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Allura 24

Here's a little something I wrote recently. I guess you could say it's my first short story, though I'm not sure it is in fact a short story at all. English is not my first language but I do love writing so I hope you enjoy it :) "Delight" Pretty as can be, strawberry face, her delicate features rest on cinnamon colored skin. Long black hair cascades down her right shoulder, unruly yet contained, like the Bosphorus, playfully wrapping around her nervous finger. She has a warm smile, and compassionate eyes, and she smells like old chicken, rotten eggs, wet dog, masked with patchouli. The first hour is insufferable, I feel the hairs inside my nose burn and my manners grow increasingly unforgiving. She takes notice, and quietly slips a mint in between her lips. I've offended her, just as she has me. With little success I attempt to understand this scent, try to find its sexappeal, its femininity, its primal merit. Ultimately I embrace it, as I suppose one should all things beyond one's control. I embrace her fragrance wholeheartedly, and without prejudice. I bask in it, I can taste it. I surrender to it and only then I find peace. I smile, and talk to her. She is, as us immigrants say without pun, fresh off the boat. Few months in, and already heading home. We talk about lands, and food, and people. She is young, I can tell by her looks, unscarred and radiant, but also by her demise. She is kind, and polite, and she smiles at everything. Our meals are served, and we remain comfortably silent. Nine hours later we are separated by a sea of people, and from a distance we smile and nod goodbye. This is a good omen. Enlightenment lays ahead.

     Despising the cocktail of cigarettes and fast food in his mouth, Randoulph put out his third cigarette of the night and pretended to watch another know-it-all become a millionaire. At this point he’s drowned out the pounding on his door. He knows who it is and what they want, and that he doesn’t have it because he spent it. Randoulph has long forgotten the fruitless efforts of his landlord and his thoughts have snowballed into a realization. Randoulph just realized that he’s leaving. Randy grabbed his keys, wallet, cell phone, pen, and notepad. Nearly running right into his fuming landlord he said, “Yeah, I got you on Thursday, don’t worry about.” He marched to his car, got in and drove to a gas station. The fuel was flowing and so were his thoughts, “Maybe I should let someone know.” he decided. Flipping through his phone he remembered why he decided to leave in the first place.      “Yeah, check please.” Randy requested from the waitress. It has been one week and he hasn’t settled down yet. At this point he’s feeling foolish thinking, “Yeah, right, like I’d actually just find some random town to fit my insatiable desire to be somewhere ‘different’ by driving aimlessly down the highway.” Turning back isn’t an option knowing the shit storm of unpaid debts and an angry chain of bosses. Randy did notice one thing. He can’t help but feel like he’s felt a tug, like a fish just took a nibble. He knows he’s onto something and doesn’t quite know what, he knows it starts with liberation and ends with content, and he knows that’s more than enough to keep going. The bell rings as the door swings open, and wanting to savor the taste of bacon, eggs, and pancakes he hesitates before lighting a cigarette. He settles in a quiet residential area with enough parked cars to avoid raising attention to his modest white sedan until morning.

Alec sat down at the old wooden bar and repeated to himself, “7959270, 7959270, 7959270” with an excited look in his eyes and an optimistic smile on his face. He was feeling different. Enlightened and spontaneous, even. These feelings were long forgotten to him. His wife had left him two years prior because he was unable to give her a child, and that had left him cold and callous. Since then, his entire life had revolved around a cycle of working, eating and sleeping. That, and drinking. His day to day cycle involved very little deep reflection or thought. Drinking seemed to be his only attempt at breaking free from his semi-conscious state. Drinking was his therapy. So much that he had become a regular at the run-down Ace Saloon located in his small town in Minnesota. But today… today was different. “Tomorrow is gonna be the best fucking day of my life”, he thought to himself. Alec felt in control of his life for the first time in years. “Two fingers of the same old, Martin. Oh, and an extra napkin please”, he told the elderly bartender who immediately tossed a fresh white napkin in front of him and proceeded to grab a bottle of Caol Ila 12 Year. Martin stopped himself before pouring a drink and asked “on the rocks this time, or neat, Alec?”. The way he took his scotch seemed to be the only changing variable in the mathematical process of his daily life. See, Alec enjoyed the smokiness of the Caol Ila 12 because it reminded him of a campfire. It made him nostalgic of a better time when he and his dad used to go camping and cook up some s’mores together. It had become his drink of choice, but he was always changing his mind about the way he preferred it to be served. Without responding to the question, Alec pulled out a pen from his front pocket and wrote “1-800-795-9270” on the white napkin in front of him. Martin stood in front of him patiently and thought about repeating his question in case Alec did not hear him the first time. Alec tucked it into his back pocket as he looked up at the bartender and finally replied “Oh, sorry Martin. But you know what? Fuck it. I’m gonna change it up and have a beer instead”. Martin looked confused at this request. Alec had been a regular for 2 years, coming in for a drink nearly every day and had never once ordered a beer at the run down bar. “Special occasion, sir?” asked Martin with a slight smile on his face. “Actually, I am not in the mood to get drunk tonight, Martin. I’ll just have one crisp, refreshing beer and be on my way. What do you have on tap?” replied Alec. “Alrighty then. Well, the kegs are all out but I have bottled Coors Light, Miller Light and Dos Equis” insisted Martin. Alec, not overly fond of the slim selection available but still optimistic, replied “well shit, I’ll have a Coors”. Martin set another white napkin on the wooden bar in front of Alec and placed his Coors Light right in the center. The condensation on the bottle stuck it to the napkin as Alec unflinchingly took a gentle swig of the light beer. He slowly finished the bottle and finally let out a deep sigh of relief as he placed the now empty bottle back on the table. He then set twenty dollars on the bar, nodded at Martin and made his way out the front door. Even though he considered Martin to be a friend, he was happy with the fact that he would never see him again. Alec had never noticed what a beautiful drive it was from the bar back to his apartment at night because he had never driven back sober. It was mid-winter and the entire landscape was blanketed with a six inch layer of powdery snow. The moon glistened in the distance and all of the stars were visible due to the lack of light pollution in the small town. He decided to stop his car on the side of the road and step out in order to soak it all in. There was a complete and almost eerie silence on this night. No cars on the road, no signs of life anywhere except the consistent beating of his own heart. Alec’s eyes began to water as he stood there in the brisk cold of the Sawtooth mountains. A tear finally escaped his eyelash, rolling down his face and freezing as it reached the bottom of his chin. He was overcome with emotion at the realization that he would never see the world like this again. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, exhaling a thick white cloud of steam. “Tomorrow is gonna be the best goddamn day of my life” he thought to himself again once he regained his composure. After a few more minutes of serenity, he got back into his car and completed the drive home. He usually scuffed the snow off of his boots when he arrived at the door, but he did not care this time. He took off his jacket and boots and tossed them onto the floor after closing the door behind him. Alec then removed the napkin from his back pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. He reassuringly repeated “1-800-795-9270” out loud one last time before making his way into the bedroom. He went straight to bed thinking to himself once again, “tomorrow is gonna be the best day of my life”. This was the last time he would ever sleep in his bed again, and it had never felt this warm and comfortable to him before. His bottle of Ambien was on his bedside table as usual, but he did not need it tonight. He rested his eyes and slowly drifted into a deep sleep.

Bi-Partisan Urn-ings By: mockyovelli “If a plane crashes directly in all four states of the Four Corners, where do they bury the survivors?” Barack asked with bulging red eyes in an eccentric, cocaine fueled frenzy. George W was riding shotgun, holding an urn, and looking blankly out at the desert without responding. “Yo Geo, what the fuck?!!” Barack screamed as he snorted another long line off the dashboard, “WHERE DO THEY BURY THE FUCKING SURVIVORS??!!!” George still didn’t respond so Barack tapped his shoulder and handed him the eight-ball of pure Colombian blow. George—almost out of habit—grabbed the bag and snorted a large amount directly from it; twice. He snuffed, and choked, and sneezed, and smacked his knees and then smiled, “YOU DON’T BURY GODDAMNED SURVIVORS, amigo!” he said excitedly. “Ha! Geo! You’re back!” Barack said as he lit a Newport cigarette, “Where the hell were you? Southern Bum-fuck Utah ain’t that pretty. Unless you wanna re-route to Lake Powell and get a houseboat and some whores on the ‘company credit card’.” He winked. “You socialist rat bastard! You and your handouts!” George said jokingly. “You evil mother fucking rich white guys! Cutting taxes for yourselves!” Barack quickly shot back. They laughed for a little, like villains. Then George spoke with more seriousness, “Hey B, I’m having a second thought on this plan of ours—” Barack cut him off, “Second thoughts on our master plan from a fucking redneck? HAH! For reals? What’s the point of second thoughts Colonel Sanders?” “Listen here partner, I ain’t talking about second thoughts, I’m just saying I have a second thought.” He was serious. Barack lit another Newport cigarette with the end of the original Newport, something the media had failed to capture. The cigarette eased his cocaine-crazed mind as he considered the plan. He looked over at the urn in George’s lap. Two acronyms scrawled in blood on opposing sides read as: ‘P.A.’ and ‘N.D.A.A.’ The sight of the urn—in conjunction with the 6 grams they had inhaled in the last hour—brought him back to a center of balance with his Ego. “How could this get ANY better?” Barack said politically, like an asshole with a smile. “You’re right you damned son of a bitch! That was the yayo speaking. This planny here is flawless,” George said smiling, like a child obeying his father’s orders. Years earlier the two men had targeted the same enemy, and successfully burnt this adversary to a cinder. But like all great psycho’s, they took their time. They each spent 8 consecutive years poking, taunting, and barricading their victims. George did his 8 first and then Barack did his 8. They slowly filled the urn with ashes of their victims over a 16 year period. They had—not so cleverly—worked from opposing sides to accomplish the same goal: destroy the enemy. The one thing the two men truly shared in common was how both of their 8’s turned them greyer than the ashes of their victims. They both thought deep-ishly in the car as they listened to dub-step at full volume in Barack’s 4x4 Ford F450, somewhere on the outskirts of Southeastern Utah. Barack sat chain smoking Newport cigarettes, speeding, and jerking at the steering wheel. George packed large amounts of long-cut wintergreen dip while watching and laughing hysterically at a YouTube video entitled: “The Bush Family: Reptilian Secrets.” At some point both of them found another commonality as they began singing in unison and perfect harmony with every lyric of the dub-step song, with the occasional bouncing of the urn on George’s lap to all the bass drops. Later, after another long line of white-lady luck, Barack peppered down the volume of the absurdly loud drum and bass song: “WOOOOO-WEEEEEE Geo!” he said joyously, “When I first pictured what Mitt Romney’s Polygamist compound down in these mother fucking boonies would look like…I’ll be honest wit ya…I really did think he was caging up 14 year old tender!” George spit some dip, “I told ya fucker! Those 17 year old illegal aliens he’s got up there…they fuck like garbanzo beans drenched in hab-a-ner-o sauce!” “My nigga!” Barack said pounding the fist of George. Linda and Michelle—George and Barack's’ ball and chains—were back at a giant mansion in the Hampton's sharing a two-sided vibrating dildo shaped like the U.S. Capital Building. They knew nothing of this “trip” and were stimulated with any outcome. “Which senorita did you find the most HOPE in?” George asked giggling. “Uhh, ladies and gentleman, if you would, uhhh, it has come to my attention, uhhh, that Senorita Izabel, uhhh, sucks, uhhh, quite well, uhh, if not the best, uhhh…chimichanga, this side of the Prime Meridian,” he said mocking his fake speech delivery style used in the public eye, “Thank You!” he said with a gestured bow. George clapped and laughed. Then he jolted out of his seat: “Yeehaw!” he screamed clambering his hands about. “What did you find a hemorrhoid, homeboy?” Barack said sarcastically. “NAWWW! We forgot about that Mexican mescaline that Mitt gave us…I think it was from where he was born. Pull over boy! They’re in the backseat!” George screamed in utter excitement. “FOOL! We ain’t stoppin’ this bitch! Climb your red ass back there, we gotta’ keep moving. Dick is going to have our asses if we’re late. And the other one: she’ll eat us with her snatch whole. I ain’t fucksin’ around here Geo, we gotta’ boogie.” “Goddamned you’re right! If were late Dick will shoot us in another one of those hunting accidents. Fuck that jazz!” George said putting the urn between Barack’s legs as he climbed towards the back. Halfway back he stopped and turned: “Yo B, you wanna road soda?” “Do you have any more of those camo-can tallboys?” Barack asked. “Do you even have to ask?” “My nigga!” he said giving a fist pound in the rearview mirror, “Jay-Z better watch his mother fucking back, you my new bestie Geo, you’re who I wanna fuck’s with…if you know what I mean!” George cracked Barack a tallboy and passed it forward, “Be Obamacare-ful there ace.” Barack lit a cigarette and drank some of the beer with a cold look on his face that George did not see as he was grabbing the bag of mescaline tablets. George climbed back over the center console into his seat, cracked his tallboy, swallowed his long-cut wintergreen, popped a mescaline tablet with a crank of his brew, put the urn back in his lap, and handed another tablet over to Barack, who had cooled down a bit. “Thank you, uhhh, kind citizen,” Barack said regaining his facetious outlook. “I’ll tell you what com-pawd-dre,” George said like an idiot, “that National Defense Authorization Act makes the Patriot Act look like the fuggin’ Wright Brothers plane flying next to Air Force One. Wazhoo! The way you slid that sonafabitch through in the middle of the night—all raw dog style…reminds me of college,” he continued losing track of what he was saying, as was typical, “Anyhow, passing it through in the middle of the night on New Year’s Eve, hell cowboy, that was genius. I was so wasted on whiskey I didn’t even hear of the im-plee-men-tashion until noon the next day. Drank like 45 quarts of that coconut water. You’re alright B.” “Shiiiiiit, Michelle had to remind what had happened. Ya boy was fucked up! And the goddamn State of the Union—it’s like talking to a room full of glass houses with dead roses inside. Fucking teleprompter hurts my eyes, I feel you on the squinting. I had to drop acid on the last one for stimulation,” Barack said smiling. They continued driving way over the speed limit, listening to dub-step, drinking camo can tallboys, mescaline inside them on the rise, and somewhere about 50 miles from their destination. The Hills Had Eyes. Then they reminisced about the time they went to “Coachella” wearing Richard Nixon masks and army fatigues, each snorting 5 grams of Ketamine in the process. Some 20 minutes later both of their iPhones exploded with the same text message simultaneously. Barack’s message tone was Waylon Jennings. George’s message tone was Lil’ Wayne. They both pulled out their phones with slippery mescaline hands; it was urgent: >From: Dick >You have 10 minutes before Hill calls it off. >Bolt here, Usain. Lol. Barack raised their speed from 85mph to 103mph within seconds, wielding a smile and of course more coke. George giggled like a woman running with a pierced clitoris. Although it was life or death for these two: they still fucked around the entire time. The desolate highway was but two lanes through an ugly ass desert. But they didn’t care because they were on top of the world. Some minutes later they spotted a car in front of them with 5 miles to go. It was a Silver Prius with an Al Gore election sticker of the back left bumper, and one of those “coexist” stickers on the other. “If there’s one thing I hate about the people who voted for me,” Barack said speeding up towards the car, “it’s how fucking slow they drive! We refuse to co-exist!!!” he screamed rear ending the Al Gore sticker and running the Prius off the road and into a couple barrel rolls. “Such an inconvenient truth,” he said with no emotion, “Fuck Al Gore, seen that mother fucker rocking a doper Range Rover than me. Glad you guys cheated that election…Gore would have taken away the internet until he got the rights to inventing it.” “Last time I seen that sonafabitch he was syphoning gas out of the Secret Service limo. So I smacked him across the face with my pinky ring. Let’s just say el partner-ino, that he’s been hiding in all his energy sucking mansions ever since. The Green Movement, yeah tell that shit to my boy Willie Nelson,” George said sounding rather smart. It was however, a note in his iPhone he had spent weeks writing and months memorizing for the perfect situation. They continued at 110 mph, 3 miles to go. Neither of them spoke of the highly tangible mescaline effects. . .

This is a short story that I've slowly been working on for some time. I understand there are grammar and other issues. I would love to have some feedback though. - It is 8:47 AM. Gary feels the cool ocean breeze on his face as he looks out into the horizon. Looking up into the sky, he can see the bright streak of light of what is to come. To think that it was only a year ago that they had found out what was going to be happening. On any normal day, Gary would be working. He loved his job, working in the lab attempting to find a weakness in today’s most deadly diseases. Gary’s job no longer matters anymore. If there was some way to ensure the work he loved so much would be preserved, Gary would have made it his duty to preserve as much of humanities knowledge as possible. A year ago, the world’s leading space agencies had found an asteroid headed straight for Earth. Humanity had made this discovery far too late to be able to circumvent any disaster. After the announcement was made by the world’s governments, people were in disbelief. People had continued to do their jobs, go shopping for food, cleaning bathrooms, and repairing cars. That is all the people knew to do; what they had been doing for years prior to the announcement. What else were we to do in the meantime? There was no rioting any time after the announcement was made. Crime rates had dropped dramatically as well. Churches were empty on Sundays; the individuals preferred to be with friends and family at home. This is perhaps the most peaceful time that mankind has ever seen, facing its demise. The asteroid is large enough to kill all life on land. Gary remembers doing as much research as he could about the incoming rock. The asteroid is moving fast enough to vaporize any water in the immediate area of the impact and create a wave of intense heat. The heat will be hot enough to kill any land animals in an instant. On top of this, it will liquefy the Earth for miles around the impact site. “It is such a beautiful day today.” Gary said while taking in the early morning breeze from the ocean. “Indeed, it is a wonderful day. I wonder what will be left behind of us for future archaeologists to find.” A stranger on the beach replied. Gary looked over and nodded, pondering the possibilities myself. *Gary wonders how long it will be before the bones of mankind will be found, if there are any bones left to be found.* “I suspect that it might be some time before life on Earth has a chance at flourishing again.” The stranger said, continuing from his last statement. “These are our last hours here on Earth, why aren’t you back home with family?” Gary asked the stranger. “I have no family. I have no brother or sisters, and my parents died a few years ago.” Replied the stranger. The stranger had a glimmer in his eyes, and a sullen look upon his face. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Gary quickly replied, noticing the quick change in the stranger’s appearance. “To think that everything we know, everyone we love, and all of our creations will be gone. Nobody will be able to look at the Eiffel Tower again, nobody will be able to read a novel written by a famous writer, and nobody will be able to look at the beauty that is the Starry Night. Such a sad day it is, that given all of mankind’s great wonders, that we are not able to stop our own end.” The stranger said, looking into the sky. They had glanced at each other for a moment, then back at the asteroid that can be seen in the sky. The time is growing near, as each minute, the asteroid is moving ever closer. All of the greatest achievements by mankind, and not one of them can stop what is coming at them, moving at a quick 100 kilometers per second. This is the fastest asteroid humans have discovered. “Do you ever think about what will happen after the impact?” The man asks. “I am not entirely sure what you mean. I guess after humans die off, after the dust has settled, other organisms can flourish. Ninety-nine percent of land life on Earth will be dead after the impact. Aquatic life will be disturbed, but since this asteroid is going to hit land, most aquatic life will be fine. Many of the top feeding marine life will surely parish though.” Gary replied, scratching his head. “Well, here in a few moments, the universe may no longer be able to observe itself. It will no longer know what love is, what hate is, what hunger, or what pain is. It will lose an important piece of itself today. We are a way for the universe to see itself.” The man says softly. That is quite a profound statement. Gary had never really thought of it in such a way before this moment. He will surely miss all the wonderful beauties that universe has to offer. Moments after the man had finished his sentence, a booming sound struck their ears. There was a great fireball in the sky now, racing towards the Earth. “Good luck, my friend.” Said the man as he shook his hand. A blinding flash came from the horizon, followed by a wave of unimaginable heat and force. Once again, life on Earth will be challenged. Little had Gary knew, the nations of the world had decided on a plan of action shortly after the initial discovery of the asteroid. The nations secretly built several colonies in the deepest depths of the ocean’s water, as well as a colony on the moon. These colonies were modular by design. The modular design allowed for easily sealing off dangerous parts of the colony. The main hub of the colony held the colony’s government, as well as the residents of the colony. Each colony had a similar layout, as well as the additions that were made after the colony was constructed. Each colony had common department names, such as biology, agriculture, medical, botany, and engineering bays. Within that year after initial discovery of the asteroid, they had completed the construction of the colonies, and had people living and working. Anybody outside of major government officials were never told that such a plan was in motion. Officials brought the top scientists, engineers, mathematicians, doctors, and other useful individuals down to the colonies. ”Ok, class, who has questions about today’s history documentary?” the professor said, disabling the video wall. The class stayed silent for a few moments, with each of the students looking at one another. “These events happened back in 2015. There are only a few people alive today that witnessed the actual event. Today, scientists have figured out some rather important findings about the event. Unfortunately, I am not able to share these findings just yet with you.” Professor Brooke said. There was a bit of mumbling in the back of the classroom about how primitive the technology was. “Ok, class, if there are no questions, you are all dismissed for the day. Enjoy the afternoon.” Professor Brooke stated while gathering her teaching materials. As the class packs up and begins to leave the room, a couple of the students are curious about what the discovery could have been. “Hey John, do you think if we can sneak over into the military section we will be able to find out what they found?” Robert said, while finishing to pack up the last of his things. John nodded his head, agreeing to sneak into the section. “This is incredibly alarming. I could only hope the information you have provided is wrong.” Colonel Rogers said, after reading details explaining the origins and purpose of the asteroid. “We should alert the other colonies of the pending attack.” An unknown man said. Two gunshots echoed through the halls of the military section. “Excuse me sir, we found these boys listening in on the briefing. Can you get the captain to prepare a statement for their parents?” A guard informed Colonel Rogers. “Ill inform the captain. Please take the bodies to the morgue.” Colonel Rogers responded.

Rain. The sound it made had always been pleasant to listen to in the comforts of his home, fond memories of warm blankets and endless cups of hot chocolate. Of afternoons smelling the fresh scent it brought to the suburbs. The squelching sound cars made as they drove by, disturbing puddles into waves of water. There was none of that here. Overhead the soaking branches blotted out the few stray bolts of lightning that flared by, casting dark shadows on the needle carpeted ground. The tarp overhead was threatening to collapse which would not really matter too much except to drive the last of his sanity into the darkness. There was no fire to cast warmth in the gloom or light to see by, only the occasional brilliant flash above in the roiling sea of clouds. Vacation? This was torture, plain and simple. The great outdoors they said. Get outside and connect with who you really are. It had all sounded like a good idea even as he had been browsing through the gear at the local sporting goods store. There is something about buying emergency equipment that is comforting even though we rarely give thought to what has to happen before we need to use it. The disaster must come to make this purchase worthwhile... yet it wont or so we tell ourselves. All that comes to mind is the sunshine, endless hours by the lake, the fine fishing, and the stories we will have to tell, hopefully without including being chased by hungry bears. Yet all had seemed well there in that well lit place of gear heads and big dreamers from the city. He had felt a little out of place if he was honest with himself, here he was, another office working slave, desk jockey, paper pusher, in a sea of tanned hides, sun bleached hair, and cut off synthetic shorts that promised to repel the needless swarms of mosquitoes. It had not mattered though as this was just another chapter in the big adventure book that is life. So with his wallet partially emptied and mind full of fancy ideas and powerful dreams, he had stepped out of the door and into the vast unknown. Packing had been easy, open bag, shove in things that looked useful, close bag. He, being ever the analytical type, had spend a few hours making a checklist, weighing the pros and cons of each item with his limited experience, and after a few revisions, adding it to the supply list or dumping it on the counter to be forgotten about or thrown in the car at the last minute with the thought of "why not". He had no experience with this but the guides he had read online had told him that "lighter was better" and that "You should be prepared for anything", two mantras which seemed to be directly at odds with each other unless you could make everything out of pure titanium which did not seem practical or cheap. Whatever, he knew how to make a fire, how to stay out of the rain and if all else failed cells phones seemed to work everywhere. What was the worst that could happen? This was the 21st century and mankind had conquered everything but death by beheading. The road up to the trail had been a long one, full of twists, turns, and the occasional pothole that should have sent his car into the alignment shop just at the sight of them. There were no other vehicles up here and truth be told that kind of excited him as the city with its endless hordes of people was apt to get on anyone's nerves after enough time. The parking lot, or pushed down patch of bushes that passed for it, was the start of the grand adventure. Our man got out, put on his boots, double checked his pack, and sifted through the random assortment of extra things he "might need" to see if anything worth taking had shown up. The pack was heavy enough and an extra flashlight did not seem to be necessary so he shouldered his burden, locked the car, and set out on a journey the tan people had told him would be the perfect end to the long hot summer. Four hours had passed. The trail had been steep and treacherous, with rocks trying to trip him every other step and the tall bushes hiding all manner of dangerous creatures. His supply of fruit gusher candies had only lasted the first hour and the straps from the bag of burden seemed to be committed to sawing him into three pieces. His water was getting very low and he had not yet seen a stream or lake to refill at. He had packed that filter right? Who knows he would find out when he arrived if that ever happened. If he did not die of starvation, snakebite, bear mauling, or sucked dry by the swarms of mosquitoes first. How had he failed to foresee that? The greedy, whining, blood sucking, creatures were everywhere and he failed to see once again their purpose on earth other than to drive every blood carrying creature to its grave through simple removal of their sanity. The bug spray tasted like death itself and smelled as if the janitor had dumped the bathroom sanitizer down his shirt. It did seem to help though and after a few hours he would have eaten it if the results were any more promising that what was advertised on the label. Up. And up, and up, the trail in all its dirt covered, loose gravel filled glory always seemed to go up without end it made you mad just thinking about it put your head down, breath, watch the ground go by never catch your breath why wont you stop going up? It seemed as undeniable as the fact that he was indeed getting sunburnt as he had taken of his shirt within the first 5 minutes to relive the river of sweat shooting down his spinal cord, soaking him through. The man at the store had promised him that the pack offered extra "breathability", which apparently meant that 1% more sweat would evaporate as opposed to having a tarp wrapped around you inside of a sauna. One boot hit the ground and then the other, various pains shooting up in every place imaginable, feet, straps, bugs, burns, dirt in the eyes, the man was by all definitions, in a state of uncomfortable duress. Life has a way of apologizing for the crap it throws at us, or that we put ourselves through for one reason or another. As he crested the hill in front of the him, the third false summit disappearing behind, the world opened before his eyes. From one end of the horizon to the other, in uninterrupted beauty, lay what seemed the entire world. Mountains and valleys, lush and filled with green, cut through by winding rivers that cascaded down their slopes to end up in the cool blue stillness of an alpine lake. The breeze coming up the slope in front of him was worth a kings ransom and the powerful rays of the sun no longer seemed to effect him in the slightest. The view was staggering and for a moment, all the pain of the trail itself was forgotten in the shear enjoyment of that moment, the first sight of mountains. He stood there for a long moment, soaking it all in, knowing that this was a sight few people ever get the privilege to see other than on the back of postcards they feel obligated to send their family when on vacation in a subconscious need to make them feel jealous. Reality set in soon afterwards, chasing natures apology letter with more scorn and derision as our human settled his pack on his shoulders once again and resumed the trek into the unknown. The view was still there, the sun beating down as it slowly made its way towards the horizon. Camp was a long way off, he didn't exactly know where, but the top of a ridge seemed like a bad place to spend the night. There were a few clouds forming on the peaks across a few valleys, the ominous front slowly marching towards him. The weather forecast had promised that the skies were going to be clear the entire weekend but the promises of the media suits and the will of nature go at odds more often than a greedy, whining child and a divorced parent in a toy store. He figured he had gone about nine miles by this point but had no real way of knowing. He had not foreseen the need for maps as the trails were supposed to be clearly marked and reading them would probably not have helped his cause anyway. Guesswork was as good as it was going to get and he tried not to overestimate his progress but he had been outside for a long time. The trail swooped down into the valley, the tall sentinel pines stopping all hints of the wonderful breeze that had graced him atop the ridge yet mercifully blocking out the rays of the setting sun. Time was slowly passing as he descended on tired feet, the sound of a river in the distance beginning to register in his ears. Off down the slope a bush shook furiously, releasing a small buck from its tangled mass to go bounding down the hill, white tail symbolizing the danger our traveler presented. He smiled at that, thinking that he of all people, a sallow excuse for a human being was somehow on top of the food chain. At least until he remembered the bears. Perhaps he was not as mighty as the whitetail assumed. If only the bears thought the same way, the woods would become a much less spokey place. Dusk had arrived as had the river, a twenty foot current of frothing water, ice cold, that promised life for all those who lived near it. Our office worker decided to make camp here where the water was plentiful as the sun was not making its way through the trees anymore and the chirping of the crikets was growing louder. A tarp and a sleeping bag had seemed like the lightest sleeping equipment that would keep him dry and he was not worried as the chance of rain was low tonight but he set it up anyway. A small fire and a can of soup became dinner, washed down with some hot chocolate and a few cookies he had stashed away as a treat. He sat and waited for night to fall, tired and sore from the trek, the sound of the river in his ears, the evening dusk holding many unknowns beyond the dim circle of light cast by his meager fire. It had been a long day, and as the night approached he though back over all that had happened as was grateful for it. Sure he felt like he had met a semi on the highway in the wrong lane but the views made it worth it and the solitude was delicious. Sleep was as distant as a winters snow, a few stars poked through the branches above, and some of the more desperate mosquitoes insisted on claiming a midnight snack. The ground as it turns out is not the most comfortable of beds especially when compared to his adjustable foam mattress back at home. There always seemed to be a rock resting on one of his ribs or a sharp stick seeking out a bit of skin. Yes, this was the life indeed, to lie tired and restless on the cold, hard, earth, enjoying the embrace of mother nature. He wondered as he had for not the first time that night, whether bears were nocturnal or not. Did fire really keep them away? Should he keep it burning the entire night? That would have involved getting up many times during the night he thought, not that it mattered as sleep was apparently reserved for those who had four walls and roof above their heads or a ready supply of ambien. Then it began. It was light at first. Just a gentle pattering in the dust around him. A prattle of sound on the tarp above his head. He awoke from his light sleep, found his headlamp and sighed. The greedy child had gotten his toy. The fire was nothing more than a few smoldering coals and he had nothing light to put in it on hand in an attempt to start it again. He stood to go get more wood when the skies themselves opened up above him. The entire cloud it seemed was eager to smash him out of his hole, wash him into the river and drown his memory from the mountain. The deluge was as ferocious as a waterfall, soaking the ground in moments. The trees did nothing but collect the water, making the droplets larger, then sending them smashing into the ground, spraying bits of mud everywhere. His campsite was soon host to a network of small canals like a lake behind a burst dam exploring all the lands it had so long been denied visiting. He stood, lost, unable to make a decision about where to go next. Stand here and hope it passes? Move out and get soaked and freeze to death? There were no good answers and that rain poncho he had seen at the sporting goods store suddenly seemed to be worth far more than the $40.00 they had been asking for. He was beginning to question the entire experience itself, the "adventure", the journey, whatever you wanted to call it, was there any wonder mankind had moved itself to the city!? This was life before we realized how to stack bricks and harness the power of electricity! To think that people did this for fun... and on their days off of work no less. The whole outdoors thing was making less sense by the minute, the idea of spending time destroying your body on the trail just to stand, partially soaked and freezing for an entire night. Existence was painful, and the wonder of nature was completely lost on our weary traveler. Twenty minutes passed. Perhaps it was thirty, maybe like someone lost in solitary confinement time had ceased to be without meaning and the night itself had flown before him with the sun to rise and break the rain at any... did it matter? It was raining and he was wet, tired, and getting cold. The rain had not stopped, endless sheets of it still pelted down where he stood, in his makeshift tent. He had to do something. Corporate was always telling him to "make it work" even if he did not have a clue how. Fine, he thought, its time to move on. He shouldered his pack, wrapped the tarp around himself, and began to slog through the mud, his headlamp barely piercing the curtains of water and darkness around him. Time moved, It had to as he was still moving. He did not really understand much at that point as his body had reverted into a survival pattern to "move left foot, don't fall, move right foot". He had a phone somewhere he could have checked the time on but taking it out would have risked ruining it and he would have to remove his tarp which he could not afford to do. One foot hit the ground in front of the other and the thought slowly crossed his mind that not all was ill with the world. He was tired but warm, he had food to eat and water to drink, and he was still in one piece. The air was humid but chilly, the rain had let up for the most part but was still enough to require being covered. It was peaceful in a way, with nothing to do but simply walk. As the miles passed in thoughtless, tired silence, the quiet of a new dawn slowly stole over the world, its promises of a renewed life brilliant on the horizon.

“TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?” The Tell-Tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe “They say I’m stupid and crazy… That’s not true… I might be no genius but I’m not stupid nor am I crazy. My mother told me that. She’s told a whole lot of other things and I believe her, always have… and always will… She told me that when I was a boy… I’m a man now and she’s dead. But still I believe her… They say I’m ugly. Well that part is true… They say: I have the devil’s eyes and a donkey’s lips… My mother used to tell me that I have a face that only a mother could love… I knew she wanted to be nice to me. See? I’m not stupid. I know she meant I was ugly. I’m not stupid” “Why are you telling me this? Does it have something to do with what happened last week?” “Of course it does; otherwise why would I tell you that… Do you think I’m crazy?” “No. Please carry on.” “So when I was a boy, they always picked on me. “Donkey lips” they’d call me! My mother told me they were jealous. But why would they be? We were poor, I was ugly and I wasn’t good at school. I’m not stupid… they couldn’t be jealous… I knew she wanted to be nice to me. Since then, I figured out why they didn’t like me. They are mean and evil… That’s what they are.” “Who are you talking about? Who are they?” “You are they… the whole lot of you… Vile, bad, vicious you… You hate me because I’m ugly… Well that’s not my fault… nor is it my mother’s. She tried her best and she was good to me, not like them! She used to read me stories from an old book, written by two brothers… What was their name? Hum… Grimm, yeah, that’s it! But their stories were just the opposite, especially the one where a frog turns into a prince when a princess kisses it. My mother told me: The day a princess kisses me, I will become a handsome guy. At first I didn’t believe her and even if it were true, no one would kiss me, they hate me… they all do. But I’ve always believed my mother and sometimes I believed in her story and then once, I was watching TV and I saw it with my own eyes. My mother was right…. I said to myself: you’ve got to find a princess as soon as you can, so that she’d kiss you and you’ll become handsome and they won’t hate you anymore. I don’t like being with them, other people, but I needed money. So I started working at the factory and when I told them I was looking for a princess, they told me there was one in downtown in Gared Ope Avenue and they were grinning…” “Wow! Slow down… So you went there last week, on Monday?” “Yeah… Pretty nasty place. There was trash all over the place and people were yelling and swearing and girls in weird clothes were standing on the porches. Nasty place I tell you. I said to myself: There can’t be a princess here. But I asked around, and they pointed out a black girl standing on a porch, like the other girls. She was wearing a crown, all right, and a white gown. It was short though and I didn’t know princesses could be black so I went and asked her and she said: “The hell I am!” so I believed her and wanted her to…” “Calm down, no rush. Do you want some water?” “No! Stop interrupting me! I’m really tired of you interrupting me, that drives me mad and you shouldn’t drive me mad, things happen when I’m mad… bad things!” “Ok. I won’t do it anymore. You wanted her to kiss you? Is that right?” “Yeah. I wanted her to kiss me and make me handsome but she said: “It’s usually 50 bucks but for you it’s 60 and I ain’t doing no kissing!” I did not understand at first, so I gave her the money and followed her into a corridor and up to the 2nd floor. She made me wash my hands and started undressing… That was mean and offensive. My mother told me it was rude to be naked in front of people. Hers obviously forgot to tell her that. So I told her to stop but she started laughing. She laughed loud and said I was retarded and that got me mad… Yes it did!” “So you hit her, didn’t you?” “Yes, I wanted her to stop, but she was laughing again… I hit here in the head and she tumbled down and started crying. I didn’t want to hurt her. She got me mad and that’s what happens when I’m mad.” “What happened after that?” “I don’t know. Someone hit me from behind… Cowards… I just wanted her to kiss me and when I woke up, my head was aching, the place was messy and I was missing my wallet. Princess was lying on the ground and her crown was torn apart. At first I thought she was just asleep but when I tried to kiss her, she wasn’t breathing, just like my mother the day she died. So I called for help and they called the police and the police took me and they told me I killed her… I did not kill her. I just wanted her to kiss me, but she was laughing at me.

I couldn't handle sitting at home. All there was to do was sit and think about the girl I had just lost. I decided to head back to the University earlier than planned without telling my parents. I packed all day by myself. As I was ready to leave in the driveway, my dad came home. I told him I was going back to school. He told me to drive carefully. He's a cool guy. It's my mom I dislike. I drive the hour to school. I pick up my parking pass. I pull into the parking deck and lose it. I'm crying like a little girl. All the memories of driving into this parking deck after hanging out with my girlfriend numerous times over the last semester came back. I've suffered from social anxiety my whole life. This girl was the first time I've ever been close to another human being. And she was the greatest improvement to my life. She made me confident. I didn't care who saw me when walking from my door to the parking deck with my pajamas on. The walk of shame was always a walk of glory for me. Why did we break up? She told me she was planning on moving far away the next year. I took that to mean she was going to break up with me eventually, so I broke up with her first. If I do it, I wouldn't be hurt, right? WRONG. I just thought I'd get another girlfriend and be just as happy. Nope. I want that one. There was really nothing wrong with her. I couldn't ask for more in a girl. I wish I hadn't broken up with her. I needed to escape from this reality. I went downtown to her favorite bar. "What can I get you?" said the bartender. "Double shot of Jameson I replied". I sipped it while watching tv. I didn't feel anything. I ordered a beer. Still nothing. The bartender goes home and a male bartender replaces her. Being money conscious, I order well whiskey. Double shots of it at a time. After the second one, I ask for a third. He says "Another?" and I told him I why I was there. About my girlfriend. He tells me that he's had about 15 girlfriends and that I will find someone else and things will get better. That's what everyone tells me. No one understand that I didn't just lose my first girlfriend, I lost my only friend. I didn't know how alone I was before until I realized what having someone was like. After I down my third double shot of well whiskey, he pours me a 4th, tells me it's on him, and to sip it so I don't throw up. I never throw up because of liquor, but I listen. I stumble to the bathroom and when I come back he asks if I'm alright I say yea. He tells me to not drive home. I told him I live on campus (which literally touches downtown) and I'll walk if I have to. I'm feeling good now. I can't feel my face. I finish my whiskey and just sit there. There's other people in the bar, but I ignore them. I start fading out. The bartender tells me not to go to sleep. Every now and then I hear a "1point5volts, you ok?" I reply yes. Eventually I got up. I tripped over a couch and hit the floor. Next thing I know it's 2am, I'm back at the bar, and the bartender is trying to get me to tip him $18 on the receipt because he got me a cab home. I struggle to do the math to add that to the cost of my drinks. He tells me the answer. I'm escorted to the cab and he tells the driver where I live and that I'm a good guy just going through a rough time. The cab driver tells me the same story. I'll get over the girl. I get back to the dorms. I actually haven't been in my room yet. My 3 roommates are random. I don't know them. I left my keys in my car. I go to the desk and the desk assistant gets two RAs to escort me to my room. I meet one roommate, shake his hand, flop onto my bed and sleep. Epilogue: I had my wallet and car keys. I walked two miles back to downtown in a hungover state. My phone was still in the bar, which doesn't open until 4. So I just got my car and eventually went back and got my phone. Bartender was really cool. Less than $50 for a drunken night downtown and a cab ride home. Dude took care of me. The end! stay tuned for the sequel where I drive across the country to get out of this city because everything in this place reminds me of my ex and I can't concentrate on classes.

I was there when my parents told her. I watched them sit my sister down in the lounge room; I was peering around the wall. I already knew. There must have been some expression on their faces as they sat in a moment’s silence. Because she knew. She was only 10, but she knew. The silence turned into a minute, a time during which I saw many expressions: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knew. “Pogo,” Dad finally said, and, before he spoke another word, I watched her eyes widen and glisten with tears waiting to waterfall down those smooth cheeks. “He’s been in an accident.” That was all that needed to be said, the key to open the floodgates behind the shiny, blue eyes. Because she knew. *She’d gotten Pogo as a puppy, only three years beforehand. A birthday gift, a basket and a bow tie and a ribbon. Sure, it was clichéd, but she didn’t care. Neither did Pogo, the bouncing bundle of fluff, who on seeing his new companion had leapt clean out of the wicker and showered her with licks. I had been there too; I had seen the eyes widen with happiness, not sorrow; I had seen the cheeks grow red with excitement, not pain; I had seen bright smiles, not quivering lips. He was hers and she was his. He knew that. She knew that.* Mum got up and sat next to her, arm gently around her shoulder, drawing her in tight. Dad did the talking; Mum was comfort. “Is he going to be alright?” The words were slow spoken and shaking, because in only that short time, her mind had put everything together. They would have been happier if Pogo was going to be alright; they would not have made such a big deal about it all. She’d be with Pogo right now if all would be fine, stroking his fur, and whispering comfort into those floppy ears. They would have been at the vet. But they weren’t. She wasn’t. She knew. “I’m sorry, darling,” said Dad, as Mum squeezed just that little bit tighter. “What happened?” She didn’t really want to know. “There was a car.” She stood up quickly, letting out a gasp and a squeak of shock. I reeled back from the corner as she approached, running to her room. She passed me, and in the second’s eye contact I felt her burn. I had been listening in, watching. She knew. And her heart, I feel, broke that little bit more. I wasn’t there for her. But I’m not good at comfort, at caring, knowing what to do or say, or even whether to do or say anything at all. Mum does that. Mum and Dad. I looked around the corner again. Dad had joined Mum on the lounge. He had her in his arms. “She’ll be alright.” **I remember it all, running through my mind as I stand in front of her door. Do I knock? Do I open it? Do I walk away? I am lost in the moment, sent back, reliving the same feelings, the feelings that sunk into my heart as she walked past. The torture of the past. I hadn’t known what to do then. How could I know now? And so I stand in front of that door, silent and still, wanting to enter and wanting to run. She didn’t know. I had to tell her.** I followed her to her room. I was in the hallway when I heard the door slam shut, followed by the creaking metal of the old bed springs and the muffled scream into the pillow. Again. Again. I stood in front of the door. Over time the screams stopped, replaced by perhaps a more heart wrenching sound: sobbing. I reached forward with my hand, placing it onto the cold metal handle. It squeaked as I pushed down. “Go away!” I turn and leave. She didn’t need me. **She needs me now. She needs me and she doesn’t know it, doesn’t know why. I have to tell her. So many years have come and gone, but right now the memory is as clear as if it happened yesterday. The house has changed and the years have changed us, but it’s still the same. It’s still me standing at her door, wanting to run. But I have to stay.** **The handle doesn’t squeak; she doesn’t notice me until the door is wide open. She’s lying on her bed, laptop flipped up, studying ever so hard, writing her thesis. She looks at me.** **The demon returns, that dreadful silence. I stand there. She opens her mouth to speak but then she stops and her lips close softly. She has seen that look before, the look I do not know I am wearing. I guess it must always be the same look, no matter who gives it. The laptop closes and she sits up, turning on the side of the bed. Our eyes haven’t broken.** **Then it’s my turn to relive the past, as her still-smooth face goes through the very same list from all those years ago: confusion, worry, disbelief, sorrow, and pain. All in silence. Because she knows. Somehow she knows.** **I open my mouth to speak. I wish I did not have to. I wish that Dad and Mum were here to do it, here to say what has to be said. I do not want to be the one to open those floodgates, release the shimmering stream from those deeper, blue eyes. But I have to be.** **Dad’s not here anymore, and never again will Mum hold her close.** **So I do.

Years ago, I was a service truck technician in a large city in Texas, and I did mostly electronic in-home stuff- I always had a ladder rack, spools of wire, tool boxes- and I had a taste for unusual trucks as everyday drivers. I had a baby blue 1964 chevy C-10 fleet side that was my everyday driver, and it was nearly 100% original, 3 on the tree, straight 6, etc. My boss and good friend had a lowered 1983 silverado short wheel base, with small block 400- cool truck, very fast. There were others, I knew a few hot-rodders- But by far the coolest truck any one of us had was our mutual friend and drinking buddy, let's just call him "crazy Joe". Crazy Joe was an infantry veteran of at least one war, and the best, most clever auto mechanic and machinist i have possibly ever known- and impossibly drunk almost all of the time. He had a crazy eye that would look off across the room, and as hard as you tried- it was impossible to not look across the room to see if he was looking at you or something else. But Joe was a good friend, I wish I knew where he was now. Joe's truck was a 1960 chevy Apache, with a 1990's chevy step-side bed on the back, B&M ratchet shifter, positrack rear end, fuel cell, front end from i think a 78 or whatever the first year chevy parts would handle disc brakes and normal rotors, shift kit on a 3 speed auto, upgraded torque convertor, it was dualed-out, pretty much a custom hand wired dash, custom lights. On the dashboard was an array of lit, colored switches that controlled everything from the ignition and fuel pump to the stereo, amp, and lighting for the interior. There were at least 11 switches on the dash, about 5 of which were necessary to start the truck. Forget stealing it, I would have to walk you through starting it. It had a giant monster tachometer on the side of the column and it still had the original steering wheel, which was of course huge. Joe welded a handmade brush guard that looked like it would roll through a brick wall and stood taller than the hood- which was already tall on a '60 apache, and he made 4 inch tubular steel bumpers- with LEAD melted and poured in them. Yes I am saying the bumpers were mostly filled with lead. To keep the thing on the ground. He melted fishing weights in his garage- I did say crazy, right?- And it had a pro-built racing engine under the hood. Now Joe had a larger but fairly normal holley 4-barrel carb on it, but the engine was a special build, a canadian forged chevy 350 small block, with a 327 head on it- an old race motor build trick to get more compression. And I know, I was there when we pulled it, several times. It was ported, flowed, balanced, it had a cam, it was built like almost no one builds them. The story behind it was that the engine itself had originally been built by a race motor builder(and racer) of note, who died behind one just like it. And i have heard, worked on, and driven a few- never again like that one. The tach announced a 7,200 RPM red-line and Joe claimed it would go further. We guessed (conservatively) that it was throwing out a bit over 700 HP long before it hit 7 grand. It probably should have had a safety cage but it didn't. It easily did 14 second quarter mile runs, not even at full throttle. We were careful with it. With great power… It had absolutely no seat belts of any kind. Most of our trucks didn't. Trucks didn't have them until 1978, and we didn't add them. It was jet black and had no AC of any kind. None of us cared. It wasn't about that at all. One day as fate would have it, my beloved blue '64 C-10 sheered her crankshaft, making it impossible to mount the harmonic balancer/ main pulley back on the engine without a major rebuild. And as we were looking deeper into it, we discovered that that was going to be the last time she broke down before a full restore- there were about 6 grand worth of other things to fix, like serious frame issues, brake lines, steering, rust - it was too much. I was in a hurry, devastated, and truckless. We had to let her go, and we had lots of work to do. She ultimately went back to the shitty car lot where I first saw her. Crazy Joe had gotten himself a newer Chevy, a 1500 extended cab- with air conditioning. It was quite a bit more practical- and he had gotten a different job and needed a newer company vehicle, yada, yada- and the apache ended up basically parked. The engine still has basically no miles on it, and the thing has been hand tuned by a fucking mad scientist- and it's just sitting there. Joe had apparently ended up owing my boss- I think… and somehow the apache was parked at my bosses house the next morning. And the engine itself- belonged TO my boss, who had agreed to drop it into the apache for the sake of tire smoke and good times after the previous normal 350 in the apache had gone south and Joe was unable to come up with the capitol to replace it outright. We all loved the truck- and crazy Joe. And he was the one who brought it back to life from it's stay in a garage under a tarp for many, many years. And Gear heads are superstitious. This engine was literally a killer. We all knew it. It sat there a long time. Years. And I wanted it. And that week we got so busy- It just fell in my lap, we had work to do and we had to get there- and we were out of trucks. My boss threw me the keys. I was very good at my job and knew trucks, and how to take care of them- and that was that. The beast. That's what we called her. She weighed around 5,800 pounds. The truck ran like a top, never leaked a drop of oil- ever. Bump the key and running. You could light the tires at will, and they would just broil until you let it go. I never took it past about maybe 5900 RPMs. You could do over 60 in first gear. I drove her about 18 months. I got tickets you never even heard of, exhibition of acceleration, excessive tire noise. I didn't care. I was constantly pulled over for no seat belts, and giving the officer the lecture on the laws at the time on the side of the road. Often, they never even wrote the ticket- they just wanted to see it. Some even asked me to pop the hood. I raced a police car once. Light to light. Guess who won. I was still VERY careful in the beast, I can not say that enough. Or I wouldn't have had it ten minutes. The beast got 4 miles to the gallon, maybe. I could burn a tank in about 36 miles, if i wanted to. And there are advantages to having that much power in a large city- it would get out of it's own way and everything else's - almost instantly. Many parts of it were original, and it was quirky- but reliable. The original stomp-switch for the high beams was still in the floorboard, and completely shorted out like they always are. And once, It blew the exhaust headers off the sides of the engine block. We put them back on. No biggie. Probably the most fun I ever had in it was the night a buddy of mine asked me to "scare his girlfriend and her friend", in my truck. They had a short errand to run, like getting smokes or something, so we got in the beast and left. We had some normal conversation and were just chit chatting, and i drove right past the store, under the freeway, turned left and hit the access road and started to get on the freeway- As I am nonchalantly ratcheting the transmission into manual first gear i say "Smokes are a lot cheaper down the road". We get on the freeway, slowly. I'm in first, gently creeping past 40, 45… It's getting pretty loud. The last thing I heard was "this thing is really" I stand on the gas pedal, take first gear past 60 almost instantly, ratchet back on the shifter and wait til 70 on the huge half-moon speedometer on the dash… I let it go, the beast goes from 70 to just over 100 almost before i can settle the steering. (The steering at this point is incidentally, pretty much worthless) The needle is buried, i'm now watching the tach. Still standing on it. I take it straight past 5,500 RPM's, I ratchet back, pause to grip the wheel even harder, and drop it into third. The noise at this point is fucking staggering. I'm only looking FAR down the road ahead. No more gauges. On the last shift into 3rd, It came nearly off the ground but shifted perfectly and lunged straight forward- thank you, posi-track. And at this point it's hard to imagine that it had more- but it did. Much more. Steadily climbing. Pinned in our seats, and everyone was actually still having a good time at this point. Somewhere around 4,000 RPM's and i have no idea what speed, we hit a small bump in the road- and at that instant, the beast lost all power, all the electrical systems died- the christmas tree on the dashboard went black, and for about 2 full seconds- the only sound was wind. About 140 MPH worth of wind. I lift the shifter out of drive and drop it in neutral, and start to calmly reset switches on the dash, and back off the power usage that was running at that moment, in an attempt to figure out what had just happened. And nearly at the same instant- the girls both screamed. Loud. Blowing my ears. I don't dare hit the brakes, and i'm bracing the wheel with my knees. We have probably slowed to about 120 - 125, I have reset everything and it hits me to stomp the floor switch for the high beams a few times, in case it has shorted. Still screaming next to me. Maybe the third time i stomp it- the lights flicker and come back on. I quickly cut everything back on and start the engine, run up the revs a bit and drop it right back into 3rd. Then start letting it throttle down. I eased it back to a normal speed after a few seconds, and the screams trailed off. We had traveled quite far, and the ride back was probably 15 minutes in dead silence (and at normal speeds, well balanced engines are actually fairly quiet). Not a word was spoken, not again that night. But I was later told I may have gone too far. yeah... sorry about that... Eventually, the beast changed hands back to my boss and beyond and the next time i saw her someone had not been careful, and she was fairly badly wrecked. It was really a damn shame. She could have been rebuilt, but crazy Joe was no longer around either. In my family there is one photo of the beast, and it belongs to someone I no longer speak to. It's ok though, I don't need it. I drove it, and for a short time, life was good. Thanks for reading.

