was the perfect opportunity to get out of London for a while and see if my intuitions about you were correct. And it seems they were.” “Wow. So where’s your daughter?” “Samantha's with my Mum until I get back.. Gwen looked down at her salmon and shook her head not quite sure that all the dots connected, but considering the man of her dreams was sitting across the table from her, she swept her doubts into a dark corner of her mind and looked up, meeting Erick’s piercing eyes. “I’m terribly sorry for everything. It must be a nightmare.” “It was,” he said. “Until now.” Staggering and laughing arm in arm down the hallway of her apartment complex, Gwen and Erick made up lyrics to “The First Cut is the Deepest,” which had been playing in the elevator on the way up. “The first cup is the cheapest….” A wobbly Gwen apologized for the mess as she led Erick through her apartment to the living room. She dimmed the lights, poured them both a glass of wine and joined him on the couch, curling up next to him and nuzzling his neck. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “That I’m so glad I found you,” he said. They talked for another half hour until Gwen heard a familiar ping coming from her bedroom. “Sorry,” she said, gently brushing the back of her hand across his cheek. “Need to use the bathroom. Would you pour us another glass?” Erick smiled. “I’d like nothing better.” Not sure why she thought she needed a subterfuge to check her computer, she slipped into the bedroom, sat at her desk and tapped the space bar. The screen quickly brightened and up popped a news alert. She opened the email and scanned several recent headlines from The Telegraph. One caught her eye. Murdered Family Members Identified London — Scotland Yard was finally able to positively identify the remains of three family members brutally murdered in their Hampstead residence three weeks ago. The victims were 35 year old Erick DeMint, 34-year old Kara DeMint and their daughter, 9-year old Samantha DeMint. The police still have no solid leads… A shadow enveloped Gwen from behind. “Don’t turn around. “Erick? What’s going on?” she asked with a growing sense of alarm. “Remember several weeks ago during your little teleconference or video call or whatever you call it when I said I had a mess to clean up. “Yes?” “Well, I’m taking care of that now.” “I don’t understand.” “Erick told you he had a brother. What I think he failed to mention was that he has…had an identical twin brother.” The razor-edged knife slid effortlessly through Gwen’s neck muscles in a long red arch, releasing a burbling cascade of blood that flowed down her chest like warm red honey. Grasping a handful of her hair, Timothy held her head back until the spasms ended. “Erick was quite fond of you, Gwen. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid you had a crush on the wrong man.

One day there will be a superhero vigilante who will target the wealthy elite. There will be a story on the news. A billionaire found dead in his home with a note attached saying "...with liberty and justice for all..." A few weeks later a second body found. Another billionaire. This one says "We hold these truths to be self-evident." When a week later "Life", "Liberty" and "The pursuit of happiness" are found, three different bodies, two senators and a lobbyist for the NRA, it is clear that there is a pattern emerging. Soon the powerful are riding in armored cars, escorted by small armies of mercenaries. Some take a proactive approach and start foundations and hold press conferences where they say things like "The time is long overdue that the people who are blessed with wealth give back to the community." And somewhere in a dark room, the murderer takes their names off his list. The media dubs him The Robin Hood Killer (a moniker he hates) and soon he is a celebrity. People sell T-shirts on street corners of a hooded figure chasing down a man in a business suit who is holding bags with dollar signs on them in each hand. The killer strikes again and again with military like precision. People speculate that he must have special ops training. The irony that our very own military industrial complex created the machine that would kill it's own creator does not escape the media and they start asking the questions they should have been asking all along about America's foreign policy. After victims 14 and 15 are brought down by consecutive sniper bullets, most of the remaining 1% move overseas to their island homes and after victim 19, a tea party congressman, is strangled in his own home, both the house and senate are moved to a secret location. Man on the street interviews show people saying things like "This is ridiculous. That man had a wife and family." but more people are in support, saying things like "These people have been keeping us down, stealing our money and lying to us long enough. It's time they experience fear the way we live with everyday." But the killer slips up. The police have a man in custody. And the FBI was right. He is a former navy seal, who has stage 4 cancer and less than two years to live. Further research shows that he lost his daughter to a rare blood disease that he believes could have been treated if only they could have afforded better medical care. Across the country a catch phrase begins circulating. A show of solidarity that is plastered on t-shirts and bumper stickers everywhere. Three simple words. "I'm Robin Hood." In prison, the killer is a hero to people who have no understanding of what it is he was trying to accomplish. "You shouldda killed my landlord." one man says. "You did what I WISH I had done." another inmate says "I used to fantasize about killin my boss, daily." He doesn't bother to explain his mission. He wonders if it was all a mistake. And then... The murders start up again. All over the country bodies are turning up with notes tagged to them. Horrible parodies that show that the copy-cats have no clue of what this was supposed to be about. Good people are killed, simply for being perceived as being wealthy or having a little bit of power. Notes are tagged to the bodies that say simply "I'm Robin Hood." In Vegas a man is killed walking out of a casino simply because he had good fortune on the slot machines. In Nebraska, a man who was previously dirt poor is assassinated because he won the powerball. He never even received the first check. He was found dead in his trailer with a note that said "For the people, by the people." This vigilantism goes on for months, while the real killer's health deteriorates to nothing. Once the media referred to him as a ghost, but now he looks more like a skeleton. He is put into a prison hospital for his final days when the unthinkable happens. A senator from Minnesota, by all accounts a good woman, is shot and killed while walking out of her home. The assailant throws up his hands immediately after pulling the trigger and can be seen over several cell phone recordings rebroadcast on the nightly news smiling and saying "I'm Robin Hood" The television plays in the hospital room where the original killer is waiting to die. As he drifts in and out of consciousness he wonders if any of what he is seeing on the news is real. A few days later FBI agents visit the man and ask him to hold a press conference. He agrees. The press conference is the most widely viewed event in the history of American television. It is held in a high-school auditorium and more than 500 members of the press attend. He refuses help to get to the table and it takes him a long time. The room is silent as he sits down and begins to read from a prepared statement. Every eye in every home in America and millions overseas is trained on the skeletal man as he struggles to breathe and reads the message he was told to read. Most of the message is true. It is true that he wants the blood of the innocent to stop being spilled. It is true that what was happening was not his original vision and that he is sorry that things have spun out of control. But what is clear to him, what sickens him, what makes him feel like he is disrespecting the memory of his daughter, is that these words are designed to protect the people who wrote them. He pauses for a long time and stares down at his hands. Then he pushes the papers away and begins to speak slowly. "Your captors and my captors are the same...and they tell us the same lies...they say work will make us free...they say if we are willing to work hard enough we can achieve our dreams...they tell us that we are each other's enemy...they use fear to control and manipulate us and to sell us things we don't need...they tell us we are inadequate...they tell us we are ugly..." Government officials start telling the broadcasters to kill the feed, to cut to commercial. Some do. Most do not. Some refuse because of the ratings and some refuse out of personal politics. At home, viewers turn the channel until they find a feed of the speech that will begin a movement that will later be dubbed Compassionate Capitalism. When the man is done speaking one of the reporters asks "So your message is to stop the killing?" The man answers "What I said was to stop killing the innocent, but to have a true revolution then perhaps those who seek to manipulate us and control us must be sacrificed." After another long pause the same reporter asks "So who do you think should be killed?" Turning the papers over in front of him and holding them up for the cameras to see, he says slowly "Well I have this list." And with that 30,000 television stations cut to commercial.

I would like some criticism here, be as harsh as you like. The sun looked down with an oppressive glare, to which the boy met back with a gaze of his own. Nobody had told him he'd have to bike twenty minutes to get to the gym. What's worse, is nobody would have guessed that the 99 dollar bike he got from Walmart would already be on its last limbs only a few weeks after purchasing it. He cursed his bike and the smothering heat. These plagues would be the least of his worries as he encountered a new atrocity. The swarms of flies gathered savagely over the sidewalk forming a wall of insects. after smashing through two walls he decided to take the bicycle lane in the street. The buzzing of flies was replaced by the buzzing of speeding cars as they hurried on to finish life. He however soaked it all in, even though the flies swarming nearby distracted him. He was bothered by this speed, this incoherent ignorance to the simplest things around them, passing them by. Pondering this thought, which pestered him more than it should have, his bike jumped to the right, as if it wished to return to the multitude of flies. He steadied the bike and turned into the gym's parking lot. The anger from the speeding cars flowed through his thoughts. He detested the rush that had robbed him. Entering the gym he forgot his misguided rage, and enjoyed a workout. The boy was now heading back home. He saw the walls of flies waiting for him, and as he turned to the bike lane, the bike's squeal of rotating gears seemed to beckon him back to the hordes of flies. He kept on going. Going with no choice. Who was really chosen to be where they are he wondered. Who has actually chosen what they were given? Who chose when they were, and where? He daydreamed about these ideas, until his bikes yelps woke him up. Thirty feet ahead of him was an incoming cyclist in the bicycle lane, and a truck in the adjacent lane. He motioned for the cyclist to move to his left towards the spectating flies. He moved slightly to the right. That's when it hit him. He could choose. He could just go a little bit more to the right, into the approaching truck, and finish. He'd finish before those cars and their speed. Those machines and their thievery! They'd lose the race! "I'll choose," he angrily whispered. He let the bike go a few inches to the right. Just before he crashed head on into the unsuspecting driver, his bike let out one final scream. It then lost its front tire and he was laying upright in the grass wondering if he had been successful with his decision. The bike lay next to him, silently content with its final choice... edit* just a few misplaced words, and sorry about how this was structured.

"The strangest thing was, there was no radio. Nothing. Up and down the dial. Just static or silence for months." Said Mike as they slowed to a stop at a four way intersection. Steve sat on the passenger side of the old army cargo truck, jotting on a notepad. The diesel rumbled cantankerously as the the beast lumbered forward. Annabelle was an two and a half ton U.S. Army M35 truck. Big and square and serious. Or had been. Annabelle had seen better days. Big patches of paint were gone and rust nibbled away where it hadn't plain eaten right through. She had bumps and dings and dents and gouges. Some things were missing. Some were replaced. Some were wedged and hammered on with a wing and a prayer. The passenger side window had a big crack running along the hood and up the side that was covered with duct tape, giving her the look of taped up glasses. She was old and mean and stubborn and beat, but all in all, she was a good girl. Mike was a bit older, mid fourties maybe. Thin. He was a week or so overdue for a haircut, but not yet shaggy. He juggled the steering wheel and shifter between his good right hand, the stump of his left and his knee. Steve was much younger. A little bit plump. From an easier time. He was writing for a newspaper or something. Who cares. He was company. "Driving truck was one of the things I could do with this." He held up and waved his left hand. It was roughly a triangle behind where his thumb and knuckles used to be. His amputation scars had healed a long time ago. "It was crushed when a building collapsed right after everything fell apart. I couldn't fight too well, so I did what I could getting stuff to the guys who were. You know they say that the whole thing started with a spelling error? Some guy somewhere made a mistake in a computer code. Started a market panic. Whole thing spread like wildfire. Before you know the whole world was blowing each other up" He hit the clutch and shifted. The original shifter was gone, along with the boot. It was a piece of pipe with a pipe cap on the end dissapearing through a square hole in the floor. "Like I said, there was no radio. No talk, no music. Nothing. They had the army radios for important stuff, but those were few and far between, all for the higher ups. Once in a while you could scrounge up some AA's for one of those little plastic jobbies, but there was nothing to pick up on it. You had a lot of time to think. Sometimes you'd get antsy for something, anything. Some guys had mp3 players or old phones. You could charge those up at the big bases. Once it was gone it was gone though." The truck swayed on the uneven road. The shock absorbers were useless rotted out tubes now, she wobbled on just her springs. Annabelle tipped alarmingly to the side as they rounded a corner, swaying back and forth until she settled back onto her haunches. "Then they got the government station. They got enough broadcast towers together to cover most places. Took a long time to get to the more remote places. Instructions, news, things like that, they broadcast important stuff during the day, less so at night. They taught first aid in the morning, news at noon. At dawn they taught school, just to keep things going. A bit of math, a bit of history. Sometimes on slow days they'd play a song or two." A few moments of silence passed as Steve's pencil scratched on paper. "I don't carry munitions much anymore. Not like the old days when they'd load Annie down untill her tires almost scraped the wells. Food now mostly. Wheat, corn. I carried sheep once. Annie didn't care much for that." They slowed to a stop. The chain link and razor wire of what had once been a prison stretched off in either direction. Mike rolled down the window and handed a sheaf of papers to the bored man in the corrugated steel guardpost. He didn't bother reading too thoroughly. "Well kid, end of the line." He said as they rolled into the unloading area, taking a seat in a long line of Annabelles, Betsies and couple of Rachels. Steve let himself out and said goodbye. Mike sat there, put on the parking brake, patted the scarred up old steering wheel, clicked on the cheap plastic radio taped on top of the dashboard, and listened to the music.

‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’ – Exodus 22:18 "This was the appearance and structure of the wheels: They sparkled like chrysolite, and all four looked alike. Each appeared to be made like a wheel intersecting a wheel." – Ezekiel 1:16 Reuben Kane gazed long and hard above, deep into the silent afternoon sky. When he was a child he imagined he would find God there, idly lounging in the soft-cushioned clouds, half-listening to the prayers of those he created. Little Reuben would speak to God, the one way conversations we all had. He would ask for material possessions; the latest, most expensive bicycle, a new phone with a digital camera and the shiniest shoes he could think of. Yet Reuben sprouted from the fields of the poor, so naturally he aged without the things that he happened to plea for. Over the course of time the prayers became more desperate, more needed, and still the sky was silent. Even when Reuben promised to give something back to the heavens, the gates remained firmly closed. After years of wrestling with his faith, he concluded that we were alone in this universe, merely a fluke and nothing more. It didn’t take the mind of a great philosopher to understand this. After all, the universe was full of unheard prayers floating through space like a searching signal bound for extra-terrestrial life, words withering through the black of nothingness. There is no God, Reuben thought on this afternoon, his eyes now fixed ahead of him. He opened the car boot and removed the backpack and tent, hauled them over his shoulder and made his way into the dark of the forest. It was something of a suicide hot-spot, located one hundred miles from civilisation. Two rusting vehicles were collecting fallen leaves in the car-park; abandoned by their troubled owners who drowned in the sea of trees, their pain too much to keep them afloat. Reuben pondered this for a moment. He wondered if they, too, had shared the elements of doubt that he felt as he stood at the foot of the forest. These doubts he was quick to shake. He had always known that it would come to this, even before his loss of faith, there was that stalking unhappiness that followed him everywhere. There was no room for consideration, or hesitation; he had come to accept his failures, and he was determined this was not to be one of them. *It would take something extraordinary to change his mind.* Reuben followed the trail for a while. He'd already passed at least three signposts urging hikers to abide to the track, with the vastness of the forest making it too easy to get lost, but he had no interest in reading them. He was, however, taken slightly aback by a certain sign in particular, which was accompanied by a yellow telephone. It read: *Suicide Prevention Helpline, 0800-212-TALK, You Are Never Alone.* It’s such a sweeping statement, ‘Never Alone’. Reuben had spent all his years surrounded by people but had always felt the cold of loneliness; and these things made it sound so simple. Perhaps it was, but Reuben had passed the point of wanting to find out. After a further forty-five minutes of strenuous hiking, he made his way off the trail into the unfathomable warren of trees; and soon after, he stepped beyond the point of no return. He watched as the merciless night invaded the forest, beginning its massacre of the unarmed soldiers of light. There was no option but to set up camp before darkness conquered day. He remembered the camping trips he took with his Father, when he had last felt the golden warmth of happiness. They would go up into the mountains in his Father’s beaten-up Volkswagen, what he called the ‘hippy van’, and spend entire weekends fishing what seemed to be bottomless lakes. Once they’d caught the fish, the biggest being a fifty three pound coy carp, they’d always place it back into the water; but not before taking a trophy photograph. ‘None of God’s creatures deserve to needlessly die’, his Father would say. They would spend the evenings staying up late. Reuben’s Father would retell old ghost stories that had been passed down through the Kane family, each Father passing off the experience as his own. These stories seemed rich with truth, and Reuben was always too afraid to sleep afterwards. His Father would stay up and remind him that God was watching over him – something that turned out to be a lie. Reuben assembled the tent the way his Father had taught him; first creating the frame by joining the poles together, then fitting the cover and staking down the edges. He thought it fitting to spend his last evening on earth recreating those youthful trips of happiness, or at least trying to. Yet there was something eerie about this forest, something more than the fact that countless people had come here to take their own lives. *Ghosts daren’t whisper in this forest*, Reuben mused, as he noticed the unnatural silence, which was soon joined by a thick blanket of mist. Deep down he knew there was nothing to be afraid of; come the morning he would be dead, hanging from one of the trees – so what else was there to fear? There were the stories he’d read on the internet while he was researching the location. Some people believed that the spirits of the dead were forced to remain in the forest, forsaken by both heaven and hell. It was a myth that was absolutely terrifying in principle, but completely irrational as far as Reuben was concerned. He was no longer a child up in the mountains with his Father. No, he was a man now, and the strain of life was much more frightening than any horror story. He was close to calling it a night when he saw a bright and beautiful red orb hovering high above the trees, as the mist thickened into a deep and bone-chilling fog. It was like a dead star was falling gently and silently to earth. Reuben found himself moving directly towards the source; almost against his will, the intensity of the illumination becoming stronger with each step, as if the forest was shrouded with an overspread of fire. It was getting closer; falling faster, yet there was no sound – not even the croaking of crickets in the forest, or the flapping wings of evading birds. There was nothing. He was all alone – Reuben Kane and the noiseless ball of fire, which would soon be directly above him. Is this a divine intervention to stop me from taking my life? He thought, as his hurried heart hammered his frail chest. It can’t be. God doesn’t exist. He can’t exist, Reuben whispered. He stood still now, almost in a trance. The object, whatever it was, was now just four hundred feet from earth and the light was burning his eyes, but he couldn’t shut them. No matter how hard he tried his eyes would not close. He just stood there helplessly, absorbed by the mystery of what was coming towards him. What he thought to be one powerful orb of light was in fact three separate lights spaced apart from one another in the shape of a triangle. In between the lights was a solid black base, which was now just three hundred feet above an awestruck Reuben Kane. It became clear that the object was not the handiwork of man. He was certain now that he had been wrong, that his faith in God should have remained devout. What were the chances of such a random occurrence on the eve of his planned suicide? There was absolutely no doubt in his mind: *This was a sign from God.* Just two hundred feet from the soil, the plummeting object gained ferocious speed, forcing Reuben to turn and run. It crossed over his head and Reuben, panting and panicking, was almost swept off of his feet by the force of its passing. He craned his neck to check where the object was, but it had disappeared into the mist. No longer were the bright red lights revealing its whereabouts. Then he heard it. The thunderous boom as the object collided with the earth. It was like a flash grenade had exploded before him, like a wind had passed right through him, knocking him back and ringing inside his ears, as if they were trying to receive a signal. Disorientated, he leant against one of the trees while he regained his composure. He felt the buzz of excitement racing in circles around his stomach, coupled with the hungry curiosity of discovering exactly what had crashed down to earth. He made his way towards the direction of the noise, timidly trudging while reassuring himself that this was his salvation. *God works in mysterious ways.* He was walking for at least five minutes and at first he thought he had walked right passed it. Then he saw it, a huge hole in the earth. The crater was at least forty feet deep and eighty feet in diameter. Within the crater was a large pyramid shaped object, something not of this earth. Reuben carefully crawled inside of it, navigating the curved earth which was burning his feet through his shoes. When he reached the bottom he was mesmerised. The black pyramid practically filled the crater. On closer inspection he saw that the craft was covered in strange yellow markings that were strikingly similar to the hieroglyphics found inside Egyptian tombs. Reuben was filled with joy. He knew that this discovery would give his life meaning. This would make him rich and loved by everyone! Thank you, God! He exclaimed, his words drowning out the sound of the pyramid opening. The entity stood two feet taller than Reuben and was directly behind him. Reuben felt its breath against the top of his head and jolted round. Filled with fear he looked up deep into the black eyes of the entity, every inch of his body paralysed, but his brain. The entity raised its hand and released a blue beam that shot straight through Reuben’s chest, striking his heart and ceasing its beating, his last thought was *why?* EDIT: Formatting.

Foreword: Before you read this, I would like to go ahead and say no, I don't have pictures, and I have no way of proving to you that anything I say here is true... but I assure you it happened, that I was there, and that what I saw that night was a UFO. I was living in San Antonio going to college back in 2010. I was a freshman at the time. I have always enjoyed nature and love to go camping multiple times a year whenever and wherever I can. Living in San Antonio, all I had to do was drive west less than five minutes to watch the hills begin grow progressively larger the farther west you drive into that which is the Texas hill country. A bit over an hour drive north west was Enchanted Rock,[1] which is a giant granite dome jutting out of the earth, awesome for hiking, great views, and my next camping destination. The plan was to go in a group of four; me, a girl friend of mine from high school who I was to pick up in Austin, and two friends of hers who I had previously met. Well, her other two friends bailed last minute and it was just me and her. I was going camping whether or not anyone went with me, which she knew, so she decided to tag along despite her friends flaking out. I picked her up in Austin as planned and we drove out west to Enchanted Rock for a great day of hiking and spelunking through the cave at the top. After hours of hiking trails, climbing the rock, and crawling through caves, she was beat and decided to go to sleep at around 8:30. We were camped on a ridge just west of the rock, about 2 1/2 miles from the car, with a great view of the Enchanted Rock itself, as well as the area surrounding us. My friend, Jenn, went to sleep and I stayed up to watch the stars; which are beautiful out there, being 14 miles from the nearest town. Here's where things got weird. It began with me noticing a bright 'star' just above the horizon in the w/sw, and when I say bright, I mean it was almost blinding, the brightest star in the sky. I noticed it seemed to flicker, or flutter in place. Sort of bouncing around all over the place but staying in the same general area. Now I don't know what came over me, what I was thinking, or what I expected to happen, but I just got the idea to start flashing my flashlight at this star. As I do, the thing starts to move up, in its same fluttering motion, only moving a bit higher into the sky with each bounce. I stopped flashing my light and it began to fall. More flashing, it bounces up a bit more. Stop, it begins to fall. It also seemed to be flashing back at me. I did this for a few minutes as my interest piqued, eventually waking up Jenn to check it out. We sat there for over 30 minutes flashing that flashlight at the star, to the point where it had bounced its way from just above the horizon to almost directly above our heads. Eventually, we stopped flashing all together and it sank consistently until it fell below the horizon, not returning. A couple hours go by after the star disappeared below the horizon, with nothing peculiar happening until we noticed a light slowly, almost unnoticeably, coming up over the other side of the rock from the east. It was very bright, and at first I thought it could just be the moon rising, but as several minutes go by, a light in the shape of a hexagon slowly rose to the top of the rock. Only the edges were illuminated, the center was dark, either hollow, or a dark material. As it reached the top of the rock, the hexagon broke apart into six separate bars of light, each going its own way moving over the face of the rock (which is just over a mile long) in a matter of seconds; scaling the rock from top to bottom (a sheer 500 foot rock face) in a matter of seconds. Impossible feats for a person. We could see the lights illuminating the rock and trees as they moved around up there. We saw two of them dip below the tree line at the base of the rock, out of our line of sight, and the trees at the bottom had a blue glow as they were lit up as the lights moved passed them, and toward us. At this point we freaked out and retreated to our tent. We began hearing noises in the woods surrounding us; something heavy moving around in the brush, a motor type sound moving through the woods in the near distance (it's after midnight and no motor vehicles are allowed in this state park), and lights started flickering against the outside of our tent, shining directly at our campsite. Both of us were terrified, and honestly didn't fully grasp what was happening outside, and the fear of the unknown took over. It could have been anything out there. People could have just been walking by and accidentally shone their flashlights our way... trust me I've taken all of this into consideration. The story isn't over yet. The mystery lights disappeared after about thirty minutes or so and the noises soon after. Both myself, and Jenn were exhausted from being so scared, not to mention hiking and climbing miles of country the day before. The clock was nearing 1am, we fell asleep. I woke up at 3:30am in a daze, the kind of wake up where you lift your head off the pillow, open your eyes, then bury your face back down and pass out again; only when I opened my eyes, I saw a light in the sky through the opaque silk of the tent. I unzipped the zipper of the tent to get a better view, and before me, hovering only about 500 feet above enchanted rock, was a disk. It made little to no sound, maybe a faint hum if anything, it had twelve circular lights around the edge of the craft and it spun counter clockwise at varying speeds, at times so fast, the 12 lights merged into a solid white line, and at other times so slow, I had the time to count the lights. It was about 150-200 ft long, but the most interesting thing about it was the way it moved. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, except for maybe a few hours earlier, and from much farther away. It tilted and whirled and bounced around in the air, but stayed in the same area. It tilted side to side, would move diagonally so, then would level out and move directly up and down, then maybe side to side, and then spin like a top again. The best i can describe it was erratic, but controlled. I watched, slack jawed and in awe for a few minutes until I turned around and woke up Jenn who was sleeping behind me. I told her to stay calm and just to sit up and look. She did, and freaked out at first, wanting to leave right then, only retracting her idea after I pointed out we would have to pack up all our gear and hike over 2 miles back to the car, also having to walk directly under the fucking thing. I wasn't leaving the tent. Her and I sat there and watched the UFO for over 3 hours. It stayed there directly above Enchanted Rock until the light started seeping over the horizon; and as the sun slowly rose, the UFO slowly rose higher into the sky in it's bouncing motions, over the course of 15-20 minutes until it had risen above the morning clouds and out of sight. I told myself then that I would never let myself believe what I saw that night was anything other than a UFO, man made or out of this world. It was real. I saw it and so did Jenn; and if what we saw that night was captured on film I know it would have changed the world, because seeing it changed mine. It is disappointing to me that I am unable to provide in that aspect, however, I am given hope in the thought that if chance had it that I saw one, surely others will too, and hopefully they will have a camera. It's only a matter of time. If you have any questions I'll be happy to answer.

Everything is dark. A tiny hand clings to the drooping sleeve of my oversized T-shirt, gripping me for guidance in the abyss. Warm breath washes over my neck in five second intervals, ushering me forward, the green light flagging our mouse-step advances. "Do you think they're still awake?" Her voice shatters the silence with the abruptness of a corpse mumbling in a morgue. The question lingers in the air like a dense fog. Our backs press against the smooth hallway walls. Petite fingers continue weaving their way into my shirt, fumbling with the fabric nervously. I chew on my bottom lip, a habit borne from anxiety. "Nah. My parents usually go to bed pretty early. We should be fine." Still, we pause, doing our best impression of two children straining their ears in a game of hide and seek. Nothing, no sound exists apart from the air conditioning’s mechanical hum. Her soft sigh signals for me to continue. With our greatest fear somewhat alleviated, we push onwards at a blistering crawl. Pale light, a full moon's blessing, pierces the murky haze. A large double panel window frames the light. It reveals a cluttered kitchen. Dishes lay sloppily in the metallic sink, dampening plinks from the faucet’s occasional dripping. A newspaper, complimented with a coffee mug, covers the table. The fridge whispers a white noise tune to itself. Our saucer pupils skim these mundane details, searching for a particular treasure. Her fingers release their hold on my sleeve. White sundress billows behind my partner’s spectral figure as she glides over to the fridge. A lump swells in my throat. It bores a trench into my stomach and for a moment I feel the darkness of the room close in on me. Numbness creeps from my fingertips to my shoulders. Images of a fissure ripping apart the wooden floorboards pop into my mind. The chasm swallows me whole. I pause, lungs rising, lungs falling. Deep breathes relieve some of the tension. Life returns to my arms. My mouth quivers to protest my idiocy. These thoughts come to a screeching halt by a sudden wispy twirl. She's replaced my sleeve with a bottle of Jack Daniel's. The successful discovery combined with her stupidly contagious grin causes me to bury my despair. I return a smile as I feel a phantom grapple yank me towards her. Skin meshes with skin, our hands melding into a union the size of a heart. I lead her through the milky light of the kitchen, beyond the inky hallway, out the front door. We step out to a chorus of newly-hatched crickets. I tug the door closed with my free hand and despite my care it speaks in a low creak. The warm mid-March air sticks to our body. In the moonlight I can see her clearly. Coffee eyes peek up behind bronze bangs. Already small lips purse up in a tender, proud smirk. I brush back her bangs. My lips speak love into her forehead. "To the beach?" Her smile widens. "To the beach, darling." A grove of small trees lining the sidewalks provide a veil from the night sky. The Gulf wind flows steadily through this natural tunnel, sweeping over us in a cool, loving gesture. Hands remain entwined and the crickets continue to sing, refusing to let silence settle over our hearts. Their orchestra is joined by a rushing lull that grows louder with each step we advance. Concrete melds into boardwalk oak, a softer cushion for our bare feet. Marram grass dances atop the sand dunes that have come to replace the trees. She takes a swig of the 750ml bottle. "Woah! Mighty Heather, showing some courage,” I offer a playful wink. “How’s it taste?" Her face contorts in a slight grimace but she bravely follows it with a grin. "Ya know. Like alcohol. You wanna sip?" She waves the bottle in front of my face. I nod and she stands up on her tip-toes to better guide the bottle to my mouth. Smooth bitter floods my taste buds. Too much, actually, as Heather continues to hold the bottle to my lips long after my mouth reached its capacity. Whiskey spews onto the pier. I cough a couple of times. She rubs my back in panic. "Ah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Are you alright, Anthony?" Coughs turn to laughter as I muss up the bronze mess sitting atop her head. "Never better. I'm sure I'll be wasted in no time with you around." My words trigger a smirk and shove from my companion. "Oh, shut up." Boardwalk steps guide us into sand, velvet on our naked soles. Shadows drape the valleys between miniature sand mountains. Infinite blackness spreads across the horizon. Sky crashes into sea at some hidden point in the charcoal canvas. Heather giggles and takes off in a wobbling run. Nothing else stirs on the barren beach. For all we know, the whole world is asleep. In the twilight stand two starving teenagers, refusing to meet Earth's curfew. Our hunger for time together trumps the temptation of sweet dreams. My accomplice stops her waltz short of ocean's tongue, suddenly frozen in the moonlight. Mischief shines in her eyes. She throws back the bottle, taking gulp after defiant gulp of elixir. I approach, shaking my head in disbelief. She thrusts the bottle up in the air, victory written in the grin on her face. I pry the alcohol free from her palm. Not to be outdone, I take a long drag of whiskey. It sears as it streams down my esophagus, drawing tears from my eyes. Still, I do my best to tighten my mouth and hide the pain of a baby's first drink. Cold froth nips at our bare toes. Heather yelps. Her hand reaches for mine, tightening around it in a vice grip. I return a comforting squeeze. Together we wander into the vast nothingness until it devours our knees. Heather’s jaw droops in awe. I nestle my head against hers, breathing in the strawberry aroma of her hair. "Beautiful, huh?" Gentle breeze carries my words off along the coast. The half question, half statement, loiters in the wind while waiting for an answer. Finally, she nods and turns to me. Stars stare up at me from her hazel pools. Yearning, excitement, and anxiety swirl around us like a whirlpool. Fear of drowning fills my mind so I seek oxygen. Tender lips meet. Emotions condense into a single atom between the two of us before exploding. Light consumes our bodies, consumes the beach, consumes the universe, our very own Big Bang. She pulls away. I almost frown, unable to think of an instant when she wasn’t the one to pull away. But this time she does so with affection, nuzzling my jaw with the crown of her head. We step away from the ocean to lie down in the bed of sand. Our bodies lay a foot apart from one another but we are joined by our hands, a heart pumping life into two. The heavens gaze down upon us. Heather’s ethereal voice rises against the tides and distant crickets. "Hey, Anthony?" "Hmm?" "Do you ever wonder if any of those stars are dead?" Air escapes my nose in a contorted laugh. "Wow Heather, way to put a morbid dampener over things." "No!" She sits up, throwing sand everywhere while pouting down at me. "I think that only makes them even more beautiful." I sit up beside her, trading glances between Heather and the stars. "How so?" Heather’s tongue pokes out between her lips, eyebrows furrowed deep in thought. Her hand rises to meet the night sky. She extends a finger. "See that constellation?" "I can't really tell which one you're pointing to, scoot over a bit." I lean over, struggling to adjust to her perspective. A line of three jewels meet my gaze. "Oh. You mean Orion's Belt?" "Mhmm." Heather nods vigorously before guiding the bottle of whiskey to her lips to take a short swig. "I mean, I'm no astronomer but think about it. It takes the light from those stars tons of light years to reach Earth. For all we know, they may have died long ago and we're simply looking at what they were like in the past." “Yeah, that's true." While listening, my free hand wanders into the carpet of sand, tearing a chunk off and lifting it to meet the heavenly void. The sand slips from my fingers, falling back to its coffin. "And another thing is that those stars are light years apart from each other. Maybe they're all dead, maybe not. And they don't know the other stars exist but together the three of them create an image we can understand." She waves her free hand around as she speaks. "I think that's beautiful, that something special can be created by accident by things that may not even still exist. Ya know?" Her head turns to face mine, eyes begging for comprehension. Shadows extend past our bodies along the mounds of sand. My shadow shakes its ashen head before collapsing. Sand cushions my skull. "I get what you're saying. The universe is a beautiful place,” my teeth flash in the moonlight “but not as beautiful as you." Heather rolls her eyes. Despite herself, she collapses on top of me, ear pressed against sternum, listening to the drum of my heart. "Hey, Anthony?" "Yeah?" I run a hand through her hair, the roughest silk I've ever felt. "Do you think you’ll always remember this night?" Her words marinate my skin, my veins, my heart. I let them soak in before giving an answer. "Of course. How could I ever forget a moment with you?” She shifts, staring into my soul. In the softness of the moonlight, Heather’s skin shines paler than the pearly blanket we sit upon. "Even if something happens between us, you promise? That you’ll never forget?" Something nips at the pit of my stomach. That same primal fear that haunted me when she released my sleeve in the kitchen returns. But her doe eyes are enough for me to swallow it, pat her head, and smile. "I promise." The ocean roars, the stars shine, the moon strolls across the sky. Splayed out on a cradle of sand, we lay together. Seconds slip into the sea, time receding with the dying tide. The memory of the sand, stars, and strawberry scent of her hair will live on, buried in the deepest crypts of my brain, a scar that will itch for the rest of my nights.

John Redwing trembled as he remembered the moment he first learned that the Queen was coming to Mohawk Institute. At the general store, a haggard locksmith had read the newspaper headline aloud to the cashier. THE QUEEN IS COMING. “Never thought I’d see the day.” the Locksmith croaked. “A whole lot of mess she’ll cause. Mark my words.” the Cashier retorted. At that moment John felt a great desire to act. He knew not what his action would be but hearing that news sent an anxious energy through his spine. As if the Creator herself was giving him new life. Three weeks to that day, John found himself crouched behind a frozen bush in the dead of winter on a cold Saturday night. With the Mohawk Institute in his view, John felt relieved to know his plan was underway. Yet his relief was short lived when his thoughts returned to the question that plagued his mind. Would she find a way out? The Mohawk Institute had been housing kids for two seasons now. His friend Thomas, a year younger then himself, was submitted before he turned legal. “They say it’s a place for teaching.” he told him once. “Not so much teaching as it is aggressive discipline.” When Thomas returned home on Saturday visits, he would often show John the bruises on his arms and legs from the lashes he received by the faculty. The manner in which the Holy Fathers and Sisters gave blessings was often times cruel and unusual. Fortunately, John was of legal age when the Minister declared the Indian act sanctioned and the residential school era began. Maggie Redwing was not so fortunate. A girl of six, this was to be her first year at the school. Boarding full time, allowing pardon on Saturdays only. Her brother and mother lived hours away and considering she would be expected at Sunday chapel the next morning, Maggie had not left the dreaded halls of Mohawk Institute since September. Just before Christmas John worked up enough money to visit his sister and found her to appear famished and ghastly white. He was at once concerned about the arrangement. He remembered the ordeal it was when she had to go. At the end of the day the Redwings had to convince themselves that it would be alright. What could they say? A government ordered policy has great influence on the Royal Mounties. If John’s father had been present perhaps the officer who came for her would have been more compromising. Each day John lives, working at the market, he carry’s the heavy weight of his sisters fate. He knows not what conditions she’s living in. Her letters home do not hold the same personality as her former drafts. She was considerably quiet when he visited her and now the dreaded rumors he’s hearing around town. The clergymen are all corrupt and they use a belt to display power. John knew only of the Wampum belt and he couldn’t imagine how such an item could be used for pain. Still, he was prepared to except the inevitable compliance that he was seeing from families around him. Even though the idea of a school for native children irked him. However, with the advent of the Queen his heart had had enough. He could still recall the story that Thomas had told him. About the other schools the Queen had visited. Leaving behind stricter policies and at least a few missing person reports. “I saw her eyes. She was not looking at people when she looked at us. She was looking at her colony. Her cattle. She gently touched two little girls and a middle-aged boy on the shoulder and told them to come with her. They would receive a special luncheon. The rest of us were jealous. Our own foods were far from ample. Yet the way she lurched out of the room with an ambitious glow in her eye told me these children were not as fortunate as I first thought. Wish I knew what happened. Anyway, they never made it to their rooms that night.” The plan was simple enough and if executed properly, would bring Maggie safely home. John had enlisted Thomas to drive his horse buggy to the far end of the Institute property and await their arrival. In a letter sent in advance, John had instructed Maggie to sneak outside of the building on this very night and look for him in the east corner of the outlying woods. Her letter back told him she was prepared to escape. Now it was only a matter of time. He remembered which window was hers. The middle one on the third floor with the stained yellow curtains. He watched it very closely until, to his relief, young Maggie appeared. She flicked on her table side lamp and forced the window open. She waved and her brother waved back. Through the open window she tossed her suitcase of clothes which fell with a light thud on the snow below. She then proceeded to crawl out of the window and balance on the frozen sill. She was reaching for the adjacent drain pipe but before her hand could reach its support a looming figure appeared behind her and pulled her viscously back into the room. Young Maggie resisted, using all her strength to pull away. John stood anxiously near her suitcase calling for his sister to let go. She was causing a great commotion. Other windows were suddenly filled with light as the Institute was awoken. There were now two figures trying to pull her back in but young Maggie was determined and agile and with great struggle she eventually broke free and fell backwards out of the window. John was there to catch her. As he always was. Two siblings in arms once again. Yet they were not allowed their moment for a momentous alarm began to emanate from the bell tower signaling the barking of dogs and the commanding voices of the clergy. The two of them took off into the woods looking back only once to see flickering lanterns and pursuing shadows. How frightened they were, their skin scratched and ticked with each sharp branch they encountered. Still they ran bravely, determined to find Thomas’s buggy. Into a mass clearing they arrived, hoping to find the road but horrified to discover the Chapel. It’s steeple, as sharp as a blade and its graves jagged like earths crooked teeth. Surrounding the grounds were twenty men whose stoic faces were exposed in the torchlight. At the steps of the church, dressed in a putrid black cloak, her majesty was waiting. The Queen was here. “Let the ceremony begin” she commanded. Immediately, the men dragged John and Maggie closer to her. “Kiss my feet” she demanded “You’re a twisted old lady! I will not” John replied to a sharp smack on the face from one of her soldiers. She ran her crusted fingers down Maggie’s face. “She will do nicely” The Queen uttered “Let us go! Our blood will be on your hands!” John pleaded “You and a thousand others! All the nations of this wretched land will know the power of my Crown! Bring them into the tomb!” As they were dragged along the snow, John saw the mausoleum of Joseph Brant had been opened and from its dark entrance a horrid smell was spreading. The Queen began to recite. “And often at the twilight hour, When silence reigns o’er earth and wave, And tear drops gem the drooping flower, She goes to weep beside his grave, And o’er his cold and chilling tomb, To offer up her evening prayer, Till like the flowers which o’er it bloom She gently fades and withers there.” Like the wraith from the perfect storm, Thomas and his horses appeared with momentous fury. Trampling over soldiers and clergy. John and Maggie reacted quickly and jumped aboard the buggy which paused only for a moment before fleeing back to the road. Turning back, John was disturbed to see the Queen had grabbed ahold of the back of the carriage. Her teeth were seething white foam and from her eyes a hateful fire flowed. “You will not live long Indian! They will sing to me in classrooms and teach of your demise!” she hissed John found himself at a loss for words and could only stare at the savage before him. A sharp rock on the road caused the buggy to jump and the Queen let go. John stared at her for as long as he could before the tree line closed around them and they were safely away from her grasp. “Your mother is waiting for us John, She has arranged for a fishing barge to take us to Buffalo. There might be work for us there. In the assembly yards.” Thomas said “Chi Miigwetch, dear Thomas. The Redwings do not belong in this land. I’m afraid we’ve lost what was always ours.” “There will always be a place for us, John. Land does not make the man. It’s our story that does. Sounds like you’ve got one to tell.” With his sister safely embraced by his side, John Redwing kept his eye on the horizon for the remainder of the trip. He knew not what was coming for him but he took solace in the certainty that it could not be worst then from where they came. N.

