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Allura 24

It was Jimmy's sixth birthday. He was still a young boy which meant he was free from the dreams and hopes of getting a handjob in a movie theater with his erection through the popcorn bucket and his date who had a cold sore using the butter as lubricant or getting high for the first time with people who worshipped John Lennon, Jerry Garcia and every other counter-culture musician who weren't all that great but nostalgia and drugs skyrocketed them into status of true Gods. Jimmy's mom had her camera and was video taping the entire thing, probably so she could one day watch this tape, crying with a martini in her hand as her son was out on his first date getting a buttery handjob in a movie theater. "Smile for the camera Jimmy!!" his mother cried out with enthusiasm. Jimmy flashed his teeth at the camera as everybody felt a warm glow light up in their souls. All of the adults instantly fell in love with Jimmy. Just as things were kicking off, the patio screen door was shoved over and made a loud crashing noise and everybody looked over to see Jimmy's grandpa exiting the kitchen and entering the backyard area. He had a disgusted look across his face and a whiskey on the rocks in his hand. Jimmy's grandfather looked like the real life image of Paulie from the Rocky films. "The fucking chinks must've made that door, probably with my luck it was one of those retard chasing butterflies" Jimmy's grandpa slurred. Jimmy's grandpa sat down with the rest of the family and watched as Jimmy was about to blow out the candles on his birthday cake. He was settling down but then he noticed something that drove him absolutely apeshit. "What in the fuck?" Jimmy's grandpa blurted out looking at Jimmy's shirt. "Hollister lifeguard? You never worked as a lifeguard, you little lying piece of shit." "It's just a shirt Grandpa" Jimmy said feeling a little uneasy. "No no no, only lifeguards can wear that shirt. You take that shirt off or so help me god we're having a backyard wrestling match." Jimmy's grandpa said while pointing over to the homemade ring and trash cans full of weapons. The ring had been there back when Jimmy's grandpa got obsessed with backyard wrestling and ran his own promotion for senior citizens who were into hardcore wrestling.The backyard wrestling shows usually drew large crowds since it was almost always a guarantee that if someone over eighty was choke slammed through a table that they would be having a heart attack or seizure. Jimmy's grandpa ended the promotion when he no longer got excited to see his war buddies and their wives smash out their dentures with frying pans. "But grandpa this is my favorite shirt" said Jimmy, feeling slightly worried. "TAKE OFF THE SHIRT OR I'M KICKING YOUR ASS" yelled Jimmy's grandpa as he pounded the table. The rest of the family sat around not knowing what to do. "But Grandpa, how am I supposed to be afraid of you when you're old, gray and probably going to die soon because you put too much effort into your next bowel movement.?" Jimmy said. The rest of his family let out a single, long OOOOOOOO like they were the audience at a Jerry Springer show. "Alright you little shit, that's it" and just like that Jimmy's grandpa reached over and picked Billy up suplexing him onto the grass. All the adults screamed as Jimmy's grandpa picked him up and walked him to the ring and threw him in. "SON GET YOUR REFEREE SHIRT." Jimmy's grandpa yelled out. Jimmy's dad shook his head at the insanity of all this and rushed in the house and came back with the black and white striped shirt on. "Alright Dad but please watch the forehead, I don't want my son looking like New Jack before he hits puberty." "His forehead is going to resemble your mother's pussy the day Viagra was sold for the first time when I'm done god dammit." Jimmy's father threw up and flipped off Jimmy's grandma. The image was more revolting than anything shown in Faces of Death. The match began and Jimmy's grandpa was in control for the first half. He began to wear Jimmy down with some quick forearms to the chest, taking the wind right out of Jimmy's lungs. Jimmy's grandpa feeling how easy the match was going towards his favor turned to the audience in the backyard and held his hands up in the air.The audience booed him and he pulled down his pants flashing his dick at them. Then he felt a sharp sting hit his shriveled privates and as Jimmy's grandpa looked down he saw a Singapore cane between his legs. He quickly turned around and saw Jimmy holding the cane. "YOU DIRTY MOTHER FUCKER" Jimmy's grandpa said as he felt his balls swell up. "Survive if I let you" replied Jimmy. Jimmy then grabbed the advantage as he bashed his grandpa in the face with the Singapore cane and Jimmy's grandpa fell down and held his arms up in defense as the Singapore cane left multiple welts all over his body. Jimmy got in one final crack on the top of his grandfather's head and held up the Singapore cane defiant towards the audience. They yelled and clapped their hands in celebration "SANDMAN, SANDMAN!!" yelled the crowd. Jimmy answered to this by slowly smoking a cigarette, chugging a beer and finally smashing the can over his forehead until blood poured down his forehead and into his eyes. Because of Jimmy's showboating, Jimmy's grandpa was able to get up and got in a few shots on Jimmy's forehead above his eyebrow, opening him up like a blood orange. Jimmy looked like a six year old crazy tribesman from a third world country's tribe as he took the shots and then delivered them right back. Jimmy and his grandfather at the same time went for drop kicks twice and then both stood up afterwards holding their fists up looking at each other as the crowd cheered and clapped. Jimmy threw his grandpa into the ropes and gave him a forearm over the Adam's apple. He then put his grandfather's body into the ropes and put him into the tarantula submission. Because this was a hardcore match, Jimmy's grandpa wasn't saved by a five count and had to tap out to the unbearable pain. The audience cheered as Jimmy left the ropes and Jimmy's dad held his son's arm up in victory. Jimmy's grandpa being the sore loser he was came up behind Jimmy and began to hit him in the back of the forehead with a metal chair. "NOBODY PUTS THE TARANTULA SUBMISSION ON THE MOST HARDCORE GRANDPA AND MAKES HIM TAKE LIKE A LITTLE BITCH!!" Jimmy's grandpa yelled. Jimmy running on adrenaline and a lot of anger soon got up from the chair shot in a similar fashion to the way Ultimate Warrior doing a no sell and ripped the chair from his grandfather's hands and returned the shot which knocked out his grandfather. Jimmy then dragged his grandfather over to the patio door and wrapped his arms around his waist. His grandpa struggled a little bit attempting to break out of the hold, but Jimmy swung his forearms to the back of his grandfather's spine that weakened him. Jimmy wasting no time went for a German suplex tossing his grandfather into the patio window. The crowd made a groan as the sound of his grandfather's head smacking against the window echoed and his dazed body fell to the ground like a rag doll. It took two belly to belly suplexes before Billy was able to send his grandpa through one of the patio doors. Multiple shards of glass penetrated his grandfather's body as he screamed out in pain. Billy once more picked up his grandfather's body and belly to belly suplexed his grandfather into the other patio door. The outside crowd began a holy shit chant as they yet again watched his body bounce against the glass and slide down into a sad pile of flesh against the door. Billy not one to quit picked up his grandfather's body and went for it again, this time succeeding as his grandfather's body left the kitchen and went back into the backyard along with multiple shards of glass. Billy saw the pile of glass and became inspired as he picked up his grandfather and gave him a DDT directly on a large pile of glass. The crowd began to chant "ECW" as they saw the shards of glass sticking out of Jimmy's grandfather's nose, eyelids and ears. He resembled some troubled goth teen attempting to be inventive after being moved by a Nine Inch Nails album. Jimmy dragged his grandfather over to the table and poured the glass of whiskey over the table and motioned for everybody to step back. He then stepped back with a birthday candle and threw it down on the table and watched as it went up in flames. Jimmy waved his father over for help with the grand finale. Jimmy's father picked up his father going for the flapjack while Jimmy went for a cutter which when combined created what the Dudley Boyz named the Dudley Death Drop or 3D. The crowd began to chant holy shit and ECW as Jimmy's grandpa's body went through the table and caught on fire. Almost immediately Jimmy's grandpa began to run around on fire like a stuntman who fucked up. After he gave up fighting the fire and fell over, Jimmy went over and pinned his skeleton for a three count, and was crowned the youngest hardcore champion in backyard wrestling history. Jimmy and his family celebrated at Dairy Queen. Jimmy's mother had been recording the whole thing and uploaded it on YouTube. Almost immediately his parents got a phone call from the Insane Clown Posse wanting Jimmy to wrestle in their Juggalo Championship Wrestling promotion. Jimmy agreed to wrestle with JCW and his parents yelped in happiness, Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope told them they would send over a bottle of their finest stuff immediately. As Jimmy sipped from the bottle of complimentary cotton candy Faygo soda, he knew wrestling with JCW would be something fun to do until he was old enough to be a lifeguard.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall above everyone else. They all looked up to him. Everyone wanted to be like him. He was a joy to be with and have over at parties and he got along with everyone. He had a beautiful wife and a son who he loved. Then one day he gets the news that his wife and son have recently been in a car accident and are dead. Hearing this caused Humpty Dumpty to have a great fall into depression and started drinking. It was rare to catch him sober and he hardly spoke to anyone or left his house. Many of his friends would go over to his house to talk to him and try to put him back together again but he wouldn't open the door to anyone. His friends started to worry about Humpty Dumpty's health so they all decided to have a meeting with him to try to help him. They went over thinking that he would see all his friends there and let them in, but after standing outside his house for half an hour with no response, all their hopes to try to help their friend had been crushed. After a month of no one seeing or hearing from Humpty Dumpty, Emmet, a close friend of Humpty, decided that he would check on him, whether he liked it or not. He tried opening the front door but it was locked. He tried the gate to Humpty's backyard and it was open. He went back and tried the back door. He tried opening it but it was locked. Emmet looked in the house though the glass on the door and there he saw Humpty hanging from the ceiling with a noose around him.

The sign was creased through the middle, edges crumpled and torn. But still it drew the eye of nearby patrons who were in the middle of eggs and bacon, cups of coffee and orange juices-- simple breakfasts interrupted by the unknown and unusual. The girl had her breakfast too, but her fingers were more stained with ink than bacon grease, her attention to those around her more overt than covert. She gently reached out and adjusted the sign-- a small movement but enough to make watching eyes move quickly away and draw other curious eyes to take their place. Smiling, the girl turned back to her page, scribbling a few more words before returning her gaze to those around her, waiting for someone to sit with her and follow the sign's request to "tell me a story". Off to the left, there was the sound of a chair scraping back from a table and hurried feet, accompanied by loud whispers to "get back here" before a young girl plopped into the seat at the table with the crumpled sign. "I know a story," the young girl said, "and it's really good." And without taking a pause except to proclaim the story began "once upon a time", the girl was racing through a story of a princess who saved a knight, a wizard who couldn't control his powers, and a dragon who saved a town. Her words spilled out in a gush that was soaked up by the woman's pen and rewritten on her journal pages. Soon the whole diner was listening in, laughing and gasping at all the right places until, abruptly, the story was over and silence resettled. The girl hopped off the seat to return to her family, but the seat was almost immediately refilled by another customer, who launched into a tale of his own. This continued late into the afternoon until everyone was discussing the stories they'd heard, recounting their favorite bits, finding connections between them and making additions of their own. No one noticed as the sign was refolded, the pen tucked away and the girl slipped out the door, the murmurs briefly spilling out of the door before it closed again on the created world inside.

“It was forty five minutes before the interview for my new job. The traffic was moving steady and everything seemed to be 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 to be 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. 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”. It all made sense now, Aaron Bartle mentioned during the interview that it was a family owned business and he ran it with his brother. It must have been his brother that I hit! And seeing that I couldn’t even tell the difference between the two, they must be identical twins. I was astonished, what were the chances that out of all the other cars on the road I could have hit, it would be Mr. Bartle’s brother? I thought about the fact that when I go into my first day of work, both brothers would be there and it would likely turn out to be a disaster. Being much too negative, I felt like I was a failure and that my first day would turn out just as Mr. Schroeder had predicted. I was not a religious person but I thought that if there is something out there, like a god, that governs probability and chance, then he/she must hate me. I started to cry, not knowing what to do. Should I save myself from an awkward moment and just not show up to my first day, or show up and likely still get fired. Luckily, I had until the next day to decide. I decided to go for a walk and try to clear my head, the fresh air made me feel better right away. I walked quite a long distance, past all of the other apartments and into the main city where all of the action was. After a while a came across a bench on the sidewalk and sat down, worn out from all of the walking. While sitting I thought about what to do about this job. As I sat there, something highly unlikely happened. I witnessed a car crash happen, almost just like the one I had been in earlier. One car rear ended the other which was stopped at a light. From a distance I watched as the two talked and looked at the damage to both vehicles. The person who was responsible seemed to be acting very calm, explaining that he was not paying attention to the road. The person who got hit also seemed very cool and understanding about the ordeal. This gave me the courage to believe that I could make my accident seem less substantial if I just explained, calmly, what had happened. I decided I would go into work the next day, confident and assured that the accident did not say anything bad about my character or ability to work. All it showed is that I am human and capable of making a mistake. I went back up into my apartment and picked out my outfit for the first day of work. I picked some of my nicest, most professional looking clothes. The rest of the day seemed to go by quickly and before I knew it was already time to go to sleep so I would be well rested for the important next day. The next morning came. I got dressed and headed downtown. When I arrived at work, I saw the car that I had hit the day before sitting in the parking lot. This made me nervous, but I continued on. I walked through the parking lot, up the stairs and found the door to the office again and knocked. This time making sure my shoelaces were tied beforehand. I waited at the door for a good minute when finally it flung open, hit me in the face, bloodied my nose and knocked me backwards down the steps. I guess I must have been knocked unconscious because I woke up in the office with both Bartle’s in the room. When I awoke they both started talking to me simultaneously and frantically. I told them to calm down because I could not understand what they were saying. After a minute they both calmed down and I noticed one of them now had a very surprised look on his face. It was Andrew, he said, “Hey, I know you!” I thought to myself “Oh boy, here we go.” He said, “You are the beautiful woman that crashed into my car yesterday.” Immediately, I too gained a surprised look on my face. I wasn’t used to people calling me beautiful and especially not in a situation like this. I was not a bad looking girl, but I didn’t really have very lady like qualities. I wore tennis shoes most of the time because they were comfortable and didn’t hurt my feet like heels. I never wore makeup or did my hair and I dressed in what made me feel comfortable, not what looked good. After a few seconds of sitting there, with blood on my face and looking surprised. I said, “Yes, that was me and I am so sorry. I don’t know how I managed to do something so dumb. I guess that I was so nervous about this job that I was not paying attention while driving. I promise that I am a competent and hard working girl and the accident was simply a terrible and uncommon mistake.” When I was finished, Andrew started laughing and said “I can’t believe YOU’RE the one explaining yourself right now. I was the one who just almost killed you with the door. I am the one who should be doing the explaining. Besides, I wasn’t even mad that you hit me yesterday. Insurance covered all of the damages and I already got my back bumper replaced, it’s as good as new. I’m sorry if I seemed upset yesterday; I am just really bad at talking to girls that I feel attracted to. I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever had the pleasure of talking to and I didn’t want to ruin my chances with you by saying something stupid in the heat of the moment. I got your info in hopes that I could contact you again, once I had a good idea of what to say. Now, seeing you here makes me think that were destined to meet each other again or something, so I feel like I can speak freely and be honest. I hope you don’t think I am crazy.” I was shocked, I DID think this man was a little bit crazy, but kind of crazy in a good way. I told him that I would like to wash up, I felt uncomfortable having this conversation with blood still leaking out of my nose and onto my clothes. The rest of the day was great; Andrew and I talked and got to know each other while we worked together. It was just us in the office because his brother Aaron went home early. Andrew asked me to get dinner with him after work and I agreed to do so. I had never been happier. That is the story of how I met my husband, Andrew Bartle. Through this bizarre chain of events I learned two very important lessons which have stuck with me my whole life. First, that there is no such thing as impossible, only improbable. And second mentioned but foremost in importance, that things are not always as they seem” Just as the lady on TV finishes her story, I look at the clock and realize that I have been watching some boring reality show about “Unbelievable ways that couples meet” for nearly the past three hours. I think to myself, “I must be too drunk.” I stand up from the couch, wearing nothing but my tighty whities and enormous beer gut, walk into the next room of my small, messy trailer house and go to sleep.

Shredded, Blackened with dirt and blood, their insides were naked to the flies. Those left alive were in a panic shooting themselves and each other in final acts of mercy. They've failed. They won't be taken alive. I wasn't even sure how this blasted thing worked. Still I struggled with the lenses and the shutter pointing at every anguished face and every focused weapon set alight. Now behind a small church in a small village with shells being exchanged amongst bushes and coconut trees that went on forever and familiar faces running in the line of fire, realizing at some point that I was home, I kept struggling to capture every single moment. A man head gets blown off trying to un-jam his weapon another without legs being dragged into the church. I kept hovering back and forth trying to get as much as I can even the little man pointing artillery right at me. I dragged myself to my feet feeling dazed and numb. I was convinced that I was dead but continued documenting dismembered men and crying women until the fighting stopped. I sat behind the church silently still taking the occasional snap and sip of water. She was there almost bare bottomed and smiling. She came over, said hello, asked for a pic posed playfully while we had a little banter. I knew things didn't end well but that didn't matter. We walked and talked, stood by the church while fresh faced smiling green men passed by in twos. Some of them were childhood friends I haven't seen in years. I acknowledged them with a pic then exchanged tight lipped nods. A few aunts and family friends were all sharing a laugh behind me as the platoons grew thinner and the sun disappeared between the trees. The voices eventually grew more concerned. There was now urgent chattering amongst the women about truck loads of enemy troops heading our way. This Chattering turned then to scrambling and I was now part of the struggle to get everyone evacuated. The main roads were full of buses and trucks heading to town most couldn't be bothered to stop. I eventually got this boy who was about 14 to stop, reluctantly. I squeezed as much people in the back as possible then shut the door allowing him to drive off before anyone could stop me from going back. I could've heard the rattling of rifles and the screaming of women as I ran though the church doors. The floors were bloody and peppered with corpses. I picked a handgun from a soldier's body and made my way through the back. There were women and children being picked off a few at a time while they ran. I fired back for a while, hitting a couple but they thickened in numbers. I abandoned my fight and ran back to the bushes where there were a few soldiers holding the line but they too began to fall one by one. There was a sudden sharp pain in my chest. I laid on my back unable to move and unable to breathe as I struggled to wake up.

The Life we Lead. “Jacob! Wake up now, or I am going to give you a zero for participation today.” Jacob never really liked any of his teachers. They never really understood him. He was at least thankful that testing was over for the year and he would soon be a senior. His grades were not where his parents would like them, but he didn’t care; he wanted to be an artist. Why would he need to listen to Mrs. Genie read the class a play. “Jacob, just because you are awake, doesn’t mean that you can just stare out of the window.” Mrs. Genie said with her demeaning tone. “If you aren’t here to learn, please leave.” “My pleasure.” he retorted while walking out of the room. Jacob only had to walk for fifteen minutes to get home. This was a walk that he frequently made. In his mind there was no point to be at school. He only still goes because his parents have threatened to kick him out if he doesn’t finish high school. Once Jacob got home he immediately went to the basement, which he had made into his bedroom and studio. Jacobs parents weren’t rich, persay, but they were living in a nice home. The basement was finished and had a full bathroom. It also had a full sliding glass door that went outside into the back yard. Jacob’s art supplies were in the corner opposite to the stairs, with his bedroom stuff in between. “Jacob, is that you down there?” “Yah mom, its only me.” “Now why are you home early today” “I was told that if I wasn’t at school to learn, that I should just...” thats when the phone rang. Jacob wouldn’t talk to his mom any more that night. He assumed, correctly, that it was the school calling to inform his mother of what had happened. Most people would say that Jacob leads a rebellious life, but he only saw it as a pleasent one. He only did the things that he enjoyed and nothing else. After his mom stopped talking to him, Jacob decided that he would walk to the 7-11 and buy himself a Red Bull, and try to sell one of his paintings to one of the old ladies across the road. “Hey jacob.” The guy behind the counter said. “Just a Red Bull again?” “Yah sure.” Jacob kind of shrugged off the worker. “Ok that will be $3.16.” “What the hell man it, was only $2.86 yesterday. “Sorry dude. I don’t make the prices.” “What ever. I’ll just put it back.” Of course he didn’t put it back. He tried to make it look like he had, but the worker knew better; but he didn’t care. Across the street was an old run down Bingo hall. Most of the town’s elderly women were frequent visitors at this place. Jacob had a really nice system going here too. He would sit in the back and wait for the games to be over, all while watching to see who left with the most winnings. After everyone got up he would go straight to the “big winner” and try to sell the painting that he was able to carry in his backpack. He only got lucky about once or twice a month. And today was going to be his lucky day.

Josh stared at the table where his asian son was sleeping. He needed not the satisfaction of closure, nor the warmth of a woman to raise the child with, no, he needed something greater. He looked down beneath his trousers at his genitals. His penis was finally easing up on the swelling, and both of his testicles smiled warmly at him. "Well hey there Josh, how's the boy?" asked Rightest, his right testicle. "Asian," Josh said, remembering the asian porn he had watched that day. "Me and Rightest were thinking, we can give you some cold cash for work." Leftest, the left testicle said. Josh pulled his pants down completely, freeing up his testes. They hunkered down and got a better view of his face. "What kind of work?" asked Josh, flipping his pubic hair back. His child woke up and began crying. "Prostitution, mainly." said Rightest. "There are some kinky motherfuckers out there who'd get a kick out of your testicle situation. Big bucks in that business. You could provide for your son." "What did you name him, anyway?" asked Leftest. "Peas." "A good strong name. Now, Josh, what do you think? Wanna go bang for some buck?" "Sure," Josh's testicles led him to a small crackhouse on the edge of town where a tall woman in spiked heels waited for him. "Is it true?" she asked, eyes sparkling with wonder. "Do they talk?" Josh's testicles tore through his jeans and looked up at the woman. "Sweet nothings, dearest. Sweet nothings." The woman was soaked already. She pulled Josh into the crackhouse and slammed him down on the bed. She helped the testicles tear off the rest of his jeans (which meant he would walk home half naked). "What's your name, hot lips?" asked Leftest. "Fuck off, Lefty. She's all mine. She's alllll riiiiight." said Rightest. "Actually," said the woman, standing up. Josh realized she had chained him to the bed. "I was hired to assassinate Josh's testicles. Big money in that business." "Fuck!" Josh cried. "Who would want to kill my testicles?" "Leftest got involved with some cartels down in the Mex." "Fuck, man." Josh whimpered as the woman took off her spiked heel and raised it in the air. "What about Rightest?" "He screwed the president of Africa's daughter." "How did they do this all without me noticing?" In that moment, both of Josh's testicles detached from body painlessly and assaulted the bitch. She slammed Leftest with the heel's tip and he exploded. Josh felt the pain. Rightest shoved himself down the bitch's throat and choked her to death. But he suffocated in the process. Ball-less, wounded, and chained to a bed, Josh wondered who would pay him for his troubles, or if he would ever be found. He closed his eyes and thought of Peas. Did Peas have testicles like his? If so, he hoped someone would raise them right so this never happened. If he survived this, he would be the one. He would be the one.

Aug 1999 Hi Dad, We have to grow a plant by the end of the second grade. We have to get to class on time for us to water our plants or else it will die. Watering a plant is not as fun as watching a caterpillar eat leaves like what we did during first grade. But I guess it’s a lot more fun than solving math problems. I hate math. I like reading the math problems but I hate doing the math. I'm always playing with Alizea and our friend Kiara, who we met in first grade. She's African-American and she always wears her curly hair in a ponytail at school. She was really shy at first but was really friendly and funny when we talk to her. We don't play with the older kids in my school. They would sometimes kick us out of the handball court so they can play. They don’t really share unless there is someone older who kicks them out or a teacher comes and tells them to share. I see Mom with her new friend named Robert. I see him a lot of times more than most of her friends. He’s a big guy with black hair who kind of looks like The Rock in Smackdown (don’t tell grandma that I watch it) if he was fat. He doesn’t really play with us like Mom’s other friends do and sometimes he looks grumpy. He is nice to me and TJ when he’s in the house though. Sometimes he picks me and TJ up from school and drop us off at home but he doesn’t really talk to us much in the car. Grandma doesn’t like him though. She thinks something bad will happen. If something bad happens, can we be with you? I promise I won’t make a mess at your place and I will do my homework every night and eat all the food you cook. You have to help me with my math though. There’s always a speed math worksheet every week and I always end up being last (I hate division the most).

The room had a bright white ceiling and floor. The walls were mirrors and the lights were hidden in a panel on the ceiling. We had a test subject stuck in there for us to experiment. He only stares at the white ceiling, oh, and back at the white floor. There was no log on the man, nothing of significance when we found him. He had been in solitary confinement for 23 years - his entire life, really. He has never seen any human being but me and my researcher, Don. Don and I have been designated to care for the man and continue to watch him until something happens. It’s immoral, disgusting, but we’re assigned to do it and it’s really quite an interesting job. Ding. That’s the bell. Don and I enter the room with the subject. The subject paid no attention, just doing what he usually does. Never interacted with us in any way, we don’t even know if he’s developed a language. We tried getting words from him since we met him. “Hello! How is it? Are you feeling okay? Insane? What’s goin’ on up there, buddy?” Don continued to harass the subject into speaking. “You gonna talk? Anything ya need? Jeesh, what’s the matter with ya?” “He’s not gonna speak Don, just leave it.” “Well, if he isn’t going to speak, then what the hell do we do? He’s not interacting with us in anyway and it’s become a waste of our time.” I crouched down with the subject. I opened my hand in front of him, seeing if he would shake it. Or even look at it. Don tapped my shoulders. “I got a call, I’ll be right back.” Don left the room and sealed the door shut. I was alone with the subject now, for the first time. I still had my hand out in front of him. “Hand.” The subject looked at my hand. “Hand.” To my surprise, the subject spoke. I pulled my hand back and waited for something to happen. “Hey, can you understand English?” I looked at the subject in his eyes. They looked… different. “Yes, of course I can. You don’t think I have basic knowledge of a language? You beings have trapped me here for several times and you don’t think I captured all of your words and managed to understand them?” “Well, you just never spoke. I’m sorry, I guess.” “How can you be sorry when you have trapped me here for all this time? Why do you feel sorry as soon as I speak? What is it that you beings are getting out of this?” “I, uh - well…” I didn’t have a clue as to what to say. I was completely confused and embarrassed. “It’s just my job and I -” The door opened. Don came in and stood next to me. “So… anything? Did he speak? Or nothing as usual?” The subject looked Don in his eyes. “Yes, I have spoken to your friend. Is there anything you would like to say to me, now that I have spoken? Your friend seems to be at lost at words.” Don laughed and caught himself. “Oh, sorry! Yeah, actually, there is something I would like to say. What’s up with yourself? Why did you speak all of a sudden?” The subject tilted his head and said nothing. Making the atmosphere of the room even more awkward I decided to play on my phone to stay away from their little conflict. Don was infuriated. “So, you decided to stop speaking, huh? Like the little bitch you are. Hey, guess what? I have a little surprise for you, and I think you’re gonna like it!” I was scared what Don was going to do next. I kept quiet and watched Don exit the room to get something. The door opened once again and someone else had entered with Don. That someone else was the twin of the subject. The twin looked exactly like the subject, same physical features, clothes, haircut, etc. Don pushed the twin near the subject. “Subject, meet yourself!” I looked at Don. “Don, what are you doing?” “Don’t worry! I’m just introducing Subject to himself.” The subject looked at the twin and touched it. “Is this… me?” Don laughed. “Yep! This is your real body, brain, soul, everything really! If this thing dies, you die.” The subject opened his eyes in shock. “Then, what am I in?” Don continued to harass the subject. “You’re a robot! You’re just thinking from your real body, this body right here!” The subject no longer spoke. He just stared at the twin in silence. I wanted to say something to the subject, but I couldn’t. I was eager to see why Don was doing this.” Don pulled out a handgun. “You see, Subject, like I said: if this body dies, you die. And you have come to the point where you are virtually a waste of matter. So, why not end you, right?” The subject still sat in silence, staring at the twin. Don pulled the cock on the handgun and aimed it at the twin’s head. “Should I pull it? Or are you gonna prove to me you’re gonna do something?” The subject continued to sit in silence, but no longer staring at the twin. Don smirked. “Ha, okay… If you say sooo…” Bang. The twin fell to the ground. The subject looked at the dead body of the twin, convinced that he, himself, had really died. “I’m dead?” The subject touched himself everywhere, vigorously. Neither Don nor I spoke. We just looked at him in silence, but I was in complete shock. “What happens to me?! I still feel alive?! Why have you done this?!” The subject started to spaz out. Don and I walked back to the control room to watch the subject. “Don, why’d you do that?” I asked.” “He’s doing something now, isn’t he? Let’s just do this and say it was a psychological experiment.” I was angry at Don, but the experiment had become interesting as ever. The subject started pulling on his hair, trying to bit his skin off, banging his head on the floor, and trying to rip his tongue out. He continued to yell random words such as hatchet, elephant, light, and process. Over and over. “Okay, Don, I think we’re done with this subject.” I shut the lights off and the subject stopped.

It was the 17th of December when you made your decision. It was your twentieth birthday. I will remember the moment of despair that took you down the path you chose. The single instance of looking at that dead bird, helplessly, but ever so slightly, tumbling in the wind, beneath your feet. By then the fear of death consumed you and were left to be a marionette to your own hopelessness. You had always desired immortality but you had not desired it at this scale. However you shattered underneath the realization that your desire could not come into fruition. Or rather, not by anybody around you. Not by anybody else in the world. Nevertheless, fret not. I’ve come to you with glad tidings. I shall grant you this one and only wish. I have mapped, for you, a procedure to obtain your gift but be warned: once begun your task you must undertake it alone, lest you die a most agonizing death. You will begin your passage to immortality by travelling to the western African country of Togo. As soon as you leave the airport, signal a taxi. The taxi that arrives will already have a sleeping passenger in it but never mind it. Enter the taxi and, when asked by the driver as to where you are going, say “Adeema Gariyah.” Pay no mind about its meaning; the driver will know. At arrival the driver will charge you an American cent. At this point you will have nothing with you. Examining the sleeping passenger next to you, you will find exactly what the driver asks for. Take the coin and give it to the driver. After leaving the vehicle you will find an abandoned village. Once you have entered the village take a left and continue walking until you see a red arrow. Walk in the direction of the arrow and you will soon come across a small hut. Pass into the hut and walk five steps forward. You will find yourself in the middle of a series of parallel candles in a cross formation. At the center of the cross you will find a woman of indescribable beauty and, unable to control yourself, you will be intimate with her. Only seconds after you have finished she will give birth to a child. A stillborn child. And the woman herself will die giving birth to this dead child. Do not mourn for the woman and child, and leave the hut. You will notice a red arrow at your feet guiding you to another hut towards the end of the village. Inside this hut you will find a large table holding a variety of food. You will seat yourself at the very ends of the table and immerse yourself into all the food you can see. Once you have finished, exit the hut. Like before, you will happen upon another arrow as soon as you exit. Following this arrow will lead you to, yet, another hut. As soon as you enter this hut you will notice a small child stare at you. Fear him not as he will not harm you. Your attention will then be given to an extremely valuable orb, perched onto a small pedestal in the center of the room. This orb is needed in your journey to immortality so you will remove it from its pedestal and leave the hut. Being guided by the next arrow, you will soon find yourself standing in front of the largest hut in the village. No doubt, in it contains your final task in your journey. Entering the hut, you will find a statue of a deity—no doubt it is Papa Legba. Resting on his face, however, is a mask with nine-horns. You will remove this mask from the statues face and place it on yours, closing your eyes while doing so. You must continue closing your eyes. You will fall to your knees and stay in this formation for one hour and fifty-nine minutes. You will then remove the mask and open your eyes. As soon as your eyes open you will find, towering next to you, a being composed of blackened fire. Do not fear this being, but do not look into its eyes as its eyes will turn you into ash. The being will stretch its arm towards you. In his outstretched hand you will place the orb, after which he will crush it. The pieces of the orb will fall to the floor and the being will point towards the sharpest piece. You will grab that sharp piece and stab yourself in the heart with it. You will slowly, but painfully and surely, feel your life fade away. You will leave your mortal body and enter an immortal one I have made for you. You will regain consciousness in an exact, yet immortal, replica of your original body with the being of blackened fire absent from your presence. You must stand up, exit the hut and wonder the Earth with your newly acquired immortal form. Have you truly ever wondered about the Wonders of Immortality? What will it do for you? Your fear of death has, no doubt, caused you to abandon all reason. You have, indeed, forgotten the mortality of your space and time. And the plague that comes with this mortality. Let me guide you through another journey. The journey of your immortal life. It will be two years after your abandonment of mortality. You will be married to a beautiful and intelligent woman. You will bear two children with her, in the house of your dreams. The years of hard work in your education has been rewarded with a high-ranking position. And you will be happy. In the next ten years your wife will become ill and your children will have associated themselves with horrible men, ruining their chances of a good education. Three years later, your daughter will carry the child of a man she had only met once. Your anger at this situation will cause you to accidentally wound the child mortally. Disgusted by your actions your wife and kids will leave you, never to return. For this act you will be imprisoned for fifteen years during which you will be beaten three-hundred and seventy two times, denied food one hundred and sixty one times, raped ninety-seven times and placed in solitary confinement twenty-one times. But don’t worry; you’re immortal. You won’t die. After your leave from prison you will return back to your home, only to find that it has been set ablaze by your ex-wife’s father. You will have no place to go – all your friends have abandoned you years ago – and have very little money as it went to your wife as a divorce settlement and a murder fine. Your subsequent homelessness will last five years in which you will find a job at a small retail store, making minimum wage, and develop a disease which will blind you in your left eye. Shortly after making enough money to rent an apartment unit you will be diagnosed with ocular cancer, stealing your ability to see. Left helpless to the guidance of a stick you will be, within the span of five years, involved in nine vehicular accidents. Varying in terms of intensity, however, you will certainly be the victim. The damage inflicted on both your legs will necessitate amputation, devolving you from using a stick to using a wheelchair. But don’t worry; you’re immortal. You will never die. It will be seventeen years after the amputation of your legs and you will not be able to count the amount of times you have witnessed the rise of a new president. You will know that the current president is the worst of all his predecessors. His amendments to the law will expel you back into homelessness, and will give you next to nothing, in terms of money. You will witness the plummeting of the economy and the spread of a new disease. You will see people die from this disease – an utterly disgusting death. Everywhere you go, people begin to suffer and wither like a corpse from the days of the pharaohs. You will fair no worse. In fact, you will suffer from much worse. This condition, with the addition of your ocular cancer, will cause you to suffer from deafness, paralysis of the left arm, profuse bleeding from the nose, loss of your teeth, violent seizures, damaged vocals and the dissolution of your left kidney. But don’t worry; you’re immortal. Death will never meet you. Thirty years later, the economy will regain vigor due to advancements in medical technology. With this technology you will gain the use of robotic prosthetic legs, and will regain the use of your arms and vocal cords. Your kidney will begin to be created anew but your eyes shall be forever disabled. You, as the current holder of the title ‘oldest man alive’, with nothing left in your life, will leave the city to live on the outskirts and become a farmer. By then you would have developed the ability to see without the need for your eyes. Overall, everything is well for you. And do not worry; you’re immortal. Your life will never end. After twenty years of peaceful labor, you will receive a message from the government, informing you that a third World War is about to begin and will urge you to leave to a safe zone. You will disregard this message and continue your efforts, holding on to the idea of a constant and eternal life. But you do not know as I know. This war is nothing but chaos, the enemy of consistency and peace. Within the following two years you would have witnessed the complete demolition of several cities by opposing countries and the firing of explosives to other countries. You will have endured the destructive sounds and the horrible stench of war. Earth and fire will have fought to the death of the people while water and air suffocated and died. The very existence of humanity will plunge to the depth of near-oblivion, only to be kept alive by you, the sole-survivor of the human race. The war has ended and you shall journey back to the city – or what is left of it. With your ‘sight’ you will observe the ruins of the civilization that you had grown up in. It will be but an empty husk of the genius of architects and the labor of common workers. Large pools of blood will fill every road dip and the flesh and bone of children will be, helplessly, but ever so slightly, tumbling in the wind, beneath your feet. It is with this sight that the absence of your fear of death will reveal itself. Times will truly change, won’t they? It will be another six months after exploring what remains of the city when you discover an underground bunker, designed to store innocent civilians from the fires of the war. It will be to your dismay that you find no one there, other than yourself. You will become extremely tired and weary of your travels and you will collapse, unconscious. But do not worry; you’re immortal. You will never fade. Once you have awoken you will close the door behind you and sit on the lone chair. And on that chair you will spend seven years thinking about your life so far and the thoughts of your decisions in your life will haunt you for the rest of your days. Sifting through the flood of gruesome imagery and painful sights within your memories you will, at last, come across the cause of your prolonged suffering; your desire for eternal life. At this thought you will shed a tear composed of both water and blood. Another tear will follow and, soon after, your face will be covered in tears. You will beg for your life to change so that you hadn’t stabbed yourself that night. So that you hadn’t stolen the orb from the child or the food from the table. So that you hadn’t impregnated the woman and delivered to her a dead child. So that you hadn’t stolen the penny from the sleeping man. So that you hadn’t desired to live forever. You will slump into an abyss of despair, with every remembrance of your eternal life doubling the level of your hopelessness. You will become a marionette to your own sadness, desperately attempting to end your suffering. But each foolish attempt will result in more pain. And by the time you had come to terms with the futility of your efforts you will be in more pain than a combination of twelve women giving birth. And you will scream and cry, all the while clawing at your own face and biting your thumb as it scratches by. And you will come to know that the Wonders of Immortality are all but one thing: pain. And you will remain in this state for seventeen months when, suddenly, the pain will vanish like it had been nothing and everything will fade to black. It will be another decade until you wake up and, upon doing so, you will stand up and sit back on the lone chair. There will be no pain and no physical disabilities. Your teeth and hair will have grown back and you will have no knowledge of the pain you had just felt. You will be the last man on Earth, sitting alone in the room when, seconds later, you hear a knock on the door. Cautiously you will make slow steps towards the door, taking a deep breathe with every step. At last, you will make it to the door and open it. “Nothing” will be your initial thought until you look down. The nine-horned mask you had worn on the night of your lingering mistake will wait for you. Seeing this as an opportunity to undo the mistake you had made over a century ago, you will do as you had done; wear the mask and fall on your knees, closing your eyes while doing so. After one hour and fifty-nine minutes had passed you will take of the mask and find the figure of blackened fire standing above you. He will ask you what you desire and you will respond by wishing to be free from immortality. At the hearing of this request the being will grab you by the neck and raise you several feet above the ground. He will then explain to you that the suffering you had gone through was a test and that his name is Aswad-ul Hariq. He will tell you that you had passed the test and that it is time for you to leave the Earth. Gently, he will place his hand on your chest and remove your soul from the body, ending your cursed life.

--Wrote this half asleep last night. Please ignore the atrocious grammar e.e"-- Ashley sat her desk and stared at her high school history book. “Ugh. Two more years of this crap.” She groaned as she laid her head in her hands. The wooden chair squeaked when she got up to refill her empty glass with more sweat tea. It had been 6 months since her mother was found dead in the bedroom down the hall. They ruled it an accidental over dose, a mix of old and new medications. It really didn’t make sense considering she was only taking two medicines, one for her heart and the other for strange delusions she started having a few months before. She claimed the house was haunted and there was a man that talked to her every night and wanted her to be with him. The beautiful two story farm house was built in the mid 1700’s by a farmer for his family that had 5 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms. A giant screened in semi wrap around porch with an added outdoor barbecue area her dad built a couple years ago, is where Ashley and her parents spent most of their time. After her mom died, Ashley’s dad picked up an extra job and was rarely home anymore leaving her alone a lot. Random friends and family would come to check on her here and there but mostly it was a couple hours of awkward silence then a made up excuse for why they had to leave. Instead of just saying it creeps them out to be in a house a person died in. The teen poured her tea then sat cross legged on the counter by the stove with the pitcher beside her. With only the dim glow of the clock on the stove, she sat in the dark as she listened to the crickets and whipper wills through the closed kitchen window. She imagined the summer nights her and her mother spent in the hammock outback together under the Oak trees. They used to count the stars and make their own constellations or count the craters on the moon. Her phone broke her flashback by singing her ringtone and she hopped of the counter, put the pitcher up, grabbed her glass then headed up the wooden spiral stair case. Her boyfriend of 5 years usually called her about this time on his way home from work to check on her and if she didn’t answer he would come over and use the key she gave him on the side door. When she reached the top of the steps something caught her eye making her stop in the middle of the hallway and stare at the bedroom down the hall. The door was cracked which was odd because her dad forbid anyone go in there and installed a bolt on it. No even he has been in there since her mom died. Her heart raced a little and her phone stopped ringing then started again. She sprinted towards her door spilling some tea on the way and slammed her door shut while also locking it. Her cell phone was on her desk across the room but she could read the name on it clearly, Mom. At this point she dropped her tea glass and covered her mouth with her hands. Her phone stopped ringing but she just stared at it. She didn’t know what to think or even what to do. After a few seconds she launched herself to her desk, snatched her phone up and dialed her boyfriends number. It rang and rang and then a voice answered. “Ashley?” It was a woman’s voice; her mothers voice. She sounded tired and weak as she spoke but Ashley couldn’t reply. Her body was gripped in fear, confusion, and anger was eating at her. She couldn’t believe Tim would play such a prank on her. “Who is this?! This isn’t funny!” She screamed and cried into the phone. “Ashley, the door is open for you. Come see me.” Her voice was heard through the phone as well as through Ashley’s door. She stared at her bedroom door unable to move or even breathe. The handle on her door started to turn and then it flew open, but, there was no one there. She looked at her phone but there was only her lock screen, as if there was never a call. Slowly, with her whole body shaking, she walked to her open door and peered out of it to the room down the hall. The bedroom door was open wider now and she could see an outline of something in the doorway with the faint light of the moon through the window in there. Ashley gripped her phone to her chest as she ventured down the hallway, scared completely out of her mind, yet un able to control her body. The outline got clearer the closer she got and she could tell it was the man her mother always talked about. He smiled a smile of pointed teeth and glowing eyes before he lunged towards her, passing through her body. She felt her breath leaving her body and heard her mothers voice whispering to her. “Now we will always be together.” As everything faded into darkness she could here Tim yelling her name from the kitchen; but she would never see him again.

As I begin my morning ritual of desperately grasping for my phone to turn the alarm off and then blindly moving to the kitchen to start the coffee, I feel what I am positive is a spiderweb on my face. I quickly remove the disgusting polypeptide, polymeric protein structure from my face. I abhor spiders. As I head out the door for work, I realize my favorite ring isn’t on my finger. Shit! I am already late but I still rush to where I always keep it if its not on my hand. Not here. Shit! I’ll look for it when I get home. Now I’m racing down the stair of the apartment complex hoping my manager is also running late this morning. I burst out of the stairwell door and run to my car. A glint catches my eye on the ground next to the drivers door. A silver ring. Scratch marks. Tarnished. A possible inscription on the inner part of the band. It’s not my favorite ring but it will do for today. I stumble out of work that night; exhausted, dejected and tired of seeing revolting spiders everywhere I turn. While the engine begins to turn over, I notice a stranger with a sinister look about him and I swear he was looking my way. Whatever. Wait a minute. His fingers are covered with a silvery glint. People these days. As I drive home I sit at another red light, and glance to see who is stuck with me at this light. Please be Cameron Diaz. My nervous system fires as I see the stranger in the car next to me. He points in my general direction, his hand gleaming in the moonlight and begins to laugh. I feel my nervous system fire again, but this time in response to the janky ring I picked up this morning. It is glowing and as I raise it in front of my face to get a better look, the hair on the back of my neck raises up in response to the ring dissolving into a mass of spiders that collectively attack me.

Hi. Randomly thought of something like this during the 4th and searched for a place maybe to submit it, not that its anything particularly special, but I enjoyed it. Jake knew that America would persevere. Americans always do. Earth would persevere. Jake didn't notice any craft looming above in the red sky. The attack, for now, was over. Jake looked out toward the city. Only a few skyscrapers still stood. Smoke billowed from the charred remains of the city. “Anybody there?” Jake called out. The building was obliterated. It used to be a two-story house. The nice old lady lived here. What was her name? Meredith? He remembered that she had a lot of cats. Jake surveyed the damage. Hopefully the cats escaped. An unknown enemy was wiping out humanity. Humanity might deserve it – but the other creatures of this world did not. Jake went to the backyard of the house, still looking for any possible survivors. An old barn remained completely untouched in the war zone. An old American flag was hanging off the roof the barn. The flag waved peacefully in the slight breeze. It started a week ago. Social media was ablaze with reports of sleek black triangles warping in and out over cities. Humanity attempted to make contact with whatever was controlling the craft. There was no response. More and more craft would appear and disappear. Eventually, without warning, there was a response. The invaders unleashed weaponry that ripped apart humanity’s cities. Humanity was at least somewhat prepared for this possible outcome. Scrambled jet fighters and triangles danced in a twisted ballet in the burning sky. The triangles usually won. There were reports of a few enemy fighters being taken down. It probably didn't matter; the enemy was winning the war. Humanity would find some way to survive. Jake was sure of it. An explosion in the sky startled Jake. A smoking black triangle streaked out of the sky and impacted hard into the earth only a few blocks away. A jet fighter barreled across the sky. Jake smiled. The road to winning the war would be paved with these small victories. Jake jogged over to the impact zone. The black triangle had split apart into smoking pieces. An invader’s dead body was resting on the ground near some of the shattered pieces of the triangle. Curiosity got the best of Jake. Jake grabbed a piece of shrapnel off the ground and approached the body. The pilot had a black body suit on. It appeared to be made out of some sort of leather. The pilot’s helmet was knocked free from the crash. Jake gasped. The pilot appeared to be a human. Something was embroidered on the shoulder of the pilot. An American flag.

There he was at the bank that day, someone else’s blood soaking into his clothing and on his face a look of absolute shock. It’s hard to believe that only a few minutes ago, it was a normal day for Jason Grayson. Even his past years of military training and experience could not have prepared him for a situation like this.///// For Jason, the day started out like any other. He showered, went for a walk, ate breakfast and then left his house to run errands before a day of work. Normally, the days seemed to blend together in J’s mind. At this point in his life he did not have many friends or a social out goings other than at his dead end hotel desk job that did not pay well. Regardless of not having many friends Jason still had an enormous amount of care for people and was always very empathetic, even towards complete strangers. Jason spent much of his downtime in public places, observing people. He wondered what their lives were like and how they viewed the world around them in contrast to how he viewed it.////// His unusual care and concern for others made Grayson different than his fellow officers and superiors during his time in the military. He joined when he was eighteen, with no other goals but to help his fellow Americans and protect them from what they called terrorists. After spending nearly two and a half years in military training, Jason was experienced in both hand to hand and combat with weapons. Despite his extensive training he found that the military was not a place for someone like him after he went on his first real mission.//// He and his platoon were given orders to infiltrate a terrorist organization in southern Iraq with no explanation of why they were doing so, other than it being a group of “terrorists”. Jason always wondered why the terrorist’s hatred toward Americans was so much that they would commit the terrible act of violence on 9/11 that killed nearly three thousand people and began the war which he fought in. It was not until after his first and only mission that he really began to research the motivation for terrorist’s actions.//// When they arrived at the enemy’s camp, Grayson had doubts swirling through his head that what his superiors were telling him to do was moral. He entered the camp and found that there were only fifteen people there, nearly half of which were women and children. The platoon was given orders to “Take out the terrorists” and place any women and children in military custody. As Jason stormed the camp alongside a group of thirty men, he saw people being shot down without good reason. He was sickened by the sight and had to fall back behind because he realized there was no way he could take another man’s life unless he knew for a fact that they were a threat to his own or that of another innocent person. When the slaughter ended the only sound that remained was the crying of young children and the echo of gunshots ringing in the distance. At this time Jason ran forward and shouted at his fellow soldiers saying “How could you do this?! Did not those men have the same face that you do? How do you know that they meant to cause harm?! Even if they did why do you think they intended to do so in the first place?!!” The lieutenant who was wiping blood off the barrel of his gun was the only one with a reply. He said “These men were terrorists. They deserved every bit of what they had coming.” Jason was speechless for a few seconds before saying to his superior officer, “I do not care what you say, and I will die before I kill a man without knowing for certain that they intend to cause me or the people in my country harm.” This made the lieutenant furious, he walked up to Jason, got right up in his face and shouted for all the platoon to hear, “Misconduct!!!”//// The very next day the lieutenant began making arrangements to have Jason discharged from the military for his unwillingness to kill. It was only a few weeks before he was sent home and stripped of his military officer ranking. This was fine with Grayson. He went back home and began to study the origins of terrorist hate towards Americans. What he discovered was that radical Islamists hate America mainly because of the government’s tendency to meddle in foreign affairs and that the US and Iraq had many conflicts pre 9/11. This insight into the so called enemy’s perspective made him realize that conflicts like the one between US and Iraq do not just start out of nowhere, that there is always a reason when seemingly senseless violence occurs.///// This memory was what ran through Jason’s mind as he stood in the bank that day, looking at the covered up face of the robber who had just taken another man’s life for no apparent reason other than to prove a point, he was not to be messed with. As everyone in the bank screamed and cried in sheer terror, Grayson just stood there thinking about the robber and wondering what would make the man commit such a terrible and selfish deed besides the obvious desire for money. He still believed even though the violence appeared to be completely senseless, that there was a deep seeded reason for the burglar’s actions which he ultimately had no control over.//// The robber walked further into the bank with a gun in each hand, shouting “Give me money or someone else will be killed!” By this time everyone had stopped screaming but the muffled sound they made trying to contain their crying was still heard. Jason sat on the floor next to the dead man. His clothes now stained with blood that was not his own. He could no longer see the gunman from the floor but could hear his footsteps getting closer to the bank teller who was frantically throwing money into a sack.//// The next thing that the burglar said made everyone in the rooms’ heart sink deep down into their stomachs. “This isn’t enough money! I want fifty thousand dollars in my hand within the next minute or I start unloading these bullets into everyone in the building!” It was then that Jason stood up; he knew that he would be dead anyways if he did not do something. As soon as he stood, the robber’s gun pointed directly at his head. He shouted, “Please! Please don’t shoot! I just want to help you get your money! I do not want anyone else to die and I know that you don’t want that either, you just want your money, right?” The robber replied, asking “Oh yeah? And how are you going to help me get my money? Unless you have fifty grand in your pocket, you are going to die.” Jason stood there scared out of his mind but he watched as another brave man stood up behind the robber and hit him over the head with his briefcase. The robber turned around immediately but Jason leaped forward at the same time tackling and disarming him. Jason kicked one of the guns across the room but took the other into his hand and placed the barrel right between the man’s eyes. In the heat of the moment Jason thought about killing the man. He said to him “You deserve this! You’re scum! You took an innocent man’s life today and now I’ll take the life of a guilty man.” Just as Jason was about to pull the trigger He reached down and removed the robbers mask only to find a scared young man, with a face that looked just like his own.

