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Allura 24

Two men stood over a map of a desert, wondering what their next move might be. They were tasked with the transportation of the Prince, a very wealthy and self-entitled man; he was actually little more than a boy. “When will we be moving?”, the Prince asked. “I’m tiring of this constant monotony, this endless desert.” The first man looked up from the map. His name was Francis Argol. Francis was a general in the King’s army. He had more important things to do than take care of a child, but his King commanded him, so he obeyed. He let a long breath slide out between his lips before he answered. “Apologies, your Majesty. We sent a group of three riders a half-day’s ride ahead of us. Only one returned and brought news of a large group of raiders and thieves.” At the sound of this, the man at the General’s right spit on the ground. “Cowards and bastards, thinking themselves warriors. We should have been within a few leagues of the Castle by now!” He was one of the King’s Barons. He advised the King on matters of the country and was part of his Army. This particular man, Keren Festrell, was one of the lower Barons; his lack of likability didn’t work in his favor. He also wasn’t one to mince words. He enjoyed acting in haste and leaving enough daylight to drink mead until he could no longer think straight. “Now, now Festrell. We have a half-decent group of men. Granted my father won’t exactly be missing any of you.” The Prince’s eyes lingered on the Baron as he spoke. With a smirk he added, “Maybe, under the command of the two of you, we may only lose half our men.” With that he strode out of the tent, his long purple robe dragging in the dusty and cracked desert ground. “Relax now, Keren,” said Francis. “No need to get angry over this. We’ll get him home and be rid of him.” Francis wasn’t very fond of Keren, but he was a man of arms, which to the general, was greater than someone like the Prince, someone who’s never had to work a day in his life, or pick up a sword to protect his soil, or even a plow to feed his family. With a few words muttered beneath their breath, they returned to the map in front of them. It was no secret to the Prince that Argol and Festrell held him in disdain. Their faces showed their anger at him; words pushed between clenched teeth and knuckles white, from tightly clenched fists. It didn’t bother him, though. He enjoyed the fact that he could bother them to such an extent without lifting a finger. If they spoke back to him, they’d be flayed and stripped of their honors. They’d never dare try him. The Prince strode into his tent. It sat behind the command tent where the General and Baron decided their next move. Like it, it was white so it was cool-as cool as could be expected in the desert sun. He longed for the stone walls of his father’s castle, for servants to respond to his every command. He wasn’t made for hard travel. He sat on the hard wooden bench and looked around him. To his left, crumpled on the ground, was his armor. It was hardly ever used; it was more of a formality really. It had been made by the castle smith, gold and silver, inlaid with precious stones. It could have easily been more valuable than the lives of some of the men out on the field. The Prince didn’t care. Neither about it nor for it. He wasn’t to fight. No, others were to fight on his behalf as he sat and watched from a safe distance. After all, he was royalty. On his right there was a pitcher of water and a small clay goblet. The water was covered by a thin layer of dust, just like everything else: his robe, his shoes, even the inside of his throat. He poured himself a cup and momentarily quenched his thirst. The rest of the tent was empty, but he was still more comfortable than every man in his party. The Prince looked up as General Argol entered with the Baron and another unknown soldier who looked ready to faint. The General spoke first, his tone wary. “Your majesty. Our sentry stationed a mile north of camp claims to have seen a force one thousand strong,” he said, gesturing to the man beside him. Slouching in his chair, the Prince looked at the man with utter disdain and spat out to the three of them, “Well? Do something about it, you fools! Why do you think my father sent you?” Through three sets of clenched teeth came whispers of “Yes, your majesty,” and “Of course, your majesty,” as they hurried to leave the small tent, with hearts full of hate. The Prince wasn’t worried. He was protected by 250 of the best men his father’s Kingdom could offer. Yes, they were severely outnumbered, but his soldiers were trained and disciplined while the force facing them were more likely to be brutish and wild. As nightfall overcame the camp, followed by a somber sunrise, General Argoll and Baron Festrell racked their minds for a scenario where they could be victorious. They each shelled out ides for hours, scrapped for one reason or another, and by the time the sun was shining brightly above them, they agreed on a plan. Festrell was fuming by this time. “We’ve spent all night and this is what we’ve come up with? We’ll be lucky if ten of us get out alive!” The general knew he had to tread carefully. The baron was tired and angry at the Prince. “Our job was to transport the Prince safely to the Castle. If that means we may have to give our lives for it, so be it. The rules of chivalry-“ “Don’t speak about that degenerate and about chivalry. Don’t give me rules of honor or respect,” said Keren, interrupting his brother in arms. “When that boy shows an ounce of respect to another man, I’ll think about returning it. But for know he can shove it up his arse.” “Keren! You may not like him but he is our Prince so you will at least refrain from speaking ill of him.” Francis knew what the problem was. Keren was a man with a lust for life and he viewed his life as the most important thing, but Francis knew that sometimes, you had to make sacrifices. “Now get some rest. Our guards say the force will meet us tomorrow.” Early the next morning, they informed the Prince of the plan. He and ten soldiers acting as his guard will escort him from the back of the camp and take a wide detour from the west. The rest of the party will meet the other group head on. “I know the way these men fight. I’ve seen them before. Even with the advantage of numbers they have, they will meet us with their full force.” The Baron spoke calmly. He had made peace with the plan. He was a capable soldier and was confident he could fight his way out, abandoning the rest if necessary. “They will want to steal our possessions, burn our bridges, and kill our livestock. You should be safe so long as you take a big enough detour.” Less than an hour later, a column of dust began to rise in the distance. General Argol turned to the back and nodded to the small group. It was best of they left now before the opposing force realized what a valuable hostage was slipping through their fingers. Fifty of his archers were stationed at the back, and another fifty were at the front. Both groups stood, nervously shifting their weight one way or another, back and forth. The group towards the front would begin the attack first slimming their front row numbers. Until the other soldiers crashed into the front lines of his army, the archers would be able to shoot soldiers at point blank range. He knew, and so did they, that they would be the first to fall. The archers in the back would let loose a steady stream of arrows causing destruction while his 150 men at arms slashed, cut, and jabbed at the men trying to take their lives. He thought he and the Baron should be stationed near each other in the center so they could keep an eye on things and yell out orders, but Festrell said he felt better towards the eastern flank. Francis trusted him; he was a formidable soldier. “Load! Aim! Release!,” came the first call. The front archers let loose fifty black shafted, razor sharp arrows into the front lines of the column racing towards them. Francis could see as more than half hit their mark. Again and again, the call rang out. As the column came closer, their accuracy began to fail as fear overtook them. He didn’t blame them. They were looking into the face of death. He only hoped the Prince was safe. The enemy drew closer. He could now distinguish their faces. Full of anger, they cut down the archers who felled their brothers. They were met with the ends of his men’s sword. Back and forth they went. One down, and another. For every enemy they killed, two more stood in his place. The general drew his sword and ran out in the fray. Left, right, slash, block. His mind set into a lull as he fought for his life. He watched his men fall all around him. It crossed his mind how Keren was doing onto the eastern side. He was pulled out of his thoughts as his shield was smashed into pieces by a man with a club. His sword had the advantage in length, but the club could knock him out with a solid hit. Francis jabbed at the man and switched his sword upwards at the last second and felt a satisfactory jolt into soft flesh. He had cut the man deeply on his left side. In a last attempt, the enemy leapt towards him, and in a large sweeping blow to the head, knocked the general unconscious.

The Priest explained, "Deusvincere was not always a god, you know, he once was a human named Corinth who was fairly affluent, but he hungered for even more wealth and power." The Priest paused, and then continued, "He soon found what he desired after studying with the Dark Conjurers of Ukthil in Cunabulia's mountains, they saw great darkness that meant he had great potential for power, eventually he rose through their ranks and became their leader, but Corinth was not satisfied" Keveak spoke, "You mean..?" The Priest nodded, "Yes, he found an old tome in a cave in the Highlands that bore an inscription in the demonic text, a warning of a spell locked away for the ability to bestow on the caster immense power." "So, he used it on himself and got this power?", Keveak inquired. The Priest nodded once more, "Yes, and he gave himself a new name, Deusvincere and began working on his plan, the initiation of the plan is now and none of us are safe from the Mad God's wrath" Keveak stepped forward and inquired the Old Priest again, "How do you know all this?" "I used to be a Dark Conjurer of Ukthil, I used to practice Dark Magic, but I soon quit after I saw how corrupt we, especially Corinth had become." The Priest sighed, "Deusvincere was too powerful for any of us, and now Cunabulia will face his wrath at our own fault, I knew it was only a matter of time before Deusvincere was done with forming his plan, I knew there was little to be done by me" The Priest continued as Keveak listened in astonishment, "I swore off the Darkness and became a Priest, I have not used my real name for it is of a past life of darkness, it has been years but those seem like mere hours to the Mad God and I am much too old to do much now, our realm's fate seems grim...

This is my first attempt which I'm writing for a school assessment. Some feedback would be good. I honestly don't know if the story is any good or not so please be as blunt as you like and thank you for reading: A meal of chicken, cabbage, carrot and cauliflower was served. An average day had just occurred and the daily ritual of illusive unity was required to replenish the family of five. Each food had a particular taste but they were all better with a little bit of salt to add some flavour, not too much though. The meal was different without it but it could still be enjoyed. December. The heat had begun to sear, the unpleasant feeling it was. Forcing itself upon you frequently throughout your life, no consideration or care. The diversity of the flock in the pickup area was large but individualised groups had still formed. Surrounding her were three members of the opposite gender, decent people who liked to have a laugh. They would consider her a friend. She never really felt connected to them, but appearing social was beneficial. One dreaded aspect of her life was put on hold for another as father’s car rolled forward to greet her. A crumpled suit wore father as sweat perspired down his worn out, tired face. The door closed. “Who were those buffoons you were with?” “My friends” she lied. His opprobrium was visible, “You may think they’re you’re friends but it’s not what they want.” “Bu-“ “They’re just whippersnappers trying to impress you darling…” A long speech in which Eve said nothing ensued. It was about boys, then kids your age, then what Eve should be doing with her life, then maturity, then complaining about his co-workers’ laziness, then about himself when he was a young man. He almost sounded like a preacher at your door. January. Pressure was constant. Different depending on time and location but everlasting nonetheless. Pressures are contemporary with other pressures and feel free to build upon themselves until they tumble over one another. Social conformity is one pressure, grades are another. Eve’s grades had come in. The grades were slightly above average. Understandably mother was upset. She probably assumed the grades were due to how shut off she was. Always in her room. Door closed, music on. That’s no way for someone to live. She should be out in the world; exploring, socialising, learning, exercising. All these things for a healthy soul. That’s what mother thought. “You’re walking on thin ice darling. These grades are too low if you want to do something with your life.” she said accusingly. “I’m trying.” she lied. “Well not quite hard enough.” she stated in a friendly-sounding, offensive-meaning tone, “You’re locked up in your room too much. You should do your homework out here were we can chat. It would be fun.” Her mouth could have been mistaken for a waterfall as a series of botched ideas, false studies and emotional lies fell out of her mouth. February. A slow current passed through the desolate creek. The water often deviated and formed streams travelling in different directions, these streams all joined back together in the end. Eve got a small splinter yesterday running her hand along the trees, it was too small to worry about at the time but the throbbing was now noticeable. The end of the creek drew near as civilisation began to peak through in the form of a street. Fellow students walked past on their way to the common location. Among them was her brother, Brandon. The dreary look on Eve’s face was ignored as he noticed her picking at her hand. A smile crept upon his face. “Great! You’ve got a splinter, does it hurt?” “No” she lied. “Bullshit, you were always a tough one. I know this fancy way to remove it.” He continued going on about stealing some baking soda from the food class to make some mixture held against my hand with a band-aid. Though once walking continued, his pace increased and Eve’s didn’t. March. Showers are peaceful. For those pleasant ten minutes you get to forget yourself to the warm embrace of the water streaming down from your head. It’s almost like you’re non-existent. Your worries are reduced to a single obsolete privilege of cleaning yourself. You become unhygienic when dirt builds up. It gets worse as time goes on. All it takes is a simple shower to become clean again, though sometimes a shower isn't always available. Jane was currently doing something unimportant to raise her social status in her head making the bathroom occupied. You could hear her on the phone spewing out nonsense about sticking up for a friend that slept with a now previous friend’s boyfriend. This continued going on and on, supporting a friend’s misdoings through false justification. It was about twenty minutes before Eve interrupted. “We did a cancer fundraiser for when she got cancer, I can’t believe she’s pulling this on us.” “Hey Jane. Could you please hurry up in there? I’ve been waiting for five minutes.” she lied. The door opened moments later as rushed speech was spoken, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. People have been terrible. You’re lucky you don’t have so-called friends.” She left in a hurry but her words remained with Eve. They stuck despite all her best efforts to wash them away. The meal of chicken, cabbage, carrot and cauliflower was standard. It certainly wasn’t bad. It’s just that the same form of dish with different foods is served every night. The taste is somewhat different but it’s always just food fulfilling its universal purpose as fuel. The individual food item retains its constant, unchanging flavour over time despite how it’s presented. Eve went to her room. The family doesn't have dinner with salt anymore.

The coffee was brewing in the press-pot. With a sense of elevated mood, serenely happy, she gently tapped the peg: "come on". With, what she at least believed to be, a perfect sense of timing, she finally pushed it down. Now: sugar.. definitely. Milk? Why not. There must be still some left in the fridge. She stepped over to get the sugar, which she always poured first. If she poured the milk in before the sugar, the coffee would get a tad colder, making it harder for the sugar to dissolve. It would leave this residue crust at the bottom, wasted sugar. Hard to remove. But in this sense of awakening that she experienced the whole day, which replaced winter's restlessness, a completely logical thought appeared in her mind: did it really matter? So if the coffee was just a few degrees colder, does that mean it's not *enough* for the sugar to dissolve? After all, she had just poured the hot brew into the cup. This was not yesterday's "I'm still gonna drink it" java. Sugar, then milk. Whose rule has this been anyway but her own mind's, obsessed with oversight, and may it be only over her morning beverage? And was she really not in control if she switched the order this time? What is self-control but the need to adhere to rules? She opened the fridge, picked up the milk carton, and poured into the cup, watching the evolving pattern. She noticed the birds singing outside the opened window. As she sat down to take the first sip, she wondered whether the birds have been singing all along.

I look over to the picture frame beside our bed. The frame that was once dancing with life had now become tarnished and tired. I love that frame. It was the frame that your mother bought us, remember? We put that one photo inside it that she took of us that we both adored. The one that she took a couple of months before she passed. My attention is no longer on the picture frame, but now instead on the drapes. Your mother also bought them for us. They're blood red, like the ones you see in those extravagant theaters, like the one we first saw each other in. The ones that open a story, and close a story. I move up off of the bed and gingerly approach the drapes, placing my hand on them. The soft silky sensation pulls me in and cuddles me. They beckon me to stay, understanding my intention. Do you remember the night we put them up? We celebrated with a bottle of Jack Daniels as we had no wine that night. We got so drunk that night. I miss that night. I have a bottle of Jack with me now. Jack and I get on tremendously well. We first met when I was just 19. I close my eyes and swiftly swig the bottle. The cold liquid tickles my chapped, unloved lips, it plays with my tongue and dances on my taste buds. I love things that dance. I swallow. I embrace the burn. The coldness from the liquid suddenly turns into warmth, like swallowing a fire. It's a nice burn, however. A burn that replaces the hurt inside my heart. If only I had a few more friends like Jack. I hope that when I travel to my new land, I will finally meet Jack. That is, of course, depending on what two of the lands I travel to. The King of the higher land may not allow Jack.

She sat in art class staring out of the the window, waiting for something to excite her excite her exhausted mood. An average day in Utah. Very cloudy and gray. She decided that the weather was contributing to her bad mood rather than sparking a good one. Her bright red hair swiftly shifted from the gentle touch of her small hands. She wore a leather jacket with ripped jeans and old sneakers. Her favorite band printed in neon green on the top of her shirt. Her focus on the meaningless outside was broken by the voice of someone that wasn't in her head. She turns her head to see the sub pointing at the board. Her Teacher let a timed writing for them to complete in her absence. She lay her head on the table softly as she hid behind her red blinds. A tranquil feeling filled her body when she heard the voice outside of her head again. "Excuse me?" The voice spoke. "Ms. Harrison?" She lefts her head fighting desperately not to rest it again. Ms. Harrison's silky locks automatically shifted in front of her ears, reveling her reveling her crystal cool blue eyes. She spoke softly. "Amy...." She says looking at the desk. "Well, Amy" The sub began again "You should get started on your assignment, its due before class ends"."Whats the point?" She questions her superior. "I'm tired of getting F's. I'm done trying." She turns her attention back to her desk drawings. The sub sat in the desk in front of her. "The point Amy? Here." He gestures to the tip of her pencil. The corners of her mouth rose."Your tired of getting F's? Then get A's" He shrugged. Her frown returned. "Its not that simple sir." She resumes Blessing the desk with her doodles. "It may not seem simple, but you could trick your mind into thing otherwise with confidence. Confidence can move mountains Ms. Amy Harrison" The sub preached. "I don't want to move mountains: She said looking at he black nails. "I don't have any confidence sir... besides, class is almost over. "oh?" The subs said confused. "But Ms Harrison...." "Amy" She repeated. He smiles and gestures toward the board. Amy looks over to see the assignment timer ticking. But instead of timing her work it timed something different. The board read: 70 years, 25 days, 9 hours, 30 minutes, 6 seconds. "Remember Ms. Amy Harrison." She looked for the sub but they had disappeared any trace of them was gone except for the sound of their voice in her head. "Confidence can be achieved at any point in your life. Make sure its soon though" The voice faded into a soft whisper. "The Timer is ticking. Ms. Harrison.

John was a blind boy. He was unable to see anything. One day he was running from pillar to post in order to cross a road. Another boy, by name George was standing nearby. John asked him to help him to cross the road. George was lame. He told to John. “Friend ! I am lame. How can I help you!” “Why not ? I cannot see. But you have eyes to see. Through your eyes I see. I have legs. you can walk with the help of my legs. Let both of us go together and cross the road.” George agreed. They became friends and crossed the road. They had walked a little. George saw a bag lying on the ground. Then George told John, ” Friend, please follow me. There is one bag lying on the ground. Let both of us take it.” John helped George. Both of them approached the place where the bag was lying. John took the bag. Both of them sat near a tree. John opened the bag. There were plenty of coins in the bag. “Oh ! For few days I will be happy and eat well” George said. Immediately replied John : “George, you forgot me. Actually I brought you here. Therefore you got the bag. Naturally there is a share to me also.” George repented for a while. Thereafter both of them lived happily.

The last war was a good one. Not as great as the one before it, but it was a damn good one. Explosions, screams, blood-oh man was there blood! I forgot some of the details, but I believe this war had something to do with deciding whether things were upside down or down-side-up. Man oh man, was it radical. It started the usual way: a bunch of yelling and fist shaking. Then, some names were called and the bombs began to drop. The Upside Downers were the first to raise their arms, blowing away the Down-Side-Uppers with almost comically large large-caliber bullets. The Down-Side-Uppers were passive at first, asking the Upside Downers to exercise a little decency-but boy oh boy that didn't last long! One day, one particularly ambitious Upside Downer blasted one of the leaders of the Down-Side-Upper movement from afar. His cranium exploded and painted his wife and kids in a chunky soup of blood and brain matter. You better believe this made the Down-Side-Uppers a little less passive. Before long both sides were spending most of their economic abilities to create new ways to shower the other with hot metal and gas. After a while of fighting, it was discovered that things weren't actually upside down or down-side-up, but they had actually just been looked at from the wrong angle. Arms were soon laid to rest and the once opposing sides began to embrace one another, laughing that at how silly they'd been. Joyously they cleaned the streets, singing songs and doing little jigs while they picked up smoking hunks of human flesh and long strands of human entrails. I never like to see a good war end. Things get too chummy.

It’s difficult to put into words how I live. What my day to day is. I’ll try my best. Ever since my 14th birthday, not exactly my 14th birthday but somewhere around that time, I stopped living in a linear progression. I realized that, my life is already laid out for me but I can change the details, or so I think. I’m not sure how old my consciousness is, I feel much older than I probably am, but considering I can be anywhere from an 80 year old version of me to a teenage version of me, I feel that I’m wise for.. well.. however old I am. I’m probably not making any sense right now but think about it this way. When you go to bed tonight, you are probably thinking you will wake up the next morning and pick up where you left off yesterday. I have no such luxury, instead, I go to sleep tonight not knowing whether I’ll wake up 10 years ahead of when I went to sleep, or 10 years in the past. I know I’ll still be me, but I’m not sure what time period of my life I’ll be in. You see, I jump through my life at random intervals, moving forward and backwards, does that make sense? These jumps can last any amount of time. The longest I can remember was a week and the shortest can be a couple seconds. On average, I’d say the normal jump lasts about a day. The only way I can even try to live a normal life is by taking notes of what I’ve been doing all day so that when I jump times, I can read the notes I left from previous jumps and pick up where I left off. I’ve thought about whether I enjoy living life this way, or whether I’d prefer to be normal and live in a linear progression. I’m not sure the answer. It feels normal now. The first 14 years of my life were a normal progression, but how boring is that? Now I’m constantly changing and it feels normal.. to an extent. The first time it happened I was a little shocked. I went from being youthful to cranky with an aching back. I was also married to a girl from my school, that was a bit of a shock because I’d always remembered her as strange and I wasn’t sure she was my type. Apparently something changed at some point, probably puberty and we’d hit it off. At any rate, I was suddenly thrust into the role of a 40 year old man. I didn’t quite get what was happening at first, I was taken aback as I think most people would be if they suddenly switched bodies, I was in a bathroom halfway through a shave and I saw the post-it note stuck to the mirror. Remember: You are jumping through your own life, here is what happened today, try and leave as many details as possible for when you return to pick up after this day. I went shopping with Jessica, then I worked on the car a bit. Remember to shave later and find out who Mark is. I just realized that this corresponds to the first jump you ever did, so you’re probably confused as to what’s going on. Just relax.. Graduation day will explain. That was all I had written to myself but it was enough to explain what happened. I jumped quickly after that to my high school graduation. I had my diploma in hand and was sitting in the back row, my classmates all around me smiling. I patted around my robe looking for pockets and found a smartphone tucked away inside the robe, I quickly unlocked it and the first thing that came up was a note: Graduation day! I’m sure you’re still very confused about what happened, I know this is the second jump. You’re going to be fine, just leave lots of notes for yourself and you can make it through this. Follow the crowd since you probably have no idea how to do anything. The graduation jump lasted a while and I was stressed by the time I got home. I went to my room, which looked nothing like I’d expect my room to look and sat at my computer, looking around for anything to give me the answers as to what was happening. I’d left lots of notes, plenty of stock advice for what to invest in and found that no one knew what was happening to me and that I had to keep it a secret for fear of sounding.. well.. crazy. That seemed reasonable. The system that I had come up with at some point was obviously working and I was able to leave enough notes to get me by with whatever happened next. I had to trust myself that the system worked. Let me backtrack again, you’re probably wondering how I ever made it in the real world. Well, since I wasn’t set to any given time and I had plenty of knowledge of the past and future but no present, at some point I must have gained valuable stock information for about the year 2014, 4 years after I graduated Highschool, went back in time to highschool in one of my consciousness jumps and was able to write about what stocks would be worth buying low and investing in and then selling high. I had this all written out for me in an excel spreadsheet when I returned home from graduation. From an outsider, I looked like a smart stock broker who knew how to buy low and sell high but really, I just knew exactly what was going to happen before it happened. This afforded me the luxury of not having to get a formal education after highschool, since I would probably not do so well on any tests and also gave me enough money to live a private life. Back to Graduation Day. My phone started ringing, Jessica. I wondered if she knew for a moment before I answered the phone. She giggled and said hi as she answered. She sounded a lot different from what I remembered of her before I started jumping. I was still on the computer and reading about what was currently going on in my life when I came across a peculiar line, “by the way, Jessica is your girlfriend and to-be wife.” Looks like that was planned out for me. I held my end of the conversation as best I could, trying to act as though nothing was out of the ordinary. “So what are you doing this weekend?” she asked me in her soft voice. “I’m actually not too sure, why did you want to do something?” I asked unsure of whether I’d be able to make good on my plans. I realized then I should probably be writing down what was going to happen. “Well.. my parents are going to be away so maaaybe you can come over and we can watch a movie or something. If you want.” She giggled as she finished her sentence. This was every boy’s dream. “Uhh, yeah that sounds awesome actually.. I’ll uhh, be over when I can.” The strange thing about jumping through time, is when you’re in the middle of it, you already have notes from before telling you what’s going to happen. As I typed into the calendar the planned date with Jessica, I found another document giving me her home address and what I should do to prepare for the weekend. Clothes to wear, things to say. I was being mentored by myself on how to live my own life. I jumped shortly after reading that note and ever since then I’d been back and forth. I still haven’t jumped back to what I’d imagine was a good weekend so I guess I have that to look forward to the problem is that there really isn’t anything special about that first weekend alone with her to me, because I’ve already been married to her when I’m older. I know what it’s like to fall asleep next to her every night and I know what it’s like to sit on a sofa and watch movies with her in our own personal theater. That weekend will only be special when I get to it because it will be her and I young and perhaps I’ll have the chance to tell her something that she’ll remember forever and remind me of later in life. Of course, I already know what will happen that night, because she’s told me. I won’t spoil it until I’ve lived it, but from what I’ve heard, I put on quite the moves. It’s tiring though, living exactly as the notes say. It’s pushed me to the edge of my rope. Today, I woke up an old man. I can hardly walk, my knees are aching and my back is stiff. Jessica is long dead. I’m alone. Technology has advanced so far, but I’ve never learned how to use it. I’m holding this old revolver, a .44 magnum I bought when I was younger. I must’ve tried to hide it from myself, I’m not sure how the timelines work, but I found it under the floorboards in the basement. A note.. like the one I first read. Don’t do it. But I want to do it. I want to go back to the good days when Jessica and I first met, but, having the knowledge of what’s going to happen, there’s no joy in this life. I’ve been coached by myself this entire time. Told what to do. Today, I take back control, I’m not going to listen to this note.

I look every morning when I open the cabinet to see how far down I am on the coffee filter stack. Groggy still, a little stumbling in my steps, I open up the cupboard on the near end of the kitchen and grab instinctively for the cellophane wrapper. Give a little yawn and wipe my face with my left hand then brush back my hair and pause for a second looking at these coffee filters before I let my arm drop limp to the side and decide I have given up on the hope of jumping back into bed. How many are there left? I flip through and count , but not really, as I try and finger one loose from the pack. 20 maybe, or 50, it's a stack about half a centimeter at this point. How big did the damn package come, an inch thick? More? How many – 200, I catch in red letters on the front of the package. 200 Premium Coffee Filter Sheets. 200 pots of coffee, I think as I catch the edge of one flimsy sheet and pull it through the one side of frayed plastic that I ripped open what must have been about half a year ago. As I open the lid, the grinds from yesterday still remain. The stale coffee leftover in the pot gave that clue away long before I had even reached for the filters, but some childish part inside of me wished against hope maybe, I might just pop the lid and see nothing but a clean and empty holder. I toss the filter on the counter, careful not to get it on the spot were I cut the chicken up the night before. It lands on top of a bunch of coupon booklets and flyers from the mail that have been piling up for weeks, and I catch a whiff of the oils still hanging in the pan from the fajitas. I grab the holder full of grinds in one hand, and the pot with the stale coffee in the other and turn towards the sink. My foot presses down on the trash can pedal and I get a little shot of childhood excitement as the cover jerks up. After a good shake the grinds land sopping wet on top of the heap of romaine hearts well past their prime and a bunch of plastic wrappers from granola bars and some empty yogurt containers. It lands with a thud and I catch some of the stale yet rich aroma as it leaks out. It's chocolatey off the first part of the palate, then I get a little sense of hazelnut on the tip of my nose, but it all is capped by the heavy scent of the rotting lettuce, that sticks to the roof of my mouth before I can close the lid. And as I let off with mt foot and the cover falls one last rush of stench filters into the kitchen. I hold my breath as I step back and let the smell clear. A good five seconds pass before I breathe back to normal and over the sink full of dishes and mugs and dirty silverware and Tupperware the smell is not much better. I will get to this today... I look for an open channel to the bottom of the sink. Yesterday I had used the back left corner where a bowl did not sit flush with the curve in the basin. That gap was willed with a mug now – yesterdays. With no other porcelain alleyways popping out, I fingered aside a shiny metal mixing bowl and let the stream of brown liquid fall into the sink. It had separated overnight, so that the heavier, more syrupy mixture remained at the bottom and needed to be rinsed out with new fresh water from the spigot. I let the faucet run and heat up the hot water before I dipped the coffee pot under the nozzle and let it fill up to the 8 cups mark. I swirled it around with one hand and let it fall like a gushing waterfall all over the pots and pans. Water from the faucet landing on the broadside of a bowl splashed back on my shirt, and a big patch of navy blue began to form on my powder blue shirt. I rinsed three or four more times, swishing the steaming liquid around until it became clear enough for my liking, and each time poured it from a slightly higher angle, getting some rudimentary enjoyment of seeing the water splashing down below. Then I reached out and pulled the lever down towards the blue cold dot on the stem of the faucet and let the water cool off and run. I did this for thirty seconds, more time than most, a childhood story about hot water breaking down and carrying away the rust in the pipes had always troubled me, so I let it run to clear the pipes. After some time had passed, enough for me to settle into my heels on the dingy rug in front of the sink and sway a little back and forth, I stuck the pot underneath the sink, and pressed hard on the lever on the back of the cover with my thumb to pop it up. It splashed a couple fresh navy dots on my shirt, and I watched the lines on the side of the pot full up. When it hit 8 cups I pulled the pot away, was about to head towards the maker but dumped it all back in one last time and let it fill up to eight again. I shuffled back over to the Mr Coffee and dropped the holder back in place on top then spun it around until it fell neatly into position. The water was next, and I poured that in a tight stream into the back basin, which I could see was flecked with grains and stained brown at the bottom. I measured out 4 ½ cups roughly. It used to be six until I had heard on a morning news broadcast that played in the next room one morning, that more than four cups was bad for your health. Some nice woman in a red outfit said so. So I measured out four and a half cups, the half to make sure I had enough incase I ended up gulping down the first mug too soon. Then I opened up the freezer and although I told myself to prepare for the blast of cold air it was still a bit of a shock, and I grabbed the two cans out and set them on the counter just beside the chicken spot. They were freezing cold to the touch. I stored them in the freezer because someone said they keep better that way, who, I could not recall. But it seemed as good a place as any, so I kept the decaf and the hazelnut there in the freezer stacked on top of each other right in front. Sometimes I was worried they might topple out when I open the freezer, as TV dinners and totino's pizza rolls, and some frozen meat from the summer all jammed in there and the room for the cans wasn't too big, so I had to kind of balance the top one in there and jam it back against a box of healthy choice steak tips, which was crumpled and I wondered how long it would be until the first crease gave through and a hole developed. But I put the cans down and used two hands to pry the plastic lids off, which had frozen a bit to the edge of the cans and they stung the tips of my fingers as I tried to dig them in and get some leverage to pull the tops off. Once then were off I set the filter in and tried to straighten it out so that there were no corners pinching in where the water might just percolate and drop right past the grinds. I pressed along the edges, and as one peak would flatten against the side, another would pop out, I let it be after a couple presses and then moved back to the cans. I gave the drawer underneath the coffee pot a sturdy pull and could feel the wood runners slide and rub against the swollen wooden cabinetry. The silverware shook and then my eyes fell on the empty spoon slot in between the knives and forks. I looked back at drying tray which had some bone dry items from last week,but no spoons, and then to the sink, and then quickly back to the drawer, and stood there looking at it for a bit. The butter knife picked up what I would guess was about a half table spoon of grinds, and they settled on top of it nicely, like mini sand dunes with one edge that ran down the middle of the blade and tapered off towards the tip and the hilt. It took about seven dips with the knife into the decaf and then three in the hazelnut to fill up the filter. I kind of let my mind wander to walking through the desert on those grinds as I filled. I had a white cape strung about my head like an arab, tied tightly but it blew in the warm gusts, and I walked in my billowing white robe up the face of a particularly steep peak. I was hot, and sweaty, and desperate for a drink, but I kept on climbing. My feet sank with each step and it was difficult to tell for sure if I was in fact gaining any ground. But I pressed on, up the dune, focusing on each foot moving one after another straight up. The wind picked up. Little bits of sand an blew in tiny stinging gusts against my face. I wrapped the end of my head scarf around my mouth and nose and tucked it deep into the neck of my garment, my chest was beating fast and the perspiration seemed to stop altogether. Then I paused from stepping and looked up. Red dunes glistened in the distance, obscured by the heat into wavy and blurry mounds of earthen red and white and blue from the sky, melting together. I stood there gazing and smacked my cracked lips and squinted off against the rays of the sun. My eyes were red and it hurt to blink. I looked off and thought of all the sand, of the days it would take to cross these dunes, and of the 200 pots of coffee, and I could feel my feet sink, slowly, into the sand.

This weekend my girlfriend's dad wanted to take me fishing - doing that whole clichéd male bonding thing. All good, he's a nice guy so I was in. We drove from just outside Inverness over to the Isle of Skye (Scotland) which I was pretty stoked about because I've never been that far West before. It was a top day; good fishing, decent weather, funny chat - nothing to bother writing a story about on Reddit - until we hit this little pub afterwards. So we go into this pub in Portree, grab a table near the bar and have a few beers. Standard country pub for a Saturday - mix of old regulars, young kids trying to look 18, the local lads in their shit Ben Shermans trying to chat up the local 'talent' who barely have a full set of teeth between them. But I couldn't shake this weird vibe. Like I kept noticing people go quiet when someone else walked by, or people giving each other sideways glances. Nothing directed towards us so I wasn't too wary. Mistake number 1. Anyway, I go up to the bar for another couple beers and the barman offers the usual small talk. 'Just visiting aye?' 'Over from the mainland aye?' 'See the Old Man did ye aye?' Me: 'Yeah man, just over for a spot of fishing.' Mistake number 2. The place goes deathly silent. The barman visibly winces. If it had been a film instead of real life you would have heard a needle scratch over a record. This guy with horrible B.O. storms over to me and grabs my arm painfully. He looks at me like I just shat in his porridge and says through his teeth, 'Live bait right?' Instantly another guy leaps from his chair, crosses the pub in a flash and he's leaning on my other side. He looks the B.O. guy right in his slightly too-far-apart eyes and says 'No. He was fly fishing you prick, right?' I am in complete WTF mode. What are these two on about? Suddenly people all over the bar start chiming in. It was an instant split into two factions. 'Bait is for buffties!' 'Flies are for fags!' 'Bait is a wankers game' 'Shove yer flies up yer arse' Etc Etc It's all kicking off. B.O. boy grabs me, puts his beak right into mine. 'Well?! Bait or fly fishing?' 'F-f-f-ffly?' I stammer. Mistake number 3. Bam - sucker punch right to the eye. Then; pandemonium. It's an instant fist salad in the pub. People shouting, punching, kicking, throwing. It's the freaking wild, wild west coast of Scotland. I stand like a deer in headlights watching this country pub tear itself apart. I stand there uselessly, doing my best lighthouse impression, when a hand grabs my shoulder and yanks me outside in one swift movement. My heads spinning. I am three exits past confused. And can't see the square route of fuck all through one eye. It's the barman who has dragged me out, managing to grab my g/f's dad on the way. The three of us are stood there silent in the cold for what feels like ages, just looking at each other, a mexican stand off of staring. We can hear the mosh of the locals from inside. 'WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT!?' I finally manage to articulate. The bartender takes his time to catch his breath and stands up calmly. He looks at his pub and shakes his head like he's seen this a million times before, then just calmly says... 'In a Skye full of people, only some want to fly. Isn't that crazy?' 'Crazy.

The Boyd Family’s dining room smelled sweet like wet oak. It was the room that Mrs. Dorothy Boyd had giddily daydreamed of dressing up ever since she realized as a girl that the dingy picnic table that wobbled in her family’s kitchen was of a significantly lower class of living than the tables in the pictures of Versailles she saw on television. Like the rest of her home, the dining room was neatly arranged and Victorian, both aware of its own opulence and, in the words of Mrs. Dorothy Boyd’s interior designer, “exquisitely inoffensive.” Its central showpiece was the China cabinet, which was filled with pale blue porcelain dishes propped up like museum artifacts on glass stands. When Dorothy, seven months pregnant with her only child, first brought the dishware home from a private seller she’d heard about at the country club, her eyes became like the plates--pale blue, glassy, serene. She felt, as she unwrapped it from its parchment paper, that the beautifully ornate dish set of huts and wooden boats had always been meant to reside in her home, had always been a vital organ in the body of her real self. She began to walk more daintily; at dinner parties, she delivered her compliments in hushed intonations and mannered pauses with the elegant precision of a duchess speaking to the press. Now the China cabinet’s face was smashed into the side of the dining table, its contents exploded over the Persian rug. The initial boom of wood-to-wood and shattering glass echoed strangely when the table’s feet wailed as they were scraped across the hardwood floor. The top of the cabinet nicked the dangling glass chandelier as it fell, knocking the fixture onto the back of the cabinet before the broken bulbs slid down its smooth wood back and bashed into the wall. Dorothy couldn’t shut her eyes any harder. Frantic, she writhed on the floor and mumbled about nightmares and cackled as she grinded her back into the broken glass. Dwight caught one look at her before bolting out the door and jumping into Caitlin’s already packed sedan. He hadn’t seen her like that since he was 10 and he was woken up by ambulance lights flooding his bedroom through the windows; his dad told him later she had gotten scared and forgot how to breath. Dwight saw her on the porch that night, murmuring that she couldn’t feel her hands as she shivered. It was the same tone she used a moment before she threw herself at the China, after Dwight told her that he was ditching his quest for a pre-law degree in order to finally “live an unmanufactured life” with the girl that had slowly been corrupting him. Dorothy’s face was still soaking with snot when Mr. Brian Boyd called his son from the other room. “We can talk about this. Don’t leave your mom like this,” Brian squeezed his fist and pounded it on his desk. “You’re all right with leaving your mom like this?” “I tried to reason with both of you. This is my only choice now. It didn’t have to be this way, goddamnit. I will see her again.” “Thanks for leaving me to deal with this. After everything we’ve done for you. All the vacations and the piano lessons and the nice clothes. Did it all mean nothing?” Brian’s eyes were glued to a random date on his calendar. He had been cheated, he thought. Cheated out of a real son and given a loser instead, a lazy, pretentious drifter. After all of the hours he had put in. After the soccer practices and the days he picked him up from daycare. It was all, in retrospect, a series of obligations that only held as much inherent worth as the potential of the child being nurtured. He had produced a clunker, he thought, and he’d never forgive himself for it. “I’m doing what I need to do, Dad. You guys should have added a caveat when you filled my head with ideas of ‘following my dreams’ that the only acceptable dreams were those that would make for an impressive dinner topic.” Dwight hung up the phone and walked out of the 7/11. Caitlin was wearing overalls and combat boots and no makeup (she refused to wear it). She smoked a cigarette by the ice machine and threw rocks across the barren highway. “Where are we?” Dwight scratched his eyes and took out a stick of gum. “Colorado. Not sure what the town’s called. We’ve got another day at least.” “Have you ever been to San Francisco?” “No. I’ve always loved Howl, though. The first place we should go is where it was published.” Dwight smiled. “Were you right? Is your writer’s block fading now that we left?” “Oh baby, my mind was running wild even while you were still in your house. I felt like what was happening was the event I would mark my life around. I felt like the event itself was a part of me.” Caitlin stomped her cigarette butt, stepped into the driver’s seat. “And you?” “I can’t think about writing. Their disappointment is consuming me.” Caitlin jerked her head towards Dwight, slapped him in the face. “You can’t fucking do that to yourself. We’re brave for making this decision, and don’t let anyone in a button-up tell you otherwise, not even your dad. Respect your desire enough to accept the consequences of its fulfillment.” Dwight checked on the bag in the trunk of the car. It was filled with $6000, two-thirds of which came from Caitlin’s workplace at the boutique clothing store; she had used her assistant-manager key to break in after hours and steal every bit of the money onsite. Afterward, Caitlin toyed with the bills stacked in her passenger seat, each its own little sliver of freedom. She decided that night that it was time to go somewhere better. She blocked out the look on her brother’s and father’s faces when they realized that she’d gone; she blocked out the way they wouldn’t argue with her but would instead helplessly try to mentally record every darting of her eyes and every twitching of her nose before she bolted. She pretended that she lived in a world where they were already dead. She showed up sobbing at Dwight’s apartment with the bag clutched between her arms. “I did it,” she had said. “We can go anywhere. We don’t have to live this life anymore, baby. We can finally own ourselves.” Dwight stared at the money. The voice inside his head had screamed that night that he should kick her out, go back to work on his case briefs. He knew that money’s most dangerous power was the way it could reduce a Van Gogh into little more than a colorful receipt of the eight figure sum paid for it. But he also knew that without it he would be trapped indefinitely, forced to submerge his real self beneath his marketable self until a hazy late night conversation let it uneasily tease the surface. He and Caitlin didn’t need money like the kids across town needed money for shoes and vaccines, he thought; they needed it like a checkers player needed to say “King me” so that he could traverse the board with unmatched freedom. This unfairness constantly warred with Dwight’s artistic desire, made his ideas seem inconsequential, selfish, misguided. Yet he knew that the unfairness of his want did not make it cease. He almost instantly decided he would go, but he felt a lump in his throat form when he realized he couldn’t leave in good conscience without telling his permanently worry-sick mother. “I’ve known for years that I would have to crush my parents if I was ever going to be happy,” Dwight said. “Now that it’s actually happened it feels fucking apocalyptic.” Caitlin smiled a little and cracked her window, ashing a cigarette more frequently than ash was accumulating. “You’re a bastard for waiting this long to let them down. You spent nearly all of your teenage years inflating an ideal version of yourself, just to snatch it away at the last second.” “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what it was like to have that pressure. I love them for what they did for me, but I don’t owe them a miserable life. They just can’t see the whole picture.” “Well that’s our problem, isn’t it?” Caitlin said. “We see the whole picture when they can see only a corner. That’s why we have to bust open the frame and rip up the picture into pieces and scatter them on the floor so that each portion becomes a whole picture itself. That’s the only way to live.” “But what happens when we put the pieces back together again, and it’s the same picture?” “Then we start over. But until then you’ve just got to believe a new one is waiting for us, and once we put the pieces back together the sight of it will lift us off the ground and into another world where things aren’t broken but they aren’t too fixed, either.” A few hours later, as the sun inched across the Nevadan horizon, Caitlin perked up when she saw an exit for Reno. “My friend Edgar lives in Reno,” she said. “He owes me a favor. Let’s see if he has a couch we can pass out on until tomorrow.” Edgar’s apartment complex was a refashioned motel. It was made of grimy aluminum, and it smelled like wet rust. “I stayed here once when I ran away from home when I was 16,” she said. “I wasn’t so brave then.” They knocked on door number 5, but they heard no one stirring. Dwight, desperate for sleep, banged on the door like he had a search warrant until a stocky old woman undid the key latch and opened the door. “Can I help you?” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, we thought our friend Edgar lived here,” Dwight said. “No, I’m afraid I took over his lease three or four years ago. You two come inside, though. I haven’t talked to anyone in weeks and you look like you could use some coffee. I’m Doris.” The inside of the dimly lit room was filled with parchment paper covered in illegible scrawl. The only pieces of furniture were those remained from the room’s motel years: a two-seat round table, a dresser where a television used to sit, and a queen sized bed. Caitlin and Dwight sat at the table. “Where are you kids headed?” Doris tried to portion out three cups of coffee, but her hands were shaking violently and the coffee dribbled on the carpet. “San Francisco,” Caitlin said. “I lived there once when I was about your age. An interesting place, if you have a strong stomach for bullshit.” “I would say that we do,” Dwight smiled. “Why San Francisco?” Dwight grabbed the pot and poured the coffee. “Someplace else,” he shrugged, picking up a random piece of paper. “What is this supposed to say?” “I knew at one point, darling,” she said. “I used to be the biggest poet in Nevada. I even turned down a screenwriting job to keep it that way. But at one point the money dried up, my arthritis destroyed the hand muscles I use to write, and everyone I knew either died or sold out. I woke up and found that my conviction was an antique.” Caitlin’s phone rang. It was her father. “Excuse me for a minute,” she said, as Dwight began pressing Doris on her poetry. “Daddy?” She said outside. “Caitlin. Please come home. We need you.” “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But I have to do this. You of all people should understand. You don’t like staying stagnant either, right? You travelled everywhere.” “Staying moving doesn’t keep you from being stagnant.” “Why are you trying to convince me so hard?” “It’s your brother. He ate all of the Xanax you left. He’s on suicide watch. He told me he can’t keep going without you. He needs you. I need you.” Caitlin’s vision blurred all around her; if her brother wanted to die she wished he had already gotten it done rather than holding her in the limbo of a “suicidal” relative. They needed her. They had always needed her. Dwight walked out of Doris’s room. “Baby, if I told you how extraordinary Doris’s poetry was you wouldn’t believe me. You have to come inside.” “Let’s go. I want to drive.” “Go? No, you have to hear this. I’ve never heard anything like it.” “My brother tried to kill himself last night. Says he can’t live without me.” Caitlin stared at her shoes. “I want to get out of here.” “Caitlin. I wanted you to come in to hear because hearing it changed me. I can’t leave her here with no way to write. I have to stay. It’s all too perfect for me to pass it up. This was what I was meant to do. The real me is here, with her, helping her work.” Caitlin’s eyes welled; she knew that trying to convince Dwight was as futile as trying to convince herself. She kissed him and grabbed his hand and followed him back into the room. Doris read her poetry, and they embraced each other on the bed as they listened. Soon, in the world that Doris constructed, they felt like they had found the place that let them become themselves. They unwrapped each word as reverently as Dorothy unwrapped China. They dozed off in a place that Doris weaved with her words, and in the morning Caitlin removed herself gingerly from the bed and didn’t turn around to see the faces she was leaving as she walked out the door. She put the bag of money in the passenger seat where Dwight had sat. The Nevada desert unrolled itself in front of her. As she started the car, she could think only of how soon the money in her bag would dissipate, of how soon the day would come that Dwight would wake up to Doris’s stiff, dead body.