Here's an unfinished short story I'm writing, if you have any thoughts on my writing style please let me know. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Isaac was sitting in his Government class, not paying attention to a word Mr. King was saying, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a girl walk in. When the teacher noticed her he asked why she was there. "Umm, I'm the transfer studen, Alison Write." ~~~ Isaac was in the lunch room, walking towards Alison to introduce himself. "Hello" he said, she smiled, it was the most beautiful smile Isaac had ever seen, "My name is Isaac. I figured since your new in town you could use a friend." ~~~ Isaac was in the park, Alison in his arms, he stared into her eyes he knew she was the only one for him, she was his world. "I love you, Alison. I will always protect you." ~~~ Isaac was walking down the streen with Alison after a party, it was night. He kissed her, she kissed back. Suddenly there were men around them, they looked rich, nice clothes, gold watches. Isaac offered them money but they wanted more. he felt them grab his arms and pin them behind his back, and push him to his knees. he saw them grab Alison, they made him watch as they did terrible things. Laughing, taunting him. When they were finished the leader, tall, blond, arrogant, pulled out a knife and slit her throat.The ones holding him broke his legs as he struggled, screaming with rage, wanting nothing more than to kill them all.They laughed at him, and his throat was slit too. As he lay there, bleeding out, unable to breath, the men walked away, and in the darkness he saw eyes, glowing orbs that were not of this world. Isaac knew he should be scared but he was calm. he heard whispers from the shadows all around him. As he lay there, feeling the gaze of those eyes he looked at his beloved Alison, all life gone from her beautiful eyes, and he wanted revenge, and he hated himself for not being able to protect her, but most of all he felt darkness. Darkness growing in his heart and he felt stronger. "Do you want revenge?" ~~~~~~~ Jolting upright Isaac screamed. His heart pounding he looked around, he was in his room, pitch black in the night, on his bed, sheets soaked with his sweat. The nightmare came often. Always the same, a constant reminder that she was gone. When he regained control of his breathing his racing heart calmed. He would not be able to sleep now, he turned his attention to the shadows, tuning in and seeing through them, to the places he could go. He searched, looking and listening for what he knew he would find, human nature is the one thing you can count on. For minutes he sat there, gazing through the shadows to places across the country. he heard it before he could see it, the screams of fear, a woman in trouble, he stood up, put on a black hoodie, and his black leather jacket. He grabbed his .44 Magnum, then walked into the shadow and was gone He emerged in the shadow of a building. For a moment he thought about the powers he had gained from the shadow creature that painful night, the ability to walk through shadows as if they were portals. He wondered if that terrible nightmare that haunted him was caused by it, a curse that forced him to relive the worst night of his life over and over, but decided it was probably just trauma that caused him to have the recurring dream. The shadows whispered to him, telling him he was somewhere in Austin, Texas. The street was clearly not in the ritzy part of town. Run down buildings, most boarded up, more than one of which was probably a den for druggies and a hideout for murderers, but that wasn't why he was here. He heard the screams again coming from an alley a few yards away, walking towards it he stepped into another shadow and was gone, dissapeared to another shadow, down the alley. he saw a woman, Blonde, wearing a mini-dress more fit for a night at the club than in this seedy neighborhood. She was running away from a rather large man, thick arms, a beer gut, wearing overalls. In his hand was a large knife. He followed the woman "Git back here, Bitch!! If ya' din't want it ya wunta worn them skimpy clothes!!" he drawled in a thick southern accent. It was at this point he caught up with her and grabbed her by the hair. She struggled but it was no use, the man was clearly stronger than her. He put the knife to her throat. "Stop strug'lin or y'aint walkin' away!" He said "Nobody's gonna hear ya'. Nobody who cares 'bout a dumb bitch like you that is!" He pushed her up against the wall. As she started to cry Isaac appeared in the shadows behind the man, putting the gun to the back of the Rapist's head he said "I hear her, and I care." he pulled back the hammer on his pistol, making his intentions clear. The redneck froze, putting his hands up in the air. "Hold on, now. This ain't what it looks like, we's just playin'. Sometime's a couple's sex life can git borin' ya know? we's just roleplayin'." The bastard was trying to get out of it. Isaac knew he was lying but it was better safe than sorry. "Ma'am, is that true. Are you a willing participant in this?" he sensed the man tense up, knowing it was over. The woman, still pushed up against the wall sounded just as scared as before, almost as if she didn't believe that she was actually being saved, like it was an elaborate setup to give her hope and rip it away from her at the last moment. "N-no, This man is n-not my boyfriend. I-I've never met him before, p-please help me." It was at this point the man began to turn, he was going to try and fight his way out of it. Before he turned even half way Isaac had pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed the woman and the brick wall behind her, Isaac knew she would be scarred for life, but at least she wasn't dead, or worse. Isaac turned to walk away as the woman began to scream. They were the same screams as earlier, screams of fear, but they were different now, they always were. He walked away and stepped into the shadows, he stepped home. Another monster dead. The man's blood was on his hands but he felt no remorse, the bastard had caused his own death just as if he had commited suicide. Two years it had been like this. Two years since that terrible night. He still didn't know why the Darkness had given him these powers, but he knew that it had an agenda. He had a feeling it wasn't anything good, but he didn't care. It gave him the power to end those who tried to use the bodies of others for their own sick pleasure. "When the time comes, I will return, we will change the world." the deep voice of the Darkness was one that Isaac would never forget. The eyes, glowing silver in the darkness would be fixed forever in his memory. The shape in the shadow was human but it was obvious that whatever the being was it wasn't mortal. Isaac lay down on his bed, the rage calmed from his blood for the night. Ending one of the thousands of monsters that covered the planet, wearing the mask of a human being, always helped. As he lay there he wondered what the Darkness would want of him. As he dozed off he began to think, maybe he would be forced to do something terrible. He was unconscious before he finished the thought. ~~~~~~~~~ This is where I've left off for the time being, let me know what you think. I have a general idea of where the story is going but unsure of how to continue from here. thanks for reading.

He slowly turned the knob on his radio, cranking up the volume to help drown out the police sirens behind him. His foot was getting closer and closer to the floor as he sped down the highway, zig-zagging between cars and trucks to get as far away as possible. He could feel his eyes welling up as he continued to press down harder on the gas. He used one of his hands to wipe the tears from his eyes, trying to focus on the road and not so much on the 2 cruisers quickly gaining on his back. They already had his plates so running was useless, but it was all he could do. He hadn’t even done anything wrong, he just wanted to run. He needed to be attacked and destroyed. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t live with himself anymore, it was more of.. well that’s actually exactly it, he couldn’t live with himself anymore, the way his life had been going was getting too much to bare. The constant pressures of society and the need to fit into what society told him he had to be. He glanced back to the mirrors as he swerved to avoid an eighteen wheeler. The cops were still behind him and still gaining. He cursed his Honda Accord for not being able to go faster. He wished he’d bought a mustang or a sports car so that he could outrun them, get away from his problems. As he looked back to his front he realized he was no longer in the car. He was now standing outside his own house in the rain, alone, in his socks surprisingly. He watched as the only car on the street left. The windows were tinted and it was dark. He couldn’t see who was driving, but he knew it was her, he turned to go back inside his house and he fell into a dark void where his floor should have been. He woke up in bed spazzing and sweating, his breathing was heavy and his mouth was dry. Last night he had seen his dead uncle, this night he was running from the cops. When would his nightmares end? I’d been going about it all wrong, I haven’t been getting to the core of the issues presented. Perhaps there are no real issues, just ones made up in my head. I can make a good basis a good starting point. A good anecdote to start off the character but never anything past that. I can sometimes create something that loosely resembles a story, but I can never get the plot just right. The conflict always crashes in with the reality that I’m just not that good a writer and I’ll never be that good a writer. You’d be amazed with the worlds I could come up with in my head, huge galaxies and solar systems, with planets all unique, worlds and landscapes, areas of a bigger pictures that I can’t put together, like a puzzle missing pieces. If I had one wish, well.. two, this wish would be my second. I’d wish for the ability to write about these places, share them with the world. Explain all the fine details, create a story worth sitting down at night and reading. I haven’t found one of those in a while. Perhaps a movie would be a better medium, but I like to get in a person’s head. My ex says that I am bipolar, maybe a little, I think it’s the characters I play in my day to day life clashing together. Logical scientists, atheists, spiritualist, angry, sad, depressed. Generally not happy. Bipolar is probably exactly what I am. In the worlds I create, I think I could be happy. If I could only write them and get them on paper, I could be happy. If only, my second wish, could be my first, I’d be happy. It was only in his dreams that he realized everyone was only out for themselves. In his dreams, his fears of aloneness manifested inside him. He thought about what love meant, was it really something that couples felt? Or individuals? He pondered the thought momentarily before his dreams shifted his scenery and changed the subject. His mind wandered seamlessly from place to place while he slept, trying to pick up the pieces of his consciousness and form them into something coherent, tangible for the non-logic centers to understand. It was Christmas when he saw his dead Uncle, everyone was exchanging gifts, but when they gave the gifts away, no one was happy, only the receiver of the gift was happy. He couldn’t have known this simply by looking at them, everyone was smiling, but the smiles seemed fake. It can’t be real, he told himself. He knew that he felt happy when he gave gifts, he enjoyed making others happy, but his dream was only trying to convey a point, that everyone is out for themselves. When he woke up from his dream, he realized just how awful life was, knowing that no one really cares about you unless it benefits themselves. That’s what he thought anyway, how wrong he hopefully is. He dreamt that everything was happening too fast. He was no longer a freshman in college, he was a junior, closer.. closer to his diploma. No, it’s happening too fast. He saw her, she walked away. His heart sank in his chest, it was probably what woke him up this time, dry mouth, face hot and heart still sinking into his stomach, dread. When he was younger, he’d dream that he’d die. When he was 6, he saw a knife sitting on his kitchen counter and wondered, what happens after we die? He thought about the knife, an object that scared him, something that could answer that question for him. That idea, it grew in his head. Later, he would think about how he could use it, to kill himself, see if there was an answer. He couldn’t though, he thought about the people who cared about him. He didn’t want to make his mother cry, or his girlfriend, or his father, or his brother, although at that time he didn’t have a brother. When he was older, he thought about doing it while they were away. Toaster in the tub, leave a note at the door telling the policemen to not inform his parents until the body was removed, leave another note for his parents, tell them it wasn’t their fault, he wanted this and it was inevitable. Call the police right before, report his own suicide, that had a romantic sort of feel to it, he just didn’t want his parents to find the body first. He knew the feeling of not being able to understand why someone acts a certain way, especially someone you love. You always feel there is something you could’ve done differently, but sometimes there just isn’t. He wants to die and he hates the stress that life brings him. Things that should make him happy stress him out. The only time he’s close to happy is when he’s content. So why doesn’t he do it? He finds hope in his dreams, romantic visions of what he wants to happen. Fight Club told him that once you reach rock bottom, a man can do anything. He just hasn’t reached rock bottom yet, he’s still trying to hit it, but he’s fighting it. The ideas work in my head, they almost always work out perfectly in my head. I have a story, just no motivation to write it. I think she’s wrong when she says I’m bipolar, I think I have ADD and need to keep moving, story to story, if I could slow down and focus on one I’d be fine, able to write. I haven’t completed a single story that was fictional, only nonfiction. Sort of nonfiction. A period of my life a hopefully short one, that I wrote about and closed away. I changed the names, but it’s me. It’s a story of me. Narcissistic comes to mind. Maybe that’s what I am. I want to create these worlds for me. If only.

He sat there again, Saturday night. Not at a bar, not out with friends at his desk. The monitors he normally gamed on were black and on sleep mode, waiting to be jolted back to life by the movement of his mouse or a click on his keyboard, but gaming wasn’t what he planned to do. Instead, he sat on his phone, playing 2048. Occasionally, a bead of sweat would roll down his head, from the intense thinking going on inside his brain. Sometimes, he wasn’t even thinking about the game, that was just something to keep his fingers moving. He was curled up in a ball, knees up to his chest and hands resting on top of his kneecaps. Both hands cupped around the iPhone, right thumb sliding left and right, up and down across the touchscreen, moving tiny squares with numbers on them. Why was he doing this to himself? It was because it reminded him of her. Nick had just gotten out of a year long relationship with his girlfriend, he was only 18, well, 19 now, but he had always thought about the long term, he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life if he could. He loved her but he had trouble showing it sometimes, maybe that’s where he went wrong. One thing was for sure though, Mary was the only girl he ever loved. He had crushes, occasional swings with other girls, but he and Mary always clicked, she was so easy to talk to, her smile so vibrant, he couldn’t imagine her sad. She insisted she would sometimes get depressed, like she claimed she was when she broke up with him. ** ** He was on the phone with her, telling her about a dream he had, it was really all unimportant now what the dream was about, but she listened and she began to speak, the words Nick had feared were coming for a while, but he had always been hopeful. “I.. I just.. don’t want a relationship right now.” The words cut deep. He knew that she had grown distant, but he didn’t realize how bad it was. He had always been hopefully he could pull her back and make their life work together. His brain was on autopilot, listening to what she had to say, not entirely believing it was completely over yet. “I still love you.. I’m just going through some personal issues right now and I need to be alone.” Alone. Right.. alone. I don’t want to be alone. He thought to himself. He loved her though, more than anything, he could feel himself breaking down on the outside, already broken on the inside as she told him how she felt. He told her that he was here for her, wanting to be as supportive as possible. Even if this breakup wasn’t what he wanted, he loved her enough to let her go if that’s what she needed. Nick said goodnight after a drawn out conversation with her and turned out the light by his bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He went over every word he said, trying to find a deeper meaning. He sat up and walked over to his computer, a couple of friends were on Skype, he didn’t want to talk to them though. He got on his favorite game, and launched into a deathmatch. He wandered around the map, shooting at pixels mindlessly, thinking about Mary. He wished to hold her again, tell her he’d help her through all her tough times and depression that she felt. But he couldn’t. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not until the realization hit him that he had been dumped and she probably didn’t actually love him. He turned off the game, went back to his bed and cried. For the first time in what felt like forever, he cried. He thought about all the scenarios and good times they had together, all the smiles. The last month of their relationship had been especially torturous, with her acting on stage and preparing for a show, she couldn’t see him as much as normal, she had started growing away from him. After a fight about whether he would be going to opening night or seeing friends, he decided to go to her show. He did it for her. He didn’t realize how much it meant during the fight, but once he realized just how much it meant, he did it. He felt like shit for even starting that argument. After all, he had always thought that they could make a life together and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. The memory of the last time he saw her came to his mind and he thought about what he would’ve done differently as he lay in bed. ** ** His 19th Birthday party. It was a small family gathering, she barely spoke. She sat next to him, but she barely spoke. I should have tried to talk to her more. After all the family members left and it was just her and his immediate family, he sat down on the couch next to her, awkwardly sliding his arm around her, trying to see if it would spark a reaction or get her talking, she just pulled out her phone. He tried to talk to her, but it felt so artificial, she was an actress, and he couldn’t tell whether she was acting right now or not. She asked if Nick had heard about this new game, 2048. I shouldn’t have given her my phone, I should have forced a conversation. He admitted he had not and she installed it onto his phone, a math game, you added tiles with the same number up, over and over, starting at 2 until you reached 2048, you could slide the tiles up right left or down in a 4x4 space. It was a challenging yet fun game. She played it once, then passed it to Nick. They swapped back every once in a while, awkwardly playing a game and not talking all that much to each other. When they did it just felt like small talk, like a couple on a first date. They’d grown so apart. It hurt him to think back to that night. It was the worst Birthday of his life. He walked her out to the porch, he didn’t have shoes on and it was raining, so he couldn’t walk her to her car. She kissed him, a small one, just a goodbye kiss but as she turned he grabbed her, drug her in close and kissed her passionately. If I had known it was the last time I’d kiss her, I would have held it longer. Right before they made contact he heard a small “Oh” come out, as if she was taken by surprise. Did she not realize how he felt? “Goodnight, I love you.” He tells her. “I love you too, goodnight.” Flat. She turned and walked away from him. “Drive safe.” He watched her pull away and walked back into his house, mellowed. Nothing after that. Thinking back on it, he wished he’d walked her to her car, even if his socks got soaked, just to try and steal another kiss or two, or a small moment of contact that he just wished he could get now. Another memory to hold of her. He went back inside and played 2048 until he went to bed. He was hardly getting a text from her now, it wasn’t until two days later that she broke up with him. ** ** He doesn’t know how to approach her anymore, after trying to figure out if there was any real reason besides her wanting to be alone for the breakup, he wasn’t going to get it. He was just hurt and alone. If it was her depression, he wondered why she wouldn’t use him, her boyfriend, as someone to confide in, someone to share her feelings with and someone to tell her it would all be okay. Did she not trust him? He couldn’t change how she felt, that was something he had to come to terms with. So here he is, still sitting there alone on this Saturday night. Trying desperately to beat 2048. In some desperate way, he hopes that when he beats it he will be over her, find a way to move on. But he can’t beat it. He looks online, strategy guides on how to win, but they don’t help him. He’s stuck playing, sliding, up.. left.. right.. but he can’t win. She sends him texts, small, casual talk. She calls him her “Best friend” and lingers the opportunity that one day they may be together again, but he doesn’t think that she loves him anymore. He swears that he won’t check her Twitter, she tells him she’s depressed and wants to be alone, but she’s telling all her friends on Twitter, “Yes, I am single”. It breaks his heart. He turns off his monitors, let’s them fall asleep as he slides the number tiles, a text comes in from her, he will read it in a moment and continue to live in a fantasy world where they still have a chance together. Then he’ll go back to playing 2048. One day he’ll beat it, he’ll get over her. But not tonight, tonight, he plays.

The first time, it's all about the rush. You come down. You loved it. You think about trying it again, but you don't have the same need you do now. At that point, you're just living your life like you always have, but you have that experience in the back of your head of that first hit. I tried it a second time. The rush wasn't as good. A third. It still wasn't the same. At this point, I needed to hit that rush, I needed to feel myself get taken away by it. I needed to feel them reach my brain and fire off all the crazy shit in my head. I needed it. I started using more frequently. **Tomorrow** I'll stop. Just for today. Today is the last day I hit. After today, I stop. Even if my head pounds and my body aches, **tomorrow** will be the day I stop. No, today I need it. Just one more time. **Tomorrow**. No, *tomorrow*. **Tomorrow** for sure. This cycle only gets worse. Tomorrow I feel like more shit than today and I use so that hopefully tomorrow feels more like yesterday. Yesterday was a bit more bearable than today. Of course, it only gets worse. **Whatever** I'm thinking. **Whatever** I think I'll do. **Whatever**... It's just *whatever*. I'll keep using. No one can stop me, and eventually it just becomes a part of my normal routine. Use in the morning. Go to work. Get paid just enough to continue paying the bills. Go to my dealer. Buy the shit I need to keep me working. Go home. Use so that I can relax and go to bed. Wake up. Do it all again. The problem is, I need more and more to get me started. I'll need to start making money other ways to keep me going. I can't live like this much longer. My life is collapsing around me and I'm not even trying to stop it. I'm the problem. That's a shitty realization... But tomorrow I'll stop. Just one more day.

Hey guys, this is my first post. I'm trying to get into creative writing and thought I'd try my hand at a short story, I couldn't think of an idea for a fiction story so just went with a real life experience. I'm used to writing a blog but tried not to make this story sound too blog-like (failed at times) But yeah! Notes please I’m going to tell you the story of the second time I did MDMA. I’ll never write about the first time I did it, simple because I don’t remember it. It played out a lot like the scene in The Hangover where they toast with the shot glasses and then cut-to the next morning. I remember the salty powder on my tongue and then waking up the next morning in my hostel in Berlin. The one flashback I do have is of vomiting on the sidewalk outside the club and one of the bouncers coming and asking me to “please cross the road”. In hindsight I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to do it again after that less than ideal introduction to MDMA, but I’ll just chalk it up to being a stupid 19 year old. The second time I did it is also, at present, the last time I’ve done it and took place in Amsterdam, September of 2012. If I had to describe the experience of MDMA I wouldn’t use the word ‘euphoric’ I’d say that it made me more stupid and, if nothing else, hopeful even in the most dire of circumstance. It was the afternoon of my fourth day in the city and I’d found a fast friend in an American girl named Vera who was staying at the same hostel. Vera and I went outside the hostel to smoke, were sat at a table overlooking a canal and somehow ended up talking to three loud Australian guys. When you’re overseas and meet somebody from you home country you can generally have 1 of 2 reactions. One, you can jump at the chance of instant camaraderie, “where you from? Oh I have cousins there! Do you miss (insert staple from your homeland) as much as I do? Yeah other countries are weird”. Or two, you can view them as the human embodiment of everything you do not miss about being home. I would definitely describe my reaction to our new companions as the latter. These guys were on the classic Australians-backpacking-through-Europe right of passage just like me, but I like to think I was a little more subtle about the shenanigans I’d been up to. Vera and I heard four hours of stories about how fucked up they’d gotten every night thus far on their 3 months in Europe, unfortunately for her, Vera had never met any Australian guys before and mistook their oafishness as charm, which is probably why we stayed at that table for so long. Eventually it was 8 o’clock and we’d all somehow agreed to go to Escape (the largest club in Amsterdam) together, we ordered a round of Jägers and one of the Australians whips out a bag of MDMA. After a few more rounds of Jägers the five of us hopped on two of those bicycle-drawn-carriage things you find in touristy cities and met back up at the club. This is where my memory begins to fail me. Vera and I pretty quickly lost the Australians and started talking to a couple of cute English guys in the smoking room of the club, and then at one point I realised it was just me talking to the cute English guys. I had to find Vera. From what I remember of this club it was 5 identical clubs in 1. And they were all massive and had many different levels and I didn’t like the music coming from any of them. I don’t know how many rounds I’d done of each massive room before a super tall Dutch guy stopped me and asked if I needed help. I’M LOOKING FOR MY FRIEND! SHE HAS BLONDE HAIR! SHE’S WEARING A PINK DRESS! Super tall Dutch guy and I made a few more rounds of the club before I relieved him of helping me. Somehow I’d been in Escape for 4 hours and so I decided it was time to do just that. I don’t know what it was that drove me to spend 3 hours searching a club with a 2000 person capacity for a person I’d know 4 days, but I’m going to guess it was the MDMA. I’d also blame the MDMA for the fact that I, despite have no real recollection of the ride to Escape or any sound understanding of the layout of this foreign city, felt it reasonable to attempt to walk back to the hostel. I’d been walking for about an hour and could no longer hear the music coming from Escape, or any club for that matter, when I decided to take a break on a bench outside a small, closed café. I don’t know how long I was sitting there before a man in his late 20s walks passed me, stops, comes back and asks me what I was doing? “I think I’m lost.” “Where is your accent from?” “Australia” “Where do you need to go?” “The Red Light District”. Upon reflection, telling this stranger that I needed to go to the Red Light District may have implied certain things about me that weren’t true, but hey, drugs. We end up walking until the sun comes up, fuck knows what we discussed in that amount of time but I do remember him telling me that he moved over from Morocco and sells drugs here in Amsterdam. He told me he likes Amsterdam but he does get homesick, I tell him I’m a little homesick too. We talk about how he learnt English and how I want to learn Italian. I tell him about my travels thus far and he tells me about the time he spent in prison for drug trafficking. He discloses that when he saw me on the bench he was on his way to a big drug deal, the details of which were top secret. I ask him how far out of his way he is going in order to help me? He tells me not to worry about it. By the time we’re approaching the Red Light District my guide knows that I’m 19, from a foreign country, unable to speak the local language and all alone without so much as a working sim card in my iPhone. When my hostel comes into view, the gravity of my situation begins to dawn on me, as much as my fearless, MDMA ridden brain is able to comprehend anyway, and I start to wonder what this man might want. I start fumbling for my keys a few meters from the entrance to the hostel, my heart racing, panic setting in, when he stops. “Enjoy Amsterdam friend. Don’t get lost again.” He hugs me and he leaves. I never even learnt his name.

​I set it up so perfectly. I was ready to start, no doubt. As I opened the container the smell wafted through the thick air and I took a deep breath in. Oh, how I loved that smell. I squeezed my hand into the small container, barely fitting. I took up the contents of the cylinder and pressed it against my face. What a great feeling. As I squeeze, it mushes through my fingers. I love this. I get lost in a trance as I roll my play-doh against the desk. So mesmerizing, how it forms a snake-like shape as I continue moving my hand; back and forth, back… and forth. I soon snap out of my beautiful daydream and start to make my, “spaghetti dinner.” I take out the noodle maker and press the red play-doh into the base. I get excited as I push down and the red, noodle-like play-doh squeezes through the little holes in the top of the noodle maker. I keep pressing and the noodles keep coming. I stop suddenly, remembering that my spaghetti HAS to be more than one color so I clean out the red from inside the maker and put in the blue play-doh. I push down and squeeze with all of my might and the noodles ooze from the pores like water out of a faucet. What a rush. What a beautiful, “spaghetti dinner.” I decide to switch to green and I push it into the noodler’s ba…oh no…no, this just can’t be. I regretfully pressed down, as blue-green playdoh pushes through the centimeter holes in the top, and everything was ruined.

I needed something new in my life. I craved for change and just had to have it. I sold most of my belongings other than my cellphone, a handful of clothes and a sleeping bag. As I packed my bag, I tried not to think about everything I was leaving behind. I wrote my note to my parents. Telling them that I am sorry and I hope they understand. Once I was finished, I thought if I really wanted this. My mind was made up. Change was going to happen. I left my keys and the note on the kitchen counter and headed out the door. I remember the night, just like it was yesterday. It was a late April night, the breeze was ever so gentle and the moon was full. The stars were so bright. I really hoped they were as bright as my future. As I walked down the street, I thought about my best friend. She had no idea I was doing this. No body did. I finally reached the bus station. The older man at the counter seemed troubled that I was here at this hour. He asked what I was running from. "Nothing," I told him "I just need something new." After purchasing my ticket, I waited for my bus. I decided to send a goodbye text to her. "Hey, this may come as a shock, but once you read I will be long gone. I am sorry. I know I should not have just left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. I love you and always will. I hope you take care of yourself and maybe I'll see you around." Send. I turned my phone off as the bus arrived. I found a seat in the dark corner of the bus and just gazed out the window, letting my mind wonder. After what seemed like an entirety, I finally arrived at my destination. I was nearly 2,500 miles away from home and ready to start my new life. It took 4 days to travel from home, but I finally made it. I decided to turn my phone on and let my parents know I am safe and alive. I had one text from my best friend that read: "I will miss you and I always will. You kept me sane. You put up with me when no one else could. I did not just lose a best friend, but I lost a part of me. I love you and I NEED you. I don't think you understand that. I NEED you. Without you, I don't see how I will make it. Please come home. Please." another day passed and she sent this text; "I love you and miss you. I am going to sleep now. I hope I see you again someday." 3 more days passed until I realized I made a mistake. I was headed home. I bought another bus ticket and headed back. I missed my family and my best friend. I needed to go back. I decided I would surprise everyone and not let them know I was coming home. It took another 4 days to travel back home. I arrived late afternoon and started walking home. The closer I got to home, the more I realized I really loved it. I knocked at my door and my mother opened it. Her eyes filled with tears. She cries and tells me she missed me. My father is happy, but also irritated that I did something so childish. I explained my feelings and told them I needed to go see my best friend. Sadly, I only got to see my best friend one more time. "I am sorry too. I did not mean for any of this to happen. I have no where or no one to turn to. I need you. I am not alive without you. You are apart of me, I need you to live. I am done. I took some pills and now it's time for me to go to sleep. I love you." The last time I saw her was at her funeral. It was my fault. She needed me and I let her down.

"It didn't matter." That's what they were always telling me. Man, those words pierced through me like a bullet through paper. Ouch. They don't understand. They will NEVER understand how much it truly matters...to me. They'll see! One day they will be worth millions, and I'll be laughing in my antagonizer's face as they mop my sparkling, solid gold floors. Each Beanie Baby is just so unique. With every elegant stitch upon their tiny cotton bodies. Oooh, I'm getting goosebumps just talking about it. I walk into my office as the sun glimmers onto all of my display cases, how picturesque. I take out Harry Hippo. What a beautiful little creature. I know he must be blushing as I kiss his tiny cheek and place him slightly on the desk. As I turn to get Jerry Giraffe I see my 4 year old son standing in the doorway. He has never seen my beautiful Babies before. I give him a welcoming smile and persuade him to enter. As I motion for him to come in, he bellows, "Daddy...you're weird.

On a sunny day, in The Kingdom of Marshmallows, there lived two pieces of toast, on this day they were on the hunt for a *right old adventure.* They searched high and far, but *sadness* filled their eyes after an unsuccessful day. *So,* they decided to rest their nimble feet. As they sat, one of the toasts noticed a small figure in the corner of their eye. *A muffin,* a mighty quest was revealed upon them as they saw the muffin *who was to get it?* "Hmm", thought one of the toasts, thinking perhaps there would be a way to *share* the muffin. *"Me!"* said the other one of the toasty men in a hurry and with excitement. He lowered his hand in suspense to get a piece of that marvelous muffin. Ripping off a piece with haste, he shoves a piece of the muffin into his crumbly mouth. **"What the heck, man?,"** proscribed the muffled muffin as he awoke from his slumber. The muffin fell with a thump with bits of himself falling upon the ground. In the distance, a figure is seen to be approaching and the words, *"Mr Muffin, I'm coming",* is heard. The disgruntled marshmallow, King of the Marshmallow Kingdom approaches and looks in horror at what he sees in front of him. The King swears vengeance on the toast men and swears to destroy everything they cherish. *And the adventure began....* *To be continued.

Let’s say a guy named Fred is attracted to a woman named Martha. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else. And then, one evening when they’re driving home, a thought occurs to Martha, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: “Do you realize that, as of tonight, we’ve been seeing each other for exactly six months?” And then, there is silence in the car. To Martha, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he’s been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I’m trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn’t want, or isn’t sure of. And Fred is thinking: Gosh. Six months. And Martha is thinking: But, hey, I’m not so sure I want this kind of relationship either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I’d have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily towards, I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person? And Fred is thinking: …so that means it was…let’s see…February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer’s, which means…lemme check the odometer…Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here. And Martha is thinking: He’s upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I’m reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed – even before I sensed it – that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that’s it. That’s why he’s so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He’s afraid of being rejected. And Fred is thinking: And I’m gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don’t care what those morons say, it’s still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It’s 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600. And Martha is thinking: He’s angry. And I don’t blame him. I’d be angry, too. I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can’t help the way I feel. I’m just not sure. And Fred is thinking: They’ll probably say it’s only a 90-day warranty…scumballs. And Martha is thinking: Maybe I’m just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I’m sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy. And Fred is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I’ll give them a warranty. I’ll take their warranty and stick it right up their… “Fred,” Martha says aloud. “What?” says Fred, startled. “Please don’t torture yourself like this,” she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. “Maybe I should never have…oh dear, I feel so…”(She breaks down, sobbing.) “What?” says Fred. “I’m such a fool,” Martha sobs. “I mean, I know there’s no knight. I really know that. It’s silly. There’s no knight, and there’s no horse.” “There’s no horse?” says Fred. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Martha says. “No!” says Fred, glad to finally know the correct answer. “It’s just that…it’s that I…I need some time,” Martha says. (There is a 15-second pause while Fred, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.) “Yes,” he says. (Martha, deeply moved, touches his hand.) “Oh, Fred, do you really feel that way?” she says. “What way?” says Fred. “That way about time,” says Martha. “Oh,” says Fred. “Yes.” (Martha turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she speaks.) “Thank you, Fred,” she says. “Thank you,” says Fred. Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Fred gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a college basketball game between two South Dakota junior colleges that he has never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it’s better if he doesn’t think about it. The next day Martha will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it either. Meanwhile, Fred, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Martha’s, will pause just before serving, frown, and say: “Norm, did Martha ever own a horse?” And that’s the difference between men and women.

The pianist leaned back, extending his arms and fingers in unison with the final note, his muscles popping and relieving the tension of 10 minutes of furious playing. The room still silent, the stretch stopped sharp as he remembered his audience. "Wow, I actually forgot you were there for a minute." "I'm not surprised, that was incredible!" His patron, as always, sat front and centre. His only company in a forgotten auditorium deep in the bowels of the great University of the Arts. Her legs crossed, a makeshift desk for the notebook she had been scribbling in since the intro. Never seeming to stop. "Every one is better than the last. Can I ask what was your inspiration?" "It's kind of about loneliness." He shrugged and stacked the pages before him, tapping them lightly against the rack, setting them in order. "You know, like sometimes I go for walks in the early morning and it feels like I'm the only person alive. The campus can be so peaceful, especially by the lake. The smaller one? Even the birds don't seem to know about it." "Mmhm?" She nodded. He noticed she never took any notes after the music had stopped. In fact her pen had vanished, her book clasped shut. "I want to know more about your process, though. How do you put those images to music?" "Oh, a true artist should never reveal his secrets." She gave a curt laugh, clipped and professional, and dropped it. Her expression told him she was deciding whether to push the question. "May I see the notation? Maybe I could glean some insight." With the others, he would always decline. The way they tore through the sheets with a covetous gleam in their eye had always unsettled him. Afterward they would lose interest in him, forsaking the artist for the art. She, his newest patron, had always taken the time to get to know his work on a deeper level. She always asked to see the music eventually, but these little gestures were enough to soften him. She took the folder he offered and began laboriously scanning each page. The light shone through so the ink could faintly be seen on the other side, eclipsed by her tapered nails, examining each one with a brief but pointed stare. And elsewhere, on a level of the college far beneath the deepest known to the young student, two tall specular figures saw what she saw, projected on a wall-filling screen. Though they made more sense than they had in the early days, the true meaning of the music -- its underlying form -- still eluded even the greatest minds among the drones. "Have we not gathered enough samples, now?" Pleaded the junior. "It is cruel to deceive him so. We agreed to release him soon, so he may live out his days with his own kind." "And what then?" Scoffed the other, leaning in and tracing the shape of a complex arpeggio, slender pearlescent finger dancing around the notes. "What if we decide later that what we have is not enough? The humans did as many things right as wrong, and if we truly aspire to be their betters, then we must learn as much as we can from them. I don't see this as cruel, I see this for what it is. Their swan song." In the auditorium, the patron gave a droll smile and set the papers aside. "I'd like to commission another.

Below is a short story that I wrote some time ago. I am open to all comments and criticisms. I'm interested in your honest opinions. Thank you for taking the time to read it. The sun rose over the barren ocean. Shades of orange reflected off the calm waves in the distance. The early morning mist could be felt, as fog still hovered lightly, blanketing the scene. A girl, a young girl stood, arms folded across her chest, leaning forward into the wind. She dared herself closer to the edge, where rock suddenly gave way to turbulent water repetitiously breaking in the alcove below. The thrill of physical danger made her forget the confusion inside. She held a map close to her chest that she now unrolled. She twisted it curiously until satisfied. “There you are!” She pointed with a childish delight out toward the ocean. She sat, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and observed it admiringly. There were words scrawled across the page, no rhythm, no pattern, just the heart of a young child. “Daddy,” she read aloud to the wind, “You are so far, but I wish you where here. I hope you are happy. I hope that you are well. Mommy says France is nice. I hope you think so. Come home soon. Love Lilly.” She paused a moment before producing a glass bottle that was hidden away underneath her long skirt. She folded the paper, then rolled it and tucked it away in the bottle. Once again she checked the map, rotating her body as she turned the map. Then she gained her bearings, lifted the bottle above her head, and threw it with all her might. She watched as it flew off the edge of the cliff and landed in the water below. She again sat, as if waiting, staring anxiously out over the water. Everything was different now. Her mom had said it was the war. “A big fight” she called it. “Your father, he’s a good man, and he wants to help.” She believed her mother, her father was a good man. But everything changed. The city, once robust, and thriving had since lost all life as one by one all the men left, each not wanting to be the last to go. 1944 would have been a good year, the garden grew, and the waters were abundant with lobsters and fish. But the war, the Great War, it ruined everything. Her father had left on a cool November night which she recalled every night before bed. He packed everything into his green cylindrical duffel bag that he threw over his shoulder. He stood in the doorway dressed in the dark green army uniform that had become a national symbol. He shifted his weight back and forth as he tried to look causal, leaning against the frame of the door. He looked down for a long while without speaking. Then finally he said with forced conviction “It’ll be okay. I promise.” Then he left, his silhouette outline shrinking as he walked away with a slow reluctant stride. “I want Daddy!” She demanded of the wind. The wind had no response, it instead settled to a silent serenity. The morning had progressed and the sun shone above the horizon. The light slowly crept closer to where the girl sat, legs crossed, still starring out over the ocean. She flinched as the light touched her bare foot and began to engulf her. She retreated to beneath a shallow alcove, shunning its touch. The sun kept rising undeterred by the girl’s blatant displeasure for its appearance. She fought its every advance, retreating further and further as it came near. It crept along amber ground engulfing dirt, rock, and weeds in its path. The world stood illuminated before her, yet she sat alone in darkness. Every child hates change, and she could only bear to think of things as they used to be. Like Mr. Carver, he used to own a store on the corner of Main Street and Parkwood Drive. He would stand, every day, leaning casually on the light pole outside the door eager to make small talk with any passer by. He was short and overweight, but not so much that it distracted from his welcoming smile. He was always the first one to say good morning and the last to say good night. He left in October. Now his store, once lit and abundant with color, was covered with weather beaten boards, and the sign above the door had faded to a neutral red that blended with the wooden backing. Mr. Bentmore, the local pharmacist was known by everyone. He was on a first name basis with the entire town. He was know for his vast knowledge, and was often consulted on things far more trivial than medicine. He was tall, with black hair and his signature brown cap that he wore at all times. His smaller build never lent him to heavy lifting, but he was determined and he did everything he set his mind to. He got the yellow slip of paper on a Saturday morning, and by Sunday the pharmacy closed. A permanent chain spanned the front doors of the store. He left that night without a word, with nothing but a green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Then there was Mr. Brown, her first grade teacher. He was a good looking man, always well dressed in a tie that matched his hat of choice that morning. He was stern; serious about his job, but always had some extra time and some good stories after class for the students who preferred school to their home lives. She always liked him deep down; she wasn’t a regular but occasionally passed the afternoon drinking a cola with Mr. Brown. He left in December, one of the last to go. The town had changed, not because of the emptiness of lacking population, but because of the gained burden of worry by those who still inhabited it. She noticed it everywhere, with everyone. Even young children know when things are terribly wrong. She noticed it the first night he left, the first night her mom slept alone in her bed. Her mother was a happy woman, but since that cool night in November things changed. Now she just cried. Late at night when she thought no one could hear, she sobbed. By day she was an empty smile, by night an inconsolable widow. The girl now returned to her task at hand, she retrained her pained eyes on the sea, looking for a sign from its depths. “Lilly” spoke the wind, but she paid it no attention. “Lilly” it called, but she had no interest. “Lilly”, came the final call. “Its time to come home.” Her eyes remained transfixed, focused on the distant sea. Even a dark movement in the foreground, could not break the concentration. “You can’t keep doing this.” “Doing what?” “This. Coming here.” There was a long pause. “Mommy? Do you know where dad is?” Another long pause followed, her mother took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, blinking back tears. She joined her daughter under the alcove, sheltered in shade. She stared off into the distance, intentionally away from the young girl who sat beside her. She began slowly, stuttering with the uneven breathing of fighting tears. “It’s . . . it’s difficult to explain honey.” “Why?” “He’s in a better place now.” “Its nice here, why doesn't he come home?” “Because . . . he can’t” “Why not? Doesn't he know we miss him.?” “Yes honey, he knows that we miss him very much.” “They why won’t he come home?” “It’s more complicated than that.” “What do you mean mommy?” “He would come home if he could, but you know that war is a dangerous place. Your father, he’s a brave man.” “So when’s he coming home.” “Sweetie . . . he’s not coming home.” Their lines were broken and uneven, speaking through flowing tears. The young girl pulled her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them and gripping tightly. She began to rock slightly forward and back. Her mother stretched an arm in her direction, offering her a consoling hug. The young girl ignored the gesture, continuing to gaze into the distance, pleading with the sea. “He’s never coming back?” “He’s gone Lilly.” “Forever?” “Yes.” As she said this, she reached into the pocket and produced a piece of folded paper. The paper was faded, and stained with dried tears. It had been opened and reopened many times before and the paper had begun to tear at the folds. While she did this, the young girl looked down, as a large wave crashed loudly below spraying a light mist, adding to the wet stains of tears on her shirt. Her mother finished gingerly unfolding the yellowed paper and read. She spoke from the paper, but also from memory, filling in words without pausing where a tear had smudged the ink. “Dear Loving Family of Corporal Robert L. Harrison, I deeply regret to inform you that your husband has been killed in action. On June 30, 1944, Corporal Harrison gave his life while serving his country in combat. He died for his country during an offensive in France. His sacrifice will never be forgotten. He died in peace at 7:44 pm local time, his final moments he spent watching a sunset over Paris.