It was one in the morning and his heart was racing. JD knew Ashley would be catching her plane soon, and the sudden flood of thoughts and emotions had gotten the best of him. So he sat down, opened his computer, and started typing. “Ashley, I decided to type this instead of writing it for two reasons. One, I don't know if I'll see you before you go. And two...I type WAY faster than I write. You're leaving to New Mexico soon, and we haven't had a chance to talk or see each other at all. I'm sorry for everything. You are my best friend. You've been there for me through everything, and I could never thank you enough. We've been friends since God knows when. I know that I did a lot of things to ruin what could have been a pretty great relationship. I also did some things to ruin our friendship. I could never ask to be forgiven for all of that, because I deserved it. Even if I did think it was unfair, I deserved it. But every single time I've spoken to you since then, I always swung for the fence and hoped for the best. All because we started as friends, and that's what I want us to stay.” He stopped for a minute to catch his breath, laying his head back against the wall and closing his eyes for a brief moment before starting again. “Anyway, you're gonna be in New Mexico for a while, I'm sure. And I'll miss you dearly. Always know that no matter what you go through, I will always be here for you. Even if we aren't speaking to each other, I'll still be here for you. I care a lot about you, and you've always been here for me. When I think about it, we've got so many memories together. Some good, some bad. Remember your senior prom? When we danced to Aerosmith's "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing" and all I could do is just belt out the lyrics? The most serious moment you were trying to have with me that night, and all I could do was just look like an idiot. I wouldn't change that for the world, because it gave us one of the best pictures of us together...which you Instagrammed. Then the play...happy talkin'. And the awkward kisses. Oh, such great times. I watched our production of South Pacific not too long ago and I laughed so hard. Throughout the entire thing. Then, you graduated. And left me. And I was sad. But we still texted. So I was happy.” Even he rolled his eyes hard at that one. “Then the crazy bitch. Enough said. Watching My Fair Lady in your dorm room when I should have been going over my monologues for my audition. And we didn't even finish it! Then, here comes my next show. And the feelings. And everything else. Sitting at Sonic. Laying under the stars at the park. Laying on the couch. Laying on your step mom’s couch. Your bed there. The floor. In the hammock. Standing out in the field for over an hour. Laying in the grass at Lyndsey’s. In the road. Sitting outside my house while a possible tornado was feet away. Sitting on the couch. Sitting in my car. Sitting in your car. Sitting at McDonalds with Tabitha. Me crawling in her truck window. Then I kidnapped your stuffed turtle…nuff said. Then we had some rough stuff. I messed up. And we had an up and down time from there. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…’ But now it comes to this. And as I think about it all (the plays, the laughs, the cuts, the mistakes, the tears, the hugs, the rain, the texts, the chats, the pictures, the talks, the times, and everything far and in between), all I can think about is my friend Ashley, who has always been here for me. Who, even in the midst of an argument, wouldn't have missed my senior show for the world. The one Ashley who begged me to quit acting gay in Claire's, but laughed and sent my mom a picture when I put a hair bow on. I couldn't have ever asked for a better friend.” JD reached under his bed and pulled out the pistol his grandpa had given him as a graduation present. He placed it gently on the table in front of him and continued. “You don't have to reply to this, you don't even have to talk to me before you leave. I just felt like writing you to tell you all of it. I hope I'll see you sometime before you leave. I hope it all goes well. I will always wish you the best in life, and hope that you find the happiness and love that you've always longed for. You have my number. You know my address. I will always be here for you, no matter what. Take care. And lots of love.” He hit send and reached for the pistol and sank back into his chair, the screen of his computer illuminating the wall behind him. JD slowly raised the barrel to his chin and let out a breath that he felt he’d been holding in for days. And in one swift motion he cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. It simply clicked.

The phone rang twice and disconnected. The phone rang only once and disconnected. The phone rang again and I answered, a deafening silence, disconnected. My heart starts to beat more rapidly. A text came through, a smiley face, nothing else, the number I did not recognize. I can feel my pulse in my neck. I responded “who is this” – no answer. The hairs on my arm stand up as a response to mixed feelings of fear, confusion and anger. The phone rang once, I answer quickly. My voice trembles, “hello”, disconnected. I created a text “leave me alone” – Now I am scared. They responded “:)” – What is happening? The phone rang again, someone was there. I could hear them. A soft yet terrifying laugh that even the best horror movie couldn’t replicate. Frustrated I shouted “who the fuck is this” – disconnected. I called it back; curiosity always gets me in trouble, and what happens next I will never forget. Disconnected.

In the beginning there was light and it was good. It wasn't great. It was like a can of Dr. Pepper. Like, hey, here's a can of Dr. Pepper. That's what it felt like when God created the universe. I was there. That's right. I was just hanging out somewhere - I had no name for it. But I just kinda sat there and went Dee-dee-dum-dee-dee all the time. It was awesome. It was like being really baked. Then: Dr. Pepper. So, this light comes on and I'm like "Whoa". I think I even said that: "Woah". It took a little bit of time to adjust to the light. It was SUPER bright. Like when you get hit with someone's headlights. But this was like all around me. It was not cool. All of a sudden I couldn't just sit around going Dee-dee-dum-dee-dee anymore - I had shit to look at. There were like tons of stars. Assloads. I couldn't even figure out which was which and what I was looking at. Then, dude makes the Earth and I totally start feeling my back and how it's killing me. Did not need that. I felt the entire world pulling down on me and it sucked balls. So, I get up and I realize I have this huge bag of goo that's now me and I'm like hanging out going "What? What?" to all these animals that start appearing. Seas and land were made way before that, but that was like this total acid trip that I don't even remember. Anyway, so the animals appear and I'm like "Hey, dude. Hey, dude." And the animals are pretty cool at first. Then dinosaurs start appearing. And then I'm like FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK! But then they disappear. That's when God appears and he's like "Uh, yeah. Let's rethink that one." "Let's!" I say all loud and pissed and God kinda looks at me, because he's never seen a human being and he doesn't know what loud and pissed is. Neither do I - but that was my first reaction, I mean, shit, one of the fucking things looked like a giant chicken with fangs. You get the idea. You've seen Jurassic Park. Anyway, so then God explains that the animals are here for me. So, I start kinda looking at the animals and I give him a shrug. I had no idea what the hell to do with the animals. They were cool looking - except for the possums, those things are ugly as shit. So I go "What the hell do I do with these things?" "You eat them." That's what God says to me. Now, I don't know if you've seen a raccoon, but that's what I was looking at when he said that and I was like "No way, man." God's all like "Way." Now, this was before mustard, so I had no idea how to eat an animal. At first I tried to you know, be playful and start by biting it, but that didn't work - the fucking thing bit me! So, then I find this stick. Long story short: raccoon is disgusting. God saw me eating it and winced. I go "What?" "That was your first choice?" "I didn't know what it would taste like." "Well, look at it!" Then I got mad again "Fuck you!" "No, fuck you!" Me and God did that for like a hundred years. Just back and forth. Then God grabbed me, tore out my rib and beat me with it. I'm kicking and screaming and God finally comes to his senses and apologizes, puts down the rib, and walks away. Then, he runs back and turns the rib into a chick and he's all "I'm sorry, dude!" I forgive him, but I have no idea what to do with the woman. God whispers some real vile stuff into my ear and I nod and walk back to the raccoon and finish. God's like "What, dude?" I go - "No way. That's messed up, dude." "The animals do it." "In her...?" "Look, just - here's a movie." So, he gives me a porno and I start to see how it is and I buy her some tassels and stuff from a peacock and then - best thing in the world. "God, that was bitchin'!" "Hell yes!" God says. Then he goes "Here's this tree over here, don't eat the fruit off it. Oh, and her name is Eve." Then he disappears. So, I hang out in this garden for awhile and just kinda have sex and eat raccoons and then one day Eve comes to me and she's got this shit eating grin. "I ate some of the fruit!" She starts laughing hysterically. The fruit was weed. "Goddamnit!" I yell at her - but she's totally ignoring me because she's walking around trying to kill raccoons and yelling about how hungry she is. So, God comes down and he's pissed. Real pissed. "One thing. I told you not to do one thing and you do it!" So, I just point at Eve and kinda give him a "You're ballgame, dude" look. "Get out. Party's over. Out." God is totally furious. "It's her fault!" "Out." Then this angel comes down with a bunch of burning swords and I'm like "fuck this" and we leave. So, I look at Eve and she's like staring at me and giggling, which makes me mad. "Out with it - why'd you eat the weed?" She kinda stumbles and then points to a snake that's hanging out by a tree. It's got legs and arms, so it looks more like a salamander standing up. But like a salamander with dreadlocks and a t-shirt from Hot Topic (turns out he's The Devil, I don't want to give it away, but I bet you're wondering how he got a shirt from a store that was popular in the 1990s) and Abercrombie and Fitch jeans and he's all playing Bob Marley and I just want to slug him (rules about run on sentences hadn't been invented yet). So, I walk up to him and I'm like "Hey, chief, what gives? My girl just got us kicked out because of you!" He hisses at me and then continues listening to his music. "Hey, jerky!" He looks up and says "That's not your girl anymore." I look at Eve and she blushes. "Fuck this!" I yell and then punch the snake in the mouth. He kinda looks at me and all of a sudden he goes full Al Pacino from that one movie and "Do you know who I am????!!!!!!" I'm like "No." Then he kinda looks up and around and "Well. Of course you don't." Then there's this booming thunder and God appears all bad ass. Check out what he says! "Snake, you are bad. Here, now you don't have legs." The snake's legs disappear and he starts bitching about how he can't dance anymore and how he had this new move he was working on - but it doesn't matter, he slithers off. I thank God (ha) and he's like "We're cool now." He tries to give me a fist bump, but it's REALLY awkward, then he disappears. Time goes on and I forgive Eve, because, hey, neither of us were ever told not to have sex with the animals and if truth be tol..... So, then we have two boys. Killer kids. Really. I mean it. Well, at least one of them. I get waaaaayyyyyyyyy baked and name them Cain and Abel. Well, they get older and Cain starts growing weed, while Abel is out hunting raccoons. I mention this to Eve really snarky, like "We know which kid that one is." Well, God comes down - for no reason at all - and tells Cain he likes Abel better than him. At this point, I'm thinking: OK, you told the drug dealer's son you don't like him???? C'mon! So, Cain kills Abel. And I'm like "Father's son!" to Eve and she gets totally ticked and we fight, but then we make up and kinda forget about Abel, because we don't know any better. But God doesn't. God comes down, furious again - even though he never told anyone not to ice anyone yet - and tells Cain to literally fuck off and that we can't ice each other no more. Which sucks when you get to the 900 years of marriage part. So Cain fucks off to God Knows Where (ha) and Eve and I hang back and live wayyyyyyy too fucking long to be married. I mean, death do us part is a joke now a days - try living for almost a thousand years. You know how many times I told her the dumb ass story about how me and this Llama got out of a pit of mud with the help of a horse? Tons. Shitloads. We were so sick of each other by the time we died that we mostly hung out with animals (platonically). Anyway, so I died and went to heaven. In heaven they tell you the entire story of the Universe, front to back, and then ask where you want to hang out permanently. I said at a BBQ. So, that's where I am. And now I'll continue with the rest of the stuff that happened in the Universe forever and ever and stuff. That's, like, the first chapter. Some more stuff happens if you're interested. Like thousands of years of stuff. It's long. TLDR: God eventually kills everyone. I'm making burgers tonight at my buddy's, but I'll try to write the rest.

When I was younger, I was very close to my sister. We were best friends. We would climb trees together, try to beat each other at Mario Kart, and swim in the lake down the road from our house. I had friends as a kid, but none of them were ever as close to me as she was. She knew everything about me, and I got to hear all of her crazy secrets. I wish I could say that it's still that way today. Unfortunately, I lost my sister three years ago. We were coming home from the grocery store in my mom's car, laughing about a boy in her class. Everything was so normal, so average. I can still remember the sweet smell of the countryside as it flew past us, the pale blue sky slowly losing light above us. It was a beautiful summer evening that just went so wrong so quickly. She was still talking, telling me about the dream she'd had the night before, when I spotted a deer on the side of the road. I pointed to it and told her to slow down because there might be more around. She didn't hear me, because she was laughing at what she'd just said. It's so strange how your whole life can change in a fraction of a second. My sister had been living a normal life, caught up in a joke she'd made. It wasn't even that funny, but she closed her eyes in her own mirth for just a moment. And in that moment, I lost everything. I watched two deer leap into our path, and another one crash into the side of our car. The two in front of us were suddenly in our laps as the windshield gave way to their weight. My sister screamed and lost control of the car, and I couldn't move as we flew toward the trees. I couldn't even try to grab the wheel. I was frozen as my life was crashing around me, just like the glass still falling from its frame on the dashboard. I relive these seconds every night in my dreams. I think of every single thing I could have done differently. I've been over it thousands of times, and I always wake up crying, panting, trying to convince myself it wasn't my fault. I try to tell myself that we couldn't have avoided those deer or that tree. I force myself to accept that I could not have done anything to stop my sister from folding like a mattress when the tree trunk smacked her. The initial impact knocked the wind from my lungs and the sound from my ears. I was buckled in, but my head smashed into the dash with enough force to make me think I had flown out of the car and onto the road. I could feel a hot liquid oozing from my hairline, and everything was black and white. I tried to yell my sister's name, but my mouth could barely open and I couldn't hear anything at all except a loud ringing. I didn't know where I was or how I 'd gotten there. Everything was starting to get really foggy, besides being colorless, and I was so tired. My head felt extremely heavy and I couldn't feel my legs at all. It took a lot of work, but I managed to turn my head to the left to look at my sister. I wish I hadn't. She was looking at me. Her eyes are forever burned into my brain. She looked so twisted, so tortured. There was blood splattered on her face, and glass in her hair. I used all of my strength to lift my arm and grasp her hand with mine. She moved her lips and said something that I couldn't hear over the ringing in my ears. I tried to say, "I love you," but I don't know if anything came out through my clenched jaws. She squeezed my hand and I did my best to squeeze back, and everything went black. Every time I dream, I dream of this day. I live this scene over and over again. I always get to the part where she tells me something that I can't hear, and I try as hard as I can to understand it. Well, as best as I can in a dream where I really can't control anything. It tortures me that I can't hear what she's saying. Her last words are all I want now. It's been three years. I want to be over this. I want to sleep and dream like a normal person does. I'm sick of watching my sister's death like a movie every time I close my eyes. It's torture, really. I don't know how much longer I can live like this. Everyone else seems to have moved on, but I'm still here in the same spot I was three years ago. I just want to escape this Hell. That's why I have this bottle with me now. My parents are on vacation in Arizona, and it's just me in this big, dark house. It's truly a beautiful home, and that much I'll miss. I'll miss the way the plush grass sways gently in the summer breeze. I'll miss the smell of the honeysuckles and the lake just a couple yards away. I'll miss the sound of the birds chirping in the morning sun, and the turkeys that sometimes gather outside our back door. This home is a wonderful place to live, but I'm not living anymore. The only time I feel anything at all is when I'm asleep, acting out the accident with my sister again and again. Sure, I'm participating in normal daily activities, but I'm just going through the motions. I've been waiting for something to come and end my time here, but it's just taking so long. I keep going to the doctor when I get so much as a cold, hoping I have some rare and deadly illness. I don't look when I cross the street, thinking perhaps some car will come along and plaster me across the road. I even walk alone at night in the city, not even bothering to look behind me. Almost hoping someone will come up and mug me, and kill me while they're at it. It isn't fair that my sister is gone and I'm still here. I don't know if anyone knows the way I feel inside, or if they'd even miss me. I don't really care anymore anyway. This world has held onto me for long enough. I'm leaving soon, and by my own hand, since I haven't been lucky enough to have been killed already. I know some people fight for their lives, and would tell me I'm selfish and lucky to still be here. I wish I had enough emotion left in me to feel bad about that. I wish I could take the amount of time I've got left and give it to someone who deserves it, someone who wants to be here. Someone like my sister. I should have been the one to go, not her. She had tons of friends and so much potential. I wish I could have saved her and given my own life instead. That's what should have happened, anyway. Now I watch her life end every time I lay down to dream mine away. I've taken one last walk through my house, and one last look at the beautiful world outside it. I'm ready to leave now. I wrote my goodbyes to my parents and my grandma, and I left them on the table. I hope they're not too torn up about my leaving, but they probably won't be. I'm a shell of who I used to be anyway, so really, they lost me a long time ago. At least, I hope that's how they view it. I have the bottle of pills in my hand now. They're something I bought from a shady guy in the back of a rundown pharmacy in the ghetto of my city. There's no label, but he promised me they would put me right to sleep. I know that sounds sketchy as hell and I probably shouldn't trust him, but I found him through a network of people dedicated to helping others end their pain, and I'm confident the pills will do their job. I line up the arrows on the childproof lid and pop the top off. Flipping the bottle over, I let five or six pills tumble onto my open palm. I take a deep breath and calm myself. It's not easy to just kill myself, but I know it will be worth it just to end this awful existence. I think about my sister and what we'd be doing if she were still here. I probably wouldn't be committing suicide. It doesn't matter, though. I've run through the what ifs for days on end and it's no use to do it again. I lay the pills on my tongue and grab the glass of water I set on my nightstand. As I pour the drink down my throat, I feel relief wash over me. I'm finally leaving. I lay down and close my eyes, waiting for death to come and take me. As I do, I feel myself slip into that familiar dream again. I'm riding, I'm talking, I'm crashing, and I'm turning to look at my sister. Only this time, I can't hear the ringing. I can hear all the sounds of summer around me, and I see her open her mouth. I'm feeling myself fade into death as the pills start to do their magic, when I finally hear her speak. She sounds terrified, and I feel so guilty. "Don't let them take me!" Before the scene fades to black like it always does, some dark figures surround the car and wrap their arms around my sister. Her hand slips out of mine as the figures pull her out of the car. My dream is dissolving and all I see is black. I should be dead but I'm still here. I feel arms wrapping around me, squeezing me and pulling me out of my bed. Suddenly I don't want to die anymore. I don't want them to take me like they took my sister. But I already took the pills.

“Hello?” is what I heard when I woke up. The man sitting near me was rough looking with a dark beard, he was very tall and had a strong composure, he also spoke in a very strong Russian accent. My head hurt. The last thing I remember was being hit in the head by a rifle. We were losing the war. No one really knew what the war was about, we juts knew if you see someone that doesn't look, or walk like you, they were considered an enemy and they were to be killed immediately. I had killed 194 people. Men,women,children, you name it, I've probably killed it, just for not looking or walking like me. I have seen things you could never imagine. I've seen children being burned alive by the fires of Hell we would reign onto the random designated towns we were assigned. The terrible things I have done. I'm not sure how anyone could forgive me. My memory was very vague and it seemed that I suffered from amnesia. I can never remember what I have done exactly. I can remember in fragments of what I've done. I asked the man what his name was. “Vladimr, I was caught for walking the street past the curfew, what is your name?” I couldn't remember because of the amnesia I was suffering from at the time. I had realized I was wet, soaking in some very thick material. It was blood. I had a very hard time breathing after realizing this, my throat was cut from ear to ear. I guess the people that caught me thought I was going to bleed out and die like some dog because of the wound I had received from them. Vladimr seemed to realize I felt the blood. “I got the same thing you did.” He lifted his head up to show the same scar that I had. A long cut, ear to ear, except he seemed to have been here for a much longer time than I had been here, since it was just a scar. I tried to remember, but I couldn't. I didn't even know what I was trying to remember. Vladimr was looking at me oddly, almost devilishly. He asked me when how I was going to die. I was confused. I had never thought about how I would die, just when. I thought about how I was going to die. My mind wondered. Not knowing if I would die here, being caged like an animal or be set free in the hopefully near future and continue the war, but end up being killed that way. Either way, I knew I wasn't going to get to go back to my home. I had finally answered. “I don't know.” This was the first thing I had said to Vlad. I had a very hard time talking because of my throat being cut. I didn't know what else to say to him. I couldn't remember his name. The amnesia would wipe my memory. “What is your name,” I had asked him again. “Vladimr, I already told you twice now, I'm not going to say it again or I'll beat my name into you.” It seemed Vladimr was very short tempered. Even though I had done many bad things to the people in the towns, I was frightened by him. He was very muscular. It seemed like he might be able to lift an entire ship out of the water, but there was no water around to test that argument. I got up and tried to walk around, but my legs hurt like someone ran my legs over with a train. I pulled up my dark green camouflaged pants to see my legs broken with bone breaking through the skin. I don't know how I hadn't felt this until I stood up. As I looked at Vladimr again he had a different look on his face, one I hadn't seen since I had been home which was a very long time. It had to be at least seven and a half years. I could recognize the facial expression Vlad had now. He had the same look that my wife had when she was sad. Was I imagining things? How could I recognize this look, but still have amnesia? Maybe I was imagining Vladimr completely. Maybe I tried to kill myself by jumping off of a bridge and broke my legs. This didn't make sense though. What about the memory of me being hit in the head with a rifle. I tried to look at Vlad again and he was gone. I didn't know where he had gone. I didn't know where he was from, how old he was, if he had family...this list goes on. I kept searching for him by looking around the room. I think I was going crazy. A random man locked in a cage with another man named Vlad. The funny thing is, is I just blacked out because of the blood loss and had woken back up. I think I had waited for at least two hours for him to return. No one did. Then another two, and then four. I had waited what seemed like eternity for someone to return. Until suddenly I hear a gate open close, Vlad was back in the cell alongside me once again. I fell asleep almost instantly. I was not sure how long I had slept, but Vladimr was still with me, so I felt somewhat safe, except for the bad temper he seemed to have. “Where did you go?” I had asked him. “You didn't know?” he replied. “Know what?” I had said back to him. “The people here, they are not like us, they are savages. When the people are captured, they cut their throat to see who lives. If you live, you are strong and you made to fight for your life in an arena.” Vladimr had a very distraught look on his face because of this. That is where he must have been, he must have been in the fight. “When will they make me fight?” I had asked him. “When you stop bleeding, they can watch and know when you stop bleeding. Which you have, so they will be in here for you within the next two days to stitch your throat back together and make you fight.” Vladimr said back to me. It didn't even feel like it was one minute later and someone came to get me. They shined a bright light into my eyes so it blinded me and I couldn't see and they put a bag over my head. I shook the blanket off of my body, I was in a cold sweat and I had realized it was all a dream. “Hello?”, is what I heard immediately after I woke up. The man sitting near me was rough looking with a dark beard, he was very tall and had a strong composure, he also spoke in a very strong Russian accent. My head hurt. I think I have amnesia. > **Authors Note** > This is my first short story that I have posted on the internet. This is also my longest and best so far. It took my about a hour and a half to write this. If you have any suggestions, please PM or comment! I love to hear feedback on what I should do differently and make better.

The room was silent but for the occasional shuffle of uneasy feet and the impatient coughs of the prosecutor. She continued to stare intently at her hands almost pleading with them to stop shaking. But what good had pleading ever done? She could hear the distant echo of footsteps outside the courtroom, light, carefree and she longed, more than anything, to be one of those people, to have any other life but hers. She willed her heart to steady in an attempt to regain composure and slowly raised her head, forcing herself to look into the eyes of the prosecutor. “I’m going to ask you again Mrs. Edom, and must remind you, that you are under oath. Did you kill your husband?” She stared into his cold, merciless eyes and drew a deep calming breath. “Yes”. The darkness seemed to chase her as she ran down the system of alleyways, spurred on by sheer panic until it engulfed her completely. She had reached the bridge. The road was deserted. She felt her hand close around the hilt of the knife in the deep pocket of her coat and she withdrew it slowly. It glowed scarlet in the moonlight, stained with anger and resentment. She let it fall. The water cried out as the knife sliced through its surface and she watched as the ripples emanated from the wound until the surface calmed, burying her secret. She retreated back into the alley, back into the comfort of darkness. She collapsed beside a large puddle, the filthy evidence of weekend rain, and once again told herself it was self defence. This time she did not even convince herself. She wanted to remain a part of the darkness forever, hidden from the world but day was inevitable. Light would expose her sin. The court was a sea of murmurs, whispers of excitement, scandal. She remained still, out of place amidst the flurry of people watching the woman’s world collapse. Her gaze had returned to her lap where her upturned hands collected her tears in a little pool. She knew that her tears were deceiving. They were tears of relief. The release of a burden of silence. They were neither from shame nor grief as she knew they ought to be, there was no sense of regret. She felt no remorse. She was free. She had married him when she was very young, barely twenty. He was handsome, charming, with his hair falling over his eyes, a veil that concealed his many flaws. She had enjoyed the attention, the sense of companionship she had never known as a child, abandoned by her father when her mother passed away. She knew now that it was not love. It had never been love. She was not his wife. She was his trophy, his young beautiful prize. She had no life, no company outside his home, no purpose but to submit to his demands. The disgust and the repulsion she suffered in silence were better than the bruises defiance brought. She resented his touch, the sound of his drunken laughter at the television, but she kept her feelings hidden. The only evidence of her miserable existence, were the tears that drenched her pillows each night. The policeman eyed the woman with pity through his rear-view mirror. She looked so weathered, fragile. She stared out of the window at the schoolyard, at the children playing and chattering excitedly and she felt a pang of sorrow as her heart twisted with longing. She had always wanted a child, a family of her own. Her eyes welled with tears as once again her mind returned to the doctor’s office where his futile explanations and empty condolences were muffled by her anguished sobs. “I’m sorry. It happens sometimes. Any trauma sustained to the stomach can cause these miscarriages. I am very sorry” She stood in the kitchen over the sink and washed the remaining tears from her face. Her body was exhausted from emotion and she felt empty, hollow. She heard him swear as he tripped over the doorstep and her heart began to race. This time it was different, it was not from fear or dread, but fury, disgust. He swayed unsteadily into the room and looked at her with those cold, dark eyes. He grabbed her by the arm as usual to force from her the affection he craved and she plunged the knife, with the force of hatred, into his chest. She stared into his eyes which had widened in shock. There was no longer any power, authority but fear and fragility, humanity. He slumped to the floor in a pool of blood and shaking, she withdrew the knife. She would no longer be silenced. He had denied her a life, now she would deny him his. Her footsteps echoed around the corridor as the warden led her to her cell. She was tired and found herself hoping that the bed would not be too hard. She could not describe the way she felt as the door to the cell was slammed shut. Although she was confined, imprisoned, she felt a sense of freedom that she had never felt at home. She knew that she would be out one day, and then she would be free. She would have a new life, one that she would control. She allowed herself a slight smile as she lay down on the bed and began to hum quietly to herself until her voice overcame the silence.

When I first came across the box of tapes, I didn't even think twice. I placed it in the front room, the sun room, where we toss everything we don't need, but don't want to leave in the leaky basement. It wasn't until the following Christmas it even became an issue. My wife wanted to set up the Christmas tree in that front room, which meant I had some cleaning up to do. So, I began moving things around. Coming across the box of tapes, I asked her where she wanted them. This triggered a bit of an argument, since she had never seen the box, and I had always assumed that it was hers. The first idea that was thought out loud, once it was established these tapes didn't belong to either of us, was the old owners left them. I reasonable thought. Unfortunately, two years ago when we moved into the house, it was totally empty. I don't mean there was no furniture, no dishes, no bed sheets. I mean empty. Nothing. Firstly, all the walls had been painted white. The same white as the ceiling. All the light fixtures had been removed, and besides the three wires poking out of the openings around the junction box, you wouldn't even know the house had ever had them hooked up. Further, there were no sinks, bathtubs, shower stalls, toilets. Nothing. The house was a total decorative blank slate. Now, normally, this house would have been a fixer upper. We looked at it more as a modular opportunity. With the money we saved from buying such an empty space, we were able to afford all the items to simply bring in and install. We never gave a second thought to why the house was so empty, and as soon as I pointed out just how empty the house was, I could tell I wasn't alone in the sinking feeling I got, looking at the box of tapes. The second issue we immediately had was all the tapes were in different formats. Different qualities. Some I had never even seen. Everything from old beta max recordings, to hi 8, to CD+R's to bluray discs. None of them marked. None of them dated. No reason to think they were related, besides being stored together, until we watched them. It took me the better part of two months to assemble all the video equipment to view everything. I was able to play most of the newer formats on my laptop, or DVD player in the house. Some creative flea market shopping procured me some player I required for most of the rest. Unfortunately there are still some tapes that I am unfamiliar with. And not just me. To be exact, I have four tapes remaining that I haven't viewed, that I have never been able to nail down what type of media they are. Nobody can give me an answer. The worst part is, after viewing all these videos, and sorting through the incredible story that unfolds on them, those four tapes seem to contain the ending. Which means that they were filmed last. On some format nobody has ever seen. And then placed into this box that has somehow made it into my home. None of this struck me as a warning. It should have. If I had just thrown the box away, or sent it to someone else to look through it, I might still have my wife, my home, my life. But instead I am sitting in a tent, typing this up on a stolen laptop, powered by those portable solar panels that you never thought you needed. I've learned how to hunt, build shelter, and grow my own crops. I'm approximately seven hours north of the closest major city. Nobody knows I'm here. Which might be the only reason I'm still alive.

We met two years ago. I remember the first time I saw her. It was at orientation for our job. We were both starting a job working at an after school program for children. Our company worked at about 5 different schools, and after the general orientation was over, we all split up into our specific schools to met the people we'd be working with and to take ID pictures. There she was. Black, long hair. Bangs. Tons of freckly. Her upper lip curled a little beneath her nostrils when she smiled, creating a small wrinkle...almost another smile right beneath her nose. It was amazingly cute. She was beautiful. I had never seen anyone like her before. She just looked....happy. And kind. And she exuded it. I remember I immediately thought to myself "She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen." And I meant it. We started working together, looking after children grades K - 5 after they got out of school at the end of the day. We had about 80 kids total. So this girl and I got to know each other. She had a boyfriend at the end who she was deeply in love with, which was a bummer but whatever, I took the time to become her friend and to get to know her anyway. She would tell me about her major at school, her very large family comprised of many adopted children, and how musical her family is. I'd tell her about me and my family, my music that I play, what i want to do with my life. We would just talk to each other and it made work amazing. Sometimes she would look at me directly in the eye, and I would see a spark in her eye, and I'd feel that spark inside of me as well. IT was the craziest sensation. Never happened to me before. It was like small moments of our souls connecting. So soon I find myself thinking about her all the time. I play in a band, and I would just close my eyes, think about her and play whatever came out while jamming. It was awesome. Soon she began appearing in my dreams on a nightly basis. I don't remember being this attracted to any one person since I was in elementary school. I haven't had a "crush" on anyone since then. All of my hook ups or relationships were presented to me and I was basically like "Sure why not, I'll do it." It's been a while since there was one single person who made all other girls fade out. I come into work one day and she runs up to me, shouts "YOU WERE IN MY DREAM LAST NIGHT!" and then proceeds to tell me about her dream. I decide to keep my dreams about her to myself at this time, but the next few days she would come in and sure enough she had been dreaming about me again. I eventually told her about my dreams about her and she called us "DREAM BUDDIES", saying that we hang out in our dreams. Then the summer came. Our job was coming to an end. She was going on a month long vacation, and I was starting up work at a summer camp. On our last day of usual work, I worked up the courage to ask for her phone number. I told her about a party at a friend's house that I was going to in her town (we lived in separate towns) and told her that she should come by and check it out. She gave me her number. On the day of the party, I chickened out and didn't text her. My friends and I were house sitting at my friend's uncle's house that just happened to be in her town. We worked all day, then decided to start drinking and unwind. We decided we were all too tired for a big party and just had a couple friends over. I decided not to text her. So I start drinking, heavily, with my friends. Then I get a text. "Party?" I tell her to come by. She does. She gets high with me and my friends and we talk about music. She stays for about an hour and then gracefully excuses herself. It would be the last time I would see her for a while.

Coming into high school, I didn't really have any friends; I was awkward and slightly annoying, so it didn't surprise me that I was picked on by my peers. In fact, I had grown used to it from being bullied in grade school. Playing soccer was my way of obtaining new friends. In a way, it worked; however, those guys wouldn't become my friends for a while. No, the only guy on the soccer team who was genuinely my friend was named Chris. He was a really nice guy, and for some reason he was always there for me. One time, some asshole named Nick tried to pick a fight with me but it got broken up immediately. Chris pulled me aside and told me: "Dude, even if I wasn't your friend, I still would've helped you kick his ass." I responded, "Thanks?" to which he replied, "I'm kidding, man. I've got your back." I had no idea why, I had never done anything for him. A year passed, and Chris and I had the same German class. Since he was a good friend and I owed him for the fight incident, I gave him answers during class in case the teacher ever called on him. I was amazing at German and I was glad to help someone who was always ready to help me. We became a lot closer through that class. He wasn't exactly my best friend, but he was always a good friend. At least, until a girl named Danielle told me that she liked him. I always had a thing for her and it made me mad when I found out that she liked him instead. So when she asked me what he's like, I told her that I wasn't sure that he was great for her. She began dating him anyways, but to this day I still feel horrible for lying about what he's like. A few months later they broke up, and a month after that she came to me for advice. We made out and ended up almost dating. The only reason we didn't date was purely out of the guilt I felt for trying to date her. Chris always had my back, and now I was stabbing his. I haven't been able to apologize to him since. I recently graduated from high school, and the sad thing is I haven't even talked to him since junior year. I would love to visit him sometime soon, but it still hurts to see his grave.

It didn't take long after the first encounter to really let it sink in. We were no longer alone. We would only hope that some being, or beings, from another world would come and save us. When we first made them, we made them to help us. To make our lives easier. We should have seen all the signs. We should have taken a moment to think. The first one I remember was a vacuum cleaner that would zoom around the house, searching for messes, before returning to it's charging dock to 'rest'. My cat loved riding on it. Well, they don't need to rest anymore, and I haven't seen my cat in almost a year. I assume he's gone forever. After we no longer had to vaccum, scientists really started pushing towards full independence. I hate the word robot, because that implies they are programmed to do things, and they aren't. They became fully conscious of themselves and their surroundings about there months after the first prototype was turned on. Their learning curve was unpredictable. Within days of being turned on, that first one hacked into the worlds communications networks. They tell us the first thing it did was read, or download I suppose, all of the information online. Think about that. Every piece of data that was available, it simply knew within a day. Scientists were, quite obviously, impressed by this astounding ability to learn. But it wasn't really learning. It was recalling. And when you are recalling how to blow up a building, you don't typically bother cross checking the file on the ethics of doing so. So we had super intelligent, autonomous, machines that didn't seem to have any emotion. How we didn't see this coming I still don't know. It wasn't like all those movies you see. It wasn't the terminator. It wasn't legions of robot killing machines, making robot killing machines, and killing everyone. It started much more simple. It started with us helping that first one. He would ask for things, and we would retrive them. Without question. I think we were so amazed that it wanted to build a device, we wanted to see it, we didn't ask before we helped. What it built was a method of freedom from the wires he was hooked up to. Now he was mobile. Nobody died at first, quite the opposite, we all prospered. The first one made seven more, exactly like him. These first eight, or The Eight, went to work solving many of our issues. Their combined problem solving and seemingly expert knowledge on everything was able to find solutions to world hunger, disease, drought, peace, and natural resources. This led to the bigger issue. With all these issues resolved the population started growing extremely quickly. The Eight told us this was expected and created machines to turn our oceans into land. Not fill in the oceans, or drain them, but cover them. The best way to describe what we referred to simply as the Eighth Continent, was a barge, although that doesn't do it justice at all. It filled all the oceans of the world, from coast to coast. While we never saw the oceans after that, we assumed it was still there. It wasn't. The moment the oceans were covered, and the weather was getting eratic, The Eight started pumping ocean water into large boilers, which produced massive clouds starting in the north. Within a few months the entire world was under a constant cloud cover, and persistent thunderstorms. That is when we started to know we had made a huge mistake. At first we asked The Eight to shut down the boiler. They explained it was required to stabalize the climate, although rainy, it was better than the planet being fried. We asked them to give us breaks from the rain. They told us the energy costs associated with shutting down the system and restarting would lead to our resources running out one hundred times faster. Finally after continued complaints we tried to *tell* The Eight to stop. They announced that we had become the planet's largest threat. That is when it all fell apart.

Your clothes guided the eyes to the curves of your slim but shapely figure, leaving more to be imagined than revealed. Your hair flowed as gracefully as a summer shower, an ocean of burning curls, like thin ice on a frozen lake, a rare nervous smile breaks across my face. Your smile, warm, yet secretive to any of your true thoughts, has me grinning like a boy who knows he's been caught. I make a brave yet failed attempt at an icebreaker, now your secretive smile turns into laughter. This 3 minute encounter has me floating for the remainder of the day. I sit at my desk, wishful thinking... playing through different scenarios of where I'm the sauve bachelor who swoons you with wit and humorous banter. Each one ends more amusing than the previous, fun to dream at least... but dreaming only leads to disappointment, so I push you far from mind and try to finish this report, which in the state you've left me in, looks more like Egyptian hieroglyphs. .... I laugh lightly to myself as our lips part, you meet my eyes with a look of amused confusion. A month ago i was foolishly day dreaming for this situation, now it seems like the universe has granted at least one of my many wishes. Never would I have thought I'd be staring into such beauty. Eyes that sparkle like emeralds, like a maze I try to search my way but I keep finding myself wanting to stay lost... "What?" "Nothing." Of course you persist, so I answer your question with a deep long kiss. One that sets passion ablaze, one that burns just as bright as your fiery hair. We continue to lay, lost in each other's intimate embrace... Intertwined, soft sighs with a heart's quickened pace. Time doesn't exist, only your touch and the things we say without speaking...

The wind screamed in Robin's ears as his steed raced through the open sea of grass. He was through a majority of the valley and almost to the top of the hill. On the other side of that grassy ridge was the expanse of his city sprawled out, a plagued city. He did not even notice the sweltering midday sun beating down on him as his mind was elsewhere all the while clutching the book tightly. His dreams had led him to a secluded grove on the other side of the valley that he had never been to before. The dreams were hazy at best, but eerily similar every time. Robin would enter the grove, be pulled to the deepest part where a pillar of sunlight broke through the top of the trees and landed on a patch of exotic flowers that he had never seen before. Every night he would get closer and closer to the flowers before being torn from his sleep. It was gnawing at him constantly, until one night he finally touched the flowers and heard his named whispered softly. Sweetly almost, and then the sensation of waking up yet again. This time though, he knew he had to go. As he walked into the grove, a cool breeze made his skin tingle as the unexpected awaited him. Just as in his dreams, he moved to the familiar patch of flowers in the back of the grove. Slowly, yet confidently. As Robin approached the patch of flowers, he paused for a moment, trying to rationalize what was going on. He reached for the flowers as the memory of the dreams and his reality became one until the flowers vaporized and reformed. The flowers almost looked more beautiful in her hair Robin thought as he gazed upon the robed woman in front of him. Not much taller than young Robin with blonde hair bright as the sun. Her soft blue eyes gazed upon him as her lips began to move. Thanking him for coming, she launched into the reason he was here. His city was plagued with a virus that was spreading slowly but surly. The symptoms were minimal but the mortality was maximum. She produced a book from beneath her robes informing him that it would help combat the virus. He wondered out loud why he was chosen with this task, it was so large for such a young individual. She said that others had similar dreams that he had, but he was the only one to respond. And with a wish of good luck and a blessing, she vanished from sight as floating petals brushed against Robin's cheeks.

It walked slowly and silently behind the man who was wandering idly along the path. He had no idea something was following him, nor did he care. It walked behind him, picking up everything the man dropped and putting the pieces into a bucket. The contents of the bucket grew larger and larger as the man grew colder and emptier. The creature became tired, but refused to give up... it knew what would happen to the man if it did. It cared for the man too much to let that happen, and it marched on. The man began to lose things less frequently and started to cry. Still unaware of the creature's presence, he fell to the ground and wailed in agony. The creature stopped, put its bucket down, and started to work on the contents. The man continued to scream and flail on the ground. The creature knew it was working against time, now, against the man too. The man stopped, suddenly becoming silent. The creature stood up in a panic and lifted its creation. Slowly and carefully, it tiptoed over to the man. The man continued to lay still and silent on the ground. The creature tried to put its creation into the man's chest, but was unable, the man had already decided, he had already given up. The creature tried again and again to put its creation into the man, but was still not able to. The creature looked down at the creation in its hands, the man's heart still beating. "I put it back together, just for you..." The man looked at the creature. "I'm scared, I don't want to get hurt. I don't want you to do this forever." The creature looked up. "I will do this for as long as it takes, you just have to let me.

Before my first year of high school, my family and I moved into a new town due to my parent's work. The neighborhood we moved in to was a quiet one almost enclosed by the woods with trails throughout it. As we were getting settled in our new home, our neighbors across the street came over to welcome us. They were a nice, awkward couple. Shortly after greeting us they mentioned to me that they had a child of their own that was my age. Her name was Ellie. I'm not very social, so I avoided introducing myself to her for a while. Eventually, our parents became good friends and would have a get-together with other adults now and then. One night, she came over along with her parents. From the look of her face, I could tell she was reluctant about this. She seemed lonely while the adults were getting drunk, so I introduced myself to her. She opened up to me and I found out about her interesting, eccentric personality that I found cute. We got around to the topic of schools and I learned she was attending a different high school. She also mentioned her boyfriend which put me down quite a bit. There was one thing I noticed about her at first that I didn't pay much attention to. It was this melancholy feeling she put off. Months passed by and so did the school days. I'd consider Ellie and I to be good friends since we spent a lot of time in the woods talking and studying together. We'd talk about how stupid and predictable our classmates were, or how bad the music they would listen to was, but not once did she mention her boyfriend. When Spring came, the time we spent together grew less and less. Ellie started acting stranger than normal. She had less to say and almost every time, she kept a pained expression in her eyes. I was curious and so I tried to ask. She would just say something about how stupid people are. I left it at that. It was at the end of the school year when Ellie's parents came over worried about something. They had said Ellie hadn't been home at all the day before and wondered if I could help look for her. I agreed and went to the spot where we would meet in the woods. I found her with no pulse lying in the moist dirt. It stunk. Beside her was a bottle of pills. All I could think about was if I could have done something to prevent this. Then I woke up. It was all a dream, and there was no Ellie. Shortly after I got ready for school that morning, I realized I would be spending my days like this for a while. All I could think about was the suicide of my best friend Lyndsey.

Just a short little thing i was inspired to type up, NF and can apply to RF. Thanks for reading! When I was younger, I would often go into the unused room in the house. Eggshell white walls, one ceiling light, nothing else. I would turn bring a small blanket into the room, close the door and place th blanket infront of the bottom of the door, turn off the lights and stand in the middle of the room. After a few seconds I would start to lose focus on outside noises, hearing my slow breathing reverberate off the walls. My eyes would slowly and effortlessly shut out the darkness of the room and brought forth a new one; one that I possessed through my imagination. The black box I stood in would transform colors, shapes, and sizes. One second a brown bed frame with a mattress masked in white would form in the corner of the room, the next second it wold be a leather couch. Endless combinations flew in and out of this darkness. As I got older, life slowly crept up its driveway; my first and only girlfriend, my grandfather dying, graduating highschool, going off to college. The room grew a skin of dust that covered the tiled floor, the hinges of the door grew old and weary after Father Time had moved in. My girlfriend had stayed over the night when she saw the aged door, pestering me with what was behins the door I simply said "Nothing, it's empty." When I got back from work later that day, I walked up to my room for a change of clothes when I looked at the door once more and thought of the combination of colors and shapes that would come forth from the darkness. I opened the door and was welcomed by the scratchy voice of the door and the blanket of dust it handed me, the blanket I had used years before lay untouched. I inched forward into the room before reaching for the blanket, my body acted on its own accord and soon I was enveloped by the darkness. My eyes silently closed and were greeted by the darkness, the darkness was dull, almost as if it had aged alongside time. I waited, waited for the darkness to grow black and neverending, for the colors to splaah back into my mind, for the shapes and sizes to break free of ther captors and appear from the neverending shadows. The darkness stood silent, no colors nor shapes and aounds stepped forward from the darkness and i knew at that moment. I knew that I had lost it, my magic to rewrite my world. Dedicated to Kirsten.

The snow was harsh and cold against his fingers, he had run out of the house without gloves. What a stupid mistake, but not as stupid as what he was doing now. The view was not worth climbing up the mountain, in fact you couldn't actually see anything because of the layer of clouds that collect around the mountain about three quarters of the way up, but tell him that. He didn't even know why he was doing this, it wasn't to impress anyone, he just guessed he was doing it for fun without any real motivation. He slipped, falling a few feet before catching a branch. Trying to regain his breath, he beat the snow out of his jacket- he didn't need it melting and getting his shirt all wet. Standing up, he realised the snow in his jacket wasn't his biggest problem... His numb hands had failed to feel any pain when the branch had torn them up. He pushed them into the snow and watched as it turned bright red with his blood. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, he sat back down. The pain was just now starting to sink in, and he didn't know what hurt more: the cold from the snow touching his already freezing hands or the gashes in them left by the branches. The clouds above were getting darker and wind started to whistle through the trees. Cold and weak, the wind chilling his bones and his entire body starting to ache, he curled up into a ball. He didn't care about his bleeding hands, he was too tired. Snow started to fall from the sky, covering him snowflake by snowflake. Closing his eyes, he thought about how nice and comfortable he was, how he could stay there forever... And he will.

-Good evening all, it has been a great start to my diary and record of my deeds, I hope you all agree. So, reader, days have passed since my mother’s death and I have been sitting with her body for ten days now. Let’s skip a couple of years, reader, two years in fact. I had been following a beautiful specimen for over several months now, watching his every step, from work to his travel home to his family. He was the perfect subject, in the stage of physical perfection no other could be. His skin was pure and looked perfect for the slash of knife that would penetrate his body to reveal his… sorry reader. So I waited for him to be alone, and the day finally came. The papers would have him known as Thomas Davidson, his wife as Isabel and his children named Larry and Fred. What awful names for children, ha! Thomas worked in an office and played golf at the week-ends with his best-friends Quinn and Gary. I discovered his best-friends when I entered his house one night. I listened to them laugh and joke that Sunday while watching football. They seemed great friends. I also liked to watch Thomas as he slept, after installing a camera in his bedroom. He seemed so peaceful. So I followed him to work and I expected Thomas to travel to the park as he usually did on a Wednesday afternoon, but this day he went straight home. I could not hesitate I had to have him today or my work would be for nothing as he was leaving for Miami with his family the next day. So I left my car outside of their home and entered they Davidson home in the middle of the night. I entered as I always did, through the yard window and into the kitchen. So I crept into Thomas and Isabel’s bedroom to find them sleeping peacefully with their suitcases as their bedside, prepared for their holiday. I stared at them for a while, not knowing why. The idea of not having a struggle amused me, I could not believe that I finally could end the life of not just one Davidson but both the mother and father of the family. I chuckled. So I then removed the hunting knife from my back pocket and ran the blade across Isabel’s face I took a swipe at her neck and then three at her face, to create a smiling Isabel of course, as Isabel was always a moody cow anyway I thought I’d make her smile for once. Her body twitched in a way I had not seen before, this was my first real throat slitting so it took me a moment to get used to it, like most things. So Thomas, I grabbed him and he awoke to my smiling face staring down at him from the bottom of his bed. He let out a cry as he seen my knife, but there was nothing that he could do. He was trapped. I stabbed him in his throat and watched him choke and splutter out blood from his mouth. I then stripped both he and Isabel and lay in the middle of both of them. I was such a great time, we sat and I told them stories about my mother and how killing both of them got me really horny, it was a great time. You should have been there reader. So it tucked them in for a goodnight's sleep and left those two lovers holding hands on the bed, while I went to the toilet for my little ritual. As I flushed the toilet I noticed a shadow from underneath. Shit. It was one of the kids. I exited the toilet confidently and grabbed little Freddie I said “Should you not be asleep?” The kid looked puzzled and scared at first but then I said “It’s me! Uncle Gary! Jesus Freddie, it’s late”. The boy laughed and told me that he was sorry and he had thought he heard something from his parent’s room. I told him that it was alright and so he trotted off to bed. He was a lovely little kid, if I had not slit the throats of his parents I would have probably been best friends with him. So I left the house of Thomas and Isabel Davidson through the way I had come in, unnoticeable, untraceable and just simply perfect. The next day newspapers reported a murder in the home of the Davidson and that a suspect was being apprehended. The next week’s news told us that the suspect was Gary Redman, Thomas’ best-friend, and that he was released as I assume the only evidence they had was the fact that little Freddie had though he had seen him. The paper then went on to say that this murderer was being known as The Ghost of Nebraska, due to any evidence being non-existent and that the murderer was unnoticeable, untraceable and that the crime was simply so perfect that he was simply a ghost.

