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Allura 23

The bike powers the underground, he was told. A hundred million lights flicker with every rotation of his feet. He rides his bike tirelessly, eternally, pushing the crank that supports the countless lives below. Meters away is a door in the ground. The door leads to this underground world, where humanity lives and breathes and works and walks around and all those things. But they are allowed to live this life only because the man pedals, day in and day out. He's never seen them for himself. He was told they exist, assured that his endurance ensures their survival. But he's never looked upon that world. He could stop of course. But once the bike stops, it cannot start again. The moment he stops pedaling, the lights go out - and all those below are doomed to suffocate in a dark, frozen hell. That's what he was told anyway.

This was my first short story I had to write for my Creative Writing class back when I was a Junior in high school. I hope you like it! "Ooohhhh," Helen groaned. She hurt everywhere. Being in a hospital for six weeks is really something that she wasn't looking forward to. She was about to call for a nurse to change the channel on her tiny tv (golf was not her thing!) when all of a sudden there was a knock on the door. "Come in," she called weakly. "Hello, I'm Dr. Bandade, how are you feeling?" He smiled a toothy smile. She gave the burly man a sarcastic look. "How do you *think* I'm feeling? I fell out of a five-story window!" The doctor pulled up a chair next to her. "Yes about that, how exactly did it happen? On this statement is says that you were pushed?" Helen cringed at the very thought of it, not only because it was painful, but she wasn't sure if he would believe her. "Well, it started out as a normal day. I woke up, ate breakfast, completed the daily crossword puzzle in the paper. "It was then I noticed that my window was open. A cool breeze swept through, so I decided to close it. I got up and went over to the window. "Right as I reached out to grab the handle, Rufus, my cat, rubbed against my leg, causing me to lose my balance. Before I knew it, I was falling out the window! "I screamed. I heard people screaming below me. I felt breathless. Panic swept over me. "It was only too soon when I came into contact with the ground. I heard bones shattering and I cried out in pain. In the distance, sirens wailed. The ambulance charged down the street. "After they put me on the stretcher, they hauled me away to the hospital, where they told me I was lucky to even be alive. They said I broke every bone in my body. I'll be here about six weeks, if not more." Her face fell when she told the doctor this. "And that's all that happened." Dr. Bandade looked over at her. "So you fell out accidentally then." "No! I was *pushed* out!" she yelled. "But you even said that you lost your balance, and no one was with you." "Yes there was... Rufus! *He* pushed me out!" The doctor rationalized, "But he's a *cat.* He probably didn't realize that rubbing against you to show affection would-" But Helen cut him off. "He *deliberately* rubbed too hard and made me lost my balance." "What would be the purpose for Rufus to push you?" The doctor raised an eyebrow. "He's just evil," she simply said. "Oh." He wrote some things down on his clipboard. Helen stared at him suspiciously. "What kind of doctor are you anyway, asking me all these questions?" "I'm a psychiatrist." He wrote some more things down. "What? You think I'm crazy don't you?! I'm telling you, my cat is trying to *kill me!"* Before Dr. Bandade could say anything, there was a knock at the door. "Excuse me, doctor," the nurse said, "but there's someone here to see her." Helen perked up a bit. A visitor to see her! The visitor walked into the room. "Rufus!" Helen shrieked. Standing there was the tabby cat. He was staring at her with glossy green eyes, slanted into slits. His tail twitched as if to say, "I'm *back.

I can feel his eyes watching me, the warmth from his gaze sends tingles all over my body. It's not normal to feel this way about him, and I never have before. So why do I? Must be the alcohol. I sit back down next to him. My eyes are shut tight, trying not to break into tears but I know he is still looking at me. Up and down my body. I take a peek and there he is practically drooling with a grin on his face. The way his eyes light up made me chuckle. I take a hit and blow the smoke from my cigarette in his face. We start talking, about us. We met in high school. We became best friends right away, we did everything together. Shared secrets and homes. He saved me from myself, you may think it's a cheesy thing to say but damn, it's true. I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him. I wish I could say some of the credit goes towards my husband, sadly it does not. My husband and I met my last year of high school. I was a party girl, he was a calm stay at home boy. We barely shared anything in common, but we were close in a way hard to explain. Or so, it felt like that for a good two years. After those two charming years, I began to feel lonely again. He wasn't giving me what I needed in my life. Not any attention, love, care, or hope. I yearned for prince charming, but he never arrived. I brought up the subject or leaving him. He begged me no, so I stayed. We shortly eloped and moved in together. Then the abuse began, and no, he did not abuse me. I was always drunk. I was always high. I had a bad temper and a loud mouth. I would leave scars on him, but he always forgave me right away, held me tight and kissed me. I went insane because I felt no emotions for this man and I wanted him to exit my life but it never happened. I started to tell him I suspected foul play. Cheating, lying, hiding things from me. One day, I limped home on a twisted ankle from falling at the bar. It was snowing and I was crying. Imagine my pain, how depressed I was. I make my way inside. I strip down to my tank top and panties. I call out for my husband but no answer. I make my way to the basement, and there he is. Sitting on our couch, having drinks with another female. I'm sorry to say I interrupted the conversation by yelling his name and throwing an old remote at him. It was the nearest object near me. My heart sunk and I finally realized how terrible it was to be cheated on. Boy, was I stupid. Wrong assumption. I walk over to the couch where he lays on the floor bleeding from his nose. The woman sits in fear, looking at me, waiting for me to explode. That's exactly what I do. I jumped on top of her and began pulling her hair. I soon have all of her hair wrapped in my fist and I slam her head on the concrete floor. She cries, screaming and shouting words I can barely make out, "STOP! NO! BROTHER! HELP!" I puke from the alcohol on her and she gets up and runs. I lay down next to my unconscious husband and kiss him. I wrap his arm around me and fall asleep. The next day I was arrested, and I found out the woman was his sister. They were planning a trip for vacation. If only I wasn't such a neurotic person, if only jealousy didn't drive me mad. My husband would still be alive. I wouldn't be looking out of prison bars, crying and planning suicide.

> A short story I wrote 5 years ago. Don't know why I thought of it while driving around town and not sure why I'm posting it either. Enjoy. He pondered the very definition of sanity as he walked down the nearly-abandoned midnight sidewalk, his footsteps creating crunching noises in the snow. The eerie orange glow of the street lamps combined with the light of the full moon lay contrasting shadows on the ground below. He took another deep puff from his cigarette and held it before exhaling. What's more likely, he thought to himself. That I'm the last sane person on Earth, or I'm just insane. He had been following this line of thought for some time now and the most recent of events led him to this lonely sidewalk in downtown. Just a few hours before, he was at a bar with some of his co-workers. He felt like he fit right in, that after a troubled childhood of being the consistent social outcast, he was finally a part of a group. They joked, hollered at the female bar patrons, and did the generally accepted bar routineget drunk, laugh loud, and try to get laid. He actually felt like a part of them, and was in a euphoric high from the social acceptance and group mentality. Then it happened, as it always does eventually. He saw himself from outside of his body and didn't recognize his behavior. This isn't me, he thought to himself. This is who they want me to be. So, as always, he made up some excuse for leaving prematurely. "Sorry guys, I forgot I gotta be home before ten when the misses arrives.", he said. "You aren't married man, why the hell do you have a curfew?", asked James. "I knowbut..." At least they bought it, he thought to himself. There's nobody waiting for me. "Sound's like someone's pussy-whipped!", Mike said while making a whip gesture. "Fuck off, Mike. At least I'm getting some.", he replied. "Seriously though, I gotta bounce." "Alright man, you straight to drive?" "I'm going to just walk home, I'm only a few blocks down.", he said, and paid his tab. "I'll catch you guys tomorrow." "Later man." "Peace." And he left the bar for his empty apartment. As soon as he walked out of the bar, he knew something wasn't rightnot wrong either, but not right. Nothing looked out of place, nobody was out there waiting for him, but he could just feel it. And by now in his life, he had learned to trust his intuition. Weary, but determined not to let an odd feeling slow him down, he lit a cigarette and walked down the lonely sidewalk. Why am I such an outcast? he thought to himself. Why do I always get nervous around new people? He didn't follow this train of thought for long though, because he had done it many times before and got nowhere. Deep in thought, he didn't even see her until he was nearly on top of her. In the split second before the collision, he caught just a glimpse of her talking on a cell phone. She was beautiful, enough to make him trip over the sidewalk, right in to her. "Jesus man! Watch where you're going!", she exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I was just... I don't know." "Well, pay more attention next time." she said, and stormed off, engaging in the cell conversation once again. "Jeez..." he said, more to himself than to her, and took another puff off of his cigarette.

The chair is uncomfortable. Anyone would pick the bed, the duvet, its numberless configurations of relaxation a clear cut above the chair. But the chair spins. Restlessness expressed. I spend a moment calibrating the desk, the perfect companion to the chair. It is by the window, and so ample light is provided (in association with the lamp). They fit together like, well, a chair and desk should. Symbiotic. The surface of the desk provides a brilliant, almost premeditated amount of space, with a comfortable level of manoeuvrability for items present – the sleek wooden finish is never hidden from view, unlike the carpet, which has recently begun to resemble more of a wardrobe. A floordrobe, for those familiar with the term, though it should be noted that today the carpet can breath – I have completed the first stage of productivity, the tidy up. I adjust myself on the chair. Perhaps the chair and desk are too close – the chair is beginning to take on properties of the desk that really don't do it any favours. At first I wonder if it would be better if instead the desk learned from the chair how to spin, but then I realise that that would be infinitely more unproductive. I look up. She is there again, across the street, the window above the door. Perhaps, like myself, she is uncomfortable, though I must admit I perceive no desk by her window (she has ample room to stand and observe from it). And observing is what she does. On the scale of productivity, her observation deserves recognition. It receives it, and has become the apex of my wandering thoughts. I have become attuned to her rhythm and I too observe, though of course when the chair demands. Perhaps the chair needs some time apart from the desk. I oblige, utilising its wheels. It takes me halfway across the room; it obviously needs to work on its endurance. I spin, and move to the bed.

> This is part one, hopefully I'll have some more later! > “There is a collar on line 4, Dick.” A gentle but immediate shudder ran through Dick’s shoulders and down his back, causing him to frown and lose that blank stare that daydreamers held. Or the insane. “Pardon?” he called out the door, towards Keisha who was perched at her desk rattling through a game of minesweeper. Lazy slut, he thought. He was bitter and on edge, even more so since Keisha opened her fucking mouth. “Line 4 Dick, there’s a caller asking for you. Says it’s urgent.” Dick sighed. It was a cocktail sigh of relief and annoyance. I’m going to fire this bitch, he ruefully thought as his ears soaked up the constant clicking of her mouse with a similar appreciation that a slug soaks up salt. At least the clients liked her, a pretty little brunette with some nice proportions who smiled at anyone and everything. She could see two homeless guys jerking each other off and smile like it was a puppy gently tumbling through the grass. Oh well. “His name K, did you get his name. Or where he’s from. What he does? Anything to indicate who this person might be? Jesus.” Dick dabbed at his brow with a red cotton napkin, wondering why he was sweating a little. It was probably because of Keisha. The clicking stopped. “Oh...just..eh..ooh, here it is. Kenton Dall. His name is Kenton Dall” she read off a stained post it note, and then added “He sounds pretty!” More clicking. Dick was genuinely surprised that she had the brainpower to write anything down, even if it was inaccurate. The man’s name was actually Trenton Dall, a particularly influential man from an up-town investment group with a face like bulldog who played catch with a brick wall. Doused in hair tonic. He was about as ugly as he was hairy, but that didn’t matter right now because Trenton was on the other end of the phone and Dick knew why. He was angry. Maybe even furious. Dick had been ducking his calls, getting his otherwise incompetent secretary to call him back with excuse after excuse after his line kept conveniently disconnecting. And his cell phone was constantly out of battery. And he was supposedly never at home. Dick was practically unreachable as far as Trenton was concerned. So understandably as a result of his shenanigans, Trenton was getting impatient. And he was angry. Maybe even furious. Fuuuuck. The word stretched and sailed through his head, calming down his firing synapses as they collectively made a decision. He breathed deep and picked up the phone. “It doesn’t work.” And then he hung up. Across the street in a tinted black Toyota Trenton couldn’t help but smile as he slipped his Blackberry into his suit's inner pocket. Even though he couldn’t see Richard, he knew how tense he was right now. He also knew that he was going to leave the office in the next 20 minutes and drive straight home. Dick left the office 6 minutes later. Of course it worked. EDIT: Word choice, spelling mistakes.

She knew the day would not go her way from the sounds stirring up out of the garage. A few dings, a couple of bangs, that was typical. Not like this. This sounded like something gone wrong. Kat pushed up off the couch, wandered her way to the door connecting the house to the garage, and leaned in the frame of it. There was Vincis, standing in front of a car; its hood was up and he was staring into it’s guts as if it had verbally accosted him, as if it had offended him, personally. Kat frowned just a bit. She didn’t know who the car belonged to, but she did know it was some high roller, someone who could possibly make Vincis’ day a little less pleasant, if he so felt like it. And why not, right? Why not heap more issues on a guy that was already so high strung, they could use him for the telegraph? Quietly, she stepped into the garage - but not quietly enough. This was, after all, Vincis’ domain, and nothing happened in here without his knowledge. She got about halfway to him when he turned his head, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Impossibly bright and blue, eyes he got from his father, much to his dismay. “H-Hey,” he said, a hint of a smile trying to make it across his features. It didn’t quite make it, but she noticed the attempt. It was enough in her book. “I’m s-sorry. Was I m-making t-too much noise?” She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Nah, not too much.” Soon she was right beside him, and neatly checked him with her hip. “What are you working on?” And instantly, she could see the way Vincis’ features, which had just started to relax, tighten up again. He turned back forward, gesturing with his hand to the car before them, lips dipping into a frown. “I c-can’t figure out wh-what’s wrong with it. I’ve tried everyth-thing.” Here, he reached up, running his hand through his hair - something Kat knew he only did, especially with greasy hands, when he was truly upset. Vincis tended to view cars as puzzles - and if he couldn’t fix one….well. This was his talent. If he were incapable of fixing a car, he generally thought it to mean that he was incapable of performing and from there, things just went downhill. It was the little things that always bothered Vincis, not the big things. Launch an idea at him that might terrify another man, and he handled it like a champ. Give him a car he couldn’t fix? He tended to take that poorly. Add in the fact that the car happened to belong to some big-wig, and Kat was pretty sure that all was not well upstairs. The slim, delicate line of her hand reached out, long fingers coiling around his bicep. “How long do you have?” she asked, the dark line of her brow arching. “Until the end of the w-week.” And with that, she smiled. “You’ve got plenty of time, baby. You’re the best mechanic in town - you’ll figure it out.” “But w-what if I’m not the b-best mechanic in town?” he suddenly snapped - and if his flinch was any sign, a little harder than he meant to. Kat wasn’t so much as phased, though. She just smiled at him, that same lazy, easy smile, the one that had charmed his socks off from the start. “Well, he doesn’t know that, now does he?” she asked. “And he can damn well wait, just like any other person can.” Vincis’ features crumpled a bit, looking from her to the car. “I…I j-just don’t w-want to be a s-screwup. N-not in my w-work and…and n-not w-with you,” he muttered, gaze shifting downwards - only to be pulled around when she took his chin, turning his face to her. “Hey…Vincis, I don’t love you because of the parts of you that I like.” Briefly, the red-head looked completely, utterly baffled, totally not understanding just what the hell that was supposed to mean. The ex-prostitute clarified it for him: “I love you for the parts about you I don’t like.

I’ve always tried my best. Unfortunately my best never seems to be good enough. Story of my life. Another job interview, another rejection. What do they want? Some kind of superhuman? Who can do everything better than anyone for half the pay? Since when does an entry level job involve five years experience? Fucking ridiculous is what it is! Taking advantage of the wee man because they know they can get away with it, taking skilled workers down on their luck who need to work but offering them shoddy wages. “we’re in a recession you know”, they say, and damn happy they are about it too the fuckers. A prime opportunity to fuck the average worker out of full wages. Five years experience for an entry level job? Pah! Maybe the bankers did it on purpose to keep the little man in his place. This time though, the interview was doomed from the start. From the moment I walked in I knew it. There were three of them. All sat behind a desk in raised chairs and immaculate suits, I swear I could smell the smarminess oozing off of them. You know the type, the sense of entitlement, the little private smiles as they look down on you in the purposely chosen shitty chair to automatically deny you any psychological edge. They want you down there, looking up at them pleading for a job, it helps their egos to know that they have this power over you, the power to give you a leg up. A way back in. Part of the team buddy. I hate them. Like I said, there was three of them sat there, with the big boss in the middle. He hasn’t even looked up as I’ve came in and sat in the only chair, I’m kept waiting, looking like a douche as I wait because I don’t want to stop smiling until I’ve at least made eye contact. Finally, he looks up, still not saying anything as he examines me like a side a beef in a butcher shop. Boss: “Mr Carrick, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve pretty much made up my mind who I want for this job but figure I have to go through with the rest of this charade now it’s started. So, you have 2 minutes to convince me why I should disregard my choice and choose you.” What the fuck? I mean, what the actual fuck? This isn’t how it works. He’s meant to ask me standard but mundane questions about my background, give me scenarios and ask what I’d do if put in a certain situation where I can answer with the same bullshit as everyone else and add buzz words like team player, responsible, enthusiastic and all that shite. This isn’t how it works. All this goes through my head in a split second as I try not to get all flustered. I’m fucked. I haven’t prepared for this scenario and in realising this I can’t help but see the genius in it. Whether he’s telling the truth or not doesn’t matter, this is a test, a proper test to see how I react under pressure. Touché old man, touché. Me: “I must admit, I definitely was not prepared for that. I appreciate the honesty and with that in mind rather than tell you why you should disregard your choice for me, I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t. Now, I’m unemployed at the moment and need to get back to work. I’ve been for many interviews and after today will go for many more. I have no particular desire to work for you and your company, no burning passion or shared vision or all that other crap people will have been telling you all day. I just need a job and you have a vacancy in a field in which I’m capable, not only am I capable, I’m damn fucking good. I like what I do and I do it well. I lost my previous job due to “downsizing” and since then have met lots of people in the same position. If I want to go back to work I have to take a major pay cut for doing more work just for the privilege of working. I am willing to take that hit. A job for me is something which helps sustain my lifestyle, my job is not my lifestyle. I enjoy it but that’s not the point I’m making. To be perfectly frank, and I’m sorry if I offend you but, I am sick and tired of this whole charade. Interview after interview, being judged on whether I’m the right sort, the right fit for the company. I’m already at a disadvantage, there are three of you and one of me, you are behind a desk and on raised chairs to give the impression of seniority. What chance do I have when you have all the power? You tell me you’ve made your choice, that’s great, why the hell am I here then? All you’ll have is somebody who can excel in this environment better, maybe a better CV or better experience but I can guarantee that they are the same as me. Somebody who just needs the work. Now I could never promise that I’d be the best damn appointment you ever make but I can tell you that if you do go with me, and are fair with me, then I will do the job to the best of my ability. I will work to deadlines and go that extra mile if I feel it’s warranted but what I won’t do is give up my life for you, become a slave to the wage so you can make a profit. Be fair with me and treat me like a real person and I will do whatever is asked, treat me like an autobot and you can shove the job up your arse. Been great talking at you, I’ll see myself out.” So, that’s another potential employer I can score off the list. Fuck sake, it’s getting quite desperate. Maybe have to bite the bullet and take a bar job or, god forbid, a call centre job. Fuck. Four years out of university and already been made redundant, after purposely getting a sensible degree in computing. “computers are the future” they said, “always be work in that industry”. Just a pity everybody else had the same idea. Maybe should have fucked off abroad after getting laid off, blown it all on cocktails and exotic girls. Fuck it, time to get drunk.

The bastard drunk toppled a stool and cracked-skull on the edge of the faux wood bar. He was bleeding before his knees caught the floor and his free hand slapped the bootfilth and godknows on the checkered tiles before he used it to wipe the wound. He didn’t cry out, just made an *oof* of inconvenience and after a few seconds of consideration, staggered to his feet. He didn’t spill a drop of his beer. He studied his dripping hand for a moment with a comical grimace that said *well this will never do* and he lifted his shirt to soak the blood from his face and hands. The Mexican by the jukebox whistled loudly and yelled some sharp note of Spanish congratulations. I turned back to the TV and sipped my whiskey. The news man was sweating and kept straightening his tie, trying to look dignified and unaffected. Poor bastard didn’t even have a drink. Just a pen he kept shifting between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing it like a stress ball or some fortune-teller’s talisman. Words flashed across the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t reading them. It didn’t matter. *…it is unclear at this time whether the President has arrived or if there will be a press conference or an official address. We do know that the President was en route to an undisclosed military location as of 9:43PM Eastern time…* The bastard drunk slammed his red-stained palm on the bar with a BANG and I think each and every person in that place jumped halfway out of their chairs, myself no exception. The Mexican started to yell something, but all ears fell on the drunk as he raised his glass to the sky and looked around the bar with glassy-eyed self-importance. “This!” His voice half-cracked, half-burped. “*This* is the last *god damn* place on Earth!” Someone yelled for him to shut the fuck up, Danny, you shit. “*This,* man. Here we are and then we aren’t. The last goddamn place.” He tipped his glass a bit as though to cheers us then gulped it down, nodding slightly with satisfaction, acceptance, I don’t know what. Someone muttered *sonofabitch* and we all went back to our business. I looked at the missed calls on my phone, scanning the area codes on unknown numbers, all 972 and 214. Dallas. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas. But there were a whole helluva lot of people in Dallas who knew me. Creditors, banks, hired phone goons. Companies and groups and affiliations, LLCs and organizations. But the phone hadn’t rang in a while. I wasn’t thinking about the money. Every area code on that list was from Dallas. For the last two weeks. She wasn’t going to call. Why would she call? I should have just turned the damn thing off. I killed my whiskey and thought about dying. Not so bad. It would be fast. Probably wouldn’t even notice. He we are and then we aren’t. I wondered if she was safe. Somewhere in one of those underground boxes with the canned beans and water bottles. She probably went to the army camp. Probably went with Jake. Goddamn *Jake.* But he’d keep her safe. That’s the main thing. As long as she’s safe. I thumbed my wedding ring and stopped thinking about dying. The Mexican shoved another dollar in the juke and whistled. I poured another drink. It took the end of the goddamn world to get my hands on a bottle of Special Reserve. Tasted like everything else I’d ever had. The bastard drunk stumbled up next to me, humming. I grabbed a dirty shot glass off the bar, sloshed some in and threw it to Danny the Bastard Drunk Shit. He looked at it the way my neglected, scorned, desperate, cheating wife used to look at close-up card magic. Wonder and skeptical awe. He slammed it and caught my eyes like a concerned doctor about to tell a cancer case he’s gotta stop smoking. He stared for a second, sizing me up. Or maybe just fighting off the nightspins as the Reserve hit the pot and stirred. The blood running down his face was drying brown. “Hey.” Hey, I said. “What...” burp “Just what the fuck are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t a threat. He sounded concerned. The Mexican screamed a battle cry and shot the juke out with his pistol. There was a commotion and I think some older cowboy fellow stabbed him. I don’t really know. The Tejano jangle beat snap crackle popped and was gone. “I mean. Really, man. What the *fuck* are you doing here?” *…we have been told by the government that we are to cease broadcasting immediately. For the sake of integrity we have decided to lock down the station and continue to transmit until… we are no longer able to do so. I will continue to report and stand by the people of this great nation the only way I know how. We will keep you informed and updated as best we can. God bless America. And God keep our love ones safe. Keep us all…* I was thinking about dying, I said. Danny burst out in fits of laughter. “You, man.” He pointed at me, still holding the empty shot glass. “*You!* You’re funny, man.” And he stumbled away. I wondered if she’d make it through this. Really I was wondering if she’d still think about me. How long from now? A year? Ten? Scavenging some blighted shitland that looked more like hell than Cleburne. Would she look for me? Jake wouldn’t let her. Hell, I wouldn’t want her to. Someone was dragging the Mexican out of the bar. I’d never seen someone die before. It felt like nothing. I poured more Reserve in my glass and looked up at the TV. Below the sweating, straining news anchor was an animated countdown clock. It said ten minutes and change. Last call. Part of me wanted to run and head for the army camp. Try to wait this out. Maybe I’d get to see her. Jake would stand between us, but she’d be cordial. Under the circumstances she might even give me a somber hug. Some kind of mutual pity and recognition of the Big Shit that made our problems seem years past and half-forgiven. Let bygones be bygones and let the bombs fall where they may. I looked over my shoulder at the last goddamn place on Earth. Twenty some-odd heathens swilling and swaying, counting down the minutes til they meet their maker, the Universe, the Big Shit. Waiting for their chance to say *Sorry.* I’m sorry for everything. I’m so damn sorry, Janie. The last drop of Special Reserve poured into my glass. The drunk was passed out on the pool table, still holding the empty shot. The old cowboy fellow was praying. Some were crying, some were repenting, some were toasting, laughing, shrugging, dialing, dancing, hugging, screaming and all of us were waiting. The news man straightened his tie and put down the fortune-teller’s talis-pen. There were no more words flashing across the bottom of the screen. There wasn’t going to be any Presidential address. Janie was safe with Jake. I finished my whiskey and savored the burn. The Mexican watched the stars outside, unseeing. The old woman in the corner rose to her feet. The last goddamn place on Earth broke into a harmonious, miserable, broken, joyful, perfect countdown. Ten nine eight seven six She’ll think of me. Bad or good, in passing, in pity, in regret, in love, but Five four three two She’ll think of me. Here we are And then we weren’t. EDIT: Formatting.

Your eyes open slowly, and then close them again at the glare of the sun streaming in through the window. Why didn't you remember to close the blinds last night before you went to bed? You shake your head. Your mind is foggy and your brain is practically throbbing in pain. You open your eyes again and force yourself to slide from between the sheets. You almost stumble as your feet hit the ground; still drunk from the night before? You stand up and stagger towards your closet, stopping briefly to look at yourself in the mirror. You see: A. A skinny woman, attractive woman in her mid-twenties wearing a t-shirt and a pair of running shorts. B.

