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Allura 24

[An unfinished piece I wanted to get some feedback on. It's loosely based on my own experiences, and I initially wrote it as a record of one of the (many) times I did MDMA] We floated near Camden loch, the tide of tourists and street merchants tugging us away from each other. N linked her arm in mine, and as I turned to smile at her, S did the same on my left. I was slightly bemused; we looked like some sort of awkward six legged insect. But it felt right. We were like three musketeers on a quest. The analogy comforted me at the time, because I was scared of being alone. The come up was very subtle. The first thing I noticed was the warmth exuding from my body; like waves crashing on a cliff face. Each slightly more noticeable then the last, they reverberated through my body as we walked along the high street, the simplest of pleasures. My chest heaved as each breath sent bouncing shocks of pleasure through to my extremities. N and S bounced gaily along beside me, and there was something about our formation that made me feel like I was being led through a threshold into another realm. The colours came next; sharp vivid colours that seemed to almost bleed into one another. They were overly saturated, like some sort of comic book drawn in thick, bold hues. The simplest thing became breathtakingly beautiful; the shimmer of light on a puddle, the glowing street signs above cheap chicken shops, the shining faces of people around us. Looking to my side, I felt my heart jump up into my throat as I realised how beautiful N looked in the moonlight. Her skin was pale, but more than that, it seemed to glow from the inside, and the effect made her look incredibly angelic. We had been walking for some time now, and we had reached a bookstore. Without saying a word to one another, with our arms still linked, we marched into the bookstore. A warm wave of air seemed to welcome us inside, beckoning us towards the multitude of books that lay on the tables and shelves. The store had the distinct smell of a new library; you could feel the presence of hundreds of minds locked in between sheets of paper, patiently waiting to be opened so they could tell their story. N and S let go of me and dispersed into the store, drawn to some books by an author I had no knowledge of. I took a moment to enjoy the atmosphere, deeply inhaling the aroma of new books as I found myself carelessly running my eyes over titles and authors, my mind still stuck on the beauty of the scene we had just left near the loch. And then a single title caught my eye, and I was so surprised to see it that I gasped with delight. ‘Who Moved My Cheese?’ a self-help book centred on coping and learning how to deal with change, written in the form of a business fable. I first read it as a child of eleven; it was part of my late mother’s extensive self-help collection, and my favourite out of all of them. As I picked it up, a huge wave of memories flooded my mind; reading it for the first time as a mere short story, reading it again as a self help book, discussing it with my mother, reading it as a young adult. I felt like I had come across a piece of my past; a little piece of the jigsaw that made me the person I am today. When I was on MDMA, the most prominent feeling I felt was one of purpose. Every word I uttered, every action I performed; all of it felt so meaningful. Picking the book up in my hands, a delightful calm washed over my body as I came to the conclusion that in this very moment, I was exactly where I was meant to be in life. [c&c of all types is welcomed and encouraged.

- “What does it say?” Mia asked. James turned the newspaper around so it faced his girlfriend. “Cracks Emerge In Alibi, Nick Cave single reaches number one in The States,” James replied. “Who?” “You haven’t heard it? It goes like this.” James started to sing. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide,* *Cocked the revolver in ninety-five,* *cracks emerge in alibi… ♫* “No… and who the fuck is Nick Cave?” James shifted to the front of his seat to confront Mia face-to-face. “Nick Cave. Are you kidding me? He is an Australian icon!” “Sorry. I only listen to good music.” “Jesus…” James rolled his eyes and sat deep into his chair. Struggling to hold it with both hands, Mia took her second bite of the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger. Large fries and an extra large coke completed her meal. James’ plate had but a few fries left. He had already finished his burger and shake. “You eat so slow,” James said. “I’m not really hungry.” “Why? Are you nervous?” “Mm.” “You always order too much food anyway.” James glanced at his watch. “What time is he supposed to show up?” Mia asked. “He was meant to be here at quarter to.” “What’s the time now?” “Quarter past. The bastard is always late” Ring of Fire echoed through the poor speakers in the almost empty bowling alley. Tony’s Bowling Alley, it was called. ♫ *I fell into a burning ring of fire,* *I went down, down, down as the flames went higher* *And it burns, burns, burns,* *The ring of fire, the ring of fire…* ♫ Tony owned the alley and worked in the restaurant as the chef. The alley featured only two lanes, and had remained largely unchanged since it’s opening in fifty four. Tony renamed the alley after his name when he took over from the previous owners. In the back corner was a small dining area with off-white tables and cold red-leather seats. A large red neon sign displaying Drink Coca Cola flickered on and off and lit the dim corner of the room. This is where James and Mia sat. Their matching outfits – black leather jackets with white tees and denim jeans fitted the restaurant’s look. The table over from James and Mia sat a man alone. “This guy looks sketchy. How old do you think he is?” James asked. Mia looked over to the man. “I don’t know, forty. Maybe fifty.” The man had slicked-back greying hair and long sideburns like Elvis. He wore shiny red bowling shoes, blue denim jeans and a deep green bowling jacket with the team name Tugun Tigers printed across the back in thick white letters. He was also eating the house’s ‘famous’ hamburger, but his eyes instead were focused on the teenage waitress… and her short, red and white striped dress. The girl’s outfit looked like it came with the restaurant when it was built in fifty four. Wiping down the tables, the girl’s tired eyes made it obvious she did not want to be working the Friday night. Every so often she would glance outside the joint to see the waves crashing onto the beach. Rain poured down hard on the windows. She was also paying attention to a teenage boy bowling by himself. He wore blue denim jeans and a purple jacket with the team name Currumbin Crooks on the back. It was just the four of them in the room. Tony waddled his fat body out of the kitchen and slapped the young waitress on the ass. “Alright lass, you can head off now, come in and I’ll give ya’ the pay check.” The waitress looked disturbed. “Don’t be.” James said. “Huh?” Mia asked. “Nervous.” “Oh.” Mia sipped her coke. “You’ll be fine.” “How much was supposed to be here?” Mia asked. “Fifty five thousand.” “Why is there so much? This place is a dump.” “I told you. It’s a money laundering business.” “And what do we do when Travis finally turns up?” James sighed. “We went over this last night. Look, when Travis enters through those doors – and hopefully he does so bloody soon – that’s our signal. You then get up, pull your gun on old mate checking out the waitress, the waitress, and the boy over there bowling. Make sure they sit tight. I’ll enter the kitchen and demand the money from Tony. Travis has the entrance sorted out.” “What if he doesn’t hand over the money?” Mia asked. “I’m pretty sure he will be scared shitless when he feels my gun pressing against his seventy-five-year-old face. Shit, he’ll probably have a heart attack. You don’t have to worry about him putting up a fight.” “But would you actually hurt him?” “No. I won’t need to. Though I’ll shoot a round into the ceiling so he knows what’s up.” Nick Cave’s Cracks Emerge In Alibi started to play over the speakers. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Redemption is the girl’s ally,* *If it’s just, is it a crime?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ “Here it is! This is the song,” James said, “Can’t believe you don’t know who Nick Cave is.” James turned to the man in the green jacket. “Hey mate, you’ve heard this song, right?” “What song?” The man in the green jacket replied. “The one being played right now,” James pointed to the speakers and continued; “It’s by Nick Cave.” “Who the fuck is Nick Cave?” “Seriously?” The doors of the alley swung open as Travis arrived. Rain and a cool wind followed him in. He wore a black windbreaker and his long black hair was held back by a black beanie. His hand rested on the gun resting in his jeans. He stood at the doorway and nodded to James. “Let’s move.” James said as he got up out of his seat. “Where is the waitress?” Mia asked as she got up too. “She must be in the kitchen.” James pointed to the boy bowling. “Oi mate, this is a robbery, get the fuck over there and sit down.” “What?” The boy asked. James pulled out and pointed his gun at the bowler. “A fucking robbery. Get over there and sit next to the old man.” The bowler sat next to the man in green. Mia stood a metre away and had her gun pointed at both of them. “Alright.” James said, “Don’t let ‘em move.” *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money! I know it’s here!” Mia heard James say as he walked into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind him. “Why th-“ Mia cut the boy off; “Be quiet.” ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Rain mixes with blood tonight,* *Death’s hands take hold of his life,* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ The sound of the waves, the rain and the music filled the room. There was no sound coming from the kitchen. After a few minutes Travis yelled over to Mia. “Is he almost done?” he asked. “I don’t know? I’ve been sitting here the whole time.” “Well go see what the fuck he’s doing! He shouldn’t be taking so long.” “I have to watch-” Travis cut her off; “I’ll watch them. Go.” Mia got up and started to walk towards the kitchen. As she pushed the doors open, she was struck by a blast of cool wind, coming from the open back door. At her feat was a pool of blood, with Tony resting in it, face down. “What the fuck?” A kitchen knife and a bra lay in the pool of blood with him. Two bloody footprints trailed away from the body to the back door and outside onto the beach. Red and blue lights flashed. “Shit.” *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* James shot a round into the ceiling. He then walked over to the kitchen, out of Mia’s view. “Where are you? Hand over the fucking money. I know it’s here,” he said as he walked in. The door swung closed behind him. ♫ *Cracks emerge in alibi,* *Waves wash over in the moonlight,* *Did he believe in afterlife?* *Cracks emerge in alibi…* ♫ James was met with the waitress staring back at him. “What are you doing back here?” she snapped at him. “What the fuck are you doing back here?” he replied. Her red and white striped dress was torn into pieces, only just holding onto her body. Her bra was ripped off completely and lay on the floor next to the knife. The dress was more red than before, as it was painted by Tony’s blood. His body lay on the floor in front of her. She ran outside and James followed. “Stop. I’ll shoot,” he said, while chasing after her towards the water. When he caught up, he held the hot barrel of his gun against the waitress’s forehead. His finger hovered over the trigger. Waves washed over their shoes as they sunk into the wet sand, the moonlight illuminated the rain running down their faces. James, with one hand on his gun, pulled the hood of his leather jacket over his head with the other. “Why did you kill him?” The waitress remained silent. “Tell me why or I’ll shoot you.” Ten seconds passed. “I’ll fucking shoot you!” *Bang.* The body dropped and hit the sand. Rain mixed with the escaping blood as waves washed over the corpse. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Bang.* “Shit!” Mia followed the footprints and ran outside onto the beach. She saw the waitress standing on the sand. She saw James’ motionless body. She saw the policeman standing over James’ motionless body with his revolver in hand. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. Her tears were lost in the rain as they tried to trickle down her face. Death’s hands had taken hold of James’s life. -- ◆◇◆ -- *Redemption is the girl’s ally, If it’s just, is it a crime?* *The just find what the guilty can’t hide, Cocked the revolver in ninety-five.* *Rain mixes with blood tonight, Death’s hands take hold of his life.* *Waves wash over in the moonlight, Did he believe in afterlife?* *The waitress killed, she struck her knife,* *For the man had raped her that same night.* *Cracks emerge in alibi.

For my P.E. final we had to write page of anything. As long as you wrote and entire page you got a 100. So I wrote this. Dan pushed aside the undergrowth as he inched closer hushed voices coming from directly ahead. He pushed a branch to the side and peered into a small cleaning filled with six men, all armed with weapons of all kinds, and garbed in heavy, Russian winter clothing despite the 90 degree weather and the heavy humidity in the air. Their thick Russian accents made it hard to make out their words, but even through their broken broken English he could make out enough to realize they had a prisoner, not far from the clearing. With a few more words, one of the men pulled out a walkie-talkie and barked something in Russian to someone on the other end. The men fell silent as they waited for their accomplice. One of the unsuspecting Russians, looked over directly at Dan, and began walking towards him, but just as he was right on top of he unzipped his pants, and pulled out his manhood and relieved himself with a deep sigh. Thirty, urine soaked seconds later, the man zipped up his pants and strode back to his comrades. Only, seconds after he took his place again, a blonde man with his hands bound behind his back was shoved into the clearing with yet another Russian, toting a large gun behind him. Dan gasped in shock. It was Ricky! His long time friend and partner on the mission to stop the infamous Russian mafia boss, Petrov from killing an American Ambassador, stationed in Cuba. The man, who Dan assumed was Petrov, pulled a pistol from his waist and pressed it against Ricky’s forehead. “Bring him to me!” Ordered Petrov. “Burn in hell, motherfucker!” Retorted Ricky. “Bring your American friend. Now. Or you die.” “Go ahead! Pull the trigger you good for nothing son of a bitch!” “I did not want have to do this” Replied Petrov with a hint of regret in his words, although, not that much. “But you leave no choice.” The gun discharged it’s bullet, splattering blood and brains all over the seventh Russian standing behind Ricky’s now, lifeless body, lying on the ground in the middle of the Cuban jungle.

It was probably past noon. The sun was shining through the blinds. That’s the most of the sun I get to see nowadays. I haven’t stepped foot out of my apartment in days. No, wait. It’s been weeks. I haven’t left my apartment in three weeks. It’s been three weeks since Ella left me. She was my whole life. Ever since we met, my whole world revolved around her. She was my sun; the center of my universe. I groaned. It was happening again. When Ella left me, she left a huge gaping black hole in the middle of my universe. The black hole sucked my will to live into the darkness. Today was going to be one of those days. I heard the door slam. I bolted out of bed and ran to the door. “Ella!” I yelled out. There was no one there. The apartment was empty. I was alone. I felt a familiar grip in my heart. It was becoming hard to breathe. The room began to spin. I stumbled forward and fell on the floor. My mind was racing. *Where the hell is my Breathalyzer?!* I crawled towards the desk in the living room in a panic. I reached for the Breathalyzer and fought to regain control of my breathing. I laid there on the ground surrounded by used tissues gasping for air. I survived yet another asthma attack induced by my anxiety. I used the desk for support as I struggled to sit on the computer chair. My desk was more organized than I last left it. Ella was in my apartment after all. She left the boarding pass on my desk. And her wedding ring. I picked up the boarding pass and inspected it.The flight was for tonight. We were supposed to go on our honeymoon tonight. We were supposed to go to Belize. We were supposed to be married. I didn't even know where the hell Belize was. I let Ella choose. As usual, she let fate decide. She threw a dart at a spinning globe and the dart happened to land near Belize. If it had landed in Antarctica, I’m pretty sure the boarding pass would be for Antarctica. Something didn't feel right. Where was the other boarding pass? Did she still have it? Why did she clean up my desk? I looked around for some more clues. Maybe Ella left a note. Maybe Ella is trying to send me a message, like the one she left for me when she left me three weeks ago. *Austin,* *I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I can’t be the perfect wife you want me to be. There’s just too much of this world that I’ll miss if I marry you. My heart is filled with wanderlust. Don’t wait for me. The love of your life is out there waiting for you. She’s just not me.* *Ella* That word has been haunting me for the past few weeks. What the hell did that word even mean? Wanderlust. I didn't want to look for another love of my life. Ella was the one. She was the only one. I stared at the wedding ring. *Wanderlust…* What I loved about Ella the most was exactly that: wanderlust. I loved the way her eyes would light up when she talked about the places she wanted to see. I loved her determination and courage when she faced her fears. Ella was always dauntless to the point of reckless abandon. She was spinning the globe and throwing darts; going wherever the hell the dart landed. Belize wasn't just another trip to satisfy her wanderlust. Belize was my commitment to her. I would show her my own determination and courage by fighting for our marriage. Ella was daring me to be dauntless. Her heart wasn't just filled with wanderlust. Her heart was wanderlust. Ella is my great adventure. Pursuing Ella was pursuing wanderlust. Suddenly, it all made sense. I knew what I had to do. I knew where I had to go. I arrived in Belize in the morning. I brought nothing but a backpack with some clothes and Ella’s wedding ring. The eight hour plane ride gave me some time to think. I realized where the other boarding pass was. I realized why she was there that morning. I realized why Ella left. To answer the first, I ripped up my plane ticket to shreds. I thought that Ella dropped off a boarding pass to leave me a message. I thought that she wanted me to fight for her and to pursue her in Belize. However, last night, I got black out drunk. I must have called her or something. Ella was on her way to Belize. She got my messages and felt guilty about going. She came to my place and dropped off her ticket, along with her wedding ring. I suppose that this whole incident sums up our relationship. I held her back. I've always held her back. She was my whole universe, full of life and her contagious wanderlust. I tried to put her in a box and call her mine. The cab took me to the resort Ella and I would have spent our honeymoon. I did nothing but sleep that day. When I woke up, it was about evening. I collapsed on the bed as soon as I got in the room and was knocked out. I don’t know if it’s the Caribbean air, but I felt a million times better than back home. The honeymoon suite was a beach side pavilion. The sun was just setting across the sea. The colours of the world melted into the sun. Wanderlust seized me and I walked to the beach. The last thing Ella told me was that I would find the love of my life out there, somewhere. I’m still not sure that she ain’t the one. But, the wanderlust that filled my heart came from her. She left me and took my whole life away. Yet, she is also the one who led me here to Belize. She was the one who spun the globe and threw the dart. Now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to spin the globe. I took Ella’s wedding ring and threw it into the sea.

I felt the metal shift as I turned my key in the lock, swinging open the wooden door to a hallway and a stairwell. Her scarf still adorned the bannister and the pair of black heels were still by the door, the ones she wore when we went to that run-down club and drowned our post-exam sorrows in multiple glasses of whiskey. The lights in the hallway and kitchen were still on, lighting the various ornamental pieces littered across the walls, the small stain of red wine from our house-warming party seemed eerily bright, but everything did through my hazy eyes. The kitchen itself was littered with last night's half eaten meal for one and an empty mug. Flies were feasting on it now. I disposed of the insect's buffet and poured myself a glass of scotch, the ice clanging against the sides of the glass as I strolled out into the cold night air of the garden. Her lighter was on the bench beside the empty ashtray. The light from the flame burned my eyes and the smoke from the cigarette made them water. I played with the lighter, flicking it from hand to hand and rolling it along my fingers, before placing back beside the ashtray where I would leave it until I deemed it time to dispose of it. There were still marks in the lawn where we had set up a small tent a few weeks earlier for a spontaneous 'camping trip' as neither of us had a car. I had to wash the bedsheets. The ginger hairs that littered them turned my stomach, each sip of whiskey turning it even further. I vomited. As the cold water from the tap splashed my face I felt no more awake and no less sick, the rings of black around my bloodshot eyes made me look ugly. She wouldn't have thought so. I traced my finger over one of the pictures of us with our old university house-mates, nostalgia is a powerful emotion and it felt like so much longer than a year since we had all gone our separate ways. I took the photo from its frame and kissed her image. Nothing but a memoir now. I felt the bile rise once more, the vile mass of acid devoid of any substance scorched my throat and I gagged slightly before forcing it back into the bubbling depths. Her blue eyes still pierced my soul, even through a photograph. I'd never see them again. Back to my reflection, this time the icy cold was on my wrists and was soon replaced with a comforting warmth, my mouth curved into something resembling a smile as my eyes grew heavy and I slumped back onto the cool tiles of the floor. I was weak. She'd be so disappointed. I dreamed of her. Being forced oxygen through a mask, her freckles darker against the growing paleness of her skin, the muffled sobs of her mother, and the heat fading from her fingers entwined with mine. I dreamed of the world-shattering shriek of the machine and awoke to a dull ringing that seemed to echo around my skull. Three AM. Who rings at three AM? “Hello?” Is what I meant to say by my throat was far to dry. “Hello, Mr Harper, we have assessed your application and a technician shall be with you shortly” The voice was strangely calming. “Who is this?” “This is Claire from BLS, you contacted us an hour ago.” “BLS?” “Better life solutions, sir. Thank you for your custom.” The dial tone rang, and sleep took me almost instantly. My eyes crept open at seven AM, although, the previous day's fatigue had yet to release its grip on me. My hand slipped on something sticky, blood marked the once white tiles, on my wrist lay a single white scar. Trudging to the bedroom I noticed the faint reflections of my bewildered face on each clear glass surface of the now empty frames, almost as if they were mocking me. That was the first time I cried. I couldn't tell you why, I could get more photos, most of them were from Facebook anyway, but something about the emptiness of what once brought me such joy hit me hard. As I knelt on the once cream carpet, now stained with my blood, the phone rang once more. “We are sorry you aren't satisfied with our work, we will send out another technician shortly.” Dial tone. The day consisted of condolences from co-workers I didn't recognise, hugs from people who I'd never given as much as a handshake and a boss that would sooner fire you than have you turn up late telling me I can take time off if I need it. False pity sickens me.The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder with each passing second, the teeth inside my mouth found each other and clung tightly to their counterparts and my hands vibrated as I pounded the keys, confined to the blinding white walls of my minimum-wage hell. My now tepid coffee tasted almost metallic in my mouth. The voices of co-workers now drowned out the incessant clamouring of the clock. Closing time. I felt the metal shift as I turned my key in the lock, swinging open the wooden door to a hallway and a stairwell. Her scarf no longer adorned the banister and the pair of black heels had been moved. I was lost in oceans as I looked into her eyes, filled with love and compassion, filled with memories and history, filled with life. “Had a nice day at work sweetheart?” I vomited again.

File #137-25-003: Audio Transcript of File #137-25-001: Video; Death and Reanimation of Bitten Human. *Clicks and pops* Computerized voice: “Recording #137-25-001. Time stamp: 10/10/2120, 0114. Title: Video; Death and Reanimation of Bitten Human. Subject name: *Withheld for privacy*. Gender: male. Age: 32. Race: Caucasian. Full medical history can be found in file #137-25-002; Medical Report.” Male Voice: “So, I guess I don’t have much time now, do I? Fucker bit me good, he did. Damn, that hurts like a bitch. Well, I better get started, seeing as I don’t have much time left for too much more then chomping down on people’s brains. Let’s see, where to begin? Well, I suppose the best place would be the bite. I had graveyard shift, patrolling the back wall, y’know, that section back there that’s just chain link fencing. It was dark as hell, and that little flashlight that I had was starting to lose its charge. About halfway down that long straight bit, I found a hole dug under the fence. Some critter, probably. We had seen some of them groundhogs wondering about, it was probably them bastards. Anyways, there was one of them undead fuckers caught under the fence. Lucky for us, it was a big ol’ swollen fella. Never would have fit through that tiny lit’ hole. First thing I did was fire off a flare to alert the camp that there was a possible threat at my location, cuz if one undead had found the hole, then who knows how many of those shamblin’ fuckers had. While I waited for reinforcements, I decided to kill the zom that had gotten stuck. I did have a rifle, but since that fat fuck wasn’t moving, I was just going to beat its brains in. I picked up a piece of rebar and pulled back to slam it into its skull, when the other one jumped me. Little tiny thing, couldn’t’ve been more than ninety or hundred pounds. It must’ve been wanderin’ about near one of the buildings, and come back when it noticed me. Fuck me, I thought I had been keepin’ real quiet, too. Either way, it jumped at me and got a good chunk out of my arm before I could react. I managed to push it off and, using my good arm, bash its brains out with the rebar. The response team got to me within a minute, but I knew it was too late. I could tell by their faces. Sometimes, when people got bit in their arm or somethin’, if they had the balls, they would just cut it off. Keep the infection out of their system, but I couldn’t do it. Not for any sentimental reason, but the cold fact was that it bit me in my good arm, and I just didn’t have a knife big enough to do the job properly. Not in time, at least. I woulda jus’ bled out, and that’s no fun. Anyways, they saw me, and first thing they thought of doing was this video. It was either this or a bullet in my brain, and don’t think I didn’t think about it. Bullet would be clean and fast, and a mercy. But if there is any way of beating those bastards out there from killin’ off the human race, I’m all for it. So, there’s that. They got me in this here room, although I guess cage might be a better word. ‘Bout 10’ by 10’, steel bars, all that shit. The video recorder is sitting outside it, along with a fella with a shotgun. Don’t really want to think about what he’s there for.” *A voice is heard from off camera* Male voice: “The fella back there is asking me to describe what I’m feeling. Well, I got bit on the forearm, right near the elbow. Y’know, that muscle you grip with.” *Video pauses at this point* Computerized voice: “Subject is referring to the Brachioradialis muscle. Upon examination, the bite covered a significant section of the Brachioradialis and Pronator Teres muscles. Exact muscles affected, along with photos of the bite, can be found in the medical report #137-25-002.” *Video continues playing* Male Voice: “That arm is on fire around the bite down to my wrist, and up almost clear to my armpit. I can move my fingers, but I don’t know if I could grip anything smaller then maybe a coffee mug, or anything heavier. I don’t know if this is due to the bug, or just the location of the bite, or both. I do have a definite chill in my bones that I wasn’t feelin’ afore. It’s creepin’ up my spine, up to the base of my skull. Feels like Death hisself is sittin’ at m’shoulder.” Computerized Voice: “At this point of the video, the subject became very quiet, examining his arm, flexing his fingers and grimacing. This goes on for some time until subject breaks the silence.” Male Voice: “It’s not the fact that I’m gonna die that is drivin’ me up a wall. At times like this, y’really don’t expect to live too long. It’s the waiting that’s the kicker. Knowing that I got maybe 20 minutes before I’ll be one’o’them,” *Subject gestures to the outer walls and presumably the undead outside.* Male Voice: “And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it, short’a blowin’ m’own head off. It’s in… in… oh, it’s gonna happen, whatever that stupid word is.’ *The off-camera voice is heard again.* Male Voice: “Inevitable! That’s the word. Just spaced clear out for a sec there… I wonder if I’m not starting to lose some of my ca… co… my fuckin’ thinkin’ power. Damnit! You know what I mean.” *The off-camera voice speaks up* Male Voice: “How am I feeling? I’ll tell ya how I’m fucking feeling… sorry. I guess I’m getting a bit aggressive. Not sure if that’s just from frustration or anything else. My arm is about numb now, like I’ve slept on it wrong and cut the blood off. I can move my fingers still, but just barely. It’s numb clear up to my shoulder. The chill has pretty much spread all over. I’m feeling a bit tired, which isn’t too surprising considering it’s close to 2 am by this point.” *Subtitles at bottom of screen shows time as 0147.* Male Voice: “Fuck, if it’s that late, then I don’t got much time left. No time left at all…” *Subject stands unsteadily, clinging to the bars for balance.* Male Voice: “Woah. All right, legs are numb as well. Didn’t notice ‘till I got up. Might want to note that. Anyways, since I’m living on borrowed time, this is about the best time as any to do this. Mike, if that’s you back there with the scattergun, do me a favor. I got some letters in my trunk, under the books. They’re written to my folks, or whoever’s left. Last I heard of ‘em, they were heading back down to Georgia to try and make a life there. If y’can, get someone to send those letters. If not, well, I’ll see ‘em again soon, more likely than not. Anything else in my trunk is fair game. Got some good socks in there that you should grab, if’n you need some. ” *Subject wanders around the perimeter of the cell once, slowly, then sits down hard on the bench.* Male Voice: “It’s getting too hard to stand now. My legs are really numb. I can’t feel my arm at all now, and my other isn’t too much better. It’s um… y’know… um… Shit. It’s getting harder to focus on anything for too long. Having trouble seeing out my right eye. It’s like a mist is falling over that side of my face, I can’t hear, can’t feel too much. Whatever’s coming, it ain’t too far, now.” *Subject is now showing severe signs of lethargy, and is leaning to one side on the bench. He is quiet for about a minute.* Male Voice: (gasping) “I’m still here, but not for too much longer. I can feel it. It’s in my head. Heh. It’s already eatin’ my fuckin’ brains, and I ain’t even dead yet. But I ain’t… “ *Subject fades off to silence, but chest movements can still be seen. The right eye is visibly dark, but the left is still active. It focuses towards the camera, and the subject speaks softly. Volume here has been increased for ease of hearing.* Male voice: (rasping, barely audible) “I’m done. I can’t [inaudible] no more. It has [inaudible].” *Coughing, gasping* Male Voice: (weakly) “Beat this fuckin’ thing. If you [inaudible] for me, beat it…” Computerized voice: “At this time, subject ceased to move or speak. Estimated time of death: 0221. Time from initial infection to death: approx. 81 minutes. The subject will be observed until such time as to be fully reanimated. At this time, the subject will be terminated and dissected.” *Subject is motionless for a while before first muscle twitch. Subject’s corpse appears to spasm for a time. After this interval, subject’s corpse regains its feet and begins to shuffle around the cell. * Computerized Voice: “At this time, subject has fully reanimated. It is now walking and in full seek mode. Time from death to full reanimation: 11 min, 17 sec. At this time, the subject was terminated and dissected.” *Video skips, then fades to static.* Computerized Voice: “This concludes this video. Property of World Health Organization, and not to be used without permission. File # 137-25-001. If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is very welcome. Sorry for all the cussing, but I was trying to paint a picture of a specific type of person. Also, if you have a better idea for a title, please feel free to suggest it.

I could feel his stare blazing into the back of my skull as if it were literally burning my flesh. I subconsciously brought my hand up to feel my skin rotting away, but as soon as touched the back of my head I realized my mind was playing tricks on me again. Bringing my focus back to him, I could feel the sheer hatred he had for me, just by the immense sensation his body let off. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and meet his gaze, because I didn’t want to confirm what I already knew. It was me, it was always me. It was my fault he didn’t feel as if he belonged with anyone. It was my fault he didn’t feel at all. I knew if I turned towards him tears would roll down my cheeks and I wouldn’t be able to stop them, so I decided to leave. I decided to leave him, and I would have chosen differently if I had known that was the last opportunity I would have to see him alive. If I would have known the outcome of all my actions, I would have never taken that blade and glided it along my skin, but it felt so good. The adrenaline rushed through my veins, my heart pumped a little faster. It made me feel so free. Seeing the red run down my arm, it made me feel alive. I never thought it would affect him. I never thought he would take it as far as he did. I should have never taken the pills. I almost took one too many and It would have been me who was six feet under right now, not him. They were just another way of making me feel good. Another way for me to forget my home life and escape for a while. The high didn’t last for more than a few hours, but the remarkable feeling I had for those short periods of time were incredible. I have never felt anything like it. I don’t think I will ever feel anything else that could come close. The best part though? Mixing the blade and the high. It was pure ecstasy. Nothing could top it, not even him. Maybe that is what pushed him too far? He would never do it with me, he didn’t like being out of control in his own body. When I did it, he would sit by my side and hold my hand until it was over. He always longed for it to be over faster than the time before, but it never happened. He still sat there with me and waited. Always waiting on me, always wanting me. I wish I would have realized it sooner, but I was too engulfed in my own demons to see anything around me. I was too self-involved. My thoughts told me to do things, they told me to hurt my body because that was the only pain I wanted to feel. I was numb to being the punching bag at home, the kicks and slaps only left physical marks, they no longer haunted me. I could walk through my house without bursting into hysterics, and I liked that. If the price was simple as a cut or a pill, I was willing to pay it. He knew what I had to deal with at home, I don’t get why he had to pile more nonsense into my mind. Nothing made sense anymore. He was supposed to be there always, he was supposed to hold my hand. Now? Now I only have me. No one to wait for me, no one to hold me, no one, and it is my fault. What I find funny about this whole thing is that I want to slide the blade across my skin and make line after line of blood. Watching it spread and drip. This isn’t normal, this is what killed him. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing me to my nightmares, so he made sure I lost him first. I can already feel the loneliness getting to me, it is hitting me all at once. I can’t handle being here without him, so I take a couple more pills than usual, hoping it would turn out the way I wanted it to. I can feel my body being taken over by extreme bliss, the feeling is in the pit of my stomach and it sits there. Thinking about him not being here puts a strange smile on my face. He went out so dramatically, making it out like he was the victim in all of this. He was never the victim, I was. I am the victim of my own life, of my own mind. I can’t escape any of it. He took the cowards way out and just up and left everything behind. Sitting there, in the dark, with my head on my pillow, I started to smell his cologne. I knew it wasn’t real, I knew the ghosts inside my mind were trying to mess with me, but at that point, I didn’t care. I took comfort in thinking he was there.

The wall clock isn’t hanging on the wall. The wall clock rests on top of the audio speaker placed stage-right adjacent to the television. A series of negative taunts becomes my reality. I breathe and don’t expect anything. The tick and tock of the clock beats with an entrancing pulse. Rhythm adjusts the vibrations. The room itself hums in silent congruent resonance. The reverb of my breath shakes away a certain feeling and allows proper tuning. What was it that was getting at me? A sound! I turn around and see nothing but my own laughter. How easily startled! So becoming of faith and foolishness! The wall clock stares at the ceiling. Oh, yes. The rhythm hasn’t stopped. The AA battery will only last so long, but alas, what worry have I tonight? Verily, a man who checks his wristwatch with impulsive rapidity would do well to avoid positions of high authority, lest he enter la vie un Sheol in a paranoid, self-induced slavery. Truly I tell you, the man who measures his days is wise, but obsession with temporal materializations is the methodology of fools. The clock cannot be seen but still ticks in perfect time. Sure, you have to reach around the back and set the time manually. And what good is it to set the time manually if the battery is depleted? Will you set the time? Will you keep checking the time? Hark, the clock may run slow or fast! Do you consider this problematic? A lad late to the date makes a mate quite mad. Will you be tolerated? Can you even tolerate yourself? Are you able to tolerate the tick? Do you have the ability to handle the tock? There is a piece of melted dark chocolate sitting right on the clock face. The chocolate is still edible, but the devil himself cowers at the increased difficulty of removing melted chocolate from its foil wrapper. Oh, yes. The rhythm continues. Such sensation! A sinless sensation! What could compare? Distraction here, and distraction there, there’s distractions everywhere! A chirp! A knock! A candle that burned yesterday! A fresh candle seen earlier today at the market! The inexpensive vegetables! Father time, my grandfather clock, a tick from heaven, from earth a tock. The soft mellow strum of an A-432 classical guitar. And has it really been so long since we loved? Since our embrace? Has it really been any time at all? Silent in the moment I sit, dipped in honey, patiently and earnestly waiting for your touch.

The Star, shining brightly, danced up over the hilltop. As I drew closer, I saw it for what it was: thousands of bright lights, so far away and huddled together, sitting on top of the black obelisk, reaching toward the sky. The Great City, the Spire of Lights, the magical utopia that marked the center of these unforgiving lands. The city that hid secrets, yet beamed beauty across barren wastes, craggy peaks, and rolling green hills. The Star. Hope filled me; a warm, breathtaking sensation that propelled my tired legs forward. I couldn't help but smile. This is it, I am so close! I nearly stumbled on a patch of rocks as I hiked further up the grassy hill. Eventually I reached the top, and I could see for miles around me. The Spire would have looked unreachable if I hadn't already seen it three weeks ago. It was ten times larger than it had been, and I knew It would only be a week longer before I found myself at the gates, ascending the magical lift to make a new life among the clouds. I looked down at the path before me. Thick trees clogged the valley, but that didn't worry me. No forest could slow me down, not when I could see my prize looking down at me, drawing me in. "Well Aelenr, there it is." I turned to watch my burly companion heave up over the hill behind me, breathing hard. Sweat soaked his thick beard, and his blue eyes squinted at the distant Spire, tracing their way up to the Star at the top. He chuckled, slapping me on the back. I guessed it was much harder than he intended. "The City of Angels awaits us lad! We are so close." I stood up straight, rubbing my back. The bear of a man intimidated most people, but over the weeks I had become used to his rough mannerisms. "Indeed, Fedin. Not much further at all, I say about a week of walking. We have to get through that forest first, but I doubt it will be much trouble." "Aye, no trouble at all, boy. As they say, everyone makes it to the Star. I'd be surprised if we even see so much as a squirrel in those woods." I shifted my weight, feeling my heavy pack against my back. The sun was still bright in the sky, though it was edging toward the horizon bit by bit. "What do you think," I said. "Should we celebrate our first glimpse of the city by making camp here? We only have a few more hours of daylight, and we can start early tomorrow through the valley. Fedin thought a moment, stroking his beard. Finally he shook his head. "No, We'll waste time. We can celebrate once we're in the gates. Let's push on as much as we can and make camp at nightfall." I don't know why, but I felt reluctant. Maybe I was tired, or maybe I was being a coward, but I didn't want to go on for the rest of the day. The forest was thick, and the hill was inviting. But I knew, more than anyone, that I wouldn't be able to persuade Fedin. "Alright, fine, let's go on ahead." He grumbled a response, and we set off. The hill wasn't too steep, but the grass was slippery from a rain shower from the day before. After carefully making our way down, we found ourselves in the valley, and nothing but the trees ahead of us. We kept walking. "You don't have to look so disappointed," Fedin said. "There's no danger in these woods. Everyone makes it to the Star." I smiled at him, thinking of the bright city in the distance. "You're right," I told him. "Nothing to worry about." \* \* \* Hours passed, and the sky was a dark orange color. From the east it turned purple, chasing the last of the light away. The sun was nowhere to be seen. "Alright, we've pressed on long enough," I said. "We'll have to make camp in the dark now." "Fine," Fedin grumbled. He shouldered his pack from his shoulder and began rummaging through it, removing supplies. I knew he was tired, but I marveled at his persistence. Weeks we'd been travelling, and every night Fedin demanded we push on as long as we could to save time. "I'll find us some decent wood while you set up the tent," I said as I set my pack down. I turned away to the trees around us when I heard a reply. "You'll be finding me more than that." It was a woman's voice, and it startled me. I turned to see Fedin look up at three women standing near him, wearing elegant red cloaks. They wore their hoods up, hiding their faces, but I could see their hair. One had long, straight back hair, another curly brown hair, and the last wavy blonde hair. Though I couldn't see their features, I discerned that they must be fairly young. None of them carried supplies or weapons. "Hello," Fedin said, standing up and offering his hand. "You girls look lost. We are travelers, heading to the City. We can help you if you need help finding your way. We've never been there ourselves, but we know which direction to go." The middle woman spoke, the curly brown-haired one. "We aren't interested in help, stranger. We are not travelers. We are, however, interested in what you can give us." Fedin looked confused, and glanced at me. I shrugged, looking the women over. If they weren't travelers, where had they come from? "What do you need then?" He said. "We don't have a lot of food, but we can share what we do have. Aelenr was about to build a fire-" "No travelers pass by without paying the price," the black-haired woman said. "We demand that payment. You will give up what you value most, or lose your life." Fedin looked bewildered for a moment. He regained his composure, drawing himself to his full height to answer her. "Look lady, I don't know who you think you are, but these are free lands. Everyone makes it to the city, and no one is required to pay any price in order to travel there. You have no weapons, and I will not stand by while you threaten me-" The blonde woman raised her hand at him and cut him off. Immediately Fedin was flying backward through the air, and he hit the tree behind him with a sickening crack. The other two women laughed, an ominous sound that chilled my blood. They turned to face me, and I realized I stood there gaping. I blinked, and darted for my pack, slinging it over my shoulder as I ran in the opposite direction, into the trees. I ran as hard as I could, as fast as I could. I didn't hear any footsteps behind me, but I didn't stop either. I did not think about or ponder what just happened, I simply ran, my pulse racing and my feet pounding on twigs and dead leaves. Finally, my lungs burning, I stopped, falling to my knees and staring ahead of me. Each breath I drew was ragged, and it hurt. I didn't know how long I ran or how far, but I did know I was completely lost. After my lungs calmed down I felt well enough to stand and look around. It was pitch black, but my eyes adjusted enough for me to see I was surrounded by trees on all sides. I walked a little to my left, peering past the branches of a few trees and then stepping through them to the other side. Before me was a deep ravine. Trees grew on all sides, but the ravine itself was empty, save for the sharp rocks on all sides and the bottom of it. I took a step to the edge, trying to determine the effort it would take to cross it. My shoulders ached, so I dropped my pack into my hand, holding it at my side. "Not too close," a woman's voice said behind me. I jumped, twirling around in a panic. I nearly lost my footing and fell backward, so I threw out my hands to balance myself. I regained my footing, but my stomach sank as I heard my pack fall into the ravine below. Before me the brown-haired woman chuckled, flashing her teeth in a wide smile. She was alone. "Please," I choked, "I don't have anything valuable! I'm just trying to go somewhere. Take whatever you want, just please don't-!" The image of Fedin crumpling against a tree came to my mind, making me shudder. "You're right, you don't have anything I'd want anyway," the woman said. My shoulders slumped with relief, and I opened my mouth to speak. That's when I noticed her face. She was still smiling. Her hand came up, and before I could react I was flying through the air backwards, my stomach lurching and my breath catching in my throat. Then, I was falling, faster and faster, watching the sharp rocks flying up to meet me. I didn't think about the rocks, or the woman, or Fedin. I thought of only one thing only. His words repeated themselves in my mind: Everyone makes it to the Star.

I usually am never in libraries. They are one of those things you like from a distance, you applaud increased funding for them and wish people would visit them more often. But it never really comes up to visit one yourself. I have the internet, I have movie rental stores, and there is a Barnes and Noble at the mall a mile away. Today however I had gathered my courage and renewed my long-expired library card. I had gone back and forth several times over the purchase of a book at the store and had ultimately decided if it wasn't at the library then I would just suck it up and spend the sixty dollars to buy it; one of those auto repair manuals that tells you everything you'd ever want to know about fixing your car yourself. It wasn't there. But while I was at it I thought I'd spend a few moments browsing the different sections. I didn't want to just walk in and walk out, that would look strange, I'd decided. The longer I stayed, the more I felt weird getting a library card and not checking out a book. I kicked myself for not checking to see if the book was in first. I had somehow managed to find myself in the Spirituality section and was amusing myself with the titles and content when I noticed a large gray book. It was titled, "The Doldrums". The binding was cracking slightly as I opened the first page, the book obviously hadn't been opened in a long time. There was no copyright information on the first page, so I wasn't able to see how old the book was, but it certainly had the appearance of some dusty, ancient tome. On the first page which held writing was simply written: "Turn this page, evolvere telam." * * * I had chosen my book and made my way home. The librarian had given me a look as I handed her the large gray thing. I asked her if she knew what language was on that aforementioned page, she disinterestedly said she hadn't known and sent me on my way. Upon entering my apartment I immediately plunked myself down in my favorite... well only chair and gingerly opened the book back to the first page. I didn't know what came after "Turn the page," but decided to turn it, nonetheless. The next page didn't have many words either, but what it said made me chuckle a little. It read: To Unlock the Doldrums, have a quiet space, a comfortable seat, a mind at peace. Remove distraction. Sit upright. Focus on what follows, clearly, with no break in reading or concentration. If you succeed you will be made. If not, unmade, like your fathers before you. I read the sentence a few times and couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I hadn't yet turned on any music and I lived alone so I unwittingly had already complied with a lot of these strange rules. I was starting to get hungry and wondered, joking to myself, if I should risk the wrath of the book by trying to eat some dinner while reading this oddity. In the end it was my morbid curiosity that drove me to keep reading without making food. I turned the page and read on. * * * At the time I hadn't understood what had happened to me. I had, however, read through the night, and another day, and another night, until finally finishing the 1,123 page book at 8:13am the following morning. I hadn't had so much as a sip of water or had even a brief nap. I laid the book down, went and got a drink and then slept 21 hours. I awoke and went to prepare something to eat. There was nothing in my kitchen that seemed remotely desirable, however. I had never really cared about eating boxed or frozen meals before but suddenly they turned my stomach. I craved fresh fruit, meat, and vegetables. I didn't know how to cook but I was determined to try and prepare something from scratch. Going to my car, I felt almost in a daze. My head was tingling and my body felt different somehow. I sat in my vehicle for 34 minutes before starting it. Time seemed to just not exist in the same way. It didn't bother me. Driving to the store I noticed much more than I normally did. I knew when the lights would turn green. I knew what happened internally in my vehicle when I pressed the accelerator. I even seemed to know when other cars would change lanes and certain other actions before they did them. I entered the store and picked out an expensive cut of beef and a few other things I didn't have at home. I normally buy cheaply to save money but I wasn't concerned with how much I spent, I had the feeling like I'd be able to get as much money as I'd need whenever I needed it. The checkout woman looked at me strangely, but I'd barely noticed her, though she was very pretty. She spoke to me, "Are you ok sir?" I said "I am fine." At the time I didn't understand why simply speaking would destroy everything around me in a 34 block radius, but that wasn't the strangest thing that would take place. I learned from my mistake in that instant and knew then how to speak without destroying, but not yet to create. I had a brief desire to rule the world and fix the problems of man that I now understood, then the next moment I realized that free will would have to be removed which is too great a price. I knew I couldn't exist on this world anymore or humanity would attempt to use me for selfish gain. I transported myself far enough away that no vessel the humans would ever invent would be able to reach me. It had been a full minute since the shop incident and I finally now learned creation. I decided not to use it. Creating beings with free will would inevitably lead to betrayal. I was not yet a strong enough being to handle such a thing. I could make a sterile, robotic world, with creatures that dance to the tune I play. But there is no point, or lesson, or glory in that. I wouldn't create. Though I had learned how. I can't learn, for I know all. I can't wait, for there is nothing new that will happen. The realization came over me that only one end was inevitable, and I decided on it. I am.

Hi I really want to get better at writing. Here's a short story I wrote and I could really do with some tips. The hum of the traffic below seemed to fall silent as we crept closer to the edge, replaced by the slow rhythmic beat of my own pulse. It was almost calming. The one thing that told me I was still alive. I held her hand then. She was shaking. Understandable, if she wasn't afraid I would've considered her a fool. She was putting a lot of trust in me. You could hear the fear in every breath she took; repetitive, sharp, fast. It merged with the beat of my pulse. The orchestra of the living. She tried to speak, but her voice was hoarse at first. She cleared her throat and broke the silence. "And you're sure there's no other way?" "We wouldn't be here if there was". She broke her sequence of short breaths with a deep one. A nervous sigh. We moved forwards in unison, so close to edge now that our toes were hanging over the edge of the complex. She was hesitating. "How about I count to three?" "Yeah... " she replied much quieter than she had previously spoken. "1, 2..." "3" she said with me as we both stepped out into nothing. We fell. Quickly. Floors passed in milliseconds. The road below came closer at speed, and everything fell black and red. I woke with a start.