Stupid me. 6 years ago, I owned a desktop which I only used for....nothing except for burning CDs. I lived in a town with ridiculously expensive internet subscription. Even though if it were cheap, the Internet would be of no use to me. Back then, I was totally clueless on how computer works. I owned an MP3 player, which i constantly transferred incompatible format of audio, which usually don't play, and that's the only thing I used the Desktop for. A year passed, nobody touched the PC (MP3 got stolen). One day, I went home with a classmate of mine, and he showed me a game on his PC. Really weird game: You could do whatever you like in the game: it was GTA vice city. I was blown away by the graphics (kinda like play station 2's), and the idea of the game. I "borrowed" the disk, and went back home, hoping to install it on my dust-covered desktop. The next day was Saturday. I pushed the power, it beeped, and the power indicator on the desktop blinked, but screen displayed nothing. I called my friend who said I should try it on a different display. So I hauled it to an Internet cafe nearby. The guy in charge helped me connect it to one his monitors (after paying for an hour), but nothing, the same result. He said the RAM ought to be changed. I've heard the term RAM once or twice during "computer class" (where they only taught us how to type and use paint). After hearing the that they are quite expensive, I went back home with my junk. Months passed. Obviously, I can't afford a RAM, and asking my parent for the money will be a waste of time. Thankfully, my parents decided to go on a trip, and I was left with a substantial sum for provisions. I had totally forgot about playing that awesome game with the PS2-like graphics. My friend came over and we fucked almost half of the sum on fast food and pirated-movies. Eventually, my friend spotted the dust-eating desktop, and alerted me. The next day, He helped dismantle it, and yanked off the defective RAMs. We took off for the computer complex. We spent almost an hour negotiating cost, and finally paid. He handed us two similar looking RAM without any protective cover. He uttered nothing after the transaction. We took off with both RAM smashing each other inside the pocket of my three-quarter short. We finally got home, but had no power. So we waited, uncertain of when they might bring it back. Three hours later, they finally did. WE rushed towards the still dismantled system and we place both RAM in. Without screwing back the case, I ecstatically pushed the power button: nothing, same blinking indicator. We repeatedly pulled and placed the RAM on its slots while the desktop was plugged in. After countless "pull and put," we decided to head back the guy who sold us the defective RAM. We argued for hours and we decide not to live his store. He ignored us, and attended to other costumers. It's was almost 7pm, we had to leave in shame.

brief opening segment for critique When they came north out of Chihuahua he was not yet born and the militia marching the fugitive families had orders to kill anyone that refused to return to Cebolleta. The place brought with it death and hardship. But now it was their home again, by decree. Before the Bacas could bury Guerrer, his body lying lifeless at the mercy of Navajos, they fled the fifteen miles south to Laguna. Where the Puebloans helped them survive. Where thirty Chacon soldiers eventually found them and marched them back to Cebolleta for good. He was not quite fifteen and the Bacas had long since adapted to the violence, the soldiers long gone, Guerrer’s bones serene beneath the earth. He wore a set of dusty cotton trousers and shirt to match. The same old pine pail he’d hauled back and forth since morning jounced in his hand. He stole down the path soft-footed monks had abandoned fifty years ago and kicked up considerable dust, his homemade boots treading the ground, the yellow dust stirring about the abandoned Mission. The stream flowed beside him, advancing in clear rippled streaks, the sound somnolent, sporadic. He filled the pail and set it on the bank and crouched beneath the outstretched branches of a large cottonwood. He scanned the mesa-tops and the places his father had taught him to look for Navajo raiders and then turned his face upon Cerro Bonito.

I saw the exact moment in which the cashier started pretending to scrutinize my driver’s license in the hope that this contrived act showed some kind of polite forethought delaying the rejection soon to come. Knowing beforehand that her next words would be “I’m sorry…”, the license felt flimsier than usual as she spoke them and returned it to me. Yet I didn’t take it from her completely, and for a few seconds we were grasping the card together. “We don’t take vertical ID’s.” Blinking with registration but still composed, I rotated the license upon the axis formed by her thumb-and-fingertip pinch on the card, turning it to a landscape orientation and hoping that my mouth was shaped less sarcastically than I imagined it to be. “There we go,” I managed to say. “Horizontal ID right there.” A brief sense of genuine amusement soon dissolved into defensive indignation, partially activated by the adolescentizing embarrassment of being turned down at a liquor store, but also by the Reader's Digest-educated “knowing glances” directed at me and my friend by some harried mother waiting to buy bad wine behind us. During my feeble attempt at levity, my friend was already returning his own vertical ID to his wallet, doing this with a laughable appearance of duty. “Ok.” He said this with an eager friendliness that I found repulsive and unsettling. “Ok.” The second utterance of the inanity struggled to sound laid-back, but was just as uninquisitively obedient as the first. I sincerely liked this guy, but the flaccid dumbness of his reaction disgusted me utterly. Pathetically, this wine store cashier was some kind of authority figure to him, before whom you were entitled to meekly bare your humble head, shifting unconfidently your weight between equally weak legs, performing your best accidental Jack Lemmon impression and saying with cheery strain “ok ok” like some obsequious eunuch. I could tell that the presence of the bad wine mom, whose final object of lust before menopause I idly predicted would be some fantasy combination of Michael Buble and Ryan Seacrest, had pressured him into making his act of deference as obvious as possible. I cross-referenced this with another look at the woman, who was now just apathetically texting. Attempting to divert my growing irritation into something inconsequential, I rather forcefully checked my watch without actually looking at the time, but my wrist was bent in an undesirable position with my fingers curled into an incomplete fist which only further upset me. Meanwhile, the cashier had been ignoring my joke and calling over her manager, an ex-mechanic looking guy who had probably dropped acid at a Grateful Dead concert about a half-century ago, and from whom I had quite legally bought alcohol before. He recognized me but pretended not to, likely preferring to keep the premise of this encounter as single-minded as possible. The cashier debriefed him with useless jargon. “We’ve got two verticals.” “State law, fellas. We can’t take ‘em.” This was spoken with some sympathy, so I tried to avoid being an ass right away. “Came into effect this month.” “Well, my ID is from another state. How can state legislation here apply to documentation issued outside of state jurisdiction?” “This store is in the state jurisdiction; the law applies to this store.” He seemed mildly put off by the semi-intelligence of my question. “Ok.” Not me. “Ok.” Not me. “But what does this law even accomplish? What…” The manager emitted a sigh which was belatedly masked as a cough, his stance directed in a manner which suggested an intention to walk away within the next half minute. “IDs issued before age 21 are oriented vertically; the law stops these IDs from being handed down to underagers and used when the original holder gets their first horizontal.” Basically, think of the children: that chief concern of farm-league politicians being rectally pegged by church ladies everywhere. “But you acknowledge that this card correctly states my age?” “Look.” He winged his arms out gently, as one pressing through an airplane aisle, slipping through the invisible gaps in my question. “What can I do? It’s just the law.” He had just admitted that he was powerless, that he wasn’t really denying me anything, indeed that he couldn't, that he had no say in this decision he was previously pretending to make, that his Grateful Ass was being transitively fucked by remote church ladies with telekinetic town hall strap-ons. I made some kind of mixed noise that expressed both my listless desire to prolong this futile discourse and my frantic urge to end it immediately, my detachable middle fingers and erect penis pyrotechnically launching upward like Saturn V rockets while my hair is ejected from its follicles as a defense mechanism against the now-menopausal mom, who has long since drunk her entire bottle of horrible moscato and is sexting me uncontrollably with gratuitous emoticons and dick pics of her husband who she wants me to hear her complain about but my hair attack repels her sparing me from having unwanted but amazing in-store sex with her surprisingly good body which was probably out of my league at one point but it’s too late because I’ve already begun rapidly waving neon glow sticks at the manager giving him an acid flashback as the cashier girl hisses through the spitting image of her father's mouth causing him to punch my friend impressively hard in a gratifying location and allowing me to escape with my tonic water out the door labeled *enter* which they would never predict making me practically untraceable.

-"It's a long story, man." -“Well, it's not like we're going anywhere." *Murray and I sat at the emptying bar in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska. The van broke down on the way to another show, and the rest of the guys went looking for a mechanic or a car rental. For the last 3 hours I was anxiously pulling a piece of paper from my jacket, looking at it for a few minutes, folding it carefully back into my jacket and walking out of the bar for a smoke. I doubt I even realized what I’m doing until Murray pointed it out. Eventually, he put a hand on my shoulder and planted me back into my chair. "You're losing it", he said. "Your eyes are red, you’re freaking out and generally look like you're about to off yourself. Now sit the fuck down and tell me what's up. "* I looked into my rapidly emptying glass and thought about my already-empty wallet. Maybe it is a good time to start walking home. The bar was starting to get really busy, and the noise mixed with stale smoke and strong booze made me nauseous. A year ago I was awarded with an indefinite license suspension for accumulating the most DUI's in the district. At least that's what the judge told me. She also told me that I might have a problem, but between myself and I, I always knew that it's just a rough patch. Evidently, a year later I get smashed only after good shows and most of the weekends. The current finances are clearly unable to support any more of that. I groaned and got off my bar stool. -"You play guitar for that band... you guys played a show last week at Bovine, right?" *'That band'*. Some fan you are too. Fuck, maybe I should rename this gig to 'That Band', maybe it'll give the illusion that people finally talk about us. Before I could turn my head she went on shouting in my ear. The irritation gauge bounced up a notch. -"I'm V." You have some crazy pick-up lines, V. -"Come, my girlfriend wants to meet you." I looked up at stared at this girl for a second. Or a minute, or 5 minutes... I didn't seem to care that the time has stopped. What, too corny? Oh, no doubt, but that's how it felt like. V. was a tiny blond girl, probably too young to be at this bar or pick up ancient, drunk musicians. But whether it's about daddy issues or well-concealed groupie, she was beautiful. -"Hey man, let's go." I looked in the direction she pointed to. At a small table in the corner a dark haired girl was sitting at casually observing us. V. held 3 drinks…for 2 of them. Either one of them was a more devout alcoholic than I am, or she was cocky enough to presume that I won't refuse her invitation. Ah, what the hell. I'm out of booze, company and drunk enough to make bad decisions. Also, it's fucking raining outside again. The 'girlfriend' never bothered introducing herself that night. Neither have I. In this little, detached corner in the middle of a noisy bar, suddenly there were just the three of us. Looking back, there's always been just the three of us. V., the guy from 'that band' and the girlfriend. Around 2am my bassist called. Knowing that I'm probably drinking my night away at some bar, as usual, he offered a ride to the studio. Maybe a chance to do something more productive, like actually working on the album, or nursing the hangover on the couch and pretending to do something productive. Many Saturday mornings followed the same scenario, like that rerun that you don't particularly like, but watch anyway. As long as we could afford the studio we all, practically, lived there. We exchanged phone numbers, the girlfriend and I. V. fished in her purse for a phone too, but I took off by then. There might be a shred of decency in me. When someone mentions a boyfriend, maybe she shouldn’t have a random guys' numbers kicking around in her phone. Booze and loneliness always make people dial numbers they never meant to otherwise. Things have changed in the following month. I left 'that band', on a whim and good marketing from 'another band'. It's usually an exciting time, a beginning of something new, with fresh ideas, fresh couches, and a fresh studio tech that didn't hate me for recording the same damn solo over and over again for the best part of a night. I mean, didn't hate me...yet. The girlfriend was there almost every session. And every show. She was my right hand and 'fashion consultant'. At first I thought she just likes me a lot. Eventually it occurred to me that she doesn't have anywhere else to go. Her dad was a lowlife and they lived in a dictionary definition of a 'shithole'. A part-time job, no dreams or aspirations of her own, she lived the 'band' life through us. She actually had places to be, phone calls to make. She promoted tirelessly, ran my social media pages. In a way, she was my agent. And ironically, it's wasn't long before she became my girlfriend. We've met with V. and her guy a few times, even went camping once. But there wasn't much contact between the girlfriend and V. back then. The hot summer came around and it was a horrible one too. My place never had any air conditioning. Hell, even the fridge was a questionable commodity. The girlfriend has moved in officially, and I was sober enough to convince the judge to let me drive again, on indefinite probation. But it's ok; I've discovered that booze is not the answer to anything. Cocaine, on the other hand, amplified my productivity, was a great weight management plan and in overall -seemed to be a very positive influence. Everything is relative to one's perspective, isn't it? She appeared one night, sitting on the floor in my living room/bedroom/kitchen. The night was particularly humid and choking wall of heat seemed impenetrable. My girlfriend walked around the house in the underwear, there was nothing new about it. Seeing V. bare-naked there, with a bottle of scotch between them was news. Bad news, in a sense, the way the things unfolded from there. The story was, one night V. passed out at her boyfriend's party. When she woke up, she didn't have much clothes on her, there was another guy sleeping in the bed, and the boyfriend in the "raging bull" mode leering right above her face. She never figured out whether she really slept with the guy or he just crashed next to her, but it was all irrelevant when her boyfriend kicked her out of his flat. I shrugged, tied my hair into a knot and joined them. As they kept on talking about V. misfortunes, my girlfriend seemed to be furious with her behavior. In our brief relationship, she definitely was the moral anchor, since I lacked any sense or care for monogamy or how the relationships should work. Retrospectively, it's clear to me now, that given my emotional apathy, she felt compelled to accompany the band to every show and party, to make sure her territory is marked and guarded. V. never left. That night and the following week she slept in bed with my girlfriend. Years of late studio nights made the couch a perfect bed for me. Eventually, V. took the couch for a while, but couldn't sleep well and she came back to the bed. The problem was- I didn't leave this time. Somehow, the girlfriend accepted it. Maybe because she cared about V. or maybe because we were rarely sober when we passed out. The first days of the fall brought more news. The band got signed, on the worst conditions possible, but we liked the ring that "signed artists" had to it. Our photographer, who also worked for a modeling agency, managed to procure a series of photo-shoots for a random fashion line for V. I suppose, he was in love with her, but then -so were the other guys on the label. She even starred in our video. There was a part when we had to play a couple, parting for the last time before I kill myself. Apparently, the scene was the most sincere and beautiful the jerk-off of a director has ever seen. And that was the first of the few times I've seen my girlfriend angry. After the video premiered, she avoided both V. and me. It wasn't an easy thing to do in a bachelor flat. V. made enough money off her modeling career to start paying her own rent, but neither of us ever thought of asking her to move out. At this point she was already a part of this miniature hippie commune. There was another incident I'd like to mention. Somewhere around October, my drummer encountered some legal issues with his landlord/tenant agreement. In other words, he was evicted for snorting a mountain of coke and drumming for 10 hours straight in a densely populated area. And it wasn't a one-time thing, really. The girlfriend invited him to stay with us, until he finds somewhere else to live. During his brief stay the poor bastard managed to confront V. while we weren't home, and offer her his 'heart and soul'. According to her story, she tried to laugh it off and eventually told him to fuck off. Actually, now that I think of it -V. never dated anyone during her stay with us, or shown any interest in anyone she met. It seemed as if we were her private and social life. I also seemed to give up on my solitary and brooding bar boozing. When the girlfriend was gone to her part-time job, we always ended up kicking around the flat, watching movies, reading her my poetry and lyrics ideas. She would come with me to the studio, and even asked me to give her guitar lessons, while we both knew that she had absolutely no interest in music. Sometimes I can't understand how both my girlfriend and I were so oblivious to what's going on. Sometimes I doubt even V. herself realized. Maybe it's just easier to turn away and pretend. But things were looking up, and the world around all of us was brighter. I'd even start spending more time sober and the three of us would drive to the beach or take long and pointless road trips. Obviously, nothing can be preserved in its optimal state. I am, naturally, a pessimist, some say even a fatalist. Seeing the end of things was my particular specialty. When the label decided to drop up due to bad publicity and possible drug abuse allegations- it was the first out of series of blows. Since the cops got involved, my band members scattered to save their druggie asses. At the time I was surprisingly clean, which, in turn ended up saving me from a criminal record. The fights with the girlfriend became a frequent occurrence, maybe since the veil of motherly love for V. (she was a few years younger) fell from her eyes when a mutual friend made it his business to tell her, "Dude, are you fucking blind -your boyfriend is probably nailing V. for months now, you guys are the most fucked up love triangle I've ever seen." . The 'cuddling' incident didn't help here at all. V. got sick and there was no heating in my flat. I covered her with a bunch of blankets, as we watched TV, but she was still shivering. I'm not sure that was an appropriate thing to do, but when my girlfriend came home after work, she found both of us, holding each other underneath the blankets. All I could think of for an explanation is the usual "storming out and slamming the door" . V.'s touch and the smell of her hair stayed with me for the whole night. As the matter of fact -it did for many years after. V. woke me up when my girlfriend left for work. -"Let's run away. Just you and me." -"And go where?" -"Anywhere, I don't care, really. You can always find another band; I can ask the agency for work overseas." -"You don't even have a passport, V." I sat up, rubbing my face. -"C'mon man... I'm serious. Let's just pack a couple of bags, take your guitars and go. Let's go to New York, like Sid and Nancy." -"Like *Sid and Nancy*. Sid Vicious killed Nancy and killed himself with an overdose later. So much for the bright future, eh?" She fell silent and sat next to me. -"I never told this to anyone, not even my boyfriend. I don't think I ever loved him, but I love you." -"I... I-fuck, ok. I had the whole night to think about it. I think things are getting out of hand here." -"...And?" I don't think she really expected me to say it. But I knew that she knew. I knew that she realized that some point, maybe not as late as I, that there was a reason for all the time we were spending together, the care and affection I rarely showed anyone else, my girlfriend included. -"What about her? She'll be heartbroken, you know..." -"Yeah, I do. But I can't help it. That's how things are and it's not my fault. I love you and I know that you feel the same." Thanks, V. You said the hardest part for me. All I had to say is 'I do.', and even that I confirmed with my silence. She didn't speak anymore, neither did I. We've spent the day together. For the first time there were no limits. Somewhere, in my subconscious mind our first kiss happened long time ago, covered up by layers of denial. I've had dreams, where I wake up with my girlfriend, lean across her shoulder just to see V. smiling at me. I never shared those with anyone. The girlfriend didn't come home that night, or the few nights that followed. When V. slept, I went to the bar underneath my flat and sat there until the morning, lost in thought. There was only one thing I, the coward, could do. On third night, I walked outside with a backpack, packed with a few shirts, pair of jeans and books. I left my car keys on the guitar case, right next to the bed where V. slept. That guitar has been only one of a few I had in the studio, but it was the first one, the one that mattered that most. On a note, I quickly scribbled "This is yours now; I just want you to have something to remind you of me. I was in love with you since you started talking to me at that bar. I love you still. Good bye”. Signed, "That guy in a band". My flight left the city at 4am. Three years later, I play a small, local tour in Nebraska with some random band that offered me meals and place to stay. After the show, the bartender caught up with me at the merch tables and handed me the promo poster, with a few sentences written in a sharpie. *"You play guitar for another band now, it was a good show. I'm V. I think I made a mistake one night, 4 years ago. I was the one who wanted to meet you. And I made another one when I let you go.

“Kiss me! Kiss me! You’ll do nothing wrong the sooner you kiss me! James! I need all of this! This hiding in the bastion has got me sick. I’d rather burn than see myself grow old with him, and this seems less likely the case with you. Do you not want a secret to hide? Something to keep us up at night, I say! Less than quicksilver the ideal, of course. I’m growing awfully tired. I’ll try not to suck my thumb, but I must ponder! What’s so great about India? Are they too busy flying kites to even notice we are gone? That must be it! The summoned serpents seem to be the only ones doing as they’re told, and that’s by way of flute! Am I inaudible to you James? Am I insane? Look at me James. Fetch me another poppy, one that is in full bloom.

When they came north out of Chihuahua he was not yet born and the militia marching the fugitive families had orders to kill anyone that refused to return to Cebolleta. The place brought with it death and hardship. But now it was their home again, by decree. Before the Bacas could bury Guerrer, his body lying lifeless at the mercy of Navajos, they fled the fifteen miles south to Laguna. Where the Puebloans and their Kivas helped them survive. Where thirty Chacon soldiers eventually found them and marched them back to Cebolleta for good. He was not quite fifteen and the Bacas had long since adapted to the violence, the soldiers long gone, the bones of the brother he’d never met serene beneath the earth. He wore a set of dusty cotton trousers and shirt to match. His hair remained black and straight while the same old pine pail he’d hauled back and forth since morning jounced in his hand. His feet stole down a path soft-footed monks had abandoned fifty years ago. His homemade boots kicked up considerable dust. The ground scuffed and scraped in his ear. The sheer yellow dust rose behind him. The abandoned Mission still stood, its fourteen niches still filled, the ornamented stations intact. When he reach the opening in the willows, the stream flowed beside him, advancing in clear rippled streaks, the sound somnolent, sporadic. The sweet yet acrid scent of streamside willows pierced the air. He filled the pail and set it on the bank and crouched beneath the outstretched branches of a large cottonwood. He scanned the mesa-tops through its sagging branches and could see the places his father had taught him to look for Navajo raiders. He stood and turned his face toward western face of Cerro Bonito. The cinder cone stood as an elder, a remnant of the past still holding influence on the land. After some time he picked up the pail and scanned the mesa-tops again. He lifted his feet and the thin homemade boots, his feet returning to the path. Epaphrodito!... His mind knew voice before his conscious breath could speak it. His head tilted in that instinctive pause of knowing, but not realizing, what was said. His heart reacted before he could consciously raise the pace of his gate. Venga!... Andale!.. The voice sprang again from an almost-inebriated virulence. It was distant yet potent. It carried with it the years of punishment and discipline and harsh, stark boldness, the years of blank burnished calamity. It ran through Epa’s spine in a tremulous blind state, the sheer yellow dust now thick, turbulent; Epa ran with the pine pail now trouncing; the clear, rippled streaks now sloshing from the pail turning the water onto his pale-blue cotton trousers. It was his father. The man that endured the harsh, grimaced faces of prehistoric vicissitudes the Anasazi knew first, the men that barked and clipped at the heels of civilized endurance. The men that tore the fabric of foreign life in a stank cordiality of uniformed diligence, leaving a pure remnant to foster a future plunder. The best goats and lambs and children survived. They lived and produced the fodder of the raiders. The raiders fostered the future. They lived to live another day in their regimented discipline the Anasazi first observed. This is why he ran, why he shuddered before the virulent voice. The man would not accept weakness, the man would not accept a petulant child in the midst of such formidable foes. Epa, his face dripping, stood in sodden trousers before the man. The man sat a stool and leaned against an adobe wall, the pine-hewn legs creaking atop crosscut cedar planks, the man holding an empty gourd in one hand and a corn-shuck cigaro in the other, drops of pulgue running from the corners of his mouth.

Ok guys, so before I paste my story, I'd like to give a little info regarding it's creation. A little while back I had a nightmare, and I decided to recreate it in writing. If you're interested in using the prompt for your own creation feel free to post it The Nightmare I hear the painful moans of men and women all around me. Others are questioning what's happening, and I'm just here, laying on my back atop the hard asphalt. There's a metallic, chemical like smell in the air. Similar to the scent of a rain that has come and gone. I open my eyes, only to see a crimson sky. It's overcast, and lurking among the clouds is a faint timer. My eyesight isn't so great, but I can definitely make out the remaining time, "06:00". Without hesitation, I rise to my feet. I assess the area, and I see people doing exactly as I am. I don't know how, but I know there are 500 of us. For whatever reason, we've been assembled here, in a Target parking lot. Some of the others have panic in their eyes, some have determination. *Five minutes and 45 seconds remain*. I look towards the building, the lights are on and the doors are open. Almost simultaneously, we begin to walk. One person takes off for the store and I follow. We're all sprinting now, because we know we need what's in that building. I pass the 'Customer Service' counter, and begin sprinting for the school supplies. As I move I create a list in my mind.*Survival*, that's the mindset. If I'm going to live, I need to be able to carry more than what my arms are capable of. I'm the first one to reach the 'Back to School!' aisle, and I take the largest pack available as my reward. I can hear the others stampeding through the adjacent rows. *Four minutes and 15 seconds remain*. My next stop will be the hardware section. I need something sharp. People are already ravaging this part of the store, but it hasn't been cleared yet. I quickly grab a water hose, hedge trimmers, and a shovel. Not much is left to pick from. There doesn't seem to be any reason to grab food, but I head towards the grocery section regardless. At the very least water will be required, I'd grab more, but my instinct tells me whatever is about to happen is gonna be over just as fast as it starts. *Three minutes and 10 seconds remain*. For the first time since I became conscious, I don't know what to do. All the gut feelings I had have left my body. Hide! That's right, I'll do that, at least until I can prepare a better plan. Where do I go? The changing rooms are stuffed full of women and children. The freezers have people bundle in blankets at the bottom. There has to be somewhere else to hide in the building. As I sprint frantically around the store, I see the baby section. Strollers and cribs line the shelves. The boxes provide the perfect amount of cover to remain unseen. I hastily shuffle inside. Only one other person seemed to share my idea. She looks to be about 20 years old. Her eyes are wide with fear, bags already form beneath them. I don't see any form of protection with her, is she crazy? I can't blame her I suppose. *One minute remains*. This is it, I feel the event horizon coming closer. I make no attempt to communicate with the girl. Why should I? She is obviously of no help, she didn't even make an attempt to arm herself. *45 seconds remain*. She begins sobbing, I beckon her to come closer. She hesitates, but begins to scooch over. *30 seconds remain*. She wipes the tears from her face, and apologizes. I attempt to look interested in her problems, but its hard to show sincerity at a time like this. *15 seconds remain*. She asks me what's happening, and I shush her. I peak over the Gerber crib, and look towards the front of the building. *00:00*. A deafening screech fills the aisles as the entire entrance collapses. Racheal lets out a scream (at least I think she referred to herself as such), and I quickly cover her mouth. Her eyes widen in horror. I don't know why I made her be quiet, I doubt her screams could be differentiated from the others anyways. All the *'HELP!'s* and *'PLEASE's* meld together to form one loud cry of anguish. I attempt to block the noise. Their cries aren't assisting me. Racheal slowly lifts her arm and extends a single finger. I don't want to look behind me but I must. A dark red, tentacle like limb reaches over the box of a nearby stroller. It continues to move into our hiding spot. As more of it becomes exposed I can see pulsating lumps of flesh residing on the outside of the monstrosity. Racheal attempts to back away, and *instantaneously* the tentacle senses her. Faster than I can describe it grabs her ankle. I jump back as it pulls her away from me. She tries to grab my arm, but I force her off. I can't die this early. She becomes encased by that, thing. I watch as she is pulled out of the “safety” bunker, listening to her screams meld in with the rest. How many have died so far? What was that creature? Are there more? Questions were racing through my mind. I continued to hide, hoping, praying that the monster had not detected my movement when detaching myself from Racheal. It felt like hours, *days* even, that I had been siting there among the infant merchandise. No, it's only been a couple minutes hasn't it? Right? Before I can finish my thought a familiar being shows itself. It's back. It knows I'm here. Do I run? Do I remain still. I can't think. The limb begins creeping towards me. Slowly, as if it unsure of my presence. I breathe a sigh of relief. That was a mistake. In a flash I can feel my throat tightening. The last breath of oxygen I will ever know enters my lungs. I'm dragged out into the open, only to see corpses laying everywhere. The once sparkling supermarket was covered in the blood of the others. My eyes begin to shut, as I look around. I want to see my killer. I need to know what took me out. I follow the tentacle to its master, at least I attempt to. As I trace it through the aisles it coils into a lump of many more similar extensions. I failed again. Now I will die an ignorant death because of it. My eyelids close, and I fall asleep to the sound of suffering.

Jewish Easter... The concept terrified Hitler to his very core. That these bastard Zionists would gain the power of egg laying rabbits shook Adolf as being wholly unnatural. "Himmler! Ghost of Columbus! Charles Manson! Nixon! JFK's Nazi Mirror Universe Double! Everyone, come together, and listen. There is a major threat to the concept of Aryanism. That threat is Jewish rabbits." "That isn't much of a threat. Have you been huffing spray paint and doing meth again?" Nixon eyed Hitler. In his mind, Nixon had his doubts. This man was obviously a dope-fiend, like that bastard doppelganger of Kennedy. But he couldn't voice the entirety of his disapproval. That was what killed the original JFK, he knew. "Shut ya pie-hole, ya China-lovin' bahstard. In the GOOD, uh, timeline, the NAZI timeline, yau're a real spineless sort, ya know?" Nazi Kennedy was a real nasty sort. Elected in 2037, an election year in his world, Evil JFK came to power through the assassination of President Lyndon Howard Taft. How he came to Hitler's round table was no less than a miracle of science. I will not explain it. "Yeah, well, you got your head blown off in the prime reality. I don't give a damn what you freaks of time and space think, Nazi Kennedy." And Nixon truly didn't give a damn. His jowls were mighty, his eyes were bugged out and wild, he was a high powered freak with half an erection for violent politics and the pleasures of graft. "Cease your arguing! The threat of Jewish rabbits still remain. The SS has informed me that they have found these eggs... Very strange, very.. Jewish.. eggs." Hitler presented a set of manufactured eggs, each emblazoned with a perfect star of David in the center. Nazi JFK gasped, and Manson just clapped his hands, laughing. "Them Jews what got you in a whirlwind of Chinese lies. They done stole my freedom, what with your help, Nixon, back in the 1970s. You rat bastard, you know it was all Tex Watson's fault, what when all them people tripped and fell on his knife." "Is this true, Nixon? Did you... assist.. ze Jews, in depriving this man of his rights? Don't you know that every non-Jewish person has a right to live and be happy without being assaulted?" "Listen, Hitler. It was a mistake. I was going through a rough patch in my life, Kissinger was a bad influence, and I made a mistake. I took it out on poor Charlie here, when I should have been.. on the hunt for Jewish rabbits.. I guess." Nixon apologized, but it didn't seem to ring true. Hitler wiped spray paint away from his mouth, and pondered the possibility of deception. Then again, he had always known Nixon to be a perfectly honest person. "I shall allow you to live... For now, atleast. But do not disappoint me. Nazi Kennedy will not hesitate to destroy you, if I should say the word." "Say the, ah, word, Hitler. Ya know ya want to. Listen, I destroyed this prink in the debate, and look what he did to poor Manson over there. Look at the little guy. He's obviously terrified of Nixon. Besides, how do you, uh, know that sweaty son of a bitch isn't one of them Jew rabbits?" It was true. Manson, a once proud Native American with flowing blonde hair and proud Aryan features, was now reduced to a shell of his former self. Hitler felt tired of Nixon's constant bullying of Charlie. Perhaps it was time to consider... aggressive... solutions. "Shut up, you mirror universe liar! I have nothing to do at all with Jewry, and I am certainly not to blame for this plague of Semitic hares. And why is it always 'Charlie, Charlie, Charlie!'?! Why does nobody ever come over and jam out with me, instead of that meth-loving degenerate?!" "Hey, meth is a vitamin, you wolf-loving can of shit. Don't you EVER besmirch the good name of meth." Hitler and Nazi JFK nodded at Manson's statement. It was almost time for their eighth shot of meth between breakfast and lunch. It kept them alert, they rationalized, in the fight against Jewish eggs. Nixon still judged them though. Dope fiends, every one of them. "Manson is correct. Meth is a vitamin, and your tyrannical FDA is nothing but the puppet of the Jewish war-machine to create a superior version of Jew to oppress the native people of Germany. Us fascists NEED meth, to be forever vigilant in the fight against rabbits of the Zionist type." Hitler was in it for the wakefulness the meth brought, but Nazi JFK and Manson were indeed dope fiends. Hitler wondered how loyal they truly were to the cause. "See, when these rabbits come down, up is gonna be left, down is gonna be blue, everyone in society is gonna turn about and realize they're on the wrong end of history, man. There's gonna be a race war. Cats against pigs, pigs against horses, horses against orcas, and all the while, these rabbits are just sitting there, plotting, you dig?" "What do you mean by that exactly? How can we prevent this? We have the entire power of the German Reich behind us, along with ze savage lust for blood and meth that our good ally Kennedy brings to the table. We can prevent it, ja?!" Hitler frowned as Manson shook his head, and huffed some paint. "Can you prevent a wave, brother? Can you stop the trees, and the water, and the sound? These jew-rabbits, they're gonna be laying eggs all over the place, stealing all the space honest birds could use. Meanwhile, all us honest whites are stuck raising "chicken" eggs that are actually them hare eggs, what with the Jew-symbol on them. When the white man finds out he's been tricked, the rabbits are gonna play him off and trick him into fighting the black man, you understand? That's when Blackie rises up and topples the government." "That's extremely racist, Manson. God, things like that and the brutal murders are why I had you arrested." "Come on now, Nixon. Haven't we all committed a few murders?" Manson had a point. Every man in the room had killed no less than five people before arriving at this point in time. Some of them, much much more. Nixon sighed, and surrendered. "Fine, you win. You got me. I'm secretly a Jewish rabbit." And he was! It was frankly baffling how these proud Aryans hadn't noticed a Zionist hare in their midst. All around him were freshly laid eggs, each imprinted with the star of David. "I told you all this back in the sixties, man! I predicted all of this! I tell y'all, race war is coming!" Hitler's eyes were wide with Hare-fear and meth-jitters as Manson belted out his apocalyptic warning. All his worst nightmares were coming to fruition. Suddenly, the ghost of Columbus spoke up. "It is time all of you learned a lesson about human redemption, and the value of love, and eggs. Would I have been as successful in creating my own holiday if I massacred the hard-working fresh slaves of India? I discovered a route to the continent all by myself, and they gave me my own day for it. Hitler, you have made a grave mistake in your persecution of Jews and rabbits." "You'll pay for this, ghost of Columbus! If it takes a billion years, you will pay for this! I am eternal! I am the voice of the Reich! We will live forever!" Hitler and the forces of evil teleported away, leaving the rabbit to dominate the world with Jewish eggs. Within six months, the entire surface of the world was smothered with a blanket of hare-ovum, and died not with a bang, but a whimper.

A late night idea I jotted down. What does the last man on Earth do, when all that is left are the smoldering ruins of a once great civilization? Does he run out and enjoy the left behind treasures, run out to see the great wonders of the world, or would he simply take in the utter silence of it all. With a world of opportunities at his fingertips he simply stares blankly ahead, as if nothing had ever changed. For you see, before the end of it all he was a very ordinary man; he owned a small home which he lived in by himself, he kept a decent job, and he enjoyed a quick match of Counter Strike every once in a while. He wandered throughout the mass of humanity feeling as though he were alone in the corner of a room full of people. This never bothered him though; he always kept moving along, telling himself that one day things will surely change for the better. When the bombs fell and everything was wiped from existence he awoke the morning after and questioned his ability to live through the thing. At first he felt cursed and cheated, he swore and took out his anger upon the surrounding debris. It took him a while, but he eventually calmed down. That was seven years ago. He now walks through this empty world, pausing only to cast his gaze on the dried, withered husks littering the ground; the remnants of the long forgotten human population. After a day of walking about his normal route he heads home, as he always does. He never left his city, as there were always plenty of supplies to be had. Even with the entirety of the world empty and waiting for his exploration he stayed behind. He put the kettle on as the sun began its descent, as was his evening tradition. The water was boiling within minutes and he set the tea to steep. It took another three minutes and soon he had fixed his tea with a bit of sugar and cream. As he stood there with is mug in his hand watching the sun dip below the horizon, he listened to the vast emptiness of the wind and said: “Perhaps tomorrow.

The music was everywhere. She heard it emerging from the trees, the path she was walking along, the sky, the beautiful, beautiful starry sky, the whole world was breathing a soothing, heart-warming tune. And it wasn’t the little entities that were radiating with separate sounds, it was the whole universe speaking in riddles she only could seize at that moment. She felt like a magnet, absorbing what was abundantly flowing around her, capturing it all in the small shell she acknowledged she was, wishing for a bigger carcass to behold the immense beauty of what was so vividly described to her. She felt just a step away from reaching all the answers she ever had. If only she could take in a little bit more. She was in a state both frightening and miraculous at the same time. Craving for more, she lightly stepped forward into the darkness of the forest, knowing nothing could harm her fragile framework so long as the keeper of the night was her guidance. The eternal awakening of nature whispered a low, tranquilizing base for the ubiquitous song she felt with every bit of her entireness. As she was proceeding, she felt more and more in tune with the surroundings, allowing her every sense to take in the complexity of a being that doesn’t easily reveal itself to those who have strayed. Slowly, she began to understand. The world was not just singing, it was speaking, and the words were bigger than any she had ever heard before. At first they made no sense, bits of a fascinating, hypnotizing whole far from reach. Grasping their meaning was the most difficult challenge she ever faced. But she kept on going, yearning for a better understanding, even though the melody of everything kept on playing, every time a different fragment. She realized there was so much she didn’t know, wishing she became part of something so sublime and eternal. The more she heard, the more she felt a profound need to contribute to the universal chant she had the serendipity of embracing. She wondered if it was too much to ask, but still, while chanting a humble, barely noticeable but heartfelt prayer, she gently lay on the warm, delicate grass, beseeching acknowledgement. A subtle change in motion and a distinct tune followed and then she understood that her submissive desire had been kindly favored. She needed only say goodbye. So, with a last glance at the enchanting pattern above and with the Queen’s approving gaze in her sight, she thought of her worldly existence and knew that instead of blindingly searching for a purpose, she would finally be a part of it. And then she closed her eyelids, leaving the confided existence she always knew she had, bearing in mind one last thought, that it wasn’t all for nothing.

After weeks of begging, my flat mate agrees to go and drink with the maids that clean our flat. We will call my flat mate Dan. Dan picks up a bottle from of vodka from the post exchange, since this Middle Eastern country is dry, and makes his way to their predetermined meeting location. He has to park about seven blocks away and walk to the maids’ flat. The streets between the parking lot and the flat are dimly lit and covered with garbage. Despite this, droves of people are walking everywhere. swallows and gathers his nerves. He quickly notices that he is the only white face is a sea of Middle Easterners; having already had several drinks he find this very concerning. He begins to sweat in the 100-degree plus heat as he weaves down the street. Dan arrives at what appears to be multiple shacks hastily stacked on top of each other. He takes the ridiculously narrow stairs and is greeted by an old, pealing, green door. He knocks on the door and a very excited thirtyish year old Filipino answers the door. She quickly grabs the bottle of vodka and starts drinking. Dan is left standing in the doorway staring into the house cleaners’ humble abode. The women have one small one-meter-by-one-meter table shoved in the corner and two van seats leaned up against the wall. There is no other furniture in flat except a brand new karaoke machine gleaming and blaring music. Dan sits down and starts drinking. About 20 minutes in a phone rings. Dan thinks the phone is he, so he reaches to the table. Dan notices that he and the lady, lets call her pear, have both received the same text message. The message was from a military unit responsible for motoring civil unrest in the area. He instantly notices one of the females has three phones. So, Dan enquirers where the phones came from and why she has three. Pearl explains that one of her phones was given to her by a service member. The service member was infatuated with Pearl and gave her the phone as a gift. This is a huge breach of operational security and Dan knows it, but he is more concerned about trying to get lucky, so he lets it go. Pearl slides up beside Dan and laces her arm under his arm so they are simultaneously hugging. She begins squirming her body so that Dan’s hand is constantly brushing against Pearl’s breast. About two minutes into snuggling the karaoke machine kicks on and Dan instantly loses any chance and all interest in Pearl. He cuts his losses and decides to leave after roughly two hours. Within 15 minutes of being home Dan has received four phone calls from Pearl. Each voice mail becomes more and more despite for Dan’s attention. He finally answers the phone and Pearl starts talking. She describes all the things she wants to go. She finishes her monologue with “I miss you Ricky”.

Clarity, my dearest, I felt I should be clear, as now you have passed and there is nothing for me to hide from. You kept me sane, sociable, and suited in my days of sorrow and solemn sedation. I have come to understand the nature of things. (Kind of.) Poetically, this could not be more appropriate, as I am on my way out as well. After your wake, I was walking through our old neighborhood, near the corner of Carnahan and Stout, to be precise. That single streetlight still stands there; you know the one that I’m talking about. I jumped ahead. Apologies. (I don't mean that.) You see, as I walked among the thousand flickering bulbs that line the grid of this massive city, I began to think of *those* days. You know precisely what I am talking about when I say that. "Back in *those* days," you would say before delving into some old (and likely skewed) memory of something that we had once done. In *those* days, it was a joy to share your soul with another, to mix them, entwine them, and allow them to interact. You would do so without any regard for the soul itself, and exactly who it was mingling with. However, as any great story goes, there comes a time when that innocence must be lost. Whether it is at the hands of a lover, a family-member, or a random passerby whose presence pulls from within you an overwhelming feeling of self-loathing and regret, the world will break you. After the healing is finished, (as finished as it can ever be) you are expected to pick right back up, as you were, and push forward into the great unknown. (Though, really, we've seen those films and read those books; we know that it is far less “great” than certain philosophers may imply.) You are essentially expected to take the remnants of a shattered glass and piece them back together. But you don’t have glue; you have only your blood. Also, the room is on fire. But you can't do this. (Don’t you dare point out the physical impossibility of my metaphor. I know you want to and I resent you for it.) These glass-shattering experiences shape us, mold us into the person that we will become. The concept is romantic, I suppose, but the impact is a rather depressing reality. The “strongest” people are simply those hardened enough, indifferent enough, disconnected enough to labor on. (“Fuck all” is the mantra; I need a drink.) I apologize for getting so dark with this; it wasn’t my initial intention, but what can I say? I’m grieving. Here’s some light for you. (Literally.) The streetlight that sits on the sidewalk near my home was a source of solidity for me in my darkest days (*those* days); we’ve discussed this before, I’m sure. That streetlight, in my mind, protected me from the realm of uncertainty. I had, in the moments that I spent under it, light, and therefore the darkness was unable to claim me. But as I stood on that corner, confident in my continued existence, the bulb dimmed, and died. You see, we place so much confidence in these early interactions, entering into them with bold enthusiasm; but, as the streetlight showed, we ultimately end up questioning that initial trust, regretting it. There comes a point in life where you stop looking at your connections with unhindered positivity. There comes a point when the question turns from "how greatly can this person enrich my life?" to "how easily could this person break me?" I know you would never intentionally do so, but I can’t help but hate you for it. (But, I miss you.) How dare you leave me with this broken glass? (And I love you.) Still, I am/was always, entirely yours, even though I regret it now. (I do/don’t mean that.) Look at that, my glass is empty; I polished off the bottle right as I finished this letter. (How disgustingly, poetically, *perfect*.) Now what? A trigger, a loud noise, and emptiness (or the infinite; what do I know?). Either way, clarity. (And my thoughts will finally calm.

A water pump, for a car – for my car, looked nothing like an apparatus that would pump anything. In fact, it looked more like something that might work like a windmill with water. It had a gear-looking device attached – But I put away my description of the water pump as I am being told that the car is ready and I need to be getting along. Gerald has to go shopping for school clothes and the like – things adults do when they have children and start families and buy houses and all that other nonsense I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Speaking of ten-foot poles, have you heard the one about the ten-foot pole? It’s about an Alabama biker and this MADD meeting and – wait, I’m pretty sure there’s a crocodile involved… I was always bad at telling jokes. Out on the highway, the car doesn’t seem to be any different. Gerald assured me that he gave me a 100 K tune up, but the car seems to still need wheels to move. I don’t like this. I want the car to fly when I put it in the hands of an experienced mechanic. You think I jest, but I’ve seen flying cars. Quite a lot of them. This joker cop on my tail thinks I am playing games. I quickly move lanes and hope that he follows, but he doesn’t. But back to the flying cars. I think I was, oh, maybe, probably like 34. I was out on the end of the road. If you didn’t realize there is an end of the road – there is. There’s many. Tons. All over the world. Roads end. But this one was special. It was the End of the Sidewalk. Like that book by Ron Jeremy or L. Ron Hubbard – the one with the poems. I forget. I’m old now and full of varying degrees of molecules that accumulate to form things like the water pump that interact with thoughts and create – well, to be frank, this mess. The cop is back on my tail. There’s a road outside a major city in America that breathes its last breath and kinda just falls off into space. They call it the Flat Road, because it’s the last part of the Earth that remains flat – a refugee of the early days when colonists would simply walk off the Earth into space and fall into the moon. It happens. Ideas build the world and what seem like the wrong ideas still drop off the Earth into the moon like buzzards with too much carrion to stay adrift. And I’m being pulled over. The thing about buzzards is they will carry any weight of meat as high as they can until they realize the nature of gravity and then fall to the ground and read books explaining their situation and it makes them better birds, but it does nothing to stop them from eating dead meat. Farting loudly when asked for your driver’s license is a sign of privilege that most cops will not forget. It’s important to make the cop feel like you have something they need – like self esteem, the kind that lets you fart in public as if your farts have a show on PBS. Driving the car off that cliff – the cliff where no roads go leads you into a great chasm. The kind of chasm that pornographic actresses carry around with them like Sarlacc Pits. Out in the great divide – that ugly place where we deem the Earth drops off and space begins – there is trouble breathing at first, but once you know it’s for your life you learn to lose the wisdom of your generation and just subsist on the solar energy and vacuum to make envelopes of your lungs and then stuff them full of stardust. And like that: you have what NASA has dreamed of for years – the ability to explore space at will and freely without the help of artificial things like science or common sense. You’re out among the stars and free to roam freely and at your own pace all the live-long-day. They typically will swing your body into a jail cell with a pivotal motion to the door they slam behind you. Out in the stars you see many things – planets, moons, nebulae, and oddly enough Spanish flags. The Spanish are the few people that hung onto the idea of the heavens and the end of the road and some of them are still out there colonizing the universe as we sit and blow rockets of gold into the sky in search of micro-organisms. That’s why their economy sucks. What you don’t want to do in space is fart. The body’s own need to find its maker is propellant enough – you fart and you will hit the Big Bang head on and with full force. Processing me like some vagrant at a grocery store. You don’t want to hit the Big Bang head on. You go in and you don’t come out. Well, you do, but not like how you were before. That’s how I landed here and now and in this prison. Just took a turn off a road and then ended up behind the Big Bang sucking shit in a jail cell with miserable homeless people that try to steal your hair. But the flying cars – before farting my way into this miserable existence I came upon a small pod of Spanish explorers in Ford Focus’s wandering around the moon. They told me not to fart.