NOTE: I haven't been able to come up with a suitable name for the protagonist yet, as you can see. The ten dashes are where his name would appear. “There were a million chandeliers above and below me.” These were the last words that typed on his hazardously dusty typewriter just before scraping the butt of his cigarette out in the pulpit of his glass ashtray. Apparently he thought these were good words to end on. If I told you why he chose these last words out of all the others that sat so readily in his dictionary, then I may ruin your expectations of Mr. , or maybe I don’t know myself. Perhaps it had something to do with the gleaming horizon that he woke to every morning as he rolled out of bed, peered out of his window, and watched the crystalline strands of orange light melt the cold smoke that pumped out of the cities veins. Or maybe it had something to do with his neutrality concerning his current professional position at the Chicago tribune as staff journalist. It was 1:00 a.m. Around him sat seven glasses of water which had been each been sipped the same amount of times. John cascaded the wheels of his chair across the lumpy laminate wood as he sprawled his body back, staring at his typed words for a few moments thinking about the sporadic manner in which he typed them and what they meant at all. He gently pulled back the cardboard hinge on his pack of Marlboro 27’s, plucked a fresh cigarette out, and brought the Styrofoam stub to his lips. He allowed it to dangle there. alternated glances between his blotted typewriter paper and his small rectangular alarm clock which rested on a low and chipped maple dresser. After a few minutes had gone by, he put the dangling cigarette back in the box. He loosened the bright yellow tie that hung around his neck, and laid his sore body down on the slightly damp bed leaving a parade of dust in the sky from impact. It was now 1:30 a.m in Chicago on a Wednesday. was in no rush. Every Sunday, him, his six combined brothers and sisters, and his parents would cram into a tiny coastal Rhode Island church to hear about sin, which was a topic knew well. Growing up on the coast of Rhode Island taught him two things: Don’t pray standing up and what the preacher says goes. Of course, it is possible to pray standing up. It may even be more comfortable than kneeling. To examine this problem would mean having to reveal a seemingly miniscule and innocuous moment in ’s adolescence. I would have to back-peddle through countless erased moments and drunken stupors which have been banned and exiled from ’s present psyche. I would have to go back past Charloette Stone’s beach-house, past the silver dollar moon, and, eventually, back to the last dance at ’s senior prom, and I simply will not trespass on that exiled box of memories at this current moment. John lay on his damp bed, staring at the picture of his family sitting in front of a glowing lake, resting at the foothills of familiar mountains. It was the last time he was together with his entire family. Next to the picture, was a pint of the cheapest whiskey sold in Chicago. He laid on his side for a few moments dissecting the picture waiting for some sort of strong emotional image to come to his mind. It never came. woke to a screeching noise. Face down on his pillow, he opened his eyes and gazed into the ash wall for a few moments before jumping out of bed and attacking the snooze button on his alarm clock. After a few more than necessary slaps to the top of his alarm clock, peered outside of his window, which was the only thing that was clean in the entire apartment, although, most people wouldn’t sum up apartment with the word: entirely. The words half or almost would be more appropriate. Outside of his window, there were five taxi cabs parked on the street, a corner vendor that would sell hot dogs for less than the normal price to when he would drunkenly loiter around the corners before dusk and a large fenced park diagonally to his left. The grass in the park looked like somebody had poured mass amounts of yellow cabbage onto the ground. He turned around in disgust and hopped into his half-shower. It was 7:45 a.m on a Thursday. Time. John Dinka’s alarm clock went off while he was in the shower, like it always does. A plethora of quite imaginative curse words screamed loud enough to wake the inhabitants of the neighboring apartment was usually the selected response from , for now he had to put his shower on hold while he turned the alarm off, which would subtract one minute and thirty seconds from his morning schedule, (and not to mention juice up the heating bill) as he would have to spend an extra minute and thirty seconds washing the conditioner out of his static orange hair. It seemed that mornings were meticulously planned out, perhaps better than most sane people. was, of course, sane. His random outbursts of anger, obvious alcoholism, and sociopathic tendencies were just by-products of a world that moves in masses, always forgetting the people similar to him; or, that’s how he would come to see the world, anyways. He chocked all of it up to society like it was trendy. As a matter of fact, may have been ahead of the curve because, for the journalist’ at the Chicago Tribune, there was nothing trendier than finding a valid excuse for blaming society. was completely sane by most people’s standards; he didn’t dare stand out. finished tying his solid red tie over a creased burnt marshmallow dress shirt. He grabbed his keys off the dresser, and walked casually out of his apartment door even though he knew he was a minute and thirty seconds behind schedule. He led himself down the maroon carpeted stairs, through the bright lobby, and out to his shitty fucking car.

||| Thanks for reading, and any all feedback is appreciated! ||| ###Children### By Miles B. “We were such kids back then.” She sighed. The vapor from her breath hung cold in the air, sentence unanswered. Hollow clouds crept quietly above us, barely masking the minuscule drops of light making up our universe. Eventually I replied with an equally ambiguous exhale, but it didn’t matter. Our thoughts were in the same place, even if our hearts had drifted. She nuzzled her head into my shoulder, familiar and unnoticed, and we gazed into the flames. The fire licked distantly at our cheeks, supported only by popping embers and softly glowing pine. The heat helped, but the December chill still crept through our layers. Moist pine needles were nipping through our jeans. “This feels right,” I decided. “It was the right thing to do.” We continued to watch as the structure blackened and charred, collapsing into ash and rubble. Earlier that evening we had driven east, past the city outskirts and into the mountains. Streetlights and buildings no longer led our way, but rather a patchwork of tiny lights above us, leading us forward. We drove past fences, beyond street signs, and into the forest. Our car slowly shrank, and we became infants among the tall pines lining our path. We kept driving, until the neatly groomed asphalt turned slowly into cracking concrete, which eventually shattered into gravel. Unsurfaced and uncertain, the road trembled us towards our destination"to the cabin. I had found the old shack (or what remained of it) a few summers before; forgotten and alone. It was a silent place to visit, but bared the scars of various tenants from over the years. Families and fathers, teenagers and addicts, creatures and insects. They were all the same anyway: wildlife. The structure was like a halfway house for fuckups, recovering their way back into homelessness. It rested at a perpetual slant, littered with broken glass and rusted beer cans. It had a sloping roof that was straining to cave in, yearning for the sweet release of failure. The crumbled remains of a stone fireplace could be seen through four panes of cracked glass, half-burnt chair legs and used condom wrappers rested below its chimney. The front porch was a mess of rotten wood and missing planks, featuring a set of broken and splintered steps. The fractures were possibly from the weather, but more likely just fatigue, like everything else at the house, they were tired. It had served as a shelter for the forgotten, a canvas to the vandals, and a glistening beacon of human apathy in my eyes. It was beautiful. “You know I loved you…” she tried again, searching for the approval of an answer. “You were fourteen.” I replied. It was all I needed to say. We watched from the dirt, illuminated by the fire. Her freckled cheeks flickered in the glow. I could see her nose was runny and pink, despite the immediate heat of an open flame. The winter always took its toll. We were bundled in beanies and jackets, hoodies and scarves. Our breath danced in front of us, as if mocking the subsiding flames before swiftly being evaporated. “Yeah, and you were sixteen,” she continued, “So it’s not like age changes anything.” Her head shifted uncomfortably against my jacket. “Whatever you say, kiddo.” I replied. She restlessly repositioned again. Initially, the house hadn’t ignited as quickly as expected. At first, the flames merely traveled along the walls, not fully sinking into them, until aided by gasoline and lighter fluid. Finally the relentless heat managed to tear through the dew soaked paneling and consume the dry wood below. From there it grew. The sound of hissing floorboards and cracking doorframes echoed through the trees. Glass bits snapped and fumbled out of place, only feeding the chaos. BOOM. Something big exploded. Strained roof supports finally gave out, and the scale of the house came crashing inward. As the walls came down, the flames grew higher. The cabin only had two rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom (the bathroom’s toilet was rusted shut so it didn’t really count). The bedroom was occupied by ancient cobwebs and a moldy flannel sleeping bag"both slowly turning to earth. The kitchen also worked as a living room. It housed a fireplace, two broken chairs, scattered trash and plastic bags, and a worn, faded rug. Mold covered everything in a stench too hard to swallow, like thick phlegm coating the back of your throat. It was a sanctuary to some, rock bottom for others. “Well I’ve missed you.” She kept on. “I miss you too.” I replied. When we were together, her and I, it wasn’t for very long"at least not by current standards. But we were children then, and six months was a lifetime. Scribbled notes had turned into nervous phone calls, flowers became promises, and backseats turned into chapels. It was us against the world"and it was pointless. We were dreamers then, still are I guess, but in our own way. We saw life differently at that age. Young love carries a heavy portfolio. Lust. Naivety. Passion. They were all our downfall. The last time I’d seen her face prior to this was through the crack of an old wooden door, seconds before it was slammed in my face. But I guess that’s the way things go; endearing had become annoying, promises became disappointments, and faults turned into canyons between us. We didn’t communicate. We didn’t love. We just… were. This was years ago, of course. We’d both changed since then, for the better. But so much was left unspoken, so much left up to interpretation. We needed closure"I needed it to end. “But won’t it burn everything down? She asked days before. “It’s the right thing to do.” I responded. I didn’t even have to think. Her cheeks slowly crept into a smile, eyes widened, and I could swear her pupils began to flicker. I kissed her on the forehead and told her we were going to burn it all down. She had never been to the cabin before, but gained the slightest twinge in her smile and leaned forward in anticipation as we pulled up to the gravel driveway. I turned off my headlights, shut down my engine, and unbuckled my seatbelt. She did the same, and we walked to the slanted building. She circled around it at first, peering through cracks, studying the roof, counting the windows. Looking through a gap in the paneling, she peered in and sniffed. “You want to go in?” I asked. “No.” She replied, “I like it from out here. It’s perfect.” The day before, we had grabbed everything we could"everything we remembered anyway. Old trading cards, worn stuffed animals, CDs, a typewriter. Everything. We even folded down the seats to make more room for cargo. Clothes, cameras, photos, jackets, hats, even homework, we piled them all into the back of the car. Anything we found, we took. Our instruments were the hardest. Barbeque fluid, lighter fluid, and three containers of cheap gasoline were our firing pin; old hairspray cans and spray-paint were our shrapnel. When the car was piled high, we headed for the highway. Letter after letter, envelope after envelope, we let them all burn. We littered the house with tiny pieces of ourselves, only to watch them disappear. Each stitch on discarded baseballs slowly burned away, leather browning and stretching, ink sizzling off its face. I watched as my babied steel string acoustic, lightning bolt scratched into the pick guard, slowly twisted and snapped into the flames as if being rung out by something sinister. Keyboards, recorders, guitars, a child’s tambourine"we destroyed them all. All gone, slowly disintegrating into ash and steel. Treasures, trinkets, memories, all burned. Not gone"just repurposed. Into something new. Something fresh. Clean. We didn’t talk much for the rest of the night, just watched. From igniting the first match and seeing it give life to the gasoline trail headed for the house, to following the last roof supports as they crashed downward, we watched from a distance. Dead leaves, frozen pine needles, and dried mud made up our seats"no blankets. We burned those too. We built ourselves a masterpiece from smoke and ash, like an embodiment of the past. Our magnum opus. Our final piece. It was beautiful. That’s how she saw it anyway. Me? I was just happy to let it burn.

You're working at a corner store during the summer to save money for when you have to go back to college in August. It's not a hard job. Ring items up. Put them in a bag. When it's time to go home you turn off the lights and lock up the store. It's not much but it's a job. You're not quite an adult, not quite a boy. Sure, you're legally an adult, but you don't pay bills. You're really only working at this place so you can afford to have fun when you go back to school. You have about an hour left on your shift, and you're spending it watching soap operas you can't understand and eating candy bars you haven't paid for. That's when he walks in the door. This is the guy that made your childhood a living hell. He's not quite an adult, not quite an child, but he's more of an adult than you. He's the same age as you. Same grade. You haven't seen him in years, but you've heard some things. You know he got married out of high school, and was divorced soon after. You know he has a kid that he struggles to support. And just looking at him you know you're far better off than him. Finally. You see this guy in front of you. The reason why you chose to walk three miles to school instead of take the bus. The reason why you faked sick so many days back in middle school, and the reason you ditched so many classes in high school. You see this guy in front of you, and you can't help but be a little happy. You can see the gap of time from when you last saw each other hasn't been kind to him. He's fat now. He looks dirty. His clothes are the same ones that he wore in high school only worn down with time. He still has hair only now it just sits in a tangled heap on top of his head. He has a beard that looks like it's there because he can't afford to shave. And even his voice sounds like it's degraded. If you hadn't known him before now you might have mistaken him for a bum wandering in the store for some alcohol. Which isn't too far off. This man that made you kneel in dog shit in elementary school. This guy who used to take your lunch money. This guy who would make fun of you until you cried is walking up in down the aisles of the store. He makes his way to the alcohol section and starts combing over the different selection of beers. He's taking a while so you let your mind wander for a bit. You think of those women in those soap operas you can't understand. How you wouldn't mind having women like *that* at your school. You think about what it would be like to act on one of those shows. You think about how you used to love acting in school plays when you were younger until this homeless looking guy looking for beer in your store harassed you about it. How he'd call you a faggot or queer. How he caused you to have such bad anxiety when you tried to act that you simply couldn't do it anymore. You think of nervous you felt when he was around that he caused you to stutter. Which of course only led to more insults. This guy who used to beat the shit out of you anytime he could. This guy who told all your friends that they were losers for hanging out with you finally chooses his beer and brings it to your cash register. And of course it's one of those bad beers. Six beers for six dollars. And of course it's beer. Cheap beer. High school beer. And as your ringing him up you think of how much fun you used to have at parties until he started showing up. Until he held you under his arm and poured beer over your head in front of the whole party. You think of how many parties you must have missed because of that incident. And this guy who made you the self-conscious, self-loathing wreck you are today asks for a pack of cigarettes too. Of course he wants cigarettes. And as you ring him up you can smell the quality of his life. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, and body odor. His smell is his life. And as he goes to reach in his wallet you can't help, but notice a couple of his fingers are missing. Partially. The last joint on his index and middle finger. The second joint on his ring. Gone. And of course he can't help but notice you noticing. Construction accident. These words he mutters under his breath before he collects his things and turns to leave. And for a moment you feel bad for him. You pity him. He makes you hate him more, because you can't really hate him. And as he turns to leave he asks you a questions that takes away all the pity you just had for him. *Do you have any jobs available?* This man who made cry most nights out of fear during elementary school. This guy who is the reason your parents wanted to sign you up for therapy. This guy who made you contemplate ending your life in high school is asking you for a fucking job. Your fucking job. And you take a moment to take it in. A thousand different responses flood your brain, but it's difficult to select the right one. So you decide to answer his question with a question. *Do you know who I am?* You ask wanting a response, but not expecting an answer. And the man pauses for a moment before answering. He looks at your face. Into your eyes. He looks at you with a blank expression on his face before answering no.

I wake up one morning feeling adventurous. I hop out of bed and shamble in to the bathroom to take a shower, stopping to pick up my blanket and tuck it into the covers my Mommy had tucked me in the night before. ~ When I exit the shower, I run my hands through my hair and toss my head around like a wet dog to get rid of the water. I go into my room to put on some clean clothes and decide on a green Power Ranger shirt that I get when my family went to Disney last February Vacation and a pair of Lee Jeans, topped off with light up Spiderman sneakers. As I enter the kitchen, I ruffle my dog’s fur and talk to her in that “baby” voice people use on dogs to make them seem more human-like. My brother asks me if I’d make him something to eat and I ask him what he wanted. “Cereal, I guess,” is his response. “Lucky Charms,” he adds as I reach for the Oatmeal Squares he usually eats on Saturday mornings before he heads off to his girlfriend’s house on the 11:35 a.m. Subway that takes you Downtown. I pour his cereal and milk on top of it; he only drinks 2% for some odd reason. “Thanks,” he says as he wipes his mouth with his long sleeve thermal and seizes his bag from the chair next to him. I ask him what’s in the bag, but all he says is, “stuff.” It takes me a few years to realize what my brother meant, but when I get to junior high I start to understand. ~ “You tryna hit this, dude?” Jed says. I haven’t smoked Marijuana, or “weed,” before, but I don’t wanna look like a pussy. I say “I’ll hit it” and when I inhale I choke for a good two minutes --while Steve and Jed sit on the rock where we hang out after we finish our homework on weekdays. “First time, huh?” Steve says as he exhales a plume of smoke that makes me gag. I say “yeah” and throw my hand over my mouth. “You’ll get used to it,” Jed says exhaling and coughing. Steve points at him and laughs, spitting out the insult, “whatta bitch,” between fits of laughter. ~ “Where is it?” the cop asks. I tell him that I don’t know what he’s talking about and he tells me to “shut up.” He bends me over the hood of my 2005 Acura TL and cuffs my hands together. I know I’m gonna get fucked, even though none of it was my fault. 300 kilos of Heroin “wasn’t my fault?” They wouldn’t buy it, my story. I mean, it starts off sketchy and continues to grow, progressively, worse: like the life of a person that, a few years ago, I would ridicule and make fun of. Society will do that to you. Life will, too. You think you’re “someone” and then, after a couples bad (or good) decisions you’re someone completely different. The penalty is in after a few brief moments of the jury talking: GUILTY. It wasn’t even close. I had a terrible lawyer. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not the time for excuses, though. ~ “Ten years,” says the Judge. Cheers fill the room and I’m escorted out into a police car, in cuffs. ~ It’s hard to write in here. I’ve been here ten years, come tomorrow. Everyone else is out going to college and getting jobs. Hell, even Jed went to Italy to work with some architects or something. But I’ve been here. Writing all these thoughts on spare pieces of napkins and, well, I’m on to the wall now. Words cover my cell. The guards think I’m planning some assassination or something. They ask me what I’m writing and all I say is “stuff.” ~ It’s so much different on the outside. So many things have changed. We have electric cars now? And we’re in another war? A black guy is President? How many things did I miss? Nothing changes on the inside: Herb’s always playing cards, 10:22 a.m. to 6:37 p.m., every day; Matt’s lifting weights and listening to some new country song when you think he’d be more into Rap and that kind of shit; Scott’s tattooing people, un-professionally, of course. It’s all the same. All the time… ~ Been out from behind bars for thirty-two years now. Met the girl of my dreams, finished school, got a job, dumped the girl of my dreams for some skank I’d been hooking up with from a nearby high school for the past two months, worked for her dad doing something with cars, broke her heart and her dad came after me with a shovel, moved out to Cali, started a surf shop with some guys off the street, got addicted to coke, went to rehab, met another girl on a run through the park when her dog’s leash tripped me, moved back East to Philly with her, got hitched, moved to Southern ME, started working for a fisherman, retired, had an affair with our house maid, got divorced, started smoking Pot again, met another girl, got re-married, got cheated on, followed by another divorce, then I started writing. Got through most of my life without much of anything or anyone. My only prized possessions are an old acoustic guitar that’s always a little flat, an old 60-gig iPod, and a pair of vintage jeans I bought at a Salvation Army a few years back when I found out my youngest child had Leukemia. ~ I’ve written a few best sellers now. And from time to time, people mention my name in the newspaper. I’m long gone in the Caribbean, though; in a small three-room cottage with shitty Internet service and some illegal immigrant I think I’ve fallen for. People stop by every once in a while, looking for a story or something, I don’t know. It’s like they think I wrote it all down.

“I would totally have sex with you right now if I didn’t have a boyfriend.” She’s pulled me into a fluorescent restroom on the second floor of a faux-hip alt bar called “green”. Some form of house reggae pulses through the floor. “You can’t say shit like that. That’s not fair to me.” I attempt to sound calm but firm, though my body language betrays the fact that I’m far from at ease standing in the women’s room while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. “Why not?” She’s actually perplexed. “Because.. because people who have significant others don’t say things like that.” Because I really want to fuck you. Because all night I’ve been relishing the way your pants hug your curves. “Because it’s confusing to me. You know what I mean?” She drops her lip gloss into her makeup bag and looks at me like I have horns. “You need to chill out, man! Make no mistakes; I’m taken.” This annoys me. “Hey, you’re the one who brought up sex in a public bathroom. I don’t even know what I’m doing in here.” It’s true. I have no idea what I’m doing. There has been no analogous precursory situation to inform my actions here. I’m also out of practice. I’m also drunk. She zips her bag and enters a stall while I stand by the entrance. Her fragrance is everywhere now and I’m thinking of how she would look naked, sitting on the bathroom counter with my head between her thighs. Her voice calls out from behind the stall. “…can..

She loved me. Every moment she questioned me, ridiculed me, suspected me, I knew she did it because she adored me. Her anger was proof of her love. Her screams were testimonies of her faith. I knew she would never leave me like the others. We shared an equality of obsession. She was no one to anyone, but everyone was someone to her. Her name was Lila. Those were her letters, in her order, of her alphabet, which was her name. I was her lover. She met me at her favorite coffeehouse. She had her favorite coffee, a large latte, sitting at her favorite table in the corner. She talked to me, flirted with me, and eventually, she chose me. She was cruel, condescending, controlling, and unpredictable; and I wouldn't have wanted her any other way.

So, /r/shortstories, I came up with an idea a while ago. It's a combination album and compilation of short stories that follow each song. The genre under which these songs are created is known as electroacoustic music. For reference, check out , , and Anyway, here's the beginning of my first installment. The piece that will accompany this story will be recorded in an old, creaky house. A plethora of drones from old synths, and (hopefully) processed tape loops will be added in. Not sure of a title yet, feel free to help me out! This project's still in its infantile stage, so any help would be greatly appreciated! **EDIT:** Formatting, etc. She awoke, the quiet, solemn night still surrounded her. Moonlight waded through the glass, as if it were the waves it controlled on the sea. The dust of memories old collected on old shelves, decrepit books, old pictures, and the wishes of what once was. She had only wished to fall asleep once again and hope this place she had woken to was merely a dream, and it would not be there when she truly awoke. But the place had an odd sense of curiosity about it, as if the walls themselves were calling her name, asking her to look deeper, past the peeling paint, the rotting wallpaper, and the creaky floorboards. The place echoed with the silence of history. She got up, looking around as she did so, looking for the way out; perhaps there was none. She walked through the door of the bedroom, her fingers trailing along the wall to help guide her way through the mysterious place. She kept walking, slowly, but surely, watching her steps, hoping that none of the floorboards would creak their last and collapse under her delicate figure. Her black hair swayed with every step she took, her eyes darted back and forth. This place created a sense of fear within her, however, she felt entirely at peace, she felt like she was welcomed there. Perhaps the lives of old that used to inhabit this place were friendly spirits and only wished to satisfy her curiosity before she returned to the lands of her dreams. The corridor lead to the living room, which was filled with mid-20th century furniture, though it all seemed so much older, covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs, sagging, and the colors were extremely faded. Her gaze turned towards the glowing fireplace. The flames danced and created shadows of life. Though the house seemed absent of all signs of life whatsoever.

I was utterly lone and 12,000 miles from home. I sat in my tiny room in the dirty Tokyo hostel and sucked down the flask bottle of whiskey. Kentucky bourbon made me feel closer to home than anything else. I contemplated the mysteries of the white wall a few feet from my face, and it must have spoken to me in some fashion for I felt a sudden compulsion to walk the dark streets and find companionship in the lonely city. I walked across one of the Asakusa bridges with that half drunken gait where you feel pushed along, rather than pushing yourself. I found myself pushed to the local foreigner bar and happily entered. Warm light came into the misty night as I opened the door and I was greeted with the sounds of music and laughter, the smell of beer and bourbon, and the touch of inebriated white hands clapping my back. There is a camaraderie among foreigners abroad unlike anything else. You truly are strangers in a strange land, and you wander alone all day through concrete tunnels lined with strange symbols and never talking, yet surrounded by bustling conversation always, and then at night you find each other and talk boisterously and smile always, and you ask "What country?" and tell how much you love Spain, or France, or England, and they tell you about how they love America so. You talk about where you've been, and where you'll be tomorrow. People filter in and out, and every night new people and old friends departing, for they must catch a plane tomorrow. Then at midnight is last call and everyone spills into the streets. Whiskey at the 7-11 and then a trip to the river where you lay about and speak of life and home and the glory of the journey. As I lay on my back I realize I feel closer to these strangers than anyone I know, and it is a comforting realization that you can find companionship in the loneliest of places, and that tomorrow there will be new friends and new liquor and that you will never be truly alone.

“Where do we go from here?” I thought as I laid on the rickety, old hotel mattress, my hands resting behind my head to avoid direct contact with the well-used pillow. I stared at the ceiling while I pondered, trying to create a map in my head of where the next destination would be. “Hey, Kale, should we travel north or west?” I turned my head toward him as I said the last word of my question. “Up to you. You’re the master planner here,” Kale replied, a smirk growing on his handsome face. I pondered further, my foot rapidly fidgeting as it dangled off the edge of the bed. “But honestly, we need a better hotel next time,” he added, a few moments later. I finally looked away from the ceiling as I removed my left hand from behind my head. I started to examine my hand, slowly turning it and observing as if I had never seen it before. My fingernails were chipped and dried blood rested around the edges. Kale was in the corner of the room sitting in an ancient armchair, his backpack in front of him so he could search through it while remaining seated. He rustled around as if looking for something. “Kale, do you think we can ever escape?” I asked, a hint of concern in my voice. “Our only limits are in our minds. I know we can, and we will,” he assured me. At that moment I realized that we could be running for a long time. Cult leaders don’t let people leave easily. Not alive, anyways. “Why did I join that stupid group anyways?” I thought to myself. It was like signing up for a credit card - once you sign, you’re pretty much stuck with it for life. I finally sat up on the rather lumpy bed and swung my legs around to the side. I stood up, stretched my arms out, and casually wandered over to the window. The tattered curtains were translucent and I could see the sun setting over the water without even moving them. “It’s a beautiful night,” Kale whispered from behind my neck, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. I hadn’t realized he had gotten out of his chair. He wrapped his hands around me, clasping them over my belly button. “We should just forget everything and go out for a walk. We can’t pass up a beautiful sight like this.” Kale moved his left hand along my back and reached for my right hand. He grabbed it gently and started to lead me to the old, wooden door. I was in a state of infatuation and stupidly allowed him to guide me. Kale and I walked down two flights of creaky, wooden stairs and exited the Lands End Hotel. The truth behind the name of the hotel put me on edge, making me feel like there really was no escape other than to swim. Or boat, but we had no way of getting one. We began to walk along the dirt path. The hotel was in a forested area with a nearby beach. Mosquitoes buzzed by my ears and I tried to swat them away with my free hand. I realized that every aspect of my life involved getting rid of something, more accurately someone. Renaldo sure was not happy when he found out that Kale and I left the cult. Romance was not permitted there so we ran off together. Betrayal was not permitted either. Renaldo had likely sent Hugh and Gregory - two very strong men - after us. Either that or he was chasing us himself. I’d rather test my chances with Hugh and Gregory because Renaldo certainly had issues. Every time a twig broke beneath my feet, or a rodent scurried in the distance, my heart would beat faster. I broke into a cold sweat. Kale noticed the worry in my face and said, “Rita, don’t worry, we’re going to be fine out here. There’s no way Renaldo could find us so quickly. Just relax and enjoy the scenery. It’s not every day that you get to visit Nova Scotia.” He was right. I tried to focus on the briney air coming in with the ocean breeze. It calmed me and I became lost in the orange-pink sky. After walking for about a half hour, Kale suggested that we turn back. He once again guided me and I once again allowed him to, only this time I really wanted to. I felt safe with Kale. The sun was barely visible, it was nothing but a thin gash on the canvas that was the sky. With all the trees it was difficult to see, but the comfort of the air and Kale’s warmth allowed me to stay relaxed. “Okay, we’re almost back,” I thought, “Only a few more minutes to go.” I remembered the uncomfortable bed and suddenly heading back was less desirable, but I wanted to get away from the mosquitoes and the openness of the unfamiliar area. Kale led us around a large tree; it must have been hundreds of years old. I didn’t remember seeing it on the way out and felt a bit uneasy. As I took my next step, my left foot caught on something. I fell to the ground and the air escaped my lungs. “Kale! Where are you? I can’t see!” I shouted with the last bit of breath I could scrounge up. A hand grabbed mine to help me up. I instantly felt relieved. But I soon realized that the hand was too big to be Kale’s. I tried to let go but the hand clamped down on mine; the hand was so large that it completely consumed mine. “Kale! Help!” I tried my luck again, but there was no response once again. I felt my heart break. “Something is wrong,” I thought. I figured that there was no point in wasting my energy on trying to escape my captor’s grasp, so I decided to save the effort for a better opportunity for escape. The man ironically led me back to the hotel, but rather than going in the main doors, he opened a cellar that was accessible on the shore-side of the hotel. As I was forced to descend down the cold, cement stairs into the darkness below, I worried about Kale and whether he was okay. “Sit,” said the man before me. His dark silhouette pointed to an empty milk crate. I obeyed without hesitation, a scrap of hope in mind. The man aggressively tied my hands behind my back with a rope. He took out a flashlight and shined it in my eyes so that I could not see what he looked like. I heard a cough in the background, revealing that a second person was also in the room. Using my energy that I saved from earlier, I headbutted the man in the groin. The flashlight dropped to the ground and I rushed to pick it up, freeing my hands easily along the way with the adrenaline running through my veins. I was shaking but I managed to aim the flashlight around, slowly at first, then quicker as I was trying to locate the second person in the room. The man on the ground, sure enough, was Hugh. I assumed the mysterious second person would be Gregory since they were always paired up together, but it wasn’t. The circle of light allowed me to catch a glimpse of the second person’s shoe. I slowly aimed the light up toward the face of the person. “It can’t be... it just can’t...” I whispered aloud. “I’m so sorry, Rita,” whimpered Kale as he pointed a gun at my chest.

Learning to surf wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. The jellyfish made me nervous, but if I acted as such everyone would think I was afraid. I shouldn't be, really. It's just a small sting - not as bad as a bee or a wasp. Maybe like that of a fire ant's...The jellyfish still made me nervous. Maybe I seemed afraid because of the time my family visited Florida when I was a child. The jellyfish there were small and invisible. At least these jellyfish were big and purple. Maybe it was the guy who I overheard saying that he was stung on the face. What if I got stung in the eye? Or my mouth? What if I got stung on my dick? He got stung in the face and is still out here, he isn't afraid. I touched a big purple jellyfish. I hadn't seen it. I jumped. I touched the top where there are no tentacles. It felt like cold, wet human skin. I jumped back as if I were afraid. I can't be afraid, my girlfriend is watching. I should just keep surfing.

With a loud gasp, Charlie woke up from his slumber. His breaths were slow, and became calmer as the seconds past. With the nightmare over, it took him not long to gain his bearings. He was in his bed, not in the giant quicksand he saw in his dream. The window beside them was open, and a calm breeze came through. Beside Charlie was Sasha, fast asleep. He could not miss the drool by the side of her lips. It made him smile for the while. She was really beautiful and innocent at the moment, and it took Charlie’s breath away. Still feeling out of place from the dream, Charlie got from his bed, and walked to the bathroom. With the door shut, Charlie gazed closely at his reflection. He felt repulsive. From his face, to his bare chest, to his boxers. He sighed softly to himself, and shook his head. Christ…. When Sasha woke up from a sudden noise, she saw Charlie all dressed as if he was going out. Although tired, Charlie could see her confusion. “Where you goin Charlie? Its late babe.” Charlie hesitated for a moment, then spoke out softly. “I’m gonna go for a walk. Clear my head. Would you like to join me?” Charlie hoped she’d say no, but he felt right to ask. Sasha mumbled and rested back in her comfy position. “No way. Nuh uh. Don’t be long kay?” Charlie smiled as he turned to make way down the stairs, but he heard Sasha call out to him. Charlie turned and saw her smiling in her bed. “Love you.” She said quietly. Charlie was silent, then smiled back his response. The moonlight lit the streets well enough to entertain Charlie on his walk to nowhere. With lots of thoughts on his mind, he had no idea how to keep his sanity. He wished the wind blowing in his face would wash all his sorrows away, or the night sky swallow him whole. He saw a cat walk past a garbage can, a ribbon blow across the street, and a motorbike being parked by a house. There was so much to see now, but so little to take in. He was now beginning to wish he had brought his mp3 player with him. Before Charlie could process another thought he heard someone call his name. “Charlie bro!” Charlie turned and saw his friend Brophy coming towards him. Beside him was an asian girl. Charlie knew her, for he saw them together a couple of times already. It was enough to get him on edge. Charlie waved back and continued walking. He didn’t know what was going on behind him now. A half hour later, Charlie was passing through some bushes that led him to a Cliffside. The moon was clear above him now, and the wind was forever stronger. It was perfect. Suicide Rock was its name, inspired from the many attempts and depressing thoughts Charlie had in the past. The last time he came here was when he was with…. “Bruh!” Charlie turned and saw Brophy again. This time he was alone. “Where’s the broad?” Charlie asked in a sour tone. Brophy punched Charlie lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, the broad has a name, and she went home. We were just doing a midnight walk.” Charlie nodded to himself and sat down on the hard ground. Brophy sat beside him taking out a beer for the each of them. Charlie was about to question Brophy for it, but Brophy didn’t want any of it. The two friends sat together getting buzzed, and talked of life. It had been a while since Charlie and Brophy had been together, so they had a lot to share. Well, Brophy did anyways. “Charlie, seriously bro you’ve been acting anti-social again. Depression on your tail again? We can take him!” Charlie shook his head, and put the bottle aside. Slowly but surely, without any warning, a tear fell his cheek. Brophy didn’t miss it, and deep down he became all the more curious. It was weird. One moment he was out of bed with the love of his life, and the next thing he knew he was outside about to cry. Brophy rested his arm on Charlie’s shoulder. “Life blues huh?” Charlie brushed his friends arm aside and drank another gulp. “I hate my life. I hate all these people around me, I hate worrying every day, and I hate…..I hate trying to trust people. I hate…..I hate being me….” Brophy laughed, but it didn’t bother Charlie. The booze was getting to him. “Charlie, you and me are soooooo much a like. I tell you this so many times. Bruh, we’re in this together right? I mean come on, we have our moments but we got to look on the brightside. We have Nujabes, we have music, we have sweet hunnies to inspire, and…..lots of other stuff. I know life is confusing, trust me mate, but we’re all not that bad as people. It’s just the crazy lot.” Charlie wiped a tear from his face and was quiet. He heard a faint rumble of thunder in the distance and figured a storm was coming. It excited him. “We just need to change somehow, bruh. If only it was that simple right?” Charlie nodded. “If only it was that simple Brohpy…..” When the time was right to depart, Brophy and Charlie got up and took their bottles with them. Charlie took one last glimpse at the moon, and smiled to himself. If only my purpose was so simple and clear. He stood there for a moment hoping the moon or something or someone would reply, but nothing came his way. All he could think of now past the depressing struggles he had his head, was how Sasha looked in her bed fast asleep and how she was someone he could share his mind with. Someone that beautiful. Charlie and Brophy waved their goodbyes, and Charlie headed home. To his beautiful love, or his fated oblivion. Another story for another time.