Al’s Timer. I can’t say I ever looked forward to visiting Al. I know not wanting to go was bad. I feel guilty. I could have been doing better things. Actually, I lie. Even with nothing to do, I’d still not want to go. I’ve never voiced this. I don’t think I ever will, to be honest. It’s a little thing that one should just bring to one’s grave. I’ve often wondered whether Al, or the other residents for that matter, had little things they dreaded. No. Too strong of a word. Disliked. No one would know. Al is too old to guilt trip. Now that’s an odd paradox. A perky phenomenon of living. Old and young are both associated with innocence. Or is it ignorance? Either way, there’s a period in one’s life where one is culpable of guilt and, by a transitory property of some stupid force of justice, one’s actions. At least, I suppose that’s the kind of stuff Al would have pondered. I’ll have you know, though, that a period as such doesn’t just click in or out of being. I’ve been told it’s more progressive. One, after all, doesn’t just suddenly become old. I, in fact, do remember the visits to Al’s vividly. His ward is definitely one of the better ones. The ward houses no more then 15 patients at a time with a ratio of 1 nurse for every 5 patients. Al said the numbers reminded him of his school boy days. I’ll tell you, the one thing I remember most about mine is the school trips. School trips were always rigorously scheduled and always too short and too few. Bastards. There was these awful grey concrete steps that lead to the hospital’s door. I nearly shat myself whenever a lonesome patient would attempt the climb after a brief trip to the forecourts. What if they pulled a muscle? I remember Al once insisting to make the climb single handedly - no support and no rail. I counted each and every second to rest my mind. He reached the door in 223 seconds flat. When I’d visit, we’d sit and talk in the lounge. The blue chair by the window was for me and the red chair by the palm tree was for him. On Al’s other side was a little wooden table. I’d hold my tea cup and rest the saucer on my lap. Al would place his cup and saucer right on the edge of that table so he wouldn’t have to stretch. Al left his lap free for his timer. Al has this obsession. We’d only have 15 minutes to talk. No more and no less. Once the timer clicked, Al would ask me to leave. He never wanted me to say too long because he didn’t want to take me away from my work. I don’t work. I spend most days pondering. I write occasionally. I told Al often. In response, he would thrice shake his head, grunt a “no” and tell me that I had better things to be doing with my time then to spend it with “these old bastards”. This became a ritual. I tried to visit him 2 to 3 times a week and always 4 when it was especially cold. I did this every week for 3 years straight until my visits progressively petered. It's not like something just clicked one day and I stopped going. I felt like I was in school again, anyway, and I really dislike that.

I'll just preface this by saying that the inspiration from this came from my infatuation with the idea of a found and functional abandoned facility full of antiquated technology (think The Lost World novel or the Fallout universe). The musty and dusty computer equipment that has miraculously survived the test of time and is vital (or not) to the protagonist's survival, or at least as a fixture in the universe in which the story takes place. Anyway, "Lockdown" (I'm terrible with titles) is a Post-Apoc (maybe?) short that I wrote most of a month or so ago and have kinda lost my focus and direction on. I'm not even sure if I'll continue the story much past where I am, but I just really liked the idea of incorporating different, ah, font imagery I guess you could call it, into a story and wanted to experiment with it. I apologize if it's difficult to read from the screen captures, but I didn't want to try and recreate the formatting for reddit as it's a total pain in the ass.

He was a good student. Exemplary in fact. All of his teachers saw potential within him. He got on well with every single one of his teachers, but his Psychology teacher was the one that he felt a closer bond with. A bond that wasn't safe. He would often fantasize about his Psychology teacher, wishing that they could be more than pupil and teacher. Wishing that they could be more than friends. Wishing that they could know each other on a more intimate level. He craved to have her skin on his, their sweaty bodies in contact. He wanted to be deep inside her, hearing her scream his name. Pulling at each other's hair, clawing at one another's back. The thoughts drove him wild. It was a relatively safe fantasy, however. Until one night.. He went into school one day, and his Psychology teacher mentioned that she had a boyfriend. That day, he went home and devised a devious plan. He couldn't take the pain of thinking that someone else would be living out his euphoria. The jealousy grew too much, and his obsession overtook. He followed his teacher to the pub that she always went to on a Friday after school, where she stayed until the early hours of the morning sometimes. Too drunk to drive, he knew that she would have to call a cab. So he waited with a knife... And waited... And waited... Until a cab arrived, and he knew that his time had arrived. He readied himself, and soon enough his psychology teacher stumbled out of the pub. He grabbed hold of her by her waist. Already his ravenous animalistic self had erupted like a volcano, spewing hot lava of evil desires. He only had hold of her waist, but it was enough to drive him crazy, more so than his fantasies. He took the knife he had in his pocket and penetrated her with it. She screamed out. Penetration and hearing her scream - two things that mixed together and formed a diabolical fuel for his savage intentions. Her blood was now on him, and she was beginning to lose consciousness. If he couldn't have her, no one could. She was never seen or heard of again.

There once was a man. He lived in the very top floor of an apartment, an old thing, but it still had its beauty. Throughout the course of every night, since he moved in, he could be heard playing the violin. It was so beautiful, so sad, so unearthly… He lived in his small attic room for over thirty years; everyone was used to his music by now, a lullaby for them. When the man was too old to leave his room, there moved in a young new tenant this tenant was frustrated, wasn’t able to sleep in peace, yes he admired the music, but it was unsettling, he felt that the music was seeping into his mind, filling it with memories… or where they? The tenant, so tired, left to visit to the old man. He was going to complain. He knocked and knocked but there was no reply. He knew the old man was in there, the violin could be heard, crying out to the building. He tried to open the door, but it was stuck. He worked it a bit more and finally the door opened. A cloud burst over the new tenant, suffocating him in darkness. The cloud fell to the ground; there was a crunch for every step the man took. On closer watch, the man noticed that it was the remains of butterflies, so many butterflies. So beautiful, they were of all colours, yet none, they were the colours out of space, impossible. The tenant walked into the room, but found nothing, no food in the cupboards, no sign of the man, or his beloved violin. The tenant was dazed “how could that be” he thought. He decided to leave the room and go back to his apartment, believing it to be all just a bad dream. Crunch went every step Crunch. Crunch. He closed the door behind him, but the moment the door locked, the violin could be heard. Bewildered, he went to open the door. It wouldn’t open again. This time the tenant peered through the keyhole to see if he could see the man. All there was, was an unfathomable darkness. As he was looking through the keyhole, he saw the colours again, but slowly the music became a hum, one hum sang by thousands, if not millions of beautiful, tiny creatures. Then it stopped It shot through the keyhole into the tenants head, blackness ensued as he fell into the living abyss. He woke up the next morning, no recollection of the night before. He carried on with his daily routine Get up, eat go to work, come home eat go to sleep. But this night was different. He slept peacefully, lulled by the music, his dreamless sleep fueled by the hum.

there once was a boy with knives stuck in his voice. No matter what he said, it hurt the people around him, the boy just couldn't help it. Even if he didn't say anything offensive to someone, it still hurt them, just the sheer noise produced, a high, cutting pitch, something never heard by the likes of man before, would make the inner workings of your ears bleed, if you listened to it long enough. All he wanted was a little affection. just somebody, for once to actually love him. a mother, a father, a friend would have sufficed. he should have known the first time a whole village abandoned him in the middle if a woods; no one wanted him, or his foul remarks. but he didn't learn, he had the simple mind of a child. the boy would walk during the days, crawl in the darkness of night, just to find a home. but every town he found, just kicked him out again. but he didnt learn, he had the simple mind of a child. his cry's pierced the silence of the forest at night, birds flew away in fear, his shrill scream lured hunters to him, believing it was an animal, dying in their traps. but all they could hear when they saw him was, just as ghastly as his voice. the poor child, he was just an unidentifiable bulk. you could hardly call him a bulk though, he was nothing but a remnant of his former self. the boy hadnt eaten for days from the looks of it, his skin was peeling, hair grew in patches. his ribs, they were hypnotic, just watching them stretch the pale, brittle skin. scabs were beginning to form, at nearly every inch of his body. the two hunters felt pity for the boy. they left some food for him, and then left as fast as they could, they were horrified of the grotesque child. if they really felt pity for him, they would've killed him. the night the boy ate was the first night the forest heard true silence for so long, no one actually knew.that night the boy actually slept. the dreams were the sweetest thing he had ever experienced. the dreams gave him a new feeling of life, he didn't have the will to death any more. or was that the food? the boy learnt to fend for himself. he admired those hunters, he wanted to impress them, be like them. to him, they were to first people to show him any compassion. but the boy was as much a terrible hunter, as the villagers were terrible humans. he never learnt. his voice scared of every single one of his prey. except the fish. the boy was expert in catching fish from a river. the joy on his face was unmatched, as he pulled his first fish out of the stream with his bare hands. many nights passed after the night with the hunters, and many dreams accompanied them. the boy had found something to cherish. night after night he went to his den, night after night a scream let out, sounding so much like a childish laugh. his den was a crude piece of art. tightly packed under the roots of a relatively young oak in the forest of elders, its roots resembled aching joints submerged in the depths of the river, the boy used grass for a simple beading. old fish bones were hung up from the tops of the roots. oh he was proud of his fish bones. one day, the boy was out “fishing”. there was one fish he had his eye on. it was too fast for him, even heading upstream. up and up they went, the boy wasn't going to give up. before he knew it, night had fallen. the boy was scared, he had come a long way from his little den, so far upstream he was on a slope. that was the first night the forest had heard the boys crys for so long. he didn't sleep at all, he was scared he just wanted to be home, to be loved again. after the progress the boy made, it was undone in just one single, sleepless night. the following morning, he woke in a pile of golden red leaves. autumn had arrived. the ground was damp and boggy. he tried to set for home, following the river downstream. the boy dragged his feet through the mud. for hours, he walked and walked and walked, still no where closer to home. he was surprised at the distance he traveled the day before chasing the fish. Then he heard it, a scream,a cry for help. it was a sharp noise, but it didn't make the boy cover his ears, only pay more attention to it. at first he thought it was himself, but how could it be, if he was here, and the noise was over there. the boys childish nature made him curious. step by step, he trekked through the mud. it soon began to dry out as he made it closer to the noise the forest was thinning, the noise was increasing. he thought he could hear voices thrown in hear and there, laughing, tormenting. the boy had reached a clearing on a plateau. it was most likely the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or will ever see. the field had patches of scarlet poppy's in between patches of long white grass. and in the middle of that, the noise. a black cloud, dancing around in a single fluid motion. the boy got closer and saw ravens, hundreds of them, words flying from their beaks, taunts and insults thrown to the centre of the mass. and in the centre, a single carrion crow, half the size of the ravens, and not able to fully form words like them, but screams, the same screams that caught the boys attention. he screamed. the child screamed, drowning out the noise of the ravens. the crow joint in. the boy started running in and out of the group, trying his best to scare the ravens off. but they laughed at his futile attempts. this made him scream louder and run faster. eventually the crows got bored with picking on the crow, and lost all interest in the child, waving his arms about like a madman. they were gone. it was just the boy with knives stuck in his voice and the crow that couldn't sing. the screams lessened and lessened, until all you could hear was the far of call of the ravens caught in the wind, and the slow steady breathing of both boy and bird. on closer inspection, the crow was actually much bigger, but in poor condition. still not as big as the others, it had fresh blood dripping from where the ravens talons took swipes at him. its feathers were torn out in patches. and it was weak, malnourished. they boy tried to pick him up as gentle as he could, but the crow struggled. finally the boy got hold of him. the boy could see he was hungry, but he had no food. he had the next best thing a carrion crow could wish for; living human flesh. the boy bit his finger, making it bleed, only with a small yelp of pain. he tried stuffing it into the crows face, but that didnt work. at long last, the crow got the taste of blood, and pecked at the boys hand until he was satisfied, all the while, the boy screamed. but he tolerated the pain, not flinching his hand away during the feeding. the path back to the river was a long and tiresome one, the boy was feeling faint. the crow wanted to stay with the boy, so he let it sit on his shoulder. they screamed at each other the whole way, having some strange conversation in the most bizarre of tongues. he had finally found someone to love, and to love him in return. the boys dreams had come true. that night, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and blood on his neck from success. a dreamless sleep soon fell upon him. the boys body became entangled in the branches of a relatively young oak tree in a forest of eldars, its fingers submerged in the waters of the river. the crow was perched above. it flew down and landed on the corpse, pecking strips of flesh away from the bones of the bloated, floating body.

Hey guys! If you have been reading/wanting to keep up with "The 'Master' and her 'Pet'" and noticed any posts regarding it, my laptop with all previous and future stories/plots on it had a small meltdown regarding the CPU. The harddrive is perfectly intact, but im simply waiting to get a replacement laptop so i can transfer all my data to the new laptop. Anyway, here's something i wrote up real quick and to tide any wanting of a new "Master and her Pet" -pssttt, this was suppose to be the true ending of the first part. (suppose to be oneshot)- 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... My head is pounding, harder than waves against a sea wall, harder then I've ever experienced before. As my heavy eyelids slowly reveal the world around me, but I too am engulfed in darkness with a cone of light to my left. As I attempt to rotate my head, I feel a soft, string-like object along my cheek and try to move my right arm, but I'm met with no response. Oblivious to why my right arm was immobilized, i slowly moved my left arm to grab the object off my cheek, but felt something cold, soft, with a faint hint of creases in it. I attempt to move me head to the right, but feel a sudden jab of pain shoot down my back. Not wanting to aggravate my injury any more, I look as far right as i can without moving my head and see a faint outline set against the darkness. My eyes are fixated on the outline. I know this outline. I know this outline. I know this outline. But from where... Slowly my eyes began to notice more and more details in the outline, slightly curly hair that was stuck together in some places. There was a reflection of light coming from what was the left cheek, it looked like a small vertical pool of water. My eyes... They're so heavy but the longer i keep looking at this outline, the brighter everything becomes. I notice a reddish light coming from in front of me, and as I draw my eyes forward, I realize it is the sunrise. Real light. Something to let me see who this outline is. After a few seconds looking into this magical light, i look to my right again to see if the outline became more clear. Instead of a curiosity that would normally come to me, I was hit with a wall of sudden grief, a flood of memories, and the realization that there was a moistness laying upon my cheeks. It was her. A pool of blood had formed and ran down her left from a gash below her eye, her beautiful reddish-brown hair clumped together by sploches of a dark and dried red. The black tee-shirt that she had was in tatters, revealing her sports bra that was a dark orange, I had bought it a few months ago for her when she needed a new one. I bought a pink sports bra because it was her favorite color. This wasn't pink. As i looked further downwards, more and more gashes and cuts appeared along her pale, almost white skin. Her left leg had a pool of blood to next to it where it trailed off and created a small reservoir against my leg. My focus was brought back upwards when i began to feel a stiffness in my right arm. As i brought them upwards, my right arm had gashes along it, stopping slightly below the shoulder. The red tee-shirt i had been wearing was ripped and shredded on the right sleeve. Her left arm was glued to mine from the dried blood that oozed from my right. I couldn't feel anything from my shoulder down, but as i looked down to see if i had any other injuries i saw her arm leading slightly outwards and towards me. When i saw it I knew she died peacefully, but slowly and painfully. Her left hand was entwined with my right. Her whole hand was only able to do it with the tips of mine, but just the gesture enough was alone. ~Five hours ago~ I remembered what had happened, the car veering off the road, being thrown back and forth in the back, the sickening crunch of metal, the thumps of hitting countless tree trunks. I was the first one to wake up, I thought i was the only one still alive. She had her left arm draped over me but her body was slumped leaning to the right on the backseat and her feet touching the floor. She was wearing her seatbelt, like the hidden good-girl she was, but I had unbuckled to be more comfortable. The metal door had claimed the left and front side of her body, while the right side was mostly unhurt. Her father's car seat was squished into the center of the white car, knowing there was no way he could have survived that with his seatbelt on, I knew that he was dead. Knowing that she had the best chance of being alive, i painfully pushed the car door open, using the rear of the car to support myself, i slowly stumbled my way to her side of the car. The left door had completely collapsed, and taken all of it's anger and damage out on her small, frail body. When i pulled the car door away from her body, it was layered in flesh and blood. As i looked at her arm, it was still oozing blood with her front side torn and painted with blood and gashes. I gingerly undid her seatbelt, and picked her up in a bridal carry way. She loved being carried like this but never straight out said it, but you could see the excitement in her eyes when I did it. I managed to stumble a few steps before having to sit her against a sizable tree trunk before i sat down to catch me breath. ~Five hours later~ As my eyes began to rain down upon my dirt-caked cheeks I began to remember times we had, from the day i first met her to the day i finally asked her to go to prom with me. She was my sole reason for living, and now... I have nothing else. Nothing else to hold on to, nothing else to serve, nothing else to look up to. I began to look back at the car and saw a small nova of light come from the ground, noticing it was a sliver of white-painted metal, I made my mind right there. I leaned over to grab it with my left arm, trying to not move my right arm from it's position. Barely, by my fingertips i was able to inch it closer to where i could grab the entire hand-length piece of metal. I looked down at both my arms and thought "Just like back then. Just do it like before." But before I had her... I held the sliver of metal like a combat knife, I could feel it cutting into my hand already but I know it wouldn't do much. Looking at her one last time, i decided it would be better if i did it looking in her direction. As i turned my neck all the way to the right to face her, i could feel the surge of pain through my entire body. My right hand clenched and bleed even more from the piece of metal. I plastered a small smile on my face, knowing that even though I couldn't keep original my promise, it was better to be late than to never show up. I would keep my promise to die with her. ~One Day Later~ *crackle* Reports say that a white sedan veered off into the woods along route 13, no one has been reported alive. Three people are thought to be in the accident, all three are accounted for. One person died with no suspicious causes of death. Two are accounted to the severity of the crash. *A picture of the car shows that the middle-left section of the car was wrapped around a tree trunk, with pools of blood on the tree next to it and on the ground surrounding the tree trunk.

Fear. He thought he understood the idea. When he was younger he had been told to not be afraid by his parents, but this was different. This was paralyzing. His parents had finally left him home alone. He fought for this right. Now, with the window broken from the outside in, and a shadowy figure making his way around the house, all he could fight for was to keep his hands steady as he dialed for the police. He strained to hear the operator over the relentless beating inside of his chest. Fear. He knew he understood the idea. But this, this was something he had never experienced. Something new. What was once an emotion reserved for times of solitude had suddenly, relentlessly even, shoved its way between him and his fiancée. The man across from him, who had already demanded his watch and wallet, looked weathered. The knife in his hand glistened with the light of flickering neon signs. He didn't care about the wallet or watch but when the attacker turned his eyes to his fiancée, that was when he knew what had to be done. The drum that was once a distraction, now played a welcome song of war. Fear. It was no longer an idea. Sitting next to her like he had done for so many years before, he knew it was close. The doctors said she could go home, she would be more comfortable there. The sound of his heart inside his chest didn't matter anymore. This was fear. The fear that comes from true helplessness. Unable to run, unable to fight. He would fearlessly take her place if he could, but he couldn't. This was fear. He longed for a time when the sound of fear was his beating heart. The sound of fear was now the sound of an electric beat. An electric beat that was ever slowing. Fear. Silence.

Richard Gould awoke one morning no longer knowing who he was. Not in the metaphorical, pretentious find yourself in a book kind of way either, Richard Gould opened his eyes the morning of March 2nd 2014 totally at a loss as to his own identity. After a moment to contemplate the greater significance as to his unfortunate circumstances, whether one could truly ever know oneself after all, and even if you could, would that actually mean anything in a world full of life whose only greater significance was to reproduce and send forth the greatest of our own accomplishments into the world, Richard Gould rose out of bed allowing his feet to drop onto fine soft Persian carpeting that in another life Richard had spent months toiling through store after store for. He thought to himself that although this was the strangest of plights, waking up no longer knowing who you are, that there must have been some reasonable explanation as to lack of presence of his selfhood. What if he had suffered some sort of severe head injury or mind altering fever? He had heard of things like this happening to others before, or at least he thought he had. This seemed only the most reasonable of ideas, so sitting on his $1928 ikea bed with catalogue matching sheets and comforter Richard Gould went to work searching his head. First Richard checked his head for a temperature, because that seemed like the more urgent of the two possibilities, but sadly no temperature. Then Richard lifted his hands scanning his head for any strange lumps that could have occurred from falling down a flight of stairs or getting into some massive bar fight the night before, but sadly nothing on that end either. Just Richard’s normal, average unblemished headspace left in the same working order that he imagined it was left in every day. After some time of searching Richard began to feel hungry, only the most reasonable of feelings for someone who has just awoke from what could have very well been quite a long sleep considering the circumstances. Richard Gould arose and made his way out of the room in search of some form of nourishment. As Richard moved from room to room, each painfully decorated and situated in just the optimal way to show off to others just what type of refined and dignified taste a man such as Richard Gould would have, he began to wonder again about the cause that which gave birth to his peculiar plight. What if this was some sort of otherworldly religious experience? Maybe a benevolent god had reached down and plucked him from a previous life, saving him from a horrible fate that would have otherwise stricken the earth of his presence, and placed him here as some sort of reward for a life lived from birth in the servitude of the betterment of mankind, and thus he should live out the rest of his days praising the omnipotent power of such a loving being? Or maybe he had been some sort of hedonistic scrooge who at the end of his life looked back and saw only misery and in his final moments he had begged for a second chance to do the good he had been charged with but failed to commit? All this and more he thought of as he searched each room discovering more and more about himself and the kind of person he was destined to be. Finally Richard Gould arrived at the stainless steel fridge which cost a none too hefty amount of Richard’s monthly paycheck. Opening it up Richard found food of all kinds. There was something for a person of any walk of life to enjoy unburdened by social, religious, or moral qualms. Richard had vegetarian food, steak, food without pork, food with pork, soy milk, soy-less milk, a whole fridge full of food dedicated to being acceptable and unacceptable to all the people of the world. This got him thinking about what kind of person he must be. Was he the kind who gracefully dinned on all the world’s delicacies, searching and tasting his way through the least immortal of all art forms for the perfect dish which would satisfy his craving? Or was he the kind of man who kept his fridge stocked with the food he brought home through all his travels across the globe? Maybe the presence of both traditional Hebrew and Muslim dishes in the same fridge can only be explained by the fact that he was a famous diplomat whose destiny was to unite the world in unlikely peace. After wasting so much time foolishly trying to contemplate the meaning of his own life through the contents of his fridge Richard decided he was not actually that hungry after all and instead decided to make his way to his wash room in preparation for work. Work! Yes the most meaningful and life affirming purpose in man kinds everyday life. The place where he dines to spend hours of his days toiling away must surely hold the answers to what had become of his identity. Perhaps he is a billion dollar wall street investor who through the full force of his inspired intellect, natural cunning, and superb social skills had risen to the top of the investing market through the sweet of his own back, he thought as washed himself in his full paneled shower the smells of exotic soaps surrounding him. Or maybe he was a world renowned artist who through his strange understanding of the way life works, mixed with his own personal experience and pretentious outlook on life had birthed a work of art out of his womb, serving the umbilical cord with his own ink stained hands, something that was so profound it changed the hearts and minds of all who laid eyes upon it, he contemplated between stroke of his toothbrush across his teeth. Or perhaps he was a lawyer, or pro athlete, who through unrelenting competitiveness and drive had become the very best that no one ever was, shirking off the joys of everyday life in pursuit of a dream that had finally been realized and who would eventually rediscover love and the simple joys of life in a heartwarming and down to earth way, he mused as donned the finest suit in his closest. The joy that overcame him at the prospect was only overcome by his surprise to find a message left on his answering machine. After listening to the message 3 times over, a smile spread across Richard Gould’s face. This was his answer. The message had been to remind him that he needed to arrive early into work because his boss needed his reports from a client he met with the day before. Finally he had his answer, this was the place he would finally discover his secret identity that was only being kept from himself. Richard finished getting ready and then made his was out of his apartment and down the elevator. He couldn’t wait to get outside, surely the world between his place of residence and his work must be the most beautiful of all sites for he chose to live there after all, he thought as he made his way out the front doors and into a cab. He directed the cab driver where to go, having got the address from his computer which purred like a cat and was the prized possession of a young Richard Gould, who surely used it in his spare time to create the most amazing of computerized inventions that would one day make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. On the way there he stared out the window and thought about what he was sure to find when he arrived at work. Upon walking through the door he was to be greeted by his wise talking friends who after hearing about his dilemma would band together to find a way to fix his case of misplaced identity in a crazy and in the end heartening way. And when he sat at his corner office desk and begun working on the day’s work there would probably be an interruption moments later as a loving and nice woman who had just started working on the same floor arrived to great him and ask to borrow something for her desk, being stricken with love at first sight he would wish to ask her out on a date but be far too shy to act on that impulse only to later find out that she was engaged to another, a mean and horrible man who she would ultimately leave him for upon his confession of love, and her realization that the man who had so quickly become her best friend was actually the one she was always meant to be with. This fantasy carried him all the across town. How grand it was to be, he thought, as he arrived and walked through the doors, hesitating only a moment as he walked out onto the floor which he was to work, unable to find the cubicle in which he was to sit and discover all his little quirks through items scattered around the desk and walls. Richard walked around for a while unable to find his place of work and leisure. He expectantly waited for that moment when his best friend, who hated this job but made life all the better through his sarcastic and narcissistic comments, would swoop in with a story of heroic party going activities and sweep him away to his correct desk but the moment never came. Perhaps this man, who must exist as definitely as he himself existed, was simply sick today and would show up late to work he thought. So he began to search for the desk on his own and when he came upon am unoccupied desk littered with toys, drawings, and bags of half eaten chips he thought he must have found it because this had to be the desk of someone with as much character as himself. But as he readied himself to sit down another man brushed by him without even a word and sat in the desk pulling up a website full of hilarious cat videos and hateful comments. So this was not his desk but there must be one of equal character or importance for someone such as himself. He waited until all the cubicles were full save one before he finally decided he had found it. He made his way across the room and sat in the lone cubicle in the corner. He turned to the mostly empty desk and set about doing his work for the day communicated to him by notes stuck the outside of several manila folders in a stack. One of the notes said that he was to meet with his boss at the end of the day and seeing this he knew what that must mean. Promotion. Finally the higher ups saw how amazing of a person he was and were going to recognize his talents as far exceeding that of his current work load. Now all he had to do was work diligently through the rest of the day to show them how serious and integral he was to the place. So Richard Gould worked as hard as he could, never taking a break or gloating about his accomplishments for the day, despite them trumping that of the other less important employees, and finally the time had arrived. Richard made his way up to the next floor knowing that something amazing was about to happen. He was certain to get the job and if he wasn’t he could simply quit and storm out of the office on to a life changing job that would lead to bigger and better things then even his boss could dream of. As Richard walked through the door his boss appeared to take no notice of him at first, absorbed in a conversation he was having on his phone. Richard cleared his throat and his boss looked up only for a moment and then motioned for Richard to put the folder he had brought with him on top of a stack on his desk and then spun around continuing his conversation on the phone and ending his conversation with Richard that had not really begun. Richard seeing that his boss was busy placed the folder down quietly and turned to walk out the door. “thank you dave” his boss said over his shoulder as he walked out and back to the elevator. Dave! That must be my name he thought. The revelation of his name made him contemplate his identity even more as he made his now familiar way back to his apartment. This could not be all there was for someone as unique as himself. Maybe this was simply what he did during the day, what if at night he done a new identity, one that would protect him in his fight against the evils of man and government? Or maybe something else was meant for his life, like maybe he was to become a great teacher or father figure to some down and out kid who would later lead an amazing life, a life based entirely off of his teachings and clever sayings, which would change the world, he thought as he walked into his apartment and sat down in front of the tv. Or maybe something smaller, maybe his entire life was leading up to one moment when through a simple act of kindness he would save the life of another, creating in them a happiness that would last their entire life, he thought as his eyes begin to close, the sound of the tv buzzing away noisily in the background. The last thought he had that night before drifting away into dreamless sleep brought a smile to his face, Yes that’s it, my life has meaning, there is more to it than this. Richard Gould awoke one morning no longer knowing who he was.

God's End was an old 1990's English Pub located within a small English town that nobody had ever heard of. It was small time, a quiet tavern for restless travelers to come and have a brew before setting off into the night once more. Of course this Pub had it's fair share of complaints with the name, at least once a month 3 or more Religious Zealots would enter the pub and shout loudly "THESE WALLS ARE CURSED AND SPEAK LIES ABOUT OUR HOLY LEADER, FOR HE IS NOT ENDING HERE". After getting thrown out they would protest for a few hours, which turned a few potential customers away at times, then they would leave, and feel a cold breeze crawl over their backs as they left the premises, and although people laughed at them and mocked them for what they preached, deep down everyone could feel the cold shimmer of God's hand striking them. But on the 14th March 1994, The Pub closed without notifying long time customers and no-one saw the owner after. The villagers believe that God came to the owner in a dream and told him to leave his business and to never return, after sending a false message of God's end drawing close. Now in 2014 it has boarded up windows, a roof that is close to caving in, it is surrounded my marsh and damp but despite all of this it still stands high and refuses to crumble. Villagers believe God himself is keeping the building standing, as proof that he will not fall, will not end or will not succumb to what the name suggests. There have also been talks of possible planning permission on the land, but yet nobody will destroy this Pub, for The Villagers believe that, if destroyed, God will become angry and smite the world, possibly ending it. It is Funny what Folk lore does to your mind.

A soft-spoken, timid wire of a librarian sits at the circulation desk checking in a stack of thick books. She looks up at the sound of the front door opening, smiling at the couple that comes through the door. A man and woman, both middle-aged and lanky, approach the desk. The man, taller and a little more weatherworn, pulls his library card from the leather wallet in his back pocket, handing it to the librarian. Unsure, her smile stays in-place. “Hey there!” the librarian said brightly, “How can I help you today?” The man keeps his arm outstretched, holding his card out for the librarian to take. “We would like to check out some books today.” The librarian looks to the woman, who is staring at her intently. Puzzled. The librarian nods, her smile waning slightly. “Do you have books on hold back here?” she says, motioning to the stacks behind her with name slips sticking out the tops. The confusion on the man’s face deepens. “No ma’am. We just want to check out some books.” His card is still brandished, and his wife continues her piercing gaze. “Well,” the librarian says, trying to keep her brain from over-wiring, “You are in luck. You can just go around and check out whichever books you’d like from our stacks.” She is sure to point around to the various areas as she says this. The man looks at his wife, bewildered. Her face is unchanging as she slowly turns and takes tentative steps towards the shelves of books. The man takes a moment to lower his hand, and then carefully walks back to follow his wife. The librarian stands there, blinking after them. What was that? *From the Other Perspective...* The lanky couple stood outside the small, but somehow still intimidating building. The man, his face holding more folds than most bulldogs, tried to calm himself. At his side, the stern-faced woman’s only sign of unnerve was the slight shiver of her hand holding onto the slip of paper. They would not fail at this task. “Are you sure, this is it?” the man asked the woman in a hoarse voice. “No other building full o’ book around, is there?” the woman spat. The man was oddly comforted by her spiteful tone. She was scared too. The instructions had been both clear and vague. The tiny slip of paper in the woman’s hand, lovingly placed their by their Dear Leader, contained the tasks they needed to do before returning to their village that evening. It read: *Woods - Pick up sticks* *Fruit Stand - Pick up orange* *Building of Books - Pick up books* Along with the paper, their Leader had handed the man a strange, small rectangular piece of paper, stiffer than any he’d ever held, with a bunch of black lines and a thick, black strip along the bottom. He said when they got to the Building of Books, they’d know what to do. The man had retrieved a bundle of sticks from the woods twenty meters from The Temple while the woman went to the corner harlot’s fruit stand and taken the orange. Now, here they were at their final stop, ready to complete their mission and make their Dear Leader proud. The man heard the woman take a deep breath before they moved. The two walked in, freezing just past the entrance. The building was unnervingly quiet, and empty excluding a small-framed woman behind the counter, waving thick books under a shining red light. The stern-faced woman narrowed her eyes. “Witchcraft.” she whispered to the man. The small witch raised her eyes and smiled a warm smile - far too comfortable for their liking. The man chanced one last glance at his scowling partner and took several unsteady steps towards the desk. The witch behind it put her books down. *This should be easy*, the man thought. *She’ll know what to do here*. He approached the wooden counter in front of her, reaching back and retrieving The Card from the worn-out leather wallet Dear Leader had gifted him on the day of his fortieth full moon, holding it out for the witch to take. Instead, she held his gaze, her smile losing some of it’s natural hold. He felt his very core shiver with fear. “Hey there!” she said brightly, “How can I help you today?” *Why didn’t she take it?* The man wondered, keeping his arm outstretched. “We would like to check out some books today,” the man clarified. He drew himself up, hoping his scrawny arms and legs didn’t make him appear a fool. He saw the witch behind the desk shift her gaze to the stern-faced woman, who was staring at her intently. She appeared as puzzled as the man. The witch just nodded, her smile faltering. “Do you have books on hold back here?” she says, motioning to the shelves of books behind her with little slips of paper poking out from the top of each. The man could feel his confusion showing itself on his wrinkled face. *Hold? What’s a hold? Why would we have her hold something?* “No ma’am,” he said carefully, “We just want to check out some books.” Surely she would understand now. Dear Leader had made it so clear! How hard could this be? The room was full of books, all the witch had to do was turn in any direction and grab some for him. His card was still brandished, and the stern-faced woman continued her piercing gaze. As he looked on, he was surprised to see an odd sort of change come over the witch behind the desk. She wore a tiny smile, but there seemed to be an odd...twitch, frequenting her left eye. *Maybe this witch was broken*, the man thought with despair. *O the souls of the sinful!* “Well,” the broken witch said suddenly, “You are in luck. You can just go around-” she pointed to the books and shelves surrounding them, “-and check out whichever books you’d like from our stacks.” *Stacks?* The man thought, *we must pick out these filthy books ourselves?* The wrinkled man looked at the stern-faced woman, bewildered. Her face was unchanging as she slowly turned and took several tentative steps towards the shelves of books. The man, seeing and following suit, slowly lowered his hand, and then carefully walked to follow the woman into the maze of ink and sin. The woman threw an odd and incredulous look at the wrinkled man.

The Cheesy Seduction of Wally McPhee © 2014 – Bill Wilder Mabel McClintock was an ample woman with ample and urgent needs. At her age, the pilot light of her libido had become a small and tiny flame – nearly extinguished by long periods of celibacy. A dry spell can have that effect in an older person, quite in counterpoint to the experience of younger folk, where chastity amplifies hormonal furies and heats the blood. Mabel, however, had been intemperate in her choice of recent reading. Her friend Celia had enthusiastically passed along “50 Shades of Grey” and, despite all good intentions, the Devil had persuaded Mabel’s idle hands to open the cover one evening and begin reading. Mabel devoured the trilogy over the next two weeks, reading several chapters each night near bedtime, often easing herself into the Land of Nod with the aid of some handiwork or the occasional employ of some battery-driven relics from the 80’s that she had retrieved from the depths of her spare panty drawer. And while these practices, and perhaps especially so when she plugged in her faithful and still magic Hitachi, had led to some of the best and most restful sleeps she could recall in years, they also stirred that age-old desire for real flesh upon flesh. Mabel was a single woman of a certain age and even more definite dimensions. Rather than be cruelly specific here, let us simply note that Mabel’s supervisor at the Geology lab had once delicately insisted she relocate her office. He hinted that her footsteps were interfering with the sensitive seismographic instruments there. Mabel was aware of these facts – there was no room for self-delusion when she stood before the doubly-paired, full-length mirrors in her bedroom. She knew she was not likely to make conquest of a handsome, young billionaire like Christian Grey but Mabel also knew that she was a terrific meat-and-potatoes sort of cook. She wondered if her casual friend and apartment neighbour, Wally McPhee, might not fall prey to a well-prepared meal on a Friday evening. Wally too was not unfamiliar with all-you-can-eat buffets and they had sometimes dined out together at a favourite neighborhood bistro. She summoned her courage and placed a call on a Tuesday evening. “Hello?” “Hello Wally – this is your neighbour Mabel calling”. “Oh! Hello Mabel,” he answered with a tone of surprise. “What can I do for you?” “Well I was thinking how much you and I have enjoyed our occasional nights out, and thought it would be a nice to prepare a home-cooked meal for you. If you don’t want anything too fancy, I’m a pretty good cook.” “That sounds delightful Mabel. I quite enjoy your company. What’s on the menu, if you don’t mind me asking?” “What would you like?” “Well I’m quite partial to hot and zesty foods, if you know some good recipes”. It is important to note here that this was not part of Mabel’s normal cuisine, but she replied with enthusiasm: “Not a problem at all. I’m sure I can put something delicious together. I might even surprise you with some special dessert treats! How about this Friday evening at 7?” Arrangements were concluded and Wally hung up his phone and reflected, with some excitement, on the flirtatious teasing he had heard in Mabel’s voice. Mabel began her preparations that very evening with the selection of the only dress in her wardrobe that had attracted some male gaze in the past. It was the classic Little Black Dress, if you’re willing to grant a fair bit of latitude to the adjective little. The dark colours were kind to her figure and the square deep plunge of the neckline offered a quantity of bosom that might keep Wally well entertained, should the conversation lag. Mabel managed to step into the dress but was wildly unsuccessful in getting the zipper very far up her back, let alone near her neck. A less urgently motivated woman might have paused here to re-think, but this was Mabel’s lucky dress and she was in a somewhat fierce need of ‘getting lucky’. She rushed to her computer and logged on to the Fredericks of Hollywood web site. There she found just the item – the industrial strength, ACME brand Merry Widow (Mark-7 model) featuring triple-ply, double-wound Spandex in fire-engine red. She placed the order, paying extra for next day delivery, and added a pair of black thigh-high fishnet stockings to complete the outfit. Mabel left work early on Friday afternoon and gathered the needed food ingredients together at a specialty grocery store. She knew regular bell peppers might not provide quite the punch Wally was seeking. She had vaguely heard that habanero chilies might be better but was not sure just what they looked like. She did see an unfamiliar bright red chili pepper on one shelf and attracted by the fact that it was already pre-wrapped, grabbed a couple for her cart, failing to note, much less appreciate, the label which read “Trinidad Scorpions”. Once home, Mabel took some significant time and effort and put together her famous cherry cheesecake and placed it in the refrigerator to properly set. She then primped and prepared ahead of Wally’s arrival. She soaked for a long while in a fragrant bubble bath, shaved in all the usual places and even gave some thought to some unusual places too, being recently educated in current trends by “50 Shades”. Ultimately, however, she decided Wally might not wish to face too many surprises all at once and set her razor aside. After applying the necessary layers of makeup, she discarded her bathrobe, queued up some oldies on her iPod and turned to the clothing laid out on the bed. With many deep exhalations, lots of tall stretching, some strategic application of lubricating baby powder and the appropriate musical background of “Twist and Shout”, Mabel finally managed to pull the very tight Mark-7 Merry Widow into place. Breathing was difficult but she was hopeful it would not take long to maneuver Wally into her dim candle-lit bedroom. She was already looking forward to slipping out of something less comfortable. Sadly though, when she stepped back into her dress, the zipper was still challenged to make the full traverse to the top stop. She stepped out again and searched her closet for an alternative, when she spied the elastic support bandages she sometimes wrapped around her lower back when it was kinked. She quickly applied these over the Mark-7, targeting the lumpiest of the lumps and, after winding it extra tightly, just managed to hook the Velcro closures in place. That did the trick and she zipped up her dress and checked the mirror. She was pleased with the result. What had been so effectively pushed in at the waist, now more than effectively popped out at the top, and she smiled to imagine whether Wally might manage any conversation whatsoever. The wardrobe trials, however, had left her behind schedule in the kitchen and so it was that she was just slicing the chili peppers when the doorbell rang. In her haste to greet Wally, she simply dropped the knife in place and rushed to the door. She did take some note of the oily residue on her hands and wondered about the warm tingles she was feeling in her fingertips. Mabel opened the door to find Wally waiting with a bottle of white wine in hand. The look on his face as he took her in was quite priceless and all she might have hoped. His mouth dropped open in a slack-jawed manner as his eyes enthusiastically locked on the broad expanse of daring cleavage that was thrust before him. As he bent forward to kiss her cheek, Mabel threw caution to the wind, twisted her face to meet him lip-to-lip and stepped into a close, warm embrace of welcome. “Wow!” was all Wally could manage and even this came out breathlessly. “Thanks for coming,” said Mabel. “Here let me chill that bottle for later. I have some wine poured already if you’d like to make yourself comfy on the couch over there”. Wally took a seat. Mabel placed the new wine in the fridge and paused to scoop up the cut chilies and place them in a covered bowl. The exposed interiors had seeped a bit of further oil and she noticed again the tingling in her hands. Mabel joined Wally on the couch and sidled up to him in a more than friendly way. “I was not expecting quite that welcome,” Wally confessed, “but I have to say it was very nice.” “There’s more where that came from,” she replied. He took the hint and leaned in for another kiss – one that soon stretched into something slower, longer, wetter and sweeter. Mabel, driven by long constrained passions, alcohol and perhaps a lack of oxygen, took charge. She hiked up her dress quite shamelessly and straddled Wally right there on the couch in order to commence some serious necking. This was a post-prom, backseat of the Chevy, window-steaming quality make-out session. Walter McPhee, as it turned out, was one hell of a kisser. Who knew? This pas-de-deux led to several physiological reactions for the pair of them. Most notably for Mabel, increasingly deep breathing as her heart began racing in anticipation. This presented somewhat of a challenge, given the very tight envelope of her supporting infrastructure. Mid-kiss, both of them were surprised to hear a tearing sound, as the motion of her heaving bosom became an overwhelming strain for the Velcro micro-hooks holding her bandage in place. Once that fastener began coming undone, the resulting cascade became inevitable. A loud final rip was followed by an elastic sproing as the bandage collapsed back to its normal size. The sudden strain-release was too much, even for the celebrated Mark-7, which suffered its own structural failure – splitting vertically and rapidly at a weak point just between her breasts. In an instant, the LBD was left alone to cope with far too much woman and, in quick succession, two more loud rips sounded – one in the back near the zipper and another, much more dramatic separation in the front of the dress. Wally suddenly found himself facing a pair of bare and freshly liberated, size 44 double-D’s swaying back and forth before him in the aftershocks of the rapidly separating material. The famous jiggle of Charlie’s Angels had nothing on the uncovered charms Mabel had so suddenly offered. A disaster of this magnitude might have slowed down a less eager couple, but such was not the case on this particular Friday evening. There were one thousand, six hundred and fifty-four pages in the 50 Shades trilogy and Mabel was not about to let a wardrobe malfunction derail things now. Wally, for his part, was quite excited about the sudden appearance of Mabel’s mammaries and kissing resumed – in a fashion not strictly restricted to lips and tongues. Eager passions directed eager hands and Mabel worked feverishly to release Wally’s belt and unzip him. Explorations followed as her hand descended first inside his pants and then inside his underwear. Wally’s own folds of flesh delayed things for some frustrating moments of searching, but eventually Mabel caught hold of a sweaty but delightfully firm prize that she had been thinking of far too obsessively of late. She grabbed it tightly in hand. Tightly in a hand, as it turned out, that was still coated with the powerful, high-Scoville-Number capsaicin oils of the Trinidad Scorpions. And what might have been a tolerable tingling on the thick skin of Mabel’s hand, proved to be a very different experience indeed for the moist and more delicate flesh that Wally had so manfully presented. The earlier loud ripping sounds were nothing compared to the high-pitched intense screams of agony that then pierced Mabel’s quiet living room. Wally jumped to his feet, unchivalrously knocking Mabel to the floor in his haste. As a connoisseur of spicy foods, he had not mistaken the sensations from his southern regions to be simply the ‘heat’ of passion and he knew just what remedy was needed. He rushed to the kitchen, flung wide the refrigerator door and dropped his pants and boxers to his ankles, mooning poor Mabel in the process. He desperately pawed through the shelves seeking the relief he urgently needed. Gentle reader – this story’s ending was not a happy one for our Mabel and it was a long time coming before her passions would be stirred again. In fact, the only item truly stirred that evening, the only item, which in some perverse sense might have been said to have gotten lucky, was Mabel’s large glass tray of cherry cheesecake. Mabel sighed with regret as she noted that nothing in all the pages of “50 Shades” had quite prepared her for the sight of a large, round man’s jiggling cheeks as he thrust himself repeatedly into a dairy product looking for a very different sort of relief. As for Wally, it might well have been the most satisfying cheesecake he had ever enjoyed.