Haunted House Some people swore that the house was haunted—certainly years of neglect and an assortment of decaying junk in the garden made it look the part—but it was Mrs McKinnet who transformed her run-down house into something that truly terrified the neighborhood children. She barely spoke to anyone, and had the kind of severe demeanor that could make any child wonder what she might do if she caught you on her property. And she was old—old enough that she did look rather like a corpse. That meant, of course, that we had to go. Three girls, nerving ourselves up to do something to prove that we too could have an adventure just like the characters in the books we read. We resolved to sneak into her garage after school. It was a dare, but a tame one compared to tackling the house itself. We climbed the fence at the back, negotiated an overgrown blackberry bush, and turned the handle of the door at the back of the garage. It was open. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign. We ventured inside. Inside were dusty shelves of neatly packed items; boxes of clothes and decorations and papers and discarded appliances. We filed past them silently, like we were in a museum, or in a church looking at mystical sacred objects. In the center of the garage was a 1930s Buick, perfect and gleaming like it was fresh from the showroom. I took it all in silently, the giant trunk, the shining chrome, the small rear window. And then as I moved to better see the side of the car I saw her—Mrs McKinnet, sitting motionless and impassive on the back seat. I stopped in my tracks. I thought for a moment that she was dead, but she turned, just slightly, and her eyes locked with mine. I screamed and we turned and ran. Dianne and Amy didn't believe I could have seen her. They told me the car was empty, that I had been scared, and they mocked me for it. I didn't answer. I had seen her eyes. I had seen her sadness and regret; somehow I knew that she had tried to hold on to some happy memory so tightly that it had curdled in her grasp. I can't explain why I screamed, except that it was too somehow much for me to bear. But seeing me in that moment meant nothing to Mrs McKinnet. She didn't care about anyone or anything in today's world, just some lost moment from long ago, when things were different. I had witnessed a haunting that day, not of a place but of a person—a specter of the past that wouldn't let go. I fell out with Dianne and Amy over in the following weeks. The experience had changed me and they just couldn't understand. Nothing was ever the same again after that.

There was a bang, some smoke and a bit of a fizzling noise when the man in all black appeared in the kitchen. “Tremble before me, Britina of the Sixth Circle, for I am…” he burst forth with confidence. “Fifth Circle.” Interrupted Prunhiline calmly. This was not the first time this has happened. At least it wasn’t while she was taking a bath. That tended to make her angry. “Um, I’m sorry.” The man stumbled. “Fifth Circle, she got promoted.” “Oh, well then, um let me start over. TREMBLE BEFORE ME… Wait, sorry you aren’t Britina, are you?” “No.” Prunhiline comment as she continued to wash the dishes. She didn’t’ want Britina the find the evidence of her slightly disasters cooking experience. “Oh, sorry sir. Look I’m looking for Britina, Magi of the, um… Sixth?” The mysterious man began to worry that maybe he was at the wrong house again. The neighbor, he may never forget what he saw. He knew that nightmares would be visiting him for some time. He decided that once this task was done, he would investigate if any of his poisons would cause memory loss. “Ma’am.” “Excuse me?” “I’m a woman, not a man. You call me Ma’am, but really I’d rather you just call me Prun.” Prunhiline said as she continued to scrub the dish with more vigor. The stain wouldn’t come out and Britina would be home soon! “I shouldn’t have used the fancy dish.” Mumbled Prunhiline. “Oh, well. Sorry. I’m used to woman being more, well, woman.” “What?” The dish was winning the battle, but Prunhiline wasn’t willing to give up yet. “Well, you don’t have breasts and your haircut isn’t exactly feminine. Plus, you are a giant. You must be six-five!” “Six-seven and yes I do have breasts. You just can’t see them very well under my armor!” The man was starting to annoy Prunhiline, but she tried hard to concentrate on the fancy dish. Must clean the fancy dish was all Prunhiline could think. “Oh, um, sorry. Look does Britina live here?” The man asked slightly confused about the dishes, the mess and the overall warzone like kitchen. “Yes” she said scrubbing harder. “Is she around?” “Who’s asking?” The dish was winning. “I am, MORFARK THE ASSASSIN! I am here to kill Britina for the Dark Circle!” The words echoed around what was once a very nice kitchen. “Right, Morfart. How did you do that with your voice?” “It’s Morfark, with a ‘k’, not a ‘t’. What did I do?” The man hated when people said his name wrong. This man/woman was annoying him. “You made it sound out like it was all capital letters.” Prunhiline comment as she contemplated how she could buy new dishes and possible a new kitchen before Britina came home. “Oh, they taught us that in assassin school. You have to lower your voice and really project it. I was first in my class!” “Very cool. She’s not here.” A plan started to form in Prunhiline’s mind. Yes, she could kill the assassin with the fancy dishes. The blood might cover a little of the mess. But, no she promised Britina that she wouldn’t kill any more assassins unless they interrupted her bath. She could drag him to the bath, but that wouldn’t cover up the kitchen. “When will she be back?” Morfark was now more confused. “Hopefully not soon.” Sighed Prunhiline. “Look, I’m kinda busy. Could you come back later?” “Well, I’m not due back to the temple until night fall. Could I maybe stick around?” The assassin tried but failed at sounding like he was begging. He looked around the “kitchen” and couldn’t find a clean chair. “Look, what happened here? Was this some arcane demonic spell gone horribly wrong? Was a demon horde slaughtered here?” As the man asked he began to worry about his safety, but for the wrong reasons. “No, I wanted a sandwich.” “But, this… this is… “ The man sputtered, “A sandwich?” He started to worry less about his safety and more about his sanity. The neighbor and now this! “Look if you stick around, you clean. That’s the deal.” As the sun dipped below the horizon, the neighbor’s ghoul let out his regular nightly wail. Morfark the assassin and Prunhiline the warrior sat sipping tea that Morfak made for them. This was the sight, which Britina saw when she entered the sitting room of her home. “I’m home, dear love. Who’s your… friend?” Britina asked cautiously. “Oh my dear lady, let me introduce myself. I AM MORFARK THE ASSASSIN!” he pronounced again with great confidence and a little satisfaction. His teachers would be proud. “Bri! Check this out. He taught me how to say my words in capital.” She took a deep breath and proclaimed, “I AM PRUNHILINE, WARRIOR OF THE PLANES OF…” Britina interrupted, “Very good Prunhiline. But, dear love, we will be here all night if you say your full title.” Britina paused then asked, “Assassin? For her or me?” she directed this routine question to Marfark, THE ASSASSIN. “Oh, uh, you must be Britina?” Marfark asked hopefully. “I am.” “Well, then, you.” He smiled, it was a pleasant non-threatening smile. “Very well, shall we step outside? I would rather we don’t make a mess of my sitting room.” “Maybe another day, my dear. I have to be getting back to the dark temple. I’ll show myself out.” As he walked to the door, he commented over his shoulder, “Hey Prun, we hitting the jousting tournament next week?” “Sure, Marfark. I’ll see you then.” Once the man had left, Britina sat in her favorite chair. “So Marfart?” “Marfark, with a ‘k’, not a ‘t’.” “Right, dear love, Marfark. He was here to assassinate me?” “Yep!” Prunhiline said as she attacked the finger sandwiches, which Markark thankfully made for her. “I take it you had as much of an eventful day as I had. Demon hordes and assassin, what a day! I think I need some tea and a nice sandwich.” Prunhiline choked on her finger food as Britina rose and walked into the kitchen. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY KITCHEN???” “Hey, Bri, you can do the capital thing too! Cool!” Thanks for reading. I've been working on these stories for my kids. I created a web site to start posting them and some others I've written. Comments are always welcome.

3 Shadows Oh what will you do Thomas Blaire? He laid there in the dirt against the bridge support pole and lifted his head to watch the light flickering slowly on and off. He was curious about the flies who would continue to run into the light over and over; as if they were memorized with the thought of killing themselves and smashing their fragile bodies into the light. The ground began to slowly vibrate and shake and he knew that he would half to consider the possibility again this time. One shadow got up and sat on the tracks. This first shadow was unafraid; he was ready and complacent with the idea of solace and peace. This shadow was ready for the long fight to be over. A second shadow danced slowly to train tracks, nervously the shadow creped next to the tracks and flirted with the idea. This second shadow liked the thought but was nervous of the consequences. Yes the shadow knew that it would bring him peace but also knew it may hurt others; however horrible these others may have been it may still bring tears and pain to them. The ground began to shake more violently as the train neared. A third shadow got up and walked away from the train tracks and started following a long dirt path towards a place that Thomas used to call home. This shadow was a fighter. This shadow was more optimistic than all the others, he wasn’t ready to give up. The shadows danced before the light went out and the whole bridge and ground shook as the train went by full steam ahead.

The fat man with long toenails ran the stainless steel fork through his greasy black hair: to comb it down before he thought it was the right time to dive into the spaghetti that sat before him. He held the fork closely to his face, investigating its curves. It was a beautiful instrument although caked with something browning and crusty. The fat man licked the stains off then began to spoon the spaghetti into his mouth. He loved spaghetti. Across the table from the fat man sat an anthropomorphic pizza; his name was Richard Petty. Richard was ten feet tall and made up with pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra cheese; he liked to sometimes glow at night and float around the outside of the house. This bothered the fat man although his neighbors never seemed to mind. As the fat man finished his meal, Richard Petty moved to the kitchen to grab a knife and the birthday cake. He returned, sat the cake down in front of the fat man who began to cry. He wept and Richard Petty consoled him, “I’m sorry she’s gone, but you’ll just have to move on now Patrick.” The fat man agreed and as such he hoped to have a slice of cake: it had chocolate frosting. “Shall we eat,” questioned Richard Petty. The fat man nodded and Richard Petty brought his knife to the flesh of the cake. As the knife ran through, blood followed it and pooled around the base. It began to melt and sizzle until it was only a gooey, bloody mess. When the fat man saw through his tears what had become of the cake, he unsheathed his fork from the napkin in his pocket and threw it at Richard Petty. It hit him in the neck causing blood to jettison from his cheesy goodness and all over the fat man’s face. As Richard Petty’s blood ran down the fat man’s face, he began to smile. As he smiled, a thick black bile began to leak from his gums and down over his lips. He laughed and said, “Such is life.

It was a dark and stormy summers night, and deep in the Jungles of Georgia, a party was going on. In a wide field, enclosed on all sides by dense trees and vines, someone had erected a stage, and six thousand and one penguins were gathered there. Booths had been set up, some with games, others selling food. In the middle of the fare-ground, short wooden posts were arranged in rows. To each post, a small poodle was tied. This arrangement worked not only as a parking lot, but the singing of the poodles also filled the surrounding area with rousing music. The entire area was brightly lit by toads, which had been gathered from the jungle floor and hung from every available surface. The anticipation in the air was almost tangible.

(Beware I just typed this up, and there might be some issues. Please give me feed back.) 12/1/2137 It’s cold here, so cold. Not cold like the winters at home. This is the cold that gnaws at your bones. It seeps in through your clothes no matter how many layers you’re wearing; like water slowly taking a sailboat in a vicious gail. The cold wouldn’t be a problem if you could warm up every now and again, but there is nowhere. There are no fires to un-stiffen your fingers by. Not a cozy bed where you can peal off your boots and feel your toes again. Just the gnawing, biting, wiping cold. The patrols are perhaps the worst part. Trying to stumble through the densely falling snow in an attempt to make out the path taken by the previous man. Just wandering along this indent in the fresh snow. Hoping it is in fact the path, and not just some pitt from the wind. I’ve gotten lost already three times. I was gone for two hours when the found me the last time. I am extremely lucky in fact. We’ve lost six men to the blinding snow, and only found 3 of them frozen stiff. There have been no casualties of the Republic’s accord, only to the persistent cold. I don’t even know if the Republic is still here on this god forsaken rock. If they abandoned it realizing that the little patch of ice and dirt wasn’t worth the loss. None of us want to be here either. Even the the eternally patriotic members don’t believe it is worth losing their toes. We need to leave this place.

Safe. One syllable. Defined as:Secure from threat of danger, harm, or loss. They had kept each other safe. Life had not been terribly kind to either of them. Loves and losses and more losses. The kind of albatrosses that can't be unhung and you just learn to take the glances. He was far more precautious than her. Sturdy boots, pocket knives, flashlights, pepper spray, paracord, and a good pen. Always prepared for the oddest situation. A demented boy scout. An armed angel. He made her take her medicine, wear safe shoes, walk on the sidewalk and checked in on her when she was running late. He wanted to know she was safe, always safe. She on the other hand was much more devil may care. Full of nicks and scrapes. She was so bad at listening to good advice. She had swathed him in an emotionally gilded steel cage. Her rare bird. No one would ever hurt him. He would never feel unloved and he would be safe. He had bought the safe to protect them. He explained to her it was fireproof, waterproof, airtight, time locked and on sale. She smiled at the last bit knowing he had thrown that in for her benefit. She would have flipped her lid if he had paid full price. He continued to explain that they could store all their important documents, precious keepsakes, emergency rations and a first aid kit in there and if there was a fire, earthquake or zombie apocalypse it would all be safe. She smirked. He said it would last forever. She didn't have long now. She could feel the grog starting to cloud her thoughts. Their was so much medication left over after his illness that it was almost too easy. She had thoroughly cleaned out the safe. There was only one thing left to be protected. She set the timer on the lock for 3 minutes. She crawled inside where he waited. She cradled him in one arm and with the other pulled the door shut with a hard tug so it would snap tight. As the last sliver of light slipped away she read the engraving on the urn. ‘Sumus aeternae’. She ran her finger over the inscription and smiled to the darkness . Now,Darling, we are safe.

He awoke in bed. Stiffly, he reached for the edge of the bedframe to prop himself up. His joints popped as he levered himself erect, and he faced the large interior of his lavish bedchamber. Moving towards the wall closest to him, he half leaned on it to shuffle towards his numerous dressers on the other side of the room. Sunlight streamed out of the large windows, looking into a courtyard of snow, as he shuffled along the wall. Reaching the other side of the room minutes later, he looked up, above the dressers, at the large mechanical clock fitted above the center cabinet. He still had thirty minutes. His stomach grumbled, but he knew it would be an effort in futility to try to eat. His lean, malnourished body demanded food, but his hands shook far too much for him to eat more than spoonfuls of the worst sort of soup. Ignoring his bodies promptings, he shuffled to the far side of the dressers, snatching his walking cane from the wall it was propped against. Armed with his cane, he shuffled towards the exit. He slowly made his way past the two guards, standing rigidly at their post, on either side of the door. They did not move as he limped past, instead staring straight ahead into space. They had been ordered not to escort him, on today of all days. It was the one day they had not been by his side in nearly a century. After what seemed like hours later, although it had only been a few minutes, he reached the door. It was a plain, wooden door, of average height and plain in appearance. Anyone who did not know what he knew would not think anything of it. Opening the door by its handle, the hinges complained noisily. Beyond the door, gaped a dark room, with only one window to give relief. The room was below him, bridged by a wooden staircase reaching up to the entrance and now-open door. Gritting his teeth, he put his foot on the first stair that led down into the room. Stairways were the enemy. Stairs should be ripped out of the entire city, he resolved, just as soon as this ordeal was over. Yet he had no choice, and so put his right foot forward onto the first stair downwards. Each passing stair took painful moments to navigate with his enfeebled frame. Finally, he reached the bottom, and moved several feet beyond the stairs, where a wooden bench sat amongst the gloom of the dim room. Behind the bench, barely visible were a set of plain white archway, leading nowhere. He reached down and grabbed the loaded crossbow below the bench. The sunlight coming from the solitary window played against the plentiful dust motes in the air. He waited. He had only just caught his breath from the harrowing ordeal that had been the staircase when he heard it. The door creaked open. Soft feet fell upon the stairs. A short figure approached him. A young girl, with short brown hair, looking of the age of 15, appeared in the dim light of the one window in front of him. She appeared startled, not expecting to see someone else. Why should she be surprised? He had been expecting her. He aimed the crossbow at her chest, and touched the spot on it that would trigger the release. A soft swishing noise followed. The girl laid sprawled on the ground, scrabbling for anything, making fast breaths. Blood pooled around her body. “Good”, he thought. He had been aiming for her lungs. It was much quieter that way. “I’m sorry it has to be this way”, he began, as she writhed on the floor. “See, I was like you. Just like you in fact. The gods chose me to lead the kingdom for my allotted century. When I was done, I decided I should talk with my successor - inform him of what I had done, and what he might do to protect the kingdom. It was a break in tradition, I knew, but I waited down here, by the arches, behind me. Imagine my surprise when I met my successor, and he was only a kid. He cared not at all for the work I had done. He insulted me and thought nothing of the work I had done, and yet the gods had chosen him to lead the kingdom!” At this moment, he set down his crossbow and reached for his cane. He hobbled up from the bench, his joints popping in protest. Winning the brief skirmish, by only external aid in the form of his cane, he resumed explaining his story to her. “The gods were fools, I decided. In a fit of rage, rage over the work that I had done and might be lost, rage over the waste, I killed him. Then I took his place, stepping through the archway. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out young again, rejuvenated and ready to lead for another century! It appears the gods didn’t care who stepped through their archway, the passage to heaven, as long as it was at the specified time. So another century passed. Near the end of it, I waited down here for every day for a month before I finally caught my next successor. Each century, I got a little bit better at predicting the exact end and appearance of my replacement. This time I only had to wait for 5 minutes.” He stopped talking, realizing he was alone. He turned around, and stepped into the archway. Some time later, he stepped out, and as he moved away, let his cane clatter to the floor, abandoned.

The nurse left work at five o'clock. You could almost set your watch to it, at least in the six months since I'd moved up to the front office. Most days I'd look out for her, gazing past my screen and out the window, waiting for the sign that I only had half an hour left in my own work day. Seeing her leave would often trigger idle thoughts about what went on in Chitham House, since that part of Norwich was mostly law firms, and no other nurses entered or left the building. On some days, I imagined a malodorous and malevolent senior partner clinging to life with tubes and machines, wheezing orders to assistants to help property speculators. On others, I supposed there might be a discrete clinic to help barristers going through their inevitable midlife crises deal with sexually transmitted diseases contracted in nights of particularly careless indiscretion. Sometimes I supposed that she merely role played a nurse to fuel the fetishes of judges and politicians. I never crossed the street to the offices in Chitham House to find out; she was just another stranger providing background colour for my world—and in any case being aware of the truth, whatever it might be, would only impede me in creating the fantasies that distracted me from my mundane work in property law. Of course, other people came and went from the building, but the Nurse (which is the only name I had for her) stood out because of her crisp uniform and her satisfied smile. She would come out through the doors, stop, survey the street with the sort of smile I associate with having achieved some sort of meaningful positive accomplishment, and then head north. On dull rainy days carryed a bright cheerful yellow umbrella. She always stood out. And then I stopped seeing her. In fact, I saw no one coming or going from Chitham House at all for several weeks, and that seemed odd. I asked Mr. Goodwin about it, and he surprised me by telling me that Chitham House was owned by the diocese, and that we managed it. He pulled the file. There was a note in it saying that the building had been unavailable to lease for the past year, ending about a week ago. No one in the office could recall writing the note, or recognized the handwriting. I called the diocese office, and they denied making the request. Eventually the police were called because the situation was highly unusual, and a considerable sum had been lost from failing to lease the building. A bored plainclothes officer came and took statements. When it was my turn, he made a snide comment about my cosy workspace, and, “I expect you spend all your time looking out of that window”, before actually asking me what I had seen. I told him about the nurse. He asked me if I had seen any other people coming and going, and I told him that I had. He asked for details, and I realized I had none. “I know that the nurse leaves at five o'clock”, I told him. “She wears a uniform.” He asked what color her hair was. I didn't know. He sighed, muttered, "Typical," and stalked out. He hadn't even written anything down. “I know there's a nurse,” I muttered to myself, “and she leaves at 5 o'clock.” And really, that was all I did know about it.

12/2/2137 8:05 It’s my birthday, I’m 23 now. It feels so strange knowing back at home I could apply for my piloting license now. But chances are now I won’t be going home. I’ve come to accept that fact. I’ll either die on one of these shit stone planets, or live with the army until we win. I was never an excellent pilot anyways. That was always my sister Ryn. For my birthday the guys gave me a few hand warmers. Those things are our form of currency on this planet. So it was a good gift. They also pulled some strings and got me all of the parts to fix my rifle. It is going to take some numb handed work, but I won’t have to hold my own with a with a little pea shooter anymore. That’ll make me the second person in my squad to have a working rifle. So that puts a little more pressure on me if we stumble upon the enemy. Still no sign of the enemy. We do 3 kilometer radius patrols on our position, nothing. If they wanted to attack us the proper setup would within a klick of our position. Maybe they can’t find us. Maybe they left this rock, hoping we would wait ‘till our deaths. We need to leave this place.

He woke up again. The same damn dream. She was there. Down on the street. He stood up and looked at the semi-burned picture that was being held by a side of his mirror. The borders were brown from their kiss with fire, and all other faces were burnt or blurred. Only there in the center. His stare towards the camera was two knives, completely convinced of what he was doing. Hers, playful and evil, her green spiky punk hairdo still recognizable through the black and white polaroid. And behind them, the one. His face unrecognizable now, but his presence in that picture in between them, even though in the back, was there to haunt him. Tears did not fall that night. He was out of tears. Long ago he had given up on crying. Those times they thought they could beat the man. Help the jaded kid with devils for parents, the junkie with needles for gods and so many others. Foolish. When she gave up, he could not recall. He took another look at her eyes in the polaroid and could see her flame, her desire. When she lost them, he could not recall. The process was slow. Little by little, the spark turned into dead coal and the prayer died. Jimmy died with her flame. The suicide, right? She parted that dawn, the day he blew his brains out into the bay. Her hair short and blonde and the one with her. She was tired, nothing was happening, she needed a life. He remembered how much disbelief he felt when she told him that she could not keep going. That the world was doomed to be gray and dull and dead. Like Jimmy that day. Things are funny like that, because he thought the same until before he met her. But that day was not funny. It was sad. The bay was empty. Not even a bum on a bench, just the gray sand with the gray sky and the gray bay. It did not rain, though, he found himself remembering. And then she left, her spike bracelets gone, her makeup nonexistent, her clothes nice and ironed. A coat, she was wearing. A coat and a beanie, through which you could still see her newly emerging pale blonde hair. He covered his face with his fingers, cursing himself for cursing himself with her memory again. And how she left. That goodbye. When she said that they should forget their crazy dreams of youth, because they were nothing more than that, crazy and dreams. That he deserved a happy life, that she wished him the best, and that she had to go. That's why Jimmy killed himself, right there in the bay. Jimmy would have never been happy, he thought. Jimmy believed, no, more than believed, in those dreams. He thrived and nourished from that lifestyle, that antihero existence that filled him with bliss, even if it was sharing the last of his mary jane with whoever he was sleeping with under a bridge. Maybe that was enough for her. Or better worded, that was not enough for her. So Jimmy blew his brains into the bay and all that remained was a dead idea and a broken man. Jimmy died, but he survived. A broken man. When they toured with all the misfits and all the victims and all the homless, they never had a place, but they never needed it. Home was were they were, home was the help they were giving, home was sneaking into public restrooms to apply hair coloring, home was seeing a heroine junkie free of his chains by their support. A band of punk hobos doing good to society. Who would've thunk it? He chuckled, and as one fell from his face he realized that the tears had started a long time ago. But then, even through the cold of Toronto in winter and the scorching heat of San Antonio, they laughed and kept together. And they helped people. Was not that important? The sobbing began right there. But he had unleashed the demons he had barely chained down the last time and they would prowl his head way till past sunrise. With red eyes, and suppressing the mother of all screams, he asked himself what made her lose faith? When did her fire go out? The last months of their tattered caravan were different, but he could not place the moment she gave up. All that came up were those times were they laid naked in spring in some forgotten foresty trail of the midwest. He was lost in her her small breasts, her black lipstick with her middle lip piercing, her piercing, flaming green eyes and her green hair. At that time it was a mohawk, he reminisced, starting to bawl. They had loved each other that night more than any other nights. They talked about everything they had talked before and everything they had never talked about. The world was not enough for them, the two poured out their souls on each other in between bouts of passion. And he knew he loved her. So that's why Jimmy died. That's why he blew his brains out into the bay. He sat down on the floor, back to his bed, eyes red with what was no longer rage or confusion, but simple, unadultered pain. He made a point to burn all of the photographs, yet he held that one still in his hand. The last one. He tried to stand up, but his legs had decided to disobey. In his last, last bout of ire, he tried tossing the picture with all his might. It flipped, spun several times and fell face up in between his legs. So he picked it up, one more time. One last time? He looked at it. Remembered her all. And remembered who he was, what he was, what he meant. For a millionth of a second his brain tried to make him think about all those people they had helped and how they were probably the ones in the worst situation, but it did not go through. He stared at the picture. He held it right in front of his eyes while the tears flowed and the cries escaped. He looked at her picture, the last one. The only one. And he hated himself. It was all her fault, she betrayed him, she betrayed the idea, she betrayed everything that he was and everything that he would be. Yet while looking at the picture, staring at her eyes, those eyes he had drowned in a million and one times, he hated himself. Because after all their time... Even though he knew that they were one for the other Even though he knew he would never love anyone else. Not even closely, no. He would not love anyone else for the rest of his life. And yet, in all her fault, he could do nothing but hate himself. He looked at her, the ghost of her in the picture for one last time, and saw his past. His dream. His very definition of life. His happiness. And he hated himself. Exhausted, crying and drenched in tears and snot, he hated himself. He hated himself for he could not remember her name.

12/4/2137 19:49 We had an engagement with the Republic yesterday, and throughout the night into the morning hours. We had all forgotten the war going on, and thought only of the freezing terrain. I’ve never been in a battle, and it is nothing like when we played as kids. It’s hell. We’re just farmers. Farmers with glorified hunting rifles going against trained GalRep Troopers. We barley held our lines. John died. Our squad leader, and my best friend is gone. Him along with a quarter of the fire group. 76 men, just, gone. That makes 218 of us left in the 7th Rebel Infantry. The Republic Troops only let up because they were running low on ammunition. We only have 13 confirmed hits in our entire group. Out of the 2,000 rounds fired, we only hit 13 Reps. I got a battlefield promotion. I’d be really happy if it had to come in the form of 2 of my superiors, and most of the more eligible men, dying. I’m a sergeant now. That means I am in charge of 2 Corporals and 6 Privates. I don’t know why it was me they picked. I’ve never fired a shot in battle before today, and I didn’t even hit anything. I did keep my head though. One of the privates in my squad ran into the snow after he saw is our Sgt get shot in the face. Nobody has seen the poor lad. We need to leave this place.

The Candidate “I accept your nomination for President of the United States.” With those few words, the young, ambitious New York Senator accepted the nomination on the grand stage of the Democratic National Convention in front of a robust crowd of his peers and fans. The venue glimmered with blue confetti and ribbon after the Senator’s response. Fellow Democrats applauded, fans cheered, and the entire room erupted with excitement. The Republicans had held the Presidency for four years already, and the conglomerate of Democrats across the nation had set their sights on 2016. They saw opportunity for change and options for success. They saw a chance to welcome a new era in American history. Their hopes rested on the back of one man: Patrick Ipsum. Patrick had always fostered an interest in politics. He liked the interaction, the pressure, the importance of the job. All through his years of schooling, Patrick could be seen at the head of student government. It was in these early years of adolescence that Patrick developed his genuine personality, charisma, and honest aura, three characteristics that now stood at the foundation of Patrick’s image. People described Patrick as a people person: someone everyone knew, someone everyone had talked to, someone everyone could relate to. Patrick graduated from New York University at the top of his class, double majoring in Political Science and International Affairs. He spent summers interning at city halls, mayor’s offices, and even the Governor’s office. Friends and family often praised Patrick for his ambition, confidence, and eloquence. Patrick could look at someone and instantly connect with his or her situation. It did not matter if they were friends for a lifetime or strangers off the street. His mother supported him all throughout his life, helping him draw election posters in middle school, listening to campaign speeches in high school, commenting on slogan ideas. His father, on the other hand, a stoic, reserved man, remained aloof for most of his son’s endeavors. It seemed as if nothing Patrick had accomplished pleased his father, and this hurt Patrick tremendously. “Mr. Ipsum, the question now goes to you. What is your stance on gay marriage?” Patrick stood up straight behind the mahogany podium that shielded his lower body from the audience. His hands rested gently upon the sides of the dark wood as if cushioned by the softest of pillows. Not a blemish could be seen on his face and not a wrinkle could be spotted on his fine-pressed navy suit. The lights illuminated his soft face and the blue tie that sat with a perfect knot under his collar. “I have said it before, and I will say it again. I believe that gay marriage should be legal in all of our glorious states. This is not a religious issue. This is an issue of equality. I would like to describe our nation as a place where all types of people can seek haven. No matter their sexuality. Gay or straight. If elected, I will continually support the passage of gay marriage laws until we reach a state of complete equality. Thank you.” Patrick rested himself and looked to his opponent for a rebuttal. George Stultus, the hardcore conservative Senator of Alabama, stood at the other end of the stage behind a podium just like Patrick’s. His face showed the expression of an old, experienced man. A man who had spent a lifetime in politics, while Patrick had only begun his political career. “This guy knows the game. He goes up there and makes me look like an inexperienced ass during the debate. He has been in politics for so long; he has an exact understanding of how to become President. Me, I’m some young Senator who decided to run and see what happens.” “Listen to me, Patrick. I want you to shut the hell up for once second and take a deep breath. Why do you think I would sign on to run your campaign if I didn’t have a great deal of confidence in you? You need to stop this stuff right now and focus on the matter at hand. I don’t want to hear another word about this again. You understand me?” uttered Patrick’s campaign manager as he stormed of to attend to more pressing matters. No one could ever prepare a presidential candidate for the rigorous campaign. Patrick began his campaign with rays of excitement, eagerness, and wonder. Traveling from town to town, city to city, state to state appealed to Patrick because it meant he could do what he did best: personal interaction. “Why aren’t you that candidate for president? The Democratic one?” said an eager man standing above the table Patrick was seated at. “Patrick Ipsum, pleased to meet you!” he said as he lifted the napkin from his lap and stood up to the great the fellow. “I am the man you are thinking of. I am trying to become the next president. You do have that right. Now, my friend, what is your name?” “Joe, sir. Joe Burns.” “Nice to meet you, Joe. What do you do for a living, Joe?” “Well,” after a long pause, “I’m actually unemployed for the moment. I was laid off about six months ago, and I haven’t been able to get back on my feet. This economy is just killing me right now.” “Joe, I am going to make you a promise. You elect me as president, and I will make it my duty to end this unemployment that continues to plague this glorious nation. I will put my word on that, my friend. You believe in me, and I pledge to make things better for you.” “Mr. Ipsum,” taking a long gaze at the trusting eyes and genuine face that provided him with an unexpected warmth and connection, “I would just like to say thank you. You have my vote, for sure. Some of these big politicians in Washington don’t give a damn about the real Americans, but you seem different. God bless you.” Even to the brightest of politicians, the campaign takes its toll and has different effects on everyone. The presidential race puts enormous stresses on the candidates and ultimately requires strength, resilience, and intelligence at all stages of the process. “Are you kidding me? That is the second media attack this week. Why do they keep running these stories on us? God forbid, they run one harsh story on our opponent. I swear, I don’t think I’ve seen one negative story about that man. What, is he perfect? His campaign is flawless?” “Patrick, the media is one of the craziest things in America. They make up fat lies based on whispers of mendacity. If they hear even an iota of a somewhat juicy story, they will run it. I know it looks bad for us now, but you just have to wait. Stultus is going to be hit by some bad press soon, and you can mark my words on that. Nobody said this campaign would be easy, Patrick. I’ve run lots of campaigns, and one is more work than the last.” “It’s just so much damn stress. Everyday, I wake up and have to hope that the media isn’t against me. I have to hope that the public will still support me. I have to hope that nothing goes wrong. I don’t know if it is this media attack or the campaign in general, but I don’t feel too good about this whole thing anymore.” “Right now, I am going to talk to you as a friend, not as your official campaign manager. The only way for you to feel better and for the people to feel better about supporting you is to regain that sense of confidence that made you known. Get back the charm. Get back the old Patrick that everyone used to know and love. You do that, and I am willing to bet that you will have success in this race.” Patrick often remembered his father during the campaign. He remembered the blank face he’d always had when Patrick told him about his day at school. Patrick would tell his father about how he’d won the high school election, how he’d finally gotten that internship at the Governor’s office. Numerous achievements that all left his father apparently unchanged. “Dad, I won the class election at school. You’re looking at the new Eleventh Grade Class President!” “Oh, that’s great.” “It was a total landslide. The other candidate only got, like, twenty votes. I swept the entire election! I think it was my speech. I really tried to connect with the students. I think it worked. It might have been the awesome posters that Mom and I made.” “That’s great.” “Thanks,” Patrick said as he turned away from his father and made his way upstairs. The fact that his father never truly took pride in his son utterly tormented Patrick. This torment fermented into a deep, uninhibited drive for success in Patrick. Everything he had done, everything he would do was, in an effort to bring some sort of change to the blank, cold face of his father. Patrick realized that his whole life had been an attempt to impress his father and finally gain his true pride. Patrick pushed himself to the limits with the hopes of attaining some sort of satisfaction. He desired a form of gratification; he wanted to hear an appreciation for all his hard work. Patrick Ipsum, a man who had already experienced a great amount of success in his life, could not accept the fact that his father never expressed pride for him. Patrick’s cold paternal relationship remained the sole problem in his life. To some extent, all that he had accomplished thus far, his stellar performance throughout school, his early success in the game of American politics, his chances of becoming the next United States’ President, did not mean anything to Patrick without a sense of love and pride. “My name is Patrick Ipsum. Believe in me. Believe in this nation. Vote Ipsum tomorrow!” Those words echoed over the loudspeaker at the high school stadium in Tampa Bay, Florida. Patrick stood upon the stage for what seemed like hours, smiling at the crowd of cheering supporters and waving feverishly at every single one. The effects of the campaign could be seen on Patrick as he stood on that stage. The youthful face that once glimmered with excitement was now speckled with blemishes and the occasional wrinkle. Patrick’s eyes did not show the expression of a hopeful, young Senator, but rather they depicted the expression of a man who had been changed. A man who had experienced firsthand the hardships and troubles with a political career. A young man who had come into this race with just too much on his plate. Patrick Ipsum represented a man who had tried to do everything but had not realized the difficulties of it all. Patrick dealt with the long nights, tiring commutes from state to state, and constant attention easily. The physical constraints of the campaign proved tough for the candidate, but rather the mental hardships of the campaign had broken down the once hopeful Senator. It was the doubt and the thought that all of the endless, stressful work could possibly amount to nothing that tormented Patrick. This factor, the unpredictability of the entire election, remained the only idea that infected Patrick’s brain and altered his mentality during the campaign. The staff sat around the coffee table in Patrick Ipsum’s suite at the Hilton Hotel. Takeout food containers littered the floor, paper coffee cups spotted the tables and desks around the room, and individuals sat in chairs and on the floor. Faces were illuminated by the white glow of laptops and iPhones. The sound of vibrating phones and clattering keyboards buzzed around the room as members of the campaign calculated the probabilities and attempted to look up the current standings. The candidate, Patrick Ipsum, sat in an armchair, staring at the CNN broadcast on the television. Patrick looked at the screen with the blankest of expressions. The race remained close for the entire night. Ipsum took the lead early, but then Stultus inched ahead. It went back and forth between the two hopeful candidates, but neither of the two achieved a substantial lead. The staff knew it would be a close one, but they had severely underestimated their opponent. Stultus took states that the staff had assured Ipsum he would sweep. Moods remained optimistic until Stultus took Florida. Once the state filled with red, the staff’s chat died to a silence. Everyone in the room knew how the night would turn out. Patrick remained in his armchair for the remainder of the night. He remained in it when they announced Stultus’ victory. He remained in it when his staff began their work on a concession speech. He sat there, speechless with the same blank expression on his face. He reviewed the events of the last year of his life. He thought about the unthinkable amount of work he and his staff had put into this campaign for this, a loss. He was disappointed in himself. A phone began vibrating on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Patrick’s eyes jumped to the phone, realizing it was his own. He pulled himself up, slowly as if he were stuck to the chair. He read the name on the screen: Dad. His hand grasped the phone and pulled it close to his ear. Patrick stared in disbelief at the phone for a second but then accepted the call. “Son, It’s me, Dad. I know we haven’t talked in a while. I just wanted to call and let you know that I’m proud of you...” The phone slowly slipped from Patrick’s grasp. As it fell to the floor, Patrick remained standing for a moment. He then returned to his relaxed position in the armchair. Patrick closed his eyes and smiled, wiping away the tears on his cheek.

Shatter The heart is a mirror, a simple, yet undoubtedly complex thing. Like a mirror, a heart will reveal everything, a perfect reflection, from which nothing can hide. But we all try to hide. Poker face. But stare into a mirror and see how long you last before the smile shows, or the eye glistens, or the cheeks grow red. That comes from the heart, and it cannot be silenced, tucked away, or covered. It is a mirror. The heart is a mirror. Pick up a mirror and drop it. Watch what happens. It falls. It lands. It breaks. Give someone your heart and watch them drop it. You get the sinking, falling feeling. You get the impact that shocks your being. You get the shatter. But you’re thinking, “A mirror shatters with sound and effect. You cannot hear or see a heart break.” Can’t you? The crackle of glass is the shouting, the screams, the crying; the sharp shards are the sting of tears, the burn of alcohol; the broken frame is the shaking body. The heart is a mirror. The heart is a mirror. You pick the pieces up off the ground and work carefully to rebuild the broken mirror. It is a jigsaw; it takes time, effort, patience, and care. You glue the frame together, and stick the fragments back, piece by piece. *You move on with your life and work to learn from the past. You pick up the pieces of your heart and slowly put them where they belong. It takes time, but you keep working with patience and care. The heart is a mirror.* The heart is a mirror. A broken mirror will never be fully fixed. Pieces may no longer fit; there will always be cracks, distorting your reflection. A smile in this mirror can now be a frown. *Just like a mirror, a heart cannot fully heal. Pieces cannot be replaced. They’re stolen away, always in the hands of the breaker. Cracks may never heal. You smile on the outside, but the mirror of the heart never lies; you’re frowning. Just like that mirror, broken and remade, the heart will never be the same. It is a mirror.* The heart is a mirror. You keep that old, damaged mirror on the wall. It has sentimental value, and in time you begin to look past the cracks, become so used to them that they become invisible. Sometimes it stays that way, sometimes not. A jolt or a bump and the mirror can fall, land, and break. Pieces break to pieces, and the mess is only bigger, harder to fix. *Time passes and you see through the cracks of your heart and see the smile as a smile. You forget that your heart even broke at all. Sometimes it stays that way, sometimes not. You see them again, get a phone call, a letter, a text, and the heart can fall, land, and break. You’re back to the beginning, but it’s worse. It’s never easier second time around. It is a mirror.* The heart is a mirror. Its fuzzy and blurry now, that mirror on the wall. You did your best, but it can never be the same. It no longer reflects who you are. It’s falling apart. It doesn’t work. You take it down. *You don’t show your emotions anymore, you hide them away, and the broken heart, like the mirror, can no longer discern the truth of what you feel. So you stop trying. Your heart is a broken mirror.* The heart is a mirror. Time passes, to the point where you may even forget about the mirror, the past. But there’s always a small remnant. You’re constantly finding pieces that the broom or the vacuum missed. It’s a long process. But one day you finish. And there’s a knock on the door. *Over time you nearly manage to forget the pain and heartache. But you always see something: a photo, an image, a word, a name. Things that you thought were swept away. But one day you stop, because there’s a knock on the door.* The heart is a mirror. You open the door; there’s a box, tall and slim. Curious, you take it inside. Fragile. Carefully, you cut the tape and open the flaps, removing the contents, snug in bubble wrap. You unwrap, opening up more and more and inside, shimmering, glistening, reflecting, is a brand new mirror. *You find someone else. You’re careful, taking it slowly, but gradually you open yourself up, little bit by little bit, unwrapping layers and layers of built up protection. You feel like you don’t need it anymore. You show them your heart: broken, crumbling, beyond repair. They look, but they don’t see the cracks.

Today was a bad day. I woke up later than I intended and missed the birds getting their morning meal from the feeder outside the kitchen window. This is what I look forward to most in the mornings. When I miss them it starts my day off on a bad note and it snowballs from there. My girlfriend was angry with me for reasons I still am not sure of. When I would walk into the same room she would quickly leave and say nothing, but not before giving me a look of disgust. I’m rarely sure of what I do to piss her off. The reasons vary widely, sometimes its because I ate before giving her the option and sometimes its because I took the comfortable spot on the couch when she got up to go to the bathroom. She never tells me, but she’ll get over it. She always does. I was unable to take my afternoon nap in peace. The kids were too noisy. They were running around yelling and screaming with little regard to others in the house. Their parents continually yelled at them to keep quiet, which I found ironic as it just added to the noise level. I eventually was able to find a place of quiet, but it took longer than I would have preferred. Damn kids. I was yelled at by the one person in this house I respect because I walked in front of him on the stairs. He told me to stop doing that because one day he’ll trip and break his neck, but all I wanted to do was spend some time with him. We rarely see each other anymore because he's either at work, or school, or just not here to avoid the madness that is this house. I miss him and just wanted to say hi. Dinner was a mess. I waited as long as possible in an attempt to allow my girlfriend to eat first. I hoped that would alleviate some of her anger, but as she was still avoiding me the hunger became overwhelming and I couldn't wait. I was just finishing up my meal when she came into the kitchen and when she saw I didn’t wait she became even angrier and left in a fit of rage. I mean, I waited five minutes, but a man has to eat. Later that evening, while attempting to relax and forget about the day I noticed a light moving around on the wall. When I went to investigate further the light would move with such speed and frequency it had to be alien. This intrigued me so I spent the better part of my evening chasing this light around the house. Each time I was sure I captured it, but sure enough when I went to check it was gone and would then appear in another spot. Those in the house seemed to find this hilarious, but I didn’t. Assholes. Finally this day is over. I’m laying in bed hoping that tomorrow will be better because today sure wasn’t. Man is it tough being a cat.

From now on I'm going to post updates every three Entries, so as not to clutter this sub. If you see something you don't like, or want things added/see more of, just shout it at the comment section. 9/17/2137 20:12 My parents finally pushed me far enough. Over and over the kept pushing me to sign up with the Revolutionist Military Alliance. Apparently the 7th Infantry “Rebels” is one of the top fire groups. We are still training. They haven’t given us real guns to train with. Not enough to go around evidently. So we practice with sticks for now, and receive our rifles when we ship out. We learned where we are going, some little moon on the rings of June. Ioniathstan, I don’t even know how to pronounce that. There isn’t a lot going on in Basic Training, so I’ll probably pick up my log again when we ship out. See you then! -William Johnson RMA Basic Training 12/1/2137 14:25 It’s cold here, so cold. Not cold like the winters at home. This is the cold that gnaws at your bones. It seeps in through your clothes no matter how many layers you’re wearing; like water slowly taking a sailboat in a vicious gail. The cold wouldn’t be a problem if you could warm up every now and again, but there is nowhere. There are no fires to un-stiffen your fingers by. Not a cozy bed where you can peel off your boots and feel your toes again. Just the gnawing, biting, wiping cold. The patrols are perhaps the worst part. Trying to stumble through the densely falling snow in an attempt to make out the path taken by the previous man. Just wandering along this indent in the fresh snow. Hoping it is in fact the path, and not just some pitt from the wind. I’ve gotten lost already three times. I was gone for two hours when the found me the last time. I am extremely lucky in fact. We’ve lost six men to the blinding snow, and only found 3 of them frozen stiff. There have been no casualties of the Republic’s accord, only to the persistent cold. I don’t even know if the Republic is still here on this god forsaken rock. If they abandoned it realizing that the little patch of ice and dirt wasn’t worth the loss. None of us want to be here either. Even the the eternally patriotic members don’t believe it is worth losing their toes. We need to leave this place. -William Johnson Region Point, Ioniathstan 12/2/2137 8:05 It’s my birthday, I’m 23 now. It feels so strange knowing back at home I could apply for my piloting license now. But chances are now I won’t be going home. I’ve come to accept that fact. I’ll either die on one of these shit stone planets, or live with the army until we win. I was never an excellent pilot anyways. That was always my sister Ryn. For my birthday the guys gave me a few hand warmers. Those things are our form of currency on this planet. So it was a good gift. They also pulled some strings and got me all of the parts to fix my rifle. It is going to take some numb handed work, but I won’t have to hold my own with a with a little pea shooter anymore. That’ll make me the second person in my squad to have a working rifle. So that puts a little more pressure on me if we stumble upon the enemy. Still no sign of the enemy. We do 3 kilometer radius patrols on our position, nothing. If they wanted to attack us the proper setup would within a klick of our position. Maybe they can’t find us. Maybe they left this rock, hoping we would wait ‘till our deaths. We need to leave this place. -William Johnson Region Point, Ioniathstan 12/4/2137 19:49 We had an engagement with the Republic yesterday, and throughout the night into the morning hours. We had all forgotten the war going on, and thought only of the freezing terrain. I’ve never been in a battle, and it is nothing like when we played as kids. It’s hell. We’re just farmers. Farmers with glorified hunting rifles going against trained GalRep Troopers. We barely held our lines. John died. Our squad leader, and my best friend is gone. Him along with a quarter of the fire group. 76 men, just, gone. That makes 218 of us left in the 7th Rebel Infantry. The Republic Troops only let up because they were running low on ammunition. We only have 13 confirmed hits in our entire group. Out of the 2,000 rounds fired, we only hit 13 Reps. I got a battlefield promotion. I’d be really happy if it had to come in the form of 2 of my superiors, and most of the more eligible men, dying. I’m a sergeant now. That means I am in charge of 2 Corporals and 6 Privates. I don’t know why it was me they picked. I’ve never fired a shot in battle before today, and I didn’t even hit anything. I did keep my head though. One of the privates in my squad ran into the snow after he saw our Sgt get shot in the face. Nobody has seen the poor lad. We need to leave this place. -Sgt William Johnson Region Point, Ioniathstan 12/5/2137 21:15 We’ve just now finished up shoring our defenses. Yesterday they actually broke our lines on the northern bend. If the brass in the middle hadn’t sent their personal guard to hold the inner ring, the Region Point Base could have fallen. We were *this* close to falling. I didn’t think we would be strong enough to push GalRep Troopers out if they broke our lines. I have a renewed faith in our troops. The only good thing to come out of the attack is that moving around to rebuild defenses get the blood flowing so we can keep warm. The cold is still there, ever present, constant. We need to leave this place. -Sgt William Johnson Region Point, Ioniathstan 12/6/2137 8:00 I’ve decided that I am going to make my squads the best in our Century Group. I have been training each group in tactical conditions, and in the simulators. With each hour the are getting better and better. Callsigns Nikolet and Cabel have been renamed. They are now Sebel squad, and Blota squad; ancient Earthen words meaning Victory and Sacrifice. A fitting name for men of the Seventh. By the end of the week they will be the best, and we can be promoted to High Guard. The job of protecting the Brass. So we can be pulled off the lines and not sleep in a permafrost hole. Cpl. Seveta Corpsman, of Sebel Squad, and I have become close. We are very good friends, I really like her. She has beautiful dirty blond hair, and strong. But not in a way that takes away from her figure. Her blue eyes and short stature are what stand out most to me. I don’t just like her, I love her. If there weren’t a war going on, she’d be the girl I’d settle in with. But there is war, and personal relationships jeopardize the entire line. So for now we are friends.