I posted a pretty dramatic status on Facebook one night when I was drunk. My entire family commented asking if I was ok, so I decided to tell the story as dramatically as possible. Anyways, here it is. It was a chilly night in early February, the sidewalk still wet from an evening shower. I pulled the door open and am hit with the sweet sounds of "Santeria" sung, poorly, by a gang of early 20 somethings, no doubt full of liquid courage. I take a sharp left and ascend the dimly lit staircase to the top floor, Where I am greeted by an old friend. Music plays, but this time without the drunken choir. I take a seat at the bar, and order my first drink of the evening. I have a sip and settle in to my new home for the unforeseeable future. The time passes by filled with conversations of little meaning, and people stopping by to place orders causing breaks in the dialogue, like skips on a record. An hour is lost now, as well as a small family of Yuenglings. Then it happens. A record skip enters and is now a tear. With my greatest being I somehow manage a shy "Hello?" And all I can do is shudder in my head at the lack of gusto. I receive a simple "Hi" and all is well. That should of been the end of it, she should of gone, but now with my head filled with an army of alcohol, I marched on. Somehow, some way, maybe even Divine intervention I start a conversation, she grabs the empty seat to my left, and by all accounts it seems well. The minutes pass, and three more members of the Yuenglings have met their makers. And now, the time has come, the test of the night, will I be able to get this girls number? My head rattles around all the different possibilities. Like a magic 8 ball my mind lands on "All signs point to Yes!" It is now or never so I ask and am met with the always feared. "No." She rises, turns and disappears into the crowd. I gather my thoughts, pay my tab, lick my unseen wounds and trek home. Lay my head to my pillow and think of what could have been. My phone nearby I press the ever familiar Facebook icon, and find a blank canvas ready for my battle stories. Is it a bit Dramatic? Yes, but all seems right after slaughtering a family tree of beers.

I wrote this short story a few years ago. I was reviewing it this week for a project and thought I would share it with you all. Constructive criticism welcome! It consumes my entire body making my legs numb. The heartbeat accelerate, the breathing shortens. My eyesight becomes blurry. Small pearls of cold sweat are rolling down my neck. As I grab each side of the tiny eggshell coloured sink in the kind of violence that leaves me a bit edgy, I lose it. IT, being my mind, everything I believe in, my faith in humanity, my sense of pride….my core values for fuck sakes! I see red. The memories are flowing back and forth in my drunken mind. The rage fuels me. I stare at myself staring back. Empty, I obsess. The background is fading. Fading into a black hole so deep that I wish it would suck me in. I haven’t blinked for what seems to be days. My bloodshot eyes, greasy hair and probable bad breath are screaming non-sense. I let go of the sink with one hand and manage to stumble my fingers around to grab the Whisky straight up on top of the toilet. As I bring it closer to my mouth a clinking sound becomes louder and I bluntly stare at the transparent glass trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the picture. Ice. I fucking hate ice! What kind of fucking sissy drinks diluted Whisky anyways? Who the fuck did she think she was to put ice in my stupid drink when she was fully aware I NEVER drink it that way. Oh what the hell, I mean, she was blowing my best friend before my eyes not long ago. On the fucking front porch of all places! That’ll teach me to go out of town on business. What a cunt. What a bitch. He’s a motherfucker, sonofabitch! Fucking douche bags! Assholes! What kind of horrible monsters does it take to do that to someone? He’ll never sing for us again. She can shove the ring down her throat and choke on it. Without much thought I gulp down the liquid. I stand paralyzed, feeling the smooth rusty heat racing down, embracing my insides with a soft blanket of blurriness. I manage to walk somewhat straight towards the door. The glass still in my hand, I try holding on to whatever appliances I can find within reach. A loud thumping sound surrounds the air followed by an unpleasant high-pitched voice. I glance at the door while the glass slowly slips from my hand. Its content explodes on the bathroom tiles, leaving shattered glass, broken ice and a couple of drops of Whisky at my feet. What a waste. She manages to get in. Fuck. I just wanna smash her face against the shiny white bathtub she bought a few months ago. Paint it red with her disgusting, cheating blood. Fuck her. Fuck him. What a fucking friend you are. What a great girlfriend you are being. Wow. She’s screaming at me. She is so close; I can smell her dick breath. You whore. I stare at her big tits shaking as she gestures violently with a smirk on my face. She hates when I have that expression. She’s aware I don’t give a fuck. I wish I didn’t. She doesn’t need to know that. I want another drink. Why the fuck is she screaming at me? What is she saying that could possibly so important at this moment? Not even paying attention to her psychobabble bullshit I push her aside. I stumble away thinking I need more of the sweet poison to block the bitch out. I get to the kitchen feeling brave with the bottle of J.D. in hand. She follows, handing me a plastic cup that I refuse by slapping her wrist away. She stays silent as I she watches me pour down the alcohol brutally into my system like it’s water. Everything becomes a blur. I feel the weight of my body dropping on what I assume is the kitchen floor. Flashes of coloured lights, music, tits and ass dance around me. Red. It’s everywhere. Lights. Screams. Lights. It spins. Then everything stops She left this morning with all her stuff – and a few of mine. She left me her retarded cat and the toaster that barely works. How am I supposed to make toast with a broken toaster? My head feels like it got hit by a train. My whole body aches. That cunt is gone – with half my social life and self-confidence. I pick up my guitar and the half emptied J.D. bottle and head out for the front porch. I light up a cigarette. The smoke surrounds me and vanishes into the morning sunshine. I sit there cigarette in one hand, the J.D. bottle in the other and the guitar resting on my lap. 8:33 AM. Fuck. It’s too early. I roughly remember last night. I finish off the bottle and the cigarette and start playing. The soothing melody calms me down. Once in a while I wake up feeling completely out of place, almost like I have grown out of something. I can never quite figure it out. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and I notice the similarities between myself and who is standing in front of me but as much I try relating to this new stranger; I can’t. Closing my eyes I wrap my mind around the thought that everything is okay. Everything will be. Everything was. Nothing is. Sometimes people are full of surprises. Sometimes they tend to do things they can’t explain. Sometimes certain people lose touch with their own reality. I think she will forever pay for what she did to me. I, on the other hand, will move on. Killing her was the best compromise we could ever agree on.

I know this may be hard to imagine, because you’ve only ever seen other little kits like you, but there are monsters in the world that are born without fur. No pelt, no tail, only a tuft on the top and sometimes a shaggy mane. The rest of them is bare skin, angry pink or brown, as tall as trees. Without their fur, the beasts are cold all the time and destroy everything in their paths to get warm. They don’t dig cozy holes like us – they tear down trees and raise hills to build their huge dens. Even the dens don’t keep them warm, though, so they eat and eat to stave off the cold. They pluck fish straight out of rivers, strike birds from the air, and move swift through the dark and strike deer from a minute’s run away. Everything they see goes down their craws and they burn it in their gullets to keep warm. But not even the fires in their bellies can heat these naked monsters. Eventually, they go out in search of fur. They come out in the day, when you’re sound asleep, and set their traps. They hide strings in the leaves to slip around little necks, they leave food to entice little babies only to snap them into crates, and they hide metal jaws to clap around tiny paws. After waiting until the cold darkness fades, they return with sharp claws and hungry bellies. They slice the skin right off your back and use it to cover their own bare hides. Sometimes, very early or late in the night, you’ll see one, lumbering along with the skins of a hundred little foxes patched together to keep him warm. So remember, kit, to sniff with care when you’re out in the world, and look out for the furless monsters in the woods. [ABOUT] I've written a few children's stories and love the freedom of them.

I met Trevor via Tinder during exams. I was really stressed out and needed a break from studying. My friends have told me that Tinder is really fun, addictive, and a good confidence booster. Realistically, it probably was not a good idea to start an addiction during the most important time of the year. Your professor doesn’t care if you were busy messaging 20 guys on tinder and couldn’t finish your assignments. Like that would be the worst excuse ever. But I thought I would be different. You know, only play once in a while for fun. I was wrong. I was getting so many matches hourly. Do guys say yes to every girl they come across on this thing? This is ridiculous! I set the ages 19-30 and the distance to 100km, which is a wide array of guys … maybe too wide. Trevor’s profile was funny, quirky, and most importantly hot. The thing about Tinder is you have only a few photos and a short bio and you have to pick what you say and post very carefully because that’s your first impression. If you’re a girl try to be the perfect combination of sect and cute. Just kidding. That’s stupid. From my experience it’s important to have not only a selfie, but also a body shot and a few group shots so guys know that you don’t just sit at home with your cat and take narcissistic selfies, but that you also have friends and a social life. Tip: maybe don’t post a lot of pics with other dudes where you’re like all over them on a Friday. I’m not slut shaming. You do you and that’s cool. Some guys like to know that you’re liberal because then you’ll probabky have sex with them. But other guys like to know that when he finally gets to hook up with you, another guy’s jizz isn’t all over your belly. If you flinched when you said that then you’re probably not ready for Tinder because if a guy is willing to talk to you or converse in witty banter via a shitty app for a day or two then he’s going to expect a sexual act in response. It’s like if a guy buys a you a drink or four at a bar now you’re all of a sudden obligated to go home with him. To avoid this situation say thank you for the drinks and slip a twenty in his pocket and walk away. Now you’re not in debt to him. He knows you’re not going home with and and you didn’t even have to make up a shitty excuse or fake bathroom escape. Anytime a guy who you don’t know is talking to you in general, he is probably flirting with you. If he makes the effort to reach out, he wants to sleep with you. Men are actually very simple. I’m sure there are the few exceptions. For example, when at the grocery store a man asks you “Do you pronounce this kuinowa or keenwa?” Maybe he’s actually curious and doesn’t want to sound stupid when he comes home to his wife and is like “I got the kuinowa!” Or the most likely answer is that he’s trying to engage you in a conversation where you feel like you have the upper hand because like you totally know how to pronounce that shit. You’re such an intellect and good with language. In reality, he doesn’t care, but he totally wants to fuck you … maybe not tonight, but next week. He’s already got his Thursday opened up because that’s when you’re coming over for wine and sex. Tricky, tricky bastards. Now I’m getting ahead of myself. Okay so Tinder. So I swiped right on a Tuesday. It was an instant match, which means that he already likes me and swiped right too. I was ecstatic because you have to get through a lot of losers and weirdos before you get to someone good. His pictures were high quality. Which is unusual because I’ve come across a lot of profiles with doubles or blurry photos. Like figure it out it’s not rocket science. Trevor’s first photo, and the most important one, was him at a Yankees ball game drinking a beer. Okay so good he’s into sports. I was glad it was a pic of just him and not a group shot so I didn’t have to go searching through the rest of his pics to figure out who he was. Most of the time when guys have only group pics it’s because he’s the ugly or weird looking one in the group. It’s always so disappointing because you hope it’s the hot friend who swiped yes to you but it never is. It is ALWAYS the weirdo creeper. Anyways, Trevor’s other pics were really good so much that I thought jesus is this guy a catfish? I fucking hate catfishing. Don’t do that shit. It’s the lowest of low. If you are reading this now and you’re a catfish or have catfished just know that I would rather sleep with an ex serial rapist in his jail cell than come into contact with you. Okay that’s extreme but seriously. So Trevor had this other pic of him in Indonesia playing with a bunch of poor starving children. Gold star for you Trev. From this you are saying: not only am I worldly and caring, but I love kids also! So I’m totally ready for when you get baby fever! His third pic was him and a girl whom I am assuming is his ex. Now, here’s the double standard. Girls actually like seeing you with other girls in pics because it means that you have experience in a relationship or whatever or are a good kisser. We don’t want to talk to a loser who has never come into contact with the female species. We kind of like the idea of a bad boy who hooks up with a lot of ladies. But not while you’re hooking up with us! This girl was pretty. And this gives us a confidence boost because it means you think I’m as pretty or prettier. Checkmate. His fourth pic was him at what looked like a really cool party. Awesome! He has a social life and wont judge me for my excessive drinking! His fifth picture was him wearing a suit shaking Rob Ford’s hand. He owns a suit. Excellent. This means he’s presentable and probably has a job. Not that you’re going to introduce him to your mom anyways. No one meets their boyfriend on Tinder. Also, it made me curious about the context of this photo. It kind of grosses me out that he was in such close proximity to Ford. Lastly, strong handshakes are such a turn on. If you have a limp wrist then you have a limp dick. His last photo was him posing with a tiger. Sexy. So anyways, within like literally a few minutes after we matched he messaged me. He didn’t use a cheesy pick up line or a “hey there beautiful” or “will you be my tinderella?” What most guys don’t understand, and this is top secret information that I am about to expose, is that the way to get us to respond is to make a witty comment or ask us something about our photos that we so carefully photo shopped and edited. Like do you know how time consuming that shit is? Do you know how many flaws I had to edit out? Say something that’s subtle but suggesting. We know you’re not on here to make friends. Say something like “Oh you’ve been to Greece? That place is beautiful. But not as beautiful as you (winky face)”. If in my bio I say something about how I wish it was spring break, then you say “I went to Daytona last year it was awesome. I bet you would look way better than all those other girls in a bikini.” These are golden tickets I just gave you gentlemen. Use them wisely. In the end, I did meet up with Trevor and we banged. Like seriously hardcore stuff. But not fifty shades style. We live in a world that is driven by social media and appearance. A lot of girls today create a fake allusion of themselves and hype up Facebook profiles. Our online lives have become way more interesting than our real ones. I think this is because we’re unhappy with the average lives that we all have because we’re always told that average is never good enough. So everyone wants to stand out. But if everyone is standing out then no one would be. We document our lives on Instagram and Twitter so that we can flaunt how cool we are to the world. I do it. And we want feedback for reassurance: I don’t know if I should go with XX Pro or Valencia. I wanna look tan. What should my caption be? I want it to be clever. How about “Livin’ with my bitches, hash tag LIVE”. I only got 10 likes in the last 5 minutes. Do you think I should take it down? Most importantly, why do we as girls always compare ourselves and why are we catty to each other?: Did you think that girl was pretty? How did that girl even get in here? Do you see her? She’s so short and that dress is so tacky! Who wears Cheetah? Honestly, we’re all in this storm together do please don’t bring each other down. The thing about Tinder is that it is so completely shallow. You say yes or no to someone solely based on their looks, and maybe one bio line, which is usually something stupid anyways that tells you nothing about the person. I have no doubt that Tinder was made by a man because it is an ideal app for men everywhere. Women don’t expect a relationship out of Tinder. We do it for the confidence boost and reassurance. Men go on it to get laid. However, do young millennial women today even expect a relationship anymore? Do we even expect guys to be able to connect emotionally with us? I don’t think we do. So we settle for the one night stands and the hook ups and parties. Because hey we have active libidos too. The sad thing is that we have grown to settle and be okay with the current hook up culture.

Name, class, teacher’s name, and date. Those were the sole inhabitants of my Word document. I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys, waiting for the words to come. The more I tried to think, the less I wanted to. How was I supposed to compare the heroic traits of Beowulf and Dante’s Inferno? The green glow of the clock in my room seemed to mock me. Was it really ten thirty already? Who knows how long I had been in this position, trying to be productive. It was a battle, my stubbornness siding with my laziness to overthrow me, and what a dreary day for a battle. The rain fell steadily, causing a sheet of gray outside my window. I willed the words to flow as easily as the water coming down. Name, class, teacher’s name, date, and title. Here we go, that’s progress. My own mind was giving me false support in order to trick me into doing something. So I sat, too guilty to give up, but too unmotivated to keep going. My legs started to go numb from being in the same position for so long, yet I dared not move, for fear of losing any hope of motivation. My phone buzzed at least a few times, that I am sure of. Maybe it was my friends, maybe it was my mom. But it was out of reach, and so was I. Imprisoned in the darkness of my bedroom and the helplessness of my inability to get things done.

I have just arrived at the party with three friends that i'm sure I will have for life. People say that different colleges and different cities generally leads to friends drifting apart. I'm not convinced, besides i'm sure that most of the people who say these things would have never had what i've got. It's nice to see some of the girls again, being at the private boys college we rarely get the chance to see them in the exam period. I can see Emma, she is over with our other friends so I decide to join. I haven't known her all that long, shes the new girl in town and it is just so refreshing to see a new face. I have only been here for three years myself, but it doesn't take long before you get to know everybody. This may seem good, but for me finding a girl who hasn't been tied with at least someone I know is near impossible. I've told Sam that I'm interested in Emma, and he thinks that I have a pretty good chance with her. I admire Sam, it's nice to have a friend that you can talk to about these kinds of things. Without him, I may have never had the courage to ask her to come and hang out with me last week. I try to make conversation with her, she is smiling, but I just can't manage to keep the conversation flowing. "Why?" I ask myself. It was no trouble last week. I feel weak and nervous, so I take another drink. Alcohol is a social drug, so i'm sure that will do the trick, I can't recall a specific time that it's worked, but I am already feeling more confident after just one mouthfull. Maybe it's just a placebo, either way I will not complain. Sam is talking with Emma, i'm glad they seem to be getting along. I couldn't be with a girl that none of my friends like. Besides, what's the point of seeing a girl at this age if she can't be apart of your group? I make an effort to join the conversation, however, my confidence is once again low and I didn't feel that they were paying much attention to me anyhow. I decide that i'm no longer going to pursue Emma, besides she seems to have a better connection with Sam. I can't change this, he is better looking and more confident than me anyway. How did I ever think I would have a shot with a girl like that? I am such an idiot. I think i'll just walk home.

Entry 4 It was a clear starry night and I gazed yearningly into the water. The reflection of the stars in the water quivered as the skimming pebbles broke the surface. I was using my entire strength to release these skimming stones. They did not just carry the weight of the granite of which they were composed of. To me they carried the combined weight of my shame. As I let go of the stones I could feel the momentary relief that maybe the stone would take away with it all of my concerns. But again, seconds after, the pain I felt within me would swell up again replacing the temporary relief. I leaned over to pick up another stone but as I wrapped my fingers around the stone and lifted it into the air, the weight became too much. I collapsed on my knees staring into the lake watching the inaudible cries escape as tears rolled down my cheeks. Behind my reflection in the water I saw a grey form arise. The plume of smoke emerging behind me was extinguishing the stars. It was far too late to pretend that the stars in the sky were all that were disappearing in the veil of smoke. The hurt inside me was beyond bearable. I began to wade into the water. The icy cold sting of the water washed away the burning agony I had felt. As the water began to reach the level of my neck I could almost escape my emotions. I took one last look behind me into the abyss. All that I had loved was now nought but a beautiful lie. The cloud of smoke grew above my head and the numb ache began to return. Not bothering to take a breath, I sunk my face into the water. Entry 1 It was beautiful summer morning as I excitedly hopped into the front seat with my father; he looked into my eyes with the warm look he often showed in his withering blue eyes when he stared at me. His aged face, besieged with wrinkles and scars possessed an energetically hearty youth when he smiled at me. After my mother died during in an air raid three years previously, my father and I only had each other. I loved my mother dearly and immediately following her death it was hard for me and possibly harder still for my father and I have the utmost respect for how he composed himself the weeks following the tragedy. He could have broken down at any point and everyone would understand but he kept it together, not for himself, but for me. He was always there for me in my darkest hours and my brightest days. We shared our achievements and our losses. We were the perfect team. Today was a big day, A few weeks ago my father received a big promotion from his work, and he had told me he would now be running a very important work place that will help Germany persevere through the rough militaristic times. I was proud of my father, I had often seen his selflessness in how he treated his workmates, his friends and even complete strangers and I thought if anyone deserved such a high ranking promotion it was him. We were to pack our bags and move within the next week. We had spent the morning loading all of our belongings into the truck accompanied by a few people that had been sent by father’s office. I almost thought they could have been brothers how they all looked so similar with the bright blue eyes and their neatly trimmed blonde hair. These men didn’t talk much but they were very helpful and we very grateful for their help. Father even offered shouting a beer for each and every one of them for their hard work. We had finished by about 11am and after a tiring morning I was glad to sink into the comfy leather seats of the obviously new green car my father had been given along with the job. It wore an interesting symbol branded into the side, when I quizzed father on what it meant he told me it was a symbol of power and perfection. It was a long drive through the countryside but the shifting land enthralled me as we forests and farms as they rushed past us. I was glad to escape all of the bustling city life and just start afresh in a new life in the country with father. Entry 2 It’s been three weeks since we arrived and apart from the frustrating dark clouds that consistently besmirch the beautiful landscape, I love it here. The peace and quiet that can be found in the depths of the surrounding environment suits me perfectly. Often I find myself dozing in the afternoon sun by an enchanting creek that runs a few hundred metres into the forest behind the house with the latest novel I have busied myself with just slipping from my slumbering grasp. Every morning father leaves early but I try to wake up just early enough to see him off. He always seems cheered by my presence and his smiles gain a slightly more earnest air about them, which spreads to his eyes that have a sincerity I don’t see otherwise. When he returns from his long day we exchange our meaningless stories and a few bad puns we deem only worthy of each other as cherish the dying rays of light over a glass of wine. He’s been encouraging me to join him in his work as I finished my education a few weeks before we arrived and it was about time I joined what he was slightly prematurely calling “the family business”. If there was one thing I hated more than school it was a day or earnest hard work so I was a little hesitant about beginning work but I had stalled enough and it was about time I helped out in the area and It would mean I could spend some more time with father. Entry 3 It was a big day today and I was finally going to begin work and I would get to the place where father said he was “making history”. I didn't really know what to expect because we never talked business at home but he described it as very satisfying work. Father looked even more cheerful than usual with a big toothy grin on his face as I stumbled down the stairs in the uniform he had found for me. “You look like a respectable soldier, son. Any camp would be glad to see you in their ranks.” He beamed as I jokingly marched around the room. As we drove down the bumpy dirt road he would continuously grin and catch excited glances at me. I could not contain my own excitement in making my father proud as his contagious happiness spread to my grin. We pulled up to a field surrounded by a barb wire fence and in the distance I could see some workers dressed in strange uniforms that didn't resemble my own. The fences were an obvious precaution from any form of attack, most out skirting buildings in Poland had these heightened securities. I saw engraved into the building a plaque that had the words “Treblinka Extermination Camp”. These foreshadowing words bore into me, echoing throughout my head trying to explain what kind of “extermination camp” it was that my father was running. He accompanied me through the front gates as he began talking “Son, you and I have been entrusted by the almighty leaders of our great nation to clean up the filth that hides in the corners and scavenges on our great successes, slowly deteriorating our German magnificence from within ourselves”. He spoke these words with such pride and conviction that I only hoped I could share his compassion for what happened inside these foreboding gates. As he finished talking, he pushed the doors open and there were hundreds upon hundreds of buildings. The spaces between were empty apart from some scattered soldiers in uniforms similar to my own. I could see in the distance the fields I had seen coming in. The workers appeared to have a slightly ghostly look about them as though father had employed corpses to work the fields. The place gave me a queasy feel in the pits of my stomach, but not wanting to disappoint father, we pressed forwards until we reached one of the buildings. He pushed open the door and what I saw horrified me. There were hundreds upon hundreds of women and children with shrivelled bodies and bones seen through the skin. Mothers were huddling with their children, all sharing the look as though death itself had possessed them as they shared tiny morsels of food between them. Their eyes showed a horrific fear drilling into me as they stared at me. Some were wandering around mumbling aimlessly, others were not moving at all. Children sat by their parents, unable to understand why they had stopped responding to them. I took a horrified glance at father and three quivering words escaped my mouth. “What is this?”. He looked at me with an excited smile and responded “I’m about to show you.” He began shouting towards the nearest people. One child, who barely looked over the age of seven, was torn from the lifeless body of his mother as he screamed. These people, barely fitting the definition of living were surrounded by a group of officers and they began marching towards a separate room. When we reached the door of the room father told me to wait outside as ordered the people to enter windowless room. The doors shut for a moment and before I knew what was happening my ears were bombarded with screams and chokes that I could not block from my mind. The doors opened and all I could see was what had moments ago been living people, were the drained corpses, the screams still etched on their faces. It was too much to take in. Smoke was beginning to rise from behind the building. The same smoke that had besmirched the skies, the same smoke I had mistakenly called a harmless cloud. This smoke not only blackened the sky, but it darkened the man of whom I admired. As I looked at my father, I could not see his warm eyes or his excited smile. All I could see was the disappearance of man I had loved behind a veil of the darkest fumes.

I originally wrote this for a contest that didn't come through with the prizes they offered, so now you get to read it: 100 Word Story We drifted over Greenland, in the old polar orbit. I spread myself thin, enjoying the cold of space. I could tell she was looking for something. "What is it?" I asked. She didn't answer. Then we passed out of the Earth's umbra, changing from icy cold darkness to glaring sunlight. Suddenly, there was a glint of light. "I see it!" she cried, propelling herself forward. It was a small stainless-steel capsule in orbit, filled with dust. She formed herself around it. "What do you want with that old thing?" I asked. "You wouldn't understand," she said. "It was my body.

He thought of thoughts he'll never remember, in a bed that seems to make him drown in thoughts every night he lay in it. Every night was the same. Starts with a blank canvas that can only be painted with the same dull colors. Though each picture painted had a different picture, it was still painted from the same colors. All starts with the same thought but always end in a different thought. Sometimes the thoughts are too much to handle. So painful that they have to be forgotten, never to be thought of again. When thoughts like these become forgotten, certain colors get removed, making the next picture less colorful. A picture is painted as long as there is color. Even if a color is removed every now and then, in the end there were still be at least one color. The darkest color, a color that engulfs your mind when you think of a thought you'll never remember.

Life. What the Hell is it all about? Why didn’t I feel welcome? What about authenticity? What if Christians were honest? (Gurgle) I’m hungry. I wonder if they have my chicken on sale. … Hmm. Frozen aisle. Nope, nope, no. Look at that old guy working. If I were in charge he wouldn’t have to work so hard. Next aisle. “Excuse me. Can I help you find something?” “Uh, no. I’m just looking, thanks.” I knew I got a good vibe from him. Intuition. They don’t have it. I should go to the store around the corner. … What if I were really rich? No one would know. I’d still buy cheap food. Well I’ve got ramen at home. … I love the night. I hate seeing homeless people. I’m a binge drinker. I love it. Do people know? Shit, that’s why I’m stopping for awhile. Those girls are kind of cute. She’s really tall. Oh, he’s saying goodbye. What accent is that? “Hi.” “Oh, hi.” “Are you a writer?” “Me? No, that would make me a more interesting person though.” “Why do you have a pen and notepad then?” "Oh, I wish I were a writer, but I never do. Those online tests always tell me I should be a writer. All the ideas come to me at night. I love taking nightwalks.” That encounter never happened. What am I doing? I passed those girls a while back. Girls are so immature. I need to find a woman. I don’t know why I’m attracted to older women. … Why is that cop staring at me? I don’t want pizza. Oh, chicken’s on sale. I hate these things. Did I scan my club card? Noch nicht! I hope no one asks me for change. Ahh, the chicken is smudging my notebook. I bet someone is going to ask if they can have some of my chicken. You have to put it in the microwave. Who knows what fucking weirdos are out tonight.

The taxi station was dark when I walked in. As usual, before my night shifts would begin, I turned on the lights and slid myself onto a chair in the kitchen. No one had arrived yet. I got out a pack of cigarettes and placed them on the table, getting through three before Pedro barged in. “Eeeh bro, what the fuck you think you doin’. There’s no smoking in here’. “Fuck you, Pedro”. Pedro giggled and went over to the coffee pot and turned it on. He had a wry smile like a birth mark. It was a part of him. “Any bookings tonight, Prashnath?” “Yeah. I got a weird one. I got to go out of Seattle. Tiger Mountain state forest. It’s not even near anything. Middle of nowhere. I’m shit scared, man. No houses nearby, I looked it up on maps. It’s scary as shit outside at this time of night, already, without getting killed by demons or some shit, man”. Pedro was listening, pouring his coffee. He sat down next to me, lit a cigarette and smiled. “You are fucked, bro” “Shut up, I am serious. I want to cancel it. Before you walked in I was going to send this guy a message. Was going to tell him to shove his creepy forest up his arse, man”. Pedro chuckled in the tobacco of his cigarette. “What is the name of the place again, Prashnath”. “Tiger Mountain”. Pedro winced. For a moment the birth mark disappeared. “Do not go there, bro. I am not even trying to be funny here. That place is bad. There is some fucked up stories from there. Couple of guys that worked with me back at city cabs ran into trouble there”. “What. What do you mean. Don’t mess with me”. “I mean if you go to this place tonight, you will seriously get sacrificed to demons or something. I swear I am not messing with you. Look at my face, bro. I am serious about this”. “What did the guy’s at city cabs say. I swear if you are messing with me..” “There was this big Russian guy I used to work with, yeah? His name was Vladimir or Vladislav or something like that. Anyway, doesn’t matter. This guy, like you, gets a booking at this place in Tiger forest. It was just me, Vlad, and two other guys on shift that night. Real quiet. We all head off, do our thing, and me and the two other guys are back at the station at four o’ clock. So here we are waiting for Vlad to get back, getting really pissed off because we cannot lock up, and we want to go home. We call this guy, send him messages and everything, but no reply. Of course we start to think the worst, right. ‘Shit, Vlad’s hit a fucking tree’, we thought. Well, we were all about to start looking for this guy when he fucking turns up. I swear to Christ bro, this guy was dirty, and had holes all over him, cuts all over his face and shit. ‘Vlad, what the fuck. What happened’ I said.’ Does not say a thing. Just sits down, has a smoke. Not a fucking thing. Eventually Vlad says he was attacked, right? Now, I want you to get this picture in your head. This guy, Vlad, is huge, bro. He is a beast. He could take anyone in a fight. Shit, he could take three. So when you see this guy walking in all torn up, saying he got attacked, it makes you think, bro: who the fuck could do that to this guy. So I question him. It doesn’t make sense ‘What do you mean attacked. Who the fuck attacked you’ I said. This is exactly what he said, bro. ‘I take job in Tiger forest. It take me forty minutes to get to this place, and no one there. I wait for ten, twenty minutes, no one there. I come back. There was man on road, his car broke down. I get out, I help. I tell you, man. I got bad feeling from this guy. I don’t know why, sometime you just get bad feeling, you know? But I ignore the bad feeling, I help. I go to him, but then I hear noise from tree line along side of road. All these people wearing black, only black. They come out of the trees. Some holding torches, some holding knives. It was an ambush.’ Vlad was surrounded by a satanic fucking cult in the middle of the forest, I shit you not. He tried to run back to his car, get away that way, but they got there before he did. They closed in on him, saying all this weird shit in another language. Vlad was lucky he was built like a house because he was able to charge one of the guys holding a torch. Knocked him to the ground. Had to run away into the forest.” “That is crazy, man. There is no way I am taking this booking. I am not even going to message him back.” I went to light another cigarette when I noticed the wry smirk reappear on Pedro’s face. “Oh fuck you, man. Do not scare me like that. Pedro laughed. “No bro, for real. Watch out”. “Yeah, yeah”. I finished the cigarette quickly, grabbed my coat and hopped into the car, ready to start my shift; ready to go to Tiger Mountain. Pedro was full of shit, he was always like that. I started the engine. As the car sat and quietly roared I thought about Pedro’s smile, and how it collapsed into fear when I told him I was going to Tiger Mountain. Admittedly that was strange. Very strange. But Pedro was full of shit, he was always like that..

In the safety of my apartment It was cold that night. I rode home on my bike. Mist was surrounding me like cobwebs in a spiders den. I buried my chin deep in my collar to protect my neck from the cold. My fingers frozen, red and wrapped tightly around the handlebar. One more block, two more turns and I was home. but coming home would only start the shit that I got into. I can’t sleep and continuously relive that night. How I relive that night is how I write it down. My apartment is in a district just short of being a ghetto. The walkways are partially lit by still unbroken fluorescent lights. Through the mist I that the light of the apartment below is still flickering. Nobody lives there and our rich tenant has dozens of other apartment buildings he rather maintains. He gets our rent anyway, and that is all he cares about. This flat will deteriorate until the cracks in the concrete grow enough to bring her down. Nonetheless I am actually happy with my apartment. It is my first house and my room itself is neat and cozy. In the entrance I can hear a lone junk coughing. I try to pass him unnoticed, but the echo of my footsteps through the hall give me away. From under a dirty brown hood, the pale face stares at me. It mumbles something, but I can't make anything of it. Evading his stare, I quickly ascend the stairs. The encounter made me more nervous than it should. Arm hair is raised under my coat. It feels like the echoing taps of my footsteps draw the attention from nightly visitors. On the third floor I stop and look left to the walkway. Someone stands there. Ten metres away, in front of the of the apartment below mine, number 34. His silhouette appearing and disappearing with the flickering fluorescent light. I freeze as he sees me. A flickering later he stands in the open doorway. Another flickering. The door slams shut and the silhouette is gone. An eerie chill climbs up my spine. I glance away from the apartment where I would normally see cars and people passing, just to comfort myself with reality, but this time there are no cars, no people, just faint streetlights glowing in the thick mist. I feel cold and vulnerable on the open walkway. The freezing air creeps up my neck as I grab the keys from my pocket. My frozen fingers lose grip before sliding the key in the hole. With a ringing sound the keys drop to the ground. As I bow down to get the keys, I feel eyes watching me closely. I feel them stalking me, but I don’t look. I have seen enough creepy shit tonight. A warm stream of air greets me when I open my door. This is my safe haven. My neat home protecting me from the rest of the cold, eerie flat. At the end of my dark hallway, from a small table, shining eyes of a cat greet me. Stuart is the best roommate I could wish for. He guards the house, keeps me company, and all he wishes in return is catfood and an occasional stroke. Stuart buries his head between his paws to hide from the lights as I turn them on. As usual I take a glass of whiskey and get ready for bed. 11 pm. While brushing my teeth I think about what happened. Staring in the sink, I think about the man with the pale face, about the silhouette that entered the apartment below me. There were often junks and tramps in this building, but this feels different. The chill in my spine is back. A sudden fear of looking up in the mirror creeps into me. I keep brushing, all the while looking in the sink. What if I look in the mirror and don’t see my own face? What if I do not see what I expect? I don’t know where this fear comes from, but it doesn’t seem to make sense. Come back to senses, you pussy. I look up. I realise I was right. I was right being scared. A pale face gazes into my eyes. The face is filled with the same horror as mine, but it isn’t my face. God fucking dammit. With shaking hands I push myself away from the sink and stumble back. I rip the shower curtain down with me as I fall into the sink. My head slams hard against the back of the bathtub. Dazed, I get up and force myself to look again. The mirror now shows my own, pained face. I should sleep. It has been a long day and I am exhausted. Stuart sits in the bathroom doorway, meowing for food. I just fed him when I came home, how can this thing be hungry now? While I fetch him some food, he strokes my legs with his flanks. Before heading to bed, I check the time on my phone. My phone! It is not in my pocket. My wallet and keys, gone too. As if the night couldn’t get any worse. One more time, I pull myself together. I will just go to bed. I probably put my stuff on the table or something and forgot. Tomorrow I will check, now I must sleep. I wouldn’t get any sleep that night. I’m lying in bed, staring into the blackness above me. My eyelids don’t want to shut. As if my eyes told them something bad will happen if they do. As pitchdark as my room is, fooling myself that my eyes are closed doesn’t work. At least, not enough to sleep. I have to sleep. I need to. With force, I squeeze them shut, losing my awareness of the room. Bang. A sound hits me. My eyelids spring back open. Staring at the ceiling, I hear a shoving sound repeating near my bed. I can’t help but to breathe heavily when my heart pumps this heavy. Looking right, I see my nightstand standing to the wall more than a metre away from the bed. It is not supposed to stand there. What the fuck? My own fucking nightstand is screwing with me now? While right next to me? I like to believe I am rational. I want to explain this. I can not explain this. Well, Apart from that I’m going crazy, I can not explain this. I’m done. I’m getting Stuart. My heart is still pounding when I open the door. A shock stops it for a moment. In the faint moonlight, the cat sits in front of my bedroom door on an eighteenth century dining chair. The dining table is over to the side of the balcony. This chair had moved all the way across the room. Something is screwing with me. Stuart looks at me. A questioning face. I feel like he wants to tell me what happened, but he can’t. I paranoidly glance across the moonlit livingroom, dragging the chair behind me. Stuart jumps off and follows me, seeking comfort at my feet. The chairs around the dining table are neither how I left them. They all stand just too awry. The room is silent. Probably just like it is where you are, while reading this. But my silence is an unsettling silence. Like something is there, holding it’s breath, observing me. My own apartment doesn't feel safe anymore. As if a burglar is in the house, I feel a presence. A burglar… As I’m thinking, I fear that this presence is worse than any kind of burglar. I am alone and being haunted. I would call a friend of mine now, if I just had my phone. I should look for it. I turn on the lights. Somewhere, a door closes. The click sends a shiver down my spine. Stuart looks at me with his eyes wide open. I need my phone. It isn’t on the dining table. Not on the coffee table either. Frustration and desperation are growing inside me. I throw open cupboards and drawers, clashing the cutlery inside them. I don’t want this to be true. I want to wake up in the morning sun, far away from this nightmare. Some more alcohol in my blood might give make me sleepy enough to get there. Giving up the search, I take whiskey from one of the opened cupboards. The whiskey pouring into the glass now is the sole thing breaking the silence. Somehow it comforts me a little. Half a glass should do it. I shamble back to my bedroom, switch the lights back off and suddenly it hits me. I fell in the bathtub. How stupid could I be? My stuff probably fell out of my pocket and is still in the tub. With the glass in my hand and Stuart at my feet, I stand in front of the bathroom door. It is closed. “Did you do that, Stuart?” He looks at me, than at the door. His back arches. His fur rises. “What the fuck? Stop that” I whisper it to him, but he doesn’t listen. As if stepped on, he spurts back into the living room and hides on a seat under the dining table. Stuart always behaved so carefree, opening one eye when the neighbor’s barking dog ran into my apartment. Yet now he is nothing more than a little, black ball of rolled up fear. The bathroom light, glowing at the edging of the door, stands out against its dark surroundings. I should turn it off and get my stuff. For a moment I look back at the shining white dots staring at me from under the table. Fear grabs a hold of me. I don't want to know what hides behind the door. I chug the glass of whiskey and grab Stuart from under his hiding place. Shared sorrow is half a sorrow? I guess that works with fear as well. Back in my bedroom I notice the nightstand being back at its original spot. I’m sure some people would have lost it by now, but I won’t. I shut the door. I tell myself everything will be better in the morning. I hide under the duvet, with Stuart at my feet. I wait until the drowsiness kicks in. The alcohol is fighting the adrenalin inside me. For a moment the alcohol gains the upper hand and I close my eyes.

After a long day of work a middle-aged businessman was on his way home and, as people often do nowadays, was absently thinking about his car insurance. As he was waiting for the bus he saw a young man who was weeping, and so he approached him. ‘Well, you see, I am a poet,’ the young man began, ‘and I even have one or two published poems. But no one wants to read nowadays, not poetry at least. So I had to get a job and make a living somehow. I got a job as a cashier in a supermarket. At first it was okay, but then after three hours of scanning, that peeping noise chisels in your head and I you can hear it in your sleep at night. And then the morning comes and everything repeats itself and I can just feel my brain, useless, deteriorating.’ ‘But, you are young and your whole life is ahead of you,’ said the businessman, and then nostalgic of his own youth added, ‘there are girls out there, you’re a good-looking lad’. ‘Let me tell you what happened. I told you I was a poet. I may not be as well-dressed and wealthy as you probably are, but I’ll tell you this – I can see through people and I can reach into their souls. So as I was there on the counter I thought that I would try to find something poetic about it all. That’s what we do poets, finding meaning in the ordinary. So I began to take notes of what people buy. It’s weird how logical and methodical people are. When you begin to pay attention you can see those patterns that tell you something about the customer’s life. I could tell that the old lady with the cat food, the strawberry yoghurts and the chocolate pudding was living alone and was probably excited to have her grandchildren stay over for dinner. Or that the man with the beer pack, the sandwiches, and the cooking book was unmarried. Or that sharp bloke who got flowers, and vodka, and a deodorant was going on a date, and was probably going to be a flop – you’re supposed to buy wine on a date, but little do people know nowadays… ‘And that’s when she comes in, this blue-eyed freckled girl. Every other day, around noon she would buy the most utterly illogical items. I could see through every other person but not through her. She was consistent only in the time she came to do the shopping. And how that baffled me! We poets always seek some truth in chaos and abstractness and I devoted my entire time to that mystery. I could not sleep for days. I had all her items written on individual notes spread around my room and pondered over them for hours and hours. I even gave up my poems. What was the connection between a notebook, a flowerpot, salmon steaks, frozen chicken hearts, and a hairband, among other more and more illogical things? ‘Then one day she came up to the counter with just one thing – a garden hose. And it hit me, oh, how silly I was. She was not illogical. She was trying to communicate with me, subtly, indirectly. Everything made perfect sense, all the pieces fitted together – the salmon, a fish symbolized the inability to speak; the hairband was her shyness – she couldn’t let her hair down; the flowerpot meant emptiness; the hearts (oh her subtle irony) meant love; the notebook a symbol of poetry (she knew I was a poet); and the garden hose – a phallic symbol! Oh, Dionysius, the blue-eyed freckled girl was in love with me! How I hopped over the counter and held her hand and talked and talked and recited one of my poems! And then she pushed me aside and said ‘I am very flattered, but if you don’t mind I need to take the shopping to my poor mother.’ My heart sank down, shattered to a billion pieces. I was naively deluded by own very self. And here I am…’ ‘Look, lad, she’s not the only girl,’ the businessman said, remembering his own naïve youth, ‘Come, I’ll buy you a drink, don’t just stand there.’ ‘I can’t, sir, I have a bus to catch,’ the man was gazing in the distance, ‘I’m a poet, you see. A poet should always follow his heart.