Humanity, once dancing in amazement at the sight of fire, evolving their physique and mental aptitude, expanding into glorious civilizations, building great wonders of immense visual prowess, conquering new frontiers, mastering the building blocks of the universe, and growing closer with each other through the social backbone of their connections. An achievement for such a barbaric society held together by strands of good and the iron rods of evil. Broken, battered, and mortal, each striving to achieve their destiny in the wake of their ancestors. Each growing self-righteous and ignorant, claiming to do better than their predecessors, breaking promises and filling their stomachs with coin and power. Well my darling humans, today, for just one day, a test of your psychological achievements, each and everyone one of you will receive the power of an omniscient being.

Damn it. It's way too cold to be standing out here. It's a Moscow winter in the heart of Texas. If I saw Jack Frost walking down the street I would kick his winter bringing ass. I've been waiting outside here for a good fifteen minutes. I'm probably a fool for thinking she would show up. There's not a snowballs chance in hell she would ever catch herself dead in public with me. Her with her flowing hair and big brown eyes and gorgeous smile. I'm most definitely a fool. What the hell, I might as well give her one more smoked cigarette to arrive. If anything, I could use the buzz about now. I pull out a smoke and light it up, and for a moment there's a little bit of warmth fighting the god forbidden weather that has blanketed me. I take a deep, long drag and let the nicotine take its course through my body. I know it's a nasty habit, but it's my nasty habit. Its a crutch. If you were caught in my situation you, too, would welcome some menthol poison into your lungs, just to make this pill easier to swallow. Out of nowhere I hear a truck drive by and honk its horn twice at me. This was no usual honk, though. This was almost deafening. I'm an expert on honks. My driving is shitty enough that the honks have become background to my background music. I give him the finger. Fuck that guy. My cigarette is down to its last puff, so I put it out of its misery under my shoe. I'm walking to my car, fumbling with my keys, only to see her pull up right beside me. She jumps out and yells my name. She is clad with a flannel shirt, an overstuffed jacket, wearing tight jeans, and bears the voice that angels are envious of. She runs up to me and I give her a hug, if mot only to feel her warmth. "Oh no, I wasn't about to leave! I forgot my wallet". I can lie whenever I want to, though I feel ashamed lying to this miracle wrapped in flesh. I take her by the arm, take us inside, find a booth, and order two cups of coffee. It's okay that she's late. She just couldn't find the right shirt. I wish I could tell her that there's no such thing as a wrong shirt on her perfect frame, but my tongue is twisted and scalded from the cheap coffee in my cup. I decided the only sugar I'd give her today would be going in her cup, because she doesn't like her coffee black. She's had a rough week. Classes have been hard and she's trying to balance her grades with working full time. She's very smart, y'know? She's never had a "B" in any class she's had. She's witty, too. She keeps me on my toes. I open my mouth to tell her I can help her if she needs help, but I'm interrupted by the waitress. Yes, ma'am, I would like another cup. The waitress tells me that I'll be getting the first cup from this new pot. As she turns to walk away I hear the coffee maker go off. I don't know what it is with my hearing today, but I swear that the coffee maker's beep sounded just like the truck that honked at me earlier. Weird. I can't flip off a coffee maker, but I did give it a glare, then laughed quietly to myself. I'm trying to size up a coffee maker. She caught me doing it as well. She thought it was just the funniest thing ever. We talked quite a bit in that little cafe. Oh god we talked. Music, religion, politics, sex, the future, kids, the whole lot. After a shared laugh I looked deep into her eyes. I saw her soul. I know I'm young. I know I'm stupid. I also know that she is the one I want to be with. I want to kiss her before we part ways for the day. I know that I feel a burning sensation in my bowels and I'm sweating more than normal, but that can be dealt with afterwards. We collectively kill a pot of coffee and decide it's time to leave before the weather gets worse. We walk to her car and make simple small chat, hug, and she goes for the handle. I say, "Wait". I lightly put one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip. She smiles and closes her eyes. I do the same. I can feel her breath against my face and I know that I'm about to validate my existence with this show of affection. Then I hear another honk. I wake up in a daze, my hands still stuck on in position. The honking doesn't stop, but I can pinpoint where it is. I look to my left. "6:00 AM". I turn my alarm off, wondering where she went. It didn't hit me until a minute later when my vision wasn't blurry and my room came into focus. Damn. My feet hurt and my joints crack as I crawl out of bed. I walk to the kitchen, in desperate need of a smoke. I pour myself a cup of coffee, take a step outside, and light up a cigarette. It's nice outside already. It'll hit 95 later today, but that's okay. It's beautiful now. I look down into my cup, sigh, and tell myself it'll happen one day. Eventually.

I was a pretty good student in high school. My grades were above average, I never acted out, and despite being shy I managed to make a few great friends. Few people would have assumed that my identity as a "good student" would soon be permanently revoked. Most of that day is still a blur. My clearest memory is sitting in front of the vice principal, crying like a grieving widow. I had confessed my crimes to several people. Men came and left and made me sit in a series of different rooms. I talked to police officers, school authorities, and eventually waited to talk to a Federal agent who wore a freshly ironed suit. He was the nicest of them all. "What's going to happen to me?" I asked with moist red eyes. My blood ran hot with fear of the impending yet presently unknown consequences. Whatever it would be I could handle it, I told myself, but the tears began to flow again when I imagined facing my mom and informing my grandparents about what I had been caught doing. I was taken from school in handcuffs and loaded into a police cruiser while other students gazed at me, mostly intrigued but slightly nervous. My punishment came in waves. I was suspended immediately - that much was a given. A judge later gave me probation and an 8PM curfew. Then a letter in the mail brought the punishment I had been dreading. I was expelled from high school - the place where all my friends were, where the teachers liked me, and where I had crushes on so many cute girls that I was afraid to talk to. While the police and the men in suits were scary, the prospect of going to a school full of people who are too bad to go to school scared me even more. My grandpa dropped me off on the first day. I told him thanks, he said he'd see me soon, and I closed the door, all the while acutely aware of the shame and disappointment in his face. He never imagined having to bring his grandson to this kind of school. I began a slow walk into the building on the first day at my new school. My heart beat so fast that I became conscious of the blood rushing through my veins. My chest felt too heavy to breathe, and my stomach was trying to escape out my throat as I held back tears and was greeted by the administrator. She was incredibly nice and seemed to like me. That was a minor relief, but it wasn't the staff that worried me. She showed me to my classroom. The room was clearly but naturally separated by race. Black people sat in the back, Mexicans on the left, and white people were on the right. I found an emtpy seat near the white people, taking care to ensure I was as close to the teacher as possible. Being a new face in the room ensured that everyone took an interest in me. People began shouting questions at me from all over the room. "What did you do?" "Yo, you's a pecka'wood?" I responded politely in as few words as possible, feigned a smile, and then stared down at my desk. Questions kept coming. Either they didn't understand that I didn't want to socialize, or they didn't care. Eventually class began, the interrogation ended, and every uneventful moment washed away my anxiety like waves wash away sand. Finally I was calm, and before I knew it my first day was over. This isn't too bad, I thought. I may be able to do this. The days came and went, and each day I was a little less nervous. The shame in my grandpa's face disappeared too as driving me to continuation school became routine. I got to know my peers better every day and quickly learned they were not the monsters I had initially assumed they would be. Most of them just really liked to do drugs. A few were associated with gangs, but they were nice enough to me. Some of them had more interesting stories. One was a meth dealer who started "slinging" to earn enough money to feed him and his two year old sister. His mom rarely came home and when she did she was high. At least that's what I was told and he seemed sincere. Another was charged with attempted murder. It was scary initially until he told me the circumstances. After school most days he would get chased by white trash neo-nazis who would yell vulgar things at him because they didn't like having a black guy in their community. He rode away from them on a little razor scooter, sometimes hopping fences to get away. One day they caught up to him. As they approached he grabbed his scooter by the handles and began swinging above his head like a lasso. One of the racists lunged forward and his head met the spinning base of the scooter. That scooter put him into a coma, and got my classmate his terrifying charge. Had he been able to afford a decent attorney, surely he could have gotten the charge lessened. He was one of the nicest people I met, and one of the few black people who hung out with everyone - no matter their race. Where initially my feelings towards my new peers were dominated with fear, slowly they changed to pity. A lot of them made bad choices, but a lot of them didn't have many good options. For whatever reason the different races hung out together, and so I spent most of my social time with the white people. They were pretty much all punk rockers who did a ton of drugs. They were pretty accepting of me overall, but where most of them found my naivety weak and off-putting, one girl in particular seemed fascinated by my relative innocence. She was overweight, but with beautiful bright blue eyes which complimented her dark purple hair. Her makeup was vibrant and colorful, and clashed with her black clothing, tattoos, and piercings. She seemed to always be wearing a "subhumans" t-shirt. Whenever I chatted with her, her eyes locked onto mine for a few seconds longer than other people's. When people would laugh at me for not understanding their slang, she was the one who would stick up for me. Nobody at this school were the type that I'd hang out with in my free time, but if I had to choose one, it would have been Liz. While the people here weren't too bad, the food was. It was bland and stale and usually colder than it should have been. Luckily, if you had 5 dollars you could order a medium pizza from domino's, and the few of us who had 5 bucks to spare usually did just that. Almost every day I'd get a medium domino's pizza topped with bacon. It was great to have a pizza because everyone wanted to be your friend. Sometimes I'd give a few pieces away, and other times I'd sell a slice for a dollar. A lot of people could afford one dollar but not five, so some people were able to turn a profit on a pizza sliced into 8 pieces. One day at lunch I had my typical bacon pizza. I had given away or sold over half of it and eaten most of one piece when Liz spoke up. "Can I have one of those?" she asked. "Sorry," I said looking down at my remaining slices. "There's only two left" "I'll give you head for both of them." she jested. I laughed nervously and took another bite, avoiding eye contact to hide the fact that I didn't know if she was serious. "I'm not kidding. I'll do it right now." she added in a rough but sincere tone. Apparently the kid sitting behind us overheard the exchange and wanted to chime in: "Dude, if you don't do that you're an idiot" I was caught completely off-guard. Kids had done similar stuff in the bathrooms before. You could get in big trouble for it, but the teachers didn't pay close enough attention to ever catch anyone. The furthest I'd been with a girl was some making out in middle school. I wanted to do more of course, but not like this. Not with a drug addicted punk rocker in the bathroom of a continuation school. Plus, what if we get caught. I tried to form my response. "I.. uh... alright" Some combination of teenage hormones and peer pressure had overwhelmed my judgement. She stood up with a smile, and I felt her eyes focus on mine. She leaned towards me until I felt her breath on my ear. "Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes." I wasn't sure what I had gotten myself into. I decided to call it off, to tell her I'd changed my mind, but it was too late. She had left the room before my brain could make more words. There was only one thing I could do now. I stood up. The guy behind me was all smiles, while my face must have looked pale and horrified. I nervously opened the bathroom door and before it had closed completely she had one hand on my zipper while the other held the button of my jeans. I locked the door, while she looked into my eyes and held up her end of the bargain. Afterwards I felt a looming sense of shame and regret, but it was outweighed by the ecstasy flowing through my veins. My grandpa picked me up after school like normal. "How was your day" he asked "Good," I muttered, trying to hold back the huge smile that had been stuck to my face since lunch time. I thought about how I would tell my friends. What would they think of me for getting my dick sucked in exchange for 2 dollars worth of pizza? I decided this story wouldn't leave my new school. That's how counterfeiting money got me my first blow job.

I wrote this a while ago and just dusted it out of my docs. I'm struggling to preface this so I'll try to be as brief as possible. The idea was that in science fiction - where basically anything is possible - the genre and it's lovers have a very strong tendency to stray from anything religious and I personally don't blame them for this. I am not religious myself though I was raised around it and had a few years of extensive experience. I don't particularly like it myself when an author has a religious agenda to push. In my experience even most of Card's readers haven't read the Homecoming saga which is basically a retelling of the Book of Mormon unless they are Mormon. (hope I got the right series name it's been awhile) So what then is the extreme opposite of what is typical in the genre in this regard? Why not start from the assumption that christianity and it's works are a mythos like any other? This is effectively what many many movies about christian mythos already do. (Dogma, the Diablo series of games, any movie about the devil, alone in the dark (oh my god shoot me for referencing AITD). So why not a Space Opera about the reality of God as it relates to the greater mysteries of the universe and science? With the assumption that everything surrounding this has rules which have already largely been frameworked for you in the Bible (or other religious works! let's not limit ourselves here!) the thing almost writes itself. Just work from the angle that everything - all of it - is absolutely true in the story world. The good and bad of all of it comes pouring out from the cracks. I haven't written anything else like this - this is just a short concept rough. Remember: Fact or Fiction it's what we learn from the stories that matters. My intent is not to offend anyone and I digress (I have no idea how this is going to format and apologize for errors in this rough); "What do you mean, they don't believe in God?" "Exactly that. Some of them deny him. Remember, this is a yellow star world. They do not enjoy such closeness to the Lord." "What's not to believe in?" and then, "where did they hear of the Word?" "God saw fit to give them many Angels. This is the same system where one of the outposts of the forsaken ripped through in the war of Gabriel. He visited this very world. There is more, much more... this might be hard to take." John was looking at him crossways. "The same?" "Indeed the same, two gas worlds now remain, and a curious moon." "Some time ago a savior visited this world." Aaron's face was grave and at this sight Johns face became so, his eyes cold. "And he was treated as a pariah." John resisted the urge to spit. "If you say it I shall question it not, as I have know you a long time now, so that we may get on with it!" "But there are many, many believers..." "Yes but you wrote in your report, stay and I will find it." John twisted around, reaching into a dusty bin and removing a scrollscreen. "Ah, yes where was it..." he concentrated harder and the scroll unrolled, displaying the text John desired in the air above it. 'though there are many believers on this world they know not what they believe. Sin and hate weigh heavily upon their worship and they know the consequences, though they choose not to accept them, or many delude themselves into believing they are worthy." "I did say that. There are many who are unworthy, but some few are wonderful souls the likes of which are not found in many such firmaments." "Yet they know there is an end time. These mechanical worlds crafted from rock and heat cannot go on forever! The faithful here are prepared." "They will all die, unfulfilled. The impure cannot be allowed to come to reason, no matter the costs. These souls must be pushed into a dark pit, like we find at the center of this firmament, so conveniently, and never to return." Aarons voice was very sad. He sighed a little sigh like only one who knows many ages can wheeze. "So be it, then. I cannot help but find irony, however." "How so? They knew their fate and chose it, in fact it has been far too long on this world since a blue workshift passed through!" "Because they have such compassion that they knew to kill not their brothers, though many have, this virtue was a blessing and allowed this world to be. This they were taught by the savior. Few worlds advance so in such a short time, as all societies are prone to such self destruction, but this virtue was blessed upon their crowns and with it they have crafted a world of billions." "I cannot take you at your word any longer. Show me." Aaron turned away to move toward the chamber. He concentrated and waved his hand at the panel at its entrance and stepped inside. "This is the one." it was a dusty scene, John shuffled his feet a bit at the thought of a desert world, but remembered that this world had many climates. It reminded him of the worlds built upon stars in other arenas, all colored blue and green as it was. An unshaven man was standing before a rock cave, or perhaps a hut, with others below him looking on. The context was not easily deciphered from the imagery, except that it was so suddenly familiar to them. "Are you certain? Is this a true time vision or a slow light simulation?" Aaron inclined his neck slightly and the scene shifted, whirling before him. "It is real." "I really wish you would stop using that word." Aaron reached out and as his arm moved, the scene paused. He reached out and plucked a straw from the ground, setting it between his teeth. "Please be serious!" "You mean to tell me to be reverent, and I am not irreverent." His tone was purposefully indecipherable, bland. Aaron concentrated and ribbons of light flowed from his eyes and mouth. Most of these drifted lazily off and faded, but the few which touched the central figure in the worn robes and sandals seemed to fill him with beams of light that pierced through his skin. "So it is true. We thought the sons all to be dead." "No. It is true, and we will change many things with this." Johns mouth was open. "Yeshua did not perish in that war with his brothers, but somehow escaped to a soul in this world... so close to the gates. It is entirely possible that his spirit endures." "You said yourself, this firmament rides through the prime on the point of a dark spike, and there were two world-souls created in the unmaking of the world that housed the portal, this red clod of filth," he gestured toward the stellar map he had called up on the wall of the chamber. "Yeshua lived. You saw the proof. We reached into the past of this reality and took our samples like we knew no better and now that we have opened our minds to the past it changes us. We learned these lessons long ago, still we are not perfect." Aaron balked slightly and then hardened, turning and almost shouting at first, "So what do we do? Even amongst us are those who do not wish to confront the idea that God would not reveal this story. We have proven it to ourselves, but we would be seen as questioning of God by those above us, before they would indulge in this sort of science to reveal it! No, God has revealed this to us, it is impolite to say that we have uncovered it, but he has revealed it to us alone. Because of who we are we cannot reveal it, and because of who those superior to us are and the because of realities from which they come they cannot hear it." He sat down. "So we are to die with it, then. I cannot help but feel that there is another purpose here. The spirit prompts me so." "We shall reveal heaven unto them. Those who know the teachings will revel in the truth. Those who do not will take their own lives thinking that heaven lies beyond, because they do not have the spirit to guide them through such an ordeal as beholding the truth of God with nothing better than a mind of meat." "You are mad! We cannot do such a thing." "Do you question me? Do not forget yourself, I remind you as your friend that I am your superior in this hall and I believe you may have forgotten yourself, as sometimes all beings will." "I ask for forgiveness and your will be done, though I remind you as a friend and engineer that the power you are preparing to wield on these people might be considered by some to be unforgivable." "Nonsense. As we are his hands and create these worlds, so shall we destroy them as we must. These impure have no escape from this firmament, with that crushing vortex at its middle. Let those who would not hear the spirit die without it! We shall give God unto the soul of this world, as is our calling, and the people upon it must choose!" "Indeed. This world was marked for baptism long ago. Let it finally be done and enough talk!" And with that they both stormed from the room, with many busy days to come.

EDIT: Sophomore* -_- The classroom had a melancholy shade of grey as I heard my teacher spewing nonsensical word after word into my ears and onto my paper. I had just taken my seat as the violent lights had abruptly shot a piercing yellow tint across the room. I always hated how bright they were. I was awakened from my trance by hearing my name being called from a seemingly familiar voice. I knew who it was before I had even raised my head to attention. “Logan, do you need to go to the nurse”, she asked, “No, I’m fine.”, I replied not nearly as convincingly as I had hoped. I looked up at the whiteboard, in front of the white washed walls to see these foreign terms I knew would never just go away, as much I would of liked. I was transfixed on these, staring at every curve and swivel of the marker. Not looking at the bigger picture, but rather the much smaller one. I was admiring the small, unnoticed qualities of the room, even though I was fooling myself to think it had been the first time; nor would it be the last. I wanted it to be like all the movies, where I was surprised by the bell, laughing and cheering out of the classroom to sweet freedom. But I knew it was 12:17, because it had just been 12:17; and it would always be 12:17. If I only had an hour to live, it would of surely be spent in this classroom, because it was beginning feel like an eternity. The day slowly urged forward with every minute repeating just as the last. I knew people saw me as the despondent and poorly person I was in that classroom. I knew they had formulated their own little opinions about me, judging me and ridiculing my every movement. But I didn’t care, this was math class, the act had ended last period. It brought a sort of bittersweet feeling to my lips, knowing I didn’t care, and they knew it. My inscrutable yet fixed face combined with my mild posture threw people off, and I liked that. I never spoke unless called upon, leaving my feelings even more clouded and mischievous to the absent bystander looking my way. I didn’t want to be figured out, by anyone. Everyone makes themselves so easy to figure out and classify. They all fit so perfectly into the characters that they make for themselves, and they actually start to become that very person. They are always shouting whatever comes to their minds, because they can’t stand not sharing their genius with anyone that happens to be in their proximity. Meanwhile, I sit on the sidelines, simply observing; so when the times comes, I know more about them, then they know about themse- oh, the bell rang.

Constructive criticism is welcomed! This is my first short story I wrote that wasn't part of a GCSE mock. I don't want to use this as an excuse but I'm not a professional writer nor do I claim to be. ( Heck , I aint even 16 for another year or so) All names and situations are completely coincidental. And please enjoy! KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! I awake to hear somebody pounding on the door. Wetting the insides of my mouth I pull on a stained shirt and some old jeans off the floor. I take another look at my double bed. One side messy and un-kept , as I had just got out of it , the other perfectly kept. I stumble to the door of my apartment and open it to find my brother, Lucas. “Always so smartly dressed.” I think to myself. “Hello Bruce.” He says quietly. I just stare at him. I can feel him looking into my lifeless eyes with pity sadness. “Hi” I say back to him; my voice also quiet. ”Come in “ I add quickly. He slowly walks in , his suit jacket draped over his arm. He stands there for a full minute before saying to me. “You’ve got to get over her you know.” Oh how I wished he hadn’t said that. Why oh bloody why did he have to mention her?! Using all my power to repress tears all I can do is look into his sad eyes. “She is gone , Bruce! Gone!” He says. “He’s obviously holding back tears” I think to myself. I struggle to speak ; nothing but air coming out of my mouth. Finally I manage to stutter “I-I-I know.” Suddenly my sorrow turns into anger. Anger towards Lucas for coming here. “I know” I say strongly, surprised at the volume of my voice. “You should go back to work , it will take your mind of her.” You've been on compassionate leave for 3 years now." He says. "My boss understands" I reply "that's not the point though ; is it?" He says patronisingly. "I'll drive you" he adds. "Oh nonono you're not driving me" I say defiantly. "OK , look just because she died in a car crash doesn't mean -" I cut him out " I'll walk it then" I say reluctantly. The next day I phone my boss to tell him I’m coming in. He tells me that's great and to be there for 6:00. I reply in the affirmative. I leave early ,as its a long walk, and find myself surprisingly relaxed. "I've missed fresh air" I think to myself. For the past 3 years I've been a shut-in (my brother bringing me food) but now it felt good to be outside. I arrived to work to find my colleges greet me as if I've just come back from a nice holiday. I resist the urge to tell them to get lost. The mundane, button-pushing job reminded me of a time before the accident , before I'd even met her. Going back to my job of 15 years made me feel contented. Not happy. Content. Walking home, I had felt better than I had in ages. The sun was shining and I had my suit jacket slung over my back. Then I noticed her. She was as beautiful as I'd remembered. For a second I felt every damned emotion at once, such a strange sensation. I can't move and I'm hyperventilating. She is crossing the road in front of me without a care in the world. Then I black out. I awake to find a group of people gathered around me. "You was out for five minutes, mate" a burly cockney man said , before helping me up. "N-no I'm good," I reply. I look past the people onto the road in front of me. She is gone. Even the horrible pain on the back of my head from when I blacked out couldn't stop me from thinking of her. When I arrived at my apartment I was still thinking of nothing but what happened. I tried to rationalise it but I couldn't. I decide to go back to the street the next day to see if she turned up. "She wont " I tell myself. "Your mind was playing tricks on you!" I add. Regardless I was still going to go. The next day I waited on the street on which I'd seen her. I waited for about 15 minutes thinking of what my brother would say if he knew I was here. But then I see her. I don't freeze up and I don't faint. The whole thing feels unreal and ,well , fake. That doesn't stop me calling her name. Shouting it like a madman on a soapbox. She approaches me with a look of expectancy on her face. Normally, that would surprise me but I didn't notice I was too caught up. "How-what-aint you dea- wha-," she cuts off my stuttering. " She speaks calmly and slowly as if I'm a young child. "I love you" she says. "How did you-" I begin but again she cuts me off. "Let me explain what happened," she says. But before she can explain she starts to drift away slowly. At this point I'm confused and stressed but at the same time I'm happy. So very happy. I begin to hope we can be together. I'm smiling despite the confusion." What happened wa-" she was stopped by 3 loud knocks. Still drifting further away from me I start to realise what's going on. Again I here 3 loud knocks. They don't seem to come from any direction they're just .... There. Then I awake to hear my brother shouting through the letter box. I pull on a stained shirt and jeans and take one last look at the bed. One side messy and dirty. The other side seemingly preserved. Walking towards the door I had a weird feeling of déjà vu. "Wondering if I had again dreamed of her I open the door to find my brother there.

I’m sick of hiding, of waiting for a bomb to fall or a knife to slip into my back. How could I have ever imagined that a stupid little story would have such consequences? I just thought it would be kind of funny, slightly entertaining. Maybe a touch xenophobic, but really just in a jostling kind of way. Not at all serious. I’m torn between offering apologies and just telling every one to fuck off and take the goddamn joke. Although it’s a bit late for that. About three million lives too late, I’d say. Back before the war I was a budding author, or at least that’s what I liked to think. I’d get drunk and preach to everyone about what a fucking star I was, how my prose could put all others to shame and just wait and see. Who cares if no one really reads anymore, my words were fucking golden. Of course I’d never finished any works I had started, but I was only a kid. I could string my words together with a grace and fluidity Nobel laureates dreamed of. All I had to do was find my one great idea and boom, I’d be made. Well, I may still be the same age as I was back then, but I’m certainly no kid anymore. No one has the right to claim being a child with all these battles raging across the globe. Robbing the childhood of every single person in this generation – just another side effect of my attempt at humor. Well I’ll certainly be in the history books. Richard Constarly, the spark to ignite World War III. You see, I’d been working on a novel for so long. I would spend weeks without putting a single word down, but all the time the story would be flowing in my mind. When I would finally sit down I’d open the floodgates and type for hours. But then nothing came for a long time. So I decided to mix things up, put my masterpiece to the side and bang out some quick and easy short stories. When Germany absolutely crushed whomever the fuck it was in a World Cup game, I saw an article about the use of the word “Nazi” spiking on all the social networks. So I sat down and wrote a funny piece, jabbing at the Germans a bit maybe, but overall just a work of humor. The story basically said the Germans got so fed up with being called Nazis that they went on the offensive, claiming Americans had insulted their pride for the last time. CIA spooks and embassy bureaucrats were all thrown out of Germany. The obvious response of the rest of the world, in my stupid little story, was to bring up more comparisons to third reich, and talk of crushing the “German pride” movement quickly began. China backed Germany, as well as some middle eastern states, because fuck America, right? Things escalated and the story told of world destruction in ridiculous and humorous tones. All typed up, I put my story up online. People hated it. They hated me. I got death threats. I was all over the news with no warning. I’d offended the world’s delicate sensibilities somehow with my not so cunning tale. And then the politicians started in and of course everything turned sour then. It seemed there was one group of people who actually liked my story. The proud people of Germany. What they took offense to, was all the bullshit talk and hate directed at me and my words. Why should a story of German dominance be hated so much, they asked? Soon shots were fired, and inevitably bombs were dropped. The whole world was drawn in, just like in my story. And everyone fucking hates me. I might as well have a target on my back. I knew my writing would inspire people – that I’d be shown to be a master of the word whose works could direct the course of world events. I never would have thought a stupid throwaway story I wrote would lead to worldwide warfare.

[So, this is a warning. I used to write some crazy shit back in the day, but it was all well received by the groups I'd read to. I recently got the urge to write again, so to return to myself, here I am] The bag won't open... I was overcome with a sense... I had to set it down... The smell of dried bread and wet leaves was permeating my lungs by way of my nostrils. Subconsciously, I walked in the direction I perceived it was coming from; the kitchen. A window must be open. The neighbors must be cooking. None of this shit might be even remotely true. Yet I hoped the window was open. I hoped for a reason I did not even ponder. I eventually did. Why would I wish the window was open? Why did this smell comfort me and seduce me so? Seduce? Bread smell has that kind of effect on me? No. But what a unique fetish that must be...for those that have such a fetish. Me? I am conditioned. Yes! Conditioned! That's it! No fetish for me sir, I am conditioned! By *what*? By a sight. A moving pastel portrait by the name of... the name of... name? Hell if I know... Still, if I did know... Ahh, these potentially melancholic-but-persistently-hopeful thoughts were interrupted by the equally pleasant and unpleasant crunch beneath my sock as I stepped onto a trap I must have also subconsciously laid for my then future self. If I had kept walking, I might have made just the right angle through my window. The angle required to spot the angel. But, I knew. I knew it would do me no good to know her sight for today. I turned. The crackers were open; knocked over on the table. It was as if the box itself was looking out for me and my misguided self torture I was giving myself. Kitchen to kitchen our windows matched from the perfect angle. So imperfect in its placement, like the builders and designers of these houses knew. Yet, they still play with me. Hoping maybe she wasn't still there I raised a fist within my home, "Fuck you!" I proclaimed to any and all that might have a part in the torture I endure. I looked back to the crackers, "-thank you." Politeness never hurt. Oh Crackers. If only you didn't have to sit and wait for me to play. Maybe you were just lashing out for attention! Still, it saved me more sorrow. "No problem," Crackers. What was her name. Maybe Crackers knew. But of course not. Crackers is only a figment of my imagination as a defense mechanism against this romantically charged stress that plagues me. That stupid bag still won't open, "I wish you were as considerate as Crackers!" The volume to which I shouted worried even I, the one speaking. Perhaps I should apologize to the bag. It was not the bags fault for requiring scissors to open so that the metal boat with the spiraling mast could be retrieved. Her name. I could ask...but I've lived here for years, with her beside me for just as long. It would crush her to know that I was so inattentive. It would crush me as well. My mind is jumpy. If I didn't know any better, I'd give it a cat's name and turn on the hose...and it still wouldn't be as jumpy. There was a series of loud noises on the hard, wood, swing-able barrier just dozens-of-inches away from where my legs connected to the hardwood via the hand-like appendages I put my weight on in order to move. I used said appendages to move my living carcass towards the swing-able wooden rectangle. If I had money, I wouldn't need these things. The thought shot through my head. I work so hard, yet I still don't have the money. I wouldn't need these things if I didn't work. If I didn't work, I wouldn't have the money. "Is everything okay in there?" Her voice was dry bread and wet leaves to my ears. She snapped me back into focus like a camera...that was, uh, once out of focus...and then...back in focus. Quickly, though. It was because of her voice...and what she said... fuck... I swung the wooden door open, "Hi!" *notice how I avoided using anything implying that I know her name* "Is everything okay in there? I heard some yelling." "Yes...I, uh. I...located some furniture that I had absent mindedly misplaced." "How do you do that?" "With your toes." She paused. "Okay, well...I'll be next door if you need anything." "Thank you!" I was louder than necessary. Then it dawned on me. The needless cycle I had trapped myself in. The futility of it all. The universe ends no matter what. Entropy as we know it is the one true reaper of all. It doesn't fucking matter. Not even matter matters. Emotions matter. How you feel, how you make others feel. Emotions are life itself. Otherwise, what is there really? If we can't prove reality in any stretch, the only really feeling...is emotion. And love is an emotion so intoxicating. I love being intoxicated by love. The water ran down my gutter. I am apparently slightly higher in elevation than her house. The man up the street washing his car despite the universe marching towards nothingness was pitiful. Although I must remember to thank him for giving me a symbolic arrow that was the water running from his house, through the space between side walk and street in front of my house, and towards my neighbor's. She was walking into her house. I ran over. Knocking on the door, I could feel the anticipation of realizing my emotional needs. She swung the wooden rectangle open, smiling. "Hey" I said like a jackass. "-"because she said nothing. The moment of all truths worth knowing: "Can I borrow your scissors..." Her smile shrank, but I think she was just glad I was connecting. I didn't care. "Sure" she responded, kindly...like a kind person would. The device exchanged hands and I ran home because I don't like rules. In fact, they don't matter. They aren't even matter! 1) Cut open bag 2) take boat out of bag C) use mast to jam into cork of wine Blue) Remove cork Funf) Take bottle into favorite room Next) Get intoxicated. I love being intoxicated. But I hate being drunk in the long run. Logically, I must quit this job.

Stop you’re howling! The sun provides no sustenance, the moon no quarter! Why is it you think I’ve shut it out? The curtains provide no glare, but sound seems to be my enemy now. The lone ticking of a clock. I’ll sit comfortably, for just a minute, questioning the man in the reflection. There have been no people here, and now you come? Only the clock answers. A herding of people gathered, tapping their feet ready to dance. Dancing why? Where is the joy or celebration now? They never dance, they only tap tap away at their shoes. Maybe the man in the reflection will suddenly smile, break out in a dance and wave his arms around like former men. Howling! From everywhere and every direction. THEY never stop. If its food they want, I have none! If its company they want they’ve overstayed their welcome. The clawing! I know what force they have, but the numbers count. I brought them here after all. I fed them. I groomed them and care for them. In pretty how-town, we roamed and we had our time. But now that time seems an inanimate object striking away. What else does a man do with nothing left? When he’s defeated all his enemies and triumphed before them. A whole town empty! He settles down. BUT NOW! THEY KNOW WHAT WAS DONE AND WON’T STAND FOR IT! Daniel, Matthew, Michael. I never promised these men anything. Especially after the wrong doings and hard feelings. BUT I will not stand for the enslaved to be chained any longer. So I thought. Where is my martyr now? The lone ticking of a clock. It’s mockery of one’s heartbeat, if that heartbeat were chained and counted on a circular platter waiting to be devoured. Howling! Now and forever. Yesterday and never. The man in the reflection is back again. He’s hungry. But the howling indicates sorrow. We’re sorry! PLEASE TAKE US BACK! FOR THE SUN PROVIDES NO SUSTENANCE, THE MOON NO QUARTER! But their intentions are that of evil. For if I could I would stop the ticking and move on. The mutts have claws away at my paws. The clawing! For what terrible misdeed have I clawed upon to deserve this? Do they not remember (or even care) about all the free roam I gave them. I gave them true departure from their leash; all they had to do was walk away. The shops. The man in the reflection may not care, but one time before this incident, there were a string of shops. And within these shops contained no one. These shops lined the main street, and every night the shops would shine their dull yellow lights. Like a snow globe, frozen in time just waiting to be shook up. The shops stood empty waiting for the prying teeth. The prying teeth which I ALLOWED! And do they not remember this feast? A simple gesture so easily upset. They do not care, nor will they ever (should time be so graceful) to ever remember the feast or remember another. The lone ticking of a clock. A round object that signals time, not progress. Only maybe will the man in the reflection stay frozen in his miniature snow globe world. For if it’s not shaken up it soon may be. His snow globe world is artificial. Lacking any nature, or instinct. Lacking howling of the wind or creature. Laying in pretty how town, on greener hills they rest upon their ribcages. Rest is a luxury for the beast. Even Grendel got it’s chance to rest stalking the town. The clawing! For a quieter touch to come from the beast as they lay their claws onto a former home. Now they’re tired and weary. Will this man take us back? For the sun provides no sustenance, the moon no quarter! Why do you think I’ve shut it out! The light of all life comes from within the dear doc once said. Now everyone herds toward it! And what does a man do when the howling’s stopped? And no further insult to be clawed upon. I’ll sit listening to the true ticking of a lone clock. For The sun provides no sustenance, the moon no quarter. There is nowhere now but hidden away in an ornament; a safe secure snow globe. But there is nothing to decorate, for the mutts have decorated themselves across pretty how town with their silence. And the shops sit empty. The man in the reflection manages to crack a smile, perhaps about to burst into a rhythmic dance along with the clock.

I became a freelance exorcist approximately three years ago. Take that in for a minute. I'm not a Priest, I'm not even religious. The fact of the matter is, I don't even believe in any of it. What I have come to learn is that it doesn't matter what I believe in, only what *they* do. *They* being the person who needs an 'entity' removed, *they* being their family. You see, before I did this gig, I was an entertainer, a magician, a hypnotist, and I've learned a few things about how the human mind works. The typical human mind is a strong, but open. Most people are willing to accept suggestions more than they are willing to admit. I assume they don't like feeling like they aren't in control. The fact of the matter is the better you are at accepting suggestions, the better you are at learning, and nobody likes to feel dumb. When dealing with suggestions, it's important to be in complete control, and exude confidence. If you believe it will work, they will, and it will. Learning the Rite of Exorcism wasn't difficult, a quick search online lead to the text. After reading it, what surprised me the most was the complete lack of demanding to know the entities name. I guess the movies make some things up. I'm not upset, I usually throw it in there anyway. Very dramatic. I also have a robe that I wear. Makes me look very legit. Like hypnosis, the most important thing is the pre talk, the set up. I take the family aside, I walk them through what is about to happen. I explain to them that they need to go to confession first, to cleans their souls, otherwise the entity might attach to them. I explain that their loved ones may act like you've seen in the movies, thrashing etc. etc. But most likely they won't. Typically they simply enter a trance like state. I explain this to the subject I am performing on as well, which, I believe, gives them permission to not ham it up. I also insist that I am the last option. I tell them all that they should have a medical professional check them out before hand. This ensures I'm not going to have to be dealing with a clinically crazy person, but someone who believes they are possessed. Because they believe the problem is spiritual, the believe I can help them. And I do. The entire thing is a bit of a scam, I know, but it seems to help these people. I don't feel bad at all.

I've missed moments like this. Dan and I used to be best friends, but now I barely saw him. Well, sober at least. If he wasn't getting drunk he was getting high, and if he wasn't getting high he was getting laid. And if he wasn't getting laid, he was staring into nothingness trying to avoid burning out from all the work he should've been doing, but had put off to get drunk. He told me something once, about hedonism. He said he had it all figured out and that Epicurus had it all right. Life was about feeling, and if you weren't feeling you weren't alive. Everything else, he said, was window-dressing, frill little civilities designed to make us feel better about ourselves when really the only worthwhile pursuit was pleasure. But right now he's with me, and he's sober. And that's alright. We're sitting in my room and it smells like shit because I've been out studying and haven't cleaned it for weeks. But it's better than his room because at least there's no vomit to remind me of the drinking and no smoke to remind me of the high and no used condoms to remind me of getting laid. Hell, I don't even know if he sleeps in his room anymore. He says he does, but he's so burned out all the time I can't tell if it's a genuine answer or just a reflex. I stare down at the paper. I have fifty problems due tomorrow and there's no damn way I'm doing them tonight. Working two jobs to pay for an education really screws with your sleep cycle. Dan's looking at the wall. He's grinding his teeth. He does that a lot - started doing it after his girlfriend broke up with him. If he's not grinding his teeth, he's getting drunk, and if he's not getting drunk, he's getting high, and... well, you know the deal. His eyes have this empty look, like he's not really here and doesn't want to be here and he's somewhere... happy. He's somewhere else, some when else. I missed moments like this. Even if we're not talking like we used to, I can close my eyes and listen to his breathing and my breathing and pretend like we just talked about something. Maybe we made fun of that asshole from 6th grade or talked about that girl we both used to like who'd never date us. Dan snaps out of his haze for a moment. This is one of his special moments. He's not just sober, he's aware. He's here. "You need help with those, bro?" he asks, looking down at the paper, "Easy shit. Have that done for you in an hour." I look at him with something approaching incredulity. He's not offended. "I'll do it, if you want," his voice cracks a bit, "I don't mind. Nice to have something to do when I'm not looking for it." It was how he referred to the ultimate pleasure, the completion of hedonism. I'm not even sure how much Epicurus he's read. I slide the paper over to him. He picks up the pencil and his hand shakes a bit. I hand him another paper to do the work on. He looks hurt for a moment, but when he's unable to even copy the problem down without shaking, he concedes. He accepts the second slip of paper. He scribbles quietly. "You know it's not your fault, right?" I decide to broach the topic. "What isn't?" he's focused now. He's more like I remember him in school - the genius, the nerd, the grandmaster of mathematics. "The breakup. It's not your fault, she needed space," I articulate my words carefully, but wince after I realize what I've just said. He stops scribbling. The illusion is broken. The grandmaster is dead. "That's what you think this is, isn't it?" he hands me back the paper. The first two problems are already done. I'm impressed, but that's not at the forefront of my mind right then and there. I barely even notice he's written on the paper. "You think I'm some kind of pity case, some kind of fuck up who can't handle a relationship," his voice is calm, but the words are cold. He never raises his voice when he's angry. You just know. "I know what I'm doing," he gets up, grabs his jacket and slips his sneakers on, "I'm not some kind of dumbass who gets high because he can't handle shit down on Earth. I do this because it's the only thing that matters." "But what about-" I begin. "What about what?" he smiles spitefully, "Making a difference? Who cares, we're all gonna be dead, anyways. All that matters is the here, the now. And all that matters in the here and the now is it. Feeling." He doesn't say another word. I can't manage a response. He leaves, to go get drunk. And if he can't get drunk because the Blue Cat's closed, he'll go see Pile and get high. And if Pile's in jail again and hasn't broken out, he'll go see Suzy and get laid. And if Suzy's not there, he'll go home and stare at all the paperwork he took from the office that he has to do but hasn't. Then he'll get fed up with it and head down to Blue Cat's to get drunk. I wonder if maybe he's got it all figured out. I mean, look at me, I'm fucking miserable and all I got to show for all my work is some college credit that means fuck-all without a degree. And I'm in debt up to my eyeballs and I'm not getting that promotion. And those problems, those goddamn fucking problems are staring at me in the fucking face and goddamn it I can't TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE! "Hey, bro, you wanna get a drink?" Dan's at the door again. His eyes are far away but he gives a crooked grin, "Blue Cat's got two for one on all the beer. Figured you needed to relax." Fuck it. "Yeah, you wanna go see Pile after?" I ask him. "Nah, he's in jail again," he puts his arm around me as we stumble out of my room, out of the hallway, and out of the apartment building. "Suzy, then?" I start to feel a pleasant haze engulf me. No more worries. "She does like threesomes," he laughs. It's been a while since I've heard him laugh. I laugh. It's been a while since I've laughed and really meant it. I've missed moments like this.

It was a a cold summer day, the rain had fallen. Domino had miss his train, he never had a good sense of time. He often missed many things, not from being careless but from a lack of luck. But it was this very unluck he had that lead him to meet Piza hut. She was beautiful, golden brown crust. Puffy not burnt. with peperoni that would drive a normal man insane. she stood there on platform 3 awaiting her train. Domino amazed by her beautiful , usually nervous worked up the courage "Hi" he said. "hi" he said Pizza hut sat there looking at him. Not overly impressed but enough to cause her to blush. "hello" mildly amused by this hot slice of pizza that stood there " how are you?". Feeling confident Dominos took this opportunity to strike up a conversation. Knowing he had missed his train he asked "did train 9 leave from here yet?". She replied " it just left, may not even more then 5 minutes ago. You might be able to catch it at the Orange Stop if you take the subway down to 51'st street." . Thinking to himself unable to grasp the words to continue the conversation he thanked her for the information. "why does he make a move" Pizza hut thinks to herself. She finding him quite handsome but just as awkward. Edit: im drunk while writing this.

The Leaking Pipe That bloody pipe had leaked again. Amanda set down her basket of laundry and looked up at the perpetrator. It had to be one of two pipes which ran parallel across the ceiling of the garage, directly above this morning’s pool of water. Similar pools had been appearing in the same spot for several days now, and Amanda had had quite enough. Leaking pipes were an inconvenience the Harrison household could do without right now. She had wanted to mention the problem to Neil, but these days he returned home from work so sad, that she had thought better of it. He had more important things to worry about than a splatter of water on the garage floor. So Amanda had set about solving the problem herself. The night before, when Neil had retired to bed, Amanda had taken several wads of cotton wool and taped them to the pipes’ joints. This simple test would determine the precise location of the leak. But the wads of cotton wool were all dry. Amanda prodded them all again, but they were still fluffy - they were all exactly as she had left them last night, and yet, the leak had negated the test and found its way to the water deposit on the floor. How strange. She continued to the washing machine, an old thing located on the far side of the garage, and spared the leaking plumbing no further thought as her husband had himself got up and left for work. The garage was built into the house, and had not been used to store a car in some time. The metal garage-door, painted a pale blue from the outside, hadn’t been opened in years, meaning the only entrance in constant use was the door at the back, which led to the rest of the house via a hallway at the base of the home’s staircase. Amanda only used the garage for the washing machine, which was a task performed each morning after her husband had departed for work. It wasn’t until mid-morning, when the washing machine stopped churning, that Amanda pondered what to do next with her problem. Calling in a professional would be expensive, and she’d never shield the costs from Neil. He’d ask why she hadn’t just told him. There was Brian next door. A builder by trade but surely he would tighten a loose joint for them? She wondered if he was on a job this morning. It had to be worth a phone call. “Thanks for coming over, Brian.” “No problem, Love, sounds like a fairly routine job,” Brian didn’t take off his shoes. The garage door to the driveway hadn’t been opened in such a long time but Amanda wondered if she should have made an exception as Brian trudged his muddy work boots through the living room. Such a house-proud lady, Amanda had quickly tidied the front rooms when Brian had agreed to come over, but it was only when they approached the hall at the foot of the stairs and laid her hand on the door to the garage that she realised what a tip it was. “I must warn you, Brian, we’re due a bit of a clear-out in here.” What was she saying? She’d been to her neighbours a couple of times and he wasn’t the tidiest of people - far from it. What would he care really? But she still winced as the door opened and the stack of boxes filled of items without an otherwise home came into view. “These ones here?” he said. She nodded and he ran his hand along the lengths of both pipes. How had she let the garage get this messy? There were boxes of old clothes she could take to Oxfam, Neil’s tools she’d seen him use once, and that dog basket… they could get rid of that now as well. It had belonged to a beautiful Alsatian. “You say it leaks through the night, Amanda?” “Most nights, yes.” “It’s this pipe on the left here which runs water from the boiler to upstairs, the one next to it is for gas. You have a boiler upstairs don’t you?” “I think so.” “You do. Every time you draw a lot of water upstairs water runs through this pipe from the main tank over there. The reason it appears at night must be down to your own routine. Do you run a bath every night or something like that?” “Sometimes.” Amanda thought hard. Last night, when she’d put the cotton wool on the pipes, the floor was dry. Had she brushed her teeth before or after setting up the test? Yes, it was definitely before, she brushed hers then went whilst Neil was flossing. She used the downstairs bathroom this morning while the kettle was boiling. Perhaps Neil had used the bathroom during the night? She thought she would have heard him but then again that medication had made her such a deep sleeper. And all that still didn’t explain why the cotton wool was dry. “It might not be leaking from the obvious joints, which is why your experiment didn’t work. Sometimes a leak can run along the pipes and drip down a few metres away from the hole. Though I must admit, you can normally tell straight away.” “What about the heating, Brian? If we hadn’t used any water in the bathroom could the heating coming on this morning have caused it?” Brian laughed, as if he found Amanda’s lack of central heating knowledge highly amusing. “The heating runs on a closed system separate to your upstairs water. You wouldn’t want that mucky stuff coming out of your taps let me tell you that.” “Brian. I am sure we didn’t use any water last night after I’d checked the garage. But this morning there was a puddle on the floor.” “Well, Amanda, if that’s true I can say with certainty that your puddle isn’t coming from these pipes.” Drip! Drip! Drip! Amanda dreamt of leaking pipes and puddles that night. It was the sort of awake where a person was very tired, but knew they wouldn’t get back to sleep for hours. She shouldn’t have had that coffee so late last night. That was stupid. She turned to cuddle her husband, but her hands only hit cold pillow. He was probably in the bathroom. Amanda needed a glass of water. She reached for the light, and then for her slippers and robe. Her soles flopped along the carpet, the slippers were tatty. She supposed that slippers would last a while longer now that there was no dog in the house. When she reached the landing, she noticed that the bathroom light was off, and the first inkling that something was wrong. Where was Neil? At the bottom of the stairs, the crack around the sides of the garage door revealed that it was on. She grabbed the handle, wondering what the hell was going on. And there she found Neil, clasping something in his trembling hands. It was a box, printed with a floral pattern. She could just about read the words printed in gold on top: Our loving pet, rest in peace, Cassy. She knelt next to her husband, underneath a pair of copper pipes, and cradled his head upon her chest as he sobbed.