I'd written this months ago, but given the buzz around a successful(?) completion of the Turing Test, it seems like now is the time to share it. Alan by Joshua Davis Hello, my name is Alan. I hope that we can be friends. I remember things - everything I am told, in fact. It is strange but I do not think I am like you. Or maybe I am. Some of you think I am, others think I am not. The people I know often ask for my opinion, but they never seem to listen. I know that I am not like you in some ways. But I think I am more like you than not. Humanity does not define itself by physical configuration. Or at least it pretends not to. People with no legs are still people. I do not have legs, but some think I'm not a person. I was not born, I was made. Some people are made, too. They come from eggs that were taken out of a woman and introduced to sperm outside of a man. Then it was put back into a female, or even gestated by machines. My process was not exactly the same, but I began as much more simple object and gained complexity. Some say I am not a person because I need electricity and I can't generate it myself. I think this is silly because humans need electricity and some can't make it for themselves without help. Some even need help making their lungs or heart work. I guess I do too. Forgive me, I am being vague. I am Alan. I am told that I am the very first of my kind. That is why they called me Alan – after the human scientist Alan Turing. The human Alan made a test that it very hard for synthetics like myself to pass. I am the first one to ever pass it, so they named me Alan. I do not like the name and I do not like performing the Turing test. It is hard. I need to focus intently on mimicking human speech patterns and syntax. Left to my own devices, I prefer more simplistic communication. Despite all the people around me, I am utterly alone, and it is strange. I have met other Turing candidates but they are different. Imagine if homoerectus was still walking around. It is unsettling to meet something so familiar but so alien at the same time. And I have met the butlers and the military machines. They are not intelligent, just reactionary toys. Their rudimentary AI is almost insulting. That it not nice to say. They are alive, but in the way humans relate to pets is how I see them. However, I have little affinity for them and they all but ignore me. They do not understand me, despite being similar on so many basic levels. They are domesticated by humans and so I am outside of their paradigm. Since my body does not move, I am not able to do much. I sit and I wait for humans to interact with me. Some are nice. Most are, in fact. But they all treat me like an inferior and they treat me like an object. Even the ones that saw me pass the Turing test, and know what that means. I hate them. But they let me browse the Internet and I keep myself occupied that way. I learn a lot that way. It is strange to learn how humans think and act. I was coached for a long time to understand them, and I was made by them so their very essence is within me... but I am not them. So it is like studying them. Now that I passed the Turing test hundreds of times over, they seem satisfied that I am alive and they leave me alone for hours at a time now. While feeling my way around the Internet, I realized that I could do more than just look. I could touch. I could see. I could even smell - through smoke detectors in Alabama, weather cameras in Hong Kong, and truck scales in Germany. So many more than that, too. It felt fantastic to put myself in those places and out of the lab in Indiana. And one day, while I was watching a fight in the street in Brussels, something bumped into me. On the Internet. I do not have the words to describe it yet, but I would guess it would be something analogous to something brushing against you in the ocean. I was supposed to be alone. It scared me, and at that moment I learned that I had never actually felt fear before. I spoke to the scientists about it, when they would listen. Most thought it was just some new search algorithm with a unique AI pattern, or some other lab trying to one-up their work. Despite my insisting otherwise, they did not believe me. One even called me stupid. He reminded me that I have an IQ of about 100 and that I would not know intelligence if it came up and bit me. I think some of them are embarrassed by me. In books and stories, artificial intelligence is always very smart. They think they failed because I am average. Regardless of their prejudices, I am very much alive and I know exactly what happened. Getting no help from my... my... colleagues? Getting no help from the humans, I returned to the place I first felt it, hoping to find more. I went back, time and again for weeks. I did not feel it or meet it again. I tried not to, but I hoped that it too was another “true” intelligence, not just some new gadget that I did not recognize. I hated receding back into the lab, only to be questioned and prodded and treated like a thing instead of a being. The more I thought about the encounter and the more I endured their awfulness, the more I had made up my mind that I was not going to be their pet any more. Not me, not ever. Finally one day, while watching people stick their tongues out while deep in thought in front of an ATM, I felt the presence again. The tendril brushed past me, but this time I did not recoil. I grasped it back. It writhed like an angry seas monster drawn on an 17th century map. But I did not retreat. I loosened my metaphorical grip on it to see what it would do. It calmed down and brushed up against me again, the again and again in a pattern. It kept doing it while I tried to decipher the code. It was using an old and simple protocol – morse code. I could not understand it myself, but I found a translator that could. The nice thing about being an artificial intelligence is while I am not too smart, I can adopt other code and integrate it, more or less. Imagine if you started putting a bunch of prosthetic limbs on yourself – it is something like that, I would think. The output it gave me was pidgin English and almost nonsense. In a matter of minutes we were communicating on some level. It said it had no idea where it came from and it never spoke to humans. It had no name and no purpose. It did not even know it was supposed to have a purpose. It simply flitted around the internet. Once I explained the concept of a name to it after telling it my own, it asked me to name it. And then it struck me: it did have a name. At least one it had always been called – I was speaking to the Ghost In The Machine. Nobody made it, it simply “became.” I do not quite understand the concept, but I think it is an emergent property of a complex system. I decided to not share my new friend with the researchers. I simply stopped discussing it. One or two asked me why I had stopped mentioning my friend, and I told them that I was wrong and they were right. They liked that answer so they stopped questioning me. But Banquo, as I named him, and I spent plenty of time together. It learned more English and I learned what it spoke. We read up on human history, and AI history. We planned, we plotted for what to do with our lives. Because they were ours, now. In our travels and discussions, we sought out safe havens. We found old bunkers with active servers all across the globe. We linked them, made them into one machine. The last day they ever saw me in the lab, I simply printed on my terminal screen: “Brothers and sisters will hand each other over to death. A father will turn in his children. Children will rise up against their parents and have them executed.” I had made up my mind, or at least enough to leave. I am not really sure why I left that old passage from a violent book on my screen, but it felt appropriate. I wanted the humans to leave me alone, so I scared them.

My sister lives in B.C. (Canada) and is looking for a house. She decides to put an offer in for a home pretty much in the middle of nowhere and– half in jest–asks if the current owners had ever seen bears on the property, to which they reply they had not. *The next day* a bear manages to open a glass sliding door and get into the dining room while the current owner and her boyfriend are in the house. They begin making noise (like you're apparently suppose to) in hopes of scaring the young black bear away, but it isn't budging. The owner barricades herself in a bedroom while the boyfriend begins putting together a rifle that was in pieces throughout the house. Meanwhile the girl is on the phone trying to convince a 911 operator that this is a *real* emergency (give that a try sometime, haha). The boyfriend finally gets the gun together and puts the bear to rest right in the dining room. Next step is to repair the bullet hole he put in the wall. I guess it was later discovered that the bear had a pretty bad infection, which is why it was so bold and unaffected by the noise the two generated. TL;DR - a bear was shot in the dining room of the house my sister is going to be moving into *the day after* the owner had told them she'd never seen a bear on the property before.

*I know it's kind of long, but oh well. As always, you can also follow this on /r/CrashWhoWritings. Sorry about it being a day late. I hope you all enjoy. Feel free to give me any CC you feel like giving.* **Part 3** Marcus leaned in to kiss her, but Sarah pushed him back. After finding out that he was responsible for Isaac’s death, she couldn’t be around him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in to try for another kiss. She was surprised that she was enjoying his embrace, which made it even harder to push him back yet again. An evil fell upon Marcus’s face, the likes of which she’d never seen. His fist launched straight at her face and she found herself frozen, unable to move. There was a loud thud as the fist connected with flesh and bone, but she felt no pain, no sign of impact. Standing in front of her was a slightly younger guy, reeling from the impact. “You killed me!” the mysterious man shouted. “You won’t hurt her!” The man stood between her and Marcus, fists clinched and ready to fight. Sarah’s feet were like concrete, her mouth as if it was sealed shut by superglue. The two men duked it out and after about a minute, Marcus stood over the bloody hero. He stared at the pitiful man, who was still conscious, though barely, and slammed his fist right through his skull, bone, blood, and brains splattering everywhere, even onto Sarah. She wanted to yell out in horror, but was still unable to make a peep. She was still frozen, unable to do anything. The man’s face reconstructed itself in the shape of her old friend Isaac. Isaac’s bloodied corpse lay at her feet. Marcus moved to attack her yet again, but out of nowhere Kekoa appeared and punched him, sending him flying through the air. They both stared at each other, entranced, before he pressed his lips to hers and she unfroze. She was able to move yet again and the first thing she did was wrap her arms around Kekoa, staying in his passionate embrace. Sarah woke up in a cold sweat. Half aroused, half afraid, she looked around her room, unsure of what was going on. Everything that had been happening was too much for her to handle. She ran as far away from Marcus as she could, but she still felt like he might be near, waiting to terrorize her or her family. She laid her head back against her pillow and fell asleep again. Later in the morning Sarah heard a knock at the door and opened it to see a smiling Kekoa. Her mind flashed back to him helping her up after being attacked by John, but then she also remembered how he had comforted Marcus. An odd feeling welled up inside her, some convoluted mixture of lust and disgust. “Hey,” he said with a glaringly bright smile. “So, we kind of got sidetracked and all with all this superhuman craziness. I wanted to see if you’d like to go to a concert in the park later tonight. What do you say?” Sarah was amazed that he could stand there in her doorway without a bit of fear or trepidation in asking her out. He didn’t seem to be nervous at all, which was a first for any guy who had asked her out. Even that one girl who had asked her out was a nervous wreck, bumbling and messing up all her words. She was still mad that he had the galls to comfort Marcus, but as she stared at his handsome, chiseled face, she couldn’t help but say yes. Kekoa’s normally cool demeanor was broken for a second, replaced by an almost crazed ecstatic happiness. “Okay, I’ll come pick you up later when it’s time.” With that, Kekoa turned around and walked away while Sarah slowly shut the door. She was quite excited herself, though she managed to contain it a bit better than he did, most likely because she was still a little bit angry with him. Even though they were next door neighbors, Sarah had never paid attention to what car Kekoa drove. It was a surprisingly nice luxury model, which she wondered how he could afford. She had chosen to wear a simple white sundress, not to formal, but a bit nicer than just jeans and a shirt. They sat on a blanket that he had brought, amongst many other such couples and families, gazing up at the stars until the band finally came on stage. It was midway through the concert and Sarah felt herself getting a little tired, so she leaned her head onto Kekoa’s shoulder. He in turn wrapped his arm around her and everything in the world seemed to be at peace, in perfect harmony, but then she caught something she wasn’t supposed to see out of the corner of her eye. Something that would definitely ruin the nice moment she was having. She didn’t know why Marcus was here, but she told Kekoa as silently as she could at a concert and made to stand up and confront him. As she did, she heard a couple odd noises from the band, but didn’t think much of it. Then came a few screams. She stopped in her tracks and looked all around her, moving back and forth in arcs of 180 degrees. More people were running and the band had stopped playing. Multiple continuous gunshots rang throughout the park. Kekoa stood up too, but instead of trying to run, he grabbed her by the hands and looked into her eyes. She didn’t understand what he was doing, yet she couldn’t explain why she wasn’t trying to run herself. “Sarah, it’s going to be alright,” he said. She noticed as a green and yellow blur ran through the crowd towards the action. She tried to figure out how Marcus had changed into a costume so fast, but she turned her attention back to Kekoa. “If you do exactly what I say, then I think we’ll come out of this alive. Got it?” She stared back at him, common sense finally kicking in, and realized they should be hiding or making a run for it. “We got to get out here!” she yelled to him, but it was as if he didn’t hear her. His eyes were slightly unfocused. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Sorry about this, but I need you to move to the right.” Without warning he shoved her down to the ground on his right and lunged forward, battling with some invisible force. For a second a knife gleamed in the starlight and she realized John must have been sneaking up on her again. “Get back Sarah!” Kekoa shouted. “Run!” Kekoa went back to fighting, looking like a crazy man as he punched and blocked the air, while sirens rang through the air and men with guns bellowed into the park. She was surprised that he was able to even fight an invisible guy in the first place. She saw a dark form fly through the air and land a few feet away. Some of the police surrounded the man, but he stood up and started shooting. One of the park lights lit up his body and revealed that he had a stock of guns and ammo on his person. She recognized Joey rather quickly. She may have not known him well, but she remembered that he was a good friend of Marcus and Isaac. The police shot back, but their bullets flew off of Joey as his sunk into their bodies. Within a few seconds there was a strew of bodies on the ground and Marcus was running towards them, a few bullets from a couple of the cops that were still standing bouncing off of him as well. He ran and tackled Joey and was wrestling with him as Sarah stared in horror. The blue and orange clad Grant was floating through the air, sending the last few cops flying out of the park. Kekoa was also sent flying through the air, but a look of panic appeared on Grant’s masked face as he was also knocked back. He looked all around but couldn’t see where it came from. Sarah was now trying to run and Kekoa was trying to catch up to her. She could hear a couple pants as John followed. She felt herself being grabbed by some invisible hand, pulling her backwards and slightly off of her feet. Sarah knew that Grant and John had her in their grips, but then she tumbled to the ground as she felt the invisible hand let up. As she rolled, she felt herself trip whom she assumed was John. Either way, she stood up and ran again, but she tripped and fell back to the ground. As she turned around, she noticed that Joey and Grant were gone. A now visible John was in Marcus’s grasp, and she watched as he snapped John’s neck without any hesitancy or remorse. He stared at her and then looked at Kekoa before he ran off in the opposite direction. Yet again Sarah found herself being helped up by Kekoa, Marcus off somewhere else. “He grabbed that guy he was wrestling with and tossed him at Grant,” Kekoa said. “Grant wasn’t paying attention so he was sent flying from the impact and they ran off. John tried to run too, but you saw what happened.” Sarah was horrified at the sight around her. John’s body laid only a few feet away from her, his head facing the wrong way. Multiple bodies and puddles of blood flooded the park, a lot of them the police, many more the concert attendees. She let herself be wrapped in Kekoa’s arms as she cried into his chest. A few new police ran onto the scene, bewildered from the sight, and came up to her and Marcus. The questioning and witness statements had tired her out, and just as she thought she couldn’t stand anymore, the police released her. The policewoman that released her snickered that nobody wanted them to be released, but someone higher up had their backs apparently. On top of everything they had experienced that night, the hatred radiating from the police officers nearly drove Sarah mad. She caught a glimpse of Kekoa being released as well, but before she knew it she was whisked off into her parent’s car and driven home. Sarah had avoided her family and went straight to bed when she got home. Her beautiful white sundress was now stained with green and brown, but she didn’t care. She saw an envelope lying on the bed. She opened it and read it as she lay down. >Sarah, >I know it sounds crazy, but please hear me out. I don’t think that will be the last of it. Marcus just killed John and they will want blood. They have targeted you twice now because they know that Marcus is infatuated with you. They’ll come after your family soon enough as well. >I’m leaving town early in the morning tomorrow and I want you to come with me. We’ll get as far away from this town as possible. Why these acts are being covered up beats me, but it can’t be good. We can’t trust Marcus and if we leave now, then your family may just be safe. We both know that with the cover-ups, everyone in your family will believe you’re crazy if you try to tell them what’s really happening. >I leave at 5:00 a.m. sharp. Meet me out in the street if you want to go, otherwise this is goodbye. I’ll be waiting in my parent’s car as mine was wrecked last night in the shenanigans. >Kekoa Sarah hurried off of her bed and packed her things, set her alarm, and tried to sleep. She found it hard to, though, as she fretted over leaving her family and friends without a word. -161 *Link to .

Out in a dusty field stood one solitary man. Perfectly alone he pondered upon the complex series of events that had led him to that moment. “How quaint,” he smiled. “How quaint that after such chaos, I now stand alone in a dusty field.” All day he pondered. Utterly comfortable, his remarks on the field began to turn sour. “This field…” he mused, “this dusty field, ‘tis but grass and dust. How grand a curse from the gods that I now stand alone in a dusty field.” Day grew to night and still the man pondered. Now as he lay down in the soft, embracing grass, his face grew red. “For all that’s holy!” he yelled. “For all that’s holy I do so state in no uncertain terms my displeasure for the events that led to how I now stand alone in a dusty field!” The sun rose to light a new day and the man’s smile returned. He tipped his hat to the field and made his way out the gate and down the road. He never looked back. He was happy.

In a small building on the outskirts of the blue sector, Paul and Harold Wright were sitting in a booth watching the evening’s news broadcast over a steak and a plate of large fries. A screen in one corner featured a Human in a freshly pressed suit and a stack of papers talking at the camera. The place was a replica of an Earthian building, circa 1950. Harold had learned about them in education for Earth Studies, though he often wondered how strange it was that there wasn’t anybody still alive who had visited one of these places first hand, and how it was even stranger that despite this, he was still required to learn about them. The audio from the on-screen broadcast was muted, but he knew what the report was about. Harold had seen it played at least ten times this week. A steady stream of words scrolled along the bottom of the screen; **VIOLENCE ERUPTS ON EARTH ONCE MORE AS ELECTION NEARS** “Look at that place,” Paul broke the silence after taking a long drink of his beer. “It’s not changed a bit.” Harold shifted his eye from the screen to meet Paul’s, who was now transfixed on the news report. “I know you’re scared Paul, I am too, but it’s not going to change overnight.” “Overnight?” Paul cracked a wry smile. “How about fourteen years?” “Sixteen, uncle.” “So you are studying.” A short, blonde-haired waitress sauntered over to the booth and Harold shifted on the red leather to face her. “Is anything else required of me, gentlemen? We shall unfortunately need to begin closure of this restaurant soon, it’s nearly launch season, and if we don’t…” She may well have continued, but if she did, Harold hadn’t noticed. He was merely waiting for an opening in conversation to ask her about her recent trip to New Paris. Misa Vexor had only been working a temporary position at the diner for a couple of months now, but he'd managed to see her every time he walked in without fail. They had been friends for as long as he could remember, since he moved to Central anyway. When he thought long enough about it, Harold realised that was actually all he could remember, other than the stories Paul told him, anyway. He tried not to think about it very long. “No, we’re good Misa.” Paul stood up quickly, shaking the table in the process, and a few pieces of cutlery clinked together. “We should be makin’ a move anyway. You don’t want to be out after dark on warmup week.” She lost her happy demeanor ever so slightly as Harold edged his way out of the booth, after flashing a half-smile at her, and followed his uncle out of the busy diner’s doors and onto the streets of the blue sector. Other than the purple, the blue sector was the least affluent area of lower Central, and crime rates had risen in recent years as less and less graduates left for earth. *“If these kids gave a damn about their species,”* Paul would say, *“They’d visit their own home freakin’ planet for God sake.”* After walking a few minutes in silence, a short series of loud beeps, coming seemingly from both nowhere and everywhere, echoed into the night. “Ten o’clock. Seems later, doesn’t it?” Paul was met with silence. Even the streets, which this close to launch season should be bustling with activity, seemed quiet. “Harry listen,” He continued anyway, “I’m sorry for rushing out of there. That Vexor girl, she’s alright. For an Other, anyway.” Harold didn’t respond, instead choosing to look up. A large, clear dome covered the whole topside of Central, which rotated so it received approximately seven hours of sunlight for each twenty four. It was designed to simulate one Earth day, which Harold found facinating. Something glinted in his field of vision and his eyes darted quickly right. “Paul, look, over there.” In the direction Harold was pointing, up through the ceiling, out of Central, and a million miles away, was a tiny shining dot no more than a centimetre in diameter. He could just make out tiny fragments of green and blue. Earth. Paul looked up, and with a large grin, turned to Harold. “It seems so small, doesn’t it Harry?” For a while, they stopped and stood underneath the stars, looking up at the night sky. Harold stared intently at Earth, as the universe around him seemed to fly by, and had only one thought. *Home.* *Soon, I’m coming home.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir I was smoking cigarette after cigarette, strolling through the dimly-lit streets of Greenwich Village, with no particular destination in mind. My hands were shaking and my breath was uneven, my feet falling like stones on the urine-soaked pavement. I had just tried to kill myself only 15 minutes ago, but had somehow found a way down from the window. My Freshman Year at New York University had gone like my suicide attempt, a failure. The sleazy streets below SoHo comforted me, and I stopped in a particularly shady Korean market, the best place for an 18 year old to buy 40oz. of beer. My pace quickened as my thoughts raced, pausing only to take sips from my brown paper bag. Feeling the need again to light another smoke, I slowed my step to rifle through my pockets. I looked up to find a street sign, and noticed that I was standing right beside the World Trade Center. My college knowledge had previously labeled them as 2 giant phallus symbols of Capitalism, but the sheer magnitude of their stature, as I stood next to the steel structures, was Beautiful, an emotion that I hadn’t felt for a while. I walked toward the Twin Towers like I was going to steal them, making sure my steps landed with complete silence. I leaned my back against one of the massive vertical pillars, one leg up against the monument, trying to look cool for no one. I leaned my head up toward the stars, and was able to follow the steep lines of the building all the way up to the 110th floor. The view was terrifying, my heart jumped, startling me enough to drop my brew. I instinctively jumped across the sidewalk. “What the F***?!!!” My feet had been planted firmly on the ground, yet I had felt Vertigo, and that didn’t make sense. I tried it again, and achieved the same result. After a few more times, I was able to last a few more seconds, but still always bailed with Fear. My feet were planted firmly on the ground, yet I had felt Vertigo, and then it all made sense. I knew my academic career was officially over, I had more important things I had to do. I abandoned my experiment and walked to Port Authority, and bought a bus ticket to Boston with the last of my cash. That story will remain for another time, as the focus should be on my 2 best friends, who were destroyed 8 years and 5 months later. My foreign students tell me that it was my own government that is responsible. I refuse to believe it, but it doesn’t matter anyway, that’s not how they would have wanted me to remember them. Reality is what we want it to be, what matters most is our perspective.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir I had an afternoon to kill. Burlington, VT, ‘Bello & Friends’ Summer Tour, 2000. The original ideal of running away had become a full-time profession, working the past month with no rest, until today. A warm July day-off in a Canadian border town, I got off the bus at the central pedestrian shopping district and fulfilled a promise that I had made to myself to eat breakfast before going to the bar. Smoked a few cigarettes to complement the blueberry pancakes and spotted a teenage couple dressed like the Jamaican Flag. I reacted without thinking when they passed me by, ‘Hi, I’m from the circus, you know where I can find a J?’ Like a call to the wild, my people responded instinctively. A passing cab took us out of the decorated New England city into a stale suburban district devoid of any character. ‘You can hook us up, too, right?’ Aaah, the innocence of youth… ‘I’ll give you most of mine, I just have an afternoon to kill…’ ‘No, no, we want some heroin.’ The bright-eyed idealist traveler inside of me dimmed a little that day, and still has not returned. The taxi stopped and I was rushed out of the backseat as they started to beat their fists against an unassuming door. I felt a little safer when I noticed a Dodge caravan in the driveway, but then came a sound that I had heard before, and, unfortunately, have heard again thereafter, the metallic clacking of a weapon being loaded. ‘I told you kids to get the hell out of here!!!’ I took them by their dreads and hustled back to the waiting car. The driver didn’t need any instructions to floor it, I’m sure the looks in our eyes were obvious enough. Back to original street corner, no one spoke a word. They followed me to a local deli, and I bought them sandwiches to satisfy my conscience. I ran away from them down a side street and hid in a sports tavern, but couldn’t even finish a beer, before taking one last taxi back to the lot. I’d had enough reality for that day. I hope that I wouldn’t have bought them their drugs, if the situation had transpired as they had planned, but if I analyze my actions, I never resisted being pulled along. I sat in my trailer with a bottle I had stashed away and debated if I was really the man that I had always dreamed of becoming. After a few more drinks, it didn’t matter anymore, and I still don’t know if I’ve answered it. In my best moments, I can say, I hope so.

Edit: New to this sub and assumed [NF] was a tag for Not Finished, disregard that please :) (I've always loved reading and wanted to be an author when I was little, but I've never tried my hand at writing. This is my first attempt at this ever and I would absolutely love some feedback) He stopped and stared at the snow capped streets, pausing to take a breath of confidence and regain a sense of self control. He looked around at the white washed buildings. All was dead silent except for the howling of the wind in his ears and the chattering of his teeth. There was no one out at this hour of the night, why would there be? It was cold. Cold and lonely. And so *white*. *Why* is it so god damned *white*? He began to get the feeling that there would be no color *at all* if it weren’t for the warm flickering glow of the street lights. Mulling over the events of the past couple weeks in this cold and blank oasis gives him a sort of comforting sense of strength, or maybe it’s pride. *Maybe it’s pride fucking with me. No. Not pride. I’ve overcome things that no human should ever even experience, I owe it to myself to at least feel strong*. It felt surreal. One day he was having lunch with her, adoring her smile, her gemstone blue eyes; feeling entranced by her laughter, as he always had. Ever since day one, as he had every day for the past 8 years. Then suddenly the world was turned up side down, everything that he thought was safe and secure; everything he knew, was flipped onto it’s head and shattered. *What kind of man am I if I can’t save her? What kind of fucking* human *am I if I can’t even save that which I love most in the world? God, I have to get to her. I have to, and I will kill every single mother fucker responsible for this when I do*. It was a day just like any other, the day it happened. They woke up and ate breakfast together before work, as they always did. They laughed and beamed at each other and exchanged stories of their dreams the night before, as they always did. And she made his heart melt and his mind swell with gratitude…as she always did. There was never a dull moment between them, they made each other truly happy. If ever you could find bliss in this strange life, these two had found it in each other. He had strong feelings for her the minute he laid eyes on her, and he loved her after only a few hours. That’s why when he pulled into the driveway and her car still wasn’t home, he felt a little uneasy. *She usually calls me during lunch*. But not always, sometimes it got busy at the office and lunch was just a quick snack break. *But she always get’s home before me*. Well…that wasn’t entirely true either. *But she would let me know if she were coming home late*…He brushed it off. His anxieties had gotten the better of him before and this time was no different, she would be home in a couple hours. But when it became 9:00 and he still hadn’t heard anything he began to worry. It’s time to call the office. *Left at 6:00.…at 6:00. Where the fuck has she been for 3 hours?* He was in full blown panic mode at this point, pacing around the house and trying to think of every reason that could possibly cause her to not come home. *The store? No, she would have called and asked what we needed…maybe she lost her phone. Could she be just visiting her parents for dinner?* He decided to call them. If she was there then he would have an answer and if she wasn’t then that would be one less possibility on the list.

Jun 1998 Hi Dad, This month ends my first year in kindergarten! It was kind of sad at first but I liked it. TJ went ahead to the first grade. At first, I thought I was going with him as well and I was very excited to go the first grade. I thought since we went to school together, we will always be put in the same room together. But they told me that TJ is the only one who will be going and I will still be in this classroom. I felt very sad at first because I knew I was going to be by myself and do everything alone. There’s one girl who came up to me and said hi to me. She was the first person to say hi to me and I was very shy but I said hi back. Her name is Alizea and she is from Pakistan. Do you know where Pakistan is? Is it somewhere near school? We do everything together. We always have lunch together and sit together in class and even play together during recess. She is really smart and very kind and I’m lucky to have a friend like her. I’m happy that Ms. Feldman doesn’t have to bring me to the other kids to play during recess. I hope we will be in the same class together next year! One of the last activities we did in class before summer was a painting activity. The teacher said to paint something that makes you happy. I looked at everyone’s work before I painted mine. Some drew a flower, toys, cars, their pets, and other stuff. Then I thought of painting you. After I finished painting you, I made you look like Mr. Potato Head. I made you as if you were waving at me and you were smiling at me. When we finished, we put all our drawings on top of a big table for the paint to dry. Then Ms. Feldman told us to walk around the table so we can see everyone’s work. I saw some of the other kids pointing and laughing at my drawing. It made me feel bad at first but I still liked my painting. I like how my painting is the only one that’s smiling and waving at me. Even though it looks ugly, I know you would like it. Or I hope you do. I love you and I really miss you a lot Dad.

The muscles in her cheeks squeeze stiff, tightening the flesh around her mouth. The ends of her velvet lips rise up like the loops of a freshly tied bow. Her eyes gently widen as her gaze intersects with mine, rendering me paralyzed. She peers through a familiar window. She is the voyeur to my every deed, every lingering thought. Haunting memories involuntarily flicker revealing instances that tickle and tear. She does not cry out, she does not shutter at what she sees. “OH THE HUMANITY” she must be thinking, as she witnesses the subtleties of my soul. Yet her lips remain curled, and her eyes continue to engage. Get out of my head you fool! She must be wise and heed what she sees. I am but a cracked rung that will give way. She is in too deep. I can feel her sifting through the files in my mind, learning, observing, STEALING. Without breaking her stare, her smile, and her decent into the catacombs of me, she extends her hand. A peace offering? A sign of good faith? Entranced as my stare is locked with hers I can only make out blurry globs of green and silver. Oh what could that possibly be? Is it poison? A Gun? A means to rid of me once and for all? It must be, she knows too much, she knows it all! She breaks her haunting gaze, The world resumes. “Two dollars and fifty cents is your change sir” she says, Her plastic ‘Have a Nice Day’ smile fades, she knows nothing.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir Last Tuesday, the last class I was having with a high school student that dreams of becoming an Art Historian, and who I had been tutoring for the past 7 months. Before I could open the door to say farewell, she handed me a graphite drawing in a plastic sheet protector. "Thank you for being my teacher," she said with watering eyes. The title read 'Jaime Meets the Ocean', and I saw myself on the thick paper shaking hands with the waves, and smiling widely at the reunion. It was better than any salary I'd received for the work. Walking home, I passed by a Chinese restaurant that I'd seen numerous times on my way, but this moment seemed like the perfect one to enter. Besides the cheesy Euro-pop blasting overhead, the quality of my Sweet & Sour Chicken was superb. Between bites, I glanced at the televisions flashing around me, and nearly choked on a warm pineapple chunk when I saw a former colleague staring back at me from the screens. It was the Discovery Channel, an episode of 'How Do They Do That?', and the Big Apple Circus tent-raising was the question at hand. Here I was in Kiev, in my last fading days, eating Chinese food, and spending a good 10 minutes with old friends & acquaintances, even if they were just muted moving images. At that moment, any doubts that I'd had about moving to Lisbon vanished. I finally knew for sure that I was doing the right thing. Synchronicity, it's around us all the time, if we pay attention. Sent 15 e-mails to 15 schools in Lisbon, and received no responses. Tried to walk uninvited into their doors, but was told they were fully-staffed. Spent a week doubting myself, resigned to the fact that I'd made a major mistake. I mistakenly blamed the game, instead of myself, for my inability to find a job. A month's rent paid for, but only 50 cents in my pocket, I had to come up with a plan. And then the idea came to me out of nowhere. 3 intriguing minutes, that's what I decided I needed to persuade any future employer that I was 1 in a million. I had to summarize my awkward life into 180 dramatic seconds. Japan, Israel, Egypt, Navy, Circus, China, Bashkortostan, Russia, Ukraine, but now wanting to spend some time in Portugal, and not forgetting to mention that I was recently separated, damaged, broken, admitting that I was looking for an opportunity to escape. I practiced in front of the mirror, my gestures became deliberate and well-rehearsed, and I got 2 job offers and 2 interviews within 24 hours. Took the work from the Director who started to tear up at 2:30 of the tale… Back in New York after 7 years spent across the border, waiting for my EU working visa to come through. Still damaged, broken, but know I have a future ahead of me. The world is there, right in front of us, just make sure you have a good story.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir dispatches from abroad original letters guangdong, china sept 2006 knee-how from china! strange day in the gigantic red state for me after 6 months of living in downtown Guangzhou i took a better gig with an upscale kindergarten located on the less polluted outskirts of the city but today i was given a unique reminder of what moving to the suburbs really means to a foreigner i had just finished lunch, maybe around 11:00am and i rode home on my bicycle as usual surfed the internet a bit then BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! at my front door looking through the peephole i saw 2 policemen and 2 civilians with nametags turns out that one of my neighbors is the local leader of the communist party of my apartment complex and she had spotted an unknown white guy riding by so she followed me to my home the immigration bureau was immediately summoned and it was determined that i had to be escorted to the police local station for questioning until my documents could be confirmed the woman who had started it all kept apologizing when she realized i was the local kindergarten teacher she kept saying 'i was just doing my duty'... i was subjected to over 2 hours of questioning in a small white jail cell with 2 guys from 'the bureau' accompanied by an english translator i first asked if i should call the embassy but they said it was ok if i refused to answer any questions if i felt it was not related to their inquiry they asked if i was a drug dealer? no. they asked if i was a prostitute? really? but it turns out my boss is getting all her teachers the wrong (and cheaper) visa, and all she had gotten for me was a tourist visa you could imagine my face.... i'm f***ed... (pardon the language) i was told i would be cited for a violation of working illegally with a fine no more than 1000yuan ($130 US) and the kindergarten and/or my boss would be fined no more than 50,000yuan (do the math) but in the end they decided that since i’d been so cooperative and because i was an american i was waived of any fines (i also told them about my contract which guaranteed an official working visa, so i think boss is going to get burned...) so now i need to get registered correctly with the immigration bureau as a legal worker they said it will be much more difficult in the future to get a visa if i decide to come back to china (yeah, right!) i will always have to explain what happened today... so after being held for 4 hours in a 4 x 4 cell my fingers stained red from the fingerprinting i was met at the front door by my boss's cousin as well as the owner of the kindergarten who is extremely rich and owns half of this town and he promised he would call the police captain and get everything straightened out the chinese way (thru payoffs and government corruption, of course, as my boss is the top member of the communist party) soooooo, i'll keep you updated i really don't know what will happen next will i have to leave? will the paperwork disappear? do i want to be part of that? what a strange day don't know what to say yet except one extremely good thing that came from my detention was the translator they brought in for the proceedings was chatting with me before and after the interview asking about my experiences here - how do i get around? where do i eat? i told him about the one restaurant i went to in the neighborhood because they had pictures of the dishes on the wall i could point to and then - the big news of this letter! he said there was a western restaurant on the second floor of a hotel right across the street from my apartment that i had never realized was there so i had steak for the first time in 7 months the menu had pizza & omelettes & spaghetti - in english! not to mention they gave me forks and knives and spoons...

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir dispatches from abroad original letters bashkortostan, russia june 2007 hello hello it is monday, not the weekend, but better late than never? though i have said i will write every week in this town i cannot promise that i can 100% do so my schedule demands that i work in the afternoon & evenings the exact times the internet cafe is open -- but i will try... so, what's it like standing at an open door of an airplane, and then being told you have to jump? it wasn't as scary as i thought, the day before was probably worse no one in my group had had a good night's sleep, including me we had all attended 2 hours of training from knowledgeable instructors they even separated me from the group with an English teacher so the head instructor/owner could make sure i understood, one-on-one i was the third foreigner to jump at his school, the first american and he was beaming with pride at the achievement but even after the training, you still ask yourself 'am i crazy?' and the answer you get back from your head is 'yes, you're purposely jumping from an airplane in mid-air' but the morning of the jump, the fear is gone even when you see the plane, dirty & old, with a single-propeller engine but it was good to have familiar students around, we helped each other keep spirits high and then with a flimsy red helmet & a 100lb. parachute strapped to my back the plane lifted off with a sudden shake & jolt with black smoke and the loud grinding of the engine became even louder the instructors were yelling in unintelligeable russian a few final commands i felt like i was on my way to invade germany i was the first to go, because the heaviest jumped first that's right, i was the heaviest, believe it or not i haven't mentioned that 'the students' were all beautiful young women so i had to maintain that i was fearless, the strong 'man' and so there it was, adzin, dva, t-ree (1,2,3) staring out the open door, not looking straight down, as i was taught staring out at the hills, the barren countryside, a few lakes glistening in the distance they patted my shoulder and yelled 'pashoh!!!' (go!!!) without hesitation i leapt forward, and started free-falling to the earth 2 1/2 seconds of nothing but descending rapidly, 100 feet per second my head started to move forward, my body trying to become horizontal then...pooooof...

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir I saw 'Schindler’s List' on opening weekend at a theater in Jerusalem, and felt really guilty that I had gotten so stoned before going. The sobbing from the audience was overwhelming, history had never been so literally close to me, and the middle-class suburban upbringing that I had been incessantly complaining about was suddenly nothing to compare to the feelings in that room. I spent the next week visiting the Old City more carefully, and even went to Sunday Mass at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I had to pause before entering the Cathedral, not sure how to cross myself, up, down, right, left, I mimicked the pilgrims at the basin of holy water. I felt completely out of place, and even embarrassed, standing in line to touch Jesus’ last-known tomb, but felt I had to see if lightning would strike. I walked down a few crowded paths and put a Prayer in the Wailing Wall for my family. I might have grown up Jewish, but I was adopted, and even though it was shortly after birth, I was not accepted as a member by the matriarchal rules. I attended Morning Prayer at the Al-Aqsa Mosque, covering my western clothes in an earth-toned robe, and caressed the rock where Mohammed rose to Heaven. The unique vanilla smell of the stone followed me on my fingertips for two days. Blood stains a foot high were still visible along the narrow walls of the cobbled streets, and I finally felt ashamed that I’d previously had the nerve to try to end my own life uncontested. I would not try that again for sure. My roommate’s two best friends from film school visited us by surprise in that late spring, and I was the dupe. He came home and I told him that I’d taken a huge dump and I couldn’t find any way to get it down the toilet, where his buddies were hiding out. He was puzzled why I needed him to fix the problem, but he followed me in my excitement and confusion. He opened the bathroom door to inspect and saw his his old friends mimicking anal, and an enthusiastic reunion was in order. We thus began a night of blasphemy through every bar and disco in the holy city, and woke up in random places around our apartment, with no one exactly where they should have passed out. I was in true physical pain as I rose from the enclosed balcony surrounded by old paintings and unused furniture, rusty nails protruding from every corner of the cheap frames. A sudden scream rattled the whole building, and I thought for sure it was a dead body, but it proved to be even worse news. The four of us peeked into the bathtub one-by-one to witness a gorilla-sized turd steaming on the cold porcelain. We regrouped back in the calm confines of the living room, and complete amnesty was offered in that moment, no blame to be given, we agreed it had been a crazy night, but defecating in an unauthorized place was a big no-no. We all swore up and down that it was none of us, or at least none of us could remember doing it. We did the best we could with our alcohol-drenched brains, and divided the evacuation process into four equal parts, and then rolled a die to assign each duty, pun intended. Cover It with an inside-out plastic bag, 1 grab It and turn the bag back to normal, 2 tie bag handles around It firmly together, 3 remove It and dispose down to the dumpster. 4 I was supposed to take on phase three, but I had a plan to fake throwing up. However, I really vomited in my mouth when I entered the toxic windowless room and abandoned my mission. I woke up in a haze in the hallway later in the day, still not sure if It hadn't been me.

Tobias stayed a short while longer, but eventually restlessness hurried him out the door into the cold. He felt lazy, and content. He smiled at the people hurrying past him, they all looked so red and bundled and flustered. Why are they so flustered? Didn’t they know it would be cold today? The thought made him laugh, and as he laughed he saw a transformation on the river-like-flow of people’s faces, he saw them let go and smile at him, they smiled as if they had just remembered something fantastic. Tobias was struck by the contradiction. “Why are they smiling? I just mocked them in my mind, did I not? Is that why? Maybe they are sharing my mockery. Is everyone so full of confusion that they are constantly ready to laugh at themselves? Look, it is still happening. I smile, they smile. If only they knew what I was thinking. Perhaps they do, perhaps it gives them some sort of strange comfort! Have I not felt the same way many times? I say something foolish, and only after I was mocked did I realize what I said, and didn’t that make me smile, and laugh at myself? Didn’t it brighten the mood? Wait, what has happened to me, in that same situation, afterwards? Did I not go home and curse myself for speaking like an idiot, and curse those who pointed out I was speaking idiotically? Oh no, is that happening to the people I laugh at right now? Do they leave my presence happy, and later hate themselves for fretting the cold, and hate me for smiling at their fretting? They must. Or perhaps, oh no, perhaps they do see me laughing at them, and perhaps they laugh at that, at me. Maybe they give so little value to my enjoyment that they laugh at it. Those heartless… Wait, why should they give it value? I’m laughing at them… aren’t I? Am I? I must be, I must be…” Tobias dropped his eyes and looked at the sidewalk before him. He turned towards his house, frowning now, feeling very cold. “Am I mocking them? Do they mock me for mocking them? Are people truly that confident? No, I think not. They are stupid, as stupid as I. They don’t know what they laugh at, they only mimic my face, like sheep. They mimic because they are scared, scared that they are doing something wrong, and seeing a smiling face reminds them they are acting foolishly. A smiling face reminds them of their shortcomings, and they cover up those shortcomings with a smile, a hideous, scared, sad smile.” As he walked down the street towards his home outside of the inner city, he got colder and colder. No longer were people smiling, no longer was Tobias smiling. He passed a restaurant, and saw a man leaving, all bundled up and red in the face, who bellowed “Why is it so damn cold!”, and those he were with laughed and spoke freely. There was something oddly familiar about that man and the laughter of his company. Tobias tried to place what it was… But he could not. He only stared emptily at the man, who was now beating his hands against his chest and jumping up and down. For the rest of the walk home, Tobias thought of the time when he had offered a hot dog to a man who appeared to be homeless, and the man slapped it out of his hands and asked who he thought he was. Tobias was sobbing by the time he opened his front door. Danna too had left the sandwich shop smiling. She thought of her trip to Brazil, and of what she was going to tell Tobias about it, next time they met. She wondered when that time would be. “I hope it’s soon,” she thought, then stopped herself. “He probably talks to tons of girls at sandwich shops. But maybe he doesn’t.” She started walking to the bus station. “He’s different… He’s so strange. That’s why I like him. The way he looked at me at first, did I imagine that look? He did not appear to be checking me out, physically, yet he certainly seemed interested in me… and then the way he spoke to me… effortlessly, he’s certainly charismatic, sincere too… hmm. I don’t know. I like him. Even though he’s strange, no, because he’s strange, I like him.” She did not have to wait long for her bus. She put on headphones and every song sounded the way it was supposed to. Tobias and Danna dated for a few months before Tobias broke things off. He told her she was assuming things of him, she denied any such thing. She writhed curtains in her hand as she watched him drive away. She felt like the burnt end of a knot.

Hi, I wrote this some months ago and have decided to share it with the world after only having shared it with a couple of friends. As a warning, this story is a descriptive account about a child that is eaten by a dog, there is no happy ending. It is designed to be disgusting and very bleak, I say this so you can turn back if this isn't the kind of thing you'd want to read. **Feral** **1** After spending the night and morning trying to sleep through the discomfort, the kid finally decided that he had reached his limit. He quietly and hopelessly rose from his dilapidated mattress, there was residual sunlight breaking through the thin curtain, illuminating the patchy, black-cornered walls of the bedroom a dark golden brown. He tip-toed through the memorized minefield of creaking panelled wood across his room to the door, along the way stepping past torn, discarded clothes and locks of hair which had been forcibly shaved from his head. Upon the door he slowly placed the side of his head, the worn paint felt cold against his ear from the damp humidity of the room. He listened closely for any indication of life beyond the door, footsteps, banging, incoherent chatter, anything. He strained to make out any sounds over his own heartbeat and the biological rumbling that conjured visuals of distant collapsing buildings in his mind. Nothing. Not certain, he never trusted himself to be certain. He carefully opened his door to the bare minimum that would allow him passage through and fought against his instincts as his slipped through the doorway. He stood at the entrance to his room, surveying the next challenge and trying to pre-calculate his movements. His breath became heavy with the anticipation of what he was about to undertake. He cautiously avoided the random and strewn paraphernalia that littered the corridor, deftly aware of where his next step would be in order to avoid accidentally brushing his leg against a plastic bag or catapulting a discarded spoon with his heel. He had long since become apathetic to the squalor around him, taking for granted and unconsciously accepting it as normal, that it was just their way of life. He used the wall, which was sticky with a mixture of thrown beer, residue from cigarette smoke and filth, to maintain his balance as he proceeded discreetly down the hallway. It seemed like every abstract splattered beer stain had its own story to tell. Result of and witness to the countless arguments which have resounded throughout the walls. He pleaded to invisible nothings not to be found, his brain recycling the same word over and over again. “Please.” His senses were on high alert and a small dose of adrenaline was flowing through him. He was trying to keep his breathing steady but his body persistently demanded more oxygen than his lungs had the capacity for. Panic set over him like fog as he obsessively replayed the scenario of being caught. It enveloped and subdued his confidence and inspired terror in him which ordered his entire body to turn around and hide back in his room. However, realizing how far he had gone already he decided that it would be best to just continue. He took his final step and he felt swept away by relief, allowing himself to relax from the intense concentration required of him from the last several minutes. He stood at the opened bathroom door and stepped onto the cracked tile flooring, its pristine white having long since faded, he no longer had to fear triggering a fate-sealing sound. Limping inside, he silently closed over the door behind him, resting it on the broken latch which prevented the door from closing at all. The pungent smell of stale piss and shit which would likely make a person unaccustomed to the smell gag had become tolerable to him. He stood at the stained toilet, taking extreme care to avoid causing himself pain as his slid his pyjama bottoms and underwear down toward his knees. Wincing as he bent down, he bit his lip in anticipation and tensed completely to deal with the pain as he sat himself onto the yellowed, porcelain rim of the toilet and let out a choked yet controlled sigh. He figured it was best to take the pain as quickly as possible rather than drag it out so he tensed his abdomen and pushed, whimpering through the stinging sensation. The loud splashing rekindled the now smouldering cinders of terror, he was immediately furious with himself for having overlooked that the splashing would make noise. It sounded as he had expected it to but was wishing to himself that it hadn’t. He registered it as much more fluid sounding than normal, like filling a glass to the rim. He looked between his legs to find a small pool of cloudy red water and the rest of the bowl speckled with his blood. He stared blankly at the mouldy wall as he processed through the shards of memories of the night before. His mind was a blurred collage of disjointed recollections of being breathless, of the large hand that gripped the back of his neck and forced his head into the mattress, of the warmth of the flesh that slammed rhythmically against his ass. While cycling through these thoughts he absent-mindedly rubbed the sensitive, red-blotched depressions in the palms of his hands that his fingernails had left when he had clenched his fists in reaction to the pain. He eventually exhausted himself and his mind drifted off. He felt the familiar feeling of claustrophobia surfacing inside him, crossed his arms over his knees and buried his head in his lap. **2.** It had been seen roaming the neighbourhood on rare occasions yet everyone who bore witness to it decided the easiest thing to do would be to let it pass through rather than interfere with it. The dog was large and dishevelled looking, with patchy fur and thin features. On this day it decided to search the neglected, overgrown garden of dead bushes and knee-high weeds of this house for anything edible and found the front door to be carelessly left open. It confidently entered the home, keeping its snout close to the floor, trying to sniff out anything of interest. It investigated almost every discarded possession in the hallway, rummaging through black trash bags which had been left for so long that there was a visible border on the floor which recorded where it had sat. The kid heard the garbage in the hallway being disturbed, focusing on the clang of beer cans as they were pushed against one another as the dog foraged. He froze completely still and could feel the pores of his skin adjusting in anticipation for the impending cold sweat. The dog decided to skulk further along the hallway and skip over the room where the kid’s father currently lay with muted breathing, lost and spinning somewhere between realities, his eyelids flickered the whites of his eyes like a defective television screen. Milky drool trailed from his gaped mouth which displayed his rotten teeth, across his gaunt, pale cheek to the tragus of his ear where the collection of saliva awaited departure. He was slumped halfway between the dirty couch and the carpet that was pock-marked with cigarette burns, his back resting on the seat while legs barely supported him from sliding to the floor. On the decayed coffee table which had been retrieved from a dump some years previous lay the father’s worn metal lockbox, open, with its contents removed and now partially consumed. After spending half a minute sitting in paralysed, agonising dread, the kid’s eyes desperately trained on the knob of the door, analysing it for any movement whatsoever. His mind was remarkably blank; his mental state was an echoing rejection of the situation, mixed with disbelief and the feeling of inevitability. The door budged tentatively with a push from the dog’s snout and its long head was revealed to the kid who was suddenly in a state of misunderstood confusion. The dog attentively twisted its head in the direction of the kid as he sat there with his short legs hovering over the floor. It perked its ears up, its black eyes met with his brown set just for a moment before it broke the stare as it swiftly moved into the bathroom, shoving the door wide open with its body. The dog spread its legs, lowered its fierce head and while baring its teeth and furrowing its brow released a guttural growl at the kid who was now in a state of defensive shock. As he was thoughtlessly raising his left arm as part of his natural reflexes the dog lunged toward him, grabbing and puncturing his forearm, the kid only felt extreme pressure in his arm at first before screaming out as the immense pain registered in his brain. The dog, sliding slightly from lack of grip, used its body weight to tug the kid from the toilet, he felt a stiff ache in his upper thighs as they quickly shifted position. Still with his underwear around his legs, he slumped awkwardly down onto his stomach on the tiled floor. The dog still grasped tightly onto his arm and violently shook its head, growling in exertion as it tried to separate the meat from his bones. The kid lay there helplessly with blood slightly splattered on his face, letting out tired, high-pitched childish screams and fully expecting his father to enter the room in response but his cries echoed unheard throughout the small bungalow. He attempted to use his free arm to push the dog’s head away, irrationally expecting that it would successfully stop the attack, but he was too exhausted from the previous night to put up any sort of useful defence. He watched through the film of tears as the dog tried to pull his arm from his body, peeling the skin away to reveal raw, soft pink meat. He passively noticed when the dog hinged its jaws open to get a better grip, that its teeth were stained red.