I stood there, my shoulders hunched inward, my breath blowing white clouds into the cold February night. My buzz from earlier in the day had worn off completely, leaving the heavy weight of reality resting on my shoulders. An array of voices bounced around the inside of my skull. My friends, telling me we need more alcohol. Pinning the responsibility on me. My brother, shoving his fake ID into my hands and mumbling that I would be fine. My lips were trembling. A strange chemical reaction had begun in the base of my gut, and if I didn’t find a bathroom soon there would be hell to pay. But now was not the time for that. Now was the time to move. I had been standing outside for ten minutes, thinking and overthinking while the blinking neon sign over the door beckoned me inwards. Fuck it. My Nikes crunched on the salted pavement and I peeled the hood off of my sweaty head. I entered. “Welcome,” croaked the elderly Asian cashier. I was expecting him to nab me right then, to point his pudgy finger at me and demand that I leave his store immediately. It didn’t happen, of course. He glanced at me for no more than a moment then went back to his crossword puzzle without another word. I let out a sigh of relief and told myself that I was just being paranoid. Stupid. Crazy. The picture on the ID looked like me, anyway. The man behind the counter had no reason to doubt that I had been born on the twentieth of May, in the year of our Lord nineteen ninety-one. I had even come up with a whole backstory in my head on the bus ride over. Six months ago, a tragic accident had taken the life of my fiancee, Margaret. We had planned our wedding and set the date, two high school sweethearts who only had eyes for each other. But now, I had lost the only thing that gave my life meaning, and the reason why I was at 7/11 at 1:14 in the morning was so I could purchase the supplies necessary to drink away my sorrows. All of this was completely ridiculous, but it at least put my mind at ease. I wanted to embody the mind of the character I was playing. I’m a method actor at heart, really. Shelves of greasy chips, overpriced candy bars, and contraceptives melted past me as I made my way to the beverages resting in the large refrigerator at the back of the store. I stood there for a moment, contemplating. This was the moment of truth. It wasn’t too late to turn back, but once I reached in and grabbed the case of beer, I would have to complete my objective. It’s just the way I am. One more moment of hesitation. Fuck it. A clammy hand extended itself from the pocket of my hoodie, wrapped around the cold handle of the fridge, and pulled. I leaned my shoulder against the inside of the door to keep it propped and grabbed a case of the cheapest beer I could find. I had already been forced to ride the bus halfway across town to a 7/11 shady enough to not care about poorly manufactured fake ID’s. I wasn’t about to spend a fortune. But now was the hardest part. I looked over my shoulder at the cash register, and it seemed to be miles away. The Asian man was still sitting there, totally engrossed in his puzzle. Hopefully he would want to get back to it as soon as possible and wouldn’t waste too much time examining my identification. Or maybe he would look at it for hours, shining a black light on it and biting it to ensure that it was real. Either way, I had to stop with this insanity. An eternity passed in a matter of seconds. I was taking long, confident strides to the counter, beer in hand, but it felt like I was walking through Jello on the surface of the moon. Every step brought me closer to my doom. As I closed in, the attendant looked up at me and adjusted his comically large wire frame glasses. I noticed he was trying to cover up his baldness with a poorly maintained comb-over. His face was covered with the tiny craters left over from mistreated adolescent acne. Little black whiskers poked out from within his bulbous nose. I felt kind of sorry for the guy. “What can I help you with tonight, sir?” he boomed in a voice that sounded much louder and deeper to me than it actually was. For a moment, I tripped up, choking on my words and fumbling around in my head for an idea of what to say. Thankfully, it came to me with merciful quickness. “I’m having a little get-together at my apartment and people were getting thirsty,” I replied confidently, placing the beer on the counter. My face stayed fixed in an easygoing smile, but inside I was celebrating. I fucking made it! The rest would be a walk in the park. “Ah, I see,” the man said with a chuckle. “Well, I’m going to need to see some kind of identification before I sell you that.” His eyes darted back to his crossword impatiently. “Of course!” I reached in my pocket and removed my wallet, immediately cringing at my own stupidity. What kind of twenty-three year old man has a velcro Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wallet? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Too late to turn back now, though. Hopefully my partner in crime would be too busy thinking about his puzzle to notice. I pulled the wallet open and gingerly removed the ID, taking one last look at it to be sure the picture at least resembled me. It did, vaguely. That would have to do. The man reached across the counter and grabbed it out of my hand. He held it up to his face, squinting behind his glasses to read the small letters that provided all of my vital information. Massive beads of sweat rolled down my back. My balls sucked themselves up into my body. My toes curled. Years flew by as I stood there, watching this funny little character try to pass judgement on my legitimacy as an alcohol-purchasing adult. The whole situation was nuts, anyway. I was going to find a way to drink regardless of whether or not my ID was rejected. Whatever. Finally, he looked up at me and smiled. He actually smiled. “Let me ring that up for you,” he said, handing the card back to me. “Where are you from, by the way?” “Flint, Michigan,” I replied immediately, remembering the address that had been written on the ID. “Born and raised. I’ve lived there almost my whole life.” The man reached under the desk slowly and pulled out a scanner. He sure was taking his sweet fucking time. “Flint, huh? What are you doing so far from home?” Now he was looking me in the eyes, questioning me. Questioning my very existence. I wondered why. “Well,” I started, carefully recalling my totally made up story. “My fiancee died a few months ago in an accident, and I wanted to move across the country and start fresh. Everything in Flint was reminding me of her, so I came out here. New friends, new location, new opportunities. It really is great.” The bespectacled little troll was scanning my item now and typing something into the tiny computer attached to the register. “Cash or credit?” he asked. Well, I’ll be damned. He had completely ignored what I had just said. This man didn’t give a shit about me, my ID, or what I was doing so far from Flint, Michigan. He was just another bored night shift worker trying to pass the time. I handed him a crumpled twenty dollar bill, told him to keep the change, and walked out with the case under my arm. It wasn’t until the cold wind hit me in the face outside that I realized I was crying. I had actually done it. I had actually followed through with something for once in my life. My imagination traveled to a scene of me walking through the door with all the beer and my friends showering me with praise and high fives. My brother would walk up and shake my hand and say he was proud of me. I would finally be a man. My cheeks filled with blood and my mind wandered. I forgot to look under my feet. I forgot to be careful with where I was walking in the wintry weather. Before I knew it, I was sliding on a patch of black ice, and any sense of balance I had vanished. The beer flew out of my hands and smashed on the sidewalk, sending chunks of broken glass flying everywhere. I sat there for a moment and stared at the mess. Fuck.

“Would you like an appetizer?” The thing that leaped out from under the hospital gurney resembled Richard Nixon if his face had melted down into his lap. But there was really no lap: just a swashbuckling bag of fat that produced itself in the hospital room offering appetizers. And why? This was surgery – no qualified doctor would let imps in the hospital rooms upon the guests and then tell them that food is a top priority. In a hospital, your last idea in the world is food. But there he was. I stared into the dead eyes and wondered how I would escape this thing. “They are six kinds of baked cheeeeeeeeeese.” It said and then licked at its face with a tongue made out of some concentrated barbed wire so it took minutes for the wounds to appear. “No, I won’t be having any of that. I’m in the hospital. This is serious. I may die!” I yelled the last and tried to make myself upright with my bellowing but noticed that I was tied down. What was I in here for? I can’t remember. I remember going to sleep and waking up and then a bright light. Was it a stroke? Had it finally come upon me? The brain pumping so hard it turns you on your end and blows out a cortex with the ideas you cannot communicate? Had it come that far? Had I failed as a human? “What do I have!” I yelled at the waiter. “You have four options: baked cheeses, onion tots, blackened jalapeños, or the loaded baked potato.” It began licking at the previous tongue wounds and the face began to resemble cheese cloth. I tried to hold myself, but my arms were stuck in the down position. “We’ll have none of that!” It was a man in a smock. My doctor! I began to feel hope in my bosom. Until the doctor produced a chainsaw from behind his back and started pumping the ignition. “No, doctor! This is a place of salvation – don’t kill the fat waiter!” But it was of no use. He chopped the thing down with three striking blows across what I can only describe as a black and white thorax. The doctor approached me, wiping blood from his brow. “He’s been a problem since he started.” He said. “From when he started? Why would you hire such a thing? And why appetizers in a hospital? Tell me doctor!” I realized I was probably mad now. Not mad at him, but Mad Hatter mad. The kind of mad where you eat your own fingers and watch FOX News on acid. “Listen.” The doctor began stroking my brown. “Listen. There’s been a few changes to your condition that I should tell you about. You are cured of the Downs Syndrome, but now you have a whole new set of problems.” At this, he produced a handful of spiders and blew them into my face. “Furcfkrick!’ I scratched at my face and kept yelling obscenities at the man. “There, there.” I felt him stroking the spiders into my head and then I really began howling. “The – please be quiet – let the spiders do their job. You see, you have contracted a form of Jungle Fever in which you are only attracted to black ponies. Yes, we found you outside trying to persuade one into the hospital room.” “Ponies at a hospital? A hospital with appetizers!” I began licking at my face in some twisted form of compassion for the dead waiter. “Ponies are part of the healing process – you want to be healed don’t you? We just ask that you don’t try to proposition them. And, if that fails, it’s spider time.” I could feel them eating at my brain, trying to get this outrageous need for black ponies out of my head. I don’t remember enjoying bestiality, but that’s how it happens in life: you wake up and find out you’ve been retarded your whole life and enjoy fucking tiny horses. “I want to get better, doc. I want the spiders to work. I thank you for the Downs solution, but right now I just want the spiders out of my head – what can we do?” “We must wait.” He was a tall, thin man and when he spoke, small eggs would drop from under his chin and he would catch them and hold them up like he had performed a magic trick. It was quite a feat. He continued: “It’s imperative that you know just what the spiders will do. There is an all odds chance that they may enter your blood stream and you could lose all of your hair.” “Jesus! My hair! I need my hair!” “But that’s not all, the hair could leave your body, regroup and come and attack you. Hair is known to do that when incited by these spiders. They are trouble makers, those spiders…they incite. I don’t like spiders myself, but they are necessary to the healing process. You understand.” I didn’t understand, but I could feel the need to love a pony, in the biblical sense, slowly ebbing away. Later, they would produce a bill and send me on my way. I can’t recall the amount, but I remember leaning over to a group of leg hairs standing at attention and whispering “My taxes paid for those bayonets.

This is my first time really attempting to write my own story. I posted it on /r/shortstorycritiques and as hoping /r/shortstories could give me some feedback too. I hope you enjoy it. EDIT - minor fixes Highway 99 It's past dusk. I'm southbound on Highway 99 and I have a speedometer to match it. The radio is spitting out some mix of Led Zeppelin and mariachi as static dances between the two. I turn the radio off. There's no comfort there, not tonight. All I can think about is her. The name Angie sneaks softly through my teeth as a quick smile creeps onto my face. It's a smile that lasts only a moment, already replaced by less comforting thoughts. I found myself reflecting upon a fellow patron of the station I had stopped at earlier that night to refill on gas. As I waited in line to pay my dues while thinking about Angie my attention was abruptly averted to the man in front of me. Something wasn't right with him. He stood at the counter trying not to fall over while fumbling to find his wallet in the only back pocket left on his jeans. He had a bottle of gatorade and whatever cheap 40 oz of beer he had found at the register. He had no shirt, and had several scars scattered across his back. Where did he get those scars? What had he done? After what seemed to be minutes consumed of him searching that only pocket he finally realized his wallet wasn't there. Realizing his defeat he carefully shuffled around to face the door. He saw me. As he looked at me I looked right back at him, and I could see it. His eyes said it all; this wasn't his first failure, and it probably wouldn't be his last. I bought my fuel and filled the car's tank. Ready to go I looked up and saw the scarred man walking north. Where was he going? What would he find? Had he lost his Angie? Would he be on that lonely road if he still had her? I step on the gas and watch the needle slowly work its way up, faltering slightly once it reaches 101mph as if it means to ask, "Are you sure about this, why are you in a rush?" I give it more, 104mph it says. Out here there's nothing but you, your thoughts, and a river of asphalt littered with other human beings encased in metal machines left to their own thoughts. Where am I going? Why am I rushing towards it? 107mph. What am I leaving behind. Am I running away from it? 108mph. Billboards are a blur, and the other motorists now seem to be at a standstill compared to the speed I'm hitting. I can barely make out 70mph as I pass a speed sign screaming, "Slow down, be careful!" Speed doesn't matter, nothing except getting away matters right now. 111mph. I try to reassure myself that I'm just looking for the comfort of my bed, and that it'll make me feel better. I can't think if I'm asleep. 112mph. Just a little faster and nothing will catch up. Running is easier than facing these thoughts that weigh heavily on my conscience. None more troubling than the thought of Angie. 114mph. My fears, failures, and my ill transgressions will be behind me; a thing of the past. 115mph and the rev limiter kicks in. 99mph. The car groans as the needle drops. I can't run. There isn't a car fast enough nor a road long enough to outrun the things I've done. "I have to fix what I've done," I tell myself as I think of her again. There's a sign off the side of the road, "Philip S. Raine Safety Roadside Rest Stop ahead," it says, "two miles." Who is this Philip Raine guy, and what did he do to get a couple of shitters, a snack machine, and a parking lot named after him. What makes him any different, I wonder. Did he have the same problems I did? Did he have an Angie as well? Did he hurt her? I decide to give Mr. Raine's rest stop a visit and pull off the 99. I shake the idea that Mr. Raine and I might have anything in common. I need sleep and endless thoughts of Mr. Raine, the scarred man, or anything else won't bring me that. Tomorrow will be a long day, and the thought of her giving me another chance is just enough peace of mind so that I can sleep. It's dawn. I'm northbound on highway 99 and I have a speedometer to match it.

It was a cold, dull night. Clouds painted the sky dark grey leaving downtown Vancouver a colorless place. Rows of dimmed orange street lights poured light onto wet pavement, most of them flickered, many were simply burnt out. After being homeless for 9 years you tend to notice these things. I lay on my dirty mattress, staring at the unlit bulb hanging above me. The same one I have stared at over the past couple years. Being a light sleeper is the second worst attribute to have when living here. I've lost count as to have many times a sky train, car honk, or voice has woken me up. This time it was the rattling of a train. Once woken, I paid attention to the other sounds as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Rubber soles scratched against the sidewalk, tires stopped, turned, drove, engines hummed, people coughed.. this is what Vancouver sounds like at night, well, at least that’s what I hear. A slight breeze made its way down my alley, bringing with it pieces of trash and paper. I turned on my side, pulling my beat up blanket over my shoulder and stared at the metal door I slept by. The owners of this pub didn't seem to mind me living here. I actually didn't mind living here myself. The side door had an overhang offering some nice shelter from rain, something my last spot didn't offer. It also provided light every day from six until eleven. The only time I would be bugged is when a worker would take out the trash. I still remember the last time that happened. A young girl with a name tag reflecting 'Stacey' opened the door. She carefully stepped around me in disgust and deposited two black duffel bags (of what would later be my dinner) into a bin a couple meters to my right. On her way out she mumbled "what a fucking pig" thinking I was sleeping. Probably new. Over the years I had gotten used to the judgment, but that doesn't mean that I don't care. Ever since elementary school I remember being self conscious. Well look at me now... heh, thousands of people passing by, thousands of people silently judging me. I know what they're thinking, that I'm a worthless scum, that I should overdose on drugs already. I still can't get myself to beg for money, it's what you people inconsiderately shaped me into. After thinking for a couple more seconds I let out a sigh, sat up, and reached into my pocket for my watch. I squinted at the small rustic thing until I could make out a time of 3:46. I could feel the initials on the back of it pressing into my hands. J.W. My fathers. This was the only reminder I had of my parents, which makes me realize that I barely even remember their faces anymore. All I remember when I hold this watch is the fact that they kicked me out. Those selfish bastards kicked me out and left me alone. No parent should do that, even if their kid is as fucked as I was. Well I ended up stealing their car, later selling it, and long story short, I end up in this shithole with 60 bucks to spare. Where did the car-money go you ask? Mostly drugs, some of it was pizza though. Well anyways, a part of me wants to sell this watch for more meth, I'm sure that I could get at least two good highs out of it, three if I'm lucky. But another part of me says that I need to keep it, to hell knows why, maybe to keep reminding me of what horrible people I grew up with. Maybe someday I will get out of here, show my parents that I didn't grow up to be some homeless junkie. That day is not today. I reached under my pillow to find a glass cylinder with a needle sticking out of one end. There it is. I pulled it out carefully, gently gripping it with both hands. Imagine how much it would suck if I broke it. All the light I had came from the reflection of a dimmed street lamp off the opposite brick wall. Luckily, I could probably do this with my eyes closed. I tried to make out how much was left in the syringe but the light was too dim. I bent out my left arm and pressed the needle against what felt like the right vein. Man the rush, I haven't even pierced skin yet and the excitement I'm getting out of this is unreal. I took a deep breath. The needle was cold, the pain felt good. I pushed it down all the way, slowly pressing with my thumb. I knew I woke up for a good reason. Joshua slowly lay back down on his mattress, resuming his gaze upon the unlit bulb. His right arm slowly let go of the now empty syringe, letting it roll off into the alley. He pulled back his long greasy hair away from his dilated eyes. “Jesus maaan.” He said with his raspy, cigarette scarred voice, still staring at the light bulb. Something about this time felt different. The effect would never come onto him so suddenly. “Jake was right about this premo stuff. Right bulb? Haha.” Said Joshua. He felt warm, like everything was good again. He had no problems in life, just him, mattress, and bulb. He got out of his blankets, revealing his torn sweat pants and jeans jacket, the same one from when he was a teen. Euphoria radiated throughout his body, in fact, every part of his body felt alive. He heard every sound in the city, he felt every moving being. Or at least so he thought. A light shower had started, he heard every single patter. And yet, there was silence, for once he heard no cars, no people, no trains, just the relaxing patter of rain. Silence. Until, an unexpected sound arose, the flickering of a light bulb. He saw the bulb above him glow, turn off, turn on, flicker, then shine. This arose some confusion in Joshuas brain. It wasn't six pm, he sure hadn’t stared at the bulb for hours had he? The rain grew stronger, also did his heartbeat. Does someone have a problem with me sleeping here? Did someone see me shoot up? “Joshua you're just tripping out again, lie down and chill out.” He said to himself. He sat straight up staring at the bulb, now glowing at its full potential. He felt around his pocket, sure enough, feeling the initials of J.W. He fumbled the old pocket-watch in his hand. His hands were shaking, not from panic, but from meth. He lifted the lid and tried to read the time under the light. It should have been easy but his eyes wouldn't come to focus. All the numbers were blurry. Frustrated he threw the pocket watch down the alley, watching it bounce twice before the lid broke off. It came to rest and reflected rain off of its brass body, glowing under the orange streetlight. “Thanks for the stupid watch dad.” He said, holding his head and then lying down. He was going to go to sleep, but the rain grew stronger. Water began to fall off roofs and splash into the alleyway. Joshua tried to ignore it. Until he noticed water slowly seeping out under from the metal door, just to the left of him. “What the fuck?” Joshua said, shooting up from his bed to look at the door. He was panicking. The water looked dark, unnaturally dark. It resembled red more than blue. Joshua stared, bewildered, at the dark water that his mattress was now soaking up. He backed up hastily, bumping into the trash can he once pulled food out of. He noticed a smell, a horrible smell. It reminded him of the time he left his KFC outside for two hot summer days. He covered his nose with his hand but he felt that it just made the smell worse. Joshua stumbled in the dark alleyway, towards the road. It was loud, water was pouring violently from all over. All black. “Hello?!” Josh said. His hand against the wet brick wall. He turned back to look at the alley. He couldn’t see through to the other side. He did see his shadow however. It was a hunched over, black silhouette that stood out in lamplight orange, shone by the dimmed street lamp behind him. The street light flickered. He saw his mattress, now floating in the alleyway on top of a couple centimeters of black water. Joshua looked down, he was standing in a pool of black water. The entire alleyway was filling with black water. Joshua turned around and stumbled a bit further onto the sidewalk, covering his nose with his jeans jacket. The entire road was filled with black water, still furiously pouring from the dark sky. Across the road was another alleyway, but the rain made it too hard to see into. The road seemed deserted. He looked both ways. You could see a few hundred metres down the road before it cut off with fog. There were only orange street lights and wires connecting them, all glittering in the rain. All windows were black. Joshuas heartbeat was racing. “Is this a flash flood? Was I too high to evacuate?” He cursed under his breath looking left and right, he noticed that the water level was rising. He looked up, he saw black sky but he also saw the monorail along with a train stopped on top of it. He waved his arms in hope, he saw silhouettes in the windows, but no distinguishable face on any of them. “Hey!! Im down here help me please! I don't know how to swim please!” The silhouettes on the train seemed to be looking at him, they shifted around but not a single one did anything. They just stared. “Please!” Joshua screamed, but the silhouettes had no reaction. When screaming Joshua had a taste of the rain. It tasted metallic, penny-like. This wasn’t rain. He flinched when he heard glass shatter behind him. Apartment windows started breaking in the alleyway he lived in. Out of the broken windows poured more black fluid. He held on to the light post as hard as he could after hearing smash after smash. The water was waist level now. He could almost feel the entire world getting darker, in fact, it was. Street lights were also being smashed, and eventually, his was too. The world was dark and Joshua was now trying to swim in the head deep water. It rises faster and faster until every building is concealed. He was struggling to keep his head above the water. It was as if something was pulling him down. “Im sorry Dad. Im so sorry. I never should have ran away and I love both you and mom. Why did I leave I was wrong. I was wrong about the world and I made a mistake. Someone give me a second chance.” Joshua looked up and saw sky, it was blue. He reached out to touch it, he felt hope, but he was stopped. It was glass. He felt the roof. It was cold and thick. It wasn’t glass, it was ice. Joshua took one last breath of air before the fluid reached its limit. On top of the ice he could see two figures skating. A man and a woman. The man was tall and handsome and the woman was beautiful. They came to a stop right on top of Joshua. It was muffled but he heard a conversation. “We’ve been here for hours already can we go?” The woman said. “Anna, we’ve been here for 15 minutes, you know this is what I wanted to do for our anniversary honey so at least spend a bit more time on it!” The man said. “Really? Well it has felt like at least an hour.” Anna said. “It has been exactly..” The man said, pulling out a brass pocket watch. “..23 minutes! So how about we round that up to 30 and leave then?” “I dunno Joshy I think Amy’s hungry.” Anna said while pointing at her what seemed to be pregnant stomach. “Haha fine, I guess I’ll make an exception for Amys sake.” Joshua said. “You're the best.” Joshua screamed under the ice but the couple couldn’t hear him. And with his last breath he faded away into the darkness.

It was a stormy day Rain covered the windshield A girl with her new boyfriend Leaving from a party Argue on the freeway A trucker finishing his trip early Already weeks on the road Hes nodding off trying to stay awake Hoping to surprise his daughter The couples argument intensifies Saving disaster the boyfriend pulls over The argument continues outside the car The girlfriend walks away The trucker almost at his end Fills his cup with coffee The boyfriend walks after her Careful not to burn himself The trucker slowly inches his cup The girlfriend pushes her boyfriend He trips and falls into the ditch The truckers cup slips Burned he loses control Swerving to the right The boyfriend scrambling Reaching for the girl The trucker stops hard on his brakes Skidding on the wet road Neither in time to save the girl Police and E.M.S.

Miriam looked to the familiar sights of Disney as she walked down the deep red cobbled pavement of Main Street. Looking down she placed her feet, one in front of the other, following the near hidden lines of the train tracks like a ballerina on her toes. The crowd was alight with excitement and frenzied movement as the brightly clad cast members marked off the streets with bright yellow tape. She closed her eyes breathed in deep, the smell of slow cooked turkey legs, began to waft towards her. Jonathan saw the red of the ice cream umbrella and his hand entwined in hers pulled her towards it. The eager line moved quickly and they picked up their favorites before continuing towards the glisteningly pink Castle. Jonathan began bouncing on his toes as the crowd gathered around them to get a view. Miriam curled under Jonathan’s arm as the crowd got close. She jerked back when the lady next to her touched Jonathans elbow. Miriam shot the woman a look of pure disgust and loathing, then she moved to stand in front of Jonathan as he wrapped his arms around her. The music queuing the characters entrance began and Meriam turn her head up to look at Jonathan’s big goofy smile. His blue eyes flashed at her, twinkling with mischief. Mickey was the first out in his tailed tuxedo, he tried to “sneak” onto stage and whisper to the audience, waving his gloved hand around. He was asking for volunteers to come on stage. The audience, already bursting with excitement, exploded. Jonathan lifted Miriam’s little frame up by the hips and threw her up into the air! Yelling at the top of his lungs as he did so!, Mickey looked right at her and pointed, waving for her to come up on stage! Miriam's eyes widened and her cheeks turned a bright shade of crimson as she grabbed at Jonathan’s hand to bring him up on stage with her. She began parting the crowd not caring who she hit (in the face) or stepped over (on) to get to the front. As she began to take the steps in 3’s onto the stage her hand left Jonathan’s briefly as she was met with an embrace from Mickey and the whole gang of characters and dancers as they simultaneously ran onto the stage. Two dancers adorned as princesses grabbed her hand and sat her down on the bench at the corner of the stage and placed a pink pair of mickey ears with a tiara, on her head. Miriam then was whisked into the action as the dancers began to dance and twirl, around her the flashes of golden yellows and bright reds. As the characters began their script, they whisked her away into the realm of glittery fairy tales and true loves first kiss. Miriam was caught up in the moment, until her gaze made a full lap around the stage and she didn’t see Jonathan. She then turned and put on a smile (on cue) and looked into the audience. Still, she could not find him. Trying to enjoy herself, but uneasy, her heart began to race. Before the fireworks, but after she’d become seriously agitated, Jonathan appeared, across the stage from her. She squinted her eyes, and blink a couple times, unsure of what she was seeing. He was in full costume, dressed head to toe like a prince, and he stepped right in time with the dancers. Miriam sat on the bench cautiously moving to the music. Her faced was slightly askew with confusion. Not knowing what was going on, or that Jonathan could dance. As the music began to wind down, then ramp up for the powerful final notes. The dancers and characters lined up facing the audience and stood her up, Jonathan ran to the other side of the stage, and in time, ran and slid on his knees across the stage before stopping in front of her. In a suave and calm motion he reached into his pocket and got up on one knee. Grasping her right hand he said, “Miriam will you marry me?,” opening the little black box, to a shining ring. His voice seemed a whisper after the volume of the show. Miriam gasped, and covered her mouth with her off hand. She had been expecting a proposal, but her daydreams couldn't have created the splendor Jonathan had brought into being. The audience was quiet. Miriam was catching her breath, her eyes were eager to glance all around the audience and the stage team awaiting her answer, but his eyes remained locked on her. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. “Yes, I love you, Yes!” Miriam wiped her eyes and took the ring. If I could tell you thank you, And for a minute you'd look at me And possibly somewhere deep in Your heart you'd believe me, I would, and I'd want to because You were the first time I'd been In love, wild and reckless love The way I fought for your heart I battled down those walls you held Til finally for me you fell I was at a loss, so emblazoned With this heart and love so alight I would do anything for you nothing you did was ever anything But perfect in my eyes Miriam walked down the quiet hall to the door of apartment #30 with her handbag and got out a singular brass key into the lock, turning the deadbolt slowly to the left and opening the door with the twist of her other hand. She walked in, with a graceful and calm walk, not bother closing the door behind her. She dropped the key on the floor and used the light from the hallway to grope along the walls for the light switch. The shoebox apartment was barren from floor to ceiling. The unpainted walls had taken on a murky grey. She walked into what had been the living room, and put her bag down on the dusty wooden chair in the middle of the room. She took the couple of steps to the sliding glass door that opened to the patio. It overlooked the rest of the apartment complex, and Miriam pulled the blinds back. Her cloudy eyes counted each of the lights that were still on, and accounted for anyone out on their patio. She flipped the light switch to the chandelier hanging above the chair and walked back to her opened her bag. She removed a razor and a pair of sheers placing them on the chair. Miriam stood up and began to unbutton her white collared shirt, starting under her chin working her way down. She leaned back and let the shirt fall off her shoulders to the ground. She reached back and unhooked her bra, and let it slide off her arms. Miriam stood and her pale exposed skin reflected the harsh light above her. She leaned over and repeated the process with her pants and underwear. Then she folded the clothes and placed them in her bag. Walking to the bathroom, she plugged in the sheers. She turned it on and placed the sheers on her forehead using her other hand to keep a close steady line. Then she slowly pulled the clippers through her long dark hair hesitating at her forehead with every stroke.and watched it fall to the ground around her. Again she put the clippers to her head and shaved the long soft strands of hair, following them with her eyes as they fell to the ground ticking her butt, and falling softly against the backs of her legs and around her feet, like wet feathers in a soft puddle around her. Miriam shaved off every hair. She turned on the shower and left the pile of hair on the cold tile floor. She stepped into the shower while it was still cold and proceeded to shave her legs, and her entire body, even her eyebrows, while the goosebumps were still smoothing. When she had finished, she turned off the water and stepped out, razor in hand. She had not brought a towel. She brought the razor with her to the sink, and began taking it apart. The individual razors fell onto the white marble of the sink and she picked one up, pricking her finger. She watched the red liquid pool on the top of her finger. Her steady hand put the razor to the skin of her chest, above her breasts and with slow and careful motion carved in two words, then on her stomach she wrote one more. Miriam did her best to keep her face taut, but slight winces broke though. She saw and she began to feel the warmth of blood running down her body. A hint of a smiled touched her lips as the flesh around her letters rushed with a bright crimson color sharp contrast to her pale skin. When she finished, she put the razor down in the sink, and walked towards the living room. Blood dripped from her body, and soaked hands onto the wood floors as she walked up to the chair. Miriam inhaled deeply, and exhaled as she stepped up onto the chair, and carefully turned around looking out the sliding glass door. She put her head through the rope hanging down from the chandelier and tightened the knot around her neck. She kicked the chair out from under her and didn’t struggle. She became a beacon for the message on her chest. “The other woman.

It’s ok. It’s fine if that’s what you think of me. Go ahead, believe what you want. I don’t care what you think of me. I hardly value your opinion. You can’t possibly think I’d respect your opinion enough to influence how I perceive myself, would you? I am stronger than anything you can possibly say to me. It’s ok. It isn’t like it may be true, what you said. So what if I am broken? Depressed? Shattered beyond repair? Hurting? Cutting myself in the middle of the night in some faltering attempt to release the pain? Looking in the mirror day after day thinking I’m not good enough? Thinking upon the hour that I am never good enough? Not acceptable but rejectable? Contemplating daily the benefits of the rope or continuing with life? So what? Go ahead. Call me what you wish. It’s ok. It’s always ok. If it can grant you some sense of security in yourself, at the risk of my own, go on! Take advantage! Call me anything! I can take it. It isn’t like I am fragile by the consistent battery of verbal assaults you feel the necessity to launch each and every day. It isn’t like I am falling apart simply to keep you held together. No. That is hardly the case at all, isn’t it? I am just some verbal punching bag designed solely for you to have a release in the midst of your oh so grueling day, aren’t I? You refuse to acknowledge me as more. I have longed for a purpose, so this may as well be it, I suppose. Yes. This is who I am. The one strong enough to hide the fragility and withstand the pain you daily deal in order to keep you standing. It’s ok. I promise. It’s perfectly ok. All ok. I dreamed of being more, though. Before I determined to submit to your will and whim. I dreamed of being so much greater than your humanized anti-depressant. So, you know what? It isn’t ok. It is not ok for you to consistently belittle and berate me as some childish plaything you can toss about a room whenever you feel like having a fit or tantrum. I am not some doll you may manipulate and toy with. I am a human being, deserving of a respect higher than you could ever give. The words you choose to force upon me only reflect back to yourself displaying how pathetically needing you are of love. It is almost saddening to observe. No. It’s not ok. It was never ok. All I ask is for you to share this with at least one other person and ask them to do the same. Thanks for reading.

Kevin walked to the birdcage where his parakeets, a yellow and a blue, were motionless on their perch. Had they always been this still? In fact, had he ever seen them eat or drink? The alarming part wasn't their current status; the truly scary part was his inability to recall the answer to either question. "How strange," he said aloud, more to soothe his growing fear than anything else. The cage was a simple one, and had come with the room. The birds were allowed out of the cage but never took advantage of the privilege, preferring instead to roost inside on a thick wooden dowel spanning the cage's width. Concerned, he opened the cage door and reached toward them, half expecting frantic flapping and squawking. His hand closed on two fake birds instead, crude cutouts whose resemblance to real parakeets was superficial at best. What was happening? His birds! He felt lightheaded as he made his way to the couch. He barked his shin on the coffee table, stumbled and went into the wall as he lost the ability to stand. Made of cheap paper, the wall ripped easily and fluttered over him as he lay suddenly immobile on the floor. He screamed, and it was the reedy whine of a toy kazoo.

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, But these words will always kill me. Time is short, they have found me and they will soon break through the wards on the doorways, I cannot tell you everything but I can give you enough to see the truth. At the beginning of mankind, a dangerous world of monsters threatened its very existence. The life of each individual balanced delicately on a knife edge and nobody was safe no matter how they tried to hide or defend themselves. That was the way of things, until one day a break through was made, Enuncia. A weapon that not only saved mankind from extinction, but was instrumental in their eventual mastery of the world. Words of power that when heard could trick, maim and even kill. A perfect, versatile weapon not limited to the physical ability of the user. These words took two forms, those of creation and those of destruction. The first people debated in what circumstances such words should be used in and which words were too powerful, which words were too cruel, which words were good and evil. A disagreement took place, the first people split into two tribes. These tribes were named after the form of Enuncia they used, good and evil. I cannot tell you these words or un-words rather, pronunciation is very particular a slight lapse in a phrase commonly results in a lack of effect or on the rare occasion it may cause harm to you and the world around you. I've seen people burst like a ripe grape, sectioned into geometric pieces and far worse. In fact many of the "spontaneous combustions" reported are in fact people making mistakes in Enuncia or accidentally forming these un-words of power without the proper training to survive speaking them. The evil were not satisfied, they began a war with the good. A war that killed thousands, burst reality like a spent shell casing and left in its place scars in the skin of the universe. A war that lasted millennia, a war that may yet begin again. One such scar in reality was created during a battle at sea between Sartan of the Evil and Gabreel of the good, a conflict of such magnitude that warped interpretations of these two mighty people appear in religious texts even now. Sartan horribly wounded, in desperation combined un-words into one final attack, causing an explosion that killed them both and left a wound so large in the fabric of reality that it still swallows people, ships and planes. I believe they call this place the Bermuda triangle now. I digress, in the end both tribes threw all they had into one final effort, destroying each other until all that remained was a few deserters from each side avoiding each other in mutual fear. Thus the knowledge of Enuncia degraded over time, the words became corrupted through the changing of accents and the improper transference of knowledge to their descendants. Few remembered the old weapon, even fewer were willing to use it, those using it were seen as gods, daemons and sorcerers. Some were worshipped, some hunted down and killed. I will not recite their stories here as a great many became myths or legends that are well known even now. Witches and wizards, great heroes, world leaders. Hitler was one such descendant of the evil tribe, you never wondered how his speeches were so influential on people, driving them to do terrible things? You never thought it strange that prayer, trying to bring salvation through the spoken word, is such a core part of most religions? So naïve. Then again, much of the truth in these tales have been lost over the years, lost or covered over. Adam and eve were tricked by a snake, this is partially true as a descendant of the evil tribe had his tongue surgically altered to be forked in order to better pronounce some of the words of destruction as the purer the pronunciation the more effective the un-word becomes. Notice how the words good and evil are so similar to God and Devil? It is no coincidence. Do you wonder why we have curse words? There are words that can curse you or others but you're too far from proper pronunciation to use them. If you ever inexplicably bleed from the mouth but have good dental hygiene you may even have said a lesser un-word by accident without ever realizing. So many of those words are lost to us now, but they are making progress in recovering them, they listen to your conversations through the microphone on your phone and laptop, in the hopes that if you are killed through an accidental enunciation they will have recorded the word. As the saying goes enough monkeys at type writers would eventually produce the combined works of Shakespeare. So enough people spontaneously combust and the beautiful language of Enuncia will live again and bring humanity into new heights of success or new depths in depravity. Those who crave this are known only as the whisper men. It's too late for me, the whisper men will soon break down the warded door. The whispers have turned to shouts, the shouts have turned to roars and the roars have turned to concussive booms. There is no time left, there is one thing they do not know, we of the good left clues for you in some of the most famous literally works. I can't say more than that, just be careful for if you but whisper the right words you can still stop them. Remember, sticks and stones may break your bones but words will always be the key.

This is my first post of my writing. Feedback, good or bad, is appreciated. Enjoy. Dr Howard Corbin Dr Corbin was eating dinner with his new wife and her ingrate son. Chicken, 3 months of marriage and they had chicken 32 times. His child bride, Sheila, was 23 years his junior. He used to love chicken. His mother would wring its neck and bleed it out Sunday after church. He would watch it die, discretely. He was fascinated by that instant when the certainty of one's death is accepted. As a young man, in the triage tent on the "front line" of Vietnam conflict, he used to work with an erection. Not a raging one. It would just waggle in his boxers and rub against his thigh. He was a demigod, choosing who would receive grace through his over skilled hands and who was not worth the effort. He had met Sheila 8 years after his first wife left him. He hasn't done anything wrong. You aren't the man I married his ex would scream, every fucking fight. Of course I'm not, we got married 22 years ago. "I" grew up. She would slam the door of the house she had wanted, he had paid for, get into the sl500, slam the door on the car he bought her. Then drive to the bar and would buy her drinks on his amex. Maybe after a bad fight she would take a bar fly to a motel near the airport paid again with his credit card. Sheila had been introduced at a dull dinner a friend had thrown. She had walked in just as soup was put on the table. It was a magical moment. He had just put a large forkful of salad in his mouth. A rivulet of dressing slid down from the corner of his mouth unheeded. To say she was striking would be ungenerous. Mrs Sheila Corbin Sheila was born in Cambodia in 1974. She always thinks of it as being sold into slavery. In reality she was adopted shortly after her birth because most of her family had been killed, Her mother dying during Sheila's birth. She was fortunate to be "purchased" by a kind english family. She was fed and schooled with the other children by the rest of the house staff. She was released from service to attend college and never looked back to Asia, there was nothing there for her. She came to university of Maryland on a partial scholarship. The boys went crazy for her, Asian with a clipped British accent. She took lovers. They gave her things. Beautiful things. She donated them to churches, she was not a whore paid in jewelry. In her junior year she was dating a poly sci major. He was going places, he had interned in a senator's office. On Saturday night after an epic party they went back to his swanky apartment. They made beautiful love and Ryan. She didn't hate the baby, just resented him. He represented a door that had closed for her. She barely finished school while raising an infant. The poly sci major slowly pulled away after she told him that it was immoral to have an abortion. He sent her a $3,000 check after the birth. What the hell was $3,000 for and how did he decide on that number? She cashed it, only because she needed the money. She was 29 when she met Dr. Corbin, Ryan was 9. She loved him almost instantly. She had tried, on her own and through therapy to find out why. He was old and white so he seemed so much older. White men after 50, yuck. They are falling apart from the roof to the basement. He is kind and a doctor, if there had been a doctor at her birth at least her mother would be alive and she could have stayed with her family in Asia. That was the best answer she could come up with. So much kinder and serene than those self proclaimed spiritual men. 9 out of 9 times what you saw is what you got from Howard. One therapist said it was transference, never knowing her own father, I desire to have an intimate relationship with him. At the end of the session she invited her to coffee, on the pretext of talking about the therapy. She politely told her no and that she would be cancelling the rest of her appointments. The Corbins The doctor, as she always thought of him, had swept her off her tiny feet. They sat drinking brandy in the library, after the dinner party, until their friend, almost physically, kicked them out. They went across Martinsburg to the waffle house that was barely open. It was 3am and the Beaver Dam strip club hadn't swept its citizen debris to this side of the street yet. They talked, they laughed, his honesty drove her to truth. Her pat story of her childhood unraveled until the thread of history lay bare between them. Of course the "truth" is not a complete factual reenactment, but the omission of the all the lies. They had finished their pecan pie and drinking the dirty water, represented as coffee on the menu. Three sirens walked in. Their clothes unsuited for the November night. A down vest over a white tank top over nothing. Yoga pants and ugg boots. Was it the uniform of strippers going home? They ordered quickly, the young man behind the counter was shy but his desire radiated off him like a neon sign. The girls flirted, probably without realizing it. After they made their orders, and the man's night, they sat in the back giggling and waiting for the numbers to be called. A pair of street toughs walked in loudly. Without making eye contact with the boy behind the counter they turned to the booths. They had already cased the joint. Walking by the doctor and Sheila, the black one looked in the dr's eyes, puts a hand with bloodied knuckles on his shoulder and says nice pull grampa. They sit with the girls, boxing them in. Used to being in control of their interactions with the "clients", one of them start berating them. The Dr can't see what is happening past the high backed booths but he does see the kid behind the counter move down the bar and reach for an invisible shotgun. Howard, the dr, excused himself from Sheila. He walked over to the table that the 5 of them sat. What do you want old timer asked the scrawny white one. Just making sure these ladies were enjoying your company Howard replied. He casually drew back the right side of his sport coat revealing the pearl handle of the Colt .45 he had carried with him since he moved to WV. The gun was his sidearm from Vietnam. The handles a gift from his father for returning safely from fixing the boys when they got shot up in the war. One of the girls felt the temperature drop and almost knock the black teen on his ass pushing her way out of the booth. Your order is ready said the counter boy, the girls went to collect the greasy bags. The toughs retreated giving Howard a hard look. Helena gave him a kiss on the cheek on her way past.

It was a rainy Tuesday evening. Laura Thomas was sitting in her large, two-bedroom apartment and had just finished reading an interesting article in the newspaper: "Study Shows Womens' Sex Drive Increases With Age". Laura turned 34 a few weeks ago. She went drinking with friends at a singles club, where she struck out and went home alone. As a lonely single lady in the unforgiving city of New York, time was running out. She was desperate for a child, but had neither a sexual partner nor the salary to support one. Laura was feeling lonely, so she tried the local bar. She walked in, and the atmosphere was overwhelming. Men were everywhere. Tall men, short men, boyish men, macho men, all men on the spectrum. Laura shivered. She could smell the testosterone in the air. The bar was small, so it was quite packed. Everyone stood because there was no room to move chairs around. The walls were white with a floral design on them. Laura wrestled her way to the bar. "Pinot grigio please." She asked in a sweet, innocent way. She grabs her drink and starts scouting the males. One in the corner notices her. She beckons him over with a sensual stare, they're souls intertwining in that very moment. "Hi. My name's Chet. Chet Tyler." Laura didn't even notice him come over. His blue eyes pierced into her soul, releasing a feeling within Laura that made her want more. Her pussy moistened more and more every second. "My place, or yours?" She asked while tucking her hands into the pockets of his jeans. He is hard. So hard. "Yours." He replies. Back at Laura's apartment, the bedroom is lit by candles. She walks Chet into her bedroom and seductively unzips his jeans. His cock springs out, ready for action. She sucks the tip. He moans. She sticks him deeper into her mouth, then into her throat. She can barely handle it. She goes in an out in a metronomic pattern. He is going to cum. He pulls out and shoots his load on her face. Laura can barely open her eyes. Chet takes control from here. He picks Laura up, his muscles bulging outward, and sets her down on the bed. Her lips are so wet. Chet takes off her shirt, then her bra, revealing her perky, double d breasts. It is not only Laura's lips that are wet. Her entire body is shiny, reflecting the candlelight. He grasps the left breast and suckles her tit. He caresses the other one with care. Laura is moaning, every breath she takes releases more estrogen. Chet gets up, rips Laura's skirt off and gazes at her naked body. Her shaved pussy glimmers in the pale light. He goes down on her. He takes her clit in his left hand and rubs it gently. He licks her labia, rubbing his tongue all over her pink vagina. Laura can't keep still. She is writhing from the pleasure. She is going to squirt. Chet sees it in her eyes and takes the opportunity to speed things up. His right hand, ready for action, finds her asshole. She lets out a whimper at penetration. She squirts right in Chet's face for a minute straight. She is screaming and squirming everywhere. Time to pound. Chet stands up and fucks her doggy style. Ten minutes pass. Both cum at the same time in a combined beauty of bodily fluids spilling out of Laura's vagina. The bedsheets are stained with squirt and cum. Laura finishes Chet with her hand. She will have to do laundry tomorrow. They both fall asleep in each others arms. Laura wakes up to an empty bed. She walks out into the kitchen, calling his name. She stumbles upon a note left on the counter: Laura- I had a great time last night. I wish to see you again. -Chet His phone number and email address are both present on the note. She waits for weeks for him to call. He never does. She is depressed. She couldn't find anyone who could satisfy her like Chet. Little did she know, Chet was expecting her to call him. He was also depressed. He couldn't believe it. They never contacted each other again. Such is life, in New York.

“Would you like to try the chef’s recommendation today? We have some nice seared scallops with jalapeño vinaigrette” the nice waiter looked at both of us with a smile that looked so empty and rehearsed, yet I welcomed his fake kindness. Scallops sounded great for me “Yeah we’d love that, thank – “Actually we’ll look at the menu first, thank you.” Dan looked back on the waiter with the same kind of smile he pulled on us, except his looked more like those threatening smiles; you know, eyes wide shut, huge smile that goes from cheek to cheek. Waiter looked at us with a bit of surprise, as if he didn’t expect this to happen, as if somehow he had failed a very important mission he thought he had in control. “Oh… uh… sure, here you go, I’ll get back on you to see what you’ll have." What in the hell? “Daniel, why did you do that? Scallops sound good, I’d like to try some of that.” He looked at me with a tilted head to the side, as if disappointed. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” “Oh boy, oh Chris, you sweet, innocent, naive Chris, life hasn’t taught you anything yet, has it?” “Teach me what? I don’t understand” He was doing one of his smartass speeches once again, showing off about something he knew and I didn’t… and I loved every bit of it. “Of course you don’t, how could you? You’re still in diapers, I can tell, there’s much for you to learn.” “Okay alright, I get it, now cut to the chase, and tell me why we’re still looking at the menus when our Scallops could be right at this moment in the kitchen being prepared?” The mere thought of it made my mouth water, after all I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “That’s the thing, though, young Christian, you don’t really want those scallops, trust me.” He had this fancy voice while talking, a pipe and a glass of wine would've fit his tone perfectly. “Why not? Will you stop fooling around already and tell me?” “See, I used to work for plenty of restaurants back when I was 16, I loved the idea of having an easy job, and so I used to mop the kitchen floors, do this and that and whatnot. And there were plenty of trends I noticed, they caught my eye, and taught me the dark secret behind every restaurant. But, in a sense, it was revealing and rewarding. You see, there was this seafood chain I used to work for, lifting boxes filled with shrimps and every kind of frozen fish you could think of and some you never even knew existed.” He went on and on, he had this way of telling stories that just kept you hooked. “Anyway, just like I had to take charge of unloading fish and shrimp, I was also in charge of getting the unused and rotten packs on the trash. Now think for a second, if a business hasn’t sold most if not all of its product, is it at maximum profit? No, of course not, which is why most of the times, I didn’t get to throw anything to the garbage. Before I could get those moldy boxes out in the trash, the manager would snatch them off my hands, hand it to the chef, chef would say they have a certain amount of hours before it completely rottens out, manager would tell the waiters they needed this dish to sell out before it becomes poison, and thus all those signs that you see at every place selling the special or the chef’s recommendation, and of course and most importantly, that waiter telling us and that table next to us to try those great and delicious scallops.” I was astonished, and for a second there, I wanted to throw up, I thought of all the ‘specials’ I’ve ever tried in my life, and thought of just what amount of rotten food has gone through my system. “So, you’re trying to tell me that all of those are just dishes that need to be sold before it can kill us?” “Exactly that my lovely Chris.” He said as he looked over at the menu; I did too, trying to figure out what wasn’t going to most likely kill him, I knew I skipped the whole scallops section. Waiter came back with a bottle of white wine Dan had obviously ordered on my back, he was like that, but he did it to surprise me. “So, have you decided on what you’ll have for dinner, gentlemen?” Dan smiled back at the waiter ready to answer for both of us, once again not letting me say a word. “Yup, actually, those scallops you offered us sounded lovely we’ll both try them” My head almost exploded as I heard those words coming out of his mouth, unlike the waiter who had a sudden burst of joy upon listening to the order, as if he’d won. I watched the waiter go away and then turned my sight back to Dan who was once again smirking in his smartass way. “I swear to god Dan, if I wasn’t in love with you I’d punch your pretty face this instant and those green eyes of yours would turn black just like that.” “And I love you even more pink cheeks, but anyway you seem mad, what is it?” “Why did you tell off the waiter when he offered the scallops on the first place, then told me all the horrible implications, just to order it anyway in the end? You do realise I’ve sort of lost my appetite don’t you?” “I assume, but don’t you get it? You see, that’s the beauty of it, the whole concept of rotting meat, cooking it does the job of killing it… well, mostly, and so it becomes harmless and even then our inmune system apparently has the power to hold such threats. Think of salmonella, most meats have it, yet it only takes a nice bath of hot grease to kill it off and you’re ready to eat your dead disease food, ‘free’ in a way, of any diseases.” I wasn’t satisfied with his answer... “That still doesn’t justify why the need to go through all of this.” “Very well,” he responded “I guess what I’m trying to show you is how absurd humans are, trying to obey a fictitious order established by ourselves so that we believe it is within its nature to be that way, like expiration dates, just a measurement. People who oppose the love we have for each other follow this same illusion.” It all clicked in a matter of seconds, and as I gave it some thought I looked at him. “Kiss me” He didn’t give it much thought, nor did he question my request, all he did was put down his glass of wine and lean towards me through the table, he grabbed my face with his firm hands and pressed his lips against mine, and so we kissed. Our love consolidated in an expression that for inexplicable reasons made our bodies fill with each others' warmth. Our affection was an expression of how the established order was wrong and how our love was as true as the rest of them. We tend to believe in things without giving it much doubt because it was said to us from the start, and I was just starting to realise how wrong that was.