I am not sexy, I am not pretty. I am ridiculed by you and your peers. If you do not like me, why must you continue to keep me around? I do not cling to you too tightly, as a matter of fact, I rarely even see you. I am always honest, and I bring out the real you, whilst your other friends shape and shift you to the point the real you is unrecognizable. I try my best not to stand out and you try to hide me from the world. If people see us together, they may laugh, they may judge, they may show hatred, but I love you and never get to express it. I dress bland to perfectly counteract your beautiful style, even though our time together may be brief. It may be taboo, but I don’t care. I love you, and our relationship will always be able to rekindle, whenever that next time may be. You push me to the back, but I always will be there when you need me. I am happy to call you my woman, and you should not be ashamed, to admit you wear laundry day panties.

Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: Hey, Im goin to NY with you. You know the Yanks manager? Wants me to coach as long as you play… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot: If you are the coach you have to know the players right? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: Ya…. CoStello223: @Real_Abbot: Cool, I have never met them tho… wanna tell me their names? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: Yeah… but you know nowadays… people have some really strange Twitter handles… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot: Yeah… like funny ones or what? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223: One guy is @DizzyDean … DizzyDean: @Real_Abbot @CoStello223 ??? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot: Anyone else? Real_Abbot: @DizzyDean @CoStello223 nvm. Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 his brother @DafDean and cousin @GoofAyDean CoStello223: @Real_Abbot hmm… Who is in the infield? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yup on first! CoStello223: @Real_Abbot what? I want to know who is in the infield? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yeah… with What and Idk! CoStello223: @Real_Abbot you are the manager? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 ***is and no... he is the owner… CoStell223: @Real_Abbot who is the owner? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no first basemen… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot we don’t have a first baseman? You want ME to play first base? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no he is our DH… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Who is our DH??? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no only on road trips and certain situations… primarily our first baseman. CoStello223: @Real_Abbot What?! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 2nd… Who is on first… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot why are you asking me??? I thought you were the coach Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Im not Im telling you Who is on first…. CoStello223: @Real_Abbot yeah I understand what is the guys name???! >:( Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no What is the guys name on second base… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot How am I supposed to know… Im not exactly asking who is on second… Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Who is on fist Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 ***First CoStello223: @Real_Abbot IDK!!! Real_Abbot: @CoStello22 Hes on third… we arent talking about him… CoStello223:@Real_Abbot What? Third Base?? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no… What. Second base. lol… is this how we are going to talk now? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Idk what or who you are talking about now… Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 all infielders… now you are starting to get it… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Me? No. Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 DH CoStello223: @Real_Abbot WHO IS DH??? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 only sometimes… like I said before… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot All I want to know if I am playing third… Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Idk…I think he’s Norwegian CoStello223: @Real_Abbot ??? Who is Norwegian?! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 No… he is Japanese CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Who is Japanese?!?! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Yeah… do you have a problem with that? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot do I have a problem with what? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 you have a problem with What too? You havn’t even met him… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Idk… I might have a problem Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 are you a racist? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Me a racist?? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 no. He is dominican… and pretty much likes everybody CoStello223: @Real_Abbot who is dominican? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 NO! Japanese! CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Ok you are really starting to piss me off… why? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Left. CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Left? Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 yeah… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Jesus!!!! Are you kidding me right now?! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 how did you know? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot how did I know what?! Jesus!! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 You know what? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot what?!!! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 Yeah… you know him?? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Jesus H. Maybe I just won’t play… Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 He is our shortstop from Mexico… maybe you shouldn’t do you have a problem with him now too??? CoStello223: @Real_Abbot WHO! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 tweet the red sox you pig…the Yankees are going to stomp on your grave. CoStello223: @Real_Abbot Whatever… Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 nope we already have him the red sox have nobody… CoStello223: @Real_Abbot I would rather play with nobody than FOR you. Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 fine… tell him I said hi! CoStello223: @Real_Abbot TELL WHO HI! Real_Abbot: @CoStello223 my pleasure. ***ESPN: @CoStello223 Signs multi-year deal with Red Sox.

He had begun to awake from his slumber just as his wife was reading the last few words of the eulogy. Where am I? he wondered as he struggled to open his eyes. His bed was soft and comfortable, but something wasn’t right. Was that incense he smelled? Margie knew he hated the smell of the stuff; why would she be burning it in the house? Managing to open his eyes, the last thing he saw was his wife closing the lid of the coffin on top of him. Falling into complete darkness, he came to the horrific realization that he was about to be buried alive. Panicked, he tried to claw his way out, but it was no use. He was trapped. As he felt himself being lowered into the ground, the smell of incense started to clear from his nostrils. With a new sense of clarity, he was able to identify a second smell, one that had been masked by the incense. Formaldehyde.

I don't think it should be mandatory, but it would be interesting to add a system of flairs that could show what genre of short story it is. Here are some ideas I had in mind: Sci-Fi: Basically Science Fiction, robots, advanced space travel, extraterrestrials, etce. Fantasy: A story with fantasy elements such as mythical beings, magic, etc. Realist. Fict.: Realistic Fiction. Hist. Fict.: Historical fiction. Other: For stories that don't pertain Meta: For meta posts. Those are just a few suggestions I had in mind. You could also add a system for certain flairs to be filtered or only certain flairs to be allowed so users could read more stories that pertain to their literary interests.

A man, blind in one eye, pulls up to the small empty house he was raised in. A little wood house on a long plot of land. He enters and settles to live there awhile, spending his time quietly alone. His parents long dead the town recognizes that he's back, and rumours start circulating that he's a strange man now, those who knew him hear he's not the same as was, or just gotten worse, than the quiet kid he was. So one night an old friend pulls up for a visit. Gerry, a friend with whom the man shares a regrettable past, who took the shy little girl he loved in school and then blinded his eye all in the same summer, approaches the house. Stepping up the drive Gerry observes a pair of binoculars in the man's truck, with some other gear. The man opens the door enough to see but won't let Gerry in. He looks out with his good eye, he's big and sweaty, suspicious, beads dripping off him. he looks haggard. he waits for Gerry to speak. "Went for a drink by the ball park," Gerry says. "Gotta drive by your folks place whenever I go down there, but there's never lights on until recently. Thought I'd drop in." The sun has only just set on a 40 acre plot of flat land. Standing on the porch, Gerry suggests they have a drink. The hesitation in the man's face is gone, a sort of smile creeps, he winks his blind eye, and says "i have company." "Oh. Well then." The man peers out at Gerry's car, then his own, then the seat on the porch. "We could have one out here," Gerry says, "looks like you need a fan in there anyway." So he puts on a towel, steps out with the smaller man, and they sit. Gerry jokes about how the binoculars in the truck are bulky for his purposes. "Funny," the man says, leaning backward. "You mean because of my eye." "Just a joke," Gerry smiles. Reaching into the six back from his own car between them. They watch a coyote cross the flat land against the blue night sky. From the silence, Gerry says "I should mention i'm still with her, Kendal." After a pause, "Kandal who?" the man says, still staring at the idle coyote. From his chair, all Gerry can see is the pale eye. "Wonderful, it's just as good you've forgotten. I was worried she was the one you let slip away, thought maybe you'd be hurting over it." "I don't envy your family Gerry. I don't envy your house, your wife, I'm glad she's not mine. I'm glad her children aren't mine, I'm free, in ways that wouldn't even occur to you." "Well there you go," Gerry says, leaning a bit to spy the seeing eye. "I shouldn't have doubted you, looks as if you've got a fine life of your own here. A lady over just now, already, and you've been in town no less than a month!" He smirks, turns to look at Gerry. "Two. Two ladies." "Two! You jest. You paying these girls? From across the tracks? I couldn't dare you to do that when we were boys." "Don't matter, does it? Pussy is pussy is tight wet pussy," he whispers, sipping his beer, then leaning in. "I put the two pussies together Gerry, stuck my red cock right between them." Whispering back, raising an eyebrow, Gerry says "even with the lights on like this? you jest, not with your short pecker." "Big enough for them, Gerry. You don't know what you're missing, you've been with the same old lady since we were kids, same old pussy." "I'm sure I'm missing out." "You are," he says, leaning in again. "You never stick yours in two girls mouths at the same time have you Gerry? Not two like these, too doped up to tell your cock from a candy-caine. You ever pound a fresh ass so hard they're screamin? They you almost broke em? Split her in half? No, you've got a family, you've got a wife, you don't get to do the things i get to do. "I'm happy you've found happiness." "yes, yes I have Gerry. and you can't take this happiness away from me either. You listen, because there's nothing you can do will take this away, you just try. And I know you will Gerry," he's smiling bigger now, "but you can't. you can't. there's nothing left to take! Ha! Not like you took Kendal, not like you took my eye gerry." "Well, you know, we were kids. not much i can say about that now." "Right, just kids. So sweet, aren't they?" "I did say i'm sorry." "Never once Gerry, no you didn't. Unless you mean making mention of my binoculars, things like that. Otherwise, you never said sorry once, and it's too late now. We're settled now, no point in two old men saying sorries." Gerry stands up, steps down the stairs, looks up at the little house. Says, "you enjoy yourself." Sipping beer, his towel slipping off his pale leg. "I will. I do. I did." "Maybe I visit you again." "I believe you will, this time Gerry." Gerry gets into his car, tosses his jacket into the back seat. Pulls back onto the main road, the black sky is densely freckled with stars. Eventually he pulls up the gravel road of his big home on a hill in the woods. He reaches back and picks his jacket up off the twin child-seats in the back. His wife is waiting at the top of the steps, lit orange from the kitchen windows. Her hands at her sides. "Why isn't your phone on?" Gerry approaches the bottom step, looking up at her in the light. "You look beautiful my dear," he says, smiling. "Pretty as the first day I…" "Enough already, bring the girls in, it's late." Gerry tilts his head, then looks back at the empty child seats in the car, then looks at his wife. "I… didn't pick up the girls?" "Well who picked them up then?" Gerry turns, his breath held in his chest. He looks back out into the open road toward the country, the school, and the small shack now occupied by the sweaty angry man and his company. "Oh wait, Gerry, grand-grand said he'd be getting them after school didn't he." Gerry lets go of his breath, "right, thank you Kendal. You don't want to know where my head just went.

She said she met him in a diner (a lie; it was a bar...didn't matter.) She said she hadn't slept with him much (also a lie; Susan was a very easy going girl...still, didn't matter). She also said that they'd been great friends, and that's what had ruined their relationship (true enough). After a week or so of her going on about him, I'd felt like I knew her old college flame, and since he was in town for a few days conference, I had no problem meeting him for drinks. Susan and I had been dating for over a year now, so this seemed okay. Imagine my surprise when he entered the bar, and I did in fact know him. He'd had a different name then, but I'd spent days in a courtroom over a decade ago, watching his smug face. All through the charges of vehicular manslaughter, the evidence that he'd been drunk, and yet the jury finding him guilty of nothing more than petty misdemeanors and a slap on the wrist. And here was that same bastard, sitting across from me making small talk. Acting as if we had every bit of a potential friendship budding. So I asked him, "ever live out east?" "why know, I haven't." (liar; we lived in New Haven at the time) "is Garret a middle name?" "Uh, no, its my first." (liar; in court you were announced as James Tyler) "We should go easy on the drinks...you've had problems in the past, haven't you?" "um...well, yes...I guess anyone could go a bit too far if not careful." (half true; most people know enough to call a cab.) Suddenly Susan's phone went off. In the intervening silence, Garret and I sat across from each other, nervous smile matched against my flat expression. "Dear, I've been called in to work. A couple of the ER nurses have a terrible flu, and Janie and I are needed tonight. She's coming now to pick me up. Can you please see Garret back to his hotel." And then she was gone, and Garret and I were awkwardly finishing our drinks. I collected the tab, since he was our guest, and we headed for the car. "Let me help with that door, it sticks a bit," I said, and as he bent down to enter the passenger seat I grabbed the back of his hair and slammed his head repeatedly into the door frame. His body went slack, and my grip slipped from the blood, so he slumped to the pavement. I took my heel and smashed in his face for good measure, then drug his body next to the trash against the building. He wouldn't be found til morning. As I straightened up and got in the car to head home, I thought back to that face. The same face who had taken my young bride and newborn son...that same face who had gotten off scot-free...and that same face that would never leave my nightmares. I'd seen it walk through the door tonight. I'd seen it at a grocer two months ago and followed it home. I'd seen it in the park four months before that, and strangled it by the bathrooms. I fear I'll never stop seeing it.

“When you walk in a dream, But you know you’re not dreaming, That’s amore.” November 15, Saturday, 2013. The darkness had enveloped the ciel and the last light of day had just quietly slipped from the curved horizon. Soon, even the faint glow of the sun from behind the skyline gave way to night. Strangely, it wasn’t dark, for the moon had shown its face at this moment, casting a dim shine upon the streets, illuminating them in a faded and gloomy hue of blue. It was through this faint light that a pale white van with two yellow eyes approached. Curiously, each time that the van crossed a speed bump, its two yellow eyes would cast their gaze to the night sky for a moment, just to return onto the house on the street again. Moments passed and the van finally pulled up to the curbside in an amateur manner. A boy had been driving, and as the young garçon of 16 got out of the car, negotiating plans for pickup with his father, it didn’t take but a glance to deduce the reason for the gloom of the night sky. There wasn’t a single bone in the boy’s body that didn’t ring with joy. Walking with a brisk gaiety and clothed in his signature pressed dress shirt and jeans, the boy climbed the pebblestoned steps of her house. Her. He was not one to give out his heart easily, but oh, how he longed for her. He had known her well for three years but the week’s turn of events still threw doubt in his mind. She certainly had been a puzzling character. He had questions to sort out. He had answers to find. But despite the anxiety that clouded his mind, he was just glad to see her. She had unlocked his heart, and now, as he approached the entryway, she had unlocked the door. Thinking furiously as to why she would be so excited for his arrival, the door and its frame began to separate slowly. As the light diffused from the crack in the door onto the ground beneath his feet, the boy stared into the most beautiful face he had ever seen in the world. She radiated innocence and purity and beauty and everything he had ever wanted. Her red lips curved slowly into a small crescent, and mesmerized, the boy smiled back. Before he could say his somewhat rehearsed lines, his daydream was quickly interrupted by the high pitched yipping of a dog. Startled for a second, the boy turned around; had no idea where the sound had come from. Confused, and caught in a moment of personal weakness, he turned back around to see a small white head with a pink bowtie on it squeeze through the crack of the door. Then the white furry body began to follow, but two smoothly skinned hands grabbed the dog’s abdomen, pulling it back inside despite furry protests. “LILY!” Chided the girl, obviously accustomed to the behavioral patterns of this dog “Oh ww-we-well that scared me a bit”, stuttered the boy, sheepishly. He felt his ears go red. They had always been a bad habit of his, those ears. Every time he was embarrassed, his ears would go off like sirens of an ambulance, screaming “LOOK AT ME!”. He had always considered himself the “man with a plan”, but tonight, nothing seemed to be working out. In the past, he was never nervous or stressed out, but with her, he could not keep himself from being jittery. Not wanting to be impolite, he waited outside as Lily, if he heard correctly, was the name of the dog, was disciplined. Seconds later, her beautiful face reappeared in the doorway, surprised he was still outside in the cold November air and the now much darkened sky. “Hey, are you crazy? What are you doing? Come on in!”, said she. With those words as his encouragement, he stepped cautiously into the non-familiar territory, ashamed again for his uncommonly blundering behavior. It wasn’t until he was fully immersed into the light of the foyer that he saw her, from head to toe, for the first time that day. Her full beauty hit him like a truck. She had always been the sharpest and most fashionable dresser at school, but today, she was dressed in pyjamas – a grey v-neck t-shirt and comfortable pants, with her feet carefully shrouded in tight black socks. Her unbelievably smooth skin was generously showing, from her arms to her neck to her face. It was unbelievable- even effortlessly, she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Again, for the countless time that night, he felt embarrassed again. He had overdressed. His carefully tucked in dress shirt along with his clean boots juxtaposed with her garb made his ears flash red once more. But the look she gave him, the look of wonder and admiring she gave him made all of his worries disappear. Her big round eyes stared into his and for the first time in forever he felt a feeling he had never felt before. He felt loved tonight, and everything that he ever worried about melted away under her sweet gaze. Without another word said, the girl and her (obviously very forgiving) dog led him into her brightly illuminated house into the living room, a room that perfectly matched her laid back personality. A vaulted ceiling and a large sofa graced the room, showing both her soaring creativity and her relaxed and easy going persona. The girl seamlessly glided onto the big couch, leaning on one of the large arms, effortlessly comfortable. As destiny would dictate, the stubbornness and gawky nature of the boy returned with a vengeance. Awkwardly, he sat down on the couch close enough to the girl to show subtle affection but far enough to show obvious caution. All of this worry and ephemeral nonsense was once again swept away when she turned on the TV: the event of the night and the reason he had come over. For weeks now she had been telling him about The Walking Dead, how its characters were so developed and how the storyline was so gripping. Initially turned away by the gore and violence, the boy had watched the pilot the week prior and fell in love with the series in the same way he had with the girl. The only thing was, she was already up to date on the seasons; in fact, she was well versed in every episode up until the latest episodes of season 4. But for some reason, she had graciously allowed him to come over and if the plan went as prescribed, they would watch every episode together. “Hey, are you ready for season two?” She asked him, her voice eager. “You’re a really speedy Gonzales, you know. I honestly have no idea how you watched all of season one on your own!” “Hell yeah I am! Let’s finish the whole thing today!” He joked, trying to break the one sided awkwardness of the situation that he had created with his arrival. She didn’t seem to mind his nervousness at all, and with no further ado, she began the episode. Despite the usual mesmerizing effect that the show had on him, today he couldn’t focus. He had no idea what was wrong today. He was so happy, yet he was so scared of being judged. Would she mind if I got closer? What about if I did this? What about that? He thought. This dilemma would haunt him the entire night. After each episode, the television would play a fifteen second break before the next episode to most likely allow the couch potato stricken watchers to have an emotionally stable period of time between each episode topped to the brim with drama. Halfway through one of the episodes, he thought to himself, “You know what?” “It’s Saturday. I’m with the girl of my dreams. We’re alone together. What else is there to want?” Craftily and like his normal self, he carefully took advantage of each of these breaks. Slowly at first, he shifted his weight over closer to her each time the fifteen second margin of opportunity allowed, but nearing the end, he began speeding up the process as to not run out of time and by the time that one of the last episodes of season two were playing, they were close to the wee hours of morning but even better, he was close to her and she was close to him. She had barely even noticed the change, and with the carefree nature she always showed, she rested her head on the boy’s shoulder, snuggling up to him. Surprised and definitely caught off guard by this display of affection, the boy recoiled enough to make her turn her head to him with her sad eyes. With what little emphatic skills he had, he reasoned that she thought she had gone too far. It wasn’t until now that the boy realized that the girl was just as insecure as he was. She was simply looking for someone to love, and it was in this moment that he knew they needed each other. Letting his old self go, they cuddled together for the finale of The Walking Dead’s season 2, sharing all of the emotional rises and falls that it brought. When the episode ended, the fifteen second margin didn’t appear. Startled, the boy’s ears threatened to turn red, but then he realized that the season was over. But that didn’t matter to him anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She was his and he was hers. Obviously very sore from hours spent on the couch, the boy stood up and stretched for the tall ceiling with his arms, relaxing his muscles. Surprisingly, upon turning around, he noticed that the girl had lay down on the couch with her eyes closed, taking up where his old seat had been. A bit surprised, the boy used his extensive adaptive skills to move a couple of plushy pillows aside and sat by her head, stroking her hair and taking her hand into his. He wondered if she fell asleep, but those thoughts were immediately eradicated when his hand felt a bit of moisture. She sat up immediately and explained that her hands always sweat up a little bit when she held hands, clearly embarrassed with herself. She blundered on, profusely apologizing, but to the boy, she had never been more attractive or adorable than now. After a bit more of her nervous explanation, the boy could tell she was winded. She breathed in short breaths, trying to restore the air in her lungs that she had spent in trying to convince the boy that her hands were strange objects that could not be controlled, and with that, she sank back down into the couch once more, exhausted. Moments went by. Minutes ticked past. Hours almost passed with neither of them talking but both of them thoroughly enjoying each others’ presence. It was then, that the strangest thing happened. Smoothly, the girl’s hand glided over the boy’s chest and shoulder, reaching behind his neck and caressed and tugged at him down towards her. A little used to this girl’s puzzling nature by now, he knew exactly what she desired. Although their position on the couch meant that their faces were inverted, he leaned down to her face and they shared the most wonderful kiss in the world, and he finally knew he was in love because his reality had become one with his dream.

Jesus of Nazareth was born to this lady named Mary, who was a virgin. People called him the son of God, he changed his last name to Christ, three black guys brought him some presents, he prayed a whole bunch, healed a blind guy, rose a dude from the dead, did a whole bunch of magic tricks, pissed of a Roman emperor, was crucified on a cross and then rose from the dead three days later. Now this isn’t the official “Book of John” version of the story but it will have to do for the sake of limiting this to a short story. As a writer, I am always faced with pondering different angles of a story. Naturally, I had to put my Christian values aside and look at the Gospel According to John objectively. Here is my version of what could have happen, a Clue-esque type of scenario. Parenthesis indicate writer interjection/commentary. Mary and Joseph get into a fight while they are engaged, this happens a lot because Mary never lets him have sex with her, so Joseph was constantly on edge (I would be pissed if the girl I loved was “saving herself” too). This particular night was especially hostile, and Mary storms out. It’s getting late, shes pissed off but the only bar open is one way across town of Bethlehem. She jumps on her camel and drives down there. After boozing hard all night, putting down wine after wine, she is fairly intoxicated at this point. The bartender has already taken (tooken?) her rope away (or whatever the car key equivalent to a camel is) and drives her home. She is so taken back by this gesture, that she starts blowing him on the camel (now I am not saying Mary invented road head but she definitely helped the cause, and bravo for that). They end up going back to his house and just fuck all night; drunk and upset, Joseph was the last thing on her mind. Contraception was not the greatest in 0 A.D. Waking up the next morning in the bartender’s bed, she realizes that mistakes were definitely made. She goes to CVS and gets an EPT, and sure enough, she is in fact pregnant (on her first time banging too, what shitty luck she was “blessed” with). Couple of months pass, still living with Joseph (they have since reconciled) and they get married. Now she is starting to show, and the “I am just gaining weight” lie is wearing thin. She then constructs a lie that could possibly be known as the most monumental lie in the history of lies. She, with the help of her other friend Mary (just a coincidence) makes up a story about how “God” got her pregnant. Joseph’s first thought was “where is this ‘God’ cocksucker I will… Oh “GOD” as in Yahweh, creator of all mankind.” So now, he STILL can’t have sex with her because she is pregnant (I mean he technically could but it is well documented that Joe was not into pregoo porn; Mark 2:13) and starts believing the story too, and the rest is history. That would be a trip right? It is my personal theory, that the bartender that knocked up Mary, also knocked up Mohammed’s and Sidhartha Gautama’s (the Buddha) mother, and is the sole reason for all of the world’s major religions (aside from Hinduism of course, the word god is thrown around kind of liberally in that religion, I am pretty sure there is even a god of Band-Aid’s). Think about it, all crazy divine birth’s, made from adulterous women, all the kids resembling this same dude. Ok, Buddha was Asian but obviously he is going to be a little mixed seeing as his mom was full fledged Asian. Mohammed, well I don’t actually know what Mohammed looks like but in my head he looks a little bit like Jesus.

This is my first attempt at writing in years and i know it's not great, but i would definitely like some feedback. Criticism is definitely welcome, preferably in a polite manner but welcome regardless. What can I do to make this story, and my writing in general, better? Lost in a Dream! The desert grew colder and colder as the night drew near. The sun continued to fade away, and before too long, it vanished without a trace. The only thing remaining to light my way was the light of the magnificent stars. The stars above were so bright, you could see for miles ahead. It is unlike anything I’d ever seen before. The sheer quantity was simply astounding. The dark purple background of emptiness and space now doesn’t seem so empty. Luminescent blues, reds, yellows, and whites flickered in the night sky lighting my path along a road that could go on forever. It was at that moment that it finally occurred to me how small we really are. On the planet alone there are billions of people, and billions of different species of plants and animals, some of which haven’t even been discovered yet. Now think about all the lights that appear above my head. There are billions and billions and each may be either a star or even a galaxy. If each of those stars harbors planets, just like our sun, then there are more planets than I could ever count, or even imagine. If only one percent of those planets contains a world such as ours, so complex and filled with life, then there are billions of different species on that planet as well. Of all the different living things in this universe, what makes me so important? At that moment, for the first time in my life, I realized just how insignificant I really am, and we as a species really are. I continued driving along that dusty Arizona road, as the clock approached midnight. I looked to my right to see my wife lying there sleeping, with her hand in mine. I squeezed her hand tighter in realization that it was due to these stars above my head that I even found her. They aligned perfectly for her and I to have met. She sits there, with her head slightly tilted to the side, and her body completely covered by a pink blanket that my mother had knitted back in New York. I look back out onto the road, and am completely under a trance. The feeling is similar to what you see in the movies, when a hypnotist puts someone under using a swaying coin. I don’t know if that actually works, but it’s like the road is that coin. You can stare at it and really focus on it, but after a while it just becomes natural, and even meditative. I am completely in a trance. I look down at the clock and notice that four hours had already gone by. Under the spell of the road, it seemed like only minutes, and with this magnificent portrait painted above my head, it seemed to go even quicker. I once again turn to my wife just to look at her. My head was turned for only a second, but by the time I looked back at the road, it was already too late. In my headlights, only a few yards in front of me stands a deer. I instinctively slam the breaks and jerk the wheel in an effort to swerve around it, but before I knew it, the car took complete control, and I was simply along for the ride. The wheels left the ground and I came to a harsh realization, this is how I am going to die. The car continued to roll, numerous times before finally coming to rest near the side of the road, and you could see that the car had been rolling for well over a hundred yards. I look to my right, and I see my wife, with scrapes and cuts all over. It looked like an old butcher’s shop, there was so much blood. I look into her lifeless eyes, and I could see that she was gone. Her body was still there, but just as a bird leaves the nest, her consciousness left her body lying there, cold and motionless. In the moment, it didn’t strike me, and I convinced myself that there was still hope, but deep down, I already knew. I was in the middle of the Arizona desert, miles from any other human being, and simply left here to die just as my wife. I try to get out of the car, but the doors were jammed shut. I look to the window, only to realize that there were only but a few shards of glass where the window once sat. I force myself through the window, and fall about four feet to the floor. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is the only thing keeping me from crying out in agony. I knew my wife was dead, but I simply didn’t accept it. I was in shock. You know that feeling when a pet dies, or a grandparent dies. Before the grief sets in, you kind of just think about it, and can’t quite comprehend what exactly just happened. You get an incredibly empty feeling. You don’t think about their death, or show remorse just yet. It is essentially an emptiness like no other. The news is basically like being told you are never going to see someone, who had been there for a good portion if not all of your life, again. At first it’s not sad, it’s just difficult and scary. Someone who u had just talked to but a few hours ago, is completely gone, and there is no way to bring her back. I didn’t feel that remorse, but that emptiness was eating away at me. Just like the deer in my headlights, I was caught completely off guard, and don’t have a clue how to handle such a tragedy. The temperature had now dropped to below twenty degrees as my watch, which was somehow still working, read 3:00 in the morning. I decide my only option for survival is to walk. I walk along this empty road for hours, freezing, limping, and covered in blood. I had lost so much blood I began to feel light in the head. I look up and see the sun rising. The stars were fading away as red and pink filled the sky. At this moment I realized the true beauty of the sunrise. I thought to myself that this may be the last sunrise I ever see. The incredible light shined in my eye, as I was walking east, directly into the rising sun. This bright yellow mass was revealing itself to me, little by little. The pink and red slowly faded into red and blue, and eventually the entire sky was blue. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, and the temperature rose very quickly. Within an hour it had risen from below twenty to above fifty. I gazed into the sun and my knees hit the red dirt beneath my feet. It was at that moment, after watching that sunrise, that I just collapsed in anxiety. I couldn’t help but think that I was going to die. In that moment I began to think about how my family and friends would take the news. Would they be sad? Shocked? Would they even know? Would anyone ever even find my body? I was completely exhausted and the rising temperature was taking a toll on my body as it had now gone above seventy, and was approaching eighty degrees. I considered giving up, and leaving myself for the coyotes, but I just didn’t know how. The idea of suicide was in my head, but I just didn’t know how to do it. I had no means by which to accomplish such a horrific feat, so I went on the only way I knew that I could, I got up and continued walking. I walked for hours more, and the heat was exhausting. It was now over ninety degrees, and there was no source of water anywhere nearby. I could see the buzzards peering above my head, looking for a quick and easy meal. I had easily walked over ten miles over the last few hours and my legs were growing weaker and weaker. I had no food or water, and I could definitely feel the fatigues sinking in. The incredible blood loss was also taking a toll, and eventually I hit the floor. Within minutes I lost consciousness. Just before that final moment, I thought it was over. I awoke to an awe bearing sight. The light was tremendous. I thought to myself, is this heaven? Is this what the afterlife is like? I look up only to realize that the awesome light is that of the moon and stars. They were brighter than I had ever seen them before. I looked around, wiped the dirt off my face, and tried to stand up, only to realize that I didn’t have the strength. My body was weak, but at that moment, my mind grew strong. I looked up at the sky and thought again what I had thought the night prior. I knew it had to be freezing outside, but I couldn’t feel it. My body had already given up on me. I thought about my family and friends, and how they would react. I knew they would be upset at first, but I came to the realization that, just like the stars above my head, as significant a part of their lives I was, their lives would continue on, just as the universe continues on when a star dies. I knew my time was up, but I had finally come to accept my fate, and not only accept it, but to cherish my final moments. In that moment, I was no longer an individual, I simply was. There was no future, and I completely accepted the past, and the only thing to do was to live in the present. Death was imminent, and many people fear death, but in that moment I realized that death wasn’t real. It was a made up word to describe an experience, however there was no experience. It is simply the absence of an experience, which cannot be comprehended. Without fear, I accepted my fate with open arms and let go of all thought. I looked above at the sky and realized that I was the universe. Those stars and planets, those billions upon billions of organisms, they all could not exist without me, and I could not exist without them. I realized that the universe itself is an experience, simply taken from all different points of view. At that moment, I just let go, and at that moment, and that’s when my experience was over, or so I thought. I regained consciousness only to realize that I was not dead at all. I looked around only to see wires and machines surrounding me. I raise my head up, and look around the room. It becomes clear to me that I was in a hospital bed. I see a woman in the corner. She ran over to me and wrapped her arms around me tighter than ever before. I couldn’t recognize her at first, but then it hit me. It was my sister. My sister, as I remember, was only nine years old, but now she is a full grown woman. I recognized her by her cry. I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine. It only felt like days since I last saw her, but she looked at me as if she hadn’t seen me in years. “What am I doing here?” I asked. She responded, “Do you know who I am?” I responded with a simple head nod, and I had a sudden breakdown. With tears running down my face I asked, “How long?” At that point I realized that I had been in a comatose state. She burst out into tears. “Twelve years,” she responded. I thought I would have been in complete shock, but I really wasn’t, but I was in complete confusion. “Where are mom and dad?” I asked, expecting the worst. “They went home for the night.” She replied. I let out a huge sigh of relief. “And what about Candace?” “Candace? Who’s Candace?” she respond in confusion. “My wife, is she okay?” She looked at me strangely and walked out to talk to a doctor. After about five minutes she walked back in and asked, “Do you know who I am really?” I said, “Yes of course! You’re my sister.” She looked back at me, her chin shaking, and her eyes watering the entire time. She said, “I’m Michele, you’re wife.” I grew incredibly worried and scared. She asked me, “Do you know who you are?” I responded, “Yes!” in an annoyed tone. “What is your name?” she asked again. I thought I would know the answer to this question, but in that moment I couldn’t remember. I had no idea who I was. I didn’t even know if I was real at that point. Was it all a dream? Is it still a dream? Did that accident ever even happen? I had never been more confused in my life. I looked her in the eye and said, “I honestly have no idea who I am?” It had never been truer. Everything I thought true turned out to be a lie, and I was living in a completely unreal world. I couldn’t distinguish. I knew in my head that she was my sister, but she wasn’t, she was my wife. She looked me in the eye and told me, “This isn’t the first time.” At that moment I slipped away. My experience was finally over for good, or so I thought, only to reawake in a new setting.

I turned my palms so that they were face down. I was wrapped from the waist down in the white sheets of a bed. I felt like a twig. I looked at the smiling doc. My vision was surprisingly clear. Beyond the doc, the room boasted blue curtains, white walls and bright lights - as one should expect, I assume at least, from a hospital room. The doc sported black hair, two lovely pearly earrings and a pair of eyes. I smiled back. I was definitely on something. I can’t tell what, but my mouth crinkles seemed to buzz as muscles contracted. It was a weird feeling. My mind wondered easily. Almost as easily as my eyes. I remember looking at the wall clock and following the ticking motion of the hands. At the time, they had a nice movement to them. I likened that motion to the sway of smoke or the flapping of a flame. I was told by the lovely doc to embrace my new heart in a language comprised of factoids and the occasional medical vignette. “It’s a technologically sound device and very new indeed”. “135 beats per minute and far more efficient than the real thing. Breath taking, really”. After the doc’s description about how terrific my new heart is, I had a little coughing fit. I can only put the cough down to the dustiness of the room’s air. The odd thing was that my heart rate stayed exactly the same. Now, not having experienced this before, I must say it is a feeling of peculiarity. It was at this moment that I realised my case was quite luxurious. I would never have to worry again about becoming light headed from lying down too long and nor would I have to worry about attending anymore of Minnie’s god awful Pilates classes. A minor miracle. I remember having a little lapse form my bliss. How would Minnie respond? And the kids? Joseph had only just managed to graduate and, well, Kayla’s kids now have to deal with an even less capable Gramps. Fantastic. Thinking about all this was all fine and dandy, but I soon realised that the most pressing issue was to work out how I was going to navigate Minnie’s “I told you so” moment. “Listen to me, you’re too old for this”. “40 years. It’s going to kill you”. Minnie’s concerns are always the same. I never take them to heart. I know she means well. But, my god, that woman can complain and she now had a fair point. I looked back at the doctor still mumbling away. I concluded apologising was the best bet. I needed to play the victim card to my advantage. Minnie isn’t that heartless. She’s come around. I tuned back to the doc. I was told that there are two battery packs built into my chest. All externally rechargeable, of course. When one pack dies out, the second pack kicks in and it becomes paramount that the previous one is recharged. If I fail this procedure, I die; with both battery packs empty there is simply nothing to power the circulation of my blood, to transport my oxygen and to keep me alive. The doctor smiled again. I must say, by now, I remember beginning to feel a little restless. I was starting to come around. My eyes darted down towards the doctor’s blouse, to the chest pocket of her white coat and then to the little white pen that popped out. It was then that I realised I now had no heart and all I really wanted was a cigarette.

Did you know that snow makes sound when it falls? Most people imagine snow as a silent event, a quiet whispering, but snow can actually be loud at times. It falls with a SPLAT against the ground, hitting the windows and leaving streaks as it drops along the pane. It's like a *pssmtpssmt* sound, the impact of it. She thought such things to herself throughout the day, her mind much more silent than the snow around her. She clunked her boots against the stone floor, knocking off the remnants of ice from a journey to the wood shed. Pulling her sweater around her neck, she lit the kindling and turned on the water to boil. Her movements were automatic, rehearsed, predictable. The motions were the same today as the day before and would be followed by the same tomorrow. For the most part, her mind was quiet. The silence filled the rooms with waiting, a haunting devoid of life and energy. With a cup of her homemade tea, she sat at the desk next to the stove, staring at the window before her. Another day, another page. She wrote the number at the top of the page, a long script in the right corner. 3652. A number for each day she wrote a page, for each day she had occupied this one room in the forest. Alone. She sat back for a moment, staring at the blank page. Ten years gone then, she thought. Ten years since she began this seclusion, bent on discovery. She had been a researcher then, a mind dedicated to the next big adventure. She had traveled the world with her companion, seeking the newness of life in other places. Her world was hailed as extraordinary, as revolutionary, as dangerous. People questioned her sanity in undergoing the events she had for the sake of publication. Then, just over 3652 days ago, she hit upon her biggest idea yet. A test of the human mind, a study of sanity and silence. What if a human were to be completely isolated from society, from the advances of the age, for a decade? What if they were to be silent that long? What if they did not see another human face, including their own? Her colleagues dismissed it, too radical, too risky. Who would agree to such a thing, to be the subject? She thought herself the perfect subject after all. No family, few friends, no lasting connection in the world. Who would miss her? To test the human brain, it was worth the price. What better test subject? So she disappeared. Off the grid, in the tiny cabin of some long lost relative's last testament. Packages of supplies left quarterly at the front gate but her one trusted companion. No face-to-face meeting though, no talking, otherwise the experiment would be moot. One page a day, to record thoughts, observations, curiosities. Someone would dissect them, interpret them, see the patterns of her brain change with time. She continued to stare at the page, it's blankness looking back at her. It bothered her. What should she write? Should she mention that it is time to return to the world? That she missed other beings, of hearing voices? That she's happy it's over? That she's not? She grunted under her breath, frustrated. Who the bloody hell cares?! Just have to write the honesty of it all, just have to think and write, just put the pen on the paper. 3652. She picked up the pen and began to write. *Today is the end of the testing. Subject is relieved (pause) and slightly nervous at the concept of returning to the world.* She nodded and set the pen down. There that should do it, good enough. She stretched and went to put on her coat. It would be a long walk to town in the snow. She grabbed the snowshoes hanging by the door, strapping on the leather, and the compass on the table. It took a few hours by the sun's time to reach the nearest town. To her it was an amiable walk. After all, she had been in these woods a decade now. She knew which animals lived where, at watched generations come and go with time. From the hill, she could see the small town below her, a mountain town not prone to visitors. Would she scare them, she wondered. After all, she had driven through there ten years ago. A couple more hours later, she found herself at the mouth of Main Street. Something was off. It was quiet. Silent. No cars were moving, they all remained parked. Strange vehicles she had never seen before lined the road. The store fronts were dusty, filmed over in sepia. The road was covered in snow, and had been for a while. She turned in circles, brows knitted with confusion. Where were the people? She kept walking. Nothing. There was no sign of struggle, no broken glass, no trash. She walked quickly to a newspaper stand, searching for a date, a period of time that something could have happened in. Nothing, not a single paper. No date. No sound. Nothing. She kept walking, toward the town square, the center of it all. Still nothing. She turned the corner, the large white courthouse looming in a snowy shroud. The cloudy sky continued to let the flakes fall.*pssmtpssmtpssmt* As she got closer to the steps of the building, a shape. A man. He stands. She freezes mid step, eyes widening, breath ceasing. He smiles broadly. "Hello Amelia," he says, evenly. Her eyes bulge and she hears a sound, from far away. Her own voice. It's screaming.

A couple of people asked me to post this on an askreddit thread when I mentioned it, so I thought I'd post it here, it seemed like it fitted. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead wife, and took a long, weary drag on his cigarette. A lonely pearl of sorrow rolled down his pale cheek, and fell to the ground below. He was told it would help to cry. He was told it would give him ‘closure’. But all it did was remind him how much he missed her. He breathed out, allowing a suited arm to fall to his side and watched, detached, as the smoke drifted away on the breeze, carefree and untroubled by the worries of men. The cigarette was nearing its end. A second tear cruised down his cheek. He sighed. "Dadda” That one word carried for him more emotion than anything he had heard in his miserable life, a stark contrast to the innocence with which it was muttered. Michael turned with a heavy heart to see the short, stunted steps of his beautiful son. His cigarette was almost entirely finished now. Another tear crawled towards his chin. Felix’s messy, blonde hair matched his fathers, but he had his mother’s eyes, pools of wisdom, fascinating and vivid. But they only served to remind Michael of his guilt. Her eyes had been the last thing Michael saw that day. She had died of asphyxiation, from the smoke of the fire. The emergency services were already there when he returned from the shop with Felix. The stove had been left on; Michael had been the one to cook that night. The cigarette was gone now, lost in the jungle of grass. Michael shed one final tear, before wiping the sadness from his face and pulling his son into a tight embrace. Michael took a deep breath, and they turned to face her together. He resolved there and then to do everything to protect Felix, all he had left in the whole world, and to never let him go. Michael was at war. He slashed left and right through the enemy, dragging them to their knees. But all too soon it was over, and Michael stood, resolute among the bodies of the fallen, his vindication shining through the destruction surrounding him. He knew it had been necessary, to protect his son. His young, vulnerable son. He found relief, not pleasure in his actions, seeking only to shield Felix from the world. Only then was the billhook allowed to fall to the ground, replaced by a can of petrol. Michael spent a minute catching his breath, before dousing the ground in petrol. He reached into the recesses of his pocket, withdrew a box of matches, and lit one; it twirled through the air on to the bed of nettles. He looked on grimly as they slowly began to wither and curl in the flames, painfully aware that he could not prevent their return. Michael lit a cigarette. Michael sat in the empty, desolate shell of his house, on a dark September morning gripped in the throes of an autumnal battle, and watched the son he had spent 19 years nurturing and protecting leave his life. He was not a happy man. He had spent the years since his wife’s death keeping his son away from the world, and now he had failed. His son was leaving for a university on the other side of the country, where Michael could not protect him. Where Michael could not ensure he went to bed at the right time, or ate well, or went to the doctor for every tiny ache and pain. So he wept. He allowed the cascade of emotion to erupt from his very soul, and welcomed the feel of pain in his chest, comforting him with its familiarity, until no more tears came. Then he lit a cigarette. But it did not hold the same appeal now, the arid smoke slowly choking him like ash filling up his battered lungs. So he cast it aside, and once again began to weep. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead son, and stared out across the rolling green ocean stretching out in front of him, punctuated by regular markers of death. There were no tears now; he had none left to give. He knew now it would not help to cry. He knew he would never get ‘closure’. He turned, this time alone, to face the graves of his family. He remarked on their passing to himself. A fire and a car accident. His son had been drunk. It was the last in a chain of mad stunts. Michael blamed his constant restraint and protection. To him, his grave was here now too. This time, there was no cigarette.