He sat alone pondering for a long while. The trees, lush green and ripe with the rebirthing of spring, and the air crisp upon the sweat of his brow. He took all this in as the still of night grew heavier upon his wearied soul. First one drop, then two, then the incessant onslaught of rain came upon the earth all around him. Yet, there he sat in silence, for he was far off in another place. A land a thousand miles away he had all but forgotten about came rushing back as he found himself beneath the artificialness of the fluorescent lights in a cramped office. He had been here before, looking at trees much the same yet very different, only then it was through the pall window that bordered one side of the room. Then, too, he sat in silence, unsure of where he was or what he was. The words rang in his head, now, as though there were freshly spoken. The emptiness he felt inside he knew was cast through his eyes as he looked into the emptiness of her eyes. She was already gone, he thought. Had she been there? Was she just a manifestation of his self-righteous and egotistical persona? “I can’t give you what you want.” His heart pounded fiercely inside his chest as his gut wrenched. “You deserve to be happy.” What room for doubt did he have that this was his outward projection of the twisted reality in which he daily lived? Twice he lived the experience, yet he still could not be sure if it was real. All he ever needed was something to remind him what was real and what was in his mind. He remembers caressing her face as they lay side by side. The smile on her face. The smile on his face. The dim moonlight shading her face. Now he looks at the same face, un-caressed, grief-stricken to the point of being empty. Which one is real? They were one, then they were not. They were blissful, then they were not. All the while, he struggled to decide which was real, if either. All he needed was something to remind him what was real. One last test of reality. Only then would he have the answer he so desperately sought. Right where he sat, looking at the beauty of spring doused in rain, seemed suitable a place as any to finally reach for the answer. He found reality, tightly gripped in his hand.

The most popular children in school were the handsome ones. Everyone liked the handsome ones. The handsome ones were usually funny, sporty, overflowing with confidence, well dressed and just generally awesome. They were going to grow up to be the kinds of people that drive sports cars and spend their time on yachts in the Mediterranean, keeping company with other ridiculously good looking people. 'Good Looking Lee Parkinson' was actually so handsome that girls would ovulate every time he smiled at them. Boys would be left confused about their sexuality if they so much as stood in the same room as him. Even teachers regarded him with dreamy, vacant expressions. He left a trail of dazed people in his wake - all wanting to run their fingers through his gorgeous, soft, blonde hair or just lick his exquisitely sculpted face – or maybe that was just me. I don’t know what 'Good Looking Lee Parkinson' went on to do as an adult, he’s probably a male model, but I like to think he’s working as a rent boy to fund his heroin and crack habits, after losing his job as a toilet attendant for spying on old men on the loo. There was also Natasha and Luke DiMarco – brother and sister, who both modelled children’s clothes for catalogues. They were from the new housing estate where the houses were actually made of brick. I have no idea how they ended up at my school. What was extra special about Natasha and Luke was the fact that they were friendly and down to earth. Whereas 'Good Looking Lee Parkinson' would barely acknowledge me, just in case I contaminated him with a terminal social disease, Natasha and Luke would occasionally talk to me. This left me thinking there was a chance that Natasha could become my girlfriend, and for a long time I fixated upon her. I never mustered the courage to do more than say the occasional hello, and would turn weak with delight whenever she said hello back. I also wrote her endless letters that I was too embarrassed to give her. In short, it was the kind of unhinged, unrealistic desire that if you don’t grow out of, ends with a restraining order. If there was Natasha, Luke, 'Good Looking Lee Parkinson' and Stephen Bridges at one end of the popularity scale, there was Martin Macintyre, Jim Clinton, Gary Winkett and Suzanne Parker at the other. Martin Macintyre was basically some kind of animal stuck in the body of a human – prone to attack for no reason – barely articulate until it came to telling you what he was going to do to you after school. He loved to expose himself, running around the playground holding his penis by the foreskin and pulling it until it was twice the normal length. He even urinated on me a couple of times in the toilets, and one of his favourite past-times was to wait until you were sat on the loo, then climb up on to the sink, stick his head over the top of the cubicle and spit on you until you had finished. Then of course he would give you a good thump in the face when you opened the door. I remember sitting on that toilet many times, weighing up whether it was better to continue getting spat on, or go out and get smacked in the face. It's funny, but you've no idea how attractive being drenched in saliva becomes when you’re faced with a painful enough alternative. When Martin wanted some real fun, he would sit at his desk and shit himself - unable to contain his enormous grin, waiting for people to notice the smell. Sometimes he would just lose his mind and run around the classroom punching pupils and teacher. Nowadays he would be drugged senseless with Ritalin and placed on the sex offender’s register, but back then nothing ever seemed to happen to him - the teachers were too scared of him. He was just left to traumatise us. At break times, I would often stand in the playground with my fellow social rejects; one of us perched on a bench for maximum visibility, like a Meerkat, hoping to spot one of the many playground threats before they got too close. Like most bullies, Martin stayed away from people who fought back, and relied on people like me to provide his amusement. I had been brought up not to retaliate. Mum: 'Don't stoop to their level, Barry.' Translation: 'Just stand there and let the deranged child beat seven colours of shit out of you.' Mum: 'Use words to settle conflict.' Translation: 'Whilst you're receiving repeated head butts in the face from the deranged child, stay positive, try to find common ground, and use calming language. Don’t forget to keep smiling in an unthreatening manner.' Mum: 'It takes strength to walk away from a fight.' Translation: 'Turn away from the deranged child, and once he climbs on your back and starts biting your hair off, stay strong and continue walking away. Eventually he'll grow bored of it and get off you.' ‘Martin’s coming this way!!’ the alarm sounded. The resulting stampede was like a scene from the Serengeti as Wildebeest lose their minds trying to get away from a lion - scattering in all directions - happy to trample their own offspring if it means not getting eaten. ‘Quick, b-b-behind the Art Block,’ screamed Ian Mailer in a high pitched voice. The Art Block was a stand-alone wooden building on the edge of the playground where we would go for art lessons. I don’t think many schools have custom built classrooms for art, but this was to protect the normal classrooms because most art lessons ended with desks, walls, children and teacher all painted in bold colours, with a variety of objects glued to them. You’ve probably had situations in your life where you’ve had to run from something, but fear prevents your legs from working properly. At times like that, my brainpower seemed to get diverted away from the bit that controls my limbs to help support the bit that does my screaming. As Martin charged, my legs flopped around uselessly. I was the low-hanging fruit. The runt, who in the wild, would be quickly and mercifully dispatched from the gene pool. Unfortunately, there was no such escape in the playground – no quick death, and no daddy Wildebeest to come to your rescue and miraculously fight the lion off. Even the dinner ladies would conveniently spot other things to attend to when Martin chose to tear his way through the easy prey. In any sane world, Ian Mailer would be the one to be caught as he waddled away on his little potato-shaped legs, with the rest of us safely out of sight by the time he’s brought crashing to the ground, uselessly screaming for help. But it was usually me left behind, captured, and subjected to ten minutes of cartoon violence. Everyone on the playground watched in fascination as I stumbled along like Bambi, eyes wide with fear, looking around in the futile hope that someone would help me. Once sure I had been captured, my fellow meerkats crept from behind the Art Block, knowing they were now safe and could kick back and enjoy the spectacle. Martin started proceedings by dragging me around by my hair, occasionally winding me with a few rapid punches to the stomach. I suffered in silence, resigned to the fact that the only thing that would end this was when he, and he alone, felt as if he’d had his fill of ultra-violence. After the dragging and winding, came the wedgie - not just a tug on my Y-fronts, but an attempt to stretch them up my back and over my head - to double them up as underwear and a hat at the same time. Still, I didn't shout out, only vomited a little, showing admirable self-control in the face of mind-numbing pain. The saving grace was that my testicles had somehow avoided a good squeezing, and my bum crack had taken most of the strain. Wedgie finished, he paused for a moment, his face clouded with thought. This wasn't going too well. Why wasn't Barry screaming for his Mum like he normally did? My stoic demeanour, a feeble attempt to show him that he had no power over me, only served to enrage him further. Now, I knew that if I was ever captured whilst on her Majesty's service, I could put up with a reasonable amount of torture before coughing up the detonation codes to the nuclear bomb that would destroy England. I had suffered enough pain in my life - so a bit more wouldn’t faze me. ‘You want to wire me up to the mains and shock my nipples until they start smoking? No problem – my Mum used my step-dad's football boot to literally beat me to death when I was five. So go ahead - do your worst.’ But I knew that once they went to work on my testicles, I would sing like a canary on speed. Every boy knew their true Achilles-heel was hanging in a shrivelled sack between their legs. Martin Macintyre, no doubt having had his own testicles banged a few times, knew this. Problem: Barry Stephenson isn't screaming for his Mum to come and save him. This isn't as much fun as usual. Solution: Hold him down on the ground and punch his testicles. And sure enough, as the blows rained down on my balls I couldn't get the screams out fast enough. If you can picture a cat, a monkey and a goose being simultaneously kicked around a room by a very angry Chuck Norris, then you come somewhere near the noise that echoed around the school that day. If you can imagine Chuck Norris kicking animals around his lounge, then well done - sort of. If you can't, start off with just the goose and pay particular attention to Chuck's face, screwed up with rage. That goose has clearly done something very bad to annoy Chuck that much. Once that's working for you - imagine someone throwing the monkey in from stage left. Now Chuck really ramps things up to eleven on the dial. Be in awe of his ferocity for just a couple of minutes or so before the wide-eyed cat finally gets added to the fray. Now Chuck is just an inhuman blur of righteous wrath. Now you may have asked yourself, 'Why would Chuck Norris resort to kicking these poor creatures around his house? Surely there are other ways to deal with ill-disciplined animals?' Well I'm afraid I can't really give a satisfactory answer. What Chuck Norris gets up to in his own home, and why, is his business and we should probably just respect his need for privacy. Certainly, we shouldn't rush to judge him until we know the full story. My beating seemed to go on for an age. I was obviously making just the right kind of noises to hold Martin's interest. I think his primitive brain went through life constantly making the following calculation, 'Is the reward from this action equal to, or greater, than the amount of effort I'm putting into it?' In this particular case, the answer was clearly a resounding yes and his brain got stuck in a positive feedback loop, causing him to keep hammering away. The rest of the school, as they looked on, gradually stopped laughing and I heard someone shout, 'Martin, I think he's had enough now. Come on.' That's right. Your astonishing powers of deduction have brought you to the conclusion that I've only just had enough. Just now. It was fine before that, but once we got past the fifteenth thump in the trousers and the swelling was becoming noticeable to everyone, getting my testicles pummelled just didn't hold the same attraction for me any more. I don't know if the pain became too much for the human brain to endure, or whether I just screamed myself unconscious, but I eventually blacked-out. Life is full of pleasant little surprises. Small mercies. It's things like that – passing out into a blissful state of unawareness as someone declares war on your nut-sack that makes life so bearable. Surprisingly, Martin was excluded from school for a whole two days. Two days he would have spent attacking pensioners, and breaking into the houses of people unfortunate enough to be gainfully employed. My mum was called to come and take me home. The next day, being unable to walk, I was carted off to my G.P. 'Well Mrs. Stephenson, the swelling may take a week or two to completely disappear, and the black scrotum will eventually return to its normal healthy pink - but genitals are surprisingly resilient so I don't think we need to worry too much,' said the Doctor after prodding me between the legs for a while, unperturbed by my yelps of pain. 'Over the next week make sure he wears very loose underwear and trousers.’ Two day’s later; I was back at school, hobbling around the playground in my bright red knitted trousers, my legs spread wide as if I was riding a horse, making sure there was plenty of room for my scrotum which, by now, looked like a little black cauliflower. The expected ridicule didn’t come though. I actually received some sympathetic glances. Most of the children who had witnessed the savageness of the beating were probably suffering from Post Traumatic Stress. This would, for most of them, have been the closest they would ever come to witnessing an actual real-life murder. Thanks for reading. This is actually a chapter from my soon to be published novel based upon my childhood, called 'Recollections of a Half-Wit'.

EDIT: Holy mother of formatting problems Batman! English was a mostly dead language, its speakers long dead in a cycle of life and death. Time had lost all meaning in this new, barren world. The only time that people now recognised was the rising and the setting of the sun, yet another lost human construct, similar to the giant, monolithic structures that pervaded the dusty landscape. Through the wind tunnel streets of what was once called Melbourne not only people, but monster’s roamed, the city’s original name lost in the sands that filled it’s streets, now it had had only one name, and that name was Death. Crawling through the rusted hulk of a corroded old Honda Jackson spied some half a dozen hunched figures, Death’s reapers, feasting on what appeared to be the bodies of a family, unlucky enough to be caught by surprise. Glancing back at his young sister, barely ten rainy seasons old, he motioned for a flare gun, a seemingly magical device, strong enough to frighten the inhuman denizens of this corrupted city, to push them away and create safe passage. Clutching the small red life saving device to his scrawny, raggedy chest he bolted from hiding place to hiding place, a bizarre almost ritualistic dance, a cultural phenomenon born of fear in a world where men no longer ruled and beasts became top of a new, savage and violent food chain. As Jackson covered ground, his target the sagging wreckage of an old wooden home, different than the husks of cold concrete that reached into the sky, warmer and one of temporary safe harbour from the horrors of the streets, his sister shadowed close behind. Practised in this, they reached what they sought, without a noise breaching the belly of the desiccated corpse, scavengers looking for an easy meal. Tearing apart the house, they searched, bellies aching for something, anything. They had not eaten in three nights, bones starkly outlined on their ragged clothes, turn from constant exposure to the elements. Jackson even resorted tearing up floorboards, sundering the haven they had found, just hoping to happen across some hidden cache of food that someone forgot. All he found was a note, “Hi from 2014! I hope you enjoy renovating this house as much as we did!” He had no idea what the strange “2014” meant, but his father had taught him enough English to understand the rest. He didn’t feel anything but a slight sadness upon reading this, vaguely sorrowful that whoever “2014” was, that they didn’t know this new world was coming, the writer didn’t know what this world was like. A single tear ran down his cheek when he realised that he hoped they were long dead, better to be dead than to see what the world had become. As light began to fade, the duo had already torn apart the house, finding little, just a few meagre cans of soup, sealed tight in their tin containers. Placing his makeshift knap-sack on the floor beside the table Jackson pulled out his ancient bowie knife, a relic of ages past and selected the can that read “Tomato Soup” and dug the knife into the metal of the can. In an almost reverent way both he and his sister passed the cold meal between them as they sat huddled on the hard floor, staving away the huger for at least the time being, a welcome diversion from the pains of everyday life. As what was left in the can dwindled Jackson pulled out a thick book, one that his mother once read to them and opened up at his sister’s favourite story, one of heroines and dragons. He struggled to sound out some words, but soldiered on regardless. This continued on until the cries of night terrors began, some shrill and other’s mournfully haunting, malevolent or indifferent, but all frightening. This was something that neither man, nor woman could become accustomed to, the new world order. As was custom, they gathered up what they owned, replaced what they had removed, along with the appropriated supplies and went to hide, selecting a low cupboard for the task of concealing them, collecting a sparse rug the process. They huddled unabashedly, brought together in their fear and need for warmth, brother and sister trying with all their might, if just for one night to block out what they knew was there, even as heavy footsteps thudded across the roof, causing dust to fall from the ceiling. They awoke to pops and crackles echoing from some distant conflict. Shivering in the morning chill they waited, the noises getting closer and closer and before long, the sharp crack of wood being split open. Through a crack in the cupboard door they saw splinters flying through the room as men in strange clothing, carrying strange metal instruments in their hands filed into the room. Crackling voices filled the room amongst those of the men, ghostly and strange. ‘We’re pinned down in a small building, Richmond. We need to get out of here, now!’ similar conversations went on amongst the men standing in front the Jackson and his sister. As he clutched the flare gun in front of him, his anchor and his only security Jackson Watched, he watched as they tore apart the house, as he had done the night before, but instead of looking for food, they wanted escape, the children’s refuge was their tomb. He watched as the cupboard door was torn from their shelter, as they were revealed the room stopped. Silence ensued as a flashlight shone down on their pale, frail little faces. One of the men leaned down to come to face level with them. ‘This is a slash and burn operation mate, you know what to do.’ ‘I do’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the little faces in front of him. ‘Listen, what are your names?' ‘Mines Jackson’ the little boy answered, cautiously, afraid. ‘Cynthia’ came a quiet voice not long after, clearly not accustomed to talking ‘Okay, can I get you two to close your eyes for a moment, I just need to give you something, it’ll sting a bit, but it’ll be okay, I promise’. They timidly looked at each other, nodded and closed their eyes. And then, nothing. I was that soldier, I shot the bullets that killed them and I take responsibility. In a world gone to hell, I can only take orders. I’m not a philosophical man, or a particularly intelligent one, but this is how I imagine they had lived for the last day before I stumbled upon them. I had to kill them, I had no choice. The city had to be prepared for re-colonization, and that meant that any possible infected individuals had to be removed. I was following orders, but that doesn’t make seeing their god damn trusting faces every night any easier and no amount of whisky can remove the blood from my hands. All I can do is write this account of my actions and beg those that read it to not make the same mistakes ~~we~~ I made. Please. ~ Note found with hanging body of Private Gerald Burke, along with two empty bottles of whisky, July 17th, 2345, included in inquest into tactics used in the 2343 Reclamation Campaign, Authorized by general Terrence McCoy.

We’re standing in a circle by some benches, everyone in my group. Our guide is a happy looking a short girl who can’t seem to stand still. She smiles around at everyone and introduces herself. To my left is a morbidly obese woman who smiles and nods at everything the guide says. She’s standing next to her proportionately obese daughter who is staring at the ground with her hands in her pockets. Next to them is a tall, nervous looking boy with very hairy arms and a bag of Chex-Mix who keeps glancing up at a girl standing opposite me in the circle. The girl has been texting on her iPhone since she arrived. Her face is expressionless. To my right is a man who looks almost exactly like Louis CK. He has a camera around his neck, and he doesn’t seem to be with anybody. Next to Louis CK is a boy in a suit who can’t be more than twelve. The boy’s father is in an identical suit, and his mother is wearing a black dress and a pearl necklace. All three are holding notebooks which they began writing in before the guide started talking. The guide tells us that we are going to begin walking now. “I’m going to be walking backwards so I can talk to you! Please warn me,” she says laughing, “if I’m about to walk into something; a wall, a plant, or a small child!” She pauses. The well-dressed family frowns simultaneously and writes faster. The morbidly obese woman continues to smile, nods, and glances at her morbidly obese daughter, who glances at the boy’s Chex-Mix. The boy with hairy arms is now walking right behind the texting girl, who doesn’t seem to notice. Louis CK takes a picture of the benches. My parents walk behind me with their hands folded in front of them. Our first stop is the dorm that our guide lives in. She details her experience in the school dorms and all of the living options as the obese girl goes and opens the mini-fridge. There’s nothing but liquor. She sighs and shifts her attention back to the Chex-Mix. Louis CK takes a picture of the bed. The well-dressed family refuses to step inside the room and instead continues their fervent note taking from the hallway. The boy with the hairy arms and Chex-Mix discretely opens our guide’s top dresser drawer. We are escorted, with a smile, out of the building. We arrive at, the guide tells us, the student center building. She tells us about the various dining options at the school which are apparently; the guide’s face gets serious for the first time, amazing. We walk into the building and she shows us the food court. An anorexic looking girl is the only one currently dining. She’s picking at a wilted salad of which she takes a bite every few seconds before gagging uncontrollably. Our guide tells us about this one time that she and her friends took ecstasy in the middle of the night and came down here to eat because it’s open quite late. The morbidly obese woman smiles and nods. Her daughter’s eyes, now filling with tears, are still glued to the Chex-Mix bag. The boy himself has forgotten about the snack. He discreetly leans over and, with his nose just brushing the girl’s blond hair, takes a deep breath. Louis CK, after adjusting the exposure, takes a picture of the anorexic girl who seems to have passed out. The well-dressed family has moved over to the menu board and is apparently copying down the lunch options. Our group travels outside and stops in the middle of a wide-open field devoid of all life. This is The Quad, our guide tells us. Everyone loves to come and hang out here and relax, play sports, do homework, or maybe take a nap; especially on a sunny day like this. She wants to know, does anyone have any questions? Her smile, never wavering, attacks us. The well dressed mother asks what dorm life is like at the school. The texting girl is now wearing sunglasses, though she didn’t have any a few minutes ago. She glances up as the boy with hairy arms uses his free hand to grasp one of hers. She lets him take it, and continues to text with her other hand. The boy loosens his grip on the Chex-Mix and almost drops it causing the obese girl make an odd, jerking motion in his direction. He tightens his grip though and saves the bag from hitting the ground. The guide begins to walk backwards again while still answering a question that the twelve year old, suit clad boy had about racial segregation in the dorms. Louis CK sets his camera to video mode and captures a panoramic view of The Quad. We enter the lobby of a brownstone building. There is a large statue in the center of the room depicting an old, baling man with glasses and a pile of books in his lap. Our group circles around the statue while our guide tells about the issues the college has had with its controversial image. She tells us we should keep moving as we are behind schedule, but no one takes much notice. The obese woman is smiling and nodding at the statue. Louis CK rapidly darts around the statue, taking pictures of it at various angles. The obese girl is now sitting on the ground, pacified by the bag of Chex-Mix she’s just claimed. The boy with hairy arms is currently using both hands to grope the texting girl whose sunglasses have disappeared. She continues to text but lifts up her arms to give him better access. Our guide continues walking backwards away from the group. She’s now speaking about Greek life on campus to no one in particular. She details a car-jacking that she and some of her sorority sisters participated in during her sophomore year. The end of her story is cut short when she walks backwards into a stairwell and falls down eleven steps, breaking her neck. The group, still standing around the statue fifty feet away doesn’t seem to notice. The boy with hairy arms and the texting girl are now on the ground. The boy is vigorously kissing and groping the girl who half-heartedly kisses him back and texts simultaneously. He begins to remove her clothes. Louis CK notices that his lens cap is still on and, after a moment of reflection, walks out of the building. The obese girl is now staring longingly into the empty Chex-Mix bag, willing it to refill. Her mother has moved past the statue and continues to smile and nod the blank wall behind it. The well-dressed father’s pen seems to have run out of ink, and he begins to scream. His wife subsequently fills up her notebook, drops everything and begins to relieve herself on the floor. I look at my parents who’ve seated themselves in some wooden chairs by the door. They get up, and we leave together, the tour, evidently being over. My mother says we should stop by the front office and pick up some of their informational packets. My father, while unlocking our rental car, says he agrees with her. We climb in and drive back to our hotel. My parents have fallen asleep on their bed. They lay perfectly straight, hands clasped in front of themselves. The only light in the room ebbs in from the window, which I am currently looking out. I can see the small church across the street. The sign out front says, “If you want to be used by God, join us.” The line to enter the building stretches around the street corner. The building can’t be more than twelve hundred square feet, yet the stream of people entering the building three at a time doesn’t waver for the entire three-hour period for which I watch. I hear a knocking sound. I assume it’s the television, which isn’t on. The knocking persists, so I walk over to the door and open it. Two policemen stand outside. They look identical down the thinning patches of hair on their heads. Both of their nametags say Officer. They tell me that they’d like to come in; they will return with a warrant if necessary. I open the door wider and they step past me. There were cameras they say. At the college. You and your parents will need to come with us. Ma’am? Sir? Officer inquires. He nods to Officer who walks over to my mother and father and lightly shakes them. They don’t acknowledge him. He shakes them harder. Ma’am? Sir? He looks back at Officer, who also walks over to my parents. They glance down at my parents, and then back at each other. Officer puts his fingers on the side of my mother’s neck while Officer puts his fingers on the side of my Father’s neck. They glance at each other again. And then they look back at me. I look back out of the window, and I breathe.

He would call her beautiful and add "...and I also like the dress." She missed her grandfather when she stood next to her father at the funeral, and she wondered if a black lace veil became her. She wanted to cry, but she never could at the right times. He always used to tell the same stories. She would slip a little hand into his large scratchy ones and they would stand under a weeping willow. "You know what these are called, Maddy?" "No, Grandpa. What are they called?" She'd heard it for as long as she could remember. "Widow-makers." He was as certain as the smell of pipe smoke and wood shavings. She looked up at the willow and it seemed to go on forever. "They live until they die and that's how it is," he would say, as if that was some profound thing, some piece of wisdom she should never forget. Well, she hadn't, so maybe he'd won that one. So he would say it, and then "Are you hungry, baby girl?" And he picked her up and brought her inside and there was soup and grilled cheese and he made her tea with cream and sugar while she sat up on the wooden counter he's built and playing with a bowl of apples and oranges and sneaking gum drops when he wasn't looking. "Grandpa, will you tell me stories?" Sitting in a big chair, he would take her hands and warm them the way the tea hadn't. Her hands were always cold. She could remember how gently his calloused hands closed over hers, enveloping them. She would look away from bruised fingernails and scrapes and up into laughing eyes set into a craggy, weather-beaten face. He would talk about the navy and she would trace his tattoos with cold fingertips. Swallows and a dancing girl from Italy and an angel. "Why swallows, Grandpa?" "Because they can always find their way home." Madeline stood by her father in the church and thought they had it all wrong. Her grandfather was wearing a gray suit jacket. She had seen him in a suit jacket once, when she had just left for college. It had been the wedding of his youngest daughter. Madeline had come home for the first time in a pretty black halter dress that hadn't been quite warm enough and he clutched his heart and said "Pretty Maddy's all grown up! I don't know if my pacemaker can handle this!" And she had laughed and blushed and said "Grandpa it's really cold." And he took off his suit coat and she'd worn it during the reception and when her hands were in the pockets she had held his matchbook and felt the corners of it pressed against her palm. Standing before a dark wooden coffin that her grandfather hadn't built, Madeline's father asked, "Are you ready?" and she wasn't. He was her grandpa. His hair was combed smoothly and she saw a childhood of windy days. When he drove his pickup truck up a back country road, he left the windows down and Madeline stuck her head out with the wind in her hair and shrieked with glee. "Grandpa, I'm flying!" They'd dressed him in a tie. Ugh. Somebody stopped the music. Madeline's grandpa had held her hands as a little girl and she stood on his shoes and they danced as he sang. His voice was wind in the trees as he spun his girl over carpets and grass. When she was fifteen he'd held her hands at a cousin's wedding and taught her to waltz. "Maddy, you'll be a heart breaker." When the music stopped, she watched snow dripping outside the window. Madeline missed gardening with her grandpa in the spring. "Pops, how do I look?" and she had soil smeared on her cheek, and a happy smile. "Maddy, you're beautiful. And I like the dirt, too." And she'd kissed his tanned leather cheek and they would plant corn and squash and tomatoes. They'd dressed him in a suit and combed his hair and cleaned his fingernails and Madeline was very unhappy. They were inside mourning on such a beautiful day. He would have been outside. She needed to be outside under the wide blue sky. Madeline looked at her father, gruff and grim in black and gray. His beard was silvering and he was ready to leave. "Come on, Maddy, it's time to go. Time to let go, honey." Madeline met his story blue eyes. He was a stoic man, but he was hurting and he didn't know what to do. So he was shutting out the grief. Running away. "He's dead and gone." "Not really," said Madeline, but she left the church with her father. She thought they had it all wrong. Later, when Madeline waltzed alone under a willow tree, she felt the wind in her hair and she flew.

Here I sit, alone in the dark, insomnia no doubt celebrating its recent victory in our constant struggle. I watch dust fragments shimmer as they break the rays of starlight through my window, each speck a life on its downfall. Each one longing for connection as many fall through the void and enter the darkness alone. While others collide with another, forming tiny bonds, and enter the blackness together. No idea what is ahead of them, together they hold on, together they meet the next challenge, together they reemerge in a new ray. I have seen their relationship, and I know their fate. The ground awaits to bring their short lives to an abrupt end, but they will do it together. They've disappeared once again through my last window into their lives. They have no doubt hit the floor by now. Five seconds together, an entire lifetime is over. I roll over to the other side of my queen bed and am met with more mattress. An entire night to dwell, and just remember the time I was jealous of two specks of dust.

There was death in the room. Even the sun, the greatest giver of life, shone only in futility. Its rays flooded the room. They had little effect but to illuminate the screeds of dust and cell debris shed and gathered over countless days, weeks, months and years. A family portrait hung on the wall opposite from the window, with half lying directly in the beams. The photo was faded along the dividing line of light, each day losing a little more of the once seemingly permanent reminder of loved ones gathered. The paling shades of grey told of the time passed since the man had been in the room. As he opened the door, after turning the large key in its stiff lock, a wave of warm, stale air wafted over him, turning his stomach a little. It reminded him of the rare times his mother cooked for him and his sister; the way opening the oven door instantly raised the room temperature and stung the nose with its pungency. She never was a good cook. His attention quickly returned to his reason for the visit; the attic door towards the back corner. It held many things for him; both physically and memorially. Amongst the countless school certificates, trophies, antiques and other now defunct tat, he hoped to find the letter. It was there, he was sure.

The bathroom will be good again today; Andrew thinks to himself as he walks off of the train and enters the last leg of his trip to school. They can’t find me there, they can’t scrutinise me, and they certainly can’t force me to make a dick of myself again. Why should I even need to worry about all this shit? I knew I shouldn’t have moved schools. He walks past a homeless man rummaging through garbage and tries not to make eye contact before entering the local supermarket. God, Andrew wonders, how does one reach such a level of helplessness? He’s probably like me: no one to talk to, and for no good reason, really. Andrew walks towards the counter after grabbing a packet of honey soy chicken chips, and a bottle of iced tea. Might as well treat myself he says in his mind. An attractive blonde girl, probably around nineteen, stands behind the register, idly. Her eyes an ocean like blue, perfectly set in to her pale complexion. Overwhelmed, he approaches and sets the products onto the counter, trying not to make too much eye contact. “How’s it going? Just these?” she asks, giving a forced smile. “Yeah just these,” he responds quickly, feeling embarrassed. She puts the items through and he quickly pays her, silently walking out and continuing his journey. The morning passes quickly and routinely, with Andrew as a background figure to his lively peers. Sitting in the back corner of the classroom at a secluded desk, Andrew trembles as the bell sounds for recess. His back and shoulders shake as he tries to expel the thought of encountering “them” between the walk from his safe classroom desk to the bathroom. I’ll power walk straight there with my head down, he decides. If I’m quick, no one will see me. He exits the room last, trailing the group of energetic, close knit peers with whom he shares his classes with. If only I could blend in, he wishes to himself. If only I was a part of the laughter, the enjoyment they all seem to share when in each other’s presence. Why can’t I be? Why the fuck am I so different? Walking, as inconspicuous as possible, but as fast as possible, he feels his heart race. His tongue curls compulsively and he only raises his head to maintain a steady path. “Walk with purpose Andrew,” he hears a voice in his mind order. Students come gushing out from Building 7, the largest building on campus, within which his locker is located. From Year Sevens to Year Twelves, they all rush past to see their friends, to spend twenty minutes gossiping and joking with one another or preparing for their next class in the yard. It is a short relief for them, while Andrew Bisping spends alone what feels like a lifetime of seclusion. He spots a pack of Year Tens and increases his walking speed. Shit, he exclaims mentally, keep walking. Approaching the ramp which leads into the building he breathes a sigh of relief, and doesn’t let his focus stray as he heads towards his preferred sanctuary. Opening the door, he sees no one, the bathroom is empty. He enters a cubicle, unlocked like with the rest of them, and seats himself on the covered toilet. Leaning back, Andrew notices balls of toilet paper which have been dampened and then tossed at the ceiling, sticking up there and eventually drying, moulding onto the surface. He wonders how long they have been up there, does anyone bother to scrape them off, or is it a recurring instance requiring cleaning of a far too tedious nature to carry out consistently? What am I doing? He wonders, opening his honey soy chicken chips. Why can’t I just talk to them? Sure, the last school sucked but I talked to people. I talked to people every day. I joked with them and discussed things with them. Is it so hard to do that here too? A loud, startling crash resonates throughout the bathroom as the door swings into the wall and the chatter of William and Angus travels in. “As if you didn’t know man, she’s been fucking him for like six months,” William remarks, criticising his best friend. “Get off my back mate if I knew she was his missus I wouldn’t have touched her.” “Fuck off you wouldn’t have,” William replies, smirking. Andrew’s heart races, faster than it ever has. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Can you have a heart attack at fifteen? Please be a fucking heart attack. “Don’t be a dog bro, it’s behind us now he said he didn’t give a shit,” Angus explains, entering the cubicle next to Andrew and beginning to unroll and ball square upon square of toilet paper. “Me? A dog? Look at yourself mate. Nah, you’ve earned my respect she’s a babe isn’t she?” “Yeah she’s not bad, works at the IGA around the corner,” Angus comments, while walking toward the sink with the balls of paper and dampening them. With his knees up to his chest, his index finger and thumb holding out the plastic packet of chips so as to not make a sound, and the other hand over his mouth to hide the noise of his breathing, Andrew feels a bead of sweat trickle down from his forehead to his upper lip. He hears two thuds, deafening to him, as wet paper hits the ceiling, and William’s feet appear below the door in front of the cubicle, “no shit, I haven’t seen her. Man, I’ve got to piss. Who’s in there?” Andrew doesn’t answer. Physically, he can’t answer. His throat and tongue are coarse and dry. “You’re taking an awfully long time buddy, sure you don’t need some help?” he asks, laughing out loud at himself, “Here, I’ve got you.” William begins kicking the door, yelling “open up you faggot!” until the lock brakes, and he sees Andrew, who hasn’t moved a millimetre since they walked in. He laughs uncontrollably, “look who it is”, he points, “it’s Bitchping!” Angus cackles loudly, “look at you, you bitch. All scared and shit” “Yeah”, William lets out, panting from his laughing fit, “looks like you’ve found a nice new place to sit alone and be a pussy.” Andrew drops the chips as his shaking fingers can no longer support the bag. He digs his elbows into his hips and curls forward, breathing in and out like an asthmatic while he convulses in pain. “I actually like this new spot”, William remarks, “nowhere to run, shit, hardly any room to move actually”, William steps into the stall and stares angrily into Andrew’s eyes, “and more importantly, no teachers to see me beat the piss out of you. Especially not your boyfriend Mr. Silas, he touches you doesn’t he?” Before Andrew can answer he feels a sharp sting across his cheek and his body slides into the small gap between the toilet and the wall. He tries to get up but is instead dragged up by the collar and shoved into the wall. Pinned against the wall by William, who still grips his collar, he feels tears run from his eyes down to his jaw line. “Look, he’s crying!” William exclaims, laughing, looking towards Angus, who walks out, unamused. “Please”, Andrew lets out, “let me go” “What?”, William asks, releasing his grip, “I’m going to be late for class because of this you little twat.” Andrew breathes deeply and bends forwards, clutching his burning throat. “Make it worth my while, and hit me you fucking coward.” Andrew staggers to an upright position, still gasping for air, and throws a wild hook, missing and losing his balance, reclining against the wall. This rest is brief though, as Andrew lunges towards him pinning his shoulder this time and repeatedly giving him blows to the stomach. The only words escaping Andrew’s mouth are “fuck” and “please” in between the punches. “Give my regards to your boyfriend, fag”, William says, letting Andrew drop to the ground, before walking out, pumped from the adrenaline rush. Left alone on the tiled floor he digs his nails into the ground and scrapes them across until the end begin to snap. He brings himself up from the ground in a fury and turns his attention towards the hard plaster wall in front. With his eyes closed, imagining William is in front of him once again he strikes the wall, punching it repeatedly. He screams “fuck you” over and over again, punching it until the flesh on his knuckles tear and become bloody. Until his arms tire to the point they can’t be raised, and he heaps himself once more on the ground. A young teacher with glasses and a sweater walks in, Mr. Silas. “God, Andrew are you okay? I heard you from outside, what have they done to you?” “I’m fine, leave me alone,” Andrew manages to say, catching his breath. “I’m getting Margaret, this has gone too far,” Silas says, moving towards the door. “You can’t, please. The shit they were saying, they called you my boyfriend. If I tell anyone what happened I’ll be crucified,” Andrew pleads. Silas sighs, and moves away from the door, after locking it. He kneels down and begins stroking Andrew’s bloodied knuckles. “You don’t have to worry, they won’t find out about us.

I was six years old when Adelaide came to me. That’s quite old, I suppose. She usually comes to you at three or four, if she comes at all. I killed my parents when I was thirteen. Disabled the cellar door, trapped them in there for days until they turned on each other. I thought Adelaide would forbid it, but she did nothing. That’s important. That’s where this began. I was transferred to the AMI, the Adelaide Monitoring Institute, afterwards. They have many Laide here, as they call us, but I never see them. They keep me in seclusion while they monitor my behaviour, while they try to discover if the thing that calls itself Adelaide put me up to it. They have wasted five years of their lives, keeping me a prisoner here. I could have told them the answer if they’d asked. It was my idea. Adelaide simply allowed it. My gift grew quickly after Adelaide came to me. After she brought the buzz, the itch in your head. The unwelcome guest. The guest that repeats itself, that calls out “I am Adelaide” over and over and nothing more. All Laide hear it, and it’s how we named her. The call sparks something in the brain, and your gift comes. I can see hate, feel rage. I can flare or dampen it as I see fit. I don’t know how, so don’t ask. I don’t know why, so don’t ask. Like all Laide, my gift is random. She’s been up there for close to three decades now, spinning in her metal shell. We’re no closer to understanding what she is now than we were when the she first appeared in our orbit. She still calls out her nonsense, offering her gifts to a chosen few. They’ve sent ships, delegations, missiles. The metal that encases her denies them all. Round and round she spins without end. “I am Adelaide. I am Adelaide” she calls in our heads. Well fuck Adelaide, that’s what I say. I’m my own man, and always have been. I didn’t kill my parents for fun, or for myself, whatever you think. It’s worth understanding that from the start. I got no pleasure from it. A few years older and I may have chosen someone else, but I was young and I used the tools I had. I tried other things first. I screamed. I shouted. I beat my fists and face. I starved myself. I killed and ate a rat I found, then a cat I found in the street. There was no reaction, no acknowledgement. No end to the constant call. “I am Adelaide, I am Adelaide.” I learned long ago what all the scientists with their telescopes and listening equipment haven’t yet realised. Adelaide is mad. She went mad long ago, long before she appeared in our skies. There is no motive, no reason behind the things she does, the gifts she gives. She does not care, she does not listen, she does not see. She doesn’t even know we exist. I’ve spent my life trying to get a response out of Adelaide. Anything. Using the gift she gave me in the worst ways I could, until the day with the cellar door. Until the day I sat and listened as I made my parents tear themselves to shreds, while in my head all I heard was “I am Adelaide”. She did nothing. She didn’t care. Fuck Adelaide and fuck the AMI. I have been their prisoner for five years. My demands are simple. No one leaves. No one gets in. Not even you. You stay on the phone and you listen to me, but you come no closer. The AMI is mine. Two. I want you to take what happens here today and write it down. Every word I say, everything I’ve told you. I want them to know why this happened. Why this had to happen. Three. I can feel the Laide you have outside. He’s distant, but I can feel him trying to reach though. If you think that’s going to diffuse this situation, you’re stupider that they are. Get him gone. Good. Now, listen while I tell you what I’m going to do. There are many Laide here, prisoners, like me. I can feel them. I can feel their rage. I’m going to flare them. Every single one. I don’t know what their gifts are. How much damage they can do before you put them down. I don’t care. But maybe she will. Fine. They can kill the lights. I don’t need them, I can still sense them. I said no one gets in. You’re just making this worse for everyone. Now I have a facility full of Laide and frightened men with guns. I can feel them moving in the darkness. I know they are closing in on me. Make them stop. Now. Alright. Have it your way. This is for what they did to me. Adelaide, the AMI. I can feel them, I can feel their rage building like a wave. I can feel them losing control. I feel men grip the triggers of their pistols and squeeze, screaming in fury. I feel Laide beating their heads against the walls of their cells. I feel this place begin to erupt, I feel… …nothing. It’s gone. I…my…. …what she gave to me, it’s gone. She took it back. She took it back! I pushed her too far! Me! She saw me, she judged me, she… I did it. I..

Once upon a time, there was a land called Gyu. Gyu was very peculiar, the day ended when the sun hid below the horizon and night was night. There was nothing at night. The absence of light meant the absence of color, of shape, of form, of everything. Well, not everything. On Gyu there lived a boy, a curious boy, whose curiosity grew every day, but he too vanished with the light. The only thing that could hold itself against the darkness was a small fire in the heart of the woods. One can imagine what would happen next. The boy grew more and more curious. His curiosity wouldn’t stop growing, until one day when the sun returned home below the horizon, he was awake. The boy resided high up in the mountain safe from the beasts of night, the perilous blindness that the night created; in his cave he was safe. However, there was something different about the night he stayed awake. The sun had gone, but in the darkness he could see a splash of color. There was something in the woods, something new, something, something, something, something, but what was it? It was the little fire, who wasn’t so little anymore, over the years the nearby debris became fuel for the fire, and the fire only grew larger and brighter. And that night the boy didn’t sleep, he was mesmerized by the radiance the fire gave off. And when the sun came up to greet the boy, the boy wasn’t there to greet the sun, he was asleep. Over the next couple of days the boy didn’t sleep at night, he waited for the fire to show herself. Days turned into weeks and the boy’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He left his cave. He crawled down the mountain. It was an arduous journey to the woods, through the darkness; his only compass was the radiance of the light. As he waded his ways through the forest the branches scraped him, the thorns clawed him, and the quicksand caused him to become not so quick. He however, persevered, and he made it to the clearing. He sat staring, awestruck at the beauty of the fire, she flickered her flare, danced in the air, shades of all red all there. He stuck out his right hand to touch the flame, for the first second she didn’t hurt, she wasn’t warm, she didn’t feel real, but when he looked behind him and saw his shadow in the dead of night, he knew she was real. The next second was hotter, but it was a kind of warmth that the boy had never felt before. And before he realized it, his hand retreated behind his back, his face seething with pain, and he high tailed it home, as fast as his legs could run, as fast as his hands hand could grasp and pull him up, as fast as his heart was beating for peace. At home he stayed, his burned hand was healing, but it was a reminder that fire was dangerous, pretty, but dangerous. Over the next few days, weeks, months his hand healed, but the boy hadn’t looked out of the cave at night ever since that first encounter. Then one night, the sun had gone down, but there was still light flowing through the entrance of his cave. And for the first night since he played with fire, he stuck his head out and saw that she had grown, larger, brighter, and fiercer. There was only a hedge of trees left before fire was to reach the base of the mountain. “She was going to envelop me, but before she does I’ll leave first thing in the morning”, the boy thought. And he went to sleep the best he could. When he awoke, the sun was out, but he couldn’t see it, fire had brought smoke into his abode. The boy ran out of the cave only to find himself surrounded by fire. His right hand shook at the heat, it was no longer the warmth he had felt the first time. The boy was trapped. This was it, he thought, and he walked into the fire. He was only human, so his body burned and combusted became scorched and charred, until all that was left of him was the fire.