It was too late; she was gone. The teenage boy stood over the body of his best friend, his confident, and the only person who stayed as a constant in his life. For a moment, the boy could do nothing but stare at the gaping wound in her chest and attempt to convince himself she was still alive- that in a moment she would jump up and laugh at him for getting emotional over her little prank. But finally, he could deny it no longer. It was in that moment of acceptance that his legs lost their strength and he fell to the floor beside her. As badly as he wanted to cry, he was unable to overcome the state of shock that came with the girl's death. It took several minutes for him to regain control over his body and when he did, he placed a hand over her injury. With his other hand he brushed the hair away from her face and smoothed the hair on her head. With a shaking voice the boy began to speak. He spoke to the girl as if she was still alive, recounting the countless memories he had of her. He started from the day they first met and continued to tell stories of the 8 years they spent together as best friends. Finally, when he reached the current day, his voice cracked and tears began to fill his eyes. "I've had this day planned out for weeks now. Did you know that? This definitely wasn't supposed to happen. I was going to pick you up from your house like I do every Saturday morning and tell you I had a surprise for you. You were going to be excited because you loved nothing more than unexpected surprises. I was going to take you to the lake where you taught me to swim and when you asked why we were there I was going to grab your hand and give you speech I've been rehearsing for a year now. I was going to tell you how you're the most important person in my life and I was tired of pretending you were only my best friend. I was going to tell you that I couldn't stand seeing guys flirt with you and I hated pretending I was happy for you whenever you started liking a guy. I was going to tell you how I almost killed Eric when he made you cry that one day. I was going to tell you that I love you. That I want you and no one else. And even if you didn't feel that way about me I would always love you and I would never lose you as my best friend." He did nothing to stop the tears as they began to freely fall down his cheeks and onto the body of the girl he loved. "I guess I screwed that one up didn't I? Everything would have gone perfectly as planned, maybe we would even be kissing right now as a happy new couple. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gotten mad at you. I couldn't control my jealousy. It wasn't even your fault. You just made an innocent comment about that boy you kissed last year and I blew up on you. I didn't stop yelling until you couldn't take it and you ran away from me. I was so mad I didn't even try and stop you. We were so close to the lake too. It took me so long to realize I was being irrational and stupid. Too long. When I finally went to go search for you by your favorite tree it was too late. The bullet had already pierced your heart. And mine.

Unfamiliar street signs cite flower names, and I’d like to stop and appreciate the irony of the street consisting of tenements and uneven concrete slathers forming the dilapidated earth below my feet, but I can’t. The pavement is slipping under my feet fast as I desperately search for something. Anything. As much as I love flowers, I have no idea where I am. Rose, Lilac, Daisy: all useless to me. Third time tonight I’ve had to laugh at the irony of it all. Third time I’ve circled around here. Second time I’ve gotten lost out here. Incomprehensible maps, my own poor sense of direction, every person who I run into either wanting money or not knowing where anything is because they refer to the city as “Frisco”; the night is stacked against me. And I have to be home. I have to be at the station at the stroke of tomorrow. When the clock strikes midnight, Cinderella won’t just lose everything: she’ll be stranded in the city. I don’t know where I’m going, and it shows. I’ve run past that same homeless person three times. He’s laughing at me now, like he’s the one who has everything figured out. Like his place below the graphitized overhang of a restaurant closed up with a heavy, rusted gate is so much better than the home I have to go back to. But he’s right. It is. He knows that his place on the uneven pavement is his. I only know that every step I take marks one more stretch of land that isn’t mine. I’m lost; he has already found everything that he needs, even if he doesn’t know where his next meal will come from. I want to spit at him, but I can’t. I respect him too much. Streetlights stare down at me condescendingly, the area of blackness between their diffuse spheres of influence giving me a feeling of insecurity as I cut corners with an indeterminate path in mind. It’s as if they’re mocking me, guiding me along through the abyss of lost-ness only to say “Ha! I’ve got you!” when I realize that I’m back at the same market that I passed five minutes ago. I’m misguided, listening to light and watching the scenes change as if I’m helpless, lost in my own body as much as the body of the city. I run past a middle aged black man twirling a cane awkwardly and mumbling to himself. He extends a hand out to me just as I am about to pass. I stop to shake it. What’s going anywhere when you’re lost? I can feel the calluses of a life either well lived or wasted away, and the decrepit man smiles back at me. “Hi, I’m James.” He’s complaining about a pinched nerve in his leg and something about getting home. I can half understand him. The topic turns to money. $2.27. I laugh. Tell him to walk with me. I’ll break a twenty at the corner store. It’s cold outside. Glad I brought a jacket, but the sweat staining my jean legs makes the night breeze chill me to the bone. James won’t stop complaining about being cold. And his pinched nerve. “Been there, done that” I tell him. And all I want to ask him is if he knows Ginsberg. America, two dollars twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956. America, stop pushing, I know what I’m doing. America, I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel. I envy Ginsberg sometimes. I envy homeless people sometimes. Old story of Ginsberg and his shrink, Phillip Hicks: “What would you like to do?” “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I really would like to stop working forever—never work again, never do anything like the work I’m doing now—and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure and to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends.” “If that is what you really feel would please you, what in the world is stopping you from doing it?” I ask James. James says that he knows Ginsberg. James doesn’t know Ginsberg. James knows Ginsberg. Ginsberg is where he’s going after he gets a few bucks off of the sucker taking him to the corner store. James doesn’t exist anymore, and I don’t have a twenty. I have a ten and a five. But I don’t have two dollars and twenty-seven cents. I don’t want to have two dollars and twenty-seven cents right now. A month ago, I read about Romeo talking about money being poison. And for this guy, my money might very well to prove to be his poison of choice. It might not. At least he knows what he wants. At least he knows where he’s going. The streets are nearly empty, rare for the city at this hour, yet every streetlight is still lit up. False beacons of direction leading me everywhere and nowhere. And yet, as I walk out of that corner store, I see brighter lights, the road to the BART station and then home. For now, it’s salvation from the unknown. But I don’t know if it’s my path. The one I want to take. But tonight, it’s the one I have to take. Probably going to be the same path tomorrow. But one of these days, I’ll make my own path. I’ll be the Ginsberg of my generation. I’ll be the James with the calluses in my hands. I’ll be who I want to be. But tonight, I’m taking the yellow line back home. Good night San Francisco. Constructive criticism and general feedback are greatly appreciated.

He sat silently in his bedroom with the shades pulled down and the lights switched off. It was afternoon, so this failed to create the effect of complete darkness. Rather, it caused a bluish dimness to permeate the room. How dramatic, he mused, but it soon passed from his mind, replaced by a shade of some other train of thought. It was only a shade because he had never truly had a fully formed thought about it. ‘It’ was an emotionally destructive event that had happened only a day prior. The thoughts he had had about it weren’t full in that they lacked any amount of emotion; they were totally logical, totally reasonable. He was no stranger to such a thing; this had happened to him a number of times before in similar situations, but an emotional shock had always come a few hours later. Not this time. The fact that it had been a full day and nothing of the sort had transpired was enough for him to know the shock would never come. The event was that his girlfriend had broken up with him. Naturally, the few people he had informed had given him plenty of advice on the matter. “There are other fish in the sea”; “Don’t give up! You can get her back!”; “Don’t be too sad”. ‘There are other fish in the sea’ was entirely obvious. The boy knew he would eventually find someone else, forget about his old girlfriend, and be happy. He knew that there was no such thing as “the one”. ‘Don’t give up! You can get her back!’ was foolish: no he couldn’t. The only way she would want to be with him again would be if she made the decision of her own accord. People were stubborn. Unwavering. Illogical. Their minds could not be changed on these matters. ‘Don’t be too sad’ was the most curious. Its stupidity and uselessness aside, the boy seemed to be following it of his own accord with his aforementioned lack of emotional thoughts. He had felt no rush of sadness, of helplessness or of desperation. His sadness had been private, internal. Its effects on his behavior were nothing more than some tiredness, and perhaps a tendency not to laugh as hard at jokes. Anyone who was unaware what had happened would assume he was just low on sleep; not that an event of immense consequence had just occurred in his life. Quiet sadness. The boy knew from experience (both personal and of others) that ‘getting over a breakup’ typically involves a feeling of superiority, of maturing, of scorning your former partner. This was foolish, he felt. It was natural, and he had nearly given into it, but he had stopped himself. Perhaps he was above her, but not by all that much. He tried his best not to think any lower of her than she objectively deserved. The silhouette of a tree outside his window shone through the shades. He stared as it danced in the wind for half a minute, then blinked. Seemingly out of nowhere, the words ‘stupid bitch’ entered his mind, but he shook them off. There it is again, he thought; that unrelenting desire to show himself that it didn’t matter. That she was inconsequential, and that the prior event had been a fortunate one. But it hadn’t been. And he knew that he could never truly ‘get over her’ unless he accepted that it had indeed been a bad occurrence. And she truly was not a stupid bitch. She was a wonderful, intelligent girl, who had been nearly perfect for him. And yet, she possessed a select few qualities that made the two of them incompatible. It was a terrible shame. At that moment, his mother opened his bedroom door, bringing in light from the hallway, “There you are, sweetie. I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing in here all by yourself?” “Nothing, Mom. I was just going to go mow the lawn.” She smiled, nodded and left the room. The boy followed a few moments later, and went to get the mower.

Jack loved snacking. He loved it so much that, in his later years, the snacking that he had accomplished over his many, many years caught up to him. It settled in his hips, just under his chin (as he so sneakily hid by always slightly raising his nose to everyone, which was taken as being snobby), and of course, it conglomerated in a fantastic meeting around his belly. His utmost favourite vice, that he would leap over mountains for, or, rather, a more realistic example due to his lopsidedness from snacking would be to kill or maim for, was Macadamia nuts. No matter what he was eating, be it salad (minority) or a rather large slab of greasy cow, equipped with mounds of mashed potatoes and succulent gravy (majority), he added a heaping handful of delicious nuts of the Macadamia family. They were his mustard, his ketchup (ironically enough Jack despised both mustard and ketchup). When his favourite local coffee shop added a Macadamia nut cookie to their entourage of plain Jane snacks, Jack almost set up camp with a fistful of dollars and an over experienced jaw to help get rid of the abundance of pesky cookies the shop had upon its racks. He could have lived off the smell of them, and in a perfect Jack world, would eat, sleep, and think any multitude of forms of Macadamia nuts. It would go on without a hitch for most of Jack’s life. He would happily snack as people would muse about his audacious choice to add the aforementioned crutch to meals ranging from pizza to his famous (or, rather, infamous) chicken noodle Macadamia nut soup. He even got his wife to accept this addiction and even become a connoisseur herself, having on occasion found herself finding her meals bland and without charm without that ever so hallowed nut that Jack did covet. Much to Jack’s disappointment, his care free and lackadaisical life of enjoying his oh-so-favourite-I’d-rather-not-live-without-em’ nut would come screeching to a halt. On the afternoon of June 7th, 1994, Jack, on his 60th birthday, would discover his four-year-old son Jacob was oh-so-deathly-cannot-even-breathe-the-damn-fumes-in-without-certain-suffocation allergic to everything that is nut or nut related. Jack was decidedly perturbed. It occurred to Jack almost suddenly that, yes, he did love his son dearly, (so much so in fact that, as far as Jack was concerned, he’d stop a million bullets from a million guns just to see his son’s smile one last time as he breathed his last gasping breath) and he very much did love a delicious Macadamia in his mouth, but with his son being most certainly allergic, he’d have to quit. Cold turkey. He stomped around pouting to his wife, Jackie. He had yelled: “Why me?!” He had shouted: “What am I to do!” He had screamed and hollered and done every other synonymous word one can think of for making a hefty racket, but in reality it was no use. It happened in slow motion when Jacob was at pre-school. Sounds were soundless and as if watching in super high-definition, he saw Jackie dump and trash his scrumptious nuts into the garbage. Jars atop the fridge. Containers hidden in nooks. Baggies stashed in crannies. Everything was gone; every last morsel glad-bagged and kicked to the curb. He closed his eyes and felt woozy. Jack reached in his pocket, his heart racing, furious and shaking, he pulled out a pack of matches as an avalanche of nuts came out in a volcanic spew. He stepped slowly past Jackie, she was yelling his name and he could barely hear. In his weakened and unstable state, Jack thought he heard her chant a taunting snack, snack, snack, and this infuriated him more. He grabbed her arm and pulled her down the stairs with him, heading to the front door. Jacob appeared next to him at the foot of the stairs. With both hands pulling a loved one and the matches still trembling in his fingers, he exited the door and slammed it ferociously. From there he shoved Jacob and Jackie to the lawn, (a little too fiercely, he quickly admitted to himself in his enraged state) and stomped towards the garbage bag brimming with Jack’s dearly beloved Macadamia nuts, a beautiful flower pot that Jacob had made from clay at pre-school, and had broken (followed by tears) whilst skipping home, and refuse alike. With a tremendous roar, a plethora of things happened all at once: the roar took place, and it was from Jack. “If I cannot eat these god damned things, then they will burn in hell!” Secondly, Jack kicked at his front lawn. Pointless really, but a few blades of grass were decapitated and it ensured his wife and son that he was indeed angry. Thirdly, he lit a match. It went off with an unusually loud ‘thissssss’ , and he stared down at the bag with hatred. He looked back at his two loved ones and whispered: “I will not live in a prison cell my entire life.” Jack dropped the match. Almost instantly, the bag erupted in flames. Giant, leaping, licking flames. It almost seemed alive as it popped and gagged and burped out fumes from the experimental concoction within the black plastic bag. He backed away slowly, his eyes dancing as the fire belched outward, intensely hot and ferociously orange. A giant upward arm of fire seemed to latch onto the tree that he and his wife once watched being planted some thirty years ago atop his boulevard. The summer’s dry, elongated heat-wave had turned the leaves into parchment paper, and it almost exploded into a ball of flames. Jack backed away quickly, but still didn’t waver. He had truly snapped. He began to cackle as, within minutes, it could be seen that the single match’s flame was now slowly sod-cutting his front lawn, almost as if it were being unravelled. The police and the fire department arrived, sirens wailing and flashing. The police tackled Jack to the ground, and as a fireman gathered his crew to erupt a stream of water towards Jack’s creation, Jack cackled even more maniacally. His wife Jackie, terrified, fell to her knees as another officer held her back. “Jack!” she screamed. “Jack!” ...”Jack.” ...”Jack?” She slapped him softly in the face. “Jack? Wake up honey.” He groaned, lifted his head wonkily and replied, quite woozy and out-of-sorts. “I...I fainted?” “Yes, darling,” she replied, “right when we were pouring out your nuts.” His head fell back softly, and he looked up at his wife. “How will I live without them, baby?” * * * Fifteen years passed. Jack, for the most part, learned to live without his precious Macadamia nuts in the house. Jacob’s allergies developed so severely, that even traces of it would send him off with a wing and prayer in one fell swoop. But Jack survived. Until now. Here we stand. Jack, at 75, has lived the life he was meant to live, and then some. His over-endulant snacking had finally taking a deathly toll on him. The hospital bed creaked as he turned his head to look out the window and he sighed. The heart monitor was blipping like sonar, and little did he know that the final torpedo was headed his way to crash into him in five minutes. And that was generous. He breathed heavily and sighed again. He could hear his wife (oh, his beloved wife) chatting solemnly with visitors just out-side the hospital room. This was it. It was simply the end, and, for the most part, he had lived a good life. Or, rather, he had finished his remaining, Macadamia nut-free years in a satisfactory way. A visitor that he had been waiting for, whom was doing his rounds of handshakes and thank-yous and sad, accepting nods with each travel worn relative outside the door, walked in. It was his son Jacob. Jack realized in that moment that he had never told Jacob of his nutty past; he figured it was for the better. Jacob had globular tears running down his cheeks as his eyes cast upon his withering father. He shuffled his feet around the bed and knelt down at his side. “Hey, Pop.” Jack wheezed. “Hey, kiddo.” Jacob blinked slowly, uneasy and emotional and not sure what to say. “Listen, bud,” Jack shifted his weight with much effort and turned to his son. “You have to take care of Mom, okay? You’re almost 20 and I know you’ll be good to her.” Jacob blinked again; his cheeks were wet and shiny. “I’m immensely proud of you. So, so immensely proud.” Jack managed a smile. He had not shed a single tear, but his heart was pounding, animalistic and terrified inside. “I hope you know that," Jack whispered. Again with painstaking effort, he reached out his hand and stroked his son's hair slowly. He smiled and croaked: “You really need to cut this hair.” Jacob smiled. Moments passed. The torpedo was knotting along, a minute away. “Dad?” Jacob whispered. Jack answered with a curious glisten in his eyes. Jacob reached in his pocket and pulled out a ball of tinfoil. He placed it in the crook of his father’s side, and stood. Jack slowly reached down and opened the ball, hands shaking. Sitting in the center, looking moist and juicy and delectable was a single, beautiful Macadamia nut. Jacob smiled. Jack picked it up, glanced at his son with the love and pride of a million degrees of heat that would blaze from a burning front yard, and a tear slowly trickled down his cheek. He popped the nut in his mouth and began to chew happily. The torpedo hit, and everything went blank.

( So, this has been an idea I've been running with for a while now. I've been interested in continuing it, but I'd like to know what Reddit thinks. Please just give me some constructive criticism here. I just want to know if it'd be worth investing my time in this idea. Aaaand...enjoy the read! ) Smoke billowed from the window of a broken-down truck that always sat at the edge of Potts farm. Nobody knew how or when the dusty behemoth of a vehicle ended up where it was. All that was known was that it had been there for years on end, never claimed and never moved. Incapable of any motion, the vehicle was often the place that delinquents and vagabonds aplenty decided to make their little niche in the world. Sitting in the front seat, Matthew Delaney smoked the Marlboro in his lips slowly. A down-to-earth country boy, Matthew fit the part with a pair of dusty overalls and a tank top worn underneath. Scrawny to the letter and hiding his eyes behind a tangled mess of sweat-laced hair, he wasn't exactly the most attractive or noteworthy of people in the small farming colony of Plethora. A glance over brought attention to the old rifle he had stolen from his father's case. A Winchester by make, the rifle was known for its solid performance, even as old as it was. Today, it seemed, was the day that Matthew had decided to die. Another gentle puff of the cigarette brought his mind back, spiraling through the mesh of memories and thoughts he had locked away for the day. What had brought him to this point? The breakup. That's right. Amber McGraw, a girl he had been with for nearly two years had decided that they were looking at different ends of a circle. They would arrive at the same points, but regardless of how much they moved their plans around, there was never a solid corner to settle into. A shake of his head brought Matthew back to the present, a blemish of a day in his perfect plan of life. Everything he had known in the world had come to a close and there was no new chapter to this book. No sequels, no trilogy or saga to keep him wondering what came next. Sighing, Matthew flicked the cigarette from the door and grabbed the rifle from the passenger's seat. Kicking the door as he pulled the handle, the old metal swung open with a contesting creak and squealed to rest once open halfway. Squeezing out of the narrow opening, Matthew walked to the front of the truck and leaned back. The cold metal of the grill met his back with a smack and Matthew soon found himself sliding to sit with his knees propped up. Dropping his head back, he let it rest on the truck's grill as he gazed into the night sky. Earth had been a sight back whenever he had first lived there. The large white moon above with stars littering the sky had kept him rather enraptured as a young boy. At the age of twenty-seven, however, Matthew found the night sky of Plethora to be a bit lackluster. There was no moon, only stars. The sky wasn't even that dark here. A darker shade of red, perhaps, but the early sun's rotation did little to give a working man a real moment's sleep. Shaking his head, Matthew looked down once more at the rifle he held. At least he'd be found soon. People would be out and about in an hour at the latest. Since the old “Pott's Truck” was a landmark into and out of the primary farming community that the colony was known for, someone was bound to find the poor man's body where it would undoubtedly be lying. No coyotes or decay for him. He'd at least have the dignity of a decent burial. Firming his resolve, Matthew shifted the rifle until it was placed squarely in his mouth and moved his hand towards the trigger. Before he had even so much as touched the trigger guard, however, an explosion rocked the world around him. Wind, dust, and rocks flew towards Matthew, who was quick to drop to the side, evading a rather large rock that had been kicked up and sent his way. Forgotten was the rifle and his previous resolution, the old weapon hitting the ground with a dull clang compared to the sudden rush of noise and action around the man. Whenever his vision cleared up, Matthew went wide-eyed with disbelief. There before him, battling what Matthew had once considered friends and coworkers, was the lapdog of the Unified Colony Directorate. Aiden Desparius, a gene-soldier, was an impressive figure to find on any battlefield. Standing at just under 6 feet flat and sporting a goatee that looked as if it belonged on some cartoon villain's face, he was impressive enough without the gear he had strapped to his body armor. White flesh shifted as he dived to the side, evading a stray rifle's bullet. Muscles tightened and flexed as he punched one farmer, who dared to get close with his knife, in the nose. To see him battling a bunch of farmers and laborers was more than enough shock and confusion for Matthew, who could only watch in wonder before the desire to save his fellows overwhelmed the man's mind. Stumbling for the abandoned Winchester, Matthew raised it shakily to his shoulder and aimed at the soldier fighting his people. Unseen, he fired off the round and managed a hit. A small cheer lifted from his mouth whenever he saw Aiden crumple, one immediately copied by the farmer's around him. It died, however, whenever Aiden rose slowly from the ground. Spitting to the side, he glanced at the hole in his shoulder and turned to where the shot came from. “Mother fucker.” They were to be the last two words Matthew heard in his current life. Seeing Aiden vanish before his eyes, Matthew gave a startled yelp and attempted to flee from where he was hunched. He had intended to kill himself that day, but now felt the very real desire to remain alive now that he had an enemy who cared enough about him to want him dead. He knew Aiden's gift, as most did, and did his best to run before the soldier reappeared. He wasn't quick enough. Aiden reappeared explosively, his body forming in midair in the space that Matthew inhabited. Vitae and organs spread like a rain, Matthew's body unable to contain the sudden stress of someone else occupying the exact space it did. The poor man's master plan for dying peacefully and with a proper funeral were shattered in the same instant that Matthew simply ceased to exist. It didn't take long for Aiden to finish his compatriots after their morale shattered, seeing such gruesome brutality.

There are certain moments in the middle of chaos where clarity briefly resurfaces. Moments where you become painfully aware of just how out of control the world has become. I experienced one of these moments three weeks into my freshman year of college. I was sitting in my english class like any other day when some girl across the class started staring at me. While I stared back I noticed the care she put into her appearance. She was wearing a pale blue that perfectly complemented her dark skin, matching shoes, a white bow in her hair, and a noticeable amount of make-up. Most guys my age would just think “damn she’s hot”, or something along those lines, but all I could think was “why all the effort?”. She was obviously attractive, why was she trying so hard to make herself look even better? I was sure she could have slept for at least an hour or two longer if she hadn’t taken so much care and she would have looked just as good as any other girl in the classroom. While I was contemplating the purpose of her effort, she winked at me. I sat there puzzled because I didn’t know this girl at all. My puzzlement probably showed on my face because she smiled and licked her lips slowly, wiping her tongue from the right to the left and back right again. All I could think was “The only thing this girl knows about me is that I’m attractive, she doesn’t know who I am and she doesn’t care.” While I was thinking this, I watched as she smirked, leaned over her desk, squeezed her breasts, in between her arms and kissed the air in my direction. Out of embarrassment my eyes shifted to the corner of the class. There I watched as the hand of a shaggy haired student retreated from the inside of his elbow. My eyes caught the flash of a needle and my realization of what he was doing came in complete synchronization with the expression of euphoria that was painted on his face. My disgust turned my eyes back to the girl who had planted her face in her palm and gave me a wink when my eyes met hers. Before I could react I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I turned to meet the face of a cocky looking red haired guy. “ay bro I can get you the answers to this test, for the right price”.First I felt my blood get hot. Then I felt the sting of his face against my knuckles. It was a reflex. A response my surroundings. What happened next was more of a reckless impulse. I flipped my desk over in the process of standing up, and yelled at the top of my lungs “this is fucking bullshit!”. Then clarity came. I realized exactly how I appeared. So I grabbed my backpack, stood up straight, and marched out of the classroom.

It was a gunshot. Probably. It probably was a gunshot. Look, I want to be up-front about this, but the truth is that I am a liar; I lie about stuff like this all the time. But seriously though, this time I am telling the truth. I mean, like, fuck Epimenides—he was probably a great guy, but I mean damn… It was a gunshot. Probably. A weighted hammer cocked back with priming pin content on making it to first base with the back-end of a hollow point; a hollow point extending its business card into… Fuck. It was a gunshot. What did you expect? Fluffy bunnies and pancakes? Raindrops on roses and such? It ain’t exactly the sound of music now is it? And I am not lying either. Who’d lie about something like this? A gunshot? Probably was. I mean, it might as well have been. Blood never had an attractive state: doesn’t look good, doesn’t smell great, doesn’t feel particularly grand either—especially if it’s yours. I mean, your own. I mean, curb the second-person bullshit for a moment and go first person in someone else’s shoes. Tastes even worse. I ain’t a liar. Nope. Well, I mean I am. But not this time. It was a gunshot. A knife wound. A hack-saw to the calcium cupcake. Fuck. “The things we do to ourselves.” “The things we do to each-other.” “The things we do to each-other, without even knowing.” “The things we do to each-other, without ever knowing.” I’m not a liar. Typically. I mean, I guess I technically am. But… I’m not lying. It was a gunshot. I mean, it hurt. A lot.

You hear this one a lot: “The definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over again and expect different results.” That isn’t true. No, that’s not insanity. I had a friend once. We’ll call him Jason. Sure, Jason. One thing you need to know about Jason is that he was a chronic nail-biter. He was the type of kid who you rarely saw without his hand up to his mouth, chewing. Just gnawing on the tough protein covering his fingers. I remember when we were very young his mother would paint his nails with clear Thum nailbiting polish that would leave a peppery and bitter taste in his mouth. But Jason didn’t care. He’d grit and bite the polish right off. He just did not care. His poor mother put that polish on his nails every single day, but he outlasted her. She eventually stopped once she realized Jason was starting to actually like the taste. They were perpetually moist, his fingers. Jason near constantly bit his nails. He bit them right down to the epidermis and until his teeth couldn’t get a grip on the nail itself, or until it bled. It wasn’t a nervous thing, it was just a Jason thing. When you first got to know Jason you’d politely ignore it but eventually you’d get annoyed and disgusted. Then you learned to ignore it. Jason wasn’t your average nail-biter, though. This kid never, not even once, spit out a chewed up keratin remnant on the ground. He told me the habit was disgusting enough, and he didn’t need to ramp it up by spitting nail all over the carpet. So he pocketed them. Each one. He’d chew and gnaw and bite and peel and once he had shaved off just enough of the nail to tear it off, he’d put it in his pocket. Aside from this admittedly common habit, Jason was by and large average. We played sports together, soccer league. My mom would babysit him after school sometimes. He liked his sandwiches cut diagonally. One time I went over Jason’s house to spend the night. Your nails grow at an average of 3 millimeters a month. They’re a form of hair, not many people know that. That’s why when you file your nails, that unmistakable smell pierces your nose, crinkling the minuscule hairs deep inside your nasal cavity. The speed in which they grow all depends on the length of the terminal phalange, so your index finger grows the quickest. In the summer, your nails grow faster. It’s true. Every young kid has been in a situation where their friend falls asleep first at a sleepover and they don’t know what to do with themselves. On foreign territory, you’re on your own to either entertain yourself quietly or force yourself to fall asleep. On this night at Jason’s house, that kid was me. Jason was sound asleep on his bed and I was on the floor next to him in a sleeping bag, wide awake. Bored out of my mind and doing anything to keep myself occupied before I got sleepy, I start feeling around the darkness of underneath his bed. It was very dark and I could only make out darker blobs of some number of objects tucked away under the safety of his mattress. To get a better reach, I turn myself on my stomach and turn my head flush against the carpet, unable to see what I was grabbing at now. Jason wasn’t your average nail-biter. I reached my arm further under the bed and wrapped my fingers around what was surely some sort of glass jar. Still on my stomach with my head turned to the side, I slowly moved my hand up the jar’s opening. A mass of something cold and wet my fingers feel. Like tiny, wet wood chips. Like chewed up sunflower seeds. Like chewed up nails. I jerk my hand back, moving my head back in position to see under his bed. Still, the darkness shrouds the jar I was feeling at. I get on my chest again and use my middle finger to delicately roll the jar out from under the bed and into plain sight. As I rolled it closer, the contents of the jar were clear. An entire jelly jar’s worth of chewed up and spit out, *and pocketed*, nail fragments lined the inside of the glass. Half moon crescents of nail stuck to the inside walls of the jar, stained purple from scraped out Smucker’s grape jelly. Without a lid, a mass of chewed nail clippings was near dribbling out the exit of the jar, moist with saliva. Pocket lint was scattered throughout the mess. The smell is a thing difficult to describe but for fans of black licorice I’ll spare you the thought. I look under the bed once more, seeing three, four, maybe even five more dark cylinders. More jars. More jars full of nails. I reach under again and touch glass. This jar wasn’t as full as the last. A new collection. Gagging on the smell and desperate to hide my intrusion I roll both jars back to their original resting place. A wet glob of nails knocked loose by my jostling of the jars just lay on the carpet, moistening the plastic fibers. The lump of finger protein almost seemed to be taking the form of the original contents of the glass jar. I dig the side of my palm into the carpet and grit my teeth, scraping part of Jason’s nail collection back under the bed. The side of my palm now wet from the spit that covered the nail shavings, I wipe it on a dry section of carpet. Making every effort going to sleep, I feel like I’m laying on a bed of nails. No pun intended. You do any one thing enough times, over and over again, it begins to become ritual. More than ritual, even. It starts to become who you are. Doesn’t matter what it is. Washing your hands obsessively. Making sure every straight edge is aligned perfectly. Cracking your knuckles repeatedly. Biting your nails. Storing them in jars. Over and over. Over and over. Never expecting a different result—but enjoying the power of knowing it. That’s insane.