It was a breezy, mild morning at a North Carolina grammar school. The kids had just gotten off the school bus and were on the playground playing for 30 minutes or so before school started, as usual. David and his two friends, all in fifth grade, were sitting on a wood bench playing Pokemon cards. They were laughing, comparing cards, arguing over game rules. As the playground roared with controled chaos. David wasn't much of a talker, but he had friends he played Pokemon or sports with. David was an average sized boy with a big nose and freckles. He had oversized jeans and was always slouched forward. David's two friends Boz and Tyler grew bored of the card game and wanted to join the soccer game. Tyler: "we'll finish at lunch, let's go to the soccer game" David: "Fuck that." (laughing) "you just wanna leave cause you're losing" Tyler didn't respond and Boz followed him to the soccer game. David continued playing with his cards, pretending it was still fun without his friends, but he too grew bored of the game and looked around for his secondary friends. David joined three boys playing on the swings. Playing a game where they had to run through all three swings while they were being swung on, to avoid getting hit. The boys were involved in their game, ignoring the outside world. A girl and four boys were standing by the school door, the girl was talking to the boys and pointed towards David and his friends. The four boys began moving in that direction. David and his friends were unaware of the boys as they got closer. David grew bored of the swing game and moved alone towards the soccer field. As David was walking the four boys focused their attention to him. In the front of the group was a boy named Leonard. He was a typical looking boy, shorter than average and had an athletic muscular build for a child his age. Leonard ran up behind David and pushed him forcefully enough to knock him to the ground. David landed on his stomach and turned around feeling disoriented. He saw Leonard looking down on him with a sly smile. David got up and Leonard immediately grabbed him by the shirt. Leonard: "You can't play with us anymore" Leonard began swinging David by the shirt. David's feet rose off the ground as Leonard spun him 180 degrees and threw him to the ground, causing david to land akwardly. He rolled on the ground gathering dirt. Leonard: "I'm telling you. You better not play with us anymore" Leonard friends looked on laughing with amusement. David's friends looked on with disapproval, but did not intervene. Fights happened daily at the school, it wasn't their first rodeo. Leonard's smile grew. He became amused with his victim, feeling strong and masterful. Leonard moved towards David again as he got up. As leonard lifted his arm to wrap around David's head in a chokehold David pulled his arm back and threw a punch at Leonard, hitting him in the back of the head. Leonard moved his head back, smiling as if he were still in control as David threw another punch, hitting Leonard in the mouth, just as his father taught him. The punch was square and drew blood on Leonard's mouth. Leonard's smile disappeared and anger took over. As Leonard backed off David maintained his position, without aggression, but waiting for the attack. Leonard moved towards David pulling his arm back to throw a punch. Davids hands and mouth were clinched, his chin was down just like his father taught him. Leonard and David pulled back their arms and begain exchanging punches, hitting one another, three or four times each. Leonard had stronger arms and bigger knuckles so his punches knocked David on the ground to his back while Davids punches glazed Leonards face. Leonard moved towards the grounded David and began throwing kicks at his ribs. David pulled his knees back and started throwing kicks towards Leonards knees from his back. The kids around were still watching, some with amusement, some with disapproval and others with mild indifference. A girl approached the fight. Girl: " Mrs. Montague is coming!" Surrounding students quickly dispersed. Leonard moved away from David and towards Mrs. Montague, smiling. Leonard: "Good morning Mrs. Montague" She responded distractedly: Mrs. Montague: "Good morning, Leonard." David got up slowly. There was dirt on the back of his shirt and jeans. He was angry, but not spiteful. Mrs. Montague called the students in for the day. David Walked towards the school leaning forward as usual. The school day passed and David quickly got over the fight. On the school bus ride home David sat in the back playing Pokemon cards with his friends. David came walking home the same time his dad was getting home from work. Earlier than usual because he had left early. David's father pulled in the driveway. Father: "Since you're brother has work you got to clean my truck." David had an older brother called Mick who was i high school. His brother worked in a fruit market and was getting ready to leave. Mick: "We got a problem dad, David keeps using my clothes and getting them dirty. You got to cut that shit out, David" David: "You don't got no use for em anyhow, you're ass is getting fatter everyday, you won't fit in em soon enough" Dad: (laughing) "He he he he, he ain't lyin', you are getting a little chunky there Mick." Mick shook his head and started walking to work. Dad: "I'm gonna pull my truck out back, go grab the bucket the washcloth and the hose." David grabbed the items and moved to the back alley where the truck was. David hosed down the entire truck clearing all the cacked on dirt and dust. He got under the truck and hosed it down. He hosed down the rims. He took the washcloth and began wiping the hood of the truck with great power and speed. His father had already moved to the backyard, and was talking to a neighbor. David wiped down the windows, the doors, the wheels and the rims. The truck was now covered in soap and David grabbed the hose to hose it off. He stood idle while hosing the truck, half his mind reflecting on his day, half his mind in a tired, distracted zone. The job was done and David was making his way towards the house. He was planning on eating a leftover hotdog and finding some friends in the neighborhood to hang out with. David passed his father who was leaning on the fence talking to his neighbor. His father looked at his truck and turned to his boy David. Father: "How'd the hell the back of you're jeans get so dirty?" David: "Leonard tackled me" His father responded, unphased. Father: "You hit em in the mouth like i showed ya?" David quickly said David: "Yeah i hit em in the mouth" David started walking towards the house, hungry. When his father shouted, Father: "Hey David!" David: "What dad?" His father responded, glancing at his truck. Father: "You did a hell of a job cleaning my truck, looks damn good for once." His neighbor nodded in agreement, trying to maintain pride, but humbled at the sight of the flawlessly cleaned truck. David didn't respond and walked into the kitchen to eat his hotdog.

We were gods, for a while; Immortal from both disease and age. But humans are flawed essentially, and not gods, as we had come to believe. Wars, famine, accidents, human nature, slowly ending the dream of utopia. Great things were achieved, it is true- but we knew they were for us only. By the time some other alien civilization picked up our pieces, we’d be long gone. Moons, planets with fragments of civilization on them, scars of a doomed race. So here we are, on the last city of New London, whiling away the last years of humanity. It’s a relaxed city- where is the urgency when you can live forever? - Where most just wish to die happily. It is most definitely a burden, being the last of humanity- to feel that all of humanity is watching you, that you must do something, to credit all of history and culture, to… leave something, something that is worthy, even though no one will remember it. So here we are, the lucky ones, in a city because we don’t want to die alone when it does happen, gored on a vehicle, fallen from a height or other accident. And that’s the worst when a friend for millennia just leaves forever – it’s what caused so many suicides over the decades, as when eternal life was meaningless, it became hell. Night falls over the grey city of New London. Lights can be seen in parts of the city, but most of the inhabitants try their best to sleep away the time. Half the city is gone; abandoned like the rest of the universe, with derelict buildings and park rotting away. Birds trapped in the oxygen-sphere of the city cry and call, still after all these years persisting in life. When even they fall asleep, the city falls silent. No sound can be heard… except a whirring noise. An inhabitant of the city awakens to a bright light that fills his room. He rouses his neighbors, and soon the whole city, 1000 people, come to the outskirts of the bubble to see a flying machine, some kind of ancient rotor-wing drop a similarly old-fashioned man onto the ground. “Helicopter” A historian in the crowd whispers, while the man gets out. He gets to the top of a hill stops, turns around, and surveys the crowd gathered. He whispers “Come”, beckons with a finger, and starts running away from the city. The single man, with an old-fashioned backpack, keeps on running, gathering followers who run also, curious and filled with this strange sense of a purpose – something that makes them run faster because they need to see what this man does. He reaches the edge of the bubble, slows, and stops. The crowd draws its breath, he reaches into his backpack, for a survival suit, and…. Leaves. People cry out for him to stop, come back, but they have neither the will nor the way to go out and drag him back. He disappears over a hill of barren, grey rock and leaves something behind- not anything physical, but a feeling, a need, something foreign to these despairing people. Night comes, the man is not returned, but the purpose still haunts the people, follows them around like a ghost, eating away at these people. A man, if left in complete comfort and told not to open a box in the other end of the room, which would expel him from the room forever, may be satisfied for a few days. But curiosity will drive him to open it and he will open it, knowing full well what might happen. The city, full of old dreams and hopeless people, was no different.

In the beginning there was no world that we could recognize as a consistent place. It was of Chaos in every way. Turmoil and change, no form could hold. From this Chaos the old ones were born. 30 in number they were the Chaos Children. They brought all that we know into existence. Each fashioned their signature tool that they used to impose their will upon the Chaos until it was no more. What remained was the Calm, the world. The Chaos Children would produce many sons and daughters who would grow to become the gods we worship now. Of the Chaos Children, one stands out as the most important. Lars, the Child of Progression. Lars was depicted as a man with three faces, two to scan the present and one to look forward, but no face to watch the past. Lars cared only for progress and the improvement of the Calm. His tool was Grorn, the first blade. It is said that Grorn was fashioned to be a golden yellow but stained red when Lars used it to slay his 29 brothers and sisters, for they were the old ones and would only stand in the way of progress. Lars then carved out the Land known as Gror, upon which we live, from the bodies of the old ones. The Sea was filled with their blood. Lars looked upon the Land and the Sea of the Calm and knew that progress had been made, but more needed to come. Lars became known as the God of the gods as he raised the offspring of the Chaos Children. Some of the most important of which would be: **Shellos:** The god of small fortune, Shellos is the one you praise when you find a coin just as you need one, or when an egg is a double yolk so you can save one for later. Shellos becomes the King of the gods when he appears to the Gror Confederation and uses his fortune to sway the tide of battle. He now resides in the depths of the Crystal Palace Prison, forever to rot. **Gia:** Princess of the gods, Gia is the daughter of Lars. During the war with the Krill Dynasty she fell in love with Shellos and later becomes the Queen of the gods, giving birth to three children. Destri: Gia's younger brother and son of Lars. Destri was angry that Lars chose Shellos over him as a successor, especially when Shellos had openly admitted to wanting to overthrow Lars. He is now the bitter old man who watches over the entrance of the underworld. **Popuar:** Shellos' older brother. Popuar is considered a mute. He is the god of secrets and knowledge. His eye judges all but his hand is never raised to enact judgment. **Jayth:** Goddess of Earth and eldest of Gia's three children. Jayth is said to be strong and beautiful, she is also the god of justice. She was Grandor's mistress when he first rose to power. **Jace:** God of war and power, Jace is the youngest of Gia's three children. Jace is chaotic and unbiased in his destruction and seeks to become more powerful for strength is all he values. Desperately wishes to overthrow Grandor but lacks the power to do so. **Zarine:** Goddess of the sea and love, Zarine is Gia's middle child. Zarine is said to be the most beautiful of all the women to ever exist. She became Grandor's mistress when Jayth failed to become pregnant. **Demens:** Son of Zarine and Grandor, he was cursed by Jayth upon birth when she found out that Grandor had cheated on her. Demens is the god of anger due to his unsightly appearance. Zarine despised him and sealed him beneath the Sea. The waves are his attempts to escape. **Demon Army:** The offspring of Demens and the mortal women he claimed as his own. The Demon Army consists of horrible monsters that Grandor used as his Army against Cobalt. When uneeded they are locked in the underworld to serve as its guards and torturers to those who deserve it. **Grandor:** God of ambition, Grandor was once the lowest god of all and the personal servant to Shellos, who was treated very well by the king. One day he overthrew Shellos and imprisioned him within the Crystal Palace Prison. He stands over the Calm as the Emperor of the gods. Gia is now his wife, Jayth his former lover and Zarine his mistress. Grace:Daughter of Julia and Grandor, Grace was the first prophet of the gods and was born with innate magical power unseen in humans. She helped usher in the age of the prophets. **Julia:** Princess of the Emperor of Gror at the time of the revolution. She was saved by the Blue Bladed Man from ritual sacrifice to Grandor and helped lead Cobalt against the gods. She was later taken by Grandor to be his concubine when the revolution was crushed. **The Blue Bladed Man:** An unknown man who wielded the Blue Blade Cobalt and started the revolution against the gods. Though his name was forgotten by time, as he predicated, Cobalt and the means to oppose the gods remains, as he had hoped. **The Cobalt Republic:** The Republic of man who forsook the gods. Cobalt believe in the inner self and deny that gods are necessary. Cobalt also serves as the name of the legendary blue blade used to begin the revolution and kill Gia. **Prophets:** Those who are born with innate magical ability. Said to be descendants of Grace. They are blessed with the power of one of the lesser gods and use their power as a way to increase praise for their patron. Prophets run the Gror Empire on a more personal level than any governor or King. They are always of noble birth, for only a descendant of Grace can have such power. **Mages:** A person born with innate magical power said to be the result of the Abyssi. These people should be feared as monsters for they exist to cause suffering and destruction. Always of ignoble birth. Many try to hide their status of magic power if they are not nobles for fear they are branded as a mage. **Abyssi:** Dark creatures who live in the Sea, the Abyssi wield dark magic. They are said to be as intelligent and devious as humans and work their mysterious ways to a dark means. They grant Mages their power to create destruction in the world, or some times take human form to do the same. **Krill Dynasty:** An ancient Dynasty that proclaimed their Emperor a god and tried to impose their will upon the ancient Gror Confederation. Lord Krill: Proclaimed a god by his people, he tried to unite the world under the worship of only him. Killed by Lars, after which Lars succumbed to his wounds.

It was a fairly normal morning for John he drove to work, and just as he just had sat down at his cubicle, he abruptly turned into a waffle. Why? Well, we could question the plausibility of this event but the mere fact is, he's a waffle in a chair now. John was quite panicked, and he could only think, the waffle being a vessel of his consciousness. No stimulus besides his own prioception of his waffle body, only his thoughts and the realization that he had been transformed into a waffle. Suddenly, John felt his body being uplifted to a greater plane, what this feels like is probably indescribable but John felt his waffle body become a voidwalker towards a greater dimension. John then began to see, he had no eyes yet he saw an exceptionally large waffle several feet away from him. The waffle had an aura of great divinity and just looking at him, John felt a simultaneous awe and fear of what may be to come. The Great Waffle and John were alone in a massive void. The Great Waffle spoke, *"Ephemeral being, from the water planet, you have been chosen...."* John did not understand, "Who... who are you?" The Great Waffle answered, *"I am Your Creator, I Have Created the Universe you live in, not as you know, not in a week but in what seems like an eternity to your kind, your False Gods are not real and I am the True God, but I have not needed to be worshiped until now"* John questioned His Maker again, "What do you mean?" The Waffle God answered once more, *"The reason is above your understanding, but there gathers a great darkness where the Light does not reach in the Abyss of Fallen Spirits where spirits are driven mad by their own existence in a land of fierce competition between spirits and they soon become what you may know as Demons, but they are in reality the Tiscovovim, the Fallen, the Twisted."* John inquired the Great Architect, "Why have I been brought here?" The God of the Universe gave John his purpose, *"You must defeat the Tiscovovim in the Abyss of Fallen Spirits and rid their threat to your Universe, otherwise they'd raze your Universe and warp it to practical oblivion, a land of barren planets filled with corrupted spirits."* John was angered now, "Why me? Why have I been turned into a waffle?" The Waffle God scolded him, *"Silence! It is for the glory of your God and Creator! Your kind eats the symbol of my body, the waffle, and they love it and in doing so they are paying homage to their God!"* The Waffle God continued, *"This is your apotheosis, this is how you will become the Savior of the Universe, a God alongside me and the Universe will worship you and know their Creator and his Chosen Savior and the Abyss of Fallen Spirits will be destroyed, and there will be joy"* John apologized, "I'm sorry for my blasphemy, I will do what I must...

Just down the road I could see the church I had been visiting every so often for the past two weeks. I'm not a religious person, I never have been and I never prayed there or asked for forgiveness but at that time in my life I needed some sort of comfort and the church was a haven. To have someone lend an ear to my problems was all I needed. That someone I was looking for was Father Jeffries. The first time I went was early evening when it was fairly quiet, I saw Father Jeffries sitting on the pews close to the altar facing forward towards the large crucifix mounted on the far wall, below dazzling stained glass windows. I sat behind him, “Hello, Father. I just want to start off by saying I'm not religious, I don't mean to intrude or waste your time but I didn't know where else to go. Anyway I just need someone to talk to and I was hoping, if you're okay with it, if you could listen. I have some things to get off my chest.” I just began talking, talked through everything that was troubling me and my talking turned into ranting until it was all out. Jeffries not once spoke, but listened offering a kind of silent condolence. That's what it felt like anyway, and I didn't care if he wasn't listening but it felt better talking to someone. Sometimes that's all you need. Since then I had been back several times. I approached the front doors to the church, one left slightly ajar as always and entered with the door giving off a slight creek as I stepped inside. In the foyer area I glanced at the notice board I saw when I first visited, along with the community events posted there a welcome sign hung from a pin with a picture of a jolly white haired man. Underneath it said 'Father Jeffries' along with mass times. I looked through the foyer down the isle with pews right and left to see him sat in his usual place, left hand side, third row from the front. I always visited in the early evening, but because I came here so sporadically I assumed Jeffries waited every night there just in case I showed up. Walking down the isle I noticed a few regulars sitting around, mostly old couples. Maybe they got there early for evening mass. My footsteps echoed a little around the bare stone interior. The peaceful silence and cool air in the church comforted me. I sat down. “Hello father” I paused to think where I would start, the whole time he remained silent with his head turned slightly to the right ready to listen. “I guess I'll start where I left off last time. My girlfriend, she still won't talk much with me. The conversation is still bland even though I've made efforts to be as enthusiastic as possible. Maybe she's depressed, she doesn't even go to church any more and she's always been the religious one. I think I'll tell her to check with our doctor but whether she's open to the idea...” The low evening sun shone through the windows in shafts of perfectly still light. “I still can't find a job. We're in debt and Becky is hardly bringing enough money in to pay for the rent and food as it is but there's nowhere that will accept me. I feel guilty. That I can't provide or even help us both. That she's doing all the work. I haven't had a fucking job in 6 months.” I looked up from my lap realizing what I had just said, “Sorry Father, I didn't mean to swear.” I continued talking for another 20 minutes with the occasional silence to recollect my thoughts, thanked Father Jeffries for listening again and left. My flat wasn't too far from the church so I usually walked to and from there. A light rain began to fall which soon turned heavier and by the time I got back home I was drenched through. I walked through the hallway into the living room/kitchen. Becky was sat on the couch watching TV. “Hi, back from work already? I've just been drenched looks like you got in just in time.” We exchanged some light conversation but it was as if it didn't matter to her. I went and got changed, cooked us both some spaghetti with some cheap pasta sauce and called it a night. Becky hardly ate anything again that night and I began to become more worried. Change in eating habits, lack of motivation to talk to anyone, general social withdrawal. It sounded to me like she was suffering from depression and I made note to mention it to her tomorrow. Another 3 days passed and I felt it was time to visit Father Jeffries again. As usual he was sat on the left third row from the front. I greeted him and started, I must have sounded desperate this time because it had been a rough week so far. “She brushed off any mention of depression. It's like she doesn't want to help herself but it's affecting me too. I feel lonely. She never makes conversation, I always have to initiate it. I guess we've had a communication breakdown. It's like, I'm a ghost and she doesn't know I'm there half the time. Like some forgotten memory.” Silence. For the first time I felt insecure, almost vulnerable in the church. I honestly expected Jeffries to say something, it seemed like a good time for him to intervene and comfort me with words for once but he just remained listening. I decided to cut it short this time, mentioned how the job search was going and left. Walking back down the isle I noticed a few of the regulars there again. I looked up and smiled but they didn't smile back. In fact they didn't seem to acknowledge me. That day was the first time I felt uneasy in that church, and it wouldn't be until a week later I would go again. Slow grinding days. Days that felt like nothing had happened. Days go by. How long had it been since my last visit to the church? A week? Two weeks? Three? Looking at the calendar in the kitchen revealed it had been only 5 days. Time felt like it had slowed down and my life was rolling along as slow as possible. For the first time I thought maybe I'm the one who's depressed? Maybe both of us are? I turned my attention back to cutting the spring onions for my stir fry. Surprised I hadn't cut myself. *Perhaps I should*. I stopped and frowned. Chuckled to myself, the first time in a long time. What a ridiculous thought, why would I do that? *To see if I'm still real*, my inner monologue told me. I hate it when my mind wanders like that, those thoughts that creep into your mind the ones you would never... “Fuck!” I had cut my finger while lost in thought. Blood dripped onto the cutting board. I ran the wound under some water and wrapped some paper towel around it. Well at least that answered my musings, I'm real all right. Looking into the living room Becky hadn't even come to see if I was okay. Another 2 days that felt like 4 passed. I was up early enough that morning to see Becky before she went to work. No interaction from her. I felt like pulling my hair out. I couldn't stand the loneliness. I lived with my girlfriend yet I was lonely. It didn't make any sense. I went for a walk to the park, all the while feeling dejected, passers by returned no smiles or greetings. That evening I went to church. “Father. It's getting on top of me now. It's like she's ignoring me full stop, I didn't get a word out of her this morning. I'm beginning to think it's something about me now, my problem. I mean, I feel like no one acknowledges me not just Becky.” I looked around at the other pews. The regulars were always out of earshot. “It feels like I don't exist. I know that sounds ridiculous but I haven't heard from my parents or my friends in months. It feels like I get no human interaction any more. I can't stand the loneliness. Father, what should I do?” The first time I had ever asked him a question. I anticipated his reply but it never came. “Father I need some advice this time, please.” No reply. Not even any movement. It was like he was ignoring me, had he been all this time? Was he asleep? “Father I'm asking for your help” I put my hand on his shoulder and his head fell to the side and back. I screamed. His eyeless sockets stared at me like an abyss, crooked open mouth exposed yellowed teeth. His skin was wrinkled and shrivelled and dark as leather stretched over his skull. I looked around to the congregation my heart beating fast. Everyone was rotted to their seats, their faces grimaced and decomposed. I sprinted down the isle and out the front doors. The road was barren, rubbish blowing in the wind, black scorched brick on the buildings, windows shattered and glass strewn on the road. It was deathly quiet and the cars were filthy with grime. I ran. I ran all the way back home. I reached my building. It was run-down and decrepit. I climbed the stairs to our floor and upon reaching my flat unlocked the door and burst through. It was dusty, the wallpaper peeled. I stumbled into the living room. Becky sat on the couch staring towards the black screen of the TV. Plates of rotten and moulded food scattered around her. Her head hung back, mouth open, eye sockets empty and black, skin peeling and dead. I dropped to my knees. I remembered it. I couldn't stand the loneliness.

“I am going to take a step forward. A figurative step forward, but I will represent that step with its physical counterpart”. The scratch of pen on paper is the only response. “Of course I won’t take that step here, or now, I’ll take the step when I deserve it”. I turn my head a little to the side to catch a glimpse of the person I’m talking to, just to make sure she’s listening. Eyes set behind glasses stare directly into mine. I quickly turn back to the ceiling, pretending to stretch as I go. The loud crackling of leather beneath me reminds me why I haven’t been moving. I hate the sound of leather, it’s the sound of plastic tearing and it hurts my ears on a level I can’t explain. I wriggle uncomfortably for a while longer before I give up. The light above me is glaring and I have to squint to keep my eyes open. “I took your advice and talked with a friend about it”. The scratching paused, “and how did that make you feel?” I move a little restlessly, “I don’t know, it made me feel better I guess”. The scribbling of the pen continues once more, “What exactly did you tell your friend?” My palms are getting a little sweaty, it’s too hot today, I wish she’d turn the AC up a bit. “I told him I was going to commit suicide and that he shouldn’t try to stop me”. I can almost feel the frown on her face as she stops writing once more. I want to see the expression she’s making but I’m still wary of being caught like last time. Instead I remain completely still, breathing a little quicker than before. “You know I don’t appreciate it when you lie like that Mr Andrews”. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gut, spots of darkness blur my vision and it feels like a hundred butterflies are trying to burst out of my stomach. I lie completely still and take deep breaths, waiting, hoping for the feeling to pass. The silence stretches out and all I can hear is my own breathing, in and out, in and out, again and again, the rest of my life is nothing but breathing. The sound of writing comes to my ears once more and somehow its noise is soothing. The darkness fades and the nausea passes. I’m once more forced to squint into the fluorescent lighting above. “I don’t like my friend, I think he’s a jerk.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my shirt, the crackle of leather reaches my ears and I cringe inwardly. “Why don’t you like your friend?” Her voice is quite nice now that I think about it, feminine and caring with a motherly quality to it. I want to hear her voice speak to me and tell me everything is alright, I want to hear her voice saying anything at all. “I just think he’s a real jerk, he always wants to do things his way, and he treats me like an idiot”. My mind is beginning to wander, I’ve been lying here for so long, I think my left leg is starting to cramp up. “Does this friend know how you feel?”. Violent thoughts wash through my head with an unexpected suddenness, I want to sneer at her, I want to tell her to get fucked you stupid bitch. An overwhelming desire to leap out of my chair and choke this stupid whore to death crashes through me. Terrible thoughts careen through my head one after another, an unstoppable flow. My hands twitch slightly. “No I guess not”. “Then that’s the first thing I want you to do next time you see him, tell him how you feel about his behaviour”. My thoughts continue to rage and the need to vomit overcomes me, I begin to choke but somehow I can’t seem to move my body. Heaving and gagging I can feel the bile crawling its way out of my throat. I can feel my mouth being forced open as it attempts to escape. My jaw is locked open and four black legs reach out tentatively, testing the air. Soon a large black body squeezes itself out of my mouth. The spider is as big as my head and after firmly extricating itself from my face it releases its grip on my jaw. I begin coughing and choking immediately and tears are running down my face from the pain. The spider turns to look at me, segmented eyes glint darkly as it stares at my suffering with unknowable thoughts. Without warning the spider leaps off the couch and scurries away faster than I can keep track of it, bored of observing its previous host no doubt. “How does that make you feel?” The shrink is completely absorbed in her notes, her pen moves endlessly from left to write, a never ending flow of words describing every detail of this sitting, every word spoken and unspoken, I wouldn’t be surprised if she planted that spider just to see how I’d react. “How does that make you feel Mr Andrews?” As she speaks her forehead is melting down her face, covering her eyes and nose, dripping down her mouth and slowly freezing in place just below her chin. The image is that of a wax head that has been left in the sun too long, liquefying in the heat then hardening once more into a garish mockery of the human face. I can tell it’s looking at me, the mouth inside is moving but nothing but a muffled oomph can be heard from her. I reach out towards her, I want to rip a hole through her mouth so she can speak to me again, so I can hear her beautiful voice once more. “Mr Andrews are you feeling alright?” I blink and I’m staring at the fluorescent lights above me once more, my hand reaching upwards with an open palm. I look to see the shrink has put down her notepad, staring at me with concern in her eyes, her face exactly as I remembered it when I first entered here. I let my hand drop down. “Yeah I’m feeling alright”. The shrink is frowning at me but before she can speak a small buzzer goes off on her desk nearby. “Oh well would you look at the time, an hour already, well Mr Andrews today was another good session, come see me again same time next week and we will continue our talks” She moves about, carefully placing her notepad and pen on her desk. “Make sure you talk to your friend, I’m sure he doesn’t want to hurt you on purpose, and keep up the good work, you’ve been steadily improving each session and if we keep up the pace I have no doubt you will become a positive member of society once more”. She smiles and holds out her hand to be shaken. I get up hurriedly, the sound of crackling leather is loud as I rise. “Thank you Rebecca, I always feel better after these sessions”. The shrink smiles as we shake hands, her hand is cold from writing for so long, while mine are still sweaty from the heat. She pretends not to notice. “Goodbye Mr Andrews, take care on your way home”. She opens the door for me, a warm smile painted on her lips, as I make to leave I notice a big black spider scuttle along the wall and out of the door. I look to Rebecca to see if she noticed but she merely stares back at me, black eyes the colour of the spider’s fur staring straight through me. I step outside and into a living room. There is a couch and a TV. A small rug lies on the floor. I look to the left and I can see a small kitchen. White except for the wooden chopping board lying on the bench and the remains of a variety of vegetables. I walk over to the chopping board, this is my house. I look behind me to the open door leading out into the apartment complex. I try to remember how I got here when a sudden spitting pain shrieks through the side of my head. I gasp and my right eye blacks out, I crumple to the floor as I am no longer able to control half of my body. Lying on the ground I can do nothing but gasp and squirm, panic has taken control of my thoughts and everything has become a blur. Sounds and images swirl into thoughts and break apart before they can fully take shape, strange zig zag shapes crash quietly around me and small squiggles draw themselves out of the ground. Yellow orbs float gently through the sky in a V formation before slowly being absorbed into the wall. As I watch my surroundings I feel waves of peace smothering me. I can feel something turning my head. It’s the spider. His name is Mike. He’s smiling at me, white teeth glistening, a static point in the universe amongst the chaos around me. “Andy, let it all go Andy, let it all go….” The spider is speaking in a deep baritone voice, my father’s voice. The spider is speaking the words but it’s as though using a mouth is alien to him. The words are slurred and the shapes of his lips don’t quite match the sounds they’re making. “Andy… look at me Andy, I’m trying to help you Andy, why do you keep fighting me? Andy look at me when I speak to you”. Spider arms reach out and grab my face while a few more reach in and pry the skin away from the sockets of my eyes. Appendages sway gently above me before they slowly dig into my skull. I can feel the individual hairs of the spider’s arms curl gently against my skin and a pin prick of pain as the spider arms wrap around my eyes. The grip tightens then loosen and all of a sudden my eye’s roll rapidly in their sockets like marbles tossed along the road and all I can see are a dizzying array of colours shooting in and out of darkness. Dizziness overwhelms me and I attempt to push the spider away only to feel my arms pinned to my sides. I flail hopelessly until my eyes are shocked into a sudden stillness as they stare directly into glinting, multifaceted eyes. “You know what to do Andy, stop being a fucking coward and do it already. You’re wasting my time with all this Andy”. The voice has changed, it is no longer my father’s, it’s the doctor’s voice, soft and caring, belying the harshness of the words themselves. “How do you feel Andy? Do you feel pathetic Andy? Do you feel like a worthless piece of shit Andy because that’s what you are Andy. Every day I have to listen to you is another day I could have spent with my family Andy, a family that loves me, where’s your family Andy?” I attempt to mumble a response, my arms are no longer being held down and I reach for the spider. “Where's your family Andy? Where are your friends? Where the fuck are they huh Andy? ANDY YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT, YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, NOW FUCKING DO IT”. The psychiatrist’s voice rises to a shrill pitch as it continues to scream obscenities at me. I reach forwards and grab it by the mouth. The voice gargles as I stretch its mouth and it screams in anger and pain as I rip it completely off. The spider stares at me awhile longer, thoughts suddenly impassive and unknowable. “Mike you’re a jerk, I don’t like the way you yell at me all the time, it really hurts my feelings”. The spider stares darkly at me and I force my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him anymore. When I open them once more Mike is gone, instead I am staring at the marbled floor, face cold from resting on the chilly tiles. With an effort I pull myself off the floor, everything is still blurry as I grab the bench besides me and heave myself up. I struggle over to the sink and vomit black bile and a half digested breakfast into the basin. I hold myself up next to the bench, weak and exhausted. To my right is a butcher’s knife. I haven’t seen it yet, but I always know where it is. Screaming words echoes gently against my skull and I force them away before grabbing a small white bottle nearby. I put the label up to my face and I can only see small scribbles, no doubt describing it as a medicine of some sort. I twist off the cap knowing exactly what I’ll see. Little black spiders writhe inside, scuttling against one another in an attempt to get out and away from each other. I quickly reach in and grab one before closing up the bottle again before they can get away. I hold the one I’ve caught by the leg and star at its struggling frame. Black legs spasm in an attempt to gain purchase in the air and its entire body swivels right and left looking for any escape. I try not to think too much and throw it into my mouth and swallow it whole. I can feel it wriggling in my throat, still trying to escape and I resist the urge to vomit once more. I place the bottle carefully, right next to the knife, glittering ever so gently on the bench. My hand drags across the burnished metal with a careful caress and fingers linger for a few seconds longer then they probably need to before I let go. The blurry edges of the house are beginning to sharpen, I can distinguish the objects around me once more. Floor, painting, ceiling, chair, microwave, toaster. I walk forwards, back a little straighter as I go into my room. Computer, sheet, pillow. I sit down on the bed, brown carpet, blue blanket, and I lie down and stare at the roof and count the small holes that spot the plaster. Four, eleven, twenty four, twenty five, twenty six. Twenty six holes in this panel. I count them again. And again. Familiar tears stream down my face as I count, over and over, I think about Mike, I miss Mike, and the sound of the psychologist’s voice, not her words of anger but the words of peace and tranquility in her office. “How do you feel Andy?” Those words repeat like a staccato rhythm next to the monotony of the counting. I lie there, awake, counting and thinking, lying in the warm pool of tears until finally, finally, the sweet bliss of unconsciousness takes me once more.

The world was full, and it was loud. Even surrounded by four walls, a window, and a roof, Sam couldn’t hear himself. Even with the TV turned off and the fan on low, his heartbeat was just a whimper. He couldn’t hear anything., much less feel the weight creeping downward onto him. He thought that of course sound echoes in a small space, and he decided to leave. The door was heavy and the dead bolt was stuck; a small amount of rust had entered into the hinge over the past few months. With enough force, he pried it open. The wind was violently ripping through the gap between buildings like a guardian patrolling against scouts in the woodwork. There was no way to time your entry out into the space. The wind was alive, and followed him with aggression. The jagged edges of brick and mortar seemed to act as guideposts. It was alive, and claimed its territory like an animal. To fight would be pointless. To run, foolish. His only hope was to present himself as weaker and let the animal be the dominant one. It would follow him, and hopefully nothing more. The sun saw him. It watched as an owl unblinking. The shade of the trees moved when he walked underneath. There were no other people, no dogs or animals to be seen. He could hear them, though. Behind the safety of their walls, they lived. They thrived. Strong and without worry. If Sam stood far enough away he could identify where the sound came from, but if he came too close it would stifle until he returned a safe distance. This is how it was and had always been, and he wished that the sounds were truly gone. If they were truly and actually gone, then he wouldn’t hear them inside their walls. He wouldn’t see their footsteps on the grass where he walked. Things would be calm. The world would sleep. Overwhelmingly, and frighteningly so, he was surrounded. Surrounded by everything, but he was alone. There were others, but they were not with him. Their lives were different. Bolder, brighter, and with more spirit. If he could live their lives, he would be happy. Happier, maybe. It was unnatural and wrong, and he decided to run. When he returned, the creature was asleep. The owl was no more. Its unyielding eye shut. The clouds had covered the light, and it was dark. The rusty door resisted, but he had returned to the same four walls. The same window. The same roof. The kitchen lights were dim, and when they were shut off, it seemed like the cold crept a little closer to him. His bed was old. It spoke to him with rusted springs, the bitter welcome he always expected. A bittersweet song of finality. When he awoke, he could hear his heart. The rhythmic pounding was filling his ears. It echoed off his walls; he could feel his bones shaking. The sun was peering through the window, but it was no longer blinding. It was soft, and seemed to ease itself into the room, rather than burning a hole through the window. It welcomed him. Come with us, and explore what you have made. The world was empty. The animal was still. It walked between the corridors, unaware of his movements. He could time his entry now. He could walk without looking behind him. The brick and mortar on the wall had decayed. Holes had formed. Rot was crawling through the foundation. The windows were cracked, and hid no life behind them. No vibrant sounds came from inside. No life resonated within. The owl no longer looked at him. There was no sound from the highway. There was only his heart. Echoing. Pounding. “Why did this happen?”, Sam asked, aloud and to the emptiness. The emptiness looked back. “Run.

Blood was everywhere. The sea of red was flowing to every corner of the room. Her body was lying there in a pool of itself, the knife standing in her chest, each moment, losing more blood, fighting the pain to breath. The anticipation of death grew and grew. Life was done, over, completed to say the least. I looked directly in her eyes as each breath got slower and weaker. Then suddenly the deep wheezing stopped. At that moment, the urge subsided, the uncertain arose, the ringing stopped, and the silence grew. As I proceeded to the kitchen, I realized, I didn’t even bother to learn “Her” name. Actually, I don’t remember anything up to the point of being in her house. The last thought I could recollect was seeing her at the bar. I don’t know if it was the brown eyes, her straight brown hair, her long legs, or the friendly smile, but I was attracted. That’s all it took, that brief moment of enticement. The pressure began to build, the ringing became loud, my heart beat rose, and the room went black. The next thing I knew, I was straddling her, telling her if she moved, I would make it slow and painful, telling her, there is no hope. She then asked the typical, quite frankly stupid question of, “Why, are you doing this?” and telling me the typical victim lines, “I have a family that loves me, I promise I wont go to the Police.” As if she was magically going to change my mind, she didn’t understand that anything she said or did wasn’t going to help her, I had to kill her, I needed the feel of control, I needed the peace. That feeling of the knife going through the sternum and puncturing the heart, that feeling of life drifting from the veins, it’s indescribable. I pulled out my hanker chief, and proceeded to wipe the room clean of my prints. I put on my hat, gloves, and coat and left. I went back to my normal life, my dead end job, my friends. Both things I hate, My job is tedious and has no meaning, My friends are demanding and intrusive. To be honest, I prefer to be alone, the solitude suppresses my urges. When I have nothing to entice me, I don’t kill. The fact that I don’t need to kill makes me feel almost normal. I wonder if one day, I wont have to kill anymore, when the ringing permanently stops, and the pressure is released from my head. No one knows what I’m doing or who I am, to them I was a normal part of society, and quite frankly I was, I tried to convince myself that I was happy, but I knew the God’s honest truth, that no one is ever happy. The only thing we feel is power, anger, lust, and, revenge. I have one thing that keeps me under control, more like friend who, is there through the thick and thin. I will have this burden for the rest of my life, every day the clock spines and spines until the day it stops. I will always be looking, watching you from a distance, you never know if I’ll hear the ringing, maybe my heart beat will rise, and the pressure will come back. Tick tock, tick tock, I wouldn’t watch the clock, cause all I see is black.

Dear diary, Today I looked at my walls. Just the four of them, all standing sturdily together like tall, flat soldiers. I stared at them, and they stared at me. Dear diary, My boss has called me five times this morning, but I have not answered. What he has to say will do nothing to improve my life. I have vowed to remove all negative energy from my day. Therefore, he will remain ignored. Dear diary, I can see from my window that the mail carrier has given me a sticker on my mailbox to tell me that it is too full, and that my mail will be waiting for me at the post office. I’ve heard her ringing the doorbell for a few days. I pretend no-one’s home. Dear diary, My boss called me once today and left a message, which I listened to while reheating some Chinese food that I had left for me on my doorstep last night. His voice was a mixture of anger and concern, telling me to get ahold of him immediately. I waited several hours, until I knew he wouldn’t be at his desk, and I left a simple voicemail informing him that I was very sorry, but an emergency had gotten in the way, and I was so terribly afraid and saddened that I had to terminate my employment, and he could let my last check be direct-deposited, thank you very much. I then disconnected my phone from the wall and turned off my cell . Dear diary, I have not looked in the mirror in several days. I must have bags under my eyes that would put the moon’s craters to shame, and my hair must be a tangled rat nest of a mess. I’m trying to not focus on physical appearance. It only ends with me upset. Dear diary, My medications have run out. The empty bottles rattle around in my medicine cabinet, mocking me. I can't leave to have them refilled. Dear diary, My walls are closer now. They no longer stare, they leer at me. I can feel them watching me hatefully. Their eyes, invisible, burn my skin. Dear diary, I am so hungry, but all of my food has been poisoned. The person in the mirror is sneaking out to lace it with formaldehyde while I sleep. I've seen her do it a few times, but I always pretend to sleep. Dear diary, I am weak. I have not eaten in days. The walls pulsate as they taunt my pain. They've seen her poison me, and they are conspiring with her. Dear diary, The sound of a phone ringing has not stopped for several hours. I watch the phone lay on the floor, off the hook, and wonder how this is so. Its cords crawl toward me like a snake, wrapping around my limbs, cutting off the circulation. The walls above me as I lie limp on the ground are now black. They cackle. They pulse. My arms and legs are asleep with the force of the cords around them. The phone, the walls, the mirror, this house has come alive and I am powerless to stop it. Dear diary, I am calm. I am free. DEIRDRE WOOLF CHATSWORTH POLICE DEP. 3:45 PM I hadn't heard from Bridget for about a week and a half. It was strange because usually she gets ahold of me once a week or so, but I figured she was doing her and I was doing me. I called her last Friday when I was pretty sure she'd be home from work and it went straight to voicemail. I called the home phone next, and got a busy signal. Maybe she was just out, ya know? So I decided to pop in this morning to check on her. I knocked, and the door swung right open. I wasn't prepared at all for what I saw. There's blood on the floors, the walls, the doors, and it's all just splattered like some crazy person was in there flinging it everywhere. And you know what, every single mirror in that house was broken with what looked like a fist mark in the center. Bridge was nowhere in sight. So I'm calling her name softly, feeling like I'm in a horror movie. I walk into the kitchen, and her fridge is roped shut with this big padlock on the handle and the rope. There's an open gallon of milk on the counter that's just horribly sour, and I can smell it from across the kitchen. I have to leave. And this place is just deadly silent. I walked past the bathroom in the hall and there's blood and vomit everywhere in there. I'm about to faint here. There's about a dozen of those little orange prescription bottles on the floor. Still no sign of Bridge. So her bedroom door is at the end of the hall, right, and the door is shut and the knob is covered in blood. I nudge it open with my foot, and my heart just drops to my stomach. My Bridget's just laying there on the floor, telephone cord wrapped around her neck, and her face is purple, but...she's smiling. Big as ever. Like she just saw the best thing she ever has. And I'm panicking and I put my hand down to check her pulse, and it's gone, and she's waxy, but she's....she's still just a little warm. I was just a little too late. Oh my god.....

It stands there faintly intimidating everything in sight. The house is two stories, cube shaped, with the windows smashed and boarded up on every side, except for the diamond shaped window where the attic is. The siding’s chipped, which gives the house an eerie grey color. The only true color is a large red door that’s windowless with a bright gold door nob that shines like the sun. It has no dings, scratches, or marks of any kind. The front steps are beyond the point of repair along with a white metal swing located on the front porch. This house is cursed, it exploits a weakness that everyone contains. It brings out the inner emotion that causes people to be afraid at night. Fear. The moment a person steps past the red door, their innermost fear is expressed. Every so often a kid wanders by and decides to enter the house. Once you enter, Blackness will fill the room and your mind. Any thought of hope will subside as you encounter your innermost fear.

So I have a character in mind and I just wrote a super short scene. I wanted to post and see if it is a compelling enough read for you to want more? Thanks all! She talked softly as if everything she said was a kind of condolence. Her remedy to stress was probably something really wholesome like a hot milk bath and meditation. She's that type of friend that always wants to 'be there for you,' as she slides some hot mug of lemongrass herbal bullshit in your palm with her hand gently placed on your shoulder, telling you she knows exactly how you feel. Superficial empathy practically oozing from her eyeballs. No she couldn't be a self destructive person. It's not that I disliked her, in fact she seemed as if she must have loads of friends always floating around her, eager to feel understood and worthwhile. It's just that I knew we could never really understand each other. Our conversations would be punctuated by raised eyebrows, her mouth hanging in the shape of an 'oh' because she doesn't really know what else to say. I wanted to leave already.

Whilst he sat staring out into the darkness he found his mind’s eye wandering. The overhead air vent released a cocktail of atmospheric gases in the form of a brisk breeze that swept across the room, sending chills down his spine and his mind’s eye racing into the past. He could feel the once familiar sensation of grass between his fingers, the cool dirt of the hillside pressed against his palms as he sat aside his father staring at what remained of the stars above. “You know, a long time ago so called scientist sat, just like we are, debating how there could be any dark spots in the sky with the all the stars out there. They said that at the end of time, the sky would be filled with the light of burning stars as the universe collapsed on itself. Funny idea isn’t it?” his father said with a smirk, “I would give a pretty penny to see the look on their faces now.” Max remained silent, trying to envision the night sky filled with stars but it was hard to imagine as a mere handful of glimmering spots scattered in the abyss was all he had ever known. His father, seeing the look of consternation across his young son’s face, took the opportunity to run his fingers through the boy’s blonde hair as he so often did. Max could almost feel the once familiar sensation of his hair between his father’s fingers when the cool breeze of the summer night, or rather that of the ventilator above, sent goose bumps running up his neck. The cool dirt of the hillside was suddenly replaced by the cold reality of the steel bench beneath him. He stood up, paying no mind to the viewing pleasure of others in the ship’s observation room as, per usual, he was alone. A sense of disappointment in returning to reality swept over him as he raised his right arm, pressing his palm against the viewing pane. He shifted his adept focus from the darkness that encompassed the regulated travel lanes, his route of mental escape, and stepped back, his hand returning to his side. What moments ago seemed to be a portal into the vast darkness of space was now anything but. Millions of sublight engines burned bright as did their respective ship hulls glimmering in the reflection of the last star in the known universe, Exodus Prime. Max stood, contemplating the gravity of the spectacle before him as he had done on a near daily basis. The last remnants of known life were gathered here, crowded together around this last bastion of energy. Civilizations that had once spanned millions of light years were reduced to an existence entirely reliant on a single sun. “Irony,” he thought to himself. Max took yet another step back, his eyes squinting as he took in the burning glory of the fiery mosaic that filled the window and he laughed to himself. He laughed to himself for he came to a sudden realization that he had never reached before; the known universe was literally collapsing in on itself. “I would give a pretty penny to see the look on your face now, Dad,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising in a satisfying smirk. “Looks like those so called scientists were right.

I stood naked from the waist up on the beach. I have turned my back to the sea and her icy salt breath. She blasts me from behind in intermittent, angry gusts. My goosebumps rise and fall in sync, a flesh numbing dance. Behind me the old wooden stairs rise up into the darkness to a dock that stretches beyond, into the black sea. I don't know how long I've been standing here, listening to the spring tide rolling in behind me like a nighttime monster ambushing its prey. The snarling waters are crashing into the hard packed sand, spraying the backs of my legs and soaking my cotton shorts. My eyes are glazed like I haven't blinked in awhile. It makes the distant city lights look like finger-paint, loose strings of dim colors all blending together in the sky. Another wave approaches. Roar. Crash. Spray. The down hair on my arms and neck pricks up and it's only now I realize I'm shivering violently. I lift my numb feet in turns, marching in place in the murky sand, trying to prepare my limbs for movement. In the distance I think I hear the wail of an ambulance, or is it my imagination? A sudden wave of grief hits me in tandem with a breaking wave. Memories clip through me like a skipping DVD, too fast to take hold. A finger tickling the wisps of hair behind my ear, a bright apartment that smells of sandalwood, my mother's smiling face and red cheeks, warmth. I'm gasping, pulling in the ocean air through clenched teeth. My stomach feels oily. I break my gaze from the finger paint city and turn to face the dock. My solitary figure, glowing pale in the full moon light. I am all that exists at this time in this place, the empty coast stretches endlessly to my right and left. My eyes take some time to adjust to the darkness. I can just make out the glimmering tips of waves and the gray outline of the dock. Climbing up the stairs and making my way to the dock's edge, I focus on the moon hanging pregnant in the starless sky. It's orbiting silently out there all by itself in a vacuum of silence. Thinking about space always made me feel so weightless, sick, and happy. All these giant spheres, bigger than anything any human has ever built, just spinning for years and years and years. I feel so tiny as my feet probe the dock's splintered edge, as I lift myself above the waist-high safety beam. A moment of calm, and then I through myself, my naked flesh, into the churning waters.