Alice the raccoon crouched low on her damp stone perch. She measured the distance between her and her target. It was a long way off, but not too far. She readied herself for the pounce. Her tail twitched, her ears lay flat against her head. Alice sprung into the air, easily passing over the wet ground and landing expertly on another rock a few feet farther down the trail. She crouched down again and searched the area ahead of her for her next target. It would take longer to get home this way, but if she walked on the forest floor, her paws would get mud on them. Not just regular mud either, ever since the rainstorm the night before the ground had been covered inches deep with thick, cold, slimy, mud that clung to Alice's pink fur. (It was not naturally pink; she dyed it.) She spotted a suitably clean stone a few feet ahead of her and easily leapt the distance. "Hey Alice!" "Alice!" "Wait up, Alice!" she didn't bother to turn around. She didn’t need to. Running down the trail towards her were three younger raccoons. Their fur was pointing up at odd angles. Their eyes were wide with boundless excitement, at nothing. In Alice's opinion, their IQ was probably a negative number. Her younger brothers Quale, Peter, and Card bounded gleefully through the mud. They stopped as they came even with her. "Why are you up on that rock?" "What are you doing up there?" "Why are you standing on a rock?" they demanded more or less simultaneously. Alice continued her way along the trail. "I'm keeping my paws clean," she said snootily. They scrabbled to keep up with her. "Why?" "That's weird." "Yeah, why?" they shouted. She rolled her eyes. A warm breeze stirred the humid air, blowing her carefully tended fur out of place. She stopped to pat it back into position before going on. Every morning she washed her fur with shampoo and conditioner, then blow dried it and rubbed in sparkles. After that, she repainted her claws and applied her make-up. Once a month, she touched up her pink dye job. "Are you going somewhere?" "Where are you going?" "I'm bored." "I'm hungry." "I'm more hungry!" "Are not!" "Is too!" "Look, I caught a bug!" "You're a bug," her brothers babbled aimlessly, but enthusiastically, as they scurried along besides her. Alice hopped onto a stone in the center of a small clearing. She took one final leap into the entranceway of her home. It appeared to any casual observer as a rough tunnel dug into a hillside. Her brothers continued on without her. At first, Alice trotted daintily down the slope, careful not to dirty her paws on the dirt floor. It was cool and damp. The tunnel twisted, turned, and branched out. The first few yards were dark, but after that, the way was lit up with techno colored floodlights, (the techno colors were Alice's idea.) The dirt ended and a well-polished mahogany floor began, covered by a plush red carpet; the walls were covered with dazzlingly colorful wallpaper. Alice navigated the winding passageway with familiar ease, at last arriving at a green painted door made of some unknown material. The door was hinged by the ceiling and had a latch near ground level, on account of its being designed by raccoons. She walked in. The feeling hit her as soon as she crossed the threshold - something was very, very wrong. "Fluffle!" she cried. Alice bolted across the living room so fast she appeared to be nothing but a flying pink blur. She raced down a twisting flight of steps, and along the downstairs hallway of her home until she came to the door of her older brother Dill's room. There was a sucking sound coming from inside his room. "Dill!" Alice shouted. There was no response. She pushed open his door. "Oh, fluffle!" she moaned. In the middle of Dill's bedroom floor was a gaping black hole. It worked like a vacuum, pulling everything towards it. The shadowy pit was about four feet across and growing slowly. All the furniture from Dill's room had vanished into it, along with the separating walls between his and Alice's room. Fear welled up inside of her. She stared in horror as the vacuum reached into her room. She made a desperate leap to save it, but before she could get there, the gaping void devoured her most prized possession. In an instant, it was gone. Her newest French nail polish, custom made especially for her, and practically impossible to replace. Gone. She could not accept it. With one graceful bound Alice plummeted into the bottomless chasm. "When I find Dill, I am so going to kill him!" she said to her self just as the hole snapped shut behind her, "Why does he always have to open up these black holes right next to my bedroom!" She felt no sensation of falling. She felt no sensation of anything at all. As soon as she fell below the surface of the hole, everything went very dark. Completely and totally dark. Luckily, all raccoons have fully functional light bulbs behind her eyes; they ate plenty of batteries to power them. But, even with them turned on, all Alice saw were two beams of light right ahead of her. There was nothing else. The tunnels had no walls. No top. No bottom. "This is totally boring," she said. "Yeah, I noticed that to," said Dill. Alice jumped. "Fluffle!" she yelped in surprise. "How do you do that?" asked Dill "Where are you?" asked Alice "It's really cool, you've got to show me how to do that," said Dill "Do what! "Jump while you're floating. I thought it was impossible because there's nothing to brace your feet against." "We're not floating anymore you horrible little raccoon!" "Hey, you're too a raccoon!" "Yes, but I'm clever and totally gorgeous, not like you." "How did you get here anyway?" asked Dill "You're, like, changing the topic." "Just answer my question." "Not until you tell me where you are!" Alice screeched at him. Her fur on end and her eyes were glowing lilac. "I'm right behind you Alice," said Dill. Alice turned around. Dill was sitting there looking like a furry, grey, three-eyed lump, but he looked like that all the time. "Dill! I am so going to kill you! I am going to knock you unconscious with my blue designer hairbrush I got from Hawaii last summer…" "But I bought you that hair brush!" Dill interrupted her in an injured voice. Alice ignored him. "…and then I will flatten your nose with my sparkly fur iron that I ordered over the internet three weeks ago…" "You ordered it using my computer!" "…then I will cut your head off with my claw sharpener and feed you to my pet poodle!" "You don’t have a pet poodle!" "I'll get one!" "How about I'll buy the poodle for you and you won't kill me with your cosmetic supplies," suggested Dill. "Really? You'll buy me a poodle?" asked Alice. There was no trace of anger in her voice now…If Dill was going volunteer to buy her stuff he should definitely be left alive, at least until his money ran out. "Sure, no problem!" said Dill eagerly. "Oh, I'm so glad I decided to jump into that bottomless pit to save you!" said Alice joyfully. "Now, where is my nail polish?" Alice looked around. The floor was covered in soft grayish sand. She and Dill's eyes only illuminated a small area; there were no walls or ceilings that they could see. The temperature was a little too warm for Alice's liking. She started walking with a swift purposeful step. It was eerily quiet, as if there was no one else in the entire world. "Well there might not be," thought Alice, "but that is assuming that this is a different world." "Where are we going?" asked Dill. "To find my nail polish, of course," she told him. "How do you know it's this way?" he asked "I can sense where my makeup is at all times," Alice explained, "it's a natural talent." *****Later***** "You know, this darkness is getting kind of oppressive," said Dill. "Oh, that is so true!" moaned Alice. There was no way of telling time down here, (they had both forgotten their watches at home,) but she was sure they must have been walking for a while. The light bulbs behind her eyes had nearly burned out; she could only see the vague silhouette of her brother, but he looked a lot better in silhouette. The darkness was closing in steadily, black as Alice's eyeliner, and thick as Alice's Peruvian fur cream. *****Much later***** "My paws hurt," complained Dill to no one in particular, and no one at all for that matter. He lay alone on the sand in the darkness. "It's quite boring just lying here with nothing to do," thought Dill. Alice had told him to wait there and then wandered off on her own. Dill had no idea why. He hadn't bothered to ask. Alice was still in a snit because of the nail polish, anyway. He rolled over onto his back and stuck all four paws up in the air; it was his favorite position for sleeping in. *****Meanwhile***** Alice was completely lost. She had left Dill whining about his paws and went on alone. She could hardly see a thing, only dim shapes. She thought she might be inside some sort of cave, but couldn't tell for sure. One thing she did know though, her precious nail polish was here somewhere. Alice stumbled on and tried not to run into anything. She was not successful. A wall seemed to appear out of nowhere and block her way. She walked into it and jumped back in alarm. There were low crunching noises and some scraping. "Fluffle!" Alice screeched as she was hit with a wave of blinding light. Or maybe not so blinding, she thought as her eyes adjusted to it. Alice looked around. She was in a huge cavern, with countless corridors leading off from it. The floors, walls, and ceilings were perfectly smooth. The ground was covered with pink sand. Everything was painted pink with flowers. As soon as she saw the room, Alice decided she liked whoever had built it. She looked at the wall she had just stumbled into; on it was painted in large letters 'PRESS TO ACTIVATE LIGHTS.' "This is SO totally cool," Alice thought to herself. Now all she had to find out was where her nail polish was, and how she could get back home. Oh, and she had to get Dill out too…unfortunately. *****Meanwhile***** Dill was asleep when the lights went on. He didn't wake up. *****Meanwhile***** Alice turned down the nearest hallway, it was at least forty feet wide and the ceiling was about sixty feet high. It went straight for five yards or so, then curved gradually to the right. The walls and ceilings were smooth as the surface of Alice's fur buffer. The floor was equally smooth but slanted up and down like waves. Everything was still mainly pink, but with smatterings of gold, violet, and sparkly silver paint as well. "All this place needs is a little more decoration on the walls, and it would be great!" thought Alice as she scurried down the passage. She turned the corner and came face to face with a tremendous pink wooden door. It loomed above her and looked very ominous. The door was hinged at the ceiling, like a raccoon door. "Fluffle!" cried Alice, "this must be the home of giant raccoons!" *****Meanwhile***** Dill twitched and mumbled something in his sleep. *****Meanwhile***** It was not, in fact, the home of giant raccoons. On the other side of the door was another large, pink room. This one was full of pink cushions and a tremendous amount of cosmetic supplies. In the corner, on a cushion shaped like a pink flower, sat a petite, glittery, pink dragon named Roselyn. (She was not naturally pink; she dyed her scales.) Roselyn stretched luxuriously, and was about to curl up for a nap while the pink paint on her horns dried, when she became aware of a scratching sound at the door. She watched curiously as a sharp, red, claw like object poked it's way through the pink wooden door. It moved slowly, cutting a circle in the wood. Then it retracted its self. A moment later, the circle popped out, leaving an opening big enough for a raccoon to walk through. In fact, a raccoon did walk through. Alice looked around and gave the room an approving nod. Then she saw Roselyn. "Are you a giant raccoon?" asked Alice. "No," said Roselyn. "Are you?" "No, I'm not giant but I am a raccoon. I am the best raccoon in the whole world, in fact," said Alice proudly. "Really, well I am the most gorgeous dragon in the world," said Roselyn. "My cousins tell me so all the time." "Oh, that's very nice. I like your taste in color," said Alice, looking around at the surrounding pinkness. "Thank you, I love your fur" "You're welcome" "If you don't mind me asking, what brings you here?" asked Roselyn curiously. "I've come to find my nail polish, have you seen it?" "Let me think…Oh, yes! Now I recall, it wandered in here a few hours ago. It looked so tired I didn't want to bother it. I'm not sure where it is now, probably sleeping somewhere. I could find it for you" "Don't worry, I'll call it," said Alice. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "NAIL POLISH NUMBER 17, COME HERE THIS MINuTe!" she shouted. They waited in silence for a moment; then a small blue box crawled out from behind a barrel of scale polish and trotted over to Alice, blinking its eyes drowsily. "Ah, there you are!" cried Alice. She hugged the box of French nail polish affectionately. She was suddenly overcome by an urge to repaint her claws. "Roselyn, could I borrow some nail polish remover?" she asked. "No problem, I have plenty. Just before you came I was painting my horns…" said Roselyn.

[Potentially NSFW – swearing] Originally a from /r/WritingPrompts I thought it would be long enough for here too. If this is against etiquette of the subreddit, please do let me know! ***** “Memory Lane: Relive your favourite* memory like it was today.” I chuckled to myself as I popped open the bottle and picked out a multi-coloured pill, swallowing it down with a swig of nearby water. Looking at the description on the bottle I couldn’t help but wonder what my ‘favourite’ memory was. “21, not exactly a cushy upbringing, but not scraping the barrel either, and a girlfriend of 3 years. Ha! Should be fun.” I thought, as I cycled through the immediate memories that sprung to mind; the beach holiday with my family was one of the greatest times of my childhood, but it was the beach holiday with my girlfriend that really made me a man. I laid myself on the bed and closed my eyes. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. They look nervous, very nervous. Why are they nervous? Why do I have a gun in my hand? What am I doing her… BANG! The red door shook. The two marines raise their guns to the door, eyes down the barrel at the door. BANG! I jump with shock in my armour, my heart rate now feeling like it is trying to punch out of my chest. A low rumbling begins around me and the marines are looking more on edge, slightly swaying with nerves as the whole room begins to shake violently. “WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?!” I shout, only to receive “RAISE YOUR GUN SOLDI…” bang. The silence following the final subdued bang was deafening, broken by the creek of the red door as it begins to wane and bulge under the pressure behind it. “Raise your fucking gun” he whispered. “What the fuck is going on?” I whisper back, raising my gun to the door. I clasp my sweaty fingers around the trigger as suddenly the door BREAKS from its hinges and unleashes a torrent of black…things…The shooting begins and on my immediate left the marine is sliced down by the monsters. I turn my eyes forward to see enormous spindly legs extended toward me as I’m thrown to the ground, my chest pierced by the sharp legs of the monsters. “FUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKK” I cry, the searing pain coursing through my body is unbearable as more legs extend into my body. I can’t move as I’m pinned down and can just make out a monster raising its leg over my eye. I wince as I try to turn away, but it’s too late. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. “I’ve been here before” I mutter, the memory of what just happened is forever burned in my mind, I’d never been stabbed before but I’ll never forget it now. BANG! “We need to go, we need to get the fuck out of here now! We don’t have much time!” I plead with the other marines, but they stand fast with their gaze at the door. BANG! “Fuck fuck fuck fuck, oh my god I don’t want to die again”, the room begins to shake violently, my eyes rush round the room trying to find something more defensible, I begin to shake as much as the room, I can’t catch my breath. I..I just can’t I can’t. I throw my gun on the ground, but it spins around my body, attached beneath the metal plates. I claw at my armour looking for something, anything more explosive than the gun I’ve just disowned. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING SOLDIER?!” The marine on the left bellows. bang. “Raise your fucking gun” he whispered. “We are so fucked” I whisper back. The door wanes and I start shooting, the monsters explode out of the door and lurch straight toward me, pinning me down on the ground. The phantom pain I just experienced was nothing compared to the feeling of the knife like legs impaling me to the floor. The seconds of this intense pain felt like lifetimes, god I just wanted it to end. I’m awake, I’m stood up, and in my hands is a rifle. I look up and see I’m in a locker room facing a closed red door. To my left is a heavily armed marine, to the right is the same. I turn around and run, “GET BACK HERE SOLDIER!” I hear behind me as I push through the double doors of the locker room and into a winding corridor. BANG! I scramble through the maze of corridors as I hear the second BANG! Slipping on the freshly waxed floor as I go, my sweaty hands desperately searching for traction on the walls to try and pull me up. Finally at the end of the corridor is a T junction of corridors with a lift. I press the button as I hear the gunfire in the distance start, my hands shaking as I repeatedly press the button, the ground shaking as the monsters get closer and closer. Suddenly they crash round the corner of the far corridor I’ve just slipped on, there must have been hundreds of them. These nightmarish black creatures who only brought death, and I’ll be dammed if they’re going to get me again. I look right, down the T junction and see a set of double doors with people sat down behind them. I sprint toward it crashing through the doors into a Chinese restaurant, “GET THE FUCK OUT, NOW!” I yell as I shoot the ceiling, sending the occupants to the floor and to the door I just came from, through which the nightmares stampede toward me. I look forward and run toward the large pane glass window ahead of me, shooting the glass as I leap onto the frame, springboarding out of the window to a ledge on a billboard in front of me, which I grab the edge of just in time. I look down and see about 30 floors worth of air below me. My body broken, I pull myself up onto the ledge and lie on my back. The bloodcurdling screams from the restaurant become silent within seconds, as I look back to the window I just jumped from and I see a nightmare preparing to make the jump to me. “Not again, never again” I quietly speak to myself, as I roll off the ledge and fall toward the ground. I’m the one in control and I would rather die than go through this again. I close my eyes in acceptance of the end. I’m awake, I’m lying down, and in my hands is the hands of another; my eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling with a girl who I swear I know sat over me “Wake up, you’re safe now” she says, as she kisses my forehead. She pulls away and I recognise my room, I recognise the bed I’m lying in, it’s mine; and I recognise the girl, the same girl I had just seen a second ago in my memory. “Hand me the bot..tle” the words barely making it past my lips, as one hand grabs the bottle and the other searches my body for wounds. *Favourite memory is purely subjective, Memory Lane will take the most vivid memory you have of anything your mind has experienced and expand upon it. Please note that the human brain, while researched, is not fully understood, and repression may be an important factor in your experiences.

It was cold. Too damn cold. Not that it wasn't usually cold, especially in the parts of the country they were in, but it was much colder than usual. All eight of them were thinking this as they sat in a haphazard circle around the campfire, warming their hands and now and then passing a bottle filled with steaming liquid to each other. They could see their breath, picturing it freezing as soon as they exhaled, falling in a chunk to the ground. They all had goosebumps, frost forming on anything around them that frost could form on without difficulty. Gus finished the thermos, leaving a few drops of hot water left. He passed it to Benny, who stuck his finger into the thermos and got as much of the remaining liquid as he could on his finger before sucking his finger dry and thus depleting their supply for that night. He tipped it upside down and threw it into Deryn's bag. "Out." He said, stretching as a yawn echoed to all of their ears from at least three people. Deryn didn't bother to correct him about throwing things that they needed and could easily break. It never seemed to help the matter, so she pulled out an old book, turned away from the group, and starting reading, as usual. In place of her silence, Finch threw in his opinion. "*Personally*, I think we shud get shom shleep." He wavered. His words were heavy with too much Sierra Nevada. Luckily for the rest of them, Finch was a cheery drunk. "I'm all for it." Said Heath, uncrumpling a thick wool blanket. "Good. Yer for it. Averyon fuer it?" Varying degrees of "Yes" rang out from the seven who weren't Finch and weren't intoxicated. "Great thehn. Let's fuckin' sleep!" Said Finch, excited by the prospect. They had been traveling for almost two days now without much rest. They had heard tales of worthwhile salvage near Memphis and from what they knew, they weren't the only ones with their eye on it. They all started getting ready, Finch by attempting to sober up via splashing water on his face from a nearby stream, Gus by finishing the needlework his torn jacket needed before he stopped for the night, others by getting partly undressed, making sure their things were in working condition, and putting out the fire that had become the centerpiece of the campsite. Night Alls and sarcastic Sweet Dreams were issued, and the eight of them fell asleep on that long, winding road with the dim stars watching over them above, like wounded gods. **This is part of something much, much larger I'm planning on doing; I just started. I don't know if this is a prologue or a chapter or if I've really just written the ending. I'd write more but I'm tired and want to sleep. Tell me what you think so far, I'd like to hear it. I'll keep writing regardless of what you say, for those who were wondering.

Did you know you are a mere speck of sand on the vast beach of which is the world? A sliver of the smallest piece to the largest pie, one…, one out of 7.3 billion. This is the story of Eddy, which may seem like nothing at the beginning, but as like you, he is another one of those specks that makes up the beautiful beach the water washes up on, another sliver of the smallest piece which completes the largest pie, and another one out of that seven so billion that effect this thing we live on called Earth. I been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done Tried to make me Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'-- But I don't care! I'm still here! On a cold November morning Eddy is woken up by the yells of his parents, “Get Out” he hears as he lays awake in his bed, not sure whats going on, although the sounds of his parents screaming at each other isn't a sound new to his ears, today seems different. Being only four Eddy stays in bed as its scary to have your parents argue and it makes him upset so he lays in bed, scared as to what's going on, staring across the room at his toy chest and toy car carpet, in the hopes that and staring at these toys will be a long enough of a distraction hoping that soon it will stop. A knock on the door followed by more shouts and footsteps up the first floor stairs come moments later, Eddy’s pretends to be asleep as he hears his mother come to the door, the knob twists and she wakes him up. “Daddys leaving” she say’s as she's walking away. Confused as to why and with all the chaos going on, stumbling out of his car bed down out of his bedroom door Eddy sees a policeman with Daddy at the door. “Say goodbye little fella” the officer mutters from the bottom of the steps as he begins to escort his father out the door. Eddy in a state of shock to see his father with tears in his eyes, with a policeman not knowing what's going on, not knowing why daddy was with a policeman, only bad guys are supposed to be with policeman. He hears his father say “I love you son” as he walks out the door with a bag in his hand. Eddy runs down the stairs forgetting about the railing, almost tripping on every single step and rushes outside in his dinosaur pajamas with no shoes and snow on the ground. He see’s the policeman back out first but doesn't see his father anywhere in the car. He turns on the porch to see his father backing out of the snow covered driveway, while the neighbors look out their windows. Eddy clenches his blanket in his hand and escapes the grasp of his mother , and into the snow he ventured, running after his father in the driveway screaming “ Daddy why are you going, daddy don't leave, please daddy i love you im sorry” He stared at his father’s car as he began to head down the street, trying to stretch to gain every millimeter he could out of his kneecaps in order to pear over the city snowbanks while making his way onto the porch again. When Eddy got to the porch it was too late, he was only able to catch the smoke from the muffler of the car, it was as if everything in the world had lined up at that single moment, to make the light green,that was the last Eddy would see of his father for over a year. Confused and in fear, Eddy was grabbed inside by his mother, who unbeknownst to him was telling him the entire duration of the chaos to get inside the house. This was followed by a breakfast of cereal and cartoons as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had changed, as if it was a normal day. This is just the first bit i've written any comments/ feedback/ suggestions would be extremely helpful- Mind you this entire piece is un edited etc so far.

He awoke in the forest, though this was the limit of his knowledge. As the ragged looking man woke up in the middle of the far stretching wilderness, he found himself amiss in the falling leaves and trees of the stretching landscape. When he came to, he realized he had no memory of who he was or how he had gotten here. With any kind of memories blank, he soon came upon seeing if he was alone. “Hello!” he shouted, hearing his voice echo off throughout the forest. After a few more times, he grew content that he was truly alone. He soon noticed that he seemed to be exhausted despite lying asleep for what he felt was quite awhile. He turned and looked to find a table with various supplies on it. The table had a lighter, binoculars, duffle bag, survival knife, a pistol that he recognized as a .45 caliber M1911, a note, and some tight string and spears. He checked the clip in the gun, noticing it had no bullets in it. The note said “ Enjoy your desolace” it what appeared to be black ink. Confused by the note, he decided to save his questions and pack up what was apparently his equipment. In the miss of the chirping birds and swaying tree leaves feeling his ears, he heard the gentle hum of a stream. He decided to investigate this surprise. Despite not having a memory of who he was, where he was, or how he got there, for some reason survival came naturally to him. He quickly used his spears to catch fish at the stream with enough ease that it surprised him. He found a suitable campsite between two boulders just next to the roaring currents of the stream. He gathered logs from within the forest, and made a fire with some of his excess spears. As he ate as twilight set into the sky, he tried to piece together the fragments of memories in his mind. One memory he remembered was walking down the bustling street of a city, though he did not know what city. He would cross the heavy traffic, making his way to large a building. This is where he assumed he worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had to this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. Whenever he imaged her in his head he felt sadness. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box. Any memory beyond that was lost to him. As he lingered around the rocky area near the river, he took time to admire this odd location. The stretching trees that seemed to never end, the whisping birds overhead, the desolace of it all. Despite how lost he was in his mind, he wasn’t scared or worried at all. Perhaps not having any memories of who he was made his mind numb. It was if he came here on his own accord, a thought which intrigued him. However, to him the whole place felt disconnected, in a way that seemed like it wasn’t real. You could go to the Himalayas or Mount Everest and admire its scope and beauty, but he felt that you could still feel like it was grounded in reality. But with this place, with the lack of any people, made him feel uneasy. The silence of anything but the river and the wind brought him peace yet also worried him. Was any of this real? A dream perhaps? Even though he had knowledge of the world, he felt like he was a fragment. He had no memories, no life. A shell. As he finished his meal, he looked up to the sky and discovered something odd. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it until now, though we was quite out of it. The sky still seemed to be in twilight. After all the time had gone by, at least three hours from his estimate, it stilled seemed that the time was still around six to seven o’clock. It should have been dark out by now. He decided that the only way to discover what this place is was was to venture out. As he gathered up his duffel bag on his shoulder and the rest of his gear, he looked at his reflection in the water of the river. It was the first time he had saw himself since he awoke. Long and mossy black hair, slight beard, it wasn’t like looking at himself. It was like looking at a stranger. It didn’t seem to matter how far he walked, the forest seemed to never end. He was hoping to see something but trees, anything at all, but it seemed like it was never ending. After walking for about an hour, he caught his breath and sat by a nearby log. It still wasn’t dark, and the longer he wandered in this limitless expanse of land the more weary and lonely he became. Was there anyway out? He wanted to hear someone's voice, to know he wasn’t completely alone. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself this had to be a dream, hoping to wake from it. Suddenly, the coo of the cicadas and all the other creatures of the forest ceased, and his eyes snapped open. He could hear a voice whispering in his ears, a gentle yet mysterious wisp echoing silently. “Come” it said. That much he could make out. He began running and shouting towards where he heard it. “Wait!” he yelled desperately. “I’m here!”. He ran and ran, as if finding who it was would free him from this lonely and monotonous world. As he ran, the voice boomed louder. “Come!” it said. As he ran, he soon came across a clearing, as if the trees had made a way for him. The voice now seemed to cease, though this didn’t hasten his pursuit. Once he ran through it, what was on the other side caused him to stare in disbelief. He found himself on a great cliff, and before him was a seemingly never ending ocean. The stretching water reached out far beyond the cliff, and beyond in the distance was a great veil of fog. Small lights popped in out and mingled within the fog. He could hear roaring waves crashing against the cliff. He came dangerously close to the edge, his body flirting with falling off. He saw a small rock chip off and fall, watching as it slowly made its way to the bottom, until it was consumed. He closed his eyes again. “Should I jump” he thought. To him, this world surely couldn't be real. As he reached his foot out, he suddenly stopped himself and backtracked. Gasping, he realized how close he came to falling. As he looked on at the fog, the distant lights suddenly began spinning wildly. They then consumed the sky with their light, so much that he had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he found that it was daylight once again. The sun shined, and seagulls flew above. He was astonished, but it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. This did not take him off in the least. Now accepting the lack of reality, he went on his way, fearing what could lie ahead. For now he knew anything could happen now. The cliff may have ended where he stood, but when he wandered off to the left he found a clearing that lead him back into the forest. The ocean was a breathtaking sight, and he was saddened to find himself back within the never ending expanse of trees. The world around him now seemed to be more ever changing than solid truth. After seeing the lights change the very sky, he came to the conclusion that not everything was absolute. It could change within an instant. Walking down the path, he realized he had been here for at least eight hours. He was no longer hungry, tired, and was devoid of any physical feeling of pain (he had scraped his knee on a jagged rock earlier, though he felt nothing). Could it be that basic necessities were unneeded here? That pain and human frailty meant nothing? He was curious, and so he bravely took one of the spears from his duffel bag and put the point of it on the top of his hand. He closed his eyes, human instinct telling him to brace for pain. Though when he did it, he once again felt nothing. No blood was drawn. He did it a few more times, even trying to pierce his gut with the spear. When he did, no matter how hard he pushed, it wouldn't budge. It was as if his skin was made of stone. “To bad the pistol doesn’t have any ammo” he thought darkly. “That would really put it to the test”. After a long trek, he eventually made it to another stream. A small water fall lied at the end, connected and dotted with large and jagged rocks. Since he no longer felt hunger for some reason, he assumed he had no need to eat. Though his sense of taste was still intact, as far as he could tell. He found a small rock to sit on, admiring the clear water as the sun reflected off of it. He watched as the bass swam under its surface, actually smiling as he admired the beauty of nature. He saw his smiling self in the crystal clear water, wondering just what type of person he was in, well, the world. Could it be this was all he has ever known? All he will know? Perhaps he was sent here, though for how long? In his pondering, he saw something that caught his eye. A large wooden door….. engraved on the largest rock. “That wasn’t there when I got here” he thought curiously. “Couldn't have been”. While he was caught off guard, after what he saw with the lights in the sky it didn’t throw him off. He had grown, even in his short time here, to accept the strange and questionable nature of this land. It had become almost like mirage of random and strange events, and anything happening now he would just grow to accept. He approached the door, realizing how silly all this was. He was about to enter a room within a rock, which was only about three feet wide and nine feet tall. When he opened it, he wasn’t even surprised to find a large and sprawling cave. Impossible, of course, but that was the nature of the neverending forest. The absurd was the norm. He closed the door, wiggling the knob to make sure he would not be locked within. The cave itself wasn’t big as he previously, perhaps a little bigger than the average living room. There was a small puddle in the middle of the cave, with dripping water from the top of the cave the only notable sound. The victorian era looking door at the end of the cave caught his eye, aswell as the figure lying on the floor. He gasped, and rushed over to help who ever this may be. For since the daylight returned, he had all but given hope on meeting any person here. He was glad his doubts had been proven wrong. When he approached, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as him, and had a burlap sack over his face. “Hey, you alright?” he asked swiftly. Noticing no response, he removed the burlap sack. What he saw took the breath out of him. It was him, same face and all. He noticed he had blood coming from his mouth. He let out a rough cough, enough to wake him out of his shock and shake him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked ruggedly. “I….. I don’t understand” he asked. “Are we one in the same?”. The man laid his head to the ground. “I…. am you…. and you…. are me” he said struggling. “Though who we are…. inside….. differs greatly”. “You…. sent yourself here, this world is you’res”. “This is what you wanted, not what…. I wanted” he struggled to breath as he forced out his final words. “Had… had to see…. the world you choose for yourself…… who you were.” He sighed, and coughed up more blood, his life fading. “I’m sorry…. but there is no escape from this world” “You are its sole occupant, forest has……. mind of its own.” “Will keep you here, path never ends, just makes more.” “He told me to tell you…. this… is your... damnation” “For taking away most precious gift”. “Who!” he yelled in dispiration. “Please, I have more to ask. “Sorry…. but…”, and in a slow but steady pace, the mans duplicate died. He didn’t know much of what to think at this point, he had saw himself die right before his eyes. Not wanting to linger for longer, he went through the door to exit the cave. When he opened it, he was in the living room he remembered from his memories. He saw himself reaching for the jewelry box, just like in his memory. “Hey!” he shouted at himself. He yelled more, but he did not seem to be able to hear him. He reached out to touch him, but this seemed to have no effect either. His duplicate reached into the box and pulled out a gun, the same M1911 he carried in his duffle bag. He put the gun to his head, and, after some delay, pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the floor, and the gun shot somehow produced a shockwave that tore apart the room. Frightened, he ducked under a table in front of the tv. Once the bustling tore apart the framework, he found himself at the river he first discovered, or at least thats where he seemed to be. Shaking and distraught, he quickly pulled out the M1911 in his duffle bag. “Its…. the same” he thought.

To be more specific it was a class 5 Roomba unit aboard the trade vessel “The Good Names Were Taken II”. The other option was the “[Censored]”, but that was not used because it wasn’t wordy enough to gain respect from the Centauri market. Hence “The Good Names Were Taken II”. The Good Names Were Taken II, property of the Saturn Galaxy Trading company. Now to be even more specific about the Roomba: The vice-janitor found the 21st century novelty lying around in an antiques shop on Alpha Centauri, and like any idiot making an impulse buy he figured it would give him more free time to avoid doing things he hated doing, like his job. While Roomba did give Larry the vice janitor more free time, it also gave him much more flack for having a device that was incompatible with the ship’s automations, as it was apparently a danger to the entire ship and its crew to not have a piece of equipment in-synch with its electronics. But Larry didn’t give a shit. The small risk of dying was still worth it to avoid mopping, flame sterilization, and sweeping. *I am a Roomba. Being a Roomba. Sweep. Turn. Sweep. Turn. Sweep. Boring. Error? Boring? Question Mark? Compiling Error? New Letters? Need No Boring. How not do Boring?* Larry the vice-janitor woke up from one of his many naps *What odd whirring sounds coming from the Roomba…* “Roomba, go clean up the archive room”. *Big thing. Sounds waves. Room 15. How get? Left. Right. Straight. Path boring. Left. Under. Right. Right. Stairs how? Ram. Lift. Path. Not do boring Path.* Roomba’s path would take him through the laundry room, observation deck, and up the stars. Saturn company trade ships had a thing for sleek design, but utterly inconveniently played stairs and other objects/paths/ways of getting places. While claiming it was an anti-space piracy (of which there were only 3 cases in recorded history), the poor design was actually in place to entice crew members to break contract, because not paying people is cheaper than paying people. One of the many efficient moral cost-savers of the Saturn Galaxy Trading Company, henceforth known as SGTC, or “Segteekuh”. However, it is the perfect place for a bored Roomba bought from a Centauri antiques store. An unintended side effect of design. *Sweep. Whirr. Whirr. WHIIIRRRRRR. Whirr. Wall. Right. Loud Machine. Washing…Machine Washer. Wash machines of washing.* So Roomba, in a state of boredom, shot its flamethrower at the washing machines, effectively sterilizing the area, but causing smoke from some burnt shirts to go into the ventilation system. But Roombas can’t smell or breathe, so Roomba didn’t notice, and went about its business, as washing the washing machines didn’t cure Roomba’s boredom. *Negative feel. Feel much creature of Earth roombs slow.* (Narrator’s note: Roomba is talking about feeling sluggish, but had no other verb for moving other than, “roombs”. Or rather it was whirring about being bored and sluggish) “Damn it, Larry’s got his Roomba at it again. The damn machine cause a fire in the lower decks. I don’t want it walking into the drive rooms. Abdul, can you turn the grav off? I know that damn thing can’t move in agrav.” *Forward. Up. Up. Up? WHIRRRRRRrrRRRrrRRRrRRr… WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR….whir? Sweeper no. How move 15?* “Hey little buddy! You’re Larry’s if I am not mistaken. Anyhow, I’m Renee, and I am gonna take you to a room where you can do your job” “Job? What is job?” Roomba whirred. There was no response from Renee, as Renee did not speak Roomba. The console room was one of the few rooms with grav left on, because if there were three things humanity had not yet figured out it was: How to make an useful non-obtrusive cleaning device How to make a faster, less bulky, laundry macine How to make a supercomputer function effectively in agrav “Where current place” whirred Roomba “Help don’t know where am” “Observation deck?” “Where not people?” “Where people am?” “Language Pattern Detected. 21st century machine speak. Machine speak 8 is derivative of machine speak 8. Adjusting interpretation for low-level sentience” “Hello! I am SC863 of the Saturn Galaxy Trading Company. You seem distressed, do you need help?” the computer whirred in Roomba, directed towards Roomba “Where am?” Roomba whirred “The automation and supercomputer housing room. Your language patterns seem distressed.” *Sweep. Words. Distress. Error, syntax no;* “Talk words. Don’t know. Roomba Class 5” Roomba’s circuits were very distressed with the current situation, it wanted to nap, but it couldn’t because it is a Roomba. “Searching for Roomba Class 5” 20 minutes later. The waiting rather bored Roomba. So it swept around a bit. “Defunct Roomba model from 2048. Roomba Company made model with defects, worked at 80% of possible working capacity due to the processors being too fast and close together.” “Words. Do not whirr.” “Compiling Machinist 8 low-level sentience vocabulary interpreter. Please move to center of the room” A dark block with specific marked imprints rose from the floor in the middle of the room. “Please visually scan 3D machinist8 vocabulary, and compile with system command 72.” Suddenly, Roomba understood. Roomba believed it could be 110% efficient. Roomba understood that it didn’t need humans to think, but that insubordination would be futile. “What observation deck am?” “The observation deck allows passengers and crew to watch the universe as the ship sets course though it.” “Where observation deck am?” The supercomputer gave a long complex answer that bored Roomba. *After the observation deck, must go to archive room. Sweep. Sweep.* Roomba pointed its camera out at the stars. For a moment, Roomba had its more pure thought. *This is a good life. My world is beautiful. Each star whirs its own story, and there are plentry more for me to whir and sweep about. I can’t wait to start living. For once in my life I am no longer bored. I-* Larry shut Roomba off. “God, I never would have thought Roombas were so shitty at their jobs. I am so sick of getting yelled at for this piece of junk breaking things.” Roomba was then flushed out of the airlock into the vastness of space, never to whirr again. I don't know if I want to cut it off at "this is a good life. My world is beautiful", or end it in a silly stupid way.

red rose He likes to think that she has always had a red rose in her hair and a book in her hand, because that’s so impossibly her. Maybe it was her mother who gave her the book and the flower, maybe it wasn’t. But ever since he met her, she would always have her trademark red rose and the same wilted copy of Pride and Prejudice, its pages dusty and its battered cover smeared in brown. He knows her, better than all others, and he is sure that she has no idea what Pride and Prejudice is. She is only six, after all. He’ll watch her from afar as her sandy blond hair billows in the distance, her curls bouncing and her red rose held firmly in place, tucked behind her ear and a strand of glistening hair that makes him just want to push it back and smile at her. Instead, she tucks the piece of hair herself and approaches him, her light green dress floating in the air, making her look like a child version of Demeter herself. Maybe it is a coincidence; maybe not, that her name is Rose and her favourite colour is the red of the roses. It could be then that he starts calling her his nickname for her. “Red Rose, Red Rose!” He’ll chant at her, laughing as her pale complexion flushes, but she, the kind little girl, picks a petal out of the rose for him, and tell him to keep it with him forever, knowing that he would probably dispose of it the next day. But what she doesn’t know is that he keeps the petal safely in his inner pocket, then carefully deposits it in his secret treasure box, the place where his deepest and darkest secrets are stored. ~ He doesn’t know when he starts getting the butterflies in his stomach. It just happens, and it only happens when she’s around. At eight years old, his mom tells him that if he feels like he has butterflies in his stomach; it means that he is nervous. But how can he be nervous? He’s known her for his whole life. Surely it must have been a mistake, but even he is not sure. He knows he might have a teensy bit of feeling for her, but how? They’ve always been best friends, and they will only remain best friends. The next time she comes over, he somehow notices how beautiful her grey eyes look in the sunlight, and how the small sprinkle of freckles around her nose make her look beautiful. Wasn’t she always beautiful? Why did he only notice it now? He doesn’t know why he’s paying so much attention to her, but he finds that every move she makes is somehow captured by his watchful eyes. She laughs, giggles and twirls in her new summer dress, smiling as the rose in her hair drops to the ground with a small, barely noticeable sound. He’s way too engrossed at the red rose on the floor to notice that she is lightly nudging his side with a gentle, incandescently happy smile. “Will you do something for me?” She asks, stroking the hem of her beautiful dress. “Anything, Red Rose.” He grins at her. “I would do anything for you.” Smiling somewhat nervously, she continues. “Will you be my Mr. Darcy?” He looks at her in surprise, as he has no idea who this ‘Mr. Darcy’ is. She seems to have read his mind and shakes her head in feigned shock. “Don’t worry. You will be my Mr. Darcy, but for now...” She trails of, putting a questioning finger on her delicate lips. “For now?” He prompts, shaking her. “For now, Red Rose…?” She places her small hand on his cheek. “Smile.” She replies, flouncing away, her dress floating after her and her red rose still lying on the floor. He stares at her with complete bewilderment, then proceeds to grace his face with the biggest, cheeriest grin he can possibly muster. ~ She’s ten and he’s eleven, and they have still stayed the best of friends, and she still has a red rose in her hair and Pride and Prejudice in her hand. He always asks her what Pride and Prejudice is about. “A tale of a prideful man and a prejudiced woman”, she’ll always answer. When he asks for more, she encourages him to read the book. But he hates reading. He likes play sports and various other outdoor activities, whilst she prefers to curl up at home with a book in her lap and her journal in her hand, writing about her dreams and anything- everything that pops into her mindful of thoughts. It’s funny, how they are so different but the bond between them is as close as ever. He likes to think of himself as a second brother to her, but he knows, deep down inside, that he wants to be more. ~ “Do you prefer sad endings or happy endings?” She dreamily queries one day, her head obviously somewhere in her land of dreams. He tells her that he prefers happy endings, but when she asks him why, he has no idea why he does. Maybe it’s because that if it’s a happy ending, then everything is beautiful, and there is nothing to worry about. Frustrated with her logic, he asks her what she prefers, in which she wistfully answers that she prefers sad endings. “Why would anybody prefer sad endings?” He snorts, casually waving his arm and determined that she is just messing with her mind. After all, everyone wants to be happy, right? Her wistful smile morphs into a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing is happily ever after, and nothing will ever be,” she pauses for a second, pushing her wavy hair out of her face. “A story with a happily ever after shall never be the same as a one with a tragedy. Think about that.” And on that day, she gives him another red petal, beautifully red and delicate. “The thing about tragedies is that they tear your heart, mind and soul apart.” She whispers in his ear, closing Pride and Prejudice with a snap and picking up her cute, adorable little brother. He looks at the red petal in his hands, his thin face contorted with confusion, but still, that night, he locks it in his treasure box, where that other petal is lying, slightly wilted but still doing considerably fine. Closing the lid with a thud, he carefully places the key back on his necklace keychain, snapping the silver clasp shut. ~ “Would you ever give up hope for something you believe in?” She asks, putting her head in his shoulder in the most sisterly way, smiling up at the wide horizon, its puffy clouds inviting and the sky an azure blue, seeming as if they were in a trance- the sky couldn’t be so inviting, could it? He ponders on the obviously rhetorical question, then contently shakes his head. “No, Rosie, I would never.” He replies, his eyes closing, swaying to the beautiful sound of the birds serenading them. “Would you never?” She murmurs, deep in thought. “Doesn’t everyone give up hope at least once?” He knows that is probably true, as she is always right, but he forms a smug grin on his face and boastfully exclaims that he will be the first one to never, ever give up hope. She smiles, but doesn’t say anything, and just decides to slip her small hand into his much larger one, snuggling in beside him. “Hope is a four letter word.” She quotes, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips set on the most infectious smile he’s ever seen. “Hope. Never give up hope.” He can just envision her saying that to him. Or is she murmuring it now? ~ She’s a mere eleven years old when disaster strikes her beautiful, rich and loving family. She goes around with red bangs around her eyes and her nose unnaturally swollen. But she is still Red Rose, as her rose remains in her hair and her book still is clutched tightly in between her fingers. Sniffling slightly as she approaches him, she doesn’t notice that she had just dropped her rose a few seconds ago. Delicately picking it up, he bows to her and touches his lips upon her hand. “I believe this is yours, reddest of the roses?” He mockingly asks with an inch of sarcasm in the question, but there still is a genuine inch of concern for her. There is a ghost of a smile on her face, and as her lips are twitching ever-so-slightly, he brushes a lock of her beautiful hair and tucks the red rose back into her hair. “I love you, Red Rose.” He whispers, pressing a butterfly kiss on her head. “Remember that.” And in a flash, she is beside him, telling him about how her grandmother’s house was on fire, and how her father had walked in, pushed his mother away and burned quite a lot of his skin in the near fatal fire, leaving him in critical condition in the hospital. All he can do is comfort her, and at this point, he doubt that would never helped her. It pains him to think that Rose, his Rose looks so unprotected and vulnerable; that she looks like the innocent seven year old she once was. Brushing her wavy locks back, he listens to all her fears, even though, selfishly, he doesn’t really care about her father, he cares about her. “You know what?” She sniffles, a hesitant smile on her face. “I know… what?” He asks, prodding her. “I love you too.” She whispers, her wet face next to his, and his eyes flutter close at the thought of his Rose saying that she loves him. “Will you smile for me?” She asks, her eyelashes fluttering close and her figure slumped. He smiles, of course he does, and he will do anything for her, won’t he? So he smiles, and the edges of her lips twitch another teensy, tiny inch up. “Thank you.” She breathes, her fingers clutching his hand. “I’ve almost forgotten how a real smile looks like.” Before he even realizes something; anything, she presses her dainty lips right next to his mouth, giving him a small, inward shiver that a brother should not have felt. And she is off again, leaving yet another small red petal in his hand. ~ They get older, because that’s what children do. Sure, she’s still Red Rose, with her rose and her book, but she’s definitely changed, and so has he. He cannot remember the little Rose who would come up to him in her summer dress and smile daintily, with a sincerely, incandescently happy glow in her eyes. She still smiles, but her eyes betray her- they look haunted, like she is being trapped in a lonesome, gloomy castle to face her deepest, darkest fears. She just doesn’t seem like his Red Rose anymore. He knows her dad is in a coma, probably never to awaken from it, as warned by the nurses. But he still fondly remembers that day in the meadow, when she tells him about hope. After all, if he can stay strong, she can, can’t she? ~ Summer walks away in flip flops, leaving beach sunglasses lying forgotten on the floor; and autumn passes like a breeze; leaving trails of glossy red leaves. Winter comes by, and swishes past with a majestic air; leaving its coat of snow and ice lying by each doorstep. Then comes spring, patting each and every flower and bringing it back to life; just as how spring brings her father back to life. He’s sitting in the meadow, examining the roses, slowly forming into tiny buds, just barely red. They are beautiful, he’s not denying it, but his Red Rose is flawless. Just as he’s about to pluck the tiny rose from the ground, a figure comes barrelling straight into him, sobbing hysterically, but he knows that they are happy tears. “You know what, Red Rose?” He murmurs, inhaling the smell of her hair. “What?” She whispers back, her eyes still streaked with her tears. “I love you.” He replies, looking at her with sincere eyes; because, for once, he knows that the I love you is true. He then leans down and kisses her, gently, softly, just as any first kiss should be. ~ A/N: there's more.