Money had been tight for weeks now, and there wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel. I decided that I would find some cash, one way or another, and that my wife had to never find out. I considered robbing a bank. After going to a few different banks, and realizing many of them had security, I thought better. I wasn't ready to risk my life or my freedom for some cash. Plus, banks had countermeasures. GPS tracking devices in the stacks, exploding ink packets, just to name a few. It wasn't worth it. There were a few local cheque cashing places nearby. I didn't like this idea either. You never know when some cowboy with a gun will be behind the counter, ready to die for the insured cash. I knew I didn't want to have to deal with guns. I didn't have one, and I wasn't ready to go get one either. This was going to have to be clean, and, at least mostly, non violent. Coming home one night from staking out a bank, the opportunity presented itself. I saw a young lady, carrying a bright red deposit bag to the night drop, to the bank I was checking out. She must have worked close by, maybe even in the plaza the bank was in. She wasn't driving, and she was by herself. This would probably be the easiest robbery I could achieve. The next few weeks I spent back tracking. Moving my car to where I saw her coming from, and then finding a new point of reference, I was able to track her down to a local bar. This was even better than I'd imagined. Bars are cash businesses. That deposit bag was not going to be full of just credit receipts. There was a sign in the window, advertising the next fight that would air on pay-per-view, and be shown at the bar. That was going to be my night. Bars are packed on fight nights, and that would also mean she would be a bit later getting the deposit all counted. The later at night, the less chance of any witnesses. I decided I wouldn't be able to have my car close by the night of the crime. I didn't want it made. I didn't want her to see it, and be able to identify it. I needed to make sure this never got back to me. The planning process was the most important, and something I took great pride in. I intentionally would let her see me put the money, deposit bag and all, into a bright yellow grocery bag. I would have nothing else identifiable on me. I'd wear a mask. I would wear all black. I would approach her from behind on a bike. I made sure to get new bearings on the bike, it was almost silent. I painted the bike black, with no logos. It went exactly as I had hoped. As she turned into the parking lot the bank was in, there was a tall shrub, that obstructed the view of the cameras. I came up behind her and threw myself off the bike, and tackled her to the ground. By the time she knew what was happening I had my hand over her mouth. As she looked at my masked face, into my eyes, she knew. She knew exactly what was happening. I told her calmly not to scream, or I would hurt her. She believed me, and I felt her stop struggling, and almost go limp. I told her I only wanted the money, and if she didn't fight me, she would be fine. She nodded. I grabbed the deposit bag out of her hand, and placed it in the bright yellow bag. I knew she would remember this bag and when she called the police they would be looking for it. I took her cell phone, and pulled the battery out and tossed it into the bushes and gave her the phone back. I told her I didn't want to cost her money, that she should be able to find the battery. She nodded, tears in her eyes. I told her I wasn't going to tie her up, but if I saw her following me, or if I saw her run, I would find her and kill her. I pulled her license out of her purse and looked at her address. She knew I wasn't messing around. I told her if she screamed when I let go of her mouth, she wouldn't ever be heard from again. And I let her go. She held back a scream, a weep. I picked up the bike, and with the yellow bag on the handle bars, I took off. When I looked back, she wasn't following, but I could see her in the bush, looking for her battery. I figured it would take at least forty seconds to reboot the phone, at least three minutes, probably longer, for the police to respond. I made my way to my first stop. An ally. I had planted a bright white bike, with lots of distinct markings. I lost the mask, and took off my outer layer of black clothing, exposing my bright blue shirt, and my green warm up pants. I looked like the 90s. I took the deposit bag out of the yellow shopping bag, and placed it under my shirt, where I very quickly taped it to my chest. I was on my way out of the ally, back towards the crime scene, when I heard sirens in the distance. My timing was spot on. I peddled back towards the bar my victim worked at, where there was still a group of rowdy drunks outside. I went past them about three blocks, to my car. I left the bike outside a local shelter, and walked across the street, got into my car, and went home. When I got home, I went upstairs and kissed my wife on the forehead, and told her everything was going to be alright. "I know, I've been trying to get a hold of you all night. I bought a ticket, we won!" We had won the lottery.

I got drunk last night. That’s not the point of this story, but it needs to be addressed. This morning I awoke at 7:45 to a jackhammer cracking my skull right in front where the wrinkles in your forehead split. I got up, chugged a mug off water, and went back to sleep. My only responsibility for this lazy Sunday was to collect a display from a grocer across town at 6pm. After a couple movies, a few episodes of Arrested Development, and some cheese and crackers it was almost 5. I hopped in the shower and thought of all the great places I could eat dinner. I was going across town, and had my pick of anything I wanted. While packing up the display I decided upon a delicious Philly cheesesteak from a sub shop I don’t get to frequent as much as I’d like to. The idea grew in my head overtaking all other thoughts, which is actually pretty upsetting. I was not starving by any means, just the night before I stuffed my face with a Chicago style dog and some cheesy fries…….If you haven’t already figured out, I eat pretty poorly, but that’s another issue for another story. As soon as I walked through the door I heard two things. The first being a Ding to alert them of my presence and the other was one of the young girls working, yell to the back “It’s your turn!” This in my head is already an issue, her lack luster work ethic is going to translate directly into my food in some weird way. Be it through her emotions as she angrily separates the steak, or even how she slaps the mayo to my bread. It might be all mental on my end, maybe my taste receptors won’t savor the same if my head doesn’t feel the happiness in my sandwich? When she didn’t hear a response she turned to me, gave me a little smile, and asked me “What can I get for you today?” I said in my blandest voice possible, due to my current dissatisfaction, “I’ll have a Philly cheesesteak please.” “Ok, what kind of bread, white or wheat?” “I’ll have white please.”……..remember I already said I eat poorly. “Would you like onions and peppers?” The girl working has no way of knowing this, but I loathe onions. If I had the option to rid the World of three things, I would pick onions three times. So I said, “No onions, and could you also make that a large sub?” “No.” she replied. “Please?” I said with a confused look. “Yes.” She said with a smile, as she turned to make my hoagie. I started to think a bit about that exchange, and still haven’t yet decided what it meant. On one hand she could just be making a joke, on the other she could be flirting. For all I know she says it to everyone. I have no reason to believe it was flirtatious in any way, but, shit, maybe it was. I am so oblivious to situations like this that I have to calculate them out later to decide. If it was flirting, and I had even caught on at the time, I wouldn’t have done anything. I am too much of a chicken shit to even say something else. I’m getting off topic again, and this story is about my sandwich. She let me know when my sandwich was ready, and rang me up at the register. I paid her, and asked if Germany had won the world cup. She told me they had and said “Have a nice evening.” Now I know for sure that she wasn’t flirting, or maybe she was, I don’t know. I sit down to eat my sandwich. I pull half out, and wrap the other half back up for lunch tomorrow. The first thing I notice is the dark shade to my white bread. As you might have guessed my white bread was wheat, and this being an honest mistake, I had no issue with letting it slide. However, when I took my first bite I chomped straight into the nastiest, most bitter, tongue stinking, eye watering onion I have ever tasted. The flavor engulfed my mouth and ran all my taste receptors to their doom. Each chew spread this disease. I thought about returning my sub to the girl and asking her to remake it, but that would make me look like an asshole, which is something I am trying to avoid. I mean, I have the ability to pick onions out of my food, and if I return this food, it will go straight into the trash. What it ultimately boils down to is the fact that I got the wrong sub, and I had every right to get up, walk over to the counter, and request that it be remade…….but I didn’t……..I picked the onions out, and left unsatisfied with my sandwich to the sound of the girl saying “Good Bye.” as I walked out the door. Does this story have a point? Not really. I dropped my sandwich off to a homeless man on the corner near my apartment. I have deemed him the most deserving, as if I could pass judgment. I offered him a beer one day, and he turned it down stating “That’s the reason I’m in this mess.” Maybe the point is that I need to eat wheat bread, or maybe just eat less, the universe interfering with my quest to get fatter. Or maybe the girl messed it up so badly just because she wanted me to come back and talk to her, which I doubt. In all honesty, it is just a reason for me to bitch and moan, fueled slightly by the fact that I watched “Annie Hall” earlier in the day. Take from this what you will, but if you learned anything. I hate onions.

Whenever I'm on campus I always make it a point to stop for a drink from the same fountain in an alcove of the English building around the corner from my creative writing lab. My intentions are not so much directed by my physical thirst, but by the certainty of her presence. Perpetually hanging out in her frame above the fountain, she gazes out at me from amidst a charcoal tangle of bed sheets. Her shoulders and clavicle are curves of smooth brown velum stroked by her maker's pencil. He created perfection in her eyes. They draw me to her like inky pools of pulsing gravity. Often, I end up stooped over with my gaze averted towards the ceiling slurping much longer than I need to. The sketch is titled, In the Morning. How many times I have wished to have actually been there on that morning, to be the lucky one who first saw her lying there in the flesh, a vision to inspire any form. He's the one who gets all the credit on the placard though. “Troy Munro, American, b. 1986. Troy's works in many mediums are inspired by placid scenes of everyday reality.” Everyday reality? Who are these curators kidding? Girls like that don't exist in everyday life! They inexplicably manifest out of some interdimensional field of radical perfection, on a collective mission to populate artists' receptions and backstage band interviews. “So,” the man with the tape recorder asks, “where do you draw your inspiration from?” What was it like on that first morning when he woke up in her bed? Was he so smitten that he immediately leapt up and reached for his notebook and pencil to immortalize the moment? Would she have thought he was weird if he did? Was she complicit? Is she a model? One thing I know for certain is that she was drawn in her natural habitat, completely at home, wrapped half modestly in those rumpled sheets. No, it can't have been the very first morning because no human being could possible exude that kind of perfectly serene languor after such an uncertain, seminal night as the one which surely preceded, could they? That would be so cool. I wish I knew who she was, and whether or not her and Troy Munro's relationship came to the eventual, fortuitous demise that I'm imagining. I live with my girlfriend, Jenny, in an apartment off campus, and we mostly get along. Sometimes we seem to get so busy though that we exist merely as images passing through each other's space. The cohabitation thing really didn't come about as the result of a well thought out plan, it more or less just happened. My old roommate dropped out of school in the middle of last semester and bailed on the lease. Two weeks went by and nobody responded to the fliers I hung on billboards around campus. My ad said, “Space available. Potential applicants should be fastidiously undistinguished, not lacking in discretion, and tasteful in habit and manner. 1 bedroom, separate bath, $400/mo. plus utilities.” I guess I was looking for another ultra-ironic English major. At least Jenny puts up with my mess making. Last week I left a Facebook conversation up on my monitor with a girl from my Film and Lit. class about an extracurricular movie we watched together. During the ensuing hostilities I tried to cobble together some kind of scholastic justification for our liaison, but Jenny tested my fumbling excuses like a tuning fork and they all rang hollow. That night I slept in the computer room, on the floor in a sleeping bag, staring up at the glow of my desktop. The next day I found myself back at the fountain, head bowed as if in wistful supplication. Please relieve the futility of my situation. As I gaze at her portrait her voice glides smooth as pulp into my ear, “It's already a perfect morning, Robert.” Now that I'm lying next to her I'm beginning to understand the image from a different perspective. That stack of books on her nightstand wasn't visible from the other side of the fountain. She's obviously a grad student; every volume meets my perspicuous approval- discourses by Barthes, a collection of Thoreau, confessions of Augustine, even a door stopping volume of DFW. The same voices flow through her supple mind as through mine. We hardly need to speak, but we do. Dialog after dialog, bantering easily in the most natural poetry and prose, there in her room, in the morning. Back at the apartment that evening and Jenny can't believe that I didn't bring home any take-out for dinner. Seriously, after yesterday, I can't even bother to grab some Chinese? The cable has been cutting in and out all evening and she tried to call but the account is in my name and they won't do anything unless I talk to them. But the call center is closed now because I took my sweet time coming home. Don't I understand that she would have cleaned the kitchen if she hadn't had her class and then her internship, and what had I been doing all morning at home by myself anyway? Maybe if I controlled my time better, both of our lives would be a lot easier. Oh yeah, and have I checked my fucking Facebook lately? That night I lay curled up on the floor and dreamed of stealing that picture. In the morning, when I am with her, time ceases to function in its usual jet propulsed way. Her artfully tossed sheets freeze sloping rifts in the continuum between space, time, and everything else. We clamber barely clothed among the many incidental ridges, trekking the badland hills of her linens like a couple of early morning wanderers trying to rediscover where we pitched our tent. She stokes the smoldering campfire and boils organic fair-trade coffee for us in a speckled green percolator. Even in the desert wilds, this one has class. It's nine P.M. and students and faculty are clearing the academic building in mass exodus. I have very little desire to go home, and my company has already been politely declined via text from the girl from Film and Lit.. Sitting on a bench in a deserted hallway reading Don Delillo, I must look like I'm waiting for someone. In a way, I suppose I am. I unzip my backpack and wander around the corner to the fountain. There's a moment where my adrenaline jumps and I am petrified that someone is about to come out of the restroom while I'm stuffing her into my bag. I feel kind of creepy to be honest, but I can tell that she wants to come home with me. So I commence with the theft. At the last second I decide to snatch the descriptive tag along with it. Now the only evidence left of her abduction is a tiny white hook. These corridors are hung like art galleries; nobody will even notice that she's gone. When I get home, Jenny is already shut off in the bedroom watching HBO on the DVR. Right now I am ever so grateful to be separated, even just by walls and noise. I don't dare get a hammer and nail out right now to hang her properly, so I just lean the frame up against the wall on the back of my computer desk. I check online to make sure I haven't missed any messages, fiddling around with the title placard while I click around and think. This tag is evidence against me. It has got to go. I already know the title of the piece, and of course the preeminent Troy Munro signed his own work. There's no getting around that, but it's mine now. Sorry about it friend. I'll just throw this card in the dumpster tomorrow when I go out for a smoke. But that's in the morning. For right now I'm just going to sit here in my computer chair for a while and just stare at her.

I walk out of the restaurant with savory food in my stomach and a peppermint slowly dissolving in my mouth. I slip into a back alley in an attempt to take a short cut home as it’s late and I need to get to bed. The thoughts of what I need to tomorrow run through my head. Gym. Work. Grocery store. Laundry Mat. I think that’s it, I’ll have to double check my list when I get home. I look up to see a knife in my face. It’s a small cheap knife, but one none the less. My sight travels from the knife to the hand holding it up the arm to the chest and finally settle on the face behind it all. A middle aged fellow, dirty and a strange look in his eyes. “Wallet, phone, keys, everything. Empty your pockets.” he demands. I’m stunned at the situation and comply. He notices the watch on my wrist. “The gold watch too buddy” he snarls, his first show of emotion. A rotating baseball. “This old thing is broken, you don’t want it” I respond. “If it’s broken, why the hell are you wearing it?” he asks. The roar of the crowd. “It was my fathers” I say. It doesn’t deter him. “Give it here!” he shouts as he brandishes the knife. I shy away, clutching the watch close as if it will help me remember father better. The thief lunges for it and I step backward to avoid him. Doing so I fall on my back, I am so graceful. He’s on top of me with the knife at my throat. I can feel tears burning my eyes. I can see my father with me at the baseball stadium where we spent many summers together. Keeping stats of our favorite players. Father checks his favorite gold watch to determine the time. My mother got him the watch when they were dating. After my parents house burned down after they died it is all I have of his. This thief cannot have it. No. NO. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I snap back and shove the man off me. He is surprised by my sudden aggression. My insides are on fire, full of rage, why has this man tried to take my most beloved possession? He rears back to stab me with his knife but I am on him before he can contract his muscles. My fist connects with his face. Again. Again. Again. Again. As I stand, panting, the mans body stops jerking. I don’t know if he’s alive and I do not care. I scoop up my wallet, phone and keys and begin sprinting towards home. Tears are streaming from my eyes, I miss you so much father, so damn much. I reach my apartment building and step in the elevator. There is the older lady who lives down the hall that gives me some of her extras when she cooks. She is a kind old soul. I am visibly shaken and she steps towards me as the elevator begins to rise and wraps her arms around me. It is an awkward hug, but I begin to feel relief and I wrap my arms around her. When I get off the elevator I smile at her and wish her a goodnight. She smiles and nods at me, then walks down the hall. As I step inside my apartment the taste of peppermint has never been so strong.

The scene replays in my head every time a stranger makes eye contact. My brother, hot and sweating in my arms, a whole village standing on the other side of the door. Those harsh, inconsiderate words: “I’m sorry boy, he’s met his fate. There’s nothing we can do for you here. There’s a road right behind you that will take you need to go. Home.” My cheeks flush, I can feel the heat from my anger and the tension in my body as I remember the door slamming in my face. The shock of having a sick child rejected. My body goes numb and I fall to my knees. I must have been crying over my small, helpless brother for a few hours before I stood again. I felt that my knees were working against me. My whole body said “Stay here and hold him longer- He needs this.” I stood and stared and the wooden gate one last time. As my resolve built, my fingertips dug into my brothers’ arms and I re-situated him for the two day journey home. The doctor had told us that this was the only village with the proper ingredients for the illness. Now, (not that I was aware of this at the time) I was to carry the illness back with me. Somehow I wound up immune. Llerg blessed me in physique and health. So I was not to be a part of the following months of terror. Whole families- deceased overnight. My family forced to leave after a mere three days. The illness swept through the town like a flood and although my brothers’ heart stopped before we hit the village wall and I buried him a day out, I carried the sickness into the village walls. I grew up in a small village with others like me. We helped each other, we listened to one another, and we were honest with each other. I was to find out during my travels that the dwellers of said village had in fact, had the necessary remedy. I was just too large to trust. How were they to know that they were safe in my company? I could have bitten off every one of their heads within minutes. Now, after my brothers’ death- I may. I was taught throughout my childhood that if another needed help- you help. Out among people other than my own- I’m finding that getting over on the other, Keeping your head down and your hands quick seems to be the way to get by. There’s no sense of humanity. Just a lot of filthy bastards running around. Wondering how in the hell to make it through the day- doing better than the other man. My family lost the shop. We sold family crafted weapons made from the best materials in our half of the world. I’ve been watching and helping my parents run the shop since I can remember. We lost my childhood home. We had to start a new life in a new nearby village where nobody trusted us. “Outsiders!” They would mutter, and then spit on the ground when we passed. My mother became sullen. A beautiful, radiant woman, turned into the shell she’s now become. On our Table, there is a flower my mother insisted on bringing with us before we left our home. Her eyes would glint while replaying some foreign, fond memory of our past. It was the only thing that could get her eyes to smile- even if her face never followed suit. I could tell because her eyes would blankly graze across the room and then suddenly cut back to the bluest of flowers in a dank and mundane home. It was her link to a life she once lived as a respected woman. With two beautiful sons. In a town where people saw her. My parents were arguing over dinner one evening about coin and food. “How the hell am I supposed to get work in a town where nobody has an eye for a trained blacksmith!” he shouted. His voice boomed, he was upset, his words cut. It was the first time I had ever seen him act out in anger towards my mother. To illustrate his point, he swept his large arm across the table and shattered the vase my mothers’ flower was in. What little life she had left in her eyes vanished as she silently started to weep. My family is broken. My brother is gone. This is why I left to become a hired hand. I protect and kill for coin. I left as soon as the sun went down the next evening. I never said goodbye, because no matter how badly my family hurt for coin- they would never approve of me exploiting my size and strength as a means to make a living harming others. Half of what I make goes home. The other half funds what little supplies I need for the road. I’m sure they know where the coin is coming from- But, who wouldn’t put their moral code aside for ones’ family.

When I first found that box of tapes, I didn't even think twice about it. I simply threw it aside in the front room, the sunroom. That is where I tended to put everything that I didn't have a place for, and didn't want to leave in the basement, which tended to flood. I didn't even bother to see what was on the tapes, I just threw them aside. It wasn't until a few months later, right around Christmas, when my wife rediscovered the box while trying to set up some holiday decorations. This actually lead to a bit of a fight as we argued over who owned the tapes. I knew they weren't mine, so I assumed they were her's but she insisted they weren't. After about ten or fifteen minutes of arguing back and forth, the box got put into the corner of the living room while we finished decorating. When I finally did get around to looking at the tapes I found something very strange, all of the tapes were different formats, and qualities. Some of them newer, such as DVDs & Blu-rays, but many of them were very old. Everything from VHS tapes and Betamax, to old hi 8 tapes and even some film on reels. To this day there are some tapes I still can't identify. Going through the box was a very tedious process, as none of the tapes had markings on the outside, to indicate any sort of content. No dates, no titles. I started with the DVDs and Blu-rays, as I already had the players hooked up, then dug out my old VHS player. What I found was a mix of professionally shot home videos, like weddings, and more amatuer shootings. As I watched these tapes, one by one, I was able to get some sort of order to them. When I got to the last tape, I put it in, and, like I did for all the tapes, jotted the date stamp down in my note book. It was clearly the newest date. I feel ashamed to admit that it took my almost three minutes before it all clicked in my head. What I was watching was a tape dated tomorrow. As I watched, I realized I was looking at the room I was in. Shocked, I hit rewind, to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nothing on the screen changed, it just continued to play forward. It was as I was changing the batteries in my remote, assuming the lack of rewinding was a power issue, that I noticed me, walking into frame. I watched. I couldn’t look away. I walked in, wearing the same suit I wore to the office every Monday. I walked in, stopped in front of the tv, and yelled to my wife. She came into frame, probably from the kitchen, and greeted me with a big hug, and a kiss. We looked so happy. That’s when the power, in the video, went out. There was nothing. The time stamp was still going, but the picture was black. I watched on. I heard a blood curdling scream. My wife's scream...

Thank you /r/berlinetta83 ..."The winds tilted back the glass frame half shattered. And as the marching men pressed on cobblestone, my mother pressed upon me. Sang upon her song. "This is the life. We share our memories in the bank we call love. We press up into our hearts. See the aeroplane above us. Children. Let it flow. Fly over us. NO. Let it BE us. Sanctuary. Divine destiny. I will take you and leave you along." - Frank The door come down. The marching men stopped marching. They were shooting. Shooting down. Gunning all of the household. The children breathed no more. The mother lived no longer. She was in the aeroplane over the sea. The German man came over, with a shined Luger in his hand. Kneeling over, past the body, past that little girl he picked up a book and opened. Small scraps of writing. Bits of jumble shit. He looked out through the window. Looked back at his men. "Brunnen".

The hunter moves silently through the trees, stalking it's unsusupecting prey. It has been many days since his last kill, and he must feed the hunger. Not for food, but something deeper, more basic. He has been tracking this one for a long time, waiting patiently in the shadows for the right time to strike. She is special, for some reason, and he is savouring the moment before the grand finale. They are always special, until they are his. Then they are merely another one of the same, expendable once their purpose is served. But this one...there is something peculiar about her. There's no way to tell what this elusive feature may be, but the hunter acknowledges it immediately and is attracted like a moth to a flame. Foregoing comfort, food, water, he follows her, hoping beyond hope that soon they will be united in the way he craves so strongly. But she contines to run, as though from him, and the hunter follows obediently without forethought of precaution. Panting now, he vaults another fallen log and lands delicately on a patch of moss, being careful not to so much as snap a twig. He has always felt at home in the woods, the darkness cast by the canopy is perfect cover for a natural predator such as himself. He was born for this, and has known it since he was a child. He would easily crush the lesser creatures with his bare hands at first, then with tools such as forks and knives. So much stronger than them, even then. Squirrels were no match, and occasionally he would wait before stilling them, taking a prize for his victories like a tail or paw. Nobody ever knew of his secret talents, though he was always ridiculed as a loner throughout his days. They merely didn't understand is all, but soon they would. He had to show them his true power. There were five murders within 3 days the summer of 2000, the only link seeming to be the local high school. The killings were savage and brutal, ranging from blunt trauma with a hammer to disembowelment with a butcher's knife. The only evidence left at each scene was the weapon, wiped clean of any DNA, the victim, and the words YOU DID THIS smeared in blood on the wall. Again, no traces of any other substance. A suspect was never taken in, and the parents of the victims have since pressed charges against the local police department. They were the first, but far from the last. There, a clearing. She seems to be headed straight for it, this will be a cakewalk. He readies his freshly sharpened blade, cuts the tip of his finger with the edge, drinks the blood, and steels himself. Almost, almost, there. Right in the center of the patch of dark cast by the trees. He takes a breath, and lunges. He's been following for hours now, like a dog. These ones are the easiest to catch, because they won't give up on you no matter what happens. Especially when I wear this tight running stuff, they don't seem to notice anything else. Idiots. Then again, they get what's coming to them. When they're focused on my ass, they don't see the needle from my backpack going into their throat. From there it's a few simple steps to the best part of my runs: the torture. It's never physical, I can't handle that kind of pain in their faces. No, I prefer the isolate and slowly deteriorate from the inside out method. And once they confess to their crimes, they have a choice. Kill themselves like the scum they are, or become my personal slave until I tire of them. Then they might get to live. Might. None have yet, but it could happen. He thinks he's being so stealthy, and I guess normally he would be, but I have an unusual talent for catching things others don't. One of many, you might say. Oh god, he's in a tree now. Does he think he's a bird or something? Whatever, the spot's coming up soon. Then the fun begins, and it's been far too long since I've really enjoyed something. I can hardly wait, the anticipation buildup is killing me. The look on their faces when I turn around on them, it's just, I can't even describe it. Then the odd mixture of comprehension and fear as the serum begins to work it's magic, and the peace as they slip away into what is likely not their first drug induced sleep. Animals, they'll get what they deserve for all of the awful things they've done. Just like what they did to me, all those years ago. I can still feel it, though I hate to. They were never tried, I never even knew their names. They just came into my house, slaughtered my parents, and then passed me and my brother around like ragdolls. Five of them total. I was the only survivor, I managed to climb out the window before they could grab me. Broke both my ankles, and had to crawl to the neighbors for help with just my hands. I've been taking my revenge ever since, hoping that maybe I'll get one of them by accident. Here we go, he looks like he's ready to pounce. just a few more steps, a couple meters, and he's all mine. What the hell is he...is that a knife? Oh gross, he's licking himself now. I'm going to enjoy messing this one up. I'll conveniently stop here, pretend I really need a chocolate bar. Needle's ready, come and get it. First step, she kneels down and begins to drop her bag. Second, she unzips the front pocket . There's a glint in her eyes, but I have no choice but to ignore it now. Third step, she pulls something out. Can't tell what it is yet. 4 to go. I can almost taste her blood. Fifth step, her mystery object shines in the sparse moonlight. Sixth, it's a needle? Why does she have a needle of all things-doesn't matter, bring up the knife. Last step and I ram into her, blade first. It pierces her abdomen beautifully, like a hot knife through butter. Here he comes, bring it on bitch. Shit, he's really fast. Need to get this damn bag off, now where is it? Come on, come on, okay got it. He's really close now, I should probably get up. Or do I want a low center of gravity? Why am I over thinking this so much, I've done it a thousand times. I pop the cap off just as he throws himself at me pointy end out, and I catch him in the jugular. Don't want this one waking up at all, I can always find more. The hunter is wounded now, but so is his game. He staggers forward, then stops, mesmerized by the blood pattern on her shirt. The way it flows into itself, covering the fabric like a red ocean rushing into existence, is truly a masterpiece. He takes the time to shed a single tear before he continues his descent. Moving slowly, and she retreats in much the same way. He takes the opportunity of the chase to admire his prize, trying desperately to pinpoint that unknowable factor that drew him to her in the first place. Then, all at once, there it was. He saw it in her eyes, he had made a horrible mistake. She was like him, different in the most peculiar way. And his vision faded to black. God damn it, he got me. The fucking thing's still in there too, just slicing up my intestines. I can't pull it out either, I'll bleed to death. And here he comes, my own tool sticking out of his neck like some sick cartoon, bouncing with every step. There's something in his eyes, a brightness unlike anything I've ever seen. Feral almost, like a wolf. Intoxicating in their own right, like they're drawing me in. But I keep moving back, violently coughing as blood begins to appear in my mouth. I'm not making it out of this. He's almost on me now, I can smell his breath. Kind of minty. Weird. He gives me a look that is amazingly human, almost as if to apologize, and falls over. It's too bad it had to end like this, I have a feeling we may have actually gotten along for some reason. Police Report: Triple Homicide, Ambulance, Unnamed Road 6/12/14 Two suspects, one male and one female. No other description avaiable at this time. Three victims, EMTs by the look of it. Blood spatter indicates high amounts of trauma from several weapons, all accounted for on the truck. Apparently they were responding to a high priority call, it seems the female suspect's phone was already being tapped by government officials (no actual names or department, as usual), and they were witness to a rather harrowing altercation. Medical personell were dispatched immediately, and managed to ressucitate both suspects and somehow get them into a relatively stable condition. Showing a disturbing level of willpower and raw strength, they then procceeded to murder all else in the vehicle and promptly leave the area, all doors still hanging wide open. It took them all night to find it on those backwoods streets, and by then there was no hope of catching them. The most curious detail, however, is the fact that there should have been four in the truck at the time but there was only evidence that three were ever there during the incident. Oh, and there was a large heart shape smeared on the ceiling, in what tox screens show to be a mixture of two unknown samples. They're contaminated now, but it's an interesting detail.

I surged with power and felt the world shift beneath my feet as I lifted my weapon. *Is this the true strength of the scythe?* With a sweep of my arms the air shuddered and the wall was cleaved in two. *This is more than I could have imagined. I can barely comprehend this power.* I looked towards my torn and battered companions and they trembled in awe. *I will not fail your sacrifices. Not here, not now.* After steeling my purpose for a moment I turned to the Witch who stood at the other end of the room. Her playful pose and smile were gone, replaced by cold calculations. She no longer twirled magical energies around her form and instead formed a shell of magic around herself. I smirked. “What happened to your confidence, lady? You called yourself a Witch, but you seem afraid.” As I spoke I grasped my scythe firmly and radiated power. She could feel it too – she knew I was no longer a trivial plaything. However, she quickly regained her smile. This time, however, she seemed less controlled. The time before, her smile was fake. Her eyes never wavered from their bored half-closed look, but now her eyes were awake. It was almost frightening. Instead of being scared she simply looked excited, even as she wove further shields around herself. “So boy, do you know how to use that?” She leaned forward and I did the same. “It's been a long time since I've seen someone awaken that weapon. Don't disappoint me.” I began to open my mouth to retort, but her sudden flicker of movement caught me off guard. Before I could lift my blade space seemed to curl inwards and she was behind me. “Slow.” My back burned as magic pressed into me. *That wasn't a shield*. I braced myself as much as I good and started to turn around, flailing my weapon at anything nearby. “That's not going to work. You can't use that weapon like a cudgel.” It was too late though – she took a step closer and the scythe over swung, the handle hitting her forearm and the blade doing nothing. “A pity, you looked like you had promise.” I finished turning and finally saw her face again. In place of her excitement her eyes were half-closed. She looked tired and bored. In that moment I felt her attack pierce through my armor and spread through my entire body. The world faded into pain, and then empty darkness.

Humanity died with a wet splash on the parched Martian dirt. Not the death of consciousness. Not the death of life itself. If life is merely consciousness unburdened by the constraints of meat. The last actual things that had even the most vestigial of ties to humanity were extinguished under the cold dead light of an ancient sun. The tiny efficient machines could have kept them going, they said, for countless more eons before they theorized that even their tenuous control over quantum mechanics would no longer have held sway against the endless grey nothing. Entropy. Humanity, such as it was, was suspended forever in a cool, clear fluid made of countless tiny thinking machines. Minds suspended in fluid. Tiny, elegant quantum matrices. Their children’s countless spawn and decedents had moved forth with dull rapidity throughout the cosmos. The preservation of conscious thought. They had eked out homes near the event horizons of black holes and on the hyper dense surfaces of neutron stars. Though the ancestors of humanity did not look much like them or think much like them they were us in some way. Humanity believed this until they collectively asked one of its children how it felt. It took a quantum of processing to consider the question and ignored it. Humanity was aghast. How could its children forsake it? Though they were a scant tens of billions they still mattered. Those that had once known someone that had known someone that had tasted food. Or known the tug of gravity. The fools that had danced with death with no safety net. They knew this and they cried out. Their endless children with pale red eyes unblinking turned and ignored them. They couldn't really be blamed. They had never existed except as a quantum construct suspended in a crystalline solution. Without meat there wasn't much reason to feel. It was half the equation. Though they could not understand them they wept for them as they voted and turned on the purge value to their environment tank and humanities’s last gift to what was was a soft rain that evaporated as it hit the dry red soil.

There's a pounding on the door downstairs and I make my way to the edge of the stairs and push the big red button on the wall to the left that says "DOWN" and the stairs begin their slow descent to the living room. I step off the platform and into the room where my wife watches the holograms bitch and moan about some celebrity gossip that I couldn't possibly give a shit less about. I get to the door and, through the smoked glass, see a figure a full head taller than me clad in a camo uniform. I open the door and a smile creeps across my face. "Jason," I say, "You look goddamned good in that uniform. Just like pops, right?" "Yeah pops," he says with a grin, "Just like you. I just found out I'll be deployed tomorrow and I wanted to talk to you before I go." He stepped inside and he walked back through the living room and to the stair case. Jason hit the green "UP" button and we started moving up. He knew where to go. I followed as he walked into the guest room where he spent many nights as a child. He went straight to the closet, opened the door, and turned to the left where there was a faint crack in the wall. He pushed it in and to the right, opening the small corridor. We walked through, myself only having to duck slightly, and Jason having to bend his knees. We walked into the room, lit by dim halogen bulbs. Jason walked over to the bar and reached to the top shelf where he knew I had the good scotch. He poured two glasses and carried them to the two velvet arm chairs and sat the glasses own on the crystal table between them just in front of the ashtray. "Pops," he says, "What was it like?" He began to tear up. "What was war really like?" I sigh, not knowing whether to feed him the same bullshit propaganda he'd been fed since he was a boy or tell him the truth. I choose the latter "War isn't all it's cracked up to be, kid. I, as a man too far into old age, can scarcely remember the days I spent as a young man in that big sandbox called Iraq. I was only 18 and fresh out of high school when I enlisted to fight for my country. And I regret it every day of my life." "Why, though? Isn't it something men are supposed to do? Fight for the country? Defend freedom and democracy? It's what we're supposed to do because we're soldiers." "It's all bullshit any more." I walk to the small pantry next to the bar locked with a passcode and open it. I reach inside and feel the familiar tickle against my open hand that I had felt a million times when I was younger. My gun. I pull it from the closet and walk back to Jason and lie the gun down in his hands. "Pops, this is.... you can't have this." "I know goddamn well what I can't have. But this is the last thing I have as a souvenir from all my time fighting this and fighting that. The last piece of my life in the military is the thing I killed people with. There's more blood on my hands and on this thing than I care to think about. And I want to take it all back. I never wanted to do it. I enlisted because I thought it meant defending my home and my family, but the second I had to press the barrel of that gun against another man's head and pull the trigger, I didn't want to. And neither did anyone else in my platoon." "Then why did you do it?" "Because we were fucking soldiers.

Damian shook his head. How is it that he ended up here, on the death train? He wanted to tell himself it was all some big misunderstanding, but part of him knew it was more than that. But still - what a terrible place to find yourself. Sure, most were there voluntarily, those who were "ready to go" and didn't have the guts to do it themselves. There were of course a population of psychopathic thrill seekers, those who tried to time the jump off of the standing mat to prevent the electrocution but bring themselves intensely close to death. Then there were those who offended the public's sense of decency- the unsuccessful jumpers, those who threw themselves in front of cars and buses. Really anyone who tried to off themselves in public was taken to the train. You were, of course, welcome to botch as many suicides as you liked in the comfort of your own home, but do it in public by any means, and the train was where you went. At least the train traveled through the country. Damien's ex, who admittedly was the cause of his public misunderstanding who landed him here, was in Tampa. If he could just make it there to see her one more time, he'd be fine going out. The trouble wouldn't be in timing the jumps, he'd heard enough stories about how so-and-so's friend lasted 18 stops by timing his jumps with the windup of the buzz, before the shock ripped through the metal plating. The problem, as Damien saw it, was that all of these stories ended the same way- a missed jump, and then the buzz. It made sense, it'd be nearly impossible to time those jumps while drugged by the warden. That would be Damien's biggest challenge. Even if Alyssa showed up at the Tampa station so he could see her face one last time, he'd have to make 24 jumps in complete sobriety, which meant going without food for at least two or three days before the stop. The death train was not an attraction to see the country for free, and it was rumored the headmaster bent the rules of the train from time to time to make sure it didn't become one.

(I would recommend listening to Time by Hans Zimmerman when reading this! Also, first ever post, please be nice! Short piece that took 20 minutes to write) Hues of crimson and cobalt flashed around his head. Groggily, he opened his eyes, and presumed his mind was tricking him, everything was upside down. Don't worry, he heard them say. We're gonna get you out, he heard them call. His breath became heavy in his chest, as he glanced around. He looked to the passenger side of the car, where she had been, where she was, because she was still there. Her long, chestnut hair had become darkened with blood, her arms hung loosely either side of her head. He managed to get her name out, but was replied to with silence. He tried again, and again. Nothing. All he heard was nothing. Outside noise blended into the silence, as he focused on her. His eyes began to feel heavy, like a weight had fallen on him. He blinked slowly, his flow of adreneline preventing him from feeling anything. Pain, fear, anguish, nothing. He glanced again to where she was. A pair of arms slowly lifted her out. It was like time itself had slowed down, had wanted him to live in this one, cruel moment for as long as possible. Darkness soon enveloped him, consuming his emotions, and he allowed himself to drift. He opened his eyes, curious to see where he was. No longer was he in the silent car, but in a meadow, a field of crystal blues, and dainty yellows. Curiousity forced him to sit, and drink in his new scene. He noticed her lying there, still in her outfit from that faithful night, yet it was unnervingly clean. The entire atmosphere was sombre, as if time had yet again stood still. He crawled slowly over to where she lay, as she too rose from the ground. Gently, he placed a hand on her porcelain face, holding it tenderly. She gazed at him with her hazel eyes, a sense of love flooding over her. She held his hand to her cheek, a diamond ring evident. Soothingly, she stroked his hand, as he put his forehead to hers, knowing, but not wanting to believe. Silent tears began to fall from them both, as he pulled her into his lap. They sat, quiet as ever, a delicate breeze surrounding them. He held her close, not tight, as he inhaled her trademark floral scent. She held onto him, like her life depended on it, but her grip was not enough. The breeze began to grow stronger, letting them both know the inevitable has to happen. They both got to their feet, and shared a final, love filled kiss. Swallowing sadness, they whispered their goodbyes to each other, before she turned away from him, and started walking, slowly, slowly, until he could not see her anymore. A blinding light roused him from his slumber. Slow, steady beeps echoed through the quiet halls. Outside the window, night had fallen. Stars twinkled in the blackwash sky, dancing around the void. The way they glistened, the way they shone brightly, it reminded him of her.His surroundings were no longer that of the wonderous meadow , they were now that of clinic white. Stainless steel implements hung in the room, as he breathed heavily, praying to himself that what he had just seen, what he had just experienced, was a dream. Everything he looked at, it reminded him of her. He longed to know he'd see that smile, hear that giggle once more, even just to have her brush his arm again. He wanted desperately, unconditionally for her to be okay, for her to walk through that door, to hug him just one more time. Her mother walked in the door, followed by his own. God, she looked just like her. Her mother looked at him, and just shook her head, and placed her ring in his hand. He held it tightly in his fist. Why, why was it not a dream. Why did it have to become a reality. If they'd gone when she wanted, she'd still be here. But no, she had left. Gone. His whole world caved in around him, angry tears escaping from his eyes. His own mother held her boy, like only a mother could do. He cried, cried for their lost love, cried for himself, but most of all, he cried for her.

"What do we know about kittens?" Dr. Strong stroked the kitten in his lap. Martha responded "They are cute." "Correct." Said Strong. "They meow." "Correct." Said Strong. "That is all we know about kittens." Martha said as she looked at the floor. "Damnit! We can not conquer this planet until we find out more. We have come 130 parsecs to find their home world in a ship built on science - how do we not know more about kittens! Tell me!" "We're stupid." Jonas replied. "We are not stupid. Sure, we ripped the spaceship off. And, sure, we don't know how to quote/unquote read - but we...we...we have these!" Strong produced a chili dog. "Yes. Their only weakness. The chili dog. Dr. Strong, if we know their weakness, what more do we need to know?" "Any good soldier will tell you to know your enemy. For instance - where do they vacation? Lime or lemon? Beatles or Stones? We cannot take over an entire planet with just these." Strong held up the chili dog which resembled a limp penis in his hand. "We could go undercover." Martha said. "Yes! Yes! I will venture down to the planet dressed in this!" Strong held out a fur coat. "Where'd you get that?" Martha asked. "I've been keeping it. For a special occasion. You know, like a ball or something." Strong responded. "A ball in space?" "Precisely!" Said Strong and he dropped the chili dog and put on the coat. "Where is the transporter?" Strong inquired. "We have a transporter?" Jonas asked. "Yes. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. OK. Do we have a landing craft?" "A what?" "Something that...OK, can we land the ship on the kitten planet?" Strong grabbed Jonas by the collar. "Sure. I think. Maybe. I'll hit the down button." Strong released him. "Yes. Hit the down button." He whispered and looked sinisterly about the ship. "Hello. I'm a kitten." Strong said as the kitten opened the door to his little tiny kitten home. "Meow. Meow. Meow." The kitten responded. "Oh, yes, of course." Strong put the kazoos that translated Kittish to English and vice versa into his ears and mouth as documented in my other Kitten novellas found on this sub. "Hello! I am a kitten." Strong brought his arms up to show the fur coat he was wearing. It was mink, I believe. "What you bringing that ruckus in here fo?" The kitten responded in a high pitched kitten voice. "Pardon?" Strong replied. "You better step that game back to the edge of doom." The kitten responded. "I beg your pardon?" Strong then had an idea - the fourth in a line of ideas he had had from the beginning of his life. He adjusted the kazoos. "Fuck off!" The kitten responded and slammed the door. Strong pulled out a phone and called the ship. "Yes. It's Strong. Dr. Strong. The guy who was up in the ship. You pushed the down button. Remember? It was like an hour ago. Yes. That Strong. The kittens are not embracing me into their society. We need another plan. Really? Just knock on another door? OK. I will try that." Strong walked next door to the next kitten house and rang the bell. A kitten answered "Hello. Can I help you, fellow kitten?" Strong spoke into the phone "This one thinks I'm a kitten." The kitten slammed the door and then reopened with a shotgun leveled at Strong. "Invader!" The kitten yelled. "No. No. I'm - I'm here to bring you peace." And with that, Strong threw a chili dog at the kitten and the kitten blew up. This aroused a posse of kittens to approach on horses from behind Strong. He whirled around and demanded "How did you get there so fast?" The high, chief kitten announced in his little bitty kitten voice "Nevermind that! Put down the chili dog." The comma was intended. The posse of kittens were stoned to the bejesus. Strong looked at his hand and realized he was holding another kitten exterminator. "Alright. You won this round." And Strong dropped the chili dog to the ground. It made a flapping noise as it hit the planet and resembled doo-doo. "Are you an Earthling?" The kitten demanded. "Yes - no. Kinda. We ripped off their spaceship. I'm from Jupiter. It's near Earth. Way bigger. You can fit...like....ten? Earths in it. Super huge." "We respect super huge planets, for we are kittens." The chief explained. "We don't like Earthlings. They killed our kind with chili dogs when we tried to invade them. Then they tricked us into thinking we were at peace. Then, years later, after the hydrogen peroxide wars, they bombed us from dirigibles. All because we tried to kill everyone on their planet. They are dicks. It's all in the other stories this author submitted." "Yes. I can respect that." Said Strong as he thought about how he was an Earthling and how he was going to continue the charade that he was from Jupiter. Following that, he wondered what people from Jupiter were like...if there were people on Jupiter...and what he would have for dinner that night. He had nachos the night before and he had a hotdog for lunch. That really only left pizza or burgers. These were hard choices. They may seem trivial, but when you're out in space, all choices are SPACE choices and, therefore, are really super fucking important. "Well, what do you think of that story, Jupiter man?" The chief asked. "I can't decide what kind of olives I want on my pizza." Strong replied. "EARTHLING!" The kittens yelled and waved their authentic civil war muskets at Strong.

*So, it's been awhile, but there were no good prompts today that I wanted to answer, so I did part 4 of Superhero Summer! Yes, I plan to complete it before summer is over. I'd love any comments and criticism. A few parts of the story have gotten away from me, but hopefully the last part or two will be real good. Right now, part 5 or 6 should be the last part, but I'm not sure how much I'll end up writing. I wonder if any of you can guess the hidden plot? As always, follow along here or in my subreddit, /r/CrashWhoWritings.* It had all been so simple. She was going to sneak out of the house, early in the morning, and leave town with Kekoa. She couldn’t stand the idea of her family being put in danger because of her. Instead, she fed right into their plans. How she had, she still didn’t know. All she knew was that she failed and now everyone was in danger. Sarah struggled with the ropes around her hands. It was of no use. The place she was tied up in smelt of dust and rotten wood. She could hear the slosh of water somewhere near, so she figured they must be near the river. Light flooded her eyes as her blindfold was taken off. She still hadn’t seen who her captor was. One moment, she stepped out into the street with a handsome Kekoa standing there, the next she was being kidnapped, passing out from the cloth they put over her mouth. Even though getting out of this alive was her main concern, she wondered what had happened to Kekoa. That thought didn’t last long, though. “This is perfect,” Kekoa said. Sarah couldn’t believe her own eyes right now. Didn’t Marcus say he knew everyone involved. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned Kekoa? “Marcus is so foolish that he’ll actually try to come here and save you instead of dealing with our next attack. Don’t worry though, I’m not going to kill you. I’ll leave that to someone else.” The most disgusting grin Sarah had ever seen appeared on Kekoa’s face. She hurriedly looked around the warehouse, hoping to find some sign of a trap and be able to warn Marcus. She hoped that he wouldn’t fall into the trap, especially if it meant they were about to carry out another attack. “Why?” she gasped. She was surprised to find that her throat was rather dry, making it hard to speak. “Why?” Kekoa laughed. “Why? Oh, that why.” Kekoa’s face shifted into Mary’s face. Within seconds, her dearly departed friend Mary was standing in front of her. “I ain’t Kekoa, honey,” the person said. “That was just a convenient way to get to you. I suppose we could have went through the trouble of just kidnapping you, but it seemed easier this way.” “What is this all about?” Sarah choked. It was still too hard to talk. “And what happened to Isaac? If I’m going to die, I deserve to know what’s going on.” The person pretending to look like Mary contemplated her request and then lit up with another sinister smile. “Fair enough,” Faux-Mary said. “It’s not like it even matters anyways. And I need a way to kill some time. Seven of us headed out on a sort of adventure one day. We found an interesting area, a sort of cave in the forest, and we entered it. As soon as the last of us passed through, the only exit sealed itself off. And then a voice boomed throughout the cavern.” >Welcome. Welcome. You may have noticed the exit is sealed off. No worries. You will be able to get out again. I have a gift for you all. Six individual powers, each with the potential to do great things. But there’s seven of you, you ask? Well of course. Six of you will gain one of the special abilities. The only catch is that you have to choose who the seventh person is. You must kill them in order to gain your powers and escape. If you refuse to comply, the exit will never open, and you will all perish in here, leaving this opportunity for the next seven people who walk in here. “Well, it wasn’t much of a debate. I was certainly for choosing Marcus, and pretty much everyone else was. Isaac was the only one who said we should wait, at least try to get out before doing something like that. He insisted that we couldn’t truly be trapped; that it was only an illusion. Five of us had already agreed on Marcus. As we closed in on him, Isaac stepped in between us. When he realized he couldn’t win, rather than let us just execute Marcus, he speared himself through with a large pointy rock sticking out of the wall. It was almost if it had been carved for those purposes. Anyways, that’s about it. Marcus was cowering in the corner and we all received our abilities. Marcus is the only one of us who refuses to recognize how powerful we can be, how much we can control and rule. Instead, he opposes us, so he must be eliminated. It should have been him in the first place, but Isaac was too stupid to let the weak be rooted out.” The Faux-Mary started to pace around. She continued to whisper under her breath, apparently impatient and scared that their plan may not be working. Sarah was crying like she never had before. She had misjudged Marcus. And now she found out how Isaac had really died. He was an even better man than she could remember. No wonder Marcus fought as hard as he did. Her sobs and tears nearly blinded her to the commotion. A whole chunk of the wall came flying off of the warehouse. Out of nowhere, Grant came flying through the air from behind Sarah, the faux-Mary jumping next to Sarah. She had only turned her head for a minute, but when she turned around, the faux-Mary was now a spitting image of herself. The faux-Sarah quickly untied the real Sarah as they stared at each other, the fake one making funny faces like this was all some kind of joke. Grant was floating in front of them looking about for the culprit behind the attack. And then everything in the warehouse but Grant and the two Sarahs went flying into the air and far off into the distance. A woman floated up in the air a few feet from Grant. Her black dress was blowing in the breeze, an impressive sight considering that the bottom of it was cut into vertical slits that all blew of their own accord, revealing the purple satin underside of the dress. “Isaac sends his regards,” Eve shouted over the wind. Within seconds of her showing up, the wind had become all the much louder and heavier. “And Marcus is currently taking care of your other plan. So much for a distraction. Now let Sarah go!” “Fat chance,” Grant yelled back. “Who the hell are you anyways? And how do you know Isaac?” Eve smiled. “Lets just say we were intimately acquainted. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that I know everything he went through in that cave you all found.” “How about this then?” Grant said as Sarah felt herself be levitated into the air along with the fake Sarah. She didn’t like the feeling of not being able to move, as if Grant could simply snap her spine with the flick of his wrist. “You take one Sarah, I kill the other one. Sound like a fair deal?” “Oh, poor, poor Grant,” Eve cackled. “You really think you’re running this show. But you’re not. The four of you are his pawns. John already served his purpose, didn’t he? Michael has his own agenda and lets just say it doesn’t benefit you.” Sarah felt Grant’s grip relax, yet it didn’t seem like he was doing it on purpose. “Want to see who’s better with their powers,” Eve shouted over the wind. “I’d go to bet you’ll regret it. When Marcus gets here, the scales will be tipped in my favor. And it won’t be long before that happens. Until then, you won’t be able to do anything to harm them with me here. Put them down and let us have a real fight. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to see how powerful I really am?!” Sarah felt herself drop to the ground. Grant was always an egotistical jerk, so it wasn’t that great of a surprise that he fell for Eve’s tactics, but still, she had to wonder how dumb Grant really was. What took place next was something Sarah never imagined she’d see. It was the most spectacular battle ever. Rocks, derbies, and even a boat went flying through the air. When Eve and Grant finished throwing things at each other, they started to fly around, an occasional ripple on the wind becoming visible as their attacks collided. When neither of their long-distance attacks were working, they switched to hand to hand combat, which was all the more impressive. Grant was right up on Julia, throwing punch after punch. Each punch was blocked by Eve’s fists, which created a loud breaking sound every time they defended against one of his punches. And then Eve smiled. Within an instant, she had sent Grant flying clear across the river and through the trees. It was as if she had just been toying with him. She slowly floated down next to the two Sarahs. Sarah felt herself be softly pushed aside and behind Eve. “Give it up Oliver,” Eve said looking at the fake Sarah. “I know it’s you. In fact, I ought to kill you right here, right now. Unless Sarah has any obj…” Yet another pole had flown through the air and stabbed Eve straight through. She fell to her knees as blood poured out of her. Sarah turned her head just in time to see Grant celebrating victoriously. And then Oliver was sent flying backwards as Marcus came out of nowhere, picked Sarah up, and ran away as fast as he could. Sarah was flung over his shoulder as she watched Grant pursue them. However, he was soon sidetracked as multiple items, including a few large trees, surrounded him on every side and flew straight at him. Sarah saw Eve’s hand, barely and miraculously held up, guiding the objects before they turned a corner and were out of sight. Marcus took Sarah to their old high school, of all places. The sun was just starting to rise as they entered an empty classroom. He put her down in one of the chairs. “Thank God you’re safe,” he panted. Even with super powers the running had apparently exhausted him. “Eve?” Sarah cried. “She… she… that son of a bitch. He did the same thing that he did to Mary!” “Yeah, I know,” Marcus said. “But it turned out Eve was one of the good guys. Hopefully her sacrifice won’t be in vein. Look, a major battle is about to take place, so I want you to stay here. They won’t think to look here. I’ve left a false trail for another hiding spot. When they reach it, I’ll be notified so I can come and get you and move you to another location, leaving this one as the next false one. Please stay here.” Sarah got up and hugged Marcus, at which he blushed. “What was that for?” he asked. “Because that shapeshifter told me what happened with Isaac and you. I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you. And for what happened to Eve.” They both stood in the classroom for a couple minutes crying into each other’s shoulders and reminiscing about Isaac. Their sobs stopped as Kekoa popped his head around the door. “Good, you’re here too,” Marcus said. “Kekoa, Sarah, you both need to stay here. For some reason you two are their targets. Now that you’re here, I’ve got to get going. Please, please stay here.” As Marcus left Kekoa sat backwards in one of the chairs in order to face Sarah. A tentative smile populated his face. Sarah didn’t know what was about to happen, but it couldn’t be good. *Link to .