(An assignment for my creative writing class) Most people fantasize about having super powers. They think it would be awesome to moonlight as a vigilante. They'd throw on a mask every night and fight crime wherever they found it. I don't see a problem with that at all, but what about the rest of the time? What about that person's daily life. Some powers could be hidden very easily, such as flight or super speed. Not super strength. I first discovered my strength in high school. I was a freshman trying out for football and I barely made it on as a kicker. One day I kicked the ball the entire length of the field, then over the school, then past the parking lot on the other side. Thankfully everyone chalked it up to wind, but I knew what really happened. I kept kicking for the team for the next two years, until a game my junior year. Half of our team was out because of injuries, it was our last chance to go to State, and my coach pointed to me. He put me in and just told me to tackle the guy carrying the ball. I did. The kid was one of the best running backs in our league and I ruined his life. Three snapped ribs, a shattered collar bone, torn shoulder, and a broken neck were what I did to him. I quit the team and never played another sport. After that day I realized how dangerous I was. Fortunately, my parents were very supportive and I started to learn how to control it. Eventually I started dating a girl in my class, Sarah, we graduated together, went through college, and now we are married with a beautiful daughter, Aubri. Everything was fine until we saw the complications of conceiving. In high school and college we had agreed to abstinence because I didn't want to hurt Sarah, but on our honeymoon night my fears were realized. I took her to the emergency room for a ruptured bladder, and from that point I knew things would be complicated. We turned to a doctor to get us pregnant and it worked. The pregnancy was a tense experience since we didn't know if the baby would have super strength, but she didn't. Her birth was both the happiest and saddest experience of my life. I didn't want to hurt my extremely frail baby girl, and to this day I haven't touched her. Now that she is older, I don't think she loves me and it shows. At dinner she looks at her plate and her mother, but never me. When I try and ask her about her day she fidgets and doesn't tell me anything. On this particular day nothing was different. We sat down for dinner, my daughter stared everywhere but me and my wife and I made conversation. “So how's the book coming?” I asked. “It's okay,” she said. It was obvious she didn't want to talk, but I tried anyway. “Well a funny thing happened at work today. Jeremy from accounting was making copies, when the copier--” My story was interrupted by the doorbell. “Just ignore it; we're eating,” I said, “Anyway, so Jeremy started making copies when --” The doorbell went off again. “Can I get it, mom?” Aubri's tiny voice made me jump. My wife looked at me and I nodded. “Of course, sweety,” she said, with a smile. The only people that came around at this time were salesman or church goers looking for more members, I thought as I watched my daughter disappear around the corner. My blood turned to ice when I heard her scream and the sound of the door crashing open. My wife and I jumped up from the table and rushed around the corner to see two men in ski masks, one with a baseball bat and the other with a gun to my daughter's head. “Stay right where you are,” the man with the gun said, “ I really don't want to hurt this pretty, young girl.” “Please just take anything you want!” My wife's voice trembled and tears formed in her eyes. The guy with the bat started going from room to room, rummaging through our belongings, filling a duffel bag with all of our valuables. I felt so helpless looking at my daughter's scared face. The gunman looked at me and laughed. He laughed. I tightened my fist and had to keep myself from punching through the wall nearest me. I didn't care if he shot me, but the gun was on my daughter, not me. I noticed my wife was looking at me. She was no longer trembling or crying, and I could see what she was thinking. I shook my head quickly. “Get on your knees you two.” The other man had gone through the living room and kitchen and was at our backs now. My wife jumped as if he had heard what she was thinking. We both did as we were told, and I could hear the metallic ratcheting of hand cuffs, then felt them clasp tightly on my left wrist. The man tried to pull my arm behind my back, but I wasn't going to budge. I could feel his knee press deeply into my back. Fortunately I didn't feel a thing. After a lot of effort he finally let go. A moment passed, then I felt a big thud on both of my shoulder blades followed by a crack. The man fell onto the floor clutching at his hands and cursing at the top of his lungs. “Goddamn that hurts! Oh my god!” He writhed on the floor next to the baseball bat, clutching his hands together. “What'd ya do? Hit the door jam?” The gunman started laughing. It was obvious he didn't think that the bat had hit me. “I feel like I hit a tree,” he finally stood up, “Alright, you hand cuff him, then put your arms behind your back.” He was talking to my wife, who slowly slid over to me. She didn't say anything, just handcuffed my hands behind my back and gave me a little squeeze on my arm. Seconds later I heard the ratcheting of cuffs next to me and my wife was pushed forward. Her face hit the hardwood of the floor. My heart sank. The gunman still had my daughter in his grip. “Ooooooh I'm sorry,” the man said in a snide, child-like tone. He started to straddle her and immediately I tensed against the hand cuffs. I could feel the iron weaken and start to creak. “Hey! Quit messing around. Hurry up and get the rest of the stuff!” The gunman yelled at his partner. Thankfully, he grunted and got off my wife, going back to searching our house for valuables. I could see the gunman had greatly relaxed his grip on the pistol and my daughter, since we were handcuffed. All I needed to do was catch him off guard and everything would be fine. At least I hoped it would be. After several more minutes of noisy rummaging, the other man came back with the duffel bag full and two pillow cases stuffed with candlesticks and silverware. All of our family's worldly possessions in three bags. “I'll take them out. You watch the girl.” The gunman pushed Aubri into the clutches of his partner. He then stuffed the gun into the back of his pants and grabbed both of the pillow cases and swung them over his shoulder. This could be my only chance, so I took it. Snapping the handcuffs with no effort, I pushed myself up off my knees and ran toward the two men. With my daughter in the midst, I went for the man that was holding her. He yelped in surprise as I grabbed both of his forearms. I squeezed his hands and they opened wide from my daughter's shoulders. “What the--?” The gunman started to spin around, but had to drop the pillowcases. Back-pedaling over a clatter of cutlery, he fell against the hall tree and tumbled, trying to comprehend what was happening and get the gun out from under himself. I shoved the other man away from my daughter. His head hit the oak front door with an audible crack. Scooping up my daughter in one arm, I ran to my bedroom, making sure to stop and grab my wife around the waist with my other arm on the way. “Just wait here. Lock the door after me and don't open it no matter what you hear. Okay?” I broke the handcuffs off my wife and looked at her and my daughter. “I'll call the police,” Sarah started to say. “No!” I snapped. More calmly, I said, “No. Just let me take care of this before we get the police involved.” My wife nodded and I kissed her and my daughter on the forehead, before I went out into the main house. I waited for the click of the bedroom door lock before I walked away. As quietly as I could, I went back to the hallway to the main entrance. I peeked around the corner and my heart dropped as I saw the door wide open. Fortunately, the guy I pushed against the door was still dazed and crawling around. I walked out and picked him up by his shoulders. Closing the door with a nudge of my foot, I held him against it. “Now you're going to tell me who your friend was, and where he is going.” “W-What are you?” he said. He was as dazed as he was scared. I looked at his wide eyes and caught something in the reflection, then felt a hard, metal protrusion in the back of my neck. “I don't know how you broke out of those handcuffs, but you aren't gonna get away now,” the gunman said. Suddenly I became aware of the light metallic noise, that I could only assume was the trigger being pulled. I had never been shot before, so I really had no way of knowing I could survive. I didn't wanna take that chance. For Aubri and Sarah's sake. As fast as I could, I brought my leg back like a mule and connected with the gunman's thigh. He was spun down the hall. The pistol exploded, making my ears begin to whine at a high pitch frequency. Spinning around, the gunman's partner still in my grasp, I hurled him down the hall at the gunman before he could get his balance. Narrowly missing my target, the human projectile careened through the kitchen door and the sound of breaking containers could be heard as he came to rest against the fridge. Bringing the gun up, the gunman took aim again at me. This time I didn't have anything to throw or protect me. I made a split second decision and jumped to my right with great force – right through the wall into the living room. A pile of drywall, large chunks of wood and my brand new leather couch stopped my momentum. Suddenly I was surrounded by a large cloud of dust as the ceiling collapsed into the hallway. Coughing the dust out of my lungs, I could see all of my grandparent's heavy oak furniture from the attic in a splintered pile. I could hear the gunman cursing to himself and trying to move around the furniture. After a moment he stopped and my mind went instantly to the back door. Scrambling over the remains of my couch, I ran through the connecting dining room, and into the kitchen. The gunman was frantically pulling at the knob of the back door. He had forgotten how to use a deadbolt in all the chaos. Making eye contact with me, he looked like a scared puppy. He tripped over himself trying to get out of the kitchen, and ended up crawling most of the way. I went to pursue and my foot met something. The man I had thrown lay motionless on the tiled floor. A large indention was visible where he had hit the metal door of the fridge. I suddenly felt dizzy and had to steady myself on the counter. I have to get out of here I thought, trying to not puke. I opened the door and saw the gunman beating on my bedroom door at the end of the adjoining hall. Nausea was suddenly replaced with adrenaline again. Without much thought, I sprinted toward the man. He looked at me with wide-eyed terror and started to fumble to bring the gun back up. “Please stop! Just let me go!” The gunman held his gun in a very shaky hand. “I swear I'll shoot!” The gun went off. I suddenly felt a great warmth by my face and could hear the bullet explode in the drywall next to me. Lowering my shoulder, I yelled something as a warning to my wife and daughter. Slamming into him with my full force, we crashed through the bedroom door as if it was made of paper mache. I clutched the gunman close to me as we went through the wall of our bedroom into the bathroom. We came to rest in the shattered remains of the porcelain tub. I got up and brought the man up by his throat. He started to gurgle something. “P-p-please. D-don't kill me. You don't h-ha--” He could barely talk with my hand around his neck. I looked into his eyes. He was terrified. After all he had done, I felt genuine sympathy for him. Maybe he was just doing this to feed his kids. My heart sank and my grip started to loosen. But what if I let him go? He would have to go to the hospital. They would start asking questions. Questions that will probably end up leading to me. What would that mean for me and my family? I suddenly had the image of government agents coming into my house and taking me from Sarah and Aubri. I would try and fight them off but they would probably use my wife and daughter against me. Then my life would just consist of being observed and pushed to use my powers for research for the government. They'd extract some sort of serum to make their soldiers super strong or just throw me at their enemies like I was some tactical weapon. I snapped back from my thoughts and looked at the man. I had never seen so much terror in a man's eyes. All at once I released my grip of the man's throat, he began to cough and had to grab the sink to steady himself. I slumped to my knees on the bathroom floor. I couldn't kill him. I wasn't strong enough. Staring at the floor riddled in splinters of wood and bits of porcelain, I suddenly felt an all too familiar metal protrusion on my head. “I don't know what you are. You – You shouldn't be allowed to live,” the gunman said, his voice had a raspy quality now. Bringing my gaze up, I could see my wife and daughter through the hole in the wall. My wife's eyes looked wide and desperate as she shielded my daughter's face. I suddenly felt at peace. I would no longer have to worry about hurting anyone if I was gone. I closed my eyes and listened as the faint metallic click of the trigger drug on. Instead of the explosion of the gun, a large thud and the shattering of tiles came. Opening my eyes, I saw my little girl standing next to me where the gunman used to be. Both of her arms were extended as to push something. That something had been the gunman. I turned around and saw the man crumpled in the corner of the bathroom. Standing up, I picked up my daughter for the first time in her life. Walking through the debris, I gently grabbed my wife's hand and lead her through the remains of our house. We went outside, the sun was just starting to set and we all stared up at the bright orange and red sky. I looked at my wife and daughter and we all seemed to connect for a second. Then we walked. I don't know where we will go. Or if we will ever be able to find somewhere safe again. But I know as long as we have each other, we will have the strength to get through anything.

An infants scream awoke me from a restless slumber and as if I already knew its source I made for the window, so rotten was it that only a nudge and it flew from its hinges. On the heath I beheld the basalt cathedral of Mol-Ufra set as bright as a faded sun in the darkness, the light of a hundred torch bearing colonists illuminating it while casting dancing eldritch shadows against the ancient walls which had stood these 5 million years. No one but old Ullola had expected the White Buds here and the wretch had been set with madness and horrific dreams of terrifying landscapes beset with sulferous clouds and vistas of bone and sadness. He had been cast into the pit out of kindness. It was too late to summon the Progenitor to our aid and ion torches and pulse axes would be useless against the White Buds. In vain I called out to the colonists, "the ships" I cried, but to no avail. An so I alone made it to the escape ship and to the darkness of the inner ocean, and there I sat. The flicker of the oxygen light was the herald of my oblivion and I prepared to sleep knowing that I would never wake.....and no more would the White Buds torment my dreams. EDIT: Hey I just wanted to state that this is original content and if anyone is interested in reading the finished article White Buds, which i am releasing as a free ebook, please let me know. Plus any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Elise was a girl with a smile that could sink a ship. She was only young, but in her short 18 years she had seen a lot and lived a lot. Her wavy golden hair came down to her navel and her skirt came down to her knees. when she smiled, her eyes expressed sympathy and fear, but her soft lips called me over, like a Sirens' song. When I first saw her across the classroom I noticed a flicker in her eyes, but just as quickly as I saw it it had gone. As the months went past we had gotten to know each other pretty well; when she wasn't staring at her computer she was smiling her innocent smile, and daring me to come over. One day, after class we were hanging back, cleaning out the music room and looking for hidden treasures, when Elise jokingly pushed the door shut and the room plunged into darkness. We laughed at first, as we scrambled for the light switch, but once the light was on we noticed that there was no handle on the door... For a minute or two I tried to force the door open but it was too heavy to even budge. Elise squeezed in next to me to help push, her hip brushed against mine as we both grunted and shoved, but to no avail. We collapsed to the ground, side by side and breathing heavily, starting to break a slight shine of sweat across each of our brows. I looked at her defeated, she looked back at me with her muddy-blue eyes and smiled a conflicted, heart breaking smile, in the way only she could. We sat there for hours telling stories and playing games. I even tuned up a guitar and we wrote a song together; "Two stars, shining in the night sky spinning high above the clouds, dancing, across the universe they never make a sound. with flames that burn so brightly for a billion years or so, even after they extinguish they'll still feel each others glow" I will always remember her, until the day I die.

The body in the trunk should be alright, because it’s minus twenty-five. It’s morbid, but you can always rely on a Canadian winter for these kinds of things. The client’s only an hour away. I get to thinking that this should probably be my last job. I’m tired of hiding and tired of working, maybe even tired of killing, and the gritty details that come with it. I’ve never had a ‘home’, nor an office. Where the hell do you put a bureau of contract killers? It’s time to move on. I can’t pretend it has nothing to do with Eve – but believe me, I’ve tried. She’s being trying to get hold of me for as long as she could talk, and I’ve ignored her until now. But now – she’s in Canada, I’m in Canada – hell, I like Canada. Even now, when it’s snowing so hard that the light freezes as it comes out of my headlights. It suits me. I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable having left her without a father all this time, so I guess the least I could do is help her out with some of the money I’ve made. I not thinking about that. There’s a diner ahead. I’ll stop and eat. I park in the bay by the door, where they’ve cleared the path. I take off my boots, and select a pair at random from the five I have in a bag in the back seat. It’s the little forensic details, like the soles of your sneakers, that kill you, but I like to keep the lab coat cops guessing. I’ve been in this job for thirty years, and I’ve sussed it down to three rules: plan ahead; no collateral damage; keep it clean. That means one dead guy, one bullet, zero witnesses, and a thousand alibis. Anyone in this business will tell you the same. I’ve heard a few mentions of a fourth rule – the ‘Dead Man’s Rule’ - but it’s a myth. There’s nothing confusing about contract killing – it’s the most meticulous, clear headed, straight forward job in the world. It’s like being an accountant; pushing bullets instead of pushing pennies. I carry on driving. My Range Rover slices through the blizzard like hollow points through a brain. I hit a bump, and I hear a clanging coming from the trunk. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll check it out anyway. I open the trunk, and am suddenly reminded of why I want to retire. My tire iron got itself stuck inside Darth Vader’s helmet. These jobs are the worst. I was given an address, but how was I supposed to know that the job was at a goddamn Star Wars convention. I didn’t have a costume, which meant that, in a reversal of roles, I stood out like a sore thumb in a room full of Jedi’s and Stormtroopers. I had enough information to distinguish my target from the rest of the Dark Lords, and followed him until I could get a moment alone. It was impossible: there were people everywhere. I finally got him alone when he went to the restroom. I locked the door of the men’s room when everyone else was gone except him: I had him alone. My vantage point wasn’t exactly a sniper’s nest, but perched on the john in the neighbouring cubicle, I could shoot the Dark Lord as he was having a leak. It’s not the noblest way to die, but I don’t deal in honourable deaths. As I pulled the trigger, he looked up, and the bullet hit him in the neck. He grasped at his throat, in some vain attempt to dislodge it from his windpipe. The blood painted the wall of the cubicle. It didn’t splatter, it was a crimson fountain. I was mesmerised by it: for the first time in thirty years, I hadn’t got a clean shot. I eradicated those thoughts by leaving my second shot in the right place this time. He slumped over, unravelled the toilet paper on his way down with an outstretched hand which he had pointed at me. His bloody hand left a print on the paper, a graffitied insignia of a dying man. I tore it off and flushed it. The fire exit in the toilet led to the secluded bay I parked my Rover in, so no one saw me dump the body in the trunk. Keep it clean. By the time I was alone on the highway, the two bullets had been removed with a pair of tweezers and thrown down a drain in Toronto, my gun was buried in Lake Superior, and Darth Vader had been disrobed and his bloody clothes were now ashes on the highway. I kept the helmet next to him in the trunk, and set off on the twenty hour journey to Winnipeg. I don’t deal in contaminated corpses. I deal in 9mm holes and untraceable kills. That’s how I get by on three rules. The road unwinds in front of me, and Winnipeg glows around the bend. Somewhere among those bare, snowy trees and tower blocks is Eve, and she’s been waiting for me for thirty years. I’ve already planned my route. I’ll meet my client in Tuxedo, we’ll conclude our business, and I’ll turn left from his home so I can carry straight on to Woodhaven. That’s where she told me she’s been living for the past five years. One left turn. The client’s home looks expensive. Tuxedo is fittingly the ‘black tie’ district of Winnipeg, where all the suits live. It’s where Eve tells me she’s going to live once she makes enough money. I could help her here. I’ve got enough cash. I can settle down with her in Tuxedo, learn all about what I’ve missed over thirty years. I don’t know what the guy wants with the nerd, and I don’t care. His Rolex glistens in my headlights, and he gives me a signal to back into his garage. I do, but only so the trunk goes under. I’m not trapping myself in a client’s house. I step out, and embrace the cold again. We crowd round the trunk like children crowd round a fire. When I open it, his look is not one that says ‘ten thousand dollars’. It says something which my ears block out, but that my eyes read for me. It can’t be. I’ve never broken a rule. The wrong body. The wrong goddamn Darth Vader. His eyes look to me for an explanation, while his hand looks to his jacket for a gun. My brain can’t get one to him in time, and his fingers react with a flash of gunpowder. My jaw is the victim. I punch the gun from his hand, and scrape it from the ground. It has my splattered blood on it. Now it has his blood on it too. He falls to the ground with a clack as his watch cracks against the concrete. I hit him where he road map. I hit him where he meant to hit me. Blood carries the broken glass with it along the edges of the tiles in a sanguine road map. I hit him where he meant to hit me. There is a scream from behind, one that slices through me. The Client’s wife stares straight through me at her dead husband. I raise my gun, but don’t have the energy to fire. The girl runs off, and cries for help. One left turn, and it’ll all be over. I think about my options. I can’t carry on working, because I have no energy, no passion for the job anymore. I can’t settle down because I’m a wanted man, that woman saw me. I think about Eve. How can I go to her and say I haven’t been her father for thirty years because I’ve been killing people. I can’t give my blood stained earnings and tell her to buy a house. I pray to God she’ll forgive me, but I don’t have a God to pray to. I don’t know what the right thing to do is, because my moral compass is broke. Just one left turn. I realise the flaw with my rules. There is a fourth rule. There is a Dead Man’s Rule. It’s not a rule that can be broken, it’s a law of physics, an unbreakable rule: in this job, no matter how many rules you have, and no matter how long you last, you’re going to end up dead. If not dead in the most literal sense, then dead inside. That’s when you learn the Dead Man’s Rule. I’m stuck in a loop, dead on the inside. I’ve nowhere to go, and if I were to die now, it wouldn’t make any difference to how I live my life. I’ve reached my expiry date. The car starts up first time. I turn right.

A recent post pointed out that flair for the stories posted might be a good idea. I have implemented a system of tags to determine the post flair. Please see the sidebar for details. Tags and flair will help subscribers know what genre of story has been posted. This will help guide them in their reading. Currently, posts without a tag will receive a warning that their post may be removed. If I did everything correctly, you should see the flair for this post on the right side of the screen from the main page. Special thanks to /u/Haerdune for defining the flair types, which I tweaked a bit. Any errors of omission are my own since I made the final edits. Let me know if you like or dislike the idea and if I missed any genre or post types we should include. Bear in mind that the entire flair process is automated. The tags are necessary for it to function properly. Thanks for your time and subscribing to the subreddit! Now, let's hear your thoughts.

It hurts the same every time. -+- There was a time when we discovered how to travel across interstellar spaces. I remember that. I KNOW that. We entrusted the predictions of these immense voyages to infallible supercomputers who could correlate all the data that the human mind could not. They predicted all the dangers and plotted safe passage. -+- As a race we had grown intelligent and powerful. We had mastered the capture of the atom and the cell. This I KNOW. We could harvest energy and bend it to our will, and take the hair of a soldier and construct from that his twin in a single year. I remember the pride, as an echo of an echo. -+- I do not remember where I was going or where I was from. I, like everyone else, would sleep in stasis on the journey between the stars. The computer would cradle us, and we would bask in its accumulated wisdom, under the watch of its ever-awake eye. But something must have happened. This I KNOW. It hurts the same every time. -+- I was so sure I was having a nightmare. I was so confident in our vigil. But nightmares end. It is a truth universal that even nightmares share a mercy. We were so powerful that we were certain we had cheated death. Every one of us born perfect. Our understanding of our anatomy, the strength of our technology, the peak of our medicine. The computer implant grown within us, and our pinnacle of regeneration, made us consciously endless, never fearing death. This, I KNOW. -+- I do not remember what caused the collision. Whether it was malicious or unpredictable, the damage endures. The vigil failed us, failed me. Something has altered the equation. The crew is gone, the ship is rudderless, the captain is missing, and around is a veil of alien stars. I am lost. But still, I drift. The corruption of the vigil endures and so must I. This I KNOW. -+- This I KNOW: It is impossible to determine how many years it has been, even if I could remember. Each instance is connected to the last only by sensation, the tether of a cord unseverable. I do not remember my identity, my home, my nation, my face. Each gestation is a year, but nothing dates here, just the occasional wax and wane of ice and heat, ice and fire, that buckles and burns but leaves no calendar, no demarcation of date or hour, second or century-+- Something has corrupted the computer's laws. Whether it was from the impact that tore this section of the ship away or the interposition of a deity I will never KNOW. The air is gone, and only this small room remains, holding my endless birthing vessel fixed to the floor. We spin constantly, spiralling through the dark. Every time the machine births me, and I do not know why it chose me or who I am to it, the result is the same; I suffocate and freeze, my naked body convulsing in spasms of burning pain as the nerves in my arms and legs are raked with blossoming frigidity. I have tried to scream, but there is no air in my lungs. I have clawed out my eyes and ripped out my own throat but I still return. I have tried to float away from the wreckage and into the endless night. I have beat on the vessel with my bloody fists but there is no time and it will not break, no time until I begin to fade away into death, no time to destroy and finally end this hell before another year passes and I am reborn-+- It hurts the same every time.

Steven had spent most of the past three days in the car with his young family. It was his wife’s idea; she thought a road trip would be fun. They packed up the old Chevy on a clear Sunday morning in July and headed out for the Canadian border. Thanks to limited bathroom breaks, they would make it to Niagara Falls before dark tomorrow. This grueling pace, however, was not popular with the wife and kids. As they sputtered down the abandoned interstate, Steven caught a glimpse of his son in the backseat. At four years old, he had already mastered the use of his mom’s iPad, and was happily tapping away at the luminous screen. His one year old sister sat next to him, strapped into her carseat and sleeping peacefully. In the front seat, Steven’s wife was still ignoring his glances. In retrospect, he probably should have allowed the family to stop at the stupid “largest ball of yarn” she wanted to see so bad. The cold shoulder was really starting to get to him. “That’s the fifth cross we've passed this hour” she said, finally breaking her silence. Steven had noticed this too. It was actually the seventh white cross they had passed, each one attached to a tree on the side of the road. Some of them had a person’s name painted on, and some were adorned with flowers. “Strange coincidence, I guess,” he replied. It seemed quite odd to him though. The rural road wasn't well lit, but it was straight as an arrow. How could so many people have crashed into the woods? His unfocused gaze remained steady on the forest surrounding the interstate as he pondered this question. The air was fresh here, full of life, he thought inattentively. The trees flew past his car with a hypnotic irregularity. In the dark of night, the woods were covered in a milky blackness that his headlights couldn't pierce. The darkness was actually quite beautiful , he thought. The trees reached out to the road as if they were embracing the car as it drove by. A large oak tree stood some 100 yards in front of them. The tree was calling to Steven as if they were old friends. He had never been here before, but this tree felt like home. With a sudden burst of clarity, he swerved the car off the road, directly towards the old oak tree. His wife’s screams did little to curb his determination as he pushed the accelerator to the limit. A strange smile crossed his face just as the front bumper collided with the tree. “This is a good place to rest,” he said to himself. With a loud crash, the car was nothing more than a pile of rubble, soon to be another white cross lining the lonely road.

Where am I? I don’t think I’m home; all I see is black with little outline of furniture. Ok, lets think about last night, where was I? Fuck, I don’t remember! Ok, What’s the last thing I remember? Driving to the bar I think. Fuck. I don’t even know that or what time it is, better check my phone. Shit! It’s not here. (RING,RING,RING) My phone! It’s on the table over there. “Hello?” No response “Hello?” “Turn Around” “What?” With shakiness in his voice. “Turn Around” said with a harsh tone, almost a yell. The man slowly moved his head to see behind him. There was rope hanging from a wooden banister, which was now visible in the phone light. The end of the rope was tied in a noose. Under the rope was a rustic small chair with a piece of paper nailed on the seat. “What the fuck is going on?” No response “ANSWER ME!” No response. He slowly inched his way to the chair to grab the piece of paper. With a swift tear, he took the paper from the chair and began to read. Dear Mr. Roberts, The punishment for your sins has come. You will no longer be able to go on living a fake life. You must pay for what you did. I will never forget what you did. Sincerely, Caretaker Who is this Caretaker, and what did I do to piss him off? He doesn’t really think I’m going to kill myself. Does he? I don’t even know what he’s talking about. I’m a good person! He’s got the wrong guy, I wouldn’t hurt a fly! With the light of the phone, Mr. Roberts found the door in the dark room. He turned the door nob, and gave a steady push. The door flew open, but all he could see was the light of his phone. Everything was still black and dark. He started to inch his way through the door. His foot didn’t touch anything on the first step. He reached a little farther. Again, his foot only touched air. This is strange, what’s going on? He went back into the room, and shined the light of phone. This time there was a .44 magnum sitting on the bed fully loaded. This time the note was tied to the barrel of the gun. He picked up the gun and carefully took the note and began to read. Dear Mr. Roberts, I am doing you a favor. Take the out I have provided for you. It’s time to pay for your sins. I will never forget what you did. Sincerely, Caretaker How the fuck does this guy think he’s doing me a favor? There’s no chance in hell I would ever go through with suicide. He planted a noose, and a gun because of some so called sins. This guy is fucking crazy! He took the gun, and walked back to the open door and took aim into the darkness. (Bang!) He heard nothing but the sound of the gun firing. He took aim again. (Bang! Bang!) He heard nothing but the sound of the gun firing. The next thing he did was open the gun and took out a bullet. With the bullet laying in his palm, he dropped it over the sea of darkness. This time he heard nothing. Mr. Roberts turned around and walked back to the bed inch by inch. He laid back down, and notice a sharp pain coming from his left arm. He lifted the covers of the bed and shined his light and saw a knife dipped in his own blood. Under the knife was an another letter, and quickly opened the note and began to read. Dear Mr. Roberts, This is the last time I will offer this. Either take the out I have given you, or accept the punishment of being here for eternity. I will never forget what you did. Sincerely Caretaker Fuck you! I don’t need this. It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t see her in the street, she didn’t move. Why, didn’t she move? It was an accident. It wasn’t going to help if I stayed around and went to jail. I called 911, I did the right thing or at least I think. What am i kidding, I did a terrible thing. Tears in his eyes he threw the knife into the darkness, and fell to his knees clutching the gun in his hands. He checked it to see how many bullets were left. He counted one. That’s all I need. One shot through my temples and I’m gone. I know I should have stayed and took my punishment like a man. I was scared though, doesn’t that mean anything? I truly am sorry. He brought the gun up to his head. With his finger trembling on the trigger, he slowly pressed the barrel to his temple. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” (Bang!) The gun shot a bullet through his brain and killed him instantly. His body fell to his stomach while the blood from his wound began to fill every crease of the floor. With the gun still in hand, He laid there sin free.

In the rift there was a lake. A lake like no other on Mons and if a traveller was to stop by for a time he would be shocked to hear a familiar and yet, in this setting, alien sound. For during the 18 month cycle when Timian and Rala the twin suns sat at their zenith the lake errupted with laughter and song, a cacaphony errupting from the soda brine. Beneath the surface swam small tunicate like creatures of cartilage and bone, their lives spent darting amoungst the water column. At first glance you would be forgiven to think that the strange denizens were of alien origin, and in a way you would be right; however these seemingly mindless forms were once human, plain dwellers, tool makers. And so the creatures frolicked and danced and swam and ate and sang but Ullola felt only pain. The one they called Ullola was 800 feet long by the same wide and he, if indeed he was of a gender, lay at the bottom if the lake in what seemed to be eternal slumber. Ullola was jealous of the post humans and their pointless songs and endless chatter. Whilst Ullola was not an angry creature by nature he would often, in a fit of rage, attempt to lash out and harm the post humans but rarely was he successful in his endeavours. And life went on, and year on year more and more people came to the lake to hear the songs, and the visitors would drop horns and great tubes into the water so as to amplify the sound, and great campfires burned and those who gathered, inspired maybe by the ethereal song, would dance and give thanks to their petty gods and ancestors. But in all this Ullola remained sad. He no longer feasted on the bacterial mats that did him good and whoch his fore fathers taught him would keep the bad dreams at bay in the long night that gripped Choaban. Instead he slowly decended to the deepest part of the lake, near a town called Dearo to feed on the shrimps and bacteria that clung to the black rocks that were found there. Ullola grew fat. He feasted and feasted and thought nothing of greedily consuming everything which he could fit in his giant maw. But he was still sad. The chip imbeded in his enormous brain told him to return to the east and sleep, and eat no more of the sweet viands that tasted so good but which made the great god ill. And so Ullola hauled himself back to his old haunt and sat on what had been his great throne, that great stone bottom worn smooth by his great bulk. But just when everything appeared to be returning to normal a great tragedy struck, for Ullola had eaten too much, far too much and he was in pain. An almighty bellow came forth from the lake taking the revellers by suprise, and even the post humans ceased their seemingly unending seranade fir a moment, so taken back were they by the great din. Beneath the surface Ullola was ill. The vast quantaties of matter had fermented in his enormous gut and he brought forth a poisonous belch so large and potent that the myriads of post humans that had gathered to tend to Ullola perished in an instant. And the lake fell silent. A great outpouring of grief struck those of us who remained by the lake, for we knew that the post humans would sing no more. And for the next million years Ullola would weep for his tiny friends - for deep down he remembered , he remembered why they had sang, they had sang for Ullola, their great god, the one who had brought them to this world, and who had made them so happy.

You looked so nervous when you told them. I knew you would need the support, which is why I stood next to you as you did. After all, you've been my little brother for almost 30 years now. This was probably the most important thing you've ever had to tell our parents, and there was no way I was going to let you chicken out this time. Remember how you felt when I parked my car out front? You didn't say anything, but I saw it by how your legs were shaking in the passenger seat. I was surprised you were able to stand up when you got out of the car. I remember putting my hand on your back as we approached. You stopped and said you couldn't do it. Maybe I was a little too forceful at the time, but we both know you needed to. "Don't tell me we bought these flowers for nothing," I prodded, "It's better late than never." You agreed and continued to mom and dad. Some time went by. The moment came to tell them. You cleared your throat several times, as if the words were stuck behind a dam. You could barely look at mom and dad, but I knew you would somehow get the strength. Your mouth opened, but the only words that came out were a breathless "I can't do it." "Just take your time," I comforted. You took your time. Airless vocal croaks came from your throat before one last time of clearing it. You put your shoulders back, your chest out, your chin high. I would have been fooled by your faux confidence if it wasn't for the tears welling up in your eyes. "Just like we practiced," I comforted. And you began. "Mom, Dad," you started, "I know you wanted a daughter-in-law--" you paused to gulp, "But I've tried and I just can't do it." Mom and Dad were silent. Your confidence started to sag, but you put forth an effort. "Mom, Dad... I'm gay." Mom and Dad remained silent. "I've been with a man for a few years now, but I wish I could have told you sooner." Mom and Dad remained silent. "And I want you to know that you have been great parents and I love you." Mom and Dad remained silent. You fell to your knees, bawling more than you ever have before. I knelt down to your level and put my hand on your back to gently rub it. "See, it wasn't that hard, was it?" I comforted. We said our goodbyes, put the flowers down at the base of their headstones, and drove off.

I'm stuck. Not in glue, not between two cushions, and definitely not between relationships. I am stuck in mediocrity. A life based on being nothing more, and no less than average. I could have trials, and I most certainly could have tribulations, but I don't. I want adventure, i want to be taken away to a life of grandeur, or even a life of doubt, filled with challenges of the unfamiliar. Packed with steps for me to stride up or fall down. Anything changing, slowly, quickly, Honestly i don't care, just different than mediocre. And I wonder....Is this life I have been given truly a gift. My worries are not true worries, and things I have taken for granted are treasures around the world. Things I know in my everyday life of mediocrity could be life changing to the right person. A generation of poverty stricken people walk miles for the same life fluid I put into a toilet. Is this wrong? I really have no clue. I am too busy waking up day in and day out doing the same exact thing as every other person stuck in the state of mediocrity....Being content with my life. It stops now.... I need a change. I need explosive days, and powerful feelings that strike a nerve, and make me unhinge my normality. Life that flows through the soul and out my body, radiating into everyone around me. Changes that I start, and commit to finishing. Steps to move myself forward or even leaps that can alter this mediocre lifestyle. ... ... But.... .... I am already in bed, so I'll start tomorrow.

Mrs. Lyons bent down as much as she could and pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. She stuck a shaking hand into Rosemary's hair and ran it through her knobbly fingers. “Aww. She's a pretty wee lassie you've got there,” said Mrs. Lyons. “Aye, aye, she's alright,” I answered, laughing a bit. I patted Rosemary's head. “Beep blop boop,” said Rosie. Rosemary had been behaving strangely since she watched one of those crazy old kid's programmes on the BBC that they only show when it's so early it's still dark outside. It was one of those ones from the 80s or 90s that bring on an immediate headache as soon as the horrible title music starts, along with that sick feeling that lets you know that you're up too early. There was this robot puppet guy in it. I think he was a friend of the main character or something, but it seemed like this episode was about him. I only really began to watch it halfway through, my attention (and alarm) summoned by the clear five minutes of silence that had passed in the living room. I stuck my head round the door to make sure that my daughter was indeed still on the rug where I had left her. She was, and transfixed at that – mouth open a little, eyes focused still. I hadn't seen her move so little in perhaps her entire life; even in her sleeping hours Rosie raged against inertia. I came in and stood behind her and joined in watching, amazed, hoping that I might be able to absorb and harness for myself any of the apparently hypnotic powers that the television show was exhibiting. To me it seemed the basic plot pattern was that this ragdoll girl – who seemed to be the focus of the programme – would walk around the 'village' with the robot and show him some particular human being activity. The two I saw were drinking tea and painting. The problem was that since he was a robot, he didn't have a mouth (or digestive tract) and therefore couldn't consume tea, and he couldn't seem to paint anything except squares and rectangles on his canvas. Ragdoll was getting melancholy because they had nothing they could do together. She opted to try one last activity, dancing, but admitted that she couldn't really show him how to do it because she was a terrible dancer. To Ragdoll's, mines and Rosemary's surprise, as soon as that music kicked in, Robot needed no instruction anyway, and was busting moves like nobody's business (well, really, busting 'move'. Specifically, the Robot). He was a natural. “Beep blop boop, beep boop boop,” he said as he cruised around on his wheels. Ragdoll started joining in with the dance. They had found something to do together. “Did you like that, Rosie?” I asked when the credits were on the screen. “Beep boop boop,” answered my daughter. We met Mrs. Lyons in Tesco three days later. In the interim I had not heard my three-year-old produce a single utterance that wasn't compiled of some combination of 'beep', 'boop' and 'bop'. Oh, and how could I forget – 'blop'. It was actually kind of funny at first, like our own little private joke about how daft it all was. I enjoyed it especially when I took her out in public and she showed off her new vocabulary to unsuspecting old ladies. However, Mrs. Lyons was now maybe the fourth person to fit that description and the whole Robot Girl thing was beginning to seem less humorous and more like my daughter really was a robot that needed a few bolts tightened. Mrs. Lyons' eyes widened, then she laughed. “Oh, that's funny,” she said, while booping Rosie on the nose. “Well, it was lovely to see the both of you. I really do hope you're keeping alright, Stephen.” I smiled and said we were. I waved and mouthed goodbye as Mrs. Lyons made her slow retreat into the aisles, and kept looking over at Rosie to try and make her imitate me. She could not have possibly seemed to hold any less of an interest in the situation, though, and stared open-mouthed down from her seat at the handle of the trolley, then started bashing it with her palms. I looked at Mrs. Lyons and we laughed, but when the old lady was gone I lifted Rosie out of her seat and held her in front of me so that we were face to face. “What's going on with you, little one?” I asked. “Why won't you talk to anyone? You know loads of words. You're always so chatty.” She looked me in the eyes silently for a second, as if she understood. “Beep,” she said. I sighed and put her back in the trolley. Next on the day's agenda was a visit to my sister's. We took a route by the country roads. At three, kids have a really, really short attention span and I realised she hadn't been out the house very much in the last few days – nursery was on holiday for a few weeks – and maybe if I exposed her to some fresh stimuli (cows, sheep and hills were all previous show stealers) she might switch her attention to one of those and forget about the whole robot noises thing. I craned my neck round to see her in the car seat, and check what she was looking at. “Do you see those wee white things on the grass away over there? What are they called again Rosie?” For one lovely short moment I thought she said 'sheep', but no. Just a 'beep'. I look onwards towards my sister's. We arrived quite quickly. After a few minutes of Rosemary's making Abigail laugh I pointed to the toys in the corner of the lounge and talked in excited tones until she plodded off to amuse herself amongst them for a bit. At least she still got a kick out of all the usual colours and sounds. I had been half worried that she'd start taking an interest in the washing machine or gas meter. I sat down at the other side of the room with Abigail and explained, between sips of coffee, what had been happening. “I'm just worried about her.” I said. “Oh Stephen,” said my sister. “It's not worth getting worked up about. It'll just be a wee phase. I remember when Connor was little he wouldn't get into bed without us first telling him that Emma, each of his teddies and the dog were all already sleeping. We – or, well, I – had all these visions of him as a grown man stoating about at night checking everyone's rooms. But he grew out of it. They always do.” “Hmm,” I said. I wanted to say 'this is different', but to a competing parent that garners nothing but the all-knowing smile. “I don't know. It's just getting a little bit beyond a joke at this point; it's starting to concern me.” “Rosie will be fine, Steve. It's you I'm more worried about. How are you getting on, really?” “What?” I asked. “Oh. Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. Good and bad days, you know.” There was a lull. “I'm going to speak to Dr. Ford after this, actually.” “Oh, good, that's great. I love Dr. Ford. He's a fantastic therapist. Speaking of Connor, actually, Ford really helped me with him. He helped me push through that first year. He was a brilliant help.” “Aye, I remember,” I said. We both took gulps from our mugs. “It's not always so easy, having kids.” Abigail nodded slowly. I was focused on my cup but I could feel that her eyes were still on me. Rosie came ambling over. She looked tired. “We better get going,” I said, checking my watch. “That appointment is gaining on us, can't keep the doc waiting.” We all hugged at the door and Rosie didn't say anything – not even a beep.

"Barbara woke up months ago sobbing and hysterical, and wouldn't stop thrashing around or hitting me. So I layed on top of her, propped up on my arms over her arms. I was asking what? what? what's the matter? Telling her to calm down, and shush and not to worry. She said she had a premonition that something terrible was about to happen. I told her it was just a dream, she told me it was a premonition. I asked her if she knew what it was. She looked at me with the most empty eyes and whispered, "You will find out". As the days went by I began to believe her. I love my wife more than I love reason. That's the only way I know how to explain my denigration into her delusions. I began to feel the vague dread she alluded to, I felt it like you feel shades on sight, like a heavy sweater on your person, wet socks on feet, itchy head, restless tongue, running mind. I believed her premonitions, wholeheartedly. And as she felt me coming around, her delusions became more and more specific, and terrifying. And then they began to come to fruition. 'There will be a lack of water' she'd say. All of a sudden there'd be a drought on TV. 'You're going to lose friends' she'd say. All of a sudden my pal John at work frowned in my presence and seemed distant. 'None of this will matter', she'd say. All of a sudden it didn't. Now I'm a pretty level headed guy, but being a witness to prophetic activity and behavior can really change your whole approach to interacting with and perceiving reality. She really had a gift for understanding the future. I loved her, I really did. But I was really sick of knowing what was coming next, you know? Even if she prophesied about good things, I got sick of it. I like surprises. I'm that kind of guy. You can't tell me I'm not!" The courtroom all stared at Bob. He looked around, straightened up, and attempted escaping, but he tripped and knocked himself unconscious on his way over the stand.

Well this is a story I wrote a few weeks ago, I was feeling sad so I tried to write something sad, tell me how I did :) Everyone needs a safe place. A quiet place to sit and ponder the many unanswered questions of life, a place to cry when you want to be alone, a place to practice talents you are too embarrassed to show to the world. You are feeling sad one day, you want to cry, but you are too self-conscious to cry in public, think of all the stares you would get! Yours is different, unlike any other, or so you tell yourself so you can feel special even though you’re normal, just like everyone else. It’s a small platform jutting off the side of the Golden Gate Bridge. You’ve never seen anyone else go there so you have officially claimed it as your own. Stop thinking about the journey just remember the destination, you tell yourself, because the big day has finally come! Your chest is hurting, but no matter just the thought of her makes the pain subside. The walk to the bridge is longer than you remember and your legs are getting tired, but you must preserver. You look across the street at a building, a building with a story to tell. Rusty, cracked, forgotten, this building slouches, knowing that the old couple that once kept it new and running are long gone now, never to return, because though it had been a dream of that poor old couple to eventually start up and run a business together, it never worked out. The wife Mariam was always trying to raise her husband's spirits by making jokes and showing him that they could still have fun together even if they weren't rich. And this always managed to get a little smile out of Earl, but these smiles were short lived. Because soon after starting the shop, Mariam contracted a bad cold that kept her at home, leaving Earl to work the shop alone. Every day Earl would open up, wait all day long without seeing any customers, and then go home to his sick wife with the cold that never seemed to leave, until one day something changed. During a warm summer evening at the shop, Earl was reading the paper when he heard the bell ring, signaling that someone had entered. Earl sat up in his chair, adjusted his posture, and waited to ask if he could be of any assistance, just as he had imagined he would for so many years, he just wished Mariam could be here to see him do it. 5 Minutes later, a little girl looking to be around 5 or 6 walked up to the counter with a chocolate bar and a crisp one dollar bill that she looked proud to be carrying. After giving her change back, Earl was so happy that he could have cried, and he immediately closed up shop to go tell his wife about the events that had occurred. He shuffled up the stairs to her room to find Mariam frozen as if in a trance like state. Her eyes wide, mouth gaping, as if screaming at an invisible assailant. Earl collapsed, clutching his chest, desperately trying to squeeze the shock and pain out of his frail heart. He called 9-1-1 and they told him the news he had been trying so hard to deny as they took his wife away. Earl lay in bed that night, tossing and turning, slowly making himself crazy with the thought that she was still alive, that it had all been a hoax and his dear Mariam was still out there, until he couldn't take it anymore. He jumped out of bed and ran as fast as his wrinkled old legs could carry him to his car, and he drove to the Hospital. He waited until the front desk lady has left for a moment to check her computer for information on his wife's location, and he was on his way. He snuck the body out of a window in the room, and drove off with it. He parked in a secluded grassy patch close to a river, and continued to yell at his wife, begging her to please wake up, wake up wake up WAKE UP!!!! But it was no use he had to face the facts. He took his wife to the river and rolled her into the water, her favorite place in the world. The next day Earl got a call from the hospital, his wife had been in a temporary coma, and she was going to be okay, but they believed she had been moved to a different hospital and they would notify him when hey figured out where she was. Earl hung up the phone. He calmly got dressed and went outside to go on a walk. Images start rapidly firing in front of your eyes; children, unfinished paintings, an unexplored forest. It's already too late, your realization has caused you nothing but more pain during the brief time you spend reminiscing on things unfinished, on your way down to the water, to your wife, and countless others that have taken the same walk. “LORD FORGIVE ME! SAVE ME!” But the words are silently whipped out of your mouth by the constant barrage of wind in your face. This is not how it’s supposed to end, this is all wrong. You’re normal, just like everyone else, and everyone always regrets the walk to the bridge.