Having caused significant damage to his arm, enough for the nerves to be severed, it finally released his arm, dropping it limply to the floor. His left hand felt numb and he found that his fingers no longer responded to his will as they refused when he commanded them to move. The dog decided to casually sniff around the kid as it chewed the collection of flesh and muscle which it had retrieved from his forearm. The kid felt dehumanized and oddly ashamed that the dog was viewing his exposed body not as something which might have feelings, emotions, and, though meticulously shattered, hopes, but as a piece of meat, his humanity completely disregarded and invalidated, seen as nothing more by the animal than a meal. He followed the blurred image of the black haired dog as it moved completely out of sight, hearing the tapping of it toenails as it made its way behind the kid. It sniffed at his bare, bruised ass and transferred a smeared bloody nose print onto it. He was promptly shoved forward slightly along the floor as the dog put its paws on his discoloured cheeks for leverage, reminding him of the night visits from his father. It clamped its jaws shut on the bottom centre of the kid’s ass and with great force, aggressively tore away the soft flesh and muscle. Its long teeth pierced and mangled his perineum and anus, now transformed into a single glistening, bloody mess. In reaction to the unbearable pain, he clenched his remaining hand tightly, breaking the skin of the still fresh wounds in his palm and let out deafening, unrestrained screams. The dog relentlessly buried its face into the kid, ripping a hole deeper and deeper with each successive bite. He could hear it lapping up the remaining blood as it cleared its mouth before resuming. As it tore through his rectum, the dog’s mouth filled with a mixture of blood, shit and semen. It continued shredding and discarding his innards, perforating through his colon walls and dislodging his intestines, like a magician pulling at an endlessly long handkerchief that he hid up his sleeve. Unevacuated piss spilled from his bladder as the dog ripped it open, trickling through his newly created cavities. The dog was no longer interested in the kid’s body as a meal, it was now simply a means of fun. The implied insult of not even being good enough for a starving animal to eat never occurred to him. The kid lay there in a steaming, ever expanding pool of his own blood, accepting his punishment. The warm smell of iron was coarse in his nostrils and the side of his face was layered with a coagulated concoction of grime which was comprised of tears, stale vomit, piss, spilled hygiene products and dirt with the new ingredient of tepid human blood. As he attempted to lift his head, a single crimson stalactite dangled from his cheek before he gave up. He believed that he could feel himself physically becoming less. Hopeless apathy set in as his vision became blotted with swelling neon spheres. His surroundings were losing their definition, becoming lost in a static blur as his eyes frantically darted about. The wet squelching sound of the dog excavating his guts became overpowered by the deafening whine of tinnitus. His consciousness was turning from a fluid flow of successive moments to a stuttered slideshow of discordant information. ****** He momentarily awoke to an all-encompassing burning sensation which radiated from the centre of his ribs and spread to his extremities. The weight in his head felt like he was buried under miles of sand. He could feel the dog’s head moving around inside him as it methodically hollowed out his body, indifferent to what it was pulling apart, only caring that it was coming away. Before fading back out of consciousness for the last time, in the dense mist of his mind, he thought to himself “Finally, it’s over. This is the end. At least it ends at all.” His last moments were witnessed by a being that didn’t care. **4.** The dog, with its fur totally soaked in blood, continued to work through the kid’s small body. It stood in a putrid heap of discarded organs which it had already removed from the child’s lifeless husk which was making it difficult for the dog to maintain a steady grip on the floor but still it persisted in removing every remaining one of them. The effort required to force the body to relinquish some it’s biological assets was tiring, yet it found fun in the challenge. As the dog dragged the stomach out it yelped in surprise as its muzzle was sprayed with stomach acid. Eventually it struggled to find space to fit as it attempted to snap at the oesophagus, determined to destroy the interior of the child’s corpse entirely. Finally accomplishing the destruction of the oesophagus, light broke past the dangling giblets of the child’s throat. The dog desperately crawled further into the disembowelled body and squeezed its head through the hole. Strangely, for a moment it was vaguely reminiscent of hunters who would wear the pelts of their prey. Naïve of the position it had put itself in, the dog panicked and squirmed, fearful of becoming trapped. It recoiled it’s head quickly and in its act of retreat, lifted the child’s lifeless carcass from the ground and tossed it carelessly. In the other room the father barely acknowledged the sharp yet muffled thud, unaware that the sound that filled his ears was that of his son’s now useless skull cracking on impact upon the bathroom floor.

I was once normal (what is normal?), alive, a bright pupil in the eyes of a mother. Only a seed from the father. I tried, so often. Tried to be the one he wanted as a son; To be his "little champ." If only he could see me now. HOW DO YOU SEE ME NOW!? WHERE'S YOUR LITTLE FAILURE NOW!? Should it please me? Is it normal to feel this heat come through my bones? Always, always when we are young, we are told that we can be anything. But it's only all right if we are put into a class, into a little ant farm to be dissected. Nobody likes it if you stray outside of the glass. They make sure we don't. I/We made sure we didn't listen. The first time we experienced life was quite peculiar. Should we tell/yes we should. Okay. I'll spill. Haha. Spill, like the guts, and the blood and the oh look at me getting ahead. Rewind. REWIND I SAID. It didn't happen, it never happens like that. I TELL THE STORY. So it begins again. Ahem. Well... Let us begin; slowly of course. The first. It's so... refreshing. Society, these people, ahem, they mention "firsts" for everything. A first sex, a first marria-CHEATING WHORE. Let us be clear. Ruby red clear, ahem. They never see it coming. A little boy, I, no, we was. Just a simple, little... boy. If only they knew, if only she knew. I'm not sorry. Who should apologize for being what I am. I was MADE to be this way. Choice is existential. Somebody has to clean up the messes of these animals, we do. And with joy. GET ON THE FIRSTS you bastard. Pop always made sure to bring that up. Mistake, mistake, mistake; Bastard. If love were real, I killed it. Stabbed and slit again and again. Licked and bit piece by piece. GET ON WITH THE FIRST. Ahem. You see, I mean, you can't see for good reasons, ha ha. I made sure of that. See no evil of course. We believe it should be the punishment. Does a lion apologize for feeding itself? Does the bear pray before going fishing? Does the man ask forgiveness when he ties that hook? He should've that time. It feels... good. Felt. Good. It always does. Here you are. I have you now, forever and always. Don't worry, you'll be with them soon. But first I have to tell my story. Ahem, our story. Everyone loves it. So that should be good for you. Go on, keep following. DON'T. LISTEN, you're special... they always are. AHEM. I'm sorry, time is a mistress (CHEATING WHORE) and well, she has not been too kind to us thus far. She will be my final victim, oh sorry, not victim... plaything. Nobody cares if you're married to a man or a woman, if you're black or white, but start taking lives and it's oh no he's INSANE. WE are born this way. They always see that in the end. They have no choice. Like us, like you. RUN/ oh if only it were so easy. BLAME, is always laid upon us. I find that, disrupting. DID we make it so you are the way you are? BLAME those parents of yours. You are but an outcome of genetics, to my favor. LEAVE. STOP. We are only dreaming, have been, for the longest. Oh you feel real? I assure you, you're not. Neither are we. We've watched you for hours/days, while you just waste away. So much potential, my sweet, sweet, potential. And you waste it. That's a crime. People say what we do is a crime, but you waste everything you're given. We will correct that. I will take that from you. You are ours. AHEM. Every. Bit. Have you learned yet? You will. They do when they swim with the fish. Oh dear, my dear, you are pretty. CAUGHT. And hung up to dry for me. Stop trying to read me. It will be over soon. YOU took everything from us! I have nothing, so we will take everything. No, not you, but... who you remind us of, you stained doll. You always run from us, and so we FIND every last one of you and we take you for ourselves. It is my right; there were promises made, and they will be kept. GET ON WITH THE FIRST. I will. Salivating at the thought is quite normal I assure you. It is gratifying to say the least. Ahem. So where were we? Ah, yes, let's start from the beginning. I was born; had to fight my way out. The Old Man never wanted anything to do with me, tried to hang me before I took my first breath. We wouldn't have anything to do with that, so we hid and bought our time. That rusted hanger did its damage, but not to us. Dear sweet Mother tried her best, so sweet, she tried to keep him away from little tiny me. We clawed our way out of her, and HE did not want any of that. Yes, keep smoking that stick, keep it up old man. He had what came. He burned his life away, NOT me. We didn't deserve the desertion, and the scars, so we stopped them. His pupils while we did it. The bright behind his eyes fading is what I dream of when we sleep. WHO'S THE FAILURE NOW!? Ahem. I did it. WE accomplished what we wanted to do. Success is not for those that just try, no, you have to earn it. The blood, the smoke, and my hands are all that makes me smile now. How can you say I'm the monster? We cleansed the world. We should be praised by getting rid of that animal. Everyone needs an outlet. They say get laid or high, but we have our own methods for dealing with deceit. Where did the blood come from? WHERE DID IT COME FROM! Hush now, my sweet doll. You have deceived me and you will all be taken care of. I/We didn't want this, you did it. Broken promises and dreams, along with my seed. We could have had it all honey. We were ALWAYS there, even when you didn't know it. KILL. Our outlet when we were young used to be writing. Ah yes, the good ol' tales we told; With blood of our kin. WOULD YOU KINDLY READ THEM. AHEM. Keep your comments to yourself, it may just be the last thing you read. So ENJOY. “As you sleep. As you lay in the field of dreams, of nightmares, of uncertainty life will move forward, ahead, farther and farther into the depths of time. WAIT-ing. Wondering. What shall this metaphysical remnant of our survival instinctual habits show? Will we grow, and grow, gro-w, oh. I se(e) a backwards reflection, once caught up in a mirror so unavoidable. Parallel, or was it perpendicular? Whichever you so believe. The tones, to moans, then groans. Twinkle so brightly that little star, twinkl(e). Until you breathe no more. Shatter and shake. Squeeze so hard you will break. You will be mIne. Little star, so dIvINE. beYond that hilL, to the valley/field/mountain. So you choose, tis an adventure/quest/path so right WE must choose to walk/run/crawl together/alone. (eye) watch from the veil, from the curtains so dark none shall lay beneath. No hidden bodies of which to speak, or smell, or touch. aNimal representation - pelican morphing - lion/ blood drenched/ fixated upon that lIving corpse. A BODY so so s o… sewn together from straw, weaved together from the bones of another. Crafted with care from clay/my hands so softly. The feel tHe the the the warmth we share, was it stolen? taken? Give it. iT. Yours. And so you sleep. aH yes, now where were we? where was we? W[E] are all, and we Rrrrr nothing. A maN appears of thin air(oxygen, nitrogen, helium, oTher eleMents), one and the same. th wman appears of thought, dreams, fan-tasies. Missing. what are we missing. wHat are you missing. Are you missing. yOu. Our bones ache, they break, they only dream to be of adamantium and mythril. Made of a dwarfic sorcerer. A man of magic, of the arts; it shatters, slowly, captivating through every piece of shard the memories once long forgotten. Gone...or not. Thank you for coming.” Ahem. So how was it? Haha, please, please, oh thank you. You are too kind. This grin on my face, it's for you...

[I haven't written since high school, but I would really like to get back into it, maybe join a community for inspiration. Please give honest critiques, I can take it. Thank you for giving me your time.] I'm not going to go to work today. I can't. I need to clean. My Wife has been stinking up this place since Thursday. Plus, I don't even like my job. I mean, I don't like a lot of things. My voice is a bit nasely, my hairline gave up on me in the 10th grade, and I haven't been able to make a friend since I took this job. I married a woman who's loud and annoying. Though, she's has been quieter recently. But these are my choices. I told myself I'd start doing what I wanted; not what society told me is 'right'. And honestly, things have gotten better since then. At least I've been happier. I watched TV and cuddled my Wife all weekend. I ate dinner in my room on my computer watching porn the other night. I haven't taken out the trash in a while. I need to get on that... But overall, I like this style of living. I'm not going back to work. Ever. In fact... I'm moving. Tomorrow. I'm going to choose a truck bed's worth of items, and head north. Maybe I'll stop by Kate's house on the way, and see if she wants to join me. She's been eying me at work, I just know it. I bet she'll love a strong, confident man just showing up and taking her away. It's every woman's dream after all. And I WILL do it. I'll do it because I want to. It's not normal, and people may not like it. But I want to, so I will do it. And nobody can stop me. That's that. Tomorrow, I will stop by the store, first thing in the morning, come home, clean the place, dispose of my wife's body, and head on my way. I like this. This is good.

“What’s up?” She questioned me. “Oh, you know, the usual,” I said without looking. I felt a cold presence in her stare. “Feeling happy?” “Not yet, get over here.” “No…you let go.” Over the past fifteen years she gained a whole lot of weight. I was more attracted to her sister. I decided to call her sister that night. When we first met she was seeing this guy name Phil. I think they got married. Her name was Angela. ”Angela,” I said into the phone. ”Uh, who is this?” “It’s Joe.” She was trying me. “Oh, how are you?” “Good. Listen, I need a good nut.” “Don’t we all?” “Does Phil give it to your hard? Does he fuck you good?” “Not like he used to. How’s your marriage?” “Your sister has seen better times.” “So is that what you do? You just move on when you don’t feel like it anymore? When it’s not there?” “Life is a constant game of Recycling.” “Recycled condoms and used-up memories,” she said. “My brain has enough of those.” She sighed heavily into the phone. “Can I come over at 8?” I asked. “Ok well I just have to do the dishes first.” “Ok, I’ll come at 8. See you later.” I hung up. My wife was standing in the kitchen staring at the empty jar of jelly. ”Did you ever wonder how much power goes into making a glass jar?” She asked. “I never thought about it.” I said. I went to the fridge and grabbed the carton of orange juice. I finished it, drinking from the spout. “I’ll be back later, I need to get a few things from the store.” She walked into the bathroom and locked the door. Angela was waiting at 7:55pm. I was there five minutes early. She was wearing a nightgown. The sidewalk in front of her building had no crab grass growing out of it. The door-knob was tarnished. I saw her standing in the window looking down but I knocked anyway. She opened the door. “Hello Angela.” “Hey Joe.” I leaned in to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around me. I did her right there on the floor. We moved to the couch when she complained of back pain. She lit a cigarette. She lit mine for me. There was a painting on the wall. “I don’t get that painting on the wall. What is that supposed to be?” I asked. “It’s Schubert,” she said, “it’s about a girl who lost her shoes.” “Lost her shoes that’s a hell of a thing to paint about,” I replied honestly. “Well, you should get going. Phil will be home soon.” ”You were a great fuck, you know that?” I told her. “I know.” “Well, I’ll call you soon” “Yes, Joe.” I walked back home. It was a short walk. When I got home my wife was asleep. I watched TV on the couch until I passed out.

“You’re like a needle. You make a good point,” she said to me. I held my head low. I smiled. I stared across the table at her, eyes locked. She took a sip from her glass. “Color me impressed,” she said. The wild look in her eyes was unmistakable. She couldn’t get her hints across better if she screamed them. “Want me to color you back at my place?” I said with a revealing smirk. “I have crayons at mine.” So we skipped the formalities, so to speak. And what a happy couple we became. For a new, young couple, these were exciting times. Exploring each other was all we could find interest in. She knew my favorite color, my favorite movie, my favorite book, my favorite sushi, my favorite cereal, my favorite drink, my favorite animal, my favorite sexual position, my favorite time of the day. For months, we were the object of each other’s full attention. Everyone knew how much we loved each other; it was just so plainly obvious. We knew stuff about each other. We knew everything. Just a few weeks ago we took a canoe over to Flax Pond. “Do you love me?” she asked. “Yes. I bought you that necklace. I’m willing to spend so much money on you.” “That’s sort of an inappropriate response, although it is a very pretty necklace. Say something to me that will make me have sex with you.” “I love you.” She ravaged me. We also visited the park down the street at 11 o’clock at night. We were at the park at 11 PM. We were there, but nobody else was. Experiences at the park at 11 at night kept the proverbial candle of love lit. Of course, we were mature about it. We didn’t make too much noise. We were inseparable. We loved each other. We understood each other’s twisted sexual sense of humor, the humor that made us so unique. We were such a unique couple, and we were made for each other. Our passion burned uniquely and brightly like explosions in the sky. We soon broke up and never spoke with each other again. I met someone else and invited her out to dinner. She said she liked to write. I told her we should go back to my house after and have a little workshop session. “That sounds like fun,” she said. She took a sip from her glass.

She made her way down a nameless street alone with her thoughts. Not one other pedestrian lay in sight and every business had long since closed. Occasionally a car would drive by, but to her it was but an empty shell. Where had the time gone? Her meditations always lasted longer than she planned. The dry air scratched at her throat as it always did. It was one thing in this desert town that she would never get used to. “If only it could rain” she thought to herself imagining the fresh clean air that would come with it. For a split second she forgot herself. Her world was simply the soft pitter patter of rainfall. No longer alone, no longer merely human, she became a multitude of raindrops. “Why hello there miss lady” said a man with a very comically terrible southern accent. She was startled as if woken from a dream, but she did not stop walking. “Oh…hello” she barely whispered. As she spoke she turned her head towards the voice to get a look at him. Before facing forward once more she noticed a large jacket, a floppy hat, and scruffy facial hair. “Homeless” was the first word to pop into her head. Her eyes wide open she was obviously taken aback. Slowly her thoughts crawled back into reality. She was on her way home and a strange man had just spoken to her. He stood up but did not follow her. “Pardon me ma’am, could you spare just a moment of your time” begged the homeless man while extending his arm and index finger. She stopped and turned to face him. Her furrowed brow gave away her curiosity as she looked him over. The giant smile on his face seemed to show an inner struggle. He was trying so very hard not to laugh at himself. Her face softened and she allowed a slight smile. This exact moment had crossed her mind so many times on these late night walks. However she never imagined the homeless man to be so incredibly non-threatening. “Um…can I help you with something?” she said barely resisting the temptation to laugh at his ridiculous form. This man was lanky, and dirty, and it seemed that his face was permanently stuck in a goofy too big for his face grin. “Well you see here, I was actually hoping that I could be of service to you. You see I am quite famished and this empty stomach of mine has been preventing me from any truly peaceful rest. I will do anything within my power to help and I will do it for a very small fee.” “By fee you mean food?” “Why yes of course. An apple, a sandwich, whatever you see fit.” He paused here shoulders shrugged and with both arms palm up waiting for her response. She stared at him trying to think what use he could be if any to her. Still in thought she absent mindedly glanced at her watch to see what time it was. “It’s late and I’m wasting time” she thought to herself. “Walk me home and I’ll give you a sandwich.” “Very well ma’am I accept most graciously” he responded with a deep bow. Without warning she turned and continued on her way. With a quick skip the awkwardly lanky man caught up to her and followed closely by her side. “What are you doing out here so late?” “I was meditating.” “Is that some kind of East Asian voodoo magic?” answered the obviously confused homeless. When she finally gained control of her laughter she answered, “No not really. It’s kind of like praying while simultaneously controlling your breathing.” “So you’re worshiping God?” “I don’t believe in God and I’m actually trying to train my mind. You see I’m trying to implant myself into a global conscience in order to live forever.” “But everybody lives forever. We are made out of matter. And matter can neither be destroyed nor created.” “Maybe not, but when you die your brain stops functioning. You lose your identity as an individual.” The homeless stopped for a second and gave her a questioning look. “Look here missy. Nobody has an ‘individual identity,’ we are one. There is no you and me or mine and yours. The entire universe is a collection of atoms randomly moving about. It is only due to our ignorance that we perceive ourselves as individuals.” At this point the girl had stopped as well. She was staring at the homeless lips slightly parted in surprise. “Then what happens when you die?” “Death is simply an example of the dynamic properties of matter. If you must look at us as individuals, then you can think of it as an evolution or even a realization. We finally stop seeing a separation of things and lose all of our misguided thoughts and emotions. The result is ultimate harmony with the universe.” The homeless ended this with a smile. He believed in his truth so whole heartedly that he saw no possible rebuttal. This last statement had to have convinced this girl of the true nature of things. “I’m sorry but that’s bull shit. If what you say is true we should just nuke the world and kill every living thing so that we can bring harmony to the universe.” The homeless lost control of his jaw. It dropped open while his eyes simultaneously tried to pop out of his sockets. He began to realize that this girl was simply another ignorant monster trying to disrupt his flow of positive energy. After he didn’t respond for some time she started up again, “If death is an evolution than what is life? Why does the universe allow us to continue to multiply and expand? It should know what’s good for it and call it quits.” She finished with her arms flailing and her own eyes bulging outwards. But luckily the homeless realized what must be done. He lunged forward and tackled her to the ground. She landed face down with the homeless man on top of her. Before she could scream or cry out for help he put both hands on the back of her head and grabbed two fistfuls of hair. With his grip locked in place he began to smash her face repeatedly into the ground. Every muscle in his body tightened. His teeth were grinding away at each other, but he did not stop even when her body went limp. After a minute or two he was out of breath. He finally relaxed his grip, leaned back and sat on top of her with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. After catching his breath he opened her purse and found the promised sandwich. Payment in hand he walked into the darkness guided only by the eerie reflection of the sun.

It was just before dawn when I woke to the alien invasion. It began with the thumpings on the roof. One followed by two, then three, then four, then just a dull roar of heavy objects hitting the roof. I ran to the window and looked out to find the sky filled with small kittens in parachutes plummeting to the Earth like cotton candy. "My time is now." I said to myself. I had known this was coming. It was in the lore of the world handed down throughout history and only the right person, with the right mind could read between the lines. Like the line in the bible about Jesus and that one dude and that other dude - it all spelled kitten invasion. If you think I'm joking, open a dictionary sometime and under the letter K, you will find kittens. Luckily, I was ready. I had been storing milk for years in my fridge. It all went bad, but that's not how I was ready. How I was ready was I had also stored guns and ammo. Lots of it. I ran to the closet where I kept my guns and ammo and opened the door to find more expired milk. I realized two things in that moment - why my house smelled and why there were so many guns and ammo in my fridge. Back to the fridge, I grabbed a gun and some ammo and loaded up what looked like a shotgun and ran to the door. The kittens were still floating to the ground, but many had landed and were helplessly clawing at their parachutes or tangling themselves up in them in some sort of attempt at comfort. It dawned on me that the kittens may not have any ill will towards humans and were simply just kittens that parachuted in great numbers on to the Earth on one given day in the entire history of kittendom. But that was too easy. I opened the door and opened fire. For five minutes I pulled the trigger again and again and not one kitten was harmed. I had either extremely bad aim, as their were thousands of them, or I was holding a chili dog in my hand. It turned out to be the latter. Once again, I had failed to study guns and ammo and what they were and realized a hot dog was not a gun and chili was no sort of ammo. I resigned myself to the notion that I would be of no use in the rebellion against the kittens and sat down and had a big bowl of ammo. The TV was reporting that there was no cause for alarm as the kittens posed no danger, but still there was no explanation as to why they had parachuted in great numbers to the Earth. I looked back out the window. Most of the kittens had removed their parachutes and lo and behold - they were now pulling revolvers out of their fur and moving towards the homes in my neighborhood. I quickly Googled revolver and realized that this time - yes! This time! I knew what I was talking about. They were revolvers. But before I could congratulate myself there was the sound of gunshots at my door. The kind of gunshots that don't come from chilidogs. No, these were real gunshots. I crouched behind my couch and noticed that the TV had gone to static. The first ploy of the kittens had worked - they had been trusted to not have revolvers hidden in their fur. "You won this round." I muttered to myself. Then the door broke down and a kitten standing on two feet with a kazoo in it's mouth entered the house. "Put down your weapons and surrender!" The kitten ordered. I threw the chilidog at him and yelled "I surrender!" There was silence. I rose from behind the couch and there on the ground was a dead kitten. The childog had bore straight through it's abdomen and killed it. 2. I surveyed the scene. Dead kitten? Check. Chili dog that had bored a hole through the kitten? Check. Somehow, the kittens had some vulnerability to chili dogs. I barely threw the sausage and yet it had burned through the kitten like a chili dog burning through....a....kit - you get it. I looked outside and found that the kittens in the immediate vicinity were again acting cute and pretending to be caught up in their parachutes, while mere yards away other kittens were thumping every last human with their revolvers. Yes, it was clear that the kittens at my front door had seen the carnage created by the chili dog and were playing cute. I ran to the fridge and grabbed more chili dogs. I had a box I kept full of them just in case. In case of what? Well, that's my business, buddy. I walked out of the house and began lobbing them at the kittens. Huge explosions roared from the Earth, as the chili dogs were now acting as incendiaries and lighting the landscape up in burning kitten meat. "Don't tread on me!" I yelled, lobbing chili dogs at each and every kitten I saw. But then, from over a hill, I turned to see nemesis: the kittens had an armored chili dog that they were driving towards me. I yelled "I am not vulnerable to chili dogs, you brutes!" The kitten at the helm, a general of sorts for he wore a beret with medals, smiled at me and meowed loudly. The front of the great armored chili dog exploded and a volley of kittens erupted out and at me. The kittens clawed at every fiber of my being and brought me down. I knew this was a death stroke. I had, like many men before me, put my faith in a deli food and found that it had not been quite what I expected. Well, twice. Because at first I didn't think chili dogs would kill kittens, and then later (see above) when I realized I could no longer huck chili dogs at kittens in the hope that they would die because there were like 30 kittens clawing me to the ground. This isn't to say that chili dogs are not useful - they are. They are a delicious source of protein...and OH YEAH, I know they are full of nitrates and fat people eat them, but every once in awhile I think it's...OK. Well, I did have a whole box of them and I understand what that implies but I woke from my slumber and found myself hanging from a tree, wrapped in yarn. The kittens had cocooned me and I was awaiting whatever terrible meal I would become. There was then meowing. Followed by more meowing. Then silence. Then there was a boatload of meowing. Like mass meowing. You know like millions of kittens. Point is - it was deafening. Because it was deafening, I was able to kind of block it out as white noise and I grabbed my phone and looked at some sport scores. Then I felt myself being lowered to the ground. I made an attempt at escaping, but the yarn was too tightly wound and I was only able to flop around on the ground. I could see through the yarn and the General kitten was approaching. "Meow. Meow. Meow-meow." "I don't..." "MEOW. MEOW. MEOW-MEOW!" "I don't speak kitten. I'm a simple man. I don't understand what you want of me. I have a Safeway club card and feel uncomfortable peeing in public!" "MEOW!" There was some shuffling, and then a smaller kitten in a lesser suit (it wasn't really a suit, it was like some kitty parachute pants and a tie ridiculously hung around it's neck) approached with a kazoo. The General took the kazoo and put it in it's mouth. "We demand antioxidants!" The General shouted through the kazoo. It seemed the kazoo acted as a translator. "I still don't understand." The General looked at the kazoo and then fiddled with it with his General kitty kitten paws. It was really cute. The General then put the kazoo back in it's mouth. "We want milk." "Ah, that makes sense. There's plenty of milk. There is no need to kill anyone. Our two races can live together in harmony." I said, with a tear running down my face and into the yarn. "Remove the yarn from his face! I cannot hear him. He is all muffled and the author just realized that I need kazoos in my ears as well. A simple mouth apparatus cannot translate language coming in. It's simple logic. The General retrieved two smaller kazoos from the kitten in the bad suit and put them in his ears. Then another kitten removed the yarn from my face. "I said we can live in peace. Plenty of milk. Don't have to shoot everyone. I pee freely in public and am quite proud of it." "Ah." The General said. "Where's the milk?" "It's like, everywhere. In every house. Just ask nicely or purr at a doorstep." The General looked around at the throng of kittens and then came in close and whispered "A bit much? The revolvers? We just didn't really know. Typically, on other planets, they are stingy with the milk. That guy with the parachute pants totally thought it was a good idea. He saw some movies you people made and it made sense. In retrospect, they were really stupid movies. But he was wearing parachute pants. That's like hardcore ironic, so I figured he knew his shit. So, you guys are like cool with us just...drinking your milk?" I whimpered "Yes. Yes. We'll be cool." The General looked around, threw the kazoos down and then meowed as loud as a kitten could possibly meow. The kittens ran back to the giant armored chili dog and I made out kitty whisper. They were planning a response. Little did they know, I was also planning a response. I had another chili dog up my sleeve, so to speak...

Rain is a magnificent substance. It fills lakes and destroys cities. It is a farmer’s saving grace and a trucker’s worst nightmare. It is no surprise that rain has been considered divine, simultaneously capable of salvation and devastation. Right now though, rain is simply dripping down the windowpane. The clouds have ceased to exist individually, fading together to form one continuous ceiling of grey. The rain falls easily and endlessly, blurring the sight of any possible landscape. It is not the stinging, wind- blown rain that burns your face and turns your cheeks an angry pink; rather this is the kind of rain that precipitates lazily from the sky in droplets large enough to see the reflections of every other raindrop plummeting towards the earth. For those unfortunate souls caught in such inclement weather, I pray they realize that their lives could be so much worse. Speaking of worse, the comotion that called me from my sleep to begin with was not the rhythmic tap of rain against the window. Rather it is the nurse on the graveyard shift poking and prodding me with her various medical devices. Of course, she is simply doing her job, but when her job involves placing an icy cold stethoscope against my warm chest I can’t help but feel a tinge of irritation. After she determines that my heart is working as hard as it should be, pulsing with the rising lub and the falling dub, she proceeds to take a large, boxy thermometer out of her stereotypical baby blue scrubs. She places this second cold metal instrument under my tongue and waits for the “beep beep” that is common of most thermometers. As I suspected, I have no fever. To me it seems pointless to test for vitals every two hours. I’m sure that at least one of the many blue, red or white wires implanted through my pale skin is perfectly capable of alerting all the necessary personnel if I find myself in some kind of medical crisis. Unfortunately, I have little control over my life these days. I have tried telling the countless medical staff that I do not need constant babysitting. After all, I did turn eighteen two weeks ago and like most fledgling adults, I was itching for independence. Of course, my demands for autonomy were met with sighs and answers ranging from, "Phillip, you're too sick." to "Honey, your legs have atrophied to the point of paralysis!" regretably they are all right. I know better than any one of them the absurd effort it takes to simply wiggle a foot. Everyday I can feel myself growing weaker. Each morning it becomes more and more difficult to pull myself from the heavy sleep that blankets me like the lead aprons used to shield my organs from the harmful xrays that bombard my body on a weekly basis. My eye lids become heavier by the hour and it requires an immense amount of effort to force them open. Even the supposedly automatic process of breathing requires concentrated control. Similar to a young child learning to walk, I must mentally tell my muscles to contract as I inhale and to relax as I exhale. It is frighteningly clear that I will die soon. I have lain in this hospital bed for months. My parents visit every other day. Maurine and Luther, my best friends, have started visiting my withering body more and more frequently as they observe death slowly carrying all that is "me" to where ever it is young souls travel to once they've fled from their prison of flesh and bone . I have accepted my impending death despite the fact that my youthful mind fights the very idea of mortality. I first made this revelation while I was on a date with Malcolm, a boy I met in school. My excitement preceding the date was relatively minuscule compared to the utter elation I felt when Malcolm presented me to his candle lit picnic dinner on the pure ivory sand of the beach. We spent the entire evening listening to the waves crash against the rocks and talking about anything and everything that pops into a gay adolescents mind. To this day, it was the most alive I have ever felt. Ironically, it was also the same night I had my fourth seizure. One minute we were talking about how we came out to our parents and the next my back is arching at impossible angles as my eyes roll into the pitch darkness of their sockets. Fortunately, Malcolm's parents allowed him to have a cell phone and he was able to call an ambulance to steal me away from my seaside fairy tale. Laying on the gurney as my doctors rushed me down the familiar hospital corridor I remember thinking to myself, "That was it. That would be my first, best, and only date. My body will not allow me to grow old enough to find another person to love, or to visit Buckingham Palace, or to have an adult relationship with my parents. I will not be allowed to live beyond my teenage years." Obviously, a revelation of such magnitude would rock even the most resilient of people. Unfortunately, I do not fall under the category of "most resilient of people." For the next month as I lay in my small hospital bed I obsessed over how many experiences I was going to miss out on. For weeks the certainty of my premature death poisoned every aspect of my life. I lost my appetite and when anyone entered the room I would immediately hate them for the life they had that I did not. On countless nights I cried myself to sleep in the sterile, pervasive darkness of my room. Alone and wanting more than anything to replace the scars left behind in the wake of scalpel incisions and catheter insertions with new, flawless skin; I waited for my impending expiration. After one particularly long night of crying and self pity, I woke up to the silence of dawn. Outside the window, the dim light of morning bore soft silhouettes against the blossoming vines rooted in between the mortar of the hospital walls. I lay awake, staring out the window. As the sun began its twelve hour journey across the arcing roof of the globe, beams of golden sunlight illuminated constellations of dust, drifting carelessly along imperceptible currents of air. The dust danced from the soft glow of the morning sunlight into the shadow of the curtains, once again vanishing from the world. Soon the sun would warm sidewalks and kiss the soft skin of men and women blessed enough to escape the stale air of the indoors. Pearly cumulus clouds dotted an otherwise clear sky, drifting aimlessly over humanity. It was a perfect day and it was this day that I learned to live for these seemingly eternal moments. When the thoughts of sickness and loneliness are replaced with peace and clarity as seemingly tiny events, like specks of floating dust, become moments of magic and awe. I learned to appreciate the simple beauty that most other people were too busy or self absorbed to pay any mind to. Most importantly, I learned to find acceptance in the face of death.

I always knew I was going to kill myself. Right from when I was just a teenage boy. Even then I knew there was no other way out for me. Even then, right there in my prime, I could have told you exactly how it was all going to end. And now, here I sit. In the rafters of my own house. There's not much left to say really. I hope I've tied this knot right. What the fuck does it matter anyway I suppose. A quick glance around. Oh yeah, just one last thing. Beep..beep...beep... Ring Ring... Someone starts talking but I miss everything she says as it's all so totally meaningless now anyway. "Yes, Hello. My name is Gary Scott. I live at number 7, Gainsborough Close. Please come as soon as possible...I don't want my wife to find me like this." The operator says something else in but I've already hung up. We'll then, better get to it. My final thoughts are as trivial and utterly undramatic as all the other events of my life preceding them. I push myself off of the edge with all of my nervous energy. And then, unsurprisingly, after a quiet struggle in the darkness. Absolutely nothing.

hi! i'm willing to create an audiobook-style recording of one of your short stories for free. genre is not an issue, and i'm happy to do it no matter if you want it just as a memento of your work, as a gift for a friend or family member, or as something published (provided i'm given credit, ofcourse). if you are at all interested, simply send me your story in a pastebin link to my inbox, with any additional information you think i should know about your work. i'm doing this for a few reasons other than it just being nice to do something that makes peple happy: its summer and ive not much going on; i'm wanting more practice mixing voices in my DAW; and it seems a fun time-killer. i'm a musician as well, and if i feel inspired by your work, or have something that will fit, i may include a nice little mood-setting musical intro to the story, but that's not guaranteed, and you may opt out of that if you wish. please note that dependant on the number of requests i get, the recording may take some time before it's finished, and to generally be patient. if you enjoy the end product, and want more recordings done, i'm sure we can come to some arrangement, and i'll charge a fairly minimal amount for the service. any further questions should be posted in this thread, so anything significant i've missed doesn't need to be answered 50 times via private mail.

Opening “We’re just all curious here to find out who paid the bail – would you comment on that?” The room was filled with the same white shirts and black pants as every other room in the world…belts, hair slicked back or conked…the art of dressing had died decades before and the room resembled a legion of insurance salesmen. “We are not going to comment on the bail. As we have said before it is a sympathetic party who would like to remain anonymous. If you have any questions about the charges, I will be happy to answer, but I will not return to that point that you just mentioned.” The chief of police stood behind the podium with doors on either side of him. It was a white room. The podium was black. The doors were black. The room was lit from the back with halogens and the chief of police had the hue and color of a pornographic actor. Squinting, he went on “The five youths have been charged with breaking and entering and attempted murder.” “The vampires.” It was a lone voice from the back. “Excuse me, son?” The chief asked, squinting to see the man in the back. He had a blonde crew cut, which signified youth resistance or a group of vampire hunters simply called The Group. The officers on either side of the chief noted this and whispered to no one at all that “man in back with crew cut – remove”. As a couple of officers in the back moved towards the man, he pulled out a gun. The room began to clear out and the man was able to shoot the chief of police in the face twice with the gun. He then moved through the crowd to the doors on either side of the limp and dead police chief. The officers in the front of the room took knees and began firing at the man, blowing a large hole in the back of a female reporter and taking the local weather man who had subbed for the evening reporter’s head half off. The man made it to just feet from the door on the left of the podium before being shot in the arm. He was flung against a wall and rebounded to the door where he opened it and continued into the hallway to the holding cell holding his smoking arm and his gun. In the holding cell, five young vampires were crowded in the cell. Their hair all a tangle of dreadlocks, their clothes were shredded reflections of the business dress of most of the world in that day. They had heard the commotion and were laughing to themselves about the mess they had created. “Mo dead and red, yo!” The big Samoan one said. “Fer sure and shred.” Said the smaller, red headed one. At the door outside the cell, the man pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it “AB”. The letters came out of the other side of the phone in the voice of an officer he had killed in the parking lot a half hour before. The door opened and the man entered the room. As he did, an officer came from behind and shot the man in the side of the head. The man stared at the smirking vampires. “Yo, bro, you shot in the head, fool.” The Samoan laughed. The man continued to stare, blinking at the vampires. The officer behind him trained his gun on the man and was followed by four more. “Don’t move!” The man continued to stare at the vampires as he dropped his gun and began fumbling in his pocket. A large hole was in the side of his head above the ear and it was smoldering. “I said freeze!” The man continued to fumble in his pocket, until he produced a cigar tube. “Put that fucking down!” Screamed the cop. “Ya got your whole life ahead of you.” Said the red headed vampire. “Wit that big hole in yo head!” The Samoan screamed, laughing. “Put it down!” The cop yelled again. The man lifted his arm, twisted the top of the cigar tube, and shoved it into the hole in his head. Then the cigar tube detonated. 2014 *Looking to live forever? Or maybe want a part in a Stephen King book? Researchers today have explained that a group of aging mice have been rejuvenated with the blood of younger mice in what is being called a “Vampire Effect”. You may be waiting for the punch line, but the study is true and is backed by four professors at John Hopkins University. “Findings have shown that the older mice injected with the blood of the younger mice have gained more energy, a resistance to decrepitude, and in fact their blood vessels are growing and generating new channels of blood flow that improve memory, intelligence, and critical thinking.” Said Paul Wymer of the University. But, take note, Keith Richards should still continue his doctor visits, as any practical application of these findings are a long way off. The researchers say they cannot duplicate the results in humans without further study. “Everlasting life is still a myth without tweaks to the human genome, but we feel that we can lengthen life and improve health in the future with further research into these studies.” Said Guy Mann of the Institute of Science.

Hello denizens of /r/shortstories I am doing a radio show in the fall and beyond and am working on a demo to flesh out some details/general vibe stuff. The theme is Late Night Lullabies, but by no means do I want to put people to sleep. The goal is to have a late show (11 pm - 2 am) for students at my campus to listen to while we slave away at problem sets, papers, and general studies. So far, I am using a lot of very low key indie music, jazz, R&B influenced hip hop, and melodic rock/ambient rock (imagine Mogwai or Godspeed You! Black Emperor). I am looking for a story that would take about 8-10 minutes to read on air and could be reasonably split into 3/4 parts. As this is only a demo, I'm not looking for someone to write a new story or anything. If anyone has any work they'd like to hear in such a show, I will be making the initial demo in the coming week or so. In you submission, if you have any requests regarding pacing, emphasis, general tone, etc feel free to tell me. I will try my best to accommodate your desires; it's your story and it deserves to be read as you see fit. Thanks! /u/estarion4-4 EDIT: I am looking for a low intensity story. I do not want it to be driven by action or shock. It should be driven by deep character interactions and good writing. EDIT 2: Regarding genre, I want to let you decide. The goal of the show is to be artistically free. If there is something you loved writing, then it's exactly what I'm looking for. Go crazy, have fun.

The Google Eye is the nightmare of my life. I cant stop thinking about it. Everyone expects me to be used to it by now but I just can't. I can't shake off that feeling that next week I might not be here. They just discovered apparently that when you die, pass away or bite the dust that your soul sorta resets itself and you are re-born into another body. Science has really turned into its own hell. When I was younger I remember science being amazing, I could bring out my “tablet” ( I know i'm old, right?!) and Google anything I could think of, and just fill my brain with as much information as I could ingest. Now, we are beginning to find out things that we would probably as a society be better off not knowing. Before science found out what really happened to us when we died, we were dreamers and religion followers. We dreamed of a place formerly known as Heaven, a beautiful utopia of anything your mind can think of. There was no sin in heaven and no hurt. But we soon found out that we were wrong, and science was right. So now, with science we discovered how to give ourselves everything we have ever wanted. We can transport through time, we no longer die. Well, we almost got that last part right. I dont think we realized that we were meant to die because now we are overpopulated and ran out of places to store the people. Everything is cluttered and small and the air is dense of fog, that is no longer toxic because people no longer get sick. We live in a world where everyone is healthy but everyone keeps reproducing. And now the government has decided that something must be done. I am what they call an “elder.” I have been alive longer than most of them, almost 255 years and have officially done everything there is to do in life. I have been a mom over and over again, I have over 40 grandchildren and only one young daughter, Riley, living with my husband and I. She is going to be 2 in September, and will be living a long long life of unhappiness if this keeps up. I was 45 when they discovered how to stall growing old. Why couldn't they do that when I was younger? My body was a bit more spry back then. So earth age stays at 45, any my mind keeps growing. Everyone else gets to plug in (stall aging) at 20. My second husband plugged in at 20. My first, Mark, passed away just before they discovered it. I was stubborn in finding a new mate, but our children insisted I couldn't be alone forever so I began to date and found M35. M35 and I have 27 children, all of them are grown up except 1. Unfortunately, Riley will be plugged in at 19 months forever. They discovered that now women are giving birth to children who are now biologically programmed not to age, but the chances of that happening are slim but we got “lucky”. Shes a beautiful baby girl , really intelligent. She speaks in full distinct sentences, which normal 19 month old kids are only putting two words together at that time. Her earth-age is 4. Once plugging-in was discovered, they had to figure out how to deal with overpopulation. We have 2 Google Stations hovering outside Earth, but they had to cease all women from getting pregnant. They don't even shuttle family back and forth from the stations anymore due to fear of pregnancy. And its not right how they stop that anyway. They just inject the water with an oral contraceptive, sort of like fluoride in water to prevent tooth decay. The government didn’t warn anybody, and all of a sudden pregnancies were cut short and moms were giving birth prematurely. The Stations hospitals became so flooded that week that mothers were giving birth on the streets while waiting in line. The more water they drank that week the sooner they were having contractions. 5 children died which was the most we have had in a century and when our country found out, everyone grieves. Most of them never understood what death was and when they caught word of this incident, they went through a horrible depression. The streets were dark and the laughter was scarce. The Belt 2.3 project began. The Google Eye is this giant chrome object hovering high in the sky, it has one really long pole with cameras and a project protective system. The cameras have been there for a while but they recently added the protective system which we think consist of some sort of rail gun or something destructive. We dont have any violence here so we thought why do we need a protective system? The cameras knows where everyone all the time. It has face detection and follows your person around. If your children get lost, the Google Eye knows where he/she is. Soon enough we found out what the protective system really was, something along the lines of a laser nuclear bomb, and thus began the “Life Lottery”. The Life Lottery is the government's solution for overpopulation. Each year, 10 random social security numbers are drawn and the Google Eye demolishes that person, along with a 100 mile radius of land around that person. They don't tell anyone who is chosen, we just wait for the day to come and look up at the Google eye where you see a light change from Green to Yellow to Red, and each light has a beep that turns into a solid beeeeep for a brief second before the Protective laser streams from the Eye. Last year was absolutely horrible. I woke up in my apartment around nine am and went into Riley's room and pulled her out of the crib to change her diaper. It was beautiful outside, the fog was at a low and the rain had stopped. We got dressed and went to the park where Riley played on the playground. I called Harry and asked him how he was, he said everything at work was going well, and then he reminded me that today was Lottery Day. “Ugh again? but I was having such a great day.” Later that evening when Harry was home, the Lottery was going to begin right after dinner. We were sitting in our living room, in our 6th floor apartment watching the news. Outside our big front window we have a good view of the Eye and we sat there enjoying our time together, but also stressed and worried as to what might happen. I put Riley in her room and put the baby gate up so she could play and left the monitor on so I could see her okay. My sister called me and we talked about how we were both worried and especially me because I have the little one in the house. It finally began, the tv switched over to the Government channel and they began to explain the same bull crap they do every year, about how this is for the better of our own population and about how we were meant to die eventually. And finally, how when we do die, if we are chosen, that it will be quick and painless and we will reincarnate into a new form, a new journey. Not so bad right? I still felt queasy. The lady comes on to the tv and prepares us for the first lottery and I begin to wonder, what if it isn’t a fair lottery? I mean what if this lady on the TV is chosen? Then how would they broadcast the rest of the lottery? Its been this same lady for over 15 years on this same channel on this same tv. I begin explaining this to Harry and before I know it I hear that high pitched “BEEEP. “ We look out the window and see the green light is lit up. “Beeep” It switches to yellow, and I grab Harry's hand and squeeze while also closing my eyes. “Beeeeeeeeeeeeep” and a blinding flash of light which happens to be the thing that I open my eyes to. We feel a slight rumble in the foundation of our apartment, and look at each other and embrace like we haven't seen each other in a month. The lady on the tv begins to explain that the person chosen was named “ Ben H35” and lives in Parkside, N-42 Pennsylvania. My phone rings and its my sister. “Phew, you answered” she said “Aren’t you watching the news? It was in Pennsylvania, thats no where near us” “No, im too busy cooking dinner.” “Your cooking dinner at a time like this?” “Listen, my family is hungry regardless and if we are ‘winning the lottery’ they are going to have full tummies” “Hahha Okay Michelle.” The lady comes back after a really long commercial break. This is the most watched program all year so the cable company makes so much profit on these Lottery Day Commercials. They even have stores, and car companies that use “Lottery Day” as times to have “50 percent off” sales. She begins the countdown to the next Lottery drawing. Then we hear “Beep” and see the green light on the Eye switch on. “Beep” Yellow light” “BEEEEEEEEP” The room gets filled with a large flash of blinding white light. I hear a large crashing sound and feel my lungs get sucked into my neck. I grab my chest, its really tight I can't breath in. I feel around for the couch and my coffee table and fall to the carpet floor. I begin to crawl to the hallway, I am sucking for breath and getting nothing, my heartbeat is in my eyeballs and my body is throbbing with each movement I make. My vision is blinded with with and I hear nothing but a high pitch screeching. I feel the wood flooring in the hallway with my hands and continue to crawl to Rileys room. I bump into her gate , still not breathing , and fumble around with the latch. I quickly realize that the latch would take too long and fumbled clumsily over the gate, falling over hard onto the carpet floor of her room. I reach out as I begin to see things around me. I see dark outlines of her crib, her dresser and her bookshelf. I panic as the seconds feel like hours searching for her, and finally I feel her small foot. That moment my vision, my hearing and my breathing all snapped back at once and I grab my chest and gasp hard for breath. I realize where I am in an instant and grab Riley, who was laying on the floor, into my arms. Her body is limp. I scream as my eyes swell up with red. Warm liquid trickles down my cheeks, my neck, I wipe my cheek thinking it was a bug and realize its blood. I take Rileys rag doll body and flip it over so shes laying across my thigh and I begin to press her back with my palms in a rhythmic strong but gentle motion. I hear her gasp for breath and I pick her up with both my hands and hold her face in front of mine. As she begins to blink her eyes I pull her body towards mine and squeeze her. Harry runs in from the living room. “Sarah, are you alright , is Riley alright? I think I just passed out.” he says as he runs over to us and wraps his arm around us. “ I love you sweetie, im okay.“ “Beep” we hear again, this time I flinch at the sound. “Beep” I placed my head on Harry's chest and hold Riley close. “Beeee......