Beep....Beep....Beep "Where am I?" My eyes feel warm, as I regain awareness. Still shut they are trembling. A persistent beeping in the background, I struggle to open them. Weighted down, the pressure of light bleeds through the cracks. Focus in, and the reality is here. Wires trail from my body like extended appendages, stopping at the source of all this beeping. Machines with blinking lights, sound off to each-other. Taking turns talking, like old friends around a camp fire. The hospital room, lit mostly by my companions, had a faint glow from a nearby room. I struggle to move, barely able to lift my pail arms. My knees bend and crack, and slowly become angled. I reach to my chest and remove the pads monitoring my heart as the machines squeal with separation anxiety. I grab the needles and free my veins of their intrusions. I watched all the life fluid drip, and wonder how much they have done for me. A symphony of electronic screams now fill my room, as I go to stand. Shaking, my feet touch the cold floor. My legs surge with blood, and pins and needles graze my muscles. I manage to stand, balance my only goal. My equilibrium calibrates and I take my first step. I shuffle towards the dim light and find a mirror inside the door. I gaze upon my face, and it is just as I remember. Wild hair has spread, conquering the entire southern hemisphere of my face. Questions are now abundant. "How long have I been here? What the hell Happened? Where am I?" I remember an evening, a face shimmering bright with moonlight reflecting off water......beautiful. My wife? My love? My imagination? Scenes flash and nothing more arises besides emerald eyes. Who is this woman, and what does she have to do with me? I fill the sink, water pours out over my hands. Am I alone? Have I always been alone? I stretch and call out "Is anyone there?" My voice echos, reverberating off of the empty corridors. "Hello?!"........ Nothing... I must be alone. I stumble out into the hallway, and notice no signs of life. Empty rooms, no noise, just my own shuffling. A sign for the elevators leads my way, and still no one to be seen. I make it to the bottom floor, and still nothing. I stagger my way through the lobby, noticing empty chairs.... "What the hell happened?" The automatic doors split and reveal pavement that has not been traveled in many years. I stumble into the street, my head filled with questions. Beep...Beep.... "What is that?" Beeep...Beeep! the sound intensifies. I look right, and find desolation, I look left and...."Is that a bus?!" Beep...Beeep...Beep....

I got a few upvotes and a friendly comment for my short story I posted a few days ago. This is the first chapter of a psychological thriller crime novel I've been thinking of writing. 2355 hours, 10 March 2014 I am who I am, and I am not who I am not. I will not degrade myself to justify who I am to someone like you. In fact, I do not care much if you choose to keep reading. To you, I am just fantasy, and maybe I am. This is not about you, though, and this certainly is not about me. Fantasy. That is what this is about. Nothing more, nothing less, so just drop your ill-conceived conception of what you perceive to be reality. She stood barely over five foot, but she stood to the ceiling. A robust chest and the best view of her leaving. She was just as real as she was fake. Drooping earrings that clipped on to the lobes, heavy mascara under the eyes to give the impression she was more overworked than she actually was. But her wings spread wide in my mind’s eye despite her disturbing delusional reality. She fancied herself an actress, but she best served your deli bistro; she sang to my heart. She read all the latest novels, but her imagination was riddled with garbage; I could spend the rest of my life cuddled next to her as she turned blank page after blank page of her newest book purchase. There was only one imperfection that stood out. The boy next door. Her legs wrapped around the pretty boy while I sufficed myself to the internet. Tall, dark, handsome, liked long walks on the beach at sunset, hung as a horse, stamina of a bull, every reason for her to drop her panties to the floor as if they were weighed down to earth by a cinder block, the very surface off which her orgasmic screams of ecstasy echoed in my head. The only thing missing was the invention of the replaceable tattoo above her clitoris so she could change the name to the newest boy next door. She may never know where they all go. Only God and the worms know. Well, I guess my stomach, too. Delicious corn grew last season, and hopefully this season, too. It is rather unfortunate they could not see how fake she is.

**Trains that have developed a taste for blood.

After a long era of peace, the spectre of war is returning to the vast land of Benerii. While the population is booming, unexpected droughts have caused food to be spread thinly. Benerii's armies have been preparing themselves for any, "Disagreements." These include the Human Alliance in the East, the Orc Tribes of the South, and the Elves of the Woodlands to the West. From the North Sea, a new race has appeared, the Marcolites, who bring thunderous weapons the likes of which have never been seen before. This new disturbance has awoken the Demons from their infernal sleep who now seek to conquer the land in the name of the Demons. Darkness may soon be upon the land, the fate of Benerii is uncertain. One thing is certain, there will be an epic conflict.

Tonight was the night, the night I would fulfill my deepest most desirable pleasure. The joyful voices that once permeated the house this morning were now hushed, and I was finally free. Creeping delicately across the freshly polished hardwood floors, I gingerly made my way to the garage in order to make a stealthy escape. Anxiously placing the key in the ignition, I felt the thrilling sensation of pleasure climbing up my spine…one step closer. How long had it been? Months? Weeks? Too long, much too long. My mind yearned for the taste, my body ached with the insatiable hunger, headlights rushed past me…closer, I was getting closer. Was this right? Would I regret this? No, not this time, surely not. There it was coming up on the left; I could just drive passed it, take the highway back home, crawl back in bed and be a decent husband to my worthy wife. No, I couldn’t resist. I wanted this, I needed this. I pulled up, money already in hand, and put in my addictive request. Caught up in the moment, I even asked for extra. I didn’t even care about the additional cost, bring it on. Finally, the most exhilarating moment arrived, the swap. I handed over the cash, they handed over the intoxicating goods. Satisfaction saturated my senses, causing tingling vibes to fill my entire body. Skillfully, I opened the bag ready to indulge in my most unhealthy secret. This is the moment, this is my moment. But, just as quickly as I became addicted, my heart shattered into a million tiny shards. The sauce, the sauce is missing, the heavenly Big Mac sauce is nowhere to be found. They forgot my Big Mac sauce, the sauce which places my mind in instant euphoria, and everything was ruined.

Cassidy Williams sits under the eaves of the coffee house, sipping her cafe au lait, peoplewatching. She's sympathizing with the rush of pedestrians hustling through the merciless rainstorm, but her face doesn't show it. Her face is slender, pale, and punctuated by a diagonal smattering of freckles. Normally she hides them behind large sunglasses, but she would look mad wearing lenses on this rainy afternoon. Her hair is short, and after repeated dyes, has taken on a brown ombre color. Out of the crowd of pedestrians, a man with a navy trench coat walks towards the cafe, and to Cassidy. He's carrying a Dunhill briefcase, brown. It matches his watch strap – Cartier. He's not short, and not tall; he's fifty-three years old: his face shows his years of service in WWI. “Good morning Ms. Klein.” Cassidy smiles, “Good morning Benjamin.” He sits down at the table and removes his hat. “Do you have the notes?” “Yes, I've already relayed them to the other senior officers.” “Good. May I ask what you're reading?” “Nietzche.” “Do you buy any of that stuff?” “Bits and pieces. He never lived to see what we have.” They sit silent for a moment, Cassidy takes a sip of her coffee. The rain comes down in sheets, crashing onto the cobblestone, and into the Seine.s “Do you believe in eternal return?” “I haven't got that far in the book.” “Fate, Ms. Klein. The world will undergo many deaths and rebirths, and perhaps there is the chance that we may be reborn again.” “Would that mean the Jews will need to be purified once again?” “Perhaps. Perhaps the world will occur in exactly the same way in which we have experienced it. Perhaps we will have this same conversation at some point far in the future-” “Or will it be in antiquity?” “I don't know. Do you believe in the possibility?” “I suppose, but that would mean surrendering to ones fate. I don't take kindly to that notion.” Benjamin looked at Ms. Williams with a gaze of equal parts admiration and hunger. “I suppose you wouldn't Ms. Klein.” Benjamin reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a file folder, and it flays open with a picture of the short-haired, freckled Sandra Klein, with a name and nationality: Cassidy Williams – American. In horror, Cassidy's teal eyes widen and her mouth parts. She grabs her handbag and rushes out into the rainstorm. Four men in dark green trench coats rise from the cafe tables and walk in her direction. “It's useless to run Ms. Williams! We've got you surrounded!” Cassidy bolts down the narrow streets of Paris, past bakeries, hotels, and studios, but the German military troops are close behind. Benjamin walks in the back, neither short nor tall, but undoubtedly with a new air of power. The German troops rush into a hotel Cassidy dashed into. Gunshots. Benjamin quickens his pace. He walks into the hotel casually, but the door slams shut behind him – it's too late. Inside the hotel is an entire unit of American troops. The German officers are at gunpoint. An American soldier apprehends Benjamin, Cassidy walks up to him. “Either in antiquity or in the future, I'll enjoy this moment each time.” Benjamin spits. ONE WEEK LATER – FEBRUARY 1945, LANGLOIS, WASHINGTON “And you can confirm this is how it happened Ms. Williams?” “Indeed.” “Good, then I think we're all done here.” “Just um, one more thing.” “Yes?” “Is he still here, Benjamin?” “If you mean Col. Meier, yes. Third floor.” “Can I speak with him?” “About the ransacking? Or the development?” “If you mean the bombing of Dresden, then yes, the development.” “You can have five minutes, yes.” I walk out of the bare room and shut the door behind me. The hallway is crowded in a bustle of suits and chatter. I walk to the stairway. Upstairs, third floor. Upstairs behind a series of doors, behind guards and bars of steel, there he is. Col. Benjamin Meier. “You're a sick son of a bitch.” He's silent. “When we found the POWs, they were emaciated. Some were unrecognizable. I can only imagine what you've done with the Jews.” Still, silent. “However, I can't say that I agree with the events that took place in Dresden. I know that was your hometown Benjamin.” “It was completely engulfed in flames. The screams of the innocent could be heard for miles. You're the sick ones.” “No, no one here is innocent Benjamin. Fire for fire can only breed more hatred, and I worry for the future.” “Don't, you'll see the future once more.” “Perhaps we can replay this again like civil humans in time.” “Perhaps.” “Perhaps.

Hello! This is the first part of “Master and her Pet”. The second part is being written! Any and all feedback is welcome. -Thank you mons for editing! Blood. I never thought it would look so… peaceful, tranquil. Even calming. I gaze ahead and see her in her small, battered perfection, the sole reason why I choose to live. My hand reaches up, slowly and painfully, in an attempt to catch her. Her delicate stride continues towards me, but I can see the darkness slowly spiraling in, closer and closer to her petite, black-clad body. Naturally, only her arms and head are visible, a pale white that warns of something worse, hiding in the convoluted pallidity. Her hair, however, is a deep reddish-brown. It is perfect for her. Her hair is a confused quandary, but manages to work out; kind of like us. The darkness draws nearer; she walks confidently and unhindered, a self-possessed effigy screaming ignorance. Slowly, her black jeans are clutched by the swirling shade. Her t-shirt is next. Her steps break in pace as she gives me a warm smile, the sort one gives when he realizes he isn't immortal. I try to cry out for her but my voice arrives hollow. All I can do is yell with my eyes, praying for her sustained company. She gives a slight nod, her unspoken thanks, then turns around and travels into the darkness. My face is moist, it is not until my shaking hand touches my tear-streaked face that I realized that I have been crying, I haven't cried since I first met her. It's not right, a master shouldn't leave her pet in a situation like this... I feel a gentle tugging on my shirt, and my heavy eyelids lift slowly. Instead of the darkness I expected, I'm hit with pink, black, and red. I immediately recognize my surroundings to be her room, with her frail form grasping for me. Relieved it was only a dream, I place my trembling palm against her cheek. “What’s wrong?” I whisper. She leans into me, claiming I was crying and repeating 'don't leave me.' I explain that I just had a bad dream about a master leaving her pet. She realizes what I am saying and tightly hugs me. I mirror her affections, cradling her fragility from the horrors of my dreams. Her lips brush my ears. "I love you, so don't worry about me leaving you.” "I love you too, master.

“As you're advisors, it's our duty to be as beneficial to you as possible. But it's your job to schedule appointments with us well in advance of enrollment dates” Frank calmly said to a room filled with students, it seemed like he had given the same speech thousands of times. As he was about to continue with the lecture, his new colleague, Mike, cleared his throat. “Just piggy-backing off of what Frank said, I want to mention that our offices are open 24/7 and we're ALWAYS here for you guys with anything. I mean it. We don't wanna be those lame advisors you probably thought we were gonna be! Haha...” Mike said directly after Frank was done speaking, almost cutting him off from his next thought. He had a nervous smile and looked to young to be advising anything, let alone students with their future careers resting on his decisions. “I’m just going to expand a little bit on what Mike said by mentioning we're definitely not in the office 24/7 and our advising will be limited to scholastics” Said Frank, with a little more sternness in his voice this time. What the hell is this new kid doing? Trying to embarrass me? He looks different in person than on the staff website… Frank had a progression of thoughts to himself; he felt like he was being played, but at the same time Mike looked so familiar to him. All that being said, he was not willing to show any signs of weakness in front of the 2000 plus audience of students. He knew first hand that kids will feed off of weakness. “Again.. If I may” Mike started gaining confidence, “piggy-backing off of what Frank said, you guys should come to us with whatever’s bothering you, that's what we're for! Oh, your boyfriend cheated on you with your ex BFF, we'll take care of that bitch! Your roommate caught you masturbating to anime porn? My office can be your new porn sanctuary!” The crowd stirred, most kids were laughing. The floor was Mike’s, his plan was finally working, now to have a bit of fun with it… “Let's say maybe you and your friends got a little too crazy on a Friday night and you don't have a place to crash? I got a pull out couch and a stash of weed hidden in my room- at your disposal!” Mike was now grinning from ear to ear. His young age, which was cleverly concealed behind a grim face, came out for the audience to inspect. In that moment he looked younger than half of the kids he was lecturing to. Frank knew he lost all of the respect he had with the students in the room. It made him physically sick. He would have punched Mike in the face and kicked his teeth in if there wasn’t a whole audience watching. How dare someone take all the power from under his feet, he could feel his knuckles tensing, his muscles flexing, his face was beat red. In a moment of clarity and stupidity, he realized Mike didn’t look a day older than anyone in the audience. “PEOPLE PLEASE, do not listen to Mike, he is clearly in a bad state right now” he motioned to turn Mike’s microphone off but was too slow. The audience was in chaos as a loud voice came bursting through the reception halls main sound system. “TO JUST PIGGYBACK OFF OF THAT STATEMENT FRANK, ID LIKE TO SAY TO THE CLASS OF 2018 THAT MIKE HAS TWO-DOLLAR JELLO SHOTS ON THE STAGE. LETS GET READY TO RAGE!” The crowd erupted in applause to this unfamiliar voice. Frank was still seated in his chair, with a center stage view to the madness. He was starring with awe at his previous colleague, and to his own disbelief, Frank was finally able to recognize Mike. He stared at the boy who stripped him of his power, not with hatred but with love. It was his son. Frank woke up from the nightmare and pressed his head against the pillow hard, stuffing his face on the silk. Just at that moment, his two children, 5- year-old Sophie and 18-year-old Mike entered the room. The smell of bacon followed them in and pierced through the bedroom door to his nose. “Dad, where are the suitcases? I figure I should probably start packing soon if I’m leaving in a week” Mike said to his father. Frank got up and hugged both of his children, surprising them. On his way to eat breakfast he gave Sofia a piggyback ride.

Preface: The events I convey are somewhat skewed, though for the most part I contest to their legitimacy. The name "0 Recovery Paper" comes as a result of this actually being a paper I wrote for a gym class to makeup for my lack of actually doing anything sports related. If this receives enough positive reception maybe I'll go further into depth with this event and post some of the others. Anyways, enjoy. Despite a stupor from Friday night’s “gonzo binge”; waking up Saturday morning came with nothing that breaks the typical weekend minutia. The tranquil calm masking the terror of previously forgotten obligations, until the façade vanishes and the phantom of plans to attend the Softball Doubleheader appear once more. Guiding my eyes first to my watch and then to the calendar, I’d barely enough time to spray cologne or grab jeans and water before the palm of the universe thrust me into the rolling thunder that is my truck. “Stephanie” or “Step-on-Me”, my loyal yet stubborn companion argued with me as I’d tried to turn her over. With a groggy smack and a bit of pleading, she growled something between an angry lioness and a dying Sherman, eventually starting up. The screaming axels and crying brakes complemented the soundtrack of the wind and bad speakers resonating noise which I’d not paid the slightest attention to. America embodied in a vehicle… Two tons of metal, rubber, and composite plating coxed on by a mentally unsound bumpkin as it rolls down old One-Thirty-Six, at speeds too fast for it let alone any vehicle taking to that road, on a Saturday morning. Striking terror and a test of the namesake of “Step-on-Me” as the third eye controlling traffic saw fit to bleed into the traffic lights if only a moment too soon for the old girl to stop. She screamed violently and pushed herself past what was previously capable and began shaking, almost epileptically, as she burned through the decades, past the fifties, sixties, all the way up to the seventies. Passing intersections, blowing lights, and a few wild turns, the situation usually results in a few tickets or a suspended license, however this incidence provided a noble and patriotic cause worthy of even the largest stickler’s exception; the hope to watch girls skimp around a field in tight pants playing the Feminine rendition of “America’s Favorite Past Time”. “Stephanie” obediently whipped and weaved through vehicles until she came to rest in a parking lot a continent away from the field. Dry and dusty, the grass and dirt seemed to be infected by the clay. It seemed to scream for the water cradled under my arm and against my Henley, it screamed almost as bad as my throat had. A distinctive noise grew clearer as I ventured closer to the Wildcat Softball field, a sound only known to emerge from the gullet of one creature, the war cry of the softball player. Rumor has it that any pitcher or player in the direct line of fire of this weapon goes insane without rudimentary training, even the Umpire needs preparation. None of it mattered for me though as I shambled into the stands, my own level of confusion and distorted reality had successfully deflected the maddening effect of the audible nightmare. In a fortunate twist of fate, it turns out I’d made it to the first game for its’ last two innings. By the time I’d sat down the apparent failure had quieted down the losing Titans and the Wildcats felt no more reason to growl in defiance. The two innings consisted of what best describes itself as intentional base walking as the pitchers attempted to shine the clay off the batters shoes on either side. Eventually the game came to a close as the batters grew tired of walking around the bases and began swinging madly regardless of whether a ball had intended to even come near it. The seventh inning ended the madness as it should have. As if the Forces of the Universe had heard my innermost thoughts and desires, that damned nymph that early guided me seemed to be doing the same with Western’s pitcher’s throws and the batters’ bats. For the “Lady Cats” every pitch had been a strike and every bat a base stolen, the team resolved to achieve the fifteen point threshold required by the Athletic Association in a meager two innings. When the third came around the Titans hadn’t scored, then in a flash their strikes were all accounted and their batting finished. Without the resolve to stay longer and a bad reception from my lady friend, my sanity forced its back as I marched towards Stephanie’s open arms.

I’m terrible at my job. Horrible, in fact. I’m not even sure why I’m still doing it. My best guess is that I must bring some form of entertainment to the other guys when they talk about me. I have that much self- awareness ,at least ,to accept this. Not that I’m okay with being the central joke of everyone’s joke of the day conversation or the ‘a hit man walks into a bar and (insert punch line)’. I think I heard one the other day it went ‘A hit man walks into a bar and points his gun at the bartender, the bartender doesn’t flinch and the hit man says ‘aren’t you scared?’ The bartender replies ‘ For you’.. the hit man then says ‘why’s that?’ the bartender then says ‘because you just walked into a bar full of alcoholic gangsters and I am their only source to alcohol. And they are all staring at you right now….’. That’s funny because it’s a true story, my story. I don’t find it funny but everyone else does. I should find the humor but… Today I really messed up. I’m not sure where I am going to stand once my boss finds out how bad the job ended. I’m certainly not going to get paid, again. Out of 15 hits I was given I have only been paid for 3. It’s the reason why I still live with my mom. Plus I told her that I would cover rent this month, which as it turns out is not going to happen, again. I should just quit while I can. But that’s not going to be so easy either. I don’t have a particularly professional resume, nor are there jobs that I can ,you know, use as work history. Before this I worked as an assistant to a conman. A guy named ‘ Gary Green’ who helped people score insurance claims from the clients’ dead spouses. I was the guy who went finding these ‘clients’. I guess you can say I’m good at marketing. I made up the slogan for Gary, it went ‘ Gary Green gets your money clean’. I thought it had a ring to it. But, I lost the job when one time I was driving and Gary was waiting by a street corner for me to pick him up. I lost control of the car and ran him over and killed him. I lost control of the car because a bee flew in and stung my eye lid. Hurt like hell. Since Gary had no family around I was let go. I wasn’t charged for anything because it fell under a sort of ‘Act of God’ rule. I had no control over the bee and if it didn’t sting me it would’ve never happened. Gary would still be alive. I miss Gary. He was a good guy. Too bad I killed him. I feel bad for that. But today really sucked. I got a job to go to the carnival to take out an old man named Bonzi. He’s some gambler who made out with more money than he should’ve . So, someone wants him gone. I got the job because it was meant to be easy. I sit by the port-a-potties and wait for him to go in and then take him out. He would have to go pee because his wife would make sure he drank a lot of fluids. It’s his wife that wanted him dead. I guess, she was going to get a big pay out from someone she was secretly seeing on our end. I don’t know who, nor do I care to know. But this is all I know. About that story. But, I really fucked up. One person was to die and I ended up killing three , two by accident. Two by accident because I ran them over. I shouldn’t drive. The worst part about all of this is Bonzi isn’t even dead. He just has a bullet wound on his head. He’s still alive. The bullet traveled over the top of his head and ended up hitting one of the carnival clowns who were going around making animal balloons for kids. I had a bad feeling about this one. The Carnival was out of town and by the hiking trails. It’s that stupid yearly carnival that suburban families bring their kids to and see magic clowns and play games and eat cotton candy. Pet the goats and take pictures of their kids sitting on those chronically depressed midget horses that everyone thinks is ‘cute’. I think those horses must be suicidal. One time I watched one of those horses take a shit on a kids face when he slipped and fell off. The horse timed it perfectly. Kid fell backward face up parallel to the horses ass and the horse just released. I personally gave that horse an apple. I named it ‘ Jake’. Jake was my spirit animal. Jake died recently. I think the horse guy killed it. I think. I didn’t see Jake there. That was the first thing I did before going to the port-a potties. Go to the midget horses barn , see Jake. To no avail. I miss Jake. Too bad he’s dead. He was a good midget horse. I probably should wash my hands. I notice as I write this I still have residue of blood on my hands. Stupid old lady. What was she thinking? Was she trying to stop me? I think it was the same lady who chased me back to my car. Why did she run in front my car? Why didn’t she move out of the way? Her gray hair is still on my grill. I shouldn’t have touched it. Damn it. What a mess this is. I’m still trying to recall how she saw me. I was kneeled behind the port-a-pottie. Bonzi came in , I put the barrel in the hole, took a shot and then heard fumbling. Bonzi started screaming. Then the other people up ahead started screaming. I totally forgot my silencer. Damn it. I stood up. The old lady peered over and saw. Then I started running, behind those bushes, ran back to my car, got in the car. Pulled out fast, hit the gas, then put on my headlights and hit the old lady. Ran her over, stopped. Looked back ; coast was clear then drove off then hit another person turning the corner , they clipped my car, fell over the hill’s edge. The roadway went up a hill. So they must’ve fell about 30 feet. They must be dead. I hit them pretty hard. Why is it always either old people or kids? They just pop out of nowhere. This is such a mess. Note to self though, got to get new shoes mine squeak. I remember running to my car and kept hearing squeaking sounds. Freaked me out. I thought a mouse was running next to me. I’m deathly afraid of mice. God awful creatures. Their beady eyes and that tail. Ugh. Just disgusting. I once bought a snake just to watch it eat a mouse. Had my friend buy the mouse because I wasn’t going to touch it. I named the snake ‘Bob’. Bob was a good snake. I miss him. He died because I wouldn’t buy mice. I tried to feedhim a fish once. A goldfish. My sister’s goldfish. I remember flushing Bob down the toilet when he died.I remember thinking it looked like a giant turd going down the drain. I always think that now. When I poop. I see Bob sometimes. I miss Bob the snake. You were a good snake to me. I was not a good snake owner to you. I’m going to use today’s word of the day. Maudlin. I sit in maudlin over those I’ve lost ( but, I need a drink. Like a beer or something. But I don’t like beer. Note to self, don’t use words to describe your behavior if you are not actually doing it). I shouldn’t own any pets or drive. I probably should retire being a hit man. I suck at it. I should stop using words of the day. I should probably clean my car. I just had a thought. I think that old lady was Bonzi’s wife. If that’s the case then I am royally screwed. I mean big time. Damn, I just realized I left my gun at the carnival.

Part 1. This girl didn't turn out quite the way she was supposed to. I never cared. Never thought I did, but looking her direction now, I feel is a tough step. We loved eachother for a hot second, ready to be, while we lied to eachother with others we hate. I hate her. I saw her for the first time in 3 years at her house. I was invited after a lonely night drinking. I shot her a text. She immediately responded with a phonecall. My heart raced as I picked up. We talked for the first time in 3 years. Wham bam! I'm on my way to her house to 'paint nails'.I am a super chump. I knew she had a friend over. I arrived and see the tallest fucker I can't stand. The single tallest reason I hate her in the first place. Slicked back hair and jean jacket. Slanted eyes. Of course I was very nice and hinted no hatred towards him. As far as he is concerned, I am a friend. I made it a point to explain how I treat the people I hate with the same respect I treat the ones I love. How, even though I do, she would never know who I hate and neither will the people I hate. Before that night I obsessed over her for a few. Never once prior to one where something reminded me of the feeling I used to get just being around her. How much I loved her. How much I cared about her. Naturally I wasn't very good with expressing these feelings which led to disagreements with how we handled our 'mandatory' relationship. Her standards of caring were low compared to mine but she required affirmation via action. Sexual behavior was a must. I was younger, and dead set on saving myself no matter how horny I was as a teen. Some amount of self pride came along with innocence. At first I saw an innocence in her that I wanted to uphold to feel like I was worthy of her. It first started out as a typicall teenage crush which would later develope to demolish a friendship. We would sneak off in parks after school to kiss. Kissing her was almost as enjoyable as holding her hand. Before her, I never knew these feelings. I assumed she didn't. The thought of us aging out of our innocent cocoons together felt even better. With us growing closer, I felt more distant as unknown chapters of her past unveiled. Tragic discovering of her innocence being taken by another. I wasn't angry about her to her, obviously. I couldn't show that. We just grew apart as I started to play less of a role in our relationship. I guess these things happen. This led to the hatred of her friends and the secret hatred of her because of her friends. They stole her from me. Consumed more of her time combined than she had allocated for me. All this time I never expressed my problems, just ignored them, publicly while privately they ate at me. I was aware of the teenage male motives her friends had. Of course they were all boys, They paid the most attention to her. She says these boys are different. How could I know? I don't know them so I assume them to all be horny pricks looking to make the time with what I believed should be mine. This day, 3 years later, I have watched as time swept what innocent details I loved about her away. To love, fuck, break apart, and move on to me is a nightmare. I couldn't possibly withstand such an emotional beating. Which is why I don't believe I'm strong enough to pursue a sexual relationship with someone I actually care about. How could she? Over and Over. THis is what she has become. Hopefully not. Hopefully she hates herself as much as I do and maybe sees how right I was. I make a point on my way home to drive by her house, slow down, clench the steering wheel and shout my most vocally damaging "FUCK YOU" and proceed home to bask in my loneliness because my standards are just too damn high for anyone other than me to live up to. Part 2. "I very much enjoyed your company. Thank you" This is what I intended to send after the night we had spent together most recently to paint nails. I never sent it. Her dumb friend would have read it and she would have felt obligated to laugh at it with her friend and making fun of the note's genuine thanks. I'm not too sure how to interpret how she felt during the session on her bed. I wanted to be closer, physically with her but I was unsure how to proceed and I was unsure if she wanted the same. I wanted to kiss her, like we used to. I was too afraid though. But maybe if I did, she would too. It was too risky though so I didn't try. I believe I enjoy peoples company a lot more than other people. Maybe its because I am lonelier than most. Dropping out of highschool is hard on the social life. I am very alone even though I convince the people that care that I am not and I tell myself, even more convincingly, that I am better off without other people. Maybe people see through my guise and they too believe I don't care about them. Maybe that's why they don't care about me. I can only say that being this alone has only bettered me as a person. I now embrace every moment I spend with a friend. Moreso than them or they can imagine. Sex seems like an output for a caring input. I care more about anyone I wouldn't have sex with far greater than those I would. Those I would mean nothing to me which is quite sad to them but keeping a health relationship whilst avoiding sex is the safest way to maintain it. While at her house I am positive I overstayed my welcome a bit. I wanted to stay so badly but ultimately I left. I think She wanted to sleep and I needed to be home. But I dragged on the visit as long as I could. If she only knew how I felt when I was with a person, , if she understood how alone I was, we would have never left eachother, for anything, ever. Part 3. There was a time when we first met. I had never seen her before but sitting in that desk, She pestered me about music she enjoyed for so long, it forced conversation. She underestimated my passion in the subject and I taught her a thing or two whilst now sitting on the floor. Hours ticked by. We talked. We joked. We laughed. We promised we would marry some day. Maybe Ill have a career which pulls her away from everyone else who loves her. She will be forced to love me more. She told me she hates the movie "Titanic". I don't think anybody with a heart can dislike this film. I think its annoyingly cute how different she tries to be. Almost moreso than me. She makes it too obvious though. She needs to learn to counter the hipsters and the mainstream, not agree with only the hipsters. That, is truly hipster. I saw while searching her twitter that after that night, in the morning she went to breakfast with all the clowns I love to hate. She tried to rid of me to get enough sleep to meet a posse of dickwod jerkoffs for eggs and toast? She has to be doing this shit on purpose. She has to be trying to get me to notice her more. Its working. Not in her favor though. I want to hate them so badly. I hate them so much. hmmmm...... What a just reason to hate. She spends more time with people I hate only because she spends time with them. People who only treat me well and inclusively as one of them. I still hate him. He just looks like he tries so fucking hard to give the illusion that he doesn't try. AND SHE FUCKING BUYS IT. How can people stand this fucker. If only she can just grow up and judge the she shit out of these dicks and laugh with me about how right I was all this time and how right I am, and will be, forever. Part 4. She drinks rice milk. She is super groovy. She told me , what I perceived as a joke, to feed her. I asked her if she was all out of her favorite cereal. She told me she was all out of milk. I almost replied what any other person would say, "buy some". But I decided I would surprise her this late at night. To take this opportunity to see her by delivering her some rice milk. I am certain that no one else would take her text "feed me" seriously, even though I am sure it wasn't intended to be taken seriously. This might surprise her and she might understand how much I want to spend time with her and how superior I am to other teenage males. And now I know what window in hers. As I drove to the store, I thought about her reaction when she sees that I spent 30 minutes driving and spent what little money I have just to bring her milk because of a sarcastic message. She might instantly fall in love with me. Maybe even give me a small kiss on the cheek. I didn't text back and when I got to the store, I saw the heart breaking message, "I decided to eat a hot pocket." Well there goes my only excuse to see her tonight. I best not tell her this funny story and save it for next time. The trip wasn't a waste of time though. I got to dedicate most of my thought towards her. Which is how I spent most of my recent thought. Thinking about the cool stuff we can do together. Thinking about having more things to write about after we did them. Maybe we could go on a very early morning adventure one day. That reminds me of a promise I made her a few years ago. I told her that one day, at 3 the morning, I would skate all the way to her house and we could go climb trees, lie down in green, wet grass, and drink hot tea while stargazing. I always like thinking of that unfulfilled promise I do intend to carry out. It makes me hopeful of the person she is now. I couldn't know, but maybe she is still, just like me. One day I'll fulfill my promise while she still peaks my interest. Maybe I'll go tonight.

Hi guys! Welcome to part two of 'Master' and her 'pet'! Here's the if you didn't get a chance to read it, and as always, all feedback is welcomed! *slaps* She whispers into my ear “You know I don’t like being called that.” I gave a muffled grunt into her shoulder. I know she doesn’t like it, but sometimes it slips, and I have to pay the consequences. No matter if I meant to say it or not. It’s been about 4 years since I was allowed to stop calling her that, but by then it was natural to say it. She releases me from the hug and says she is going to shower, I groan from having to be told this, not even necessary, tidbit of information. She gives a playful shove off of me and walks around the corner to her shower, a minute or so later, I hear the water rhythmically the shower floor. ~5 years, 8 months, 12 days ago~ *ouph* “Sorry for bumping into you, didn’t see you.” “Grab the books and follow me. You’re paying me back for this.” “Wh-“ “Do it.” The commanding tone in her voice honestly scared me, so I picked up the 4 books and followed her. For being in only 7th grade, her books were substantially heavy, even for me. It was a wonder she was able to carry them. As we walked away from the school, I noticed she walked the same way I do home, but I’ve never seen her walking this way before, maybe she was picked up? As we slowly passed my house I said that we were passing my house, to which she quickly replied “Good.” We began to near the end of the street, and I glanced at the signs posted on the mailbox. There were two signs looking for lost dogs, one of them was on a pink sheet with tear-away slits of paper with the phone number listed on them. When I turned my attention forward, I noticed her pace had quickened substantially, maybe she was nervous of someone seeing us? She abruptly made a sharp right turn into a concrete pathway leading to the dark oak door. I stood about 4 feet away from her, intensely nervous of whoever might be behind that door as she took out the key from her backpack and proceeded to unlock the door. After she had unlocked the door and put the key away, I stepped forward to hand her the books, but she quietly said “C-come in, follow me.” Obediently doing as she said, I followed her up the spiral staircase located near the front door and in front of the living room, to her room which was located right in front of the staircase. She said “Stay out here, I’ll tell you when you can come in.” while opening and closing the door to her room. While waiting next to the door, I could hear her closet door opening and closing, along with the faint noise of springs creaking. “You can come in n-now.” As I balanced the books in one hand and opened the door, I was met with a splash of similar, but drastically different colors; pink, black, and red walls with posters of bands like Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, and more. After I put the books on a desk in the corner of her room that she pointed me to, I took a step back and looked at the room. The left wall was pink, red dominated the right wall and the two split the wall in front of me, with black covering the wall I had my back to. As I was scanning the posters, I noticed she changed from the school uniform into basketball shorts and a black t-shirt. Her face turned red and she tried to hide it by looking at the ground while asking “A-are you hungry or anything?” For having such a commanding tone before, she was treating me so kind, especially for being in her house for the first time, it caused a smirk to grow on my face. She continued to stare at the ground, getting redder by the second, while saying “Don’t get the wrong idea… You’re the first person I’ve let into the house.” Seeing my chance, I started to ask “Why are you-“ “From here on out, I’m your master, got it? Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because you’re the first person I’ve let into this house.” Surprised by the sudden change in tone, I sat down on the ground and asked her what else does she want me to do for her, and I was replied with a vicious swipe to the back of my head and being told to call her master until she says I am no longer needed by her. “What else do you want me to do… Master.” She says she doesn't have anything today, but I need to be here in the morning before school. As she walks me out, she walks into the kitchen and tosses me a water bottle. From my puzzled look she simply says “I’m your master, but that doesn't mean I’m going to treat you badly.” And with that, she sees me out the door. ~5 years, 8 months, 12 days later~ As she walks into the room, with a towel in hand she asks “Hey, can you dry my hair?” and holds out the towel. I accept the tool and begin to wring the hair out while she asks “What were you thinking about when I walked in?” “Oh, nothing much, just the first day you were my master.” She immediately looks at me, face flushed red, and says “I don’t regret any of it, do you?” As I rested my forehead on the back of her head, I said “Not one bit, though I never thought it would turn out like this. Heh.

I wrote this for my GCSE course work about 2 years ago and it has been sitting on my computer ever since. This was my first and last draft of the story, I have never written anything but essays before this. There I was, wind howling in my ears and whipping my hair to and fro, crouched deep in a dried up river bed that would soon fill with the crystal clear ice melt from the nearby glacier in the coming summer months, I spotted my target. Plump, but fast was my target, the master of escape, for he had avoided me, the best tracker in the village, for six days and lead me deep into the woods that we often heard stories about as children, of men who had strayed too far never to return. It was said that at the edge of these woods lay the base of the tallest mountain range in the known world, dwarfing the ranges that the glacier called home. It was said that at the base of those dark mountains was a cave where the she monster lay, waiting for any lost animal to stray too close, looking for shelter from the wind and snow in her hellish, yet inviting cave. A gentle shifting of heavy hooves and the crunch of dry leaves brought me back to the present. The one I knew as the deceiver, for he could lose an expert hunter within hours, was slowly rising from his place of rest. He was unfortunate for the leaves to give him away but it was a mistake that only fawns make, not a full grown stag who had survived many cold, harsh winters like the one we seemed to be stuck in at the time. As fast as I dared, I strung my bow and notched one of my finest arrows; I drew my bow felt the arrow on my right cheek bone and aimed. The soft twang of the bow was picked up by the deceiver’s sensitive ears but my arrow flew to fast for him to do react, the arrow thumped into him as he raised his head and let out one final bay, the arrow sprouted from his lower neck with a fountain of glistening ruby red blood gushing from the wound. As I was deconstructing my bow into my preferred travelling position, the sound of dry leaves beneath a large creature caught my attention. I looked up at the deceiver but he was long dead, the noise had not come from him. I decided against packing up my bow and rather waited in the river bed, my eyes darting at the slightest sound. I began to doubt that I had ever heard the noise, scolding myself for being so ignorant, the wind could have made the leaves rustle. But I knew something was not right, before the forest was full of small animals such as squirrels and birds, now there was nothing. Perhaps the kill had scared them off, but every time I had hunted, the forest would be just as busy after a kill as before it. No, something was wrong here and as if to confirm my suspicions the bushes on the far side of the clearing began to move. A looming figure stepped from the darker area of bushes, taller than any beast I had ever seen and as thick as the farm’s wagon. All of my childhood nightmares of the she beast came flooding back in a wave of terror as I realized what had just appeared before me. Hunched shoulders carried arms and legs as thick as any tree, matted brown fur coated the whole body, wet from melted snow and splattered with fresh blood; the wind blew at the fur and made it danced around as if distracting me while the monster made its move. The beast stood on its hind legs showing off its height and sniffed the air, with a crash it came back onto all fours and stared at the river bed until it spotted me. The black orbs rooted me to the spot while its jet black lips curled back to reveal the its sharp fangs, they were curled backwards to hold prey while the ones deeper in were thicker and probably used to crush bones, a thought that made me tremble. They were a sickly shade of yellow, a feature that only increased my urge to run when it let out a low, grumbling warning growl. Since the beast had emerged from the forest I had chosen my best arrow and placed it on my bow, and as quietly as the river bed and leaves would allow me to, I snuck into a crouched shooting position, ready to defend myself. The beast noticed my stance and let out an almighty roar that threatened to knock me over due to shear ferocity. Despite the distraction my aim was true; the arrow lodged itself in the beast’s right shoulder, giving me enough time to escape. The river bed would lead me home and I was at an advantage for the beasts gigantic size meant it could not fit through the tight gaps along the winding river bed; however I knew my efforts would be in vain as I was only leading the beast closer to my home.

“It’s not real! It’s not real!”, he screamed as he threw down the roll with film. Frederic Hartwingson was a movie director and screenwriter, and he wanted his films to look as real as possible, but how could the actors show real fear and panic, when they knew, that the building wasn’t really going to collapse? “I will make the perfect scene. I know some, who will help me”, he thought, as he laid plans for that perfect scene. One and a half year later people in a conference hall suddenly saw a masked face on the big screen. They were informed that bombs had been placed around the building, and that they would trigger a collapse in three seconds. Many were first in shock, and didn’t believe it, but soon almost everyone started to panic and run as the explosions were heard, and the building started to collapse. Frederic Hartwingson was sitting down in his home, in front of his complex computer, looking at the scene that was being wirelessly sent by the hidden cameras in that building. He smiled and uttered a single word: “Perfect”.