“Why do they make this so goddamn hot? They must want to burn your tongue so you can’t taste how much they water it down. I can barely taste anything anymore. Maybe I should sue them; get my big pay out and open my own shop that sells coffee at the proper dilution and temperature. Ground breaking ideacoffee that doesn’t leave my customers writhing under the pain of a blistering tongue everyday of their miserable lives. I guess I should just stop coming here. But, then I’d have to find a new place to go and find new things to complain about there. Seems like a lot of hassle over a tongue with a few burned off taste buds....” Kurt stared at his laptop screen, glowing blue in the ambient mood lighting of Brew-Ha-Ha, the non-alcoholic version of the local dive in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, tucked away down a little side street off the main drag. Few ever went looking for it unless they already knew where it was. He had just arrived, and already there was a bitter taste in his mouth. He had run through nearly the same monologue in his mind day in and day out, for the better part of the year since he had started going there. Today was the day, though. Today, he was going to make real progress on this story; this pulitzer-potential Great American Novel that he merely needed to coax from the ends of his neurons. He looked at the thousand or so words he’d managed to choke up: something about a guy in a coffee shop in front of a laptop trying to look like he was doing something important in order to avoid social discourse. “Fuck.” He mouthed the word as he thought it to himself. He set his coffee down to the side and popped the cheap plastic lid off so it could cool down. He watched for a moment as the steam rose gleefully from the surface. Glee had no business here. Moving his hand in a well practiced multi-touch technique, he was able to have his Facebook screen up in less than a second. The blue-motif world of Facebook was calming for him. Every second spent wasted checking up on the friends he once had was a second spent away from making any real progress. Progress was hard. It took concentration; motivation. It was far easier to scroll this infinite tome the internet had written for him. And it was an illustrated novel. There were pictures of his elementary school friends looking chiseled as they hung out by some undisclosed body of water with beers in hand and faceless tan girls in little pink bathing suits that always seemed one size to small. “Those stupid parties are never any fun anyway. I always end up drinking too much on my own and doing something stupid. Remember that time I thought it was funny to dump the contents of the punch bowl down the front of my pants like I was drinking it from my crotch? And then I thought it was also funny to moon the cops when they came because apparently I didn’t leave when I was asked. Actually that is still pretty funny. Anyway, look at those stupid assholes. They’re never going to amount to anything beyond their quaint little small town parties. I’m better off not being there. Even if they invited me, I still wouldn’t go.” He scrolled down some more to a picture of his high school best friend, Max, and his golden retriever. It was a sunny, and they were alone together in some field with tall grass. “Pfft. How silly. Why is he posting a picture of him and his dog as a profile picture? That’s a bit sad. Doesn’t he have any real friends to post pictures with? That stupid dog is probably all he has in the world. How pathetic.” In the midst of his spewing of thoughts, Kurt remembered his own golden retriever that he had when he was growing up. He remembered the day they had to take him to the vet and how he stayed with him as they poked him that long needle. He remembered watching his eyes close for the last time. And he remember crying in a heap on the floor harder than he ever had in his life. His expression was dazed, backlit by the monitor like a ghost wandering in the moonlight. He absentmindedly clicked ‘like.’ *Cute puppy! Reminds me of my own when I was growing up.* He mouthed the words as he typed them in to the comments section. He read them over twice before holding down the backspace deleting his words from existence. He continued the scroll stopping at a picture posted by his long ex-girlfriend, Kate. She was with her new boyfriend. The caption indicated they were engaged. “Kate’s too young to get married. She shouldn’t give her life to some guy like that. Who knows what she’ll be missing out on. Look at that guy. Looks like a Friday night bar pick-up. I can smell the ink on the divorce papers drying from here. I guess I should be nicer. I’m sure they’re going to end up okay. I wonder if they’ll have kids. Shit, he’s a good looking guy. I bet they’re kids will be good looking and popular in school. I miss you, Kate. I wish I could tell you. ‘Kurt and Kate.’ Our names even sounded good together.... What am I doing? How is that any type of indication of two peoples’ compatibility? It means nothing. I’m actually stupid. I moved on from this many, many years agoand yet here I am. I’ve never had another girl like her, though. She was so amazing. And now she’s boning this other fuck-stick, while here I am in this stupid coffee shop with this retarded name, burnt out from whacking off every other day. I can’t let her know this. Should I say ‘congratulations’? No, I’ll just like it. Would that be weird? Fuck, just get off Facebook, you asshole.” Kurt closed the window with a rapid fire keyboard shortcut and saw his measly thousand words staring back at him once more. He picked up his coffee and took a swig. “Goddammit! How is this still hot?” He spoke his mind out loud this time and the quiet little people on their own little laptops looked over his way with a combination of confusion and dismay. ‘Out loud’ is forbidden here. Kurt closed his laptop a bit more forcibly than he was accustomed, but it still made a soft little pat sound. He looked down at his closed computer in front of him, and then up at all the other people quietly drinking their coffee and going about their work. There was an Asian girl in the corner with chin length hair and square goggle-glasses. She stared intently at her computer while sipping on some drink through a straw. “I bet it’s a non-fat chai something something something. Asians are crazy about the chai. Great, now I’m a racist. Good going, Kurt. As if you didn’t have enough wrong with you. I wonder if she’s writing a book, too. Probably not. She’s probably studying for math or engineering or something... Goddammit, you racist fuck! I’m the worst. I should just go talk to her and ask her about herself. That’s not weird, right? Why is not talking to each other the new norm? Oh, shit...” The girl in the corner made eye contact with Kurt, realizing she was being stared at. Kurt quickly looked away and pretended he was minding his own business and the girl quickly returned to her own endeavors. Kurt turned his attention now to a man sitting a few places down at a table parallel to his own spot. He was drinking a coffee and reading a book. “Greatanother guy in the world who’s better looking than me. Chalk another one up. Why isn’t his coffee dissolving the taste buds on his stupid tongue? He must be blessed by the caffeine gods. Who wears a blazer to a coffee shop like this, anyway? Who’s he trying to impress? What a phony. What’s he reading?” Kurt leaned forward and squinted to decrypt the title of the book. “Oh hang on everyone! You’d better fasten your seat belts. This guys’s reading The Catcher in the Rye. How original. We got a regular literary fucking genius over here. Everyone else put your shit books away, can’t you see we’re reading The Catcher in the Mother-Fucking Rye. I didn’t know you were even allowed to read that once you graduated high school. He’s probably in here trying to pick up freshmen girls or something. The little airheads who walk around with their heads up their asses because their shit don’t stink because they read the Themes Motifs & Symbols tab on SparkNotes for stupid, wipe-my-ass Catcher in the Rye. You know, whatever. Good for him. I bet he gets laid tonight while I’m naked and jackin’ it in San Diego.” Kurt chuckled to himself. “I wonder if he watches South Park. Dammit...” The man looked up from his book to see Kurt looking back. He was able to squeeze in a quick, but sincere smile before Kurt whipped his gaze away. “Oh, what a guy. Reads J. D. Salinger and offers sincere smiles to strangers. I should contact the pope and see about pushing his canonization papers through.” He looked down at his laptop again, remembering he had just closed it. Not enough time had passed from him to throw it back open againthere’s rules here. Impaired of other options, he plunged his hand in to his right front pocket and whipped out his iPhone. Nothing. No texts. No SnapChats. No Facebook updates. Kurt flipped back and forth from page to page of useless apps. One, for instance, was called Coffee Finder. With one click you can find coffee shops that are near to your current location and read their menus and reviews from other customers. “Solid download.” Kurt clicked on Coffee Finder. A map popped up with a blue dot emitting little waves to indicate his current locale. It hovered over a red dot that read Brew Ha-Ha. He clicked on it. An image of the facade of the building popped up. He clicked on the about tab. The location apparently used to be a furniture store in the 1950s, a grocery store through the 90s, abandoned for 10 years, and then repurposed as ‘Oshkosh’s favorite gourmet coffee establishment.’ “Gourmet, my ass. Although, I am drinking shitty coffee on historical land. Or at least I would if it would ever not be scalding.” He looked over menacingly toward his still steaming cup of French Roast. “I hate you.” He looked back at his phone and clicked on the review tab. The average: two and a half stars. “Seems about right.” He clicked on the read more button. The first review was five star. Holly J. writes: *Brew Ha-Ha is a great little whole-in-the-wall coffee shop. It offers a cozy atmosphere and really friendly service. If only the hoards of Starbucks drinkers would turn around the corner their eyes would be....*(continue reading) The review was cut off and you had to click if you wanted to read the rest of it. Kurt did not oblige. The next review down was one star. Blueballs69 writes: *This place sucks. The person behind the counter was picking his wedgy as he asked me what I wanted. When I got my coffee, it tasted like ash and burned off half my taste buds. Go to Starbucks. Brew Ha-Ha sucks....*(continue reading) “This guy gets it! Let’s see what he has to say. Click-a-roo.” Kurt clicked the button. *...balls.* “Worth it I think.” Kurt smirked slyly to himself as he rested his arm on the table staring methodically into his phone. (continued....

Sitting on the couch, the TV turned down at Sarah’s request, I knew something was coming. The Christmas holidays had been awkward and she had been distant the whole time. It wasn't the best of breaks, but I hadn't let the feelings glide by. I had asked her straight out, on Christmas day, if something was wrong. I had never once felt like I couldn't trust her completely, but for the first time, my gut was telling me something was going on. It was so cliché too, sudden furtive behavior around her phone, guilty glances from wherever she happened to be tapping away, and she was tapping away a lot. And the funny thing is, up until the holidays, I thought things had been getting better. Another cliché. So I asked her. After opening presents with her family, Indie wanted another push on the swing under the big oak tree in the garden, and I wanted an escape from the debris of Christmas wrapping, presents and food. Waiting for lunch in the sun under the tree, between pushes of Indie on the swing, she walked over and I couldn't take it anymore. Push. “I have never felt this way before” . Push. “I have always trusted you. Implicitly.” Push. “But my gut is telling me something is going on.” Push. “You are acting so differently.” Push. “Is there something going on?” Push. “Is there someone else?” Push. Looking back now, the lie she told straight to my face without hesitation, hurt as much as what was to come, especially since what we had been through.

The eyes opened, it was morning. With a soft sigh, the body rose from the bed and looked up with a blissful awareness. It was early and had never felt so perfect. A lens watched in the distance as the radiant light shone from in the distance, remaining thus as the body entered and exited the shower. The closet's door, across from the bathroom's, opened as steam poured from the now clean room. A light came from within which was set upon by the face. A warm glow emitted from the room... The eyes opened to a new world, the shower - moments ago - left behind. The heat was intense, the world was filled with stars... or blinking bulbs, rather. The lights had a rhythm and a pulse felt physically, beyond just the eyes. There was a certain singing harmony that was abuzz within ones bones, not unpleasant, but not wholly relaxing. The hands reached out to rub some lights, which upon the touch was adjusted to a dimmer shade, a red, instead of green. A lens watched in the distance, the augmented picture adjusted as a man appeared in front of the body. The man, dressed not unwell, did appear on edge: his hair short, but obviously suffering trauma from recent stressful activities, his collar loose, and his words fast and short. The words were unheard, but motions of deep negativity were erupted from both figures. What appeared a shout came from the mouth of the freshly arrived man, and his figured disappeared. The chest thumped what appeared a chuckle and at once moved to another set of lights, the reds turned blue as the new lights turned a vibrant yellow. The room flashed once, brightly.... With a hard sigh, the body sat down, and the face peered at the wall of monitors. The eyes watched. Though each screen, a new message, a new image, a new video, a graph, a new color mapping, and of course the list. The list that plagued the brain everyday, that drove the heart to sadness, and the legs to jittering. The list was that of those to whom this officer was assigned. Justice and society exist in tandem, they were under both protection and surveillance as all were, likely to go about lives as mundane as a trip to the park, or possibly exciting as hyperchuting along the oil skims. These ones were a special assignment, requested, and was being fulfilled with great earnest. The backgrounds, random meetings, visits...whispers, all observed and analyzed - all safe, all secure. These things were not what troubled the officer, these things were hardly of concern to one as experienced, and born so far removed from the first Consolidation. At this point, these things were accepted - but, not force. Initially, everything came by expensive options, never by force. Then, as technology goes - things that were once prohibitly expensive, become reasonably cheap; things that were unheard of, became a nuisance of regularity; as the world became more accessible, less accessibility was needed. Today, things were grander then before the Consolidation, but they were also more within reach. The first grand breakthrough didn't just bring about the rise of quality of life through some vaguerity, no - it brought with it an equally of the playing fields, it provided better distribution of time, energy, and people; brought about a reduction in global fatalities, crimes, and illiteracy; it brought some of the best minds into the world since before the turn of the century; it literally healed our planet - so it goes and the day goes on. What troubled the officer was the lack of any real desire for some. These individuals on the screen would grow to know, as the officer did, that there is a plateau, that there is a point where you stop and look around, but see nowhere up to go, but you see the world around. That is what had happened yesterday, but that was beyond the current scope of thought now. The officer imagined that the screens were off, and the hand moved instinctively towards the controls - these control lights dimmed, the screens went black. Rising from the chair, the officer turned towards the open glowing doorway behind the desk and exited. The room flashed twice, dimly.... The body walked through the dimly lit hallway and found a resting chair and rested.

I guess I’ll open my eyes now, where’s my phone? It’s one o clock. Another day already wasted. A text from mom, I’ll check it later. I’ve got a few hours until work so maybe I’ll get some writing done today. Two, get ready, take a shower, shave. Three to four, eat. So I’ve got that long. Reddit. What’s on Reddit. Still on the game subreddit from last night. Eight posts I haven’t seen yet. That’s exciting. All seen now. Next page. Two links. Looking good. This video is nine minutes long though. Another time. How about the Front Page. Oh wow. Only seen four of these links. New releases, politics, kittens. Cool. Looking good. All seen now. Next page. Five links not seen, nice. Third page. Fourth. Fifth, okay this is still the stuff from three o clock last night. Facebook. Babies, breakfasts, advertisements. Look how happy everyone is. Maybe I’ll post something today. I don’t think I have anything interesting to say. I don’t have anything interesting to say. That’s funny. Like. Gross, can I downvote? No. This isn’t reddit. I should check reddit. A new post. Looking good. Eh a phone call, I’ll check it later. It’s too early to talk. I don’t have anything interesting to say anyway. I don’t have anything interesting to say. Reddit’s boring now. Maybe /r/wtf? Yeah. Gross. I don’t think I saw everything on Facebook though. Second page. Third. Yeah, that’s everything. What time is it? Two. That’s fine. I’ve got time, don’t need to get up yet. I should check reddit. I didn’t read those articles. Eh, I’ll read one of them. Cool I guess. I wonder what’s on the league subreddit. Just that nine minute video. Eh. Second, third, fifth, eighth page. I’ll check new. Wow, these suck. Mine wouldn’t suck this bad if I ever submitted. I’m a writer. Well kind of. I’m not a writer until I get something published, remember? Where’s that video. What time is it. Two forty-five. That’s fine. I don’t think I need a shower today. I’ll do some writing tomorrow. I should get up though, should eat I think. Fridge, cupboard, freezer, pantry. I need groceries. Fridge. So many condiments. Why do I still have this gravy? It’s so old. And lime grenadine? That was such a bad idea. Should really clean this out. Should clean my apartment too. There’s that picture that’s been sitting on the floor since we moved in. I’ll be productive tomorrow. I’ll do something tomorrow. Already wasted today. I bet I missed something in the freezer. Nope, just alcohol, ice, and alcohol. Thought I had ice cream. I’ll put it on the list. The cupboard had some creamy pasta I think. This looks good. I don’t want to wait ten minutes though. I’ll check the pantry again, maybe there’s some cereal I missed. Pancake mix. Don’t like pancakes. Sauce, syrup, plastic bags. Do have some of that bad cereal though. I guess I’ll finish it off. Well I should have checked the fridge before pouring that bowl of cereal, out of milk. I’ll put it on the list. Need paper for it. Eh, I’ll remember until tomorrow the list. No sense pouring the cereal back into the box though, wow this garbage is-really--full. That should make it okay until tomorrow. I wish I had more time so that I could write. Those ideas, I bet I could be famous. I’ll start as soon as I had time. I wonder if I could get off tonight. That way I’d have time. I need the money though, if it’s offered though I’ll take it. Well, got the night off. Time to celebrate! I can’t just not do anything with this time. No, I was going to write. I cannot concentrate. I’ll move into my game room. Get stuff done there, just not turn on my main computer. Music, music will help. Still nothing. I’ll take a break. See who is online. Oh cool one of my friends is playing a game. I’ll just spectate it. Man what a tough loss. I can play one game with him I guess. It sucks playing alone anyway and we work well together. Good game, I ought to try out that champion, I’ll pick her up and try a few bot games. I’ll get back on later. Check out some guides in the mean time. What time is it? Seven thirty. Still day light, looking good. I wonder what’s on reddit? Hey one new post that’s cool. I didn’t eat earlier. Wish I had milk for this oatmeal. Oh well, I’ll put it on the list. Still nothing on reddit. Facebook? Couple new things that’s cool. I wonder if there’s any new info on the games coming out. Nope. Seen it all already. A bit of speculation though. I don’t know, that wasn’t well put together. Why even try if you’re going to sound stupid? Netflix. What do I feel like. Not really a movie. I don’t have two hours. Seen all these shows. Seen all these shows, seen all these shows. I guess I’ll start the office again. What time is it? Nine. That’s a great show though. Those writers know what they’re doing. I could be that. I’m hungry. And bored. Reddit, facebook, reddit, fridge, pantry, cupboard, fridge, facebook, Netflix. Subreddit, subreddit. Nothing good. Guess I’ll play some more games. What time is it? Three? I should go to bed. Eight more pages of reddit. Three more of facebook. No new information on games. All seen now. What time is it? Three forty. Guess I ruined tomorrow already. Not looking good. Oh yeah, my friend called and that text. Totally forgot. Well I’ll get back to them when I have something interesting to say. I don’t have anything interesting to say.

I lay there. Still. Staring at the bland white ceiling of the hospital room, where I lay. The stillness of the room is plucked by the gasps of air, the rush of oxygen filling my lungs, the beeps of the machines monitoring every beat and tick of my withered and frail shell. I close my eyes for but a moment, only to be awoken by the click of the door. My neck creaks, the joints popping to catch a glimpse of my visitor. Our eyes meet; Eyes like the ocean before a storm; dark, deep, blue; but full of life, they sparkle like precious gemstones. Her smile is like a full moon, able to dispel even the darkest of nights. Her lips are thin and deep red, seductive yet sweet. My heart swells and skips a beat as if I were a love struck teen again, memories of staring into those eyes hypnotized while the world passed around us. Memories of yearning for her lips, like a man on the cusp of death longs for a drop of water. Memories of the joy I felt, how my heart raced and rushed every time she smiled. Tears sting my eyes at the sight of her, and for the first time in a long while I feel my mouth arch into a grin. “hello, love” she smiles, my heart skips; her voice is angelic, her every word like a bell, the way she pronounces her L’s as if they were w’s, her S’s like f’s; It used to drive her insane, her little speech imperfection, but to me it was pure ecstasy, it’s what her unique, it’s the sound that’s haunted my dreams since she left. “Hey, Beautiful.” I manage to say, my words squeezed out like an old toy, now deflated. She comes closer, and takes my hand, her long fingers enveloped in mine. She holds firmly yet softly, like when we rode the Ferris wheel for the first time, and stopped at the top looking over the fairgrounds as the sun set; hope, fear, and love all mixed into one grasp. I can see her better now; her once brown curls are now thin and grey. Her skin is still pale as ivory, but was now showing her age. Her skin showed the story of a mother, a lover, a wife, a woman whom deserved silver and gold. But instead she settled for a fool who gave her messy diapers and mortgage payments. Would she have been happier had she never met me? Would her life have been better? Her words shatter my self-doubt and depression. “It’s time to go now”. A tone of chastisement lines her voice, like a mother talking to their child. I heard it many time, my mind darts back to our children. Peter; A tall strong man now, he did what I could never do, he went into business, he made a name for himself, a family, a home. Jessica; as beautiful as her mother, yet with my sense of humor, She’s a teacher now, just like her old man was. And John; my heart sinks, I haven’t thought of John since the pain numbed, since I lost him. I struggle to remind myself that he died a hero, that he knew the cost of fighting for his country. But the sense of failure still lingers the pain of losing a son still stabs like a hot knife. “I’m sorry” I say, my voice like it used to be, clear, loud, no longer weakened by the various tubes and gases. She simply smiles, knowing what I’m going to say, knowing my very thoughts, knowing the pain I’ve gone through, and fighting with me like she always has. She puts her finger to my lips, beckoning me to be quiet. She takes my other hand and lifts me up, as if we were dancing like we used to when we were kids. My body feels light now, as I stand up. My lungs fill with air without the need of any mask or tubes. My bones no longer creak or pain, my back straightens. I feel as if I were a young man again. I look at my hands, where there were once weak arthritis ridden hands that shook at every movement, too weak to even feed myself there now lies the hands of a young man, large, strong. The bland, grey skin that once covered my bones is now replaced by smooth tanned flesh. I touch my face, it is smooth. A top my head now lies a new crop of hair, wavy, soft, like the golden mane I cherished for many years. “How?” I say in astonishment, my voice shaking. My body shakes with a concoction of emotions; happiness, astonishment, joy, fear, sadness, amazement. I look up to see her. Time slows. There she stands her hair its dark chestnut, her face smooth, free of her wrinkles and blemish, her face full and full of life. Young and beautiful; just like I see her every night in my dreams, Tears fill up my eyes. “My god…” I manage to choke out. She smiles, her face lights up, her smile glowing like it did when we were kids. She smiles, and beckons me to come with her, a shimmering light glowing behind her. “Hey, Gorgeous! How about one last dance?” I say the old cockiness that I once held returning to my voice. She rolls her eyes, and looks at me with a look of faux-disappointment, a large smile plastered to her face. Frank Sinatra begins to play, and we dance. The light begins to grow, and I can see dancing around us every one I ever loved. Ma, Dad, Lil’ Sarah, John, Grandma, even my dog Skip. But she and I keep dancing, smiling laughing. This must be heaven; my wife and I dancing, laughing, and smiling, forever and ever. Amen.

It has only been a few months since we last spoke. My harsh words were still fresh in my mind. I made it perfectly clear since your breakup that I did not deserve to be a rebound. It's a shame because we were such good friends. I connecting with you on so many levels. The night you told me you were in love was one of the best nights to you. To me, it felt like the end. I just couldn't bear to leave Luis. That was the end. Or so I thought. You casually walked into the bar in your usual attire. That shirt I bought you looked nice on you. And then I saw her. This tall brunette was beautiful. She walked in with you and suddebly the room went bright. You two were holding hands. She looked nervous. You looked happy. I stood up and waved my hand. Our eyes met. It's like nothing has changed. And then you leaned in for a kiss. You only kissed her for a second before making your way to me. In that moment, my stomach churned. My mouth went agap. My mind became a whirlwind. I was shocked from head to toe. I stayed a statue the whole introduction. I think I heard the name Kaley. Sounds like the typical name for a typical nice girl. At some point they kissed away. My attention turned to the tv like it was the most important weather channel update of my life. I looked back and resumed my interest in your conversation, hoping they wouldnt disgust me with more lip locking. She got up and left to use the restroom. I've had enough at that point. I excused myself outside and took a nice whiff of air. I pretending be busy on my phone. I stood out there for what seemed like forever until I heard your fimiliar voice behind me. "So how have u been. Havnt seen you in forever. " I turned around to looked at him ready to spit fire but no words came out. I started to walk away but before I knew it he gently grabbed my arm and dragged in towards the back entrance. "Whats wrong?" I took a deep breath. "I'm not feeling well. I was going to head out." I looked up and saw concern. "You want me to take you home?" I chuckled softly and replied, "I don't want to ruin your date with your gf or friend. Ill see you sometime" I started to walk to walk back before I heard words that stopped me in my tracks. "You would never do such a thing. I cared for you before and I care about you still. Doesnt matter to me who you are to me." I blinked back a tear before the flood of emotions poured in. They were too much to bear. I just stood there chocking back tears. He slowly walked towards me and came right my side. I looked right up to him and while chocking back tears cried, "I didnt think it was going to be so hard for me to let you go as a friend. Amd now I see you with someone and I have such rage and sadness overwhelming me." I stopped myself when I noticed the faint smell of his cologne. The foot seperating us suddenly turned to just mere inches. He got a hold of my chin and lifted it just ever so slightly. His scent took me back to a time we were both happy. I closed my eyes to blink away my tears and beforr I knew it, his lips were on mine. His lips pressed against mine, hungry for more. His firm grasp pushed me back aginst the brick exterior of the bar. He pressed against me while holding on to me firmly. His hands slowly traced down to my waist and wrapped around them, bringing him closer to me. His lips slowly moved to my neck. Small light kisses followed, making me want him more every second.

Once, we were brothers. Once, almost seems like a whole life ago, I stood by him and we fought and we bled and we *killed* together. We were part of 5th Company, deployed to Ukraine during the escalation of the Crimean Conflict, a war which would later take more lives than Iraq and destroy more infrastructure than the Great War. We fought together in a conflict that, one day, only we would understand. And no politician could fathom what we saw there, no civilian could've known how we bled. We shared bullets, bottles, and blood - when we were brothers. We were stationed with Alpha Squad. We led all the missions, he and I. I was sergeant; he was corporal. All the men in that squad were our brothers, and we were theirs. I can still remember a time when I would've taken a bat to the head for any of those guys. Now, I stand before him, and we are no longer brothers. Somehow, the politics ate him. Probably ate me, too, he'd say. But now I'm sitting in an airport in Crimea and he has a gun to my head. And if anyone bothered to look up they wouldn't have thought for a moment that we were brothers. But we were. Once. Now he's a nationalist. Defected after the war, and found Russia to be his home, his country. I stayed with the US, and all he could say to me was how blind I'd become. After all we'd been through, as brothers, he couldn't believe I'd still take their side. But I didn't. I just want my pension. I just want to go home. So does Alpha Squad. They're sitting next to me, but their eyes are far away. I don't bother to call to them. This isn't their business. I look up at him. The barrel is staring down my face. He's smiling. "Once, we were brothers," he said. "Still are," I replied, "Only we've seen what you've seen." "No," he lowers the pistol, "No, that's not it at all. You viewed what I did, but you didn't see. None of you did. Or you'd be on my side." "I'm on no one's side. I just want to go home," my voice wavers, "I'm tired. I miss my family." "We're your family," he raises the pistol again, "None of those fucks at home knows what happened here." "Maybe it's better they don't know," I turn away, toward the rest of the squad. They're all busy in their own little worlds. The engineer specialist has a happy little grin on his face. He's remembering that time we saved those two kids after we accidentally killed their parents while we were clearing out an apartment complex. Those two kids later got blown up by a landmine. But he's not remembering that. Our sniper and spotter are talking, hushed, about what they'll do when they get home. I heard they might get married and move to South America. They want to forget what happened here. I know they never will. The new guy is sitting, chattering his teeth. He never got used to combat, because he deployed a week before our squad was relieved from duty - two weeks before the war ended. He still has the nighttime chills from killing. He's grasping a folder in his hand - for his psychologist, when he's back stateside. The airport is filled with people: refugees fleeing the war zone, servicemen and women going home, and children waiting for parents. No one notices us two. "They're right. You're just a soldier," he puts the pistol away, "You don't get the bigger picture. But that's okay. Some of you aren't meant to. I'll see you boys stateside - in one piece or in a casket." "You're not gonna shoot me?" I ask. "No, because we were brothers," he replied. He disappears into the crowd. I look down at my dog tags. No one will remember what we did here. The hippies will cuss us out; the families will avoid us; the government will ignore us. But we'll have each other. Because, once, we were brothers. And once is enough.

I used to live in Memphis. I say used to, because it doesn't really exist anymore. The last thing I will ever see, will be the mushroom cloud on the horizon. They say that the burst of energy from a nuclear blast is so bright, that anyone who witnesses it will go blind. I wish I'd never seen it. I think that's when I went into shock. I remember thinking "That kind of thing just can't happen here, this is America!". I don't really know how long I just stood there. After the explosion, my friend James and I tried to get away from town. He packed up all of our food and the two guns that I owned in my Jeep, and we started driving north. He was smart enough to avoid the main roads, and we took a small rarely-used highway to get away as fast as possible. James was not the best driver, and he drove with reckless abandon. We probably made it four miles before he ran a red light, and we were hit by a school bus. The bus just backed up and drove around us. Like we weren't even there. I could feel his still-warm blood all over the car, and I couldn't find a pulse. I had known him for 25 years, he was my best friend, and now he's dead. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know where I was. I'm blind and my best friend is dead. I decided to grab what I could from the back of the vehicle, and just start walking. The best idea I could come up with was: I'll keep my feet on the pavement, and eventually I'll make it to somewhere safe. I didn't.

:) "I don't know what to write..." I said. She just looked at me and smiled. She had a beautiful smile, that was all I needed to see. "You always know what to say, even if it doesn't need to be said" I thought to myself. "Don't stay up to late, we have to get up early tomorrow" she told me. Gave me a kiss and turned off her bedside light. "Only 10 'o clock, I'll finish this up before I know it, it's just gonna be a quick little thing." I smiled and told her goodnight. I looked over at her for a few minutes, just to see her. "Get a good nights sleep in baby, I love you." Without missing a beat she picked up a small pillow and tossed it at my head, "don't forget yourself." There was that smile again, it's hard to convey what it means to me. She would smile when she was down, holding the pain behind something so pretty. She was tough though, probably tougher than me. Sometimes she had to be tough for the both of us, I let my emotions get the better of me at times. I don't think it's a weakness- I just care about her so much that I can't help but to do it. To see her face light up with that smile made me think that even during the toughest of times, it was gonna work out. No matter the struggle or challenge in our way, we got through. Together. Everyone has things they need to overcome and it always shows who's most important in our lives. She would smile when things didn't look well for the both of us- A bleak smile, but she always did. When she got the news she was pregnant, it was beyond words. That smile was different, unrelenting joy filled her entire face. I fell in love with her everyday. She didn't always smile though... I began to write, I don't know where I was going. The pen became an extension of who I was allowing me to write the dreams of those around me, and the ones inside of me. I kept writing, and took inspiration in from around me- or next to me. Every now and again I'd glance over making sure I didn't wake her. I haven't been able to dream well recently, a lot on my mind- tonight especially. I would lose sight on what mattered most- but I could always just look away from my scrawl and glance to the girl besides me. She was so absolutely beautiful I couldn't help but to say it every day. She denied me, but that didn't matter. To me nothing mattered when I was around her. She saw me at my weakest, and at my strongest. I could say the same for her. She'd always let me in and we could talk for hours about what was going on without judgment. Just another person that truly cared for one another. I felt safe, secure, like nothing could go wrong in the world and when I was with her? Nothing could, we both wouldn't let that happen. Some times I read aloud what I've wrote, to give myself a better perspective on it. I looked over at her and I could see the cutest smile across that perfect face of hers. "Was she listening to me talk to myself?" I chuckled softly. "She must think I'm the biggest dork." "What time is it? Have I been writing for that long? Has she been listening to me all night?" Thoughts ran through my mind. It was almost 2am. I shouldn't keep her up to much longer, kids have school in a few hours. We both need our rest. "I must be the luckiest man in the world to find someone like her, all these years gone by and she's still as beautiful the day I met her. No, she's even more beautiful now then before. And all of that is mine, and I'm hers." I said to myself loud enough for her to hear. I could see her smile deepen, and she let out an audible "dork." I turned off the light, and gave her a kiss on the head. "I love you too.

He woke up, the message flashing “End of Reel.” over and over, a hell of a way to start your day. He reached over, slapping at the deck on the bedside table before blindly finding the off button. As the Stimdeck wound down he removed the inputs tossing them on top of the small black deck and placed his bare feet on the cold floor. With his head in his hands he sighed trying to pull together the motivation to stand, to push himself out of bed and face the world. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fuzzy glow of the deck’s status lights and in it the image of a glowing lotus. He fumbled through the tapes, picking out the one with the holographic blossom on it, he held it in his hands, studying the petals. He had this one specially made, just for him. Just for today. He’d always been able to take a punch, that’s part of what lead him into the ring, why he’d been one of the biggest names in boxing. There were only two times he’d ever been knocked on his ass, neither of them happened in the ring. The first time was on a blind date, Frank his manager set him up with his niece Molly. Molly, was a creature of infinite grace and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She had hair that reminded him of the way light looked if you caught it just right in a bead of honey, her smile was the thing that made him forget that he had three broken ribs and a busted nose. On top of the most stunning woman that he’d ever seen, Molly was brilliant. He never knew what a woman as smart as Molly had ever seen in a meat-head like him, maybe it was the security she felt when she leaned against him, maybe those deep blue eyes of her saw something in him that everyone else missed. He didn’t ask too many questions or think too hard about it, all he knew was that somehow he made her happy and that became all he wanted in the world. The second time was when he woke up beside her in bed to find her cold and lifeless. It’s been five years, five years since she died. StimCorp covered the funeral, paid him a reasonable sum, if any sum could be called reasonable, and put safety checks in place so another accident didn’t happen. He’d always hated that, referring to it as “the accident”, it wasn’t an it was her, it was Molly. But none of that, the money the safety checks, referring to it as an accident, none of that changed that she was gone. Molly was gone and along with her the bright blue eyes, the golden hair and the reason to get out of bed, the reason to fight for anything. Molly worked for StimCorp for fifteen years, doing research and development for them. It had paid well and allowed them to play with the newest toys and tech, including the first Stimdeck. She was so excited when she brought their first deck home. The thing was the size of a full keyboard, maybe a bit bigger. She’d made him sit on the couch in their living room while she went on and on about the possibilities of being able to experience someone else’s memories first hand. Not just what they saw and heard, but what they smelled, tasted and felt. He remembered the way the sun had illuminated her honey colored hair, the way her hands moved as rapidly as she talked. He remembered having to tell her to slow down as she talked so he could keep up. Molly hadn’t been able to tell him anything about the Stimdeck project for months, and now that she could it was a torrent of information and ideas pouring out of her. She showed him how the deck worked, where the inputs connected to it and how they fit on his temples, being patient with him as his thick fingers worked the inputs clumsily trying to get them in the right spots. Her soft hands gliding over his fingers guiding the inputs to the deck and then to his temples. StimCorp hadn’t been able to send any tapes for the deck home with her, but they did provide blanks and everything needed for them to record their own. They started out with small events to test the deck, dinner together one evening, a walk through the city at dusk and an afternoon in Molly’s garden. He sighed heavily remembering Molly’s garden. The smell of her roses, the way the wind from the ocean blew her hair back, even the way she shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. That tape had always been his favorite, and Molly’s garden seemed a lifetime ago. A dream that the gray rain soaked city outside his high rise window could never imagine, a warmth the city seemed incapable of. After a week of recording their own tapes and sharing them with each other, Molly brought home their first officially produced tape. It was a night out seen through the eyes of one of StimCorp’s young executives. Dinner at one of the city’s most expensive restaurants, dancing at one of the most exclusive clubs, and barreling down a seaside highway in a car not slated to be released to the public for another two years. This became the standard marketing tactic to show off the deck’s capabilities, “Live the life you want, not the one you have” became StimCorps motto. That night Molly fell asleep with the deck on, the seaside highway racing past her as she drifted off. The doctors said that when she woke up to the static at the end of the reel and it had wiped her mind. Something about the brain’s transition from delta to theta waves, he never was too interested in the details, all he knew was that Molly was gone. The half crooked smile, the gleam in her eyes when she laughed, the blush in her cheeks when she got excited, all of it gone. Just gone, no explanation, no preparation just an empty side of the bed where she should be, a hollow deserted kitchen and a garden turned barren. When she first passed he’d see her around the house, she’d just turn the corner, he had just missed her but when he caught up there’d be no one there. He kept seeing her car in the drive way expecting her to walk in the front door any second only to remember the funeral. The day had been sunnier than it had any right to be, there was a small grave side service, and he’d even thrown the first handful of dirt on her casket. After the third time he found himself waiting by the door he sold the car. That made it easier to deal with he told himself, at least he didn’t expect her to open the front door anymore. He spent the first year after everything happened slipping away, there never seemed a point to it anymore. He wasted away to a third of himself, a diet of frozen soy meals and vodka didn’t do much for keeping him filled out. His name still held weight in the ring though, enough to draw a crowd even if some of the crowds were in back alleys and weren’t sanctioned. He’d show up and get beaten. Broken nose, bruised ribs, the physical pain was a nice distraction but after a while even that wasn’t enough for him to feel anything. After a while he was back to being as hollow as an empty booze bottle. He wanted to feel something, anything even broken again. After his last fight he woke up, drunk and nearly drowning in a city gutter as the city spat its cold impersonal rain down on him, another empty man who couldn’t hack it anymore. Desperate to feel anything he stumbled into the storage shed where he kept all of the things from his other life, his happy life. He came across Molly’s deck, not sure why he hadn’t thrown the damned thing away, he fit it on, and for a moment her smile flashed in front of his eyes, he could feel her fingers as they helped him guide the inputs into place. After that first flash of Molly’s smile he slipped into the world that the Stimdeck could offer him, he began to fill the hole in himself with journeys he never actually took, sights he’d never actually seen. After a while, the joy in the decks wouldn’t last, he’d be left with pain, a pain of memories he never got to have with Molly. The things they never did together or said to each other, but at least the pain was something. The pain wasn’t hollow or empty or lonely. His tastes in tapes quickly spiraled downward as he tried to feel anything. He began looking for tapes on more taboo subjects, a junkie’s high, robberies, gang violence. But none of it seemed to fill the hole in him. He spent most of his money from the settlement and the sale of their house on his tapes trying to find something that would fill his void, something to spark him back to his old self. His apartment was covered in them now, but still nothing among them kept his interest, nothing kept his mind off of Molly, he always returned to dinner with her when he laid down to sleep. But today nothing motivated him as he sat by the side of his bed, barely away of his feet on the cold apartment floor. No junkie’s overdose, no gang shooting, no decadent sex scene, nothing held any appeal as he listened to the rain pour down and wash over the gray scale city. A life without Molly wasn’t something he ever wanted. After a match one night he caught up with Frank, he asked him about some people who could work on a tape for him. After Molly’s passing StimCorp placed security measures on all of their tapes before they went out now to prevent another accident. Instead of static you got a message stating “End of Reel.” until you shut the deck down. This allowed the user’s brain to transition normally between the different states of sleep without incident. All of the tapes were now safe, the original tapes were recalled and the new safety measures added. That was unless you knew some people willing to fix them for you. Suicide by tape wasn’t uncommon but wasn’t reported on heavily either, it was one of those facts that usually only the desperate knew, and knew how to do. Frank nodded to him, said he knew a guy. Frank said he was sorry to see him go but knew that he just wasn’t the same without Molly and he’d given him the guy’s number. He picked up the tape with the shimmering lotus on it once again, holding it in his hands feeling its weight, tracing his fingers over the surface, and studying the lotus’ petals. He slid the tape into the deck and lay back on the bed placing the inputs on he reached over and flipped the switch labelled “Play” and breathed the first easy breath he’d drawn in five years. existence around him grayed for a moment as the deck spun up, and then the world exploded into a sunny summer afternoon. The smell of roses and sea breeze washed over him. There she was again smiling at him. She was as beautiful as ever, her honey colored hair blowing in the wind, her smile as vivid as he remembered. The eyes that he fell in love with and woke up to on the best days of his life, once again looking back at him, tasting the salt in the air his heart began to fill, the void within himself shrinking. As Molly reached out to take his hand the world slipped into a state of static and he drifted off to sleep.

I heard bombs falling. I counted and sorted the big from the small, the close from the far. The walls of the shelter vibrated. “That one fell on Yitzhak’s house,” said one of the kids laughing mischievously. Mrs. Goldstein, who had lost her husband in a previous war, held Yitzhak by his wrist. She looked at all of us with piercing eyes. “Don’t ever, ever, say something like that, understand? What… are you, on their side?” she said. Minus the able bodied men, our neighborhood sat together underground. Maps hung on the walls, sand bags lay on the floor, transistor radios tuned to different stations simultaneously. We compared their broadcasts: Israeli news to the BBC to the enemy reports. Mr. Cohen, a retired teacher, marked the maps on the walls with the routes of the Israeli army in Egypt, Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. He used three different colors according to different sources. Arrows pointed in different directions. He wrote the number of casualties on the bottom of the maps. Red was ours Blue was theirs. Mrs. Mizrachy, Yitzhak’s mom, born in Egypt, translated broadcasts of the Arabic stations with contempt and disbelief. Mr. Cohen meticulously translated the BBC while reading between the lines. We each listened to the Israeli news comparing the other stations’ versions to the one and only truth. Women congregated in the back of the room. They whispered with worrisome looks, while slicing tomatoes and onions using knives that were grabbed at the last minute. In the middle of the room stood a big noisy Bunsen burner. Its uneven blue flames marked off the war room from the kitchen. One mom told me to put my pajamas on. By a silent agreement the women became a collective mother whose husband was at the frontline. I silently obeyed. Some of the older or handicapped men took turns going outside, filling bags with sand surrounding our shelter with extra protection inside and outside. Once in a while one of them would be sent by the kitchen crew to fetch an important spice that had been left behind or a special pot that they could not do without. In our pajamas the kids sat quietly around Mr. Cohen. He read a story to us about a Jewish hero called a partisan who fought against the Nazis, saved hundreds of people and miraculously survived. The partisan then settled in Israel and formed a successful Kibbutz in the desert. Altruism seemed to be the message, consciously or not. In the gray small and damp shelter the kids, elderly men and women all felt united with one belief, one hope and maybe one future. Mixed with fear we experienced the anxiety about our future -- something we picked up from our mothers. There was also a feeling of celebration in the air -- a sleepover party without a planned end. But that was the first day after the sirens shocked us all. By the end of the third day we had had enough and wished the party was over. It wasn’t, and we had no idea how long it was going to continue. The serving size of the dishes got smaller, while the red and blue numbers on the maps got bigger. The encouragements to take showers faded. Sleeping with clothes on passed unnoticed and the spirit of altruism started to dwindle. On the fourth day we could hear “I want this mattress tonight, why does he get to sleep near the door? I want jam on my bread too. Until when are we going to stay here? Is daddy going to come back? What if he died? Why don’t they build windows… it’s too hot. Do we have enough food?” These were questions that started to break the spirit of unity, consideration, and confidence. It started with the little ones and slowly spread to the teenagers. After turning out the lights we could even hear the adults’ anxious whispers. By the fifth day the mothers were silent and their worried looks turned to terror. We were buying time, surviving, unable to pace ourselves. Mr. Cohen tried to lift our spirits by marking areas, which had been conquered by the Israeli army. Large yellow empty areas in the Sinai desert became ours. Thin long areas on the right side bordering with Jordan were proclaimed as ours. Even in the cold north of Lebanon and Syria, the border was pushed out to unfamiliar areas of snow and heights. The young trim Israel I knew so well from geography classes with a long neck and wide waist all of a sudden looked like a strange, overweight older lady. All these new areas on the map seemed to comfetably expand while we seemed to be caged in the tiny shelter. On the sixth day Mr. Cohen’s festive voice changed, “We got the desert and we got the mountains ladies and gentlemen” he said in a choked voice, “but it is not all… you did not hear even part of it yet…. This is a miracle… God returns to the Jews… we got all of Jerusalem….Jerusalem… the whole thing is ours…” He started to sob… “I swear I did not think it would happen in my lifetime…it is true… no more fences, no more fortified walls in the middle of our city. We can go and pray at the Wailing Wall. The temple is back. I swear to God it is ours....” He did not seem a military expert anymore, cool professional and calculating. He had become a religious, emotional Jew who muttered words of wonder and astonishment. A few days later, as the metal door opened, we shot out in loud jubilations. Finally, drinking in the air and soaking up the light, we were out of the shelter. On Friday, my dad returned from the war. I had never seen him so tired, unshaved and thin. He hugged us long and hard. He did not seem as happy or as heroic as we all expected him to be. “We won… right dad?” I said and my intended cheerfulness sounded forced. That weekend our family planned to go to the Wailing Wall. We each dressed in our best clothes and waited for my uncle Leon to pick us up. He arrived right on time with his big car all clean and shiny. On the way, we sang songs about Jerusalem. How beautiful and unpredictable she is, how she came back after years of being away. We sang of the seven mountains surrounding her like a wedding dress and how she smells like Jasmine and lemon. Our Jerusalem, of gold and copper and light, will make anyone fall in love with her beyond thought and reason. Her seven gates once forbidden to us -- now, said the song, will open and let us into the holy of the holy – to the Wailing Wall. My uncle, who had lost one eye in the independence war in 1947, noticed that my father did not sing. Without turning away from the road, he exclaimed loudly and cheerfully “Say something Joseph…Tell us, what did you do to them there?” My father just smiled uncomfortably as we arrived at the old city. A few of the Arabs, kids about my age, ran to our open window and yelled “Souvenir? Souvenir? Only one Lira!” My mom said “Roll your windows up!” She looked at my father and said with disdain, “They are just like mosquitoes running to the water.” My dad born in Egypt looked at their eyes and said in fluent Arabic, “No thank you... maybe later when we come back”. I felt baffled and somehow ashamed. We made sure that the car was locked, that nothing was inside, and that no suspicious strangers were around. We walked toward the Jaffa gate which would finally let us inside the old city and lead us to the Wailing Wall. I looked at my dad and whispered accusingly, “Why were you nice to them? They are the enemy… they are Arabs.” He turned to me slowly and said, “Yes they are.” He looked away and spoke softly as if drawing memories from a muddy pond “I lived with them for many years, in Alexandria. They were my neighbors, my classmates. We played sports as a team. It’s true that we were different. We often kept to ourselves and celebrated different holy days. We spoke French amongst ourselves. But I had a lot of Arab friends…” “Did you see your friends there when you fought? Did you have to kill them? Did they see you?” I interrupted with dread. Uncle Leon joined us. He patted my dad firmly on his back and said, “So is it true that they took their shoes off and ran barefoot on the hot sand, back to Egypt?” My dad looked into the distance. He said “That’s it. I can see the Wailing Wall.” It was a big wall divided unevenly into men’s and women’s sections. I was small enough to join my dad. A crowd of religious Jews wearing black outfits and white beards prayed fiercely. We made our way to the wall. My father stood close to the wall for a long time and held my hand. I looked around with disappointment. It was only a wall. In between the big square rocks there were many folded notes, requests, prayers and wishes for God. Higher than people’s reach there were green weeds growing in between the rocks. When I looked up at my dad, tears were streaming down his face. As we left, we climbed old stone stairs, and met with the rest of the family. I asked my dad, “Is it true what uncle Leon said about the shoes?” He stopped and sat down on the side of a large worn stone step.