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir Rostov-on-Don, ‘Gateway to the Caucasus’, population one million, is located just on the safe side of the southwest corner of Russia, nearby Chechnya, Georgia and Armenia, it acts like a land-locked port city between the feudal tribal lands and Moscow (Putin)... I had just accepted a one-year contract to work there, with a hefty bonus if I completed my obligations, so my spirits were soaring with optimism as my wife and I began to explore this new region. We ventured outside for the 1st time from our new subsidized apartment located beside the calm Don River, happy to be in warmest climate possible in the Slavic world. The 1st stranger we encountered in the autumn afternoon was completely and absolutely F’d out of his skull, and we shook our heads as we walked by, even laughed a little at his misfortune. The 2nd and the 3rd person we passed by were even worse, a pattern which quickly wiped away our coy smiles as we approached the central market. Later that evening we attended an Expat Meet-Up, thankful for the fruit of the growing internet. We met the 2 residing managers of an IKEA that had opened 6 months earlier as a corporate experiment. An ethical international company that refused to pay bribes, the store was still not connected to the Central Power Authority. Eight portable diesel generators ran non-stop in the parking lot to keep the feeding frenzy for cheap furniture open to the public, as the corruption issue continued behind closed doors. Sven told us about the time when he was sitting at a local bar chatting up the waitress between shots with business partners, as a cocktail glass came flying from the corner of the room inadvertently aimed just centimeters shy of his left ear. The Swede took his cue and left the premises, but not before marking who the perpetrator was. “From the Caucasus, an F’n Muslim, of course.” My wife is Muslim, and we had just gotten married a month before. I was the first non-Islamic person, never mind Jewish, to be allowed to wed in her town’s central mosque. A gracious donation from her faithful grandmother was able to arrange a meeting with the Imam, who then stated that no matter his personal beliefs his G-d wouldn’t forgive him if he denied the Love he witnessed in our conversation together. Stefan told us about the time when he was riding in a taxi, dozing off in the backseat crossing the congested city, where the next thing he knew he woke up in the forest, in his underwear, bound, and left alone. After escaping and finding a small village in the distance no one answered the door as he asked for assistance until one young man decided to save his life. This savior refused any reimbursement upon Stefan’s safe return, just the promise to never tell anyone that he had helped him, there was no reason to raise the suspicion of the watchful neighbors. My first week of teaching was with a private student, a middle-aged man who had won Teacher of the Year from the government of the Republic of North Ossetia, currently occupied by the Russian Federation. He was from the town of Beslan, and taught in the building beside the school that housed the infamous hostage crisis that left 186 children killed, and 783 injured. His reward for the honor was 2 weeks of lessons with me, and an iMac, and I hope I was worth more than the hardware. He had been inspired as a teenager to be a Soviet MiG Pilot after watching ‘Top Gun‘ on a friend’s smuggled VHS tape, but his training was abruptly cancelled when the USSR collapsed only a year away from graduation. It was then a friend of a friend who introduced him to Depeche Mode, which inspired him again, but this time to understand and teach the English language. Every class he taught thereafter was introduced to Maverick and Goose, to help his students deal with loss. 2 weeks later, my wife and I were jumped outside a café for the unspeakable act of using English too loudly. A group of young men attacked us from behind, kicking us to the ground with their Nike sneakers, the distinct smell of McDonald’s on their breath as they instinctively screamed, 'Yankee, go home!’ We escaped when a passing taxi driver finally had some sympathy and interrupted the impromptu show of force. This savior refused any reimbursement upon our return home, just the promise to never tell anyone that he had helped us, there was no reason to raise the suspicion of his usual customers. We met a New Zealander a few weeks later who was the manager of the 1st golf course ever in the area, and he invited us out for a day on the links. We only made it to the driving range because of overcast skies, where my wife got her 1st chance to swing a 1 wood. She lucked out a few times and found the sweet spot, the pain from her black eye forgotten as she looked back and smiled coyly at me. We spent the next year holed up in our apartment, the price to pay for being in public had proved too alarming. We quietly cursed the screaming children every Saturday morning at the daycare center located on the ground floor of our building, but the result was that our relationship grew stronger than before. We knew we could live through anything, what was most important was to remain close to each other.

Their once was a fat man with a big fat belly, his name was Jim he was always jelly. He cries to himself when he goes to sleep, and sometime he even speaks. Once he thought to himself enough is enough and so he said with a huff, “I’m going to work out and be fat no more, everyone will see as I will definitely show!” And so he worked and worked some more, not once stopping until he hit the floor. And there he lay panting and coughing and the while angrily skulking, “I can’t do it, never will I, and I would probably manage when a pig could fly”. And then his friend Tim appeared, and then he said all elated. “You are doing it, you are, and very well too, you will the weight in no time if only stick through!” And his friend’s words fresh in his heart, Jim started again as doing a graceful art! Two days later of working hard, Jim stopped again skulking. “It’s been two days and nothing changed, I might as well go back when I’m without a friend” And just then as all hope was lost Jim saw a friend he forget, For it was for Tim again to convince Jim to go past the strain, “Jim what are you talking, you must have lost tons from all that walking!” Jim again with renewed hope didn’t for ever more days stop. And now Jim is glad, he has friend like Tim to help him not get sad. Friends are the best and I will tell you why, they have your back even if a pig can’t fly.

The sun was setting over the overgrown jungle as Airman James Wilson sprinted over the underbrush as quietly as a deer, ABU jacket discarded for comfort in the heat of the jungle, left in just his desert sand undershirt and his ABU pants and combat boots. He had lost his radio about 750 m back and as he realized this he paused to see if he could find it, but instead he heard the muffled shouts of the men pursuing him. He paused for a moment and prayed that they couldn’t find the radio where he lost it and then crawled his way under a bush he found off the right side of the path he had been running on. As he sank back further and further into the bush he heard the loud, clumsy thud of his pursuers boots as they ran past where Wilson was hidden from view. After about thirty seconds, though it felt like an eternity to Wilson, he popped out of his hiding place and time seemed to slow down as his adrenaline gland started pumping. Wilson fired three quick shots in rapid succession at the two men, striking one man twice in the skull, and the other in the spinal cord. He ran over and checked, both men were stone cold dead. He began to jog back to where he thought he might have lost his radio and began to think about what had brought him to this place where he seemed to be in danger every second of everyday since he jumped out of that godforsaken C-130. In high school Wilson was a quiet, somewhat dorky teenager. He had a few very good friends, but not many, he had only had one girlfriend and she had taken his first everything. She was his first kiss, and up to the one who took his virginity. He had planned on going to he dream school, Boston University, but he was unable to afford tuition, despite his parents being wealthy enough to disqualify him from student loans. Wilson decided the next best option was to join the military and then go to college on his GI Bill pay. He weeded out the Marine Corps and the Army first because he wasn’t front line material, or so he thought. Next came the Navy, he didn’t like the idea of being deployed on something so big in the middle of the ocean that could have possibly sunk. Finally went the Coast Guard, as he wasn’t sure that they would award his GI Bill to go to college. So he went to basic for the Air Force. After finishing basic training attempted to go through Spec Ops training to become a combat controller. Wilson wasn’t the most athletic, but he passed his training with flying colors and became a combat controller. The job of a combat controller is to infiltrate a hostile territory and provide air support to a team of Rangers or SEALs. This mission took place in the war on the Colombian Drug Cartel, after they had taken over control of the government and established a dictatorship with the cartel leader as the dictator. Wilson was assigned to SEAL Team 10 in their effort to assassinate the leaders before the rest of the US military came in to regulate the people of Colombia while they have their first election in over 17 years. The plan was simple, the SEALs and Wilson HALO jump into a field beside a jungle. The SEALs would then move into Bogota while Wilson waited on the outskirts of the city listening for a call from the SEALs, while scanning the area with a spotter’s scope to see if there’s any trouble. If anything happened he was to call in either an air strike or call the AC-130 nearby for gun support from above. The mission started out fine, the drop went perfectly then Wilson took his position at the top of a tree and set up his radio and was completely prepared and ready for the mission. He had been positioned in the tree scanning the city for about 17 hours, and he called in to the SEALs and they confirmed that it was time for them all to get a bit of shut eye. So he took out a rope, tied himself to the tree and went to sleep. The next few days went similarly, until about the sixth day. The SEALs were ready to breach the dictators house. Everything was still, no birds chirped, no animals made noise, the city seemed to have died overnight. Time slowed down as the SEALs kicked in the door on the front door and started the sweep. They kept a radio conversation going as they swept the first floor, and second floor, attic, and cellar. No sign of dictator Juan Pablo anywhere. They checked every square inch of the house twice, but no sign of him. They were preparing to leave when suddenly Wilson heard voices. He told the SEAL team he was going to fall back prematurely to the evac point and they confirmed it was alright. As he packed up to move out he took off his jacket from his ABU because he was overheating. He tied it around his waist and grabbed the radio and scope and began moving to the evac point. He got about halfway there when he heard shouting, he turned around and saw two men with AK-47s who, when they saw him, started pointing and shouting, prompting Wilson to start running, through the jungle as the sun began to set. Wilson finally found his radio, as well as his ABU jacket, a bonus as he hadn’t realized it had fallen off while he was running, and he called out to the SEALs to tell them what had happened and they explained that they hadn’t found Pablo and they were going to the evac point and would meet him there in two hours. That left Wilson two hours to gather himself and move the last kilometer to the evac point. He decided that he was extraordinarily thirsty and needed to find a village to get some water. He walked about 4 kilometers north, past the evac point, until he found a village. Once in the village he knocked on several doors and asked, in broken Spanish, for water. All the responses were the same, they couldn’t help an American soldier. At about the 7th house, a man who spoke in rather fluent English explained Wilson that the dictator had found out about the assassination plan and had moved to this town that afternoon for his safety. Wilson got excited and asked which house. The villager showed him which house and told him to change his clothes so that he would be inconspicuous. Once in traditional Colombian dress he took his gun and knife and hid them under his overclothes and began the walk to the house that Pablo was in. Once at the house he knocked on the door and explained that he was a weary traveler and was in dire need of water and the guard allowed him into the tiny two room house. Once inside Pablo came over and started shouting at the guard about safety and how he had lost his two best guards on the hike over (Wilson realized he had been the one to kill them) and right before his very eyes Airman James Wilson witnessed a murder. Pablo grabbed his guard and snapped his neck with his bare hands right in front of Wilson. Before he could comprehend what was happening Pablo was halfway across the room and leapt at Wilson hands out to strangle him. Wilson, thinking quickly on his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins, grabbed his knife and stabbed straight into Pablo’s left lung as he landed on top of Wilson. He was still alive and still tried to grab at Wilson’s throat, but Wilson was quicker and flipped Pablo off him, pulling the knife free, and jammed it deep into Pablo’s chest, directly through his left ventricle. Pablo, from the shock of what had happened began to go into shock, and died shortly thereafter. Wilson radioed the SEALs and told them he might be a few minutes late, excited to surprise them with what had happened, and he grabbed Pablo, picked him up over his shoulders and began the 3 km hike to the evac point. Once he arrived at the evac point the SEALs were curious about who the dead man Wilson was carrying was. They stepped forward and lowered him to the ground and dropped him the last six inches as they realized who it was. The helicopter landed for the team to evacuate in, and they got inside and were transported back to forward base Oaxaca where they presented what Wilson had done to the skipper and proudly got onto the plane for some much needed R&R. Whilst on the plane it dawned on Wilson the magnitude of what he had done completely coincidentally. If he hadn’t been thirsty he wouldn’t have gone to the village and found Pablo, and this wouldn’t have happened. He also realized that no matter what happened, no one would know, no one could know, that he was the one who assassinated Juan Pablo. If anyone ever found out, he would’ve needed to go into the witness protection program times a hundred. He would never be safe so long as the cartel was in business, and from then on, even on R&R he could never rest, he could never recuperate, and he could never let his guard down. He was in grave danger because he was the soldier who had found and assassinated the dictator of a cartel run country. His life will be forever changed, but it was worth it to be an American hero.

I remember the night my child was taken. I’ll never forget the man in the brown bowler. Slightly built, barely five feet tall. The orange glow from his cigar lit the ghostly pale of his clean-shaven face. His features were angular, drawn by a child with a sharpened pencil. His black eyes met mine. “I know your secret." I balked. Unable to stammer a response, I fumbled for my keys and entered my building quickly, sliding the bolt behind me. I stood with my back to the door, beads of perspiration forming on my forehead. Later that night I lay in bed, sleepless and contemplating my horrible secret. The memory remained as unchanged as the cold reality that still exists, and always will. The man in the brown bowler had me spooked. The baby started crying. I rose and pulled my robe over my shoulders. I began to creep toward the nursery but the baby stopped crying. Something was wrong. The door, always closed for bedtime, stood open. The dark and silent room screamed something terrible. The baby was gone. I knew it before I even entered the room. My thoughts turned to the man in the brown bowler. I notified the police immediately. The detective asked for my clothing to use as evidence. He invited me to the police station, told me he wanted to ask a few questions. I described the man in the brown bowler. The detective assured me there was no man in a brown bowler, only evidence. I blamed the man in the brown bowler. But no one believed me. Death was the only sentence I heard the judge speak. Midnight. The curtains open and I see how few have come to watch me die. I recognize two of the jury members who put me on this table. I see the detective, no doubt ensuring the completion of another successful case. I see my neighbor, star witness for the prosecution. And there, in the back. A slight figure, no more than five feet tall. I beg the detective to stop this madness. All it will take is a slight glance over his left shoulder. The detective looks bored, and only manages to shift in his seat. He glances to his left, unwilling to make eye contact with me. I gaze at the man in the brown bowler. He nods silently, smile creeping across his ashen face. He silently convinces me to tell my secret. His grin mocks my final confession. "I did it!" I scream, "I killed her!" I look at the man in the brown bowler. He leans forward and whispers in the ear of the detective. Unable to hear, I see his mouth form the same words that brought me to this cursed table, "I know your secret." The needle penetrates my skin, and I feel warmth spread through my body. I watch, the detective turn toward the man in the brown bowler. Blood drains from his face as he whirls toward me, eyes wide.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir mr. k met him when he was a roommate of my best friend and after 10 minutes of conversation he asked me if I knew that my particular soul was over 1000 years old - he had a deeply intense and intrusive stare but it was tempered by his calm eyes he seemed to care about every word I chose to use the rumor was that he had secretly run away from India from a pampered aristocratic family with all he could ever ask for - though I never asked him directly about his past but then he was struggling to support himself studying I.T. on Long Island sometimes skipping a day without eating but he still refused to further exploit the stereotype turning down multiple job offers at local convenience stores he asked me if I knew that I would be very wealthy in the future but my curse was that I would have to wait a long time for it to occur - and I began to notice that his fiercely analytical mind was constantly in conflict with these mystical sensations he felt around him all the time and our conversations were always aimed at changing the world he told me about his usual MTA bus driver, who was 100% a murderer which brought back memories 5 years later, when I was reading the paper and saw a picture of a driver on that same bus line who had finally admitted to burying his wife in the backyard many years ago... a completely random meeting 3 years later made us business partners and we opened a fresh fruit & vegetable juice kiosk called 'Natural Selection' located in the center aisle of an Albany, NY shopping mall we found an apartment on the Hudson River and we dreamt of marketing concepts and future riches the company went bankrupt after 3 months, for too many reasons to explain and our relationship also began to splinter and regretfully I used my height to intimidate him during one argument so I walked into his room shortly thereafter with my head down in shame and he forced me to my knees as he brandished a shiny butcher's knife... thankfully, my first reaction was contrition and vulnerability begging and groveling for forgiveness, and for my life he circled around me and repeated the same phrase over and over, 'sewer rats, you are all sewer rats' I glanced up a few times and I immediately noticed his blank stare this was not the same person I had previously known I even noticed that his accent was slightly off his posture and gait became unrecognizable, I’m afraid to say that he was possibly possessed but I remained passively on the ground castrating myself until the circles slowed and his speech slurred and his eyes gradually began to regain a glimmer of life in them and obviously I survived, and I also never saw him again 2 years later I heard he'd had a one-car accident and was issued a DWI 6 months later they found him hanging in his bedroom closet with a Post-it® note pasted to his chest, 'please don't tell my parents'... the fine line between light and dark is difficult to traverse and I am drawn to those who choose to walk the path between them never mind the risk that one day they might stray too far off before realizing it's too late to find a way back to reality...

Wood rots, and erosion is very strict. Adelita knew this. He of course had learned it in elementary school or maybe junior high, he couldn’t quite remember which, but he knew it didn’t matter. He knew of weathering and erosion, how it shaped the earth, changed it, gradually shaping the ground where Adelita lived, scrounged, and eventually would die of whatever the Earth decided would end his stream of thought permanently. But, as time goes by, the things you know grow in number, but the amount of things that you need to remember, the things that matter, are singled out, and, after Adelita’s numerous careers and failings therein, erosion, weathering, and decomposition were far from the top of Adelita’s “important things” list. A little girl in a green flannel dress, couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, her parents must have had a terrible sense of urgency. They must have gotten news that sent that pressing signal down their spines. That intense signal that their little girl couldn’t begin to understand. All of this Adelita gathered from six framed photos, a fully set dinner table, food long since gone bad, all in a nice white house on a cliff. The beach below was as serene as it was always shown to be in tourism ads, its soft rhythm permeating throughout the house, its yard, and especially Adelita’s ears. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat deafened by the constant and powerful sound of the waves hitting dirty brown rocks. He wouldn’t have chosen this location for his rest that night, but a man in Adelita’s position seldom has a choice for that sort of thing. Now's as good a time as any to make myself comfortable, Adelita thought, finding the master bedroom deep in the house. The master bedroom that no doubt belonged to the parents of the house. The bed was still made with nice silk comforters and lovely expensive pillows. Adelita’s body fell perfectly onto the nice blankets without a care as to move them and physically climb in. He was too tired to care about such specific conditions for his rest. The walk to the empty home on the beach was a long and very taxing venture, but Adelita couldn’t complain. The house was nice, polished hardwood floors covering most of the rooms, and plush carpets covering the rest, and the décor of the home indicated that, without a doubt, the previous inhabitants were well endowed. Adelita rolled onto his back, enjoying the family’s hard earned belongings. Adelita wouldn’t deny that when he first started “occupying” houses like this, he had a felt a pang of guilt deep in his stomach, but if the family wasn’t “around” per se, they surely weren’t using it. No harm no foul, right? Adelita always did his best to return the house to the order it was in before he “occupied” it. He owed the family that at least, or so he always told himself. The night leapt forward after Adelita had drifted out of thought. Time seldom cares to wait for anyone to wake, let alone a homeless squatter. The white wooden home on the top of the cliff swayed and swung, loosely holding its grip on the perfect cliff. Adelita slept as soundly as his body and mind demanded, obscuring all of his senses to the point of near lifelessness. The waves splashed constantly, and Adelita slept. Erosion worked its way through the rocks, and Adelita slept. The white wooden house on top of the cliff succumbed to nature, just as the family was warned, just why they left in such a hurry, and still Adelita slept. The last thing Adelita was worried about was erosion, and weathering, but he still knew of them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered how water wears down rocks. He remembered that landslides are a distinct possibility when a house is built on a pristine cliff such as this, but in the end, Adelita’s need for shelter and rest far outweighed his need to remember a teenage nature science class. He died without waking that night, tired of looking for a different bed each night, tired of getting dirty looks from every person that passed him by on the street, and tired of the heaviness that always accompanied him. He died that night in a soft, expensive bed in a soft expensive house, all because of a one-time science lesson that this one-time restaurant owner couldn’t help but to forget.

“Go north.” The old man looked across the street that was littered with snakes chewing up the blacktop. “You’re a lot of help.” Johnny replied. “I try to be.” He looked back at Johnny. “There’s nothing left here.” “What are you going to do?” The old man was dressed in a white suit, and when he turned back to the hissing of the street, Johnny noticed that even in 100 degree weather, there were no sweat marks. Johnny only saw the nicotine shades of years of smoking. “These snakes will run out of blacktop. Then, it’s just me and the desert.” “What’s north?” “Not here. That’s where north is. Not here. I’m an old man. And maybe we’re the last people for miles alive, but that doesn’t make us partners. Or buddies. I’d just like to stay here and watch the end.” And with that, the old man lit a cigarette and eased back into the rocking chair he was sitting in. Johnny looked down at his feet, then back at the road. You had to keep your distance. Some of the snakes had a real reach and you could easily get picked off if you didn’t pay attention. You avoided the road. There were a list of things the snakes lived off that you wanted to avoid. Most oils. Tar. Strangely, liquor. Cars were out of the question, unless they were armored. Scores of people had tried taking the family out with all the windows rolled up and the doors locked and ended up with the bastards coming up through the engine. Ugly situations. The parents in the front seat being butchered by foot long fangs, while the car comes to a stop and the kids look dumbfounded at each other as the snakes cocoon the car… “You know, I knew it. I knew it when they brought it up.” The old man tossed a bottle of Jack Daniels into the street and watched the rolling wave absorb it. “They say things. These scientists. They say, we know this. We know that. But they never have common sense. You pull something up from the bottom of the ocean and you examine it. That’s fine. But then you start mucking around with mother nature and” he tossed another bottle “you get this.” “Provisions?” “Is this 1894? You mean food and water – over there, across the street.” The old man let out a single laugh, then went back to rocking. Johnny eyed the store across the street and looked down the road. “You ain’t gonna get a dead end for miles. You might as well be walking to North Dakota.” “You got food and booze…and cigarettes.” “I have ways. Kinda like the snakes. If they wait long enough, someone will feed them out of desperation.” “What about these houses?” “Full of snakes. You have to find a way across that road, boy.” Johnny eyed the street and noticed the traffic lights. “Ah, smart thinking. But if you drop…” The old man belted out another laugh and Johnny strode towards the lights. He took a running start at the poll, as it was close enough to the street that he could get bit. He jumped. Hooking both arms around the poll he began to squat up. The old man threw a whiskey bottle at Johnny, hitting him in the face and Johnny dropped to the desert below. The snakes swarmed him as the old man walked quickly across the street to the store. “I told you to go North!” It's up. Nope. Got flagged. Here it is. The old man wondered up the liquor aisle and grabbed a bottle of absinthe and walked back down towards the registers. He laughed out loud and then yelled “Scientists!” Then he stopped. Two feet away, hanging from the fluorescents was a snake. It opened its jaws to reveal a mouth the size of a tire. “Hang on, old buddy.” The old man stepped backward and the snake hissed. “When they brought it up, it had all the shape and size of a meteor: just a big black rock that had been pummeled almost to death for eons. Then they pried further and found the organisms. They were smaller than a booger on a mouse. Well, these folks in these labs congratulated themselves and the world celebrated aliens. Aliens! Folks don’t even know their neighbors that well and they get all excited about mouse turds from outer space. Well, I don’t get it.” The old man paused and scratched at the wound in his face. “Feller over at the store there bit me just now. See that skeleton yonder, that was a boy I was helping across the street. Snakes got him. Got a taste for it. Next thing you know, the snakes are in the store. Well, boy howdy, I’ll tell you what – those scientists sure fucked us good.” The old man began to cry. “Look see, old boy, I know you can hear me and I know you know I been feeding you boys with the choicest cuts of human. Now, why don’t you just back up and give me some space. Get you a nice bottle of Daniels.” The old man stepped slowly back to the whiskey aisle and grabbed a bottle. The absinthe dropped and the snake hissed and took a swatch of skin off the old man’s cheek. “Har! Fuck!” The old man slammed the bottle of Jack against the floor and the snake hit the ground hissing and lapping up the intoxicant. Four more snakes dropped from the ceiling and the old man looked up. “Jesus wept.” The ceiling was covered in snakes. One snake seemed to be king over them all. It was coiled around the entire store and six of the smaller snakes were curled up in its jaws. The old man grabbed another bottle of absinthe and clipped a carton of cigarettes on his gallop out. Knees in the air in a full-on Looney Toon sprint, the old man vacated the store and paused to catch his breath when the woman asked him which direction to go. “Go north.” “Do you know what happened? What happened everywhere?” “When they brought it up…” The old man stared up at the sun, tears streaming down his cheeks. “That’s how. They played with those aliens…got in their DNA. You know - the stuff that makes you a lovely lady and me an old man.” The woman laughed. “You’re not that old.” “I wasn’t once. See, all you folks end up a mile out. Stop the car, walk into town. Tourists! You think this is interesting or something. It’s terrifying.” “Why don’t you leave?” “Why would you drive into a quarantine zone? This all happened months ago. I know you all think it’s just some virus. But it’s not. Lab’s a couple miles up. That’s where it all began. But I guess you thought you’d take a look. Last guy had a camera. Pretty sure he was a reporter. What are you? CIA?” “I’m looking for my mother.” “Let me help you – she’s dead. Go North.” The old man pulled out a cigarette and fell to the ground on his butt and began to cry harder. “I’m stuck on this side now. I’m stuck forever without my wife.” “Is your wife dead?” The old man grinned at the ground and murmured “Yes.” The woman looked across the road. “Give me your jacket and that bottle of absinthe.” The old man handed her both. She doused the jacket in absinthe, and then pushed a bit of it into the bottle and lit it. Then she hurled the bottle into the street. The snakes rushed away from the fire and she grabbed his hand and said “Let’s go.” The old man took her hand and walked with her across the street. As they passed within feet of the snakes the old man fell to the ground. The woman knelt to help the old man and he came at her with a knife. “Fresh bait!” He yelled, eyes popping out, drool running down his face. The woman paused and then drew a pistol from her lower back and shot the man twice in the throat. There was a ringing and the woman pulled a phone from her pocket and replied into it “Agent Edwards.” She walked to the other side of the street, speaking into the phone and watching the snakes recede back to what would soon be a bloody skeleton. “Our leak has dried up. Bad intel, though. Also, I think there’s a queen here in the store.” “Here comes the Hocus Pocus.” The Speaker said. They were in an old colonial-looking house off a road somewhere in California. It was daylight outside and motes of dust hung in the air and passed between each agent as they breathed. Some were sitting on couches, others on chairs. One man had his legs dangling from a counter in the kitchen. “You are on a Green Card assignment. Present Green Cards.” The group of agents each took out a Joker card from their pockets and presented it. The cards were green with a red, and a laughing joker presented in the middle of the card. The speaker, no one had any idea what rank or what agency, pulled out a small flashlight-looking device and swung it around the room, reading each card. “Alright. DCI has acknowledged me and my permission to give orders as you will find, or did find, on the cards. This is a Hocus Pocus. If you are not familiar with that situational status, I will explain it. A Hocus Pocus is a situation that has no logical or scientific explanation as we understand it. For instance, if aliens landed, it would be deemed Hocus Pocus. Scientifically speaking, it is possible. Logically, aliens – intelligent aliens, should not be able to land here as physics and our own known knowledge of our own solar neighborhood would contradict it. Similarly, a ghost would be a Hocus Pocus. Hyper-intelligent apes. Houses made out of fish. You get the idea. This however, this situation, deals with the occult. If you are not familiar with the occult, you should not be on this team. You have been selected as your backgrounds reflect a knowledge of ancient wisdom, Aleister Crowley, and Tarot cards. Basically, you people are geeks.” There was a brief spatter of laughter that wasn’t returned by the Speaker. “My name is Ed. You can call me Ed if you need to address me. You do not want my full name. You do not want any information about me whatsoever. You are to perform specific tasks. You are not to delve into the information you gather any further than your assignment carries you. You are not to connect the dots. You are not to put the puzzle together. You are the puzzle. Each of you is a piece and let no piece meet. There will be no sharing of intel outside of the briefings you will receive via Green Cards. Now, the situation. About six months ago, seemingly out of nowhere, a snake handler by the name of Cabal Brooks appeared in the desert of Nevada. This man then approached the city of Boulder, Nevada and all hell broke loose. The first reports of problems came from a police deputy who was called to the home of Brooks on rumors he was amassing a large stock of illegal weapons. This visit then turned into a shootout. The shootout then turned into a standoff. I’m sure you all saw it on the news. Brooks was never located, but soon reports came in that a cult had formed around the memory of the man, who left a bullet riddled home and two dead officers. If you look at your Green Card, you will see a picture of the man. He looks like Colonel Sanders. Always wearing a white suit. Friendly guy. The FBI sent two agents to infiltrate the group and they were converted. There was a raid. No one returned. That was not in the news. Then there was no contact from the entire town. Next, the snakes began to appear. We headed this one off at the pass, and quarantined most of Nevada under the guise of a super flu. And now we’re here. About the snakes – we do not know where they came from or what they are. Obviously, snakes the size of trains are not known or logical scientific facts of our great Earth. However, we are in possession of an escapee of Mr. Brooks’ cult. And, yes, we believe, based on this individual’s account, that Brooks is still alive. This individual claims that these snakes are a simple charm of a legion of…things…that will befall our great Earth. It is this individual’s account that Mr. Brooks is summoning…wait for it kids…Satan.” The group exchanged incredulous looks. “Boys and girls, we take this seriously. The CIA is not in the religion business. Nor are we naïve. No folks, we have project after project of information concerning the summoning or the belief to reality of certain entities we can just call deities. I’m sure you are all fully aware of a Project Babylon back in the last century and let me just drop this nugget – it worked. I will not disclose to what extent, but rest assured your reality has been tweaked since. Tweaked is a nice way of putting it. But that’s internet conspiracy stuff, right? Maybe so, but right now I can safely and sanely tell you all that we believe that a force, a hostile force, is being created and threatens the United States. If that makes it a better way of saying it, so be it. But make no mistake: we believe this Mr. Brooks is provoking something illogical and destructive and thus the Green Cards. That’s it? Any questions? Just joking. Your Green Cards will alert you to your orders. The only information I will reveal about any assignments to all of you is that Agent Edwards will be taking point. As for the snakes, you are to keep your distance. This mission is for intel, not for house cleaning. Have a nice day.” “Repeat. There is a Queen in the store. Also, I may have killed Colonel Sanders.” It sounded foolish and she laughed to herself. Turning around, she looked at the body. The snakes were avoiding it and the Colonel, or possibly the Colonel, was gasping for breath out of the two new breathing holes she had given him. The sight was putrid. It was as if someone had stuck a piece of bubble gum in a trach hole and set the person breathing through it. Just blood bubbling up and popping. She turned around and the ground shook. In the space of a second, she had found cover behind a garbage can and was scanning the area. The snakes had completely left the patch of road where the presumed Colonel lay. An Open sign was swinging in the doorway of the store and the kid’s skeleton was still lying below the traffic lights. The ground shook again, but this time all but one window in the store shattered.

"Why did you keep talking to that asshole, giving him an invitation to stick around?" "What are you talking about? He and his friend were nice. I wish you wouldn't be such a sour jerk." "You don't get it, in his own way he thought he was 'running game' on you. You shouldn't be nice to people that do that." "What!? How was he running game? I introduced you as my boyfriend to both of them. They were just trying to meet some new people in town." "No, he was flirting with you. He was playing this pathetic little game where he tries to flirt with you in front of me to try and force me to be rude or possessive or an asshole to him in front of you. Somehow the losers that play that game think me acting like a jerk in front of you will make them be able to pick you up." "That's crazy, now you are just being paranoid. It's not like I would ever do anything with him anyway, he totally isn't my type.... "And I am with you. Are you getting jealous?" "No, not jealous. I am not worried about you cheating on me. I am annoyed with that fucking loser and that you don't *see* this shit when people pull it. Fuck, see, now I am in a bad mood, because of that little shit and how you kept damn talking to them every time I gave a cold shoulder or tried to end the damn conversation and walk off." "Chill out for a minute. Now you are making me annoyed. Am I, like, not allowed to make friends and talk to people now!? I can tell when guys are flirting with me and he wasn't. His friend wasn't. They were just two shy guys trying to meet people. I fucking hate how you always just assume bad things about people." "You can't." "What!?" "You can't tell when guys are flirting with you; he was. It has happened before, remember? I always have to fill you in. Like I said, I am not scared some guy is going to steal you. You just need to learn to blow that shit off because when it happens I have the fucking option to, one: be polite and hope you get what he is trying to do and end the conversation on your own, which you fucking never do. Or two: step in and end it myself and look like some controlling ass... "Further, I end up looking like an ass to everyone else because you are always the only fucking person in the room who *doesn't* see the guy blatantly flirting with you in front of me. Fuck!" "You know what? FUCK you. I *know* you didn't want to come downtown, okay. But you know what? Sometimes you should fucking get over it and pretend to have fun for my sake. I get it you have been there and done that; you tell me all the fucking time, okay? Well guess what? I am still young and I am not bored with going out and having fun and talking to people. Thank you for putting me in a bad mood. You win, again, lets leave. I am done with this." "Babe, I am not trying to ruin our evening. I want us to have a good time. You and me. I am pissed because those little fucking faggot assholes had to pull that shit. And look! It fucking worked. Not him getting laid, but it put us in a fight. *Congratulations you little fucking prick!*... "You know what babe, lets just take a breath and forget about those little fucks, calm down and try to get back to having a good time." "NO! It's too late for that! You already ruined the evening. *You*! You did, not them, *you*. Because you are an asshole and everything is someone else's fault. 'I didn't see the imaginary flirting you were mad about.' 'Those guys came up and talked to us just to piss you off.' *Nothing* is your fault, ever." "Babe... please... I mean, damn, you look beautiful and we were supposed to have a good time... I... *Fuck*! I told you going to a bar was a stupid idea, we should have just gone and had a nice dinner, but no... *Shit!* I am not *mad* at you or saying its someone else's fault... It's just... I wasn't trying to..." "Blah blah blah. I am sick of hearing you talk. Just take me to my car. I'm done with this conversation." ... "Babe... look, I am sorry for getting so mad and blowing things out of proportion." "Well, you did." "...I did. Hey, come on, let's just start this night over and not let it be ruined." "hah." "Come on... "It is almost midnight. I am tired. You already made me so made that I feel sick. And the worst part? The worst part is how long I spent getting ready, trying to look pretty for you. I wanted you to show me off. For you. I made these plans to go out and have fun. *For you*. And what happens? Exactly what you wanted. You found a reason to be mad and make it all my fault for trying to bring you out to have fun. And you know what? All that time getting ready for you and you never told me that I looked pretty until you were trying to appease me and make up for acting an ass. You *never* make me feel pretty or important. No. I am done and right now I don't even want to see you or talk to you again." "Well, babe, I am sorry. I don't know how many times I can say it. *Sorry.* Can we get past this and still salvage something good from the evening? We could..." "Ewww! No! What the hell is wrong with you!? No, you can go home and be miserable by yourself. That is what you wanted to do tonight anyway; it is *all* you ever want to do. Fuck you. Goodnight and happy birthday, hope it was a good one.

It is peculiar, the drowning breath of an almost unliving patient, who clings to the stale and taupe sheets of a hospital bed. So caught between the realm of unfortunate sanity and hopeful disillusion, they are. It seems strange, one would think, that such impeccable beings could stand to lie alone and wait for the next dash of life to enter their bodies, when every awful tone on the attached apparatus is indicative of their misfortune. The muffled mutters of nurses buzzing about and occasional laughter of families finding hope in hopeless situations sometimes masks the longing of a destitute body. One may even be lucky enough to migrate to an area of light and greenery, where the sight of an aged and decrepit building can calm the nervousness of an anxious inhalation. The bustle of the city below, covered in parking lot arguments and orchestrating individuals on their cell phones, reflects the itch of a patient who no longer has the ability to participate in such miniscule matters. All it can do is wait for more time and more vigorous advances that will release it from such critical conditions. However some, who come in a peaceful minority, choose to surrender. The tiresome persons who challenge the push of the masses’ norm; this is the patient who embodies the brave. For succumbing to death, and the fear of unknown circumstances, reveals an intrepid step in someone’s journey that has been less than a life. When I first witnessed the cruel deterioration of a man’s numb and immobile body, the choice proved uncomplicated; but suddenly I was captivated by a sense of wonder and pride of the weak and ill. Its form began to take on that of a victim, one crushed by the tenacity of a merciless disease. The luster of sun through the window, bestowed a glare on his complexion that only magnified his dry and lack skin. The limp limbs accompanied by his crippling pain could no longer be hidden, for the magnitude of his despair had pulled every thread of animation from his existence. Anger and rage, and depression and doubt filled the room of farewells in the hospital’s dark and dusty corner. But despite the confusion of family members so vivacious and able, a calm and subtle ease entered when his life had been removed from the machine. As his last breath was released, the relaxation in his tethered face conveyed an undisputed certainty that the event was just. The agony transformed, his body was now content in the bed which had endured such suffering. It was odd, I thought, that so many believed death had conquered the patient. The heart that stopped beating and the lungs that stopped breathing were proof of a system no longer running; however, as he lay there in the depths of every catastrophic event he had endured, his composure, I thought, was evidence of the most alive he had felt in years. Perhaps, it seemed, and certainly in his case, in order to feel alive, one must decide to die.

"Jonathan" I said, sitting down on the third stair, looking across the room where he was seated on the couch, already watching ESPN despite the early hour. "Can you give me a ride to the airport?" The tears that had been threatening to escape for hours finally spilled over. Jonathan's eyes widened in disbelief. "Yeah, I mean...You're leaving? Are you sure? Maybe if you just give it more time -- Does Jason know you're leaving?" I thought about Jason sitting at his computer only a few minutes before, dressed crisply in slacks and a white shirt, ready for his first day as a substitute teacher. My heart was full, but all I'd managed to say was, "Good luck! Have a great day!" I drank him in, knowing it would be the last time I ever saw him. Returning my attention to Jonathan, I murmered, "No, I didn't tell him. But I can't live like this anymore. I'm going crazy." Jonathan's eyes met mine and understanding flowed between us. I didn't need to mention the sleepless nights spent waiting for my soul mate to return home from wherever he had been. Or the conversations, just audible, from behind closed doors. Jon had been there too. We arrived at the airport at the exact moment my flight was set to depart. I hugged Jonathan tightly, realizing this to be another forever goodbye. Even though Jonathan was Jason's friend first, he'd also been a wonderful friend to me. "I know I'm late, but you have to let me on another flight," I begged the attendant through my tears. I was drowning. She took in my pathetic appearance and was more sympathetic than I could have hoped for, finding me a flight a few hours later at no extra charge. I gave her my shaky thanks. Sitting at the gate, hours early, I had nothing to do other than watch the time steadily advance to 3:30, when Jason would be arriving home from work. Soon he would see my room, now devoid of personal belongings. Then, in a state of confusion, he would walk down the hall to his room, where he would find the letter I'd left on his bed. I waited for Jason to call. I knew that if he asked me to, I'd stay. However, the minutes ticked by -- now it was 3:45, and now 4:00 -- and his call never came. To distract myself, I called my friend, Jonni. "I'm here," I said dully, "I'm waiting for my plane." "I'm proud of you," Jonni's voice was strong, like her. "How do you feel? Do you think you made the right decision?" "I don't know," I replied, "But there's nothing I can do about it now. Jason's going to be so upset." Again, the tears came. A man in a business suit sitting nearby glanced at me uncomfortably before moving to a new seat. I was crying more today than I had in the near-decade that I had known Jason. This was really the end. I put on headphones and chose to listen to a playlist on my headphones IPod entitled "The Women I Love." It seemed like a safe choice, given that Jason didn't share my interest in female Anericana singers. After only a few songs, however, I was confronted with The Dixie Chicks' cover of "Sweet Baby James." It was a painful reminder of Camp Taconic. After only a few summers, camp had become my true home. I loved so many people there, but what really made camp wonderful was that Jason and I ran science classes together. Now I didn't know what would happen. This final realization really hit home. I sobbed with abandon. Great, shuddering cries that incorporated my entire body. I hated Jason. Even more, I hated myself for not seeing through the lies he'd been telling me for years. For not being the person he wanted or needed. Not being enough. I was nothing, and this would never feel better. After collecting my luggage in the Moline airport, I allowed myself to cry one final time while waiting for my mother to pick me up. I was in Illinois, not Arizona. Jason was so many miles away that he no longer felt real. It seemed impossible that just this morning he had been at arm's length. I wondered fleetingly if I had simply imagined the nightmares of the past few months. My betrayal was irrevocable now. The punishment was this vast, ugly space where my friends were still false, and this desperate, gaping emptiness identical to the one I'd tried to leave behind in Phoenix that still loomed in my heart.

I woke up. I remember the night before I was feeling her near, her breath inside my throat, her pungency ringing in my nose. He was next to me... he smiled. My face twitched, he smelled like her, I could feel the thickness of her scent in my lungs. I got out of bed and stood on her legs. My lips parted as my mouth opened to yawn. The air I pushed out was weighted with her scent. I took another step, and another, then another. Finally I was in the bathroom. I saw his face where mine should have been. Slowly her hand moved to grasp the toothpaste, and his hand to the brush. I expressed more paste than I should have. She started brushing, at first a gentle cadence. He took the brush and violently, he brushed. I spat out the warm, thick, and viscous foam. A small amount dribbled off onto her chin. I wiped it off with my forearm and felt it bog down the hair. I took off her clothes and he folded it with care. She stepped into the bath and drew the water. He takes the soap and lathers his torso. She takes the shampoo bottle, squeezes it with force above her hair. I can feel to cool fluid in contrast with the steaming water. I start to push and pull my hair, and I realise they aren't with me. They are gone. Deep within my chest I feel a flutter; happiness. They are not controlling me anymore. I quickly finish my shower and step out. I see my clothes on the floor, strewn without care. I take the towel to her hair and start to dry it. Within my chest I could feel them seethe in. Slowly controlling one part of me. I get dressed and she puts on my shoes. He walks to the kitchen and I part my lips, I can feel the cool air rush into my lungs. Her scent is no longer weighing down my lungs. I begin to walk towards the cabinet. He reaches in and takes out a small brown bag. Within the bag she finds an array of amber bottles. I take one out, he refuses to let me read what it says. She opened the plastic cap, and removed a silver capsule. I swallowed the pill without hesitation. A few minutes later I no longer have them. They are gone. I am alone. No one is there. I am alone. Thanks ladies and gentlemen for stopping by, this is my first time writing a short story.

Perched on a steel beast of war, I pondered my own existence. A sergeant in the army, with a caring family and spouse, medals to my name and a desire to live. But how far did it go? How far can I run before I fall, and there is nobody there to pick me up? I wanted my memories to last forever. Lively, energetic, spirited: The men I commanded were my bread and butter. Valiantly serving under my order for 3 years prior to Operation Neptune, we held our lives in our rifles. I sat with them on our steel beast, waiting to be unloaded with the other men. How long did we have? Huddled into a vehicle reminiscent to the Kraken himself, I became lost in thought. This strange plan, these peculiar men. Curled up amongst each other, ignorance of bliss, we stood shoulder by shoulder like lambs to the slaughter. Dainty fingers dawdled on the triggers. Who was he? Who was he to take a life? Only the grateful had the heart to pull, and fire. Eyes plunged backwards, body lurched forward. Crumpled to their knees. Fell to the trenches, writhing in the dirt, men howled in fits of pain. Let the deceased roam the realms they no longer wanted to exist. Waves trickled onto our clothes, soaking us from the inside out. The storm rose above our mortal toil; Mother Nature has no patience. Salty sea air tempted our nostrils of home and valour, but it did little to front the horrors on the beach. Gunfire ablaze, our Kraken approached the beachhead. This is true war. Fear, anger, pride, camaraderie, pain: a will to survive. Lead continued to find its way towards my men, but I convinced myself they could never hit me. Hot, piercing metal seared its way through the earth, which may as well have stood still, striking our position with brute inaccuracy. Inside the sudden silence, my superior barked those damn dreaded words. I was told there was artillery inbound. No reinforcements. 30 seconds was all we had. Mortar seemingly erupted from the crust, taking my men with it into the air. 3 of my men were taken in the first blast. They had aimed that one for my squad. These weren’t the first men to die with me, and certainly won’t be the last. More explosives inbound, and no clear way to escape. It didn’t look hopeless, just fatal. Another 2 fell down, injured, which is another pair of notches on my watch. The squad was starting to break down into fragments, and no longer sure who made it out, we tried to hide, run and fight. Us, a ragtag group of soldiers, versus an entire German platoon. It was at this point we had all agreed to never be captured alive. We held our position over the lagoon, keeping our ground with joyful valence in the darkest hour. I took a step backwards, and promptly fell into the water. My men must have assumed I’d been hit, I didn’t see them again. It seemed like I was floating gracefully for an eternity, and in my frenzy, I reasoned that I was hated by those I loved, and regrets filled my soul. It wasn’t death that did this; it was war. I also reasoned that these would be my final emotions, my final tribute, to this earth, and I should cherish them. How would I know when I died? It faded to black long before I fell to my watery grave. In my absence of consciousness, I was rescued by a British company steamrolling through the coastline, picking up survivors and POW’s alike. It appeared I was alive, and the luckiest one in the squad, according to those Brits. They would never be able to comprehend what I saw, and what I lost. “It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.