Shafts of sunlight, infiltrating through dust-bound blinds, cast away any negative mood which may have once existed in the small whitewashed apartment. They shone upon the newly replaced face of an aged watch, its leather arms embracing a slender male wrist. Wistful plumes of smoke lazily sewed the scents of cigarettes and incense into the humid air, dancing around each other in the romantic sunlight as though it were the light of a stage. Light winds carried faint, distant tunes from a street violinist playing upon the cobbled road several floors below. Smatterings of applause and clinks of monetary gratitude followed one drawn out, final note, which sorrowfully signified the end of a musical morning. No matter, the hum of tourists and motor engines, complimented by bicycle bells and the soft rushing of the wind, was music enough for those who listened. One such listener lay within the small, sunlit atmosphere of tobacco and incense, smiling softly to himself whilst spread out over an enveloping bed. The sprawling limbs shared a likeness with butter, slowly melting on ever so slightly burnt toast. After a leisurely amount of time, the duvet was cast aside in an avalanche of white linen, landing on the equally white marble floor, which was cold underfoot despite the heat of summer. The decrepit box of a television in the corner had the privilege of supporting an immaculate gramophone perched atop it, a record spinning aimlessly beneath the needle. A simple adjustment of this needle and it began to scratch the vinyl record, impregnating the apartment with the vivacious tinniness of jazz music, simultaneously drowning out noises on the audible periphery. By mere coincidence, the duration of this record was integral to the routine of its owner, allowing time for bread to be placed in a toaster, and for a suit to be hurriedly though neatly adorned following a shower. Ending with a dramatic crescendo of cymbals and vibrato, the music provided the toast with a perfect opportunity to emerge, with a burst of energy, from the glowing depths of the toaster. In the eye of the beholder, this brevity of flight was not dissimilar to a whale breaching the ceiling of the ocean, though perhaps less majestic. Butter was swept onto the toast, where it sprawled out with recent nostalgia, being smothered by marmalade covers. Several jaw-exhausting minutes later and crumbs were being swept off of a bespoke blazer and mopped up with the tips of nimble fingers, the soft kind afforded by a less manual lifestyle. These fingers proceeded to tie the brown laces of brown shoes with black soles. With that, the door of the apartment was opened and closed, as was that of the lift, until one final door later the journey of the toast eating man began, in the most normal manner one would expect of their daily routine.

Hello, everyone! This is my first-ever non-essay piece of writing, and as such, it's foreign territory to me. I don't claim to be a writer, never have been, but I find writing is a good way to vent, so I've taken a liking to it. Obviously the following *story*, if you can even call it that, is a convoluted mess with no plot to it of any kind and a stupidly dumb amount of adjectives, I know. Its a first draft, or maybe a kind of only draft, as I don't intend to expand on this in anyway. I was having a bad day, and I wanted to translate my emotions onto paper. So. content of the story aside, I'd like to know how to improve my writing just in general. Any tips would be adored, because I understand you'll be reading this as a chore, if you do. Its pretty terrible in a funny way. I guess, here it is... Death is a powerful word. Its a word with the ability to incite a plethora of emotions with one mention, whether good or bad. Its a word often spoken in hushed or callous regard, not one to be tossed flippantly into the mindless fray of droning conversation that weaves the fiber of our existence day in, day out. Its the answer to some, a break from the monotony of everyday life, and a chance to set free ones’ own consciousness; and to others, its a problem--perhaps even the problem--one that lingers mercilessly over the heads of all who are doomed to be, to exist, luring them like cattle into a final and inevitable end. Yet, for me, its a word that hangs pitifully off my tongue, much as I hang off the road of existence in a fleeting limbo between life and that which I had welcomed with hollow appraisal and broken, toothless smiles. Death. You never truly understand life’s fragility until you meet face-to-face with God’s green Earth and the American dream--a well kept and meticulously trimmed yard--as I did, one dreamy spring morning, when taking a leap from my mother’s cherished terrace. Anticipation clung to the air, that day, as if all the residents of the Valley, behind their collective, projected state of normalcy, yearned to satiate their morbid curiosity and disrupt the almost infuriating familiarity of an undisturbed morning, such as the one they experience that day. They aren’t much unlike me in that regard, then, the people of the Valley; unlike me, though, they maintained the will to endure the masquerade, I reminisced while supplying my legs with the necessary power to propel myself over the edge. And in those last fleeting moments, I found myself befuddled, unable to think as clearly as I had just moments ago. I blamed it on the the winds sailing through the valley, where the scent of asphalt, burnt in the new day sun, took refuge, creating a noxious repellent that stung your nose and seized your thoughts. The proverbial toxin was administered to everyone in the Valley with indifferent impartiality; yet, it angered me, as I detected an almost sinister nature to the currents of air, being as I was unable to formulate thoughts conveniently just before the apex of my trivial existence. Before I knew it, that existence was no more.

“This is the Phantom Tattoo of Dialas.” The human head on the ground said, motioning with its eyes up to its forehead where a tattoo of a bird with a worm in its mouth became shrunk with the effort of looking up towards it. *“Did I ever tell you that you look decades older than you are? Did you ever listen? You can’t come in here and”* The sapling tree looked at the tattoo and nodded. The upper portion of its trunk served as a head with a mouth at the point where the last branches occurred with his eyes at the end of those branches. “I see that you are wise.” *“When they pulled him out of the water, there were fishes in his mouth. Like whole fishes. Big ones. They’d roll their eyes at you and then start gasping.”* The head rolled towards the sapling as it tried to nod. “Whoooooaaaa.” The head exclaimed, and knocked the sapling over. *“The eco disasters are here. They are now. You can’t ignore them. This is not the end of mankind, it is the end of life. You don’t just walk away from this. You die with it.”* The sapling used its roots to stand and declared “I am Iron Giant. I am of the Three Oak Woods. I have left the desolation of my forest to find a new home for my people. I communicate with them through the wind.” *“There’s a Native American word – it’s like their language, man – and it’s Dialis. It means the last worm. When the last worm is pulled, they say, then the we ain’t got long. Look, a buddy of mine carved it in that tree over there. Let me show you.”* There was a muffled noise and Iron Giant gave the head a nudge and it righted itself. “I am Al.” The human head said. “I have been decapitated from my body and search for it by questioning those that come upon me – have you seen a human body as of late?” *“The thing that you encounter most in life is hope. Everyone who wakes up is full of hope, or they’d stay in bed. That’s how all life is. Everything you see around you. Just growing up out of the ground in hope of something more. I hope one day we find out what we’re hoping for.”* Iron Giant looked around himself and replied “I have not.” *“She hit him with a bottle. Right over there! Man, just knocked him down. Blood running, people running, cops running – it was bizarre. Just hit him in the head with a bottle for no reason. People are getting nuts, man.”* Al squinted at Iron Giant and replied “I believe you. Tell me, where do you expect to find a forest? The last forest fell many years ago. In fact, I find it hard to believe you stand in front of me.” *“When I was four I lost a tooth and it really upset me. I thought that was it. I’d never get that tooth back. I was malformed. Something wrong. I’ve felt that way ever since.”* Iron Giant explained “My forest is far away, across the ocean.” *“Do you still talk to your father?”* “But you are a sapling, you cannot have come far.” *“We have a trace on the call and we believe it’s coming from inside the house. But not your house.”* “I am a stunted tree without soil or water to relax in; in fact, I am 45 years of age.” *“When it comes down to it, people are all the same – shits.”* The head sighed. “There’s a computer over there. You could ask it.” *“Thank you for yielding your time. This measure – this aberration to the United States…this idea that you can choke business to save trees…well, I’m amazed.”* Iron Giant looked over to a dead tree in the barren desert he occupied with Al and asked “And did it find your body?” *“You get that iPhone with the Mars app? Shits live, man. Live.”* The head explained “No. It can only answer yes or no questions. It said my body still exists.” *“The overabundance of the chemical in the soil will lead to a collapse in the ecosystem. That was 80 years ago, and now you’re standing in the remains. Look around you – that sound you hear is your own feet breaking glass. This is more than a desert, it’s a window.”* Iron Giant approached the computer and asked “Say, computer, is there a forest on this planet that still exists?” *“I would say that if they don’t pull out of the neutral zone there will be war. And this won’t be the tit for tat firing we’ve seen for the passed 70 years – this will be a nuke throw.”* The computer responded “Yes.” *“You haven’t done shit all your life. You lay around and just soak up money. I’d divorce you, but you spent everything that’s left on junk.”* “Is it to the north?” *“Bless you.”* “Yes.” *“They are in the air. God bless America.”* “Is it within a year away?” *“We want you to remember that this is not a reflection on you. Your efforts have proven your worth and it’s with much regret we must inform you…”* “Yes.” *“You are the dumbest, laziest, jackass of a kid I have ever laid eyes on. Why don’t you just kill yourself?”* “Do you tell the truth?” *“LOLZ. STUPID BETCH.”* “Yes.” *“No word from the Dakotas.”* “Do you lie?” *“The fundamental right of each and every human being is to praise Jesus. Praise the word. Praise his name. We have found the glory!”* “Yes.” *“Odds are one in 678 million. No purchase necessary. For information on redeeming free game cards”* “Do you only say Yes?” *“You know, I see these people driving – I don’t know where they’re going – but they mean something to someone and so I stop and I wave. What’s wrong with that?”* “Yes.” *“It is a learning moment, as the newborn opens its eyes and receives the grubs from its mother.”* Iron Giant looked over at the head on the ground, who was now crying. “That’s all that I had left.” The head said. *“3 billion is a lot over night.”* “Were you here when this tree died?” *“If history has taught us nothing else, then science can: we are doomed.”* Both the computer and the head responded “Yes.” *“The space program today has detected what could be the last”* “How did it die?” *“fell on the S and P in a short fall to the end of the period when lasting meaningful relationships fell upon the Earth in dark blotches that ran into the sea and said Fuck it one last time.”* The computer responded “Yes” and Al responded “It got into a fight with the computer. The computer showed up long ago and the tree began asking it the same questions you did. The tree got angry and struck the computer and the computer fried it.” *“Reports are coming in.”* “Then the computer still has defensive measures? What could it be guarding?” *“Most of Russia and the European inland.”* “I don’t know. I tried to open the computer and it decapitated me.” *“Goodnight.”* “Then your body should be around here somewhere.” “I’m afraid it is. It is the tree.

"They're made out of meat." "Meat?" "Meat. They're made out of meat." "Meat?" "There's no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They're completely meat." "That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?" "They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines." "So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact." "They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines." "That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to believe in sentient meat." "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they're made out of meat." "Maybe they're like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage." "Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn't take long. Do you have any idea what's the life span of meat?" "Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside." "Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through." "No brain?" "Oh, there's a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of meat! That's what I've been trying to tell you." "So ... what does the thinking?" "You're not understanding, are you? You're refusing to deal with what I'm telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat." "Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!" "Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?" "Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat." "Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they've been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years." "Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?" "First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual." "We're supposed to talk to meat." "That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. 'Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.' That sort of thing." "They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?" "Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat." "I thought you just told me they used radio." "They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat." "Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?" "Officially or unofficially?" "Both." "Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing." "I was hoping you would say that." "It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?" "I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say? 'Hello, meat. How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?" "Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact." "So we just pretend there's no one home in the Universe." "That's it." "Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You're sure they won't remember?" "They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them." "A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream." "And we marked the entire sector unoccupied." "Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?" "Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again." "They always come around." "And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone ...

Read if you want, but this is the roughrough draft. ~5 years, 8 months, 11 days ago~ As i rung the doorbell, I could hear the high pitch ding reasonate throughout the house and bring my master's notice to the front door. Hearing no voices indicating not to answer the door, but just the faint sound of her coming down the stairs. I only had a second to wonder where her parents were before the oak door creaked open, showing her petite body. As she looked up at me, she held out a small red backpack and said "You're carrying this for me." Obeidently taking the backpack accompanied with "Fine." I was swiftly punished with a swipe to the back of my head. "I. Am. Your. Master. Address me as such." Fearing for the back of my head I quickly responded with "Sorry, master." "Better, now lets get going, I don't want to be late." "Yes, master." As she reached up for my head, I flinched while expecting her swat, but was met with a soft, gentle pat on the head, to which she thanked me for saying it without reminder. We began to walk up our street when she asked "Did you just enroll? I've never seen you in class before." In a meel voice I responded "Actually... I'm only in 6th grade... Master." At my response she gave a subtle laugh while saying "Heh, a 6th grader is taller than me. Are you 11 then?" Not wanting to tell her that I would skip the rest of 6th grade and would join 7th grade in the middle of the year "N-no, I'm 12, an- never mind. It's not important, master." To this, she immediately stops and turns around "I'm your master, A master shouldn't let unspoken or unwanted topics slip by when talking with thier underling. They should be syncronized, they should know what the master would like at whatever moment in time; be it a glass of water or a hug." Momentarily stunned by her response I let my unspoken secret glide out of my mouth "I'm moving up to 7th grade next week. I exceeded the 7th grade midterms, so the school is pushing me up a grade." "Mmphm, atleast I won't be associated with a 6th grader for much longer. Anything else I should know?" "Uhhh, yea. My stepdad is going to be moving in soon, but I hate him with my soul... would it be alright if i stayed at your house longer...

A painter, that’s what they called him. An artist, a natural. Amazing, they called him. But now what will they call him, a tragedy? A mistake, a fatality, a casualty? Alone I stood, the room silent. The only noise I could hear coming from the breath I was taking, and my heart racing, at what seemed like thousands, millions of beats per minute. Memories flashed through my head, him and I, at five years old, running around and causing mischief. Ten years old, raising hell at school. Fifteen years old, ditching school. Twenty years old, going to a different place of the world. The painting was fresh and some of the colors were still drying. It was almost an exact replica of the scene that confronted me as I entered the room. Hanging, in the air, neck at an odd angle and body limp, a body hung by a rope with only a noose to support it. The wall behind it was stained, and the worst thing of it all was the colors used. The world around was a combination of dark blues, greens, and grays, while the corpse was painted vivid colors that caught the eye. The bright colors would’ve communicated happiness in any other painting, while the outside world was a dull and dark gray, a sadness, a pain to exist in. Paint was splattered everywhere, there was broken glass and assorted other small things strewn about. The rafters creaked occasionally, supporting the body swinging from a noose. Two months in the past, the painter stood. The woman he loved with all his heart, the child they had made, walked to a car waiting. He watched, heart breaking, as they got in the car and drove away, giving no second glance. The painter stayed there for a long time. He turned around, walked back inside the house, and then stood inside the door. The house was big and beautiful, but now it was empty. After two minutes, his heart sank. After one, a tear fell. Something rose inside him. He strode over to a table, with a pristine set of flowers inside a vase. He took the vase, rose it above his head, and smashed it on the ground. This did not help. He screamed, a violent, guttural war cry, and laid about him. Before he knew, everything in his house was smashed, and he still felt the rage, the burning hole where his heart and soul was. He fell to his knees, screaming. This scream was a more desperate, pained scream. The pain of someone being tortured. One month in the past, the painter stood. The judge left the courtroom, and he was officially unmarried. The painters’ love rose, and left with the painters’ offspring. The painter left, as the world seemed to become gray. The colors he loved and cherished, gone. The scenes he would be amazed with and try to recreate, a disgusting gray. The painter drove home, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, enjoying nothing. He arrived in his house, which he had still not cleaned up, and sat on his couch, careful not to sit on a torn place. He took out his cell phone, and dialed up someone. Two weeks in the past, the painter stood. He waited patiently, almost unable to contain his enthusiasm. A car, which appeared to just be multiple pieces of multiple cars, pulled into the driveway. Out of it stepped a man, with dirty, stained clothes. He carried a duffle bag, and walked as fast as he dared into the house. They sat on the couch, and out of the duffle bag came a leather belt. The painter fixed it to his arm, and tightened it. Then came a needle. Pull, push. The painter slumped over, almost unable to move. He drifted away, away from the life that he now despised. Fifteen minutes ago, the painter finished. He was out of money, out of hope, and out of will to live. He stepped back, comparing the two pictures. The noose hung in both, and the painter would’ve had a hard time knowing which one was real, if one already had his body hanging and the other did not. He placed his wooden stool, the stool he painted on for his entire life, coated in splotches of paint, and stood up. He put the noose around his neck, and leaned back so the stool fell. Within a minute, whatever life remained in his heartbroken body had fled, and all that was left was a body. He thought of himself as a husk of his former being, after the divorce, but now, he really was a husk, a piece of meat. Two minutes ago, I walked into this scene. I stood for a few minutes, staring. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, all I could do is stand and look. Look, stand, and memorize. Suddenly, the front door of the house opened. Into the room ran a small child. He stole a single glance at me, but when he saw the hanging body, he stared for a moment. “Daddy!” The child screamed, and ran to the body. The click-clack of heels on hardwood approached the room from outside, while the child screamed and cried at the feet of his father’s corpse, hanging from the rafter. The woman entered the room, and recognized me, before looking to the corpse of her ex-husband, who was now ex-living. They called him a painter, I called him a friend. The child called him father, the woman used to call him husband. Society will call him a tragedy, but now he is just a corpse.

It had spent a lot of time in this universe. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It is not like a watch was needed, but somehow It *liked* this universe and a constant reminder on its heartbeats on the way to entropy seemed somehow fitting. It had created universes before, but those it had to *refuel.* This one would *never* be refueled, it had *vowed.* A process of *unstoppable decay.* It viewed it as a meditation. *Tick... Tick... Tick...* It felt a bit alone. Sometimes, it pondered, *maybe* it hadn't been the best decision to say "I am", *casting* itself into an existence of *watching* and *creating.* So, a meditation on *loneliness* and *decay.* Not that it would *decay* anytime soon. *Tick....* Did it just seem like that to it, or was the clock going *slower?* "Hello? God? Are you there?", a voice said. Startled, the God searched around the universe. What was that? "My mother is sick, God. Please heal her.", the voice said again. Galaxies blurred into stars. It had found the source. Small water planet. It went in closer. *Most curious!* A small, ape-like creature, sitting next to the sleeping site of a *more* ape-like creature. Both still had some fur on them, and the small one wore some sort of leather around its loins. The god was *intrigued.* In all the universes before, none of the life it had created had been capable of ... *communicating* in this way. It turned the wheels of creation. The mother healed. The little one became a shaman. Shamans turned into priests, priests turned into warmongers, warmongers turned into mass murderers. But there was good too. Love, compassion, Sharing. That was the stuff that it liked most. The prayers kept floating up to it. Some attributed an idea to it, some called it a he, a she, an adversary, some were bitter, and some were sweet. Company, at last. And God smiled. Even though it would end someday. *Tick.... Tick.... Tick....* It valued every second of it.

Today was the day. The console chimed cheerily as the icon for Earth popped up on the dash. After a communication issue with ground control some while ago, the pilot of ship 45-B had lost consciousness and the system had warped into deep space. Sometime later he had reawakened from the quiet warmth of cryosleep. He wasn't sure of how long he had been away, but he was sure the world would have changed for the better. The warning lights flashed on as the ship decelerated from hyperdrive. The void brakes activated on the winglets and the ship shuddered to a halt. The pilot deactivated the auto-travel system and moved the controls into position, pressing forward, the ship began to move towards the planet. The surface of the continent below was shrouded by a thick cloud cover. He spoke into the microphone. "Ground Control, I'm descending. I can't wait to tell you guys what I've seen! My family will be waiting, right?" Nothing but static. The pilot dismissed this as a minor error in the comlink. When the ship broke the cloud cover, an expanse of brown and grey was laid out before him. Crumbling ruins of the once proud nations were strewn across the landscape. Seas drying up, forests burning, streets empty, cities crumbled. The ship chimed again as it picked up the faint transmission coming from an empty landing pad. Descending through the city, he stared desperately out of the cockpit waiting for signs of life. Everything was still. The ship landed with a soft bump and the crew cabin opened. Compressed air shot out of vents clearing any remaining debris off the ship... the apparent one remaining shining example of humanities success. Dashing out of the ship, he fastened his helmet and began running. Past the main gate, past the guard booth, and out into the street. Rubble was strewn across the avenue, cars crushed and still burning. Moving over to a decrepit news stand, the pilot rummaged through the papers until he found a readable copy. The headline read "End of Days? War Breaks out Between Super Powers" and a picture of a hydrogen bomb sat in the center of the front page. Returning to the ship, the pilot ordered a full scan of the surface. In minutes, the scan completed and returned with a red warning. The details included tidbits about dangerous radiation levels, abundant toxic materials, and a despairingly thin atmosphere. The pilot, however, was transfixed on one statement. Human Population : 1. Location : Local. Everything was gone. Families. Friends. Cities. Nations. Everything. Defeated, the pilot walked to where the park would have been. He sat and dreamed of the days before launch, where the birds would sing and the skies were blue and life was good. As the wind picked up, the Pilot looked into the horizon. An alarm went off in the suit warning of an incoming storm. A radioactive sandstorm of sorts. Removing his helmet he turned to face the approaching wall of wind and debris and readied the kill switch for life support. He spoke softly, a single tear forming in his eye. "Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm coming home." Writing Prompt based on images.

We fucked up. We fucked up big time. I don’t have long to write this, as they will be here soon. I’ll try to get down as many details as I can before then. Hopefully this message finds you before they do. Our mission is highly classified and I can’t disclose everything without jeopardizing even more than has been lost. We are part of the ******** mission to put our species on a new planet in the Virgo Supercluster. Everything was so promising and we were so hopeful. But then the ****** showed up. The alliance had never encountered another intelligent race before and we at first were very happy to meet them. For 5 years we traded technologies, formed friendships, traded knowledge and coexisted. Then, one of our scientists came down with what for us was a routine illness. We imagine it must have somehow been carried in on livestock to feed the researchers. We had been so careful with quarantine while with our new friends. We must have fucked it up. I don’t know how, but that’s not really important. We warned the aliens to stay away from our sick crewman, but it was too late. Two ****** had already been infected and were beginning to show signs. Sadly, they had no natural resistance and they quickly developed large bumps throughout their bodies, began bleeding from their eyes, nose, and mouth and finally died. Everyone was shocked. We offered to help in any way we could and tried to vaccinate as many of the aliens as possible but we failed. In a last ditch effort, to try and save their race, we did not allow the ***** scientists to leave. We kept them in station ******** as long as possible. The aliens grew restless and wanted to leave. They claimed they had no symptoms but we knew symptoms could take years to develop. We tried to tell them they needed to stay. We tried to reason with them but they would not listen to us. They insisted on leaving, and we did not want a war, so we let them. They infected their homeworld. Their population died by the billions. Their leaders blamed us. They cut off communications abruptly and sent nukes at us after only one week without communications. We were caught off guard and while we stopped many of the nukes, we lost roughly 75 percent of our settlements on the planet. The second wave of nukes is only minutes away now. Our defense system has been neutralized and there is no escape. To hell with classified. The public deserves the truth. We are now at war with a desperate, war hungry race. We thought they were our friends but we have found out they are blood thirsty and barbaric. We cannot come back to this sector. It is too dangerous with these monsters around. My fellow Orions, whatever you do, STAY AWAY FROM EARTH. To K’all: I’m sorry I won’t make it back.

A desolate sea of weeds sprawled across the dreary landscape, as the dull beige sun lilt the desolate town. Burnt out trash cans & rusty signs where everywhere to be seen, along with the reminisce of large buildings gutted by fire. Those who had lived here's lives here where in no rush to return, as it looked to have been years since man had left his splendid mark on this once thriving town. A large dominion had once been centred here, spanning many leagues, and many ages. Their kings and queens had worked for ages just to keep their little kingdom afloat, yet in the end it did them no good. Now their land suffered the same fate as the people , with the rivers that once watered fields had dried up, the pastures that once feed cities had been salted, and the people who once laboured and toiled to make their homeland prosperous, had been exterminated. Not that this was a shock; they had run like sheep, fleeing from their shepherd. Truefully that may have been there best quality, the ability to sense a dagger at their door step. Not that it mattered, those who had died were a useless & impractical people, contributing nothing but of value to the world.

This is my first ever short story, feedback would be lovely. Being the most handsome man in the psych ward has its benefits. This is the place where time reverses and dead men talk to all the pretty nurses, so naturally they (the nurses) have a soft spot for a young stallion such as myself. A man who doesn’t spit or piss on himself, a man who could sell the sun to a block of ice. My charm proved vital as I received benefits such as allowing to be unchained for 30 minutes each month. During these 30 minutes I could roam the entire hospital and its grounds. I can’t remember when I first arrived at Grand Budapest Cente for Mental Health, and I think that has been their intention from the beginning. Situated in an abandoned town, the streets are barren and the surrounding shops closed. Picture a scene from a spaghetti-Western flick minus the tumbleweeds and dirt roads. Replace them with concrete and graffiti. It was funny really, I had never done anything wrong but they chose to place me on the seventh floor, the highest one they had managed to build in 1964. This was the floor where the most notorious of the residents were placed. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms. 16 cells lined the single hallway, all encased in glass, and then reinforced with wrought-iron. Even if I wanted to escape I could not, but life was outstanding here. It surely had to be better than out there, around people and around problems. I have been thinking about letting my hair grow, and I have been thinking about cutting it short. I have been thinking about dying it yellow, but I don’t think I have the bone structure or wardrobe to support that kind of look. I would not want to risk looking poorly for the ladies here, although they think so highly of me that it probably not make a difference. I reckon I could get Rodney to cut my nose clean off and they wouldn’t bat an eye. We won’t get into Rodney, but he has been growing his toenails allegedly since he got here – long before me. Two guards in pink body armour with pink rifles escorted me wherever I pleased on my monthly journey through the halls. I exclusively spend this free time in the women’s ward on floor six. The women got to wear dresses in all colours and sizes which I was a fan of. Before returning to my cell I would always create a couple of mental images in my mind for later. I was greeted by Mrs. Entendu, who always looked after the women. “Dylan! It has been far too long. How long has it been exactly?” She asked. “Jesus Christ, you ask me this every time. 30 days. 30 fucking days.” I kindly replied. Her eyes lit up in glee, and she winked at me while saying: “You are such a sweetheart Dylan. I want you to meet our newest lady.” I was walked over to a table that was foreign to me. It was made of crystal, and next to it was a golden chair, or a throne if I could call it that. Upon this throne sat a midget, or at least I thought so for the time being. She faced the end-wall window, and all I could see was a tiny frame and long black hair. “Her name is Emerald, you’re going to love her!” Mrs. Entendu proclaimed. So I walked up to Emerald, thinking about how long of a name that is. I thought to myself: “Emerald…Emerald…Emera…Emer…Eme…Eme…Eme! What a nice name that is, Eme.” As I got closer to Eme, all I could hear was a high pitched mumble, almost like a mouse squeaking. I couldn’t make out what she was saying right away, but as I drew nearer it became clear. “I’m a queen, I’m a queen, I’m a queen, I’m a queen”. She whined. “I am Dylan, nice to meet you Eme. I live upstairs and figured I should come say hi. I hope I haven’t kept you up at night with my racket. I think my room is right above yours in fact. We should take a walk, you and I.” I could see her face now. Although cute, and silent now, she stared into the window. She didn’t respond, and she just sat there with odd expressions on her face. Her lips contorted in all directions, creating shapes I had never before seen. Eye twitches and nose scrunches, everything. I could see why she was in here – she was crazy, unlike me. “Allow me to open up the window, Eme. Surely you must be warm in that robe and crown”. I said. “Never call me Eme again, and if you open up that window I am going to punch you in the dick so you can never have children – that is if they ever let you out of here. I heard about you, you’ve killed people.” “You’ve heard wrong little lady, I am a God amongst men. I’ve slain serpents, I have cured world hunger, and once I get out of here I am going to free you all.” While I waited for her response, one I was not sure was even going to come, I took some time to assume things about her. She probably doesn’t wear her glasses, but she probably needs them to read. She probably values her downtime, but she probably doesn’t get much sleep. And she probably hates the movies, but she probably goes anyway. Hell I bet she even fights with her mother a lot when she feels like there’s nothing to say. A response did not come, but something a lot more important did. The lights shut off, and for a brief moment I figured out what I needed to do. I grabbed Eme’s hand as fast as I could, lifted her up and ran us to the window. It was pitch black both inside and out, but I had a feeling she was staring up at me. I opened the window and away we went.

He awoke to the news replaying on his small tube TV. New York City always had things happening. Murders, kidnappings, robberies. It all seemed to run together, and it never made sense to him. Why do people kill, kidnap, and rob? As long as he didn’t get killed, kidnapped, or robbed, he didn’t care; no one did. Why should anyone care about others? He got up off of his small sofa and turned on the lamp sitting in the corner of the room. With the TV still sounding off the happenings of the previous day, he crossed to the kitchen to make breakfast. The crackling of bacon cleared the fog from his mind and made him hungry. After eating, he took a shower. The lukewarm water didn’t do much to wake him. He got dressed and left for work. The sun hadn’t completely risen, yet the city was already active, still busy from the night of murders, kidnappings, and robberies. He waved down a taxi, hopped in, and rushed to work. He didn’t really do much at work; as long as he looked busy, people didn’t seem to care. He had been stuck in his position for more than three years, and things weren’t looking up for him. He hadn’t done anything wrong; he just hadn’t done anything right. He was average. He simply went through the motions and got the minimum done in order to keep his job. He didn’t know anyone at his job, and no one knew him. He liked it that way. He left at five o’clock. It was already dark outside, and he thought it would be best to walk home. He could avoid having to talk to the taxi driver. As he wandered to his pathetic apartment, a man approached him. The man flashed a gun and suggested they move to somewhere quieter. They marched into the nearest alley. The man demanded money, but there was none to exchange. A shot was fired, and the man bolted out of the alley. In the dark, wet, and lonely alley dying from a gunshot wound, he heard an ambulance getting closer. He saw the lights flicker onto the decaying walls of the space between a convenience store and an abandoned apartment building. The siren grew quiet as it sped through the maze of streets to someone else in need. And as he lay in the disgusting crevice, he realized something. As the life began to fade from his body, and his last breath was being taken, he had a revelation. No one cared.

Barefoot Balmoral It was raining so I stayed behind. I didn’t need to cross for any dumplings. Instead I took perch under some shelter and watched the Balmoral bustle. This was the first time I had experienced it sober. I watched people dart through dark puddles like a hesitant dance and couples sway gently in their patience for food. This place was central Auckland’s China town, and it knew it too. Without a cigarette in my hand or a thought on my mind, stray observation occupied my time. I tried not to hold stares with anyone and although there were some dark characters about, I wasn’t afraid of catching their gaze. After a few failed leads, something popped up just under my vision as I stared at the old building headers - a shorter man, tucked deeply into his trench coat, swiftly wove through the stream of oncoming traffic. With head heavy and feet bare, he weaved cautiously through the bustling foot traffic, nearing towards me on Wirimu’s corner. His practised movements kept him safe from the infamous right turn onto Dominion Road, which leaves most pedestrians at the whims of impatient drivers. He started crossing. He took the long way around a car waiting to turn, as if he didn’t want to be seen by headlights. Or maybe he had been witness to a Dominion Road right turn crash before and wanted to avoid any chance of a second viewing. He stepped onto sheltered footpath and then turned around at me. I held a stare this time. For an uncomfortable three seconds we locked eyes. He knew I had been watching him. I turned away to ignore the sight of him but I turned away into some sort of guilt. I really needed a cigarette to distract me. I tried to go back to people watching. I saw people but observed no-one. The dumplings were taking their time. After a moment, I noticed the Barefoot man take a seat on Balmoral’s floor, next to the Dumpling shop’s entrance. Slouching deeper into his trench coat for warmth and protection, he set up a bowl between his worn feet. It was emptier than a kids coke can. I wanted to help; I needed to absolve my guilt. It had to cross now. I made to and started to cross the road. With my mind distracted on how to approach the seated man, I walked straight into a puddle. My 5 dollar K-mart shoes no match for Balmorals reservoir-like potholes. I neared the barefoot man and without thinking, kicked my shoe off to measure up his fit. He was a little quiet about it. Maybe he was just being cautious. I couldn’t tell as I had never been in his shoes before. Sensing his hesitance, I assured him I didn’t need the shoes and told him they were only 5 dollars. In hindsight I think that might have been rude but he eventually came around, flattening his feet to compare the fit. He was two sizes too big. I guess he wouldn’t be in my shoes either. I didn’t want to leave him empty handed/footed. Remembering how giving sock sizes were, I began to roll them off and told him I didn’t need them. I didn’t want to say much else. I didn’t even want thanks. I walked away and sat down on a power box next to the dumpling shop, facing the other way now. Guilt was replaced by questioning. I internalised. I knew the world was not forgiving and the streets of Balmoral were no exception, but I needed to know why. I got lost in myself. A tear formed and fell onto my shoe of all places. I hated that moment. These dumplings were starting to anger me. I sat impatient. I wanted to meet the dumplings back at the car. I kept fiddling in my pockets hastily and found a lazy tenner. I wished it was only a five. I thought if I had bought a couple dumplings, then that would have given me a 5 in change. But I didn’t need a couple dumplings or a 5er. The tenner was his. I dried my shoes and begun a new weave back past the man. I didn’t want to look at him. I did though. He hadn’t even put my socks on. A quick thought of ungratefulness came to mind, but it was dismissed by the fact it was raining. Everyone knows wet socks are worse than wet feet. I quickly leaned down with blue paper in hand and shoved it between his joined knees where his head was balancing. “Good luck,” I said, before turning and walking away without waiting for a response. I didn’t want to think much more of that for the rest of the night. Arriving home to dabble in a friend’s dumplings and a brew or two to intoxicate me from my sobering experience, I couldn’t get the Barefoot man out of my head. I started driving the long way to town now. The right turners can thanks me later. I don’t want to go back to Balmoral for a while. Not until he forgives. I did not want to discuss what I had felt that night with many. The idea of sympathizing and enlightening friends on the overlooked idea of homelessness doesn’t stimulate most minds. What graciousness we have. It saddens me sometimes. I was told by the dumpling purchaser who witnessed my charity that the Barefoot man treated the tenner with a prayer of some sort - a genuine reaction, not hazed by drunkenness or ignorance. That he had raised his head from slump to grapple the note like it cared for him, like it forgave him. I’m glad I didn’t see his surprise. I might have wet my shoe again. Back to work. The days that followed were shaded by thoughts of his past. Oh how I wished to know his circumstances; his entire exhausted and worn weave. Only then would I have felt comfortable judging. Judging, pfft. Like I’m fit for that Maybe then I would feel comfortable helping. After all, I couldn’t even look him in the eyes for more than 3 seconds. Every time I thought about it, there was only one conclusion I could reach: the system was fucked. “The systems fucked” was the most common reply. I got sick of internalising so I voiced the event to some workmates. I embraced myself for some standard replies, maybe a couple thought provoking theories, or a similar event to have in common with. My expectations were met minimally. It was ok though. I wasn’t planning on changing the world in my smoko anyway. It was a long Friday. But I was used to doing overtime now. I needed the extra money and my extra socks weren’t going to pay for themselves. Jumping in my tired old Nissan, I started heading home. The Auckland traffic was...well...anyways. I usually turn left on the Mt Eden – Balmoral intersection, but I knew just beyond was the Dominion – Balmoral intersection. The idea of a detour flirted in my head - would I see Barefoot man in the daylight still wandering Balmorals walls? I doubted it, opting to continue on my normal weave. Weave - to form by combining various elements or details into a connected whole. Driving home, I distractedly heard Mrs Rickard on the radio with a news update; something about a body being found somewhere in Balmoral. Without giving it much thought, I swapped the station to find some tunes. The news piece missed its first opportunity to join my weave. I carried on home. An eventful weekend had come and passed including my exercising of my democratic rights at my first protest. I enjoyed it immensely. There’s something about standing up for what is right, that writing about what is right will never have over it. The allure of activism was strong. Sunday finally rolled around and I found myself back scrolling through news headers. My eyes were caught instantly. Sitting upright from my slouch, I started to drift the mouse over the link. At that point I remembered faintly hearing something about this on the radio before. I clicked the link. The weave had started. ‘Police appeal for help over death of homeless man in Balmoral’. I stared at the title while revisiting the Balmoral event in my head. What had the homeless man done within two weeks that lead him to death? Surely he didn’t die of starvation? Wait, I don’t even know if it was the Barefoot man. Breathing heavily, I continued scrolling down to find more. A picture appeared of a man. It was him. It was definitely him in the picture. I stared at his eyes for 3 minutes without scrolling away. No guilt to hide in, no discomfort to confide in. Just the bruised face of the Barefoot man I had lent a hand to. I couldn’t help but feel like my charity had helped in his death. Imaginary scenes rolled over in my minds revisit of Balmoral. Maybe another homeless man had a fight with him for his Tenner. Waves of regret began to roll over me. I wished I had never observed his bare feet. I wished I had cigarettes in me at the time. I wished I was contempt at looking at Balmorals architecture. I wished I didn’t have a tenner on me. I wished I didn’t care. I continued scrolling down. “Police urge the public to share the picture of Justin Turner on social network sites Detectives investigating the murder of 49 year-old Maqbool Hussain in Balmoral last week are continuing to appeal for public assistance to help them locate a person of interest. Mr Hussain’s body was found by relatives in his temporary squat on Monday and police say he died a violent death.” Wait a minute. I stopped reading to a startling realization. The picture on the page is of the Barefoot man. The article states the name of the Barefoot man is Justin Turner. Justin has a warrant for his arrest into the brutal murder of another homeless man. I had given money to a possible murderer. I felt sick. I felt disgusted. I felt betrayed by my own self. All my energy I had put into this man, all the wasted thoughts and he could turn out to be a murderer. I hated this thought the most of all. My very foundation thoughts on the homeless were shaking. After striking up a weave of compassion two weeks earlier on the brick and mortar foundations of Balmoral, I needed something to sew up gaping hole of confusion. I needed stability. I needed a thought so strong that I could disregard all previous thoughts, and hold this one true. Like a physicist trying to create a theory to govern all, I tried to make my own. Something to account for the need of unforgiving Balmoral nights, the need for sympathy from the more fortunate onto the less, and the need for a homeless man’s death, the passing of another human life. Wait, what need? There was no need. No need for a man to die a gruesome death. No need for a man to have no home. No need for a paper note to hold so much value. No need for Balmorals ignorance. No need for dumplings. No need for shoes. So I guess if there are no needs to be met, then there would have been no need to have met the Barefoot man.

Kalia Toa gripped the railings of his captain's chair as the artificial gravity on his ship; the KES Derina failed for the fifth time in this engagement with the human fleet. When the first shots were fired, roughly ten standard hours ago the odds were even between the Kaveni Empire and the Human coalition, the humans had brought their infamous fifth fleet to this system but the Kaveni Red fleet was already entrenched here. But now his cruiser was one of the few active Kaveni ships left in the system, the rest had been taken out by the human onslaught. The battle had been in favour of the humans ever since their dreadnought sized ramming ships had entered the system, there were only three of them in their fifth fleet, but they did their brutal and primitive job very effectively. Twenty minutes after the battle started they dropped out of FTL in the middle of the Kaveni fleet, Kalia heard a human once describe the ships as giant lumps of the strongest metal ever created by mankind, Kalia now knew that that description was far more accurate then he thought at the time he first heard it. They didn't hit anything of course, ships of the Kaveni Imperial navy are far too fast for that, but they did ruin the entire battle formation, and kept doing it time after time since nothing in the Red Fleet’s arsenal could even make a dent in the things. Kalia attention was brought back to his CIC as his ship’s gravity kicked in again. “Status report!” He demanded, his XO, a middle aged female Kaveni immediately responded. “The Ruyter is almost in position to fire at us, the Yamamoto and Nelson have us flanked sir! I advi-“ She stopped talking as a soft beep notified her of a new contact. “Sir! The Light of Sol is targeting us!” Kalia knew he didn’t have time to order evasive manoeuvres, instead he punched in a holographic bottom that would connect his microphone to the ship’s intercom system. “All hands! Brace for impact!” Before his eyes the bridge of his once mighty cruiser, the KES Derina became dark, and all was silent. One second, any time now. Kalia thought Two seconds, it can’t take much longer. Three seconds, it must come any time now. Finally the lights switched back on as the monotone voice of the ship’s computer made its announcement. “We’ve been fatally hit by the COHS Light of Sol, all compartments are breached and all crew is lost, we will continue to drift until the end of the war-games. Strangely enough Kalia didn't feel any anger at his enemy, after all, everyone knew they had lost the war games the second it became clear they were to fight the humans. . . . Here's a little OC I made up, please don't steal anything Kaveni related as they are a little project of mine and I hold them very dear. Just as a side note, I'm new on reddit so I'm not sure how this will turn out to look, also English isn't my first language, if you spot any mistakes just let me know, I know for certain that I made a few in this story.