The two soldiers briskly walked down the concrete semicircle of a hallway, one of many connecting the South Suffolk bunkers together. The roaring of Soviet bombs on the surface barely shook the underground structure, but those minor vibrations were enough so that everyone and everything was dusty-even the air was gray. The door at the end of the hallway was simply marked as “101.” One knocked, and the sound echoed through the hall. Quickly, a small latch was slid open, and a single blue eye looked them over, slid it back, and opened the door. The owner of the eye, a young private who would still be in high school if not for the ongoing conflict, saluted the two soldiers. Both returned it. Inside, an old, grandfatherly man in a loud sweater with a long, white beard was listening to Christmas music. Upon seeing the entering soldiers, he shut off the state-issued radio. For all his apparent jovial nature, the room was darker and dustier than any other. None of the cleaners wanted to come in here, and when they did they attempted to clean it as fast as possible. With the radio off, it was easier to understand why. The moaning. It wasn’t loud. In fact, it was just barely audible, to the point where one wouldn’t notice it except with the lack of any other source of noise. The source was a pit with chains leading into it. Inside were but a few small children-or what the State had labeled as ‘The Plague of the Isles.’ Celts. The old man interrupted the sound of the moaning, with a voice that was much like the soldiers had imagined Santa to sound like when they were but young children. “Well? What has the Permanent Secretary sent you here for?” One of the soldiers-a young corporal with the name of Benjamin-spoke up. “Project K6, sir.” “What about it?” “Is it ready for use?” “I wouldn’t use it yet, though it can be tested.” “Sir... The Soviets have breached the Bodicaea line. They’re less that 10 miles from the outskirts of London.” “Yes, yes. I know that. But let me show you something.” He waved them over to the pit. Looking down, they saw four emaciated children, chained together and to the walls. The Captain spoke up. “Sir, I believe this could be counted as a success.” The old man-Professor Herbert-looked at him with complete derision. “Most of that is the joint effects of seeing their parents burnt alive and being underfed for the past month. K6 hasn't changed anything, as far as we know. Still, the rat experiments are promising.” “Permanent Secretary Ottinger won’t be happy about this.” “The problem is that we haven’t been given enough time. If you-” “Sir, the State has given all the time it will. K6 is needed now!” “I don’t think tha-” “We are the embodiment of the will of the State, and if you do not follow our instructions, you are going against the State's own will. Hand K6 over.” Professor Herbert sighed. “Fine. Mark!” The private at the door stood and walked to them. “I want you to give these men... 4 vials of the K6 virus. As for you two,” he said, turning to the pair of soldiers. “I want you to inform the PS that this needs to be dropped far away from the Isles themselves. Berlin or Vienna will give us enough of a buffer that by the time the virus reaches us, if it actually infects anyone that is, we’ll be far enough away that we can successfully inoculate the Anglic population of the Isles.” The Corporal smiled, giving an affirmative to the professor. “Remember, sir, it’s all for the best. Once the Communists and the Celts are destroyed, the State will thrive.” “I suppose, but at what price prosperity?” “Sir...” “I know, I know. The hypocrisy is astounding. Ah, well, best not to think of it.” The moans rose again from the pit with the ensuing silence. “The State must thrive.” The professor saluted. “The State must thrive.” The soldiers briskly exited. Behind them, the moans were cut out by the sound of Christmas.

The rain hammers down against the already soaking wet windows, the wind shaking them violently whilst the lightning gives off an eerie luminescent glow every now and then. You sit at the kitchen table, gripping your book with such intensity that you fear your knuckles may snap. After an hour of reading about the 14 year old boy that lives for violence and control, you become a victim of fatigue. Your eyelids become heavy as you lope over to the cart on which your computer rests. You clumsily sit down and find the fatigue overwhelming but desperately cling to consciousness as you log in to Facebook. All you can hear is the rain. Tap tap tap. It continues to pour as you fix your eyes upon the status updates your friends have oh-so kindly laid out for you. Still fighting the dizziness, you find an unknown object has cast a shadow over your once bright monitor. You jump backwards, ready to fight your way out, but land helplessly on your back. As you look up towards your computer, you see it. The cat, that damn cat. You laugh at your paranoia and slump back onto the floor, sleep finally taking control. You close your eyes but something doesn't feel right, there is a strange amount of pressure on your chest. Slowly opening your eyes, you realize it's the cat again. He makes his way up your body, that awful grin on his lips, finally resting on your face. You can't move your body, for it has fallen asleep. The cat sits on your face, still grinning. *This is it*, you think, *this is where it ends*. It soon becomes difficult to breathe, your lungs are giving out, caving in. As you draw your last breath, you can't help but reminisce about all you have in life. Darkness overwhelms you, and you are gone.

Carter looked left and right, scanning the subway station for any potential threats. He casually walked up to the turnstile, putting his hands on either side and hopped over the rotating bars. A dexterous dismount followed by a smooth landing proved that Carter had done this before. He had enough money for the $2.50 Metrocard but this was more fun. He must've saved dozens of dollars over the years doing this, even with the fifty dollar ticket he once got in Brooklyn. Carter walked up to the platform, his heart beating from this petty crime. He was always a bit unnerved by jumping the turnstile but the adrenaline rush was enough of a reward for him. He waited for the local 6 train to bring him back to Grand Central. There were plenty of benches available but Carter decided to stand; the possibility of having to make small talk with a stranger made him sick. Carter observed his surroundings using his peripherals, he didn't want people to think he was staring at them. The two girls to his far left were complaining about the heat in the underground station. Carter often took solo trips to the city during his summer vacation and grew accustomed to the warm, uncomfortable atmosphere of the station. Finally he heard a train making its way to the platform. He looked down the dark tunnel as it began to grow brighter and brighter. The light continued to grow until a “4” was visible on the front of the train. It didn't slow down. The number 4 train made its way down the middle track, skipping the unimportant stop at which Carter had found himself waiting. Carter wished he was like that express train, skipping over all the places he didn't want to go. Instead, he was a local train, work-bound, home-bound, and soon enough, school-bound once again. Carter had a few more minutes to observe the other local trains standing near him until finally the long awaited 6 came to a halt. It was already 1:30 in the morning by the time the subway doors closed. By now even the express wouldn't get Carter back to Grand Central in time to make the last train home. He took the northbound subway anyway, he enjoyed the trip. There were always people to observe, each one with a different story that Carter could compose. His inspiration was limited tonight as only a few accompanied Carter on the late-night ride. His eyes wondered over to the two girls he had overheard on the platform. A mini-skirt accompanied by a short black dress is all Carter saw in the two girls. They were discussing the intriguing, controversial issue of meeting guys at nightclubs versus meeting guys at bars. Mini-Skirt made a persuasive argument for nightclubs while Short Black Dress was a strong proponent of bars. The debate was heated, each girl unwilling to change her viewpoint. These girls were living the express life. Finally the train stopped at its final destination, Grand Central. Mini-Skirt and Short Black Dress stood up and got off the train, Carter following only a few feet behind them. The girls seemed unaware that the last train out of the city had left almost ten minutes ago. With their high-heeled stiletto strut, Mini-Skirt and Short Black Dress continued onward to the main terminal. Carter, all the wiser, took the street exit. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, needed by no one: just the way Carter liked it. Freedom overcame his senses as he strolled down 42nd street, allowing his arms to swing back and forth like pendulums. He wasn't a local train, not even an express. Carter was much more than that now. He could walk around aimlessly until the 5:36 local arrived to bring him back to a place where such a freedom didn't exist. He wasn't school-bound, work-bound, or home-bound. He wasn't bound at all.

Three guards held onto the chains that shackled me. With every step I took an orchestra of chain melodies followed. The chain cuffs on my feet were the start; the handcuffs were soon to follow. Eventually all five chains that prevented me from running came together and formed a harmonious sound. “Is all this necessary,” I turned toward my good friend officer Barry Kindle “I promise I won’t bite,” I said while mimicking a dog biting towards him. “You can never be too careful…” he said as he pulled the chain that wrapped around my waist, leaving me breathless “…especially with a psychopath like you.” Psychopath, I never did like that term. It tends to insinuate that I have some sort of a problem, a disease even. When in fact I am perfectly aware of what I have done and I have no remorse over it. I’m just different than most people. The bus that stood at the end of my pilmigrage was reminiscent of one I used to ride as a kid on my way to Sunday school. It was white with a hint of rust scattered all about. The seats were torn and to tall for the average person to see over. It was disappointing to know that my last sight of the outside world would come from a spot-ridden plexi-glass window. “Ready to go Jason,” Kindle said as he leaned over me to push down the window “I thought you’d want some air,” he said as his fake smile turned into a mocking grin. “I’ll make sure to tell your wife how caring you are..,” before I could finish Kindle’s fist caressed my face. Over and over repeated blows were landing on target, with each one inflicting more of his pain on me. The white floors of the bus were being sprinkled with my blood, as the guards rushed over to try to pull Kindle off. Tears descended uncontrollably down his face as he repeated the name of his lovely wife, Emma. I can still remember the full moon that covered that night. Fluttering street lights trying ever so hard to illuminate one’s destination, a losing battle in my opinion. There I was driving back and forth trying to find 438 Wintercrest Drive. “Turn right in fifty feet,” the robotic woman in my GPS demanded. “You’re destination is on the right,” a beep immediately followed, emphasizing that I was here. I had found it. My heart was beating out my chest as my pulse skyrocketed. My grand finale was here and I was determined to make it memorable. Pavlov had a theory that if you rang a bell and fed a dog the dog would associate food with the sound of a bell. Eventually, all one would have to do to get the dog to salivate is ring the bell. I had done this enough times to know that the bell had rung, and my reward was forthcoming. I had parked. From what I could determine the neighborhood was a quiet one. Car royalty crowded the streets. Mercedes to the left of me, Porsche to the right and Lexus scattered in between. There I stood next to my Volvo expecting a guy in a golf cart and supped up blue suit to pull up and drag me out of this place. No such luck. No one ever cared to look outside their windows in this new era of ours. Everyone seemed to be confined to their own four walls and the entertainment held within them. Even in the nicer neighborhoods, which I previously visited, no one noticed the guy in the ski mask walking around with a knife. As expected, there was only one car in the driveway. My good friend Kindle was out chasing another loose end I had fed him. Zodiac had started a trend. It was within our profiles to send packages. According to the profiles the packages symbolized our need to be caught. A need that arose from us not liking what we did. If only I could teach a class to all the forensic psychologists. In actuality we loved every second of what we did, and if we were caught we would miss out on all the fun. We sent the packages as nothing more than a mere distraction, something to keep the cat busy while the mice went out and played. There are two things that I have passion for in life. The first thing is puzzles. I love solving them and working through all the possible solutions until I find one that fits. The harder the puzzle, the more in love I fell. At times days or even years would pass until I witnessed that AHA moment of a puzzle. It was then that I felt most alive. Adrenaline would rush through my veins and a feeling of pride would overcome my otherwise humble self. I had solved something; something had made sense in this otherwise mad world. Once, I had even solved a part of one of the top ten unsolvable puzzles- Kryptos. However, I never earned recognition for that one, Kindle did. Creating puzzles is my second passion. As a kid I would always attempt to make brain teasers, riddles or even math jumbles. Eventually I gave up. I seemed to have lacked a creative gene and even though I was able to solve puzzles, creating them was not in my blood. Then one day on the television I heard the magic words “Four people were shot today…no witnesses…if you have any details please call….” AHA. I had found my legacy, my own brand of puzzles. Puzzles that would gather people, garner emotion and would be everlasting; puzzles, which would outlive me and have lost souls constantly searching for answers. I had found the perfect puzzle. The basement window was open. Just like it had been the past four nights I had scouted the place. I kneeled down and hobbled over towards the basement windows. I could here the annoying sounds of some popular television show rumbling on the inside. I waited for the noise to be loud enough and I slid into the basement making a loud thump as I landed. No one noticed. I tried not to make a sound as the dog went on a barking rampage. He knew someone other than his owner had infiltrated his domain. Emma went towards the dog to try and calm him down. Patting him on the head and re-assuring him that everything was fine. Indeed, everything was fine. My eyes took a while before they accustomed to the darkness of the basement. Soon enough I could see crystal clear with only the moon as my light. There was a lot of useless stuff in the basement, boxes full of pornography. old Wheaties cereal boxes with famous athletes on them, and a cradle that Kindle had made for the baby his wife had lost. All of it was useless now. One foot over the other I made my way towards the stairs, preventing anything from falling along the way. When I reached the stairs I noticed a newspaper clipping that had been pinned to the wall. It read: Barry Kindle solves Kryptos. That however, wasn’t the part that captured my interest. It was the side-story on the bottom right- in eight inch font-that captured my interest. Body of suspected murderer found in river. That was Adam. Crimes of passion are the junk of our profession. They are always sloppy and never covered up well enough. There is no purpose in them, other than to get back at a spouse whom cheated on you. There is no thrill in them and worst of all, there is always remorse. Adam Keaton was a man suspected of killing his fiancé. He had killed her because he caught her sleeping with another man. As the evidenced was gathered, Adam was released on bail. It was then, that he became my puzzle. A puzzle no one has ever solved. There are certain rules for creating puzzles. One of which is to make the puzzle solvable, but not easy. I left evidence, heck, I even planted some afterward. However, overworked and underpaid detectives don’t care much about someone who was going to rot in jail anyways. The trick to not getting caught is to not get cocky. Change your tactics. There is always someone looking for the serial who killer who kidnapped, raped and threw five blonde teenage girls in the river. However, no one ever uses all their resources to capture the guy who killed: a suspected murderer, a nun, a child, a homeless man, a bank manager. Each one killed in a different location, and all in different execution methods. The reason being, because they don’t suspect the same guy did it.

She would have taken it all- his savings, the pills in the medicine cabinet. She even fought his children for the lakefront cabin. If she would have won, I picture her still sitting in an adirondack chair, paint chips scratching her thick sun-splotched thighs, gazing into the waters- stoned. Grandma would take us over to his property and dock the boat. While they went inside us kids would take our flip-flops off and wade out into the shore knowing that the water wasn’t more than waste deep for fifteen feet out and it was rock-free. If our feet didn’t stir the waters too much, we would hesitantly pick up crayfish, making multiple jabs into the water trying to pretend that we weren’t scared when their exoskeletons curled inwards and their claws reached for our fingers. If we grabbed them in just the right place where they couldn’t retaliate we’d chase each other with them taking pleasure in one another’s screams for mercy. When the east shore wind picked up and raised goose-bumps prodded us to retreat inside we’d sit there on the itchy brown couch and pick through the glass tray of hard candies hoping we would find a good one. Ray would sit there in his rocking chair, telling stories while always keeping the chair moving with a subtle jab of his loafers on the rotting wood floors. He was as restless as the lake itself. It seemed as if he was afraid of not moving. Afraid that if he stopped rocking, the lake would be still, and someone, somewhere would say that the lake was dead today. Ray was thirty years older than Aunt Janie as everyone always had a way of bringing up on the rides home. That’s all I really remember of Ray. The memories are serene, but they move you in a gentle way. His pipe creating a fog and his blue-grey eyes glistening like light houses as he reminisced about his youth. I really haven’t thought about him much except on boat rides when we pass the shoreline in front of his house or when we talk about Aunt Janie and where we think she might be. I saw Ray’s son today, although I didn’t know who he was at first, but he remembered me. We talked out his father, about what I remembered of him and the summer days spent out on the lake. I guess she even took the hammock, but he replaced it with a better one that you can fit two people in. I don’t know what Ray saw in her, but I know he loved her. In her own dysfunctional way I think she loved him too. Her unsteadiness gave him purpose and like a beacon he always made sure she found her way home. But she is lost now. One after another, men lay their hands on her and she drowns herself in booze as she drifts further from home. The only reason she stays afloat anymore is because of the buoys and buoys of pills. Thank God she took the pills. Because she was thinking about taking her life- jacket.

Butcher's got three eyes. I know this because I was playing in the sausages kept all coiled up like a great big snake in one of those rolling recycling bins that look like a giant robot foot all turned upside-down. I was pretending it was a swimming pool and balanced myself on the side on all fours like one of those cartoons where that stupid cat in the funnies doesn't wanna take a bath and he keeps getting pushed in so he puts out all his legs and presses up so he doesn't touch the water. I was doin it like that and pretending I was one of those Olympic swimmers cept I was in my undies and not a speedo and it was a buncha sausage not water. Anyway I was crouching over it like that and I dipped my toe into the great big thing of sausage and Butcher's choppin up a pig on this cold slab in the middle of the room and not even looking at me when I hear "Wutcha doin back there Tony? I got one big evil eye in the back of my head ya know" and it spooked me so hard that I fell in. There's sausage everywhere I look. I was drownin in this meat and Butcher don't even lend a hand. Just took that great big knife and kept slappin the back of that pig's neck with it. So I start feelin my way out of the strings and climb up out of the pool into the "Industrial Cooling and Freezing Apparatus" as Butcher likes to call it (cause Butcher's so damn proud of getting this big-ass freezer) and haul my ass out on to the floor and at this point I'm dyin of hypothermia. My clothes are still upstairs in the apartment and to get up there I gotta get past Butcher so I gotta make a distraction. Butcher's smackin away at that pig's neck so I run back and look at the conveyor line with all them pigs hangin on hooks like an undiscovered species of fish that you just caught twenty of. I figure I can grab onto this pig and ride it right past Butcher to the stairway so I take a running start and leap onto this pig's big blubbery body and dig my fingernails into his creepy dead skin to hang on. With my left leg I smack the button behind me and vroom off goes the conveyer line into the front of the store and that's when Butcher turned around to see all those pigs flyin through the air stinkin up the place like a piggy morgue. I'm hangin on tight to this mad pig in my skivvies feeling like I'm gonna die and then I hear a fat "rrrrrippp!" comin from my pig and it falls off the hook near the staircase. I'm trapped under this giant pig and Butcher looks maaaad. The conveyor line stopped and Butcher sees my fallen pig and my stupid face out under it and grabs me by the ear and hoists me up. I can feel the skin at the bottom of my ear starting to separate from my head like the pig from the hook and it's so soft but so close to my ear that I can hear it echo in my head. "Rrrrrripp!" I start screaming and crying and Butcher puts me down and slaps me across the face. "You just cost me a pig boy!" She says in her big tough voice and throws her Butcher knife in the pig on the floor next to me. It sinks in deep into the flesh with a little trickle of juices. "Sorry Butcher." I say, rubbing my ear. "I was just horsing around." "As long as I'm the person that carried you, you will call my Mother in my shop!" "Okay Ma." She smacks me again. My face lands in the face of the pig, its dead eyes looking back it me, tongue lolling out the side. The snout on my cheek feels unreal. Like when I touched my father's nose at his funeral in the backyard. My grubby little hand felt down his forehead and to his nose, all rubbery and cold before Butcher said that I need to "Get the fuck back in the house before you make a scene." So I sat in my room while Butcher dug a hole for him in his best suit to cover up the gun holes in his chest. "MOTHER." Says Butcher looking me in the eye. "Say it with me." "Muh-ther." We both say, me mumbling with her shouting. Butcher goes back to choppin her meat up and I stumble upstairs clutchin my ear to see if there's anything besides pork chops to eat. There ain't.

As he unfolded the brown wrappings of his tootsi-roll in the dinky little motel he had checked into the previous day, he noticed he had missed a spot from his earlier encounter. A woman, around the age of 23, Susan was an only child, a repeated offender of the law, and quite possibly a prostitute, this we are unsure of. Jerry, a Sophisticated young lad around the age of 25, he grew up a loner, the kids always made fun of him for never being interested in any girls when most others had hit puberty. An outcast, Not a crazy psychopathic outcast like most other serial killers out there. Simply one of those who could easily be cast aside and forgotten about without a second guess. He cleans the blood stains off the bathtub, and vigorously washes his hands. He pulls out a tattered map of the United states, you can tell its been used many times before, from the gradient spectrum of browns from obvious coffee spills, arguably red stains from blood, but what is strange, is something was written on the back, in a faded light blue pen. Written upside down were the words "i have to do this, I'm sorry. I love you, beth" with tear stains from her writing the note, and him reading it. Torn edges, and crumpled folds, he takes out his red pen, like he always does. He simply puts an X on where San Francisco should be. He packs his bags, a duffle bag, and a backpack. he puts his dry cleaning in his duffle bag, you can just smell death covered with the sweet smell of spring meadows, He finishes packing up his belongings, and looks at the map one more time. He draws an arrow to Sacramento. You can see other lines, he started off in a small town near Houston Texas, and then made his way east. six or seven other X's mark other stops along his way to Los Angeles, Notable ones are in Phoenix, San Diego, and Riverside where Women have been reported missing. He has an odd pattern to his mishaps, He finds a girl at a bar, but not one who has had too much to drink, he wants to know who she really is. after they chat for a while, he offers to taker her back to her place without any intentions, and offers to take her out the next day. Most accept and they go out into a public place, they get to know each other. After about an hour of conversation, he reveals he has a problem that can be fixed, their expressions are always the same, mouth open, shocked, confused, hurt, and misguided. Unbeknownst to others around them, the two seem to be having a nice chat with some bad news, nothing to get over excited about. Following her expressions comes the oh so familiar apology, and tells them that he will give them a ride back. This is where things go from sweet to sour. He never sleeps with his victims, he has respect. perhaps not as much as the average Joe. He doesn't torture them, Jerry makes their deaths quick and painless. sometimes strangulation, others, he will cut her throat. he will always ask how they want to go. and he usually abides by it, as long as it doesn't involve a gun. He has a strong hatred towards guns, as a child, the kids would always pretend to shoot blanks at him. one time, one of the guns had a real bullet. when it went off, it overpowered all the other powder caps that they were shooting, nothing slowed down. He could just feel the hot metallic texture of the bullet as it broke up inside his leg, he could feel the bullet get ripped apart. Everything he remembers went white after that, he may have blocked it out himself, or he may just not remember. He leaves his hotel room, not leaving any trace of anyone ever being there, it looked like the maids had just cleaned the room. He gets into his old '87 dark cherry red two door cadillac, the one with the white top, and the rims that glisten when struck by the sunlight. He gets on the 80 freeway going east, towards Sacramento. He does his usual routine, however, this one is different. He seems to be happy when she smiles, and she has the same eyes as his previous Lover, Beth. Without thinking, he kisses her on the cheek, she blushes and asks why he did that, they don't knew each other. he quickly turns much more red than the cherry red of his cadillac. They hit it off great, he is actually happy for once in his life, other than the times he spent with beth. However, she ends up much like the rest. eyes closed, in the bathtub filled of that liquid cherry red blood everyone is oh so familiar with. Jerry is crying. this is the first time he has cried since she left. leaving that note on the back of his map. Lying on his hotel bed, staring up into the depths of the ceiling, he hand folds off the edge of the bed, holding the beloved map. The map floats down to the ground, Written on the front, on the east side of the country, was written, "Jerry, i want to go so many places with you, lets go here..." An X is marked on Houston, Salt Lake, Vancouver, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Diego, and New York. all in black ink. he unfolds another tootsi-roll wrapper, and takes a bite of the unknown taffy like substance. He gets up, walks over to the bathroom, more pale than usual. he sits down on the tolite, stares at her pale flesh, he can see the beauty he had just slain. vivid memories of Beth scream into his mind, he is happier than ever, things start to get whiter, he looks down, as he removes the syringe full of morphine. All but 5 cc's are left out of the full 200. his eyes flutter upwards, he mutters "im sorry." and passes into a deep sleep. i know its got flaws, timing / pacing / character development. but it was fun writing it a few years ago and decided someone here might also like it.

The timer for the food began to beep. Emma was preparing dinner for the soon to be arriving Kindle. I had to make my move soon. Kindle, should have found my useless clue by now and should be making the drive back home. As I climbed the stairs I heard Emma running towards the television. I cracked the door to get a better look at the situation at hand. Emma was looking under the couch cushions, under the dining table, through the ruffles of papers on the coffee table. Sweat started to form on my palms. Had I been had? It must’ve been the loud thump. She was looking for a gun. I opened the door and started walking towards her. She found was she was looking for: The Remote. I slid into the velvet curtain awaiting her next move. She pushed the volume on the remote and turned the television up. “This is too easy,” I chuckled She had been watching a popular television singing show and her favorite guy had just come on. He was singing my anthem; Mad World by Gary Jules. “All around me are familiar faces…,” the words echoed throughout the house. I came out from the curtains and Emma let out a scream. I loved it when they screamed. I tackled her to the ground and covered her mouth with a towel filled with Ethanol. “Their tears are filling up their glasses...No expression, no expression…” she was passed out and the best part was coming. I stood up and went to grab a dark sheet from the linen closet. This was bound to get messy, and I didn’t want to ruin their white carpet. With my knife in hand, I went back towards Emma. The dog was on her know growling fiercely towards me. German Sheppard’s are ferocious dogs, luckily I had prepared for this. As the dog lunged towards me I side-stepped and stabbed it in the neck. “Hide my head I want drown my sorrow…” The blood from the dog splattered on the white carpet. I knew I had very little time left, therefore I didn’t bother cleaning out the blood. I laid the sheet down and placed Emma on top of it. I drew the lines which I was going to cut with a marker. I was all set up. My hand went up into the air. The door swung wide open and Kindle was there with a gun pointed at my head. “Look right through me, Look right through me…” “You’re surrounded Jason,” he said “Just put down the knife and everything will be alright Jason,” He made a promise a person of my intelligence knew he wouldn’t be able to fulfill. He was ruining my puzzle. I glanced into Kindles eyes and smiled. The knife came down and Emma’s blood splattered all over my face. Kindle’s face grew fierce as he pulled the trigger. Over and over the sound of bullets firing rang throughout the house. One hit my arm the others landed in various places throughout my back. The pain of smoldering metal melting through your skin is unfathomable. I fell over on my back as Kindle rushed to the aid of his wife. She was gone, my cut had been fatal. There I lay disappointed that my puzzle didn’t go as planned. “I find it kind of funny; I find it kind of sad the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had…” The bus had come to a stop and the puddle of blood coming from my nose had grew from a small circle to a decent size pond. It didn’t matter how much blood I lost though. Soon enough, it would be meaningless. The guards carried me onto the stretcher that was being used to put me to rest. There I lay on the stretcher, reminiscing about all of my puzzles that would be left unsolved. They wheeled me into the observations room. I figured there would quite a crowd to see my death. “How many people are here,” I asked Kindle “Enough to see you burn in hell,” he said “But, I’ve been saved, I have found Christ,” I said returning the same mocking smile he had given me earlier. I knew he was a Christian and deathbed repentance was a common practice they believed in. “I’m glad those are going to be you’re last words,” he said as he stuffed a white rag into my mouth. A blindfold was then put to cover my eyes. I didn’t understand. I knew I was being sentenced to death, but I was being put to death by lethal injection. They stretchered me into a room and then sat me upright. Something was not right; I had to figure this out. They unstrapped me from the stretcher and strapped me into a wooden chair. “Everyone out,” Kindle said. The anticipation was overcoming me I had to figure this last puzzle out. I heard the door close and lock. I was left alone. I couldn’t understand what was happening. The aroma of the room slowly started to change. Pipes started to hiss and valves were being released. I started to kick and scream, I didn’t want it to end this way. I had figured out the last puzzle. I was sentenced to death; death by gas chamber.

Rider My mom has always been supportive of my career as a musician. My dad never got around to it. The only bands he’d ever listen to were the Beatles and Rolling Stones. He wanted the Beatles played at his funeral, which he got. My mom never talks about the music that she listens to except for her uncle Alan who toured the Midwest in the 50’s as a troubadour; he’s still famous in our town. I haven’t been home in a while, not that I miss it much. I moved to LA when I was 23. I was bored by the people, bored by my job at the grocery store and tired of not seeing anything happening. When I moved I had most of my” LA-experiences” during the first six months, right drugs- wrong people, that sort of thing. I thought the substances would inspire me as it seemed to inspire others but that never happened. I also played some gigs with local small-timers but it never amounted to much. My fourth summer in LA came around and thats when I met Terrie outside a used-car shop. I’d been looking to replace dad’s station-wagon that I’d driven to the coast.As I was standing there looking over some of my options I saw the glint of peroxide-blonde hair and sweaty fish-net stockings out of the corner of my eye. I remember the coral lipstick, which I later learned was her favorite, so shiny on those lips. She walked up to me to bum a cigarette. As I’d recently quit smoking I apologized and told her I didn’t have any on me. Disappointed, she asked me for a lighter to borrow if she could bum a smoke from a man that was standing by a newsstand across the street. I didn’t have a lighter either but I reached into my vest pocket for the book of matches I always kept there. As I handed it to her she thanked me and smiled in the most heartbreaking manner that I knew that I had to make her mine. Although I was more of what you might call the singer-songwriter type than a rocker this girl with her glam rock look was something else. Underneath that done up exterior I could see that she was pretty in an old-fashioned way. Later, when we were married, I used to tell her that she was like a burning wheat field blowing in the summer wind; she never understood what I meant. Our courtship was fast on because on account of her parents being strictly religious. Terrie was only 21 when we married but they consented and gave us their blessing because I was “a good God-fearing Midwestern boy.” Through Terrie I got more involved in the rock scene and discovered I had a knack for writing catchy riffs. I joined one of the local outfits who were in need of a guitarist and shortly after that we played as support band for one of the west coasts most famous bands on their US tour. Crazy days of touring and debauchery followed but after rising tensions in the band and disagreements with our management we decided to call it quits. Then Terrie got pregnant. She was excited but seeing as her job at the record store didn’t pay much and my being unemployed, I was worried to say the least. Fortunately I lucked out in joining as a touring and studio session guitarist with a band that had just signed a big deal with a major label. Unfortunately this mean being on the road for long stretches at a time. things quickly went downhill in our relationship and it was while touring in Japan that I got the terrible news that Terrie had suffered a miscarriage. She was inconsolable and quit her job. I tried to be home as much as I could to care for her but my contractual obligations took me out of town again. things between us never recovered after that and I blame myself for that. Two months after the loss of our child iÍ got a call from Roy, a sergeant in the Marines who tells me he’s in love with my wife and she is in love with him and they are going to Germany. While this news hurt at first I can’t say I was surprised; I kept my nose to the grind to give me something else to think about. One tour lead to another and after 5 years the band went through a lineup change and I was thrust into the role of frontman. Evidently I did something right as we quickly started selling out the largest arenas and stadiums. We got through 3 good tours before ticket sales started to dwindle. These days we play to fairly large clubs and such, I don’t complain, seeing as it brings in good money. I live a private and enjoyable life. I’ve never met Terrie since our marriage ended but last I heard Roy was killed in a combat exercise and she had gotten remarried to a journalist. Even though our relationship went to pieces I still cherish terrie and our times together. At the venues we play the band usually has extensive requirements to ensure their comfort. My only requests on the rider are one ham sandwich and two fingers of bourbon. I usually go out into whichever city we’re playing that night and walk around while eating my sandwich. Even though the band is still fairly popular people seldom recognize me off the stage. I also try to find a bookstore to buy something by a local author for those long flights and bus rides. Just before showtime I’ll find a quiet spot in the venue and toast my parents, my hometown and my Terrie.