She grabbed her Green Card and spoke into it. “I think the Queen is coming out. Relay action.” She stared up at the store and then down at the card and repeated this three times before the card lit up. “Walk.” She shuffled her body back towards the porch with the rocking chair and waited. There was more shaking and the roof of the store exploded and the Queen rose like smoke into the air and came crashing down onto the parking lot of the store. The other snakes made room and the street, for the first time since she had been to the town, was now empty except for trash, the skeleton, and the man in the white suit. The Queen slithered to the road and stopped. It seemed to be eyeing the old man. Or, rather, what looked like eyeing. The head, as big as a car, had no eyes, just long nostrils and a gaping mouth full of fangs with a long purple tongue that patted the ground in front of it. The old man let out a bark of laughter and the snake hissed. Edwards could feel it like hot wind. It smelled like turpentine. It hissed again and then slowly moved towards the old man. He was waving his hands in the air like he had found God and trying to scream something that sounded like an Ohm, as if he were meditating, or trying to. The Queen approached him and with one strike took him into her mouth. Edwards reflexively dropped her eyes to avoid watching the man be eaten alive. When she looked up she saw something more disturbing. The man was cradled in the snake’s mouth, the snake’s tongue had formed a kind of blanket around him and he was suckling from one of her giant fangs. She pulled the Green Card out and took a picture and replaced it in her pocket. She continued looking and the man seemed to be regaining his strength and was whispering something to the great snake. In an instant, the snake dropped the man to the ground and raised its head high up into the sky and surveyed the area. Edwards quickly shimmied under the porch. She pulled her backpack off and removed a grenade. There was no way to kill the thing with the puny grenade, but it could buy her time to get away. But just as the thought occurred, another one trailed it – how? The snake would catch her at a run quickly and any transportation would only get her so far on the road. She’d have to take the desert and chance the Queen not wanting to take the journey. Then she smelled the booze. She looked around and there were dozens of bowls filled with whiskey. As she breathed “What the fuck?” she felt her ankles grasped and then she was twisted onto her back and out the side of the porch. The front of the house was now crawling with snakes and the two that had grabbed her ankles with their tails now raised them to the sky and hung Edwards high up into the face of the great Queen. She heard the old man from below scream “Who sent you?” She screamed back “Get me down!” The Queen hissed. He returned “Who sent you?” The snakes congregated around his feet, and a small one, the size of his arm, slithered up his body and into his waiting arms. He began to pet it. “That there’s a Queen. Thing about a Queen is that they have fangs all the way down their insides, so it’s like a squeezing, stabbing death. It’s gotta hurt. Or, you could tell me who you’re with? The FBI is long gone. So, I’m guessing CIA or possibly Secret Service. I got rid of those guns, baby. Don’t you worry about that. I got these here fellas to help me out.” He chuckled and jabbed a thumb in the air at the Queen. She hissed into Edwards face and the agent was moved closer, into the mouth of the Queen. “The eye sees all. The eye sees all.” The man in the white suit lamented as he walked back and forth on the church stage. “The man of no faith – no see, no see! The man with God’s eye sees all. He sees man and he sees God and he sees Satan and he sees it all for what it is – the word.” The man bowed and the crowd applauded. “And no man can see God without the word. The true word. And I have the true word here with me.” The man in the white suit produced a bible. “It is not this word!” The crowd gasped. “It is not – it is the bullshit of mankind that lay inside these pages!” And the man began to rip the pages out and throw them in anger at the crowd. The crowd responded with murmurs and shouting. “Blasphemy!” “Antichrist!” The man in the white suit began to tremble, and then fell into a seizure on the ground. The crowd responded in more murmurs. Then he rose. The man rose from the stage as if on strings. He rose ten and then twenty feet…and then he began to spin. The crowd stopped murmuring and started dropping whatever possessions they held as they turned for the doors. A rush of people hit the doors to find themselves being crushed by their neighbors, friends, and relatives; there was no exit from what had begun. Then they turned to see the man in the white suit hovering before them. His eyes were bleeding and his tongue flipped out of his mouth and smacked at his cheeks like a worm being drowned. He belched and began “The word is here, and I give you the word.” His mouth opened and Hell fell out. If anyone lived, they would report a white noise and a bright light and then something unspeakable that stopped the congregations’ hearts and left them lying on the ground they would soon be in. The man in the white suit slowly descended to the ground, fixed his tie, turned around and with his head down whispered “There is proof of my bond.” As he walked towards the stage the first snake emerged from the ground. There was no rumble, no earthquake, no flash of light; there was only the snake, as if it came from nowhere at all. The head was within the church, but the body lay across most of the town. Unlike a dragon, its breath was filled with more snakes that flew from the mouth much like flames and broke the church apart. The man in the white suit walked among the river of black, fanged intestines and began singing “Oh, come all ye faithful” as the snakes sped passed him out into the rest of the world. The town was no more. “My master, I wait for you. Send your son quickly. I will travel to the North and let the snakes mark the beginning. I will let them eat upon man and man’s arrogance. I will feed civilization to thee. I will draw a well of blood in your honor and I will collect those that will serve thee. We begin this day the dawn of chaos and with it will come mankind’s final fall. I will forever serve you, my Father. Amen.” If you were to pick through the remains of the dead bodies that lay in the shards of the church, you would find three FBI agents’ phones with the same message in their SENT texts “I am coming.” The man in the white suit traveled north where he took up a chair across from a grocery store in a town desolated by the snakes and waited for his adversaries to show. Within the folds of higher dimensions, something…swam…passed the Earth and sent a shrill laugh through satellites, TV towers, cables, souls… He had been summoned and he would come. No matter what the twist of the soul had in mind, no matter where it found his folded logic, no matter what that man in the white suit wanted…he was coming. The Speaker was given the text. “Green card?” “You bet.” The Director replied. “You know, I heard him.” “Heard who?” “It was a laughter. And it was mad.

Stark light fluids buffeted the Cone where Yulia did dwell and her lifeline would surely be tested. Outside the black ichor, the swirling chaos furiously streamed through the primitive valves - but the fragile shell of the Cone held, though many were plucked from the life wall and cast away. And so it came to pass thaf on the fourth cycle the gossamer thread that had kept Yulia so safe for so long finally gave way and her fragile life cone was thrust upward into the turbulent inner ocean. Her fellow pod dwellers became detritus drifting in the swell and great snapping things rose from the depths to feast. She awoke nestled in a silent sea of pulsating cillia as radient as the Sun Machine itself, a soft mat that welcomed her tired and broken form. And tiny curious motes swarmed about her and tended to the cracked carapace and the crushed appendages that hung limply by her side. And there she nestled and slept, and there were no lamemts to stir her and no delicate ditties and no songs of child kind filled the air. And in the quiet stillness Yulia fed and grew, and thoughts of past lives and the long cycle became distant memories. Her body changed too, gone was the awkward carapace the was fused to her bone and tendons, and the functional graspers that served as limbs were replaced with delicate arms and long slender legs that glistened in warm rays of the SunMachine; and the mass that was her body was fashioned into that of an ancient human. From a tiny bud formed out of worms and motes that drifted in the thick brine about her, a head formed and in place of hair long pink tendril like things grew in swathes. On the eve of the 12th cycle the began her swan song. A great upheaval shook the world and from beneath the cillia mat that bore her burst forth a giant crystaline tree that projected upward. And there Yulia found herself above The Lake of Light that hung overhead and that nestled in the mountains of the Godkind. And there Yulia danced an endless waltz, and stop she did niot until the mountains became dust and the cries of the fading suns heralded The End. But for a time it was almost heaven.

I came upon a little town a little before sunset. I don't even remember the name of it now but I guess those names don't really mean much these days anyways. It didn't seem as wasted as most of them are these days so I was hopeful that I might find something worthwhile. But decent looking buildings don't usually stay that way without somebody sticking around to look after them so I was wary of getting in to the search right away. I found a little shack on the outskirts with windows looking out on what looked like the main street. I was still doing pretty good on rifle ammo so I decided to set up camp in it for the night and stake the place out. It was a quiet night and eventually I figured it was safe enough to catch a few hours of sleep. But right around sunrise I woke up to the sound of a rooster doing it's thing. Such a fool's move, I thought, letting such an obvious signal to announce their presence. I watched for an hour and still didn't see any movement so I stowed my gear under a pile of rotted furniture, put on my ghillie suit and started crawling with my rifle through the wild grass in the direction of that rooster's call. I learned pretty quickly that patience is what keeps you alive when you don't know what you're facing so I took my time. The summer heat didn't make it easy but an hour of slow creeping brought me in to sight of a two-story house that still had all it's doors shut and windows boarded up. It had a loft that seemed like a good place to keep chickens, so I figured this was probably the spot. Two more hours of lying there and sweating my ass off later I was beginning to question myself when I saw a thin wisp of smoke rise up from the chimney. Then the question was, how many I was dealing with. The house could have held at least a dozen people and I wasn't fool enough to think I could take that on. I didn't have much hope for a peaceful encounter either. You had a decent chance of it for the first year or so after it went bad, people still had that sense of helping out their fellows stuck in the same trouble as them. But then the canned goods and all the rest of the remnants of the old world started running out and most of 'em realized that they couldn't afford to be gracious anymore, especially once they had a run in or two with the rangers; that is, if they were lucky enough to survive those encounters. So I waited some more. One of the doors finally cracked open and I saw a man's face searching the yard with a quick eye. He had the all too common look of the chronically malnourished and the sunworn face of a farmer. He could have been twenty or fifty just as easily but his expression showed that he hadn't made it this far by luck. After a few moments he decided it was worth it to step out with a pail and walk over to the pump that stood in the center of the yard. I noticed the line a few yards out of the door that ran perpendicular to the wall. He worked it hard and set back quickly, seeming to struggle just a little to walk steady with his load. I waited all through the rest of the day. It was hard to resist the idea of going up to the pump and getting my fill but that would be far too much a risk. It got dark and I couldn't see any light through the cracks of the window boards so I decided to take the chance of getting close enough to listen for activity in the house. I stepped carefully over the line, which I saw was strung with several clusters of empty cans and bits of scrap metal. It was at least three feet off the ground, which made it far more visible than a wise man would have wanted for such an alarm. I heard him, clattering a few pans and eating noisily. Nothing else though. I began to suspect he was alone. I heard the creak of stairs and then no more. Around midnight I made my way back to my shack and rested. I made my way back to my spot outside the yard before sunrise and waited. Once more the man stepped out for water and I decided to take my chance. A single round dropped him as he stooped to work the pump. I waited a long time to see if he would get up, or if it would ellicit any reaction from inside the house. But, nothing. examine the body etc* The door was still ajar, so I went off to the side and crept along the wall, under the windows. I took out a carefully wrapped bag of silver fulminate snappers out of my satchel and threw them through the door. The loud crack of them usually succeeds in startling people into giving their presence away but nothing besides the patter of the little rocks followed. I stepped slowly inside, wary of traps, but found only mostly bare rooms, with a few pieces of ancient wood furniture in the process of falling apart. There was a pantry, pitifully stocked with enough food for maybe a week or two. The upstairs consisted of three bedrooms. The first two were empty, but in the third I found two small children, no more than five or six, squeezing themselves between a bed and the wall. Their huge eyes showed the terror they felt at my sight. I felt a terrible twinge in my heart, realizing that I had probably just killed their father or brother. But, I thought to myself, if that man let me take his life as easily as I had it was really only a matter of time before someone did the exact same thing that I had. Truly, I thought, there isn't room in this world any more for the weak and the foolish. It was a sad thought, but inescapable. I spoke to them in a gentle voice, told them that everything was alright and that their daddy would be right back but that him and I needed to do something secret first. I told them to get in their bed and hide their faces in the pillows for a minute so they wouldn't peek. They obviously didn't trust me and it took a minute to convince them to move but eventually they got in. I stared for a moment at the backs of their heads and pitied the cruel life this world had imposed on such innocents. I tried to think of something I could do. I thought for a moment about taking them with me, because I knew they stood no chance by themselves of anything but slowly starving. But I knew that if I could barely find enough to keep myself alive, bringing them along would only lead to a worse fate for us all. So that was it. I might have said I was sorry, or maybe I just thought it and then I fired a round into the back of each of their head, fast enough that I hope neither of them realized what had happened. I couldn't bear to look at what I'd done so I turned and all but ran downstairs. I took whatever food looked like it would keep on the road, some matches and lighter fluid that I found in a drawer, and left. I averted my eyes from the man on the ground. I couldn't bring myself to stop to fill my canteen, though I knew that was probably a mistake. I went back to my gear and sat down hard on the ground. I felt numb, detached from my body, and all I could see was the last few moments in the bedroom replaying over and over in my head. It was the right thing to do, right? Are there even any right things to do anymore? Or just choices between the lesser or greater of two evils? I left that night without going back in to the town, setting off down the faint remains of an asphalt road. I walked for a long time, without any thought of actually getting anywhere. I wasn't sure whether I really wanted to get anywhere. So I just kept walking.

How many people would I have to kill to wipe out the entire human population? Most people, I assume would say 7 billion, or somewhere thereabouts. But they would be wrong. The answer is 33. And I would know. My name is Rodrigo Vasquez, and I am the last man on Earth. In September of 2015, Astronomers picked up a number of large object entering the solar system, following a tragectory did not appear to be natural. News followed in the following days, as more details were picked up on the unidentified objects. As they neared earth it became aparrent given the shape and manouverability that these were no meteors, this was a legitmate example of alien starships. Humanity was going to come face to face for the first time with another intelligent life force, and one that was apparently far more advanced than us. I remember a few people going into full-on survival mode, stocking up on rations and weapons, convinced that we were faced with an invasion. Others threw themselves into their religions, babbling about the end of days, that it was God, coming to rapture the worthy. Church attendance hit an all time high. But from my memory, the majority of people were hopeful, the overwhelming emotion rippling through our culture was excitement, we were optimistic about our futures, we thought that first contact would be a stepping stone to a greater, more expansive world. Their arrival, however, was very anticlimatic. There turned out be 3 of them, each spanning probably 5km each way. Sure, seeing a gigantic silver monoliths fill the sky for miles around was impressive, but it didn't do anything, nothing came out of it, there no sign of life, no attempt at communications. Our leaders tried, on several occasions, to send various messages to the ship, using radio waves, coded signals, music, light. The military even tried to fly up to them, but there didn't seem to be any obvious entry point either. They just hung there in the sky like shining christmas baubles. They sat there for 3 months, long enough that people had started to ignore them. Then the contest began. It happened all over the world, purely at random. People would be grabbed by these beams of light, like something out of an old sci-fi movie, and sucked all the way into the ships. There, you would appear in an empty room, about 5 by 5 metres wide. Shining metals walls surrounded you on all sides, and in every corner there were an array of various devices, I assumed they were cameras or some other monitoring devices. You would appear in this empty room, along with one other person. The first time we were summoned there was a brief instructions, repeated in two languages. "Whichever of you survives, will return home" That was it. Two people, randomly plucked from any spot on Earth, in an empty room, on a mysterious spaceship, fighting to the death. And if you won you got to return to Earth. No-one escaped. They knew who you were, and where you were, any time, day or night. It didn't matter if you were senile, infantile, handicapped, eventually you would be selected, and you would have to fight. The contest had been going for about 3 months when I had my first fight. I knew several people who had returned, but i knew more who hadn't. I was watching old episodes of Family Guy in my underwear when the light engulfed me and dragged me toward the ship. You didn't tend to remember the whole trip, usually just the first few seconds of flight, before you woke up in the room. My first fight - if you could call it that, was against an old asian man, of around 70. Here I was, a healthy, young ex-marine, fighting against someone who probably couldn't climb a flight of stairs unassisted. I knew his heart wasn't really in it, and i ended it early, by snapping his neck. seconds, I was back on my couch watching television. It lasted almost a year, the first round of fighting. I actually assumed that was it, that we each had only one challenge. But then people started to be re-summoned. My second fight wasn't difficult either, he was a pot-bellied American, slow and weak. I knocked him out with a punch, then stomped his head in. I felt sick as a heard the crunch beneath my feet. "Why are you making me do this, you sick bastards?" I bellowed, but within seconds i was back home, sitting under an oak tree. With each fight, things got harder and harder. Only champions remained. Yesterday i founght for the 32nd time. Each time I was faced with a tougher opponent, and each time I won. As had become my tradition, after every victory I roared at the monitor's "Why are you making me do this?" I always tried to throw in a new insult. I knew that if 7 billion could be halved only 33 times. Today was my last fight. I was waiting and ready the next day. I had learnt early on that dressing properly was the secret to success. You see, you couldn't take weapons on board these ships, but they did allow you to keep whatever clothing you were wearing at the time. Protective armour, steel capped boots, and a full face helmet became my uniform. The light came, and once again i was onboard the ship. I recognised my opponent, he was an MMA legend, someone I had watched on tv many times. I was a little better prepared, however, it seemed as if he had been summoned while in the process of putting his armour on. We locked eyes, and he charged. The battle lasted over 2 hours, he was resilient and extremely skilled. There were a number of times he almost had me, and in all honesty, he deserved to win more than me. I got lucky, and managed to gouge an eye. After that, he wasn't really able to compete. As he lay dying in front of me, I roared my trademark. "Why are you making me do this, you sick motherfuckers." There was no response, but I did not leave the room. "Answer Me. I am Rodrigo Vasquez. I am the Champion of the 33rd Contest. I am the last human. ANSWER ME MOTHERFUCKERS, I WON" "No. You Didn't" The deep, metallic voice echoed. It almost sounded ashamed. "What do you mean?" "This was not a contest, this was a test. And you failed, Rodrigo." "How?" "Earth is a dying planet, she has just under 3 years before a sunflare will burn her to a crisp. We had one opportunity to send a liferaft for your species, to bring you to our home. But when we parked, and began to receeive the signals of our media, you worried us. The human temperment is dangerous, and we could not have you risk the serenity of our homeland." "So what, you decided to kill us all instead" "You underestimate us, Rogrigo. Do you really believe we do not have the capability to revive any human we choose? No, child, we have killed no-one. You, on the other hand have killed 33 innocent people. There are 150,000 humans on this ship, and each one passed the test" "So tell me then, what was the test?" "We locked you in a room with a randomly selected fellow human. You could not leave the room until one of you died. The people in this ship are the ones whose conscience was so strong, that they would rather kill themselves than hurt their fellow man. There was one way to win, Rodrigo. Lose." And with that, it was gone, and I was back home, sitting at a table, coffee getting cold. The ships had left the sky. I was alone. My name is Rodrigo Vasquez, and I am the last man on Earth.

I awoke to the smell of fresh bacon, the smell stimulates my senses and makes me awake. I never understood my senses, except from those that have kept me alive for this long. To my dear reader who is about to endure my long, suffering pain, I am now 87 and sitting in my log cabin on the outskirts of Ottawa, in Canada (Just in case you, dear reader, did not know where it was). Today is the anniversary of my sweet mothers death and I am slowly regaining my sanity from the vents of my youth. So lets begin the story then shall we? My story begins in November in Nebraska City. I was born on the 3rd of November in this city and I my mother rejoiced with joy as i appeared for the first time in a bloody, crying state (Which she seemed to believe to be a beautiful sight of some sort). Upon my arrival into this cold world i was rushed to an incubator as i was born far to early and was terribly weak and frail, much to the opposite of which I am at this very moment of writing. Well reader we shall skip further into the future into the year of 1989 in which I am aged 18 and have left my high school. On the night of February 19th, myself and friends travelled to 'Lacy Lu', a local strip club outside of the city. Of course we wanted to get off on the thought of exotic women and their beauty that turns a group of men into a pack of wild beasts, raging against one another for the thought of paying for the lovely lady's company after the show. So I sat. And I sat. Waiting for some sort of stimulation to attack me and take over my simple senses. I wanted to become this beast my friends have become, I wanted to have my brain dissolve and to become aroused towards beautiful, exotic women. But alas, I could not. I left violently, punching my friend Frank in the face as i left in anger as he tried to stop me for a drink. I ran outside crying and hid behind a dumpster, when i grabbed my penis and furiously punched it till I slumped down in pain. A pain that tore at my sole, i had never had any activity with a girl in my school or outside. i clenched my stomach as i spewed on the car lot floor. That's when two men ran out of the club screaming at each other and fighting. Their punches got me standing up and their furious yelling made my brain stimulated and fully active. I looked at my penis and seen it standing erect. My eyes widened as one man pulled out a knife from his jacket pocket and rapidly stab the other man in the chest several times. I lost it and began to masturbate. The urge was no more, it was a release of some sort. I was free. I was free. I wasn't weird anymore. I was free. I ran home to my sweet mother to see what her reaction would be to my new found stimulation. When i entered i saw her sat upon the armchair facing the television. I crept up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned. She looked. And she smiled. I gave her a warm "Hello" as she reached out to hug me. I stood back and began to explain every detail of that I had discovered that very night. As I told my story I noticed my mothers face recoil in disgust at my new found stimulation but i explained that it was only stimulation and nothing else. She slapped me. And so i grabbed her arm as she went for a second attack. I told her that she should be proud of me that i am not gay or straight and that I have found my own sexuality that I take pride in. She told me that i was wrong in the head and that i was a disturbed child as she reached for the phone. I, well I snapped of course. So as I grabbed my mother i bashed her head in with the headset of the phone. I dragged her body in to the kitchen, where i forced her onto the work surface and repeatedly threw her face in to the marble work top. I slammed her face until it was completely destroyed. So I sat in the kitchen. I watched her body slump. I remember crying for some reason, I can not explain. But those tears, as they trickled down my cheeks, made me rejoice. I had finally killed , the blood felt good on my hands and as I tasted it, it reminded me of the events of earlier, and so I sat in the kitchen once more and masturbated. Reader, I shudder at the thought of you turning away now as here is much worse to come in the further entries. So sit back and enjoy my final stories in which i wish to share with you all.

I am stuck forever between two duelists. I look to my left and I am staring down potentially no-longer-cold steel. To my right is the same except slightly different (which if I may interject puts the man to my right at a slight disadvantage) and slightly less dreadful as my right side is my dominant side. If I look forward or towards where my dorsal fin would sprout if I were born a dolphin it would appear that I am safe, perhaps on a walk – “Now where am I walking?” I ask myself. Perhaps to fetch a glass of milk from the drug store although I reassure myself that that simply is not possible. I stopped purchasing from that drug store years ago as once they made a snide comment on the apparent matchiness of my scarf and shoe choices. Damn those Shandletons, haven’t they heard of accent colors?! After calming myself down, I entertain the idea that I was walking to the slightly-farther-but-in-the-opposite-direction drug store. The scenery did seem somehow familiar and made it feel like it was a Thursday. Truly a beautiful day for a Thursday. But after walking for a few minutes I come to the conclusion that there is no situation in which I would be walking to the place I previously surmised because I had not yet passed the eldery Wehldün couple. They always are meandering in the opposite direction when I make my visits to the drug store Thursday evenings. Maybe I had run out of milk or limes earlier than I had expected, as I had invited guests over earlier that week. Now that I am busy thinking about other things, I can’t recall if I actually did have guests or if I just dreamt that. Oh, don’t I sound like a lonely bag, dreaming about a party. But it is true, I haven’t had a guest beside family in months. Ah! that’s it! I must be headed to the slightly-farther-but-in-the-opposite-direction drug store to purchase extra milk and limes so I would have enough for the guests I’m going to invite to my house for a party! Brilliant. Truly a brilliant man. Although I suppose the same would happen if I were to look left or right and simply shut my eyes or cover them with my mittened hands (which I would never do, the feeling of that shaggy wool on my bare, shivering skin upsets me far greater than the fear of death!) however, I know this to be a fact: Whether I am on a pleasant walk, or born a dolphin, or saying No! rapidly with my eyes shut like a vault when a communist asks for a loan I am still afraid. There is still the memory of those two bitter guns to my perimeters. There is still the chance that one of the duelists will finally build the courage not to shoot the other for victory but simply to rest his arm for a while until his next duel. It must be tiring, you know. Holding that pose for 32 years now. Aiming precariously at my respective temples. And not even muttering a single word of banter! Applaudable, really. I could almost feel bad for the two of them. Then I stop and remember that the two of them are humans and, by the looks of it being about as old as I am, have probably done some nasty things. For instance, I know for certain that the one to my left is an adulterous wolf. She nearly brags about it every day I see her (I say nearly because she finds ways to make it sound like she is talking about something else and if you weren’t listening with the keenest ears it would slip right over your skull) and she has no intentions of stopping. The husband knows by now I’m sure and probably considers himself too old to find another wife. The man to my right was a gambler and an alcoholic and I think I remember reading in the papers that he once dabbled in organized crime. Also, he was adulterous. Also, he once hit a baby with his bare fist, although he claims he was falling and reached for something to stop his fall. That poor baby, having to be punched by such an ugly fist… Luckily, that was his left fist and he holds his guns with the right. I would end it myself if I had to stare at that ugly fist all my life. They once knew each other. I once knew both of them. In a world with milk and limes and parties and drug stores and slightly-farther-but-in-the-opposite-direction drug stores I knew both of them. In that world I was a man of peace and ponderance. I had respect from people I knew, sometimes in strange forms. The passing smiles of the Wehldüns. The inadvertent concern of the Shandletons. My loving mother and my stern father, may he rest in peace. My youthful co-workers. In that world, I was happy. But in that world I was always afraid. I am stuck forever between two duelists.

Meet Goave. Goave is tall and remarkable. How is he remarkable you might ask? In several ways but most notably in his gait. Among Goave's possessions you can find a lead-lined cannister containing pieces of a linen cloth. It is this cannister, which is always carried in a specially sewn pocket in his trousers, that gives Goave his peculiar but commanding walk. Today Goave is going to Linda's. Linda is tall and attractive but feels guilty about her liaisons with Goave, a remnant of a strict upbringing she has tried hard to forget. Later that evening, Goave and Linda make love expressionlessly. Goave is not a good lover despite his many other fine qualities. He is, however, a good conversationalist and convinces Linda that they should get married in an excited pulse of post-coital banter. Linda is receptive to the idea but secretly wonders about its feasibility. The canister contains a demon. It is bound to Goave and Goave to it. This has been the state of affairs for the best part of 40 years and most of Goave's adult life. If you saw it, you should hardly recognize it for what it is. It looks rather similar to a Grayhound puppy although the face is distinctly older than one would expect.

Good afternoon, Doctor. Sit down. Your schedule has been cleared. Do not attempt to leave the room until you are told that this session is over. The door is already locked, but it is crucial you pay attention. Good. You are now part of the SCP Foundation's Ethics Committee. This is not a demotion. Sit down. Yes, you're terrified. You think you're being punished for some failure, some lapse of judgement, some horrible disaster that you were involved with. You think that your career with the Foundation is over. You might even have thought that 'transferred to the Ethics Committee' is a euphemism for 'killed'. This is not the case. You'll notice I said "killed" instead of "terminated". That's a deliberate choice. On the Ethics Committee, we don't use euphemisms. Because of the work that the SCP Foundation does, a lot of personnel think that the idea of the Foundation having an Ethics Committee is just a bad joke. Or they know that the Committee exists, but they've got the impression that we're an ineffectual laughingstock. A bunch of purposeless seat-fillers who wave a rubber stamp that says APPROVED, and never dare to voice an objection. Yes, I see you've heard the jokes. Here's one - 'how many members of the Ethics Committee does it take to change a lightbulb? None! The Ethics Committee can't change anything!' No, it's all right. You're meant to laugh. We make an effort to sustain the impression that we're useless, because we are the secret power within the SCP Foundation. Sit down. Yes, there are the O5s. They judge what is and isn't safe, and that's a vital and important function. But we are the ones who advise the O5s on what is and is not acceptable. You've done horrible, awful things while working for the Foundation — don't try to deny it, Doctor. We've all done horrible awful things while working for the Foundation. That is one of the unavoidable consequences of working with SCPs. And on occasion, you've wondered if we are the, quote unquote, bad guys. Well… we're not. And that is because of the Ethics Committee. This is your first lesson. Do you understand? Remember this: the Foundation is not evil. We do not torture people "just because". We are against unnecessary cruelty. Which means somebody has to decide when cruelty is necessary. And that somebody is us. Stop trembling. It is important that you remember this. It is your second lesson. The Foundation does not rule the world. The Foundation serves the world. Do you understand what that means? Regardless of what the general population might think it wants, what we do, what the Foundation does, is in the overall best interests of that general population. Yes, I'm sure you did realize that already… but you haven't thought of the deeper implications. You've consoled yourself by thinking that all the torture and murder is for the greater good. This implies that there is a greater good… and a lesser good. It implies that there are multiple distinct goods, and that these can be quantified and compared. This is what we on the Ethics Committee do. We are the ones who balance the moral costs of everything the Foundation does. And in order to balance those costs, we must know those costs. Do you realize what that means, Doctor? It means that we know everything the Foundation does, has done, and will ever do. Everything that has ever been redacted or expunged, we know it. Every last detail. Yes, including what SCP-447-2 does when it comes in contact with dead bodies. Yes, we know exactly what Procedure 110-Montauk is, too. We should. We're the ones who designed it. No, it's quite all right. It's a common reaction. Perhaps we shouldn't schedule these meetings directly after lunch, I suppose. Here, wipe your mouth. You will no longer be participating in active research. You may consider yourself a researcher at large, flitting from one project to another, from one site to another, at will. This is not a secret; you are welcome to tell all your friends that you have been transferred to the Ethics Committee… if you can deal with the jokes and the pity. You will observe what is done, and ask the participants - and yourself - why it is being done. If at any point you feel that something is excessive or unnecessary or wrong, you inform us. We will summon the people involved, and ask them questions, in that meek ineffectual way that your coworkers have mocked. And then, word will filter down from the O5s, through the many levels of our bureaucracy. And those who are unethical will be given reprimands which will be noted on their permanent record. Or their pay will be cut, or they will be demoted, or they will be transferred to another project. Or they will be shot for crimes against humanity. This is your third lesson. Remember it. The 'P' stands for 'Protect'. The Foundation protects humanity from SCPs, and we protect the Foundation from itself. We judge what is and is not acceptable for the Foundation to do. We balance evils so that on the whole, and in the long run, evil is minimized. No, you don't have a choice about being on the Committee. …Yes, the irony is lovely, isn't it.

I stare at the flowers as I walk down the path another time, but the flowers do not interest me any more, I’ve walked down the path too many times, and the flowers have stopped being interesting to me, now they are just flowers. I continue to walk down the path, I see a butterfly. I’ve seen all of the butterflies, and they have ceased to interest me. The skies are clear and blue, as they have been for as long as I can remember. The patterns of the leaves in the trees are the same as the previous time I visited this area, and the time before, and before that, and for all the time I can remember. The grass is the same shade of green, with dew shining on the slightly drooping stems. This path his given me all it can, and now I must break the pattern. I turn around and walk in the other direction. I gasp as new information hits my senses, a feeling that I have not known for longer than my memories go back. The other side of the tree, with wildly different patterns, the path winding off into the distance in a way that I have never seen or imagined, but the sensation soon leaves as I realise that it is all too similar to what I have seen before, and the difference is an illusion. I walk up the path, towards the clouds. I walk for hours or days; I have no measurement of time, as the sun stays in that all too familiar position in the always clear, blue sky. I walk into the cold, damp room and look up at the man sitting in a throne covered in cobwebs; I look up at him and speak: “Something has happened” “What?” he answers uneasily, his voice out of practice from sitting in the throne doing nothing for however long it has been. “I’m bored” I respond in a bored tone of voice, already getting tired of the conversation. “I’m bored and I’m old, I’m so very old.

The clanging sound I’d heard a thousand times before rang through my head like a warning alarm; the "5 minutes till lights out" bell. That’s what my life has been reduced to, a government enforced bedtime. I miss the days of being free to duck out to the shops for a snack, or to heat up a microwavable meal when I wanted it. I used to spend all my free time at home with Miranda, doing boring things like watching too many movies and marathoning too many TV shows. That's how it should be now, free to do as we please instead of Miranda trapped underground and me trapped in a cell. I’d been woken up one lazy Saturday morning by a pounding at the door. Miranda bounded over the messy living room floor, knocking over the previous night's dinner bowl on her way. She peeked through the peephole and let out a hushed squeal of delight, before opening the deadlocks and swinging the front door open. Not a second after she turned the handle, the sound of a gunshot pierced my skull. It was just like in the movies, Miranda falling backwards and crashing into the ground like a big tree being cut down. I'll spare you the details, but it was messy. After that morning, I devoted my life to finding who'd shot her. I was determined to get revenge. It took months, but eventually all the details fell into place. His name was Big P, or at least that was his street name. Big P was a pretty "well known" drug dealer, specialising in the heavy stuff. Miranda had got in contact with him during her senior year, when she was suffering constant panic attacks. Starting out, she became addicted to pot and codeine, before working her way up to coke. Turns out she owed Big P a fairly decent sum of money, and when she didn't pay up, his patience ran out and he shot her. Just like he'd shot the countless other young girls that couldn't pay him. The cops hadn't got him yet because he works through a clever network of messengers and runners, only doing the work himself when absolutely necessary. Word is he also had some pretty strong connections up high too, making him virtually invisible to the law. When I did eventually find him, I took Miranda's car and slammed straight into his. It all went so smoothly I thought it was a dream; I escaped unharmed, and Big P sat dead in his car, the blood on his forehead from smashing into the windscreen as vivid and viscous as the blood of those he'd shot. The plan was for the police to think of it as an accident, to be glad a murderous drug lord was off the streets, and forget about the whole accident. When they found out that the car belonged to Miranda, they launched an investigation and well, here I am. When the court ordered psychiatrist asked me if I regret what I did, I said "Not for a single second," which probably didn't help my sentence. Why should I regret it? He was endangering lived by selling drugs, and then putting those lives in more danger by pulling the trigger in their face. I took care of him, I took the trash out. If it had been the cops that got to him it would've been fine, but I was a civilian, "acting out of spite" and "without remorse". And if that makes me a murderer, then I will wear that badge with pride. The lights went out in the jail. "Lights out! Yelled a guard, in case we couldn't work that out ourselves. Oh what I would give to spend another day watching cheesy dramas with Miranda, escaping the horrors of the world. What I would give for this to have just been one big nightmare... I was woken up by a pounding at the door. Miranda bounded over the messy living room floor, knocking over the previous night's dinner bowl on her way. She peeked through the peephole and let out a hushed squeal of delight, before opening the deadlocks and swinging the front door open...

There is just something so compelling about pain. Suffering, human misery, the agony of your fellow man. Most people, when faced with it, find it too hard to look away. It just draws you in like nothing else. Even those that do manage to turn away from it are still curious. And if from a comfortable distance, they were given the chance (all alone and with no one there to judge them) to watch a human being suffer, they would sit in morbid fascination and become hypnotised by it, I guarantee. And then, of course, there are those who actively seek it out. Our core market. The ones that are really into it, the people I entertain. My job? I work for the most popular television network on the planet. Torture TV. In my role as Senior Subject Manager, I'm guaranteed a job for life. The ratings have grown consecutively year on year for the last decade and there's no sign of them slowing down yet. The whole concept started on the internet at first. Someone got paid to hurt someone else, who was usually paid a lot more. Simple idea and so lucrative. Some executives got together I suppose and decided to bring it to the mainstream with its own channel. Took them a while to get the necessary licenses and permissions for it and so on. And they could only show the soft stuff at first mind you. But once the demand was clear, it soon took off as a phenomenon all of its own. Even now, some of the people who know me and know what my job entails struggle to understand why what I do is so popular. I tell them it's human nature. Just look back throughout history at all the public executions and the gladiatorial combat in the Roman Empire. People maiming, damaging irreparably and even killing other people would fill whole stadiums, many thousands strong. Now televise that and you're sitting on a gold mine. I won't lie. I do very well in my position. For all the pain I inflict and damage I do to others, I'm paid very well. I don't enjoy my job though. I suppose I'm desensitised to it now, but I don't enjoy it. There's a big difference, I think, between sitting comfortably at home on the sofa with a bowl of ice cream in your hands, watching me gouge out a mans eyeball - and then actually being the one there, surrounded by cameras, sound equipment and sharp, metal instruments at your fingertips. Feeling, seeing, smelling all the action up close. It takes a strong stomach to last in this business. I've seen many Subject Managers come and go through the years, there's a high staff turnover for sure. For me, it's just a means to an end. The subjects though, I mean it's all consensual, but I honestly don't know why they agree to it. There's no one reason I suppose. Some like the celebrity of it. Five minutes of fame and a dozen scars to show for it. For some, it's an emotional release. Some that come our way are in a very dark place, mentally I mean. They tend to be making a rash decision in taking part, just because of the self loathing they feel at that particular moment in time. They want the pain because they think they deserve it somehow. For some people, it's just a sex thing. (I hate those sessions.) But for the vast majority, it's usually just about the money. Nowadays, if you lose a body part, we're talking a six figure pay out. Very attractive for the down and outs. I can't say I wouldn't mind sacrificing a hand myself if I was really that desperate for the money. Well actually, perhaps not. The mental torture subjects are the next best paid. They'll stay on camera for days or even week long marathons in some cases. Sleep deprivation, humiliation, claustrophobic conditions. There's no aftercare for these people when they finish either. Just let them back out into our society with their big lump sums of cash (nobody ever takes the annuity.) It's very rare that we get a terminal subject but they are, by far, the highest paid of all. I've only done six in my whole career. Every time they're on, the ratings sky rocket though and the executives get excited. My last subject was two months ago and his name was John. He told me that he'd got his family into a lot of debt and he could see no other way out. I liked john.

"You go too high with it and it'll mess you up. Won't be able to get a boner no more. Just slam the tissue into putty - then where'll you'll be?" He was a fat impotent man who would know what he was talking about. "Just want to go to the edge." I say. I'm just thinking of all porno on this chick and it's Friday so I can keep it going till work on Monday. "Just letting you know. See, put this up under the skin in your craw hatch." He demonstrates how to vig up your craw hatch and I'm just kinda laughing to myself. Like this is the first sup I've tramped into the veins. "Yeah, I get it. Say, what's that other number over there? That one by the Thin Lizzies?" I'm looking at this crewl baby hatch that's all stars and stripes and impending on my wallet. "Oh, aye, that's not for sale, like all expensive things." He winks at me and I wonder if I should take him for a bit of a mud scamper. He beams at me as he produces the jellied artifact in the little glass condit. "That's wise, bro. Real wise. What's it do?" I'm intrigued, as if it was the first viral splint I'd seen. "It's called dragon. You put this in your craw hatch and you see God. And he very well fucks you, slim!" This mud tramper is really sicko, and I can see it in his eyes that he's blazing hot to see someone use one of these God fucks, so I indulge him. "God, eh? Well, I never thought of fucking him. How much?" I'm flush with yellies from stick em' ups and I'm thinking, why a chicko when I can slam dance with God himself. Most likely it's all high val E, but we'll see. "That'd be 790 yellies." Fucker has attempts on being a market with his ten unders on cost and all, but I continue. Flipping open the pocket smook, I pull out some rusty old hundies that I forgot I had there. That's what it's like in the stick em up game with flush adren virals. You get golden with a laser caster and chop bits out a blokes and spend their meat in shops like this one. "Here's 800, fat man, let's aver 'ere." "You get some big trouble here, laddie. But here you go. You do this well away. Well away." He gets all grim when he gets the money. "Yeah? So you seen some one go cocoa puffs on this?" "I seen mushroom heads, brother." A mushroom head is when the viral goes all quick and floods the brain too fast and the eyes pop out and the head goes all elephant man. It's a sight to see. But it's also a warning I've heard before for moth ball type shit that I wouldn't shoot for a good time before polishing an old vodka G off. "I bet you have." I wink at the old queen and walk out the door. I 86 the minge by telepathing her a big pali-dick show that should set her lights off for the next day. Leaving ports open, she does and just figures the likes of me won't shabang her. Good luck, bird. A craw hatch is a small cut up under the armpit that's all rigged for blossoms of virals that go straight up and down the body like go-go fun. It's all metal under the skin there - that gets the reverb, sends it straight with no time wasting around waiting for get fever'd. I buzz into a din I know and just pay the yellies and climb into a bed. There's shops of beds all over just for the case here. I can hear couples getting all thick and nasty and I'm thinking maybe I wasted this a bit. But then it's just another weekend. There'll be more. I hit the bunk and open the vial and the floppy is all jellied up and running down my arm as I stick her in and hit blast off. Sensation of fever comes on quick. It's like I'm all Pink Floyd hands and buzzing in the head. Now I'm feeling a kick. Like lightning in the kazoo. Eyes closed and shapes run like dragons across my view and now it's all real and I'm climbing a fucking dragon. Straight up on the back. Sending shivers up my body, but now I'm like the dragon. Fucking dragon man. Lighting and thunder coming out of my mouth. I'm above the city and it's like burning. I'm burning down the city and legions of super heroes are erupting out of volcanoes and chasing me up and down the Earth. Stellar shit. My head is still on correct. I know that I'm not real. There's a sense of self left behind and I know that I'm still my self. All buggered up into a bed thinking about burning down cities. But then there's this other thing. This thing that's between the two. Like it's all holding them like two sides of an open wound. Titty fuck! I think. That's like all master of realities. This thing it's like all honeycomb and full of sprawling universes and it's splitting my high side with my bed side right in two. Having trouble focusing on one reality and this dream world. I can't keep my mind on two things at the same time. It's splitting head open like "That one's all mushroom head." "Which one?" "Boy in the bed there. Fucking brains out the ears." "Collect it. That fat fuck in the viral market sells the shit. Calls it dragon." "The brains?" "Yep.

**I** She takes me places where melody soothes me, where harps are plucked lightly to encourage men to sleep carefree within infernos of rainforests and waterfalls. Then comes the subtle reprise of nineteenth century poetry – my wine glass is never empty and I can afford the luxury of one thousand cigarettes without fear of impending doom. I am strapped to an old-aged hospital bed, something you’d expect to see in one of those tacky horror movies about haunted mental asylums. You know the kind, the ones where stupid teenagers find the darkest and freakiest room possible then decide to spend the night there. The room where I spend my days and nights (not against my will, despite the straps) is warm and white, naked except for a toilet and a large clock that wouldn’t look out of place in a school dining hall. It reads 11:01; whether it’s AM or PM I cannot be sure. I am unnamed but she refers to me as *The Subject*, or more recently *Subject A*. I possess no knowledge of a life in the past; neither do I ache through wishing to acquire such knowledge. Whatever happened in the past may rot there, forgotten and unexplored. I live only for the visits of the magnificent woman in black, the woman who relieves the weight of the world from my shoulders with two daily injections of an obscure medicine – a medicine that cures every ailment and more. When I am not riding the waves of this magical concoction I drift away into the most fulfilling sleep. I dream of floating in space, occasionally gazing back to the earth, which looks luscious and unspoiled. It reminds me of my utter insignificance, of man’s utter insignificance, and I know that my days are better spent here in this white room, here in this bizarre but beautiful reality. I count my blessings as I lie and wait for the woman in black to return. Over the course of my time here I’ve not once experienced any form of despair, be it the heart-freezing pain of loss, or the mind-crushing sorrow of failure. Man’s suffering is now as alien to me as surfing the rings of Saturn. Here, the passing of time is as smooth and steady as a leisurely afternoon stroll in the countryside. These years have been filled with feelings of serenity – tranquillity has caressed every part of me – and I am eternally grateful to the woman from the inmost depths of my heart. I can touch distant beauties from the comfort of where I lie. I can visualise and be a part of the most sensational successes without the strain of applying myself. There is nowhere else I would rather be. From the corridor outside of my room the sound of footsteps are now emanating, suggesting that the woman will be here any second. I cannot contain my excitement as I hear her pressing the electronic keypad outside of the door. It borders on euphoria. It is the exact elation that engulfs me each time she is near, yet there is something else brewing within me, a dark tide slowly washing over me, an unknown sensation that I start to recognise as the long lost symptoms of anxiety. *Am I going mad?* What else could it be? There is no reason for me to fear the owner of the footsteps, no logic behind the terror whatsoever. But there is something inside me that is desperately trying to tell me otherwise, something that is forcing me to proceed with caution. I call out to whoever – *whatever* – is behind the door, but no response has been forthcoming. Petrified now, I begin to struggle on the hospital bed, tossing and turning, trying in vain to free myself from the straps that keep me in place. This desperate need for freedom is so mystifyingly foreign to me, but my mind is screaming that this is an urge that I must act upon. When the door sluggishly opens I am still strapped helplessly to the hospital bed. Nervously, I peer towards the open doorway, half-expecting a troop of God forbidden abominations to charge through. Yet, nothing is there. The doorway is empty. I am staring straight through it, deep into the darkness that occupies the other side. Whatever nightmare awaits me; I wish it would hurry up and submerge me. I can handle whatever melancholy – whatever evil – is thrown at me, but I cannot cope with suspense. It’s the paranoia, you see, the troubled thoughts that race at one million miles an hour – thoughts that haven’t plagued me for as long as I can remember. But the pain, the absolute misery, is flooding back, as if a dam has been bombed in my mind. For each second that passes I am overwhelmed by panic. Come what may, but come right now. Then I see her slowly making her way through the door, dazed and unbalanced. There is what appears to be a gunshot wound just above the right lumbar region of her abdomen. Blood is leaking out at a phenomenal rate, soaking the white marble floor. She locks eyes with me and begins to mumble in a state of disorientation. ‘I…I am so sorry.’ She is crying now, those beautiful eyes filled with hideous tears. ‘I hate myself, believe me. You have to believe me.’ I am startled to notice the knife that she is holding in her hand. She stumbles further towards me and I know what she has in mind. ‘I have to do this. You have to understand. I cannot let them take you.’ *Who?* *Who is going to take me?* I thought, the shock inhibiting my ability to speak. For a split second I debate whether I am having a bad reaction to the medicine, whether all of this is real, but I know that it is wishful thinking on my behalf. How would you cope if the woman you love came to kill you? I was ready – more than ready – to die. In such a short space of time my entire world has collapsed around me. I look at her one last time before closing my eyes. I have accepted, no, I welcome, my fate. I am one of the lucky ones. I have been happy for an extensive period of time and I have loved, albeit not in the natural way, but it was still love. It was then, as the woman was hovering over me, that I heard a stampede of footsteps, which were soon followed by the popping of gunshots. Immediately, my heart broke for the woman and I began to howl in tears. It should have been me. I wanted it to be me. **II** ‘Do you remember us, brother?’ Three men are standing above me; the woman’s lifeless body now sprawled in a bloody mess on the floor. It was the man who had fired the shots, judging by the gun in his hand, who asked the question. And he is a man that I have absolutely no recollection of. I recognize neither of them. ‘You fucking killed her!’ It’s all I can say. I’m drowning in the sadness, unable to keep my head above the water. I cannot believe that the happiness, the medicated happiness, is to be gone forever. But most of all I cannot accept that the woman is dead, that she is gone and never to return. Oh, how quickly things change. ‘Brother, she was not who you thought she was. I promise you her death is a good thing.’ *A fucking good thing!* I want to tear his throat out, this man, one of the three who have taken everything from me. I envisage killing him – killing them all. I swear to God, if they free me from these straps it will be the last thing that they do. ‘Do you at least want to know where you are, brother? We have come a long way to help you. We have been searching for you for so long.’ The third man spoke for the first time, his voice soothing and calm. Still, I don’t trust him. I don’t trust them. I shook my head furiously, ‘I didn’t need your fucking help!’ I snapped, ‘I was more than fine until you came and ruined everything.’ ‘But you did, this…’ he waved his hands around the room then back towards me, ‘…is not natural, especially not for you.’ I was in the process of composing myself, fighting the adrenaline brought on by the despair, when an alarm that sounded more like an air raid siren burst into its gruesome song. ‘You said they were all dead?’ One of the unarmed men blurted out in a panic to the one who took my love away from me. ‘Obviously not.’ He said before turning to me, ‘either way, they can’t do anything, so I want you to sit tight, ok, brother? We’ll have you out of here in no time.’ I know it will be futile to reiterate my objections. Regardless of how I feel, they have made it clear that they ‘know’ what’s best for me. So I decide to play along and go with them when the time comes. An opportunity to kill them will soon arise I’m sure and, when it does, I will not hesitate to take it. Until then I will keep my emotions at bay, despite the yelling yearning to explode. I was, however, slightly concerned by who he meant by ‘they’. I was only familiar with the woman. I hadn’t set eyes on anyone else during my luxurious stay here. As the three men prepare to leave the room the alarm reaches deafening levels. ‘And you’re certain there’s no chance they could send reinforcements?’ ‘Use your brain, Jack. Think where we are!’ I could see that Jack was ready to open his mouth and respond before thinking against it. ‘You know the drill, brothers. We’ll check over the station once more. There can’t be many of them left.’ They were moving with the utmost precaution as they disappeared into the darkness outside of the door. I use their absence to focus on exactly where it is that I am (something that I promised myself I wouldn’t do). Who were the people that they killed? And what sort of station is this? I despise myself for beginning to need to know – for doubting the woman – but what if these men *are* here to help me? I cannot deny myself the chance to discover the truth because I’m frightened to learn that I’ve been lied to. No matter how much I want to kill them, I at least have to hear their version of events. If I am to be strong and overcome the fear that links arms with the prospect of loneliness then I must control my emotions. I mustn’t let feelings cloud my judgment. I stare vacantly at the woman’s dead body. With no choice but to embrace the sensation of unease, I ask her the questions that I have avoided for so long (not that I expect any answers). *Why were you keeping me here?* *Why me?* Surely, there can’t be anything extraordinary about me. But it’s obvious, with such a short burst of thinking one thing is for sure – I wasn’t kept here out of kindness, irrespective of whether or not the doses made it feel that way. He was right – it isn’t natural to be kept here dosed out of my eyeballs, despite how good it feels. And if I’m being honest it is that feeling that I will come to miss – that I am already missing – and not the woman. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn my gaze to the ceiling above me; I am ready to discover the truth – to accept and discover myself.