The Pit of The Earth fell silent, those magnificent trees which remained, those whose boreal ancestors once sat and kept watch over the earth and its children, quivered in a strange wind. And the last of the Gods, Tomon, mumbled a quatrain as he stood atop The Pit of The Earth and tears fell from his sole eye as he cast himself into the oblivion below. And man was alone. Strange fluids, a torrent of some foul ichor, bled from the earth, and Carnek the Mighty Roc wavered as he clung to the mountain top,mortally wounded. Pride forbade him from showing pain, and yet the host below could see the thin flechettes that protruded from his breast, and the blood that stained the sandstone. And he too was cast into pit. By this time the earth had been re-built many times over and resembled that of a cube rather than a spheroid , and the seas of lava and nickel and iron were no more, only vast caverns of glass and steel that housed the myriad of creatures that were once surface dwellers. For only the brave or foolish would set foot on the land or wade the now shallow seas, for there dwelt The White Buds and their thralls. But whilst the Gods were no more mankind had one last hope. A million years had been spent labouring deep within the earths mantle, and great engines aided by man and beast had built something truly awe inspiring, a great weapon of clay and metal, stone and flesh, blood and iron, would be sent forth to the surface world. And The White Buds, mankind did hope, would taste revenge at last. And the warcry of Earth kind, the bellow of the hippo creatures and elephant analogues merged with the roar of the lion and a trillion voices which burst forth from the caverns and crags and echoed in the mountains above. And yet The White Buds sat in cold silence, oblivious to the terror which would soon be unleashed upon them.

You know, I’ve been a real deep pessimist for a long time. I used to be pretty jolly, pretty happy. That was when I was a kid, when I was young and I thought the world was wonderful. I went around, all happy and optimistic, thinking everything was just great. The world was a beautiful place, and I just loved everyone and everything. Nothing could bring me down, because I didn’t know what down was. Until I hit rock bottom. It was pretty harsh; I hit middle school, and, as you can imagine, a lot of things changed. Friendships died, hatreds were born. Girls and boys, and all that. Suddenly, being happy didn’t come without effort. It was still easy, but I had to try a little now. Keep my cool, and all. And I did; I went through middle school happy as could be, despite everything that happened, between the bullies and unsympathetic teachers. Because I had friends, always. We were our own crew, our own gang, our little group of friends that nobody could break up. We kept each other safe from the bullies, and we loved one another. We were brothers and sisters, and nothing would change that. Except high school. That’s when it came down for me. Suddenly, everybody hated me for my optimism. Being happy was “stupid”, “gay”, “freakish”. And I lost a lot of my friends. OK, I lost all my friends. And I didn’t just lose them. They became the bullies we used to protect each other from. Suddenly that pact was over, that bond was broken, and I was the target. And I kept it together. The best I could, I kept it together. The classes were hard, but I kept up. But I never seemed to get the grades I wanted. And the students never paired up with me for team projects, so I always suffered a little on those, since I was working on my own for projects meant for teams of six, sometimes. It got harder and harder and harder to keep it together. And then I just couldn’t anymore. And I hit rock bottom. I gave up on optimism; it hadn’t done me any good up till now, so I left it behind. Better to expect the worst and be surprised than to expect the best and be disappointed, right? So for the past few years, I’ve been gloomy, doomy, and depressed. I stopped going out and doing things. I gave up on a lot of stuff I used to love. Writing. Reading. Music. And I thought I was pretty content; people left me alone, my grades kept up pretty good. I even made some new friends. They taught me ways to deal with my depression; all it took was a knife and constantly wearing long-sleeve shirts, and keeping myself clothed in front of other people at all times. Not like we wanted people asking questions. It hurt, and it was weird for a while, but after some time, I came to like it. It was like a ritual. But my old pals, the ones from middle school, started getting worried about me. They all talked to me, said they were sorry for freshmen year. Said that they wanted to be friends again, because they still love me like a brother, and they’re worried about how I’m treating myself. They said they knew about my scars. They knew that even though I didn’t look any different, that even though I didn’t color my hair or dye it or start wearing a different style of clothing, I was changed. And not for the better. And I told them to fuck off. I didn’t need them anymore. I had myself. But then I looked myself in the mirror one day. And I saw all the scars. On my arms. My chest. My back. And a song came on. A catchy thing. I liked the band; they made good music. And here I was, looking myself in the mirror, listening to this song. A song about being happy. A song about optimism. And I called up one of my old buddies. My best friend, in fact. And I asked him to get the gang together. Told him I wanted to talk to them. So he did. We met up at the park we used to play at when we were kids. I loved it there; all my happiest memories. There they all were; our little gang, all together again. I looked at each of them, and I took off my shirt. And they saw all my scars for themselves. Anne actually started crying. She was so torn up over what I did to myself, because of them. And Anne was just the start. Mary was next, and then Dan, and Joe. Even my best pal, stoic old Logan, started tearing up. I told them I hated myself, that I hated what I did, who I had become, what had become of us. I told them I didn’t want it anymore. I was crying, as hard as the rest of them. I pulled out the pocket knife I used to cut myself with. And I pitched into a trash can. Fast and hard. And I told them, as best I could through the tears, that I wanted to go back to the way things were again. And then, out of nowhere, Logan walked, or ran, really, up to me and hugged me tighter than he ever had, full-out bawling now. I had never seen him cry, at least not like this; none of us had. “Don’t you ever do this to yourself again, Matt. *Ever*. Promise us. *Promise*. And we’re never gonna make you want to. OK? I promise that. I promise. *Now promise back, *you son of a bitch**!” He spat out. Through the tears, I managed two more words. “I promise.” And then, everybody else was there. Anne, Mary, Dan, Joe; we were all hugging each other. We were back together again. And we spent the whole evening at that park, hanging out, playing on the playground like no one was watching. We watched the sunset over the lake. We went out for dinner at our favorite food joint. We were pals again, now and forever. And when a voice deep down in my head told me it wasn’t going to last? I kicked it, and I kicked it hard, until it shut the hell up. It was going to last. Maybe not forever and ever, but it was going to last. And damn it all, I’m going to do my best to make it last forever. Because sometimes, somethings are just worth the fight. Things like that night. Like our friendship. And I’m gonna fight long and hard and I’m gonna win this fight against the dark. I’m gonna kick the dark until it bleeds light. I’m gonna fight the night until it turns to day. I’m never going back to who I was. Because I love who I am. Who I’m with. Where we are. Where *I* am. Because I’m on top of the world.

I remember the first time my eyes fell upon her. She was more than beautiful. The sun shone on her causing the blue in her hair to light up like the ocean and reflected off of her porcelain skin so she looked as though she was glowing. As soon as she flashed her smile at me, I felt my legs fall from under me and my body and mind became a puddle in the grass. Her green eyes lit up when she laughed, and in that moment I knew I was done for. I was in love. She approached me and flashed that amazing smile and asked me my name, and I managed to pull myself together and mumble out a "Thomas." I asked her what her name was, and with the voice of an angel she said "Alison." She took my hand from that moment we were never apart. We were up every night laying on her bed staring at the Radiohead poster above her bed, while listening to Portishead and telling each other about all the deep, personal things that we had experienced during our lives. She would tell me sad stories about her childhood and when she would begin to shed tears, I would hold her until the tears turned into laughter. She was a beautiful ray of sunshine in a dark world of ugly things. Despite her amazing smile, I saw so much sadness behind her green eyes. The sadness became bigger every day and when she tried to make the sadness stop, I saw the deep dark blues of the ocean that was behind her eyes grow vaster. She started first with weed, and then when that didn't work, she took to painkillers, and eventually she turned to the liquid sunshine she could inject into her veins. Her green eyes turned to a dull grey, and skin became so white she looked like a ghost. She was a ghost, her body was just an empty vessel holding a very lonely soul that was ready to be set free. I knew it wasn't long before I would lose her, but nothing prepared me for the day I went to wake her from her slumber and her skin was cold as ice and her lips were as blue as her hair. I held her like I always did, I held her as my tears started flowing and waited for the laughter to start, but the laughter never came. Now I'm lost in a vast ocean, floating in the water and waiting for my Alison.

Greigor Meat lived in Aquitaine and farmed choice mushrooms by night. Beneath the mossy escarpment was lodged his camp, hidden from the sluggish red sun overhead. If you were in no hurry you could sit quietly and hear the drip drop of water in his old tin bowl which he used to fill a tiny glass shard embedded in his outer carapace. For Old Griegor Meate was never in any hurry and though he did not speak, the people from Esbassier would scale the ragged peaks and risk the great precipice to hear his wisdom. On a Thursday the leathery old salt would clutch a long pole with his metre long arms and awkwardly slide down to the fungal mats that lay below, for they were like his children, and he would provide sustenance and lullaby ditties and soothing whispers of encouragement. And they in turn would provide fruits in return. And on the 48th Day of June on the 79th year of the Last Cycle Griegor Meate decended the mountain atop a brass tortoise burnished and magnificent, and to the people of Esbassier he dolled out sweet mushroom tea that would make one wise and virile and full of the joy of Spring. And though no plant grew in this land the food vats churned forth delicate loaves for the people to eat. And there was much rejoicing. But people have short memories. And none could remember as long as Old Griegor Meate, for was that not why he was bestowed the moniker in the first place? Old Meate had his own plan for the townsfolk, for he remembered why no one but he sat high in the ochre hills and spoke to no one but old bones and the squat beasts that frequented that place, and why the townspeople grew fat and drank sweet drinks and wine. Little did the chattering people of Esbassier know that Old Meates gift of tea would send those who drank of it to the beyond. And the townfolk would sleep forever, and Old Meate returned to the hill with candlesticks and toasters and delicate loaves. And a contented smile crossed his worn face, for the first time he was truly at peace. EDIT: If anyone is interested I am posting my stories at Wordpress under the name somerandomtalesoffantasy. Cheers.

I was supposed to write a story pertaining to something we had read this year. It only needed to be 2 pages, but as it was the first creative assignment in 6 years, I was excited. What do you guys think? . The Rise Source of Inspiration: 1984 led to be an interesting story of an unfortunate member of society who was played into praising an overarching figure of power. The world described in this story is barren, bleak, and difficult for even the most stoic of individuals. I always considered what the situation of the world must have been in order to cause such a detrimental choice in leadership to be made. It is mentioned that the last well-known time period was the early to mid 40s, or the World War II era in England. It is there that my story begins. Chapter 1: A crack in the wall formed, and dust fell on James’s head as the ground shook violently. The roar of the fires above gradually dissipated, but not before increasing the temperature in the stuffy little cellar a few more degrees. He quickly brushed it off, ignoring the ever-present drone of the engines above, and the quiet whimpering of his younger sister Amanda. *“That bomb was close”*, he speculated. *“A few yards closer and it would have been the end of us.”* He took a moment to quietly thank whatever force had saved them, and then turned to his father next to him. He was an older gentleman, named Charles by his parents before him. Grown up on a farm in east Bristol, he eventually moved to London to take a “more civilized” job as a banker. Lines of worry, that had just formed over the past few weeks, divided his normally friendly face. He had some dirt smeared below his left eye, and he clutched his right hand with a small, dampened wash towel. His mother on the other side of him, named Helen by her parents, held his younger sister in her arms, gently patting her on the back and whispering a lullaby that James recalled fondly. She had always been a cold woman, eager to pass along gossip, but slow to become cordial to even her closest relations. The recent events however had seemed to change her, as she had taken the opportunity each day to check the neighbors, in the event that they would need assistance. Her blond hair was streaked with ash, and her dress, the one she had worn to church just that morning, was torn and matted. James turned around and sat back against the wall, holding his head in his hands. His head hurt, it hurt from the constant thundering, it hurt from the destruction, and it hurt from the heat. Most of all though, his head hurt as he tried to recall the events that had led them to today. He wasn’t very old himself, fifteen as of last May, but he had enough of a mind about him to understand war when he saw it. Hitler had risen to power across the channel in a disheveled Germany, and quickly rebuilt its forces. He started sweeping across Europe, and he seemed a terrible force indeed. There had been talks, but the bombings had begun about 3 months ago, in early September. He struggled to remember the exact day, what he had been doing before the sirens wailed, their now all too familiar wail. He had been confused, he knew that, but he just couldn’t remember any more. He gathered it made no difference at the moment, and returned back to the little cellar that they had converted into an impromptu bomb shelter. He listened closely. The sirens had stopped. There was still some noise, which was always true. The fires were never completely out, and there was always a building falling somewhere, but for the moment it seemed that it had quieted down. They had survived once again. He brushed past his mom, and went to the short stepladder that led to the trap door. He opened it, and looked out to the outside. It was early morning, but it was still dark. The orange glow of fires created a small light that marked the horizon, enough to see that the sky was clear of the ominous black dots. It reminded James of the sunrise, hazy, with smoke rising in the distance. “It’s clear” he called down, as he stepped out onto the blackened grass of their front yard. He looked around; it appeared that their neighborhood had been spared some of tonight’s damage. The Meriwether’s apartment building was still standing. Before, an ominous monolith that the children had avoided, it was now a monument to perseverance and preservation. He kept looking, before he saw where the bomb had hit, as he had figured, not more than a dozen yards to their left. Most of their house was gone. He could see his bed hanging off of the second floor balcony, and the pipes of the water heater gushed onto the broken ceiling above. All that remained intact was most of the living room and the half of the kitchen with the stove. He heard his mother gasp behind him as she too observed the broken walls that they had once called home. His dad just looked on with grim silence. James reached down and picked up a ragdoll that had landed not far from him. He looked at it briefly, observing its crude construction, before handing it to his young sister who was no longer in her mother’s arms, but now quietly holding the hem of the church dress. James’s father’s voice, though not loud, cut through the silence, “We need to find somewhere else.” “But where can we go?” His mother asked, “We have nowhere else.” “The Mulligans set up a shelter downtown, we’ll take our stuff there.” James looked at his mother. He knew she had never liked the Mulligans; she found their constant generosity off-putting, however, looking back at the house, it seemed that they had little choice. “Okay,” she whispered quietly, “Let’s go.” James approached the ruins of his house. He found his army duffel bag under his nightstand and loaded it up with some of the basics, a blanket, his knife from his grandpa, his propaganda poster, and his collection of comic books. He worked his way back down the shattered staircase, and stood next to his father and sister until his mother arrived carrying an overstuffed suitcase of her own belongings. “Alright,” was all that his father whispered before they turned and set off down the street. Chapter 2: The shelter was dismal to say the best. It was cramped, overcrowded, and stank of unwashed laundry. Mrs. Mulligan had greeted them at the door and guided them to the cots that they would be sleeping in. They were lucky to have a place to go at all though, considering the number of people that had been displaced at this point. His father had told them to make the best of things, and to get comfortable. They weren’t going anywhere for a while. James passed much of his time reading comic books, and whittling sticks that he found lying around. Occasionally they would go for a walk at the local park, but as the bombings continued, it was becoming difficult to be able to. Large sections of the city were closed off, as fire crews fought the incessant fires, and large buildings collapsed on each street. This wasn’t to say James didn’t make friends however. There were kids from all over the city here. Even though the Mulligans had only opened for the local area, they didn’t turn anybody away. One of his friends, Joe, had only escaped with his brother, John. They had been sleeping in the first floor when a bomb hit the chimney, killing both their parents. Joe was a stone-faced boy, a year younger than James. This was a stark contrast to John, who was boyish in appearance despite being nineteen. They would often play games of cops and robbers, or talk about life before the war. They all enjoyed sports, cricket in particular. James had focused most of his whittling recently on carving a set of wickets and a bat. He enjoyed his time at the shelter. It was much better than attempting to scrape together the remnants of a life back in his old house. Yes, there he had more stuff, but there was no school, and there was the constant worry of having his home destroyed. It was odd, he thought, he had been so worried over the destruction of his home, that to have it finally happen seemed almost as if it was a relief. The fear of the unknown was gone, and replaced with certainty. At least now he knew what would happen. There was an impromptu school that had been formed in the shelter, his father taught math, and there were some assignments he could do. It all helped to pass the time, as that was all there was to do. The days at the shelter seemed as if they would continue on forever. Story continued in the comments.

Giving first short story a revision - based off of Heat Death of Universe prompt. Any crit is welcome and appreciated, starting to give writing another go after long break. So Shall It Be in the End. While he sat staring out into the darkness his mind wandered. The overhead air vent released a cocktail of atmospheric gases in the form of a brisk breeze that swept across the room, sending chills down his spine and his mind’s eye racing into the past. He could feel the once familiar sensation of grass between his fingers, the cool dirt of the hillside pressed against his palms as he sat aside his father staring at what remained of the stars above. “You know, a long time ago so-called scientist sat, just like we are, debating how there could be any dark spots in the sky.” They both sat on the hillside, their knees bent. Mak leaning back, his outstretched arms supporting him, curiously stared into the heavens. His father, lacking his son’s intrigue, hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands lazily clasped between them. “They claimed that at the end of time, the sky would be filled with the light of a million burning stars as the universe collapsed,” he said. Mak opened his mouth as if to speak but no words came out. “Funny idea isn’t it?” his father said with a smirk, “I would give a pretty penny to see the look on their faces now.” Mak remained silent, trying to envision the night sky filled with stars but it was difficult to imagine as a mere handful of glimmering spots scattered in the abyss was all he had ever known. His father, seeing the look of consternation across his young son’s face, took the opportunity to run his fingers through the boy’s blonde hair. Mak could almost feel the sensation of his hair between his father’s fingers when the cool breeze of the autumn night, or rather that of the ventilator above, sent goose bumps running up his neck. The cool dirt of the hillside was suddenly replaced by the cold reality of the steel bench beneath him. He stood up, paying no mind to the viewing pleasure of others in the ship’s observation room as, per usual, he was alone. A sense of disappointment in returning to reality swept over him as he raised his right arm, pressing his palm against the viewing pane. He shifted his adept focus from the darkness that encompassed the regulated travel lanes, his route of mental escape, and stepped back, his hand tapping off the halo that ran from temple to temple across the rear of his head before returning to his hip. What moments ago seemed to be a portal into the vast darkness of space was now anything but as his enhanced optics faded back to relative norm. Millions of sublight engines burned bright as did their respective ship hulls glimmering in the reflection of the last star in the known universe, Exodus Prime, and what was a window into the emptiness of space was now nothing more than a dark island in a sea of vibrant red and orange hues. Mak stood, contemplating the gravity of the spectacle before him as he had done on a near daily basis. The last remnants of known life were gathered here, crowded together around this last bastion of energy. Civilizations that had once spanned millions of light years were reduced to an existence entirely reliant on a single sun. “Irony,” he thought to himself. Mankind had managed to find a solution for nigh all of the obstacles that existed in the universe but it could find no solution for the very essence of the universe itself. Empires that had withstood the Great Wars and all those before them were now losing what would be their final fight - that against the forces of entropy. Mak took yet another step back, his eyes squinting as he took in the burning glory of the fiery mosaic that filled the window and he laughed to himself. He laughed to himself for he came to a sudden realization that he had never reached before; all around him space was filled with the light of a burning stars as the sleek metal of ship hulls glowed amber in the reflection of the red dwarf that was Exodus Prime. The known universe was collapsing and what remained had amalgamated into a distorted sphere surrounding the last known sun. From where he stood, he realized, those so-called scientists were right. “If only I could see the look on your face now,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising in a satisfying smirk as he visualized sitting aside his father on that long ago night.

90 degrees pulled to a point. This is my corner. I glance around finding nothing but foreheads. The whole bar entranced by their phones. Handheld lifestyles, controlling every second of our being. I make occasional contact, just a second of human interaction. Eyes connect, and move in an instant. Don't get me wrong, I am no looker. Just a person that wants more from my experiences. A conversation, or even a glance filled with true emotion. Eyes that pierce, and looks that could make you fall in love. Beauty is lying beneath every forehead I see. Real life. Real people. A break could cause just the slightest amount of intrigue. However short, however long, just a break from our electronic lives is all I need. She will see me if I keep my cool. I look down to my beer, and up to the bartender. Peripheral vision my greatest asset. "Is she looking".... I need to check. Glancing quick our eyes meet. I look away unsure of what I just saw. "Was she staring at me, or did she just happen to look this way?" I take a sip, collect my thoughts and start the process again from step one. I look to the left and again our eyes meet. One second, two seconds, three seconds.... I have to look down. Now is the time to strategize. Do I approach her? Do I hope she comes to me? Abundant questions hit my brains sidewalls and return with no answer. I look to the bartender and notice she has asked for her check. Now is the time for action. I quickly request my own bill, and make my way towards the exit. Hopefully we will intersect and sparks will fly, or whatever the hell is supposed to happen will. I wait in the door as she slowely approaches. I smile, and she smiles back. "Have a nice night........." .... "Thanks, you too." ..... I watch her as she walks away, disappearing into the darkness, and just as her face becomes hidden, I see a faint smile. I look around, walk back into the bar, reclaim my corner, and have become one of the others, with my face down, writing this.

Here is my Elder Scrolls fanfiction, The Unusual Pilgrim, an attempt at portraying the surreal evil of the Daedra.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. Even though it was *countless* moons ago; that was the day. The day the Spirit of Chaos met his imprisonment *shackled* forever in a prison never to be released for he had made the land a chaotic oblivion of suffering. The two courageous heroes who stood up for us all ruled the land from then on. They were two brothers, the Sorceror Ror and the younger Sorcerer of the two was named Geraa. These sorcerers were of such great power they could raise and set the Sun and Moon. They were the heroes who defeated the Spirit of Chaos and imprisoned him for eternity. One day, Geraa, seeing the daily struggles of the average man and woman alike, proposed to form a new colony. This colony would create a place for all of us to be *strong* and *happy.* The elder one *forbade it* for he felt it would *divide* and *shatter* the weakened kingdom, *forever.* No one knows that we are still here; smiling beneath the moonlight. We remember our dear father, for we will *forever* be...

Chapter One: Post War It was a warm winter in Los Aromas when the smell of Frankincense rushed through the Benton st.; Grandmother Hakima was generously letting the incense stream out of her cracked single hung window. To this pleasing smell, Kazu was awaked happily. He hopped off his bed and the springs made this creaking sound. Though he is aware of this, he has no intent of repairing the rusted screws as he grew accustomed to the sound of waking up to it. He stretches his body, done everyday routinely and religiously, and walks to the kitchen avoiding the crack on the floor that came with his studio apartment. He fills his lungs with that hint of Frankincense, knowing grandmother Hakima woke up far earlier than himself, as always for her morning prayers. He slides his window and cries "Grandma Hakima, That smells fantastic!" He hears a faint laughter, knowing she is doing fairly well for her frail age. Kazu is cogitating what he'll do this morning. He looks across the room and sees his Susan, his corroded but fair sax. "Come hither," he imagines her saying to him, which he inevitably, indeed, follows her voice. Susan was a gift from his friend Rutger. Though they seldom spoke together due to the language barrier, they became close friends after Kazu spared his loaf of bread during the Wallace Winston War. Kazu is a Japanese citizen, who left home for the American experience, or so to speak. He could never guess where Rutger was from, but he appeared to be from the Anglo-Saxon descent. Kazu believes he spoke with his eyes, and they expressed gratitude. Though after that week of surviving the war together, they were separated by the Gåstapiis and never seen each other again. Susan comforts him, so very much, that he decides to take her with him for a walk on the Wallace Promenade to further contemplate what he shall do today. Outside the building is His dear friend, Young Do. He is well dressed, stratified from the brazier to the vest to the shirt to the skin to the muscles to the bones and so on. He is smoking his ciggerete, hand picked premium tobacco, as always. His eyes glaze beyond the Muslims partaking in their prayers, all having their own rugs, to the vigorous Indians selling capers, charoli, and capsicums, and straight into Kazu’s eyes. He smiles and gestures a wave, to which Kazu and Susan follow. “There seems to be a problem,” Young Do initiates, “it’s been too long since we met last.” They both laugh and hug and catch up with the past. Young Do is a business man, or so you can say. He doesn’t get too far with the details about his profession, but he’s been in Korea ever since the Wallace War and returned to Los Aromas quickly after. He adds about the war, since it was brought up, expressing how fascinated he is by how quickly and nicely the city was restored; the city is now a product of culture boom and heightened happiness for the citizens. They begin walking through the brick stone street, covered with grit and debris left over from the war, to the Wallace Promenade.

This is something I worked on a while ago but I finally wanted to get some critique for it. I originally posted it in writingprompts but more feedback is always welcome. thanks! ~eggs - The life support beeped rhythmically as the limelight of sunshine broke through the manila blinds. Morgan was sleeping, her head: nestled in a pillow and shrouded by the light blue covers. Her long dark brown hair was scattered all about the bed and her drool: earned from a good night’s sleep, slowly dripped out of her mouth. An older woman, dressed in hospital slacks and a clean white linen shirt opened the unit door and entered quietly, smiling while she held back balloons and chocolate for the young woman sleeping on the bed. She stepped closer and placed the gifts down on a table near Morgan’s bed, looking over the girl’s vitals as she did so. The girl on Morgan’s bed hadn’t moved in sometime, she was pale, bald and weak. Her lips cracked and white. Tubes were shoved in to her nose, inserted through slits in her chest into her diaphragm, and directly into her neck feeding her nutrients, fats, and water. Her eyes lazily peered about the room, focusing on nothing in particular. She breathed weakly, the iron ling exerting the majority of the effort. She closed her eyes again and drifted off to sleep. The nurse approached her then sat down next to the girl. She grabbed the girl’s hand, they were dry, hard, and white. The stacked hand warmers in her palms did little to remove the eerie chill of her fingers. The nurse stood up and closed the blinds, watching the light leave the girl’s face then left the room, her steps in high-heeled shoes rang throughout the room. Morgan woke and was pleasantly surprised to Nurse Miller’s visit, her eyes opened widely and her lips curled into a smile. She decided to surprise the nurse and crept out of bed, using the balls of her feet she snuck up behind Nurse Miller. As the nurse pushed back through the door Morgan snatched at her but her hand caught no friction. Morgan giggled and tried again, her hand went right through. She was confused, how could this be? Morgan followed the nurse back to her station where the nurse sat down, as the rhythmic beeping of the life support had ceased and was overcome by the heavy tone of a flat line. The nurse sat, glimpsed at the monitor then shoved her face into her hands. Morgan watched, puzzled then turned to see her parents, her tall, fair haired, father rushing through the halls, she smiled and waved. Her father rushed through her into the room, he screamed and whimpered, stomping the floor and collapsing. Her mother, the spitting image of Morgan, with long, crisp brunette hair and drawing cobalt eyes, walk slowly down the hallway. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she towed her Morgan’s younger sisters along, each distraught, on the verge of crying. Morgan turned back to her father, her mouth now gaping wide and open, and began walking back into the room. She peered inside. There she was, on the bed, her battered body cold and folded in what had been agony. Her eyes slightly open and drool escaped from her mouth. Morgan jolted: “I…I died…” Morgan stepped closer, through her father and stood at the foot of the bed. Her father looked up at her, tears staining his skin in a glaze of shine, his cheeks red and eyes puffed red. She touched her foot, it was frigid and solid. She pulled at it but it was much too heavy. Morgan covered her mouth and breathed quickly and deeply, she turned back to see her mother, tears now draining full force, coughing and choking between convulsions in the archway as the reality of her dead daughter materialized in front of her. Morgan’s sisters sat and stared. “Why did this happen to me?!” Morgan shouted, she slapped the body on the bed and screamed. She fell forward to her knees and laid her diaphragm on the bed. She closed her eyes as heavy tears streamed out, dropping onto the soiled linens. A dim light began forcing its way through the cracks in the blinds, intensifying with each breath Morgan took. The light lit the room, casting it in white, leaving her and her corpse. Morgan’s mind raced, “How will they remember me? What are my parents going to do? What else could I have done to make sure they knew I loved them?” There had to be more. She wailed and squeezed the body’s leg, twisting her fingers then letting go. Her body relaxed. Morgan opened her eyes, she was alone. She stood up, horrified and stumbled back. She fell against hard steel and jolted forward. Behind her, a figure covered in glowing armor and lofty, fully extended wings, stood quietly. He carried and tall spear tipped with diamonds. His head, covered with a faceplate which had gold wings emerging from the sides. She could see his eyes through the armor. She reeled back: “Who are you? Where am I?” The angel took off his helmet revealing a sharp chiseled face, tan skin, and short crisp hair. His eyes penetrated her in a focused review. He held the helmet at his side and began: “My name is Gabriel, I am sorry I have failed you Morgan.” He dropped to his knee and bowed to Morgan. As he did a world materialized, small children running along in endless fields of green playing and wrestling. Beyond the angel were the youth, shouting and joking, drinking and dancing with their own favorite music playing from beyond. She looked to her left from which approached another woman, looking as angelic as the man kneeling in front of her, she’d never met her. She was lovely, long black hair and a curved figure. “Who are you? Morgan questioned. “My name is Janette, I’m your grandmother Morgan…” She held her arms out and pulled Morgan in who was by now crying. “Don’t worry Morgan, you’re safe here.” Morgan pulled in Janette closer, squeezing as tightly as her weak muscles could muster. “Welcome home Morgan.

There was no time. He could remember only one thing as he paced the room. He needed to get away. ‘I need to get away. I need to get away.’ He repeated it to himself in his mind over and over again. He walked over to the heavy brown door. ‘Locked..’ He thought. Of course it was locked. He never entered his apartment without locking the door behind himself. He glanced around the room and noticed that his filthy gray curtains were open slightly, revealing a sliver of golden sunlight. He grabbed them and shut them as a cloud of dust jumped into the air. He turned and saw his briefcase on the musty bed. So long had he lived in this apartment and only once had he sat on that bed. He looked at the briefcase. J.N. were the initials on the rusted silver lock. For a moment he was confused. He could not seem to recall what the initials stood for. But Wait! Jonathan Nichols… That was it. He had taken the briefcase from Nichols some time ago now. ‘Yes, Jonathan Nichols, born in 1879, died in… When was it? Ah yes, 1933.’ He walked over to the dirty brown bag. ‘1933… that was it, wasn't it? 1933? Let's see… born in 1879, died in 1933, that would have made him fifty-and-three years old at death. No, wait, fifty-and-four, not fifty-and-three.’ He examined the briefcase closely. He could hardly remember taking it now. It had been so long ago. ‘Hmm, fifty-and-four…’ How strange, that was his age in this very year. Suddenly he heard the sound of a chair being pulled across the floor of another apartment. His hands immediately flew to his ears. Excruciating pain filled his head as the screeching of the chair grew louder and louder. ‘Stop! Stop!’ He thought as the pain slowly grew more and more intense. It would kill him. He knew it would kill him if it went on any longer. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ It stopped as quickly as it had started. That was it. He needed to get out of there right then. ‘I can't take any more.’ He thought to himself as he grabbed the briefcase off of the bed and walked over to the door. He faltered, ‘Have I oiled it today?’ He thought to himself, ‘Yes, of course, this morning I did.’ He opened the door as silently as whisper and stepped out into the hallway. He softly walked through the lobby and stopped at the large glass door. He opened it quickly and was hit with a crisp November wind as he stepped out onto the street. Immediately his ears were filled with the sounds of carriages and wind and laughter and children playing and every other sound that can be heard on London's streets. He resisted the urge to cover his ears. ‘I mustn't.’ He thought,‘I won't get anywhere by covering my ears.’ He glanced around. It had been so long... He walked over to a newspaper stand and his heart jumped as he read the front page headline: ‘JONATHAN NICHOLS WANTED FOR MURDER’ He skimmed the article, picking out pieces here and there: The well known scientist Jonathan Nichols (famous for his incredible experiments involving sound and the ear) was seen leaving the building of a murder at approximately 2:30 A.M. two days ago. The victim was a middle-aged man named Charles Mcallister. The man was found stabbed repeatedly in the chest and both of his ears had been cut off with what appears to have been a serrated knife. Nichols was last seen running from the building in a black jacket and brown pants… He continued reading as he felt himself go lightheaded. Nichols was also seen carrying a brown, leather briefcase! ‘It's impossible!’ He thought to himself as he looked at his briefcase. ‘It's impossible!’ He turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk. He knew of Nichols' works. Nichols was a deaf scientist who was always trying to find a way to give himself the ability to hear. He knew that Nichols would stop at nothing to gain the power to hear. But murder? No, he would never commit murder. Especially not Charles, the two men were practically partners. Practically brothers, even. ‘It doesn't matter anyway.’ He thought,‘Nichols is dead and he's been dead for some time. I don't know how anyone could believe that story. Nichols died in one of his experiments. I know he did. He was going to help me. He was going to help me! We had a deal, but he got selfish and started devoting all of his research to his own problems. I could never find him after he left. Never.’ He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't even realize where he was going. It was then that he noticed a man slowly approaching him. His fist and only instinct was to turn in the opposite direction. As he turned to walk away, he bumped into a man in a long brown jacket, dropping his briefcase. He felt a rush of fear as he watched the bag slam to the ground and break open, spilling it's contents across the sidewalk. He stared in horror at the bag and the two items that had spilled out of it. Two ears. Both of them sloppily cut at the bases with dried blood covering them. He looked down at the two horrible, bloody things lying on the sidewalk. They were like two small creatures, barely alive, begging for life from anyone or anything. Searching for something to help them, to give them a chance, or even to end their suffering. But no response came. He resisted the urge to scream and turned and fled from the sight. He was so confused. Nothing was making sense. How had the two ears ended up in his briefcase? Why was Jonathan Nichols in the newspaper, when he had been dead for years? And, most of all, why was he so terrified of the two ears? It wasn't a normal fear. It wasn't even disgust. It seemed as if he couldn't bear to think of them without feeling like he was going to faint. They brought up an immense feeling from deep inside of him, like nothing he had ever known. It was fear, but yet, it was attachment. It was horror, and yet, it was sympathy. He could not seem to figure out why he felt this way. He had no idea that they were in the briefcase. But wait! Something had just occurred to him, ‘What did I put in the briefcase?’ He couldn't remember, ‘`Twas something of great importance. I know it was.’ But what was it? Why couldn't he remember? He pulled his large dark overcoat closer to himself and put up the collar as a sharp gust of wind rushed around him. He walked around a corner and found himself at his apartment building. As he walked into the lobby he thought to himself,‘Where else will I go?’ He once again walked up those creaky wooden stairs and through his thick door. He thought that he would never return to this room.‘This old, noisy room.’ He thought to himself as he sat down on his chair by the window. A dog's bark could be heard outside. He sighed, it was so quiet, being so far away. It was perfect. Just the way he liked it, quiet. He listened closely to the sounds around him. He could hear footsteps outside the building. He could hear talking and laughing. Suddenly he felt an urgency. ‘I need to get that briefcase.’ He thought to himself. ‘I need to get it.’ It was as if he had completely forgotten the fact that he had left it there on the sidewalk. He didn't know why, but for some reason, he needed that briefcase. He got up off of his wing chair and started to pace back and forth. ‘How will I get it?’ He thought to himself ‘If the police see me I will surely be arrested. They will want to question me. I couldn't bear to be questioned by them. They will never understand my condition, either. Never.’ So many ideas and situations crossed his mind at this point. He decided at this point that the only way he was going to get his briefcase back was to simply walk out into the street, hope that the police hasn't arrived yet, and grab it off the ground. He turned and opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway for the second time in one day, and walked down into the lobby. He walked quickly with his head down as he approached the glass door. He looked up as he opened the door and saw something that made his whole body freeze. He was staring at his reflection. But there was something very peculiar about it. For it was not his own face. It was the face of Jonathan Nichols. He stumbled backwards as he stared at the man in the reflection. ‘How can this be?’ He thought. But something about the reflection was strange. It was Jonathan Nichols, but he didn't know who it should have been. He stared in horror at the reflection, trying his hardest to tell himself that he wasn't seeing the face of a dead man. But deep down, he knew he was. He ran forward and threw the door open. ‘Born in 1879, died in 1933. Born in 1879, died in 1933.’He repeated the dates in his mind as he ran and retraced his earlier steps. He once again ran around the corner to the spot where he dropped his bag. It was there. Without an officer in sight.He quickly ran up and grabbed the briefcase without slowing down. “Hey!” a voice from behind him yelled. “Hey you!” He began to run. He could hear running footsteps behind him. He took a left and saw a large abandoned warehouse. ‘There!’ He thought, ‘That's where I'll go.’ But suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and he was pushed back against the wall. The man who was chasing him came around the corner stood in view. He was a tall man with sandy hair and dark eyes. He was wearing a brown coat over a dark blue shirt. “Do you know who I am?” The man asked, getting very close. His breath was some sort of ghastly mixture of smoke and alcohol. “Do you?” Agonizing pain was filling his head as this man talked to him. When no response came, the man leaned closer and continued,“My name is Robert. Robert Mcallister. Do you know me now? No? You killed my brother Charles. Remember? You killed him, and now I'm going to kill you.” There was only one thing that he could do. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched Robert in his midsection as hard as he could. The man stumbled back and fell to the ground, grabbing his stomach. He took this opportunity and ran into the warehouse. The truth was clear to him now. He knew why he felt that way about the ears. It was guilt. Guilt was killing him. And he knew why everything was so loud. It was because he had been deaf. The experiment had given him the ability to hear, but the change was to much for him. He couldn't think straight. Charles wouldn't stop talking. He would stop asking questions. That's why he had done it. He needed silence. It was only a matter of seconds before the other man was up and running toward him. Both men ran into the the warehouse as a crowd slowly gathered outside. Not one of the people in the crowd knew what was going on, but when several gunshots were heard from inside the building, they alerted the police immediately. No one knows exactly what went on inside the warehouse that day. But what they do know, is that a new gravestone was added to a London cemetery.

The air was stale and carried an unusual stench. The kind of scent that makes you think of bleach or drain cleaner. It was a foreign scent to me, but seeing as Tom and I hadn't gone for a walk in this part of town for so long, I chocked it up to unfamiliarity. I strode through some overgrown vegetation covering the pathway into the abandoned warehouse. I looked down at the freshly minted green stain on my old jeans. It was nice to be out and about like this again. Usually Tom would have met up with me by now, though I didn't mind enjoying the peace and quiet by myself. After about ten minutes of traversing the foliage and old broken brick that lay about, I stood out front of the warehouse. The stench was stronger here, so much so that it stung the senses. It was unusual for Tom to be late, more often he was early and I was the one dragging my feet. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my phone. If he was still a fair distance away I would suggest he meet me elsewhere. The air here just wasn't fit to breathe while discussing life. As I sifted through the contacts list on my phone I heard the distinct sound of glass breaking from inside the building. I shrugged off the sound and called Tom. Much to my surprise I heard a phone ringing inside the warehouse. I waited for an answer but when he didn't pick up I began to get inquisitive. Making sure to tread carefully for fear of cutting myself on broken glass, I climbed through a front window and glanced about at my surroundings. The warehouse was much different now than it had been years back. There were large wooden crates around and what appeared to be laboratory equipment perched all throughout. It was unsettling upon the eyes. It took my brain time to catch up with my eyes. The reviling scent, the lab equipment, the boxes; they indicated one thing above all, illegal activity. I searched around for Tom, taking great care to move as silently as I could. As I navigated my way through the makeshift aisles and dark corners of the warehouse I heard a loud crack come from beneath me. I froze. My every instinct told me to crouch low and hide, but instead I stood as still as a statue. My hands were numb and tingling; the hair on my arms stood vertical. I looked down and saw a piece of glass underneath my shoe. "Hello? Is someone there? Can you help me?" I heard a panicked voice say from the other side of the boxes. That was Tom's voice. It was slurred and slightly less coherent than normal, but it was unmistakably my friend. I slunk my way around the boxes to see him tied to a chair. His face was swollen and he had blood streaming from cuts too numerable to count. Taking in my surroundings I noticed a line of shelves behind where my friend was trussed up. Upon them I noticed a shotgun and a small flip knife. I crouched low and shifted over to the shelves, first taking up the knife and then the gun. I crouch-walked my way behind Tom and began sawing at the thick ropes with the knife, all the while making shush noises to quiet my beleaguered friend. After what seemed like an interminable time the rope finally gave way and Tom's hands were unbound. I handed him the gun, pressed my index finger to my lip, and motioned for him to follow me. I figured the best way out would probably be the way I took to get in. I hadn't run into anyone else so I hedged my bets that we might be just as lucky on the escape. As we reached my infamous glass footrest I leaned closely into earshot of Tom. "How many people are here?" I whispered as softly as I possibly could muster. He didn't say anything, but instead held up his pinkie, ring, and middle fingers. So, there were three that he knew of. Maybe more that he didn't. The last thing I wanted was to run into some tweaked out drug dealers. Being this close to Tom's face I noticed with more clarity the seriousness of his injuries. It looked as though his jaw was dislocated and one of his eyes was nearly swollen over. I motioned for us to continue on and so inch by terrible inch we moved closer to my point of entry. As we crept through the warehouse periodically we heard voices. None of the voices were close enough to make sense of conversation, but whenever we heard them Tom and I stopped moving and listened for signs of commotion. I needed to know if his escape had been discovered. Eventually, after what seemed like hours we made it back to the window I entered through. "Alright buddy, you go first. I'm right behind you." I whispered. He climbed out the window quietly, albeit a little clumsily.I cleared the window just after him and made the executive decision for us to start running. We sped through the plant life and down the overgrown pathway. Vegetation whipping at our skin as we sprinted our way to freedom. We rounded a corner and came face to face with another man. He was a tall and slender fellow with a large nose. He panicked as he saw us and scrambled for the pistol waiting at his hip. As Tom brought the shotgun up to bear, time seemed to freeze at that moment. It felt as though I could look around and study the scene for hours before anything transpired. The whole world felt like a game on pause; like everything was ready to resume whenever I wanted. I watched as the man brought his pistol up and leveled it at my friend's head. A loud boom erupted in my ears. I watched as blood and bone and brain matter blew passed me. The world was no longer on pause. Nothing was frozen anymore. I charged into the man, knocking him to the ground. I reached out for anything I could grab and came away with a fist sized rock. I brought it down over and over upon the tall man's face. I struck him until my arm was weary with fatigue. I looked down at him and let the stone fall from my grasp. My hands were covered in blood. Next to the stone lay the pistol. I reached out and picked it up. It felt heavy in my hand. I pushed myself to my feet and looked down at the man I had beaten with the rock. His body jerked unexpectedly and I squeezed the trigger on the gun, discharging a round into the dirt next to his shoulder. The sound of the gun threw me back into realization of the situation I was in. I turned around quickly and looked at Tom. He was barely recognizable after his injury. I picked him up and slung his lean frame over my shoulder. I held the shotgun by the barrel in one hand and the pistol rested in my pocket. I held onto the legs of Tom as I trudged through the overgrowth and headed towards assistance. "Don't worry buddy. Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to get you some help. Fix you right up." I don't know if I whispered or if I was shouting, but I repeated myself many times. I could feel a hot wetness across the back of my shirt, but I ignored it. I forced myself to believe it was not a concern. "It's okay." I said. "It's okay." My legs were beginning to feel like they were aflame and my lungs must have been close to bursting. Just when I believed I could not carry on any longer I reached paved ground. "The sidewalk, this is good pal. Just a little further. You can make it." I tossed my shoulder up to gain a bit more of a grasp on my friend. As I did I heard a sickening splashing sound behind me. I didn't stop to look. I just continued moving down the sidewalk as swiftly as my body would trod on. I had no stamina left and my limbs were working mechanically, driven mostly by the little adrenaline I had remaining. I must have passed at least three people but for some reason my mind kept telling me to push on. It kept telling me that I hadn't found a single soul yet. "Sir please drop the weapons and place the body on the ground." I stopped moving. I closed my eyes and shook my head. It was a hard shake, and to any onlookers it probably looked as though I was on some kind of drug. When I reopened my eyes I saw people all around me. I saw a car with red and blue lights dancing with one another on the roof. I blinked rapidly. I opened both of my hands and heard the clanging of steel touching cement. I balled my hands into fists to reaffirm that I still had hands. My body was numb and everything seemed out of focus. I reached up and lowered Tom into my arms. "Hey buddy." I said. "Don't worry. All these people can see you. They know you need help. I told you I would get you nice and safe. I'm sorry. I never should have asked you to come for a walk with me. I just wanted it to be like the old days. Like it was before I made so many mistakes with you. I missed my best friend, but it's okay now. We're back again. Everything is back again." I rested Tom on the ground. It took me a moment to realize I was on my knees. I felt hands pulling something from my pocket. I heard the familiar clink of steel on cement yet again. I watched as the ground rose up to meet my face, like a cold, hard and welcoming pillow.