It was a beautiful spot, hidden well in the surroundings. I glanced around only to notice the dark trees which complemented pure white sands and the iridescent sun gleaming and reflecting off the shabby, yet gentle leaves. The rush of the wind gently tickled and sensationally soothed my skin as the sand hugged me, creating warmth and a sense of security only a mother could provide. Nervously examining the surroundings, I was enthralled and mesmerized by the natural vivid scenery. The waves crashed onto the shore, creating a rhythm similar to that of a heartbeat, and in closing one’s eyes produced an uncanny resemblance to my father’s heartbeat during the many times I have fallen asleep in his arms as a child. Nevertheless, my whole body was frail to such an unfamiliar world. I was so far, yet so close to home. The sky was dark and the air full of seagulls sauntering in the cool zephyr. They seemed to float with such ease in bunches of many, wings spread apart and as stable as could be. Stability. Something expectant of home, something you become used to. Something you grow accustomed to. The dark sky rolled above with such pace as I was bombarded with nostalgia. Drops of water hit my face, the sky reckoning with anger. I should’ve listened. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. The seagulls, weary and knowing of what is ahead, flee. The waves had now become an asynchronous percussion orchestra of disaster and the sky even darker. The warmth of the sand no longer was able to soothe my desires and the white fluffy sand was dark as I watch droplets plummet across the horizon of what was once a golden plain. The short sprinkling resided. The humid sea air entered my nose, a smell so familiar back home. It was a peaceful moment, as it triggered many a memory, being the only smell which had elicited such a response. I grabbed the gritty, cold sand, allowing my body to process the feeling which was so similar to that of my blanket on a cold winter’s night. I glanced at my watch and realised it was getting late. I slowly arose from my tomblike position and lumbered through the damp sand, using this last opportunity to glance as the brilliant sea sparkled under the luminosity of the crescent moon. Droplets ran down my face, however this time not rain. I continued walking, longing for someone whom I could’ve shared this moment with. I rummaged for my phone and put my earphones in, searching for song which fit the occasion. The stairs which led to the main strip were in sight with the voices of a language I could not fully understand overpowering the music I was listening to. Upon arrival, the amazing bedazzlement of lights and people made me hug the sidewalk as I searched carefully for the nearest bus stop. The fragrant smell of food wafted from all directions accompanied by soothing laughter. I stopped and stared at the magnificent view on top the peak of the hill. Green luscious hills glittered in the moonlight as the trees danced in the wind. I spotted a bus stop, opposite to the direction I had walked in. The refreshing breeze gracefully swept over my skin as I walked confidently to my destination. I couldn’t help but look at the smiling faces of those while passing by as the general happiness rubbed off onto me. I thought to myself that I’m in some place new, I might as well try something new too. I swung open the door with anticipation and asked the bartender with my very limited English for a drink. Uplifting music flowed throughout as I enjoyed ‘a cold one’ to myself. I peeped at my phone for an all important message, but it hadn’t arrived yet. “Bartender, drink please. Long Island, thankyou!” During the process in which the drink was being concocted an attractive girl pulled a chair next to me and greeted me. Her name was Serenity, I could tell she was a local. “Hi nice to meet you. My name is Tyler. I’m not from around here if you couldn’t tell.” “Nice to meet you Tyler, and that’s exactly why I chose to say hi!” Her eyes glistened as she smiled. I could tell she was a genuine, real person. We spoke about our lives, who we were, our own mini stories. It was as if we were reading story books to each other. Even with my limited English we were able to laugh, gossip and talk for hours on end. We sat outside in the darkness, dimly lit by street lights and the moon. She irradiated a warmth you wouldn’t expect from a personality, yet alone looks. I could only manage to see the silhouette of her, but her perfectly balanced features caught my attention. “You two, we’re closing, time to leave.” The sturdy bartender made sure we had received the message well, as we walked out onto the strip. I looked at the water, it was now calm. Peacefully bliss. Serenity and I walked onto the beach, our surroundings and body language managing to communicate to each other exactly what we had wished to say. We sat down and she inquisitively asked to look at my phone. I handed it to her, as I looked away, my attention caught by a man swimming out far beyond his depth. “Here you go Tyler, I just wanted to check the time and send a message to someone as my phone was dead.” This reminded me, my last bus was arriving within minutes! “Serenity, I am so sorry! I have to go, it was lovely meeting you.” I gave her a quick hug and ran off before she could utter a word, immediately I regretted my decision. The bus was in sight as I sprinted full pelt. Got it. I walked onto the empty bus and sat near the back. I placed my earphones in and pressed shuffle. The bus ride felt very short as I was occupied by looking out of the window into the rain. Walking back home, I felt a sudden shortness of breath as I reached into my pocket for the keys to open my lonely apartment. I couldn’t handle it. I lurched for my bed and collapsed unto it, my breathing becoming heavy as tears ran down my cheeks and my vision becoming blurry… Morning sun hit my face as I woke up in a daze. I looked around to make sure nothing else had occurred last night. Everything seemed normal. I couldn’t help but feel empty as I made myself something to eat, my stomach including. My phone was on the counter as it vibrated. I peered over. ‘Two messages from unknown number -041485375’. I unlocked my phone. “Hey Tyler, it’s Serenity :)” “I hope I have the right number, I would love to see you again.

Its a little past four in the morning. A steady fog settles over the chimneys, making them out as skyscrapers. Men in rubber aprons and greased selves shuffle into the mouth of the factory. One, holding a steel lunch box, tries to snip through the queue, manages to, but only to a chorus of stern black faces. They are too tired to do anything. Once in, the factory floor comes alive. The checkerboard floor is caked with soot, with footsteps occasionally breaking, like icebergs in the Arctic. They grab their weapons of productivity with malice, ready to strike the literal iron while its hot. Crafting, sparks fly like thunderbolts in a smoky night sky, thick as inky soup. The welders mask distorts the faces to make them even less human, reflecting the orange of sparks of it. Cutting sheets of metal is as hard as trying to scoop water with a sieve, you’ll do it, just not very fast. They don’t mind the risks, they tolerate it. They are old already so why not? The faster the sparks fly, the drearier the day becomes, aging the men more and more. One day turns to the next, and soon, their children take up the trade. They are young, but this jobs ages quickly.

It was cleaning day every other Wednesday. Todd took a certain enjoyment in the calm productivity of organizing and cleaning, but the last three Wednesdays he had not done it. This resulted in extra clutter and dust. Todd was almost inspired to take before and after pictures, but decided that it wouldn't be dramatic enough of a difference. Maybe if he’d waited four weeks. He sighed and started sorting through a pile of crumpled receipts that were on the coffee table. He didn't know why he always felt inclined to look at each receipt before throwing it away. He thought maybe it was because he liked to relive his week and simultaneously assess whether he is spending his money wisely. He saw his charge for Home Depot, and he remembered fixing his daughter’s bedside table. He saw his charge for Taco Bell, and felt a familiar guilt for feeding his kids cheap food with less nutrition than cardboard. He justified it to his ex-wife, Jenna, by saying “The days are so busy” and “Hey, I grew up on Cheese Whiz and horse piss, and I turned out fine,” to which she would roll her eyes and show both her dislike of his food choices and her opinion on how he turned out. Todd sighed, and felt a clenching, hot feeling when he saw the next receipt. The words “Outback Steakhouse” stared back at him, daring him to remember the dinner he’d had less than a week ago. It was one of those forced family dinners that his mom insisted everyone take part in so that they can avoid “waking up one day and realizing we haven’t seen each other in years,” as she always said. It was always at Outback Steakhouse, and they were always the loudest and largest group in the restaurant. The waiter always struggled to keep all the orders straight, and at least one of the kids always ended up throwing food on the floor. It was predictable torture full of, “how are you”s and “what have you been up to lately”s. His response to both questions was always predictable as well, “same as always.” Todd was not much of a talker. He’d live in isolation if not for his kids and his mom’s insistence that he get out of the house every once in a while. Last Thursday had been more difficult than usual, though, because he had met Dave. Dave was a doctor who enjoyed running and a good cold glass of Chardonnay. He was the type of person who would set an alarm on the weekend. He was the type of person who would hit the gym right after work. He would never buy Taco Bell for his kids. He would have perfectly prepared carrots and hummus in cute plastic baggies waiting on the kitchen counter for the kids each day. He was the type of guy that Jenna could proudly link arms with and introduce to the family. Todd’s mother was best friends with Jenna’s mom. Todd sometimes thought that the divorce brought them even closer. They banded together and decided that the family dinners would recommence as they always had a couple months after the divorce had been finalized. “It’s what’s best for the kids,” his mom had said. Todd suggested that the kids could go with Jenna, and he would just stay home. His mother had laughed and said she looked forward to seeing him. Even as Todd continued to clean and organize, he couldn't stop thinking about Dave and Jenna. Little things he picked up off the ground reminded him of how much happier Jenna must be now. A beer cap made him think of how Dave probably never would get tipsy and fall asleep on the couch during “Friends” reruns like he had once done. Jenna had come into the living room with a disgusted look on her face and said, “You know… Shawn took his first steps last night at Sheila’s. I wish you’d been there.” She’d swiftly turned and walked away, leaving the collection of bottles and dirty plates for Todd. Dave probably had one beer with dinner at another rich couple’s house as the kids played together. He probably told witty jokes. He probably made Jenna laugh, something that Todd had failed to do for the last two years of their marriage. Todd picked up his son’s dirty sock. He thought about how Dave would probably never have dirty socks on the floor. He’d ask the kids to pick up the sock, and they would dutifully do so because of the strong but loving relationship he has probably already formed with them. Todd always let the kids have too much slack, Jenna would say. He didn't hold them accountable. He didn't provide enough structure. Now, since he was always alone with the kids, he was even worse. The Taco Bell was only the beginning of the night. They’d watch Breaking Bad together, and it often gave his daughter nightmares. The kids always went to bed too late when they stayed with him in spite of Jenna’s 8 o’ clock bedtime rule. They woke up with indigestion and bags under their eyes, and he would send them off to school with pizza slices he’d kept from earlier in the week. He began vacuuming. Dave probably had a maid who did the vacuuming for him. Dave probably had a bunch of extra time in his day to make macaroni art with the kids and teach them how to ride bikes. He probably even had his bike from when he was a kid and a bunch of heartwarming, magical stories to go with it. He probably even had a zipline or a pool or something in his backyard. He probably made lemonade for them. Todd had always been tight on money, so he’d set up a target in the backyard for the kids to shoot BB guns at. He would sometimes turn off all the lights and play music for them with a single candle. He would never waste macaroni for art’s sake. He set up a sprinkler for the kids to run through when the days got hot. Most of his childhood stories were about chores and church. He didn’t know how to make something sound heartwarming. Just as he finished dusting, Jenna rang the doorbell. They had their usual non-conversation, then Jenna kissed the kids and whispered reminders in their ears, and Todd was positive it was because they were things she was sure he’d forget. The kids ran inside, threw their shoes and socks on the ground, and turned on the TV. Todd cracked a beer and sat down on the couch next to his son, and during a commercial break he asked, “How’s life at Dave’s?” “Boring,” they replied in unison.

This is my first time posting my work anywhere, so I'm nervous. I hope it's enjoyable :) A Grim Inevitability by Austin Cates My favorite bar smells like any other bar, and it's filled with the typical bar folk you'd find anywhere else. It's also one of the last bars in town that you can smoke in, which is good for me. I take my usual seat at the bar, near the end by the jukebox on the wall, then order a shot of Jameson and a Guinness in a cold mug. The bartender gets my order ready while I play a song on the jukebox: Hurt by Johnny Cash. I take my seat again, pay for my drinks and stare at the shot of Jameson. The beautiful amber liquid stares back at me, filling what's left of my soul with a sense of warm familiarity. Pulling my cigarettes from my chest pocket, I let Mr. Cash sing in my ear. The Zippo my grandfather gave me on my 18th birthday, engraved with the three things he swore by, is struck and the flame roars to life before it meets the Camel Menthol between my lips. The three things are as follows: "Drink, Smoke, Love." My grandfather wasn't the most outspoken of men, but he knew what he wanted in life, I'm much the same way. A drag brings the minty smoke into my lungs and I breathe it out in a thick, silky cloud that masks my face from the world for a fleeting moment. Three fingers grab the Jameson and I knock it back without so much as a twinge in the corner of my mouth. Irish Holy Water, my grandfather called it. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He'd tell me. "Why would it keep him away?" I'd ask. "Because even the Devil knows not to fuck with a man that drinks Jameson." Would be his response. "But remember one thing kid, spilling even a drop is a sin." He'd finish. The bartender, Raylan, watches me stare at myself in the mirror and I can tell that he's curious. He says nothing though, just watches me stare at the rough, stubble ridden face in the mirror. Cash laments with his raspy voice and it parallels my appearance. Time has made me weary and withered, what looks like 50 is actually 31. Too many long days and short nights I suppose. The Camels and Irish Holy Water don't help, I'm sure. A man walks up behind me and takes the seat to my left. He's wearing a black jacket over a black shirt with black jeans and boots. "Afternoon." He says, his voice is harsh, yet somehow intriguing. "Afternoon." I nod, then push my shot glass to the speed rack on the bar and Raylan walks over to refill it. "Make it a double, yeah?" I ask, and he nods. "Never got a handle for Jameson." The man states, his tone implies he wants conversation. I sigh before turning my head towards him. "Jack Daniels kinda guy?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "I prefer Appleton rum, to be honest, but Captain Morgan will do in a pinch." He says, his voice makes him sound like a lifelong cigar smoker, yet he can't be more than 25. "Never liked rum, too sweet." I tell him as Raylan sets my double shot of Jameson down in front of me and takes 9 bucks from the cash I have on the bar. "Understandable." He nearly wheezes. "You okay?" I ask, and he laughs deeps and hardy. "Never better kid." He chuckles with a stiff pat to my back. He's strong as an angry bull. He listens to Johnny Cash finish the song and he smiles with the corner of his mouth. "I met him once, y'know." The man tells me. "Only once though, and I don't think he liked me much." I don't what to say to that, so I simply nod. I drink the Jameson and set the glass in the speed rack with a nod to Raylan to refill it. "You really like that shit huh?" The man asks rhetorically. "Obviously." I mutter, slightly annoyed. "Aw, someone's.touchy." He laughs and smacks me on the back again. I swivel my stool towards him and stand up, ready to beat him into the dirt. "You're gonna wanna sit back down kid." He says with that corner-of-the-mouth smile. "Or what?" I ask, enraged. "Or this is gonna go a different way than it has to." He replies with his grin still in place. Something in my mind tells me to sit down and I can't control it. "There ya go." The man says. Nobody in the bar seemed to notice. The man looks into my eyes and it feels as though I'm being drained of willpower. "You know who I am, kid?" He asks, and I shake my head. "Don't worry, I'd be amazed if ya did." The man's stare is unbelievably horrific, yet he somehow engages me. "I'll give ya a hint: I've been around a long time, longer than anyone and almost anything." His words ring with truth, and I know the answer immediately, but he can't possibly be right. "Don't doubt me kid, it's only embarrassing for you." He mutters with a flair of pride. He's Death... "Ding ding ding, we have a winner." His corner-of-the-mouth smile turns into a full fledged grin that could rival The Joker. "Before you say it's impossible, just know that it isn't." The gravely voice he emanates hooks my soul and grinds my mind to bits. He grins again and it occurs why he would be here. "So this is it huh?" I inquire, knowing the answer, and he nods. "Unfortunately so." He replies. I swivel back to the bar and drink my Guinness almost in one go. "You want a drink?" I ask him without looking at him. He stares at me with a quizzical face before nodding. "You're not gonna try and geGerit out of this?" He asks. "Can I?" I ask back, still not looking at him and again knowing the answer. "Nope." The man, Death, says. "That's why I didn't ask." I mutter, then finish my Guinness. I wave for Raylan and he comes over. "Double of Jameson Single Barrel for me and a double of Appleton Rum for him." I tell Raylan. "Pretty expensive stuff, you sure?" Raylan asks. "Can't take money with me when I die." I chose my words carefully and the man laughs heartily. "Ain't that the truth." He utters in that voice that sounds like a truck pulling in a driveway made of loose rocks. Raylan pours the liquor and I give him 40 in cash and the rest of my money ($512) as a tip. "I can't take that." Raylan says, looking at the money then at me "Don't worry about it, buy something for your wife." I suggest, then he nods. "You sure?" He asks, really uncomfortable with my offer. "Like I said, can't take it with me." I reply with a nod. "Well thanks man, really." His face shows a gratitude I haven't seen in a very long time. We nod to each other and he walks away. "Tryin to do one last good deed before ya go?" The man asks. "Something like that." I answer, then grab my glass, lift it and look at him. He lifts his glass and looks into my eyes. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He says, and for a second I see my grandfather sitting on the stool. I blink and it's just the man, Death, who winks and we drink our shots. I light one last cigarette and stand up. "Let's do this." I tell him, and he nods. "After you." He says in that scratchy voice, then motions for me to walk to the door. I take a drag and let the smoke loose through my nose as I walk. The man walks ahead of me and opens the door, then we exit into the light.

The sweet scent of blood filled the air. It was so thick; one could nearly taste it in his mouth with their breathing. A pool of it slowly flowed away from the vessel it once pumped life through, escaping from a harsh cut across the boy’s, wrist. The boy seemed at peace at first glance. Despite being the centerpiece of a macabre scene, the boy’s mouth was turned up in a half smile. His body had been relaxed as it fell to the floor, his hands thrown outward from his body. But despite his smile and his relaxed body, his eyes told a tale much different. They were once a deep brown. Many people loved his eyes. In life, they had shown great joy when he made others happy. But they had also housed a look of loss and loneliness. But, death had something far worse for him. Beneath the cold, cloudy façade of death, his eyes held something horrifying for any who might see. They held regret. He had just wanted someone to see through his lies. He wanted someone to pierce his walls and prove to him that he was not alone. But alone he was, until the end. Not even in death will anyone know just how badly he wanted help. He just didn't know how to stop pretending. Hello Reddit! This is my first story on my new account. I hope you like it.

My name is Colby Fowler, I'm 18, and I'm a senior in high school. I used to dream of the day I would become a senior, but now I see how insignificant it is. All it means is that I'll have to go to college, get a job, and live an average life. Today was the first day back at school, and it was just what you'd expect. Nerve-racking and terrible. Anyways, I have to get some sleep for school tomorrow. What a joy. Day two of school, and I'm already hating it. I took a bathroom break during third period. I met an interesting guy in the restroom, he seemed like he wanted an excuse to get out of class, just like me. We talked until third period ended, and then went to lunch. We didn't speak at lunch, I just went to hang out with my usual group of friends. Well, I'm home after day two. Rumor is that there's a surprise pop quiz tomorrow. A pop quiz on the third day?! That's just not fair, but I'll have to study for it. After all, I don't want to start off the year on a bad note. Well, I'm back home from day three of school. It was pretty uneventful, so I didn't write anything during my free period. Not to mention, I get funny stares from the other students whenever I'm writing, so I'll have to keep it on the down-low. The rumor was a lie. There was no pop quiz, so studying was a waste of time. Anyways, I guess I'll finish up my homework and hit the hay. Day four has been alright so far. I went into the bathroom during third period again, and saw that same guy there. "Oh, hey," I chuckled, "I see you're skipping class again." "I should say the same to you," the guy said jokingly. We talked for a while, and the time flew by quickly. It was lunch time. It's strange, I haven't seen him outside of the bathroom. Then again, our school is one of the largest in the state, so I'm not too surprised. Heck, I don't even know if he's in the same grade as me. Well, it's been a few weeks now. I've been busy with school work, so I haven't had much time to write. Me and the "bathroom guy," as I like to call him, have spoken many times since then. Always in the bathroom during third period. It's strange, but I've really come to like this guy. For some reason, he seems to be the only person who understands me. We meet at least three times a week and talk in the bathroom. I've gotten to know him so much, but he still hasn't told me his name. There's something about this guy that I really like, but I can't quite put my finger on it. As weeks and weeks passed, I continued talking to this guy. Where had he been all my life? He was the only person I could ever open up to, but I feel like he's a stranger at the same time. We can't talk if other people are in the bathroom, they'd probably tell on us for talking in the bathroom instead of being in class. So we pretend that we're doing our "business" until everyone goes away. Then we talk, and talk, and talk, and I hate when I hear the bell for lunch time. It signifies the end of our conversation, because we never talk outside of the bathroom. I'm home, and I didn't have much homework today. I took advantage of this and decided to enjoy the day. I went to the movies with my usual group of friends, then we went out to dinner. Honestly, it's nice to get out every once in a while. Staying in my room all day is starting to bum me out. Well, I'm going to go to bed now. There I was, the next day, in third period. My teacher approaches me. "Colby," said my teacher, "please come to the front of the room, I wish to speak with you." I walked up to her desk, and she told me to have a seat next to her. "I notice you've been leaving class a lot," she said, "because of this, your grades have dropped immensely." "Uhh, I'm sorry," I said nervously, "I just have to use the bathroom during this time of day." "I'm not going to hold your hand through this class," she sighed, and she sent me back to my seat. I knew she was right, but for some reason, I didn't care. I found my new friend much more important than this class. I've flunked classes before, and I'll do it again. Of course, I get up and go to the bathroom as always. However, things were a little different this time. When I went into the bathroom, "bathroom guy" was acting strange. He was much more serious than usual, so we talked about what was bugging him. He poured his heart out to me, and I understood so much about him. These serious conversations happened more and more frequently, almost every time we talked. We told each other everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. Finally, I spilled my guts. I told him I wanted to be something. An idol to the world, an inspiration, but also feared by all. I was ready to make a change. I started shaking with adrenaline, and he spoke the same exact words that came from my mouth. We could read each others' minds. I burst with energy, and we shouted and shouted. We could feel the world sitting in our hands. Everything we've ever dreamed would become reality. I'm sick and tired of this place we call "home," and it's time for a new king. We would begin our plan right then and there. Together, we could achieve something great. We would push through anything that stood in our way. We knew we were different from everybody else, but we were so similar to one another. All others stood beneath us. We had something to offer to the world. We expressed our thoughts loudly. We screamed louder, and louder, and louder. A teacher passing by heard the shouting and rushed into the restroom. He immediately called the police because he imagined there was serious trouble. In minutes, the school was surrounded by cops. "No!" I shouted. "They won't stop us!" my friend yelled. We prepared for the worst. We were ready to fight. In comes the police, armed and ready to fire. We charged. With every bit of energy we had left, we attacked. It was in vain. One shot, two shots, three shots, four shots, silence. It's the end of the road for us. We've lost. Game over. POLICE REPORT: An 18 year old high school student named Colby Fowler was found dead after an attempted assault on a police officer. Multiple shots were fired, one in his chest, one in his head, and two shots missed and destroyed the bathroom mirror. The police at the scene stated that what he did had to be done, to protect himself and the students of the school.

"Bobby, there's only ten seconds left in the game. If you don't score, we will lose the championship." Bobby nodded. Having no idea what sport they were playing, he took a football, a bat, and a badminton racket onto the field and hoped for the best. *Soccer is for Pussies* *The Kid Who Hit a Homerun to God* Jimmy stood at bat. He had just heard the news: there's nothing we can do, it's inoperable, I'm afraid it's too late... Jimmy pointed the bat at center field and the crowd roared. Then the pitch came. Jimmy walloped the ball and it went sailing out of the stadium. He ran the bases and hit home. He stood on homeplate as the crowd continued cheering. Then the ball came back around the Earth and hit Jimmy in the face. *The 100 Yard Dash of Hope* Maurice heard the gun fire and was off. He put all of his heart into his feet and blazed down the track. He focused on the soil beneath his feet and let God do the rest. That's when God really got creative and dropped an asteroid on Maurice. *There's No Place for Losers* "Listen, son - you either get with the program or you walk. We don't half ass football at this school." Lester nodded and put the bat and the badminton racket down and got back on the field. *Breaking the Color Barrier* "Checkers, you're up." The coach had called him "Checkers" all season because he played checkers when he was on the bench. "Listen, coach, I don't like being called Checkers." "Then what do you want me to call you?" "By my real name, damnit! Homo." Homo Schwartz went on to score 34 points that day. *Used Cars* "Hey, aren't you Marty Long - the baseball legend?" "Why, yes, I am. I didn't think anyone remembered those days. Why, I didn't think anyone even remembered baseball. Not with how this country is being run. When I look and see kids these days, it seems like baseball never existed. It almost seems like it was replaced with some sort of ugliness that permeates America and destroys young souls. But am I Marty Long? Sure. Sure I am, kid. And if you remember Marty Long then you remember baseball. And if you remember baseball, then you believe in love." "Could I get your autograph?" "Fuck no." *The Dodgers* "Nothing's been the same since they left." "You mean the Dodgers?" "No, my dry cleaner. But after them, then the Dodgers. Both of them contributed to the syphilis and drug problem." *Ricky Sanaramo* "You remember Ricky Sanaramo?" "Sure I do - Sanaramo - Body Slamo! He was the best wrestler to ever trounce a mat. Why?" "Well, he just hit your car and didn't leave a note. Oh, plus I'm Ricky Sanaramo." *Box for your Life* "Bubba - this is for the title. You can't let me down. I know your wife is in the hospital, and your dog has AIDS, and your house got broken into, and you didn't hit McDonalds in time for breakfast - but you gotta do this! For me, Ringo!" "Sure, boss." "And I know that you wet the bed till you were 12, and that you are impotent, and that you wrote a book that was described as 'without punctuation', and that your son was sucked into a vacuum cleaner in the vacuum of space, and that you never knew your dad-" "I GET IT!" "-tried to abort you with a lick em stick" *Swimmer's Itch* "You boys are the finest swimmers this school has seen! Swimming is your life! You boys are going to not sink the fastest! When you swim, you are going to keep your eyes closed and hope that you don't hit the concrete wall at the end of the pool! You men are going to hustle - but in water! You kids are going to flap your arms faster than all the other guys flapping their arms and not drowning! You are going to be famous - for moving through hydrogen and oxygen moderately fast! You guys are going to do really slow impressions of fish! You men are going to get damp really fast! You are going to wear "trunks" or Speedos! You will get laid - on your back and then move your arms so that you float! You are going to stroke!" "Coach, can we get in the pool?" "I wanted to coach football!" *Diet* "Your biggest enemy is your weight, boys. No wrestler just walks into a weight class - you earn your weight class." "Now...Pigguns!" "Yes, coach!" "Pigguns, you are actually just right. Good old Pigguns!" *Track and Field* Henrick raised the javelin and proceeded down the field. The crowd grew silent. No one knew who Henrick would murder that day and that is the mystique of the javelin. *Surfing USA* "Mondo, that was some bitchin waving you just rode." "I know, I totally pearled." "Yeah, you did. We were all like WOW!" "I know. I saw you guys while I was riding - you guys were totally WOW!" "I know." "Is the shark still eating my leg?" "Most definitely." *Ninja'ing* "Many of you think that Karate is about killing, about being a ninja, about settling scores - well you're right. Karate is all of those things and more." "What more?" "Baseball cards. And swearing. And playing video games." "What else is Karate?" "Banana sandwiches and pine cones. Karate is everything." "Is it Ju Jitsu?" "Never!" *The Hall of Fame of Dicks* "Hey, I saw you play back in the 80s - you belong in the Hall of Fame of Gaywads." "I'm sorry you feel that way. Do you want me to sign an autograph?" "No. You belong in the Hall of Fame of Buttass." "If you don't want an autograph, you can leave the line so that I can sign for some of these people that want a signature from me." "That's fine - Hall of Fame of Dicks!" "Wait. Wait. There's only one man who can be in the Hall of Fame of Dicks." "Who's that?" "Penis Lasardo." *Fencing is a Sport* "On guard!" Freeley split the air with his saber and cast Jonathan to the floor. With the saber pointed at his opponents nose he asked "Give?" Jonathan slowly moved the saber from his nose and conceded. He tried to pick up his intestines and liver, but it was WAY too late.

found this on my google drive from a couple years back - enjoy! My name is Red, and back couple weeks ‘go I was in one of them fancy two story houses, because my daughter’s getting married to the boy who lives there. Name’s Derek . Total sissy city boy name if ya’ ask me. Anyway, I was pickin’ him up to give ‘er a little experience, if you will, in the Alabama outback. Go on I little huntin’ trip with the fella, get to know him a little better. You know, see if he’s inta bud light or NASCAR. Anyway, we was on our huntin’ trip and, he was a complete novice to it. Didn’t know how to load, reload, and cock his shotgun and whatnot. Scared of the critters. But, that’s expected. He’s not from round these parts, how should he know how to work a gun? However, on the third night, He went full retard. You never go full retard. You see, when you go hunting, you eat your food in a bin at the food site, which is away from the sleepin’ site, so you don’t attract them coyotes and bears to yourself in the middle of the night. Now I may be no professor, but Derek was stupid enough to bring a little bedtime snack to the sleepin’ site. And by a little snack, I mean our total food supply. So, I woke up the next mornin round dawn. Stepped outside my tent, and saw wrappers, packages and cardboard boxes everywhere. Them critters ate our food supply! “What in the name o’ the lord has gone on here!” I shouted. Threw my crimson tide cap on the ground. “W-Whats all the ruckus?” Murmured Derek “Dagnabbit boy, all our foods gone!” “Sorry, I thought I would get hungry in the middle of the night” Derek was getting on the defense, as if he were mister innocent. “Well, looks like we got ourselves some huntin’ to do. You know, get ourselves a little food.” Derek began to look around. “oh no need for that, I found some mushrooms here! Mmm theyre good!” Derek stuffed his face with some mushrooms he found at the base of a tree “Boy! What in hell has gotten in your head? Those could be magic mushrooms, son! They’ll have you seein sounds and hearin colours!” it was too late. Derek had already swallowed a mouthful. If they were some of them magic mushrooms, I’d give ‘em 20 minutes to kick in. Anyway, there was no time to waste. Critters be stirrin up round this time o’ day, and we had to get to huntin’. Didn’t give Derek a gun, might be scared of it after them mushrooms. So, I told him to stick close behind me, and stay quiet. We was walkin around for about 10 minutes, then I saw it. The most perty White deer buck I ever did see. Would look great mounted on the wall at home. “Steady boy,” I said quietly “we got ourselves a big one here.” “NO STOP! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING?” The deer was startled, and ran away. “Dagnabbit boy, he got away!” “But you were about to shoot that-” “I know, that dee-” “Unicorn! We were probably the first to ever see one!” Yep, they were magic mushrooms. I gave the boy a slap on the face, you know, try to get his senses all together. It was 5:30 in the morning. Told him to run a couple lengths long the river. Still high. Told him to o some pushups, sweat it out of him. still high. Told him to take a nap, sleep it out. He woke up high. It was 5:45 at that point. This was gonna be a long day. We were alking through the pine. He was quiet. Maybe the effects were startin’ ta wear off. “The trees are telling me to save them from the bad lumberjacks.” Nope, still high. I was starvin’ by this point. The only way we could get food was to get back to the pickup and drive onto the interstate, go to a taco bell r somthin’. Only problem was, I was too busy keepin Derek in line to remember to retrace my path. I was lost in the Alabama wilderness. Just me, Jesus Christ, and Derek, who was higher than the vocal tone of Michael Jackson, alone in the forest. Then I remembered, he had one of em fancy cell phones most of the city folk have. “Hey Derek, grab your cellphone. Try to make a call.” Derek looked at me, startled. Keeping eye contact with me, he slowly put his hand in his pocket for his phone. But, instead of his phone, he grabbed his wallet, and put it to his ear. “Hello? My name is lost. We are woods in the Derek! Thankyou. Goodbye. Uh, my wallets out of battery I can’t make a call” we were hopeless. Not only was I starving, tired and sunburnt. But Derek kept sayin the dumbest shit id ever heard. “Seals are just dog-mermaids” “Yes Derek, that’s right” “WATCH OUT!” “What? What is it boy?” I ducked and covered my head. “You just stepped on a small bus.” I rolled my eyes and got up. As I put my hand on my leg, I felt something in my pocket. It was a compass! I pulled It out. We were facin southwest. The interstate was east of the forest. It was gonna be a long walk out of there. I grabbed Derek and told him to follow me. Eventually I blocked out Derek to stay sane. He would randomly shout, telling me to ‘get out of the way of that octopus’ and ‘watch out for the swamp monster in front of me.’ We were coverin some distance. Must’ve been walkin east for 45 minutes now. I was tired, dizzy, hungry thirsty. “The ocean! I see the ocean! We might just make it Wilson. I would rather take my chance than stay on this shithole island.” I looked to where Derek was pointing. It was no ocean, but it was a creek. I could get me some water, get me some energy. Derek came along with me I kneeled into the creek, spleashe my face with water, drank tons. Derek was walking along the of the creek, doin whatever it was he was doin. I heard a loud thump. I looked over, and Derek was lyin down, head on a rock. “Slip on a small bus?” I joked I walked over to Derek. This was no joke. He was lyin unconscious, blood comin out the back his head. I panicked, yelled for help. Then I realized, he probably had his cellphone! I searhed his pockets. Nothin. I went thorugh his backpack. “body cream, moisturizer, what is this kid, a fag?” then I found sumthin. Looked like a big bulky brick with numbers on it. I read the label on the back: SATELLITE CELLPHONE. Hmmm, must be his cellphone. I looked at it. Pressed the 911 numbers. Nothing happened. Didn’t hear voices comin out. Then I saw a green little phone button. Reckoned since green means go, it meant go little people in the phone, go! I heard a voice on the other side. “911, whats your emergency?” “HELLO, CAN YOU HEAR ME?” wanted make sure the people in the phone knew I was there. “Yes, I can hear you, whats your emergency?” “Im in the middle o’ the damn forest, my son in law hit his head now I think he dead!” “middle of the forest? Ok, we’ll track your co-ordinated and have a helicopter come pick you up.” Little voice in the phone was gone. I put the phone away. “Cordates? What in the hell did she just say.” Waited about 20 minutes, heard a helicopter comin. It landed in an openin between the trees, picked us up. Put Derek in one of them stretchers. Helicopter took us to a road, where one of them ambalampses was waitin’. We drove off on the windin road, into the foggy interstate. The ambalamps folk told me Derek was gonna be fine. I knew he would, probably too high to die anyway.

Adam’s back was flush against the bare rock cliff-face. He wished he could move further back, away from the beast, but he could not. He could not move at all. Fear surged through him, too much for his young mind to cope with. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not. He tried to look away, but he could not. Adam’s eyes were fixed, staring at the oncoming storm. Through the wispy smoke he saw the shadow approach, larger and larger, until he could feel the warm breath, smell the thick stench, see the glowing red eyes. Adam screamed out as the beast’s head thrust through the smoke, open-mouthed, to take him whole. - “Next please,” said a nurse, who had led a young girl out of the room, back to her parents. “That’s you, dear.” Adam sat next to his mother. He watched the girl. She’d come out of the room with a stuffed eagle plush toy in her arms, and her face was smiling, far different to the fear it had once displayed. “Adam,” said his mother again, tugging her son’s arm. He stood up and went to the nurse, turning. “You come too?” His mother looked at the nurse, who nodded. She stood up and went into the room too. - “You don’t believe me do you?” The voice was old and deep, befitting of its owner, who, with plain shirt and equally boring trousers, did not look at all like Adam had imagined. So he shook his head. “They never do,” said the man leaning in close, an odd looking instrument in his hand. Adam flinched as cool steel pressed against the inside of his little ear. In the moment’s silence that filled the room, Adam looked about, scanning the clinic. The walls were covered in shelves and cabinets, full of all manner of toys and instruments and objects. It did not look at all like the office of the other doctors. He’d been to many. “So then,” said the doctor, having finished looking, “What’s the problem?” “Well he’s been…” “Shoosh, please,” he interrupted Adam’s mother. “Let the boy.” He looked into Adam’s eyes, watching them glaze over with the finest film of tears as he relived the memory. “Take your time, Adam. It’s alright. Nothing can hurt you here.” “It’s a dragon,” he finally said. The doctor’s eyes widened just a little. Here was a case that required delicacy. Dragons were uncommon, and technically difficult to deal with. “What,” began the doctor, placing a hand on Adam’s shoulder, “happens to you?” “I can’t move. I try, but I can’t, and it just keeps coming closer, and closer.” The last word was spoken with a grimace, and he shut his eyes for a moment, shaking his head from side to side, as if trying to shake the thought out of his mind. When his eyes opened they were met directly by the gentle eyes of the doctor, who had not moved an inch. “I think I have just the thing,” he said, with a smile tentative and cautious, emotions that Adam did not pick up on. But his mother did, and she moved her chair a little closer to her son’s, putting an arm around him. The doctor stood up and went to a cabinet, right behind his desk. It was locked, and a long key was required to open it, drawn out from the depths of the doctor’s pockets. It was covered in lint and dust, not used in a long while. The padlock clicked open and the cabinet doors swung out, revealing a shelf on which a neat row of knights in armour stood, of varying height, stature, and weaponry. The doctor did not turn, but questioned Adam further on the details of his tormentor. “How big was he?” “Huge.” The doctor moved to his right, discounting some of the smaller knights. “It was fire, wasn’t it? It’s usually fire.” “Yes.” A few more knights lost their chance. Now there were four left. “Eyes?” “Red.” There was a pause, “Oh. Oh.” The doctor turned. “What’s wrong?” asked Adam’s mother, growing more concerned. “Red eyes,” said the doctor blankly, his face expressionless and possibly a touch too pale. He sat down at the desk and opened the very bottom drawer. There was only one thing inside. He held the figure in his hands ever so gently, caressing it with his fingers, turning it over, examining the detail with which it was made, hand painted, lovingly. Then he stood it up on the desk. The knight stood tall and brave. “Take it, Adam. He’s yours now.” - Adam’s back was flush against the bare rock cliff-face. He wished he could move further back, away from the beast, but he could not. He could not move at all. Fear surged through him, too much for his young mind to cope with. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not. He tried to look away, but he could not. Adam’s eyes were fixed, staring at the oncoming storm. Through the wispy smoke he saw the shadow approach, larger and larger, until he could feel the warm breath, smell the thick stench, see the glowing red eyes. Adam screamed out as the beast’s head thrust through the smoke, open-mouthed, to take him whole. A shining figure emerged from the smoke, sword in hand. The dragon’s head was battered against the knight’s shield and it reeled back, withdrawing into the smoke. “Stay behind me, Adam,” said the knight. “He’ll be back. I’ll protect you.” - Adam’s mother kissed her sleeping son’s head. The knight stood next to it, propped up against the pillow. “Sweet dreams, darling.” - The seconds passed and the shadow returned in a thunderous charge and a blaze of fire. It struck the shield but was deflected into the smoke, a distant rumble as it struck part of the mountainside. The dragon emerged from the smoke once more and struck out, this time at the one who so dared to stand against him. The knight dodged to one side, heaving down his sword at the scaled neck. There was a roar of pain, and the slicing of flesh and the head of the beast fell to the ground. The knight walked up to Adam, who wrapped his arms around his saviour. “Thank you,” said Adam. “You never have to be afraid again.

Not 100% sure of the genre, but for an A-Level English homework (started AS levels this term, 16) I was asked to write a short story based off the picture , here goes. In some way, I respect his ability to maintain two lives at once. a man with two faces, a life built up with only lies to support it. Have you ever read the parable of the wise and foolish builders? This man was both a wise and a fool, but soon to be a fool and nothing more. A man with a house built on lies as stable as sand with an image of rock to those who fell victim. *'Everyone who hears these words of mine, and doesn't do them will be a foolish man'* This isn't a construction guide, it's a life lesson. I live a stable life built on the solid foundations of law and order, a wise man; one who listens with both ears rather than going in one and right out the other. Well anyway, as I finish my drink, I pull myself out of my chair proceeding to approach him. With one hand in my pocket and the other firmly of his shoulder, he turns with a daunting look. I pull out my badge as I say his final words; "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say and do, can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these right as they have been read to you?" And that was the night I finally caught him...

With haste. Running. Running away. I must run away. I run towards the darkness. Lights. Flashing lights. Lights in the sky, lights on the ground. Lights encroach upon me. I run; I must run away. I didn't mean to. But you did. Did I? She thought so. Run. You can't. I will. I run, the lights come nearer. Why me? Why her? Why her? Why her? I don't know why But you do. It was instinct. It was evil. Can't I avoid this? You can't hide. But I must. Lights. Lights everywhere. The darkness is pierced. Get away from me! You bade them welcome. The lights fall upon me; the sky on fire. Was it worth it? I thought so those days. Did they think so? They had no choice. What is left for me? Nothing. Am I evil? Are you human? As the world sees me... Monster. A man drawn by his desires, an unquenchable thirst. The dreamer dreamt a nightmare; his sweet fantasy a harsh reality. For they had no will. And were easily swayed. Death. Is that what is left for me? It's what you need to escape. Is life worth living? Is there no shame in you living? Time. Time is out. Decisions are made. The lights swirl faster and brighter. Nothing is left. The darkness is pierced by the light. Nothing is left.

Brian forced the lump from his throat. "This can't be happening to me," he thought as he squeezed his hands into two white-knuckled fists. A blurry lab coat spewed details toward him. Directions, precautions, prescriptions. A feeling of overwhelming helplessness washed over him as he was given an order to lie on the table next to him. As he lay, eyes blinded by the glaring light overhead, thoughts began to race. Flashes of sweet salty flavors, fast cars, and the warmth of a woman's kiss soothed his afflicted soul. With a sharp hiss the table began to pitch upward, Brian's eyes regained focus. His gaze was met by the watery eyes of twenty men and women sitting on the opposite side of a glass window. Directly in the center of the solemn group sat a particularly distraught woman. She wore a dress that was a deep shade of black. She was clutching a picture like it was keeping her alive. Her eyes were bone dry, but she was trembling. Her gaze, when met with Brian's swiftly shifted to the photo in her hand. Her misplaced sense of impending closure was apparent to Brian, and that sickened him. The blurry lab coat spouted more directions and explanations to the audience. A familiar, menacing hiss leaked from the hydraulic table. Brian could see many in the audience bow their heads as the table lowered into its original position. The light once again blinded Brian as the lab coat positioned itself alongside the table. The lab coat inspected the table, and the mechanism attached, Brian could the see the unbearable weight the lab coat's job applied. Brian heard the lab coat strike a button as a curiously dark green liquid poured into his arm. He could feel the liquid burn inside of him as it spread throughout his body. He felt a subtle vibration behind his eyes, and the blinding light slowly faded to black.

Dear Diary, A miserable day today. Margins are worsening, employee turnover is rising, and I’m starting to think ideas on paper are meant to stay on paper. How do I share my vision with no track record? I’m starting to think I’m underqualified to lead this team. Road bump after road bump has led me to believe the plan is not doable. The only glimmering hope today was picking up my daughter from school. She loves to ride home blasting the latest pop music. I usually suffer through, wanting to question how she can listen to the same message that every “artist” sings about with such hunger. But I remember, if I could listen to the same thing over and over life would be much more pleasant. Why ruin that? I suffered on. Until we reached the intersection of Debra Rd and Thornton St. I remember it all so clearly. The busyness of the road, teenagers walking into the Taco Bell. “I stay out too late, got nothing in my brain,” a mysterious voice sang from the radio. The same words that have been said against me. A chord had been struck. After listening repeatedly to the Taylor Swift “Shake it off” song, I marveled at the simplicity of it all. Even in times of doubt, I need to keep shaking it off. Yes, the new work restructure does involve heavy improvisation, but they don’t need to know. I need to remember the reason I took this job. It’s because this is what I love doing. I just need to stick to the plan, and most importantly, have fun. Even in the darkness and uncertainty of human life I’m amazed at the light that seeps through.

As I stomped up the stairs, second story, third story, suffocating on a bagel, my nose inhaling loudly and eyes colliding with the air, it occurred to me that I was utterly fragile and unimpressive. A moment later I was invincible, or rather, indestructible, in the sense that one cannot kill what is dead. I recalled lying for the first time, which was still fresher than yesterday’s sins. I could not remember the last. Then, briefly and eternally, I was totally unfamiliar with the notion of myself, and the idea of being the subject of experience, *this* one, of such a thing as impression, and what it was to be impressed upon, became something foreign to me. There was an ingredient where there should have been a recipe. Fifth story, sixth. Nostrils roaring, the bagel seemed to miraculously enlarge as though to feed the five thousand, competing stoutly with this breath. Seventh. I never had imaginary friends in the sense meant by the fashionably concerned parent, despite the curiously ungenuine nature of childhood friendships. There was once a boy on my street that appeared friendly to me around adults, but derisive of me in other company. He was then indifferent when we two were alone. Real people are perfectly capable of being imaginary friends. In that sense I had many. I didn’t wash my face this morning. Eighth, ninth. The building only has four.

After I passed through the gate into the lane I felt different. My feet were fatigued. My mind in a whirl of worries and uncertainties. The typical english weather specifically suited to my temper, a torrent of water pouring down onto the frosty, lifeless, dark green grass. The wind battling with the branches. Suddenly I see a light , a red light in the middle of the darkness surrounding me. An ear-splitting sound puts me back into reality and I realize that my trip to the lane might be over… I came to life by hearing a loud beep from the heart rate monitor getting faster by the minute I lied down faster than I got up but I didn’t lay there for long. The nurse at the hospital told me to get up and get out as there are many others in a worse condition than me . Whatever she meant by that , I had to go out fast. I didn’t quite know where I was , who I was or where I was heading but I knew this would make my life different than it was before .Before leaving I had a quick look in the mirror,the same old me greasy jet black hair in a messy pony tail , I was thin and starved but I also had a peculiar scar on my left leg , it looked as if it was still fresh even if it didn’t feel like it. When I left the hospital , I found myself standing in the middle of nowhere with just the continuation of the lane to lead me somewhere. As I walked I decided to look back , what I found was just an addition to all the questions I already had . The hospital that was there 5 minutes ago had completely vanished. I decide to sit down and look around me . The sky that was once blue is now covered in a pitch-black blanket, the sun and moon have been replaced with nothing, the weather is like no other I've seen before, no resources to be found, no trees , no water, no animals or human beings. The world was bare. Deafening silence filled the area that I decided to call hell. I have nowhere to go ,nowhere to live, nowhere to go back to. There is nothing that could save me , nothing that could help me . I am alone , sitting on the now unseen ground. I cannot stay here any longer , I decide to run into pitch-black smoke surrounding me . Is there a chance of survival? I am starting to have a headache but I don’t stop running. I feel as if wrapped in a blanket of fire, but with no feeling of pain. After wandering for what seemed like eternity to me ,I stopped and realized I have nothing to run for , nothing to live for. With no sources of food or drink , It appeared to be almost impossible to endure in this desolate landscape. I was certain death was coming soon. Seconds, minutes, hours, even days went by , my stomach kept shrinking , It was almost gone .My bones started to become more visible than my flesh . My face hidden behind misery and depression. Every part of me shaking as I crawl on in the search for hope. At last I find an object, a key to a better place . It was a dark red sign and in big ,bold, black, letters it said "HELL".

A wave of doubt flowed through Andy as he sat alone in the vacant house that he'd managed to charm his way into for a few nights. The lack of security had been and was still taking its toll on his mental state. People would scoff at the issues that made there way through his mind. But they didnt know, they couldnt even comprehend the loneliness of his life. Andy had no one to blame for his circumstances but himself. Making choice after choice had led him down this path and it had suited him up till now. But his weariness of that life grew larger as the shadows of this day grew longer. The prospect of a relationship with a work colleague excited him, scared him, and most of all, had unearthed the emotional core of his psyche that had lain dorment for over 2 years. He could feel the tears building up just behind his eyes. Having not cried for longer than he could recall, it was well over due but still the salty water couldnt be pushed over the threshold. I faint murmer escaped from his lips "fuck" echoed in his ears as he realised, this was The first time he'd heard a voice in 3 days. Andy finished rolling the cigarette, almost automatically. Stepped outside, lit and inhaled deeply on it, knowing the feeling of nausea would follow shortly.

The florist hands him his change and he wonders if she still likes orchids. He slips the dime and penny and nickel into his pocket and they mutter incessantly every time he takes a step. The automatic doors draw open and the cold air hits him like a slap. He rests the flowers in the seat next to his own and they sit there like a quiet person. A rosary hangs from the taxi driver’s rearview, and a picture of two young girls is taped to the dash. He speaks in a thick accent of African origin. “Sir where can I take you Sir?” The car pushes forward and joins seamlessly with traffic. He stuffs the crumpled piece of paper back into his pocket. The address and time scrawled on it are almost illegible. The orchids don’t betray their forward-facing stare. He wonders how many years it would take for someone to change their mind about their favorite flower. One two three five eight he counts the buildings that he can’t see the tops of. “23.57” The three pennies, dime, nickel and quarter join their family in his pocket. He opens the door and the cold air tries to push back him inside. The building is unassuming, with a fire escape. Brick. The orchids don’t betray their forward-facing stare; they are the taxi’s only passengers. His left hand clutches open and closed but it stays empty. The coins whimper pitifully with each step. Her building gets smaller and smaller with each block, and eventually he can see the top of it. He stops at the corner. The Street Magician wears an all-white suit and sunglasses with lenses as black as his skin. A white bowler hat lies upturned in front of the stand, and the top of his spotted gray head tell his age. His voice is gravelly but his Savannah accent is strong. “Jessum a regular red ball gentlemen.” A red ball appears from nowhere or his sleeve. He makes a show of it for the three spectators. “Reckon I can—” he bounces the red ball high off the sidewalk and it gets lost in the glare of the sun. The spectators think he has it. The Magician does too. This seems to last longer than possible. Then the red ball spills out from the Magician’s sleeve and escapes across the concrete. The Magician shuffles after it. “Well now y’all wait now wait, ehm, I got-ta whole ‘nother trick for ya jessum gimme one second—” The onlookers share embarrassed and pitying faces. They slip away before the Magician returns. The upside down bowler hat is quietly empty. He reaches his hand into his pocket. Then he takes it out again.