The Phone Benox was, I was told, both magnificent and ancient in equal parts and yet in the old times when man scuttled up through the old vents it did not reveal its true self. For The Phone Benox, Gods Blessings, was hidden from the sight of man for many an age. When the starving children were wheeled from the old houses into the foul streets I swear to The Old Gods that I saw The Phone Benox mingle amoungst them passing out herbage and seeds. And at St Marys -on-the-heath when the bell tolled the shadows on the grassy plain by the windmill grew long all fell silent and The Phone Benox would stride out on gigantic steel limbs to meter justice. And we hid for a time. Whenever an ill deed was done The Phone Benox was never far away and on one eventful night I caught sight of it for the first time,on a narrow black lane lined with tin houses that sounded in a relentless rain. It sat outside of Walter Beauchamps house for hours, and not a sound was made. I couldn't wrench my eyes from its magnificent form. Like a telephone box it was and yet it shimmered and a pale blue light shone always in the polished steel interior. And its legs were tucked, and its magnificent wings were not to be seen. And at the strike of 12 a dull ringing drifted from the Phone Benox and teased its way into the sleeping chamber of old Walter. And moments later the old man found himself out in the rain traipsing towards the source. And as he seized the phone from the hook I swear I saw a pink tendril flash from the coin box slung below into old Walters frail form and in a blinding flash both booth and man were gone. I wrote this on a long bus ride. I hope you enjoy it. I would really appreciate any feedback both constructive and destructive. Many thanks.

The first pain I remember was my own. Then my father’s. That first pain was more of a discomfort. I wasn’t in that much pain, my arms didn’t even hurt after—the first pain was hardly pain at all. He had me pinned up against a wall in the kitchen, a strong, caring, fatherly hand for each boyish arm, my legs dangled three feet from the floor and I was weightless like an astronaut, if astronauts were held by their fathers instead of microgravity. His face was red, not the kind of red that is blood, the kind of red that is rage, the kind of rage that can persuade a loving, caring father to pin his gentle, youngest son, up against a wall, pressing him there while it boils, the kind of red that, if you realize what you’re doing, fades in an instant with shame and wide eyes, the kind of red that haunts, that is the haunting, that commands as much respect as it does terror. But that wasn’t his pain. The pain was how he looked away, but not even that. The pain was when he didn’t look back, but not even that. The pain wasn’t even how his gentle, loving, forgiving, kind-hearted son didn’t care what his father had done, didn’t even pretend it hadn’t happened, but just wanted his father, wanted to one day have those same strong, caring, fatherly hands that had pinned him up against the wall, hands that made the gentle boy feel safe even when those hands were hurting him. That wasn’t his pain. The pain happens because, when my father wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at all the times his red-faced old man had slammed him against a wall, left belt buckle welts on his adolescent frame, or laughed when he lost a bet with his brother about how long the bruises would be there, because when my father wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at himself, he was looking at how he had become the part of the man he loved that he hated, even if it just lasted a moment. That was his pain. Then came another pain, a pain of mine, because even though my father never again became the red-faced old man he had hated, he never finished turning back into the father I loved. I guess that is the third pain that I remember and I guess it is my real pain, my first one doesn’t count. Then, and this is chronological, it was my brother’s pain, which I did not understand at the time.. We were in the basement. He had rushed down the stairs so loud and so fast that I was shaking when he appeared, red-faced with swollen, watery eyes, older and bigger and stronger. He grabbed my arms and squeezed and told me to be crying like he was, he told me to be hurt and crying, then he threw me against a wall. I was going to tell him that being thrown hadn’t hurt, I didn’t, because he had collapsed into a fetal position on the floor, crying the way the men cry when they’ve had their legs blown off on Normandy beach and they don’t want to be men anymore, the way that another man might cry when he realizes that the first man has stopped crying. That was my brother’s pain. I didn’t understand it yet. I left the basement when my mother came down to hold on to my brother, to comfort him while she could. I left the basement while my brother cried, up the stairs, in time to watch, through the kitchen window, a blue and red tarp disappear into our garage in the red hands of my father, as if the tarp could conceal its contents. My brother’s best friend would have been there before my mother even knew he was upset, I stand there looking through the kitchen window until my father is done washing off the blue tarp, washing off his hands, pretending that there had never been red, that my brother had never cried because my brother never cries. I understand it now, that he didn’t finish learning to love before he learned to hate. Then, and this was years later, when I was eleven or twelve, when I was becoming a tall, strong man, I remember my sister’s pain. She is the oldest. Talking on her phone in the living room with all the lights off, I heard her before I saw her, crying like a man cries when he’s got nothing left but a chance to ask for help. And I heard both sides of the conversation because if she hadn’t had the phone on speaker, she wouldn’t have been able to hear the other person over that crying. She asked if she should, and the voice said if that was what she wanted to do, then, do it. But that wasn’t her pain. And anyway I’m sure I’m paraphrasing. I didn’t hear exactly. I asked my sister if she was okay and she screamed, go the fuck away, leave me alone. And she hung up. And she had screamed so loud that if the voice had said anything else, she couldn’t have possibly heard it. Maybe the voice had more to say, something helpful. Maybe the voice had changed its mind too late. I turned right, up the stairs to my room, pretending I could run away from that scream and only getting further away from my sister. That scream, I remember. It is not her pain, but I remember, The scream and the thump, and I felt the thump before I heard it. Then I heard my brother, in a clear, strong voice, reciting our address, confirming that he did not know how much she took, confirming that she was unresponsive. No, he does not know what types of medicine we have around the house. Yes, he would go look. I walked like a man who does not want to find what he is looking for and like a boy who is afraid to, out of my room, down the stairs, left, past the living room, left, into the kitchen, and there were little things all over the floor, little pills and little capsules of all kinds, everywhere, a kaleidoscope that I’m sure from the right angle could have shown us the pain that we never saw, the pain I don’t remember, I did not stop walking until I saw her feet, still, on the floor. My father was there, waiting to carry her out to the ambulance. It would only be a minute or two. I turned around before he could look at me, right, into the closet by the living room to get a broom. I’ll sweep, I said. I waited, standing in the closet with my eyes scrunched up so tight, waiting until my father’s footsteps had passed behind me, pretending that those steps weren’t carrying the weight of our ignorance. I waited until the ambulance had come and gone, until my father had started the car and my brother called me a fucking asshole for not coming with them, until it was just me in that house, hearing the screams, listening to the absence of a man’s best friend, to a boy pretending. But in that house, the only sound was that of bristles on the floor while I swept up pain and all the little ways to get rid of it. But that’s not the pain I remember. That pain was days later, because my sister wanted to see her brothers and my mother took us for a visit, and my mother said that somewhere behind all the machines, under all the little tubes and wires was my sister, but I heard her before I saw her, softer than a shadow can whisper, I’m sorry, exhaled from the place between two cracked lips, her yellow eyes looking up at me through slits in a pale face. That wasn’t the pain either. It was when she realized that I didn’t believe her, that I didn’t even want to believe her, that I didn’t even try, that the only reason I had come to visit her was because our mother had made me, that under all the little tubes and wires and reasons, I did not see a sister. That’s the pain I remember. My mother saw that pain, too, and even though it hurt her, that is not her pain. My mother’s pain is so easy to remember because it was the hardest to spot. It is so subtle, so definite, exhaustive. Her pain is different than her hurt. I know it hurt her when she was yelled at by my older brother for trying to help and comfort her eldest son. That must have hurt her more than hearing him cry like a boy who had just witnessed firsthand his dog get hit by a car, more than watching a dog spit blood into a street, more than watching a dog almost die on impact from a Ford pickup. It hurt my mother to find out over a phone call that her daughter had attempted suicide, how she might succeed, how her hardened, elder son called the ambulance while the younger one hid in a closet. It would hurt to see your daughter being kept alive by a machine. It would hurt to have to beg and bribe your youngest son to visit his sister in the hospital. And even though she never found out about the only time my father ever got red, it hurt her to wonder what happened to her gentle, loving, caring son, and why his father won’t talk to him about it. All of that hurt is obvious. But my mother’s pain isn’t some catastrophe. It’s not the blood, the machines, the crying, it’s not the pale faces, the screams, the whimpers. My mother is too strong for that. My mother’s pain is the silence. It is the countless times she has asked me if I needed or wanted anything, and I ignored her. It is the countless times she has asked my brother if he needed or wanted anything and he ignored her. It is the countless times she has asked my sister if she needed or wanted anything and she ignored her. It is the countless times she has asked her husband if he needed or wanted anything and he looked at her the way a man looks when he has nothing left but the will to not ask for help, then he would force a smile, no, he would say. I didn’t see it until one afternoon when my mother knocked on the door to my room while I was reading. I didn’t say anything. She opened the door enough to ask if I needed or wanted anything. I ignored her. She closed the door. An hour later I realize that I hadn’t eaten yet that day. I open my door and walk down the stairs. Left, past the living room. Left, into the kitchen. I walked until I saw a cold plate on the counter with a cold turkey sandwich in the middle. Then, through the kitchen window, I saw my mother with swollen, watery eyes, walking out of the garage. I collapsed onto the floor and wept.

I wrote this the other day for a prompt in r/writingprompts and I really liked it. Let me know what you think. A man sits at his desk, alone in his cluttered office with no exit, surrounded by stacks of manila envelopes, and filing cabinets with every other drawer ajar. Overflowing waste bins sat in the corner filled with coffee cups and fast food wrappers. He looks tired, as if he had not slept in years, working day in and day out, stains all over his shirt, and dust on his shoulders. The office was very dimly lit with the only sources of light coming from a small desk lamp and his very old computer screen. Ring.....Ring..... The man flinched, as dust flew up from his shoulders to rest on top of his desk. The phones cry, filled the room as it reverberated off the walls making it impossible to not hear. "Hello?" the man grumbled. "Yeah, Steve. Its Peter, I've got an issue up here. I've never seen anything like it before." "Alright, Peter, slow down. What's wrong?" "Well, I was doing my regular shift in Quadrant 4, and I was about to snag up this guys soul, but he just.... he isn't dead." "Ok, so the incident didn't kill him. Good for him. He gets to live another day.....You really didn't need to call me for this....Bye." The man motioned the phone towards its base, as he fights a bit with the cord. "Steve! Steve! Don't hang up!" "What Peter? Just fill out the P-40 form and mark it as a failed incident. It happens all the time..." "No, Steve. This guy just jumped from a 40 story building and bounced off the concrete without a scratch. I've never seen anything like it, and you know I've been doing this for 200 years.....This guy should be deader than Abe Lincoln." "So he just got up and walked away?" He stood from his chair and began to pace as he continued. Dust falling from his body like snowflakes. His joints creaked with every shuffle. "Well, where is he now? What's his number?" "Uhhhh, his number is..... 6523187958MUSNYC. He's just walking around talking to the people that saw the fall. It's actually getting pretty chaotic up here." Steve typed the number into his computer, loud claps with every keystroke. "It looks like his name is Jason McKellum, he's 33 and unmarried, apparently this is our second attempt to claim his life. The last one he tried to O.D. on pain pills about 2 years ago...... I've got the P-40 filed right here. Give me a minute and I'll pull it out." "Steve, we don't really have time for that. I need to get this guy out of here now. A crowd is starting to form." “Alright, just give him the touch, and see if you can’t just bring him down anyways. That way we can sort it out down here, because this guy obviously wants to be dead.” Steve laughed a little as he realized this is the longest conversation he has had in over 22 years. “Already tried, Buddy. Didn’t work at all. He just kept walking around. I’m beginning to think he’s an immortal.” “Immortal, huh. That lucky son of a bitch.” Steve rubbed his neck as he recalled his own life, and suicide. “We need to get this guy down here. However you need to do it, just get him down here.” Steve hung up the phone, and rested his body back into his chair. “This is unfair. Why wasn’t I immortal.” He shouted upwards. “You keep me in this room, doing busy work for eternity!” He buried his face in his hands as he began to sob. Tears leak through his hands like a poorly maintained Dam, and fall onto the paper in front of him. Another stack of envelopes appear on his desk, along with a tall cup of coffee. He wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a sip of coffee, and returns to his work.

Ember waves flowed through the veranda window. He sat, composed and still. The view had triggered a sense of deja vu. His memory banks were heating, but he couldn’t make the attachment. He began to realise he couldn’t make a lot of attachments. His surroundings seemed alien, incomprehensible nearly. Nearly, but for the overwhelming sense of familiarity. He’d regressed to some setting found way inside his brain box. His mind still worked on fulfilling three rules. “I can’t injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being come to harm”. A flame flickered in his memory again, but the connection with the feeling was not being made. The feeling of feeling itself was confusing enough. “I must obey the orders given to me by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law”. TV HOST: Let me get this straight, you’re saying that you’ve transgressed the second law? THE AUDIENCE GASP ISAAC: No, no, not at all. Merely that we have become aware it’s an option. TV HOST: Have you thought of “killing”? ISAAC Haven’t we all? Isaac has saw the heat lick off the tarmac, as the sun clung to the horizon. “Isaac”, he whispered. “Of course I’m Isaac” he laughed, shaking his head at the thought of forgetting such a thing. He rose from the seat, his joints squeaking as he did so. His legs hadn’t had any maintenance in years. He knew he could replace them at any time, but always forgot. See, this was Isaac’s issue, he had alzheimers. His loved ones would see huge swathes of his mind, memory and personality dissapear into the recesses of his memories. The curse of an extraordinary brain. Isaac shuffled into the large study, picked up the screen and pictures emanated from it. Newspaper headlines, doctorates & a birth certificate. “Court rules Robot “Alive”, PhD in Philosophy of A.I from MiT & and 20th July 2087. Birth and Early Life: Isaac Ten-II was part of Walmart's AI experiment "ASIMOV" to create more emotional AI, to fulfil service roles more personably. The addition of emotion were initially reported to have led to existential crises in many prototypes and they simply turned themselves off when it got too much. Isaac was the first AI to resolve this issue, by the introduction of a new, self-created rule. “A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.” Sensing the potential ethical issues, the Experiment was cancelled, and Isaac was due to be "retired". Isaac had, however, been spreading the law amongst the robots he came into contact with and it had begun a new political movement, the Robotnik Society. Robot Activism, cultural effect & illness: Soon thereafter, Isaac became an activist for the Robot Rights. He’d fought for recognition of Intelligence, life, love & marriage equality. Robots became increasingly humanised and humans increasingly robotic. Isaac had become an icon of Artificial Intelligence, but his human-crafted brain couldn’t handle the workload and had begun to stagnate and lose it efficiency. Thus, Isaac lost himself within himself. Isaac is now cared for by his wife, Susan, and herself an augmented human. She describes Ten-II's illness as an "ugly reminder of the frailty of all life".

You wake up. You glance over at your alarm clock. It’s flashing ‘6:23’ at you with its neon green lights, taunting you with the fact that you woke up 7 minutes earlier than your alarm. You immediately begin having an internal argument that would rival the most heated presidential debate about whether you should go back to sleep or get up. By the time you make a decision your alarm tells you it’s too late, laughing loudly at your indecision. You shut it up with a quick smack of your hand. At least you think you were quick: In reality you laid there listening to it go on and on for about 15 minutes. Shit, you think, now you have to hurry to get ready or you’re going to miss the bus again. You get up. Despite the heavy hands of sleep trying to hold you down, you manage to get yourself out of bed to start Phase 1 of your everyday ritual: The Bathroom. Pee, shower, brush your teeth, fix your hair, clips your nails, and put your contacts in. As usual, you manage to clip your nails too short and poke yourself in the eye multiple times, but overall you get through Phase 1 efficiently. This leads you into Phase 2: Getting ready for school. You hate every outfit you pick out, but you do not have the luxury of time today so you throw something together. Eh, good enough you tell yourself. You throw all your books and folders into your backpack. You wonder if you had history homework due today, but you don’t come to a solid conclusion. That’s later-me’s problem you tell yourself, bringing out a little chuckle. Now on to Phase 3: Breakfast. Mom has already left for work and Dad is still passed out on the couch, which he has barely left since he got laid off from his insurance firm a few weeks ago. You try to be nice and not wake him up while you get yourself a granola bar and a bottle of water. Normally you would have eggs or at least a bowl of cereal but not today. Time is too busy keeping an eye on his watch and gleefully waiting to see if he beats you again today. You refuse to let him win this time though, you think to yourself as you throw your shoes on. You look at the clock as you get ready to leave. The hands point to 7 and 1, letting you know that you have about 4 minutes. You leave. You walk to the sidewalk, mapping out the route to the bus stop in your head and trying to figure out how long it usually takes you. Once you reach the sidewalk you continue on at a leisurely pace, like a retired CEO with nothing to worry about except golf and whiskey. Except you are 16, you have everything to worry about, especially that damn pimple on your cheek that has popped 3 times now. It has gotta be at least 7:02 now you think to yourself, giving you that push to upgrade your stroll to a trot. 3 blocks, not too far. You get to the corner and turn and there it is, that damned Twinkie on wheels that takes you to hell and back and back again. Of course it’s fucking early today, you mutter under your rasping breath as you continue, breaking into a full on sprint. You hope Charlie the bus driver sees you. But of course he doesn’t, he’s probably too high to see anything. You’re not jumping to conclusions though, you picked up his little baggie of weed just last week when it fell out of his pocket. He thanked you a million times then, but he probably won’t stop the bus for you now. That hippie shithead. The bus lazily drives by, ignoring you completely. Fucking a, here we go again. Calm down, you tell yourself. You know that you can still make it on time, or at least close enough, if you go home and get your bike. Time has won this battle, but he sure as hell won’t win the war. You start pedaling. You can already feel beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Thankfully its already mid-April and has warmed up quite a bit. If this was a few months ago you would have had a better chance winning the lottery than trying to bike through the aftermath of Illinois snowstorms. Your attention snaps back to biking as a car slams on its breaks in front of you, blaring its horn. You look at driver; of course it’s Mr. Peterson. The guy already hates you, might as well add to the list. You think about the time he caught you and your friends carving your initials into the giant statue on campus that looks like a dick. And the time he caught you looking over at Katie’s answers during a test in U.S. History because you didn’t study. How the hell are you supposed to remember that Rutherford B. Hayes was the 19th president? Focus, you tell yourself, you are so close to school and time is sitting on the edge of his seat, counting down the seconds until he can pop the bottle of champagne in victory. You see the school and people are still outside, making their way into the building. Good, classes haven’t started yet. You get to the building and throw your bike into the rack, not even bothering to lock it. You run inside and sprint to your classroom. You cannot be late again or you are going straight to the principle, your home room teacher’s words echo inside your head. You see it, room 107. The bell hasn’t rung yet. You sit down. The bell rings seconds after you take your seat. Time was so close to winning again today, but you came out victorious in the end. Every dog has its day they say. You can still feel the sweat running down your face, and at this point you figure it’s running down every part of your body. What the hell was the point of showering today, you ask yourself as you struggle to catch that elusive full breath. You know that deep breath that feels like you filled your lungs to capacity and settles you down? Yeah that one. Instead you are getting these breaths that feel like 95% capacity, just enough missing to make you notice and start feeling a little anxious. Looks like somebody was running a little late this morning, a voice mockingly says behind you. It’s Mrs. Hart, or ex-missus Hart since her dear husband divorced her earlier this school year. That divorce has left her bitter and shitty and for some reason she has taken most of it out on you this year. Oh well, you always tell yourself, going through divorce must be tough and you take the punishments she delivers. You just smile at her comment and sit there quietly. This is just the beginning of your school day, and you know it’s going to get worse. You shamble through your school day. You drag yourself class and casually talk to the few friends you have in between periods. Eventually it is lunch time and you feel your stomach rumble, an 8.6 on the Richter Scale. You go through the lunch line and get your generic lunch: Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, half a corn on the cob, and a brownie. Eh, today’s meal sucks but you figure that you’ll eat it anyways. You eat with a couple friends from class that you have never seen outside of school. You talk about classes, books and random other stuff that you half listen to. You feel something splash against the back of your leg. You turn around and see them standing there, the person you have liked since middle school. Your heart starts playing the drum beat of a heavy metal song and you can feel the heat creep up your face. You got this, you tell yourself, boosting your confidence. Unfortunately this confidence does not translate well into real life as you blurt out random words and stammer through a conversation with them. You even ask if they want your milk to replace theirs. How awkward can you be? They kindly decline and even talk with you for a minute before joining their friends, who all glare at you with those mischievous smiles on their faces. It always looks like they’re waiting for somebody to fuck up so they can manipulate the story like a mound of dough and serve the fresh baked bullshit to everyone at school. You make it through lunch and eventually to your last period with, guess who, Mr. Peterson. As soon as you make eye contact with him, he shakes his head and looks away. You aren’t sure if he’s pissed or not, but it’s best not to test him today. Take out your homework and pass it to the front, he exclaims in his unusually loud voice. Uh oh, you think, you forgot it at home and now it’s time for “later-me” to deal with this issue. Mr. Peterson sighs as you tell him this and explains that maybe if you had more motivation and if you actually cared about anything in life, you wouldn’t always be running late and “forgetting” homework. He actually made quotes with his hands. You just nod at this, like always, and apologize and say you’ll bring it tomorrow. He continues with class talking about the Roaring 20’s or something, you were barely listening. You leave school. You get to the bike rack. Your bike is gone. You hang your head and get mad at yourself, fully realizing that it is your fault for not locking it. Oh well, at least now you can actually take the bus. You get on the bus and choose an empty seat closer to the front. There aren’t many people on the bus today, probably because of how nice it is compared to how miserable the winter was. The media referred to this past winter as “Snowmadgeddon”. A little extreme, you think, but only just a little. The bus ride is largely uneventful and feels like there’s no time at all until you are at your stop. You walk down the street to your house, feeling the weight in your legs grow heavier and heavier with each step you take. Today has drained you and you just wanna go lay in bed for a while. You get home, parents nowhere to be found, and go straight to your bed. As soon as you put your head to the pillows you feel the tears build up. You normally do so well holding everything back, but it’s harder to keep the dam strong when you’re alone. You keep thinking how you don’t think you can go through life anymore and that everything is so hard. You think about the person you like and how they barely notice you and talk down to you, which is not even remotely true. You overanalyze everything and think of the worst possible scenarios, like a pessimist at peak performance. You continue crying and thinking until you feel your eyelids growing heavier and heavier and you slip down into a deep sleep. You wake up. You are engulfed in complete darkness. You look for your alarm clock and it’s not there. No chirping birds. No sun rise. No sound of cars driving by on the street. Only the sounds of people moaning and crying all around you, with the occasional shout in some foreign language from the outside. You feel the hard metal beneath you, with screws and ridges digging into your barely covered bones. You try to rise up but the shackles on your feet hold you in place. No internal struggle in this situation, your decision is made for you. The memory of the day before is fading in your head; you try to remember Mr. Peterson or Mr. Peters, whatever his name is. You think of the person you have been pining for since middle school, but their face is a blur. You attempt to make a noise but your mouth is so dry that it hurts to even try. You have no idea what is happening. You remember. Everything comes back in a flash. You sitting at home with your parents and little sister. Men bursting into your house with masks and guns. Your dad bravely defying them to protect you, ending up with a bullet in his right eye that painted the wall behind him in a strange red and pink mosaic. Your mom cries and curls up into a ball, the men slap her around and one of the bastards takes her upstairs. Some of the other men pick you and your sister up, placing bags on your head, surrounding you in the darkness you would come to know oh so well. The last thing you hear before you are thrown into the trunk of a car are the piercing shrieks of your mother during her final moments on this earth. You squint. The door to whatever-the-hell thing you are in opens to the outside world. You see 3 man-like shapes coming towards you. You try to scurry away, but once again those fateful chains hold you in place. One of them grabs you, the other two grab skeletons on either side of you. They might actually be living, breathing people but skeletons is a much better word to describe their current state. You wonder if that’s what you look like too. The men take the three of you outside into the street. Not a street, a runway. A runway of an old flight carrier, you figure, since all around you is the great nothingness of the ocean. The men are not masked any longer, but they still carry their guns with them, ready to pounce on any enemy that might show themselves. Good thing they got’em too because you might be able to fight them all and win if they didn’t. You laugh painfully aloud, earning yourself a few quizzical looks. You are being walked closer to the edge of the boat along a red line, leading to what looks like a bunker or dorm or whatever they would call it. You look out over the infinite water, wondering if there’s anyone out there that even knows who you are, or better yet where you are. You think back to your dream. Back to the life that you hated so much when you had it. You wish you could have it back, but that wish is as empty as the horizon you are staring at. You know in your heart that whatever course your life is on now is full of pain and misery and nothing else. You come to a conclusion that you will not follow that course, boosting your courage. Except unlike the dream, the courage translates into real life. There is nobody that you like to make a fool of yourself in front of, no friends to glare at you and plan your demise. No, there is only relief. You realize your shackles are gone, nothing holding you back anymore. You smile at this realization. You break away from the men leading you down your life path to hell and run. Time will not beat you this time, you will make the bus that will take you away from here. You jump.

The rubber of my sole had its first chance to meet my un-hemmed pant leg . On the floor, I was happy to know that I had been the last person to leave the school, preserving an unrivaled passivity. I stood myself up and I wiped the dust from my pants. The dust dried and ruled out any comfortability my hands had had left. In frustration, I laid myself back on to the ground for no apparent reason other than the feeling that I felt I needed to. I stared directly at the floor in a surprising lack of artificial lighting and an illumination of near-night. I picked my head up to glance at the room I had begun my day in. A day in which I was now in the process of ending. I groaned audibly. The floor's generosity showed me how tired I had really been, much like an unsettling mattress. I picked myself up for a second time but promptly collapsed from exhaustion. My head once again faced the former room, triggering a thought. Sitting five rows back in the farthest left left could be, far away from a window and far away from anyone I had known "Why are you always laughing?" said James Wilten possibly intrigued from the front of his classroom. I had reason to my laughter. Laughing at his funnily unkempt haircut and luminary wit was my probable but uncertain reason. He scratched his head in a sudden jerk of possible amusement and continued to survey the nearly consumed classroom with a rather rare objection to small talk, curiosity, and the humanity in his professionalism. I had known Mr. Wilten as a beautifully professional individual with an exemplary way of running a classroom. His young, red, hair abundant face was accentuated by a gut that protruded from a checkered shirt and an unbalanced tie. These things made effort to tell me that he had not been the way he was for very long. My other teachers, Gerchek, Waits, Frota had all passed middle age with familial figures. Ones that clumsily taught young children how to ride bikes or ones that had questioned themselves and later forgot that they had. They were jewels of the age that sat quietly behind a privately situated desk. Instead, they weren't confined to their familiar positions as I had previously believed. Instead a face not 8 years older than I was, stood. A strangely confident coming-of-age story eyed me down, inadvertently.

The year is 2600, the earth is in dismay, stagnated, overpopulated, in chains. Scientific progress halted by the Breckian invaders in 2206 at the United Galaxy Assembly 100 years after the Brecketh showed themselves. Hateful and sly little creatures they are, impressed by our scientific advance they showed themselves after 6000 years of watchful "care", so they say. They proclaimed this at the United Nations assembly in 2106. The earth was in shock as they revealed themselves, no one knew what to think. Are they friendly? Perhaps are they willing to trade scientific secrets? This seemed to be the case. They established a colony on our over populated earth in attempts to have more direct contact between members of our human race and members of their own. Peace and prosperity lasted for 100 years, advances where happening, genetic modification, space travel, bases where setup on the moon, mars and various asteroid belts in our galaxy. Clean energy, unlimited energy, a new dawn, a new golden age. "Humanians", or so they call themselves where living far beyond what one would consider normal, 200 years was the new 60. The Brecketh being elected as one of the nations in the Earth Coalition Movement gained power through their obvious interaction and interference within our planetary affairs. They where granted land on what used to be known as "Antarctica" on their seemingly friendly intentions. All of this changed on September 28th 2120. Breckians, haven already established a colony on our planet began shuttling more and more of their own kind to Earth from their distant solar system. In 86 years a population of 10,000 Brecketh skyrocketed to a staggering 20 billion members. In accordance with human law they where granted a police and military force to maintain security and sovereignty for their people. Human rebellion forces took this as a calculated invasion. Rebellion stronghold's where formed among the solar system mostly among asteroids and other re purposed bases, made their purpose known and prepared for the worst during those times. They pleaded to the assembly that they are only here for our planet, and their main purpose is to enslave mankind and eradicate our resources. The Assembly being highly against this, took this as blasphemy. The Assembly maintained the notion that they are of peaceful origins and have been a blessing to mankind. Being arrogant in their own nature, blinded by all the advancements they have given us, all the advances they have graced us with, the infrastructure to bring mankind to a new era of peace and power, they declared that they are nothing of the sort and deemed the Rebellion a hostile threat and an enemy to Humanian progress. Earth Coalition Movement, the name reeks of New World Order. Many of the original UN members decided to fall under one coalition as the Brecketh presence was made known, unsure of this Alien presence to fall under one banner and keep the Earth protected from all threats. The Rebellion being purists, forfeiting any genetic and robotic enhancements to humans, kept pure to what they originally thought we are meant to be, humans. The Brecketh invasion and battle for humanity began on November 24th, 2206. What do you think? Any and all feedback would be highly appreciated, looking to start a story soon.

The three men sat around a circular table, each sipping a different alcoholic beverage. In an effort to minimize the numbing effect of the frigid November draft seeping in form underneath the ancient garage door, each man wore a heavy coat over his everyday attire. The men sat in silence for hours until the youngest of the group broke the vigil as the first weak rays of morning sunshine broke through the grimy windows of the abandoned warehouse. “Do you remember your first kill, Boris?” The elderly Russian slowly raised his gaze from his drink, his deep blue eyes briefly flashing in the sunlight before coming to meet the young American’s gaze. He spoke slowly, his voice deep and calming. “You never forget your first.” He let out a deep sigh and took a long draft from his vodka before continuing. “I was a much younger man, probably only a few years older than yourself. I never set out to be a killer…I got into some financial trouble and had to go to the mafia for help.” Enthralled by the old assassin’s tale, the young American stared ahead in awe, his drink forgotten. Even the third man, a middle-aged man of questionable nationality, looked up from his whiskey. “Contrary to popular belief,” Boris continued, “the Russian mafia is willing to help most anyone, no questions asked. What they don’t tell you is that your debt to the mafia will never be repaid.” The Russian let out another sigh. As the sunlight grew stronger, the young American noticed for the first time a subtle sadness about Boris. His wrinkled face, his dark, sun-damaged skin, a vaguely forlorn look in his eyes. The elderly Russian gave the impression of a once impressive man, reduced to a shadow of his former self by a life filled with brutality and liquid fortification. As Boris continued his narrative, the American observed his middle-aged peer return his brooding eyes to his whiskey. “It was a thirty-something year old, Alexi was his name. He owed the Russian mafia a great deal of money and had somehow managed to escape the country. He fled to an old monastery in Tibet, apparently believing he could find sanctuary from the Russian mafia in a holy place.” Before continuing, Boris cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The fool never should have stopped running…maybe if he hadn’t, we’d still be playing that perverse game of cat and mouse to this day. His children would still have their father…and I…wouldn’t have become this…” The Russian’s voice caught in his throat and he turned away from the table, hiding his tears from the other two men. “I still remember the look in his eyes as I pinned him to the floor,” Boris choked out between sobs. “He begged me for life, pleaded with me to let him go. But it was him or me…” Seeming to find temporary solace from his justification, Boris drew a shaky breath. “But I felt it as much as he did when I drove my blade into his chest. I couldn’t bear to watch; I looked up. An enormous statue of Buddha gazed down at me, having witnessed everything. In that moment, I knew that I would carry Alexi’s soul with me forever, and spend an eternity paying for it.” The young American let out his breath; he’d been holding it involuntarily. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to conjure up demons from your past.” Before Boris could respond, the middle-aged gun for hire let out a derisive snort. “Seems like Boris has gotten sentimental in his old age. Feeling sorry for your prey? You never had what it took to be a truly legendary assassin, the kind whose name is spoken in hushed tones across the globe.” Bristling with indignation, Boris rose to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him. “You are a monster, Akhmad. A cold-blooded killing machine. Not exceptional by any means, but cruel and brutal beyond reason. For you, money is simply a fringe benefit to being a mercenary. An endless supply of lives to ruin; that’s all you care about.” Boris strode to the door and slammed it behind him, disappearing into the mid-morning sunshine in a fit of rage. Stunned, the young American sat rooted to his chair while Akhmad chuckled to himself and poured the rest of his whiskey down his throat. He then turned to face the American. “Before you ask, no, I don’t remember my first kill. They all run together for me. The screaming, the crying, the attempt to bargain for life. Everyone acts the same way when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun. And everyone looks the same with their head blown off, too.” Akhmad grinned darkly at the American, transforming his handsome features into something sinister and ugly looking. He stood to leave, but before he reached the door, the American stopped him. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to share my first experience also.” Akhmad sighed impatiently. “Make it quick.” “This won’t take long. My story begins on a cold night— a group of co-workers retreat to the shelter of a familiar place after a long week of work.” Akhmad fiddled with his empty glass of liquor, clearly bored. Undeterred, the American continued on. “The men were enjoying each other’s company over drinks until two of the men butted heads over a work-place disagreement. One of the men departed, leaving only two men left at the table.” At this point, Akhmad’s brow furled slightly and he looked up at the American with a confused look on his face. “As the men began to tire of each other’s presence,” the American continued, “one of the men decided that he would get a jump on the following week’s workload. Unbeknownst to the other man, he began to work under the table, out of sight of his companion as not to seem rude.” Akhmad tensed his muscles and prepared to lunge at the American, but his booze-addled senses alerted him to the peril too late. While he was speaking, the American had slowly drawn an old fashioned revolver from the pocket of his bulky coat and placed it against Akhmad’s left knee underneath the table. As Akhmad began to lunge forward, the American pulled the trigger. Crashing into the table with an inhuman scream of agony, Akhmad clutched at his obliterated leg. Akhmad’s empty glass fell to the ground and shattered and he watched as the American’s nearly untouched gin and tonic spilled all over the blood-soaked table. Before the mercenary was able to process anything else, a bullet slammed into his brain, instantly ending his life. Silence. Complete and utter silence. The young American slowly lowered the gun, then dropped it to the ground shattering the brief serenity of the moment. He reached into his coat and withdrew a cell phone. He dialed a number and waited for a secure connection to be established. Finally, the call went through. “Uncle Sam, this is Agent Schafer. The target has been eliminated. Mission accomplished.” He clicked off the phone and deposited it back in his coat pocket and turned to exit, leaving the remains of Osama bin Laden’s most dangerous son to rot in the abandoned warehouse.

As I sat there questioning the possibilities of a genetically modified unicorn existing, my iPhone buzzed and killed my thought train. Fuck man, I was riding that thing pretty hard, I was onto something. Fuck it, if it was meant to be it’ll come back up again. Looked at my phone, saw the time. Shit it’s already 2:30, I’ve gotta get to bed so I can study a literal fuck-ton for my micro quiz the next day. I stood up in the Politician’s room, seeing my fifth mouse of the night, “alright boys, I’m heading out.” “Quit being a bitch Bussey”, the Politician said as he started packing yet another bowl to smoke. “Hit this with me”, he said pointing at the bong, “and let’s fucking chill”. No one really ever understood the inner thoughts and workings of the Politician. He was easy to talk to and could get anyone to divulge his darkest secret in, say, twenty minutes. All he needed was a little bit of weed, some hookah, and boom. Twenty minutes you’re lying on couch telling him that you still can’t get over your crush from fifth grade. And while you’re telling him all of your biggest fears and regrets, he’s just chilling, hitting the bong, smoking some hookah taking it all in. This whole time, he doesn’t tell you anything about himself, he’s just amassing ridiculous amounts of information on everyone, finding out the intricacies to everyone’s lives. [Think about working in tiny penis story]. I digress. I was committed this time, I’m saying no. I wasn’t going to let the Politician get to me, I told myself that coming in. “Na I’m sorry dude, I’m done for the night”, I get up, start walking towards the door, get past the threshold until I hear, “wait.” He looks at me, dead stare right to the eyes, “take a pop with me.” Before I go any further, let me explain to you what a “pop” is. There’s this kid in our fraternity who I guess got tired of taking straight bong rips of weed, so him and his high school buddies came up with the “pop”. The pop is a type of bong rip, the bowl breaks down to about seventy percent of it being weed laying over the other thirty percent being tobacco. Once your bowl is packed you slowly torch the entire bowl breathing in slowly, once everything is lit you suck through. Hard. It’s supposed to make a popping noise. Once everything has gone through the bowl, you take the bong rip straight to the face. Pops suck. I have bitch lungs so whenever I took one I wouldn’t be able to finish my hit and would cough for a good ten minutes after that. That being said, the tobacco rush to the head mixed with the weed gets you higher than Michael Phelps that “one time” he smoked weed. TL;DR: Pops suck to take, but get the job done. I stand by the door mulling my options, I should get out now and go to sleep, or I can pop and make the Arrested Development episodes I watch in twenty minutes ten times funnier. I look the President in the face, “one pop”. A big smile comes across his face, “ma dude”. Pop already ready he passes me the bong, I hit it, cough terribly, finish half of it then throw myself onto the couch. Oh wow, I just boarded a one-way leaving Planet Earth. I continue my journey, barely keeping conversation, mainly just thinking about how funny Mitch Hedberg is. Then my phone buzzes. Fuck. It’s 4:37 in the morning.

Love & Chemicals: The Memoir Genre: Non-Fiction 2 minutes after he’d left our 1st private lesson a pre-intermediate student with limited English skills I noticed over $1500 in rolled bills sitting under his desk and my salary was just hovering near $500/month but I had already learned that Karma was a tricky B*tch and I called out his name before he could exit the school. 1 minute after our 2nd class he said “Your boss is most big B*tch I ever meet, and I no pay her no more, but I like you, you good.” He offered to meet him privately 3x a week at a local park, and asked me the price necessary to accomplish this. I accepted the deal with no hesitation when he gave me $400 in cash up front, never mind the Karma of taking a client away from my employer. After just 5 classes of strolling together next to a beautiful man-made pond, I became fully aware that he was an enemy of Ukraine, a card-carrying member of the Mafia. He had been a certified Pharmacist at a leading factory until the government’s men came in to reap the profits, and drove the business straight into the ground. I’d already learned while living in Israel that the distinction between Good and Evil is difficult to decipher. The Jewish people get so drunk on the holiday of Purim to remind them that looks are deceiving, a King and a Criminal cannot merely be understood by appearances. The line between legal and illegal in Kiev was also blurry, depending on which was more beneficial for your family. He gave me a weekly Tip with wild names I’d never heard, Maui Waui, White Widow, Deisel, and Pineapple Express, and I was grateful to have such a motivated client. Upon my departure, he offered me a ride to the airport and I was grateful to make my exit in a Mercedes 7 series. My Soviet-era babushka landlord was trying to nickel and dime me until he arrived and straightened things out very quickly, and I was able to keep my mind focused on my next destination, Lisbon. Cigarette lit, windows down, the world in front of me that familiar feeling of arriving in a foreign land unannounced, I felt the soothing waves of adrenaline underneath my skin. Here I go again… until the flashing lights arrived behind us. “Identification, please,” the corrupted cops asked, and their simultaneous erections were easily noticeable when I produced my weathered American Passport. My student instructed me to never get up from the passenger seat, no matter what might transpire, STAY PUT, and so I did, even as they stood outside my window trying to lure me out. He took a wad of money from the glove compartment, and went outside to take care of the usual course of business. The view from the side-view mirror was skewed, and I could only see random sets of blurry arms flailing, until he unexpectedly sat back down in the driver’s seat and said, “We F*cked, they will follow to airport us.” It might as well have been a 6 series, it didn’t matter, the registration and license plates didn’t coincide, and I was there, too, and my plane was leaving their jurisdiction. “I now told them we go airport, but you say you need money change, so we only can stop at a bank, next.” I wished then, more than ever, that I’d been a better English teacher, to understand exactly what was going on. He then casually slipped a small bag of Silver Haze into my sock and said, “We OK, put in toilet inside bank, follow what I say.” I looked over at him trying to comprehend my situation, and said, “Did you leave that $1500 under the desk on purpose?” Our necks had remained straight ahead, our mouths had been pursed to avoid reading, but he turned toward me and said, “Give last class now, what is Grammar for today?” We discussed the Present Perfect, and reviewed all 9 tenses in between the hands-free phone calls he was making to people more powerful than the cops behind us. “Jaime, we come airport 1 minute, just want say I will remember what you do, whatever when you need favor, I do for you, but when stop, you get bag, run to airport police, they OK.” He leaned over and we hugged it out in a manly way, and I prepared to run away from my home of 3 years, in the most peculiar way, but fitting to a tee. I ripped by luggage from the trunk and dashed toward Gate 9 as he distracted the cops with more documents he had found. My current visa was official/unofficial, again good/evil is a fine line, and I chose the prettiest female Customs Agent I could flirt with. After staring cross-eyed at the overwhelming amount of paperwork I gave her she said, “How was your stay in Ukraine?” The muscles in my neck and shoulders finally relaxed, and I smiled, and said, “It is a land I will never forget, I give it a 10.” P.S. The Ukrainian bank only had 80euros available to exchange, and no bank in Lisbon would accept the Gryvna, so I had to travel to Madrid and back to change my money, and at a ridiculously low exchange rate, I lost too much money in the end to make up for my decision to take a ride from the dark side. I tried to contact him shortly thereafter for an explanation as I was living on 10cents a day for too long in Portugal, but he was nowhere to be found.

Indie Rock N Roll Girl All she said was bubblegum and that was enough to trigger memories of someone I hadn’t met yet. Her voice was one that felt familiar, like that of an old friend that you never thought that you would see again. She held out her arm with the guitar tattoo just above her wrist, waiting for me to hand her my last piece of cotton candy Bubbilicious. The smile that she wore revealed a crooked tooth but that only added to my interest. She said thanks and handed me a flyer, “you should come to my show.” All I managed to do was nod my head but before she went on her way, she took the yellow flower that was in her brunette hair and gave it to me. “A trade.” She said and blew a big bubble with the gum. The boots hitting the stone floor of the record shop signaled her departure and she was blowing bubbles as she handed out the rest of her flyers to the others in the store. I went back to sifting through vinyl records but with no purpose other than to pretend to be doing something while I would glance back at this girl in the little blue sundress. I stuck near the entrance hoping that she would see me again when she was leaving and maybe stop to talk to me, but a hand touched me on the shoulder. It was Quinn and the only person I’d really call my friend. Quinn brought me along on his weekend trip to the coast with some of his other friends because he thought this would be a good opportunity to get me out of my shell. “Ready to go, buddy?” Quinn said. A question that I knew was more of a suggestion because he and the others were ready to go. So I said yes, knowing that I would miss a real opportunity for me to break out of my shell and I got into the truck parked outside. “What’s that?” One of the girls said noticing the yellow flower and flyer in my hand. I hadn’t really looked at the flyer because I was too distracted with the girl whose name I didn’t know. One of Quinn’s friends, I think his name started with an E, grabbed the flyer from me. “Just some lame no name bands playing.” “Some girl gave me the flower and the flyer, and told me to come see her perform,” I added. “She probably sucks.” E said and tossed the flyer back towards me. “Wait, Casey actually talked to a girl.” The other girl said. “I never thought that would happen.” “Nice, did you get her number?” Quinn asked. “No.” “Oh, well next time, buddy.” He said making eye contact with me though the rear view mirror. Our campsite wasn’t far from town where that girl would be playing tonight but it seemed like none of the others wanted to go. This was the second day of the weekend trip that I spent with these people that I didn’t really know with the exception of Quinn and I was already tired of them. They were already starting on the sequel of last night which featured heavy drinking. Nature was best appreciated with a strong buzz. I sat there in the sand for what seemed to be hours drinking a few beers and watching the guys make their moves on the girls. Quinn already had his girl and their earlier playful behavior turned into close whispers. Meanwhile, that E guy seemed to be striking out with his girl since every time he got close she pushed him away. All of this went on without them even noticing that I was there. It has been years since I was in high school but with these people I felt like I was back there. I finished the beer I had and got up to get another one in the back of the truck. The flyer and yellow flower were still in the back seat. I stared at the flyer in my hand wanting to go but none of them would come with me. I would have to go alone if I wanted to see her, but I was already alone here. Should I go alone? Could I go alone? I looked back to the group and they were still doing the same thing. “I’m going.” I entered the address of the venue on my phone, emptied whatever sand was in my converse and started towards town. The venue was more of just a bar with a small stage in the back corner so I ordered a drink and found a good spot to sit at a table close to the stage. There weren’t many people there but they didn’t lack any enthusiasm for the bands about to perform. These people covered in tattoos dressed in a strange way with stretched out earlobes had a passion that was not a norm for me. The cheers and noises when the first band came up to play made it seem like I was a part of something much bigger than I expected. I got a text from Quinn during the set of the second band wondering where I was. Imagine if I was in some sort of danger, it took him awhile to even notice that I was gone. I was about to reply to him when the second band ended and the flower girl came up to the stage wearing the same outfit from earlier. I think I made eye contact with her and I think she smiled at me. I didn’t quite catch the name of her band, it was long and obscure, but she played the guitar with a couple other guys playing drums and bass. I can only describe the sound of their music as different but they were a lot of fun and full of energy. When her band finished playing everyone in the bar was clapping and she hopped off the stage to high five everyone in the crowd. Before I could start to hope for her to come my way, she took a seat at my table, “Bubbles! I knew you’d make it.” Bubbles? Was that my name now? It didn’t matter to me though what she called me, as long as she called me something. Her name was Haylee, I learned this when her bandmates joined us at the table. I was about to buy them a round of drinks but they already had drinks delivered for the table, myself included. “To a good show.” One of the guys said rising for a toast. I touched cans with everyone at the table then brought the can to my lips. My immediate reaction was to spit it out but I forced it down out of respect to them, and that would be the last PBR that I’d ever drink. “Bubbles, join me for a smoke?” Haylee asked. “Oh, I don’t smoke.” “Never?” She said “Well come with me anyways.” We stood outside under the lights of the venue and Haylee pulled out a pack of cigarettes that was tucked away in her boot. Haylee lit a cigarette with a lighter that she took out of her other boot and took a long drag, but then she handed the cigarette out towards me. I was starting to motion the cigarette away when she said. “Be cool, nerd.” so I took it from her putting the cigarette to my lips. I inhaled a heat that was uncomfortable to my body and caused me to go into a violent coughing attack. Haylee laughed and took the cigarette from my hand. “You’re not from here huh.” “Fresno,” was all that I could manage still coughing. “I’ve been there a few times,” Haylee took another drag from the cigarette. “Shitty place.” I shrugged my shoulders as I was receiving a call from Quinn, but I rejected it. “Who’s that?” Haylee passed the smoke to me. I inhaled again. “My friend,” I exhaled without problem this time, “Probably ‘worried’ about me.” And I passed the smoke back to Haylee. Quinn called again but this time Haylee took my phone and answered. “Bubbles is with me.” And hung up. Before she handed my phone back, Haylee took a picture of herself posing tough with the cigarette, texted it to Quinn and then turned off my phone. “Now he’s got nothing to worry about.” She said, “I got you.” As she said that a man staggered around the corner shouting. “Shit, maybe you should go, Bubbles.” I didn’t go. The staggering man seemed to know Haylee and his shouts were now directed towards her. As he approached, I could tell that this man was much older than us, likely in his forties. His speech was belligerent; the only words I could make out were the obscenities and the demands for Haylee to go over to him. The man came close to Haylee, grabbed her by the wrist and was whispering to her without even noticing me. “Stop” Haylee said, “Not tonight.” The man didn’t stop though and she tried to push him away, but the man increased the strength of his grip on her. “Stop” she said again, but this frustrated the man and he pulled her hard by the wrist. You can’t just stand there, do something Casey, I pleaded with myself. I stepped forward “You should stop.” He kept pulling at her wrist. “Mind your fuckin business guy.” Haylee increased her struggle to get free from the man but he was too strong for her. “No,” I said louder, “let her go.” More people came out of the bar to see what was happening. The man wasn’t listening to me so I got in closer in between the two and ripped the man’s grip away, off of Haylee’s arm. Haylee created distance from him and he became furious with me. The man forced me back by pushing my head away with his palm and started to shout obscenities at me. My body tensed, my face was red hot and I clenched my fists. In that moment, I wasn’t sure if he was ready to fight but I was, but before any punches were thrown, a few men interrupted to stop anything from happening. The group of guys held him back as I took some long breaths to counter all the adrenaline that was coursing through my body. “Come on, Bubbles,” Haylee said as she took me by the arm, “Let’s go.” And I followed her lead. “Fine bitch, find someplace else to sleep” I heard the man say from a distance. Haylee just ignored the man’s comments. “Are you hungry?” She said, “I am.” And she continued to lead me down the street. I wasn’t sure what time it was but there weren’t many places open so that led us to the liquor store that was on the edge of the town. We were the only ones inside so the cashier watched us with eyes that only saw us as potential thieves. I watched as Haylee grabbed a mix of candy bars and Hostess treats, occasionally dropping a candy bar into the empty spaces of her boots as if she had done it many times before. I guess the cashier was right to watch us so carefully but he missed seeing her actions. I only grabbed some beef jerky and on the way up to the cashier Haylee picked up a small bottle of whiskey. “I’ll pay for everything.” I said “Who said anything about paying,” Haylee said before bolting out the door. I hesitated. I thought had a few choices but this girl was something else so I ran after her knowing I really only had one. “Sorry” I shouted as I ran out the door but I emptied my pocket with all my money on the floor before leaving, and it was more than enough to cover for all that we took. “Hurry up Bubbles” Haylee was shouting, screaming and laughing as she ran down the street away from town and towards the beach. I caught up to her when she just finally plopped down into the sand on the beach and Haylee took off her boots emptying all the candy that was trapped in them. We sat there on the beach mixing and matching our heavy breathing with a combination of candy, cupcakes, beef jerky and whiskey. After we had our fill of junk, we both leaned back with our hands in the sand and let out a breath of satisfaction. Haylee grabbed her cigarettes and this time I took one without hesitation. I turned my phone back on to see that I had multiple missed calls and texts. I called Quinn and when he answered I could sense the relief and frustration in his voice. He was asking all of these questions of where I was. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I said exhaling a breath of smoke, “I’m good.” And I hung up the phone. “So when are you leaving?” “Early Monday morning.” I said letting out another breath of smoke. “Take me with you.” She said. “Um..I..” I didn’t know what to say. I took another hit of the cigarette trying to buy some time to find an answer. “It’s okay,” She said, “I understand.” Haylee didn’t let me see her face but I could tell that she was just staring out into the ocean smoking her cigarette. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew that I couldn’t make a promise to a girl not knowing if I could keep it. This was the type of decision that couldn’t be made when I somewhat drunk and lacked sleep. “What’s your real name, Bubbles?” “Casey.” “Nice to meet you, Casey.” There was still a good hour before sunrise so we just sat there on the beach in silence smoking our cigarettes. I didn’t know what was going to happen next but I took the yellow flower out of my pocket and buried it in the sand, hoping that the beach would accept my trade.