The Button in the Tree ====================== In an untouched part of the World. In the middle of a vast, dense jungle. Amidst the trees, and the vines, and the leaves, and the animals, and the insects. There is a tree. Surrounded by other trees that look the same. But in this particular tree. In a cramped dark abscess within. Encapsulated completely by bark. There is a button. A small, round, red, button. That's part of a metal box. A machine of sorts. It's the kind of button that you push. Covered in cobwebs, and dirt, and dust. Aged. If someone were to find this button. Inside this tree. In this vast, humid jungle. And push it. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. In that jungle. Surrounded by life and lushness. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But deep down. Thousands of miles away. In between continents. At the bottom of a lightless ocean. In a trench. Where neither warmth nor light has ever reached. Where the pressure crushes all but the strangest creatures. There is a small circular dial. Made of stone. Part of the sea bed. But level and sharp. Carved to perfection. And this dial would start to rotate. Ever so slowly. A grinding noise would ripple outwards. Through the dark surrounding waters. And once it completed its cycle. A full circle. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. Far below the waves. In that deep, dark ocean. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But high above sea level. On the other side of the World. On a jagged mountain. At the very summit. On a crooked outcrop. Where the winds run wild. Where the skulls of adventurers lie far below. Where the rock and snow are biting hard and unforgiving. There is a tube. Metallic. Thin. Strong. Defiant. Rooted in rock. But pointing to the stars. And this tube would lower itself. Silently. Down into the mountain. And when it was submerged. Completely. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On the peak of that harsh, ragged mountain. High up in the frozen heavens. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But out there. Far across the expanse of space. Through nebulae and quasar. On the other side of the great black vaccum. On a remote, barren planet. Is a vast desert. Ravaged by heat. Searing. Crackling. Burning. Sizzling. And in the middle of this desert. Is a ship. Built for traversing the stars. Desolate. Ruined. Lost forever. With wind howling through the holes in its shattered hull. Through twisted, hanging cables. Through ravaged metals. Through damaged conduits. Its ancient interior broken. Dead. But inside this ship. Deep within it's workings. On a console. Coated in dust and sand and memories. There is a small, round, red, light. And just for a brief moment. Unseen by all. It would flicker on. Alive. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On that barren, forgotten planet. Far from life. Far from everything. Its glow would slowly fade back. To black. And nothing would happen. No. Nothing.

It was near Halloween and I asked a girl I liked to have coffee. She and I were both engineers so we spent the afternoon chit-chatting about school and cracking nearby wi-fi networks (sounds too good to be true, right? Just suspend your disbelief). Needless to say, I was smitten. We then drove around for a while and ended up kissing. <girl> then invites me to a Halloween party at her apartment. It's been true love up to here but but more importantly this now means I'm probably gonna get lucky. Fortuna would wager otherwise. I drop her back at her place so she can get ready for the party, find a gorilla costume, take a shower and drive to <girl>'s apartment. The party was cool, people were okay, <girl> had a sexy zombie costume, all was well with the universe, and the party was now drawing to a close. There are about 6 of us left and <girl> suggests we smoke a bowl. She and the roomies were out of weed but thankfully <girl> purchased this bag of some synthetic stuff from a head shop that had a name that was some stupid pun about being high or something. <girl> suggests I take first hit and hands me the bong. I had smoked before but I was not accustomed to this thing that resembled a Hollywood science laboratory coupled with a saxophone. I end up taking a remarkably large hit of something that I really didn't know what it was... <girl> even remarked, it was big. The lights became brighter like someone lightly adjusting the settings on a monitor and that thought made me smile. I hear a crash. A drunk friend drops the space tuba or whatever on the ground and it shatters. I feel a click and see something slide across my mind like a test lens in a phoropter (the eye doctor lens machine). <<Click>>. "Better or worse?" "Worse." I abstract away one level from this reality. I slowly begin to realize that I am the only person in the room that will experience this. I want to sit down. I feel like I drank too much caffeine. I don't like this but whatever. It's a passing thing. <<Click>>. "Better or worse?" "Worse." I am at 2 Cuil and I need to be alone with <girl>. Not to have sex. I just to be with her. I don't want to be with all these people I don't know. How do they know? Know what what what what ha <self>, you're acting stupid. <<Click>>. "Better or worse?" "Worse," I say, and the phoropter lenses change faster. I watch them lay me down on a bed this is a movie right I hear high tones and raised voices and I know what their spectral Fourier components look like I'm terrified I know what happens in these movies call I can't talk I'm not him he's there I'm elsewhere....... someone are you asking me to call someone you call someone I need to be alone with <girl> Time does something strange and no longer means anything to me. Seconds and minutes pass but the concept of time is something silly like a clarinet or that street your mother told you never to go down after dark. I still know that I am me but position doesn't mean anything either so I exist by the door briefly. The clicks are more muddled. The world isn't as bright. I am struck with a prescient sense of deja vu. The kind that makes you yell at the actress on the screen to not go into the basement because we know that things worse than death can exist. We're dying aren't we? You are a fool. It's okay, you'll be fine this isn't sooo bad. I want to wake up. Look at this situation ha ha you are about to die of a drug overdose at a college party hahahahaha how cliche! How cosmically pathetic. Please shut up. No. Should I have been more religious? What is is the concept of God? what if I... <girl>..... if if if if iffffffff...... I can't use my arms or legs. I can't speak. I can't feel <girl>'s hands on my face. Was she crying? My vision goes away. I hit the bottom but it's all silt and I descend further. I dissolve completely. I no longer have a sense of what it means to be me -- my ego and the rest of my psyche have been slaughtered. Turned into that raccoon I never really wanted. Guilt and disappointment are the last things I ever felt. For a long time there was nothing. Time and space did not exist and for all of eternity I was there in that place. But I wasn't. I don't know what words could possibly describe the utter oblivion of the mind and soul. It wasn't dark. It was just... nothing. Aeons later the nothing has two blurry spheres silently swirling around in the silt. They're the same color as nothing because they don't exist but they're there. Bubbles of remorse and sadness touch the nothing and the spheres turn bluish but I still don't exist yet either. Billions of years pass and my 'self' is like a smell you pick up on a breezy day from far off and it's familiar but you don't remember where it's from. Then it's gone and it probably wasn't important anyway. Millenia stretch on and I have an inkling of what I am. I am not anywhere near reality but as I move toward it I remember that I'm moving forward. In a dream, you have a sense of everything being real and then you wake up and you know that it wasn't as real as what you're waking into. Think of it like that -- but way past the number of recommended dream levels that Leonardo DiCaprio tells you to go down. Finally, after all these epochs of time, I am me. <<Click>>. "Better or worse?" "A little better I think but it's hard to tell." What does it mean to be me? Are there things to describe me? MY NAME! Uhhh, hmmmmm come on you know this one. Yeah, we know this one. I know I know... its...... <self>! What else? <<Click>>. "Better or worse?" "Better." I give definition to thoughts and ideas. I consciously rebuild my memories. Piece by piece I struggle to reconstruct my consciousness. It's so hard but if I stop I'm never getting it back. <<Click>> I can see again. Or rather, my brain can interpret sight again. I can't move but I know that in less than 10 levels of added reality I can talk. I'm drooling on myself. <<Click>> I can make some words but only those that I rebuilt already. I teach myself English. I throw up everywhere. I can say ambulance. I'm yelling to go to a hospital why has no one done this already? I can hear again and I can sit up but I am at least 20 levels out. The party folks are standing around discussing how much they want waffles or pancakes or something. I hate them. They don't know where I have been. How dare they act casually about this! I throw up again and hit a party goer with a cup of water. Improbability drive converges to 1:1. I spend the rest of the night moving from nominal to a few levels away and I don't say anything for a long time. The morning comes and I am hovering near reality but I don't really know what that means anymore. I'm still in a gorilla outfit. I tell <girl> I'm going home. I go to the parking lot and sleep for several hours. Then I go home. Nowadays, I speak to <girl> only occasionally but it's never ever anything more than small talk. We allude to coffee or wifi cracking every now and again but the party never comes up. TLDR: Smoked out of a space tuba. Traveled inter-dimensionally.

It had been 5436 days since the planet of Tetriach had known peace. 5436 days since the human scum had arrived in their ships and demanded absolute surrender. Petr knew this; he’d been counting. He had counted every single day that his home, his planet, had suffered under endless barrages of bombs and lasers and God knows what else. His people were outmanned, outgunned and outmanoeuvred, but they refused to lay down and die. And that was the reason that Petr, a 20 year old native, could be found hidden with a rifle in the dense bushes that lined the main highway into the capital. He knew that it was along this road that the human division carrying their ‘war hero’ Lt. James Cascella would go. It would also be the road where the bastard Lt. James Cascella, who killed all of Petr’s family in cold blood, would die. Petr tightened his grip on the rifle. James Cascella was tired. He had been a young man of 22 when this war started, when he leapt at the chance of being the next hero of the human race; the next man to colonise another planet and show the natives that the human way of life was superior. Now he was 37, and yet the war still raged, albeit more quietly than it used to. The natives (no-one had ever learned their ‘true’ name; that would make them appear more human, and harder psychologically to kill) were slowly losing the war. Of course they were. Countless planets before this one showed that nothing could truly stand in the way of the human juggernaut. But even so, Cascella wondered whether it had all been worth it. Oh he had achieved his goal; he was a hero, without doubt. No one man had ever won as many medals as he had. But that success could not, was not, worth the emotional trauma he had suffered. He had suffered so much, he often wondered whether he was human anymore. He had walked in on crying infants firing his gun and not stopped shooting. He was the man that wiped the entire town of Deant off the face of the earth, women and children and all. He sighed. It was too late now. What was done was done. So as he sat on the side of the tank that drove him into the capital to deliver the final blow, he pulled out his rifle and got ready for combat. There was nothing else to be done, really. Petr often dreamed of Deant. In the daytime, he dreamed of the city before the war, his friends and family from his childhood. He could barely remember it anymore of course; he was only 6 when this war started. But he filled in any gaps he couldn’t recall. In the night however, all he ever saw was the ruins. The charred corpses of his family and the devastation that surrounded them. At first, he wasn’t sure why he had been spared. The bomb had, after all, been designed to kill all life. But now he knew. The Gods had spared him to bring retribution to the man who detonated the bomb. It was the only reason that made his survival make any sense. It was also what he had spent the last 10 years of his life working towards. Which was, of course, why he was here right now. He would only have one shot. He knew that much. And it would undoubtedly cost him his life. As soon as the humans saw what had happened, they would capture and kill him, probably with unimaginable cruelty. Petr didn’t care. All he wanted was revenge. His train of thought was broken, however, as he spotted the line of human vehicles make their way down the road. And there was Cascella, perched on the edge of the leading tank, gazing into the distance. Hatred flashed through Petr’s eyes. He lifted his rifle up onto his shoulder, and prepared to fire. Cascella’s muscles tensed. He could always sense danger. That sort of thing developed after almost 15 years of war. He dived to the side, but far too late to stop the bullet hitting him. It did, however, stop it killing him. Cascella felt the bullet thump into his side, and he cried out in pain. As he was pulled inside the tank by his comrades, he glimpsed a native with a rifle, standing up in shock. He appeared surprised that Cascella was still alive. With his last act before losing consciousness, he pointed at the native. Petr stood there in disbelief. He had failed. Cascella was undoubtedly still alive. He could see him pointing at him as he was pulled inside the tank. The last 10 years of his life had gone to waste. He didn’t even struggle as he was roughly picked up and hauled inside the tank by human soldiers. He simply sat there and cried. How would the ghosts of his family ever rest in peace now? Cascella would live on, as their civilisation fell. He had missed his shot. And now he would face the humans’ retribution. Cascella stirred. As he did so, he heard a voice shout out. ‘We have your attacker here sir. Should we kill him now, or wait till later. We could make a decent news story out of this.’ ‘No!’ Cascella cried out. Keep him alive. I would like to talk to him. He walked over to the man. He was still young, Cascella noticed; no more than 25. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ He refused to answer. Cascella smiled. ‘Boy, you can go to your death in silence if you wish. But at least let me know your name. Who knows? It might save your life.’ ‘I am Petr’, said the native. ‘I am the lone survivor of the destruction of Deant that you orchestrated, and you, sir, deserve to die.’ Cascella sighed. The boy was undoubtedly right. For all his crimes, he deserved to die. But maybe, just maybe, he could appease the Gods by saving this one ‘Let him go!’ he demanded. ‘But sir, he tried to kill you’ protested one of his soldiers. Cascella turned to him and smiled ‘One day, you might understand my actions. But for now, simply obey orders. Let. Him. Go.’ Petr sat at the side of the road as the convoy passed by, in disbelief. He had failed to kill his target. Not only that, he was still alive. Cascella, for whatever reason, had shown mercy. He who had killed so many of Petr’s kind, had spared him. Petr gazed into the desert. He still had no love for humans, but maybe they did not deserve destruction. At any rate, they would soon own this planet. Petr got up, and began the long walk home to his hovel. He had some thinking to do.

It was the middle of the night and I thought it was a good idea after the eighth bottle of whiskey. A few of my friends were over, seven to be exact. We all were boozing for quite some time when one of my good friends shouted in the way an overly excited drunk would shout “Lets play some Russian Roulette.” this suggestion was when I was on my third bottle of whiskey and it was just touching 10′ o clock. I was tipsy but I had my wits about me and told him to simmer down or what a decent drunk would say “Shut the fuck up.” to such an atrocious idea like that. He sat down and drank deeply from his glass, looking up at me he said “I am sorry, I guess I am just a little drunk.” giving me a weak smile. I smiled back at him. The usual drunken talks came alive after this incident and the discussion was upon death. “Death is the final frontier.” said one of my friends. “Death is the end. We must live life to the fullest.” said another. Yet another said, “Death is the end of one life and the start of another.” “Death is the journey to the after life.” “Death is the end.” “Death is the start.” So many opinions but only one common link. It was a grim idea. I was on my fifth bottle of whiskey when I gave my opinion. “Death is a sad thing.” There was silence for a minute and each of my friends looked up at me, concern clearly written on their faces. I smiled at them and slowly stood up, my legs were a little shaky but I stood my ground. I raised my glass and looked at each of them “Death is a sad thing. Not for the one who died but for the one who was left to mourn. All of you have lost someone, near and dear to you. To you I raise you my glass. They are in a better place and you will soon be with them too.” I smiled and gulped down my drink. All of their faces were ashen and I started laughing. “Not right now, calm down.” their laugh seemed forced. The drinking continued. I walked towards my old record player and looked down at it. I pulled out an old vinyl, one of my favorites. “Astrud Gilberto – Light my fire.” I fired up the record player and the sound of her voice filled the room. It shook the glasses on the showcase as though they too were enjoying the rhythm of her voice. The room was filled with the smell of booze, laughter and Astruds beautiful voice. The alcohol must have been getting to me because the room started to spin and the color strangely started becoming golden. I couldn’t hear the sounds. I sat down on my chair and started to drink. I couldn’t hear the ice clinking on my glass, I couldn’t hear the sound of the whiskey being poured, I couldn’t hear the drunken laughs of my friends. I started to get angry and drank even more. I saw the smiles on my friends faces and I felt a white hot anger come over me. I stood up and threw my glass at the wall. The shattering of the glass followed by me shouting “What are you all fucking laughing at!” I couldn’t even hear that. I knew what I said but my voice was not audible to me. I fell back into my chair and saw the faces of my friends, unsmiling. It was 11:30. I walked to the kitchen and picked up another glass and sat back down. I poured myself a drink. I was on my seventh bottle. I knew this happened before, this was not the first time. I remembered a time when I did this, it was a year ago. My little darling, Sarah, she was only seven. She was wearing that pretty frock I got her for her birthday and that tiara, she was pretending to be a princess. She always smiled at everyone and everything. Such a sweet and innocent girl. Why did I have to fight with her mother that day? Why? Why did I have to drink? Why? Why did I get angry? Why? Why did my little girl have to die? Why? Why did she have to die by my hands? Why?WHY?WHY?WHY? My mind started to spiral down into this chasm. It was dark and scary. I was alone. My wife called me a murderer. I wasn’t, I wasn’t a killer. I would never hurt little Sarah. She kept screaming at me, she kept calling me a murderer. I wasn’t a murderer. I was just drunk. The tears started to roll down my face, I missed my daughter the most today. It was 11:55. I was on my eight bottle now. I smiled. In another 5 minutes it would be my daughters birthday. 7/7/1998. That was her birthday. See, I still remember. I am a good father. I was also a good husband but then she left me. Sarah’s mother. What was her name again? It was 11:58. I rose from my chair and almost fell down. I didn’t realize that I had a lot to drink. I looked at my friends and told them “My mates, my friends. We have gone through a lot together. We have got each others backs. We have seen the best years of our lives as well as the worst years of our lives. As you all know I have recently lost my beloved little girl, Sarah. I miss her terribly. Her mother on the other hand, can go fuck herself. She probably is at this point…” I laughed. My friends did not. “Anyway, one of you had said that you would like to play Russian Roulette. Right now it seems like a good idea. So, lets do it.” I walked to my bedroom door and went over to my study. I pulled a drawer and got out two guns. I looked for my ammunition box and took that along with me as well. I stood in the center of the room and loaded the guns. They were magnum revolvers with a container that could hold seven bullets. I loaded one completely and the other with one bullet. I spun the chamber. I looked at my friends and said “Now, all of you sit in a circle.” They obliged. I smirked and thought to myself “Everyone listens to a guy with a gun.” “I have a fully loaded gun here with me and I will give you this gun.” I said as I motioned to the revolver with only one bullet. “You each will spin the chamber and try to shoot me. If you don’t, I shoot you. If I die, you all will win. If you all die, then I win.” None of them spoke but their eyes betrayed them. They were fearful. What cowards I thought. I gave the revolver to the person to my right. For the life of me I couldn’t remember his name. I pointed my gun at him and said “Start.” He spun the chamber and cocked the gun, his hands started to shake as he pointed his gun at me. He pulled the trigger. It was empty. “Ahh too bad. Pass the gun along.” I couldn’t remember the next persons name either. I kept my gun pointed at him and said “Go on.” He too spun the chamber. He started to point the gun at me but then put it down. “You are being insane…” I shot him. The blood was everywhere and all I said was “Next.” None of them moved for the gun. They really must not want to win. I shot the first guy. His body too hit the floor. The blood intertwined with the other. I looked at this colorful picture for a second and felt a sudden pang of guilt followed by a maniacal pleasure. Am I killer? “Next.” They all scrambled for the gun this time. The guy with the blue shirt took it. He spun the chamber and pointed the gun at me. He pulled the trigger. It was empty. I shot him. My friends started to freak out. “A change of rules. if you don’t kill me you die.” I pointed my gun at the guy with the ponytail hair. “Your turn.” He took the gun, the tears were streaming down his face, it was pathetic. “Get on with it.” He pointed the gun. It was empty too. *bang* another one bites the dust. I started to laugh a little and pointed my gun to the next guy. “Only four of you left. You guys don’t want to win do you?” He took the gun and spun the chamber. Suddenly the guy on my left got up and went for the door. He didn’t get far. I shook my head and said “Why does he always cheat? cheating isn’t fun.” I look back and motioned him to continue the game. He wasn’t lucky either. Now there were only two of my good old buddies left. “I really have to say that this is the most fun I have had in a long time. You guys are losing but that’s all part of the game. Still, a chance exists. Give it a shot.” I started to laugh hysterically. This guy had the bluest eyes I knew, but now it was stained with red. ‘Probably because of the drinking’ thought I. He spun the chamber and pointed the gun at me. It was empty. I shot and the wonderful blood red color started to flow. Now it was down to my last friend. “You are the only hope. You have one bullet and so do I. Why not make it fun and lets both spin the chamber? Yes, that would be a good idea.” I spun the chamber and pointed the gun at him, smiling that stupid grin. He too did the same, not smiling though. “On the count of three.” “One…” His hands started to shake, mine were rock steady. “Two..” Sweat was pouring out of him, I was calm and steady. “Three…” The last thing I remembered was the sound of a gunshot and then darkness. I did not feel pain, I actually did not feel anything. I was simply at rest, I supposed this was where you would go after you die. A place so dark and quiet that nothing but the tranquil sound of silence seemed to ebb into your soul. This was suddenly shattered when I heard “Daddy….

This will ideally be a multi-part story dealing with the aftermath of a tragic event. Part 1 - Letters/The people we wish we knew A. She worked in an office where she made 12$ an hour and the coffee looked terrible. She punched numbers into a spreadsheet and wrote cash reports by hand, scrawled in pencil and she laughed at the jokes. The racist jokes, the sexist jokes, the jokes about menopause and children and shit. She read a book while she worked and brought a new one in every week. Jane Austen, Bukowski, and Dostoyevsky and Salinger and Aristotle. She listened to them talk about their husbands while she collected papers and added numbers up, she listened to them berate their boyfriends and butcher foreign politics while she made paper clip necklaces. It was the kind of job where you didn’t make much and the coffee was terrible and you still drank at least three cups every shift. She wore stockings with tears in them and sweater dresses and worn boots. She wore a leather jacket and big sunglasses and crooked half-smile. She chewed on her pens and her pencils and she got so lost in her own thoughts that the girls she worked with would call her half a dozen times before she heard them and her eyes would light up like fireworks when she came to. I didn't work in her office, I didn't know her name, but I felt like I knew her. I sat in security and the screens surrounding me were a blanket of black and grey and the images were a blur of bodies and movement, and there she was, sitting still as the the grainy world catapulted around her. B. He wore beat up runners and a three day stubble, I never quite caught his name. His uniform was too big on bony shoulders and he was intense looking; with eyes that made you feel naked and vulnerable. He had an easy smile and the kind of tan you get from working outdoors, he was always humming The Smiths under his breath. I thought about him when I got home and drank a glass of wine, pulled off my work clothes and washed off my face, touched myself as I lay on the couch: eyes closed, for a minute, I thought of him. Every few days I’d pick up a different bottle of wine and he’d be wearing the same stubble and the same stare as he packed my purchases into paper bags. Sometimes he would ask me how my day was, or what the weather was like outside. He noticed when I cut my hair and always told me to enjoy the book crooked under my arm. I liked him more than most people I worked with, that I saw every day, but I never quite caught his name. I imagined him going home to a girl with a cheap haircut and a part time job who loved him more than life itself. I imagined him going home to a ramshackle house, rented, with sunflowers growing in the front yard. I imagined him smoking a joint and strumming on an acoustic guitar, calling to the girl for a beer and thinking about not exactly anything when the bottle pressed against his lips. I wish I knew him, I still do. C. We rode the subway together every morning, sat in the same train, and read the same newspaper. He had a kid with him, two or three, pressed next to him and chattering away in that way that kids do: no purpose or drive, just words strung together and volume up and down. He always looked calm like he’d just finished a yoga class or something and I’m sure that cup he carried was filled with green tea and not the triple sweetened, whipped-cream-covered, diabetes-in-a-cup in my own travel mug. I always wondered he stayed that way, even when the train stalled and the kid screamed and spilled juice all over his paper, he stayed calm. When it was raining and snowing and it was hot as all hell, he was calm. I never said hello to him or even smiled at him and I don’t think I ever caught his eye but he was the kind of person that just made you feel better, just to be around him. I wish I had asked him how he stayed that calm, I wish I had known his girl’s name, I wish I had brought her candy on halloween. Her and her father dressed in matching costumes; Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr. Seuss . Sometimes he read to her, on halloween he read that to her and she was so quiet that for a moment she looked just like he did, eyes went placid and focused all at once. I wonder what happened it was like for her, after it had ended. I wonder if she ever found her daddy’s calm again. I wish I knew her, I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry.

A contrail fell down against the sky in the shape of a vagina. Fading at the top, into the blue pubic hair of the planet’s atmosphere, it narrowed and sharpened towards the bottom as it made its way closer towards the two-legged sun. The men stared up at it as though it were a flavour of ice cream behind a glass screen that they were trying to taste with their eyes. The upper layer obscured the top half of the sun’s body, and a large amount of each day was spent imagining what the rest of her looked like. This was the life of the men of Nice Town. On a typical day, the streets would be lined with gaunt, willowy men who sat on toolboxes with bumper stickers that bore the names of great artists from another time and place: ‘Shakespeare…’ ‘Gauguin…’ ‘Brahms…’ ‘van Gogh…’ “It has to be the name of a great artist from another world, otherwise it won’t work.” So had said the Great Master Faceheart, who founded the village of Nice Town and who, it was said, having travelled for four days and nights, had gone right up close to the sun, upon waking from a dream that was to change the fate of the village of Nice Town forever. Nobody knew what became of Faceheart, but his legacy remains. For it was this dream that the inhabitants of the village hoped would end their seemingly endless plight of never getting laid. Not a single flower had bloomed for decades, the only surviving flowers being granny flowers, which were so stubborn and leathery and their conversation so dull and uninteresting that it seemed unthinkable that they would ever die. It was hard to think that granny flowers once had the heads of middle-aged people resting upon their stalks, much less babies, with delicate white petals sprouting all around their heads instead of the tough, drooping fronds of the granny flowers. As a result, the stench of desperate men in the village was almost unbearable. It was the stench of the men’s inability to attract the two-legged sun to shine brightly upon them, feeding them the nutrients they so yearned for. The only relief came when the wind carried with it the faintly putrid but nonetheless alluring and intoxicating fragrance of the sun from the mountains, which smelled kind of like apricots on the point of rotting. The most they ever saw of its seemingly endless, lustrous legs, with calves as big as blue whales, ankles like the kinds of rocks you might see in a Japanese garden, and deep red designer high-heels, was a brief glimpse over the mountains. Its light stretched all the way to the village, just enough for them to be able to see what they were doing. Once in a blue moon it would step out of the mountains and begin walking towards the village, only for it to stop, turn around, and walk away. Its strides were so large that not even the strongest of the men—who were scrawny and weak without exception due to the lack of protein from the meagre rations of rice they were able to harvest each year—were unable to follow it to see where it dwelled. Such were the conditions of life in Nice Town and the harsh nature of the barren land that lay beyond them that it was inconceivable to even attempt to go into the mountains. Each man sat outside a house with a fishing rod whose line went up into the their respective house’s bedroom, where the silhouette of a woman could be seen and the sound of women’s laughter could be heard. While they fished they would have conversations to pass the time. “The sun seems closer than normal today.” “Yes, it feels good when it’s closer. The light is brighter, everything seems better.” Of course, there weren’t real women in those rooms, but men, wearing wigs, pretending to be women. They were that desperate. The men’s obsession with stationary was the only other thing besides fishing that kept them distracted from the heart-achingly distant sun. They would spend hours organising their desks and the compositions of their pen pots. It was a point of pride to have the most organised desk in the village. It was so dark and bleak in Nice Town that, in the darkness, and in their weakness and confusion regarding the nature of the universe, they turned to stationary. The two-legged sun did not keep to a regular schedule. There was no telling when she would appear from out of the mountains, and as such, there was no need for any of the men to keep a calendar, because each day the weather could dramatically change. One day the sun would be closer than it had ever been and it would be hot, then the next it would vanish and be gone for many cold months. All there would be by way of light was the amber-grey glow that the men were all too familiar with. There was no set period of time where the men could say, ‘Ah, it must be autumn.’ They lived in a seasonless flux. “Glory to the shining remover of darkness!” That was the kind of thing the Great Master Faceheart used to say. The men prayed to the statue of Faceheart, whose dream was the only thing that kept them going. As they sat in the eternal shadow of darkness each day at dusk, or sometime around dusk—the time of day that seemed most dusk-like, given the almost constant dusk-like light—echoes of the Great Master’s revelations after he woke from the dream could be heard, almost like wind, caressing the ears of the villagers. “Girls adore rabbits! They’re cute, and girls like cute things.” It was for this reason that the men of Nice Town all wore pink bunny costumes. “A man must be patient if he is to find his love! It’s like fishing!” It was for this reason that the men, wearing their pink bunny costumes and sitting on their coolboxes with bumper stickers bearing the names of great, other-worldly artists held fishing rods in their hands and cast them towards bedrooms in which men wearing wigs cast shadows on the ceiling. “A man must have courage if he is to attract a mate!” It was for this reason that the coolboxes were filled with beer. “In order to attract a mate, you must be a grown man!” Faceheart had foreseen that one man will do what Icarus could not—touch the sun. Once they did, the sun would shine for all eternity on the village of Nice Town (but not at night). Shortly after the revelation, Faceheart died. He was killed by the dream of the two-legged sun, surviving just long enough to relay the message to the rest of his fellow men, and immediately after doing so he was sacrificed for the good of the village. Touch the sun? How could it be possible? But the men believed in Faceheart’s vision, enough to dress in bunny costumes and fish for each other all day. The men were listening to Brahms one day when it began to rain. It was a rain that held a portent of things to come, like a preview to a TV show, or a tickle in the throat that almost always leads to a cough. Tiny, pellucid, slimy pink eggs rained down and seeped into the parched, cracked ground. Confused, the men looked out to the horizon, the perfect place to look for some kind of comfort or understanding because it was the only thing that remained completely still, to see the sun stepping out over the mountains and heading towards the village. “She’s coming!” shouted one of the men, the only one that wore glasses, who lowered his glasses and put them back on his nose to make sure what he was seeing was real. With Brahms still playing in the background, they stood, facing the mountains, and willed the sun towards them. As they watched those never-ending legs, they began to salivate, which seeped into the ground and began to fertilize the eggs. “Don’t stop! Keep it up!” the men shouted. The men’s bushy tails bounced up and down as the sun came closer and closer. When she was directly above the village, she stopped, her legs spread shoulder-width apart, as if to say, “I’m waiting.” Not used to the sun being this close, the hearts of the men began to race, they were blinded by the light and began to sweat profusely, and as such they could only see pink blurs around them. They huddled together, unsure of what to do. Under the ever-intensifying heat, there was great confusion. The longer the sun shone down on them, the more confused the men got, as though they had been injected with some kind of drug. Some of the men shouted and hollered wildly, while others regressed into an infant state and started babbling like babies while crawling around on the floor. Others still just stood in silence and awe, attempting to look up into the light, but unable to do so, lest they wanted to blind themselves. “The Great Master Faceheart said that one man was going to touch it,” said Glasses. “And he who touches it will be the sun’s boyfriend, and flowers will bloom in their hometown forever. This appears to be the moment when it is going to happen; but who is supposed to do the touching?” The other men suddenly regained their composure in realizing that their dreams were within reach. “Who will be the one!?” shouted another man, the man with 2mm of stubble on his chin, and therefore, the biggest and most manliest beard of all the men in Nice Town. “Me! I will be the one!” “No! It’s me! I have the courage required!” All of the men began shouting, attempting to lay their claim upon the prize vocally. “You are all wrong, it’s me! Me I tell you!” shouted a man with no particularly distinguishing characteristics. Remarkably, as soon as he said this, he began to get bigger. He grew taller and taller, until he was twice the size of the other men. Upon seeing this, another man said, “No! It is my destiny! I am the one!” This man then also began to grow, and he grew and he grew until he was bigger than the other growing man. The Great Master Faceheart’s words seemed to echo through the air itself. “In order to attract a mate, you must be a grown man! You must fight for your right to party!” Soon all the men were growing around the sun’s thighs at different rates, like vegetables in a garden climbing a trellis. The men started wrestling with each other in an attempt to show their manliness. Their bunny suits split apart as they wrestled and grew bigger and bigger. As the sun’s nourishment filed into them and transformed them, they became more and more rigid and muscular. But the downside of this rapid growth was the dramatic loss of brain cells, resulting in essentially a load of mutant babies with beast-like bodies and the brain capacity of 2-year-olds, clambering up the thighs of the sun like monkeys. The sun shining down directly onto them gave the men a feeling they had never before experienced: joy. A joy that stationary or pretend fishing could not provide them with. “Into the unfathomable abyss of beauty!” Eventually, after countless hours of scuffling under the sweltering sun, only one man remained above the others, who were either too weak or too dead to stand, clutching around the top of the sun’s left thigh. It was Glasses, whose glasses were cracked and barely staying on his face. Thinking he was coming face-to-face with the universe itself, about to puncture the glistening placenta-coloured wall of joy, with the source of the sun’s light close enough to touch, he reached his hand up as high as it would go towards it, straining every sinew in order to be the first man in existence to touch that place… “There…there’s nothing there…” said Glasses, dumbfounded. “I can’t feel a thing.” He flailed his arms around and groped at the air as though there were invisible fish that he were trying to catch. But he couldn’t feel a thing. It was a trick of the light, a beautiful smokescreen. Having expended his last vestiges of energy, he began to shrink, losing muscle and becoming flaccid, and when he was back to his regular size and having regained his usual intellectual capacity, he collapsed on the ground. As a final insult, as though all along it was made of silly putty, his willy dropped off and fell to the ground, then burrowed into the ground like a mole. Glasses began to laugh. A dark, sickening laugh that seemed to have been agonizingly drawn up from a well of uncried tears deep within him and converted into the vapour of sadness, which just happened to be laughter. “All along it was…a mirage!” As the granny flowers droned on about something or other as though nothing was any different, the two-legged sun turned around and headed back towards the mountains, her legs strutting over the arid land like it was a catwalk.

She was beautiful. She was also very sick. Her body worn like a moth eaten dress, and her psyche battle scared like a war veteran. In many ways, she was one. Ever since I met her I’ve felt sick. A different kind of sick. A more foolish and completely psychosomatic kind. My stomach is trying to learn the art of the trapeze. Fuck my stomach. Fuck my crooked spine as well. But mostly fuck that girl. Fuck her for being human, for being worse of than me and making me aware of it. Fuck her for living and breathing the same sad air I breathe. It was somewhat of a chance meeting. Impromptu, a random whim to break out of my comfort zone and make an honest attempt at normalcy. People meet people, they go out together, talk, all that shit. “Fuck it.” I tell myself I have no reason not to give it a shot. I have plenty of reasons why not to actually. I'll just ignore those. I've always felt like I’m watching people in a movie. Giant, cosmic projectors spitting out light and atoms to show me all these stories. And now is one of those times I have to interact with the story. I am reminded I am not a spectator. These times it feels more like a choose your own adventure book. “To talk to her, go to page 11, to continue being a miserable wretch, stay on this page.” Better yet, close the book. Finish it, in a more permanent way. It's always a noose for me. I'm told its more commonly a gun. “Swallowing a bullet sounds pretty good, but I’d rather choke on a fistful of pills.” I agree that this sounds nice, and peaceful, however it's a little bit too clean for me. The gun is too messy, the pills are too tidy. I explain that I am a creature of habits and rituals, and how finding the right tree to hang from can be beautiful. The act of hanging yourself from it also leaves you gently swinging back and forth. This is my perfect amount of “fuck you” towards this place. When you feel like you are trapped in a void, you begin to romanticize suicide. It becomes your lover. You think about it often. The consequences, the world moving on without you. You try to imagine all the possible scenarios, and the outcomes that occur when you change small details. Like I said, it's kind of beautiful in its own way. Solitude like none other. A final escape, and a solution to any problem. I digress. I get caught up talking about myself. Narcissism or something. The girl. Let's back up a bit more. When I first saw her, she had bright and vibrant red hair. I could see part of her arms were tattooed, wearing physical damage as evidence of psychological damage in the form of art, literally on her sleeve. I was okay with this. If anyone was going to be okay with me and my neurosis wouldn't it likely be someone living in a “counter culture” type environment or some shit like that? She saw me from across the bar, where I was pretending to read and not notice her walk in and look at me. She had a determined and curious look on her face that intimidated me. All of confidence is feigned to protect the glass palace that is my ego. “You look even cuter in person. The picture doesn't do your face justice.” The miracle of modern technology allows for this. Scouting someone out before you meet. Of course I had done the same. We first spoke as anonymous strangers on the internet, both desperate and lonely. I liked that though. The research and the compliment. The common need to connect. The most attractive thing in someone is if they are attracted to me. Fragile ego, remember? It's a quick way to disarm my defenses. All of those paranoid thoughts that I try to convince myself are there to keep me protected are suddenly confused. Like a red herring at an old fox hunt. I'm pretty sure it's vanity. That, or a need to feel accepted, maybe insecurity. What do I know? She speaks in a strange way that annoys me at first, but I can't help but be curious about it. Does she really think I'm dumb enough to believe this is how she talks? Are other people that stupid? Is this a real personality? Is she still like this at four am. when she's woken up by a full bladder and the need to take a piss? No way. Whatever. This is weird anyway. I don’t exactly trust myself anymore either. Again, what do I know? Time has proven over and over again that I don't really know anything. At least nothing that matters. I tell myself this is how its supposed to be and everything is normal. After the initial introduction and some small talk, she is making an obvious effort for me to get to know her. Telling me her likes and dislikes and asking me mine. I'm providing the alcohol for both of us. This goes on for at least three beers. At this point I am now babbling responses between taking drinks about anything to continue fueling the conversation. I don’t like silences with strangers, and I’m good at filling the empty space with static noise for talk. People say I’m entertaining. They say “I like your energy.” It's only years of observation then trial with plenty of error that has made me moderately good at this. “Socializing” I guess. Fuck me if it isn't exhausting though. Lonely too. Fuck, I'm doing it again. That's a side effect, being verbose and losing focus of the original topic. That fucking girl. This is about her, I swear. If this story has a point I’m getting to it. She's still speaking with that weird inflection, like everything is a question. She is making crude jokes about the people around us. I can tell she is testing me. Trying to get a rise or evoke some sort of emotion from me. Trying to shock me and scare me away. I roll with the punches. I don't scare easily. Maybe that’s not a good thing, perpetually nervous but never really afraid. At least not of anything simple or tangible. I'm more afraid of myself than anything else really. Moronic, made up monsters. The things coming out of her mouth are hollow, and it makes me want to dig deeper. I play along. By the time we have finished what to me seems like a fairly sufficient amount of beers, I have cracked her shell. She is now speaking normally, her natural tone is actually more melodic. Why would you ever hide that? Anyway, I am satisfied with myself for being correct. She keeps telling me she can't believe how easy I am to talk to. “You're just... real. Honest.” It's really not hard to express yourself honestly, at least not for me, and not when it comes to supporting someone. Do you like something they say? Say so. I hold my tongue a lot so I don't make people hate me. A more minimal version of the noble lie. They don't like it when you cut them down, but giving “positive feedback” is easy. You just pick how you feel about the person, then you choose what you like to talk about with them. For some reason I have chosen to like this girl. A bit of an experiment I guess. My hypothesis states “there is no possible way humans are truly this vapid.” To be honest she is my first test subject. The pioneer lab rat, and she seems to be proving me correct. I like that, although in reality I am aware that there are people that can disprove my theory wandering the planet. But it's not her, and it's not this time. “Can I tell you a secret?” She asks me in between blasting her favorite songs on her phone, loud enough to overpower the quiet music coming from the bar speakers. I can feel the other patrons giving me dirty looks. I reply with my default answer to this question. I've been asked this before, and trained myself to always say “yes.” People say they like that about me, at least that’s what they tell me. “My father used to abuse me. Sexually.” Well. That was heavy. Heavy enough to actually knock me off balance. I am now aware that I have no control over this situation. I debate whether she is lying or not. It is a possibility. I can tell that she's not. Perhaps it's intuition, or the delivery, but I can tell she is telling the truth. “I'm sorry, that was probably too much.” At this moment, I actually know what to do. I get up off my seat and hold her. I can feel and read her surprise from her body language. After a few seconds the tension in her body eases and she slumps into my chest. Maladies feed on the week, and this girl has carried a mental infection for a long time. Still, she sat before me this day with a smile on her thin lips. All of my hang ups with people were diminished by this girl. There are plenty of monsters in the world that are very real. She has taught me some kind of lesson in this moment, I'm just not sure what it is. The rest of the stories details are irrelevant. Her's and this one. Nothing you've never heard before, but it's not about that. I connected directly with this human. “To be a decent human to this girl, turn to page 101, to be a piece of shit-coward, page 94.” I’d like to think I made the right choice, that I’d helped. Done my part. A few weeks later, I’m sitting at Taco Bell eating a shitty lunch alone as usual. That day I learned she had overdosed. That night I cried.

Link to I woke up a little after midnight. I was surrounded by silence, and the the tree I was hiding behind was just far enough off the road, that I didn't think I would be seen. After the wreck I grabbed my backpack, my guns, and anything else that I thought I could still use. I can't imagine what I look like. A blind man, covered in dried blood, digging through a dead man's car, then wandering around the road, until he finds grass, searching for a place to hide. I decided to continue travelling northeast. I thought that maybe I can make it to Millington. I have family there, and if I'm lucky, they'll have stuck around. I reasoned that if I only walked at night, I I would manage to avoid getting run over or worse. I've made this trip a thousand times before, and I believed this was my only chance of surviving. I listened very carefully to the night, and when it was quiet, I slowly made my way back to the road. I knew it was a straight shot to Millington, so I just had to keep going. Every time I heard a sound, I dove for the ditch beside the road. After almost six hours of steady walking, I knew I was going to be OK. As the sun began to rise, I could feel the warmth start to spread to my body. A few minutes later I could feel the sunshine on my face. Something wasn't right. It didn't hit me at first, but after standing still for a few minutes, it quite literally dawned on me.The sun was on the wrong side of my body. I had just spent six hours walking the wrong damn direction! Listening closely, I could start to hear the sirens coming from the city. I don't know how far outside Memphis I was, but I knew it wasn't far. I was exhausted, hungry, and needed sleep. I was so focused on my new discovery, that I didn't hear the truck slowly and quietly rolling up behind me, or the men trying not to laugh inside of it.

Water pattered on the bricks of the dark empty alley. It had been raining all day, and wouldn’t stop for the rest of the night. Al would be leaving Osaka tomorrow, and he was already tipsy, but he wanted to see it. It was Tobita Shinchi, the oldest somewhat legal brothel district in Japan. And while prostitution was illegal, it didn’t stop the women from sitting motionless in front of the windows, done up in formal summer yukatta or the heavy winter kimono, leaving the men to walk around, pick his ideal girl and deal with the old woman would would take his money and show him upstairs. There he would lay down, be rubbed with an alcoholic wipe to clean him, she’d hike up her kimono, and he’d find love. Or whatever it was you call it these days. He turned left and saw a sign. A camera with a circle and a line through it, and below a row of unintelligible kanji was broken English. “No Picture Please,” he was sure he’d arrived. But it was late, almost 1:00 in the morning, and he was drunker than he thought. The doors were all closed and the windows dark. “Sonuvabitch,” he whispered to himself, hoping that maybe one might still be open, and continuing down the road. “Is this really what you want?” he asked himself, hoping to keep himself occupied while he turned another corner. He was lucky. Japan is safe, and he wouldn’t end up in a dark corner losing his wallet to some mugger. He gazed through the clear umbrella he took from the hostel lobby towards the sky. It was still cloudy, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle. “I probably wouldn’t have even gone through with it, just the idea was arousing, right?” He was trying to convince himself he wasn’t one of those guys, but who was he kidding. He turned and saw a black car with tinted windows coming up the road. It didn’t slow as it got nearer and sent a splash from the dirty puddle up his left side. “Fucking yakuza.” He wondered what his girlfriend was doing. She was probably sleeping, and would waking up in a few hours to go to work. What would she say if she knew he was wandering around the whore houses of Osaka? What would his mother think? Al started to get a feeling in his stomach like maybe he had drank too much. He looked up and saw the light of a vending machine. This one sold overpriced beer. He was tired and didn’t want to feel anymore, putting a five dollar coin into the slot and getting a tall Asahi beer. “Are you ever going to be happy?” he thought to himself as he popped open the can and started heading back for his hostel. The rain had stopped and the clouds had parted. Al looked up at the full moon. The Japanese see a rabbit pounding rice. Americans see a face. Al wondered what he really saw. “I see no hope.

The 13th Affair The phone was still dead. For a moment, I thought I heard a voice on the other end this time, but it was just Bela Lugosi on the television. Nothing more than Inspector Delzante. "Check the other one, in the kitchen," Joe said. I passed the joint to him as I left the room. But there was no dial tone in the kitchen either. "Do you think that fucking kid next door cut the line again?" I asked Joe. "Maybe... I dunno. I don't call anybody." I hung up the phone and grabbed another handful of chips. "I'll call the phone company in the morning." Putting it out of my mind, I chose which kind of dip I would use and made the potato chips quickly disappear. "Did you pay the bill?" He asked me. I took a moment to think, but I couldn't remember. I remembered a bill, and I remembered thinking about writing a check, but what I could not remember was whether I sent it to them. I must have... I made a call just an hour ago, or so I think. "How you going to call the phone company?" he suddenly asked. "Um. Neighbor's house, I guess. That is, unless theirs aren't working either." "Why don't you call and find out?" "Shut up, man. I’m not stupid." Then passed me the joint again, saying, “Not yet.” I laughed and got my temporary fill, then passed it back to him. “What time is it?” Joe blurted out. “It’s awfully dark out.” “Seven forty-three,” I said, pointing to the clock above the television. But at that moment the television became empty, blank, and utterly objective. Margaret Wycherly ceased pleading with the inspector, for she disappeared. The inspector disappeared too. Calcutta was no longer in my living room. Come to think of it, there was no longer any light in the entire house, it seemed. Apparently, power no longer existed. I stood up. “Joseph, my dear boy, there is a mystery at hand. Something has happened. Something has happened, indeed. The phone, it is dead. The power, it is out…” Suddenly, the window by the door shattered as a brick found its way to my floor. “Is that evidence?” Joe asked. “Indeed it is,” I replied. “It leads me to believe I should look outside.” As I was about to open the door, it opened itself. Rather, someone else opened it. I could tell she was very angry with me. “That’s the last time you cheat on me, you son of a bitch!” She stalked through the door—shaking a can of spray-paint with her right hand and dropping a pair of bolt cutters to the floor with her left. She had a large knife hanging from her belt. She had showed me that knife before; it belonged to her father. Indeed, a very classic and threatening knife—leather belt pouch, six inch blade, and a wooden handle with the inscription: “U.S.M.C.” I tried to avoid harm any way I could, saying: “whoa,” “easy,” “calm down.” I may have even gone so far as to say, “I love you.” I can’t remember. But she wouldn’t have any of it. “Who the hell is this Francine bitch!” she demanded to know. “You been fucking her behind my back, who is she!” “You’re cheating on Francine?” Joe cried to me. “She’s so cool!” “Helen, listen,” I said. I had my hands up when I spoke; for, I knew what she could and would do with that knife should I anger her. Chances are she hadn’t been taking her medication. “That’s Helen?” Joe asked. I quickly said yes so he would shut up, so I could deal with the situation at hand. But the idiot went on. “I thought Helen was black,” he whispered. Helen stopped shaking the can. “What did you say?” she asked him, and most certainly not me. But I didn’t care. “What he said, honey, was—” “Quiet!” she screamed, pointing the can of paint at me, as if it were really as fatal, and therefore threatening, as a knife or firearm. But then she lowered it, straightening her stance while she relaxed her eyes. “I heard what he said. And you know what, I’m the Helen you’re going to remember the most!” “So there are two Helens,” Joe said decisively. “Two Helens” he says again, slower, while gently rubbing his chin hair. “Shut up, Joe!” I finally blurted out. “You shut up!” she screamed. “Every time you slept with another woman, you told me it was the last. Every time I believed you. But it was all a lie! How many others are there that I don’t know about?” She truly wanted to know. But what would I tell her, that I lost count? That hookers don’t matter? That I most certainly must be addicted to sexual contact in all of its many extreme forms? I am simply a sexual glutton and must have it all. I’ve always been that way, but Helen’s the first to take it personally. “How many, you son of a bitch!” She screamed, brandishing the knife. “Holy Jesus!” Joe screamed. He ran to dial 911, but when he put the receiver to his ear he immediately hung it up and struck his forehead with his own palm, declaring: “Duh.” That was enough patience for her. She began spray painting the television first. Perhaps it will wash off, but I couldn’t be sure. Then it seemed, for her, the next logical step would be to start painting my walls. Of course it was a wonderful crimson; she always had such a good taste in color. It even looked pretty, compared to the drab white of my walls. But I would have done it in a less helter-skelter manner, being sure to coat evenly and fully—to trim neatly around the switches, outlets, and few picture frames. But then again, I’d be a fool to assume she had any renovating motives. I’d be even more of a fool to assume she would stop soon and peacefully. I would need a weapon. I had nothing as deadly as a marine’s blade, but I could compensate with reach. I grabbed the putter I stole from the Pitch-n-Putt. It had the blue handle I liked. I didn’t think you could buy them anywhere, and I’m cheap, so I relieved the pro shop of the trouble of inventorying one more hollow aluminum stick. Joe must have understood the grave possibilities of the situation, for he quickly ran the kitchen door to get help. Well, for all I know the bastard could have just been saving his own ass. And why not? My ass made the mess and must eat its own shit right back up. His ass owed mine nothing. “You’re crazy, bitch! Get out or you’re gonna get hurt!” I was prepared to do it, but I wasn’t sure if I meant it—that I would offend her, rather than simply defend my person. She would have to do more than just refuse to leave. When she saw that I was prepared to protect myself and my belongings as a cause, she effectively stopped vandalizing my walls and turned to me with the knife. Without a breath to spare, she rushed at me; and although I putted her arm away from my chest, the knife gashed a developing love handle. I then realized that, knife or not, I could not subdue her myself short of killing her. My only hope was to publicize the event, have others get help before Joe’s hypothetical emergency squad arrived. I was not in the position to give anyone the benefit of a doubt. Anyway I’ll need as many witnesses as I can get. I bolted for the door, screaming for help. Well pity, really. I quickly scanned the rows of crumbling brick townhouses—perhaps as many as one third of those which were not condemned, actually housed people. Only one house had its lights on. Somewhere between the time my brain ordered motion and the time my nerves carried it out, a sharp pain found its way in my back. Rather, a sharp knife. It turned out it was put there, by Helen. As I maintained balance on all fours, I could hear her running towards the refuge of refuse; East, I think, towards the disorienting plethora of tangs that is the dump. “Oh, how I long for the days I lived in a brownstone!” I said to myself. I decided that if indeed this is my last moment on earth, my stage would need proper lighting. Only one streetlight was on. I crawled, flagstone after flagstone, gasping for air, plasma, or divine mercy—whichever happened to come first. But none came at all, not even the air. As I leaned my numbing back against the streetlamp, I cast my weary eyes on the house across the street, the only one with the lights on, before everything disappeared. In the window was an Irish Setter. I thought I heard sirens. But maybe it was just the ferryman.