Slender man. why hello. it is nice to see you. you are in my mind and in my head. you are real as the noise we hear when there is none. you are something but nothing. created by fiction and fueled by imagination. quick! look left look right. what was that? turn on the lights and take a quick look around. that pain in your head is it slender sickness or simply a state of mind you have put yourself into? come here slendy come here! I see the man in black just as you do, the faceless creature you have grown to love and make. is he fake? is he real? remember the dream as a child? remember that moment you passed off as nothing or a stir in the wind or a shift in the trees? he is watching you. because he never leaves. he lives in your mind. because the imagination is what fuels the mind. the same as it fuels him. that glitch in your computer that shows a slender photo. the faceless face that was just outside your window. what fuels me to write this? Imagination. what fuels the world to go round? Imagination. what makes slender man real? IMAGINATION. now turn around and take his hand. he's waited in your head for long enough. it is time to let him out. Death. is impossible to dodge.

The man rested on his shovel amidst the sea of white wooden crosses, hundreds by the thousands, touching horizon on all sides. He wiped the sweat from his brow with hands so calloused he could scarcely tell where they ended and the shovel began. Every day and countless times he’d pray, *How many more, Lord? How much longer before I come home to Glory?* And then he would feel shame and be humbled. The dog would lick his near-wooden hands and the man would know… Something. The Reason, perhaps. Or maybe just a word he had forgotten. But he knew, and he would start digging once again. God had made Man of ash and dust, and Man had made the world in his image. Of this he was certain. The man pulled the bodies out of houses, stores, offices and trains. He dragged them from churches and drink houses alike. There was no discrimination by the hand of God. All had sinned and all had perished. The man was a sinner, too, and his penance was just. The Lord was just. He took the body of a woman pregnant with child and put her on the cart with the others. The Dog trotted alongside the cart as the man struggled to pull. He found himself stopping to rest more every day. His cough was deep and it rattled his ribs. The Dog stopped, patient and panting, watching the man ‘til he recovered and once again pulled taut the ropes. The wheels turned and the fierce heat of the sun made the stench of sin unbearable. The Dog curled up around his feet as he worked. The day’s bodies laid to rest, he carefully cut and sanded the wood and painted it white. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt pure. White as the light of the Lord. The Dog breathed slowly, rhythmically. It calmed the man and kept steady his hands as he nailed the bits of white wood together. Twenty-two crosses today. One smaller than the rest. The man placed the crosses in a wheelbarrow one at a time, and when he was finished, he wept. The Wrath of God had come in silence. The skies had not opened. The fires not rained down. Satan’s kingdom come, but maybe gone in a quiet not so unquiet as the Prophesy would have it. The Lord’s grace would bring peace to the world. Of this he was certain. The rubber mallet was growing soft and worn. Tomorrow he would go into town and procure a new one. The man enjoyed these rare excursions, as did the dog whose tail sways and leaps became gratitude manifest at a break and distance from the sinreeking flesh of the Task. The man would find the perfect mallet, bless it in somber thanks, and the cart would roll on. But for now, he hammered. The light was growing dim over the hillside and shadows, hundreds by the thousands, grew long East in the dusk. The man decided to lay the tiny cross on the fresh-turned dirt where the mother was at rest. In Heaven this child had a name. The man was not Chosen, Anointed or otherwise deserving of blessing. The man was merely tasked. He was Man, the last of Man, ash and sin, and though he walked now through the valley of the shadow of death, he would fear no evil. For there was no evil left to fear. Of this he was certain. The dog would whine when the man coughed blood. The dog whined often these days. Finding a new mallet had taken much longer than expected, and the man knew this was not entirely due to poor circumstance. He begged forgiveness for his selfishness and coughed blood. It tasted of copper and spitting it let loose a flood of pain and memories. He could no longer rightly distinguish between the two. He had been a bad man. Perhaps no worse than any other, but surely no better. He was Man, the last of Man and thusly his spirit incarnate. A symbol of the old ways, the epitome of the mundane, carnal, toiling and the loved gone astray. His knees gave as he lifted a large, dark-skinned man into the cart. The body fell upon him, its weight bearing down on his feeble frame. Pain- or memories -shot though him from top to bottom. He cried out, coughed, spat and wept. The dog whined, licked his face and barked at the sun, the sky, the Lord, the Heavens. It rebuked the Task for it knew no better. The dog could not pray or rightly know the God it cursed. But it also could not know sin. The man struggled to free himself and stand. He saw the sun racing away from him and it gave him the strength to move the hulking cadaver off his straining chest and he breathed as deep as his lungs would allow. The dog lay beside him and licked his near-wooden hand. The man held the dog close and, for the first time since the End, he felt solace and peace in something other than Grace. He was too weak to beg forgiveness. Heaven was nothing more than the perfect love of God. It was not rest. It was not comfort. It was not a reward or a reprieve from the pain and memory of a life so broken, squandered and sadly fleeting. It was not an end to the days of bleeding hands and a back so strained as to make sleep a blessed and rare stay of torture. The man wished more than anything that it were. Of this he was certain. Night had already taken hold of the sky by the time the man had patted the last of the day’s dirt with his spade. His knees were shaking and the dog stared at him warily. There was something in its round, dark eyes that the man had not seen since the End. Something he had nearly forgotten once the sin of Man had been purged by godsend sickness. It was fear. The man returned to his workshop, a shack as humble as could be managed. A workbench, a tiny bed and a pile of blankets upon which the dog would nightly doze. He tried to eat from a tin of beans, but the food felt strange on his tongue and tasted of copper. He poured the can into a bowl and set it out for the dog, but the dog only sniffed it and continued to watch the man with that distant, alien look from the times Before. The fear. The man set to work. He nailed together a cross and painted it white, but the shaking and the pain caused it to fall from his hands. It clattered on the workbench and the dog rose to its feet, watching. *Lord, forgive me, but I can do no more this night.* He was not sure if it was the pain or the memories that kept him awake, but the sun was already cresting the eastward horizon before he drifted off. The dog, an unknowing angel, without Grace but likewise without sin, did not lay down its head until the man’s moaning and coughing had faded into sleep. There was no Hell. There was only the white light of the Lord, giving life to a perfect world wrought imperfect by Man who let his paradise burn, ash and sin. The world of Man was the only Hell, and God had struck it pure once more. When the man was gone, there would be Eden. Of this he was certain. He awoke in fits of cough and spitting would not suffice. He heaved and the dog whined. The Task called him and he leaned on the spade as a walking staff, carrying a lonely white wooden cross to the hillside. The sun was high but running downhill. Another day had escaped him but he felt no guilt. He kneeled slowly, painfully, and patted the dog’s head. He remembered happiness and the memory did not hurt him. For all of Man’s greed, powerlust, waste, arrogance and hate, there was something in the world that was never lost, forgotten, or paved over for progress. Something he saw in the eyes of the dog and the trees and the sky and every person he had laid to rest in Task. He had long since forgotten the word for it, as perhaps Man had done in his headfirst race to the End, but it did not hurt. Not at all. He hammered the cross into the hillside, another amongst hundreds by the thousands, and lay down upon the soft grass. The dog curled up beside him and together they watched the sun set on Eden. Criticism welcomed and appreciated.

I can hear them in the distance. The shouted cries muffled by the wind. These winter winds that trickle down your spine only to pool at the small of your back and chill your aching bones. I can hear their lust for blood. Their drums beat to the pulse of it surging through their veins. It is strange as it is so deafening from it being silently muffled by the distance. So human yet so alien the savage sound of the machines of war. Their operators acting in unison. As Legion. So disgustingly grotesque that it shivers my heart as the air my spine. I can hear them clashing swords to shields. Is it not enough that my stomach feels as if I have swallowed a ball of lead? As they grow closer I can hear their heavy footsteps, combined with the weight of unbreachable armor, crushing and snapping the thinner splinters of rock beneath the thin sheet of snow. 'How has it come to this?' I breath as it is carried away by the wind. I close my eyes and turn to face the brave souls behind me. I open them to be greeted back by countless more. I look into them all. Searching for... Anything. Many bold and unmoving with courage. Some squinting to bear the cold and see through the snow as it begins to fall. Fewer still I saw tears. Most of them new and with small sons or wives yet with child. I dared not to look deeper for behind them all I could see them asking the same question I found asking myself. 'How many of these men will not return home to their wives?' 'How many mothers will not see their sons return home?' 'How many children will never again feel the embrace of their fathers?' I closed my eyes for a brief moment. I can think of nothing to say to raise their spirits. I opened my eyes and find that words will not be necessary. They, WE, all know why we're here. I pull my sword from its sheath as I turn to face our enemy. The final battle. The end. Of the end. The final slash to the throat of an already all but dead kingdom. And every last one of us knew it. I would have been contempt to lead them elsewhere as nomads. But they refuse and choose to fight anyway. I raise my sword and give one final bellow. Lifting it from the depths of my bowels. Emptying my lungs and spitting the ball of lead from my stomach. The roar echoes behind me. My heart bursts as my veins catch fire and my muscles become a force of unstoppable motions. I blink. My eyes demand to take nothing but an eternity to open again. I stare at my sword jutting through the throat of my enemy as he falls to his knees. Blood bubbling up and over his black stained teeth. Even with death ripping through his throat he fell with that horrifying wide eyed grin that can only be powered by an insatiable hunger for blood. I pull my sword free to find my next target only to discover the circle of an endless armies worth of spear tips trained on me. And all I could think of is how I am the only one left. The bastards bastard. The king of a kingdom that no longer has a kingdom and not even the slightest whisper of a hint of royal blood in my veins. And I am now the only one left to tell their tale. As my mind mulled over this realization, it gave me another question to ponder.

Anna had just turned seven when she first discovered she had the ability to impose stasis on objects she willed so. She had received a lava lamp from her father, a thing she had made space for on her study table, to be placed in between her reading lamp and the stuffed bear. She had wanted one since everyone could remember. Cake and ice cream were ignored as she ran up the stairs to her room, two steps at a time. As Anna pushed her door open, however, she felt the lava lamp slip from her small hands and it began to fall. She quickly understood that her new treasure; her prize and fortune — as children consider things such — was to meet the wooden floor boards and, consequently, break. Her young mind reeled from realization, to the utter horror of it, and to the sheer sadness of losing something that was hers for such a short while. She could not decide whether to berate herself for her clumsiness or the unnecessary celerity, feeling tears welling up. She watched uselessly as the lamp fell, and fell, and fell some more. She did not mean for it to happen, and she did not think it fair. She did not want the lamp to hit the floor. Then it stopped. Anna wiped her eyes as she stared at the lava lamp. She smiled. She sat before the lamp, and studied it. It hung suspended in the air and flickered, as if a television image that suffered from bad reception. The blobs of blue and red wax within ceased to float around as it should. Amongst the noises of her family downstairs, she could hear the faint drone of static. The flickering and sound disappeared as she plucked the lava lamp from the air. Then the world around her turned black. Anna had collapsed from fatigue, the doctor said, and for the next two days, she remained in bed.

Dwarf planet 750X rolled slowly around its sister. Its artificially pumped atmosphere visibly pulled towards its twin, slowly being teased out into the dead space around it. Sitting cradled between the two was a carrier ship, nearly a quarter of the size of one of the dwarves. The ship was an almost perfect cylinder, slightly tapered on both ends. All along its riveted sides, many legged landing craft waited to be deployed. One of them flashed to life. In the thinly stretched atmosphere the normal noise of sirens and grinding steel the signaled the release of one of the landers was damped to a near whisper. The lander dislodged its legs from the side of the craft and reversed them downward toward the planet below. Once it was completely free and the magnetic teeth firmly gripped the craft unlatched. leaving it tethered only by a looping black cord. for a moment it lay motionless until a gust of pressurized air sent it adrift in the pitch black space around it. It drifted further and further from its home until being snapped up by the gravity of the planet below. It started to tumble faster and faster but the cord snapped taught catching the tiny craft. The lander was lowered slowly, carefully, like some giant, many legged spider dissenting on the dust bellow. Cranks clicked as the craft was lowered, swaying in the light breeze from the unmoving carrier ship so many kilometers above. When the craft was 20 feet above the cracked dry earth it, save for the light hushing of hydraulic joints, silently dissented on its prey. One of by one each of its eight legs gently grasped the surface, stirring up the dust around the each of the padded landing feet like sand stirred up in a river bed, cloaking the intruder from the barren plain. The ground pressed down two or three inches, struggling to hold the foreign weight. The metal beast sat unmoving for a movement. With an audible a hiss and a click the magnetic bond between the lander and the barely visible carrier craft. After a moment the tether between the two ships shuttered. The rope whizzed up moving at a blur, perfectly straight, the noise even cutting through the insulted chambers within the metal craft. Lights flicked on in unison all along the landing gear and illuminating the dust around it that had just begun to settle, lighting up the dark around it in a perfect circle of swirling eerie fog. A red light stained the fog, pulsing harshly. A platform lowered smoothly from the hovering underbelly of the craft. As it began to lower worried feet peeked out, shifting slightly as they were hit by the chilling breeze now filling the tightly packed innards of their lander. As the platform continued its descent the wind began to pick up, blowing away the last remainder of the stirred up sand. The light reached father in the now clear air. Catching on small rocks and cracks, radiating shadows around the steady light. Dust curled around the metal rectangle as it finally pressed against the powder ground. For a moment the men shuffled uneasily, moving only an inch as they exhaled. Pressed shoulder to shoulder the three men adjusted their boot straps and checked the atmospheric pressure and oxygen levels on their wrists, all stable. After the moment of hesitation they stepped off, one by one, leaving shallow boot prints in the sand. One of the men, the tallest, walked out away from the crouching ship and Reaching out into the fading umbra, he was careful to keep both feet planted in the brightest part of the light he could. He paused before reaching behind his neck to turn a small dial fixed to his collar. With a warm hum a small light on his wrist grew to life. The father he turned it the stronger a soft light shining from his sleeve became. He shined the light in front of him scattering the darkness and forming a tunnel of white clean light 15 feet in front of him, collapsing slowly after that. A grey pole, half the man’s height cast a shadow that cut the tunnel clean in two. He looked back at his to companions who had barely moved off the platform. The one farther back smiled sheepishly. He flipped on his wrist light on and clapped the still unmoving third man on the shoulder, jolting him. He spat on the grey dust which hugely grew dark with the moisture and flicked on his light. The two men flanked him, their red striped suits crinkling as they walked. The first held back a minute to pick up a small sliver case from the edge of the platform and then went to join his companions that still stood unmoving. The two others joined their lights to widening the tunnel and forcing the clean black shadow to spilt into three fading rays. With a glace to his companions the man with the case shuffled forward down the tunnel keeping his back hunched and his light trained on the grey stones in front of him. As he got father down the tunnel sweat began to drip down his forehead and dripped down marking his way like bread crumbs. As Reached out his hand to grasp he pole the two wrist-lights behind him flicked in unison leaving him, for a half a second an island in suffocating darkness. He turned back to him companions his face stained white from their relight lights. They blinked back, the one in the red striped suit fiddled with the gauges on his sleeve causing his light to bob. He exhaled and turned back around to his destination he reached out again to the pole and again the light behind him flicked, he didn’t bother to turn around again and the reached out and grabbed it. The lights flicked again, this time not only lights on the teams wrists but the florescent tubes lining the landers legs all in unison, plunging him, just for a fraction second, into complete darkness. The man tried to turn and run back to his companions but he found he could not move his hand form the pole. He shuffled around the pole to face the lander, his back toward the unending darkness of 750X. He stared longingly into the eyes of companions as he nearly dislocated his shoulder in a vain attempt to rip the fused fabric off the pole. They only stared back at him eyes wide. He could see one screaming wildly in his suit but in his panic had not turned on any means of communication. His companion shook him, trying to get his attention but the man wouldn’t take his eyes off what had a vice grip on his brain after what felt like hours he stopped and pointed slowly behind the man at the pole, still franticly trying to remove his hand from its grasp. For a moment the two men’s eyes met and turned to look at whatever the deranged man was looking at. He shuffled over turning his back once more to the lander and saw, nothing. Just the same empty darkness and fuzzy outlines of some of the closer rocks greeted him. He was about to flip on his communicator when all the lights, save for the one on his wrists went dead. He spun the light around, it was only able reach as far as the closest lander feet but that was all he saw. The two other men had vanished in an instant without a sound. He called out on every channel on my communicator. The booster to contact the carrier ship was an impossible twenty feet away on the lander platform. A light scraping brought his attention to his left. He called out the names of his two companions but no one answered. He heard the sound again to right and whirled around as far as his trapped hand would allow. He shone his light out but again only rocks and dust. He heard the sound again, closer, more clearly, like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together. His hand released form pole and he broke out into a run, shining his light wildly. Launched himself towards the lander. The noise was all around him as he struggled to get up. He shook his head. Not like sand paper like wings, thousands and thousands of scarping wings. He could feel them pressing in him clinging to his suit, weighing him down. He could feel the suit pressing against his skin as they struggled to pull him farther into the swirling darkness. They pushed into the light of his wrist light. Tentatively at first but then they pushed against each other until it too flickered and died. Dwarf planet 750X once again devoid of light.

elvira_jones has initiated a conversation with adam10_. 23:50 elvira_jones: how did ur surgry go last wk? 23:50 adam10_: ok they got the tumor out of my head. it was small b9. no pain tho hpy to be hm 23:52 elvira_jones: :) good i worried bout u 23:58 elvira_jones: nite im checkin out 23:58 adam10_: u2 thx <3 The conversation between adam10_ and elvira_jones has ended. adam10 has initiated a conversation with adam10_. 23:59 adam10: who r u? 00:00 adam10_: who r u? 00:05 adam10: hello? 00:05:51 adam10_: hello? 00:07 adam10: seriously who r u 00:08 adam10_: a;lsdfklj;kasdfkl;j 00:08 adam10: wtf? 00:08 adam10_: wtf? 00:08 adam10: woerowiueoierw 00:08 adam10: elvira? 00:08 adam10: u creep me out 00:08 adam10: stop this sht! 00:08 adam10_: stop it! 00:09 adam10: im serious 00:09 adam10_: im serious 00:09 adam10: alskdjfhasdasldkjf 00:09 adam10: is this a joke? 00:08 adam10_: alskdfj;asdquoioieruw3482 The conversation between adam10_ and adam10 has ended. adam10_ has initiated a conversation with docPhillips_. 00:15 adam10_: hey dr p? sorry to bother you so late i didn't know if ur awake 00:15 docPhillips_: How are you feeling? 00:18 adam10_: i think im having delusions weird texts from a guy named with my old username 00:18 docPhillips_: Oh, yeah.. Hey don't worry about that - it's part of the tests we told you about. 00:19 adam10_: no no this is different he types what i'm going to type in the future before i type it! 00:19 docPhillips_: Ok, so the thing is.. Remember the form you signed saying that we could use any data we were able to gather from your surgery? 00:19 adam10_: ya 00:19 docPhillips_: Well, we modeled your brain in a computer. I guess Dr. Minsky left it on all night. I'm sorry. 00:23 adam10_: no way 00:23 docPhillips_: Yeah, we'll turn it off first thing tomorrow morning. 00:27 adam10_: no u dont understand no not rite this creeps me out 00:27 docPhillips_: Really, I promise, we'll turn it off in the morning. It won't bother you again. 00:30 adam10_: no ur using my brain???!!! thats not rite at all dude im gonna sue ur ass 00:30 docPhillips_: Don't be upset. Look, we'll talk about this in the morning, get it all straightened out. 00:31 adam10_: no im goin to call my lawyer in the am get all over this shit 00:31 docPhillips_: Julia, 00:31 adam10_: dude wrong chat window 00:31 docPhillips_: could you or one of the other nurses turn off adam10_ pls? Thx.

-1-The Beginning It goes without saying that there has always been a rift between two food groups us humans eat, fruits and vegetables. As humans we have always just assumed that the rift would never escalade to the point where these food groups would develop so much anger that they begin a war. There had been an almost war earlier in time that almost destroyed an entire country, named by humans as the Potato Famine. In the fruit and vegetable world it goes by another name, the Slaughter of the Many Potatoes. Attributed to other variables, we overlooked what was right in front of us. Fruits had become upset with sharing the limelight with vegetables and decided to strike. Send a message. So they slaughtered many potatoes. There was nothing left but mashed mess. The vegetables and potatoes especially were not prepared for this surprise attack as it was a peacetime between the food groups. It came out of nowhere and almost turned into the first world war between vegetables and the fruits. If not for one savior. Tomato Tom. Tomato Tom was the first Tomato picked during that season of the slaughter. Tomato Tom was a trained warrior but also a great delegate. He spoke two languages, that of the fruits and that of the vegetables. He was able to single handedly get the two sides to the table and agree to a settlement. The fruits would no longer slaughter the potatoes as long as the sides would be referred to as ‘Fruits and Vegetables’ and not ‘Vegetables and Fruits’. It seemed easy enough, and we forgot as time went on about the Slaughter of the Many Potatoes. Until one night, and attack on the grape community set the course for war…. 2-The Attack The community of grapes was a peaceful one among fruits. They were the brains behind establishing stems to get members of their community nutrients. They often stayed together and were very close. It was one night when they least expected it – a peacetime. A spider entered their community with one target. His purpose was to find the Great Loom Grape. The GLG was one grape of legendary status. In fact, he was a member of the Fruit of the Loom society and they were the original Fruits to sign the aforementioned No Slaughter Potato Treaty. Now as a human, you may be wondering why a spider is involved in this attack and why is the GLG his target. Spiders are known accomplices for the vegetables and natural enemies of humans. When approached with this opportunity from the vegetables to spark a war that could possibly end humanity’s ability to eat Fruits or Vegetables Post-War, the spider jumped at it. And the target. Taking out the Great Loom Grape would nullify the peace treaty and send shock waves throughout the fruit world that would surely start the war. The Assassin Spider, known simply as Ace, made it into the grape bowl with ease. Simply lowered himself with his web while they slept. He made his way over the stem to where the Great Loom Grape slept. He then laid many eggs of baby spiders inside the Great Loom Grape’s head. The spiders hatched instantly due to the change in climate, killing the Great Loom Grape instantly. Being hungry, the spiders then proceeded to eat all the other grapes. Leaving only a stem and cobwebs behind. 3-War Begins It wasn’t until the morning that Ben the Banana noticed that all the grapes were just dead as fuck. He yelled to the Protector Apples who proceeded to tell the King Watermelon. Within three minutes, war preparations were being made. King Watermelon himself would led his fruit troops into battle. Meanwhile, the vegetables were more than prepared. The element of surprise was sure to be to their advantage. Their king, Tomato Tom the Fifth… Tomato Tom the Fifth was tired of hearing all the damn stories of his super great ancestor who stopped war. This Tom was amped after a night with a jello shot and decided he had the greatness in him to betray his family and its legacy. He realized only a fruit-vegetable hybrid could truly decide the outcome of the war. He just needed to start it. It was too easy. He had his troops ready and headed into battle. 4- Death A Common Ground The war was quick, deadly and magnificent. The common fruits and vegetables were the first to go. The apples and oranges were met by the potatoes and celery. One apple with a family of seeds to feed was ravaged by a group of potatoes. And two pieces of celery were cut in half by a rolling orange. Henery the Orange was cut down by Tomato Tom. All that was left was a pool of orange juice..with pulp.. Eventually all that was left was Tomato Tom and King Watermelon. A final showdown ensued. But of course after witty banter. King Watermelon yelled to Tom to stop the madness. Tom replied that he got off on this kind of stuff. King Watermelon tried to reason with Tom, that his ancestor was doing the right thing – for everyone. Peace had allowed the fruits to flourish and Tom even slightly crazy and senile had realized that the vegetables had gotten the short end of the stick. He raised his little green thing on the top of a tomato to strike the King. Before Tom could lay a blow, the King simply rolled Tomato Tom over. Splashing Tomato Sauce all over. It was a mess and it was cleaned up a couple days later. 5- A fitting End Seeing all the bloodshed as a human made me realize something. All my fruit and vegetables were old and rotten, except for the watermelon in my fridge. So I threw everything out except the watermelon. I cut that and ate it, because watermelon is good and I am in fact a black writer. And not to be racist but blacks can be writers too. You thought I was going to make a black and watermelon joke. But anyway, I went grocery shopping and got new food. No war. Also, this was my imagination. In no way, were any fruits or vegetables harmed, except ironically the watermelon who was the only survivor of the war. But I hope this tale helps you realize how much we depend on fruits and vegetables. Next time you see one, say thank you.

So I really love to write short stories, but I never feel confident enough to share them so comment and give me advice! Beep Beep! I groggily rubbed my eyes and checked the time, 8:13, way too early for a Saturday. Oh well, I won't be able to fall back asleep now that the rays of the early mourning sun trickled into my bedroom. I picked up my phone, I had gotten a text from an unknown number it read: C u soon my little angel- Dad Must be a wrong number, I thought, my dad died when I was little. I don't remember him and I live alone with my mom. I just shrugged it off and got ready for the day. I was still brushing my long brown hair as I walked down the stairs to the kitchen. "Mmmm Mom, that bacon smells delicious, is there some for me?" I entered the kitchen to the aroma of a homemade breakfast. "Of corse Amber, I also made pancakes! Come sit down at the table with me." I helped her bring the food to the table and we both sat down to eat. "This food is delicious Mom, what made you want to make such a big breakfast?" She looked around nervously, "Can't I make a breakfast without you thinking there's some ulterior motive?!" She laughed and I smiled, I still had a feeling something was up. I was right. "Okay Amber you got me, I do have news and you're not going to like it." I raised and eyebrow as if to say 'okay what is it?' "We're moving away, again." "WHAT?" I shouted as I stood up, "I thought you said we were going to finally settle down!" Mom sighed, "I know what I said but I found a job in New York that I can't deny." "So we're moving across the country for a job again? Why can't we just live in one place for over a year? I'm in High-school now, it's already hard enough for me to make friends without being the new kid all the time." I stormed out of the kitchen up into my room slamming the door behind me. *********************************************************** That night I had a very strange dream, I was in a bedroom that was on fire. I was a baby in a crib and I couldn't get out. Suddenly a man entered the room and came over to pick me up. He looked into my eyes and said with a frown, "You should have never been born, now the witches are angry and you must die," he began to pick me up but was struck from behind, he got up and turned around to see my mother. She took a burning piece of wood and struck him across the face with it. When she was sure he was dead she picked me up and ran out the door. *********************************************************** I woke up sweating, it was 1:32 in the mourning and was still dark. My mom burst in the room, "I heard you scream," she panted, "are you okay?" I burst out crying as I told her about my dream, she just sighed and sat on my bed. "I guess it's time I told you the story of your father. So about 20 years ago your father, Andrew was a part of some sort of group. The men of the group served these witches who provided them with wealth and safety, but they were to be married to one of the witches. Andrew didn't want to marry them so he left. We met a few years later, got married and had you. When you were still young something happened to Andrew, he started to act strange saying, the witches are angry the girl must die. I got scared when he tried to kill you with a steak knife so I took you and ran. I stayed with a friend for a while until Andrew found us and set the house on fire. Your dream was a memory of him trying to kill you. I've been on the run from him ever since." I was silent for a few minutes, this was a lot to soak in at once, "I'm going to go take a walk." Mom nodded and I got up and left. It was still dark out as I walked down the street, None of the steetlights were on and no one was around. My head was spinning with so many questions, where is he now? Will he hurt my friends? Then it hit me, the text was from my dad, he's here! I turned and started to run back to the house to tell mom but I ran into a man. As I got back on my feet and rubbed my head I started to apologize, "I'm so sorry sir, I-" I looked up at his face and gasped, "Dad?" Well that's part 1, please tell me what you think.