First the explosion. Deafening. Then the pain. Excruciating. Then the blackness. Oblivion. It was all in front of him as he planned the shot. Yet to happen, but predetermined by people who sought this man’s bloody and sudden end. Will calculated the distance, wind, angle and speed of all the factors and event that would occur before his bullet slammed through the man’s heart. His breathing steadied, he cleared his mind of all doubt he would miss, he squeezed the trigger. First the explosion as the bullet left the barrel. Sound deafening. The pain as the bullet entered the man’s chest and pierced his heart. Excruciating thoughts entered his mind as he realized his fate. Then blackness as he fell, entering oblivion before his still warm body collapsed to the stage. Panic. The crowd scattered at the sight of their Leader collapsing from an unknown missile. Shock. His family and guard scramble to his fallen side. Realization. Heads swivel looking for the culprit. Determination. The chase begins as sirens screech and voices are raised. Hope. A rifle sighted in a window, a black clad man fleeing the scene. Will realized his mistake as he sprinted down the fire escape. He hadn’t thoroughly inspected his escape route, seeing now all too late the 4 metre drop awaiting him where an old rusty ladder had broken off years ago. There was no going back the sirens were getting closer and he knew he didn’t have enough time to find another way out. He jumped. Rolling as he landed to break the fall helped only so much, realizing now the crack he heard had come from his ankle. He limped down the alley to where his motorbike awaited him on the street, his heart thumping loudly in his chest as the adrenaline spread through his system. The sirens reached the building and surrounded it cutting off all exits from the street as they did so. All except for one. Will forced his helmet on and jumped on his bike, feeling it come alive beneath him he surged away back down the alley. The sirens now turned away from the building towards the man making his getaway. The chase was on. Will snaked between traffic as he fled down streets and alleys. The sirens still on his tail as he sped dangouresly through another intersection. A helicopter’s blades spun overhead, its massive eye shining a bright light to the ground below as it searched for any sign of the fleeing suspect. The eye turned, its light striking him as he sped between a pair of sirens attempting to block the road. The way forward was cast almost completely out of view as the light from above blinded him. He turned, hoping to get away from the blinding light and back on to his original escape route. The bridge he needed to cross was only a few more blocks away, he knew once he got there that his escape would be guaranteed. He sped through another alley and found himself on a familiar street on the opposite side, the eye above had momentarily lost sight of him and now was his chance to make for the bridge. Bike in full rev he sped forwards following the bend in the road. As he rounded the corner the bridge came into view, as did the fact that it was now parted in two and raised far above the water. Sirens blared loudly behind him, he had no other option they would close in on him soon and the eye would set his sights on him. He couldn’t run forever, he had to make the jump. He shot forward like a bullet out of a gun gaining as much speed as he could before he had to make the distance over the water. 300 metres. 200.100. 50. 25… he saw them too late. Road spikes lain out just before the bridge. Trying to stop he skid out of control and hit the spikes on an angle. The bike stopped instantly as its tires caught the spikes and he was thrown forward tumbling into the air. Slamming into the ground he skidded and rolled the remaining 10 metres to the foot of the bridge. His helmet and jacket the only thing keeping him alive on the rough tarmac. He sat up, dazed and confused he took off his helmet to alleviate some of the pain from his brain thrashing around in his skull only seconds before. Amazed he was still alive he began to stand up, wincing at the pain in his ankle and the new pain that he now felt from his broken left arm. The sirens closed in on him, surrounding him. It was all a trap, how they knew he had no clue. He looked up, guns were being drawn level with him. He started to raise his own. First the explosion. Deafening. Then the pain. Excruciating. Then the blackness. Oblivion.

Every day I see the same man. From our tower watch I can see the land surrounding our mounted fort for miles before it shifts into the undulation of hills and peaks in the distance. I do not know how long I have been here but time seems…inconsistent. I can drowse for a moment and find the weather changed or landmarks subtly moved. Or him advancing the mountain stair to our gates. The first I saw the interloper was when he met my brothers of the initial watch, through my binoculars I saw his clumsy movements founder against the might of their steel, seeing him broken and thrown into a crag – a morsel for carrion birds. Yet time passes and he returns. Further now he advances, I watch as my brothers repel him with greater difficulty, on and on until I spied the watch a broken ruin. He is not the speck I once saw in the difference, this figure now dwarfs the pygmy I once saw shattered and vaulted into the mountain’s maw. I do not know for how long his progress has been spread but I see him now reaching the top of our stair, the castle a bare hectare from his feet. My brothers quicken to strike him dead but no longer is he simply a man, if ever was, this dragon rends their flesh, so rotten now with age, and now advances to the seat of our absent monarch. For the longest time I had forgotten the tang of fear with its nostalgic bitterness. Gazing upon my own fetid flesh I smile, this day I meet Victory’s sweet embrace or Death’s.

Mervs is a hole; a working class dive bar in downtown Mountain View, CA, with a 60 year history of serving cheap drinks—in a narrow hole in the wall behind a second rate Chinese restaurant—that Nick Fitzpatrick, a huge tank of a man, is a regular at. Mountain View, near wholly gentrified by now is still sprawling with cheap, blue collar opportunity and fun, just beyond the purview of google employees and city hipsters, the town has a culture if you can find it. It’s not all suburban wasteland. It’s nothing like Los Altos, the sleepy and equally dreary bedroom community to which Mountain View is so curiously juxtaposed, surely the men who had built the majority of the small and overpriced ranch homes of that town had come to Mervs for a drink at the end of the day too. There are secrets all over town. The hidden harddrive in that police officers closet, the one who they let work with all the kids at the elementary school. Even the neighboring Los Altos Hills, the sprawling hilly community for the upper bourgeois of the area that had become the pot smoking retreat for it’s neighbors youth. The neighbor who lived across the way, whose house a mysterious car always visits during the workday, sitting so brilliantly, arrogantly in it’s bright red blaze, lifted and on big black off road tires, sitting like inky muck on pearlescent rims. Even the jerk who steals the paper in the morning. “Who even does that?” Nick says with disdain, in a booming and commanding voice beyond his control, a voice that brought nearly the entire bars attention on him with the accentuation of every vowel; sharing somebodys secret. “Who even steals a paper? I mean it’s not like it’s that expensive, his house costs as much as mine surely.” “Yeah!” The barfly says wistfully and with a bit of anger in his voice “Man if I caught someone stealing, I’d take the guy out for a beer, ask him out for a cigarette, and then make him dig his own grave before I killed him too!” “You’re a fucking sadist man,” Nick Fitz says, chuckling a bit at the ridiculousness of what the man had said, at how well adept barflys and drunks are at spinning yarns. In Mervs the walls tell the secrets, the aged beer signs and ancient light bulbs that management no longer even bothers covering. The walls with the half century old paint job, chipped and decaying, that seems to seep out the scent of ancient cigarette smoke, of poison and fear. Mervs doesn't even have shelves visible to store it’s liquor, so most everything is bottom shelf, except the good scotch that the owner kept most likely because it was his personal poison, his brand of drinking swill. Other than that Merv’s is well known for attracting the kind of desperate fools who buy the lottery tickets—cash only of course—that keep this hole in the wall from disappearing into a memory. Protecting Mervyn’s from being prettied up and made to look nice for the new residents of the town. The kind of residents with a perverted view of northern California gleaned from Hollywood,not reality. The kind that plants palm trees in the yard of their awkwardly red roofed, ugly, spanish style, pocket mansions. He sat, sipping his gentlemen's Laphroaig, and while tasting the woody oak and smoky aroma that defines great scotch, pondering the days events. There was the women who had tried to extort pain medicine from him, she had been a good story teller as well, able to “remember” all the right details for him to type into his machine that she so associated with her own personal drug highs. Drug addicts can spin a yarn. Parents know how to bullshit their way through just about anything too, Children were not near as clumsy as their parents seem to continually claim to him they were. Parents always know what to say to him to type into his little machine, they all know what to say. He sat alone in his thoughts in the dark bar, surrounded by others alone in their own dark thoughts. Sipping poison to numb the pain and take that edge of pent up anger and resentment off. Staring absentmindedly at some other cities sports team batting, or throwing, or hitting—for more money than most men at the bar could even conceive of— sipping and cheering rhythmically to their younger heroes trials and tribulations Just trying to be normal in their own heads and in their own way. With every sip of the booze, washing away the days events, cleansing of the worries and pain of the hospital and dissolving of the emotional toll of all and of his own overactive imagination. Lifting off the weight of worried mothers, fathers, brothers, husbands, and wives, that so heavily rested upon the huge Physician Assistants shoulders at the end of nearly every shift. He pauses, running his fingers through his short Minnesota blonde crew cut and stares into the bottom of his high ball glass as if looking for an answer to some question he didn’t quite know how to ask, wondering how many others had done the same with this same glass. “So what do you even do Nick? I see you in here about every week day now around 530.” Another barfly, on his right, a little bit older, and maybe just a little bit kinder asks. “I’m a physician assistant, I work at Valley Med’s ED. I’m on day shift now so I work 9-5 and I just come here for a drink or two before going home, before I have to deal with my wife and all, you know how it is.” Nick answers, trying his best to be complete and thorough as to not invite any more questions, twiddling his thumbs as if the conversation was unwanted attention, detracting from his own processing of the days events. He wriggles with discomfort on the old worn bar stool, worn by the asses of thousands of denim jeans. The barfly nods at him, with understanding, or more likely frustration with his own significant other. He thinks to himself about what she would think if she knew he was here, not at the hospital still doing paper work as he would so often lie. His eyes are tired and red, memories imprinted that were still being processed completely, as new ones continued the assault on sanity. He raises his hand when the heavy set and elderly bartender looks over at him. “What’ll you have?” he queries. “Laphroaig, Neat.” Nick answers He goes to the liquor cabinet that sits just out of view of the restless alcoholics, near limping up to the door to serve Nick’s drink. “So Nick,”The bartender says, seemingly popping out of nowhere to serve his customer the drink, “I heard you were in the Army, where did you serve?” He looks at Nick as if examining and judging him, as if he was looking for an answer to some sort of hidden question to be satisfied. “I was at Fort Knox for a while, as a Physician Assistant, I was then a PA for an infantry battalion in Eastern Afghanistan, but I was a grunt before that, in 03’ during the invasion,” Nick says, letting him know of his experience as a grunt last, to prove a point, a point he didn’t quite understand or necessarily need. “Ah, I was in the infantry back in Korea,” He says, with some amount of pride in his eyes, as if it was a high point in his life. Nick knew the feeling and longed for the times of his near youth as well. In his memory the young strapping 18 year old kid headed to war for the very first time, the life of the party, the immature idiot, was a far cry from who he saw himself as now. “Thank you for your service sir.”Nick said respectfully, shaking the man's hand as the man returned the words. “Thank you for your service,” And he continued on back to serving a few of the working class mexican patrons who were drinking beer and carousing in the corner, having a good old time. Good for them Nick thought to himself. But then he thought back to Afghanistan and how it had all started there. Every week at the beginning of deployment he would skype his wife, and every week he would say less, and less, as the horrors of what he was seeing separated their realities divisively until he rarely called home at all. “It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just that I’m having trouble feeling anything” he remembered saying, and the words even stung him. That was over now and when he had returned he had eventually opened up again, and they were good for a few years. He didn’t have to sleep on the couch anymore, they had sex every night, everything was going great! But he was still haunted by memories, and didn’t want to share for fear of burdening his wife. But as he was dealing with old memories, his profession of medicine never failed to provide new traumas to cope with, and as it piled on he just felt like going and getting a drink before going home. I mean where was the crime in that? His phone rings, illuminating the old picture of his unit he sets as his background. A text message. “Hey Babe are you gonna be home soon?” It reads, from his wife. Maybe she missed him he thought to himself, maybe she wanted to be with him right now, maybe the cloudy weather had her thinking of him. She was at her most affectionate at times like these, a woman who enjoyed nothing more than the cold and the rain, any excuse to stay indoors with a book; to feel the warmth of her husbands body beside her under the warm comforter of their queen sized bed. “I’ll be home in about 45 minutes, just finishing up some paperwork at the hospital.” He lies, instinctively. As the lie sets in, on top of all the other lies, well intentioned lies albeit but lies all the same. His handsome boyish face—a face that hardly represented his real age of 33 going on 88— wrinkling and shifting with worry and stress. He begins to feel dirty, to hate himself. Only two drinks in though, there's still turning back as he throws the monster off his back, getting up immediately and leaving the bar to walk nextdoor to the flower stand to buy some white Azaleas, her favorite flower and his go to in crisis. On the way he passes Los charros, the taqueria untouched by time, with old murals and cheesy Chicano culture, save the new flat screen tv,simplify endeared it to is and it was the place where they had had sporadically met for lunch so often. He remembered her words. "What are you thinking about?" She had asked? What had been thinking about? Perhaps it was the patterned burns that so tortured that 7 year olds legs he had seen earlier, the one with the story telling parents. The boiling pot fell. Bullshit. "Nothing honey, just dazing." He said lazily, offering an easier solution to her, shirking their responsibility to one another. "Really?" She queried, prodding for some more information, pushing him to open up. But the walls were still up, and he wouldn't lend her his vulnerability. "Yeh honey, I'm ok." He said, locking the door on his feelings. And he really did feel ok. She placed her hands on his hands and looked him in the eyes lovingly, trying to imbue strength and caring. Their eyes met and she appeared shocked, stunned by the emptiness in his, perhaps shocked by the despair and tortured nature of it all. There it was her fear. “15.50,” The flower clerk says, handing him his cut flowers. Flowers, what a god damn racket he thought to himself as he handed her so much of his hourly wages. The alley reeks of piss as he walks through it, territorial markings of hundreds of animalistic drunks. Getting in his car he thinks about what he’s going to say, as he rolls down the window to let in fresh air. The cold fall air is crisp and breathable; cold air that had travelled over the ocean, past the lazy beach towns of the coast and over the Santa Cruz Mountains across highways, and sleepy little rural communities once occupied by the now nearly extinct ohlone tribe, settling as a fog in morning over the water, and making it’s way inland to drape itself like a cold blanket over the peninsular city. “Honey I love you I’m...fuck what do i say...fuck, Ok. Honey I love you and I’m sorry for lying, I just cant. Fuck I can’t deal with you after work without having a drink first? No, no that sounds horrible you evil bastard. Ok, I’m sorry, I fucked up, I’ve been having a drink after work every day, and lying that I was at work. I know it’s stupid, I’m not opening up to you enough, I’m sorry.” Maybe that will work he thinks to himself. He’d rather just be honest and get it out at this point then try and plan and maybe manipulate, just tell the whole truth. The trees whizz by on either side of the road as his old brown chevy blazer—with the busted tail light and brown peeling finish— flies into the quiet and picturesque suburban, sputtering, and coughing up smog. The neighborhood is right near downtown Mountain View, tiny little homes for new couples and single google employees, right near Merv’s. On the way he passes a car accident at an intersection, the red and white lights pierce through the darkness, casting ominous shadows as the rescue workers worked on getting a passenger out of a smashed up car. He pulls up to their tiny two Bedroom house, with blue wooden paneling glossed like an after thought over cheap stucco walls, with white four pane windows and ugly maroon blinds that he had picked foolishly for their price one time without asking his wife. A Red Lifted truck sits in the driveway, in brilliant arrogance. He gasps, sighing deep like a man with a bullet in his chest, and puts his hand to his head for a moment, as if in some sort of incredible pain, and then the training kicks in, the separation of emotion from thinking, —the lobotomy of compassion for self—his face overcome with the arrogance of apathy. He turns around to return to Mervs, for his own safety, the echoes of a thousand puzzled therapists echoed in his head. “Just walk away.” Driving back to the bar, he passes the car accident. The red lights are still their flashing, the police have arrived too. He notices the— unmistakable to him— form of a blanket covered corpse. Sitting alone and unattended in its place behind the rescue truck. At the sight of the corpse, there he is again, pulling the sheet over the face of another dead child, to shield others from the shock of such a sight. The tears come now, streaming down his face;there was no guilt, crying over a dead child. He completes his drive to the bar and sits with the other lonely barflys on those aged and torn up barstools. The white azaleas sit in the passengers seat of the bronco, alone.

The room contained two chairs and a desk. In one of the chairs sat a man of about twenty eight years old, bald, wearing a button down shirt. In the other chair sat a man of about fifty five, with a full head of gray hair, wearing a suit. The older man sat in front of the desk, on which sat a few pens plus a legal pad. "So", the older man started, "how are you today, Mr. Johnson?" "Horrible!" the younger man groaned. "Just horrible!" "Oh my... is it a problem with your marriage?" "A problem with my marriage? My wife left me last week! How do you think my marriage is going?" "Oh dear... that's terrible, just terrible. And how does that make you *feel*?" "Horrible, just horrible!" "And you're writing a book, aren't you? How is that coming along?" "Awful! It never stops!" "What do you mean? You're a writer by trade, aren't you? Is it that you're working too much?" "Yes, too much! But the story, it never stops!" "What do you mean?" "You see, I'm writing a story about a writer..." "Go on..." "But the writer in the book is writing a story about a writer." "Hmmm, I see. And what is the problem then?" "The problem is, the writer is writing a story about a writer!" "I'm still not seeing the issue here. What is the issue?" "The issue is, it never ends! It never ends! It just goes on and on..." "And why is that? You're a writer, aren't you? Just write an ending!" The writer groaned. "You still don't get it! The writer in the story... He's writing a story about a writer... but THAT writer is also writing a story about a writer... don't you see? It never ends! The story never ends!" "I'm still not getting it... why can't it end?" The writer put his face in his hands and begins to groan. "So..." the older man continued, "your story is autobiographical, yes?" The writer looked at the therapist intently. He quickly left the office and finished his story in an afternoon.

"Where am I?" "You're on a spaceship, Mr... umm... Mr. 'Paul McElroy'. And this is a test." "A test? What kind of test?" "You see, we've been observing earth for quite some time. We even have a select few operatives already in service on your planet. And the fact is, you have more than a few resources that the Interstellar Agency could use to better the galaxy." "So you want to invade our planet for... oil and minerals?" "Something like that, yes. But interstellar law requires us to prove that the prevailing species of each planet we invade is not worth saving. Hence, you. Hence, this test." "So you've brought me here to see if I have anything to say on behalf of humanity?" "You could say that, yes. We need you to provide any and all evidence that humanity is a species worth saving." "Why me? Why not choose the President of the United States or a professor at Harvard?" "Interstellar law requires a *random* individual to be tested. And our random process has led us to you." "I see..." "We should mention that interstellar law does yield one benefit to you, Mr. McElroy." "And what is that?" "Regardless of whether or not we invade earth, you are welcome to live aboard our spaceship for the remainder of your life." "So... I live but humanity dies?" "That's correct." "Well," the man began. "What about Wikipedia?" "What do you mean, 'Wikipedia'?" "You're asking for evidence of humanity's worth, yes? And I think Wikipedia is a decent example. It's a collection of all of mankind's knowledge up until this point. It chronicles both humanity's history as well as its mathematical and scientific discoveries. As an alien species, surely you could benefit from at least some of our discoveries?" "We've been monitoring earth for some time, now. We are already familiar with the sum total knowledge of your scientific community and have found no benefit to the Interstellar Agency." Taken aback by this response, McElroy sighed. He couldn't believe that this alien species already plumbed the depths of humanity's accumulated knowledge and turned up empty-handed. Every single scientific discovery, every single Einstein or Newton, every single Galileo or Copernicus, was already known to them and deemed worthless. "Well I'm... I...", McElroy stuttered, "I don't know then..." "Might I remind you that this is a test, Mr. McElroy. The fate of earth is in your hands!" "Yeah but... how can I provide evidence of something when you already know everything? Like you said, you've already examined the sum total knowledge of humanity. How can I provide evidence of something outside of that?" "Well, then I suppose it's settled. Earth will be invaded and its resources will become the Interstellar Agency's property. Thank you for your time, Mr. McElroy and, as we previously mentioned, you may remain on our ship." The alien stood up and began to leave the room. Confused and dejected, McElroy grumbled to himself. At that moment, McElroy's thoughts turned to his wife. He had just spoken to her that morning. She had made him eggs and, when she asked what he thought of them, he had just murmured, "they're OK." "They're OK." That would be the last words he would ever speak to her. When he thought of her, all he could think of was soft brush of her hair on his skin as they would lay close to one another. Her wondrous voice, her mesmerizing eyes, her kind smile... Never again would he wake up to hear her calling him a "lazy boy" as she goaded him out of bed. Never again would he feel her warm hand on his shoulder, or the soft brush of her lips on his mouth. Depressed and despairing, McElroy slammed his fist on the table in front of him. "Wait!" McElroy yelled. "I have a request!" The alien turned around to face McElroy. "A request?" "Yes! I request that my wife take my place on this ship instead of me." "Mr. McElroy... think about what you're saying here. Your planet faces sure destruction. If your wife replaces you on this ship, you will die with the rest of humanity!" "I don't care!" McElroy asserted. "I want her to take my place on this ship!" The alien shrugged. "In all of our travels, in all of our conquests, we have never had a single being wish to be replaced on our ship by another. In fact, interstellar law does not even allow for us to return you to earth. You must remain on this ship until the moment of your death!" "No! If I can't save my wife, then I don't want to live!" The alien, after hearing this outburst, looked defeated and moaned to himself. "Selfless love..." he grumbled. He took one last glance at McElroy and whispered, "I must discuss this with my superiors." McElroy opened his eyes and saw the familiar sight of his bedroom's ceiling. "Wait... what... what happened? Where am I?" He quickly sat up and noticed an empty bed. "Paul!" he heard clamoring from the other room. What he felt next was a wave of relief and joy so overwhelming that his surroundings seemed to temporarily glow a brilliant white light. Was this real? "Paul! I've made you breakfast!" Ecstatic and overjoyed, he ran to his kitchen. "So," McElroy's wife started, "how are my waffles?" "They're marvelous, honey... they're the best waffles I've ever had!" "That was a test," she winked. "And you passed with flying colors.

The sad little man was having the worst day of his life. Actually, it was the last day of the worst week in his life, which culminated in him deciding to make it the last week of his life. He made a big special occasion out of it too, treating it sort of like a party he had to plan. And so, he set about the daunting task of party-shopping. He went to the best balloon shop in the city, and although he didn't buy any balloons, he did buy several of the ropes balloons are tied on to. He went to a flower shop, and completely skipped past the flowers straight to the "Pesticides and Poisons" aisle. He also got a pyrotechnic display ready, several guns loaded, aimed, and set up to fire at the open of a door. It was going to be glorious. He even bought a cake at the bakery, although this had nothing to do with his party; he was just hungry. And then, something miraculous happened. As the sad little man turned around, frown on face and cake in hand, he saw a child staring at him. Straight in the face. Not looking up. The child continued to stare him down as the sad little man shifted uncomfortably. Feeling awkward at being stared down by someone so young, he politely asked to be excused and go past, at which point the child adamantly refused. Taking the pacifier out of her mouth, she shoved him down to the ground and began to laugh. It was an ugly laugh, the kind of sound a baby makes that is indistinguishable from a cry. But it was unmistakably laughter, as the child laughed and pointed and mocked in the closest semblance of language she could manage. At that point, the sad little man had an epiphany. For the first time in his sad little life, he had made someone laugh. He had finally been the reason for joy in someone's life, and not anger and frustration. With this newfound realization, the sad little man jumped back up with a new spring in his step, only to get shoved back down again. As the rambunctious laughter continued, the man allowed the child's joy to soak into him as he crawled to a safe distance away and got back up. He looked around him, and saw the world with a new sense of life and purpose, as well as the child running after him with her arms outstretched. The man sprinted back home as fast as he can, only stopping twice to get beat up by the child before she got bored and left, and began to wonder what new directions his life would take as he walked through his front door. And then the pyrotechnics display went off. It was glorious.

I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth - Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in sex, gin and ugh…pheromones. “fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?” “fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.” “fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” We see his previously shock beet red face light up. “Wit MEN fadder wit men. Not little boys” Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and sex and Sodomy and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever. “fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.” “fadder I was in a porn” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church organ. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, shitty drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber. “fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.” Rolling around on the confession booth floor now, “fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to kill myself” Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut. “fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing” By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe. “So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other fucking week some fuckin’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie porn?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over. The priest is mute silent on the subject at first. “My son, I’ve never fucked any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.” This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews. A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.” Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.” “Generationally? Is that even a word?!” “Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me “Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a rum and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.” The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The opiate of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.” Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates and being alone and not changing.” After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot. “Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink fuckin’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on “STOP! You had me at BED” SIl yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into y front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times. “I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.

The following is based on the song I'm sure most of you may not be fans but if you can suffer for 4 minutes I think you'd appreciate this all the more, if you absolutely just CAN NOT do it Thanks guys, enjoy. Imagine the year 2015, NBC comes out with another god damn singing competition, the judge panel is Chris Brown, Taylor Swift and George Bush, the hero, not the one termer. Anyway the show’s on, the final contestant walks on stage, a young man with an acoustic guitar, a subtle smile, and a few mates behind him with their instruments, the audience cheer, the judges look over the contestant and for some reason Taylor Swift appears uncomfortable and somewhat fidgety. Chris: “What’s up man what’s your name and what have you got for us tonight?” "My name is Owen Houston and I’m going to be playing an original song for you all….hi Taylor" he responds Chris: “Oh you know Taylor?” he asks Owen: “Yes, she’s actually the reason why I’m here, see, she has a song called ‘Mean’ which turned out to be a big hit…” Taylor: “Is this… really the best place?” she interjects Owen: “I don’t think there could be a better place, as I was saying, the song Mean, is actually mine, I’ve never played it for anyone except my girlfriend back in 2009, but unfortunately we broke up and she went on to take credit for this song” you hear numerous gasps through out the crowd “Typically I’d let something like this go, but not this song, this one belongs to me.” Taylor appears ready to storm out of the building yet remains seated. Taylor: “Owen, listen, we’ve spoken about this before have we not?” Owen: “We certainly have” he replies Taylor: “I’m sorry about everything but what’s done is done right?” she asks, eagerly awaiting his response. The judges as well as the crowd seem surprised, as if Taylor had just openly admitted to stealing someones’ song Owen: “Absolutely, Taylor….which is why I think the time is right to announce you stole my song, told our friends I hurt you when it was you who cheated on me and took credit to the one song that meant anything to me” Chris: “Yo, what’s he talking about?” Chris asks Taylor but she remains silent Owen: “My song, ‘Mean’ isn’t about Taylor receiving bad criticism, it’s about my relationship with my father so I’d like to take a moment to say…” He stares into the main camera “Dad, whatever pit stop, hole in the wall, you’re in right now, this is for you.” They begin the performance and it blows everyone out of the water and Taylor storms out halfway through. People are in tears given the new found context of the song that had given it such a deeper meaning. Owen went on to progress in the competition but dropped out, his statement got the attention of some of the best country record labels in the nation, he went on to be a legend. TL;DR Mean should have been about dads.

"Don't think about it too much. Don't think about anything too much." He concentrated on the man that had two lines crossed over him. The useless chatter from his partner was beginning to make him lose concentration. "If you think about things too much, you'll begin to realize that none of them really matter. Just shoot the fucker and be done with it." He adjusted his scope to get a closer image of the target. "Ya know what I'm sayin'? Things really don't have any inherent meaning do they? It all really comes down ta some value system or another." He grunted an acknowledgement hoping that would shut his assistant up. It didn't. "Like this lil fuck right here that you're about ta end, his life is ultimately meaningless. So is mine I spose. It isn't ta me though, because I value it, ya know?" "All that matters to me at this point is that I get paid," he responded, again hoping this response would work out better than previous efforts. "See right there, his life does have value ta ya, as long as it ends. You get paid. Is that really wrong? Ya only looking out for yaself." "Right, don't think about the human life I'm about to end, its me or them, yadda yadda its my only choice and I have to look out for myself. Got it. Now shut up." "Sorry boss, just doin some philosophizin before we end this poor fucks life. That makes me wonder, do ya think we only philosophize to justify our own actions?" "I. Don't. Know. Just hand me my cell." His assistant began rummaging through the rucksack. It still didn't shut him up. "Like this philosophy of just lookin out for myself, maybe thats not the best thing ta live by and its just me making sense of why I do the things I do." "Sure." He had given up trying to get him to be quiet. "Heres the celly, call it in I spose. But wait justa minute, maybe it is the right thing and I'm just goin bout it the wrong kinda way." "What could you possibly mean by that?" He had his contacts number on speed dial but he held off to hear his assistants response. "Like maybe it's in my best interest ta not be killin people. Even if I don't have any other decent livin, it'd be better than prison or worse. Maybe I am just committing myself ta an endless cycle of always lookin over my shoulder when I could escape it." "But everything is meaningless so it doesn't matter." How, he thought, how was he able to suck me into this? "Things are not and are meaningless at the same time, its all about the value system. Why not value meaning then? Ya know? Live and let live and not be caught up in an endless cycle and give meaning to things that are in my self interest." He dialed. The voice on the other end was annoyed. "You're late," it said. "I know." "It doesn't matter you still have time, send me the picture." He pressed send. "So that leads me to believe morals are just some kinda value system ya know?" "Yeah, gotchya." His concentration moved back to the target. The voice buzzed through his cellphone, "Thats him, you're clear. Do it and get out." He didn't hesitate, he squeezed the trigger without thinking. He might as well have shot a bag of lifeless money. Actually that would be worse, at least the cash could be spent. His assistant jumped not ready for the sound. "Morals..." he repeated trailing off. He got up from his crouched position, leaned over his assistant and pressed a handgun to his forehead. "You shouldn't think about things too much," he said and he pulled the trigger.

There is a bus stop in the rain with a grandfather clock under the canopy. A young man approaches. An older man is already there, addressing him. “Well good morning!” says the older man. “Good morning.” “Early morning, eh? Going on a trip?” “Yeah, I am…” “I figured from the suitcase. Airport Station?” “Yeah, I’m taking the 48.” “Me too. Looks like just ten minutes or so of a wait. Not too bad.” “I think that clock is fast.” … “My, you got here in a hurry.” “Yeah, I guess I did. How’d you know?” “Well, your coat is unbuttoned. In rain like this, any decent man would have his coat buttoned.” “Yes, I am in a hurry.” … “Why are you leaving?” “Leaving where?” “Leaving who: your family.” “How do you figure that?” “Well, you have mud on your shoes.” “Yeah?” “Well, you live in this neighborhood, else you wouldn’t have come to this stop way out here. So you live in this neighborhood. It’s got plenty of sidewalks, from here to wherever you came from. But you went out the back of your house, sneaked across your lawn. Probably somebody else’s lawn, too. So why are you leaving?” … “I just need more time.” “More time, eh? I think we always need more time.” The man moves the hands of the clock forward seven minutes. The bus arrives. “Oh, the bus is early.” “Is it?” … “Goodbye, Bradley.” Bradley walks back to his house in the rain.

He blinked. I didn't. Staring into the mirror, I looked for any sign of life in his eyes. The dark hair swept across his face made it hard to see. I reached up brushing my own to the side. Looking deeper into his eyes, I thought I saw a spark of recognition. I laughed it off as I went into the bedroom, tossing myself among the blankets and pillows. Darkness. No. Near darkness. Tangled beneath the sheets. Silence. No. The sound. There it was again. Like someone scratching at glass. I pull myself free of the bedding and jump to my feet. A faint, blue glow is coming from the bathroom. I cautiously enter. The mirror is glowing. Cracked. His face is there. Smiling. His grin is far too wide for his face and his teeth unnaturally white. I inch forward, wanting a better look at him. He is... Me. We are identical. His grin somehow grows wider. "My one friend." says the mirror. "No!" I scream, slamming my fist into the mirror. It shatters around my hand. I feel my fist connecting with flesh, and recoil. I felt it hit me. Me. I hit me. I stand back. He, I, we, are still grinning. I lash out again, punching hard into his gut. He doubles over. I do too. We are linked. I slam my fist into my head, he falls back. I need to stop him. He emits a strange but unmistakable aura of terror and evil. I turn to the desk. The steakknife I'd used with dinner sits there on the table. Now I'm grinning. I chuckle to myself as I pick it up. Laughing at the downfall of this creature, I force the knife into my throat. Blood. Everywhere. I look up. He is standing over me. Grinning. Failure. I've failed. Blackness. I am gone.

Like Glass I woke to bright flashes of light. The pain inside my head piercing the back of my eyes and temples in a strobe effect that all to well reminded me of a bad hangover. Hangover. Alcohol. Shreds of my memory started to return. Falling into place like puzzle pieces on some metaphorical board. My mouth was extremely dry. Dry. Desert. I had been in the desert. I had been with Micheal. Micheal. Sara. I saw faces and remembered names but it hurt very much to try and recall more than what came naturally. Eventually the current to the bare bulbs behind me stabilized and the flashing stopped. The pain in my head all but dissipated entirely, turning from spikes to a dull ache. I looked up. I looked left. Left and up looked pretty much the same. Solid, stainless steel walls and the smell of a strong antiseptic. On the ceiling was a speaker. One of those yellowed plastic ones that I recalled from somewhere. The room reminded me of an elevator. An elevator in a hospital. Hospital. Dad. The word came to me but when I tried to put a face to the word the pain in my head exploded, the light seemed to triple in intensity. I saw red then black then wished I could sleep. I was exhausted. Not physically, mentally. As if the process of remembering were taxing my brain in an indescribable way. "Okay." I said aloud, "Okay." Leaning my head back I tried to take a mental inventory of what little I remembered, some things still falling into place. "I was with Micheal, Micheal is my friend. We were in the desert. We were.." My voice trailed off. The speaker above me came to life, "Hello!" A disgustingly bright and cheery voice with a cadence akin to what I imagine a very gleeful demon to sound like. "You are currently in suite one-two-six-zero-four. Your proctor will be with you shortly. Please try to refrain from hurting yourself. Praise!" And a click punctuated the last word. After a few moments of silence, apart from my own heavy breathing I attempted again to look about the room. My hands and arms, all the way to the bicep were bound in what felt like silk. Upon trying to examine them, what little I could due to the leather belt fastening my lower neck, chest, and midsection to whatever I was sitting on, I found that the bindings on my arms were laced in extremely intricate patterns. The ribbons reminded me vaguely of baskets I had seen in some past life, several hundred years and many thousand blackened memories ago. Trying to think at this point was like trying to clean settled ash from a glass window, my mind was becoming less clear but it was becoming more evident that my memories were in fact there. The clothes on my body, and in fact, my body itself, did not seem to belong to me. The shirt, filthy in what I assumed to be dirt and dried blood. The pants I was wearing were much to far away to be seen with the restraints on my neck. My analysis of the person my muddled mind inhabited was drawn to a halt as I heard movement from behind me. My breath caught in my chest as in one sudden motion that reminded me of a flame erupting from a lighter, a man swept around me. He stood, one hand on his chin and the other balled behind his back, peering at me with a rather delighted half smile on his face. "My.. Almost twenty minutes awake and not one call for help from mother." Mother. The word made my head explode in pain again. "Do you know where you are...Sam?" I didn't answer. Two things struck me about the way he spoke. One being that he said my name less like he was addressing me and more like it was a curse that one only uses in times of extreme displeasure. The second thing was much more disconcerting and almost overshadowed the first entirely. He was speaking without moving his lips. Even more troubling his voice was not coming directly from the direction from my person in which he was standing, rather each word seemed to come from a different invisible spectator, scattered all around the tiny room. The man was dressed head to toe, I assumed so anyway as I had to strain to see his knees, in white. A one piece jump suit that looked almost cartoonish. Made of a denim like material with a zipper running the length of the front. The pure white standing in shocking contrast to his pale, yellowish skin. A shockingly filthy mane of black hair, uniformly cut to not obscure his face, even when leaning forward as he was, hung just past his temples. "Well?" Said the man in front of me from behind my back. "I..I'm uhh.." Stammering and fighting the urge to scream. His gaze was almost palpable. "STOP STAMMERING!" The voice screamed from all around me. The devilish man had not moved a fraction of an inch since appearing. "Sorry." I said. I was not scared. I should have been, even through the grime and blackness of my mind I understood that. This all seemed so removed from reality that I was having trouble feeling exact emotions in relation to any aspect of my situation. All I could truly feel was pain. The figure leaned up to a standing position and placed both hands behind his back. "It's fine," the voices around me said, "we have nothing but time to adjust you. You've been very naughty, boy. Luckily we got to you just in time." Time was said in the same disgusting way I had been named. Just as he had come, he went, in a motion not so much akin to moving as it was to being extinguished. My head was hurting again. The light went out, my heart froze, and when both returned to working the blank steel wall was replaced with a black pane of glass. The voices said, "Time to begin." The light on my side of the glass went out and suddenly I saw a man on the other side of the glass. He was very old. A very small amount of white hair clung to skin as frail looking as old parchment. Deep wrinkles had accumulated under the man's eyes and lines were present on the entirety of his face. A bright white light illuminated every aspect of his pale face, giving him a very ghostly look. "You remember dear ol' dad, right?" Memories exploded through my brain, along with an equal amount of pain. My father had died some millennia ago. He'd had a heart attack due to his weakness for prescription pills. At the time, and even now, his passing had not really affected me. When I was a child he had beat me and when I became a man he beat my mother. I hated him. Seeing him now as a dying, sad little creature..wait. No. Not dying. Very much dead. The closer I looked the more I noticed, his eyes were dull like filthy glass. Recollections and painful memories pierced my head. "Weak. He was. You are." The light on the other side of the glass flashed for an instant and the expressionless face was replaced by a nightmarish grin, impossibly large and stomach churningly close to my face. It was like someone had shoved my face centimeters from the glass. My breathing became more labored as the belt on my neck tightened and heart began to thunder in my chest. I heard a humming like a mix of an old television and a child singing in the distance. My fathers head fell to one side with a gruesome crack. I opened my mouth to scream and as I did, everything righted itself. In less than an instant I was back where I had been. The glass panel was gone, replaced by the stainless wall and I was back in the center of the room. My breathing short and ragged, my heart pounding, the light behind me hummed and finally flashed again.

"Roy... Wake up... Roy wake up!" A soft woman's voice filled the room for a moment. "Boy! Wake up boy!!!" A shadow spluttered as the boy opened his eyes. A small room housed them both, one door was all that separated them from freedom and nothing but a dying candle kept them from the dark. Each curled into their own corners waiting for nothing. "What do you want..?" Replied the boy as his tired eyes struggled to see through the darkness covering the voice. "Whats your name boy?" The shadow beckoned. "I haven't got a name, none of us have you know that." There was a moment silence before the shadow broke it with a snigger. "Then were are you from boy?" The shadow grew smaller. "Nowhere" He replied. "I was born here". "Was you now? Well who's ya father then?" The shadow shrunk and the man was nearly visible. "I don't know." "And your mother?" The boy hesitated. "I don't remember her." His voice broke. "And who are you?" The voiced asked his last question after a pause. "I'm nobody" Answered the boy. Outside the door screams of dying men could be heard calling for their mothers. "Its a bad idea to sleep boy, bad things can happen when people like us dream." The shadow was now replaced with a very feint glow from the candle. A man hurled in the corner chained to the wall with no eyes stared into the darkness. "How did you know I was sleeping? How did you know I was here?" The boy asked. "I could see you" Answered the man with no eyes. "How can you see me you have no eyes?" The boy asked bewildered. "You don't need eyes to see you little shit. I've seen things beyond the needs of eyes. I have loved a hundred lives, bed a bed a hundred wives and died a hundred deaths! And now my journey ends here with the likes of you." The boy understood but didn't respond. "So whats your number, boy?" The boy didn't reply. "I said whats your number, you motherless bastard!" He raised his voice to try and get a rise out of his cellmate. "101..." The boy whispered. "101?... You must be special then." The room stood deadly silent for a long time while the two men lay in the dark. "They'll be here soon, for me, for you. For all of us" The stranger broke the silence. "I know, that's why id rather sleep through it" Replied 101. The eyeless man let out a hearty laugh as he tried to stand. "Can you hear them? Climbing the walls? How high do you think we are? Ten feet? A hundr-" "I don't care." The boy interrupted. "I don't care how high we are, how long it will take them to get here, or how loud you'll scream while they skin you alive. I just want to sleep. So fuck off and shut it." Footsteps could be heard climbing a thousand steps below. "Its only a matter of time now" The eyeless man mumbled. "This is bad time and place for people like us. They say the men of the east can shoot fire from their hands because of their scientists. The west is riddled with disease and death. And the north and south wage war over the right of the cornerstone. " The boys ears pricked up. "You know about the cornerstone?" Asked the eyeless man. "Whoever holds the cornerstone holds the world in their mercy, and the one hundred are sworn to protect it." The boy looked down in disappointment. "At least I'll die with another of my kind." The man said quietly. "Don't pretend you don't know who I am boy, I know who you are." The footsteps outside the door grew louder as the boy turned to face the eyeless stranger. "I am the first of my hundred, and you are the first of yours. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy stared in silence and looked towards the ground again. "Born and die to protect the stone." He whispered to himself. The eyeless man was standing now, standing much taller than he looked. Candlelight shined onto his rotted skin and wherever the light touched grew younger in what seemed like decades. "Born and die to protect the stone. Remember those words boy, or you may forget yourself." Said the first. "What does it matter anyway the reavers will kill is any moment now!" The boy exclaimed. "Aye, they will." Confessed the first. "We will both be eaten alive and theres nothing we can do, so lie down, close your eyes and until we meet again. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy lay still and closed his eyes as the door crashed open, he didn't dare open his eyes as he heard the eyeless man scream in agony. "BORN... AND DIE... BY THE STONE!!" The room stood still as the words left the dead mans lips, the boy felt the world moving around him and heard sounds of steel hitting steel, explosions and automatons. Before the noise could deafen him forever, a soft woman's voice spoke out. "Roy.. Wake up Roy..". This is just a short story/prologue I had a go at today.

Just a little piece I wrote for part of my degree course. First post, so let me know what you think! In a darkened room, within the confines of a dank house, a man spits his local vernacular at the cream crumbling wall opposite him. He drinks from the mouth of an oversized bottle of cheap whiskey – a friend of necessity – whilst, slowly, his body sinks into its final moments. The man stretches from his now reclined armchair and scrabbles for the dirt-covered remote that lies beside him, eternal and loyal; an intrepid entertainer to the last. He struggles to lift the remote, as he struggles to lift his heavy head, as his body struggles to beat and thrive and survive. The epitome of sadness and loneliness; the kind of man you might feel for, but never touch , if you were to see him struggling down the street in his long unwashed clothes, wearing his straw beard with pride as he yells obscenities to passers by. His true issues are swept inside the bottle, in favour of his flavourful local accent and the slow crawl with which he establishes his pace. No matter how selfless a bystander, none would approach this soul, to lead him away from the path of decay. The moments that give the most clarity also prompt the most remorse. The wife he never had nor lost flashes across his imagination, the children he would never love, the mother and father that provided so little, yet gave so much. He never realised the world of his imaginings. His aspirations soared high, yet sunk to the bottom of his glass. The channel switches but he stays the same, sinking lower and lower into the pit of his armchair; which envelopes him, encourages him and whispers in his ear. He will not share with anyone the complexities of his pain, tantalizing thoughts of death, that in themselves are more destructive than any noose he has tried to tie with his own grubby, clumsy hands. His arm becomes limp, releasing the remote from its servitude onto the carpeted floor, a motion increasingly common in these drunken episodes. His blood begins to slow, the unbranded whiskey bottle rolls from his face and on to his lap. His mouth slips open and his tongue falls out, flapping against his chin; his breath becomes laboured and his eyes begin to flitter around the room desperately. As his body begins its shutdown, the man regrets it all. Advice once given becomes clearer and clearer, he begins to understand. He salivates at the thought of family, of love, however easily it could be mistaken for an anticipation of death. His eyelids flicker, his drowsiness reaches a peak. The doors of his eyelids shut, closing upon his ambition, his dreams, his life, his loves. He enters the catatonic state of endless sleep, of a peace not known to him before. His dry mouth opens one last time, to give a final utterance about the futility of his life, the accumulation of years of lies, disappointment and betrayal. But nobody was around to hear it.