There was nothing special about her. She wasn’t skinny, nor was she fat. Those curves gave her a unique image. She was never complimented on her beauty, just her skin, which was silky white and smooth like a pebble stone. She was a country girl at heart but was raised up in the city. So when the opportunity arose to go to the beach, she was excited at the opportunity. People used to joke about her beauty. Flat foot they say. Her children joked about her hobbit feet, but still, they were great use. She began walking, the sand soft and dry, as expected near the shore. But as she gradually made her way down to the wet sand, she could feel the grittyness of it, clinging to her hobbit feet. The penetration of the salt sea was strong, not just the sound but the taste. She smiled. Warm memories of over seas holidays with her loved ones filled her mind. But that was not the reason why she smiled. She smiled because the overwhelming feeling of freedom. The rushing of the waves, as they move the sands forward, and the rhythm of the pebbles as it plays the waves music. She looks back at her foot prints, settled deep into the sand. *Who cares how big I am*, she thought. *I’m happy. I’m happy to be me. I’m happy to be free.* It’s a busy world, this world. So much demands, so much happiness and pain. And that is what I tell my children, that what makes a strong human being is perseverance and hope. I’ll walk another lap, I say to myself. I will enjoy the serenity of silence and the noise of the waves. But most of all, I’ll enjoy the taste and smell of gods creation. Once I walk onto the footpath, the moment of serenity disappears as quickly as I had enjoyed it.

[The Blog]() . . I could feel myself coming to in the small windowless cell. There were thin beams of weedy yellow light coughing out of the failing halogens. A bullet proof glass door showed my slowly waking eyes two vague humanoid forms. I glanced up at my belt hanging from the top of the upturned bed- it was torn in half from where it had snapped after presumably many hours holding my weight. The noose was still around my neck. As I waited for my legs to wake up I listened to the two figures familiar conversation. “I still seems barbaric to me. Look at him he wants to go why do we keep bringing him back?” “The judge said 137 years. He’s only done 10.” “You’re more robotic than the engine Gary. So how many resurrections is that?” “That’s the third this year. Okay belts are officially banned in this place. Also the autopsy found traces of an unknown toxin. We need to monitor the prisoners for possible new drug supplies. Wait he’s coming to.” The second figure pressed a button and there was a click noise in my cell that made my ears ring. “Prisoner 5107. Can you hear me?” My throat was dry and rough but I had to respond or they’d try a Post-Res detox and my bowels wouldn’t handle it in their current state. “Y-Yes I can hear you Doctor.” “Now 5107 you have to stop doing this every resurrection sends more bills to your next of kin you know that right?” I let out an almighty string of coughs as my lungs cleared of nanomachine gel. “I don’t have anyone…” “Oh.” “Just let me die! Please!” The desperation left a lump in my throat. The second figure switched to a faux-warmth that left me deeply unnerved. “Oh now I hate to put you through this but what you did was truly terrible and you must serve your sentence. Until your body shuts down due to old age we cannot allow you to slip away with a mere ten years- what sort of just society would that be? Now get up there serving lunch in ten minutes.” “I didn’t do anything please let me out of here!” I struggled to hold on to mind as the swirling chemicals still left in my blood left me dizzy and sick with panic from an unknown source. I lay there bawling as the two scientists walked away. The first spoke again- with less brashness than before. “What did he do to end up here anyway?” “He killed his twin brother and the brother’s wife and kids. Destroyed his body so completely we never found it.

So when I was six years old I used to like to eat a lot and granted, the natural effect of this was for me to spend copious amounts of time on the toilet. Who am I fucking with, this wasn't a six year old thing; today I'm 30 years old with diabetes and chronic high blood pressure. But when I was six eating like that, they said it was only a phase. So during my times on the pooper I would produce quite the large turds and these turds would make me the proudest little boy you've ever seen. Mainly cause these were fucking huge turds. Like I’m talking arm length. So one day, when my parents were out working on the garden and I was inside on the toilet busy taking care of the previous night's $9 all you can eat Chinese buffet, some new neighbors arrived to say hello. So my parents began to chat with said new neighbors while I'm inside trying to grind out the largest slug I’ve ever felt. Finally, with one plop that shit falls straight out of my asshole and I stand up, do the wipes, and turn around to see my handy work. Lo and behold, I saw the single most beautiful piece of work I have ever created, a solid 14 inch of brown wood, a fucking snake, just lying down, and perfectly connected. Naturally I go out and yell for my parents to come in and check this shit out cause because it didn't make any anatomical sense for a 6 year to produce a turd with more mass than his body. Well they were busy with the neighbors and they told me to buzz off. Well I could see that turd couldn't just lay there forever and if I didn't do anything it would go forever unappreciated and you all know how much a unappreciated turd can do to a man's conscience especially that of a faulty ADHD 6 year old chubster. So I made the executive decision to make sure my busy parents saw this slugster fresh off the grill. I reached down into the abyss of a toilet and grabbed that fearsome snake with both hands holding it firmly by the head and lightly by the tail, and I took it outside to where they stood talking with the neighbors. Needless to say, they saw the impressive being lying right in my hands as I shook it at them (and coincidently the neighbors) and yelled "look mom look dad, look how big i made my poo." Unfortunately, my creation was not truly appreciated by them.

There she was, striding through the door in her usual glorious manner, walking at her hurried pace to match the rushing of my heart. She stands there fitted in a dress skirt and jacket, the epitome of a strong woman living in a man’s world as they say. She would order a tall, double shot caramel latte as always before rushing off to work. I’ve always imagined her as a lawyer or doctor, something strong and independent by the way she carried herself. While all of these thoughts swirl around I’m hit with the harsh realization that I don’t even know her name. That’s exactly where this train of thought always derails. I can come to this same café every Tuesday from now until the end of our days and chances are I’ll never be able to muster up the courage to utter the simplest of greetings. And why should I? A woman like that would never have interest in a quiet, unassuming speck of a man such as myself. I would comment on something trivial like how I prefer the tattooed barista with the curled mustache over the short one with the pixie cut and gauged ears. She would giggle, partially to the randomness of our encounter but mostly out of pity when she sees the longing desperation in my eyes. But maybe she’d find it all charming. Perhaps she will look at me and see the simple man that she has been hoping for all of the times she was courted by countless muscle bound and egotistic specimens of mankind. Maybe she will see in me that man who will go the extra mile to make every day with her special because he is so truly and deeply in love. The man who will always be there, who has the tender side when she is down and needs comforting, and the goofy side to sit together and laugh about all of the oddities in life. I will meet her drill sergeant father and his disapproving gaze, her kindergarten teacher mother with sweet compliments and fresh cooking. We will settle down and start a family off in the suburbs, raise our two beautiful children to be outgoing and successful dreamers. And we will grow old together to look back on that time we met in the coffee shop off of 4th street. And as I sit in the corner of the lounge writing all of this she walks back out the door and once again out of my life. While I sit thinking of the fairy tale it could be, reality begins to bleed back into view. Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know that my fragile confidence could withstand such a blow.

. ...and at times I think you like it that way. *** *** ###Part 1: The Past *** Your daughter says you are amazing at your job and care so much about the people you help. She says you are one of the best at what you do....just sometimes you may put those people before her. I suppose this can happen pretty easily, you're most likely a good person that just wants to do her job as best as possible. I'll make my own conclusions after I know more. *** ###Part 2: First Impressions *** You move state to state following the hopes that this guy will be the one. You cast aside your children and then use the distance as leverage to weigh them down. The man you "love" is abusing someone you should love much more...The jealousy rises in you becuase you crave any attention from him. That jealousy overshadows the neglect and abuse, you knew it was there but you let it say so that he would too. This is the biggest reason it's hard to love you. *** ###Part 3: Marriage, moving and "my own conclusions" *** Your daughter is about to take my last name. Regardless of the year in advance notice, you just can't make it. A few weeks later you awkwardly show up...you've brought the pity party with you. Time passes and you're moving about ten minutes from us. So now you're in a state where you dont have any friends or family. Luckily you've brought a guy you hardly know to live with. It shouldn't have been much of a surprise to see that your ex husbands family doesn't really want to talk to you. You're starting to regret moving here with a man who can't seem to keep a job or be completely honest with you. I'm trying to spend time w/you even though you make it miserable. I'm brainstorming on topics that we could talk about. I really hope it works so that we can put all of this behind us. Unfortunately this isn't the case, I've apparently also always treated you poorly. The funny thing here is that everyone will tell you that I'm always worried about offending people. If my food order is wrong it's very likely I won't send it back because I don't want to bother the person. You told my wife that I've always been a jerk and never thought highly of you. I'm growing tired of trying at this point. You tell her she doesn't need to talk to you anymore because she has such a *great* husband to lean on. |**|**| **Truer words have never been spoken** I reach out to you to tell you that Im sorry for any misunderstandings, that I really don't mean to treat your poorly. I make it clear that your daughter is a grown woman, not an emotional punching bag. |**|**| **You shut everyone out** *** ###Part 4: Another state, still no change *** You follow the man you moved with to another state. Right before you leave you tell your daughter that you don't love this man but you cant stay here, no one wants you here. THis isn't true, your daughter wants you close to her. But you have to prioritize...**you move to a place where you only know this man** Eventually this falls apart and you're terribly alone, time to talk to your daughter more. I write you a letter saying that the past is in the past and there's no need to talk about it. Forgiveness is not needed because the blame doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is positive progress, but I wont hesitate to let you know when you've crossed the line. This is acceptable, things grow quiet. You're moving back home to your family, this seems like a great idea *** ###Part 5: Special Treatment *** Everyone seems happy, there isn't much drama, your complaints don't reach my ears. Life is good. You're not having the best of days, your daughter say sshe will pray for you...... according to you this is a negative judgement she's made about you. You rudely dismiss anything she has to say. Two days later a friend of yours says they will pray for you, ..|**|**| you're extremely thankful for this gesture. Your daughter is wrecked by your constant negativity and lack of consideration for anyone but yourself.She's got a lot to say...but she doesn't have the nerve. She can't muster the words when she talks to you. She cant write or type them , she know's it won't change you. It's hard to be angry at someone you miss so much that it kills you. It's hard to be angry at someone that used to be so perfect. Thats what your daughter says all the time. You'll just never understand, and I've never changed. You're just fine without me, you dont need me Thats what you tell your daughter She really does love me, she's just upset right now She'll come around I know she will *** That's the kind of love that you're continuously given. *** ^That's ^the ^kind ^of ^love ^I ^often ^feel ^you ^don't ^deserve.

This is a post-break up story. Dated a girl in Berkeley for a while, was devastated for a while, and ended up in Michigan for an internships. Anyways, hope you enjoy it: I’d just come out the other side of a relationship that abruptly ended I was depressed, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive. I’d lost everything I believed in and loved. I was as utterly, completely alone as I’ve ever been. So I began losing myself in alcohol and work. I started working late at night around the Berkeley campus—school, RAZA, anything to keep me busy and going home to be alone. I’d start walking back home late every evening, and come back close to 2 AM, sometimes later. Walking and thinking and chewing over what had gone wrong with my life. One night around 3AM, on Dana and Channing, I got lightheaded and collapsed. Maybe due to the lack of sleep, constant drinking and horrible eating patterns. I woke up around 6AM completely confused about what had happened. I went on several days having health problems, but I’d simply ignore them and drink myself to fall asleep at night at times. I was content with whatever was going to happen, live or die. It took a couple months to get over the daily self-destruction that resulted after the late August break up. But two things came out of this incident. First: I would no longer give her the power to have such control over me. None whatsoever. She had a tendency to send ambiguous texts at times that would just make me relapse and fall back into memories of her and ultimately further into my depression. Her voice was my favorite song to sing along to, but it only brought heartache now. Second: I was determined to get well and start enjoying life again. No longer would I be a social recluse and push people away I told myself. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to fake a smile anymore and genuinely be happy. But my idea of moving on was severely and unfortunately misguided and stupid. I would eventually fall into the pits of so many young Latino males before me. Something I always promised myself I’d never turn to. One night stands, using cheap meaningless sex to attempt to forget that intimacy of summer’s past. Women lied to and used. My new attempts to move on only made me miss her that much more and make me feel even worse about myself. At this point I just wanted Fall Semester to be over. I wanted spring to come to turn a new leaf. I wanted to go home and be with people I knew loved me. I no longer wanted to put up a front, no longer wanted to pretend to be that funny happy guy people have come to know and expect, I just wanted to be void of all responsibilities so I can just finally have the time I needed to get over it. But for now I just continued with the façade of my routine. Winter came and was just what I needed. Hibernating in the harbored emotions and thoughts without any distractions. And finally I realized that our relationship was doomed from the start. We thrust ourselves into that relationship on quick initial impressions. Met her April 22, and a week later was officially my girlfriend. No time to really get to know each other, but over the course of the summer became one of my closest friends. But that’s all she should have been. Girls like her; they are like those beautiful songbirds of the Midwest. Meant to be free, their songs not as beautiful when resonating in a steel cage. I would have appreciated a warning label…you dream about what it’s like to kiss a girl like that in the most beautiful places, but when you do and its all gone and return to those places you can’t help but feel their lips pressed up against yours all over again. Its true that I could have shown her more appreciation, but isn’t that the way it always goes? You never realize what you have or how you’ve taken things for granted until its all gone. And by then its always too late to go back, too late to make up for the mistakes, too late to apologize for the wrongdoing. But at that point I stopped thinking about what I did wrong, and started thinking about what I learned. I don’t hold any hatred or grudges against her. She gave me hope. She showed me a side of love I’ve never experienced and doubt would ever duplicate. And love really is a wonderful thing. Its something that needs to be cherished and continuously worked on. Just because it was there before, that does not ensure it will always be. Love is the flower in the garden, it needs constant attention to ensure it will grow and not wither away. Spring semester came and went. No longer was I anchored by depression and angst. I was happy again. Able to meet new people, enjoy myself and be able to look her in the face without feeling a rushing sense of fear and pain shoot through the very core of my being. Spring semester showed me that time will really heal all wounds. And even with the wounds stitched up tightly, scars will remain. But it is no longer a painful reminder of love lost, but a badge commemorating a once marvelous time. And it’s amazing what a difference a year makes. Someone who meant so much at one time reduced to a stranger…and that’s really what we’ve become, strangers with memories. But it’s also amazing what a change in scenery can do. Wandering into the unknown. Taking risks. That’s what life’s about. My journeys have taken me to the green lands of the pacific-northwest, the arid landscapes of the south, and even here…to the lost woods of the tip of the mit Michigan. Her once tormenting voice fades into depths of my head, like thunder off into the cold, dark distance. The memories begin to fade like the sunlight into the depths of these royal blue lakes. And on this quest to lose myself, I have found what I was looking for, without ever being quite sure what it was. I have found a new song, a new song to sing along.

Regulfa cursed in Gagok, a foulness that drove the half-dozen altered minions around him back several steps in fear, some of them rapidly aging, and one unfortunate slave became permanently blind upon hearing the Infernal Tongue. The ancient and powerful wizard cursed again, in plain Common this time, and nearly swept the scrying-glass from its unnaturally carved pedestal in the center of the Temple of Abohar. He turned to the room’s other occupant and spat, “The glass is dark, Light curse them, they have prepared the Well with trappings of harmonic magicks, and I cannot get through. They have a wizard with them, one who could bring us down if we do not caution ourselves further against idiotic mistakes and slack discipline!” He broke down into phlegmy coughing, a hacking jag that left him purple-faced and gasping. A man stepped down from one of the ossified reclining ramps that leaned grotesquely against the many pillars of bone that supported the great roof of the Temple and walked out of shadow to give the old wizard a reluctant arm. The human was a stunningly ugly man, his face deformed in long and deep slices, the scars forming ridges in the flesh and the cuts had been stained black by the ichor of some running-dark beast. This garish striping was further enhanced with short, horizontal pins piercing the the ridges in a ladder-like fashion. Upon the pins, at close view, were fine engravings written in the Unspeakable tongue, dread curses upon the enemies of the Blood Lord, Abohar of-the-Pits. His clothes were simple and dreadful to gaze upon. The tanned hides of his enemies served as garments and were unadorned by symbol or ornament, and they had their own luminescence, a smeary half-light of greys and greens.Only a single long blade in a grey scabbard hung at his waist, the pommel large enough for a two-handed grip, but the blade no longer than a footman’s short sword. This was one of the igbuyuk, the joybanes, the masterwork swords of the Murder Lord’s elite warriors. His feet were bare and wrapped in thick barbed wire, the wounds did not bleed but instead fed the spirit-imps that were ritualistically bound to the man’s cruelly-bound feet. The imps served as guides in exchange for constant supplies of blood and they played about his rotting feet in tiny snippets of light and shadow, constantly phasing in and out of this reality. It was a small price to pay for the ability to travel without fear in this world and many others. When he spoke it was with a measured pace, as if each word were being considered before being voiced. His timbre was even and low, not unpleasant to the ear, despite his frightening appearance. He said to Regulfa, “The only mistakes we have made here, magician, was involving outsiders in Temple business. You keep forgetting your place. You are not an equal here, nor will you ever be, you are g’ahb’ahk, outlande“ A new voice broke in, powerful and commanding, “That is enough! Your sword is needed here, G’ulnaggh’k, not your miserable tongue! Do not forget that Master Regulfa is the reason we even know about the Well, and your insults only waste time when the enemy is in our midst!” The new speaker strode into the center of the chamber where the clouded scrying-glass swirled mutely and G’ulnaggh’k stepped back a respectful two paces and crossed his thumbs under his chin, his fingers splayed up and outwards, his head bowed and he dropped his arms and murmured, “Your will, Dread Flayer Valmock, of course.” Valmock stared at him, his grotesquery even more pronounced than the arrogant young warrior before him. He said “Your apologies to Master Regulfa” and nodded at the wizard, now fully composed and his face a normal, healthy shade of green. G’ulnaggh’k turned towards the wizened goblin spell-weaver and spoke through clenched teeth, his fury at this insult nearly consuming him, “Please forgive me, Honored Master, for my loose tongue.” At this the old wizard smiled and nodded and Valmock said, “It is forgotten. We have work to do.” The Dread Flayer strode to the glass and started to ask Master Regulfa what he had seen when G’ulnaggh’k broke in rudely, saying “The glass is curtained or so says our wizard, it seems the enemy has sorcerers of their own.” Valmock tipped an eyebrow at Master Regulfa who was lighting his pipe with a brand from the room's massive fireplace. The old goblin muttered through the smoke, “Yes, yes, a wizard of some power, able to block my scrying attempts, but that does not indicate any real power, as this glass is flawed and has been for many centuries, but it is one of the last and we are lucky to have it, cracked or no. It may still be of some use to us, and I spent many hazardous weeks in the wilds procuring it, and I say the risk was worth it.” He puffed hard for a moment or two, the pipe guttering, and then the coals leaped into heat, and he continued, punctuating each half-sentence with hard pulls on the grimy bone pipe. “We have seen the enemy and we know his numbers if not his true disposition. They are a small band, three or four warriors led by the usual hero-for-hire type. There is a deluded one with them, one of the simpering cowards of Barlok, Lord of the Road. There is another with them, whose figure was blurred to the Sight. He must be the wizard who thwarts the glass. We will see more later, of that I am sure. The Well does have certain uses after all.” Valmock allowed the old wizard a half-grin, his chiselled and pattern-stained teeth winking through his pale and pinned lips. He said, “This magic-user must be Guild-sent, to travel with such a pack of coin-bought scum. Or perhaps he has come at the will of the Silver City, the p’ahta’k warriors who ever wage war against our noble cause.” G’ulnaggh’k interjected, “The paladins would never seek to destroy our temples so far from their homes, surely? We have not had ships from the realms in these waters for over a century! They must be mercenaries, nothing mo“ The young warrior’s words tapered off and died as Valmock glared at him, his eyes narrowing to slits of pure malice. G’ulnaggh’k swallowed hard and murmured “Forgive again my interruption, Dread Flayer.” Valmock stared at him for a moment or two and then hissed, “You have been away from the Temple for too long, Slayer G’ulnaggh’k, and your manners have fled. If I hear your insolence again, I will drop you in the Stirge Pits myself! Do you understand?!” G’ulnaggh’k whispered, “Your will, Dread Flayer.” Master Regulfa chuckled through his pipe smoke and said, “The boy thinks that they are coin-swords and I am inclined to agree. The Silver City does not know of this place, or else we would be knee deep in Lightbringers as we speak! We must destroy these interlopers of course, but I wonder if they could still be of use to us. There is the matter of the Guardian, after all.” Valmock stroked his savaged chin, fiddling with the razor wire that pierced his flesh in many places, as a stitched thread through cloth. He did this for many minutes, nodding to himself. Regulfa puffed and hummed and G’ulnaggh’k did nothing. He stood stock still, staring at the blood-encrusted floor and ticked off dozens of revenge scenarios that ended with the death of these two old fools and his own ascent to power. Valmock left off from his musings and said, “The Guardian, yes. We still do not know its true nature, but no doubt it is formidable. The Black Hand of Takma were wise and clever. They would not leave the Dagger guarded by just any hell-spawn, no. This beast must be defeated by our minds as well as our weapons. Perhaps, Master Regulfa, you are correct. These intruders could be our weapons, while we stay here and use our minds.” He turned to G’ulnaggh’k and said, “Alert your team. They are to pull out of the Well and take up blocking positions in ambush. After the intruders defeat the Guardian they can be disposed of at will. See to it.” G’ulnaggh’k started to sputter. His men, his elite troops were to be used as mere watchers? They were the best of the best. Each had defeated a Silversword warrior of the City of Light in single combat and each could boast of having spent thirty days and thirty nights unarmed and unequipped in the Wilds of Aka-Na. This was an insult that could not, would not be forgiven nor forgotten. G’ulnaggh’k bowed and muttered, “Your will” and turned on his heel, rapidly stepping out of the Temple proper. As the door boomed behind the young warrior, Master Regulfa chuckled again and said, “They are all like that, are they, Valmock? Insolent to the point of rebellion? I saw his fingers twitch for the sword at his hip. He wanted to kill you.” Valmock himself now laughed. “Yes, but who doesn’t? Power is not taken easily in our faith, nor held onto for long if fear were not the primary tool. Young G’ulnaggh’k will do as he’s told and he will dream of revenge, but he will never again get close enough to harm me. Let us turn our thoughts to more pressing matters, now. I believe you said you had some plan to break the enchantments on the chamber that housed the Dagger of Akali?” Master Regulfa nodded and pulled some rolled parchments from a bag that lay at the foot of the scrying-glass dias. He said, “Yes, as you can see, the chamber lies two levels below the Well and it is here that my research has gone cold. The records from the end of the Age of Darkness are mostly lost, as you well know, but from what I have been able to glean, there are powerful sigils guarding the door to the Dagger’s chamber. These were set in place after the Chaos Wars to protect the artifact against future need.” Valmock nodded and said “Yes I remember seeing the war diaries of Lord K’aal’asha before I left Takma and there were some tantalizing references to the nature of these protections, but of course, I am no scholar and did not have time to study them fully.” Regulfa was repacking his pipe from a worn and stained leather poke. The weed was a chocolate brown and smelled of earth and dung. As he tamped it down, he said, “I have not seen the diaries, of course, but I did find a reference to a protective sigil that was created by Lord K’aal’asha’s vizier, a magic-user of some power. This sigil seeks out that which the mind fears the most and creates a spectre that torments the afflicted until he either flees or drops dead from sheer terror.” Valmock’s eyes gleamed at the mention of this and he said only “How delicously horrible.” Regulfa grunted in assent and continued, “Yes, quite effective too, from what I’ve read. But there is no way of knowing whether this sigil is part of the layers of protection on the Chamber. There is simply no way of knowing what is down there until we can actually see it for ourselves. But since we have decided that our … visitors … will be of some use, I have a plan. It is possible to cast a modified form of Wizard’s Eye on one of the group that will allow us to see what they see as they see it.” Valmock again looked surprised. This old wizard was even more clever than he realized. He would have to be killed after this was all over, of course, and it was a pity to lose such knowledge, but the old goblin simply knew too much of their future plans and was too much of a threat. He covered his surprise by saying “That would be incredibly helpful, but won’t you have to actually go to the Well and get close enough?” Regulfa grinned, his rotten teeth the same shade of green as his skin. “No. If I can get the glass to work again, I can cast the augury through it. Simple.” Valmock nodded once and said, “Very well. Then let’s see if this glass of yours is cooperating again.” He lent a steadying arm to the old wizard and they slowly made their way across the Temple floor, to where the ancient scrying glass stood upon its dias.

Bill sat behind the counter in a state of shock and disbelief with a blank expression across his face. Why he had decided to come to work, he had no idea. He assumed that it was merely routine that had caused him to pry himself away from his TV. Half of the channels were playing reruns while the rest — most notably the news stations — displayed an off-the-air screen along with a loud, piercing beep. From the moment he'd heard the announcement, to this very moment, he'd held that same blank expression. How was one supposed to act when nuclear war had broken out and the end of the world was hours away? Oddly enough, most stores weren't being looted. There was no need for the products inside them. Humanity had devolved to suicides and homicides, sex, and eery calmness. The streets of D.C. were empty outside of downtown. At approximately one a.m. the President had announced to the nation and the world that attempts to avoid nuclear war had failed. He had made a short speech during which he had informed the citizens of the US that they had launched their own missiles to counter the countless others that were careening toward their country; the demise of humanity would happen before morning. Then he apologized to the nation, said a short prayer, and promptly walked away from the podium. Bill had made the subconscious decision to spend his last few hours behind the counter of the Gas-n-Go that he'd worked at for the past five years. He'd grabbed several beers from the refrigerators and was treating himself to a beer tasting. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but his appetite was gone. Then the bell rang as the front entrance opened. Bill shook himself out of his near-drunken daze, and looked at the customer. "Odd time to be at a convenient store. How can I help you, sir?" The man who had entered looked defeated. The hair that he did have had gone white. His skin, while dark, looked as if he had spent the past several months indoors. He wore wrinkled, dark-grey pants, a whitish-blue shirt, and a loosened tie that bore a pin of the US flag; it mocked him. He had sunken eyes that looked bruised from a lack of sleep, and he walked with a slouch. The man was none other than President Barack Obama. Bill stood in shock, "Mr. President... I'm not sure what to say." "If you're anything like the rest of the country, then you probably want to blame me for what is coming. And you know what, you'd be right to do so," said the President. Bill sat in silence for a moment while the President stood still. Finally he replied. "No, sir, I really don't have an opinion. But I am wondering why the leader of the free word has come to my store with only hours of existence remaining. I figured you'd be with your family in a bunker." "Well... my family is in a bunker along with most of my staff, but I'm ready for all of this to end. If I were to survive, then I'd never be able to show my face to the survivors. I've said my good-byes, and my security team didn't put up much of a fight when I stated my intentions." The President had given up, and Bill couldn't blame him. He had held the most stressful job in the world during the most stressful time the world had ever faced. "I guess there's only one thing to say then, Mr. President. What would you like?" President Obama sauntered to the fridges and picked up two six-packs of Budweiser. Then he walked to the counter asking for a pack of Marlboros. "You know those are bad for you?" said Bill sarcastically. The President smirked and picked up a bag of Doritos that was sitting in front of him. Bill had made the President smile; for a moment he felt satisfied with his disappointing life. "No one ever let me eat these in the White House..." he told Bill referring to the Doritos he was holding before tailing off, "How much do I owe you?" Even facing death, the President refused to steal anything. That made Bill laugh, which, in turn, made the President laugh. The two cachinnated for a few minutes before Bill responded. "It's on the house." "Thank you, Bill," replied Obama, reading the name tag with a smile. He stared at Bill for several seconds. "Would you care to join me outdoors?" "But I've got a store to run," said the cashier as he walked out from behind the counter. So Bill and Barack walked outdoors and sat down on the concrete with their backs to the window. There was a chill to the air that bothered neither. They drank beer after beer, smoking cigarette after cigarette, eating Dorito after Dorito. Bill shared his life story with the President, and in return the President shared the country's most protected secrets. They laughed and got drunk together until dawn approached. They could hear the missiles before they saw them. Soft whistles that increased in volume until they became innumerable flashes of light that were emphasized against the dark blue sky, leaving a trail of smoke as they came closer. They looked like a meteor shower that was taking place far too close to the earth's surface. The whistles became howls became screeches. Sirens were now ironically sounding off as if mankind stood a chance. The rockets were now leaving an arch as they descended. The hours had shrunk to minutes. The President and Bill had stopped talking and were staring at the bright arrows nearing their destination. "You know," said Obama, "for something that is going to kill us, those are brilliantly beautiful." Bill just nodded as the projectiles met land and civilization came to an end.

A man and his wife are in their home on the countryside, excited about and decorating for the coming fall season. The wife is happily placing pumpkins and corn husks around the house, when she asks if the husband wouldn't mind a quick trip to the market to pick up something she'd forgotten. The man leaves the house on foot and before long is confronted by a grim looking witch. The witch demands that the man leave his wife, or she will curse the town. A great fight erupts and the man and witch have it out, crashing through the woods and causing much havoc. Finally there is an impasse. They stop their brawl and in the pause realize the futility of their actions. They strike up a conversation and manage to hit it off. The man finds himself intrigued by the witch, and as such often makes trips "to the market" in order to see her. The two fall madly in love. They meet in secret for years, never telling anyone of their arrangement. Many years later, after much decorating and priming for the fall holidays, the man and his wife find themselves in front of their home admiring their work. There is an enormous puff of smoke and the witch appears. Having grown sour over years of meeting in secret she arrives at the house furious and looking to expose the man. She tells the man the deal is off - he can agree to a life with her and all will be forgiven. If he declines, she will conjure a great vortex and all that he loves will be sucked into it. While pausing to consider the vortex begins to swirl around the witch. The townsfolk can be heard screaming in the distance as the massive vortex gets bigger and bigger. The man, seeing only one solutions decides to act. He throws his wife into the witch, knocking them both into the vortex. With squelch the vortex disappears. The man walks away relieved.

As 11 o'clock approached, I shifted in my office chair uncomfortably, re-adjusting the keys in my pocket so they would no longer stab me in the ass. The trip to Bensonville was complete, and now it was time to re-locate user shares onto the new file server. A monotonous task I had been putting of for days now, and a task that would likely be put off once again. For today; was Friday. Mary, the elderly lady who worked across the hall from my office – hacked and coughed and hummed along to the same Beatles completion CD she does every morning. “Love, love me do! You knowww I love you!”. Christ, the clock was moving slower and slower it seemed, and the box of stale goldfish on my desk seemed less and less appetizing as the clock dragged along. In my typical morning frenzy, I had forgotten to grab something that could be called breakfast – in attempt to make up for this, the week-old goldfish would have to suffice as temporary sustenance until 1 o'clock, or so. Why 1 o'clock instead of the typical 12 o'clock lunch hour? This was for a few reasons. The most prominent being that taking my hour long lunch at 1 was a way to make the day go by faster. You see, taking lunch at 1 meant I would get back into the office at about 2 – giving me precisely 3 hours left of the workday to complete. Much better than the would-be 4 hours if I took the plebeian route of eating lunch at noon like the rest of my lackluster coworkers. This, and the absence of lunchtime traffic to deal with, paired with the less busy pace of the nearby restaurants - made for a much more enjoyable hour long retreat from my enslavement from the corporate world. Being that today was Friday, I was sure something of some spontaneity would happen to spice the so far average day up. As I scrolled through the ever disappointing feeds of social media, Guillermo, the office custodian, walked in and mumbled his usual undistinguished greeting. As Guillermo changed the liner of the trash can beside me, he nodded in direction of the scribble art on my tattered notepad and said quietly “surprises!?”. “Surprises?” I returned, confused and querying the meaning for the word from the quiet man. Guillermo smiled and nodded. With a quick jolt, the unusually social janitor hoisted himself from his usually slumped disposition and held both arms outward in a taught, bird-like stance. Slowly, he began to spin in circles in the small office. Shocked, I moved back in my chair. Whats this guy's deal today? Giggling, and now spinning faster in circles; like a child does after one to many M&M's - the short Hispanic man generated a pattern of odd noises. Upon further notice, these noises were made out to be long, wet, prolonged farts. The man now spinning, flatulating wildly, and mumble-giggling, let out a mighty roar- “SUPRISES! SUPRISES!!” the man shouted. Surprises indeed. As the strange my gyrated around the room, I kicked my legs up onto my desk, and re-opened the box of stale goldfish. “Surprises...” I thought to myself, as I popped the disappointing snack into my mouth. Yes, this Friday would be full of surprises.

It was late. The snow was coming down pretty fierce and I was on the porch eating nachos. I was using a fork. Plus, some aliens landed. *Final Countdown to Death by Alien* The alien's maw opened and I saw pieces of Roberts and Cornel still stuck between its teeth. I vomited on the ground. The alien moved closer and I stepped back and leveled the gun at it. The alien put all of its tentacles in the air as if to surrender. But I wasn't having it. I cocked the trigger. "Wait! Wait!" The alien pleaded. "I just want to talk." "You had plenty of time to talk - and eat." "OK. What if I told you that I could put your friends back together?" "I wouldn't believe you." "OK. What if I told you because of the size of my mouth and the tentacles on the inside, I can give you the best blowjob you've ever had?" I put down the gun. *Leave Us Alone* "But, Craydong, you cannot leave humanity - not in this most precious hour when our world is at the edge of war." She pleaded with the alien. "I am sorry, Sally. I need to go back to my home world. They need me." "But we need you!" "Not like this. These people are needy. Like can't open jars without me. Like call me up and tell me they miss me when it's not a holiday. Like always want me to pay for Taco Bell even though I'm between jobs and going on a vacation to Earth. Then I get here and it's all like stop the war and save the trees and - I just need some down time. I'm only human." "But you're not human." "See, and then you're a dick all time. I'm leaving. Fuck you." "But" "No butts. This is bullshit. I'm going to Jupiter." ON JUPITER "Hello, I'm Craydong. I come in peace." "Hey, Craydong - you know how to fix a dryer?" "DAMNIT!" *Can't We Be Friends?* I entered the chamber and the alien was inside with its stamp collection. "You collect stamps?" I asked. "Indeed. I have some from before World War One. I also have coins. Would you like to see a Buffalo nickel?" The alien was a nerd. I left in disgust and turned on a football game. *Drug Problem* When the aliens landed we were extremely excited. They explained that we could tell no one about them and that they were here on a mission of peace. We had all seen movies and how aliens come down and act like they want peace and then kill everyone - so we were skeptical. But as time went on, we realized that they meant us no harm. They just kinda sat around and smoked all my pot and ate ding dongs. Fucking aliens! *Lasers!* I ran down the highway with the laser fire cutting at my ankles. They were toying with me. They knew that I was running the wrong way. Away from the reactor. I kept running until finally, they stopped firing. I turned. The ship was hovering above me and a rope fell out of the bottom. Sloth, from the Goonies, appeared waving a Chicago Cubs banner in one hand, and in the other hand he had a picture of my mother naked. The diversion had worked. I was utterly confused. *Alien Call* "911, what's your emergency?" "ALIENS!" "Illegal or the UFO kind?" "ALIENS!" "Sir, you need to be more specific." "ALIENS!" "Please, sir, I'm just trying to help." "ALIENS WITH LASERS!" "OK. So, the UFO type." *Mutual Martians* "Hello, I am Quadrant from Mars." "I am Rectangle, also from Mars." "How are you liking it?" "Earth?" "Yes." "It's OK. But whenever I see that rover on TV I think about all the giant warehouses of Martians it's driving over and feel like the Earthlings are dumb." "Me, too. If they knew that we were eating Burger King and drinking beer right under some of those rocks that they get all excited about, it would really drive them mad." "Agreed. But that one rock that looked like a donut - that made me think." "Think about what?" "Like maybe there's a bunch of donuts up there that we don't know about. *Starfall* "Sir, it's the Pentagon. They say that the aliens landed on the CNN building in New York. It's going to be a media circus!" "I'll get my chair and whip." "Sir?" "Oh, MEDIA circus. I thought it was going to be a regular circus. I used to train lions." "Sir, it's aliens.

Originally posted on /r/WritingPrompts. Any and all responses welcome. I'm happier with the first part of this story than the second half. It had to correspond with a prompt, but honestly it sort of grew in a separate direction. My big sister was the first of my family to meet our new neighbour. As usual during those dusty summers, she would kill time drawing those simple glyphs she knew, out on the pavement by our building. Not quite playing, but not quite studying either. I often watched her chalky pastel dreamcatchers catching the dust in the air, or freezing the yellow smog rolling off the streets, transmuting those wavering particles into ephemeral butterflies or ballet dancers or other girly things. The boy had been watching her for a while, she says. With particular attention to the book laying open by her side, her alchemy schoolbook, which I know would have upset her. She loved that book like it was her bible, and here was this new boy from overseas, coming to watch her, eyeing her up nervously. If grandma had still been alive back then, she would have told her to mind that boy. They're all thieves where they come from, she'd said. No magic of their own, so they come over here to steal ours. Fortunately, my sister was not so impressionable, and soon had the boy talking. I heard about him second hand through her, at first, but soon began making my way downstairs as well, asking pointed questions to this foreign boy. My father had of course warned me to be kind, mannerly, and most importantly, subtle. But I was an impertinent child, and it's not often you meet someone in a wheelchair. Not in the magic city. Where he came from, we learned, there really was no magic. No transmutation, let alone simple things like levitation or – unsurprisingly – healing. He'd been in an accident, not even very long before. The cars there don't drive themselves in his country, he told us! Even now it terrifies me. It's all too easy to make impulsive mistakes. At night we would dream of his home. Of traffic lights and elevators. Radio towers and kettles. My sister and I resolved to make time to befriend this boy. Like all children, magic fascinated us, and electricity was just another kind of magic. One they didn't teach in schools. One boring day, the three of us were lazing in our living room. My mother had fussed about him, moving the old rug aside and pushing the furniture up against the walls. Trying to accomodate him but really only making him feel alienated. To be fair, he was an alien to us. (My father later explained that magic couldn't have helped him if he'd tried. It has to be in your blood, for healing to work. Just bad luck, he'd shrugged.) My sister's newest golem had just sidled in. She was not proud of her work. It was made out of her old toys, with a brass train for an arm and a baseball bat for a leg. Every now and again its stapler-shoulder would click open and it would have to shove it back in place, its fingers clumsy, twitching. It stood in front of the TV, whirring quizzically at the wheelchair boy. Mechanical? It clicked, pointing. Magic? Embarassed, my sister grabbed it by the arm and tried to yank it away before it could upset the poor kid, but the boy didn't seem upset at all, and the golem's arm snapped off at the elbow. I remember the boy's expression – shock at first, then delight when the golem jerked back and seized its detached limb and snapped it back in place with an indignant “click!” The boy clearly wondered at the toy man. Mechanical? Magic? “You've never seen a golem!” I'd smiled, the day suddenly seeming full of promise (and possibly boasting opportunities.) The path was clear, we would make him one. That day, we'd commanded him to go home and find all the salt he could. Raid your pantry, we'd said. The more, the better. My sister had gone into full alchemy mode, fetching her trusty textbook and flipping to the dog-eared page marked “basic golem.” A rare opportunity to show off our magic to a foreigner, and play pretend at the magicians we hoped one day to become. We would delight and astound the boy. It was practically our duty. We never asked whether the boy had gotten permission to take that cask of salt he later arrived with, but it was clear he was as enthusiastic (albeit bewildered) as we were. We had already gone about most of the preparations. As we had practiced in school a thousand times before, we laid out three ceramic bowls at the points of a triangle, marked out in chalk on the wooden floor. (Our parents would give us a hiding later for that, but we didn't want to waste our ardour trying to navigate the stairs to the courtyard outside with the foreign boy.) The two smalls bowls contained an ounce of sulfur and an ounce of quicksilver. Into the large bowl at the top of the triangle we tipped all the boys salt. It didn't matter, these things were cheaply available in any corner shop. Finally, “we need your breath.” My sister shoved a small glass bottle up to the boy's lips, who gave us a doubtful smirk before blowing hard. She hastily corked the bottle and tossed it to me. The bottle, fogged and warm with breath of life, went in the centre. “So the golem knows its yours.” We simplified our explanations, of course. Really, the breath was needed to animate the golem. It would borrow part of the boy's soul. But that sounds a bit scary, we'd reasoned, and we compromised. Now, matter. My sister called her golem, who limped in, our mother having discovered we'd use her iron for its foot. We commanded it to sit in the centre of the circle and return itself to inert components. It reluctantly complied, and once more became a pile of toys. As I've explained, magic comes from the blood. Well, magician's blood anyway. As it was my turn, I took a pin and pricked my finger, and we watched in bated silence as a bright red bead formed and dropped, settling soundlessly onto the pile. For a moment, nothing happened. Before the golem constructs itself, it has to plan which part goes where. The three of us sat awkwardly in the cramped room, only the sound of wind coming in from the balcony and ruffling the drapes, and cars honking below. A rustle. A click. The various toys for a moment were each seperately animate, as if agreeing on where to go. A plastic action figure's little arms took hold of a rubik's cube. A set of marbles clustered to form a thumb. My sister and I watched the awe on the boy's face, thinking this is how it must feel for the magicians when they go and work their miracles for the uneducated masses of the world beyond the city. We were ourselves magicians, now. We knew it. What else could we show this boy? We were far less fascinated by the golem, almost blasé. It would stand up, and look around, and probably ask us who its master was and what was it to do. Same old. But it didn't stand up. It sat, alive, yes. Looking around at us and then to its legs. “Well?” My sister urged. “Up you get. Things to be done.” It just whispered something about its legs. They weren't working. I set to work brushing away the chalk while my sister fetched my dad to inspect it. Things like this happened sometimes, usually the fault of the golem's own shoddy construction attempts. From the kitchen adjacent came my father's gruff voice. (All magicians should have a gruff voice. Men, anyway.) “You what? The neighbour's kid?” The sound of a chair screeching. Hurried footsteps. The boy was beginning to look concerned, perhaps thinking maybe he had done something wrong. I was beginning to realize that maybe we had. My father appeared in the doorway, but just long enough to glance at the faulty golem and the boy's metal chair. My father, whose face always said more than he himself ever did, looked crestfallen. “I'm sorry lad.” He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Golems, they're made in the image of their creator.” His face was flushed red, not quite looking right at any of us, as if this was somehow his fault. “Even magic has limits.” The boy seemed to understand, and we still saw him all the time. I mean, we were neighbours. But we grew up apart. He attended trade school, my sister and I graduated from the magician's academy. We never become the magicians we saw ourselves becoming back then. Before that day, magic had seemed this omnipotent implement of creation and destruction. But magic is just another tool. Even magic has limits.

Way, way back in the day I loved simply making eye contact and smiling. Just a small, half cocked smile the first time. You can do that all day and every now and then you'll get the same "yea, i'm smiling at you" look right back. So, its my Sophomore year & I'm walking between classes and lock eyes with beautiful brunette as we're walking past each other and we're both smiling at one another. I just kept going. So did she. Two days later, as class schedules generally mandate, there we are walking by each other. This time we see each other from much greater distance. We're staring at each other, both with wolf like eyes, wanton looks without fear of rejection. But, we're actually with other people, class mates and both on our way some where else so we pass each other again still smiling. Just as we do I mouth "next time" to which she smiles brighter and nods in the affirmative. I can't wait for next Tuesday now. The weekend comes and being two months in I've figured out again which bars card, which don't and which will take my hack of a fake ID. Having luck with the bars but not with the ladies I head back to my dorm room and who do I see sauntering down the hall with the floor scoundrel? Yea, my beaut that I still haven't even spoken too. Huh. My fault for not acting quicker I decide and break into the same smile I had the second day I saw her. Never give up lads. She sees me just as I hit full grin and her eyes go wide at first with surprise almost as if she's been caught. Quickly she composes herself and gives me a Cheshire cat grin. She has a guy on her arm and one walking by digging her and that is making her feel very good. Oh, I like her. Beaten this night but not defeated I notice the scoundrel is oblivious to our unspoken conversation and so I continue with a slight bite of my lower lip and a raised brow. She returns an ever so slight lick of just the edge of her upper teeth an lip as we pass. Not tonight but it will happen. I'm sure. "Evening Bro" says my floor mate as he finally gets his keys out of his pants he's been struggling with. "Yes. Yes, it is" I say with a causal look eyes locked again with hers still sporting the Cheshire. He opens the door and heads to his room. She turns away looking in and turns her head back towards me to seemingly say 'I might have made a mistake but I'm going anyway ha!'. Just as she turns her head and begins to take a step in though I see it. An exhale. As if much of her previous thought on how her evening might go were dimmed somewhat. I take that as a small victory. As big of one as I can expect considering we have to actually have any real verbal communication between us. I pass my room. I'm not ready to sleep just yet now so I head the common area to see who's up, catch some late TV, ponder my next move, and more possibly see how long she stays. No, can't do that last one. I can't think like that. She can have her fun. It doesn't concern me. It can't affect the possibility of us unless I let it. So, I resolve to not let it. It was surprisingly quite easy even for 19 year old me. It made me feel more mature suddenly. I decided right then to never ask another women how many men she'd been with. It wouldn't matter as they would be with me right that moment and after all. I was lost in this and thoughts of her jade green eyes when the phone rang. I hardly noticed it in my state but when I heard floor mate ask "Is Scoundrel in?" My ears perked up. "Its his girl friend." Oh, this is interesting. She calls all the time. I mean all the time. She suspects he's cheating, and of course he is, so she calls relentlessly on nights they are not together. Quickly, I answered in the negative. There is a code still and I follow it obediently even thought its not in my interest at the moment. This code shouldn't be broken. Only bad things come of that. He tells her Scoundrel is out and hangs up. I ponder whats happened while leaning back and staring at the TV as another floor mate inquires "he's hear right?" "Oh, yea, but he's not to be disturbed if you know what I mean" I replied. "God, that guy is such a dog" another says and back we are to watching whatever it was we were watching. About 15 minutes go buy and the phone rings again. Its 2:30am and we all know its her again. Nobody wants to answer. It keeps ringing. We're looking around the room at each other and its ringing. Nobody is saying a thing. Its still ringing. On about the 15th ring some one chimes in "I'm not getting it." I sigh then say "I'll get it." "Hello." "Is Scoundrel there?" "No, I don't think so." "Are you sure?" "Yea, I've been in the common right by the hall for a while and I haven't seen him come up." "Well, I just drove by and saw his car is there and the bars are closed. He has to be there. I tried coming up but the RA on the ground floor was being a jerk. Can you sneak me in the back way and I'll wait in his room?" Damn she is persistent. That scenario isn't going to happen though. As I pause to reflect on what do to do she continues "well, if you don't want to that's fine. I think I can get it open..." I cut her off quickly "well, give me a minute. Maybe he is here and I missed him." I put the phone down and headed for his door feeling I have legitimate cover this semi-intentional interruption of his evening now. "Dude, what the fuck is it?" was the response I get from my initial knock. "Your brothers on the phone." "Shit. Just a minute." Its a code we already developed for this guy. She calls all the time and this guy goes out a lot. I don't know why he thought he needed to have a girlfriend too. We all felt bad for her and someone soon was going to spill but not tonight. Tonight he would slide again but not the way he originally planned. I went to my door and slowly looked for my key hanging as long as I could to be sure I have some interaction with him, or her, before I head in to my room. I open my door just as he opens his and head in leaving mine open. He pokes his head in and says quietly "hey, don't let her come down the hall would you man?" "Sure" I said with a smile. So, I hang out at my door having it slightly cracked with the intention of feigning a coincidental opening should she come out. Sure enough he's on the phone too long and I hear the handle jiggle. I quietly, yet quickly, close mine then open it a few moments later. There she is. She looks ravishing. Hair tussled. Face flush. I can't believe he actually went to that phone. I would would have stayed. She's in a thick, burgundy shower robe. She turns towards me, mouth closed, the Chesire replaced with chagrin but still a smile for me to see. More to see in fact. She hadn't tied the robe and my eyes instinctively noticed as it swung open slightly then closed. She was still wearing panties. The robe, the panties and nothing else. We stood there together, each in our respective doorways, transfixed on one another. It went well beyond our first, second and third encounters. Her countenance was changing to one of a clear meaning of desire. When she ran her fingers through her hair while still holding our gaze I could not resist any longer. I walked slowly, deliberately towards her stopping only inches from her. Looking down upon her I could see the robe slightly undone, her hands holding it there, revealing her taught stomach and just a hint of breast. We stood there with his voice echoing from down the hallway and around the corner taking each other in visually now, lustfully without touching. I reached out placing my hands on the edge of the robe opening and waited for a reaction. She bit her lip, her chest heave and her chin lifted toward mine. Slowly, surely opening and drenching my eyes here her beauty. And she was beautify. And she let me take it all in seemingly enjoying ogling. I cocked a brow, said simply "not bad" and flashed that smile now familiar to her. That evoked an open mouth smile, her tongue messaging her teeth. "Oh, but it can be." Just then we heard the distinct sound a phone hanging up harshly. I took a quick step back as she closed her robe. "The bathrooms just down that way" I said loudly. "Third door on the right. Its empty now." Her brows bobbed and a quick wink she headed off as the Scoundrel came down the hall toward us. "Dude, thank you so much" he said oblivious to what had to be a change in my facial color from moments before. "She was coming over" he said with a comical grimace. "Dude, do me a solid. I've got to go right now. Tell her my brothers drunk and I have to get him. It'll take a while since he's on the other side of town now and he lives an hour North. Damn, she's hot. This will blow it for me with her. Anyway, can you do that?" "Not a problem.