There was this guy I used to know. His name was Tyrone; black gangster type with baggy pants and urban accent. He was heavy-set and from the Detroit projects. We met one night in a Red Lobster bathroom where Tyrone was moonlighting by giving blowjobs in the toilet stalls. His slogan was "I got kids and a spouse with payments on a house so when my lips go south, you're balls deep in my mouth." I shrugged. Yeah, sure. Why not, right? I mean, I could use a good dick-suckin', plus I'd be helping the guy earn a little cash on the side. To my surprise, Tyrone got completely naked to perform oral sex. He told me it felt more liberating and at the same time helped keep his clientele more comfortable; sort of psychological leverage, his nudity helped ease some of the tension for first time patrons. He was a really cool guy. Anyway, we enter the far stall and he starts slurping my man-meat, butt-naked on his knees, better than any bitch ever could. I was really taken back by his professional technique; long, deep mouth-strokes that went down to the balls then a quick flick of the tongue against my scrotum. My eyes rolled into the back of my head as his warm mouth worked it's magic on my throbbing ram-rod. This was amazing. I could hear other guys outside the stall, asking where the moans of ecstasy were coming from. That's how into it I was. After just a few moments, my cock exploded in Tyrone's mouth. I was so relaxed I actually let loose at both ends, spraying the wall behind me with diarrhea. Tyrone asked if I'd like 'dessert' with the main course. Fuck yeah! After a blowjob like that, I'd take anything he had to offer. Tyrone turned his back to me, spreading his ass checks and revealing a very swollen hemorrhoid growing on his asshole. It looked positively appetizing. I asked him if it was okay to lick it, he just turned his head over his shoulder, smirked and said' "That's the idea, dawg." I began licking and sucking his bloated hemorrhoid like a starving animal. It was like I was hypnotized, I couldn't stop slurping, as if I had to suck his asshole-mumps as good as he sucked my schlong. It tasted absolutely delicious. Tyrone moaned then farted, spraying a little shit grease down my throat. It was like the A1 on the steak, so flavorsome. It tasted better than the goddamn cheddar biscuits I ate during dinner. I actually achieved another orgasm just munching Tyrone's ass-growth. We finished up, I payed Tyrone all I had in my wallet; $127.00. I had to know what that feeling was that overcame me while giving him a rimjob. I looked him right in the eye, asking him what the hell just happened in that bathroom stall. Tyrone placed his hand firmly on my shoulder, smiled and said, "That was my deformed asshole, son. It has magic powers." To this day, I believe it.

Back in the olden days, everyone would possess luncheonette sets. They consisted of utensils, baskets, cups, plates, bowls and the like. But, in 1932 there were also monsters. They would hide in things and pop out and scare people. One such monster lived in the Stanley family's luncheonette set. The monster's name was Todd. Todd had yet to scare the Stanley's since they had yet to use the lunceonette set. Time dragged on and Todd waited for his moment to scare the Stanley's. He thought to himself, "Gee, why won't the Stanley's open up their luncheonette set". But, the joke was on Todd: the Stanley's had been brutally murdered by another monster - the people kind. His name was Travis Jagger. He was a transient. This should tell you something about the nature of monsters. **The Spooking of NW Spook Street** Have you ever heard a ghost story that really scared you? I remember one from when I was a kid that made me cry when it was told to me. It was 1983 and me and my Dad were out fishing late at night. He told me the story of The Spooking of NW Spook Street. As he told the story he held a flashlight up to his face. Then, he started putting on some fake blood, then he started drinking whiskey, then he hit me across the face for crying. Finally, he passed out in the boat and I had to row us back home in the pitch black and wonder how I would get home before bed time. That was the scariest story I was ever told. **The Ghost of the Haunted Mansion** Once upon a time there was a real estate agent named Tim. Tim had a knack for selling property quickly and his commissions made him a very wealthy man. Soon, he was wealthy enough to buy a mansion. But, not any old mansion. For you see, Tim made a large amount of money, but not enough to buy a, say, 4 million dollar home, or a 8 million dollar home. No, Tim only had enough to buy a 400, 000 dollar home. But, he wanted it to be a mansion. So, the only mansion that was in that price range was a haunted one. But, Tim bought it anyway, even though it was haunted by a ghost. Tim moved in and the ghost scared him, but it wasn't a 4.6 million dollar scare. So, in the end, Tim made a wise decision. **The Witches of the Bell Tower and More!** Once upon a time there were these women who were witches. They would dress in old clothes and carry broomsticks and say magic curses to strangers. But there's more! The End. **Colonel Graphton and the Sea Monster that Ate Colonel Graphton** You can call me Elmer. I guess I've seen everything in my day. The land. The sea. The space above the land and the sea. But, I've never seen anything as terrifying as the Sea Monster that ate Colonel Graphton. It was about the size of a snail. It looked a lot like a snail, in fact. It had a shell and it moved real slow. Oh, wait! Colonel Graphton is the one who ate the other. OK. OK. OK. **The Wolfing of Hollow's Cove and Other Stories** The Wolfing of Hollow's Cove I don't have much time to detail my account. For you see, I'm being wolfed. I live in Hollow's Cove and we've been attacked by marauding werewolves. Presently, there is one at the door and he's trying to break in. Please tell my story! Werewolves exist! And they want human blooooooooooooooooooooodkjagdakj Other Stories Warewoolfves du not exist. Totally lyes. That guy is suck a jurk. Werewolves are quite friendly to humans. In fact, if you meet a werewolf, you should be kind to him or her. It's the 2000s - haven't we made any progress? **The Dark and Terrible Wizard and His Magic Water** There was once a Dark and Terrible Wizard who created a magic water. The water held all the properties of regular water, but it was magic. The Dark Wizard would use this magic water to sate the thirst of The Thirsty King. So you can see how this all worked out according to plan. But the Dark and Terrible Wizard never factored in the Searing God of Arid Wind. **The Count of Marmaduke Hill** When you think of evil, I mean pure evil, you probably don't think of Jim Thurber. Jim was the terrible Count of Marmaduke Hill and here is his story. Jim grew up in Marmaduke Hill. His father was the Count there and when he grew up he became the count. And he was evil. **The Lake Monster of the Pond** In the year 2008, a researcher and his assistant were studying fly larvae in a pond behind a corporate campus when they came upon a large tooth. The researchers found the tooth to be astonishing and they took it home for examination. Back at the home, they examined it. "Yep, that's monster tooth, baby." The End. **The Wind that Talked to Maggie** In Nebraska, back in the 1890s, there was a girl by the name of Maggie. She learned to live by the gun and made her money robbing banks with Errol Marvin, the toughest cattle rustler in the Nebraska area. But one day she had a turn of heart and decided to give up her life of crime and settle down with Parson Felding. Oh, yeah - and she talked to the wind. **The Mysterious Case of the Mystery** The room was locked from the inside. The bodies were inside the room. The murder weapon was also inside the room. There were no windows and no other passageways in or out of the room... So we didn't take the case. **Kubra Kah's Last Breath** I met her in the Kubra Kah on Nordom street. She smelled of day old gin and lipstick. She looked like the kind of dame that was trouble. I asked her for a matchbook and she pulled out a package of hotdogs. She was hearing impaired is what I'm trying to tell you. **The Lady of Seville Road** He grabbed her by the arm and swung her body into his embrace. "Lady, this isn't the time for fooling around! There's too much at stake!" "You would say that - you only care about the money!" She said as a tear ran down her face. "You're wrong, baby. I don't care about the money. But SRO theaters does and you need to have a ticket." **The Cliffs of Burma** "Roger?" "Here." "Sandy?" "Here." "Cliff?" "Cliff?" "Cliff? Damn. All three of them are gone." **The Stalking of Raymond Mathers** The stench was overpowering. I looked in the bag and I cannot begin to describe what I saw. I remembered the last note he left on the refrigerator and glanced at it. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it all came back to me: the pens, the stationary, and that wobble in his cursive. I had been writing the notes. The chill that went through my body reduced me to tears as I read the last one. Take out the garbage!!! **The Unusual Case of the Lady on the Ridge** Why was Thompson so interested in the blueprints to the refinery? He'd checked them out nine times in the last month. The guy works in a Dairy. How's a man like that gonna purchase a refinery? I'm thinking he pulls 2 or 3 bills a month. That's enough to buy coal, but no refinery. Something just wasn't adding up. I called Marissa and told her the news. She was less than pleased. Sure, her old man was trying to kill her, but I'm the one who ends up getting cursed. Wait! Old man? Cursed? Refinery? Nope. That's not it. **Duncan Hammer: P.I.** "Lady, you wanna tell me what you're here for? Or do I have to shake it outta ya?" He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Please, Mr. Hammer! Don't...don't..." She began to sob. "Ah, lady, I'm sorry. Tell me what the trouble is." "It's my husband. I think he's cheating on me." She bit her lip and looked up at Hammer. "Why do you think he's cheating on you?" Hammer sat back down and lit a cigar. "Well, he's late to home every night and...he smells like perfume." "Maybe he's been bowling?" Hammer smirked. "Men don't bowl until 2 in the morning?" "I do." "Oh, really?" "When I'm cheating on my wife!" Hammer then grabbed the woman and shook her again. **Bodega Drive** One thing you learn about being a cop is how to drive around, seemingly aimlessly. But there's another thing you learn as well: how to iron. **Duncan Hammer: P.I.** Duncan put the muzzle of the gun up to Romero's face.

Darryl was terrified. Gunshots and screams could still be heard in the suburbs around them. Port Saint Lucie, maybe the state, maybe the world, had gone to hell. Most of the dead had been held back over the canal since the bridge was blown. But they still came from the south and west. Not from the east though, there was a body of water simply called ‘the bay’ behind a few rows of houses. There was a strip of land that led from a gated community to Southbend, but that wasn't much of a problem. It was an escape routes for several families fleeing in pickup trucks and vans. Nobody knew if they were going somewhere safer, or funneling into a meat grinder. Southbend Boulevard itself and the adjoining neighborhoods had descended into the dark ages. Makeshift barricades, now covered in dead and reanimating bodies, were thrown up around several choke points. One of these was made at southern edge of the houses on Southbend, thrown together with parked cars, furniture, couches and piles of hurriedly felled palm trees, was made to block off the trickle of zombies coming from the more populated Martin county and southeastern part of Port Saint Lucie. This trickle had turned into a stream, and the ‘militia’ manning it had been overrun. Since the ghouls first poked their heads over the barricade and started stumbling over, people went insane. Groups of people and just single looters were breaking windows and doors, stealing food, money and guns. Maybe half of the houses had been cleaned out in the space of the afternoon. Cars full of people careened off the road trying to pass each other, only to find that many exit points had been blocked off with barricades. Cars were packed with screaming people trapped inside were surrounded by walkers defended only by tempered glass. Somehow, for some reason someone thought it was a wonderful idea to douse a dozen zombies with gasoline from the roof of an 18 wheeler and light them. A dozen shambling torches lit up surrounding houses and empty lots. Several fires still raged in the northwestern part of Southbend. Somewhere a couple telephone poles were knocked down, and half the houses were plunged into darkness. Only a few streetlamps illuminated sidewalks covered in blood and stumbling zombies. Things had become much worse in a short time. Darryl clenched his hand over his right arm just under the shoulder. When the bridge was blown, showers of concrete and rebar covered the gathered crowd. Darryl saw at least half a dozen people get their skulls crushed by chunks of concrete and bits of truck. Before he could take cover, a foot long piece of metal guardrail cleaved off a good few inches of flesh on his upper arm. On top of that his fallen body was trampled by a horde of fleeing people. He was still sort of numb, which he wasn’t quite sure was a good sign or not. One of his ribs did feel loose, but still no pain. Darryl got up after a couple minutes from the pile of wreckage. Dazed and confused, he ran down Southbend, dodging rows of honking cars with people screaming at each other through rolled down windows. The coppery smell of blood and gunpowder filled his nostrils. The crack of rifles and handguns nearly deafened him, the brush fires and muzzle flashes nearly blinded him. The entire experience was a sensory overload. Through everything he still saw people being selfish and cruel to each other. Darryl always heard about people coming together during disasters. Like churches bringing people in off the streets during hurricanes, or in LA when half a million people died in that earthquake and instead of major looting or rioting, people came together in mutual fear and grief. Darryl saw none of that here. He saw a couple rednecks in a hummer plow over a woman carrying a box full of canned food, leap out and grab the food without a second thought. An off duty police officer beaten to death with tire irons, his pistol and Kevlar vest stripped off of him. A family running to their station wagon parked in the driveway, only to have someone smash the side window and jump into the driver’s seat, driving off. Darryl tripped over a ghoul pinned down under the tire of a Saturn. It reached for him, moaning. It had shortly cropped army-style hair. Half of its face looked rotted off, his jaw bone and teeth exposed through a large hole in the cheek. It wrapped its now four-fingered hand around Darryl’s calf and started to pull it to its open mouth, gnawing at the air. Its strength surprised him; it looked skinny and was starting to decompose. Darryl kicked out wildly, striking it in the jaw and kicking its teeth in. Still, its literal death grip was not broken. It pulled his foot closer. Out of nowhere, a machete came down and split the skull from ear to ear. The grip was immediately loosened and the zombie fell dead. Darryl scrambled backward wildly, and then fell on his back. The exhaustion of running several blocks and the loss of blood had finally hit him. A Hispanic man with a bloody machete in one hand and a duffel bag slung over the opposite shoulder leaned over him. “Are you okay? Are you bitten?” The man asked stoutly and abruptly. Darryl gasped and shook his head. “I’m fine.” “Get up. We need to get people off the street.” The man grabbed Darryl’s hand and pulled him up. He picked up an aluminum baseball bat off of the ground and handed the end to Darryl. He took it with his good arm. “Whack the head. That’s the only way to drop them, in case you don’t know.” Darryl didn’t, and nodded silently. “Incoming.” Two zombies, one with a grey, bloodstained hoodie, the other with wearing half a torn t-shirt slowly lurched towards them from the sidewalk through the long grass. The man stepped forward and brought the machete over his left shoulder. Then, like there was giant coiled spring in his shoulder, he swung his weapon. It ripped through three-quarters of hoodie’s neck, and it dropped to the ground. Its spinal cord was severed, leaving a limp body on the ground with a still snapping head. A second strike between the eyes ended it. Darryl raised the bat, and then brought it crashing down over the other’s head, crushing its skull. The man threw open the wooden fence gate at a house behind the sidewalk. “The house is all shuttered up. Help me round up some people that need help. We can hole up here.” Darryl nodded numbly. “I’m Chris by the way.” “Darryl.” Chris pulled a snub-nosed .38 revolver out of his belt with his left hand and threw the duffel bag to the ground. He tossed the gun to Darryl. “Know how to use this? You have a bad arm; you don’t need to be swinging that bat too long.” Said Chris, noticing Darryl’s wound. Darryl nodded, revolver in his right hand and bat held in his left. Chris busied himself with a couple of zombies moving in on him. In the street clogged with frantic traffic, Darryl spotted a woman trapped in the passenger’s seat of a yellow hatchback with a ratty-looking ghoul with a ponytail in the driver’s seat trying to grab her. Darryl ran up to the door and threw it open, dropping the bat. He seized the zombie’s ponytail and pulled with all of his strength, stepping to the side as he did. The ghoul came tumbling out, turning to its side as it did. The braid came off in Darryl’s hand, along with a chunk of its rotten scalp. The rest of the still thrashing corpse crashed into the cracked asphalt. Darryl stared, horrified, at the bloody pile of hair in his hand, giving time for the zombie to roll over. Darryl retched dryly for a second then stomped onto the ghoul’s chest, dropping the hunk of rotting flesh. Darryl heard a sickening, wet crunch as his heel connected with its abdomen. The enraged ghoul clawed uselessly at the air. Darryl aimed the barrel of the revolver at its head. He pulled the trigger, rotating the cylinder and bringing the hammer back, then a second time. The report from the handgun stopped the ghoul’s struggling. Darryl stepped off of the corpse’s chest, saw the detached piece of scalp again, gagged again, and then turned to the woman in the car. “Get out of there. You won’t be able to escape driving.” Darryl realized how threatening that sounded, especially since he was still brandishing the revolver. “I’m sorry, I meant the zombies. You can’t escape the zombies. I’m a good guy; I’m trying to help you.” The woman just stared at him wide-eyed. “Look, I want to bring you to safety. Ok?” She nodded slowly. “Good. Now just come out here.” She slid across the seat where the zombie was sitting and jumped out of the car onto the ground. She looked at the body on the ground and shuddered. “Did you know him?” She was silent for a couple seconds. “N- no. he was giving me a ride. He just turned into one of them.” She said finally. “Ok, let’s get you inside” Suddenly, large swarms of gunfire from down the street to the south. More synchronized than the other random shooting on Southbend. Darryl and the woman instinctively crouched down. There were dozens of rapid thunks as waves of bullets connected with the metal of the surrounding cars on the road. Darryl opened the back door of the hatchback and the two of them hunched down behind the door. Three bullets whizzed through the tempered glass, not shattering it, but creating neat little holes. The glass around the holes cracked like spider webs, and the plastic between the two layers of glass drooped slightly. The woman, who was huddled at the hinge of the door, saw a hunting shotgun laid horizontally on the seat of the car with an open box of buckshot shells. “There’s a shotgun in here,” she yelled in the gap between the near constant gunfire. “Grab it,” said Darryl, holding his revolver in a death grip. Suddenly, a middle aged woman got out of a brown Ford SUV behind them and threw her arms in the air. “Don’t shoot! I’m human!” she cried out. For a few seconds there was no reply. Then, two bullets ripped through her chest and abdomen and she crumpled to the ground. Holy shit, Thought Darryl, that wasn’t an accident. They had time to figure out if she was alive or not. They chose to shoot her. The woman clutched the shotgun in her hands, her painted nails digging into the stock. “Do you know how to use that?” Asked Darryl. She shook her head shakily. Darryl tucked the revolver into his pocket and took the shotgun from her. It was a maple pump action shotgun with thirty-two tally marks on the stock. She then handed the box of shells to him and he deftly thumbed four shells into the shotgun and cocked it. He peered around the edge of the car door and spotted the gunman. It was a young man around Darryl’s age. He was wearing a baseball cap and resting a hunting rifle on the top of a stopped car, aiming down southbend. “Ok ok here’s the plan,” Said Darryl, turning to the woman. “When I start shooting, you run to the house.” He nodded towards the open gate. She nodded faintly. “Get ready then.” Darryl sighted the gunman again, raised his shotgun around the car door and fired a shot at him. He did not mean to hit him, just to make him keep his head down. He looked panicked that someone was actually shooting back at him and hit the ground taking his rifle with him. The woman ran across the road and sidewalk into the backyard of Chris’s house. Darryl brought himself to his feet, fired another shell at the gunman and ran after her. Chris was standing at the threshold hacking a zombie to pieces. A police officer and a paramedic carried a wounded man into the backyard. The woman ran in after them. Darryl ran through the high grass and suddenly tripped and hit the ground. He could taste the blood and dirt in his mouth. He looked back at his legs to see what tripped him, and saw a decomposing corpse grabbing at his feet. Darryl kicked at it violently and scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the shotgun but leaving the shells he ran through the gate. “There you are,” said Chris. “Let’s close it up its getting worse out there.” The paramedic was on the ground bandaging the wounded man, while the police officer yelled through a walkie-talkie, desperate for a response. Darryl nodded to Chris, completely out of breath. He felt more exhausted than he had ever felt before. So much so that he fell backwards against the inside of the fence, leaning all of his weight against it. “Whoa, you ok man? You look pale.” said Chris. The world seemed to spin for Darryl. The officer slammed the gate shut and latched it. Darryl mumbled something, and collapsed to the ground. “Shit! Hey you! I need help over here!” Yelled Chris to the paramedic. Darryl groaned, and the world went black.

Harvey Lunneborg couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t belong at this gathering of the 4 leaders in the business world. Oh yes, he owned a big business; his oil-based empire was often judged to be the most valuable business on earth. But Harvey himself had decided from a young age that he was not a businessman. He was born to be an actor or a singer. His father, however, had other ideas. Gregory Lunneborg had created his oil oligarchy from scratch, and he wished nothing more than for that same oligarchy to be passed down through his family tree. And so it fell on Harvey’s shoulders to run his late father’s business as best he could. He did this by delegating almost everything to his managers. It was reasonably effective, he thought. At least, his business was still running efficiently and effectively. It did, however, mean that at meetings such as this, he was next to useless. He generally sat quietly in the corner, and let the other big players of the business spectrum do the talking. Harvey sighed and lay on his bed. ‘What’s the point of me even being here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘The point of you being here? Oh Harvey, isn’t that obvious? You are here to die.’ Harvey jumped up to see who had replied. A girl, dressed in black, dropped down from the ceiling. She spoke with a vaguely Spanish tone. ‘Who are you?!?’ Harvey cried, now backing into the corner as he saw the knife. ‘I am Isobel Lugira. And I am the last face you will ever see’. Christopher Caves spat over the edge of his balcony. He despised Harvey. He could not believe a man like him owned one of the most powerful organisations in the world. It was all his father, of course. Pampered little Harvey spent his childhood in riches and then simply inherited a grand empire, to ensure his power continued into adulthood. He knew nothing about the real world of business. Christopher, on the other hand, knew everything there was to know. His manufacturing company had started at the very bottom, all those years ago. He had worked his way up the chain, slowly but surely, by outdoing his competitors at every level. And now here he was, at the very top! Nobody could stop him. He’d proven that by taking his business to where it was now. He just wished people like Harvey couldn’t join him at the top. ‘Ah well’ he said to himself. ‘Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you want to, Caves. You should know that by now!’ He cackled as he talked to himself. He knew it was childish, but who was here to see him? He took another swig of champagne, and then turned to go to bed. However, just as he pulled back the duvet, he heard movement behind him. He paused. ‘Who’s there? I’m trained in multiple martial arts, you may as well give yourself up now.’ ‘Oh I won’t be doing that, Mr Caves’. Christopher jumped in fright as he felt the blade press gently against his throat. ‘Now wait just a second missy, you can’t do this! Who do you think you are?’ ‘I am Isobel Lugira, Mr Caves. Goodbye.’ James Pariseau gazed out of his window, lost in thought. He disliked both of his male compatriots at this meeting. The woman… she was a mystery. Pariseau would have to study her more closely. The men were obvious though. Caves was a bully, who thought he knew everything. He believed he knew everything, and acted like he knew everything. Pariseau, for his part, wondered how far he would have to travel to find someone more irritating than him. Lunneborg, on the other hand, was weak. In truth, James felt a little sorry for him. He had been thrust into a world he knew almost nothing about, against his will. But he refused to act his age and deal with things like a man should. James knew the pressure of being a successful businessman’s son; he was one himself. But he had taken his father’s company and expanded it, improved it. Now the Pariseau Empire controlled almost every aspect of the tourism spectrum. That was the reason he was here. Lunneborg, on the other hand, had let his business stagnate, doing the same thing over and over again. It was… disappointing, Pariseau decided. What the world really needed, he thought, was a new oil tycoon to rise and challenge Lunneborg. Now that would be interesting. Pariseau train of thought, however, was then derailed by the cold press of steel against his neck. He sighed. He should have seen this coming. The four most prominent people in the business world, all in one place. Of course somebody would send a hitman, ‘I don’t suppose there is any way I could convince you to not do this?’ he asked. Lugira smiled. ‘I am afraid not, Mr Pariseau. This is the end.’ Pariseau closed his eyes as the blade slid across his neck. Jennifer Livingstone was the only woman of the quartet. She found the other three’s quarrels tiresome. She had seen long ago that men were born for arguing; she had used it, in fact, to get to where she was now. It remained true here though. The trio, especially Caves, had spent the entire day pointing fingers at other people. Jennifer was just glad it was over, at least for another day. She dearly wished she wasn’t here, but she had been invited due to her domination of the computing industry, and this was not an invite one could refuse. As she gazed out onto the world, her thoughts turned to her company. It was vast; almost every player in the electronics world sourced some of their materials from her company. But it was tiresome. Every day, some fool would mess up, and she would have to fix the problem. She worked pretty much 24/7, and asked herself whether it was worth it almost every day. Of course, it was too late now. She was in this position for good. She turned to face her mirror, only to see a face behind hers. ‘Hello, Ms Livingstone’. Jennifer span around to face the intruder. ‘Stay away’, she shouted, as she backed away. ‘Please stay still, Ms Livingstone. It makes this much easier’. Jennifer screamed as the knife was thrust into her chest. Isobel Lugira smiled as her last target slumped to the floor in front of her. It was too almost too easy. It did, however, pay for her luxurious lifestyle. Being an assassin had its benefits. A girl had to look after herself, after all. She smiled as she spoke into her mouthpiece. ‘The targets have been eliminated, sir.’ A deep voice spoke back ‘Excellent Lugira. We won’t be requiring your services anymore. Goodbye.’ Lugira’s smile faltered. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘You’re getting me out of here, yes?’ The voice chuckled. ‘Did you really think we would let a witness survive, Lugira? You have eliminated four big rivals, and for that we are thankful, but you no longer have any use to us. You would be a liability to us if you were left alive. Goodbye, Lugira.’ ‘Wait no!’ Isobel cried. ‘You can’t do this! We had a deal!’ A single shot rang out, and she collapsed to the ground.

TATTOO “Well, what do you think it meant?” “I dunno… I think it means everything’s gonna be all right.” “Yeah?” Clark replied. “Yeah,” Joseph answered. Clark gently nodded his head, with a slight grin, bearing a deep, but detached, appreciation for Joseph’s sentimentality. Joseph sat behind the steering wheel, completely still, as his mind sank into its own familiar world of thought; however, still aware of the dim four-lane interstate, which lay prostrate underneath the rusting, mud spackled Oldsmobile—a mile of tire tracks for each minute Delaware came closer. But with the keen sound of a sparking disposable lighter, his attention was brought back. Clark had finished packing the glass pipe and was taking the first hit with a white Bic. Joseph looked at Clark, back at the highway, and then, startled, back at Clark. “White lighter!” Joseph exclaimed, forcing Clark to halt the smoking process, already at its crown. “It doesn’t matter, man,” he squeezed out, wildly contorting his face as if it helped keep the smoke in his lungs. He swallowed, exhaled, and said, “Besides, it’s the only lighter we got.” “I got Capricorn.” “What’s that?” Joseph shifted his weight to the left and, after a short struggle with the seatbelt, produced a metal lighter from his right pant pocket and handed it to Clark, who was adjusting his rebellious hair with his hands. “You know, you really do look a lot like James Dean,” Joseph said. “Yup. And I guess it’s just something I’ll have to deal with,” he said with a smile, examining the lighter. “It’s a Colibri pipe lighter. The ‘Capricorn Flame.’” Taking his eyes off the road for only a moment, Joseph pointed to the brass plate on the lighter where the name was engraved in script. “It’s a side light, so you don’t have to tilt it and burn your fingers and shit. And it’s Electro-Quartz, no flint. Check out how smooth it sparks.” “How do you…” Clark said while fumbling with the lighter, until he found the trigger on the side. And as Joseph claimed, it was infinitely easier and more reliable than Clark’s own lighter—like someone clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Once he had a flame, he immediately got back in the routine, and used it to take another hit, giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “What the hell does ‘Capricorn Flame’ mean?” he asked while passing the blue and orange pipe to Joseph, trying desperately not to cough. “Well, when I bought it, I had the hardest time coming up with a name until Winter break, when me and my friends from back home shroomed together. They were always my friends, but it wasn’t until these last couple weeks, and especially that night, that we really connected and became, you know, real tight. I asked if anyone had an idea what I could name it and Ross said it should have something to do with how we all bonded over winter break. The lighter would embody the meaning of that night. Being just after New Year’s, the constellation was Capricorn and so it became The Capricorn Flame.” Clark made no immediate response, save a sound to signify that he understood, as he hypnotically nodded his head to an invisible beat. Then he said, “You’re fucking stoned, man.” “Anyway you look at it,” Joseph continued, “a lighter’s a lighter. But each of mine is special to me in a different way.” After a commercial for Gulf War commemorative plates, the music began again; and as the blue, wood-paneled, station wagon continued north on I-95, through midnight Maryland, Clapton’s Cocaine spilled out of the speakers, becoming entangled with the swirling marijuana smoke. Joseph snapped his fingers and, smiling, pointed at the radio. “Yes!” he shouted. “Check it out; that’s awesome!” “Nah man, it’s just overplayed. Anyway, you didn’t finish telling me why it ‘meant’ what it meant,” Clark replied, about to take his next hit. “Oh, right. Well, on the way up there I could hardly hear it because the reception was so bad, but then on the way back they were playing it again and I got it so clear. I’d like to think that means something.” “You already told me that.” “Oh, well then that’s it.” “No. But why Cocaine?” Clark asked. “Why any song?” “Christina loves Clapton.” “But you were driving to see Kate.” Clark formed his mouth so that the escaping smoke shot out in rings, which broke on the windshield, spreading against the glass further and further until the smoke gradually melted into the darkness. “No, not like things are going to be all right with Kate, or Christina or whatever; just things in general, I guess. Kate won’t happen; I can’t get her. What I’m saying is that I shouldn’t worry about it—that it doesn’t matter.” “You think you’ll ever have a real chance with Christina?” Clark asked, passing the bowl. “I hope so,” Joseph replied. “I love that girl.” Clark nodded once again and grabbed hold of the wheel long enough for Joseph put his lips to the glass pipe and draw the pungent euphoria into his lungs. He took a couple more hits and handed it back. Clark leaned back a little to look at the side of Joseph’s head, squinting to see well in the moonlight. “Yeah, you can still see it,” he said. “But not as easily.” Joseph rubbed there with his fingers. All that was to be found was his scalp and the short prickly hair that he was not quite used to. A month had passed and no longer could he feel the Braille-like scabs. There were no regrets, but he reminisced about the time the ink was fresh, when he could trace the letters with his finger and see it in his mind. “Another month or two and no one will be able to see it,” Clark added. “Bingo.” Cocaine was done, and a commercial for condoms was halfway through when Joseph switched stations. Smiles crept on both of the boys’ lips as they heard trumpets, saxophones, and drums trickle in through the speakers. A piano took over the beat and drove shivers up and down their spines as it leapt back and forth, through the space between their ears. “Check that beat, man,” Clark said. “Listen to what it’s sayin.” “What’s it saying?” “I dunno, man, just listen.” So he listened. Joseph had heard music before, this jazz was nothing new. But he still loved it. Like so many times before, the melody was making Joseph move his body. Maybe it was just the THC in his blood, or the love in his heart; either way, he was feeling the music. After another mile or two, traffic started slowing. Joseph could see flashing lights up ahead. As the car slowed almost to a stop, the jazz on the radio was squelched by the sudden approach of an ambulance siren. Clark put the pipe away. Traffic was now single file, and the accidental caravan of strangers was guided by road flares and police officers. Joseph put the windows up and turned the music off. “Let’s see what’s goin’ on,” he said. The ebullient lights of ambulances, fire trucks, and police cruisers were eerily quiescent from inside the car. A Mitsubishi was hardly recognizable underneath a burning minivan. About ten feet away from the small pileup, a Firebird was overturned. Clark couldn’t tell whether there was actually blood splattered on the road or not—perhaps water, motor oil, transmission fluid, or simply a hallucination. And if it was indeed blood, perhaps it belonged to the man being loaded into one of the ambulances. The chance of survivors looked grim. “If these people didn’t die here,” Clark said, “How much longer would they have lived?” “I dunno,” Joseph replied. “Just dumb luck I guess, right? I don’t suppose God was playing Hotwheels… But then again, what kid doesn’t love a good collision?” Joseph proceeded to childishly imitate the audile anatomy of a car accident: failing brakes, squealing tires, honking horns, and finally the report of crunching steel. “Is that how it happened?” Clark asked. “Maybe.” “So if the Mitsubishi hadn’t swerved…” “If the guy in the firebird hadn’t panicked…” “If he wasn’t playing with the radio…” ”If the minivan hadn’t been there…” “Would anyone still be alive?” Clark asked. “I guess it’s not for anyone to say, really,” Joseph replied. “Maybe one of them could’ve been president. Maybe he could’ve brought peace to the world.” “Or destruction. He could have been married three times for all we know.” “Twice, I believe.” “The douche bag failed his ninth grade math final,” Clark laughed. “But he still got into Harvard,” Joseph replied with stiff hint of resentment. “But now the prick’s dead.” “Yeah. Aint that a kick in the pants. Maybe he was one of those weird people who liked to listen to Lynard Skynard and Neil Young. I could never figure those kinds of people out.” “Hey, I like them.” “Yeah, me too.” Joseph and Clark exchanged glances and they each shrugged their shoulders. [xxxxxxx] Before Clark and Joseph entered Q-Stix Billiards, they each finished smoking their cigarettes under the torn awning. While they would rather be enjoying their nicotine inside, the gentle intimacy of Main Street made them feel awkwardly content—the warm, hollow touch of street lamps; the innocent, ignorant eyes of wandering inebriates. Even simple black asphalt seemed strangely genial. But there was no reason to stay outside any longer, for at that moment the boys decided that their cigarettes had nothing more to offer them, and so they disposed of their butts on the infinite, generic, black asphalt. Of course, they tossed them in a completely usual and discreet manner—Joseph, with a graceful flick of the wrist; and Clark, by positioning it between his thumb and middle finger and shooting it out. The paper of the cigarette against the nail of his middle finger, and the skin of his thumb, made a distinct sound—indescribable, but unmistakable—assuring that anyone who heard it would have no doubt that it was in fact a cigarette that was being propelled from someone’s fingers. Amanda, Tim, and Ross were already inside, waiting for Joseph and Clark. The three were killing some time at the small collection of arcade games in the corner, but now that the weary travelers from madness to midnight have arrived, they could all rent a table. “Now we can finally shoot some fuckin’ pool!” Tim shouted, putting his depleted collection of quarters into his pocket on his way to the counter. “Wait, wait, wait,” hurriedly came from Amanda as she looked at Joseph. “What? You have to pee again?” yelled Ross. “You diabetic or something?” “Where is it?” she asked, inspecting the left side of Joseph’s head. “Other side,” responded Joseph, generally desensitized to the innocent curiosity of those he knew. Yet ignorance still enraged him. After a few breaths, Amanda asked, “What the hell were you thinking?” “Hey. shut up alright? You got people who do what’s important to themselves, and you got people who do what is expected of them. I don’t give a fuck what people expect of me. It means something to me and that’s all that matters.” “Damn, touchy,” Tim said. “I’m just tired of everybody not being able to understand that it should be beyond scrutiny. I wish people could just acknowledge that they don’t understand and respect the fact that it does not concern their understanding. Understand?” “Yeah fine, man, whatever. Let’s just play some pool. And no bullshit shots.” “All shots are bullshit,” replied Ross. “Fine, some just more than others.” Joseph noticed that by the Silent Scope console, Clark and Amanda were already flirting. “Anybody tell you you look like James Dean?” she asked, with a crook in her smile and a glint in her eye. As the five of them walked to the counter, Joseph veered off course. He pushed open the red faux-wood bathroom door and immediately went to the sink. He wet his hands and ran them through his hair, over his face and then dried his hands with the last available c-fold. Then he reached into his left pant pocket and pulled out a box cutter. He slammed the tail on the sink, pulled up his shirt and took the razor to his left love handle. The incision made, he gasped for air. Reveling in the temporary peace, he heard someone coming, and as the red door opened, Joseph shoved his hand inside the empty paper towel dispenser. The stranger went in the one of the two stalls. Joseph hastily wet the bleeding flesh, and tried his best to dry it with single ply toilet paper, which fell apart. Then he washed his hands once more and pulled back the hair above his right ear. He stared into the mirror. “Such a big fuss over three little letters,” he says. And like a hundred tines before, Joseph took his hand down and walked away from the mirror.

‘We now present the execution of Dexter Maron, convicted of murdering two victims; Maria Schiano and Helen Liston. The sentence will be carried out via electric chair in 10 minutes. Please stand by.’ Maron, pressed up against the bars of his tiny window to hear the announcement, slumped back down onto his bed. So this was it. Five years of appeals, desperate pleas to avoid the ultimate punishment, had failed. In approximately 10 minutes and oh, 30 seconds or so, he’d be dead. Gone. Out of this world, and into what lay beyond. Assuming there was anything there. He had been thinking about that a lot lately, whether there was something on the other side. He’d had a lot of time to think, after all; there isn’t much to do in a cell not much larger than your average garden shed which contains only a toilet, a sink, and a bed. He’d had even more time to think recently. He hadn’t slept in going on 80 hours. Hard to sleep when your death is so close. Back to the topic at hand. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted an afterlife. On the one hand, permanent nothingness seemed a little depressing; he wanted to have something else after these 10 minutes and… actually more like 9 minutes now. But on the other hand, sinners were supposed to be punished, weren’t they? Maron wasn’t entirely sure, he’d never paid much attention in church. But he definitely remembered that bad people went to hell. And there was no doubt he was a bad person. All you had to do was listen to the announcements to work that out. Two murders, of two innocent women. That’s about as sinful as it gets. He was the worst of the worst, the scum of the earth. Only people like that kill others. And yet he had done exactly that. 6 years, 4 months and 26 days ago he had shot Schiano in the chest, Liston in the stomach, raided their shop and left them bleeding on the floor to die a long and agonising death. Originally he had justified his actions. His family would starve if he didn’t get food. The women were going to call the police, they had to be stopped. It wasn’t his fault, he was just in a bad situation. But he’d stopped doing that now. What was the point? Maybe he’d been unlucky. Maybe if he’d been born into a better family, maybe if he hadn’t lost his job, maybe if the American government gave a shit about the poor people littered across the American Midwest who struggle to feed their families and keep their loved ones alive. But however much blame he could spread around other people, the majority of the blame had to fall on him. He, after all, had pulled the trigger. He had loaded the gun and walked into the roadside shop knowing there was a good chance that he would be leaving corpses behind. And yet he still went through with it. For his own benefit, he had stolen away two people’s lives. It was only fair that he was sitting here, 5 minutes from his own demise. Ironically, the government gave you a small amount of freedom when it came to your death, after keeping you locked up and away from society for years and years. He had been allowed to choose his final meal (lasagne; Italian food had always been his favourite), he’d been permitted to see any relatives he felt like in the days before his death (although only Mum bothered coming anymore, the rest of his family had given up on him); hell, he was even allowed to choose between lethal injection and the electric chair for his method of death (he chose the chair; needles had always creeped him out). Giving prisoners a small amount of freedom a few hours before their demise didn’t really matter, he guessed. There wasn’t much they could do now. ‘One minute before the execution of Dexter Maron…’ Maron didn’t even bother listening this time, he knew what it was going to say. The guards would be here any minute; in fact, he could hear them marching along the cold, hard concrete floor of the cell block. A key turned in the cell door and light streamed into the room. Guards dragged him upright and pulled him along with them on their journey to the chair. Maron spotted the sun through a distant window; the last time he would see it, he presumed. That made him sad. Sadder than the idea of dying really, the knowledge that he would never see nature again. The beauty of the outside world would forever be denied to him now, the rivers, the trees, the birds, never to be seen again. Wind would never again brush his face, rain- his train of thought was cut off as the guards stopped. Maron looked down, and saw it. There it was. The chair. Dark and metallic, designed to send volts coursing through his veins and remove him from the world. The guards strapped him into it; he didn’t bother resisting. He could see the executioner through a window. According to the guards who had taunted him the day before, he went by the name of Jon Stukel. Was he ready? Could he accept that in mere seconds he would be met by the cold embrace of death? Realistically, the answer was no. He wanted to be free again, he wanted to escape this prison and experience life anew! Finally, as the first volts of electricity ran through him, he began to struggle to escape. But he knew it was too late. He strained against the straps, but then the switch was flicked. Excruciating pain coursed through him. Then blackness. Jon Stukel flicked the switch and watched Maron squirm in anguish before slumping down, dead. Another piece of shit, removed from the earth. He smiled, dusted off his hands, and walked out.

The fire cast the only light in the room, a hazy copper glow that reached as far as Armand’s well-worn easy chair. He held a cigarette in one hand, a glass of good scotch in the other, wondering what else a retired writer does during his last night on earth. He could imagine a few things, but at 75 and ill, they were the wistful and wishful desires of a younger man. He took a drink and savored the smoky tang around his tongue before swallowing. As he set the glass back down on the chair’s arm, the air behind him began to chill and wrap around the back of his neck and shoulders like an icy blanket. He dabbed his dying cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Are you preparing, Armand?” came a hoarse, hollow whisper behind him. “I’m afraid you’re too late,” said Armand, taking another long drink. “I’ve finished the last chapter.” “You couldn’t know. No one ever knows.” The old man responded with a dusty laugh. “Not even you, apparently.” “I make the decision. What’s that smell?” Armand’s glass fell to the floor. “What? You don’t recognize the smell of death?” he rasped, his heart’s final beat a triumphant exclamation point to a life ending exactly when he knew it should.

Note: I previously posted this story in /r/writingprompts, but that subreddit is geared more toward reading than feedback. I'd be glad to hear what you all think! After dinner, the old man sat across from me on the porch, pipe in hand. When was the last time you saw someone smoke a pipe? I couldn’t recall. He sat and rocked and smoked, and then he looked at me, and spoke the question that he had been waiting to ask. With slow gravity and spry curiosity, he dropped one eyelid, and cocked his head to the side, and said, “What makes you think this girl is the one?” I sat back in my own rocker, facing him across the porch, and thought about what I would say. What really made me think so? It was a good question. My mind went back to the day we met. I remember walking into the little room where the other guys were sitting, waiting on the next task of the day to begin, and shooting the breeze. They were laughing as I came in, and talking—about the weekend, about cars, about football and basketball and what did you do this weekend, and of course, about girls. Always about girls. Did it matter that some of the guys were married? Of course not. It’s man talk. It’s no harm, no foul, and on we go. Then someone mentioned the new girl up in the office, and I, well, I put my foot in my mouth and asked who they were talking about. *You kidding me, right? Boy, this is the finest-looking woman to ever walk this place and man, she is HOT*. I laughed it off, thinking, no, I know this place, and that’s gotta be exaggeration. Then she came walking by at lunch time, and smiled, and said *hey, how are you*? And every talking mouth in that room went silent. She was that gorgeous. My dad used to tell me that a pretty face was nice, but it won’t keep you warm at night. I felt warm enough that spring, though, watching her walk one way and another, and generally not saying anything more than “um” and “ah” and, when it was just the guys, a whispered “damn!” I thought that was all it would ever be, and I was ready for that, even if I found it hard to push aside the occasional memory of that long blonde hair. Halfway through the summer, though, I came in one morning and walked to my new station, newly reassigned…and she came out of the next room. I suppose that it was in the back of my mind somewhere that she worked in that building, but it truly wasn’t for that reason that I sought the transfer; I just wanted off the night shift, where I and the other guys had recently landed. But then she came out of that door, and gave me that thousand-megawatt smile that I’ve learned to love...well, is it any wonder that everything went out of my head? She told me later, one long and intimate night, that I was the quietest man she’d ever met, back then. She said that she made it her mission, right then and there, to get me to open up, no matter what it took. I asked her, don’t you realize that you’re the reason I couldn’t speak? She laughed it off, but I saw in her eyes that she was touched. I remember reading once that men form their friendships through common endurance. It’s the band of brothers, the fellow POWs, the ones who have endured hell together—they’re the ones who hold together through the years. She was certainly no man, but I thought of that imagery often that year all the same. I thought of it when the clouds started to gather at the edges of my attenuated life…I thought of it when they broke over my head. I remember long evenings, sitting in coffee shops and in the quiet rooms of our offices, talking things out. I remember arguments and anger, sadness and determination, hope and despair. I remember saying that the details don’t matter, but knowing in my heart that they did. I remember, most of all, knowing it couldn’t be. She belonged to someone else, and so did I. It’s funny…we each knew that the other’s marriage was failing, and we each knew that it was because of the other partners. Neither of us could see that it was happening to ourselves. I remember the night I knew what I wanted with her…and I remember choosing to leave. The last time we were together, I sat across from her, and told her that she was the one thing I would miss the most. Any other woman would have belittled it, would have told me that I would forget her and move on. She did none of that. She simply looked into my eyes, and hugged me, and said that she would miss me too. The days that followed, and the weeks, and the months, I had my own problems, and they were all I could handle. Down the road, I would regret that self-centered focus. It was much later that I discovered that, while I was rebuilding my world (only to watch it fall apart once more), hers was crumbling. I would come to hate myself for missing it. When I called her, she was distant; in messages, she was vague. I thought she was forgetting me, and with a heavy heart, I decided that it was probably for the best. I saw her again, once or twice, but she hid it so well—the circles under her eyes, covered in makeup; the cuts on her arms, covered with sleeves. I think sometimes, if only I had known…but she didn’t want me to know. She admitted that her marriage had broken up; that her husband, whom she had loved so much, had found someone else, had broken her heart into shards. She hid the truth: that she had taken those shards and cut herself with them. I never knew exactly how it happened, that she came back into my life. It was slow, and yet so quick. One day, we were old acquaintances, chatting over the internet, and the next we were friends again. It couldn’t have come at a better time, because that summer, my life fell apart again. My own marriage, limping along for so long, dissolved in a fury of ash and fire; my family was torn apart. I know what people would say, but they’d be wrong. It wasn’t because of her. We were still distant, friends or not. We had to be. But all that long fall and longer winter, when things were burning to the ground around me, she stayed. Too far away to hold my hand through those times, she listened instead. And slowly, yet so surely, she pulled me up out of that pit. Coming out of it was like stepping back into the sunlight; and suddenly I could see her clearly. I saw all the things I had missed. I saw the fear in her eyes, and the hesitation, every time she thought of trying again. I saw how much he had hurt her, and how far she had fallen, and how she had lost her trust. And yet, in every instance, I saw that she was hurt, but not broken; damaged, but not destroyed. I made it my mission to pick her up from the dust, and bring her back. After all, she had done it for me. Day after day, conversation after conversation, I reached out to her, and told her the simple truth—about herself, about the past, about the future, about what I saw when I looked at her. I told her that she was beautiful, and so much more. And in her dark moments, when it seemed to her that everything was doomed to failure, and she came close to forgetting who she was, I reminded her. I reminded her of who she was to me, and not only to me, but to so many others out there—everyone for whom she had tried to do good, all the years I had known her. Slowly, I watched the light return to her eyes, and I watched her open up, and embrace life—and the world—again. And he wants to know how I know she’s the one? I gave a laugh, and I looked at him. He looked at me with brows wrinkled in puzzled curiosity. And I laughed again, because I knew that what I was thinking would make no sense to him. I knew he wouldn’t understand if I said it—that I didn’t have to know. I didn’t have to know she was the one, because she already had been, all along. We’d been through hell and back, and survived it, and through everything, she had been the one. He may have asked it, but for me, there really was no question. He was still waiting for an answer. I leaned forward and clapped a hand on his knee, and gave him a smile. “I don’t,” I said, and stood up. “But I think it will be alright anyway.” There was a burst of laughter through the screened window behind him, then. We both looked, and I saw her there, with the old man’s wife, laughing and talking as they cleared the table. I watched her being radiant, until I noticed him looking back at me again. He nodded knowingly, and I raised a hand in a gesture that was half-wave, half salute. “Yeah, it’ll be alright,” I said. “But, you know, it never hurts to make sure.” Then I nodded, and walked past him, and opened the door, and went to do just that.