In the early days of Reddit, they used it as their logo, one of them had drew it and it looked cute, they even made a stuffed version and named it Snoo because the name also sounded cute. Snoo was kept on top of their computer and they adored him. But one winter, one cold cold winter, that ragtag band of the people who maintained Reddit huddled together in the last burning embers of their fireplace, for they couldn't pay the heating bill. They were growing colder and colder, and their hope of seeing the future of their small but promising site, Reddit. Suddenly, Snoo rose and spoke, "Fear not, my brothers, for I am your Savior Snoo" this of course scared the daylights out of everyone in the room besides Snoo who now had forgotten the cold and gathered around Snoo and asked him questions as to why he had suddenly spoke. Snoo raised an adorably small hand and said, "You mortals will not yet be able to comprehend my existence, only know you have a great piece in the puzzle of the universe, your site's members shall be many, do not lose hope for you shall survive this winter, you will one day by the last hope of the free thinking universe" One among the eager crowd inquired the Snoo, "But how, our fire is quickly waning and our bodies will not produce heat much longer" The Snoo turned to him and said, "Do not worry, that is why I have come, I know I must sacrifice myself to save the universe in the future, it is my piece in the puzzle and I shall take it with dignity" With one final adorable salute he cast himself into the fireplace and stoked the flames. This bold sacrifice somehow kept the fire burning for eternity, and it still burns to this day. The Redditors who witnessed that bold, and strangely vague sacrifice decided to make effigies of the Snoo so that his face and his sacrifice that saved Reddit would be remembered. Of course, they profit off them in the Reddit Store, but it's the thought that counts.

I met Randall Finn two years ago, when I was working at Stevens Laboratories in Boston. At the time, I was the manager of a drug research project, testing the safety of an antidepressant. We had just about finished our trials on mice, and I was looking for a chance to do a human trial. Problem is, there aren’t too many people out there who are willing to risk their own safety for the sake of scientific advancement. I didn’t have the budget to pay well, either. So when I heard that a white male in his mid-thirties was offering to participate in any scientific studies, I called him immediately. On the line, his voice was rich and warm, like I imagine some kind of singer or a good movie dad would talk. He said he’d come right over. Randall lived about an hour away, so I spent the intervening time imagining what he would look like. That voice made me think of a rustic cowboy, retired and raising a family of three kids, by himself. He was probably a burly guy, with just a day or two of stubble on his chin. I sat down in my little office and Googled him. As it turned out, I didn’t get much right except that he was a burly guy with a day of stubble on his chin. In fact, he worked at a lab like mine in Sharon. Actually, he ran a lab like Draper Labs in Sharon. Randall had a classic rags-to-riches story; he was born into a poor family, did extraordinarily well in school, got a scholarship, and graduated cum laude from Stanford. He started working at Sharon Labs immediately after graduating, and within eight years, he was running it. I couldn’t think of why he was trying to be a test subject. Maybe it was a publicity stunt to get more test subjects for his lab. When my secretary let him into my office, I couldn’t believe it. This time, the only thing I recognized was his stubble. He was thinner than most of my lab rats, and just as pale. He looked like a man who’d never seen the sun in his life. “Dr. Wilson, I will try to be as honest as possible, and I hope you will do the same. I do not have the energy for politeness or sugarcoating.” He spoke quickly and precisely, as if he were reading cells in a spreadsheet, but he paused every few words to take a shallow breath. I felt my eyes lock with his as he leaned forward to emphasize his next sentence. “I am dying. Quickly. I have approximately four months before I die. I have not come to you for help. My illness is terminal, and has no cure. I do not expect you to find one in the time I have left. I plan to make myself useful in my final months. As you might guess, I have no objections to anything that will kill me within a year, or nine months, or six. Do you have a problem with this?” He gripped the edge of my desk tightly and pushed himself back up to lean back in his chair. I could feel him staring at my head as I looked to the side. At one level, I was overjoyed. Here was the ideal test subject: he has no fear of death or injury, and for good reason. He could walk straight up to Chernobyl and kick the reactor walls and it wouldn’t shorten his life by a millisecond. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine not trying to help him. If nothing else, I had to know what was killing him. “That sounds…fine to me, Dr. Finn. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll try to explain briefly the experiment that you’re signing up for…” For the next three hours, we talked through every nuance, every control, every damn data point in my entire experiment. True to his word, he did not spare my feelings. Twice, he made a hissing noise through his teeth and said “Bullshit.” He didn’t shout, but he said it with such intensity that it felt like being slapped. As we went over the experiment, I realized that he was testing not just the rigor of the experiment, but also my intelligence. I was a new graduate student again, doing my thesis defense against a jury of scientists much smarter and older than me. It was possibly the most intense three hours of my life. Just as I had started to explain what exactly he would be doing in the lab, he stopped me. “Thank you, Dr. Wilson, you’ve been very informative. I’ll be here tomorrow at eight o’clock to begin work.” He buttoned his suit as he stood up and walked towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out. “Wait!” He turned around smoothly, pivoting on his left foot to face me. “Why are you dying?” I came out from behind my desk. I had a sudden thought that if he tried to walk away, I would grab him and hold him in my office until he told me. He gave a little smile, just using the left side of his mouth. “It’s a genetic illness. At the moment, my body is consuming itself. I can’t process enough food to keep myself alive.” His smile widened, looking more like a wolf’s grin. “Funny, isn’t it…all those starving African children dying of malnutrition, and here I am, surrounded by wealth and power, dying the same way. Some kind of karmic justice for my sins. I wish I could remember what I did to deserve this.” He nodded slightly and walked out the door, moving so quickly and quietly I didn’t have a chance to decide whether to keep him or let him go. That night, I researched everything I could on genetic diseases, wasting syndromes, ketogenesis…I couldn’t find anything like what he was describing. His male ancestors did seem to have wasted away; every obituary I could find said that the Finn men had simply grown weaker and thinner until they died. It was incredible. I felt like stopping my experiment and devoting my next four months to studying Randall Finn. He really was a mystery. But he didn’t want me trying to cure him. There were other mysteries to be solved, ones that didn’t involve my own test subjects.

The Day Before Easter, 2014 This actually just happened. I sat down at my laptop and fell into the Internet. Two hours later, I see from the corner of my eye one of the dogs chewing on something next to my chair, making a lot of crunchy noises. After 5 minutes I pull my eyes from the screen and actually look at her, identifying the red-purple stringy thing she's got in her jaws as a really big plush toy our beagle has, or had. It's eviscerated. So I went back to the Internet. More chewing- crunching, same red-purple pulp noted from the corner of my eye, but I'm thinking, still lost in the Internet, how many plastic eyes and squeakers could that toy have? (And no, I didn't stop to think at that point - as a responsible pet owner would have - that too many plastic eyes and squeakers might not be good for a dog.) Twenty minutes later, the first dog leaves but pretty soon another one takes her place - same spot next to my chair, same chewing-crunching noises, still something red-purple but considerably smaller than before. I'm briefly and vaguely puzzled, but - back to the Internet. Then the second dog left. My husband yells from the family room: "Godammit! Drop it! Get away!" And I said, not looking up from the Internet "Oh yeah, it's that toy of Augie's - they're all chewing on it....." "NO, ACTUALLY: IT'S A RABBIT AND THEY'RE EATING IT" he stated calmly, but in all caps. So I put down the Internet and run out there, following a sad little trail of gray bunny fluff to the family room, where my husband and I stare at each other in horror (and in my case chagrin) over the nasty little scene before us. Then I mumble something like "buh, buh but it looked like the toy ... I didn't see any bones... I was, well, I was on the Internet! " My long-suffering husband sighed and turned to the task at hand, asking for a whole roll of paper towels to clean up the red-purple remnants in the family room, then he headed out to the backyard to find the rest of the carcass. And I went back on the Internet to tell this story. So. ..... Happy Easter, I guess? And go with the chocolate bunnies, they taste better and they're a breeze to clean up - no bones.

I can feel it, you know. The taint on Saidin. The male half of the true power has become covered in something, like scum on the surface of pond. I know what is coming too, madness. Insanity. I would not bow to... to "Shai'tan". That I said aloud, and finally I had said it. Some believe it is bad luck to speak the Father of Lies' name aloud. I'm too far gone to care. *Beware, they're watching. They're watching us*. The world was slowly being torn apart by the madness of my brothers. My sworn brothers who had embraced Saidin, who had been the greatest Aes Sedai of an age. Men were naturally stronger in the One Power than women, and it showed in the fury with which we wreaked havoc upon a helpless world. *The dead, the dead see me!* We had gone to Shayol Ghul with Lews Therin Telamon, the greatest of us all. We were his hundred companions, and I marched proudly at his side to contain the Dark One, to put him back in his prison. It was a great and bloody fight, but we won. Barely. We put him back in his prison, Lews Therin sealed the most powerful of Forsaken, the thirteen, in the Bore with the Dark One. *And now they're watching me, watching us, watching the world shatter and break and fall to pieces and oh by the Light they're watching*. And then the Dark One, in his last act upon this world, struck back. He rendered them insane, all of us insane. Of the hundred and thirteen of us who went into that black pit, sixty eight came out. We were all horribly insane. *I'm* insane. It's a sick thrill realizing that I can't be rational anymore. Some days I can just feel the eyes of the dead upon me, other days I can see them. *AND THEY ARE WATCHING ME!* But no matter. I've found them you see. I've found some more of the Forsaken. Those who were not locked away in the pit with *the dead, the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead the dead ENOUGH*. I won't, I won't let the insanity claim me. I won't. I'm stronger than that. I. Am. STRONGER! I am. I know I am going insane, it's a horrific thing to know that. Didn't I already say that? Oh god is my memory going? No matter. No matter at all. There are thirteen of them in this valley, and thirteen hundred trollocs. And Myrddraal. The trolloc's twisted leaders who bear blades forged in the depths of Shayol Ghul. Quenched in black waters and the blood of innocents. Men, women, children. It's said there are Myrddraal who prize blades quenched in the blood of children, they say those blades cut deeper into the souls of men. I breathe out, and reach for Saidin. Of the thirteen down there, seven are men. They immediately look up, shocked, surprised, but not terrified. Not yet. They don't know who I am, because they aren't dead. *Because the dead know, the dead are everywhere and they are watching me. They will watch me KILL THESE FORSAKEN BEINGS!* A shriek of pure fury crosses my dried and cracking lips, as the fury of Saidin flows through my veins. There is nothing quite like it, channeling. You're more alive than ever you could possibly be, everything is just... more. Not the dead though. When I channel the dead are quiet, the dead don't look at me when I channel. It's moments like this when I'm lucid again, when I'm embracing Saidin. It's why the world is breaking, men who go insane can't stop themselves from channeling, and the best kind of channeling is to take as much of the One Power into yourself as you possibly can, and release it in a blow of fury. We don't use balefire anymore, not since we learned what it does. It's in moments like this that I can realize balefire is wrong, that it simply unmakes things. And the stronger the balefire, the more unmade something is. It can undo things people did in the past. Lews Therin Telamon put everything he had into balefire once. Every drop he could channel. His army was destroyed around him, utterly and totally destroyed. I stood at his side, ready to die with a curse on my lips. His balefire was so strong it undid what the enemy general had done. He remade his army. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Such power, so easily abused. I rain fire down on the valley, and the trollocs burn. They burn and burn and scream. The Myrddraal scream as well, and they burn too. The thirteen Forsaken don't burn, they danced through the flames, and returned the gift of death. They began to throw lightning and fire. They turned the air to water and raised barriers of rock to drown me. I blasted forth pure fury, and screamed as I shot lightning from my hands. It's the rage that really made it work. I cleansed the air and shattered the walls, I blew through the shields of one, then two, then three of the Forsaken. I cackled aloud and rained fire down on them still. We fought for hours, hours. Slowly, inexorably, my shields were weakened. My counters came slightly slower. My ability to hold Saidin withdrew, but still I hurled death from my hands. I ruptured the earth, and it swallowed three more of them whole. They fell into the pit, and I closed it on them. I could feel the two men's channeling snuff out. I could feel it when my shields collapsed and my skin began to crackle, then burn as the remaining seven hurled themselves at me. Two of the women had linked, and were more powerful than before. I howled, and began pulling forth Saidin from my sa'angreal. I obliterated the two who had linked, pulled their bones from their skin and crushed them to powder before the eyes of the other five. I just wanted to kill those five. That was my desire. I knew I was mortally wounded, my burns were that severe. My eyes were gone, melted into my face. My hands were lumps of blackened skin and melted flesh. But you don't need eyes to see with Saidin, and you don't need hands to throw lightning and fire and most importantly, death. The madness crept back into my mind then, as I approached death. I could feel the eyes of the dead on my burned skin. I could hear them whispering, like a chorus of mice. But I could hold that in the back of my mind. I could focus, and with focus I could ignore even the blistering agony that was my body. I defeated an attempt to end the battle by one of them. He shot forth balefire, I deflected it with the corpse of a Myrddraal and then rapidly expanded the air in his lungs. His chest blew apart in a spray of blood and bone and gristle. Two of the men broke and ran then, the last two. Leaving two more women, who had linked to try and save their skin. The two men opened a gate to another part of the world, I opened a gate through their heads. The edge of a gate is sharper than the sharpest razor blade, and stronger than steel. They crumpled, their bodies falling to the ground and their heads disappearing to wherever I had opened the gate to. I didn't care anymore. Two more women, two more. *Two more women, and two dead. Twenty dead. Two hundred dead, no two thousand, no two million. Standing there. Watching me. Why, why are they watching me? WHY WON'T THE DEAD STOP LOOKING AT ME!* I screamed aloud again, and pulled through more Saidin than I could safely handle. The two women died screaming as I boiled the blood in their veins and ripped their beating hearts from their rib cages. I collapsed, suddenly unable to channel. I had done it, I had gentled myself. I had pulled more Saidin than I could handle, and I couldn't channel anymore. But I could still feel Saidin. I could still feel the taint. I rasped a breath out of lungs that no longer worked, and fell over, burning. I could sense what I had done, and I had done terrible things. For hundreds of miles around me there was nothing but desert. Rock and sand, baked dry. Massive mountains rose to the west, and the dead danced circles around my body. There were living things, but horribly changed by the magics thrown around. Harmless snakes now had venom that could kill a man in literally the span of a heartbeat. Lizards that now would attack anything they saw viciously, and try to eat it. Tiny, minuscule pools of water still remained, but they were nothing compared to the vast lakes that had once given this region a name that translated to Fields of Water and Life. Now it was a waste, and I laughed dryly as the pain blazed through my body, took one last rasping breath, and died.

Hi. I’m not going to tell you my name. I will tell you what they call me: The Night Dick. I come out at night like a fucking Vampire, I pick a place--I just pick a place and go there like a fucking Vampire would. My pants are big and I wear a long sexy leather jacket. Women; they are so beautiful, I love their body parts. One of my favorite places to go is this Night Club called Black Bear. On Wednesday’s they have karaoke and I love watching drunk girls sing P-P-P-P-Poker Face. I’ve been banging ladies for a while now, I’m a fucking pro. Different strategies for different scenarios. Instead of calling me Night Dick, they should call me The General. I am at war with myself and the female race. I plan my attack, I prepare myself and then...I execute. I was born in a Trailer park; my mother I believe, was a crack ho. She told me once that my father gave jobs to women and earned a lot of money and had a straight reputation. I aspired to be him throughout my childhood, it was the love I had for my father and his reputation that made me aware of women. I should get to the dick part now, seeing as this is my second paragraph. When I came out of my mother’s vagina the doctors were speechless. My mother cried, “Waaaaaaaaahh!! They be something wrong with my boy?! SPEAK TO ME DOCTOR, TELL ME PLEASE IS MY BOY OKAY?!!!” I was indeed okay. I had all ten fingers and toes, a good heart, all limbs. One thing was abnormal……my genitals were…capacious. My mother later said that during her labor with me, she thought it was an arm. As a boy, having such a huge penis was difficult. My crack ho mother would strap it to my leg with a thick rubber band that she too, even used sometimes. I ran away when I became a teenager. My dick was getting so big my mother basically shunned me. I slapped her like dad would've done and bounced. One day I was at a public library. I saw a cute girl in one of the aisles and walked over to her. Told her I loved books and that she was pretty. She invited me back to her table and we sat there. I let her talk about book shit for a while and then my dick started to get hard and it hit her shoe. She looked down and moved her foot, I said sorry and she didn't know it was my dick. I thought about fucking a dead elderly in the ass to make the monster calm down. We went outside and decided to take a nice stroll down the trail behind the Library. Definitely impressed her. She kept smiling and shit, total win. There was a bench under a willow tree, we sat down and I put my arm around her. Out of all the women, her tongue blew my mind the most. She pulled my pants down and saw it. Her mouth opened so wide, I felt obligated to put my gargantuan dick inside it. I closed my eyes in the anticipation of ultimate pleasure. I grabbed onto her smooth blonde hair and moved her head back and forth. The more I did it, the more aggressive it became. I COMPLETELY zoned out and heard nothing. Finally, I ejaculated. When I opened my eyes all I saw was bloody cum and this bitch on the ground choking and gargle fucking n’ shit. A few of her teeth were stuck on my dick, I didn't even feel it. I didn't know what to do, she was still kind of alive. So, I pulled up my pants strapped on my boot straps and ran away. She was my first. Tonight’s the night, I’m at the hottest club with the hottest bitches. Nice ass Brunette, NICE rack Blondie! I’m looking for a bitch or two to suck my dinosaur dick. Search and destroy. Search and destroy. I walk up to the bar and order my drink; it’s a heavy dose on the rocks. Six of these and I’m gone. My plan is to look mysterious and rich. Ten minutes in and my plan is in fucking motion. That same Brunette with the nice ass I just want to rape walks up to me. “Hey, buy me a drink.” She says. Trying to be assertive and thinking with her imaginary dick. I buy a fucking drink for the bitch. “What do you do?” She asks. “I can’t tell you, it’s a secret. And No, I ‘m not pretending I’m some FBI Agent or a legendary Con-Artist.” “I, I bet you’re an assassin!” She drunkenly jokes. “Yeah! Something like that.” She gets me, this girl. Her blonde friend comes over and I ensue to get them drunk. They are groping me on the dance floor, mouths opened, hands all over the place. I slipped ecstasy in their drinks because–why not? A Justin Timberlake song comes on, and my body is taken over by it. “Can you feel my huge cock?” I asked the brunette riding my thigh. “Your thigh is so strong and veiny.” She says. I laugh and grab the blonde’s ass. I tell the bitches that my penthouse is under construction and that we should go to one of their places, they oblige and it turns out they’re roommates! It’s almost like fucking sisters. We walk up to their mediocre apartment in the middle of shitty city, and sit on their fucking futon doing lines of coke. I tell their drugged up asses to get naked and sit on my lap. “My cock is like a submarine.” I say. They giggle at first, then they look down and see my U-Boat. Before they can see how big it actually is I yell at them, “DO YOU WANNA GET FUCKED?!” “YE-YEAH!!” They say in unison. I tell them to get on their knees behind one another, “Aren't you girls glad I’m not Michael Jackson?” I blurt out. (Hey, I’m drugged up too; I’m not some invincible superhero from the Imax theaters). Both of them start laughing like pigs. “Un-oh yeah that’s right I’m doin’ me” I quote Drake. The Canadian version of Lil Wayne. These bitches totally misunderestimated my dinosaur dick! I close my eyes and scream like I’m on a roller coaster speeding down the biggest drop ever built in the world. I drill into them like BP’s off-shore drilling in the Gulf coast. Both of them collapse and I stand up looking down at them, the brunette starts to crawl. “Hey girl, what’s up?” I ask her. She doesn't say anything, I don’t know why, I didn't fuck her in the mouth. I walk over to the blonde she is crying and bloody. “Help me…” “Help you? That’s a silly question to ask the person who created the situation where you need help. Dont ‘cha think?” “Hnnngh.” “I know, right. Well bitches, I haven’t cummed yet. Can you imagine how much cum comes out of my gigantic dick?” “…No…” The brunette cries softly. “Oh…yes.” I hit the blonde in the face with my cock it knocks her out and I walk over to the Brunette who is completely terrified of me. I shove my phallus in her tiny mouth; blood gushes down to my potato sacks. Feeling like I’m going to explode I pull my dick out of whats left of the brunette’s face, stand in front of them and ejaculate. They look like Spider-Man came up in this shit and captured them as if they were robbers or old lady purse grabbers. If the bitches are still alive after my dinosaur attack, they’ll die soon, suffocating on my Jesus juice. "Hey sexy emo bitch." I whisper into her ear. Her hair is short so I don't need to use my hands. I step back and almost hit the wall of plastic shoes; but I stop myself just in time and stand in a very cool way. "Excuse me?" She says, turning around. "You're emo right? Like you like look pretty emo to me." "I am emo, but that's none of your business!" She turns back around quickly, if she didn't have a Peter Pan haircut her hair would've moved with her... "I'm sorry, Miss. I'm just a little shy is all and you're really cute..." A smile appears on her face and I just scored a point. Maybe ten points, eight for acting. "Thanks. You shouldn't be shy, you seem real nice." I told her I've never been to Wal-Mart before and that I was a little overwhelmed by the size of the fucking store. Emo girl wants to give me a tour. She brings me over to the clothes even though, I don't give a fuck about stupid clothes made by Chinese children. She's putting them in front of her asking me if I like it; all I gotta do is nod and smile and she giggles and that's that. To cut things short I ask her to show me the Electronics section, she brings me over to the wall of flat screen HD, 3-D, LSD televisions; all of them are playing the local News. FUCK!! They are talking about a crazed club murderer. Well shit, I ain't going to the clubs anymore. "You're funny." "No, you are." I put my arm around her and she snuggles into me, desperate to be with someone who's not emo...because, emo's hang out with other emo's. I made up a word for that because I am the Cock Master--contipulation is the word. It means when emo people hang out with other emo people or bitches hangin' out with other bitches. It can be used for both circumstances. Sometimes, it is the same circumstance, a two for one. This bitch is not doing anything for the monster and god damn it it's hungry! I don't know what it is, her hair or her teeth but something must be done. She shows me the guns that Wal-Mart has and how they even have a pink gun like I fucking care about a pink gun. My gun is my gigantic AK-47, I cock that shit and bitches die. "Ooh, fabric." Emo girl in awe points to fucking fabric. I follow her into the back-end corner of the cheap things, cheap prices, cheap labour store. She's touching some silk fabric with wide eyes as if it was amazing or something. God damn, emo chicks are fucking nuts. "You know emo girl, you're really pissing me off." I say, finally getting it off my chest. She looks at me in incredible shock. Did California fall into the fuckin' Pacific?! "What. Why? What did I do wrong? I'm sorry, I suck..." "Your mouth is way too small for sucking." "What? Oh my god, what did I do?!" "Bitch you lookin' at fabric like it's diamonds!" I shout. "Whatever, ASSHOLE. WE'RE JUST HANGING OUT- GOSH. IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HANG OUT WITH ME, FINE, DON'T. I'LL JUST BE BY MYSELF AND LOOK AT FABRIC LIKE DIAMONDS." Whoa. I think she woke up the monster. "That turns me on. When you're yelling at me like that." "Really?" Emo girl says, blushing. "Yeah. It does. Like, really fucking bad." "...I liked it when you called me a bitch." "Yeah, well, you are a bitch." "Fuck you!" "Shut the fuck up bitch! Don't tell me fuck you." "You shut the fuck up!" "Mhmm, yeah." "Am I doing it right?" "Well, you're not being emo enough.

Denton sprinted up the hill as fast as he could. His hands grabbed clumps of grass and dirt, kicking it back and letting it avalanche down the side. It felt like every breath was laced with battery acid. Warm sweat flooded off his brow and made its journey's end off his scruffy chin. His tattered clothes launched backwards in a flapping flurry, almost like a flag hanging high and proud above a nation. The wind, however, was not his friend. It was an invisible entity trying to push him backwards, to prevent him from reaching the top of the hill. Denton's abs tightened as he pushed through the wind. *He promised...* As he reached the climax of the hill, things began to blend into familiarity. It was natural for him to approach the glimmering pond cautiously. It was natural for him to kneel before the glowing green water. He looked into the eyes of the man looking into his. Brown circles so light, they were almost gold. Gaunt cheeks and age claimed his face, covered by long fingers of black hair. Blood. It scabbed over his body. *Mine? Or theirs? I guess no matter what... It's mine.* The face came closer to him until he was one with the reflection. Until the water devoured him and he sank through the deep sea of jade. Cracks of lightning pierced through the water the deeper he sank. The pressure was great. First, his ears felt it. Noise began to quickly evaporate. Second, his eyes. They felt as if they were going to pop before the world was eaten by black. Third, his consciousness. He drifted out into an abyss of emptiness, not asleep, not awake. Not existing. He awoke in a green field. The grass danced under the guidance of the gentle breeze. The sky was a bright blue fading to white at the horizon and the Sun was large and glorious and warm. Denton looked down the same hill he had just climbed and saw them. Them. *Them* Denton sprinted down toward the two people resting blissfully on a picnic blanket. They were far, and his legs were weak. Denton slowed down, instantly looking at the two he was sprinting for. One was a man with short black hair in a white, wool sweater. His back was turned to Denton as he lay lethargically on his side. The girl was in a blue dress, smiling, laughing. If the Sun were to vanish her smile would still light the field. If the birds were to become silent, her laughter would fill the air more beautifully. She was an example of pure beauty, pure perfection, pure innocence. Her fluffy, auburn hair cascaded down her neck exploded off her shoulders with brilliant rolls and curls. Denton realized he had stopped completely. *He promised...* His body felt light, like he was stuffed with feathers. Denton let a wave of nirvana crash against him and drown him in the moment. He was tired, and needed to appreciate her beauty before- *BOOOOOM!!!!* With a wet splat the woman's brains ejaculated onto the man's wool sweater. Red gore pooled around him as he hysterically plucked auburn hair off of the stickiness coated on his torso. In less than a second the man stood up and looked around. Denton did the same. Men were swarming. In the distance they looked to be ants, but as they neared they screamed with the same ferocity. Each was garbed with different clothes, different armor. The man in the wool sweater turned around and locked eyes with Denton. Their golden eyed stare collided into each other. They were one in the same, reflections standing on the same side of the mirror. Denton's eyes broke away for but a second and saw a man with a smoking gun rampage towards the wool sweater man. Denton found a new, tired strength in his legs and sprinted towards the both of them. Once Denton grabbed the wool sweater man's hand, he reared away from the gunman and sprinted to the field's exit. Behind him, he heard cracks of gunpowder rip into abdomens and end life. He heard blades tear through flesh and cries of agony and glory intertwine into a bloody symphony. Denton and the man hanging out of his hand dodged men running to the battle. Though they indeed have been through all their own adventures and acquired different scars and clothes, they still shared one thing. The golden eyes. They were all the same men. All the same blood. All the same cries. Once Denton and the other man were far enough from the field they stopped and drew in long, painful breaths. "Who... What... Why are they...?" "My... Name is... Denton... You're name is... Jack..." Denton heaved. They both stopped trying to talk for a second and let their lungs heal. Jack tried to wipe blood away from his face, but instead simply smeared it around. The blood became easier to smear as tears rolled down his cheeks. Jack stopped spreading the blood around and kept his hands over his eyes. Denton remembered. A heavy ball formed in his stomach. "A war has started." Denton said coldly. "We don't know how it started. The spring. The green one. It drowns you to the past. That's how we all get here." Jack continued to cry. Denton swallowed the sympathetic words that were creeping up out of his throat and replaced them with stronger ones. *He promised* "You can cry all you want. That won't bring back Emily." "...I know..." "This is where you ask questions, Jack. You're going to quit sniffling in a few seconds and ask." Denton paused and waited for Jack to quit sniffling. "They're... You're... All me?" "I don't know how... But yeah... We're all the same." Jack stared off into the distance for what felt like an hour, but regained himself and continued to ask. "Why is your name Denton... If you're supposed to be me, that is..." "Everyone having the same name got confusing." Jack knew there were questions there. He just didn't know what they were, like shadows of questions that he needed to ask. "What do we do now?" "We go South. There, we will find a river and a forest where we will build our stronghold. Some men from the battle will meet us there, some will try to kill us." "But *why* do they want to kill us!?" "I don't know, Jack. This war is going to wage for a couple weeks. Most of us are going to die, including myself, and no questions will be answered." "...How do I die?" Denton thought of the blade that pierces through his back. Those eyes of acceptance. It comforted Denton knowing that he, too, would share those same accepting eyes. "I won't say. Think of this as a script. I've already read it, and your eyes are just now meeting the words. In this script, I don't say how you die. But trust me, you'll know long before it happens." *You, too, will be reassured by those accepting eyes, Jack.* Denton continued, "Those are all the answers you need, right now. Now, I need you to help me start building. Their first assault is within an hour of the initial attack." Denton turned around and started walking towards a wood coated horizon. *All those trees. Burned. Cut. Smashed. Cherish life now, my green trimmed friends.* Denton's eyes kept darting to his left. Knowing it would happen somewhere around there. Fear crept into him like a stalking cat. He wondered how fearful he would be in the moment. If those accepting eyes were lying, or truthful. It was a few moments before Denton realized that he was walking by himself, he turned around and saw Jack standing in the same spot. He looked as if he were staring out into the endless reach of the ocean. Denton jogged back, each step a dull, tired sore. *Why isn't he like me? I was passionate, eager to fight. To avenge her. To see her... To SEE her!* *He promised!* "Listen, Jack. I told you I won't tell you anything of the script. But I will tell you one thing... You'll see her again. you'll see Emily again." Jack's eyes were still lost at sea, but a storm brewed on the waters. Those golden eyes reflected heat, a fire, a volcano erupting in a thunderous roar. "You need to do exactly what I say though. This is going to be like a very precise surgery. Events happen in a very specific way. One day, I need you to take my place." Denton's words were sopping with melancholy. "Can I...?" "Can you what?" "See her again... CAN I SEE HER AGAIN!?" Jack curled his fists and let his face flush into hot red skin and pulsing veins. Denton looked down for a moment. Inside him, something warm was glowing. Denton raised his eyes to meet Jack's. "I promise.

Hey fellow Short-Story enthusiasts! I've been lurking on here for the longest time and reading all the great stories (original and published) and having a great time. But when I compare this sub to other places like /r/literature and /r/bookclub, I'm saddened that I don't get to see the same level of in-depth discussion. There's just not a lot of love for short stories. Which is funny since because of their length we should be able to have really good conversations about it. So: I'm starting up a new subreddit, /r/shortstoryclub , for in-depth book-club-ish discussion and analysis of short stories both new and old. Have a story you love to gab about? Want to talk more about how a short story ticks? Hopefully soon we'll be able to schedule pre-determined story discussions.

It seemed to be the end, now- the city's soldiers had given a valiant fight, the heroes of all humanity gathered in one place- Palancar of Tithia, the paladin, O'ashn, the rogue of the Blackmoon Streets; even the ancient Allmage of Retun had emerged from his hermit's cave to aid the last human-held city in their battle. The battle against the undead and their daemon masters had continued for days- 3 long, hard days; days where the daemons had driven the undead up against the walls of Hairn like the water against a rock- and just like a rock, the city had weathered each assault. However, as the sun rose on the fourth day, everything seemed doomed- the undead army had simply been growing with every casualty that the human forces took, and the demon rift had widened every day at sunset. It looked like today was the day that the heroes of humanity would fall. Palancar grimly looked at his regiment- down from a hundred Tithian men to a mere twenty-three- and sighed. They stood at the top of a tower, looking out on the endless undead armies, and Palancar's closest friend and second in command, Ulthar, turned to him. "My friend, it seems as though we will die today. Even if each of us fights worthy of song and kills a thousand abominations, the city will still fall," Ulthar said, his visage covered by the dark stare of a warrior resigned to death. Palancar said nothing for a moment, and then addressed his soldiers. "Men.." he said, his voice cracking on the first word, "men. These past days you have proven yourselves to truly be men, the best that I have ever commanded. But today even the best of humanity cannot stand against the forces of the Abyss. Though we cannot hope to remain alive amidst the rotted flesh and hellish enemies arrayed against us, we will fight. Because we are the men of Tithia; her womb bore us and nutured us until she was burned by these scions of death. So I ask you, soldiers of the motherland, soldiers of Humanity, shall we fight?" A roar went up from the collected soldiers that quickly died down in the deathly silence of the walled city. Far away, in an inn, down below the large walls, sat O'ashn by himself, bandaging his wounds so they would not hamper him in battle, and conversing with his brother, who had accompanied him from Blackmoon. "I will find the demon and stab him in the back and they will return," said the young, optimistic brother, holding a small dagger in his hand, swinging it. The adolescent was unlikely to see another day- the enemy would break through the weakened walls today- but he was eager to acquit himself in battle for his brother's eyes to see. O'ashn smiled a mirthless smile, and patted his young brother on the back before returning to his weaponry and bandaging. The last of the great heroes was quite busy in the highest tower in the city, calling upon the very earth to shake and bring lightning on these creatures that were not natural to her, but the Allmage could not find a way to get the Earth to respond- she seemed almost preoccupied with something more important! As if the destruction of her entire surface was nothing to be worried about. He frowned and worked even harder, chanting faster and flipping through his spellbook to find something that might allow him to contact her before it was too late... In the streets, the attitude was, among some, resigned, and among others, defiant. Many laid in the streets, uncaring about their fate- some were crippled without their loved ones, some simply not willing to put any energy into what seemed to be a lost cause, preferring to take their time to make their peace. Blacksmiths worked hard to make last-minute weaponry for every able-bodied person, and bars let the alcohol flow for those who weren't able to fight. At last, a few hours later, the meager army of Hairn was assembled outside of the gates- they would do everything they could to delay the enemies so that those inside could have their peace. On the other side of the battlefield, there was a fell roar, and then the battle was commenced, a massive flood of bodies falling upon the heroes and the troops of humanity. Now, they all knew they were doomed; it was truly evident if it hadn't been before- each man faced a dozen daemons or a hundred undead; few escaped death in that first charge. The ranks of the humans dwindled quickly. But then there was a clearing in the dark, ashy skies. All battle stopped. Palancar looked up. A winged, armored man stepped down, seemingly out of a beam of light, and turned to look at Palancar- his face was hidden, but the paladin knew that the thing's gaze was upon him- and then, it raised it's sword and a thousand other beams of light opened up the sky to a radiant sun and one intangible thing that made the human soldiers cry for joy and surge for a counterattack- **Hope.

I wrote this short story in high school a few years ago, it was Independece Day and we were supposed to write a story about the direction of our country. It was the year 2013 when we found, not only the largest, but the only known reserve of *tilden*, in Yucatán, south Mexico. This new mineral soon meant a new industrial revolution, that, due to it's unusual properties soon took over oil's hierarchy as the fuel of the world's economies. Overnight Mexico had found an incalculable fortune that shook the world. Just to get us started, I'd like to remember what the irish Oscar Wilde said about America: "The only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between". We went from dreamed of founding an outer space exploration agency, to put the first military base on the moon (The Salinas One). From dreaming of reaching the 5th game to win 2 consecutive World Cups (with scandalous refereeing and all), from thinking it was insulting to put us a wall at the border to avoid us, to thinking it's now useful to keep *them* out now. Naturally, our space program can't start from zero ground. The Americans from the now extinct NASA are way ahead of us. They are being hired to get it started, meanwhile our mexican boys stick to the most profound of our idiosyncrasies: fucking around.

>Everything is silent but the wind. An empty bus stop is across the street. The faded green metal of the shelter is rusted, and the glass has long since been graffitied. Trash is overflowing a nearby wastebin. A young man, thinly built sporting a tattered leather jacket, red beanie, and jeans comes into view. He is smoking a cigarette. >Cut to close up view on his grey eyes - you see them flick upwards, you can see he is vigilant and aware of his surroundings at all times. He blinks. >The sun is bright overhead. He solemnly approaches the bench and stands in the shade, leaning with his back against the shelter. Hands in his pockets, he glances left. >A lone stranger is staggering down the sidewalk across the street. His movements suggest psychosis. Jagged hand movements and reactions to imaginary surroundings, he is clearly under the influence of reality altering chemicals. >A bird chips in a nearby tree. the branch sways in the breeze. >Cut back to main character, light smoke curls around his face as he exhales. his eyes are trailing the stranger, face completely blank. He blinks. >The bus driver is clearly frustrated. His face is screwed up in brewing emotion. Eyes watery, face red and bushy eyebrows angrily clenched down. In the back of a bus a baby is crying, cell phones are going off, noise is building up. One of the passengers is becoming aggressive and is about to cause a commotion with another. The driver is glancing in his mirror. >The staggering stranger, is reacting violently to nothing. His movements are erratic. He steps into the street. There is froth at his mouth, eyes dilated. Incapable of forming words, he moans and blurts incoherently. >The main character glances right. >A young adult female is driving her car. She is listening to loud pop music, her hair is in her face as she dances in her seat. She glances down at her radio console, which has a glare coming off it from the sun's reflection. >Close up of her gas gauge, it is rising. She is still looking at her radio, changing the channel. Her elbow bumps her coffee and it spills. She gasps and makes a desperate attempt at saving her drink. >Cut to main character. He glances left. The bus is approaching. He starts to finish his cigarette. >The bus driver yells at the passenger. Threatening to kick him off the bus at the next stop. The passenger raises his voice. The baby is wailing. >The young woman reaches for the cup, hot liquid pouring all over the interior of her car. She is looking down at the mess. Her music is is still blaring loud. >The raving madman is seen for a fraction of a second in her windshield. The music volume, combined with her speedy distracted driving, she hits him hard. >The bird takes flight. >From main character's point of view, time is in slow motion. The stranger impacts the car and his limbs splay out at an inhuman angle. His flesh ricochets off the metal car. This bag of fleeting mortality lands in the path of the bus. About 6 feet in front of and to the left of the main character. His face is a bloody mess and the left leg is shattered in many places. A bloody pool forming around his mangled body. >The bus driver has his head turned. Attention towards the back of his bus. He hits the brakes a little harder than he usually would to spite the standing passenger that was making his day shit and yells at him to get off the bus. >As stranger gurgles blood in the road, the bus drives over his head. Brains splatter on the driver's side wheel. The bus barely feels a bump as it rolls to a stop. The door to the bus opens and a man storms off in the same direction the bus was heading without looking back. >Main character takes one last puff of his cigarette, flicks it then steps onto the bus. >Cut to black.

He was no stranger to this, this strong pain resonating from his forearm up. This was a normal act, almost routine to perform. Josh had blood streaking down to his palm, pooling in his hand. The gleam of the metal in his other hand had reminded him that there he wasn't done yet. He curled his hand into a fist and struck again, the box cutter tearing apart his clean unscarred flesh of his arm. This time was different, he didn't feel any pain and didn't feel the need to stop. He was going to keep going. He knew this was coming though, he had planned this night. He went into the kitchen earlier while his parents were asleep and had shoveled as many pills as there were in the house down his throat. This night was different. Josh had scars all over his arm, he couldn't wear anything less revealing than a long sleeved jacket around other people including his own family. In school he had friends at one point, but everything dies off eventually. Those friends found that it was too much work to be friends with someone who shared so little of himself, all he is is cutting though, and he could not share that. He was a smart kid though, he planned it out well. He knew he couldn't tell anyone, that was his previous mistake, he learned from trial and error with this and made the perfect plan. This was a perfect night. He kept going until he couldn't see the pale white of his skin color on his wrist. He wouldn't stop. Josh was determined this time, he was pushed to the limits. Earlier that evening he watched his ex-girlfriend of two years go with someone else to prom, he asked and she said yes. That was a cold reminder that he was alone. Josh would rather be dead than alone. His plan started with the pills, washed down with bleach, now he was sitting on the edge of the roof, wrists cut, and vision fading. He missed one part. The note. He was frantically fighting for consciousness now, he couldn't leave his family without saying goodbye. His stomach was on fire and it was burning upwards towards his throat, his vision was fading, too much blood lost, all he could do was claw his way indoors. He wouldn’t make it though, there wasn’t enough time left. The next day the police arrived to the scene of a young 13 year old boy named Josh fallen on the fence next to his house, it was an obvious suicide. Josh’s younger sister would forever be scarred with the mental image of her brother almost cut in half by their fence when she went out to get their morning paper. Josh had wandered off a lot in his sleep, so him missing in the morning wasnt out of the ordinary.