[HM] **My Place Among The Nerds** Nerd: an intelligent but single-minded person obsessed with a nonsocial hobby or pursuit My place among the nerds was and has never really been defined; I’ve just always felt that I was one. It probably stemmed from the weird person I was in middle school who nobody really knew because I was shy, awkward, and didn’t have anyone who understood me. Now I realize that that was all of us, but of course no one told me until now. I never knew where my place was just that my attributes were smart, shy, funny, temperamental at times, loved everything comic books, and, most importantly, has a strong love for music. Music has always been a way for me to realize that I’m never alone because if I can relate my life to a song then someone else has been where I am. It only made sense to learn how to play an instrument and to make my own music. Place #1: Band Geeks I’ve always loved that term. Band Geek. It just rolls off the tongue right? It was also a title and a group of people who felt like I did and wanted to belong somewhere. What most people don’t know is that even though band is a clique of it’s own, there are different sections within a band which you choose to join from day one. It begins with three words: Woodwind, Brass, or Percussion? This loosely translates into: Would you like to play an instrument that you have to constantly sink money into for reeds and repairs, one where you feel like your lips will fall off after playing, or do you have anger management problems/ADD and want to hit stuff? I first chose Brass, realized I couldn’t really play the trumpet AT ALL, and went back to choose Woodwinds. The next choice was: Which one? Clarinet was the definite answer because it was small, looked easy to play and fun. It’s one of the best choices I’ve ever made in my entire life because the clarinet section consisted of the coolest people I had ever met. We were the talented, smart, funny, socially awkward people that eventually become the awesomest people in high school. That was my home until I came out of my shell and met the greatest influence on my middle school carrier, Mrs. Gilchrist. Place #2: Thespians Mrs. Gilchrist was the reason I joined the fall play. She was the new Drama/Choir teacher that year and she made middle school bearable for me. She also pushed me to do things that she knew I would love, but hadn’t had the guts to do yet because I was shy, like acting and singing in front of a crowd. I had the smallest part in the whole play, an old woman who ran a hotel with her two sisters, but she hadn’t prepared me for the shocker I found in the script. That’s right. Not only was I going to make my acting debut, I had to sing a song and make up the tune for it too. I was terrified! I had NEVER sung or acted for anyone, especially the whole school and their families. How did we know if I even COULD sing? Opening night finally came, my nerves were all over the place and my singing scene was coming up. I walked across the stage, sat down and right on cue sang the lullaby of my own creation. It was perfect and the crowd clapped and cheered for me, a new rush I had never experienced before that filled me up with adrenaline and happiness. I had caught the Thespian bug and could never go back. I had become an acting junkie who’s inner nerd desperately wanted people to see her for the loud, funny person she was. After that, everything was a whirl of acting, memorizing, changing lines, rehearsing, singing and getting that ultimate prize of the thrill of applause, the high of being complimented, and the feeling of being noticed. Finally noticed. Place #3: Choir Freak Mrs. Gilchrist was convinced that now that I had sung in front of everyone, I had to keep doing it because I was actually really good at it. This led to my enrollment into choir. I was singing songs that I loved and had fun singing. All of my clarinet friends came along with me and had a great time discovering new places for their personal nerd needs. Our choir sang everything and everywhere that would take us because we wanted nothing more than to just sing, sing and sing some more. It fulfilled the musical nerd in me who had loved to sing since I was a little girl busting out Britney Spears at the grocery store. It was everything I had ever wanted, but there were a couple more parts of me that still weren’t being expressed. To Be Continued.....

Nerd: an intelligent but single-minded person obsessed with a nonsocial hobby or pursuit My place among the nerds was and has never really been defined; I’ve just always felt that I was one. It probably stemmed from the weird person I was in middle school who nobody really knew because I was shy, awkward, and didn’t have anyone who understood me. Now I realize that that was all of us, but of course no one told me until now. I never knew where my place was just that my attributes were smart, shy, funny, temperamental at times, loved everything comic books, and, most importantly, has a strong love for music. Music has always been a way for me to realize that I’m never alone because if I can relate my life to a song then someone else has been where I am. It only made sense to learn how to play an instrument and to make my own music. Place #1: Band Geeks I’ve always loved that term. Band Geek. It just rolls off the tongue right? It was also a title and a group of people who felt like I did and wanted to belong somewhere. What most people don’t know is that even though band is a clique of it’s own, there are different sections within a band which you choose to join from day one. It begins with three words: Woodwind, Brass, or Percussion? This loosely translates into: Would you like to play an instrument that you have to constantly sink money into for reeds and repairs, one where you feel like your lips will fall off after playing, or do you have anger management problems/ADD and want to hit stuff? I first chose Brass, realized I couldn’t really play the trumpet AT ALL, and went back to choose Woodwinds. The next choice was: Which one? Clarinet was the definite answer because it was small, looked easy to play and fun. It’s one of the best choices I’ve ever made in my entire life because the clarinet section consisted of the coolest people I had ever met. We were the talented, smart, funny, socially awkward people that eventually become the awesomest people in high school. That was my home until I came out of my shell and met the greatest influence on my middle school carrier, Mrs. Gilchrist. Place #2: Thespians Mrs. Gilchrist was the reason I joined the fall play. She was the new Drama/Choir teacher that year and she made middle school bearable for me. She also pushed me to do things that she knew I would love, but hadn’t had the guts to do yet because I was shy, like acting and singing in front of a crowd. I had the smallest part in the whole play, an old woman who ran a hotel with her two sisters, but she hadn’t prepared me for the shocker I found in the script. That’s right. Not only was I going to make my acting debut, I had to sing a song and make up the tune for it too. I was terrified! I had NEVER sung or acted for anyone, especially the whole school and their families. How did we know if I even COULD sing? Opening night finally came, my nerves were all over the place and my singing scene was coming up. I walked across the stage, sat down and right on cue sang the lullaby of my own creation. It was perfect and the crowd clapped and cheered for me, a new rush I had never experienced before that filled me up with adrenaline and happiness. I had caught the Thespian bug and could never go back. I had become an acting junkie who’s inner nerd desperately wanted people to see her for the loud, funny person she was. After that, everything was a whirl of acting, memorizing, changing lines, rehearsing, singing and getting that ultimate prize of the thrill of applause, the high of being complimented, and the feeling of being noticed. Finally noticed. To Be Continued...

I have submitted this to /r/tipofmytongue but I'm wondering if I will find better luck here. I was in the 8th grade when I read this short story in our English class. We were studying the definition of irony in stories, and this one was a bit gruesome. Had dark undertones. We read stuff like 'Tell Tale Heart', 'Lamb to the Slaughter', 'The Most Dangerous Game', etc. What I remember from it was, a family lived in a well off neighbourhood constantly had vandals coming into the area and breaking in. So the parents set up a huge security system in and around the home. 10 feet tall wall, large barbed wire on top and a security system that would kill anyone who trespassed. One day the young boy (4 or 5) of the family decides to chase the family cat around the yard. The cat is quick and manages to weave it's way around the barb wire with ease. Well the boy ends up on top of the wall crawling on his hands and knees through the barbed wire. The alarm is set off, and the parents come running out. The boy ends up caught in the wire (I think), and the security system shreds him to pieces as the parents watch. That's how I remember it, may have been a little different but that was the just of it. Tldr; Ironic short story. Family puts up this huge security system to keep the bad people out, and the family safe. End up of killing their own son because of it.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful oak tree full with small and big acorns, All the birds and squirrels visit the tree to have parties and eat the acorns but as the tree got older it became very, very sick. All the acorns fell of the tree except one acorn. The acorn that was left, was very lonely. As all his friends left. He cried himself to sleep every night. One day a bird flew past the tree. The bird was very tired and sad as he lost his family on his way to the sun. He saw the sick oak tree and landed on a branch to sleep. The acorn saw the bird and said: Oh bird, Hello? But the bird did not hear him as he was so tired. The acorn stayed up all night so he would not miss the bird. He was so happy, finally he would have a friend and would be able to leave the tree. When the bird woke up, he was very hungry. He finally saw the acorn and flew over to the acorn. Hello mister bird said the acorn. Oh hello acorn, I am very hungry said the bird. The acorn was very happy and said to the bird: I would like to come with you. I want too become an oak tree myself. The bird said: Okay, Let’s go on an adventure together. The bird flew away once he was finished eating the acorn and went looking for his family. He flew and flew and when he finally found the land of the sun he found his family again. A few days later the acorn fell out of the bird into the grass below. The acorn found a nice spot to sleep. The rain came and years past. The bird always came back to the acorn each year. Until the bird was old and grey and the acorn was a beautiful and big oak tree full with acorns which the bird would eat. The end.

“You doubt the power of artificial intelligence,” speaks Eleanor, “but what if you fail to distinguish the difference between your lover- Lana- with a highly intelligent machine- M91?” Roster goes silent. He knows he would be able to tell the difference; after all he was the programmer of said machine. “I would suppose M91 has more usefulness after all, but I am all too aware that it is incapable of mimicking another human, moreover Lana,” Roster says calmly. “Oh.” Alan interrupts, “But it says in this document that you were only responsible for the beta-development of M91 and not for the final product.” Alan and Eleanor both gaze at Roster through their intelligent glasses. The room is filled with this thickness that makes Roster feel glumly. He coughs then repeats what he have said prior to this conversation and many other times, “Yes, but the final product is based on the foundation- a flawed construct- that I have created. The algorisms are flawed, the entire prototype is a disaster, and even if M91 is capable of intellectual and creative thinking, it cannot surpass the human capabilities.” Roster feels relieved and sips the remaining water that is left in the cup. “Well,” Alan speaks, breaking Roster’s hope of going home today to forget about this deluded project, “let’s play a game, then.

Leo & I rode on the side walk. I borrowed one of his bikes. It got the job done. Nothing fancy. It was obvious there was better, yet still no reason to complain. Felt much like the Thursday night it was, pleasant cool air, oddly familiar orange glow of streetlight dripping from the palms. His up bringing was much more gruesome than mine. I thought I had it bad, worse than any other. Leo's stories put me in my place. Fatherless, he looked up to his older brother. Leo used to get picked on. Fully grown at 5'5", probably less than 130 lbs, that much I could have guessed. He felt tired of it by age eight. His brother seemed keen of his disposition. One night Leo's brother took him out with him. It was payback night against rivals. Once they corralled a few enemies, they led them indoors and forced them to their knees. Little Leo ceased as a prisoner's brain particles traversed the span of the room, finally yielding in a random array on the wall. The shock and disbelief dissipated, replaced by giddiness as Leo tugged more & more triggers on his own. Normalized as an executioner, Leo lived on a floating iceberg. Slave to the current, frozen hard, yet master of his solitary realm. At times life seems random. Leo, ahead of me by about five lengths, wheeled into a hazard too mighty for the cycle. He toppled quickly and groaned near a curb. I still had a few seconds 'till I could catch up. At first I felt shocked, but thought what Leo might expect. Concern and worry seemed unmanly at the time so I let out contemptuous, brief, shrieky laughter. The response contained the scene within a "funny when it's not you" frame. I pulled up thinking I could help, but Leo already began stabilizing. I watched him get back on, as I slowly peddled forward. Leo quickly caught up, slowing down to whisper in my ear. "I heard how you laughed, mother fucker. Now I know how it is you'd treat a friend." He sped past. We arrived at our destination, and proceeded as if all was the same.

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I am not a writer but was inspired to write something a while back out of nowhere. Here is the result, let me know what you think. I am sitting across the table from whom I presume to be someone else’s wife, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about. She’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that you hope she doesn't realize because it would spoil her. The kind of beauty that seeks meaning in both casual encounters with life’s every-day problems and that seeks meaning in the things most important to her. The kind of beauty I wish I had. We make eye contact, and she looks away as quickly as our eyes met. She is surrounded by this aura of confidence that would intimidate the king of the jungle. I want to approach her but I am frozen in my seat. She meets my gaze again, this time for a few seconds longer than last and it seems as if she can see right through me. She sees the fear in my heart and deems me unworthy of even prey. Her husband is sitting next to her and I wish I was the air between them if only to just be the molecules that would bounce off her and float away forever. She makes small talk with the people around her and her lips move as if she’s speaking in verses, a rhythm that I could never possibly understand for I have never been good at small talk no matter who it was with. They announce my name from the podium and I begin to get up to receive my award. I walk up to the podium surrounded by the sound of hands clapping, make my speech, and walk back to my seat. An hour passes and not once has she even looked in my direction. As the evening comes an end it’s as if everyone in the room gets up in unison. The speed at which we rose from our seats seems to be the only thing I have in common with her. She approaches me and I am stunned. She leans in takes my hand, kisses me, and says “congratulations.” And I realize why I am so infatuated with this woman, she is my wife and I have fallen in love with her all over again.

The rain quietly hits the mans window as he looks outside sadly into the outside world wondering if he has a true purpose in life. He walks around his cabin with nothing but a couch in the center of the room, and a gun box tucked away at the very corner, no one knew he was a hunter he didn’t even know until he saw “it” sitting on the rack at the gun store. He remembers picking it up and looking at it, softly rubbing his finger across the cold metal of the barrel and putting his finger around the trigger, it almost felt as if the gun was made for him. He had to get it he thought to himself, and so he did. When he got to his cabin he couldn’t wait to take it out of the box, but he decided he would wait, he didn’t want to ruin the moment. So he decided to put it back into the box and left it there for a few days, days then turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and months turned into years. The man finally after years of not stepping foot into the cabin returns, he walks in and looks around, he has forgotten how long it has been since he has been in the place he once called his home. He has clearly aged since last time he was in here growing a beard and looking as if he has doubled in age. He takes a minute to embrace the thought of finally being able to go back into the cabin he looks around and finally see’s the gun box in the corner of the room. He quietly walks to the corner almost as if he is trying not to wake somebody up in the other room; he removes the gun out of the box. He takes a long look at it taking in the beauty of the perfectly crafted woodwork. However someone could craft such a beautiful piece of art he did not know, but what he did know is that he finally feels that he has something to live for. He grabs 2 bullets out of the box and begins to walk to his front door feeling as if he is a brand new man. As he steps out of his small cabin he takes in a deep breath of the cold air, he feels it enter his lungs waits until they are full of air and exhales as he glances at the breath exiting his mouth. He stands still and does this for quite some time inhales exhales and repeats until he feels he’s ready to begin his new journey. He begins to walk into the tall trees that surround his cabin; slowly he creeps into the tall bushes. He begins to creep silently deeper and deeper into the forest, trying to not make a sound. Do not make any noise he thinks to himself this is your chance you only have 2 bullets don’t waste them. Out of the corner of his eye he sees something running toward the lake, he turns frantically begins to walk faster and faster but still not trying to make any noise. He waits meticulously like a hawk hunting for its prey, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Within 100 yards he sees the deer standing at the lake, he begins to breath faster and faster. He can hear his heart beating harder and faster pumping the cold blood through his veins. He slowly puts the 2 bullets into the bolt, continuously looking up not trying to lose sight of his target. He pulls back the bolt handle and pushes one of the bullets into the chamber. He hears the click of the bullet entering the chamber, slowly raising the gun he puts the butt against his shoulder and begins to aim for the target. He begins to breath frantically not being able to keep his sights on the deer; he calms himself down and takes in one long breath holding it in for as long as he can. He gently squeezes the trigger and the bullet flies out of the muzzle, the birds begin to fly out of the trees causing him to panic thinking that he missed his target. He looks up noticing that the target is nowhere to be found. He begins to run looking for the deer, his running comes to halt when he sees a body laying on the floor blood pouring out of the back of its head. He walks slowly toward the body, but what he sees begins to make him stutter and twitch because it was not a deer that he shot, nor was it a man but it was a young boy running through the forest about to go fishing in the pond. A boy whose family is now waiting for him at home, thinking that he would surely be back within the coming minutes. The boy may not have been over 7 years old, light blonde hair, his bright blue eyes that were now lifeless. He was wearing a light blue t-shirt which was now soaked in blood. The man began to hold the boy in his arms as tears began to fall down his cheeks as he feels the ice-cold blood flowing through his veins. He looks around to make sure no one saw what has transpired in the past 10 minutes. He looks down at the one item he used to call his friend, thinking that the gun has betrayed him. Shaking as he pulls back the bolt handle putting the final bullet into the chamber he turns the gun on himself putting the cold muzzle against his mouth and with another gentle press of the trigger he is gone. His body tumbles to the ground the boy’s head still on his lap.

technically* a short story, just a short part (actually I guess it's pretty long) of a story, but i think it still fits. I've always liked the post-apocalyptic genre, and the fantasy genre too. But these types of stories seem like a dime a dozen nowadays, so a few days ago I came up with what I think was a cool idea. What if I mixed the two together? So I cranked this out, figured this would be the best place for constructive criticism, not only on my writing but if the plot/story/genre itself is good. Anyways, here it is:** “I wonder what day it is,” Drake asked, looking at the sky. The sunlight cut through the irradiated atmosphere, giving the world a red tint. The color was different everyday. It could have been beautiful, in another situation. “Like, what day of the week? Or the date?” Zach replied with little emotion. He kicked at a rock as they walked. “The date. Or just the month at least,” Drake muttered. “The fuck does it matter,” Zach spat, “it’s either the day you die, or the day you almost die. That’s the way it’s been, the way it is, and the way it’s always gonna be.” Drake wanted to argue, to yell at Zach and tell him he was wrong, but deep down Drake knew that Zach was right. Time was irrelevant. A human creation forged out of fear, a fear of the unknown. Whether Zach’s idea had been that deep, Drake had no idea, but the point still stood. The pair walked along side each other at a slow pace, the broken gravel of the road crunching at their feet, the sun beating down on their heads. There was fields of sand all around them, only broken by a single road. “Do you remember sunscreen?” Zach asked. Drake shook his head. “Ugh, it was fantastic. A lotion that you rubbed on your skin, and it protected you from the sun,” Zach grunted, the nostalgia clear in his voice. “Of course, I never really needed it before, but now I would...” Zach stopped. “What?” Drake motioned after a few seconds of silence. “You would what?” “Shut up, I heard something,” Zach stood still, his eyes scanning the horizon. “There’s not a building for another mile, if someone were here we would see them,” Drake said with confidence. He was young, only eleven. One of the youngest in the tribe, he had asked to go along with Zach on his daily hunt for supplies. Zach reluctantly agreed. As a senior member, it was Zach’s responsibility to help train the young, although Zach himself wasn’t much older. At sixteen, he was the youngest member on the council, but by far the strongest. There were rumors that his veins flowed with the blood of the gods themselves. Zach didn’t believe in the gods, however, and only laughed when he heard the stories. Zach didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t kill. “It almost sounds like a car,” Zach said, ignoring Drake’s comment, “no, it couldn’t be…” Suddenly Drake heard something too. A low rumbling sound. He felt vibrations through the ground. “Take my forty five and run behind that big rock over there,” Zach commanded Drake, “if anything happens to me, fire it into the air and run. We’re close enough to home that the others will hear it, and they’ll come and get you. You understand?” Drake nodded, afraid. Zach gave him a push and Drake ran as fast as he could, sliding behind the rock. Zach looked at the car heading down the road. It was big. Zach tried recalling the name. *Ess you cee?* Zach thought, the name on the tip of his tongue. *Ess you vee!* He remembered. *Large, with good suspension and shocks, made for traveling rough terrain*, Zach mentally checked through his brain. The SUV was closer now, half a mile away. Zach cleared his throat and took a swig from his canteen. He knew the car would stop. He didn’t move a muscle. As the vehicle roared closer, it began to slow. *Fuck*, Zach winced behind his face, *I forgot how loud these things are*. The car screeched to a halt a foot in front of Zach. All four doors flew open. Three men, and one small woman, climbed out. The largest one was carrying a baseball bat, the other two had small pocket knives. “Who the fuck are you?” The woman shouted. Zach’s face turned to stone. He eyes burned through each of them. “Does it matter?,” Zach asked. His words were colder than ice, yet they still carried humor. Or at least Zach thought so. He calmly pulled his knife from it’s sheath on his lower back and pointed it at the group. “Get your asses back in the fucking car, turn it the fuck around, or you die where you stand.” There was an uncomfortable silence. Zach didn’t like silence. It always led to something worse. The man with the club began to laugh. A deep chortle, as if he truly meant it. Zach knew he didn’t. As abruptly as he started, the man stopped, and immediately lunged at Zach. He swung the bat. Zach ducked and kicked the man’s arm at his wrist, causing the weapon to fly across the road. Zach reached up and grabbed the man by his neck, pulling him down to eye level. He silently thrust the knife into the man’s neck, twisted it, and pulled it back. Blood spurted out, caking Zach’s face. The man slumped over, gargling and choking, hands clutching at his throat. *What a pathetic death*, Zach chuckled to himself. One of the other men yelled and began towards Zach. He took a step towards him and kicked his foot into the man’s chest with all his strength, and felt the air leave his lungs. The man landed on the hood of the car, rolled off the side, and began to cough blood. Zach flipped his knife over in his hands and flung it at the last man. It lodged into his skull with a soft *thump*. As the lifeless body fell back, Zach saw the woman’s face of smugness turn to pure fear. Zach carried the same face he usually did; boredom. He glanced at the man on the ground, hacking and coughing chunks of flesh. *Well that’s different*, Zach surprisedly thought. *How the fuck did I kick him that hard?* He lifted his foot into the air, and brought it down on the man’s face. The man screamed as his nose shattered and his jaw dislocated. Zach did it again, and again. The screams turned to whimpers and sobs. The face had become a mashed combination of skin, bone, and blood. Zach crammed his heel into the center of the mass, causing the skull to crack and ooze brain. The crying stopped. Zach stared at the woman with his electric blue eyes. Her mouth was agape, trying to find the words that kept slipping her tongue. “Y-y-you’re an animal,” she finally whispered , shaking with fear, in too much shock to cry. Zach gave a short laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before!” Zach smiled, “Monster, psychopath, demi-god, but never ‘animal’. I like that.

There he was, staring at a blank wall. “Is it true? What she said? Is imagination only for little boys and girls? Or is it for everyone? I don’t believe it for one second. People need imagination, it is what fuels creativity, it’s what fuels the inventions that have advanced us so far, but what if that’s it? What if imagination is only acceptable when it’s productive? Everyone looks down upon the kid who looks out the window not doing his matching shapes homework. No one looks up to the man daydreaming at his desk job, but why? Why should we look down on people for dreaming of achieving their goals, of dreaming of a better life not being stuck in a crowded classroom or a small cubical. These tiny fantasies work as a motivator, making us believe that we can do better. So why am I finding so difficult to imagine myself in a better situation? The things I did I did because I had no way to express myself. My parents, teachers, my wife, all told me to stop being a child, to stop wasting time. Now I here, in this empty room. Walls with no windows, doors, or carpet. Maybe I did it on purpose. Maybe I knew that they would lock me in here alone with my thoughts, because it was exactly what I needed, and I knew it. So I won’t worry, I’ll be cured soon.” There he was, smiling at a blank wall.

Little Tamboule was proud. His test was the most beutiful of its kind and of all the priests he was held in the highest regard. Its silicate horns and mail like flaps were garish and avant garde' and as he negotiated the cavernous cloisters of cold anthracite and zircon his tail swished from side to side along the polished floor. Now Little Tamboule was tall for a human, over 4 feet did he stand and with his tall black mitre atop his tiny head a further 3 feet were added. And many whispered in corridors that he, Tamboule, would one day attain the rank of Administrator and dwell in the deepest, dampest part of the Cathedral, and dine on only the best and sweetest roots. And yet Tamboule never did sleep soundly, for during the hours before the dawn he would often awake from disquieting dreams in a delerium and attendants would often find him in the high towers atop a litter of powdered clay which, as a geophage, he consumed in a misguided bid to banish the reoccuring mania. You see Tamboule hid a terrible secret, one which would summon heavy handed ordinators and scornful justiciers, and The Pit of The World would await him as punishment. For Tamboule had legs, as real as the dawn and felshy and strong. Such appendages were rare amoungst his people and those who bore anything but the smallest of atrophied lower limbs were cast into the pit of the slithering thing as abominations, there to dwell for the long night as worms. And on the night of Kerimas Little Tamboule gibbered and twitched on his mound of clay, and he clung to his chest roots and cones - but this night was like no other, for in his tired, altered state, Tamboule had cast off his test as he fled from his bed chamber and there he lay only with his gown of ermine draped accross his body, he legs unfurled and naked for all to see. And a throng of priests decended on the room, a jagged forest of black hats, envy upon their withered grey faces. Their vestigial eyes gazed upon the atavist, the throwback, the legg'd one who lay on the litter and insulted them so. And many fingers were pointed and horrid slanderous words were levelled at Little Tamboule. And yet amoungst the throng there were those who were sadened by what they saw, like Adir and Themote who had once tutored Tamboule in the ways of the priesthood, many more still were fond of this remarkable prodigy though they stood in silence, powerless to act, and the seething mob lunged forward to engulf his pathetic form. Tamboule was cast into The Pit of the Earth after a swift trial in which 800 out of the 1000 members of the jury had reported a guilty verdict. And though he anticipayed a quick death dashed on jagged rocks by chance a dweller of the pit, a jovial and terrifying creature called a Tryth had broken his fall. The Tryth was only too happy to aid little Tamboule in his endeavours, in exchange for stories about the world above, of dust storms and cutlury, and porcelain and how people carried smooth coins of obsidian and copper. The vast tryth, he explained in a gutteral tongue, was a vast servitor of a long forgotten people who once called the pit their home. Sadly They had expired long ago and the tryth-kind had eeked out a living feeding on the carrion and fungi that frequented this foul foetid foyer. It was clear that the telling of this story moved the Tryth and copious oily tears rained down on the dry earth of mica clay below. It was not difficult to ellicit help from the bulbous creature and after the 2 had slept they decided to set out in a bid to escape. A days trek through the tunnels of the worm brought the pair to an even vaster cavern where they sat and rested. Tamboule could feel a breeze eminating from the cavern mouth which sat over a vast canyon, the bottom of which could not be seen in this place so dim as it was. And it was Tamboules wish that the 2 would fly high over the precipice and to freedom, and he offered the Tryth a most wonderful story in return. It should be said that the Tryst was not suited to flight, so full was his enormous belly and so pendulous was his hilarious head furniture. And to make matters worse the Tryth had a memory so poor he condtantly regailed Tamboule with the same childish queries about ducks and grapes. But Tamboule persisted and fashioned himself a carriage from earths which he would dangle below the Tryths mighty bulk in the manner of an luxury airship liner and this prompted sad memories of his belived bone china and fine bejewelled plates and cups. Hence forth a fire was set below the Tryth and the smoke filled his vestigial cavity; and Tamboule was taken aback at the sight of the enornous animal growing fatter and fatter like a great baloon.And the Tryst took to the air and floated gracefully over the seemingly bottomless canyon in an effortless manner, its wings beating a steady cadence while Tamboule regailed and soothed the beast with a sonnet about Ham. On an exposed promontory just outside the cave mouth Tamboule an d The Tryth sat in silence, their last onion had perished and a noxious worm had made its home in their last apple. The worm taunted the two as they formulated a plan to descend the mountain. The Tryth was growing weaker by the day, so far was he from the irradiated halls deep in the bowels of tbe earth. And so on the 14th day Tamboule awoke to find that his companion was no more and he felt sad. But Tamboule ate well and made himself a skin drum, a dapper cap, a kite and a back pack which he filled with jerky. And from the bones a crude glider was fashioned which fliated down the mountainside carrying Tamboule to the vally below.

It had been a little over a year since he had disappeared, and she was the only witness. My loyal companion for the last eleven years, her eyes peered over her graying muzzle and gazed intently into mine, as if she was trying to read my mind. She’d done this since she was a puppy. Despite her age, she was still an active dog; she loved to run. For the last year, though, she hadn’t been quite right. Something had happened the day he disappeared that had changed her, and she was the only one who could say what it was. Maybe she wasn’t trying to read my mind anymore, maybe she was desperately wishing I could read hers. I had unlocked our front door that evening, after a long day of work, expecting him to be there. Instead I found the kitchen sink running, and her backed into a corner, barking like mad. His shoes were oddly placed in the middle of the floor, a stride apart, as though they had fallen off while he was mid-step. She wouldn’t take her eyes off those shoes. There wasn’t much room to hide in our one-bedroom apartment, so it quickly became clear that he wasn’t there. His car was still in the parking lot, his keys and wallet still on the mantle. And the sink. Running. I tried describing to my closest friends and family the feeling of dread and panic I felt the moment I stepped into my home that day, like a fugue before a seizure, or a nauseating déjà vu, but they couldn’t hear me, had no idea what I was trying to say. “Of course something bad happened, he’s missing,” they’d say. What I was trying to tell them was that it wasn’t just the usual “bad” that happened there, a kidnapping, an assault, horrible but normal things that you hear about every day. He had been in our home, on a normal, sunny day, and something truly abnormal, something not right, had happened to him. I could feel it. And I could feel that he was still out there, existing somewhere, and suffering, and this knowledge was more than I could bear. The weeks and months that followed were a dark, anxiety-soaked blur. The police went through the process of ruling me out as a suspect pretty quickly; I had been at work. I wasn’t strong enough or big enough to move his body. There was no evidence of a struggle. The dog and I slept on the couch every night – I hadn’t allowed her up there in years. She was the only one with whom I could share my numbness, my horror and despair. I had nightmares. Worse, I would dream that he had come back to me, that I would wake up in bed and he was next to me smiling widely, and it was a normal workday, only to awaken on the couch and have my reality flood in on me again. No funeral, no casket, no closure. Only a year of nights on the couch, in the apartment we used to share, knowing in my bones that he needed help, knowing I would never find him. A few acquaintances had recommended that I go to a medium, or a pet psychic, to find out what happened. I thanked them but knew there was no way in hell I was doing that. Others began to point out that he had been missing for so long that it was probably time to move on. On the one-year anniversary of his disappearance, I received a letter. When I first read it, I assumed it was a tasteless joke, and threw it in the trash. But then I got the phone call. A researcher, a neurologist, on the other side of the country was in the initial stages of testing a method to download information directly from brain matter. They hadn’t opened the testing up to human tissue, but they had been working with monkeys, cats… and dogs. The researcher explained that this was an opportunity for us to help each other. He could find out what the dog knew while simultaneously proving the worth of his research in a way that would guarantee future funding - “would you like to know what happened to your partner?” The catch? It might not work, and because of her age, she might die. I wrestled with the decision for two weeks. I had lost one piece of me, was it worth it to potentially lose another? Forever? But she was an old dog, and what if it worked? What if she died, but I still found out what happened, could end his suffering? Get some closure? Maybe even get him back? Would her quiet, painless death justify the end to his possible torment? I didn’t tell anyone, not my friends, coworkers, or family members, about the decision I was faced with. I took her for long walks, I let her run off-leash, I fed her table scraps as my decision began to cement in my mind. It didn’t feel ethical, to betray my loyal dog in this way, but I had to try. We flew across the country, to this lab in the basement of a university building, where I’m holding her face for what may be the last time, and her trusting gaze is more than I can take. I hate myself, and I’m so empty that there’s plenty of room for my self-loathing. I tell her I love her. I tell her I’ll see her soon. I leave. It’s six hours since I said good-bye to my dog, my friend for the last 11 years. The researcher’s graduate students are telling me that she went peacefully, that she just never woke up after she went under. They tell me that the researcher is downloading the data now to see if the procedure worked, that it may take a moment, that the data may have gotten scrambled in the process, we have to wait and see. I sit numbly, holding her collar in my hands. My sadness is bottomless, it seeps into my bones. I barely hear them talk. I feel truly alone. I hate myself, I wish that I had just been satisfied with the despair I felt after losing him. Why did I decide to risk her life for such a long shot? I sit on a tall metal stool, hunched, expressionless, while we wait the endless fifteen minutes it takes for the researcher to finish his task. I realize that, whatever the result, I’ll never get my life back the way it was before, before he disappeared, when it was perfect, and this thought kills me.

*My feet hurt.* Bolt zips down the street passed the ragged shops funneling all the traffic through the middle. There are no lanes, only a horde of people pushing past each other, running through this horde is no small feat. The smell of fish and vegetables linger in the air as Bolt pushes his way passed more people. He is twelve, dark skinned and short for his age. Behind him a group of three teenagers scramble through the crowd of people chasing him down. “I see him!” one says. “Right ahead!” The crowd grumbles as they get pushed aside for the chase. The crowd slowly parts for them. They are given just a single glance before people go back to their daily lives. Some don’t even bother looking at the commotion, they just continue shopping. “He’s cutting the corner!” another teenager screams. “Cut him off!” Bolt turns a corner into an alley. He skips down the alley careful to avoid the broken glass on the floor. The most common injury in his trade is caused by rubble on the ground. Not very many children can afford shoes. Behind him his teenage pursuers are catching up. There is no crowd in the alley so the longer strides of the teenagers allow them to start catching up. Bolt weaves through the maze of alleyways. He knows exactly where he is going, but the problem is, so do the teenagers. They grew up in these streets just as he did and they knew all the secret corners in the alleys. But Bolt is small, he is still young, and the teenagers have long ago grown out of their childish bodies. Bolt dips to the side and crawls through a broken window with shards of glass still clinging onto its sides. His arms scrape against the triangular shards, he barely even feels it. Cold sweat drips down his forehead as he jumps into the dusty room below. He lands on a table that creaks under his weight. He stumbles off of it and staggers his way forward. The room is so filled with dust that it is dangerous to breathe, so he doesn’t. With his breath held he pushes his way towards the door, he reaches it and pushes it forward. It doesn’t budge. His eyes widen in panic as he applies his entire body to the weight of the door, but nothing happens. “You think we don’t know about the Old Shack?” says a teenager from the other side of the door. “I believe you have something of ours.” *Fucking Hawks.* On the other side of the shack the other two teenagers have reached the window. They are too big to fit through the window. “Hey,” one of the teenagers says to the other one. “Bring some trash, I have a lighter, we’ll smoke him out.” The other teenager rushes off to collect trash off the streets. Bolt struggles to keep his breath held. He reaches into his pocket to feel the Ziploc bag that he has kept hidden there. What he had is literally worth somebody’s life. “If you go back out the window, I promise we won’t kill you.” The teenager at the door sneers. “You can’t stay in here forever either. Give us what’s ours.” Bolt’s body shakes as he strains against the feeling of suffocation. He curls up into a little ball on the ground as he feels his lungs start to whither. *Somebody help me! Please. God help me!* Out of the corner of his eye he spots a small stream of sunlight. As rapidly as he can he crawls towards it. There is a small hole where the wood has rotted away, but it is plugged up by dust. He puts his mouth over the hole and with the last of his oxygen, puffs as hard as he can. The dust blows out. He clenches the rotting wood and greedily sucks oxygen from the hole. He feels the immediate relief of exhaling, but now it is replaced with a dire feeling of need. He is not getting enough oxygen from this hole. Still, there is no alternative, so he keeps sucking air. He is light-headed and dizzy, his legs are shaking and he is having trouble clenching the wood. He feels sleepy, but if he goes to sleep now, it is all over. Plus, he still had a job.

Just beneath The Car Park of Good and Evil were wasps. But this is not important. Lower still dwelt shy flies, so jealous of the splendid wasps with their paper lairs that lay above them. But this too is not important. Lower still in the silted storm drains and sewers of The Old Kingdom a creature much less amazing made its home. Its feet were lodged in the old clay tiles that paved the underground labyrinth while many miles away its long fingers probed the mud beneath a grey sky in the bay of Lameeth. This creature was known as The Gweep though so vestigial was his tiny brain he had no need for monikers nor did he need the long tubular eyes atop his lolling head in the darkness. Only Sweet cockles and nervous whelks did he desire and his fingers strummed the sea bed in search of them. But so too did the people of Manyet who dwelt on the chalk cliffs above and who would troll the bay in small ships and coracles. The villagers had no love for The Gweep and the piles of shells he disgorged and the acrid sap that he and his clones left on sewer walls tainted their waters and crops. The Lugal of the town was a kind man who felt sorry for The Gweep and despite the bad blood that existed between the village men and the sewer denizen he attempted to parley and make things good. But The Gweep had no knowledge of language nor etiquette or common decency nor did it have want of gold or tinned food or white buds. And the sweet cakes and meat offered in great bowls were of little interest. And the cheerful Lugal became a sad lugal. And no consolation could be given for despite his offers the Gweep still dwelt beneath The Car Park of Good and evil and the oyster beds and whelk colonies were plucked of their gelatinous inhabitants and small children gnawed hungrily on corn cobs and dry roots. And so all about the land heralds and couriers summoned the great and the talented to the white cliffs in a bid to banish the great mass that dwelt below. And cars and carriages and steam trucks and great processions of horses and elephants descended on that sleepy backwater town in great parades. And at dawn a great crowd gathered on the heath by the cliffs by the Great Drain which filtered down to the home of The Gweep. And a crimson clad sorcerer with an enormous hat played a queer tune on a gigantic organ, its pipes encrusted with jewels and beads of rare metals. And wide eyed urchins clustered about it in awe only to be scattered by the deep base tone that was sent forth as the maniacal organist peddled furiously. And the sound built and women gasped and hid their eyes in fear of what was to come next... But still The Gleep remained. And a piper pranced about with a ridiculous flute that stank of Gee and ash and dull notes. And though the copper and clay pipes shuddered The Gweep remained. And a thousand luxurious pelicans sealed in oil were poured into the depths below, and the same encased in jelly were offered, and yet still The Gweep remained. And a procession of Magi with an orchestra assembled atop a mighty saurian pointed glass flutes, oboes, bassoons and harps and played a free form jazz medley. And yet The Gweep still remained. Dancers and pyromancers came and went, and mercenaries and thugs fled in terror leaving scattering fires and camps dotted over the now barren land that flanked the sea cliffs. And despite the desolation yet more people thronged to the scene and even a de-creped grandmother armed with a lethal looking rolling pin descended into the depths in search of the terror though all that remained was a smock and a set of ivories. And sadness befell the crowd. As the years passed the torrent of famous individuals became a trickle and the food stands and booths disappeared, replaced with dark alters to obscure and evil gods, and below those gathered not delicate posies of rose and myrtle but sacrifices to The God Sul and his Heavenly Horde. There, weapons of steel and bone were brought forth, stone and flint, and huge baskets of pitch too along with arrows and harpoons and slings. And the vally was scoured clean of the shambling horned beats that once called the blasted flatlands their home, their carapaces used to make beautiful armours and banners. And a general of sorts clambered to the front of the restless multitude with a horn clasped in his long fingers, and an ode to the dead, those who had passed and those who would come to pass, was played and heads were bowed in memory. And as the black flag of R'Qwot hit the earth the rag tag host charged forward into the depths below, and men scrabbled over each other to claim the glory, and many amongst them tumbled and fell. And though a silent crowd gathered at the entrance in hope no soul returned.