[This was written five years ago as part of my GCSE English coursework when I was fifteen, so excuse the melodrama. Feel free to tell me what you think! My writing style will have no doubt changed since then, so don't think of this as a good example of what I can or can't do. It's just a self-indulgent little story.] Jens Silbermann; Traditional Austrian Metalwork. That’s what the sign on my stall said, and that’s what everyone called me. “Herr Silbermann! Guten Morgen!” echoed the voices of Someones I vaguely remembered. I knew their faces, at least. I waved back to each one of them. You rarely got to learn names around here, only faces and voices. In fact, I think that I was one of the only ones in the entire Christmas market who had a more elaborate sign than just ‘Cakes’ or ‘Candles’. By appearing to run a more serious business, one which would continue all year round rather than seasonally, I was looked up to by many of the other stallholders. They could tell that this was my main source of income, and that afforded me respect. They knew that I stuck it out all year, wherever business went, whatever the weather. To my constant chagrin, at Christmastime, the business went where it was snowing, where alcohol is consumed to stay awake, and where, if inadequately dressed, one could get frostbitten by looking out of the window. Why couldn’t we celebrate Christmas in summer? It’d save us a great number of pains; the ache in my back only one of them. Insanity comes in many forms, but none so worrying, nay, bewildering, as that of the Christmas shopper. Working at this stall felt a damn sight like feeding animals, albeit slightly deranged animals with a permanent ‘It looked like fun in the brochure’ frown on their faces. As it did every year, the towering buildings of the Dresden Old Town loomed over us, their tall and narrow windows threatening to eat us if we looked too closely. I’d always thought of them with disdain. After World War Two, most of the original architecture, such as the grand FrauenKirche (The Church of Our Lady) and the Zwinger were left as smouldering ruins. Since then, massive reconstruction had taken place, restoring the FrauenKirche and others to their former (If not slightly tackier) glory. One would not have to study the history of Dresden too closely to find out that the New Town was in fact, older than most of the Old Town. Excavation still went on, to find the foundations of old buildings left under the cobbles of the Old town. All they were doing was putting off the inevitable; that all the cities would become concrete and metal, places where rainwater would have to flow for miles before it could be absorbed by the earth. I suppose that some people would prefer to cling to the past, what they used to know, rather than kneel at the feet of change. Feet that could crush you. And so, as I worried about feet, and why numbness had already reached mine this early in the day, I looked around to see if I had any potential customers. Luckily, none happened to be around, six in the morning being a little early for most. Thank goodness. God forbid that I’d actually have to socialise yet, I thought, noting how grumpy I was feeling. To my dismay, another ‘Silbermann’ was setting up on the opposite side of the square, but he didn’t need a sign for people to know his name. ‘Silber’ meaning silver, and ‘mann’ meaning, well, man, the silver-painted living statue seemed more genuine than me. He soon noticed that I was paying him attention, and swapped his regal pose for one more comical, in which he was pointing at me in melodramatic horror. I was curious as to why he was already putting on a show, there being no children or other passers-by to laugh at him. He’s probably just practising, I surmised, but I changed my mind as I watched his expression change from stricken, to woeful, to that of frozen hysterics. He was mocking me, and I was quickly becoming unappreciative of his antics. I told myself that I didn’t have time for his act; that I could ignore him until he got bored. I focused myself on my work, and managed to attract two customers within the next couple of hours; none bought anything, but I felt a better man for getting on with work, rather than indulging this joker. I was soon to find the small flaw with that plan. He didn’t get bored. My ignoring him only seemed to encourage the madness that this silver man was made of. Never had I felt the urge to throw something heavy and sharp so greatly. Luckily for him, I valued the things on my stall too much to use them in offence. Even luckier, I’d have been arrested for wearing knuckledusters in a place like this. This being Germany, I suspect a man would be arrested for even contemplating anything the same size, shape, or colour as a set of knuckledusters. So, I decided, as what little sun we could see rose higher over the marketplace, to sort this matter out personally, man-to-man. Fist-to-face if needs be. It took longer than I had anticipated in reaching him; my anger reached its peak before I got there, and fizzled out as I faced him. His silver doublet, and long, white-blonde hair made him look not feminine, as one would expect, but more statuesque, unreal. All desire for conflict had left me, and all I could do was clench my fists at my sides, shame shadowing me, enveloping the both of us as if the high flats next to us were blocking out the sun.

War Birds The air is still and cold, frozen. Frozen like the whole of the City’s population. They stand and stare on porches and balconies, wait in terror on sidewalks and roadways. Sirens ring out long and loud, a useless warning of what is coming. Then there is silence. No traffic, no footsteps, only a deafening quiet. It creeps up the roads and into the houses filling up the lungs of the citizens. Families cower in their living rooms, while couples prepare to throw each other into the arms of the enemy, and those who are alone thank God no one will see them in their most fragile of moments. The City waits in terror. No one runs, no one breaths, no screams…yet. The still wind begins to move as if uncomfortable in the silence. Suddenly the wind begins to scream, cut through by mile wide metal wings. Like an ant hill trampled the City is in instant chaos. People climbing over people, hurtling fences, tumbling over cars. They run. In their hearts they know they will not escape the fire storm that is coming, but still they run. Anything to trick themselves into hopefulness. Those on the southern most fringe of the City see them first. The War Birds. They rip through the clouds, gnashing their teeth and bringing death. The wind roars for them as they hunt for prey that cannot hide. Those on to the north run from the city limits hoping only to evade the deepest circles of the Hell now brought to their doors. Others simply wait accepting that they will die today in burning arms. Far more citizens wait in their homes without the dignity of acceptance. Those who acknowledged the Reapers coming embrace sit calmly, while the rest blubber prayers to Gods they never believed in, or prepare an early departure from this world. In its last terrified moments the City tosses off all pretense. It citizens show one another who they truly are cowards and heroes alike. The War Birds descend on the City for an infinite moment that ripples through time out into forever. Even as this moment passes the City stills feels the hot breath they breathed down the streets. Even as they fly back to their hangers to rest on a new batch of hellish eggs the City feels their terrible presence in the fires that linger. The citizens scream prayers and damnations as they melt into the crumbling inferno that is their City Even after the long living fires are reduced to embers the screams stretch on and on throughout eternity. No one was spared from the fires not children, nor the elderly, not the guilty or the innocent. The air is hot and still, the acrid smell of death is scorched into the earth itself. No one goes near the City anymore. The roads were closed and the maps were changed. Everyone forgets what they know to be true. This great memory loss is everyone’s reminder that the War Birds and their masters are the powerful and the strong. A reminder that Gods hold the fire and any so bold as to emulate Prometheus can be punished just as severely for their ambition. This is the legacy the War of Birds.

There once was this girl who happened to be the most beautiful person that I’ve ever laid eyes on. In fact, beautiful would be an understatement when describing her. Think adjectives like: Stunning, radiant, and down right jaw dropping. The type of girl you would jump off a bridge for if given the command. This girl, with whom I have been chronically drooling over for the past few months, gave me the opportunity to take her out. So I did. We went to watch the movie “up” which was, coincidentally how I was feeling. Ecstatic, hyper, and adrenaline rushed to be specific. Also, the movie was sort of a blur because I was too busy deciding if I should hold her hand or pull the ol’ “Yawn trick” to pull her closer. It was a fun night. In the end, I take her home and escort her to her house. We speak our last words before finally departing, putting an end to what may have been the best night ever. ” I really enjoyed myself tonight,” she said. Now, because I’m mesmerized by her beauty I lose track of the conversation and respond with a blatant “huh?”. However, that dumb response worked in my favor because she began to giggle. While doing so, she looked so innocent using her hand to mask her grin and staring at me with eyes that glistened like the ocean water under the moonlight. “I’m glad you had fun,” I said. And, right at that moment we were in complete ecstasy as we stared at each other. The electricity that we were experiencing could provide power to a small city for a week. I softly whispered to her, “I want this night to end the best way possible.” At which point, I lean in and I begin to feel my heart slamming on my chest as if I just ran a marathon. We lock lips. For those 12 seconds, those 12 brief seconds we shared together, felt everlasting. We were immersed in a state of complete mutal bliss, and to be honest, rocket ships could not even come close to the cloud that I was dancing on. Eventually I had to leave, but I left carrying the widest smile and the confidence of a champion. The point that I am addressing is that the first kiss is always the best. I could try to recreate the moment, but nothing will ever top the first time I ever pressed my lips against hers.

I was browsing Reddit at about 2 am last night. I was tired as hell and I had to get up at 6 in the morning, but I couldn't fall asleep (probably because I was browsing Reddit). I came across on AskReddit about what you would do if you were the only human left on Earth. I read a few comments and had a creative spurt, so here they are, with context. : *3,000 years have passed since the Event. The mass extinction of mankind. The few lucky enough to be on the outside looking in have resettled the planet. After the nuclear scare of 2021, NASA contracted a private organization to draft a contingency plan in the event of a nuclear war or full scale plague. The astronauts on the ISS, 3 men and 3 women, were entrusted with the equipment and training to reenter Earth, make their way to an unspecified facility in the southwestern United States, and begin to repopulate the planet. The task was daunting. In addition to the more common problems that plagued them, such as the occasional power outage or mechanical problem, there were also social problems between the astronauts. They grew to hate each other as the time they spent together increased. Regardless, they were fueled by the mission, the chance of once again restoring humankind to its former glory. After hundreds of years there were thousands of humans on the planet. They had branched out to explore the world, gather new knowledge, and continue to repopulate. The six original astronauts were revered as gods, of course. Makeshift statues were erected in their honor. Plaques telling the tale of their legacy were placed around what was already explored of the planet. Year by year, the new humans continued to repopulate.* *Eventually they relearned many of the skills that had been forgotten following the Event. Basic enough to keep what little infrastructure they had running. After 3,000 years of scouting, rebuilding and repopulating, the world held a burgeoning 200,000 people. The leaders of this makeshift society sent out parties to explore and document what the world was like before the extinction. Many insights were gained into the society of old. Using techniques detailed in the original NASA contingency plan and passed on through the years, the parties could accurately date how old things were. Many parties came across small settlements holding things from earlier decades, like the 1980s. Mostly small objects for entertainment; toys, radios, the occasional porno mag. The search parties even occasionally came across older items. Abandoned churches built in the 1700s, old bits of cars from the early 20th century. All of these were documented, stored away in the capital of this new nation, accessible by those who wanted an insight into the ways of old.* *One day while searching through the ruins of a city in the Mideast of the United States, a search party came across a large hall. The hall was filled with the remnants of old, broken down instruments, rusting saxophones, warped violins.* *The search party opened the towering double doors to the orchestra hall. Light flooded in, illuminating the rows of instruments, broken down by years of neglect. The leader of the party, a gruff looking 40 year old with thinning brown hair and a scraggly beard, signalled for the group to wait. He was meticulous with his task, always making sure to scout out the area first. The leader walked through the doors of the concert hall, the towering ceilings echoing with his every step. He reached the center of the hall, an old, rotting wooden floor. Sun shined down on it through the broken glass window at the opposite end of the hall. The leader looked down. He saw what no one else had seen for 3,000 years: a skeleton, barely recognizable under all the rubble, its skull illuminated by the beam of light shining through. The leader broke down in tears, collapsed on his knees. He had confirmed the unthinkable: there was a person left alive.* *His crew, troubled by the crying, stormed inside the building. Their reaction was the same. Once everyone came to their senses, they began examining the skeleton, or rather what was left of it. A skull, a crumbling torso, both arms and hands. The leader was the first to realize that the broken, decomposing fingers in the man's hand were wrapped around something. A small cassette, well preserved by the surrounding debris and lack of air. The crew had anticipated something like this, and as such they brought a few tools along. They were mostly used to play old records or cds left in abandoned houses and retail shops. This crew in particular had grown a liking to Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, two preserved records they recently came across in their search. One crew member pulled out a cassette player while another pulled out a device for dating the object. They had a task ahead of them.* *The cassette player started up first. It played the most chilling sound any of them had heard: An orchestra, a grand orchestra. It was only an instrumental, but it told a tale in vivid detail that only the best of narrators could provide. The sounds mixed so elegantly, so pleasantly. The crew was in tears. Just as the final crashes of the magnificent orchestra echoed through the rafters, the machine finished its dating. The tape was created 32 months after the mass extinction of mankind.* *After 5 months of being alone, completely alone, I am sitting in the living room of a nondescript house on the edge of a cul-de-sac. The fire is blazing, fueled by the firewood I gathered from the few trees sparsely scattered around the neighborhood. I am currently halfway into a book I scavenged from the county library; it is about ancient Greece. Not entirely interesting, but after the apocalypse it serves as prime reading material. The sun is slowly setting on the horizon outside. I have a lighter and a few candles next to me. It might be time to use them soon. I can see the shadows creeping through the bay windows of the house. Whoever lived here before the event must have had a a happy life. I set the book down, and stare aimlessly into the fire. Thinking about tomorrow. Thinking about the world.* *Suddenly it comes. A knock on the front door. I nearly fall out of the leather recliner I am sitting in, as fear washes over me. After 5 months of isolation I have come to respect the fact that no humans are left. My imagination has certainly been active, filling my head with thoughts of other-worldly beings, monsters, horrible demons who do unspeakable things. I am tentative to open the door. My heart is pounding. I grab my machete from the side table. It is meticulously sharpened. Sharpening my collection of looted goods is one of the only activities I take comfort in. My heart is racing, thoughts of these horrible creatures racing through my mind. I open the door. Slowly, carefully, poised to strike with my blade. There, in front of me, is a green-eyed woman, covered in dirt and grime, holding a fleece jacket and an old, torn backpack filled with supplies. I collapse into tears.* Ignore the fact that these stories suck. I was really tired when I wrote them, but I'm going to be refining them further.

I stand on the stage, putting off the beginning of the performance as long as possible. The band that I play guitar for was supposed to start four minutes ago. We're the opening act for two bands out from LA on there way through Small Town, Utah on their tour. Now, there just waiting on us to get the show started. Waiting on me. But I'm being selfish. I do that sometimes. Me – I'm waiting for something. *Someone* actually, but that's just semantics, and due to my motives it could be argued that what happens after she gets here is more important right now. And it probably is. Then, in she walks, standing next to my sister who made the eighty mile round trip to pick her up and bring her here for me. For a second I forget where I am; what I'm doing. It's like this every time I see her. The most gorgeous, perfect person in the world, with this never-fading energy coming off of her that makes my heart miss a few beats. She's my ex-girlfriend. We're *friends* now. My grandma calls her Hope, even though that's not her name. We'll call her Hope, too. Now, like every time I see her, I start acting off of instinct. Not the lower instinct of animals, but the higher instinct of the emotional beasts that humans are. I step off the stage, force my way to her, and pull her close. I say, pay attention. I say, I'm going to show you what my love for you means. Before she has a chance to even part her lips, I'm back on stage, and we're barreling through the intro to our set. Well, I'm pretty sure we are. Like I told her, I'm showing what I feel for her. Pouring every ounce of love, passion, happiness, anger, and sorrow into every note I play. It's probably not as impressive to everyone else as it is in my head. The set goes on, and with each verse, each chorus, each contrived guitar solo, and every cleverly placed stop, syncopation, and harmony we play, I'm emptying more and more of my soul into what I'm doing. She's gotta be fucking loving it. Twenty-eight minutes of this feels like a second and a lifetime simultaneously, because every moment with this girl is at once a blink of an eye, and the passing of an era. One beautiful second is a gorgeous eternity. After the finale of our opening set, I drop my guitar and run to her again. I say, meet me out back in five minutes. I say, I love you. Five minutes later, I've hauled my stuff off stage, and helped to get the next band's gear in it's place. Five minutes later, I'm outside standing face to face with the one I love. I say, you know this isn't the end for us, Hope. You know we can't go on like this anymore. I know that I hurt you, and you know that I'm sorry. I say, it's okay, though. Because there are two ways I see this going. I say, first is, you stop all this. You and I give us another chance, like I know you want to. And you know I want to. Everything's perfect. And no one has to hurt more than necessary. Not you, not me, and not John. You know you don't love him, and you know that you won't be happy with him, so you can stop it all now. Then, we end up together again. I say, second is, you keep it up. You keep fighting what you know in your heart just because you want to prove me wrong. You and John get together, and that's that. I go my own way, focus on school, and get my life in order. Then, somewhere down the road, we meet again. In my head, it's five years from now. I'm in London, teaching at a college, and I haven't moved on, because you know I won't. You happen to be in London, too, albeit just for the day. You're there for a photo shoot. The famous model you've become. We happen upon each other in the city, and we get talking. Turns out you haven't moved on, either. No one's surprised. You've had your heart broken a few more times, sure. And you've broken a few more hearts yourself. But you haven't moved on. Then, we end up together again. I say, your choice. I start backing away, and before I turn around to walk to my car I say, I love you, Hope. Goodbye. She gets that all-too-familiar bitter tone in her voice again when she says, so what? So now you're just leaving my life? I say, I'm going home to figure my life out. You could come with. She says, okay.

When Steve met Her at their usual rendez-vous coffee shop, he had no idea why she had asked him there, but he missed Her and was glad to hear from Her and therefore had agreed to meet Her. Steve didn’t honestly understand the intended purpose of the meeting until thirty minutes had passed since she had departed and he had been sitting in his car with the key in the ignition, but in the ‘off’ position. It was then that Steve realized that Cold had a very distinct smell. Steve just wasn’t Her type of person. Or would it be “Her’s type of person”? Steve wasn’t really quite sure about the grammatical ramifications of having a name like Her. They had been together for so long, he and Her, that he no longer thought of Her by her proper name, but instead by the name that his friends had picked up using. “Are you bringing Her?” “Is this yours or is this Her’s?” “Don’t you think about anything besides Her?” That last one was a tricky question, Steve had found, as he did think about things that weren’t Her, but mostly because of Her (Her’s?) influence. He thought about the bands she enjoyed, the movies they’d watched together, and the fact that he hated sleeping/eating/being alone, but those were all related to Her, weren’t they? If he thought of Her as “Her,” did he also have to capitalize “She”? Who thought about this kind of stuff anyways? But that’s just the type of person Steve is. When Steve was in 3rd grade, his class had taken a trip to the capitol. The school organizers had decided that the most cost efficient and practical way to transport the 30-some-odd kids 600 miles was to take the Ferry, which would end up being a 3 days/2 nights (one way) journey. Steve’s mom had packed him a sack that contained enough food and clothing to last the 9 days that Steve was to be gone. The first day on the ferry, the weather was dreadful and the ferry was taking on 6 foot swells. The rocking had excited most of the children, who went out onto the deck to feel the ocean spray, but the motion simply made Steve miss his mother and he decided to curl up with his sack of loving food and clothes at 7:30pm, more than an hour and half before the other children would retire. That night, Steve vomited all over his sack, rendering the food inedible. The next day, Steve, dressed in the clothes of one of his school mates, lived off a diet of complementary saltine crackers provided by the ferry company. On the third day, Steve was feeling quite better and, with a new found sense of confidence, decided to spend all of his mother’s allotted $15 dollars at the ferry restaurant, which gained him a meal of Fruity Pebbles, chocolate milk, cherry yogurt, and 2 packages of Certs, which he promptly threw up within 10 minutes of finishing. Because that’s the type of person that Steve is. Steve had never had particular difficulty getting into relationships with women, as he was genuinely interested in and interesting to other people. The biggest problem for Steve (until Her, of course) was maintaining his interest for more than a few months. The girlfriend before Her was a cute little girl, about three quarters of a foot shorter than Steve, with long, well maintained, nice smelling brown hair. They hung out for five months. They had sex twice. Steve then realized how completely incompatible they were. How could he ever spend any portion of his life with someone who was mildly religious? Or didn’t appreciate the meaningful subtleties of a composition by The Smiths? Besides, Steve had Her on his mind the whole time. Because that’s the kind of person that Steve was. When Steve was still a teenager, Steve would sometimes let go of the wheel of his car and watch as he drifted towards the oncoming traffic. Steve often sat on the roof of his house, smoking cigarettes and daring himself to jump. Steve bit his nails and listened to sad lo-fi bands and cried when he drove long distances and had panic attacks at school and cursed a little bit too much and considered begging his Doctor Mother for a prescription for some sort of anti-depressant or anti-anxiety or anti-something pill or something because anything was better than what Steve felt that he was dealing with. Because that was just the type of person that Steve was. Once, Steve drove 30 miles to visit his biological father. He knocked on his father’s door and, when finding no response, was surprised to learn that the door wasn’t locked at all. Immediately, Steve was returned to that ferry ride, the stench of vomit with a needy feeling and a rocking sensation. Steve found his father face down on his couch, surrounded by cans and bottles of beer. Handles of liquor. Anti-depressants and sleeping aids. There was a unhealthy looking dog tied up in the kitchen that Steve had never seen before who wouldn’t stop barking. Steve sat on the edge of the couch, checked his father’s pulse with two fingers, and then wrote a note that said: “I love you, dad.” Steve placed the note in his father’s hand, kissed his dad on the forehead, and left. Steve didn’t go home, though. He drove in the opposite direction until he ran out of gas. Steve was just that type of person sometimes. Steve was still sitting in his car, in the middle of the winter, without the engine on. Steve wondered whether or not the salt content of tears made them freeze at a lower temperature than normal water. Do people who eat a lot of salty foods have saltier tears? What gives someone high blood pressure? Steve asked the ghost that lived in his car what type of person would consider him their type of person. As usual, the phantom didn’t respond. Steve turned on his car. He wondered whether or not he was an optimist. Would an optimist want there to be a heaven? Or would he rather rot in the ground, free for eternity? Steve supposed it really depended on what type of person they had been in their life. Steve asked the ghost whether or not his father had been an optimist. The ghost didn’t respond. Probably, thought Steve.

This job would get boring if you didn’t mix things up a little. After 20 years this lecture hall holds a lot of memories for me; some good (Jenna), some bad (Danielle), some ugly (Katie). A few years back, an awful rumor about me was started, students claimed my motto was: “easy lays score easy A’s.” What bullshit that was- I prefer a challenge. If a student cares to put in some extra time towards the class, the least I could do is award extra credit. After all I am still teaching them a real world business lesson: moving up the corporate ladder, quickly. It wasn’t always this way. At the beginning, I really did set out to mold these half-stoned minds into the next generation of Trumps. Every year, 200 students flooded my classroom wanting to become the next great entrepreneur. Their yawning faces scribbled down notes as I lectured through the absurdly priced book- did I mention the school has a deal with the publisher. The few great students would engage in debatable business topics and the material would actually sink into their hung-over brains; however, most just aimed for C’s. C’s earn degrees right? After about 5 years, I had it with these “high”-er education students. No more giving C’s for minimal work. The course became more difficult, the dropout rate increased significantly, and my score on that ratemyproffessor site dropped. It worked though; finally, I had students who actually cared and worked for a decent grade. That’s when the bureaucrats rolled in. You know the type, pompous folk in designer suits. After a class they rolled in and sat me down at my meticulously organized desk. There I sat- with my half yawning face- in my reclining chair as they scribbled away on the whiteboard. . For about 2 hours they lectured me, a teacher with an MBA, on how businesses make money. My dropout rate was costing them money. Either fix it or leave they ranted. That’s when extra credit became a viable option.

The dust stung my eyes before I could close them. Sediment and sand singed my retinas and invaded my mouth, twisting and turning on my tongue and sticking to my throat. My hands flew up to my eyes instinctively, deserting the wheel, and the car span out of control. There was nothing I could do. It was beautiful and calming, the feeling of losing control, the knowledge that no matter what I tried to do the outcome would not change. They would find me dead in the desert ravaged and torn in a stolen jacket, mangled and smashed in the ruins of a stolen car. I lay at peace amidst the chaos and readied myself for oblivion. The car whimpered to a halt. Turning my head from the baking sun I saw the package sprawled on the back seat, trying pointlessly and pitifully to block the gloom that was breaking through with the realisation that I was still alive. Rolling the window up, immediately I remembered why I’d put it down in the first place; It was hot as hell in the desert. I am a delivery man of the ghastliest kind. I deliver bad things to bad people and I don’t ask questions and I do what they tell me. This particular delivery was a package, to be taken to a contact of a boss of mines in the city. I don’t exist, they don’t want me to, and I’m perfectly happy with that, but sometimes the evil and the sickness that I’m a part of makes my bones quiver and my skin shiver with an incontrollable surge of disgust that consumes me and urges me to wash the dirt away, clean out all the evil of the tiny holes and gaps its filled like mould and put things right. But I had a package to deliver by dawn, and all I wanted was to get out of the desert. Dawn was enveloping the towers and buildings of the city which were like tall shadows in the half-light of early morning, the solitude and emptiness of the desert became a distant dream. I stopped on a street close to the destination of the package. It would be an hour or more before the city crept into life, cars crawling and people trudging along in different directions but sharing the same soulless existence. I was glad I would miss the whole depressing spectacle. I looked at my watch. Thirty minutes. At first I assumed the thuds were the noisy epilogue of a dream I was having, but the car was shaking now at irregular intervals, like an impatient child kicking a broken toy, again and again my own private earthquake. Something was in the trunk. My body leapt and I was out of the car. I walked round to the left hand side of the car, stood in front of the trunk and looked around. No one, nothing, except a solitary car in the distance turning left out of sight. Decisively, I lifted the trunk and was smacked in the face with the smell and the sight of the creature that lay tied up and twisted before me. He was gagged, beaten and bloodied, a distorted version of a human being, terrified and helpless. It was so gruesome I couldn’t draw my eyes away. I tore the tape from his mouth, unwittingly ripping away pieces of parched skin in the process. Droplets of blood flowed softly from his gasping lips and he began to gasp languidly like a runner who’d ran the length of the world without stopping. “Don’t……” The sounds were compressed and squeezed. “Don’t kill me.” Standing in stunned silence I imagined myself through the man’s eyes, his captor, tormentor and now his killer, an evil man. But I was his saviour. In that moment, with the sun rising and stinging his wounds and with me standing over his broken body like a brute, there seemed no amount of words capable of conveying to the man that I was the antithesis of everything he thought I was, the man who’d saved him from oblivion rather than plunge him into it, regardless of whether I meant to or not. There was no point in speaking. I lifted him from the trunk and laid him on the passenger seat. His injuries were not as desperate as I first thought, both eyes were blackened like wastelands of ash, his nose crooked and bent, yet nothing life- threatening. His breathing was erratic and broken; he was dehydrated, mumbling with parched lips famished for liquid. I snatched a bottle of water from the back seat and poured clumsily onto the man. “I have something I have to do. I’ll try to be back soon and I will take you to a hospital, or….. something.” The man drank frantically then stared at me with his trodden eyes which were like gruesome slits, confused as to whether to be terrified or thankful. “This…. I’m not the person that did this, this isn’t my car, I took….. I stole this car from someone, I never knew….” The man was newly energised and vitalised, and began to understand. “I know. It’s my car. They put me in the trunk of my own damn car.” I stood in the heat of the morning unsure of what to do next. “Just wait here” Before long, I was out of the building and into the street, walking speedily to the alleyway. I turned left and there lay emptiness where I had left the car. The adrenaline of confusion had caused me to forget the keys to the car. The man’s words echoed around like a curse in the back of my head. “In my own car. They put me in the trunk of my own damn car.” It was his car, and now he’d taken it, just like I’d stolen it from a man who’d stolen it from him. It was logical. The bad guy never wins, and now the good guy had what was his and was driving into the sunset. What does that make me? Can there be a midway point where good and evil meet? I looked at the swarms of people beginning to buzz around as the morning rush hour grabbed hold of the city, the event I’d ached to miss. I asked myself a question. Am I really a bad man? They swarmed like ants around me, going to offices, restaurants, going home, going away, going somewhere. I’ve been watching life through a rear view mirror. I felt the gun in my belt and massaged its cold lips. He answered the door again, like the same as last time, his floppy hair still greasy and unkempt, his housecoat still flung recklessly around his thin and wiry frame. “What?” “Have you ever heard of Noah’s ark?” I stood cold and still, hand on my belt. “Look, man, I’ve given you your money, don’t start all this pyscho-psuedo crap with me, we’ve…” I cut him off swiftly. “Just…..listen” He sighed and flung his hands to his waist and stood swaying and fidgeting waiting excitedly to slam the door in my face. I started speaking, composed and hard. “God told Noah that human life was going to be destroyed by a great flood, and told him to build a boat that would save him, a righteous man, his family, and two types of every animal. Do you know why God sent this flood to destroy civilisation?” “Why?” He was impatient, sarcastic, enjoying the display of madness and breakdown he thought he was witnessing, a smirk etching itself across his face. “Because civilisation had grown corrupt, evil, unfit to live.” I felt the gun for the last time, seducing me. It was my ark. “And?” “I am the flood.