Today. Today was the day he was going to get rid of her for good. Too many things were weighing on his mind and if he could do one thing to remove even the tiniest bit of it, then today was the day. He walked to the back of his car and popped the trunk, rummaging around for the black box he had buried under the emergency supplies. His hands fell on the package and he stopped cold. A flood of memories came back, unwelcomed in his crowded mind. Shaking it off, he opened the box and pulled out the book inside. He felt his body tense up as he found the pages she’d written on, and he tore them out as quickly as possible. Tossing the book and the box back in the trunk, he walked to the side of the car and flipped open his lighter. The pages were done for. Their fate had been sealed. He held on to them as they burned, watching the fire lick at her handwriting. It was as if the fire was burning away the last few painful memories of their time together. He let the fire find its way towards his fingers to the very last second and let the papers fall down onto the dirt. It was almost over. Returning to the trunk, he lifted the box and the book and shook his head in disgust. Closing the lid and returning behind the wheel, he tossed the two unwanted items in the passenger seat. He’d thought about burning them, but that would take too long. The miles crawled by as he debated the best way to just get rid of that damn book. If it was so easy for her to get rid of him, it had to be easy enough for him to get rid of the last piece of her. Deciding on an upcoming car wash, he pulled in, pulled the book and the box out of the front seat, and headed for the garbage can. The box went first. But he had a thought, why not just leave the book for someone else to find. He laughed to himself at the thought of someone else picking it up and never knowing what the story was behind it, never knowing the pain he’d endured from someone doing everything in their power to change what he is and what he believes. They’d never guess that he’d tried to read it, and understand it, but so much of it went beyond what he knew was right. She’d given it to him for Father’s Day, with an inscription inside that had now been burned into oblivion. It had said something about love and forever, but all of it rang false to him, just as what was printed on the following pages. Forever love can’t exist when one person’s goal is to break down the other, and glue the pieces back together as they see fit. She had no regard for him as he was, only how she wanted him to be. She told him the book would help them become what they needed to be for that forever love to grow. She told him how much it meant to her, and because he loved her, he tried. He tried but he couldn’t do it. He didn’t want it. He wanted her, and she wanted whatever pieces of him she could make into her own creation. It disgusted him, but it was time to close the book on that chapter of his life. He propped the book up on the outside window ledge, next to the ‘Open’ sign, and thought maybe he would wait to see what poor soul was about to release him from the very last piece of her that was holding his mind hostage. Shaking his head, he decided to at least get a car wash, to somehow repay the window ledge for being there in his time to need. As the water rushed to its purpose, he felt somehow it was his heart in that car wash, being washed clean of her memory. Smiling, he pulled back onto the road unaware of the car that had pulled in behind him and the driver that had watched him place a book on the window ledge. She had been driving for days, not sure of the path that she needed to take in her life. Her inspiration had been gone for years, and it wasn’t getting any better. She had options, none of them good, and little time left to figure out the lesser of her evils. The stranger in the black car with the black box and book took her mind off of things for a while. She’d been sitting and watching his every movement, watching how long he stared at the book, and how he seemed to walk a little taller after he’d left it. She waited until she was sure he wasn’t coming back for it, and approached the window ledge. A sly smile caught her lips. This was a sign. She carefully opened the cover and traced her fingertips down what was left of a few ripped pages. What was on them? Did he keep them? Did he burn them? Who tears pages out of a bible? The thoughts of all of the possibilities nearly made her dizzy, but she welcomed this feeling. Her inspiration had come to her through a stranger’s actions, and the overwhelming urge to write his unknown story caught her off guard. She tucked the book under her arm and sprinted towards her car, deciding that the stranger was her muse. Thoughts swirled in her head as she drove home and skipped up the stairs two at a time. She couldn’t get to her computer fast enough. As she started to write, the words flowed through her fingers like water: *Today. Today was the day he was going to get rid of her for good.

No-one knew that the briefcase contained the means to erase mankind. Most of the homeless population beneath the Orwell Bridge assumed that it was stacked with cash and left unfastened in a naïve act of compassion by some businessman, or other. After all, it was no secret that the majority of the city’s homeless spent each night beneath the rusty iron bridge. There was simply no reason to suspect anything sinister, especially considering the kind nature of the countless visitors that had come with charity in mind. Who could have known that within the briefcase, neatly placed upon the cream cushioned interior, were eight vials that were filled with a clear but apocalyptic virus – the virus that would soon be airborne? Such thoughts would be considered irrational, surely. Is it not natural for man to come to the aid of his suffering kin? With this forever in mind the vagrants were quick to tear into the briefcase like hyenas into a ravaged carcass. You can imagine their shock once its contents were revealed to them. *What…what the fuck is this?* One of the vagrants exclaimed, disgusted by what could only be a practical joke of the sickest kind. He removed the first vial from the briefcase and held it close to his nearly blind eye. *Hmmm, looks empty to me, whatchu think?* One of the other vagrants snatched it from his hand and began to inspect it for himself. *Yessir, definitely empty!* There was a high wind on this cloudy afternoon by the riverbank, which laced the air with a potent chill. From the comfort of his car a man in a black suit watched as one of the vagrants tossed the open briefcase into the garbage, the vials smashing and releasing their contents into the howling wind.

Oh my gawd, thanks mom for getting me this new video game! Im so pumped. XBOX TURN ON! Uuuuuurghhh just go in disk! Oh my GAWWD! Come on! Just go in! Uugh, omg finally. Lets play the game. XBOX PLAY CALL OF DUTY MODERN WARFARE 4! No! Don’t play modern warfare 3! XBOX PLAY MODERN WARFARE 4! Thanks XBOX, it only took me four thousand tries omg. Omygod im so pumped, it looks so cool, man, Omygod dude I been waiting months for this game, man. This loading screen looks so cool! What? Epilepsy Warning? Pfft, yeah, right. The government is just trying to scare me. Cmon XBOX JUST LOAD THE DURN GAME. Cmoncmoncmon! Im so pumped man! Yes! Finally! Its loaded! Alright am i an experienced player? Heck yes I am a fps MASTER! Let’s just get into a multiplayer game. Ok this server looks good. Im so pumped omg! What? I can’t create a class yet? That’s stupid! oh well I’ll just go default whatever. Lets just walk over here.. OMYGAWD Im dead. Lets just respawn..

I'm applying to a creative writing program at my school and I'm looking to see if anyone has feedback on my fiction short story I'm turning in (this was my brother's idea). I'd also LOVE title suggestions- I'm not great with titles. Anything is appreciated! Thanks! Title “One more’s not gonna kill you” Taylor laughed and handed Cole a colorful shot glass labeled, “Viva México!” spilling copper liquid over the rim. “C’mon just take it, you pussy” he lost his balance but caught himself, giggling. More liquid spilled. Cole’s head spun, but he grabbed the glass from Taylor’s shaky hand, closed his eyes, and threw it back. His throat burned as it slid down, and he liked it; the discomfort comforted him. He looked around, his thoughts clouded from hours of shot-gunning Busch light and downing cheap whiskey. Everyone started to look the same- every boy sporting a lacrosse pinnie with bold letters stating “Seniors 2011,” “(blank) University,” or some kind of profanity. The girls all wearing too-tight tops, trying to increase the look of their bra size or show off their newly pierced navels. They melted together, a painting of colorful conformity. Cole sat on the couch, observing boys celebrate their win at the most recent beer pong game, and girls stumbling and convincing others that they “never throw up when they drink.” He began to feel the last shot around 12:30 am. His body tingled and he didn’t notice the couple making out next to him until the girl accidently kicked his arm. He stood up and tried to walk, stumbling. Taylor approached him, his arm draped around a girl on her tippy-toes trying to kiss his neck. “Dude, you headin’ out?” “Yeah, I gotta… My house…” his words slurred and trailed off. He laughed at his inability to explain. “Why don’t you just stay here for the night?” Taylor suggested. The girl crinkled her nose. “Nah my parents…” “Dude, your parents won’t give a fuck. Seriously, you can sleep in John’s room.” Cole grinned and jingled his car keys in front of his face. Taylor rolled his eyes, “Whatever, man. Do what you gotta do.” He turned and picked up the small girl who squealed as he carried her upstairs. Cole made his way to the door, kicking aside red cups and crushed beer cans as he walked. His arm hair stood up when it made contact with the early morning air, he had forgotten his jacket, but he didn’t notice. He pressed what he thought was the unlock button on his keys, but the alarm began to blare. Cole jumped and pressed the button again, bringing back the silence. He put his finger to his lips to shush the car, to punish it for it’s naughty behavior. He snickered. The engine roared to a start, and Cole flipped through radio stations- “No. No. No. No. Fuck Katy Perry. No. No.” He finally landed on the recognizable chords of Guns N’ Roses, and the corner of his mouth turned up. He pushed down on the gas, rubber screeched on the gravel; he didn’t notice. The headlights pierced the darkness of the suburban town. Guns N’ Roses slashed the silence. Cole slammed his head back and forth, screaming along, “She’s got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was as fresh as a bright blue sky.” With every beat he pushed harder on the gas. He turned the music up. A mind clouded and hearing overpowered, he didn’t see the stop sign; he didn’t see her. He only felt her when she thudded on the hood of his car and cracked the windshield. Cole smashed his foot on the brake. “She takes me away to that special place… and if I stared too long, I’d probably break down and cry.” His breathing quickened. The thud of her body played in his head, as he sat frozen. His seatbelt tight against his panting chest, he watched blood drip down the windshield. “Oh whoa whoa sweet child o’ mine.” Cole turned off the music. “Shit! Shit shit shit mother fucking shit.” The thump played over and over in his head- a broken record. His eyes widened as the blood made its way down the fractured glass. He flipped on the windshield wipers, but that only spread her blood back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Cole’s stomach churned. He turned off the car and sat in the silence, listening to the wipers squeak. His muscles tensed and shook; he couldn’t move. Finally, he opened the door and stumbled to the ground. Trembling, he pushed himself up and hobbled to the back of his car. Lying behind was a girl who looked around his age. She wore a loose white blouse, and dark wash jeans; she was pretty. Her limbs twisted around one another, and her humerus peeked out through her skin. Blood poured from her nose and mouth. Scratches from the graveled street covered her exposed skin. Beside her, a terrier whimpered, it’s leash draped on the pavement searching for its owner’s hand. Cole froze. Bile crept up his throat but he swallowed it down and stepped closer to her, praying she was alive. With every step his breathing thickened. With every breath, the smell of alcohol overwhelmed his nostrils and bile rose faster. His mind tried to make sense of the blood, and the bone, and the squeaks, and the whimpers; but it blurred into a mess of white noise and red. Minutes passed and the girl did not move. The dog licked her bloody face and lay down, resting his head on her chest. His eyes went to Cole. Tears formed in Cole’s eyes, and ran hot down his face blurring his vision. He fell to the ground heaving, and vomited. Everything went black. Cole came to a few minutes later, his white shirt stained from vomit and sweat. He observed the girl again, neither she nor the terrier had moved. He stood up and pulled his phone out of his pocket- dialing 911. The conversation was hazy; Cole mumbling and crying, the emergency dispatch officer repeating, “Calm down, where are you? Calm down, where are you? Calm down, where are you?” He felt dizzy- but he somehow got the words out: “Essex and Sunset. Hurry.” He snapped his phone shut and ran to his car. The dog picked up his head and yapped after him, but did not leave his owner. When Cole slid back into the driver’s seat the glass of the windshield was stained red, the wipers now ineffective. Cole kept them on. He started the car and sped away, avoiding eye contact with the review mirror. As he sped home he heard sirens in the distance and gripped the wheel. His face stung when he arrived home. He parked the car in the garage, and walked into the side door, the same as every Saturday. He went to his bathroom and splashed water on his face; it was cold but burned against Cole’s hot skin. He didn’t look in the mirror. When he got into bed he tried to fall asleep, but every time he closed his eyes he heard the thump, and the bloody wipers, and smelled the vomit, and saw the bones. He threw up again. Lying in bed he thought of the dog. His whimper reverberated through Cole’s brain- growing louder and louder. He thought of his eyes- black and glistening; he wondered if dogs could cry. He wondered if he knew the answer. Unable to sleep, he crept to his parent’s bathroom. He opened his mother’s medicine cabinet to an array of pill bottles. He went through the names; Prozac, Xanax, Ambien, Advil, Vicodin. He poured one of each into his palm- a medicine mosaic. He clasped his fingers around them and tiptoed to his mother’s bedside. He looked at his mother sleeping; mouth gaped open, hair tousled, still wearing her pearls. What was she going to think? Would she even ask? Would she even care? Cole scoffed as he grabbed the bottle of vodka from her bedside table. Back in bed he popped the assortment of pills into his mouth and took a swig of vodka. His face scrunched as the warm liquid burned his throat. He didn’t like it. He thought of Taylor and the small girl. He thought of the girl in the white blouse. He thought of the emergency dispatch officer- did she think he was a bad person? His mind began to get hazy and the room spun. He felt his heartbeat quicken and slow at the same time, his eyelids drooping. His breath sporadic, his thoughts started to diminish and fade into slumber. He pictured himself at the party, the girl in the white blouse kissing his neck and biting his earlobe. She whispered things he could not understand into his ear, giggling. He liked her laugh. He took her hand in his, and with his other hand pushed her hair behind her ear. She hummed Guns N’ Roses. He smiled. Warmth crept up his body, and everything went black. Cole opened his eyes to see the cement ceiling above him. He put his hands on his chest, neck and face to confirm that he was there. His head ached and pounded; the blanket felt scratchy on his skin and he threw it to the floor. He looked to his right to see his cellmate, Leon, grunting doing pushups against the floor. The window created a square of light that fell directly onto his shoulders. Cole’s breathing began to slow. As reality set back in he heard the regular morning sounds: men wailing and banging against the bars, guards whistling theme songs to cancelled TV shows as they strolled the hallways. He wiped the sweat from his face and threw the thin cranberry blanket to the end of the bed. “Morning, Leon.” Leon didn’t stop or look up, but Cole was glad. He took a small piece of charcoal and behind his bed marked another tally- day one hundred and sixty-three.

As she walked along the waters edge she come upon her large weeping willow tree where she often sat staring off into the distance pondering life's great mysteries, future endeavors, and when she'd be reunited with her one and only GP. It had many a moon since Jeen had last heard from GP his constant coming and goings it's hard to know when he'll show up next. The birds are chirping in the trees surrounding the pond outback of her acreage. The sun is setting casting an orange glow across the water's surface. As Jeen sits under her willow tree she nods off for only a moment but wakes up to utter silence. The birds and wildlife have all hushed up as if something was there. Having had multiple cougar attacks recently Jeen becomes frightened and quickly gets up only to hear a twig breaking in the trees behind her. She stands frozen while searching the tree line for any sudden movements. A hand grabs her from behind covering her mouth muffling her shriek and another hand pulls her in close to her attacker. "Babe." A known voice whispers into her ear. She turned around to see GP standing there looking taller and broader than ever before. She let out a half gasp half whimper as she stood unable to think of anything to say. "I..." She mustered as he placed his index finger over her lips. Lifting her chin with his thumb GP leaned in and kissed her. It was a magical kiss, it reminded her of the first time they had kissed and it felt like stars exploding on her lips and coursing through her veins just under her skin. It sent a chill up her spine as her legs started to give out from underneath her. GP grasped her by the back of the head and lower back as they fell to their knees tearing each other's clothes off in a frenzy. He laid her down kissing her forehead, cheeks, lips and stopping by for a nibble of her ears. He made his way down her chest making sure to subdue the twin peaks he had yearned for for so long. Making his way down he removed her lace panties kissing her inner thigh moving closer and closer. With his hands grasping her breast GP began licking, causing Jeen to squirm and squeal. When she was moist and dripping he repositioned himself on top of her grasping her hair with one hand and sliding the other along her side down until finding her moist succulent center. With two fingers he reached up in searching digging and prodding till FINALLY, He'd found what he was looking for. Twisting his hand inside he began moving it back and forth along the rough patch he's come to know and love. Scratching on it made Jeen squirm and kick trying to release herself from the sensations she was feeling. With his other hand GP applies tension to Jeens hair causing her to scream and her legs to clamp down. In a swift movement Jeen had flipped GP over onto his back as she tore his tight pink boxers off revealing his cock. It was already rock hard wanting her to do her best, she grasped it at the base licking it up and swallowing it on her way back down. Up she climbed straddling his cock slowly lowing wet self down till she hit bottom. This next part was her absolute favorite when she raised up feeling his ridge dig against her roughness. His hands forcefully tugging her hair and his hands and mouth all over her breasts. They went on for hours banging back and forth alternating positions and juices multiple times taking moments in between to catch their breathes and drink some water. When they were finally satisfied they realized they were in the house in bed nonethe less. Falling asleep in each other's arms only to wake up in the morning to GP out in the kitchen cooking up some eggs and bacon. Noticing the scent of almond extract in the air she went to investigate, as she came into the kitchen there stood GP wearing nothing but her cooking apron with many failed attempts at cooking her party cakes sat in a pile in the trash. Looking at her sheepishly he said he wasn't able to make them like hers.

“I am committed. I want to be with you. I know sometimes I come across as inconsiderate or selfish or uncaring or an asshole or whatever. I’m sorry. I really am. I want to work on it and want to make this work.” These lies slipped through his thinly parted lips as easily as the smoke vaguely exhaled in their wake. With his right hand, he put out the remains of his cigarette on the concrete bench. Passing the butt into his left palm his elbow gently brushed her side as he slipped the cigarette into his pocket. Glancing out of the corner of his left eye he mumbled a rye apology with a crooked, half-cocked grin. Were he alone on the bench he would have just flicked the still-burning cigarette away into the patchy grass. In the pregnant silence that followed, he wore a mask of contrition and introspection knowing he was further proving his earnestness. The silence swallowed the words he wished he knew how to say. “I don’t feel the same about this relationship as you do. I don’t feel the fire or burning attraction. I kind of just enjoy having someone in my life and don’t see this as serious or long term. I just want you around so I feel better about myself.” He was always incapable, always dragged along in relationships, always cared for far more than he cared to be. Pulling a pack of gum from his right pants pocket, he thumbed out a piece from its foil and plastic bubble and slid it between his still-parted lips. Replacing the packet, he turned to face her and held her gaze, letting his eyes fill with hope and replacing his contrition with a confident grin. “I feel optimistic.” He lied. He felt trapped. “I love that we can talk about these things openly and I know we can work through it. I realize I have a lot of room for growth and I want to grow. And you’re worth going through these growing pains. I’m grateful for you and know that things will get better if we can keep communicating and keep growing together.” He swallowed his gum which he would have typically just spat on the ground, hoping some sad sack would find it later on the bottom on his shoe and his living room carpet. The hard lump of gum went down easier than the most recent batch of falsehoods. But they both went down easier than bringing the truth up would have been. So he swallowed his gum and his feelings and let the moment stand for what it was. He took her right hand in his and brought it too his lips. He slipped his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, kissing her head and letting her left hand fall to his thy. She sighed, smiled heavily to herself, and sank into his embrace. “Thanks.” She said, hopeful and in love. “Thanks.

Have you ever experienced the unconditional feeling which you don’t know what to do? As if you’re searching for something missing, craving for something to eat but you don’t know what kind of food. Your mind set is in a multi-dimensional imagery; stepping in a spinning wheel with a circular funnel in spiral images that imbibing into your head. Right at that moment I started to get my will power working, I tried “breathing in, breathing out” eventually I’m losing some oxygen in my system. It was a failure and I was in a will power trapped. I don’t know what to do but I need to think – I need to step outside, beyond my comfort zone but I’ve got nowhere to go. I need to fix my mindset; I get dressed and walked out of my room. As I walk there’s something hindered me on the crossroads. I heard a sound coming from a valve brass instrument with a less brilliant sound as if it’s calling me, it was the pedestrian bus. I ran in to it, paid Riyalin (2 Saudi Riyals) for the ticket and look for a seat. I didn’t know what brought me to sit with an old Filipino passenger wherein there were still more available empty seats. I sat in silence for about 5 minutes until that guy started to asked me, “Are you new?”, ”yes” I replied. We passed back questions as if we knew each other. I asked him one question that turned his face into like a sad portrait, “Is your family here?”... He never replied back, so i asked for apology. I kept in silence consequently. He asked me, “If i told you my story, will you believe me?”, “Why don’t you try” I uttered. While he was narrating his story, I suddenly felt the sadness, my heart is melting. He’s been an expat for more than twenty years, single, and a very helpful brother to his family. His supporting his siblings & their children’s financially, especially for their education and live a good future. He applied for an exit permit last 2011, thinking that he need to settle back to Philippines for good. He stayed on his old ancestral house along with his sibling. At first their relationship was good. Unfortunately, all his expectations were counterfeited. Several months passed by his savings lowered, his family started to change with their treatment towards him and treated him to be like nobody. He got sick and hospitalized for months and no one came to visit him. He has a lot of regrets and started to question himself why he wasted 20 years working miles away instead building his own family. He never gave up until he was cured. He requested his old company for him to be re-employed. The company accepted him back because of his loyalty & rewarding service. He has all his time for his own family and forgave his siblings. Now, he can live with peace of mind and continue to fulfill his dreams for himself and his family.

My world was in black and white. Hers in c o l o u r, as she would spell it. Raised in Montréal as the daughter of Jean-Pierre and Clarita Agnès, two wholly devoted parents and full-time immigrants. She was born in a place situated right on the border of France and Germany — Strasbourg. I remember going home one day shortly after a scheduled rendezvous. The clearly tore Belle and Sebastian t-shirt I wore on that hot summer day pressed onto her flowery, low-cut dress, which pressed even harder onto her chest and mine. Her hands wrapped around me à la française. The tantalizing aroma of synthetic florals, possibly cananga odorata from the Philippines surrounded us. I could always tell the smell emitting from her elegant, swan-esque neck when she would embrace me; a place much like heaven. Her name was the most beautiful one I had ever heard in my life. Maëlle Agnès. Oh, what wonderful parents I thought she must have had to create such an exquisite creature! She would always pronounce my name in a tremendously eccentric fashion. S-t-u-a-r-t. The way she said my name between the tip of her tongue, her teeth, lips and dystopian lisp. A lisp so intrusive and noticeable, that I could only ever imagine it not being there when I was looking deep into her eyes and she spoke in tongues, too. Her sentences always short and sweet, but elaborate and misleading. She would brag about the summers she spent in Port-au-prince with her parents. Distant suns and always lost in a sea of memories. A cultured, well-traveled Montréalaise, born with a silver spoon in her mouth —what is she to do in a place so rotten and abhorrent like New York? To learn, of course. To love and live the child-like game of life. A student of Columbia University School of the Arts (S.o.A., as she’d abbreviate) for none other than an M.F.A. in theatre. How could a girl built with such finesse not make it as an actress? Maëlle was never shy. She had a sweet, round face and slightly rippled dark brown hair that went down no further than to the bottom of her chin. Almost exact. I couldn’t blame her for ever being such a free spirit. After watching my copy of La Notte on my black and white television, she told me anecdotes of forever ago, like when she had her first kiss (fourteen) and when she was officially deflowered and finally a woman (fifteen and far too young). It was all to a boy named Clément, two years her senior. I pictured him as a slightly husky blonde with a blade-like jawline and the most beautiful blue eyes. She told me he was seldom comedic and rarely ever had a grin on his face; a serious man. My darling Maëlle, coming off as the wayward girl who would entertain a relationship with an ingrate and deliberate wanker. The man who forever got to her first, but it’s not that it wasn’t all bells and whistles. Life was still a comfortable, comprehensible Vashti Bunyan song. Still, whenever I was upset and picking at the ants on the ground at Central Park, I remembered: schadenfreude is the best medicine. I always tend to forget about how she felt. She always described, and in her own very colorful words, “Kafkaesque” mother and father, as they argued over scarcely spilled milk at three in the morning. Sometimes she could do little else but listen to Serge Gainsbourg records in the middle of the night as they ripped one another to shreds in the other room and their relationship withered away. She may have had wealth, she most certainly had beauty, but happy she was not. “Kafkaesque” because her only copy of Metamorphosis and Other Stories had part of the “F” from Franz’s name tapered off, so she always confused Franz Kafka with the personable and not yet tangible Iranz Kafka. Sometimes she used words she had recently learned in attempts to look smart even though it made very little sense. I once asked her about how many guys she had slept with, but who could remember all the times they’ve fucked when they’ve fucked so much? Nonetheless, there she was. Next to me, far from home. It felt like love as we squandered away our savings on vinyl records and shows at the local cinema on Saturday mornings for the matinee prices. I, humbled Stuart, always the frugal kind but never when it came to Maëlle. What if the children were to call her Mrs. Delane someday? I couldn’t possibly have associates knowing of my frugality. It’s not like I would ever choose fast food over a restaurant to save a few dimes, but I wasn’t rich like Fräulein Agnès now, was I? Albeit I was the man and she the woman. Oh, how inheritance could have so easily chosen me. I was, unfortunately enough, born Stuart Delane, to a couple of teenagers from Northampton, Massachusetts. Richard Delane had some Dutch in his blood, but more than that I did not know. His lover to be, Dolores Woods, was quite the storyteller having later in her life published an anthology of poems, most pertaining to her dreams of 18th century rococo. Both crossed the great divide as the result of a motor vehicle collision on the Massachusetts Road 9 near the Autumn Inn on their way home. My grandmother always told me of the trials and tribulations they faced as young, unmarried Christians burdening a bastard. But here I am now! Stuart Delane of Mass., living in New York and given the privilege to grace a Frenchie like Maëlle, the adhesive holding my life together. Oh, how I adore you, woman. Always taken care of, but somehow still independent and so full of grace. As I would walk by the homeless men in Manhattan with my head high above my shoulders, scoffing at them, she would stop and allow them change or a bagel from the local café. A bon vivant and the last of her kind she was and although most men seemed to have missed her by the inch, she eased herself onto imbecilic Stuart who studied linguistics. Never inhibited, she would recite her monologue to whoever stood in front of her long enough, even with the high pitched cadence in her voice. The ballet was her specialty. She suffered at the hands of her ballet instructor as a teenager - being forced to learn tips of the trade - by all means training for four hours at a time would not suffice. How excited must I have been my loins could burst the first time she performed in front of me. A perfect pirouette at the hands of God, of which I learned to name soon after in view of the fact that she had the Glossary of Ballet at her bedside. A keeper she was indeed. I loved her, although she did not love me. She loved another man. Jonathan, surname D’Amico. If there ever was another name for an anus that matched perfectly, that would be it. D’Amico. What kind of asshole name was that? Maybe clarification would be welcomed. Ladies and gentlemen, Jonathan D’Amico was born in New York. His mother and father both moved somewhere in the mediterranean climate. Maybe Greece, alas, I cannot completely recall. Before having left, they awarded him a loft in Astoria. He boasts about how he would much rather live in Inwood, though it’s not as if an apartment there really carries the Manhattan “cache” anyway. Jonathan was a pretty boy among all others. He was a tall, dark man. Dark hair, eyes and features — credit to his Italian lineage. His body fat was some odd nine percent, whereas I couldn’t even figure out my own. I was at least twenty pounds overweight. His skin always glowing and mine in need of a plentiful scrub. His favorite font, let it be known, was Garamond. He enjoyed broadway plays, romantic tear-jerkers, wore the latest modish fashion and loved to take the women I adored away from me. Jonathan, the classical closeted homosexual. I hoped. I prayed that maybe he liked boys and continued to tell himself “One of these days, you’ll start liking girls.” Poor Jonathan! Always so attached to his work and never to my darling Maëlle, it felt like the attention he hadn’t paid to her had given butterflies or the feeling of being wanted. Yet, to my dismay, on that dreadful black and white New York October day, she said to me: “I think I’m in love with him.” I met Jonathan way, way back during an Elliot Smith tribute show at the Bowery Ballroom. Maybe three months before I had met Maëlle and six before he had tried to defile her with his big, brown eyes. We quickly became close friends as he guided me through the city streets, teaching me shortcuts and showing me all the best places to eat. I was soon transformed into a fully functioning New Yorker and it was wonderful. There were plenty of nights where I would stay over at his flat and watch his Welsh terrier he loved to call Oxford and I loved to name “Dog.” Sometimes he would arrive at midnight and on his own. Other times and eight and with a date. I wasn’t getting any, so he would insist I stay over while he locked himself in his room with, once, a tall, gorgeous Jewish girl by the name of Abby. “Listen.” He would say. He wanted to teach me how it was done. Jon always wanted me to listen as the women he was with moaned as they reached climax. Does he not ever listen to me? I would happily play with my papier mâché while waiting for him to finish his duties, but couldn’t I ever, just this once, get the pretty girl? He was winning her over and he wasn’t even trying. It was always so easy for him. I was the ugly one, I finally came to accept. Whoever thinks the inside counts is a mumbling, stumbling baboon! How dare they spread such lies to poor, unsuspecting chaps like myself? And when she told me she loved him. I was blind sighted, like a pilot who cannot see while flying into the Bay of Biscay. The turbulence, powerful and terrifying all two-hundred and thirty passengers, at high velocity; and he cannot hear, he cannot feel. Nothing else surrounds except death. He had everything going for him and I, nothing. I had developed a mild case of tinnitus in my right ear at the age of nineteen. The cause was never determined and my doctor deemed it subjective, but I could almost point it to listening to Dexys Midnight Runners so much at ten amp. He had perfect hearing. He could, at least, tell whenever I would snore in the middle of the night during our sleepovers. As my eyes closed, I saw more and more of Maëlle Agnés. Notwithstanding the fact that I had known her for a little over three years, I had never once made a move on her. I tried my best at being a pure hearted gentleman in front of my beloved and through every failed relationship I was there to pick up the pieces. Jonathan called that “friend-zoned” and I called it warmth and we were at an impasse. I dreamt of touching her small, supple breasts. Of being close to her and having to no longer keep our adoration for one another a secret, but did she feel this way in real life? Mr. D’Amico studied behavioral sciences. He once told Maëlle he wanted to help children in need and would one day travel deep into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, teach them English and forward supplies. That he would one day adopt one of those children and make America his home. He did mention he wanted to save them all, but he couldn’t and would much rather give one the very best life he could. Maëlle would eat his manure in spades as she would get lost into his Italian eyes. Damn all those handsome Italians! I saw past every ounce of garbage Jonathan spewed! Even right then with the twelve-string acoustic guitar that he had on his lap, I saw through it all. It was only very recently Jonathan asked me to move in with him. He claimed it was better for me since it was our last year in school and I could save up while living with him rent free. All he asked was that I take Oxford (or Dog) out for walks every now and then. Only when he couldn’t. Dog loved the park and while it helped me fetch a few phone numbers and nab compliments every now and then, it was all completely useless. I didn’t want the women at Astoria Park, the oldest one in the NYC. I wanted the woman I could no longer have. Did I mention Maëlle played tennis, too? I know you’re thinking what everyone else thinks, but other than it being a rich person’s sport, she was indeed excellent at it. Some Saturdays when she wasn’t spending time with me she was at the park playing tennis with Jacques, her previous beau and still instructor. The man was built like an Olympic champion and although I never caught his surname, D’Amico (the anus) would suit him well. They had met the previous year, although it felt like she was telling me all about how handsome he was only yesterday over café au lait. I recall her telling me about how well endowed he was and how he made her feel pleasures she had never felt before. I could even recall her telling me she was afraid of never feeling them again in the unfortunate event they were no longer steady. It was only three weeks after she accidentally stumbled upon an email he had received from a client about an amazing session they had together. It tore her heart he had committed adultery on her the entire time, but it opened a space in mine and for the first time I had a feeling that true love was on our side. I tried convincing that it was not in her best interest to keep seeing him, even if it was in a strictly professional manner, but she would then insist the heart that beat inside her was wholly forgiving and second chances were spared. She told herself it was a faux pas and she’d be much more careful with choosing men in the future. C’est la vie! Boyfriends for a woman like here were never in short supply and every single one of them seemed much more handsome and active than the last. Each studied different subjects and knew more than one language. One of them spoke Chinese (Cantonese and Mandarin), French, Spanish and Italian. Who was I to interfere with her life other than a garçon amongst men? She’s a woman and women have urges. Women have desires and free will. She could do whatever she wanted with whomever she wanted…. Just not with Jonathan.

I was sixteen when I first saw him sitting in my deceased Grandfather’s rocking chair. It had been a long summer’s day spent playing football over the local playing field, so I went to sleep rather early, while all of my friends were down the beach beginning their long and lustrous love affairs with drugs and alcohol. Some of them never quite recovered from the addictions they picked up during that scorching summer of 1994. Funnily enough, I brushed shoulders with a couple of them at various AA meetings that I attended later in my life. While the rush of drugs and alcohol never appealed to me in my teen years – I’d lived a sheltered life under the wing of a controlling Mother and paid particular attention to the horror stories she told – there became a drastic need as life went on for me to use to fight myself to sleep. Anyway, I remember dreaming of fucking Lucy Barker, the girl I’d always fancied but never felt. I was a teenager and a virgin, so sex was a prominent theme of all of my dreams. Things were escalating rather quickly when I was ripped from the fantasy by the peculiar instinct of being watched. I shot up like a spring and instantly stared into the corner where my Grandfather’s rocking chair was. I turned pale and felt my stomach perform several somersaults that would take the Olympic gold for gymnastics. In the chair sat a very ordinary looking man, no sharp teeth or claws. He sat there with his lips firmly closed and all of a sudden I heard his voice inside of my head: ‘Beware the subtle loss of life.’ By the time I’d made it to the bedroom light he was gone. Questions arose in my frantic mind, questions that would be answered in the future – was I still asleep? Did I imagine the whole ordeal? Weeks passed and eventually so did the months without any further incident. Just to be safe I had my Father store my Grandfather’s rocking chair in the attic, chalking up some shitty excuse about how it reminded me of him and brought nothing but sadness. Despite the lack of visits from the ordinary man, as I’d come to call him, I found myself waking earlier and earlier each morning. Once I was awake there was no chance of me returning to slumber. I was fortunate enough to be mollycoddled by my wealthy parents and therefore I had no school, or work to get up for. So each time I woke I stuck on my PlayStation and bashed the buttons until the sun came up. Eventually I forgot all about the ordinary man and was concerned only by the non-existent hours of shut eye. I was in my early twenties now and that was when I first turned to alcohol and behold for some wildly unknown reason I began to sleep again. I slept like a baby each night and by the time I learned to deal with the hangovers I felt better than I ever had. Sure, I was quite a bitter drunk and it got me thinking about my childhood and how I’d abused the good nature of my Mother and Father, but these thoughts had disappeared by the time the morning came. I would drink alone mostly and would rarely leave my parents’ house, despite my Mother’s pleas for me to find a job and someone I could eventually call a wife. I’d developed a particular liking to whisky and was drinking at least three quarters of a litre a day. One night I passed out on my bed still fully clothed and drifted into a deep darkness. That’s when the ordinary man returned. Once more I shot up like that night in my teenage years to see him, no sharp teeth or claws, sat in my Grandfather’s rocking chair, the chair I had not seen for years. He smiled. He smiled and began to open his mouth, as this time he spoke the words: ‘Beware the subtle loss of life.’ What did he mean? I racked my brains for an answer, plucking at every space imaginable, but still I drew a blank and still he sat there rocking and grinning, that fucking chair creaking. It was a smile that would look pleasant on anyone other than him. On him it looked like the smug crease of the lips of the devil. He waved his hand at me and disappeared along with the blasted rocking chair. When the sun returned to the sky I was surprised how easily I’d fallen back to sleep. I had almost forgotten about the visit from the ordinary man when I felt a sudden chill which reminded me somewhat harshly of the previous evening’s brief calling. What was the significance of my Grandfather’s rocking chair? More importantly, what was the ordinary man trying to say to me? I was no longer afraid; it was more of an inconvenience. After all, who was this man to disturb my sleep? I did get a hold of my alcoholism, but it was too late. Both of my parents had passed on, leaving me with a healthy amount of money and two properties to enjoy, but it was too late. The jaundice had kicked in and after several trips to the doctor it became clear that I had liver cancer. As I write this I only have a few weeks left to live, but last night I received my final visit from the ordinary man. There I was lying fast asleep with tubes coming out of me like the tentacles of an octopus, when as clear as day there he sat in my Grandfather’s rocking chair, but he no longer had a smile on his face. ‘I tried to warn you, my child. I did my best, but you would not listen – even when I was alive you were such a spoilt child, such a taking child.’ Startled I replied asking him what he meant by this. ‘I am no ordinary man as you have come to call me, but I am your Grandfather. You do not recognise me because you never took the time to notice, or even ask what I looked like in my early years. You were so self-absorbed that life was only what it meant to you.’ He gave me no chance to reply and vanished, but he spoke the truth. A truth I had never bothered to investigate myself, as I was too busy taking from others – wearing my parents down into sickness and eventually death. And what do I have to show for such a wasted life of which I applied no effort? I will die alone here in this cancer ward with no-one to leave me flowers, with no-one to visit my grave.

Upon waking, the flood to my senses was impulsively deafening. Opening my eyes shone anything but comfort. I think in that moment I could have seen farther if I looked through my toe. What I could see was oddly familiar, like all those times as a child that I had pressed my palms to my eyes to view that kaleidoscopic spectacle. A practice of which I’m sure is not the healthiest for the eyes. It was as if the colors, dull and dim though they were, were sentient. Swirling and spinning in their own independent paths, but at the same time, in unison; all on the same voyage. I’m sure of it now that this was just my eyes’ last ditch effort to discern something, anything among the madness. Darker than my eyes could see, and yet what I felt could only be accounted as a sense of grey. The bounds of my being were indiscernible. I couldn’t sense where my body ended and the hell began. Upon trying to stand, I felt the overwhelming fear of falling and a disturbing lack of confirmation that I was moving at all. I was stationary with the ever-present awareness of hurtling toward something. It was a comatose consciousness, much like the sensation I can only imagine one suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome, enveloping my soul. My limbs begged to be outstretched. For a long while, I struggled and for a long while after, I didn’t. My thoughts were all that were left with me. My sanity became my purpose. I found myself philosophizing, for one reason or another. Life and Death were where I would eventually and undoubtedly find myself, because neither applied to me any longer. I would ponder that vastness of the Universe I once called home. I found myself wondering if amongst the infinite amount of infinite sets of infinite digits within the value of pi, the Universe had accounted for a way in which I would eventually end up nowhere. I hadn’t come here, I hadn’t been transported, I just simply was here and wasn’t where I had been. I had come here, by no means at all, for no reason at all; an effect without a cause. There was nothing here for me, and it certainly wanted to be noticed.

This is my first attempt at writing a short story. Please be kind. He could feel the stiffness settling into his joints and the pressure building in his chest. He'd been on this flight for nearly 10 hours already. He ran a hand across his cheek, feeling the coarseness of 36 hours without a shave. He was finally going home. He checked his watch and found that it was already approaching 8 o'clock, Georgia time. The ceremony had been scheduled for 10:00 that morning. He glanced up at the screen in front of him and saw that they weren't supposed to land for another hour and a half. Jim thought of his waiting family and smiled to himself. “Hurry up and wait” he mused, “That's how it's always been.” Jim started to stand and excused himself into the aisle. He reached into the overhead bin and fished out his razor. “Gotta look my best” Jim thought as he shook his head. He was wearing a brand new uniform he had never yet worn. Once he had found his razor, Jim walked over to the nearest lavatory and slid the door shut behind him. He turned on the sink and splashed a handful of cold water on his face. He raised his eyes and took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He finally let himself relax his guard just a little and believe that he was truly on his way home. It had been 9 long months in that blistering heat and unrelenting dust. The sirens, the thunderous explosions, the screams of those he'd come to know and trust, they were behind him now. They were gone, but when he closed his eyes he was still there. It was as if the battles had never ended but had only just begun. Jim finished shaving and wiped his face clean. He walked back to his seat and checked under his seat to make sure his weapon was still there. He checked the screen in from of him again, still over an hour to go. He pulled out his iPod and headphone to listen to for the rest of the flight. He knew better than to close his eyes and try to sleep. “It's a new start for me, a new beginning. I'm finally going home and I can start moving on with my life” he thought, but he knew that he would never be the same, not after what he'd seen. Jim let his mind wander back over the previous months. He remembered the old adage his father had shared with him before the deployment, “War is long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.” “How true had that been?” he thought. Jim flinched as his buddy beside him tapped him on the shoulder, letting him know that they were about to land. Jim looked out the window and saw the green all over the landscape, real American soil. He smiled to himself, “It's finally over.” The soldiers all clapped as the wheels touched the ground, bringing them all back to home soil. They all were smiling and the mood was jovial as they gathered their baggage to disembark from the plane. Finally, the order came to start moving off of the plane. Jim grinned as he felt a wave of Georgia humidity wash over him. He went and turned in his weapon and all of his sensitive gear. He moved on to the staging area briefly before the order came to load onto the buses for the final stretch of their journey. Jim glanced at his watch, 1100 hours. He smiled, “No need to sweat the small stuff when you're on your way home.” He lowered the window by his seat and took in the smell of fresh rain. The buses arrived just over half an hour later at the location of their ceremony. They were ordered off the bus and given a brief block of instruction on how the ceremony would go. At last they made an impromptu formation. Jim could feel his heart starting to race, trying to beat out of his chest. He shook slightly and his breath became shallow. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

One time, when I was a kid, I went to Harris Teeter with my mom. It was right around Valentine's day and they had this candy hopper full of heart shaped jawbreakers. I really wanted some so I ask my mom and she says I can get a few. I'm about 10 years old and just pushing past four feet tall. The hopper is up above me a bit and I have to reach up above me to hold my bag underneath it. I pull the handle to open the hopper and the candy starts to pour in. It makes a satisfying sound and it soothes me like the rainsticks I had made in school. I break the spell of the sound when I have enough and I try to close the hopper but one of the jawbreakers was caught in the gears, so the door is stuck in the open position. I start to freak out. I can't go and get anyone because I have to hold this bag here, but the hopper is three feet tall and there's no way my little bag will hold it all. More jawbreakers pour out of the candy hour glass and as the bag fills the thin plastic it's made from starts to stretch. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of the bag a small crowd of adults has formed, each of them saying "here, just close it, like this." They push hard on the handle but the jawbreaker was made to take such abuse. After a few seconds each one gives up and falls into the shallow circle, scratching their heads, waiting to see what happens next. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of this bag my arms are killing me and the bag has these big holes in it where my fingers dug through. Then, in an instant that goes on for hours, the seam of the bag rips and jawbreakers go everywhere. The sound brings half the store over and the rest of the hopper sprinkling over the floor brings over everyone else. I just stood there, helpless like everyone else, watching the the colors flow. The guy standing next to me worked there, and I'm pretty sure now that he was the one who had to clean it up afterwards. I must have looked at him with such a pathetic "I'm sorry" face, because he reached out, into the torrent of candy. He came back with a small handful of heart-shaped jawbreakers. Without the smallest hint of a smile or scowl he said, "don't worry about it", and put them in my hand.