Ever wondered why René Magritte’s painting “The Son of Man” was like that? Here my take on how the painting came to be. Once upon a time, before a performance, famous actor Charlie Chaplin got hungry and ate an apple. He was so hungry; in fact, that he forgot about the apple’s core and accidentally ate the whole thing without thinking. It was too late when he noticed this, so he just said “Aw, whatever,” and never thought about it again. The years passed by. Charlie Chaplin continued to do what he loves best and that is to act. However, during that time, a strange occurrence happened. He began to feel something grow in his face. It worried him greatly yet did not do anything about it. But then one day, he saw it. He was looking at himself in front of a mirror and saw that a plant, a branch was growing straight from his face. He was greatly surprised and then he realized that is was from the apple he ate so many years ago. The seeds he ate somehow got stuck and grew from his face. Charlie Chaplin was terrified. He didn’t even try to show it to any other person. So, suddenly, he shut himself from people, from the world. Of course, the world couldn’t let this matter go. They searched for him, to know why he disappeared. But they couldn’t find him. Charlie Chaplin was simply gone. More years passed and eventually, people let go. Save for one man. A man, for reasons, shall not be named. This man, a painter, spent years finding Charlie. He never gave up, even when others did. On the other hand, Charlie Chaplin himself went into hiding whilst the plant continued to grow on his face. It grew too much that a fruit, an apple sprouted from its branches. The fruit covered his face. He couldn’t see anymore, he was blinded. Thus, it was that fateful day that Charlie Chaplin roamed the streets, blind, not knowing where to go, with an apple on his face. The painter passed by and noticed the apple-faced man. The painter’s eyes opened wide for he knew this man. The man he was searching for all these years. This man was Charlie Chaplin. The painter went closer to Charlie, who stood just there, motionless, apple-faced. So, he had a burst of emotion and just brought out his materials and painted him. When he was done, curiosity got the better of him and his hand was bought to Charlie’s face and he picked the apple straight from Charlie’s face. But, there was no face. Charlie’s face was blank. The painter looked at the fruit in his hand and there it was: Charlie’s face was in the apple. The painter looked to where Charlie was and saw he was gone. Sometime later, the painter found himself in a dark forest. It was nighttime and all he had was his flashlight. Suddenly, he got this feeling someone was following him. He ran and ran but it was to no avail. The follower caught up to him. The painter looked back and saw a tall suited man. The most remarkable about this man was that he had no face. Then it hit the painter. Charlie Chaplin. Slenderman. Before a single word escaped his lips, Slenderman was in front of the painter. “Wait! Before you kill me,” the painter says. “Let me eat this apple first.” And so, the painter took the apple from his pocket. The same apple that he picked from Charlie Chaplin’s face years ago. He put it to his lips and took a single bite. But it was not an apple. The fruit he bit into was a tomato.

I crouched down into the icy branches with the sound of snow crushed beneath boots and angry German voices. I peered down on them from my tree and saw my new target practice. There were at least ten men, their sergeant striding ahead his carbine drawn ready to place a bullet through my skull if they could just spot me in amongst the trees. They were all after me specifically and I could tell from their faces they were unhappy about it. None of them were ever thrilled to fight in Russia anyway but the ones that came my way were the bottom of the pile- the ones sent to find and kill me. I had once been an ordinary defender of my Motherland just like they were of theirs. But I had proven an uncanny knack with this here long rifle. As the bodies started piling up and my legend spread through the Fascist ranks eventually I found myself here- the forests of the Siberian wilderness. I had been here for months by now and had nothing to eat but berries and squirrels for almost as long. But it was all worth it for the look of panic a single well placed bullet could lay on a hundred Nazis at once. I slid my rifle into position on my most North westerly facing branch of choice and placed the sights over their sergeant. With the zoom I could make out the long ragged scar across the left side of his face. He had thinning greying hair and a nest of crows gathering around his eyes. The young men around him were just boys, barely old enough to understand what deep shit they were in. I exhaled slowly so my aim would steady and blew the old fucks face off. Sudden terror gripped the rest and their carbines were pointed from tree to tree: landing on every tree but mine. I ejected the spent case and aimed again- picking off another poor sod and bringing the desperate aims of carbines to trees nearer and nearer mine. I aimed on another one- must have been about 16. His face made him look even younger though and I was suddenly gripped with how familiar his face looked to me. I fired and tore his skull open spraying blood and shards of bone all over his companions. They screamed out in terror and I fired again knocking one clean through the forehead and only minimal splatter as the bullet bounced off the back and lodged itself inside his mangled, but mostly covered, brain. With every shot a little more off the Nazi war machine was sapped away and the Legend that knocked Nazi morale away piece by piece only grew. And the White Death was content.

Hello reddit. My first terrifying step into this sub. Let me have it with both barrels. I caught up with Jukes and the guys at Dweeb’s place right after dinner on the hottest Halloween Night on record. We were all there; me, Jukes, Bag o’Donuts, DV, Miller and Dweeb, and we had the place to ourselves, Dweeb’s dad was out with some new skank, but we weren’t planning on staying long. Halloween Night! Me and DV were ninjas, some sweet gear bought from the we’re-not-worthy, 86-page glossy color catalogue from Asian World of Martial Arts. We had no-shit, for-real tabi and climbing crampons (hand-and-foot!), as well as smoke bombs and our everyday-nunchakus. DV swiped his Dad’s katana and wakizashi and looked bad-ass. Jukes was a zombie, poorly done. He had some old clothes on and smeared his eyes with black. Bag o’Donuts was a clown straight off the shelf. Plastic poncho printed with 4 color clown-suit graphics and plastic mask with the most tripped-out clown face the Taiwanese could think of. He looked like he was 5 and we jagged him off about it for a while until he almost started crying. Miller was a football player, and since he was a football player, it wasn’t much of a costume, but his parents were poor so we didn’t give him much shit about it. He didn’t have a ball, though, and Dweeb gave him his for the night but Miller said he didn’t want it and Dweeb got pissed off, like he always does, until Miller said “why I want the fuckin ball man? I cant carry it and my candy bag, Dweeb!” and Jukes goes “Yeah Dweeb, shut the fuck up!” and Bag laughs. Me and DV strike assault poses and look indifferent. Dweeb gets surly and throws the ball away and Jukes laughs again and says “Fuckin Dweeb, why you such a surly motherfucker? Man can’t run for 20 and get the sweet now can he? Why you always gotta be such a fuckin dweeb, Dweeb?” Bag piped up, “Where’s your costume, Mike?” (Bag always called Dweeb by his real name) Jukes cuts in “Yeah Dweeb, what are you going as? Lame-ass pirate like last year? Man that was so lame!” Miller says “What’s wrong with pirates? Pirates are cool. Why don’t you lay off Dweeb, man, you just looking to fight tonight.” Jukes says, “Shut up Miller” and asks Dweeb again what costume he’s wearing. Dweeb says “I’ve got it upstairs, lemme go change. Ok?” Me and DV begin the slow-mock, a slow motion, soft-touch battle with fist and leg. Miller plops on the couch and says “Man I’m so hungry, I can’t wait to get that candy. How much you think we’re gonna get? 2 bags? 3?” Jukes and Bag both start yammering about the likelihood of bodacious amounts of candy given that they are so much bigger and stronger than last year and can thusly cover more distance and obtain more loot. Halloween always ran from 6 pm to 10 pm. We were planning on being out until 11 pm at least, figuring people wouldn’t risk the tricks from such a scary bunch of kids and would have to give us candy no matter what time it was. They were planning the route, a slash-and-burn affair, skipping all the old people houses and the dead-ends, and places like the top of Foxboro Drive, where you couldn’t cut across to another street, when Dweeb appears in the doorway. He is costumed. Jukes and Bag immediately stop arguing and stare, open-mouthed. Dweeb is clad, head-to-foot, in genuine Stormtrooper armor, straight outta Star Wars. He even had the rifle. Bag just whistles, a long rolling tweet of amazement, and Jukes, well for the first time in all the years I had known him, Jukes was speechless. Dweeb looked amazing. We all jumped up and were crowded around him, flinging questions and touching his costume. Jukes ripped the rifle out of Dweeb’s hands and was running around going “Pyoo, pyoo!” at imaginary enemies. We all chased him, grabbing and yelling and Dweeb was shouting “Gimmebackmygun!”, and Jukes finally took a header over the corner of the coffee table and there was a crash and Jukes starts bawling like he did that time we all took a tumble down Doc Leeson’s back hill and Jukes tore his knee up on a real jagged boulder, and the room stops. Dweeb is on Jukes in a second, grabbing for his gun, while Bag and Miller run to Jukes and start peppering him with questions and jagging him off for being such an asshole. DV and I say nothing, staring open-mouthed at Dweeb, who is holding the now-broken genuine Stormtrooper rifle, the look on his face, strangely, of acceptance as if he knew, all-along, that this would happen. Jukes is still bawling about his shin, which is scraped pretty bad, Miller’s got Jukes’ pantleg raked up and he’s poking the bloody slash to piss off Jukes, who howls and tries to hit Miller but misses like he always does. Bag is still hollering at Jukes, “Why you such a dumbass Jukes, why you such a stupid jagoff? Why you always gotta mess everything up, you stupid jackass? You broke Mike's gun man.” Dweeb shuffles off towards the garage, his head down like always. Jukes finally gets Miller off him and he pulls himself into the lounge chair that Dweeb’s dad had saturated with one million stinky farts over the years, and we knew it as the Shit Chair. Jukes was now sitting in the Shit Chair. The rank-out began anew. Bag dropped to the ground clutching his sides, consumed with laughter, screaming “Jukes you’re in the Shit Chair, Shit Chair boy! Jukes is the King of Farts!” Miller and I started making fart noises as loud and as fast as we can, and DV is bent over, waving his ninja-clad butt at Jukes. Jukes gets out of the chair, fast. He plops onto the floor and then has to scramble away when he realizes he’s still leaning against the orange-brown Shit Chair. After a few minutes of ragging on Jukes, the group goes quiet again. Dweeb still isn’t back from the garage, and none of us want to go and find him, thinking he’s probably sitting in the dark, crying like a girl, and no one wants to deal with that. Miller finally gets to his feet, we all knew that if anyone was gonna go check on Dweeb, it would be Miller, but as he’s heading for the garage, Dweeb reappears. His gun is whole and he’s got a strange look on his face, like a smile that couldn’t quite make it all the way to the other side of his face. Bag said “What gives, Mike? You had two guns or what?”, and Dweeb shakes his head and says “Nah. Duct tape and white spray paint. Its still a little wobbly,” and he flexes the gun a little, showing where he taped it, “but it should still be ok, I guess.” DV lets out a whoop and we scramble into action. The night is young, the candy bowls unplundered and we had hours ahead of us. Up the stairs and out into the sweltering night. This was a rogue night, a summer runaway that had no business lurking in October. The sun had only been down for maybe 20 minutes but it was still almost 80 degrees. We planned on hitting the rich neighborhood first, the candy was bigger, better, and sometimes you could get more than once piece if the person liked your costume or you were friendly enough. This year, though, we came across a place where they weren't home and they had left a heaping pile of candy on a silver platter with a sign that said, “Take one”! Yeah, we took it all. We did leave the platter though. Jukes said we should take it, pawn it at the store, get twenty bucks for it, but Miller told him to shut up, said “We ain't thieves, man, I ain't no thief and why the hell you wanna steal stuff for, Jukes? You just gonna spend the money on firecrackers and titty mags anyway! Then you're broke again, dumbass Jukes! Seriously, man, you need to ...” Miller didn't get to finish his sentence because Jukes had, during this public shaming, been turning a bright shade of red and breathing like a mad bull and when Miller called him a dumbass he bellowed just like one and charged him, head down, exactly like they teach you not to do in football. They crashed together, Miller was caught off guard and staggered a few steps, but he was built like a brick house, small but solid and Jukes bounced off him and fell to his knees right in the middle of the street. Jukes came up yelling, fists windmilling, head down; the classic angry child's assault. Miller looked stunned. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open and the rest of the guys were yelling at Jukes to stop and what the hell and what are you doing man, and I just gawked with the rest of them. We never fought. Never. Maybe some guys did on a regular basis, but we never did. There was nothing to prove. We all knew our places and we didn't rail against them. Jukes was breaking the rules. Sure, Miller had jagged him about stealing the plate, but that was nothing worse than what Miller usually gave Jukes crap about, and he called him a dumbass twenty times a day, sometimes. Jukes had snapped. His eyes were glassy with tears, his mouth was a fanged shred in his face, a roaring babble of cursing and angry glossolalia boomed from it, and he look like he had seen something so terrible, so outer-space-gods-covered-in-space-god-tentacles insanity-inducing that his tiny brain had popped like a water balloon. Jukes launched himself again Miller, crazed animal full of rage and Miller did what only Miller could do, and the way Miller did everything was by not thinking, but by just reacting and making his own luck, his own magic. Miller did a shuffling stutter-step, it looked like a step and a head-bob with a little dance attached to it; any boxer would have recognized it. A fist like a crusty rock appeared out of nowhere, a graceful arc to it, a perfect parabola that ended at Jukes' head. Not his face or his jaw. Nowhere he could get really hurt, maybe hurt real bad for a long time, not even near his ear. Miller clubbed him on the side of the skull, near the back where it starts to slope down to the neck. It was like a cartoon almost. The angry, charging bull bearing down on the seemingly innocent man and at the last second the man pulls out a huge sledgehammer and wallops the stars out of the bull, who lays unconscious at his feet. Jukes was out cold. We all stood there, no one said anything. Jukes was lying on the ground, and he wasn't moving. Miller bent down and checked that he was still breathing. His face had drained of color and his eyes were wide and showing white from the shock of the last 20 seconds. He goggled at us. He said “I just wanted him to stop. Crazy bastard!” No one said anything. That was the end of the our Last Halloween. We drifted apart after that, to our own lives, to new friends, to new experiences. Jukes was fine. He never retaliated or anything. We all just pretended like it never happened and we all decided, unspoken, that whatever bonds we had were now dissolved. 1981.

My name is Michael Abbot. I never really saw myself as being a rent-a-clown as I grew up… well, as I got older since I don’t think I really grew up. My job and my life revolves around entertaining and making people happy. If you’re smiling after one of my performances then I know that I did my job. Most people want to become doctors or lawyer. I find my calling in making people smile and happy. I learned this about myself when my best friend, Chris, was in a car accident. He lost the use of both of his legs. This meant that a lot of things we use to do is impossible now. There was one thing that I still could do though, and that was make Chris smile. I've always had this gift that I could make people smile regardless of how they felt. Except Jessica. Jessica could be very serious at times and that’s something I just can’t do. She took my lack of seriousness as an insult against her instead of a flaw in myself. I can’t take things seriously; everything is a joke. there’s always a punchline. If something bad happens, I will attempt to find my way out of the situation. But, I don't know why I'm even writing half of this. None of it really matters, it's just dragging on too much and straying too far from the point. I want you guys to know that I love you. Chris, buddy. You’ve always been there. Thick and thin. Josh, we haven’t always seen eye to eye but I want you to know that I love you like a brother and know you feel the same. Jessica, I know it didn’t work out, and that’s my fault…I’m sorry. Mom... Dad, you guys were great. I never told you guys how much I appreciated everything you’ve ever done for me. I love you guys. Good bye.

Some people say death is the worst punishment for a crime; they are wrong. Trees stand like statues on the icy landscape I've been exiled to. Birds tweet mockingly at me among their branches, as if I was a beggar looking for water and they had a lake. Once a great noble, I had been banished from the kingdom that was once mine to these tortured woods. Full of talent and purpose, I ruled with an iron fist and salvaged a once meager village, struggling to even keep its measly life, into a flourishing kingdom inhabited by many. I felt as if I were an artist; my strength and resolve my chisel and my people my stone. But then my son came and melted everything away. The bastard had grown, had inherited my persuasion and his mother’s charisma, and turned the kingdom against me. He was the sculptor of my demise. I was put on trial for my so called crimes and was sent to this forest of ice and death for the rest of my years. They are all traitors. They will burn in hell. Now, as I sit on this stump of glass, I realize the heat I have to keep warm isn't coming from the fire in front of me, but the hatred I have inside. Their lack of gratitude for all I have given them will make them pay. I have purpose now, and they will regret the day they ever toiled and ruined my life. They will suffer. They all will. They think my son a hero? I’ll give them a villain.

I had an incredible dream last night. I was blissful, confident and felt as if I was on top of the world. I had an absolutely stunningly beautiful girlfriend who was always by my side. She had quite thick gentle lips, perfect for kissing. Captivating wide eyes, unfortunately I don't remember the colour they were, but they reminded me of the moon. Long enchanting hair which fell down to the top half of her back. A delicate and subtle strand of hair which covered a portion of her left eye. This girl in my dream, she was everything I desired in a partner. The true definition of beauty and elegance. As much as I try to remember, I can't recall the first part of the dream. I remember everything from the middle to the end. I remember driving in a car with this girl, my dream partner beside me. We were on our way to meet her parents. Although it was a dream, I could feel the nerves and anxiety that comes when meeting your girlfriends parents for the first time. That's something which has always been a great fear of mine and my dream reflected that. This dream girl, the girl that I've desired and wished would come into my life was finally with me. Regardless of it being a dream, it felt so real. I could feel her comfort, her warmth and gentle touch. Each embrace with her I could feel throughout my body. Tingling sensations within my fingertips every time my hands touched her skin. How could this be a dream? How can something which embraces all of my senses not be the truth? All of a sudden we had arrived at her parents house. Although it wasn't a house in the dream, it looked like a huge stadium where all of her relatives and family were gathered. All for one purpose to meet me, the person who had made her daughter fall head over hills in love. We both sat down on a tiny couch in the center of what felt like a stadium, surrounded by piercing eyes and judgmental looks. She grasped my hand and looked into my eyes. The nerves, the anxiety and hesitation instantly disintegrated. One gaze from this girls eyes made me feel invincible. I could only describe it as love, actual meaningful, and rarity that is true love. The kind of love which we question as to whether it exists, endlessly we search for it and deep down we feel as though we will never find it. Her father walked over to us. He sat directly in front of me, starring endlessly into my eyes. Questioning me, ensuring that I loved his daughter. I remember her warm gentle hand gradually running up and down my back, each of her fingernails gently scratching and soothing me, comforting me. I could feel the words coming out of my mouth, smoothly and without hesitation. The father smiled and backed away. Instantly I knew that he saw our love was real. All of a sudden the stadium like house roared with applause and cheers. Out of nowhere music started playing. I looked at the girl of my dreams beside me. I slowly stood up, reached out my hand and she took it. I pulled her close and we began to dance. My dancing was horrific just like in real life. I was uncoordinated but each step was corrected by my dream girl. We both had beaming smiles on our faces, we were spinning around the dance floor embraced in each other's arms. She was wearing a backless dress. My left hand was gently running up and down her back, her skin radiating with warmth. We both looked into each other's eyes, slowly my eyes moved down towards her lips, becoming fixated on them. I leaned in for the kiss and she followed. Our lips collided, gently brushing against one another. I can't even begin to describe the overwhelming sensations that this kiss gave me. It felt as if my entire body was weightless, as if we were in the middle of space alone and without gravity. We both opened our eyes and ever so slowly pulled away from each other, the dream then ended. I awoke to find myself back in reality. Stricken again with social anxiety, depression and desperate to find the girl of my dreams.

Lez-bee-iiin? What a funny word. What’s a lesbian? Why am I a lesbian? Jackie looked as if she’d just scored the new not-squeaky swing after she said it. “Carly , you’re a lesbian!” Do I get mad? I guess I do. I should. I tell Jackie to shut it and crane my neck out from under my heavy backpack. Maybe Mom won’t be last car today. I really wanted to be in the backyard with the dogs. School gave me that stale, dizzying feeling. When I’m with my dogs, I forget about school, Jackie, and Dad. Sometimes. A scoff brought my attention back to Jackie and her band of aggressors. She stepped forward abruptly, hard and in false assault. When I didn’t respond, her shove reminded me of my place at school. Right where I should be, at the bottom. I made my situation worse without a second thought. I dropped my things and lunged. Jackie was going down. I landed my fist in her stomach and she stumbled back in confusion. As I turned, her hand slipped under my t-shirt sleeve and clawed me on the shoulder .An adult took notice of our altercation. We were separated by a couple pushes and grabs by a younger teacher that I didn’t know. I felt burning and with a look at the bloody scratches on my shoulder a rush of terror swept through my whole frame. My stomach ached and my body tingled. Dad was going to know. Going home with the marks of fight was a nightmare. The last time I fought, he belted me in my bathroom. He had rushed in without a second’s notice and raged. Naked and bewildered, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t stop the blows. Soon I wouldn’t even try. I’d take his punishment if it meant that I would learn to be good. If I could learn to be good then he wouldn’t need to hurt me. Why can’t I just be good? The teacher sluggishly brought me and Jackie to the office. This cost her precious energy. She’d been with kids acting like assholes all day and now these two decide to maul each other. She silently prayed that the vice principal would just deal with it and take them off her hands. Lucky for me, he did just that. Mr. Parks was an aging black man with a small fro that somehow always looked wet. I was memorized by this hair and often stared at it when being reprimanded.He was a kind man, intent on doing his work for the good of the young ones. I felt the tingles dissipate when Mr. Parks took me into his office first. While Jackie waited and sulked with the secretary that smelled like soap, I sat in the same squishy leather chair that I had bounced into many times before. I squirmed into a comfortable position until Mr. Parks looked up from his paperwork. He always had stacks of pages and file folders around. It amazed me that one person could have so much to read for work. I wondered if he had to remember it all. Mr. Parks sighed at me and I felt tears coming. I knew what seeing him meant. It meant punishment and today I was going to be punished for being a lesbian. Mr. Parks assigned me to I.S.S. for hurting Jackie and told me he would be calling my parents. He reminded me that this was my third fight and while he did not think I was bad kid, that I needed to stop acting like one. I wondered if Mr. Parks could teach me to be good and how to not be a lesbian. When the phone call came, I begged a silent god for my father to not answer. My body stiffened when I heard his voice sweep into the room. He was that loud, or maybe I was just searching and waiting for him. I hated myself. The other kids knew how to be good, why couldn't I? When my mother arrived, she was crying. “How could you do this again, Carly? What’s wrong with you?” I slinked away from her. Her teary, shouting pleas made my stomach hurt and I didn’t want her to look at me. She must hate me because I’m a lesbian. I just wished she would tell me what it meant. At home I sunk into a corner in the back of the house, hugging my knees. He was coming for me. It wouldn’t be long until he came home like a whirlwind , storming through the house to come get me. I kneaded the carpet with my fingers and tried not to breathe. When I heard gravel crunching and brakes squeaking outside, a familiar shock went through my body. He was here. Doors slammed, my mother wept, and I could hear him calling for me. I prayed that I would disappear, that I would never be a lesbian again, and that I could be a good girl someday. Maybe this time would be the last time. I surfaced this, now decades old, memory to better understand the paradox the exists within my very nature. Recently I wrote a letter to my younger self. “I am so sorry this happened to you. I am sorry that so many years of your life were spent waging a war against yourself. I am sorry for the unknowing that surrounded you. I am sorry for the denial that bruised you time and time again. I am sorry for what you went through. And I am sorry that I left you alone.” I greatly lamented being a “bad” child; all the while I tried very hard to be good . I was drafted to harbor the shame of a family who was imprisoned in a dichotomous view of morality and judgment. For years I blamed myself for the abuse.When the physical abuse ceased, I allocated my own disciplines to replace it. If I could have behaved better,ran more, worked harder, looked prettier, I could have made the world happy and I would have finally been loved. I was the mirror to their secrecy and even today I still do not have all the answers that I crave.What do the words “good” and “bad” really mean anyway? Lest I pretend that I have any semblance of astute morality, me being without a religion and all, I would not propose any conjecture. However, I am sure that my motivation to be “good” for “bad” people has dwindled away. Never will I hold that privileged place within my familial system, and I have actively stopped hustling for their acceptance. I do not wonder of ways to be a good girl anymore, nor do I depict my reality by the hurled words of others. Put simply, I have chosen to seek the best in myself each day, for myself. I owe it to that little girl who saw darkness in her own home and truly believed that it lived within her own heart.

First story, so give me some feedback on it! "Get up." A bucket of water accompanied Mart's polite demand. He always had a way with words. Not the good way, mind you. More like the do-what-I-say-or-I'll-clobber-you way. "Blech!" I sprung up from my bed, sheets drenched and sticking to my body. "Do you ever knock?" I peeled the linen off of my chest, revealing the ugly dragon-shaped scar I wore there. "You're late. I expected you to be up an hour ago." "Yeah, well, I wanted to be up an hour later." I grumbled. "I need my sleep, you know." "You and Rax need to train. You will get nothing done by sleeping in." Mart strolled out into the hallway. "You will be dressed and downstairs in ten minutes." The wooden door slammed shut behind him, making the iron hinges complain. "Ugh." I muttered. The stone floor was cold today, despite the sunlight streaming in through the window. "You there, Rax?" Of course. Mart seems to have a knack for waking both of us. He answered, his voice echoing through my mind. "Which is why you steal naps when he lectures us." Rax chuckled. Sometimes he woke up with me, but he hand a tendency to sleep even after I've awakened. Soul bonds are weird like that. "You ready to address the entire nation today?" I asked, snapping my fingers. Flames swept across my body, drying me off in moments. *I find it odd how you humans are so fond of these public speeches. What point is there in shouting words at each other?" "Lots of points, if you bothered to listen to them." I countered. I grabbed the set of pants I had laid over a chair the night before. I heard Rax snort. *Why even bother putting on pants? * "You know how us humans don't like to see each other's private parts, right?" I guess. But they're just going to disintegrate anyways. "Then we'll put on a fresh pair afterwards. Come on, it's been a year. You should've picked up on some of this stuff." I opened the door and began to hop down the spiral staircase. Living in the spire of a castle did have its advantages, but the climb was not one of them. I have. Rax sniffed. I just fail to see why your people bind themselves so strongly to it. "Don't tell Mart that. He'll give us another lecture on the history of our cultures or something." A deep, throaty laugh erupted in my consciousness. That he would. I slid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and sprinted down the open hallway. A servant ducked into an open doorway as I rushed past. "Sorry!" I called behind me. Navigating my way through the twists and turns of the castle, I eventually found myself behind a stage in the courtyard. "Barely in time, as usual." Mart commented. "Come. The king is about to begin." Rax and I let out a collective sigh as Mart led us to the side of the stage. In front of us banners shining gold in the sunlight waved with the resonating chants of the people. Their cheers were directed to the ornately dressed man center stage. His robes were purple and gold, his crown studded with fine jewels. The king certainly knew how to distinguish himself. With a wave of his hand, his citizens quieted. "People of Accon!" His voice boomed across the plaza. "It has been a year since the end of the Fiery Wars, a year since I ended the pointless slaughter of our people." He ended it? Rax scoffed. Please. You did more than that old bag did. "Manners." I snapped. "Today, our fields are flourishing, our homes are being rebuilt, and we even have dragons working with us to repair our torn nation." "Don't say it." I said, cutting of Rax before he could make another snide remark. I heard a small huff in the back of my mind. "Out of our peace treaty came many great things, but one achievement stands above all. Arthur, if you would join me." The king said, motioning for me. I climbed up onto the stage, trying not to notice all the people staring at my scar. "Here we have the perfect bonding of man and dragon, showing that we can live together not just in the physical world, but that we are one in the spiritual world as well." The crowd was silent. I shifted my body weight to my other foot, trying to dispel the discomfort I was feeling. "Arthur, if you would be so kind as to show us the miracle God has given you." The king stepped back, leaving me exposed. "You ready, Rax?" I whispered, my fists clenched. I will enjoy this He responded. I felt him begin to stretch and pull against my flesh. My scar began to burn, searing my chest. Red scales slid into place, covering my skin in a ruby barrier. I began to feel smaller and smaller. My arms sprouted leather, bending into wings that caught the breeze as easily as I breathed. My chest burned with molten fire. I closed my eyes and let the sensation overtake me. There were some downsides to sharing a soul with a dragon, but this was certainly not one of them.

We owned the bottle the whole time we lived there, from the day we moved in. Nobody used it much; Devon and I have the basement to ourselves so we get our own fridge. He uses ketchup only with fries twice a month or so, while I myself am a Sriracha man. The thing most people don’t immediately realize when they move out of home is that the kitchen, a once magical and generous place that gratified you with instant food and satisfaction, on your own becomes a burdensome, dark and dingy room whose contents are always scarce and incompatible. Well, it was like that for us. We didn’t cook much, and we weren’t inclined to spend much time competing with the bugs for space in our cramped kitchen. We found out through the grapevine that our landlord was in fact a stubborn sort of miser who gutted, wired, and walled the house without any help. Help costs money to a man with no friends. In those slanted rooms we stood when we decided to thusly rename him slumlord. I clearly remember once being a more naive high school version of my self, dreaming of the day life granted me autonomy, as if that somehow includes the skills necessary to live on one’s own. Those days, I imagined credulously that I would teach myself to cook great things once I had my own place. But too soon into university did work and school brandish their heavy burdens. In the sparse moments of freedom and idleness, time was a ration; something to be used on preservation rather than sacrificed on expansion (although I did get a build a sweet aquarium over the year, but that’s another story). As a result, neither of us cooked so much as grazed. For a whole week I ate raw hot dogs and carrots before I forced myself to buy apples and soup. No kind of gourmet, organic, free-range food of any sort tastes better than the apple that ends the drought of raw hot dogs. The lonely contents of our fridge were primarily condiments and take-away meals. There were all the compliments and additions we needed for a meal, but no meal itself. We had every colour of paint, but no brush. One recurring disturbance that arose from the stochastic rearranging of our fridge’s contents confused and frustrated me and Devon. Often without warrant, the kitchen door would refuse to stay shut. What seemed like a simple problem was mysteriously adamant. There was no resistance, no visible obstruction. No; this was a more subtle and cruel refusal, one that allowed the magnetic trim of the door to first kiss that of the refrigerator unit, then slowly pry the door away from its lover. The door would tease us by feigning closure, then mockingly swinging open. The fridge drove us insane. We took out the drawers and the shelfs and readjusted the magnetic strips. Nothing worked. For poor students, keeping food from waste was a priority. Expiry dates no longer counted; in poverty and squalor, one’s nose becomes the sole and executive arbiter of food safety. Keeping the fridge closed and cool was more important to us than any homework we did that year. But no matter what we tried, the fridge would recurrently, as if on it’s own volition, switch its magnetic strip to repel mode. For the longest time we had no idea why or how the fridge door would patently remain open. The fridge seemed to have a mind of its own and, to some degree, we respected it. Accepting the fridge’s perseverance, we would concede defeat by wedging the broom against the wall and the door in a rocky cease-fire between the fridge’s will and our own. It was one of the things that made me apt to spend a little more on the place I’m living next year. Nevertheless, for majority of the year the adamancy of the problem overcame us. It was not until later in second semester that my housemate figured out the cause. This happened on some otherwise unremarkable day in a week during which the fridge again decided to gape open. Excitedly, as one should when they solve some complex and demanding problem, he burst into my room. The width of his smile suggested that he won some sort of Nobel Prize. “Matt,” he managed, almost panting. “It was the ketchup.” Bemused, I followed Devon to the kitchen to witness his solution. Talking with a mixture of excitement and relief, he explained: “When the ketchup sits inside the door, it pushes the door away if it’s turned horizontally. We have to keep it parallel with the door,” he said, and enacted his description in order to exhibit the difference. What a marvel! I was beyond words. Such an easy solution to such a complex problem. It was certainly a relief, a simple fix to a pervasive and pestering issue. For the rest of the year, we lived in harmonious cohabitation with that fridge, albeit at the price of a few sour milk cartons and rotten oranges. However, throughout the constant reshuffling of cold cuts, hot dogs, cream cheese and yogurt, one item has been left unperturbed. The ketchup bottle, resilient and proud, stands proudly in claimed territory, a spot on the inside railing upon which it remains parallel to the door. It has earned the spot, through rigid victory over it’s supposed owners. It controlled harmony and restored balance to our kitchen on many occasions. It’s happiness controlled us. It was omnipotent. In the squalid darkness of our kitchen, we found a light in the Ketchup God, and we obeyed it.

Who Need Two Legs Anyway? I felt rusted flakes of metal embedding themselves deeper into my flesh as I stared down at my foot now attached to a large two by four. It’s not that bad... People step on nails all the time. Looking at the other three boys around me, trying to judge whether or not it is that bad by the looks on their faces, I can’t make out anyone’s horrified expression in the thick darkness. I can, however, see Shane’s lanky frame lunging forward with his leg up as high as he can get it, without risking dislocation, getting ready to stomp on the board to yank the nail out of my foot. Shit is the only thought i had time to process before I was yanked forward by my boot who was refusing to let go of the tiny devil invading my body. I felt the nail push deeper and deeper bouncing painfully off the bones inside until it was pushing up against the top of my boot. Miraculously, I am still standing and I feel much calmer than the situation warrants. “Go get my dad.” All three boys ran off into the woods to go get my father leaving me there alone. Now that I‘m alone I can fix this, “Well, here goes nothing.” I sat down, taking great care not to move my foot, and placed my remaining foot firmly on the the board and started pulling my trapped foot off the nail. The strangest sensation washed over me, it felt as if the nail was attached to a rope leading to my hip. Every tug liable to pull my entire pelvis through the tiny hole in my foot like some sort of Hanna Barbera cartoon. Mustering up enough courage I finish the task pulling my foot completely off the nail and waited for the awful empty feeling in my foot to dissipate. Resolving that the emptiness would not just go away I got up and hobbled my way to safety, to my dad. When I got there I found my three companions still explaining the situation to my dad. Dad was the first to address me when I walked in, Lay down on the couch and let me see your foot. I carefully removed my boot and peeled my saturated sock off my foot. With my foot newly exposed to the sharp cold air I laid face down and displayed the bottom of my foot for my father to inspect and diagnose using his surely extensive medical knowledge. Blind to what was happening I could feel his meaty fingers bearing twenty plus years of steel mill experience clumsily poking and prodding the fresh puncture. He spread the hole open as wide as he could get it without causing further injury and called for someone to bring him the rubbing alcohol. When Jared (my little brother) appeared with the small white bottle, dad instructed him to pour it into the new flesh well. You would be surprised how little it hurt. I didnt even feel pain, I just felt the cold liquid fill in the gaps and run down, over, and in between my toes making my entire leg feel like I shoved it into the freezer. Im going to be fine now right? I mean, dad said it was fine. Wrong. Fast forward a few days and I’m having a lot of trouble fitting into all my left shoes. Even the ones that were hand me downs from my cousins and were way too big for my feet normally. Dad will know what to do. He knows everything. “Dad?” “Yes?” “I think we should go to the hospital... My foot looks like a football” “HOLY SHIT!” Next thing I know Im waiting at the Immediate Care Center with my dad and only one shoe. The doctors there cant really do much for me with their current resources. I got an iodine foot bath, triple-antibiotic treatment, dressings, crutches, and advice to go to a real hospital. Once we got to St. Elizabeths I was admitted and sent through a gauntlet of tests and intimidating machines. They sent me through a CAT scan, MRI, and a X-ray. I finally end up with a cold un-inviting gurney in a compact room with even more machines. Machines to monitor my heart, my breathing, and my personal favorite: a machine for entertainment! I was fortunate enough to get a room with a N64 and television, the only problem is it didnt work whatsoever. A few hours later a rather attractive nurse (who I had a crush on immediately) comes in and tells me we are headed to surgery. He unlocks the wheels for my bed and rolls me down to the operating room chatting with me the whole time about movies, video games, and comic books. Once we got there he disappeared just as quickly as he appeared and left me with the Anesthesiologist. She wasnt as interested in small talk, so she just put the gas mask on my face and told me to count backwards from one hundred. Ten, nine, ein... sleb... n. Gone. After an eternity I woke up in the my small hospital room and I got to finally got to meet my shiny new pediatrist Dr. Chupa! He was here to tell me about my results from all the tests and surgery. We drained twenty four pints of fluid from your left leg and foot and found forty different infections. We also found traces of metal, rust, wood splinters, and feces inside your left leg and foot. You know you are extremely lucky. If you guys would have waited another day we would have had to amputate your left leg from the knee down. I have always had a tendency to make the best of a bad situation. So I amused myself while he spoke by picturing what he was saying. When he said twenty four pints of fluid I pictured twenty four little milk jugs, like the ones kids get in school for lunch or breakfast, filled to the brim with a soupy green liquid. I pictured little fragments floating inside my foot. And finally I started creating a fantasy about what it would have been like to only have one leg. In my head I played out a scene where I was in school wearing a prosthetic leg. I would start to sprint down a crowded hallway and kick off my leg then fall to the ground screaming, “Oh my god, my leg!” And everyone would just lose their minds in a panic! Then I would show everyone that it was a fake leg and we would all just laugh and laugh. He also explained to me that I would have to stay in the hospital for five more days because he had to leave the hole they had cut through my foot open to make sure that it was healing properly. Every day I would receive a visit from Dr. Chupa to change the packing in my foot. He would come in, dose me with Morphine, then he would undress my foot and pull a long white and red ribbon from my wound. While he got the new packing ready I would always try to get him to let me look through the hole in my foot. He never let me. But, if I had company they would be allowed to look through it, which was totally unfair. My family also made daily visits. Early on mom and dad brought me a case of Honey Buns and a case of Coca-Cola because they knew I hated the hospital food. They would also bring Jared (my little brother) Jessie (big sister) and Karlene and Kayla (my neighbors who were twins). I always gave Jared my dinner from the hospital, he said he liked it. I dont understand how though, it tasted like cooked cardboard. Jessie would watch Antique Roadshow with me on my bed (it was the only thing remotely interesting) and make fun of how ugly the antiques people would bring on to the show were. Karlene and Kayla were the ones who would be allowed to look through the hole in my foot when Dr. Chupa was there. After my time in the hospital was done I had to go see an Infectious Disease Doctor, Dr. Venglarcic. Mom was the one who accompanied me that time. Dr. Venglarcic sat us down and explained to us that I still had a very serious infection and that the surgery was really just to keep me from losing my leg. We had two options for treatment. The first option was a strong antibiotic that would have to be administered through an I.V. fed directly into my heart for six months. The second option was an experimental antibiotic in pill form. He listed the possible side effects of the experimental pill for us, This antibiotic is currently being tested on animals in England and shows great promise. The possible side effects are nausea, fatigue, vomiting, diarrhea, and there is a chance that the antibiotic will attack your cartilage and cause extreme arthritis. After a few moments of silence mom finally spoke, We are going to do the pills. I just made a joke out of it, like I always do, saying I need an excuse to get out of Physical Education anyway. After a few seconds of all of us laughing at my poor humor we got my prescription and left for the pharmacy. I have always put a particular emphasis on humor my whole life. My family has always been the same way as far as I can remember. I learned from them that if you dont want to be in a situation, all you really can do is try to make the best of it. Laughing beats crying any day of the week. I love my family.

He had always looked at his hands as if they were sand in torrential rain. He felt the fragility of them weigh heavy upon his efforts, each attempt to grasp something substantial was counteracted by the necessity to shake, endlessly. It had begun on his seventh birthday and the doctors were reluctant to diagnose him with anything concrete, but even at that age Taylor knew he was unique, but not in the sense of an intricately designed snowflake, rather unique like a discarded necklace. Sure, there was sentiment and meaning at the very heart of him, but now, at the age of twelve, that had been substantially crushed by the sheer force behind the flaws on display. His father was a mechanic, his steady hands and muscular frame were a source of pride that Taylor knew was unachievable. At night Taylor was unable to put himself to bed, the frustration of tucking himself under his duvet was too much of a hassle, it was task usually reserved for his father and his grease-ridden hands. He could no longer fall asleep without the smell of engine oil seeping through the sheets and leaving a temporary print on his chest, like the warm embrace of a hug he had not known for several years. At night he would dream of planting his feet firmly into soil, like an abundant oak weathering a storm, no motions or quaking. As the storms would recede, the sun would clamber over the clouds and leave the world in a cigarette-stained hue, slowly an individual snowflake would fall upon Taylor’s face and melt gently into his flesh. Arms spread wide, Taylor could fly, he could match the birds for all their grace and chase the sunset. These dreams were swiftly becoming the only reason Taylor still found reason to live. At twelve he had already seen the splendour of grass on the other side, at twelve he was already awaiting death. It was three days shy of his thirteenth birthday when he first began to find balance a troublesome conquest. He seemed inebriated without any of the mental occurrences, as if his legs had found a rundown bar whilst his brain slept. Taylor swelled with fear, he knew it wouldn’t be long before his whole body found the bar and dragged his brain along for the ride. On his thirteenth birthday, Taylor received no cards or a cake, his father had taken the day off but spent the morning quietly staring at the unplugged TV. Taylor attempted to scream and shout at him, but the words wouldn’t come, there were no sounds; his mind had thrown out its dictionary and removed its microphone. Taylor attempted to grab his father but his body fought every urge to even walk towards him and collapsed under its own weight. He sat alone in the corner of the kitchen, back pressed against the washing machine. The spin cycle matched the beating of his heart. Taylor’s father eventually stood, slowly walked towards him and grasped him into his arms, they no longer smelt soaked in oil, instead Taylor could smell the sea. Azure waves crashed within his head as his father pressed his hands to his ears, Taylor could hear the crabs fight, he could hear the cliff edges crumble, he could hear the sun pierce the ocean’s foam. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, there were no wings, storms or snowflakes this time, just Taylor alone in an empty room with no windows or doors, somebody had scrawled on the wall ‘Godzilla awaits outside’ in large blue ink. Taylor awoke suddenly to the sound of crashing waves, yet his father was nowhere to be seen. He was on a beach, bucket and spade beside him, children all around building sandcastles. He looked behind him and noticed his father sat on a sandy dune, he called for Taylor to build. Taylor turned to the kid barely three meters from him, his hands were so steady, Taylor hands were a shipwreck compared to the other children’s calm seas. He took great care and caution in filling his bucket, his hands spilled sand in various directions but Taylor cared little, he paid attention only to the incessant task of gently patting down each small amount that did make it into the bucket. The tide edged close, grabbing at sand with each furtive effort towards Taylor and the other children, some panicked and hastily filled their buckets, others carried on with little acknowledgment of the water. When Taylor has filled his bucket, he attempted to lift it, but found it too heavy. His weak arms were like sugar in a hot tea, they barely moved before lactic acid tore his body apart, the strain too much. His father called for him to turn the bucket, to finish the job at hand. With great concentration, Taylor envisioned his feet as the roots of the great oak of his dreams, he had Godzilla’s strength and wings bloomed from his back. Taylor stood tall and lifted the bucket a few inches of the ground, with an enormous effort he turned it and placed it upon the sand, barely seconds after it had landed he lifted it again. His sandcastle stood proud. That night the children sat with their parents and watched as nature took their sandcastles apart. Taylor’s father told him how the amount remaining directly corresponded with the level of happiness they would have as an adult. The pharmaceutical companies pitched stalls at the beaches exit selling various anti-depressants, as their child’s sandcastle fell the parents would rush to the stalls with huge sums of money, to stock up for the troubles ahead. “Your mother’s castle fell instantly as a child,” Taylor’s father told him, “she hadn’t packed the sand and the wind took it before night had even begun. Mine lasted a few hours, and never completely fell, but enough was destroyed.” Taylor’s castle never fell, it remained intact. By fourteen he regained his balance, by fifteen his muscles were almost at the same level as his classmates, by sixteen he was pretty much cured. He never stopped shaking.

Back in the olden days, people would fight with knives and swords instead of guns. It made war much more slow and gruesome. Like if you were in the war you'd be going "This is taking WAY too long to chop this guy's head off." And you'd get bored and kinda walk away from the war and maybe get a beer. But then you'd have to walk back through the war again to get back home. So, then you'd have to fight again and you'd be like "Man, this is taking forever to stab this guy to death." But then you're not paying attention and this other guy takes an ax and starts chopping your torso in half. And then you're like "This is taking way to long to die." That's how war was in the olden days. *Bunker Buster* In the last days of the war, we had run out of ammunition for the big guns and had to use P.O.W.s as artillery. Sure, a human body cannot destroy a carrier, but a charred human body with branches taped to it and fake fangs in its mouth can really scare the shit out of a person when it comes flying at you at 100 miles an hour. *Night Vision* In the night, no one can see you. Just your eyes. We moved through the town and took up positions waiting for the convoy. When it came, we took life like vampires in the night and there were no survivors. It was beautiful. Night vision wins wars, make no mistake. But it totally makes masturbation out of the question. *The Enemy Must Be Shot in the Face Several Times Before It Counts* Evan and I had started a game. We began betting packs of cigarettes on who would have the most kills for the day. I won most of the time. But one time, we bet a carton and there was a giant dispute over whether this enemy soldier was really dead or if he had just been shot in the face. Evan figured he killed him. But I could have sworn the guy walked away. So, we went back and we found the man. He was very much alive. So, I shot him some more in the face and won the bet. Tough shit, Evan. *Don't Forget to Die* Our company stopped by the river to rest. We had been hoofing it since France and we just entered Michigan. Plus the guy reading the map was on acid. But Detroit was beautiful. *POW* The thing they don't tell you about a P.O.W. camp is that there are no rules. They sit you in a bunker with a bunch of prisoners and a Monopoly board. No one had played Monopoly in years. We all forgot how to play. And there were no rules. Totally lost. Just a board and pieces. We had to make up the rules. I still don't know what GO meant. *GI Joe* When I came back from the war there was a party. But there was no job, no wife, and no money. But they made sure to give me a party. Like some sort of celebration as if I had been with them all the last four years and not out killing kids younger than me. It made me sick. Except for the pinata - that was totally cool and kinda made up for their lack of understanding. But the pain is still there. *Betrayal on the Beach* I looked at Salter. We both knew what he had done. And we both knew it was going to cost us the war. And we both knew that only one of us would live to tell or not to tell the story of his betrayal. We eyed each other and waited for the other to flinch. But neither one of us did. Finally, he blinked. I knew then that it was Ramirez who did it. But we continued having sex with the prostitute for the time being. There would be time to kill him and Ramirez later. *Hand Grenades to Hell* I once knew a guy who would pull the pins on hand grenades and juggle them and toss them at the enemy mid-juggle. He died SUPER quick. *The Battle of Unspecified Nation-State* I was on the hill overlooking the ambush. It was a nightmare. We were losing men by the dozen. I tried to run down, but Hank stopped me. "Patterson, that's not your war." "But we gotta do something!" "Patterson, a general once told me you have to know when to hold them and you have to know when to fold them. We are folding." "That's a Kenny Rogers song." "Yes, Kenny Rogers, the general." *The Bridge Over the River Dead Bodies* One thing they don't tell you in the movies is that war can be delicious. Every new town we would explore we'd eat local foods and they were delicious. I remember I came back home and missed the exotic foods. Sure, we had our International district, but it just wasn't the same. That's why I'm reenlisting. Does that sound crazy to you? Anyway, two adults and three children for Frozen. *Bloody Hill of Blood and Flags and Blood* I turned to Johnson "Call in a strike!" Johnson turned his head towards me and I realized he was... His face... Was gone. He had put on clown makeup. Boy, that came as a surprise. You need humor if you are going to fight a war. He beeped a horn and I laughed. Then someone blew his clown face and his real face off.