"Well, in layman's terms I can honestly say that I have no idea what it is" I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, not bothering to mask my dissatisfaction in front of the Professor "Can you explain to me what data you have in scientific terms?" I asked irritably The scientist nodded, his bald head shining in the floodlights in the cave. "Certainly" he said as he picked up a data pad "The composition of the device is a complex mineral containing both organic and inorganic elements, only a few of which we can readily identify. The rest are totally new to us. We do know that it gives off very faint electromagnetic signals. Remarkably the frequency seems to shift randomly, going from infra-red and radio waves, down to the UV spectrum. So far the analysis of these signals has yielded negligible results. Sometimes we detect slight magnetic fields, coming from it and sometimes we don't. The origin of the structure, the nature of its shape, its purpose, its power source (if any), its cultural significance, the means of its construction, and most importantly, what it does, are beyond current comprehension due to all our extensive experiments being completely inconclusive" I groaned "So, in other words..." "We have no damn clue what this thing is" The Professor finished, wiping his head with a damp cloth. "Seriously this thing could be anything, maybe a xeno construct, or something from the lost colonies, whatever it is, it's old, it’s been in this hole for a least six millennium, and is most likely much older than that" I walked around the structure, set into the ground of the cave... well it wasn't a cave exactly; a cave implies an opening, something that can be accessed naturally. Not this place. I guess the best word to describe it is as a cavern, a deep dark hollow, inexplicably existing almost a mile beneath the surface of Hupp, the official designation given to both the mining colony and the planet upon it resides. I took a closer look at the object, brushing a strand of black hair away from my eyes. I needed to get it cut, but outside of Sol, good barbers were hard to find and I didn’t trust Xeno barbers, mostly because the majority of them do not have hair , and are not used to shaping it, plus most of them have horrible fashion sense. "So, remind me, Professor Gunnson, what does this place mine again?" “Well, this particular colony rests over a rich ore of the mineral Cooperite, which contains palladium and Platinum, quite common for an Outer-world on this Spiral. Hupp-town (what the miners call their colony) primarily works with the extraction of the ore, but it is shipped off to the Central Hub of this Solar System to be refined. "And how long has this mine been operational?" "Ah...roughly 20 years, in earth time of course, Mr. Demmit" "Soooo" I began " Why is it that a sophisticated mining operation like this, with over a decade’s experience working this patch of dirt, no doubt performing countless sonar and thermal underground imaging, had no idea that this place existed until they physically broke into it?" Gunnson shrugged his shoulders, 'That's another mystery, I guess. The funny thing is, after this place was found, subsequent imaging actually mapped out this very room, despite identical previous scans being unable to detect it. Perhaps it was some sort of Obstruction field, made so that this cavern would be unidentifiable by any sort of scans unless physically broken into, which would support the idea of it being an alien device." "Hmm" I said and started at the structure again. It was indeed a most strange thing. It was completely black, darker than Obsidian, without pattern or variation and quite tall, at least six feet. Its shape (if it even had one) was undeniably strange; the closest approximation I can give is of a three dimensional paint splatter, a chaotic conglomeration of artistry and design. Spheres which curved away into trapezoidal ridges resting on tiny poles that should not have been able to support its weight. On its top a split hollow that looked like a mouth with mismatched triangular teeth, resting diagonally atop a cyclopean lump, from which strands of the material branched off to form animalistic designs, such as claws and wings, and disturbingly, a human face. On one side, a variety of non-Euclidian shapes seemed to have been fused together, haphazardly, like a child’s tower of building blocks. It was an incomprehensible work, almost schizophrenic when you'd thought you understood the shape from looking at one part, it would connect to something completely different and incompatible to the previous segment you saw. This inconsistency carried over to its construction. In one light you would swear it gleamed like iron pained black, others it had the texture of polished rock, and some had no texture at all, just the sheer blackness of it. Like the mysterious shapes, whenever you sought to find the join, where the two different materials met, you could not find it, the distinction melted the further you looked, with the only results being a headache. There was an indescribable wrongness to it, like it was something that had no right existing. Even if it had been resting out in the sunlight it would have looked simply weird, but down here, in the oppression of the cavern, with the floodlights throwing shadows onto the surrounding walls and stalactites, it looked especially creepy. I pulled out a cigarette "Is it safe to smoke in here?" I asked. Gunnson nodded "yes, we hooked up an extra ventilation fan in the chamber, though I would prefer it if you would refrain from doing so" I lit up and took a drag, feeling a little calmer. The professor sighed. "So...Mr. Demmit" The Professor broke the silence "Why exactly did the Institute send you here?" I Looked at him "You received a transmission from the main office shortly before my arrival, what did it say?" Gunnson frowned confusedly "Just that you were going to 'appraise' the artifact" I nodded "Well, Professor, that's exactly what I do. Whenever something new is discovered (or claimed to be discovered), be it a new breed of Digworm in a R&D lab, a more efficient Warp-core in a parking garage, or an ancient ceremonial bowl from an archeological dig site, etcetera, the moment the Institute gets wind of it, they send me in to inspect it and then I advise them of what potential use they could receive from these discoveries." "So, hypothetically speaking, if you were to make a judgment now, what would the fate of this artifact be?" I shrugged "Probably be shipped off to a museum somewhere. Since it has no apparent cultural or historical significance, it would either be labeled as an ' unknown curio' or 'ancient outsider art'...though the discovery and research teams will be acknowledged and suitably rewarded" I added quickly, noticing the sudden shock on the professor's face. The Professor smiled, visibly relaxing "Well, that's good to know" "Yes, though I’m hoping it will not come to it. I must confess that this..." I gestured to the statue, "thing, greatly interests me, whilst there have been artifacts found in similar circumstances, none were like this. I...” Suddenly a beeping sound came from the professor’s coat. "Excuse me" he said bashfully. He took out his holopojector and activated it. The gas particles fanned out and took on the shape of a Sondhar, a fur covered creature, with a mass of feelers on its head. "Ah, Nul-Parast, Gunnson exclaimed " what's the word?" The Projection started talking. "None of the Old Songs mention any sort of artifact as the one we have found, and the Keepers of the Histories don't recognize it either so it's nothing from the Sondharian Empire." The Professor grunted "Shame about that, I was banking on it, what about Que and Dox, they contact you yet" the alien shook its head "I believe they are still doing research, though I will put them through to you the moment they have a lead" And with that the projection dissipated into a mist of glimmering particles. The Professor tucked the device away again. "Sorry about that, you were saying?" I cleared my throat “I was saying that I hope this artifact does turn out to have significant value to the Institute after all" and to myself I thought inwardly. The more valuable the find, the more I get paid, and I was hoping that this wasn't another dud. Its mysterious origins had certainly intrigued me, but the way this was going, it wasn't going to provide much of a paycheck. The Professor grinned ruefully "We can but hope, how long will your appraisal period be?" He asked. "One month, Earth Calendar, with additional time granted should I request it from the Institute and if they consent to it." "Then we'd better get back to work then" I smiled, "seems that way, I'm going to need all your findings, and data you have gathered so far" " Coming right up" said Gunnson. I spent the rest of the day reading over the data the Professor had provided; it had not been much help. Every test the scientists had preformed had spit up the exact same results, unknown or data not found. It was if the structure had simple appeared in this universe one day. Maybe someday someone could have discerned what it was, but the Institute never liked the phrase “someday” almost as much as they disliked “indefinite” or “worthless”. I sighed as I put the finishing line on my preliminary report. Will require more time to gather additional data on the object. Additional data will be provided in future reports. I pressed send, and the holoboard blinked. The message had just entered the fold-space. I yawned and stepped out of the small study tent that had been erected. To my surprise, the cavern was empty, whilst earlier it had been crammed with workmen and scientists, now only the solitary figure of Professor Gunnson remained, sitting on a small fold out chair, with one hand holding drink. When he saw me he gave a small wave. “How’d the report go?” he asked “Fine, just gave them the data and my current opinion on the object, where’d everyone else go?” I asked, looking around. Gunnson pointed upwards with his free hand “Back to the surface, it’s past nightfall now, though you can’t tell it from down here. I like to stay down overnights sometimes, whenever I go to a dig site, in case I get an urge to run a test during the night” “Does that happen often?” The Professor grinned “More often than you’d think, help yourself to a beer by the way, they’re little stale but nice and cold” He gestured to a cooler that rested at his feet. I reached in and pulled out a bottle, I twisted the top off and took a swig. The Professor had been right, it was old, no doubt it had been come from earth itself, but it was ice cold and, man after an afternoon working it tasted almost new. I smacked my lips “Thanks Professor” “Oh please, call me Harold” “Only if you call me Wade” I said as I took a seat next to him. “So Wade, what’s your story” Harold asked “How did one like you become an “appraiser” for the Institute?” I shrugged, “nothing special really, was born and raised on Earth, went to University in England got a masters in Commerce, you know the score. I did some work as a head hunter for hiring agencies, you know, finding fresh new talent for their companies, was pretty good at it too. One day the Institute offered me this job. Naturally I took it at once. Ever since I was a little boy I had wanted to go into space, well I suppose everyone does really. “Not me” The Professor interjected “Can’t stand space travel, never could. Even now, I need to anti-anxiety medication before I get on a craft, and God-forbid I should look out a window! Space always terrified me.” “In what way?” I asked curiously “The blackness “The Professor replied “It’s seems so…hostile, you understand, I mean anything could be hiding in the darkness, and our worlds, everything we ever know and care for, are just pinpricks amongst the blackness” I had to laugh. “I’m sorry” I said, stifling a remaining chuckle “But I mean "hiding in the blackness of space?". You got to admit, it sounds pretty silly” Harold shrugged “maybe so but it still gives me the nerves. Anyway my story is a bit like yours really. Got a masters in Xeno archeology and studies, and got poached by the Institute, till I wound up here, nothing special really” For a while we just sat and drank our beers in silence. I found myself staring at the statue again, something about it didn’t quite seem right. Hadn’t that wing been on the other side? And had that trapezoidal bit at the top always been there? And suddenly it hit me. “Harold” I said “does that statue seemed to have changed shape to you?” I asked. The Professor laughed nervously. “I thought it was just me , but yes, it seems to sort of shift its configuration and shape every so often, sometimes it happens once a day, sometimes every other hour!” “Really?” I said in amazement, you’ve seen this happen?” “Well… not seen per se, it just sort of...shifts, one minute it looks like one particular object, the next it’s …changed” “What about video footage?” Harold shook his head “that’s the thing, after the first time it happened I set up a camera to record the statue. The next time it changed shape, I watched the footage, and found that the footage from before showed the statue in the *exact same shape*. I tested all the cameras and found no faults; it was like something was actively retroactively changing all images of itself to suit its current one. I recorded it through five shape changes, every time I did, the previous footage would show the statue in its current state” I gave a sigh “More mysteries” I yawned, I needed some shuteye. I stood up and stretched. “Where can I sleep around here?” “There’s bunking on the surface, but the lift takes about half an hour to get there, alternatively, I set up a couple of cots in the service tent.” “That’ll suit me just fine” I said, heading towards the area. “Good night and don’t let this place give you nightmares” the Professor called over jovially. I laughed; “The statue is creepier than anything my mind can come up with” I chuckled as I headed inside, and lay down on the bed.

A good friend of mine who has no internet and is only able to talk to me via text wrote these. She's 16, lives in a trailer with her Mom (who is, unfortunately, way too eager be in complete control of her daughter's life), in a canyon and probably one of the coolest people I've ever known. I first met her 7 years ago when my uncle and her Mom were dating. We've done our best to keep in touch and only until very recently have we been able to talk via text. He are two of her stories. I, also, managed to get ahold of one of her poems, which I posted . **Goodbye to Romance** Gin stood alone at the edge of her balcony wondering what it was like to leap from such great heights, contemplating if the world would even miss her if she did. Slowly she leaned over the railing to look out over the busy street some three stories below; apparently the city was equally an insomniac. As she clung to her perch a knock so softly it could scarcely be heard in the silence came at her door. She knew who it was, she knew why they were here, but still she remained at her post like a gargoyle protecting its temple. Again the rapping sounded at her door, this time more urgent, more demanding, tearing her away from her reverence. Just a crack the door did open, her bright eyes peering cautiously outwards into the hallway and then onto the man who had come calling for her at an hour as late as this. She flung the door wide and he strode in with an arrogant grace that made her cast her eyes down at the floor and tremble. She looked up from the floor slowly, starting at his feet, going up his strong build to eventually meet those world hardened eyes. “You know if you were looking to check me out you could have been a little sneakier then that,” Storm said, his lazy feline grin making her smile along with him and giggle despite how nervous she was. His humor was the only thing that could ever put her at ease; it made her forget why she was always so nervous around him. “Come here,” he said, pulling at her hands and drawing her into his chest. She sighed and allowed his scent to fill her until she was completely lost in the moment. Gently he pulled away and took her in for a moment. In a spilt second he saw the girl he had met so long ago; sexy and intelligent, a girl who knew all his secrets and consequently fell in love with all those secrets. Now she was barefooted, eyeliner and mascara smeared slightly with the day’s stresses, and her tank top just a little too low to where he could make out the gentle slopping of her creamy breasts. It was all those little things that pulled at his heart strings that had compelled him to be here tonight, to go against all better judgment, to have one night alone and the rest of their lives to forget. “Now who’s staring, hm?” Gin questioned, her grin matching the mischief in his own. She giggled then ran across the room, daring him to chase her. Catching her around the waist he pushed her against the wall, his hands an iron grip around her wrists. “I need to know now. Why am I here? Why did you ask me to come here tonight?” Gin caught off guard by his ferocity looked at him with such fright that he thought he had made her cry; slowly she regained her ability to speak. “Because…” but all other words were lost in the heat of his gaze and then the sincere tenderness of their lips pressed against each other’s. Storm loosened his grip on her and she fell into him, passion gripping them tightly and all inhibitions left for dead with the clothing they abandon on the floor of her tiny apartment. They were like teenagers again, lost in new sensations, new bodies, new and old emotions circulating through every part of their bodies. They knew this was their only chance to be so obscene, to be so openly dishonest with everything they had built, one chance to be in love. After several hours he lay next to her, his hands running up and down such sinful flesh. “You still need to answer my question my dear.” There was a silence so deathly after he was sure she had gone to sleep until her voice, cracking in pain rang out into the darkness. “Because I love you.” Her body curled in around itself and was racked with sobs. He drew her in close to his body and kissed her forehead kindly and whispered softly, “I love you too.” She turned to face him and there were tears in his eyes. “This is goodbye isn’t it?” Gin asked softly. He chuckled and brushed her hair from her eyes. “For now, yes; one day we’ll see one another again and we’ll play pretend. Never letting on how we truly feel to anyone other than ourselves.” Tears were now steadily rolling down his cheeks as they were streaming down hers. “I’ll always love you Storm, never forget that. Never forget this.” One last kiss followed, a silent promise to live on, selflessly giving up the other to lead on lives for others. It was a promise never to forget the love they felt in this moment. Without another word he gently untangled the broken girl from his own broken self and clothed himself quickly and slipped away into the night. Once more Gin found herself standing on the balcony, hiding from sleep, contemplating if anyone would miss her if she jumped. **Surreal Kisses** Stars flashed before my eyes as my flesh was licked by some great invisible flame that dug at my conscience and swallowed my entire being. I could do little more than breathe as I lay upon my back and stared hollowly at the ceiling fan. It seemed to spin faster and faster and with it my heart skipped after it until I felt as if my vital organ would surely be ripped from my chest and be consumed by that of the air currents dancing above my head. But then came the colors. Oh how did they sing for me; red and yellow. A vortex of somniferous illegitimacies did rain above my head and I was flung forth beneath a tidal wave of sweat. I could merely claw at my melting surroundings and hope that a god might spare me the indecency of being found in such a state. Hot flesh, cold blood then cold flesh, hot blood until I was nothing but the wax of a lonely candle stick upon my own sacrificial alter. I gratefully drank the salt water that flowed freely from my tear ducts as if it were the sweetest of wines. I tore at my body looking for my soul only to find a crimson river beneath it all and found I cared little for it, thus I reduced my search to some disastrous realm beyond myself. I stripped the earth of its vanities and strangled it’s sanity until it mirrored my own curiosities. A faceless clown, a product of a petri dish’s backwash, a women born without a womb; I was a sight in which brought the ego alive and hushed the fire’s warming glow, a freak if you will. Even still, there was a silent constant in which flowed through out, it soothed my feverish mind and catatonic body. It was what kept time, it’s what made time. First a drum, then the bass and soon to follow the entire orchestra of soft winds and strings did sing, but soon did the whispers. The walls were to join in later and the roof caved in with the baritones reverberating off of open windows. Alas there temple could not withstand the truth and it crumbled at the sound of veracity’s call and with it died the priest and all the whispers. But now I am here, not there and red and yellow disappeared. The chairs I lay beneath like a broken child tell me it’s time to go. The mirror beacons me from my makeshift humanity and says my mortality is but an illusion and I shouldn’t listen to the chairs. The walls are caving in now though, and there is nothing left but to listen to the voices in my head.

“There are a few men from whom their contemporaries do not withhold admiration, although their greatness rests on attributes and achievements which are completely foreign to the aims and ideals of the multitude.” – Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents I am one such man. My ‘contemporaries’, as they so enjoy calling themselves, pour and heap their admiration and adoration upon me, as though I required this gluttony of appreciation to continue breathing. Those ‘contemporaries’ of mine, who explain to all of their friends how good I am, how awesome and nice and funny and truthful I am, do not comprehend. They are, to be honest, entirely and completely incapable of even the act of comprehension. The sheer audacity of these ‘contemporaries’ of mine; to even call themselves such! As if they were at all capable of thinking like I do, of believing what I do, or being what I am. Of course, it could be exactly that; it could be that this very difference in beliefs is what prevents them from really being my contemporaries. I, of course, could care less about the beliefs of those slogs who call themselves my ‘equals’, or what they actually think about or happen to believe at this specific moment. Their whims are like a strand of detached web: floating through the air, impacted completely by the slightest disturbance in wind. But once the disturbance goes away, once the winds of popularity and prevalence die down, the strand is as lifeless and limp as it should have remained; as my contemporaries should remain. Perhaps I should explain myself; I feel as though I have been unfair to you, dear reader. It is entirely possible, however unlikely, that you are one of my real contemporaries, that I will in fact find, in you, one who is similar in thought and mind as myself. I should at least give you the chance. I am Fenris, and I am caged. Chained, if you will pardon the analogy, by a strand of ribbon so thin that it is embarrassing to even acknowledge its existence. But it has caged me, suppressed me, and molded me. It molds you too, though it is likely you do not recognize it for what it truly is. It is, in fact, more than likely that you view it as a boon, or as one of the foundations of ‘modern civilization’, or some other nonsense. But once again, I digress. I am an executive, of sorts. High-powered, high positioned, and highly paid (oh! so highly). I wake up in the morning at 6:00am, and I am at my building (I own it) by no later than 6:45. At 7:00am I have reached the top floor, via 41 flights of stairs, and entered my office. I sit in my office and pretend to do something meaningful until about 9:00, when the rest of the employees start to show up. From that point until 1:00 in the afternoon, I am absorbed in a world that consists of numbers, of profit-charts, of bar-graphs and of cost-ratio comparisons. I have become intimately acquainted with the intricacies of line graphs as well as the relationships between the x-axis and the y-axis. Supply and demand has become second nature to me, and I swear I have started dreaming in power-point format. At 1:00, though, I am allowed a break. Officially, I allow myself a break, though no one would deny me had I asked permission. No one could; it isn’t currently popular to demand that one continues working through lunch breaks. On this break I step onto my balcony (still on floor 42) and smoke a cigarette over a cup of coffee. I am not addicted – it would not be fitting of me – but it is acceptable to have one in the afternoon with coffee. Black coffee, of course. No sugar or cream. It is over this period of time that my ‘contemporaries’ enjoy coming over and ‘engaging’ me. That is what they call it nowadays; last year it was called ‘chatting’, the year before it was ‘fraternizing’, the year before it was ‘chilling’, and the year before that it was ‘hanging’. You see, though I own the building this company is situated in, and could tell you every single little detail about it, it is inappropriate of me to claim ownership of the company itself as well. It isn’t currently popular to show that one is better than anyone else, even when it is obviously so. These ‘contemporaries’ of mine enjoy the fruits of my own labor. It is my job to oversee the individual employees in all of the floors below me, though in reality I have delegated it out to individual managers. It is these individual managers, whom I personally placed in the position they are in, that consider themselves my ‘contemporaries’. I need to stop using that word. That word disgusts me. The problem is that it most accurately describes exactly how I feel of those bumbling idiots that I am paid to herd. Sometimes I swear it would be easier to fire them all and just do their goddamn jobs myself. The word ‘contemporary’ is a synonym for the word ‘popular’ or ‘modern’. A ‘contemporary’ is something that is up to date, or fashionable, or stylish, or cool. Someone who is ‘contemporary’, then, is someone who’s life and religion is that of what is fashionable, stylish, or cool. I will need to continue using that word. I chose it originally for a reason, but I keep finding myself using it to describe nearly everything. It has become so cliché. But these managers, these ‘contemporaries’ of mine; I own them. I own their lives. I could fire one of them now and make sure they never got another job in their lives. I could crush any one of them; nay all of them, under my pinky toe. I would barely notice. In fact, I find it increasingly difficult to prevent myself from destroying them. It is so difficult to, sometimes. Preventing myself is an exercise that I must do in my head before I say anything, so I do not say something that betrays one of them, depresses one of them, hurts one of their feelings, or anything of the sort. I cannot even look at one of them funny, or breathe on one of them too hard. It is popular to have the backbone of an earthworm. But nonetheless, I do my best to preserve my ‘contemporaries’. Regardless of my true feelings toward them, they all live their happy little lives living in a world where they believe that everyone, including myself, loves them just as they are. If only they could possibly comprehend. I listen to their petty whining and complaining about the people under them, I listen to their disgusting little stories about their disgusting little employees; I do my best to restrain my laughter when they describe their distaste for their employees using almost the exact same words I ascribe to them. Maggots. That is what they are. Contemporary maggots, the whole lot of them. Popular maggots. Cool maggots. Stylish maggots. A series of maggots all feeding off of smaller maggots who in turn feed off of smaller maggots. And the most disgusting thing of all? I must sustain myself with these maggots. It is only through the struggles and constant toil and incessant complaining of the maggots of the world that people like me can rise to the top. I fill my building with maggots. They are the stairs I walk up every day, in order to get to the top floor of my building. I have 41 flights of stairs in my building, each flight consisting of 12 steps. I walk on each and every step, each and every day of my life, at 6:45 in the morning. That’s 492 stairs in 15 minutes, or about half a step per second. It is not a coincidence that I have 492 employees. Maggots. I name them, every one of them, as I step on each stair every morning. Cool maggots. None with enough backbone to stand up to a passing wind, none with enough roots to stand against the tide. But back to 1:00pm. Smoking a cigarette, menthol, over my cup of steaming hot coffee, black. Listening to maggots complain about maggots, listening to maggot politics and maggot dramas and maggot successes and failures. Trust me; it is just as disgusting as it sounds. But this hour ‘break’ serves its purpose well; the maggots feel loved by me, and I am assured of my clear and obvious supremacy over them. That and it is currently unpopular to ignore your inferiors. After that hour of torture, it is back to the grind. Back to numbers, equations, and analyses. Since I am the king of the maggots in this building, it is my job to tell my contemptuous ‘contemporaries’ exactly what kind of manure to feed upon next. Never a unique idea amongst them, they all look to me to tell them what to do, and of course heap admiration upon me for actually coming up with a unique idea. Not that it is really unique; it isn’t popular to be unique. It simply fits the mold in a way not yet thought of by everyone else.

When 6:00pm rolls around, my maggots all go home to their little maggot wives and their even smaller maggot children. They swarm to me because I provide the manure that they live off of, and swarm away once they have been given just enough to fund their little maggoty lives. They watch television shows that instill morals and values in their head that are required for them to continue ignoring their maggotry, read books on the virtues of a hard-day’s-work, and go to bed with dreams in their head of living a life that is anything but their own. It is these dreams that are dangerous. It is popular to believe that if maggots didn’t dream, there would be no need for the escapism that is the hours between 6pm and 10pm. Television, radio, novels, stories, plays, movies, theatre; all of it useless if maggots had no aspirations, no morals or ethics or values. Of course, then they wouldn’t be maggots. This is where I come in. I am personally of the opinion that maggots need dreams. These dreams are the only thing standing between the maggots and the rest of us. I say ‘us’ because I am hoping, perhaps to strongly, that I have found a like-minded person in you, dear reader. We are the great ones. I am the king of my castle, though admittedly my castle is filled with maggots. I would have it no other way; maggots are simple to control. What is ‘popular’ is what is expected of them, and creatures with no backbone always do exactly what is expected of them. I am not swayed in the least by what is popular. I do not care what is popular. I have never bowed to the whims of popularity. I have my coffee exactly as I like it, my cigarettes exactly how I like them. I dress how I like to, I watch whatever tickles my fancy, be it plays or television programs or movies. I make up my own mind, just as I am sure you are doing. We do not dream. We plan. But dreaming has its purposes. I have said that I like that maggots dream, that my ‘contemporaries’ dream. To dream is to aspire to something; to dream is to wish for something; to dream is to indulge in a fantasy. We do not live in a fantasy; we live in reality. Maggots dream. They dream stylish dreams, cool dreams, fashionable dreams. Dreams that I use to my own advantage. You see, most people dream to be like us, dear reader. Most maggots want to be exactly like you and me. Unique, ambitious, and driven. But most maggots believe that we got where we are based upon some notion of ‘working within the system’. We both know that is not true; that this is yet another contemporary maggot fantasy. But we can use it to our advantage. Just look at me. I have 492 maggots under me. Every day, for the 15 minutes between 6:45am and 7:00am, I step on every one of them. Every day, all of my popular maggots propel me to the top floor, to the 42nd to do it themselves. Maggots make maggot decisions, popular people make popular decisions; but the great people make the great decisions. Maggots can no more be great than they can stop eating manure. But we let them dream, dear reader. We let them dream that they, too can be great, but we let them dream this in a controlled way. floor. Every day, I make decisions for these maggots as they cannot be trusted Television, radio, books, ethics, morals, virtues; all of it is bullshit. All of it is spoon fed to them and they accept it without question. It all either comes from maggots writing for maggots, or from great people for maggots. Maggots must be told what to dream, just as they must be told what to eat. Maggots must dream of achieving greatness, while being told that the method of achieving this greatness is simply through more manure. Maggots must be told that maggots are great, simply for being the maggots that they are. Maggots can be nothing other than maggots, so why tell them that they are wrong for being such? Tell them that they are right, tell them that they are great now, regardless of their maggotry, because of their maggotry, and that they can be even greater if they just continue being the same maggots they already are. Do you see what I am saying, reader? You may not have been consciously aware of this before reading it in print, but I am sure you knew it all along. It is quite simple. I keep the maggots alive, keep the maggots working, make sure they are working efficiently, and make sure they never get so comfortable that they stop working. The maggots are told that it is through this work that they will eventually be able to stop. This is a blatant lie. It is, however, a very popular lie. So at 6:00pm, the maggots go home. I and those maggots who consider themselves my ‘equals’ stay until 7:00pm, since it is popular for maggots to seem like they are working late, and it is my job to seem as maggoty as possible. Every effort to maintain the illusion of the ‘dream’ must be maintained. But after 7:00, I go home. It takes another 15 minutes to walk down the 492 stairs, and yet another 45 minutes to get home after that. I eat dinner, consisting of a steak, a glass of wine, mashed potatoes, and green beans. This has been the popular choice for men of my stature for decades. It is not popular to eat anything different. Then I repeat. I go through the same motions, every single day. It is no longer popular to skip work on Sunday, though I predict it may become popular again soon. It is contemporary for what is popular to become unpopular. I am Fenris. I am chained. This silk ribbon that binds me should be as obvious as day to you now, dear reader. As in the ancient Norse myth, the great wolf Fenris was bound by a measly and insignificant ribbon, though as opposed to Fenris, I am bound not by any mystical or magical means, I am bound by what is popular. I must continue acting like I am a maggot. Imagine ages past! Imagine the mighty Thor acting as if he had no power! Zeus acting as if he were merely mortal, Caesar acting as if he were plebian, Xerxes as if he were anything but a God. Imagine Napoleon claiming that he was not destined to rule the world, Hitler acting as if he could, possibly, be wrong about the Jews! These great men did not pretend, they did not bow, and they did not need to cater to the whims of such an insignificant and petty thing as coolness. But, dear reader, we must. Or at least I must. I write this in the hope that you will find a way for us to stop acting as if we were maggots, to stop acting like we are cool or contemporary, I hope you will find a way for great men to be great, truly great, unashamedly and unwaveringly great! I hope you will find a way for those of us who are great to cease pandering to the fancies of the weak, to cease bowing to the whims of the maggots. I am Fenris, and I fear. I fear that all of the great men and women of our time and times to come will continue to view themselves as Fenris. I fear a time when what we do today, when the stairs that we currently climb, when the maggots that we rightfully and righteously manipulate, will cease to be worth manipulating. I mean, look at all we have gained! Look at the power of Germany! Twice was Germany led by great men, and twice the Germans stood against the world, in defiance of norms and values and ‘virtues’. Twice the Germans stood up and fought for what they believed in, and twice it took the rest of the world to bring the Germans, just the Germans, back down. It was through the power of great men that the mighty Roman Empire spanned the Mediterranean, a feat that has not been accomplished, by any power, since. It was great men that brought the Roman Empire to its knees, and great men who kept the idea of Rome alive. It was Great men, leaders of maggots, that built all that we have! Imagine if it all were for naught! Imagine if what I do everyday were no longer worthwhile. Imagine if the company that I built, the people that I hired, the maggots that I control and manipulate and direct; just imagine if all of that were for some simplistic purpose! Great men never fought for such things as justice or freedom unless it were for some other purpose. It is my belief that you, dear reader, must find this purpose. I have searched all my life, and I can do so no longer. I have continued in the tradition of the likes of Napoleon, Xerxes, Caesar, and yet I am no closer to finding their motivations, their raison d’être, than ever before. IT MUST BE THERE! I am great. You are great, I am sure of it. Throughout history there have been great men! They were great because, as Freud said, their attributes were completely foreign to those of the multitude! I AM NOT THE MULTITUDE! I am great. I should not be feeling as though their attributes were foreign. They must have had a purpose, a drive, that was higher than anything I can comprehend. But comprehend it we must, for the good of humanity! I apologize. I let myself get carried away. It is not acceptable to let ones emotion get the best of oneself. I am Fenris. I am caged. But I must be just as caged as those maggots under me, right? I must be less so, in fact. I, at least, am aware of my own cage; that in itself must afford me some kind of freedom. I will go to work again tomorrow. I will climb the 492 stairs, naming each one of my 492 employees, and I will stop at the 42nd I will act popular. I will act stylish. I will act cool. But I will do it safe in the knowledge that I am great. Because I am. I am great.

Once upon a dreadful, dreadful time, there was an unfortunate and altogether tortured soul lost in a sea of despair. Traditionally, so saying would mean that the man was perhaps depressed and that he toiled within himself. But not in this instance. He was, quite literally, lost in a sea- dubbed despair. It was an odd place somewhere off in the throes of a larger ocean. Where it met the normal, there was a defined line of the pure blue and a contrasting darkness. Comprised of the most brackish and blackish waters; it was impossible to catch sight of anything below his chest. He was not worried though; many times he had seen a man thrown overboard and rescued soon thereafter. So it was that he had brought himself close and remained as motionless as possible, sure that someone had seen or heard him thrown off. Yet as each heartbeat passed, each breath he took sounded in his own ears, the ship grew more distant. It was not long before it too was lost in the ethereal fog. That was when the despair of the sea began to seep into his chest. Too stunned to panic, or too cold? Too sure of his fate, or not quite believing it? Regardless of the fact, he could not bring himself to move, to swim after his wayward savior. Was the mist, almost tangible to his eyes, closing in? His world was compressing and he feared that eventually, it would crush him and send him to the endless blackness of not the sea, but of death’s domain. So it is that there comes a time in every man’s life when they realize the end is near. At that time, something odd happens. Typically, the path they take, in this pivotal moment, is one of three. The first is an outright denial, angry and violent in nature. The second is grief, grief for one’s own demise, which is, in itself, grief-invoking. The third is acceptance, an understanding of the end, a hope for something better after it, and a hope for it to be quick and peaceful. The toiling man took the last. All he wished was that the cold would finish with him. Already it was so very bitter, biting into his heart, splintering in his bones. He knew the final stages of hypothermia, a stage of pseudo-warmth, almost euphoric in its deceit. But it would not come; he was bound in an icy, undulating prison. He laid suspended there for too long, it seemed. Too long of nothing but pain. Then suddenly, it worsened. Now no longer was the solitary feeling of physical discomfort, but now there was a prevalent sense of unease on a level that he had never before experienced. In the brackish, blackish waters below, something came. He could have never seen that far below, nor could he have ever known what the discomfort stemmed from, for this was something special, something that today alone rested in the sea of despair. He could never have known that below him was the all-consuming, ever-gaping maw of something truly awful. He could never have known that those shadows in the mist were tendrils of a creature that reached so far it was as the sea itself. It was a mass, it was an amalgamation, it was a horrifying, painful, teeth ridden monstrosity. The screams could not be heard from above the water, but the thing below reveled in it. So it was that another lost and wretchedly tortured soul was claimed by the sea of despair. Now nothing but quietness, as the ethereal fog listlessly slides across the surface of the water. This fog hid the truth of the brackish, blackish water. The truth that it was stained a permanent, awful crimson.

He woke up that morning with a sudden taste of blood in his mouth. To most that would be a peculiar experience, but to him, just another day. It had been happening for quite some time now. He had gone to the doctor several times, but they reiterated nothing was wrong and ‘not worry about It.’ He turned over with an attempt at stopping the buzzing but hit the snooze button on his alarm clock by accident, but proceeded to the bathroom with a drunken stammer without noticing. From the entrance he moved toward the sink like he’d done so many times before, but this time hitting the counter on the way by. He wasn’t fazed by the stinging pain in the side of his hip. Maybe he had become numb to the pain after having injured that hip so many times before or maybe he wasn’t invested enough to care. It was the morning after all. Upon reaching the sink he washed his mouth out of the horrible taste. Red painted water hit the sink, emptying down through the drain. It was almost therapeutic. Turning around he lifted the toilet seat up. After emptying out his bladder he exited the bathroom, careful not to walk into the counter this time. Upon re-entering his room he found the alarm ringing in the most irritating fashion. For some reason today was the day he threw his alarm clock out the window. The loud ‘clack’ made as it smashed the ground was very satisfying. Until he realized that he would have to buy a new one. He figured sometimes money isn’t as important as having a little fun and relief. He continued his morning routine by making his bed. While doing so he thought about the past and all the mistakes he had made. How he wishes he could have kissed Rebecca when the chance arose. Now she was lost forever and he would never see her again. For a long time he had tried to call her, but she never answered and eventually the number was disconnected. After making his bed he went into the kitchen where he made himself cereal and put on ESPN. He grew up watching the Patriots and had always loved football. He played all the way through middle school and high school. He was never a superstar, but always worked hard. “Huh, so he’s finally done.” He said to himself as he watched the announcement. Finishing the last bit of cereal he got up and turned the TV off. He smelled himself to decide whether or not a shower was necessary. “Yep.” Turning on the shower he thought some more about things that have haunted him. Wondering what college would have been like while entering the shower. He noticed a large cut on the side of his hip. He wondered what it was from. Maybe the counter? It must have been that’s the only thing that could have done It. As he brushed his teeth he found little bits of fingernail. He should really quit that nasty habit. Exiting the shower he grabbed his towel and went back into his room. He got dressed in his usual suit and tie and went off to work. Were had the weekend gone. It seemed like just yesterday it was friday. Grabbing the keys from the counter he proceeded out the door. The car in the driveway isn’t the same one it was 10 years ago. 10 years ago it was a glorious machine with the newest technology like a cd player and seat warmers. Now the seat warmers were broken and the cd player was jammed and would only play one cd. Instead of suffering through that cd one more time he elected to listen to the radio. “Yesterday there was a mur-” He changed stations, he didn’t like to think about the fact that people murder each other. “That was friday by Rebecca-.” Maybe the radio wasn’t the best idea today. He couldn’t get Rebecca off of his mind today and the world was going to force him to think about her anyways. Her eyes were so blue that they made the sky jealous. Her hair so soft and black that he would get sucked into looking at it for hours. It’s like her beauty surrounded and trapped him in a corner that was inescapable. Even her hands were beautiful. How can someones hands be beautiful he thought to himself. It didn’t matter hers were. He was pulling into his office while noticing police cars closing off the entrance and telling him to exit the car slowly and with his hands up. He obliged them because he reckoned that there must have been some sort of mistake. He hadn’t so much as gotten a speeding ticket his whole life. He exited the car and was instantly greeted with an officers fist. “Fred Bell, you’re under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Red.” He was shocked, everything in his body went numb as he was pushed up against the hood of the police car. The officer continued to read him his miranda rights, but he didn’t hear a thing. He blacked out. She woke up that morning like no other morning in her life. There were birds singing outside her window and the clock read 10:00. Her husband had left earlier in the morning which made her secretly happy. She hadn’t had a day to herself in a very long time. She quit her job yesterday since her husband was going to be able to make enough money to support the both of them by himself. She had always wanted to be an artist, she even went to college at School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Of course she dropped out thinking she’d be like many other famous artist. Only to find out that people weren’t interested in modern conceptual art. Or maybe it was just her artwork they weren’t interested in. Still she felt destined to become a world famous artist. To follow in the footsteps of Georgia O’keeffe and Louise Bourgeois. To create the next great piece of art that will be taught for the rest of time. For now though she had to get out of bed. She went into the bathroom with a spring in her step like today was going to be the day that her life turned around. When she got there she looked in the mirror and realized for the first time in a long time that she was beautiful. For too much time she would look at the things she wanted to change, but in that moment she realized how beautiful she actually was. Her husband had always told her, but she never listened. That is something that you have to realize on your own you can’t let everyone else tell you about It. She skipped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She looked in the fridge and decided she was going to make the most tasty omelet that had ever been created. As she mixed the ingredients she thought about her husband. He was a handsome man. He was tall, about 6’3” and was strong. He was a dream in every way. He had been the most romantic and kind person she had ever met. Her omelet started to burn as she drifted away. She wondered if he had something planned for her because he had recently taken out quite a bit of money from their bank account and asked her what she thought of the Bahamas. Just then she smelt the egg burning to the pan. She moved on from the failed attempt at the world famous omelet and settled for cereal as she turned on the TV. Her husband had left on ESPN. Something about Tom Brady retiring tomorrow, she wondered if Tom Brady was the hot one that played football as she changed the channel to TBS. The Office was on. She had loved watching this when she was younger, but hadn’t seen it for quite some time. As she watched she began to remember why she loved the show so much. She remembered how awful her job was as a secretary. She turned off the TV and decided it was time to get out the old art supplies. She began to draw something special. The lines just flew out of her like they never had before. As the picture began to form, a woman came into focus. She was on her knees pleading for her life to god. She didn’t know what she was drawing she just knew that it was what she was feeling. Just as she put the last red line of blood coming out of her, the doorbell rang. She washed her hands and wiped them on her pants as she walked towards the door. A pit came into the very bottom of her stomach. It rang again. “I’m coming she yelled.” As she slowly approached the old creaking door she realized no one was there. “Damn It. That scared the shit out of me.” she whispered to herself. As she went back to inspect the masterpiece she had just painted she felt a slight breeze from the window. She went to close it. She blacked out. When she woke up she had a sudden taste of blood in her mouth. Her head ached like nothing she had ever felt before. She looked around at her surroundings. She was in a concrete room with nothing but a bottle of Poland Spring Water. As she inspected It closer she realized It couldn't be water It was too cloudy. She placed it back on the floor and and looked around the room more. She knew enough that she shouldn't start worrying. That would only make things worse. She walked around the room looking for anything resembling an exit. She found a door but it wouldn't open. Then she began to worry. It hit her all at once, she was trapped in a room and had no idea what was happening. She went back and sat in the corner as she began to cry. Upon hearing her terror It decided it was time to open the door. As It entered the room she began to calm down. She couldn't see Its face, It was hidden in the shadows. Just as she was about to say something It interrupted her. "I know you're wondering why you're here and why I would do this." She responded, "I'll do whatever you want just let me go, please." She began tearing up again. "No, no, no It couldn't do that." It began to chuckle. "Fred loves you too much to let me do that." As It stepped closer she saw that It had a knife. She stuttered "w-w-what are you going to do?" It began to slowly bend down and whisper. "I'm going to kill you." She knew It was Fred, but It wasn't really him. It inserted the knife into her jugular vein. She began gasping for nothing. Her arm lashed out and cut into the side of Its hip. The light closed in on her as she thought about beautiful husband for one last time. It then took her into Its arms. As It inspected the body closer It started with each finger biting into them as if they sausages. It slowly ate both of her hands till there was nothing left, but pure white bone. When It had finished Its meal It took the remains of the body and disposed of it in a ditch near his own home. When It returned to his home It lied down in his bed with the taste of blood still in his mouth.

The shattering screams were nearly masked by the grasp of the dull and endless forest. The sky dotted through the canopy, creating a cascading glimmer of what could be up there. Those who have entered this place would never know. It could be a guessing game, one would think, but leaving any thought to it was a crime all in its own. An ethical crime, like one you just wouldn’t dare to commit. Yes, murder and rape are crimes, ones that test the boundaries of human thought and action. Ones that make you inquire, “What kind of monster would think, let alone commit, such an atrocity?” Well that’s just what it was. Free-thought was a type of idea that just wasn’t created. You didn’t think for what didn’t have a direct impact on you. Because that meant death. So maybe the dead would kill you. Maybe a gang of misfits would. But what would be left of you after all this murder. All this gore and cruel, morbid reality. One must adjust, I suppose. But you can’t just be thrown into the end of the world and expect to walk through it unscathed. How do you cope and adjust when there is nothing to fix? There isn’t a single thing in this decaying world that you could use at your disposal to make your life for the better. You couldn’t even scream to hear your voice. The words that came out were not yours. The thought put into making those words were none the same. They were fantasies, lies planted into your being during the outbreak of the Decay. They grew and grew, every time you passed a rotting carcass, every time you saw your friend be torn in two. Every waking second spent in the nightmare of a jungle. You can’t break free. The vines have locked your wrists and ankles, slowing you down to a meager trudge. Halting your stride and increasing its hold. What could you do? You could scream.

[ ] For the past few days, I've been searching for the reason of this leakage. To worst things up, my trust on her seems to become lesser and lesser. She told me she is tired of arguing everyday for simple things and she can't concentrate on her job because she always think about me. [ ] [ ] So she decided to walk out. I was shocked and devastated. It's like the world ended for a moment. That time I'm thinking of reconciliation only. Just like normal guys, begging, promising, nagging and so on. But she made her mind that it's over and the keep telling me to move on. Deep down each word she told me is killing herself. [ ] [ ] She actually wanted me to finish my degree, get a job and then chase her back. Simple. The problem is that when i have her around, it seems that i was taking things too easy. And the balance between relationship and study started to show. She saw the instability of the line much earlier than me. [ ] [ ] I guess she understand the concept of "if you love someone, you let it go". It's tough and I'm still admired her courage to let me go. I must say that her love towards me is more towards herself because she tends to ignore any suggestions i offer. That feeling when you love someone and you have to hide your love for him just to make sure his future is bright, it's totally not a normal girl can do. That feeling when you post your status telling you are happy just to make sure he knows you already moved on. [ ] [ ] The fake pictures of you smilling, the food that you claim to be delicious, the gym that you said you workout until your exhausted. All the things you do is to make me lose my hope on you and move on. Once i move on, my education will be good, job will get secured and financial is more than enough. [ ] [ ] By that time, you know your mission is a success despite many years of suffering of not contacting with him just to ensure he will focus on his career. But deep down inside, your love for him never fades, in fact it grew stronger and stronger. Karma once again tested you. [ ] [ ] He meet you accidentally. You was so happy seeing him with branded clothes, shiny watch, glowing shoes and sporty car. You knew that, your love of your life becomes successful already. And you are hoping he will recognize you. [ ] [ ] He looks at you with a mean eyes. Then he laughed at you saying that you totally regret leaving him last time. By that time, you knew that he had totally changed. He totally had forgotten you and just remember you as the bad person. He keeps on making fun on you, imitating your breaking up words before. [ ] [ ] And your tears fall down Iike the rain which pours down slowly, you wipe your tears and told him that you are happy to see him. You also told him that you always waited for him. But your heart got smashed again when he told you it's not the same anymore. He told you that you make him suffered for years that he finally had to remove your from his mind. [ ] [ ] Feeling lost, you started to beg. You told him that you love him so much and was waiting for him the whole time. He pushed you away gently and told you that it will not work. As he turns around and waves goodbye at you, you pulled out a small ring in your pocket. The ring had a phrases which says "Endless Love". [ ] [ ] As his walks away, you put the ring on the very finger that he first put for you. Whispering to yourself, you remainded yourself again that he is your true love forever. So you started to walk back at the place you work and as you turn around, he is no longer there. You toughen up yourself and you walk away with tears dropping like bread crumbs along the road. [ ] [ ] The next day, the town was shocked with the death of a woman. It was the woman who was heartbroken yesterday. She was believed to have slipped from the bridge and ended up drowning. Her body was pulled by locals. On her finger, the ring which she put yesterday was still there. Her body was then brought to the cemetery and a small funeral was held. [ ] [ ] Nobody knows her story, her suffering, her patience, her devotion, her sacrifices, and nobody knows who she is. All the people know is that she is just one of the unlucky woman. Nobody knows that she successfully make her lover a wealthy guy. Nobody knows how many years she was alone waiting for him to come and propose her. [ ] [ ] She died happily. It's because she knew that the boy who once love her madly, is now a respectable and wealthy guy. Nobody knows about this. Even the guy himself never knew what the woman sacrificed to make him in his position now. He will just remember that woman as someone who broke his heart years ago. Someone who he use to think as immature....

It was a dark night, the only real light were the stars speckled in the blanket of the night and the Moon that shone above them all. A man had a great desire, and so he went into a princess' tower ready to go. The roguish young man slipped through the princess' window shade and swaggered to her bedside as she pulled up her blanket, covering herself. It was that rugged farmer from the fields. His eyes, once like a calm ocean, now had a predatory look, and she liked the danger they promised. She slowly pushed the covers away exposing her... Nintendo 3DS, yes, despite this being the Middle Ages, she had somehow gotten the 3DS over 700 years before the release date, royalty sure were spoiled. Then they took turns playing with the 3DS all night under the covers.

I left on the boat today. The boat with my darling. We drifted from the port of Weymouth, heading due south. It was one of the days that you only daydream about. One that you think that you’ll see, but you never do. A bright, warm day where the birds chirp and the leaves blow and everything in your life seems almost perfect. Almost. We loaded all of our luggage to the yacht. Everything that we would need for a day on the sea. She over packed, and I under packed. We were always polar opposites. We set sail at around 10AM that morning. It was the ninth of May. I remember that day very clearly. She had looked at me with loving eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember. She saw me as her world again. As the one she would spend the rest of her life with, the one. I had seen her that way since I first laid eyes on her, but she was never one for absolutes. Until that day. The wind was on our side, and so was the current. We planned to take it lazily and let the sail down half way through our journey for some fishing. We made it half an hour before it started. Borderline personality disorder is something that no one should ever, ever have to deal with. I thought that I was her cure, her saviour. But you can never know with this. You think that progress has been made. You make it 6 months of her loyalty, and then it happens. And it happened that day. She had recently been promoted in her job. At the same time that they had hired a new boy. A young boy. A courier for the company. Now, she didn’t see anything in him. She thought he was annoying, even. It didn’t have anything to do with who he was. It was just that fact that he was new. That’s all it took. She started telling me about him. She used language to evoke jealousy from me, because she knew that if I got jealous that she would have that to use against me and thus have a reason to be angry at me. I knew how it worked. She had done this so many times before that I knew better than to take the bait. Until she crossed a line. She told me that she masturbated to this boy. That she wanted him to fuck her. I was upset, obviously. The second I showed it, she took it as distrust. She said that I should expect more of her. Whenever you try to converse with a BPD sufferer like this, you should know that you are going to lose. Whatever you say, however you take it, you will come out on the bottom. I knew I was pinned. I told her to think whatever she wanted, as long as I was the one she came home to at night. But she kept pushing. She told me that I was keeping her on a leash. That I should set her free and not be so demanding as to want a monogamous relationship with my wife. Borderline personality sufferers do not heal. There is no cure, and no amount of therapy can cure such a thing. One in ten sufferers take their own lives because of their severe lack of empathy and understanding of human feelings. This was the sixth time she had done this to me. The sixth dumb, pathetic obsession she had had with a boy that she barely knew. This would never, ever end. I was done. I entered this relationship as a somewhat normal man. Now, I am a depressed, anxious alcohol that uses any drug that I can find to escape the shitty reality that is this marriage. But I love her. I love her enough to fix her problem for her. By now, we are two hours into our trip. I can see Guernsey on the horizon. I pull down the sails. I am calm and precise in my actions. I know that I can never see her leave me. She asks what’s going on. I tell her that I just stopped to look at the view and to talk with her. I take my fishing rod, unwind some string and wrap it around her neck. Tight and firm. She has caused me a lifetime of pain, and now it was my turn. I bury the hook deep into her neck to ensure the strangling line stays steady. I make her look into my eyes. I tell her that it will all be over soon. That she will be free from her madness in a matter of seconds. I tie two of the heavy sandbags from the yacht to the line, kiss her tenderly on the forehead, and throw her overboard. The world would be a better place now. I light a cigarette and pour myself a large glass of vodka. I don’t feel any regret, and I don’t think that I ever will. Off to Guernsey, I sail.