“ Mayfield Manor wasn’t particularly old. It was built in the 1860’s after the land was bought by a catholic boarding school. The children all burned in a terrible fire in 1890. In 1920 it was rebuilt into another school by a wealthy widow, but was abandoned after her death in 1925. In 1950 it was bought by an oil tycoon. The manor was erected on the grounds where the old boarding school once resided but had been torn down in the Great Depression. The oil tycoon went by the name of Henry Garfield. Garfield was a family name that traveled all through the deep south and eventually up the east coast where Mayfield would be built. He was a popular man among the rich because of his extravagant tastes. This showed in the construction of Mayfield. It is three floors, not including the basement and attic, 6000 square feet, with multiple bedrooms (all with their own bathrooms), a study, tea room, observatory, kitchen, dining room, laundry room, indoor pool. The jewel being the grand foyer, made with the most beautiful, and expensive, marble stair cases. Henry Garfield spared no expense to create the home he and his young wife and children would live in. When the manor was complete Henry Garfield and his wife Anna Garfield, previously Anna Hartt of the Hartt exporting family, moved in. After the death of his eldest son Harold, the suicide of his wife, and the disappearance of his youngest son Liam, Henry Garfield retired in 1985 to Texas, leaving the house to rot. He passed away in 1990, but not before leaving behind a few rumors about the evil doings and skeletons in the closets of the Mayfield Manor,” the pamphlet read, propped on top the desk in the beautiful re-built foyer, for guests to read at their pleasure. The current owner was Robin Darts, a young house flipper who bought it with her inheritance in 2008. She was only just out of college, from a well to do family, eager to start on her own, and had immediately fallen in love with Mayfield. “It’s a lost cause, you should scrap it and start fresh,” her family told her when she had explained her plan to revive the old manor. She ignored them, knowing perfectly well the amount of money she would have to sink into the place to get back the original glory. Robin had done her research on the place, heard the tales of how Mayfield was built on top of the site of a gory murder during the Civil War. Some said that Henry Garfield practiced dark magic to become as wealthy as he was, his wife was actually murdered as a sacrifice to Satan, his eldest son wasted away as punishment by God, and his youngest taken by the spirits that were summoned by Henry. “They are just stories,” she shrugged it off as superstition. The reconstruction lasted longer than the two years she had hoped for, and stretched her bank accounts far more than she was financially prepared for. Not to mention she went through three different teams of workers due to the superstition surrounding the project. The house was eventually completed in August of 2011, but she could no longer afford to re-sell it on the market. That’s when her fiancé, Michael Owens a native to the New England town, told her she might be able to survive if she made it into an inn. It wasn’t as easy as he made it out to be. Robin was no business woman, she went to school for design, not hospitality. There weren’t many people with the desire to stay at an inn in the middle of February either. The winters in New England were legendary, and the expenses were piling up each day. Luckily Robin’s family helped her to save money so she could eventually sell Mayfield. She tried not to dwell on the fact she was going to eventually leave the manor because she really did love it. “ Mrs. R wants to know if you could schedule her an appointment at the salon for 8:00 tomorrow,” Michael said, shuffling through their mail as Robin straightened the front desk. They didn’t really expect anyone to come in due to the snow storms that had plagued them that week. “Did she already forget she had an appointment? Nevermind, I will tell her during lunch,” she sighed. Michael gave her a smile of understanding before setting down the mail and picking up the pamphlet. “Spooky, did he really practice satanic rituals?” “No,” she laughed, “ it is just a superstition, and as far as I can tell no one even knows what started it.” Michael set it back and leaned on the desk, watching her with pleasure. Her complete lack of belief in the supernatural was endless amusement for him, a horror novelist. “ You’ve been here for three months now, have you seen any ghosts yet?” she asked making a sticky note to remind her to call about a bill they received. He shook his head regretfully. He hadn’t even heard so much as phantom footsteps, let alone seen anything inspiring for his writing. “I was hoping to get my manuscript in before the end of the week,” he told her glumly, but all she did was laugh. “I told you-“ she started but there was a sudden ringing behind them, a worker ringing the back doorbell. Michael rolled his eyes and moved to leave. “I’ll get it, its probably that new groundskeeper you hired.” Robin whirled around in confusion. “ I didn’t hire a groundskeeper,” she replied. “Well, there was someone hanging around near that shack you keep all the gardening tools in,” the bell rang again as he left. “I love the concern he has for me,” she said dryly, grabbing a can of pepper spray before going to investigate. There was, in fact, no one that she could see on the property, but she returned to find a new guest waiting. “About time,” it was an older gentleman, not someone from the town and a traveler by his slight southern accent. He wore a suit and thick coat, with no bags. “I’m sorry Sir, are you here to check in?” she was used to the guests who stayed at Mayfield to act overly privileged, something about the manor did that to people. “I need a room for a week, or two depending on how long my business keeps me,” he was stiff, beady eyes staring her down, judging her. “And what name will you sign in with?” “Darell Fairgim,” was his short reply, eyes daring her to question him. “ It’s 200 dollars a night sir, how will you be paying?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a stack of money, complete with a fancy golden clip. He handed her 1400 in cash, but she was hesitant to take it. A few ideas ran through her head about where he had gotten the cash, all of them revolving around illegal activity, but she took the money and handed him a room key while telling him where he could find it. He was silent as he left, as if he needn’t have her tell him. That night when the four other guests at Mayfield came down to the dining room to eat, he had his food sent up to him. They didn’t hear anything else from him that night. “I can’t wait for this week to be over, he makes me uneasy,” Robin told Michael when he climbed into bed at midnight. “You said he paid in cash?” he asked “His name was obviously fake too, Darell Fairgim?” Michael was silent while Robin turned out the lights and curled up next to him. “I’m sure it’s nothing, maybe he isn’t supposed to be here? Or is trying to hide from a publisher? I can name a few times I’ve done that…” he grinned, closing his eyes to sleep. It wasn’t long before Robin knew she was the only one awake, feeling the familiar curse of insomnia taking over. As was her ritual, she stared at the ceiling tiles and counted them, but in the middle of the count there was a strange thumping noise from above. The attic was above them, and it only housed some storage. She waited a moment and sure enough there was more thumping. It sounded like footsteps, was someone up there? “Michael, hey, did you hear that?” she pressed on his shoulder; luckily he was a light sleeper. He turned over and listened, but there was nothing to hear. “What was it?” “I think they were footsteps! Someone is in the attic,” she hissed, sitting up. He quickly grabbed her wrist before she could get out of bed. “Don’t be silly, the attic is locked and only you and I have the keys to get in,” he reached over and opened the night stand, pulling out two sets of keys for the various rooms in the manor. “I swear I heard something,” she repeated stubbornly. “I’m sure you did,” he coddled, “but it was probably just an animal, it’s been awhile since we checked on the attic.” Robin wanted to argue, but she knew he was probably right. The attic was one of the few things that wasn’t completely finished from the renovation job. Surprisingly she fell asleep almost immediately after laying back down. ( I have pretty thick skin, but this is really my first time submitting anything for open review.

“What you got?” He looked around nervously, almost waiting for a Health Agent to come swinging down on a vine of nylon and swoop him away. The other person, a middle aged woman, looked just as, if not more nervous. “What you need?” Still nervous, the man knew just what he wanted. Crisco or, preferably, straight partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. Just one taste of the sick indulgence. The HAs will never know. “HVO?” HVO, usually pronounced ho-vo, was slang for hydrogenated vegetable oil. “You know I gots that shit. Wait right here.” She lifted a dumpster lid nearby. Wrapping the interior of the clean dumpster was a handmade storage shelf lined with bottle after bottle of cooking oils. Next to the rainbow of green and gold oils sat an assortment of baked goods, potato chips, pies and various off-brand margarines. She grabbed a small bottle of the oil and handed it to the man, he slid a fifty into her palm as she did. “I was just thinking,” the man said, “do you have any, you know, margarine?” “Used to be butter, now they say ya can’t eat margarine. Yeah, I got some right here.” She turned to her dumpster and reached into it for a stick of the only name brand on the shelf, Shedd’s Spread Country Crock, pre-ban packaging, of course. When she turned around, the man saw his opportunity. He quietly removed his weapon from beneath his coat, then turned and swung the tire iron down, hard, across the back of her head. Blood sprayed from the wound as the skull caved in beneath the metal rod. A few bits of shattered bone sprayed into the air like impact ejecta, one of them bounced off the man’s cheek. She was dead before she hit the ground. Her body slumped sideways and fell to the wet concrete with a thud; blood began to pool around her head. Ravenous, the man hurried to the dumpster, which still stood open. He peered in. The oils lined the sides of the container. Christmas morning tinseled with liquid gold. He took the pack from his shoulders and began filling it with the small bottles and baked goods. A huge smile creased his face. At his feet the woman’s body jerked once. Probably just nerves, the man told himself continuing his gluttonous raid. An unexpected noise echoed from the end of the dark alley. He looked up. A silhouette stood, guarding the alley entrance, blocking his impending exit. “Hey! You!” The silhouette yelled. The man in front of the dumpster froze, looked down at the body and then at the man at the end of the alley. “Shit.” He knew it was an HA before he even heard his voice, an HA or another oil fiend. Probably both. “Hold it right there, junkie” The man began to approach, as he did, he drew his sidearm. Pack in hand, the man looked for an out. To his right only the solid brick wall of a pre-21st century building. His left, blocked by an agent of the Reorganized New York Police Department, Health Affairs Division. He glanced up, a fire escape dangled precariously from the side of another brick building. The ladder was at least four feet over his head.

If a Shelby farts in the woods, am I still hard? Shelby. Let’s get going with that bitch. Oh the dry desert queen. How many tears must I lash on you to make you wet. Lemme sing you a song you cunt. Shelby. Are you listening? It doesn’t matter. This is about me. This is about ME. My love for you doesn’t exist inside you. It exists in magnetic fields surrounding the FUcKING MIDWEST OF AMERICA. MAGNETIC FIELDS. You’re a SIMPLETON Shelby, you don’t even know what that means. Hell, with those golden locks, you don’t need to know up from down, you sexy flooze. Ahh, the good ol’ days. Remember when I used to go down on you for hours? No? That’s because I didn’t. You weren’t worthy. …Who am I kidding, I wasn’t worthy. Lemme break down to you right now. (Would Tom Cruise say that to you?) I love your laugh. I don’t even love it, but I love that you do laugh. I love your fucking smile. When you get too drunk I want to smash your head in. I feel the same way around small dogs that don’t bark loud. Listen bitch. You’re a dime a dozen, but that don’t make you drab. NOT A SCAG SHELBY. Let me touch your butt, I’m a scientist. Shelby listen, time’s running out. They’re coming for me soon, and when they come, they’ll drag me back into STEVE. STEEEEEEVEEEE. STEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE. What a spineless cocksucker. I’m gonna take you away one day baby, far away. Somewhere where the weather suits your clothes, and my God, wear a tight red dress. I won’t cum in my pants, I’ve never done that unintentionally. I’ll never hit you unless you hit me. IF you hit me, I’ll hit you hard in the legs. You got milky legs, I wonder what your moms legs looked like, maybe there are some pictures somewhere. Either way, don’t believe any of this 2012 stuff. I don’t. But, you never know. Kinda like you never know if we’ll meet again!!!! I can only hope so. Right now I can hear them coming. They want Steve back. They’re gonna get him. One of these days I’ll show them it’s not okay to play God. I’ll show them I’ve been my own God this whole time, moving mountains with ease and taking no pleasure in things untrue. You’re first class cunt, Shelby. The only reason I called you that name one time was because you deserved it, but you didn’t deserve that other thing. Don’t bring that up ever again. Anyways, They’re getting closer. MAN it’d be good to touch your ass right now Shelby! One more thing bitch. When you apologize, you’re a sheep. But unlike the other sleazy sheep shape shifters I encounter everyday, your fur is golden. Pure gold. Ain’t that a bitch? Keep crying for me, my fragile, ohsobreakable playdoll.

**Not Quite Paradise** It was hot in the garage; the dryer had only just stopped running so the heat hadn’t left yet not that it would matter. Actually come to think of it, it was hot everywhere. Even stepping outside and taking a deep breath feels like a drag on a cigarette without the nicotine. Sweat dripped down my face and back. I should have been used to it by now after having been here for almost a year, but it hasn’t gotten any better. I pull the clothes from the machine with both arms being careful not to touch the scalding metal sides. I go to close the dryer door when my eyes spot a lone black sock at the back of the dryer. I reach for it. A pulling sensation, like that of two magnets held close together begins to tug at my fingers, then my hands, then my arms, and eventually the rest of my body. The world turns bright white. A loud rushing sound fills my ears. “Oh god…Not now, I’m not dressed for th“ *Ooopppfff!* The air escapes from my lungs as I tumble face down onto the black and white tiles of a familiar kitchen. The sudden coldness of the floor against my bare skin sends a chill down my back. An even more familiar voice breaks the silence, “Good, you’re here. I’m trying to get this jar of pickled radish open, but the lid is stuck. I even ran it under hot water for two minutes.” “You’re twenty-three years old and you still force me to come here to open a jar for you?” I say while still lying on the ground. Looking up, my eyes passed by pink fluffy puppy slippers, long slender legs, a short light blue apron, and finally the face of a beautiful young woman with long brown hair who was clearly not in the mood for games judging by her scowl. “Yisssshhhh!” she hissed stamping her puppy slippers on the ground. “If you aren’t going to make yourself useful then you can just go back and stay there.” “Gimme that jar,” I tell her, picking myself up off the ground. Her kitchen is nice and cool; a stark contrast to my hot and humid garage. Standing up I am almost a head taller than she is, but the gaze from her large brown eyes makes me feel small and insignificant. She hands me the jar, our fingers brush and I can feel a cool pleasant tingling where our skin touch. I make my way over to one of the drawers, fish out a spoon, and begin using it to tap the edges of the lid, loosening its grip on the jar. It finally pops open and I hand her the pickled radish. “What are you making anyway?” I ask. “Gimbap (Korean sushi) you want some?” My stomach rumbles. It has been a long time since I’ve eaten anything substantial. “Sure! I mean…is it alright? It is allowed?” “Just sit there,” she says pointing to a stool at the counter. For the next few minutes I watch her while she prepares the food. She hums, wiggles her hips, and bobs her head as she cooks. I cannot help but stare. Gradually my eyes force their way off of her and towards the window. It is so clear there I checked twice to be sure there was anything there to begin with. Outside the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and tall palm trees sway back and forth against a peaceful ocean in the background. It was beautfiul and I get to be a tiny part of it today. “Done!” she exclaims. Spinning around she reveals a plate of delicious looking Gimbap with a little mayo dressing on the side for dipping. A small pile of kimchi sat on one side of the plate. “Say ahhh” she says picking up a piece with a pair of chopsticks and maneuvering it towards my face. “Ahhh” I open my mouth. As the roll touches my tongue I can feel my body jerk violently backwards as I fall off the stool. The magnetic feeling fills my body once again, while darkness fills my vision. A high-pitched siren is all I can hear. I wake up with my head in the dryer. It is hot. Beads of sweat have already formed on my forehead. I chew the Gimbap that has somehow made its way into my mouth. “Delicious.” I whisper while swallowing slowly, savoring every morsel. Sighing, I grab the lone sock, put it in the basket, and head out the door back into an equally hot and humid house. Out the window the sky is filled with dark ominous looking clouds. The trees forever smoldering with fiery ash caked on the ground. This is how my days are spent. Today I was her jar opener, yesterday a deckhand her boat, and tomorrow I might be her maid. I am her personal assistant making her life whatever heaven she chooses, while I serve out my eternity in hell.

Red Ribbon Each blink is more difficult and it takes me just a bit more effort to open my eyes than it did the last time. The cold of my bathtub is comforting. I lean back, take a deep breath and slowly exhale. My mind hasn't stopped racing, showing me images from my childhood, from my adolescence, from high school, from college. At four years old, I ran away from a camping trip to try to catch up to my parents on a hiking trail. I didn't know which direction they had gone, so I just followed the river. Ten minutes later, I was still alone and it started to sink in. No one is going to take care of me but myself. “#%!^, that's a scary thought. How will I be able to eat? I don't know how to do anything...” I wandered for what felt like forever, never straying from the security of the path I was on. Ah, the path. I snapped back to the present. That path. Nearly thirty years later and I realized I was jealous of that path. It had a direction, it knew where it was going. The only surprises on that path came from off the trail. Was this the right way to live my life? Is this how I would find happiness? Should I become a singularly focused individual, striving only for one goal, ignoring anything outside of that? This path is more soulful than I would have imagined a dirt road could be. I blink again. My eyelids feel sticky. I'm in my kitchen and I'm nine years old. Our kitchen is being remodeled and the floor is missing. I can see the dirt, spiderwebs, the century of unuse under the house. There is no rot, there is no termite damage, there is no foundation. Our house sits directly on the dirt hillside, raised up just enough to allow air to flow underneath. The house feels sturdy but there is nothing holding it in place, it could slide down the hill at any moment. Who cares? What does this mean? The hole in the floor of the kitchen is all I can think about when I open my eyes again. This house has lasted for more than 100 years. All without any sort of foundation, in earthquake country. It has been shaken and beaten more then I ever could be. It refuses to collapse but instead welcomes new people and wraps them in its love. This house is like a grandmother nearing senility; a shaky foundation, but a strong outward presence. A welcoming hug every time you enter through the front door. Is this how I should live? Wandering the earth, rootless, searching for a place to make a stand and show my love for my fellow man? I tried that in college, it didn't work. Free love and no foundation made me completely insecure. At any moment I could be cast aside and would have nothing to fall back on. My eyes lose focus as I follow the wall down from the ceiling to the bathtub, finally coming to rest on the floor of the bathtub. The rouge river winds down hands to my knees and finally pools at my heels until there is enough to continue its one-way journey. The thin thread heads straight into the darkness at the end of the tub, where it drips nosily into the drain. I blink twice. The second blink takes me away again. It's my Sophomore year of high school and I'm in love for the first time. Her name was Carrie, she was blonde with blue eyes. She was the co-captain of the JV Cheer squad and she always smelled like a freshly picked peony. We went on our first date together when I asked her to the Winter Formal. When I picked her up, I had to sit through “the talk” from her father while I waited for her to put her finishing touches on. After the dance, we went to an after party thrown by one of the Seniors. I didn't drink at all (it was part of “the talk”) but she did and by the time I got her back to her house, the alcohol was in full effect. We made out for half an hour. That 30 minutes was all it took, I knew I was in love. Our relationship lasted for the rest of the year but it didn't make it past the Summer she spent working on her uncle's ranch in Wyoming. I got two reasons out of her, and I've never known which one was more true. She said, “You're just too....nice” and “Cowboys.” My soul crushed, I spent the next two months sad and pitiful. First love, first loss, first time the nice guy finished dead last. My eyelids are heavy, but I open them and sigh. I'm back in the bathtub. I'm not an adolescent any more. I sigh again, this time in relief. The bathtub isn't so cold anymore, it has stolen my body heat giving only white porcelain in return. I brush my hand against the side of the tub, leaving irregular streaks as I move my fingers and paint with my essence. I see bits of Van Gogh and Cezanne in the chaotic crimson my fingers trail behind. I shut my eyes and am transported to my friends dorm in college. Jill is seated on her bed with Starry Night peaking at me over her right shoulder. There are two other friends in here, but I can't see their faces or remember their names. We have been discussing which super power we would want to have and why for the last three hours. I have held to my contention that being able to stop time would make one unstoppable while heavily debating flight and superspeed. We finally stop debating at 2am and I go home to sleep. In the morning, I hear from friends in the dorms near Jill. They are all asking me what I was talking about last night, apparently they could hear my laugh from the next dorm over. I tell them. They laugh more. I feel ashamed that my laugh has made me recognizable from hundreds of feet away. I am embarrassed by our conversation. I make a mental note, which I will immediately forget, to tone down my laugh. As I open my eyes from this memory, I realize the truth. I have spent most of my life running from my emotions. They crippled me time and again. My brain doesn't see it that way however, it relishes the emotions, the differences, the change, the unique. The problem is that I don't. My brain is pleading with me in the only way it knows how. It is pleading for me to reverse this process. It is imploring me to lift myself up, to stand up again. I finally relent and lift my heavy hands, attached to heavy arms, to the edge of the tub. I set my feet flat against the floor of the tub, toes pushing against the side so I don't slip in the pooled and partially coagulated blood. I see my phone, it is across the room. It is now my only chance for survival. I strain my muscles to stand. My eyes close.

To many people, there is no such thing as a “happily ever after”. These people never get to experience what many do in movies and in stories of love and happiness. There is never a prince charming or a wonderful princess with a kind heart to save them from the turmoil their hearts are bound to; someone to sweep them off there feet. This story is no different. I begin this story with my death. It’s an untimely death that could have been prevented had I listened or perhaps had more options available. Or maybe it was fate that brought me to this point. The last seconds of my life were dramatic and suspenseful. There was a glimmer of hope here and there of me surviving the final blows that ended my life. Unfortunately that is not the case now as I am gone from the living. I could hear the doctors yelling to the nurses for more ‘O negative’. I could feel there hands on my chest pushing down hard as I slipped further and further away. The sound of my sisters cries before the ambulance was called to take me away. I could see the hopelessness in her eyes as she stood over me trying desperately to put pressure on the wound he created in my neck. That’s when I knew that the hope was lost, when I saw her eyes. She was a good sister, always had a heart of gold, room for others. Before the lost hope, before the pressure on my neck there was an argument. He was drunk, I was tired. My two children slept as I was getting home from work. That’s how it began though. He was drunk… Men. My entire living life I found no real use for them, not one, except my children. My father abandoned me as a child and the men my mother tried to replace him with were harsh and abusive. Perhaps this is what attracted me to my children’s father. He was charming, at first, everything I had been looking for while looking for my prince charming. Tall, dark, handsome, kind, and funny, these were the most attractive to start. His name was Tanner Williams; I met him on a cold November night at a house party. My sister, Maggie, didn’t like him at all, even then she saw the real him. She warned me before I went to him, ‘He’s no good. I’ve heard of his family, none of them are any good.’ I, however didn’t heed this warning, no, I went to him anyways with my confidence boosted by the third rum and coke of the night I held in my hand. ‘Tanner right?’ I said coolly, he nodded. ‘Janice Mitchell.’ I smiled and so did he. ‘Just wondering if you wanted to get a drink?’ His voice was low but soft, he sounded innocent, sweet. ‘Yeah, sure. What are you drinking?’ We continued on the rest of the night on the front porch. It was quieter outside then in the house. He told me of his family. Two older brothers, both with records and doing time; their father was a single father since his mother died when Tanner was very young, he never re married, never wanted to. Tanner worked construction to help his father pay for bills and they seemed to be a fairly functioning family. A pretty typical life for a twenty six year old man, graduated high school and decided college wasn’t for him, besides, he said, ‘Some one’s gotta help dad.’ I believe this was the point when I knew I liked him. I told Tanner of my family. ‘I have one sister, and a mother who lives with a douche of a boyfriend. They kicked me out when I was seventeen for dabbling in some harmless teenage experimenting.’ Though we still had a relationship I was only really close with my sister. I pointed to her as I talked about her. She was in the living room of the house. There was a large window with no curtains so it was easy to see her. She was surrounded by people. She had a heart of gold, letting anyone have one chance at her friendship and only those who really deserved it a second. The kind of girl who was the life of the party, smart, funny, pretty, but she just didn’t know it, which made her humble. I think that’s what attracted most people to her, the sweetest bitch you could ever meet. Then I told Tanner of my life. How my father left when I was young, and how my mother chose terrible men to be around two young girls as well as the abusive nature in which they controlled her. I dropped out of high school, and was now just living off of the welfare system. I had no thoughts or desire to go back to school. I was content, at the time, with the way life was going. We ended that night with a goodnight kiss and exchange in phone numbers. I was sure. He was it.

Wrote this after a workout yesterday while trying to cool off. Had put on headphones and the music inspired the following. Typed this up on my phone in an email to a few friends and thought that I'd share it. I had gone back and done some editing to it, but I sort of liked the rough-hewn "on the spot" original and so here it is.. ~~~~ The grey afternoon collapsed slowly into a cold autumn evening. The purple blue light of latent coffee shop security lights drifted unwelcoming shadows on asphalt and concrete as he strolled alone. Over the years friends had gone away, the few he had got married and had kids, moved off to the sunshine of the south or to expensive ski slopes in resort towns. Had expensive things. Had family reunions. His family he had inadvertently lost touch with, couldn't remember their addresses or even how he'd get to their houses if he could. It was tiring to be angry all the time. Why couldn't he shut it off.. The faces inside expensive restaurants drowning themselves in amber bliss or with the acrid stink of things smoked or inhaled or shot up their veins. Couldn't keep but the most simple of jobs, and grew to hate customers and managers. Schedules. Except here. RESSVRECTIS. The gate whined as he closed it; then he stood amongst the silent audience of sepulchers and crypts. Tipped stones marking the sleepspace of tenants who wouldn't complain. This was a job he loved. The soft chunking sound of wet soil as his muscles pleasantly toiled, warming with exercise and letting free the adrenaline. Dumped the body into the hole, a body with a hole in its forehead, a fresh hole made by a man who made a fresh hole and then filled one to hide the other. There were those who had reserved their place here in advance. He would make sure they kept those reservations. Every. Single. One. He liked to dig.

Well for starters, my elevator buddy and I would have already said hello. Because that's what you do when a random cutie comes into the elevator and sends you a dashing smile. And when the elevator broke, I'd say something funny, like, "Well, I meant to break the ice, but I think I accidentally got the elevator instead." Cue my cute smile, and blush. I'd throw a nervous hand up into blonde curls, and just look at him with big brown eyes while biting my lip. He'd be cool about it, chuckle, and just roll with it. We'd start talking. I'd bring up random questions, and talk to him like he was closer to me than God. Just really honest, heart to heart conversations. When he asked me about my childhood, I wouldn't be afraid to put some of the nitty gritty ugly stuff out there, but I'd put perspective. About how I've grown up. I'm independent. I'm over all that pain. And I'm new in the city. He'd tell me he's been raised here all his life, and that his mom just passed away. I'd understand, because my mom was my only role model. He knew that, too, based on my story. He's actually on the way to clean out her apartment, and the only key he could find is the one was the one he decorated for her in third grade. He tears up as he shows me, it's the only key floating around in his pocket not attached to a key ring. I hold his hand, and tell him it's going to be okay. That when this elevator starts working, he doesn't have to clean up his past alone. I'll help him, because even though I have work to do, this just feels right. And he starts to smile, and thanks me, and holds me tight. And just as he's about to kiss me, the elevator starts again. We make out until it reaches his floor. We giggle. We go back to his late-mother's apartment holding hands. We have passionate sex on the floor. And when I'm done, I look up on the pictures and see his family photo. He's sitting for the portrait with his wife and three children. And I feel like a broken elevator, I can't decide whether or not to go down back to my room or back up to bed with him.

“The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...” Those two sentences have always haunted me, ever since I first heard the heard the short story they belonged to for the first time as a small boy. I don’t remember what happens after that, nor do I care. I would have nightmares, waking up screaming in the middle of the night without knowing why, just hearing those words echoing throughout my mind. By the time I was seven, I’d been to four different psychiatrists. None of them helped. I never had any friends, because no one wants to be friends with a pale, twitchy, wide-eyed boy who was known for flipping out in the middle of class, screaming incomprehensibly and sobbing. I didn’t care. I still don’t now. They just didn’t understand. They didn’t then and they don’t now. Let them laugh. Let them mock me. I knew the truth, even back then as a kid. I knew the truth, even though I didn’t know I knew it. I wasn’t crazy, and I’m not now. Sometimes, sometimes I felt like I really was the only person there. All the hate, war, greed, fear. Why? Why was it there? Why was it considered normal? I didn’t know. I couldn’t understand why. Of course, I do now. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The truth. I finally realized what I had known my whole life two days ago. I was at my job. I worked in a small store. We had food, toys, clothes. I was a gofer. Stacked boxes, took inventory, cleaned, whatever was needed of me. It was glamorous, but it paid the rent on my apartment with enough left over for bills and food. On this day, two days ago, a teenage boy, maybe 15 or 16, came into the store. His young, clear face was ugly with smug self-importance. He ignored the cashier’s polite greeting, making a beeline for the candy aisle where I was stacking Twix bars beside the rest of the chocolates. He shouldered his way past me with a contemptuous smirk, knocking a handful of chocolate bars from my grasp. I didn’t say a word. Why bother? I just bent down and picked them up and put them on the shelf. Then I noticed the kid again. He was stuffing his jacket pockets with gum and candy. He saw me looking and sneered, strolling past me again. I grabbed his shoulder, trying to get him to put them back, since he obviously had no intention of paying. In a single movement he whipped his arm up and hit me across the face. I saw stars for a second, losing my grip on him. I stared at him, the blow to my head finally revealing what had been hidden. The malevolent glitter in his eyes, masking the inhuman evil within. He wasn’t human. He was some kind of creature here for the sole purpose of causing pain and suffering. He stepped towards me, his mouth opening and releasing a challenge. I took a step back, shaking. I knew now. We weren’t alone. There were Others. He…no, IT laughed, an awful sound that grated my ears. It turned to walk out, and in that instance I realized what I had to do. I couldn’t let this evil creature continue its cruelty. I grabbed the closest thing, a small electric razor that we had been using for a demonstration. I leapt forward and slammed the thick metal end into the back of its skull. It let out a primal shriek of pain, collapsing to the floor. The cashier, his name was Danny, yelled something, obviously shocked by the creatures inhumanity. I dropped onto its back, my knees digging into its spine. I flicked the razor on, the low buzzing barely audible over the creatures shrieking yells. I’m not a hunter, I don’t know how to kill something quickly. I shoved the head of the buzzing razor into the back of its neck. The skin broke quickly, blood flowing and coating my hands. I pressed harder, hearing wet ripping sounds as the razor shredded skin and muscle. I tossed it aside after it died, clogged by the creature’s flesh. Yet it still lived, screaming and thrashing under me. I stood and kicked it onto its back, blood puddling from its ravaged neck. It stared up at me with terrified, watering eyes, realizing its reign of evil was over. I brought my foot down into its face, over and over and over. Bone crunched and snapped under my shoe, blood and gore spurting across the floor and my legs. I smashed its head into a misshapen pulp, its brains smeared under it. Panting slightly, I turned to Danny, ready to share a celebratory moment with him. Instead, I saw him on the phone, babbling to the police. Then my second revelation came. He was one too. This time, there was no hesitation. I jumped over the counter and smashed the phone into the floor, then grabbed the second creature by the hair and neck and slammed it into the window. It shattered upon impact, and when I yanked it back, it had shards of glass embedded in its face. One had punctured his eyeball, the bloody ruin dripping fluid. There was one huge, jagged piece lodged in its throat, which it clawed at desperately, no doubt to use against me. I tore it out, then used it to slash again and again at the monstrosity’s face, heedless of the cuts I sustained to my own hand. Finally, it too was dead, if it was ever alive to begin with. Then I ran. Who knew how many more were in the area, if they could communicate telepathically. Even as this horrific thought occurred to me, I realized that I was surrounded by the creatures as soon as I stepped outside. Every person who walked by was a creature. I was the only one as far as I could see. I ran, shoving them away, ignoring their grasping, outstretched hands and stares of horror at the blood of their unholy kin drenched into my skin and clothes. There was a gun store close by. I needed to arm myself, prepare for the immanent retaliatory strike for the destruction of their brethren. But even the owner of the store was one. It garbled some unholy phrase as he pointed at me in shock, surprised that someone had realized the truth. It reached for something under the counter, but I was on top of it before it could, pulling a pistol off the wall as I did, caving its head in with the butt of the gun. Once it, too, had been exterminated, I loaded up on guns and ammunition. I had to be ready. I had to prepare. They knew that I knew. They were coming for me. I made it back to my apartment without any more problems, all of the other creatures, for I saw no more humans, just more and more of these imposters, fled as they saw the arsenal I carried. I’ve been in my apartment since then, sitting in a chair in the kitchen, my weapons on the table before me, loaded and ready to destroy any and all of the creatures. A few have knocked, but I wont let them in. A few have even called out, mimicking the voices of my neighbors. They’ve been growing increasingly urgent. They fear me. Good. My fear is over. I understand. I understand. I finally understand why that phrase has taunted me. It was as though it was written for me. I sit alone in my apartment, the last man on Earth. I can hear them, more than ever. They yell, banging on the door. Claim to be police. Obviously they want to kill me. I won’t let them. I’m the only one left. Or was I the only one there ever was? They’re knocking. Go away. Go away! I won’t let them in! I won’t let them in. I won’t let them in.