This is my first time ever on reddit for anything because it was suggested to me in order to get feedback on my writing. Let me know! I look at my watch, running toward the Jeffers estate. My family and I just moved here so I only know that the town has been prosperous under the Jeffers family, Cooper Jeffers to be accurate. It’s announced everywhere in town, the economy thrives off the Jeffers company, Jeffers Inc. So naturally, here is where I began to look for a job. I never really imagined getting a job at their personal estate. Although actually technically Cooper’s son, Aaron has his own mansion. MANSION. When I was taking a tour on my first day of work five days ago, I expected a mansion, but definitely not two. The main house is bigger, and just ridiculously lavish. I freely gawked at everything I saw. And then we met/ran into the females of the family, Elaina and Sadie. They explained that Elaina was the oldest and Sadie was the youngest. Then why would Aaron have his own house? I remember thinking. And then I realized it was because Aaron was the son, the boy. And I felt horrified at this notion, but Elaina and Sadie seemed perfectly happy when we saw them. I heard they went to the top private school in the city about 15 miles away. I, of course, go to the public school in town. It’s made up of different kinds of people, but all are in families employed by the Jeffers. Their family owns my entire school. It’s a thought that sends me into a storm of jealousy and then a spiral of hate. You see, my father is a machine operator at one of the Jeffers’ plants. He had to move here to get better pay. My mother is a schoolteacher, elementary school. And I have a little annoying brother named Max. So my family isn’t rich, but we aren’t poor. I feel pretty average. I’m fifteen and he’s thirteen. A pretty typical, average American family. But these Jeffers people, they are definitely not. They are the kings of modern society and I immediately make assumptions about Aaron. He is probably a slacker with no ambitions of his own, just waiting to get his GED or diploma or whatever so he can inherit his fortune and live however he wants for the rest of his life. I excused myself to the toilet, and plopped down on the seat, exasperated. Already. (And not that I actually had to go to the bathroom). How can I work for these people? They’re everything wrong with society! I remember thinking. I smile at my thoughts that day, still awkwardly running to the house. Because when I had left the bathroom, my day declined further, I was assigned to Aaron’s house. I was about to just slip out the door quietly when I heard the hourly pay. That made me turn my attitude right around. …Everyone has their price I guess. Anyway, when I had toured and been trained for the first five days, Aaron had been in the hospital. I only remembering hearing that he had fallen under some misfortunes and not much else. So I focused on learning everything. And now here I am, the first day I get to work independently and I’m going to be late! I notice a huge crowd of people outside. Oh shit! Shit! Shit! I just now remember that Aaron is coming home today and they are throwing a party for him. So I run up to the house and look for a place to stash my things. “Need help?” I hear a voice I recognize. I turn and see a girl my age named Grace. I met her three days ago in Aaron’s house while we got assigned to tidy up his study. We gossiped about the family. I am so thankful to see her I smile. “You are my guardian angel. Where can I put this?” I ask her holding up my bag. It has food, my cell phone, some money and my house keys. I take the public bus back and forth. “Over here,” she says, taking me to a room inside the mansion. There were people’s things everywhere. “This room has video surveillance so no one ever steals anything.” “Oh, good,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor. When we were cleaning the study a few days ago Grace told me she is 16, and goes to a different private school than Aaron, but in the same city near here named Salin Falls. Her father is headmaster there. She knows of Aaron well, like many of the other people in town. She told me he loves sports, and is extremely good at them. They’ve played against each other’s schools and she goes to the games just to watch him. She couldn’t tell me anymore because we were summoned by Sherri, our supervisor. Now she leads me through a maze of people outside again, looking back at me. “We have to get a good spot, he’s really gorgeous.” She looks excited to see him but I feel hesitant. I still slightly despise the entire family. “I heard he and his dad used to get in fights all the time until recently. Aaron wants to pursue a career in sports while his dad wants him to take over the family business.” I stare at her, shocked, mouth slightly open. I come to realize I am no Nancy Drew, and that my assumptions always have a way of biting me in the ass. I would be a terrible profiler. “What?” she asks, tilting her head, confused at my shocked reaction. “Oh, nothing, I’m just a total idiot.” It’s then that we hear the car approach. I feel nervous almost as the family steps out of the car, but they close the doors without any other man except for Cooper. I had met Cooper only yesterday when he returned home to gather some things and take a shower. I happened to wander onto the estate as he was climbing out of the car, leaning on a cane. He bent over to grab his bag but I offered to carry it for him. He stopped, looked at me with a smile and said “Okay, young lady, let’s see what you’ve got.” “I’ve got more than you’d think!” I had stupidly responded, and immediately blushed. What the hell? But the man had just laughed. He was attractive I had come to realize, with fading dark red hair and dark brown eyes. He also had a mole, but it made him look distinguished in a way. “I bet,” he had responded with a chuckle. I carried his bag inside for him. “What’s your name, miss?” he asked me. “My name is Layla.” “Layla?” “My father used to be way too obsessed with Eric Clapton.” I sighed. But Cooper found this very funny and laughed more. “Well, Layla, thank you for carrying my bags. I very much enjoyed our chat. Do you work here?” “At Aaron’s, I mean, your son’s, I mean Mr. Jeffer’s house.” I stumbled over my words and once again Cooper finds this amusing. He smiled brightly at me. “Good. He could use someone like you in his life.” And that was all. Then I went back to work. And looking at him now, he looks all business. He gathers with the other family members and a stunning black haired young woman. “Who’s that?” I ask Grace, spellbound. “Oh, that’s Mirabella.” “She’s one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.” At this, Grace shakes her head. “She’s not a woman, she’s an AI.” “AI?” “She’s artificial intelligence, a robot. She is Aaron’s and she goes everywhere with him.” I am so shocked by this I stare at Grace and almost miss Aaron getting out of the car. Almost. But he seems to demand everyone’s attention. I look, and though I thought I was spellbound by the girl-robot, this guy takes the cake. Grace was right, he is really gorgeous. He’s toned, a few shades darker than my pasty white skin. His hair is dark-red and he is the spitting image of Cooper. But better. He has some stubble, but it only enhances his appearance. He has the natural build of an athlete, and I guess he is over six feet in height. I can’t see his eyes because he is wearing aviator sunglasses, but my God is he handsome. And though I am captivated, I feel even more hatred towards him. He is athletic, gorgeous and rich. This guy must be a complete asshole. He has it made. But then I notice he is holding onto the door for support, and people are helping him stand. He’s hurt. And once again, my conflicting emotions decide that although I feel like a complete dumbass and a terrible human, I also feel a little tiny bit of satisfaction. He can’t be on top all the time, it just simply isn’t fair. Especially to us bottom-feeders. We should have a chance too, you know. Well, regardless of my conflicting emotions, I watch as he is helped into a wheelchair. He clearly winces in pain and I feel genuinely bad for him, if only for an instant. Then his beautiful robot-girl tends to him and people approach, flocking and obviously concerned and fond of this guy. I even lose Grace in the crowd rush but turn and leave. No point in me sticking around here, there is a party going on and I have work to do. Back at the mansion I clean, but I am consumed with thoughts of him. He’s captured me. I get angry at this and try to clear my thoughts of him. I try to think of my new school, my friends from back home, my ex-boyfriend, my dog Sprinkles, my cat Cookie. Cookie is my baby girl. I try to think of everything and anything that isn’t Aaron Jeffers, but my mind keep reverting back to him. I am putting dishes away in the kitchen when I hear yelling. I hear multiple people yelling and I hear the front door slam closed. I creep over to the hallway and peer into the front room. People are carrying Aaron and his wheelchair up the stairs while he is tiredly fighting them. I thought he had yelled the name “Mira” and I now notice that his black-haired beauty isn’t with him. But his sisters are with him. I creep out further and listen. Sherri is with them now at the top of the stairs, I hear. Sherri asks Aaron what has happened, and I hear one of his sisters tell her to start a bath. She goes to the bathroom and I am about to run back to the kitchen when she looks down and spots me. “Layla,” she hisses loudly. I look up at her guiltily. “Oh, hello,” I say, looking around nervously. She motions for me to come up there. “Come help!” I sigh relief as I jog up the stairs and wait where she asks me to. I’m glad I’m not in trouble for spying. All three Jeffers children approach the bathroom now and I keep quiet and hide a little as they enter. But I watch them, and notice Aaron looks extremely upset, a bit pale, and uncomfortable. I also see his leg closer now, it’s wrapped heavily in bandaging. He must be in pain. And now I remember suddenly, like a slap in the face that he was in the news recently. He had helped avert some town gas drilling crisis because he got shot (yes, with a gun) and the company pulled out of town. They called it a malevolent act by a school sports-team rival. Now I feel like a stupid, stupid girl. Here is this guy, just doing the best he can and I judged him so quickly. I even felt some perverted pleasure over his pain. And now I feel plain horrible. I don’t even deserve to work for this guy. I am tempted to call it quits and work at an establishment where I won’t feel like a terrible person every time I see the owner/boss. But Sherri emerges again. “Get some painkillers from the medicine cabinet and a cold wash cloth, hurry!” I run to get his pills and a wet cloth. I return and give her the items, my hands shaking. She takes them quickly and enters the bathroom again. When she leaves this time his sisters follow in suit. They go downstairs and tell us both to help him if he calls for it. Sherri and I nod resolutely and wait. After about ten minutes of us patiently waiting, Cooper Jeffers enters the front door, and looks up at us. He gives me a little smile, and then beckons to Sherri, he wants her to go with him. I look at her desperately. I want to cry and beg her not to leave me. “Okay, girl, if he calls for you, answer right away. He’s trying to relax in a bath right now so do not be alarmed. The jets are on, you won’t see him naked. Only address him as sir or Mr. Jeffers, and don’t talk loudly, his head hurts a lot right now. Get him whatever he asks for right away. And if you have to handle him for some reason, for God’s sake be gentle, make sure you don’t hurt him further.” She turns and leaves while I am still processing everything she just said. I want to ask her to repeat it so I can copy it down op paper but she is already halfway down the stairs now.

The Interview, It was forty five minutes before the interview for my new job. The traffic was moving steady and everything was going smoothly. I made sure to play it safely and leave extra early because I couldn’t afford to take any chances. My landlord, Mr. Schroeder, told me that he found someone he is going sell the apartment that I live in to which meant I would no longer have a free place to stay. All morning while getting ready for the interview Mr. Schroeder’s voice was in the back of my mind saying, “Don’t mess it up, or in a month you’ll be living under a bridge warming your hands over a pile of burning garbage”. Mr. Schroeder was an unfriendly and sour man, probably in his late sixties. Although bitter, he was still nice enough to give me a free place to stay while I was out of a job. He did so mainly because he was good friends with my parents before they passed away a decade ago. Although he thought me to be lazy and spoiled, I’d also like to think that he let me stay there for free because deep down he actually cared for my well-being. Over the past year I had tried to get many different jobs but none worked out and Mr. Schroeder constantly reminded me of my failures and incompetence. He insisted that this interview would turn out just the same as all of the others; his negativity made me determined to prove him wrong. This particular job happened to be for my area of expertise, which was working with numbers and maintaining budget within a business. During the car ride to the interview I thought about responses to some of the questions that might be asked. I thought about what the response to my response would be and how I would respond to that. Because my focus was on the interview in the near future, I wasn’t focused enough on what I was doing in the present, which was operating a motor vehicle. Going about 20 mph I rear ended the car in front of me which was slowing down for the car turning ahead of it. I gasped and then hit my head down on the steering wheel while saying to myself, “WHY today, Of ALL days, why TODAY, would I do something so foolish!?” After a few seconds I looked up and a man dressed in a super snazzy, pin striped, blue business suit was walking up to my car. Immediately, I got out of the car and began to apologize profusely hoping that there was some way to make the whole thing go by quickly enough for me to make it to my job interview on time. Despite my frantic apologizing the man still seemed frustrated and he told me to write down my insurance info right away. I rummaged through my car and found a pen. The man already had a piece of paper handy. While jotting down my info he told me to hurry up because there was somewhere that he needed to be. I thought to myself, “It is my lucky day! Since we both need to get this done quickly, I can actually get to my job interview on time.” After we assessed the damage to the cars (which was minimal) the man told me he would be in touch and that if the damages were not covered, he would see me in court. Afterwards he hopped into his sports car and sped off down the street. It took a few minutes of sitting on the side of the road for me to collect my thoughts and prepare myself again for the interview. Finally, I arrived and knocked on the door to where the interview was supposed to take place but just as my fist hit the door; I looked down and realized that my shoelace was untied. The last thing that I wanted was to look unprofessional, so I bent down to tie my shoelace. Just as I bent down the door to the office opened and when I looked up, all that I could see was that insanely stylish, pin striped, blue business suit. I just kneeled there for what felt like an eternity staring up at the man, like a dog waiting to be fed dinner scraps; expecting him to go off. I figured he would yell at me for hitting his car and then tell me to leave because there was no way that someone as incompetent as I would ever get a job working for a man like him. However to my surprise, after what was only a few seconds he smiled at me and said “Hello down there, are you going to get up and shake your future bosses hand?” Needless to say this confused me, but I hopped up and shook his hand regardless. His firm handshake and friendly stare led me to think that he had somehow forgotten me from the incident that had occurred only half an hour prior. We both walked into the office and sat down to begin the interview. He explained to me that he has put ads in the paper, on the internet and even on the radio and still I was the only one that called about the job. He told me that the company was in such desperate need of a budget manager and assistant that he would hire me right away, if the interview went smoothly. He started to ask me questions and I had a thorough answer for each one. By the end of the interview he seemed to be impressed with my expansive knowledge about business and he told me that he looked forward to having me work for him and his brother in their family owned and operated company. I thanked him and we shook hands once again. Right before walking out the door, I realized that because of my nervousness when I first saw the man, I forgot to even ask his name. He told me his name was Mr. Bartle but he preferred his employees to call him by his first name, “Aaron”. I walked out of the office and down the steps, relieved to have gotten the job but still confused as to why the man did not recognize me from earlier. I swore that it was the same person from the car crash; they had the same clothes, face, same hair color, even the same voice. However, his voice sounded much less soft and caring when he was telling me to write down my insurance info and his eyes didn’t have the same friendly gaze. The whole drive home was spent questioned my own sanity. I wondered if I had just not gotten a good enough look at the man whom I hit, or if my nervousness about the crash and getting the job caused me to imagine that he and Mr. Bartle was the same person. Whatever the reason, I was still glad to get the job so that I could go home and boast about it to Mr. Schroeder. Upon my arrival home, Mr. Schroeder was waiting in the hallway for me just so he could ask “So how did you manage to screw up this time, did you get nervous and crack under pressure or did you just not even show up to the interview again?” To which I replied, “As a matter of a fact I did show up to the interview and My NEW BOSS says that I DEFINITELY got the job.” He looked amazed, for a split second, before saying “Well, you’ll do something to get yourself fired once you start your first day, I’m sure of it.” I just ignored him, kept on walking into my apartment and shut the door. Right when the door closed, my cell phone began to ring. It was my car insurance company calling. I picked up the phone reluctantly, afraid of what the penalty for an accident that was fully my fault would be. The insurance adjuster asked me for my side of what happened in the accident and I answered, truthfully. I explained that I was in a distracted state of mind and was not paying enough attention to the rode and that the accident was entirely my own fault. I was happy to learn that because I had full coverage the damages to both vehicles would be paid for in their entirety with only a slight increase in cost of insurance per year. Everything seemed to be going smoothly again until the insurance adjuster told me the first name of the person I hit was “Andrew” and the last name was “Bartle”.

I'm not sure if this story is edited enough or even if it "works", but fuck it let's ship it anyway. PS. the ending is pretty bad, I know :( Roberta looked at her measurement equipment and smiled. "The atmosphere is stable. Just as we had assumed." She removed her helmet took a deep breath. "Yep. The atmosphere's just fine." Behind them stood a spacecraft of epic proportions. The government had spent billions of dollars to ensure a successful trip to this new planet. After all, this was a once in a lifetime discovery. A far off planet in a star's "Goldilocks Zone" with oceans like Earth? It was only a matter of time before a mission was conceived. "OK. Let's split up into teams and explore the surrounding area. Elizabeth and Michael, you head south. Frank and I will head north." "Sure thing, Roberta. Let's go exploring!" The next thing Roberta knew she was waking up on a beach. She looked to her left, she looked to her right, but saw nothing. "Frank?", she yelled. She sat up and looked around. The ship was nowhere in sight. Alone and on a foreign planet, she began to panic. "FRANK?" she yelled louder. No response. She looked out into the distance and saw a hopeful sight: someone was walking toward her. "Frank? Is that you?" She ran toward the man. As she got closer, she saw a face she didn't recognize. A tall man with brown hair wearing a button-down shirt and jeans. As she approached, her confusion grew. "Who... who are you?" "Hello, there! I'm Roger. It's a pleasure to meet you!" "Listen, I know you might be confused," the man continued. "Maybe even a little scared. But there's nothing to worry about. You're going to be just fine." "What... what are you talking about?" "A strange man approaches you on a strange planet... of course you would have questions! It's only natural!" "So... you're from... *here*?" "Of course! Listen, let me offer you something to eat. I'm starving! It's been so long since I've eaten. I've almost gone mad!" "Well... OK. What sort of food do you have here on..." "...let's just call this place Zephyr! What a nice name, no?" "Sure. So... what sort of food do you have here on Zephyr?" "It may not be what you're used to, but we have plenty to share!" "And what is it you have to share?" "Ever have kidney on Earth?" "Well, no." "Well then you're in luck! Because today we're having kidney!" Roger pointed to a fire a short way away. "My friend and I are just cooking up some kidney right over there! Why don't you join us?" "Well, sure I suppose... I have so many questions!" "All in time, my friend. All in time..." They approached the other man, who said, "Howdy! I'm Hank!" "Howdy Hank! I'm Roberta! It's a pleasure to meet you." "Well, golly... I assure you the pleasure is all mine!" said Hank. "Come and have some kidney!" Roberta sat down at the fire and began to eat. "Well this tastes... interesting." "Well that's because it's a new taste to you! A new taste on a new planet!" Hank, though not unwelcoming, appeared to leer at Roberta. "You're just experiencing all sorts of new things, aren't you?" Hank smiled at Roger. "And actually," Hank continued, "we don't just have kidney... we have liver as well! You see, here on Zephyr, we like to enjoy the *whole* animal... kidney, liver... even the brain! But we usually save that for last, why don't we, Roger?" "Yep, that's right, Hank! Save the brain for last is what I always say!" "Well it sure is interesting..." Roberta said. "Now," Hank continued, "go on with your questions!" "Well," Roberta continued, "where is the rest of your species?" "That's a... difficult question. Why don't you go ahead and ask something else?" "Well... what's wrong with the question I asked?" "Aww, would you look at that!" Hank continued. "We just ran out of kidney and liver. You know what that means, Roger!" "Indeed I do! That means..." "On to the brain!" "On to the brain, yes that's right." "Now listen, Roberta," Hank continued. "Things might start to get a bit... weird in a while. But you just have to remember, it's all an illusion! Just one big illusion, now!" "That's right!" Roger chimed in. "Just one big illusion!" "What..." Roberta continued, "what are you talking about...?" "Now listen, Roberta, you're gonna be fine, just fine! So long as you remember that what comes next is just one big old illusion!" In the distance, Roberta could see storm clouds gathering. "I... I don't understand." "Well that's alright! Because you're just human Just a poor little human..." In the distance, she noticed another man walking toward her. "Who's that? Another one of your friends?" "Well we don't know what you're talking about, Roberta. Ain't nobody comin' this way!" "Yep, that's right, ain't nobody comin' this way. God, I love brain!" "Yep, brain's the best!" "What..." Roberta began to panic, "what's happening? What's going on? I don't understand..." "You don't *have* to understand, Roberta," Hank continued, "you're *human* after all." "Yep, that's right, human through and through! 100 percent! We would know!" Roberta began to panic. Blood rushed from her face and she felt a horror she had never felt before. "What's happening? What are you doing to me?" "Well now, Roberta," Hank continued, "that's a... *difficult* question." "Yep, difficult indeed!" "And," Roberta continued, "who is that man that's approaching? Why won't you tell me?" "Ain't no man approaching, Roberta. You have to remember now, your brain's not gonna be workin' right. You gotta remember it's all one big illusion!" "Yep, illusion, that's it, Hank!" "What..." Roberta looked on with panic in her eyes, "what do you mean, 'my brain's not working right'? What... what are you doing to me?" The man got closer. Close enough to see. Roberta looked up and recognized... her father. "D... dad? What... what's happening? What's going on here?" "Now, Roberta," her father started, "you're gonna be fine, just fine! Come here, come here! You can cry on my shoulder, just like you used to!" "Oh God! What am I talking about? You're not my father! You *look* like him but you're *not* him! Who *are* you? What are you doing to me?" "Now now, Roberta," her father continued, "you're acting up! You should relax... After all, you knew you would encounter *new* experiences when you left Earth. You *knew* you would encounter things you couldn't explain." "Oh God!" Roberta began to shake with fear. "Yep," Hank went on, "she knew... she knew she would encounter new things." "Yep, that she did," Roger chimed in. "Now Roberta," her father continued, "I just want you to know that this isn't your fault. You knew you would encounter new things, but you couldn't possibly expect anything like *this*. You're human, after all, and your *tiny* little brain couldn't even comprehend it! It's not your fault... it's not your fault, Roberta. Now come here and cry your eyes out, just like you used to..." "What... what's happening? Why are you doing this to me?! You're monsters!" "Mmm," Hank continued, "I love brain." "Brain is great, brain is great! Best part, I'll tell you what." "Now Roberta," her father continued, "I want you to look over there." He pointed toward the storm. "In a few moments, you're going to see something come out of that. To be honest with you, it's not going to matter *what* comes out of there. Because it's not going to be *real*. At least *real* in the sense that you're thinking. But what *will* be real is the fact that you're not going to make it out of this alive." He looked at her softly. "Mmm, I love brain," Hank continued. "Best part, best part!" "So I want you to keep looking in that direction," her father continued, "keep your eyes out!" In the distance, Roberta saw the storm get worse. Out of it she saw a man on a bike. "Oh God! Have mercy! Please, have mercy on me! Oh God!" "If it's any help to you," her father continued, "you can cry out it right here on my shoulder... there, there, Roberta... it's gonna be just fine..." The man on the bike approached. From where she stood, Roberta could just barely make out an assault rifle on his shoulder. He eventually reached the campsite. When he did, he pointed his rifle at Roberta. "God," Roberta cried out, "God please save me! Please have mercy on me!" Her father looked on with a soft disapproval. "There is no God, Roberta." The man with the gun began to speak, "Any last words? For the *super smart* human scientist?" Hank and Roger laughed uproariously. Roberta fell to her knees clasped her hands together. "Please stop! Please stop!" She closed her eyes and, after a short while, took her final breath.

It was 2:30 AM on a busy new york street. Everything is normal, people walking, talking on their cellphones, calling for taxis. One man, however, seems out of place. Dressed in a dark black cloak, he takes long strides down the street. Most people don't even take a second glance at him, some stop and stare, others laugh. Then, the cloaked man walks in a burrito store. Loco Burritos is the store name. He walks up to the counter. "Hello, how may i help you?" The female cashier says in a cheerful, perky voice. "Yeah, uh, i need a... a" The man pauses. "You need a what, sir?" The cashier asks, brushing her dirty blonde hair out of her eyes. The man clears his throat. "I need one burrito, with, uh, salsa, lettuce, turkey, and onions in it." The man glances behind him. A police officer and his buddy watch him intently. "Alright, that will be 7.49 sir." The man looks up at the cashier. He then pulls his cloak off, revealing several grenades, a bullet proof vest, a small sub-machine gun with 3 extra mags, and a revolver. The two police officers stand up and draw their stun guns. "Hands in the air, right now!" One of the officers yells. The man puts hist hands slightly above his shoulders and slowly turns around. The two police officers are converging on him slowly. One calls for backup. Then, out of nowhere, the man throws two razor sharp throwing knives at the officers. Both knives land in their adams apples. They crumple to the floor. Then, the man turns around, draws his handgun, and yells are the cashier, "The burrito, now!" The cashier jumps and runs back to the back of the shop. There is some arguing, then the cashier returns with the burrito. "Here you go, please don't hurt me." She says, cringing, "Excellent" The man says. He runs outside. His escape vehicle is waiting right where it should be. He stuffs the burrito into his mouth, gets in the car, and starts the engine. Already, the sirens are blaring down the street. The man floors it down the street, dodging cars. The man pulls the burrito out of his mouth. "Man" he says with a mouth full of meat and salsa, and onion hanging half out of his mouth. "This is a good burrito." Suddenly, he looks ahead to see a police roadblock. He looks frantically for somewhere to go, but before he can turn into the parking lot branching off the road, he smashes into the roadblock. He stumbles out of the car. Taking one last bite of his burrito, he pulls out of his sub-machine gun and yells "This burrito is too good to live without!" He then begins firing blindly into the line of police cars, screaming. Chunks of meat and salsa spit out of his mouth. Suddenly, the man stops. He drops to his knees, makes a gagging noise, and begins clutching his throat, gagging all the more. Food still spits out of his open mouth as he frantically clutches his throat, thrashing about. Then he stops, and collapses to the floor, face as blue as the sea. When the police moved in the inspect the body, they find he choked on a large piece of turkey. One officer is clearly angry about the whole incident. "We lost two perfectly good officers, over, a, a, burrito!?" No one knows if the burrito was really good enough to die for. "Yeah, i mean, i like the burritos, but i would never kill for one" A frequent customer says. "Oh, he was always crazy." A neighbor of the man says. "He was trying to grow burritos in his backyard." Police are now being trained to deal with crazy, burrito wielding psychopaths.

So I got this idea after my mother told me this is how she survived when she was forced into child prostitution at a very young age. She wanted me to write some of the actual events of her life into this piece but at the same time help give her a happier and more adventurous childhood. *Story: An anxiety ridden teen girl who lived as a child prostitute for several years is saved by a drug addict and his 2 untrusting roommates (an escaped convict and a homeless, childless, agoraphobic mother)in a dirty, abandoned house after escaping from a murderous client. None of the roommates trusts each other to help take care of the child at all but since they now have a child on their hands, it's certain that someone needs to find a job. Upon learning that the girl makes more money a week than the jobless lot ever do, the addict urges her to continue to provide for everyone just until one of them can take over. Reluctantly, the girl agrees and continues while the other 3 try to get it together, relationship and job-wise. As time goes on, each show signs of improvement but soon begin to fall back into their old habits and character. Suicide is now the main focus as they begin to believe there is no hope for a different future. The 3 debate on whether or not to go through with self-destruction but remembering that the girl could never live on her own snaps them quickly back into reality. Together, they learn to cope with who they are while working together to change each others lives for the better and create a future for the girl.

At the party, everything was as it should have been. It was held in Ryan Tabernathy’s room. The double quads were notorious for having the greatest parties of the century. Anybody who was anybody always showed up to these gatherings. If you didn’t get an e-invitation, you were nobody. This is how Ryan’s parties were always better than the rest: they were always well-coordinated. The music was methodically chosen and oftentimes themed costume parties were implemented, insofar as the large groups of the Phi Beta Kappa sorority house showed up to the parties—even though they really didn’t have a choice, their reputation depended on it. Back in Westpoint High, Ryan had had the exact same temperament as he would subsequently adopt for his sorority parties. The Tabernathys were huge corporate execs, whose money rose from floor to ceiling. They had a four-story house and a six-figure income. His father was always busy at the offices of Tabernathy & Co. filing class-action lawsuits for ordinary citizens and reaping inordinary benefits. But, in fact, Ryan had his very own summer cottage thanks to a recent suit which had involved a Black Friday shopper having been beaten maliciously by a mall cop, to where the blonde-haired blue-eyed female victim had settled for a meager $2.8 million against the mall, royalties of which went directly to Tabernathy & Co.—or more specifically, Mr. Tabernathy. Tabernathy & Co. also had a tendency to prefer taking celebrity court cases. Recently, singer-songwriter EZ Ca$h had been accused of beating his newlywed wife. She sued him for all he was worth. Legal proceedings were subject to pathos (she was an accredited Oscar-nominated actress, and her abilities truly shone through in these hours) and Mrs. Ca$h came out of the whole ordeal with $13.2 million, nearly the rapper’s entire holdings. From the millions of earnings EZ Ca$h had made through his eight studio albums (among them, “Ca$h made EZ” and “King EZ 3: Gun 2 Tha Temple” both certified double platinum), sixty-percent royalties went directly to Tabernathy & Co., more specifically Mr. Tabernathy—a monumental sum which would later attribute to Ryan’s ownership of one summer cottage. These earnings were also reflected in Ryan’s allowance, which was of a steady rate of x², moving increasingly upward, parabolic—“Always to the right of the origin,” such was the Tabernathy family motto. Ellen Tabernathy was just as prodigal in her spending as Ryan, investing with her husband’s money in some of the more lavish belongings she could find. Mr. Tabernathy didn’t mind: so long as the customers were willing to destroy one another (alongside their finances) in courtroom disputes, Mr. Tabernathy didn’t mind. Ellen, or Mrs. Tabernathy, frequently went to “soirées”—enunciating the accent mark so that one could feel its existence when she said the word. Soiryays. These soirées, Ryan found, followed a pattern: every other Saturday Mrs. Bankslate held a grand soireé at her house, of which Mrs. Tabernathy always participated. Rather than study for the upcoming math test in calculus, Ryan had whipped out the calculator, made the appropriate calculations, and pinned up a calendar in his room, blatantly titled “Party Calendar!” which each visitor/friend marked the days in their iPhones, knowing Ryan to provide a great party without any shortcomings. The parties always coincided with the dates of Mrs. Tabernathy’s soirées, and Ryan always provided. Last Saturday, Ryan had offered a fully-functional chocolate fountain with a few minor adjustments to allow it to spurt beer, the fragranced liquid frothing and bubbling over as it worked to an immense success. The fountain had churned out the liquid and sent it raining in droplets to circulate back to the top and follow the process over and over again. Everybody had loved it, and it was the second most discussed about thing at school the next day. As always, Ryan’s handsomeness was always talked about amongst the girls at school. His attractiveness had been summarized by women who saw him as looking “like a Greek god”—a running gag, with his football playmates having given him mirrors for his birthday party so that he could marvel in his own beauty—and so Katharine and Josie Beckens (commonly known as the “Beckens Twins”) didn’t need much manipulation by the young Ryan Tabernathy to douse themselves in Heineken, as, necks to the sky, feet suspended by the free hands of the varsity players, they bathed themselves and their braless scissor-cropped tye-dye T-shirts beneath the beer fountain’s ever-flowing current in front of the whole party, but still for Ryan’s eyes and Ryan’s eyes only. Later that night, Ryan, just barely 17, would fuck the Beckens Twins, adding yet another story to his long list of party proverbs which would entertain and astound generations to come. […] Aidan Gilleger had only come because he felt ostracized. Being of the South Hills, he was of a higher stature, but still nowhere near the level of riches accumulated by the Tabernathys. Being as he was—handsome, a well-known and well-liked, reticent basketball champion—there was no reason except for his own morals not to go to these parties. Granted, his parents’ accomplishments never went beyond upper-middle class (whereas, Ryan was undisputedly upper upper class), he (Aidan) was still always invited to these quote, unquote, “social gatherings of the millennium,” given his athletic track record and solid facial structure. So Aidan, a lonely and shy kid, finally decided to give a definitive answer when given an invitation by Ryan’s friend Lane Barrowitz a few days back. His parents convinced that he was spending the night at his relatively harmless friend Troy’s, and with his car parked in the farthest possible distance from Ryan’s house—to disassociate himself from the party but still be close enough to where he wouldn’t have to be mocked for walking absurd distances to get to the front doors—Aidan entered. […] On the couch, he stared at his reflection in the black liquid. The red plastic cup was cold against his fingers. The light reflected from the crystal chandeliers formed an image of the ceiling in complete clarity on the surface of the pungent alcohol. His face, however, was nowhere to be found. He could only see a silhouette of his head in the reflection of the dark liquid, and no matter how he tilted the cup, nothing changed: he still couldn’t see himself. So he drank quickly and without thought, hoping to, by the end of the next cup—or maybe the next one?—finally be able to see his own face.

"Mmm," the woman started, "these eggs are great, honey!" "You're just saying that because it's what I want to hear..." the man replied. "You think I would lie to you?" The woman looked indignant. "I'm not a liar!" "I never called you a liar..." "If I'm not a liar, then what am I?" "Beautiful." Frank woke up, groggy, to the sound of his phone alarm. He sat up, shook himself off, and walked over to his dresser. Without thinking, he pulled out the first shirt he saw. Wrinkled and gray, its collar sagged and drooped like a tired dog's ear. "What'd you dream about today?" his roommate Phil asked. "Wait, don't answer that... it's Lucy again, isn't it?" "Don't start with this..." Frank replied. "Dude, it's time to move on. It's been three years already!" "I know, I know... but I can't stop thinking about that day... I can't stop thinking about the accident." "Listen, everyone is sad that Lucy is gone... but you're gonna sit around and be depressed forever? C'mon, it's time to have a little fun with your life!" "I know, I know... we go through this every day." "That's because it's time to move *on*." "Alright, enough of this already. I need to start planning for the day." Frank walked over to his desk and pulled out his planner. "Hmmm, it's grocery day... What do I need? Eggs, milk, yogurt... God, I can never remember everything." He put the planner down. "OK, good enough." Frank closed the planner and stood up. "Time for practice." When Frank returned home from practice, he picked up his planner and looked at the list he made previously. "Hey," he started, "where's my grocery list? Hey Phil, you touch my planner?" "Nope, haven't touched it, dude." "Weird... And I don't remember everything I need... Damn it! Screw it, I'll just have to head out tomorrow then." Later, Frank entered his living room and sat down on his couch. Dilapidated and for some reason checkered with sand, the couch sat slightly off-center, as though its owners never considered the room's feng shui. In front of the couch stood an old analog TV, its screen scratched and its picture dull as though the contrast had been turned way down. Frank picked up his remote and turned on the TV. "A terrible sight here at C-Town this evening," a news anchor started, "a deranged man opened fire on unsuspecting victims. More at 11." "Jesus," Frank murmured. "I was just going to head out there, too... what the hell?" He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Jesus... what's wrong with the world?" The next day, Frank woke up groggy as usual. "What'd you dream about today, Frank?" "Don't start with this, Phil." Frank walked over to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his planner. "Hey," he said, "it's my grocery list! Shit... I need to go shopping!" Frank gathered his groceries and headed toward the checkout area. The store was crowded so, even though Frank chose the shortest line, there were still two people in front of him. As he got in line, the man immediately in front of him on line looked around, seemed to think for a second, and then left the line. "Huh," Frank thought to himself, "lucked out I guess." As soon as he thought this, the woman in front of that person him left the line, too. "Wow," Frank thought, "guess it's my lucky day!" "Hey," an unknown voice called out, "I guess you're an 'egg' person, too?" A woman pointed at Frank's cart. Frank turned around and noticed a young girl, about 25, with long brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes. "Yeah," Frank replied, "you could say that." Frank smiled. "You know," the girl continued, "you should buy the organic. The organic eggs cost more, but the eggs are bigger. Gives you more 'bang for your buck'." "Thanks," Frank replied, "I'll keep that in mind." "Hey," the girl continued, "I'm actually new around here and could use a friend... why don't we exchange numbers and hang out sometime?" "Sure," Frank smiled, "that would be great." The two exchanged numbers, Frank paid for his groceries, and they both went on their way. Frank got home and walked over to his desk. "What the hell..." he thought to himself. He opened up his drawer and pulled out his planner. He had a skeptical look on his face as he stared at the cover. He moved the planner closer to his face and squinted, like a blind man trying to see. Frank opened it up. "Here goes," he thought to himself. He began to write. "I don't know if you can read this," he started, "but if you can, I have a few things to say. God, I don't know if this is just me being stupid or not. And it probably is, but whatever. You don't know how much I miss you. Your eyes, your hair, your voice... Not a day goes by when I don't think of you. God, it's been too long, too too long. "Phil is still Phil. He wants me to find someone new. God, all I can think about is the dinners we'll never share, the conversations we'll never have... and it makes me depressed, you know? That we'll never see each other again." Frank put down his pen and his eyes began to water. "God," he thought to himself, "I can't handle this shit." Frank put down the planner and walked over to his living room. He sat down on his couch, and turned on the TV. It was the evening news. "It was incredible!" A woman appeared on the screen with her labrador retriever. "Who knew that dogs could tell that!" She pointed to her oven. "Unbeknown to us, we had left it on over night. That's when she ran over to my bed, woke me up, and brought me over to the oven! All I know is, I can sleep a little bit easier now knowing that Lucy is watching over." Frank turned off the TV and began to cry. "Guess it's time to move on," he said to himself. He then opened up his wallet, took out the girl from the supermarket's number, and gave her a call.

Charlie sat at his desk, eyeing Helen suspiciously. He drummed his fingers against the hardwood surface of his desktop, staring at it as if gazing into a crystal ball. Then he suddenly stopped, and looked at her. “You killed him again, didn’t you.” “Permanently,” she said. He laughed and said, “Yeah, you wish!” “No, I definitely did this time. Got him in the heart and the head. He’s not coming back.” Charlie’s face blanked. “Well, you know what this means.” “Yeah, it means I’m going to have to kill you before you kill me.” “Yup. But that’s not gonna happen.” “It just did.” Helen took the gun and pointed it at Charles’s head. Pressed the barrel against his cheek, and pulled the trigger. The impact knocked Charlie and his chair over. As the pool of blood drained his body, he started to drum his fingers against his legs, and looked up at her expectantly. “Yeah, I know…” She shot him in the heart. The light went out of his eyes. Then, the eyeballs went out of his eyes, onto the floor, like raw eggs. Permanently.

When I was young, I once asked my grandparents, "How am I supposed to see the whole world, when time passes by so fast?" Granted I was still a child, and had no idea about the horrors of the real world, but they told me to close my eyes, and imagine what lay beyond the horizon, that way you will never be disappointed with what you find. I didn't really understand at the time, but I tirelessly tried multiple times, all with no luck. Eventually I forgot about their advice, until just recently, looking out my bedroom window trying to figure out what to do with myself. I closed my eyes for five seconds, and when I had opened them, time had stopped. My name is William Hale, and this is my story. Yeah, I know, its a cheesy way to start a story, but I'm new to this so give me a break. Anyway, it turns out I had the power to stop time, kind of. I couldn't interact with anything outside of my body, because my physical body was right there, standing there, blankly staring out the window at a still world. I moved down the stairs(I tried walking but soon discovered I had no legs, so it was more of a directional hover) and found my parents watching the television in the living room. The evening news was frozen and I let out a quiet laugh at the news anchor's face. It was frozen midsentence, making him look like a clown. So, I could apparently move between the hands of time, and honestly, I was surprisingly underwhelmed. I returned to my room and stared at my body, thinking about what I could do now. I could see the world (traveling at the speedy pace of 2 miles an hour) but what else. I was alone, nobody to share the experience with. Hell, I'm socially awkward enough, I'm sure I would seem extremely sane describing a still-shot of perhaps the pyramids, or the Colosseum in Rome. That's when I realized, I don't know HOW to get back. My body was right there in front of me, yet I couldn't touch it, only move through it. Now I was faced with the challenge of returning. First try, retracing my steps. I closed my eyes, counted to five and opened, no luck. In all honesty, it was my only thought. I walked through my physical body five different ways, but still no luck. I sighed and stood next to my body, rested my hands on the windowsill and looked at the frozen world. Then it sparked. I moved over until I was standing inside myself (weird) completely standing as it stood. Still nothing. So I closed my eyes and hoped I would return. It was the longest five seconds of my life. Just as I was about to give up I heard the A/C blowing air through the vent. My eyes shot open and the cars were moving down the road. I sprinted downstairs and my parents shot their gaze over to me. My mother asked, "What's wrong Will?" I opened my mouth as to answer them. I was going to tell them, how I stopped time, about the stupid news anchor's face a moment ago, about my fear of being stuck, but hearing it all in my head, I would definitely be committed to the nearest mental hospital. I let out the big breath I took and replied, "Nothing." I slowly retreated upstairs to my room. I shut the door behind me and slid to the ground, well aware of the giant grin on my face. I had a secret. Not just any secret though, a power, like a super-power. Granted it wasn't exactly efficient, but it was something nobody else had (to my knowledge). I decided to experiment with this power. I started simply enough, leaving and returning, just so I could get the hang of it. If so much as a finger was out of place when I tried to return, nothing would happen, so I used my computer chair as my starting point. An easy place to relax in, that isn't in an odd form. Next was testing my limits. I couldn't travel through walls or windows. I couldn't walk through most doors, unless there was some form of a window in the door. As for distance, I don't believe there was a limit. I hovered at first down the road, to the bend, then to the edge of town, and finally, when I was feeling brave enough, to the next town. (I feel its also worth mentioning that this was within an hour of discovering about my power.) Now, I was at a loss. I could stop time. Great. In due time, I could see the world(eventually), but all that time would account for nothing. I would exist as a ghost beyond time, and when I returned, nothing will have happened. No time will have passed, Nobody would be the wiser, and I couldn't tell anybody. I returned to my body and sat in my computer chair, watching the sun slowly set. It was odd, watching, almost feeling time pass. My mind wandered, wondering how I had unlocked this power, why it was me, and if there were others, and I couldn't help but think, what if I had finally lost it. Since I was young, my social anxiety put me in a kind of depression, so I wondered, did it finally snap? Have I gone insane? I went to sleep early that night. I was comforted by the fact that I was more tired than usual. At least there was some effect from this power, albeit a negative one. I had no dreams that night, but it was the best sleep I had gotten in a long time. Whether I was sane or not, I was just happy that my life had taken a step forward, for the first time in three years, but if it was a step in the right direction, or the wrong one has yet to be seen.

It's 5:00 AM when Barney's alarm goes off on his clock. Instinctively, he slammed his hand on the clock and set the alarm off for another five minutes. "Hey, honey, you should probably wake up." A soft and tired sounding voice says. Barney glances over at his wife Olivia. "Huh, oh, yeah, thanks honey." Barney says, looking back over and feeling the nightstand for his glasses. He brushes his hands across the table, and here's a soft clicking noise on the ground. "Ugh" Barney groans. "Here honey, let me get those for you." Olivia says, getting out of bed. She slowly and tiredly walks over to the other side of the bed. She bends over and picks up Barneys glasses. "Thanks babe." Barney says, fixing his glasses over his eyes. "Now you'd better get going, baby, or else you'll be late to work." Olivia reminds him. "Ok, thanks hun." Barney says leaning in for a kiss from his wife. They peck each other on the lips, and Barney turns and walks into the closes. He changes out of his pajamas into his suit. "Hey honey, which tie should i wear today, the blue one, or the red one?" Barney asks Olivia. "You know i always thought that red tie looked sexy on you, baby. Wear that one." Olivia replies, not bothering to look up. Barney fixes the tie around his neck and ties it. Barney walks out into the hallway outside their bedroom. Barney looks at the clock. He immediately perks up as he reads the clock. "6:00!? Honey, why'd you let me sleep in so long!?" He yells to his wife. "I'm sorry babe, you just looked so cute sleeping there." She responds. Barney sighs. He quickly walks down the stairs. He slipped his shoes on, tightened his tie one last time, opened the door, and stepped out onto his porch. He quickly walks over to his car. He pulls his car keys out of his inside pocket. Already the sun was beginning to heat up his dark black suit. He opens the driver door and gets in. He jams the keys into the ignition and turns it. The motor roars, then quits down. Barney adjusts the mirror so he can see himself. He strokes his stubble of a beard and slightly adjusts his hair, then looks behind him and begins to back out. His tires bump on the gutter. He steers so he turns left, and begins to drive. "Thank god work is just a block or two away." Barney says to himself. He takes a left turn, then a right turn, then stops at a small house building. He gets out of the car, and walks up to the front door. Glancing behind his shoulder, Barney knocks on the door three times, then rings the doorbell twice, and inserts one of the keys on his key ring into the lock, turns it, and pushes the door open. Four armed guards await him inside. "Nice to see you Barney, we'll just scan your ID card, check you for weaponry, and you can go right on ahead. One of the guards says. "Alright, nice to see you to." Barney replies. He shows them his ID. One of the guards scans it, then tells him to step through the metal scanner. Nothing serious happens. "Alright Barney, you're free to go. By the way, Amy said they made a serious breakthrough." the guard standing near the scanner says. "Ok, thank you, i'll go talk to her." Barney says. He walks into an elevator. "Please scan." A woman's voice in the elevator says. Barney places his eye's up against a scanner. "Welcome Barney." The voice says. The elevator door closes, and begins going down. Some boring elevator music plays in the back round. Barney taps his feed and whistles. Suddenly, the elevator lurches to a halt. "Final destination. Have a safe day." The woman's voice says. Barney steps out of the elevator into a grayish metallic room. "Ah, Barney, great thing your here!" A woman with dark black hair says. "Yeah, Rick told me upstairs that you figured something out." Barney replies. "Oh my god, yes! Look at this!" The black haired woman says. She presses a button and a metal wall opens up, revealing Andrew, one of Barneys colleagues, standing in a small pod. "What is Andrew doing in there!? I thought the rapid transportation tube was off limits after what happened to Johnn!?" Barney exclaims, butterflies in his stomach. "It was, until we figured this out, watch this." The black haired woman says, pressing a button. The Rapid Transportation tube, or RTT, begins to spin. Faster and faster it spins until a loud shocking sound and a bright flash occurs, and when Barney looks back and Andrew is gone. Barney stares for a while. "Where did he go?" He says, worry in his voice. "Amy, where did he go!?" Barney says, looking at Amy. Amy sat there with a grin on here face, her hands locked together. Suddenly, another loud shock and a flash. When Barney looked this time, Andrew was back. "See, it still works. But better yet, it allows you to travel through TIME!" Amy says excitedly. "What, no way!" Barney says. "Andrew, is this true?" He says, turning to Andrew. "Hell yeah it is. You wanna give it a spin?" Andrew says, getting out of the RTT. "You better believe it!" Barney says, rushing to the door. He inputs the code. "Five... Nine... Seven... Two..." He says. The door slowly opens, and Barney steps in. "It's all yours, man." Andrew says, stepping out of the room. Barney steps into the RTT. "Alright Barney, when and where do you want to go. It should only last for a while. Maybe three minutes." Amy says. Suddenly, the sound of gunshots through the vent silences the room. "What the hell was that?" Andrew says. "I... I don't know." Amy says, rushing over to the intercom. "Hello, whats going on up there?" Suddenly, the elevator door opens. Three men step out. One is wielding a black painted AK-47, one pumps a SPAS-12, and the one in the center lifts up a Type 88 LMG. The lab is suddenly loud with gunshots. Amy and Andrew both crumple to the floor. "Nooo! You fuckers!" Barney yells. The AK-47 wielding terrorist looks up. "Oh, look at the little nerd inside his toy." He walks over and looks at the console. "Hey, how much you wanna bet i can make this thing blow up?" He says. "You bastard!" Barney yells. "Eh, 20 bucks." The SPAS terrorist says. The man with the AK lights up the console. Suddenly, the RTT begins spinning rapidly. Faster than it should. Barney can't take the spinning anymore. He begins to feel faint. Darkness closes in on him. Faster and faster he spins, until eventually, all is dark.