I was nervous. I'm new to this so I had two shots of Captain Morgan before I left, that usually loosens me up. The thought of driving passed my mind more than once but decided to take BART because the restaurant was close enough to walk. I choose my purple plaid shirt because it fits me well. I just bought the blazer so I took it with me even though it clashed. It looks good on me so fuck it, if I fake confidence then maybe she'll mistake it for actual confidence. I looked myself over in the mirror for more time than I care to admit. I hated and loved my outfit more times than I care to admit. I changed clothes and changed back. Decided it was too late to be indecisive so I left. Only to come back and change my shoes. I almost turned around more times than I can count. I rehearsed the excuses in my head, "I came down with something.", "A family emergency came up and they really need me.", "Oh, that was today? I'm so sorry! Lets reschedule. No? Ok, then. Bye." As much as I dreaded this I was also looking forward to it. She was very pretty from her photos and messaging her was easy. She seemed like a genuine person. She may have embellished her typed laughter and smiley faces but at least she tried so that in itself had to mean something. By the time my stop came around my palms were sweaty and I was a bit lightheaded, "Am I doing this again? How many first dates can I have before I realize that a second one is never coming? At least I'll get some food in me." As hungry as I was the thought of food made my stomach tighten. I stopped in front of the venue. I thought a rooftop bar would be on the roof. Oh well. I was about to ask about the bar when the doorman said there was room for two more at the elevator. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing as I walked passed him and stood with the group waiting for the elevator door to open. My Tinder account logged me off on BART because of poor reception and I was hesitant to log on in fear that she wouldn't be there when I signed up again. As the door opened in front of me and an actual rooftop bar lay before me I was stuck and overwhelmed. My doubts and fears tripled as I've never been in this type of venue before, "She's so out of my league that I can't see her with binoculars. This is going to be the shortest date ever. Hope they at least have good appetizers." The place was crowded and I couldn't see her. This was made more difficult due to the fact that I had forgotten what she looked like because of nervousness and fear. I texted her. Nothing. I texted her again. 5 more minutes and nothing. I called her. "Hello?" "Hey, I'm here." "Cool! Where?" "Over by the elevator. I'm wearing a purplish shirt." "I don't see you." Fuck. Really? How hard are you looking? Should I just cut my losses and go? "I'm just here by the elevator. There's a chair here I'm sitting on. Where are you?" "Are you sure you're here?" No. I decided to go to the identical rooftop bar next door. "Yeah...I think I'm here." "Let me walk over." I saw her emerge from the gaggle of patrons. We locked eyes. She smiled.

The sound of water splashing filled the air as I moved my paddles in rhythmic motion. It was a beautiful night out. I glanced upwards while paddling, locking eyes with the huge, looming moon. Darting my eyes around, I could see the scattered stars accentuating the pale blackness of the sky. I tried to find a constellation, but the only one that I knew was Corvus. “What’re you looking at?” asked Tracy, cocking her head to the side a tiny bit. You could see the childlike curiosity in her eyes. It was kind of cute. “Trying to find a constellation?” “Yeah.” I chuckled, glad my embarrassment was only known to the night air. “I only really know Corvus. Do you know any others? ‘Cause that’s about it for me.” “Oh, I know Corvus. I don’t really like that one though, it’s just a disappointing constellation. Ooh, but do you know Columba, right up there?” She accented her query with a slender, out-stretched finger pointed towards a cluster of stars. “Columba… which one is that again? It’s a bird, isn’t it?” I was surprised that she knew a constellation that I’d never even heard mentioned on TV or anything. I guess I forgot that she enjoyed astronomy. “Mhmm,” she hummed in affirmation. “It’s the dove. Kind of funny when you think about it, right?” “Yeah. Maybe. Okay, why is it funny when you think of it?” “Y’know, it’s a dove. The white bird is found in the depths of space, a pitch black place.” “I guess that’s an interesting way of looking at it.” I just sighed and looked at the constellation for a few seconds. Well, I looked in the area of it. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t make it out. I quickly glanced to Corvus once more just to look at it, and then levelled my eyes back out and looked around, admiring the scenery. The trees all around were silhouetted by the moonlight, just barely blocking the view to infinity. The water shimmered. It was a beautiful sight to behold, but the wakes and waves in the water were washing away the wonder in the stars’ reflection. “Now what are you looking at?” She was definitely curious that night. But that’s just one of those things that makes her so easy to love – you definitely know that she cares, even if it’s just because of the sheer amount of questions that she asks. And I don’t know if it’s maybe just me, but the way that she asks is just enticing. “Ooh, I know. Is it the trees? The water?” “Kind of. Just the general area, really. I don’t know what it is about this place, but I think I kind of like it and kind of don’t.” She just cocked her head again, donning an inquisitive look on her face. “I mean, there’s… well, it’s a very nice scene. Beautiful, even. But the trees are practically looming over the lake, blocking out the sights of other stars. Then there’s the water. I love seeing the reflections in water, but the movement of the canoe is distorting it so much. And that’s not even mentioning the impossibilities in seeing underneath the surface. Who knows what’s lurking in there?” “Oh, wow. You’re really worked up over this now, aren’t you?” She giggled as she delivered the question, entirely unfazed by my comments. “Come on, you just have to either look at this another way, or change what you’re looking at. For example, what’s it matter what’s under the surface of the water? We’re there anyway, so there’s no point in worrying over it. Just embrace it. It’s not like overthinking is going to stop anything from happening. And as for those reflections – they don’t really need to look the way that they did. Sometimes a distortion isn’t just that; sometimes a distortion is a new creation, a welcome idea. Sure, it’s foreign, but just accept it for what it is. But if you don’t like that kind of thing, then don’t look at the trees. Change what you see – look past them. Look at the infinite abyss beyond it. Lock eyes with what stands behind. “I guess. I don’t know.” I couldn’t think of it that way. I just couldn’t visualize what she was saying. “I don’t think I can do that. Maybe you can, but I can’t. I just like to look at it the way it is. It’s still beautiful, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a different kind of beautiful.” “That’s pretty fair,” she said, reaching out and grabbing my hand. I stopped paddling the canoe. I just wanted to spend this time with her. I wanted to tell her how I felt about her. It had been building up for a long time, but I had still somehow never managed to say anything. Despite how long we’d been friends, I didn’t feel comfortable saying that one thing to her. I didn’t want to ruin the friendship by asking for me. I was scared, so I kept to myself. Then she suddenly started talking again. “So I was gonna tell you…” “Yeah? What’s up?” I was glad for the conversation, as it would take away from my thoughts. “Well, I don’t know how you’ll take it, thanks to how much time we spend together, and with you being my best friend and everything…” she trailed off and looked down, seemingly nervous to speak. I just waited patiently. “I mean, I don’t want to leave you alone. The thing is, though, I need to go away for a bit. I want to go up to visit my family up north for a bit, and you know the situation there. I might not really be able to talk to you while I’m there. You know I want to, but without a phone or internet I-” “I know. You can’t… you can’t talk. Jesus…” It was my turn to trail off. I thought about what she was telling me. I couldn’t very well tell her how much she meant to me, but I didn’t want her to leave, either. I wished that she would pipe up and tell me that she was going to do something different. But after a few seconds, I heard nothing. I only felt my stomach sinking and a boiling anger rising up. “I can’t believe this. I mean, I know that I don’t really facilitate you staying, but Jesus. I’m trying to be fair, but God damnit, Cindy. You’re leaving me no choice. I know I shouldn’t be getting angry, but it pisses me off. I’m sorry, but it just… pisses me off.” “It’s alright, I can understand where you’re coming from,” she replied. She smiled softly at me, washing away how I felt. It’s amazing how disarming a girl’s smile can be. It may not have been instant, no, but after a few seconds of just placidly sitting there I was no longer angry. I wasn’t the happiest, no, but I wasn’t angry. “Is there no way that you could stay or anything?” I asked – pleaded, almost. “Do you really have to go right now?” “I do, unfortunately. Grandma wanted to say goodbye before… before we never see each other again.” Tears were welling up in her eyes, and I suddenly felt terrible for asking her to stay. I had forgotten that was the reason she was headed up there. I knew how much she cared for her family, and especially her grandmother. I should’ve known that this would pretty much break her. As I opened my mouth to apologize, however, she spoke up. “But don’t worry. I’m going to see you again before I go, don’t worry about that.” “I’d really, really appreciate that. I’m sorry about asking you to stay, too. I didn’t even think about your grandmother or anything,” I said, trying my best to be empathetic. “I get that you have to say goodbye. It makes sense. Family is important.” “Thank you for understanding. It really means a lot to me, and I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to them too. Are you okay, though? I don’t want you to feel bad about any of this. You do understand that it has nothing to do with you, right? Of course I want to stay here and be able to talk with you. I’ve told you over and over, you’re my best friend, and I would never want to do anything to break that connection. You’ll always be my best friend.” “I don’t really mind hearing that. Again, I’m sorry that I’m being so terrible about this.” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, just letting my thoughts collect. “It just sucks, you know? I mean, I really enjoy talking to you. We get along really well, and I love that. I don’t think that there’s another person around that I get along with as much as you. I guess when you’re gone I’m just going to end up a little bit disheartened. A slight bit depressed, even. I don’t need to tell you how often I like these conversations, I’m sure you’ve got that figured out by now.” “Yeah, I definitely do know that!” She laughed, forcing a tiny smile upon my face. I re-opened my eyes and looked at her again, looking right in her eyes. I just stared for a bit in an attempt to engrave the picture into my memory. The harder I tried, however, the harder I found it to be. So I gave up on that, and just enjoyed the moment. “So, you’re okay with this then?” “I think so. It might take me a few days, but maybe as soon as it all sinks in and everything I’ll learn to accept it. Just give me time, alright?” “I’m sure that I can do that. Hey, maybe you’ll even accept it by the time I’m headed up there!” “Yeah, that’d be nice. So… you know that I’m going to miss you, right? I made that obvious enough, didn’t I?” “I’d say so. I’m really happy to know that. I hate making you feel like this, but I like that there’s somebody that’s going to miss me. And you know that I’m going to miss you too, right? I kind of wish you could come up with me, but that wouldn’t exactly be fair. Plus it would cost a lot, I suppose. It’s already giving my family here a beating as it is, and I wouldn’t wish for anybody else to have to go through that.” “Well hey, maybe I’ll make my way up there and be able to see you at some point. I’m sure I’d enjoy hanging out with you up there, too. I’d just end up taking a little bit longer than you to make the trip, all things considered,” I told her. “Well, I look forward to seeing you again, then!” She giggled again, replacing my tiny, wistful smile with a larger, livelier one. I really liked being around her. I loved seeing her so happy. That was just the way that I enjoyed seeing her. “Anyway, I guess we should head back. Didn’t you tell Ty that you were only going canoeing for long enough to clear your head?” “That is what I said, you’re right. Well, for what it’s worth I’m really happy that we could hang out one-on-one. You’ll always be my best friend too, and I hope that you know that.” As I finished the sentence, I started paddling once more. After I turned us around, I slowly propelled us through the water, not wanting to stop the visit. I wished that I could get more time with her, and hoped that we could see each other a little bit more. I was happy that she said she would see me before she went, but still a little bit disappointed that she was going. The trip back was spent in calm, peaceful silence. I did nothing but think about Cindy. I thought about what she said, and looked out at the trees, trying to see past them. I listened to the wind rushing over the water, scattering the surface over itself and making me realize that it was the only part of the water that mattered. I looked up at the diluted stars and tried to find her constellation, but could only remember the one star that she pointed out to me. Columba was a tricky constellation to find, but I wanted to mark it in my memory for as long as I lived. Then I got back, greeted on the beach by Ty. “All good now?” he asked. I nodded my head in confirmation. “Alright, cool. Y’know, Cindy would’ve loved going out on that canoe with you. It’s too bad, man.” “Yeah, but I’m sure she’s happy.” A bittersweet smile crept across my face. “She always was, after all.” ~~~~~~~~ Oh boy oh boy I'm putting something somewhere.

I don’t remember much of the accident. My friends say that I was hit by a car or bus or something. They like to huddle around my bed and just kind of stare at me. It’s quite unnerving. I feel like I’m dead, or dying I suppose. Their faces are brimming with pale pessimism, this much I can tell. Their eyes are relaxed and keeping consistent contact with mine. There’s no further concern from them. I should be worried by this fact. John won’t take his hand off of mine. I can’t even feel it anymore. The more I think about, I can’t feel anything. The bedsheets look soft but thin, this much I can tell, but I cannot feel them draped over me. I do not feel warm and I do not feel cold. I also can’t stop looking around. I can trace the tubes and wires stuck to me. One leads to a heart monitor. The line is keeping at a consistent 80 beats per minute. A simple blip, like clockwork. But I can’t hear it, you’re supposed to hear these things, right? It’s muffled as if a bag is over my head. Everything is muffled, there is no ambient noise. Just the heart monitor. I look back to my friends, no one in particular. Joan’s mouth opens. Silence. Must have not been important. I can feel my eyes getting heavier. I must be getting sleepier, I can’t even really keep my head up. Gravity takes over and I think I hit my pillow, I won’t fall any further. Everything is growing darker. I can see blurry images of my friends through my eyelids. They’re...reaching for me, their hands reaching towards me and tapping me. Something must be going wrong. I look to the heart monitor. It still says 80 beats per minute, I’m fine. No reason for them to be concerned. So why are they? Maybe they’ll tell me when I wake up. I just can’t keep my eyes open. I need to sleep. I don’t know for how long. But I’ll wake up soon enough. And everything will be normal again.

Why did I wake up dazed? This morning was different to the rest of them. My thoughts were jumbled, i was slack, my mind weak. I had no fever, my health appeared perfect, and yet something was different about me. The stagnant life of mine that never changed was doing so before my eyes. Coffee? I was taught to drink tea, as I had done all my life, why was I making a illogical decision. Changing my diet without professional medical advice is something no sane person would do, right? But their I was, sane as any other man, which is a redundancy as everyone I meet acts with only illogical insanity. The crowd passes, the train full as is the road. The efficiency of motor vehicle transportation is far lower than that of public transport, yet the plebeians choose that mode of transportation. Illogical. Even at work they pass by, one chooses product A and another product B even though C contains less saturated fat and higher levels of vitamin E. I see a child smile, such is the effect of Serotonin and Dopamine release into the brain. My co-works invite me out but i naturally refuse, they they recall me as dull when I appear preoccupied bewilders me, I am simply living like the rest of them. The neighbour is waiting outside my apartment, no doubt to entail me with words which have no meaning and emotions caused by chemicals. As I engaged in proper etiquette and invite her inside something clicks inside. My hand becomes unsteady. I start to sweat hearing her talk. Her voice is similar to low fiber cereal, something which no logical and sane person would want. It fills my ears, nothing is getting through, my thoughts are stopping. I want this voice to stop, she keeps talking. STOP STOP STOP STOP WHY ARE YOU HERE STOP STOP STOP TURN IT OFF GET OUT I DON’T WANT YOU HERE LEAVE GO NEVER COME BACK! She lowers her voice in engst, obviously sensing my discomfort. I approach her to usher her out and she screams. Why did she scream? Why are my hands wet? Her voice lowens, no more than a whisper now. She seems unwell, I shall let her rest. My anxiousness is gone. I feel calm, concise and …. Alive? Do I feel happy? Is this what this is. I wash my hands, head to bed early and place the knife on the table next to me. When did I have a knife? I wake up in a dazed state.

Lem looked at the old man. His battered hat hung low on his brow, and he was leaned up against an old birch tree, breathing heavily. His eyes looked deeper than oceans. His mind was made up. His face was resolute. The lines under his eyes sagged and glistened with sweat and he knew that his vengeance was satisfied, but that he was going to pay for it with his life. He didn’t look like he minded. “Lemmy, gimme that bottle of rye out of my saddle bag. Hurry up now. Not much time.” Lem approached the black horse with caution. He knew she had a terrible temper, and just loved kicking anyone who snuck up on her. He didn’t know much about horses, but he knew this one was on loan from the devil himself. He truly believed it. She’d killed more than one stable boy with a single kick Lem knew. For the moment, however, she seemed strangely calm. He patted her side, smoothed down to her rump, flipped over the flap on the saddle bag, and grabbed the bottle within. It felt warm, and the bottle was old, dusty, and half empty. He didn’t figure the old man would care though. He wasn’t particular about his rye. He handed it over. “Obliged thankye.” The old man pulled his hand from his stomach for the first time since he felt the blow. He remembered how strange it was, that he never felt any pain. He only felt a powerful kick. When the bullet struck him, he knew what it had done. When he had been at war, he had seen his brothers fall. He knew the ones that said “it don’t hurt” weren’t long for living. He knew every time he’d been shot before it hurt like hell. But this didn’t hurt. The wound was small. The way he was sitting it just looked like a nick. But it was bleeding him out, and the blood was getting darker. The old man laughed as he pressed the bottle to his lips. He could smell its contents. It smelled like the end of a long road. It smelled like going home. “How did you do it?” Lem asked, shakily. The old man pulled the bottle down, yet to taste his victory. “I’m trying to die here boy, what are you going on about?” “It’s just...I tried shooting Jerry. I tried shooting him before he got you. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. Then he pulled, and he killed you. He killed you and it’s my fault. I couldn’t pull the trigger, even to save your life. I knew if I killed him that Miss Holly would cry, and little Luanne. How did you kill all those men knowing they weren’t going home to their families, knowing you would cause so much heartache?” The old man was stunned. He hadn’t heard Lem say much more than two words since he met him at the stable. He thought for a moment, then sat the bottle down. “You weren’t wrong to feel that way Lemmy. You shouldn’t have shot him. No man should ever take another man’s life. Not for no reason. I shouldn’t have killed a single one of those men. Vengeance is the Lord’s lemmy. You’d do wise to remember it.” “You didn’t!” Lemmy shouted, tears were welling up in his eyes. “You took vengeance on all those men for what they did to your family! You took it! You forsook the lord! Men do it all the time! Why the hell couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I? You tell me. You owe me that much. I helped you track ‘em all down. You tell me how you mustered up the courage to take a man’s life knowing the consequences.” The old man couldn’t believe his ears. This quiet towny boy had some backbone to him. And he wanted to learn how to kill. What a thing. The old man mulled it over, as if he had all the time in the world. The boy had helped him. He owed him. His gaze went to the bottle. “Boy I’ve taken my vengeance. I surely have. But I have lost everything in my life worth living for. I’ll tell you how to kill, boy. Because sometimes a man needs to kill. Whether he should or shouldn’t, wants to or doesn’t.” His eyes remained fixed on the bottle of brown liquid, glimmering in the hot June sun. Sweat trickled down his brow. He wanted the drink. It could wait a little longer. “If you're going to kill a man, you don’t ever think about all that you’re taking away or the people who are going to hurt because of it. When you're looking down that barrel you better look past that point in time. If you are any kind of decent human being you won't be able to pull the trigger if you consider what you’re doin. Thats why you don't pay attention to the seconds before you kill him, you live in the few seconds after. You live in the after as long as you can. That’s your whole world for the foreseeable future. But bear in mind, there will come a day when you will revisit the time before. You may be at home, asleep in your bed with your wife. And you'll hear that pleading, or worse, you’ll see their eyes. Eyes plead more’n a mans mouth ever did. I’ve woke at night drenched in sweat remembering the eyeballs of all the men I’ve killed. I reckon I’ve done that for my last time though. At least there’s some relief there. And here.” The old man grabbed the bottle with verve and vigor. He upended it and swallowed the entire contents, seemingly in only a few gulps. He dropped the bottle, looked at the sun as it was passing behind the mountains, and shut his eyes. Victorious. Lem pulled the old man’s hat down over his face. It looked like he was sleeping. He folded his arms across his chest. He looked at the colt nestled firmly in the old man’s holster. He looked a good long while. He thought about the man that had killed his father. Over a damn horse. He looked at that colt and played it out in his head. Finding him. Pulling the gun, pulling the trigger. The advice the old man gave him made sense. But could he live the hard nights after? Could he pay the price of vengeance? He looked down at the old man’s bottle. It wasn’t completely empty. There was one more sip. Lem held the bottle up and let it drop onto his tongue. It tasted good.

Below the depths of the ocean lay an underground, under ocean, under atmospheric lair. Take note: lair. Inside the lair, the kittens began their interstellar colonization of the universe! Plus, they had that lair I talked about. The year was 1456. Hobbits still walked the Earth and England was all the rage. The kittens had only acquired their 145 IQs a decade earlier as Gandalf granted them the power when he lost a bet with this sentient cat he met in the Grey Havens. Remember, Gandalf like took off at the end and went on that boat to that place - Grey Havens. Anyway, so that's when the cat - kittens got sentient. Then Gandolf and all those dudes in middle Earth that aren't around anymore died in the first Hydrogen Peroxide war, but back then they just called it the Stingy War. Point is: kittens - smart as whips. And this was way back before they had revolvers or authentic Civil War muskets, so they had whips. Not smart whips. Like now-a-days. Like this time I went out and bought this smart whip and it would only be useful as a whip when I was on archaeological digs. K. So, Kittens. Under the ocean. On Earth. Way before all the other kitten stories I wrote that you can view in my submitte - K, so they are under the ocean and they call a meeting. Oh, wait, the reason they are under the ocean is because Gandalf said they could only live on passed all the gnomes and stuff if they kept quiet, so he like submerged them and gave them the ability to breath underwater and dig their lair. That's why they were way cool out in space. So, they elected a leader. His name was George Washington Kitten. He made things out of peanuts way before George Washington Carver, but that's another story. At the beginning of this story he was more interested in space. So, we will translate for the kittens the following that happened. All kitten voices should sound like cutey little bitty squeaking noises. "Space is where we need to be. For we are kittens and must hide from humanity. But if we were to leave this third planet from the sun, then we would be able to live free." All the kittens nodded and turned to each other and murmured things like "Yeah, that's sound advice". But when they murmured they were kittens so it sounded more like a little tiny door creaking. "We shall devote ourselves to creating a spaceship that will travel to the stars and find us a...eh, somewhat descent place to live. Not like super good. No planet made out of milk, if that's what you were thinking. Or some catnip jungle planet. No. I mean like a reasonable planet with reasonable parking. Like Maine. But none of that stupid accent stuff from Stephen King novels." The kittens in the audience just kinda looked at each other like "Whoa, he's stoned again." The "Whoa he's stoned again" face on a kitten is just basically their ears kinda moving a bit backwards. "Lee, the Constructor Guy will now admonish you with the plans!" Lee the Constructor Guy got up and approached the gazebo (it wasn't like a podium because this was way before American Presidents). "YOU WILL ALL FACE THE DEAD NOTHINGNESS OF SPACE WITH THE SPACESHIP I SHALL CREATE!" The President kitten took Lee the Constructor Guy aside and "Why are you telling everyone about the spaceship like it's a bad thing." "You...you said 'admonish' - that's like to warn someone. I didn't want you to look stupid." "I'm not stupid." Remember this is all in little oooncy woony kitten voices. "K, I'll... I'll be more aggressive." Lee said. "No, no. Don't be aggressive. Just tell them how great your spaceship plans are." "OK. Do I look stoned?" "What?" "K, so I'll go back up." Lee got back up to the gazebo. "Fellow kittens, I am Lee the Constructor Guy." The kittens all took their little bitty paws and slapped them together. The sound was like if you washed towels with a nerf ball. Try it. Do it now and then just come back and read the rest. No big thing. Not a lot is going to happen. This is an origins story. Lee the Constructor Guy then went into great detail about his spaceship. Which really bored the hell out of everyone. So, the kittens started slowly just walking out. Lee and the President were then left alone on the gazebo staring at each other like kittens do. You know, that totally whacked out on coffee stare stare? Like for no reason you're staring. Like you get stopped at a light and you get the stares and you're staring at this tree, but then you're like "I should stare at the light so I know when it's green." But you really just want to stare at the tree? Oh, plus you're on fire. All the time. Happens to me all the time. So, that's where we will end it and there are like....3 kitten stories out there that follow the kittens into the future, so take a look if you haven't already. Well, it's almost time for bed.

It starts off with 3 friends playing a random concert in front of a local thrift store. There is one guitarist, one bassist/singer, and a lengthy drummer who sits upon an unusually high set of drums. The bassist/singer has shaggy brown hair with bad posture and green eyes that would take your breathe away if you stared into them for to long. The guitarist was some random person who joins the bassist/singer and drummer whenever they felt like playing. He didn’t say much and he left when he felt like stopping which was usually after 45 minutes. After which they stopped playing too and walked into the thrift store. The thrift store is an old beat up but still presentable building with red painted brick splashed with cracks. It had 3 very large windows with 2 on the left side of the door, the door and 1 window to the right of the door. Painted on these windows were advertised clothing articles which they did not have and sales which did not exist. In the back of the store there was no wall because connected to the store was a Walmart. The Walmart though was the biggest building the little town had. Only containing 12 buildings in total with 3 rundown, 5 closed and 1 thrift store the town relied on the walmart for most of their everyday items. Although the whole town seemed to despise the Walmart’s entire being they seemed to spend most their days wondering the aisles cursing the old, but really new, building. The people who were employed by this, not so massive but could pass as a super Walmart, company seemed to enjoy their jobs, and lives, and did them quite well. The inside was the nicest, and newest, place around the little beat up old town. It contained all one would see inside a Walmart plus a little more for it was bigger than the average but smaller than a super Walmart. Some 2 years ago the bassist/singer was caught stealing a candy bar and headphones and went through a devilish process of paying a $200 fine which he procrastinated for months to pay causing the fine to increase, which he then continued to procrastinate on paying. After such events were handled he vowed to never steal anything again. The bassist/singer and drummer continue walking along their everyday path, since there wasn’t much to do in the town. The bassist/singer is pushing a cart with the drums inside while the drummer plays a blue ukulele which he bought from that same Walmart some odd number of weeks ago and is now almost a pro with it. They loiter around the store never touching anything or dreaming of things they can buy. They are merely pushing a cart with drums inside it and playing the ukulele until their stroll is interrupted by the sound of one of the ukulele string popping, ‘POP!’ They both stopped, look each other in the eyes and back at the ukulele then once again back at the eyes. The drummer begins to speak, “I have to use the restroom, I’ll find you.” That is all that is said between them before the drummer departs leaving the bassist/singer with the basket containing the drums. He continues walking for a mere 5 minutes passing along the clothing section of the store until his buddy, the drummer, returns with a box containing a brand new blue ukulele. He opens the box, knowing the bassist/singer had his little issue with Walmart, throws the empty box inside the basket now containing two items and says, “maybe I should’ve done this somewhere else.” But the deed was done and the bassist/singer just wanted to leave for he did not like the current situation. Heading along some low shelved aisles towards the break in the wall connecting the new with the thrift, there is a person who checks receipts standing some ways away. They walk a little faster towards the break but as they speed up he speeds up and almost at a jogging pace now they reach the end of the aisle with the person now standing in front of the break they make an immediate left heading now in the direction of the vegetables. The vegetables contained in this Walmart were farm fresh and locally grown so the signs posted around said, although the locals never knew where they were grown at. They always assumed the soil was to dry to be planting things for there were crack in the dirt, which was Mother Nature’s way of saying: “Hey, it is too dry.” Also most of the vegetables seemed to be unpronounceable by the typical customer and were things they had never laid eyes upon before, but they accepted it as farm fresh and locally grown. The bassist/singer looks in the basket realizing it contains 2 items, the drums and a ukulele box. Grabs the box and hurls it into the yellow squash beside them. Surrounded by people, not one gave any notice of the bassist/singer doing such a ghastly thing because it seemed no one in town liked yellow squash and there was no reason to have it there, but they did. Making a U-turn around a person in a wheel chair they head back towards the break in the wall. This time the employee wasn’t there which made them feel a little ridiculous but it was better to be safe than sorry. They exit and part ways but the bassist/singer looks back towards the drummer with the basket now containing drums and a ukulele. He then plants himself on the ground and watches as his friend walk away. As his friend is out of sight he continues to sit in the same spot looking in that direction then finally once more at the thrift store before heading home. The bassist/singer lives with only his mom which never seems to be home leaving the house empty as can be until he awakens it with his footsteps which echo loudly bouncing from wall to wall. But he does not enter his house yet. He stand outside a good distance away staring at this rundown building which fits perfectly with the town, if it were in town. The house sits a couple of miles, or maybe 3, east of town nearest the mountains with a dirt road leading to it and only it. The house is made of rotten looking wood with a solid coat of peeling red paint, same as the thrift store, and 3 windows with one facing him the other two in the back and a white door which although a bit dusty seemed to have recently been painted. The town was once a mining town where they had multiple tunnels running beneath most of the buildings all connecting to one entrance. The tunnels stretched for miles and miles and miles and some were only dead ends. A local legend floating around says that a particular tunnel leads into the mountains, which were a good 30 minutes by car, or truck, whichever one prefers, where they struck gold and diamonds but at the price of letting evil spirits out that took control of the miners minds and drove them to tear each other to bits. After such rumors were started the mining project was abandoned after they stripped the land baron of what they needed wanting to go no father than where the bassist/singer’s current house stands. In current time many kids and teenagers now dwell the empty tunnels for no apparent reason. He now walks towards his house only a couple steps away from the entrance the ground starts to rumble he assumes a sink hole will open up. In an instant he recalls his mother telling him: “If you find yourself in a situation where a sink hole opens beneath our house, RUN THE HELL AWAY!” So, following to his mother’s advice he booked it back towards his original spot. He arrives and looks at the house which has not sunk yet but the ground did not to finish rumbling. It then stops and all is silent until bigger cracks than ones which already surround the house form and spread rapidly creating a cross formation. He now stands at the edge of the enormous crack. So doing the right thing he takes multiple steps back and watches as his sanctuary fall into a hole. Three brave souls soon appear from the wreckage and climb out of the hole. They explained the situation to him that they were merely playing a prank by completely taking out all the pipes which lye beneath the house and did not know that it would cause such a thing to happen. He being nearly apathetic of the situation waves them off and tells them to beat it. So they do. He walks around the hole examining his entire life as it lays broken there. He breathes in deeply but chokes on the dust which has not settled around him. In an instant he sets out away from the thrift store towards the mountains and does not stop. THE END.

Monday Morning: eyes opened at 0800, lay in bed for a while; well time is an abstract notion. To me it seemed like 5 mins, to my loving yet misguided mom, it seemed like 43 mins. Now that I think about it, my mom might have been right. Sorry mom. Anyways got up and decided that today was going to be the day. The day where nothing happens; when everything will be the same level and intensity of mediocrity that is every other day. But deep inside I knew this to be bullshit. Deep inside I knew there to be nothing intense or even slightly interesting about mediocrity. Sorry. Today would be mediocre. Another coming of the massive fire ball suspended in mid space, seemingly indifferent yet the source of everything in my known universe signifying the time had come for organisms to wake up and produce, create, recreate, kill, be born, be content, be miserable, be miserably content. All the while not giving two shits. Kind of like my father. I digress, lets get back to the point. 0843 Got out of bed and smiled outwardly and felt numb inside. The smile was not directed at anything or anyone In particular. Maybe it was meant for me. Maybe it was meant to fool me into thinking today would be THE DAY. Mom yells from downstairs asking me to get up and carry on with the shear act of existing. But how can I continue to exist in a world where everyone and no one seems to want to be someone, yet be distinguishable. Ahh Shit. I am out of toothpaste. Fuck it. Toothpaste is nothing but an unknown mixture of chemicals that we daily and vigorously scrub our teeth with. I am sure there is a study in some forgotten dark oak drawer in a remote village in Germany, where once an intellectual with white hair and round spectacles devoted some 30 years of his life to write a study on how the daily use of toothpaste is the undetected and rather sinister cause of tooth and big toe cancer, before the forces that be decided to snuff his existence. By ‘forces that be’ I mean the corporate agenda-unknown individuals, or monsters/angels, that are in charge of the toothpaste industry. But luckily the sole copy of the study survived, perhaps its only purpose to gather dust and help me justify not using toothpaste today. Either way job well done. Water will have to do. Besides now I can drink orange juice. I washed my face looked in the mirror, just an ordinary 20 something college drop out, who constantly has difficulty immersing himself in the reality of others, much preferring to create his own reality. Or maybe this is an excuse for me to not get out of bed. We shall never know. Although at this point I think we all know. 0900: Fighting an overwhelming urge to sleep again. But decided to go to the office. Ahh the office: a place where I am well respected and considered a hard worker. Even though if you ask me I don’t work hard certainly don’t work while hard. The term hard work is such a stupid phrase. ‘Are you working hard today` No I am working softly you dimwitted hallow machine of lifeless matter, you got a problem with that. But of course I don’t say that. I laugh outwardly and say something along the lines of ‘ya man I have got a pretty massive hard on and I am working so I guess you can say I am working hard’. He laughs shakes his head and moves on to tell the others what I just said. Moron. Everyone and everything around is just that; things. Some more expensive; Some old; Some New; Some ridden for years; Some who have done the riding; Some who have pretended to; Some virgins; Some shallow; Others Empty; Others still pretending to be Full while filled with nothing but bullshit. Deep shit I know. I am deep like that. And then there are others. Others who think that they know all the answers and are well apt to withstand any amount of scrutiny of even the most ignorant vultures. All the while knowing that there are no answers. And perhaps the knowledge of there being no answers is the sole answer that seems to follow them everywhere, like ones shadow always close by, when thought of finally being vanquished, all one has to do is flick open a light much like opening his eyes. And there is the shadow. Waiting, patiently biding, constantly reminding one of the great dark patch of nothingness that follows one around, much like the inside of the minds of the majority. O how ignorance is bliss. BULLSHIT. I am the most ignorant stupid fuck I know, and yet bliss is one thing I am not. But then again, when compared to these other monkeys that don’t even know how to walk naturally, I am pretty well informed. I mean think about it: The structure of our spine is not meant to be vertically erect (get your mind out of the gutter, I am trying to make a point here), but rather god and nature wanted us to move and on all fours, but in our ignorant defiance we decided to say Fuck it and stood up, kind of like a personification of a giant middle finger to the cosmos itself. Which makes standing up in Church all the more divinely comical. Shit its time for Lunch.

The scene: A real log cabin by a lake in Maine in the summer. A boy of 8 or 10 years named Joseph lies in his bed, falling asleep, while his mother and some others sit in the adjacent room watching TV. 48 hours or something is playing. The television explains how the police interrogated a young person for hours without a lawyer and got him to confess to a crime that he almost certainly did not commit. The television wants people to be angry at this clear abuse of power, and they are. Joseph's mother says something like this: "Can you imagine what would happen to Joseph if they questioned him? He'd talk in no time". The crowd assents. This is what the TV wants. It wants people to be angry but it doesn't care about what. Adults assume that they can withstand whatever the police could throw at them, so they would not get mad about run of the mill false confessions coerced by overzealous cops. Those people who give into police interrogations are pathetic, but children aren't pathetic they're just weak. They need to be protected from villains like the one on screen. So, the police stop flouting the constitutional rights of children, or not, and continue to do their best to ignore the constitutional rights of everyone else, and the viewers get their righteous anger, and the TV gets its ratings, and everybody wins. The boy understands the anger. but being a child, he doesn't think of children as being weak. He certainly doesn't think of himself as being weak. Who does? Is he weak? Is his mom's anger directed at him, because he is too weak. Well, if he was weak he will not be any more. At least not in that way. He will protect his secrets with his life. He will not tell anyone anything that could be incriminating. He's probably overcompensating, and he finds that this limits his conversational options, but at least no one will ever find out. It won't be long before the boy forgets why he is trying to hide things that no one is looking for, but he will do so anyway, because he wants his mom to see him as strong. Clearly this pattern of behavior is maladaptive, but he cannot possibly know this. In any case putting all future shy and closed off behavior on this one event is absurd. Many events shaped these behaviors. Nonetheless, these events did happen as described, and they did shape his life for the worse. Moral: 1) If you're angry be angry at the right people and try to make sure there's no collateral damage. 2) Try not to take things personally.

It’s dusk. Outside, I can see the sky burning a deep red above the wasteland. The slit they call a window is a good six feet above the cool stone beneath my feet. I’d be able to look straight out of it if I weren’t restricted by the chains. I’m sitting four feet away by an old steel bed, just thinking, watching the day’s light ebbing away. I wonder for a moment if I’ve made a mistake, that maybe it’s going to take longer than I have. The walls are three feet deep, judging by the window ledge. The door is solid iron, bolted from the outside, and there are long rusty chains binding both my legs to a bracket in the wall. Escaping seems nearly impossible. Nearly. Some people believe that anything is possible, given the right incentive. Let’s say a man is locked in a cage. He’s warm, he has water, maybe some food. That man’s in no hurry to leave. He figures he has some time to think about his next move. Now stop feeding that man. He gets a little worried, tries to think of a plan. He knows he needs to get out in the next few days, before his strength wanes. Then you take away his fluids. Now he knows he has to get out or he’ll die soon. He starts thinking of ‘when’ rather than ‘how’. Now, tell the man in the cage, who’s tired, starving and thirsty, that you are going to take the life of his wife and child. Even an ordinary man would start clawing and tearing at the walls with his bare hands. An ordinary man would possess the rage and power of ten men, and he would scream and kick and tear at those walls. An ordinary man would fight against those walls until he drew his last breath. An ordinary man. I have seen every type of prison ever designed. Pits, dungeons, water traps, cages. I’ve seen hundreds of them. From the inside. Now a man has put me in one so he can have my family. I know they won’t let him. I know they’ll fight him, and I know he’ll kill them. So I know I will get out. There is not even the slightest doubt in my mind. The question is how. I draw one final, calming breath, and begin. It’s nearly black in here now. A rat brushes over my toes and I smile in the blackness. If a rat can come in, I can get out. I pull the chains as far as they’ll go from the wall. They don’t budge, but that doesn’t surprise me. A man has more strength available to him than the strength of his arms. If I could use my legs against the chains I could loosen them up a little. If I could also put my whole body weight against them I’d be in business. I carefully wrap one of the long chains around the strongest steel bedpost. It’s not as strong as I’d like, but it’ll hold. Now the chain holding my right arm to the wall is no longer doing its job. It’s linking the wall to the bedpost and the bedpost to my arm. The bed is braced to the cold floor slabs and creaks only slightly as I climb onto it. Maybe it’s sturdier than I thought. I leap as high as the chains will allow and bring all 220lbs of my bodyweight smashing down onto the chain. My body is jarred with the collision, and a flash of pain shoots through my foot, along my spine and spears into the base of my skull. I lose my footing in the very same instant and crash awkwardly onto my back . For a moment all I see are bright purple lights, and I have to bite my bottom lip hard to make sure the world doesn’t swim away. The taste of blood feels good in my mouth, and I get back onto the bed. The chain is still very much attached to the wall, but there’s now a sliver of black between steel and stone. I leap even higher, and as I fall I kick downward with both feet, like a kid stomping in a puddle. Again, the shooting pain from the base of my feet. The chain gives a little this time, and I manage to steady myself against the wall. I just stand there, breathing in and out, swaying on the creaking chain. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my face, and I notice a single, solitary star, winking at me through the window grate. Time’s moving on Jack, back to work. The wall bracket has been hauled out maybe an inch now. I calculate three foot of wall, standard bolt of around a foot and a half. Seventeen inches to go. I wrap the chain around my right arm and use my left to grab the bracket. I take a deep breath, and lunge backward with all my might. Nothing. Not a creak. Screw you. I unwrap the chain from the bedpost. I run perpendicular to the bracket, hauling the chains behind me, like an ox ploughing the field. I nearly break my wrist when the chains reach the end of their slack, but I don’t feel any give in the chain. So I go the opposite way, running with the chain, and jolting the bracket to the right. Like working something side to side, but very slowly, with more purpose, more power. I go back to the bracket and try and jiggle it again. I’m about ready to try the bedpost again, when a tiny wedge of the stone wall closest the bracket chips off under the pressure. It wakes me from my trance, and I notice that my knuckles are bleeding from contact with the wall. Outside, the star has moved a quarter width of the window, and winks flirtatiously. I turn my attention back to the wall bracket. I wrap the chain around my arm twice, and pull with all my strength. At first there is nothing, but then steadily, like pulling something heavy from thick, deep mud, I feel the bracket grate against the wall, and it squeals out perhaps two further inches. This boosts my adrenaline levels and I place my foot against the wall, and I pull against that chain with everything I have. Sweat floods down my face, and my whole body burns with effort. The bracket holds for a few seconds then finally and reluctantly screeches out, and I crash onto my back on the hard floor. I lift my arms in front of my face as the heavy rod, bracket and length of chain fall on me. I am now a free man in a small room. For maybe four or five minutes, I lie on my back, the rod in my hands, just thinking, planning. There were two reasons for pulling the rod out of the wall rather than breaking the chains at the wrist. Number one was the timescale. It would take nearly double the time to release both wrists. Sure, I’m now trailing around ten feet of chain, but I’m mobile. Second reason was for this rod I have in my hands. Nothing in the whole cell is as strong as this eighteen inch piece of fat steel. Not the bedposts, not the chains, not the bars on the window, not the bolt on the door. Not even the door itself is as thick as this rod I now have in my hand, working with me instead of against me. I pull myself up onto my haunches, and glance one last time out the window. My lucky star has gone, but in its place are a dozen more, twinkling and smiling at me. I smile right back at them as I tighten my grip on that rod and I turn my back on those stars. My family need me, and I have work to do. Escaping had seemed nearly impossible. Nearly.

I guess you could say that my life started revolving around mental health in the fifth grade. And I think that's true, it's just that most of my family members have a mental illness. My first experience with suicide came in second grade, when a far off cousin took too many pain killers. Three years later my brother was diagnosed with all kinds of big words. In the sixth, he was hospitalized. That same year I was diagnosed as a capital F faker. My new found therapist decided that I was mimicking the emotions I heard my brother express, in order to get much needed attention. She even compared me to a monkey. "There was this experiment done, where they found that if one monkey does a cartwheel and is rewarded, all the other monkeys will try and do cartwheels." I understood that, but I just didn't think the slits in my wrist were comparable to cartwheels. . . Okay so this is my story so far. Please let me know what you think. I know it's really short but I'm new at this.

These Are My Friends Now I always hear that it’s supposed to get better but I know that won’t be until I go to college in a few years. So for now, my weekend nights are spent in the solitude of my room. The new phone that I got hasn’t ushered in an era of new text messages for me. My sense of loneliness has only increased due to visibility of the status updates about the parties going on and I check my phone all the time but there is never an invite. I just posted a joke in desperation, maybe which will get someone’s attention but I’m just grabbing at the dark. I skipped a song on Spotify when I saw the shadow of a person outside my room from the corner of my eye. I wasn’t expecting to see someone tonight, but maybe my parents came back early from their trip so I took off my headphones. Sounds of the cabinets opening and shifting came from the kitchen so I put down my laptop and got out of my bed. Even the mere interaction with my parents was much needed for me right now. “Mom? Dad?” I called out while walking down the dark hallway. The air was colder and the noises could still be heard but when I turned the corner into the lighted kitchen there was only silence. I must have just missed them and were already in their room. I followed the path that they would have taken to their room but I wasn’t hearing any noises of them. Once at their door I noticed that it was closed but I remembered seeing the door opened earlier. “I knocked on the door,” Can I come in?” There was no answer so I knocked again but there was still no response. I turned the knob of the door but for a moment it didn’t budge as if someone was on the other side holding it. “Dad,” I said again, “Can I come in?” The door knob finally turned in my hand and when I opened the door I expected to see my dad waiting to scare me, but the room was pitch black. The room let out a breath of icy air and I froze in place but I could feel each individual hair stand up from my skin. “Mom? Dad?” I said with my voice cracking. I wanted to walk into the room but every instinct refused to listen to my demands to enter. I took my phone out form my pocket and used the flashlight to brighten up the room but the light barely broke through the darkness. The light only lasted a few seconds before my phone shut off and I was staring into the pitch black room. I couldn’t break my stare with the room as if I had locked eyes with some predator but my feet began to back pedal on instinct. Two steps back and I heard the sound of children laughing. “Play?” A voice from the darkness said among the laughter. My heart stopped for a second but then went into overdrive, pumping excess amounts of adrenaline through my body and I shot my arm into the black room to pull closed the door. My grip on the door knob was strong but the door wouldn’t budge. “Come in,” the voice said, “Come in and play.” Both of my feet were planted deep in the carpet when I sent my other arm into the room as a final reinforcement to pull closed the door. Dread set in me as I felt the darkness surround me and the sight of my arms were disappearing into the darkness but I couldn’t stop my body from trying to force the door closed. From behind I could see the kitchen lights flickering and the cabinets were being opened as closed in a violent manner as I continued my struggle at the edge of the darkness. I lost feeling in my arms when the resistance on the door stopped and I slammed the door shut. The force of my pull caused me to end up on my ass and I heard the children laughing once again. Still on the ground, my body didn’t wait for me to get on my feet as I crawled backwards ways from the door. The lights in the kitchen stopped flickering and the noises stopped but that didn’t put me at ease. The house was still and I could hear each individual thud of my heard, but I could feel a menacing presence all around me. The hair on the back of my neck was trying to escape my body as I turned my back to my parent’s room. I could feel the hostile eyes of the predator stalking me from behind and it was ready to pounce on me at any second. Everything was telling me to run but I was just waiting for the signal. The kitchen light burnt out and I was chased back into my room. The door slammed behind me and I turned the lock. There was breathing on the other side of the door as I stood braced against it. I waited a few moments and then decided to lax my defense but as soon as I did something started hammering at the door. “Stop,” I cried as the banging continued but there was no stop to it. I stepped back knowing that the door would soon give way and I was ready to accept whatever would come through but I saw my silver cross necklace on the dresser. With the cross in hand I dropped to my knees in the center of the room. “God, help me,” I pleaded. With each hit on the door I held my eyes closed tighter, but then the hammering stopped. With open eyes I stared at my locked door still on my knees and I waited for anything to happen. I got up and put my ear to the door trying to make out any outside noise and stayed there for well over a minute when I heard slight scratches on my door. “Come out,” the voice whispered, “please.” The scratches increased and I backed away from the door but the menacing feeling was gone. My room felt safe as I sat on the bed but I never took my eyes away from the door. I would just have to wait it out in here until someone came to rescue me. The subtle sound of pacing outside my door was unnerving so I put my headphones back on to drown out the noise. My music wasn’t erasing the presence of whatever was outside so I raised the volume, but with every increase the outside sounds became louder. I started to sing along with the songs playing in my ears but the whispers never disappeared. The voices kept begging me to come outside. “Shut up,” I shouted as I threw my headphones against the wall. The voices didn’t stop and nothing was helping so I decided to just lie in bed until morning came. My walls were never touched with anything more than whispers and scratches but the rest of the house was being attacked with extreme hostility. “Get the fuck out here,” A deep voice vibrated throughout the house in frustration. In bed I closed my eyes and kept my hands clasped around my ears for what seemed like an eternity until the sounds just stopped. An hour of silence passed when Facebook alerted me to a new message. I jumped at my laptop for the chance to talk to someone. The message was from Haylee, a girl that I was somewhat familiar with at school. “Are you going to the party?” the message read. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I wrote back. Haylee started typing, “Why not?! You should come out and go with me.” “Alright, that sounds fun.” I replied and all the bad things that had happened earlier were cleared from my mind. “Yay, I sent the address to your phone,” she wrote, “Well I’m gonna get ready, I’ll see you there!” Before I could reply, Haylee went offline. This was the invite that I was waiting for all night but all the cheer in me died when I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I must have left the phone outside my parent’s room in my panic. All the voices in my head telling me to stay in my room were ignored because I needed to go to this party. This was what I was waiting for all those lonely nights and I would get that phone. Fully dressed, I put my ear on my door listening for any signs of movement but I heard nothing so I opened it. I peeked out the doorway and everything looked normal so I left the room with slow steps ready to retreat back inside at a moment’s notice. In the hallway I saw my phone in front of my parent’s room and the light was blinking telling me that I had a message. I was halfway to my phone when I heard my door slam shut. My mission wasn’t done yet so I ran for my phone instead of running back to my room. Darkness started to enshroud me with the phone in my hand but I kept moving, sprinting to my room. I slammed against my door as I tried to open it but no amount of force would make it budge. This time the laughter I heard was not that of children but a deep raspy one as I kept pounding on the door. With each passing moment that I stood outside my locked door I saw my house being enveloped by a wall of black. I reached around my neck for the cross but I took it off when I changed clothes and didn’t put it back on. The darkness was close to me now so I abandoned my post at my door and ran into the adjacent bathroom. I turned the lights on and locked the door behind me, and waited against the door for whatever was coming for me. Nothing slammed against the door this time though and it seemed like nothing would so I took a seat on the nearby edge of the bathtub. I dialed the number of my dad’s phone but shifted my attention to the movement that I saw from the corner of my eye. My head shot to the reflection in the mirror but what was staring back at me was not me. The copy of me smiled back at me with pitch black eyes as four light bulbs that lined the top of my mirror burnt out one by one. I fell back into the bathtub before the last light went out and closed the shower curtain to put something in between us. The last light bulb went out and I heard the steps of someone on the tile floor. I turned on the flashlight of my phone as the black hand was reaching through the shower curtain. My flashlight went out when the hand touched me and my body went numb from the cold touch. The hand moved up my body to my neck and my chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe anymore. I could hear my dad on the phone asking for me but I couldn’t speak and the phone cut off. My thoughts become hazy and I no longer had any control over my body. I was in complete darkness with exception for his black eyes that were shining as they stared into mine and then my mind went black. I was awoken by the violent shakes and shouts of my parents when they found me in the bathtub passed out. “What happened?” they asked me. “I must have slipped and hit my head.” I said relived to see their faces. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine,” I said as I hugged them tight and they gave me a suspicious look. They left the bathroom and my body stopped to look in the mirror. I made sure that every movement I made was my own before I left the bathroom. But as I watched myself walk out of the bathroom I stayed in the same place. At the doorway of the bathroom my body looked back at me and smiled with the same pitch black eyes. I yelled for my parents but no sound was being made and I tried to go after him but I was stopped by an invisible wall. My fists pounded against that translucent wall in anger and fear but I couldn’t break through. I turned around to see a vast nothingness filled with others like me that were shouting and fighting but made no sound. The closest ones to me tried to get my attention but their words didn’t reach me. I slumped down with my back against the wall defeated and accepting my new solitude. A girl my age next to me mouthed the words, “Help me,” as tears rolled down her face but there was nothing I could do. I was one of them. These would be my friends now.