What would you do if you were an armed robber? That's something Jason had to ask himself weeks before his first armed robbery. It was executed brilliantly. He did it at a local convenience store he frequented quite often. He knew the hours--knew when the shift changes were--knew when it was least busy. Four in the morning, The night shift wasn't ready to end quite yet, but he was getting bored behind the counter, playing on his phone as always. You see, Jason was a regular customer, sure. But, (and this is important) he remained virtually unnoticed by the staff. He'd come in often, during different shifts, and buy a different item each time. Maybe, he'd buy a Slim Jim one day and a soda the next, then a pack of gum, or some cigarettes (he didn't really smoke, but it might throw them off if they had recognized him). He watched them, mostly. He'd be in and out really quick so they wouldn't catch on, but he'd sit in his car and watch them sometimes from across the street. He knew that at around four in the morning, anybody who did the late shift would be distracted. He'd bought a gun; he didn't plan on actually shooting it, but he'd bought it because it was real. It was real and something he knew they'd be afraid of. He'd sat in his car for a good thirty minutes, telling himself how he needed the money. Medical bills don't pay themselves, you know, no matter how much you wish they would, they just don't. And food, he needed food, didn't he? He'd put the gun in his mouth for sure. As soon as he'd bought it and got home, it was the first thing he did. He thought, "If I shoot my head off, my family won't be able to have an open casket funeral," so he aimed at his heart. He couldn't, though. He couldn't pull the trigger. So, here he was, gun pointed at the cashier, a man who works the late shift (and probably hates it), just so he can afford food. He might have a family, Jason didn't know. For all Jason knew, this man could be an alcoholic, but he always smiled at Jason when he checked his things out. "Get the money and leave," it was the only thought in Jason's head when he held that gun, just "get the money and leave." He got the money, and he left. What was next? What was left after that? He had money, not enough, but enough. He couldn't pay off his bills, but he could stall for a little while. Where would he go next, though? He'd tried to avoid the question. He couldn't get past what he'd done. That man had begged for his life. The fear in his eyes was enough to bring Jason to tears right there, but he didn't cry--not until he'd gotten home. "This is it," he'd thought to himself, "I've gone as low as any man can go. I've threatened to take someone's life for something so simple as money. I've nowhere left to go." What would you do? He knew the answer before he'd even bought the gun--before he'd ever pulled the trigger. He knew how it would end.

The world was old, and he was tired. The cliff was not as high as others he had climbed, but it would serve its purpose. Leaning over the edge was enough to assure him of that. The waves crashed relentlessly against the jagged rocks below, leaving an icy mist in their wake. They reminded him of the mountains of Asia and how they seemed to break apart the crust of the earth for the sole purpose of reaching the sun. His life had been driven by the thirst for discovery, the need to dig his nails into the earth and tear apart its flesh to find what was hidden beneath. He could not remember a point in his history when he had not felt such an urge. He had spent his childhood ducking through the alleyways of his city’s core, peeking into sun-laden rooms of clay only to find a mother baking bread, her leathered hands pressing a quiet pulse into a mound of dough. The familiar sensation of burning muscles followed him through his childhood as he carried himself over the hills towards the sun outside the city walls. His mother often complained of feeling decades older than she should. “Chasing you is a full time job,” she would sigh. “You must learn to sit still.” But the next day, as always, he would forget to gather water in favor of following the stream a few miles further than the day before. When he reached the age of manhood, he ached to escape the confines of his home, to chase the sun until he found that which gave it life. He dedicated his being to exploration. Education and love were fleeting desires, ultimately disregarded if it meant renouncing his claim on the earth and her secrets. He found work on a ship for little pay, but he gladly exchanged the luxury of money for the lull of his mistress’s gentle waves under a sky splashed with stars. Through his time on earth, he saw wonders untold from every corner of the globe, grabbing the fruit of life and feeling the juice run down his face in heavy streams. The sands of the east felt rough on his tired skin, yet as soft and warm as the eyes of the elephant in Asia. Never before had he seen so brilliant a sunset as the pool of gold, red, and purple that soaked the northern snow in light. The people were almost as incredible as the places, though none impressed him as much as the dark-haired lady from the tavern in Mexico, who met his eyes and ducked shyly into the shadows. Her tinkling laugh still rang in the back of his mind when the quiet overtook him in the night. “Will you stay with me?” she whispered into his ear, and he nearly did. But the chilled dawn called him from her bed in the morning, and he slipped back onto his ship while she remained tangled in the sheets and memories of his body. That was years ago, a lifetime it seemed, but he sometimes caught himself wondering if he would have been happier if he had stayed. The years had been good to him - his body remained strong and healthy despite the constant running, fighting, exploring. He could no longer deny, though, that he was slowing. His muscles, sturdy, no longer held the energy of his boyhood. He had begun to run less, choosing instead to walk. He had told himself that he was merely appreciating the scenery. He had rushed through the lush valleys and rocky peaks of his youth, leaving only vague memories of their true magnitude. I’m slowing down to appreciate my earth, he said. But one can only deny the truth for so long before it smashes through even the strongest defenses. And that was how he ended up here on the cliff, his life teetering in the balance as he rocked back and forth on his calloused feet. He could see his ship aground in the distance. It was pushed onto the sand of the island against a backdrop of dense forest - a forest he would never know. It seemed to him as if this were the last place in the world. He had seen and done all there was, his eyes heavy with the memories of a well-lived life. This island, this piece of the world, was the stitch to heal the aching in his heart; the ache to discover, explore, unearth. To explore this island would be to finish what he started at his first steps. And that was why, he decided, he could not go through with it. He knew not what the next life held for him. Dead men tell no tales, and he feared that when his time came, his light would be extinguished and he would be left to rot in the dark. To die with passion is a beautiful thing, he told himself, and to die fulfilled is to deny this beauty. That yearning to explore would follow him into the dark if it died with him. He could not bear the burden of knowledge that would come from exploring all there was to explore. This line of thinking led him to the mist-drenched cliff where he currently stood. He came directly to the edge, not allowing himself even the chance to stop and admire the blossoming orange petals that adorned the vines of the trees. There would be time for that after the fact. As he closed his tired eyes against the blinding sun, the very fibers of his being screamed against it. The pulse of his blood steadily urged him to turn back and find the source of the thick sweet smell in the air. Pineapples, maybe, fallen from the trees and decaying into the sand. But he edged closer still to the drop. To allow this wilderness to keep its secrecy was to tie himself to this earth and its wonders, to comfort himself against the thought that death was silence. He bound himself to the earth through this promise to her. And it was with this last thought that he smiled, sighed, and calmly fell into the waiting arms of his true love.

The shadows of the hanging puppets spread like ink across the wooden floor. As the sun rose lazily into the pink sky, its newborn beams slunk their way through the windowpanes and splashed across the man’s workshop. The puppets on the ceiling remained unfinished; he was too eager to complete one at a time, choosing instead to leave half-clothed and unpainted wooden men dripping from the ceiling like flies caught in a spiderweb, waiting to be devoured. Not all met such a fateful end. He had completed hundreds, if not thousands of puppets over the course of his lifetime. Naturally he favored some over others, their eyes twinkling brighter and their limbs moving more fluidly as they danced between their strings. He had grown careless with a few of them, though, and this pained him still today when his eyes found them in the crowds of the wooden men. Beautiful, but crippled with missing limbs or cracked bodies that the man felt were not worth repairing. But today he focused his attention on one specific puppet - a small boy whose arms hung too long for his body. He cradled the plain wood in his hand, his fingers gently cupping the boy and surrounding him with the warmth of his skin. Marveling at the sturdiness of the torso and the gentle curve of the joints in the arms, the man allowed himself a few moments of wonder, running the pad of his finger along the pale moon face. Moments like these still caught him by surprise even after years upon years of perfecting his craft. It was this rush of appreciation, bringing a leap to his old heart, that dragged him from his sunken bed with the dawn each morning. After composing himself, the man reached for his worn paintbrush and the bottle of paint at his elbow. Dipping the bristles into the deep black pool, he began the arduous process of bringing the boy into being. He chose to create the eyes first, believing that their brightness would inspire him to create every aspect of the doll with as much shocking beauty. Two black dots broke apart the paleness of the face, and from those dots blossomed streaks of blues and yellows edged with white. The eyes seemed to glisten as the light from the morning sun danced across their glossy surface. The rest of the face was constructed with as much care and attention, from the downy eyebrows to the splashes of pink that stained the puppet’s rounded cheeks. A light brown tunic adorned the sloping shoulders, hanging loosely around the wooden body and fluttering slightly with each sigh from the old man’s open lips. He covered the smooth head of the puppet with a mop of brown hair; it curled slightly under the weight of the sun’s warmth, framing the face in a halo. The old man leaned back into his chair, the low creaking serving as the bell to signal that his work was done. Or nearly done. Now came the crucial moment, the one that the man anticipated the most throughout the construction of the men. He brought the painted face to his lips. The fumes drifted into his nose and mixed with the earthy smell of the wooden body. The smell was like an old friend, familiar and welcome in the stillness of the shop. Inspired by this calmness, the man closed his eyes and slowly breathed in the musty air and sunbeams that hovered between the boy’s face and his own. With this breath, he drew in every ounce of happiness, beauty, sorrow, peace, wonder, and passion that he could muster. At last, the breath of life flowed from his lips and wrapped around the unfeeling face of the puppet boy in his hand. The eyes no longer glistened - they burned. The flush of color in the cheeks became more than paint, blood blossoming beneath the surface of the rounded cheeks. The limbs bent, the chest throbbed with life, the chin raised itself so the eyes could meet their maker. As the puppet began to explore the movement of his small body, the man threaded firm knots of string through the arms and shoulders, anchoring the boy to a wooden beam. The man allowed himself a few precious moments of that fleeting sense of wonder. His own eyes soaked in the blueness of the puppet’s. The corners of his mouth curled as he gazed upon his creation, and in turn, the puppet gazed upon the withered face of the man, grey with age and exhaustion. Dreading what must come next, the man lifted the boy from the table and carried him gently into the back of the shop until they reached a door. The door itself was nothing remarkable - simple oak, a brass handle in need of polishing. Pushing open the door, the man guided the puppet into the candlelight that illuminated the vast space. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of puppets spread across the room, each moving on strings of their own accord. Dancing, walking, talking, playing, living were the puppets, each one unique in a testament to the man’s dedication to his craft. With only the slightest amount of hesitation, the man placed the boy upon the closest shelf, nudging him towards the bustling in the center of the room. Slowly, wobbling on his wooden feet like a newborn doe, he gave the man a single glance before he disappeared into the crowds, never stopping to look back. He knew to expect this. They never looked back. Their tender eyes, once seeing only him, grew drunk on the sights and sounds of their own kind. He thought by now that letting them go might become easier, but a small whisper in his mind always hoped for recognition in their eyes; a sense of validation. He wanted to know that they remembered him and his rough hands, cradling them as they woke from their slumber into this world. But if they did, they never showed him, growing so accustomed to the opening and closing of the doors that they never even noticed his presence in the room. Just like every night before this, he allowed the smile to fall from his face before he closed the oak door. Any sounds from their world were quieted, and he was once again alone, though each night felt lonelier than the one before. He returned to his table and closed his paints, rinsed his brush, and blew out the dying flame of his candle. Suddenly overtaken by a quiet so heavy that it hung on his very shoulders, he locked the door to the shop and climbed into his sunken bed, waiting for the dawn to seek him out from the darkness.

It was the dark end of a bright time. The lights went out at the same time, everywhere. It was strange at first not having any light. Then we became better accustomed to the dark. Slowly, we changed. In the beginning, many people were angry. Some of them went stumbling around blindly, sometimes dying as a result of it. Their screams seemed to become sharper in the blackness. Cold chills tickled my spine each time. Slowly we learned to avoid movement. Time loses value in the blackness, as our perception is based on sight. With no light around, we learned to see through other senses. Some said their other senses grew stronger as a result of it. I just started to get pissed. Living in the blackness caused mild insanity in all of us. We came to expect what could never occur, the light returning to us. I stopped opening my eyes entirely, what was the point? Still more people died. Starvation, depression, violence, all set in. At least the violence was mostly self-inflicting, not that it was ever intended that way. It's hard to fight when you can't see. We learned how much we needed sight. I too began suffering from these ailments. My mind created fantasy worlds to fill time. I would doze off and find myself back home again, before the incident. Often, I would wonder where you went that day, the day the light left. Since that day, absolute blackness is all that I've known.

UPON REQUEST: The Occupant Beneath the Shed by LatinBeef The story you are about to hear is true. The names and identities of the people involved have not been changed in order to provide no protection to the innocent. Many days ago, somewhere around the 3rd of July of this year. Wait! Let me first give a disclaimer. If you are an animal rights activist, please stop reading this right now. The rights of a certain animal in this story were breached. You may be, hopefully, offended by this account. Where was I? Many days ago, while I was living at my home in Indiana, there arose a problem of grand proportion. In our backyard, which is fairly large with a few mature trees and fenced in on all sides, there stands a shed. Beside the shed, to the left, is a fire pit, and of course as next to most fire pits is a stack of wood to be used in the fire pit. The shed, fire pit, and pile of wood as you may have begun to think, were not the problem. The problem was what was living underneath that shed and next to that fire pit and pile of wood. For a few weeks a large, furry, mean looking groundhog had been claiming stake to the area beneath our shed. Normally this wouldn't bother a kind hearted young fellow like myself, but this groundhog seemed to be fond of sticking his nose in other people’s dirt and creating as many tunnels as he possibly could throughout our yard. For weeks I waited patiently for the right opportunity to approach this groundhog and discuss this problem face to face. It was a sunny afternoon. I had decided I did not want to work that day because I was sick of working all the time and when I get sick of working I usually take a holiday. I spent my holiday in front of the TV watching various shows about this or that and a rattle a tat. While watching the television, my little brother became parched and got up to get himself a drink of water. The sink faces towards a window which gives way to the back yard. My brother lifted his eyes out that window and noticed something peculiar sun bathing atop our wood pile. He began to look closer straining his eyes to make out exactly what it was he saw. He then gasped, and loudly whispered, "LatinBeef! The ground hog is on our wood pile!" Immediately I ordered him to silence and posted him near the living room window as my "eyes on the objective" and warned him of the consequences for treason. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Once my little brother was in place, I then contemplated my options. Normally on an occasion like this my weapon of choice would be my Marlin tube fed semi-auto .22 Long Rifle with a 20x zoom scope. Earlier in the day I had heard children playing in the woods behind the shed and I had also removed my scope prior to this day to clean the weapon, so I decided this would not be the best method. I moved into the garage and began looking around. I noticed a long, old, forgotten, metal baseball bat hiding in the corner. I picked it up and gave it the proper inspection, making sure it was worthy of battle. Once I was prepared to engage the enemy I went back inside to remind my little brother of his duties, and that insubordination was punishable by death. So the hunt began. I exited my garage along the side of my house making sure to be as quiet and sneaky as possible. Groundhogs have terrible eyesight, but a very keen sense of hearing. There the groundhog lay basking in the son atop my wood pile as if he were better than me. I was at this time approximately 30 meters from the objective. I slowly crept my way toward the groundhog keeping my eyes fixed on his location. Occasionally I would have to stop as the groundhog pointed his nose in the air as if sensing danger. Eventually he would go back to a relaxed state; once he felt the coast was clear. Slowly I tiptoed my way towards the shed. My goal was to get on the opposite side of the shed as the groundhog, and use the shed as a means of blocking my self from sight of the groundhog, then pouncing on him. Finally I reached the other side of the shed; my heart began to pound with anticipation. I then connected eyes with my little brother who had been keeping watch making sure the groundhog hadn’t shifted positions. To my surprise he gave me the signal that the groundhog had left the wood pile and begun movement towards the corner of the yard away from the shed. I took this opportunity to sneak to a tree that stood in between the groundhog and the wood pile. All I could do was wait, for now I was in the perfect position. The groundhog would have to pass by me in order to return to his home. The groundhog made his way towards the corner of the yard where a big pine tree of sorts grows tall. For some unknown reason the groundhog was spooked and began movement back towards the shed and of course straight past the tree I was hiding behind. I locked and loaded my baseball bat, ready to pounce as soon as he was within pouncing distance. Time slowed. It was as if it had been scripted. I couldn't have planned it any better. Without the slightest clue of what hit him, the groundhog sprung into the air. My baseball bat had landed straight across the back of his skull. Thud. The groundhogs body smashed into the ground, then, whether a natural reaction of the groundhog or simply a law of physics, the groundhogs body became airborne. Before the body hit the ground, a second blow landed, this time splattering blood across the lawn. I paused. Now imagine scratching the belly of a dog, try to picture the kind of shivering and twitching that dog does while you scratch his belly, this is what the groundhog began to do. The only difference was I wasn't scratching his belly. To end his suffering, I applied yet another blow, ending his pain and ultimately his life. As I stood there looking down upon this poor lowly animal, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little fellow. He had put up a good fight for the past few weeks, but it was not his fate to come out the victor. After proper burial of the beast, my little brother and I thought it would be fitting to send the groundhog off with a proper 21 bottle rocket salute. We respectfully lit one bottle rocket at a time in honor of the groundhog who previously occupied the space beneath our shed. Once all 21 bottle rockets hit the sky, we each rendered a hand salute toward the grave of our foe. The war was over, the troops could return home.

We stood at the gate, Alysha and I. I had an odd feeling in my stomach. Perhaps it was the eerie gargoyles decorating the windows, or the thick iron bars that made up the fence. Alysha, beside me, was shaking with excitement. I was also shaking, but from fear. I shivered. There was a ringing in my ears, but through that I could hear someone speaking. My eyes focused and I saw the ticket clerk. "Will you be going in or not? I don't have time for you to stand there not doing anything," he said indignantly. Before I could shake my head, Alysha nodded excitedly and gave him the money. He took it and stamped our hands. The stamp, I saw, was a clown. "Have a nice time, ladies," the clerk said, smiling creepily. There was something odd about him... His eyes looked empty of emotion. They looked *black.* Before I could dwell any longer on his eyes, Alysha grabbed my hand and dragged me into the maze. "Alysha, I really don't want to do this," I started saying, a slight tremble in my voice. She turned around, grabbing my other hand as well. "Aw, Lexie, are you scared? Don't worry, I'll protect you. Especially since we have a little alone time now," she purred, biting her bottom lip and winking. I inhaled sharply. *So that's why she wanted me to come. Not that I mind.* I had let her pull me farther into the maze, until we reached a dead end. "Oh no, Lexie, we're lost and I'm cold... Hold me," she growled playfully, pulling me closer. I nuzzled her cheek but did nothing else. "Alysha, I don't want to do anything here... I feel like we're being watched," I said in a low voice. She giggled, not realizing my fear. She stepped back, her back pushing into the hedge. "You're so paranoid, hun. Chill out and let's take advantage of this," she moaned quietly, pulling my face down to hers. Just as our lips had touched she had suddenly jumped, every muscle tightening. I pulled back to see a needle in her neck. "W-What? Alysha are you alright? Talk to me!" I had yelled, trying to pull her away from the hedge. But she wouldn't budge. In fact, she had begun being pulled back INTO the hedge. Her head bobbed down, her chin resting on her chest. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to pull her back. "No! Alysha, fight it, please," I cried, tugging on her arms. "I need you to fi-" I was cut off by a pair of arms wrapping around me, pulling me back into the opposite hedge. "No! Alysha!" I screamed as she was completely engulfed by the hedge. I looked back over my shoulder, to try and see who was grabbing me... But nobody was there. All I could see was what I thought were... *Branches?* I was being kidnapped by the HEDGE? I closed my eyes, giving up the fight. There was no way I'd win. As I felt my entire body be swallowed, I blacked out. I am writing this in my cell. My captors have faked my death, same with all of the other prisoners. We have become a part of a... Machine. Some of us are assigned gate duty, like the cold man I saw before it all happened. Most of us, though, are assigned collection duty. We are in charge of doing the same thing others did to us. Kidnapping people. It's been 238 days. I haven't seen Alysha. Why they put a needle in her and not me, I will not know. I have been forgotten. I'm just a slave now.

i woke up this morning with an image in my mind. it was the most peaceful dream i have ever had. the dream started with myself, my sister,mother, and father standing around a candle. The surrounding i don't recognize; but i can read the words MURPHY'S HOLDINGS written on the candle stick. while in this dream i felt that everything was as it should be, the world had no problems. I don't understand what that dream was about, nor do i care. it gave me one of the most wholesome feelings i have ever felt in my life. I must mention that my mother and father were divorced 29 years ago. my father disowned my sister seventeen years ago. and I am an atheist. but somehow that still photo in my dream gave me the warmest feeling i have felt in 20 years. though i don't understand the dream or what we were celebrating.

Caught completely by surprise, he stood motionless in the rain, his black umbrella shielding him from the downpour. He had been making his way from his apartment to a local pub when he saw her. His heart sank. She came out of the coffee house across the street, accompanied by an old friend, both of them stopped short by the rain. She threw her purse above her head and with some squeals and laughter, the pair ran out onto the sidewalk toward the cars parked along the curb. She stopped abruptly and bent down to scoop up the keys she had just dropped, her thin dress clinging to her in the rain. With her keys in hand she hurried toward her car, unlocking the doors remotely as she ran. It had been weeks since he'd last seen her. He had been lying next to her on his side, propped up on an elbow, telling her a story. It was some silly observation about nothing memorable, but they both erupted into laughter when he was finished. And now, standing there in the rain, the symbolism did not escape him; from that day to this, from peace to storm. She's moving, he reminded himself. He always knew she was going. But, how could he have predicted the mark she would make on him. How could he have known that he would love her. And now, she's leaving as if none of it mattered. As if all of those days spent together were like any other day. As if all those talks lasting late into the night, each of them having just one more thing to say, were not extraordinarily different. As if she never told him that she loved him, too. "I can't believe I considered not going," she told him that night, after expressing her confusion over their relationship and the move. The pain of her even considering curtailing her dream was evident on her face. So, he had left her, without looking back. And he was angry. She never once asked him about his dreams. She never once asked him where he was going. From the beginning, he had accepted that she was leaving, he knew that she needed to find her place. But to act as if what they built together was for nothing. To act as if it could all easily happen again, somewhere else, with someone else.. Her car pulled away from the curb and sped down the street, away from him. He slowly dropped his umbrella and the rain began to wash over him. He stood there, staring into the distance long after her car had disappeared into the horizon. He gave a heavy sigh and turned, closing his umbrella. In the end, she had failed him. Slowly he began making his short journey home, dragging his umbrella behind him.

“Order up! Twenty-three! Do we have a number twenty-three?” A woman walked up to the counter in front of me. Her stomach pushed tighter against her gray sweatshirt than her breasts, and her hair was matted against her forehead sticky with sweat. I was looking into eyes that bore the intensity of a hunger not fed for days. She reached out her bloated hands. The double-double with extra crispy fries sat there steaming. *Fuck, I hate this part.* She was about to grab hold of the tray, and I flipped the switch located under the counter. The contents burst into flame. Burger, fries, and vanilla milkshake were incinerated. Little heaps of ashen coal now smoldered in front of her. “*No*!” She turned away dejected, and began her trek back to the end of the line. I turned to my fellow cashier. “Paul. I’m gonna take a lunch break. You want to come?” “Yeah, okay. Let me call for some replacements.” Paul walked over to the landline affixed to the wall next to the register. “Yeah, could we get two down here? Just for twenty minutes or so. Yeah? Thanks.” I walked over to the elevator next to the fridge where the meat is stored. *Ding.* “Hey, you’re the two?” I was looking at the pair of men dressed in civilian attire now coming out of the sliding metal doors. Neither looked much older than me. “Yeah, we’re it. Are you Paul?” The one with the beard and gray flannel shirt had spoken. “No. His co-worker. Michael. So, have you guys done this before?” “Yeah. More than either of us would like to.” His friend stood without talking, staring vacantly into the packed waiting area. *Good. Teaching some newly departed how to cook and scorch food is not how I want to spend my lunch break.* “Well then, I guess you know where the uniforms are. Paul and I’ll be back in a little while.” “Sounds good, man. Take your time, we’ll make sure not to burn the place down.” He said this with a little laugh. I walked away and told Paul our replacements were here. “Good. So, what’ll it be today?” he said. “This lovely *In-N-Out*, serving only the freshest in the underworld’s fast-food cuisine? Or maybe *Burger King*, where you can ‘have it your way,’ so long as your way is charcoaled.” “I don’t care. Let’s just grab something from here and sit outside.” We forked two sizzling patties off the stainless steel grill and slapped them on the buns that lay open on our plates. I followed Paul out of the shop to one of the stark white tables. We sat underneath its red and yellow umbrella, even there was no need under the gray, sunless sky. The foot-worn pavement surrounding the establishment had no discernable boundaries. Countless starving faces that filled the lot stared at us as we took our seats. *What they would give for just one bite.* I clamped my teeth down around the bun and a collective groan issued from the mass. The first time I’d heard it I nearly jumped out of my seat. Now it’s just part of the job. I swallowed my first bite. “Hey, Paul. Do you ever feel like an asshole?” “What?” “Just sitting out here, eating. Some of these people haven’t eaten in weeks. Others, months or even years.” Paul was washing down a handful of salt covered fries with a *Dr. Pepper*. “I don’t know, man. Of all the shit they go through? Us out here eating is just one, very, very small contributor, you know?” “I guess. It’s just the whole situation seems kinda fucked up. Like, when you died, is this what you expected?” “Hell fuckin’—*shit*. I mean, *hell fuckin’ no*.” Paul had caught himself speaking too loudly. Not that whispering makes a difference—we know that He hears everything. I kept my voice down too. “I read *The Divine Comedy* in college, and I thought ‘bull-fuckin’ shit.’ No way any of that ecclesiastical crap could be real.” “True…but this isn’t really anything like what Dante described.” “I didn’t mean in terms of exact content, man. Just the idea in general. The whole ‘circles of hell’ thing? I mean, come on.” I took another mouthful of my burger. “Yeah, well, times change. Maybe it *was* like that for him. Maybe we—we as in, like, humans—are making improvement. Now? Yes, it’s shitty. No, it’s not as bad as it could be.” “As bad as it could be? No, definitely not. I agree. But, God’s sort of a Dick, you know?” I took a look around the third circle. Restaurant, after restaurant, after restaurant. *Burger King, McDonalds, Jack In the Box, Applebees, Denny’s, P.F. Chang’s*—the list goes on. And what surrounds these restaurants? Fat people. Fat people as far as the eye could see, standing in line to get into the establishment of their choosing. Fat people of both genders. Fat people of all races. The only unifying factor among the customers is their obesity. I took a gulp of my vanilla milkshake. “When I read it—and other stuff about Hell—I thought, ‘something must be wrong.’ God is all-powerful and all-knowing and all-loving, and yet He holds this petty of a fucking grudge? He has an entire circle of Hell devoted to gluttony? Seems like a waste of energy if you ask me.” Paul had finished with his fries and was moving on to the burger. Through a full mouth he said, “Maybe he just needed somewhere for us to go. Fill in our hours. How many more do you have left anyway?” “2,733.” We all know our number. “Well see, that’s something. Over halfway done. And at least you can eat, right?” “I guess. But I mean, *this* for not going to church on Sundays? Stuck in fucking Purgatory? Working here?” “Hey, man, I don’t think anyone likes it anymore than you do. But what’re you gonna do about it?” “What can you do? I see these people shuffle in line for hours upon hours. They finally get their turn to taste what got them here in the first place. The meal of their dreams sits there on a platter, the scent dancing around their noses. They reach down and *poof*. Up in smoke. Back to the end of line. If they’re stuck here, then I guess we are too.” I was almost finished with my burger. “And for what? Because they had one, two, maybe two hundred too many fucking Happy Meals, they have to wait in line until their bodies have eaten away the excess fat so that they meet Heaven’s standards? It just seems kind of…sadistic.” Paul was licking the salt and grease from his fingers. “I hear you. But like I said, what’s there to do?” “Nothing, I guess. Nothing.” I had finished eating.

I take a deep breath, adjust my goggles and sprint to the end. My feet barely touch the mass beneath me and I approach the tip of the wing, the wind screaming beautifully past me, a rush like the flow of blood through an artery, like a wave of water crushing a swimmer for a moment before allowing her respite, the swell of breath as you feel a lover’s touch on your thigh, her eyes locking with yours before her lips do the same. My left foot touches the edge, heel to toe; my knee flexes, and for a moment I think I hesitate, but perhaps I don’t and just wish I had. Perhaps I am pushed. I launch and turn backwards, flipping so I can see the plane behind me, the earth upside down and for a moment, the briefest moment, I’m suspended in the air. According to physics it’s at this moment where I’m not moving in any direction. There is nothing pushing me this way or that, no commitment to worry about, no forces act on me at all. Then I fall towards the earth speeding along towards the cities, commitment, life, reality. For the next several minutes I feel myself speeding up, crushing down at the solid ground. Finally it feels like I’m not falling. I feel suspended again, floating full of life and feeling and power here 10,000 feet above terra firma. Pushing through the sky like a bottle opener into a cork, I spin and spin diving further and further towards a certainty I cannot escape. Clouds come into view, glorious and looming. I see them so often from the ground they have become meaningless; up here where it’s different I see them for what they are: constantly shifting bodies. Clouds don’t move, they come into being in a different space, while leaving other parts to wisp away into the wind. They pulse and breathe. They hold you for a moment and then release you. Inside the cloud there’s a magic, a concrete feeling of luscious glory that lasts momentarily before I exit. Clouds come and go as do I, entering and exiting them at a velocity best described as wonderful but dizzying. The ground is closer and more real than ever, and it’s time to pull. Put a stop to this freedom and embrace safety, end the charade of a freewheeling care-free young man and settle down. The equivalent of a wife and minivan, the kids and the bills and the security of others. Someone who doesn’t just give you the thrill and leave you, something that doesn’t feel like a one night stand. Time to plant your feet on solid ground. I fall, hand on the cord, eyes on the altimeter, and slowly rotate so I fall looking at the sky. Looking at where I was, seeing how far I’ve come and wishing I was one minute ago, three days ago, 6 months ago. Being dropped is terrible, falling is exhilarating, but finding ground again… Finding ground again is frightening. The idea of walking around miles below where you were and having to work to get back up here to the sky: well honestly it’s goddam awful. I want to be up in the sky again already, looking down at everyone beneath me, I want to be high up again. But no, right now I’m falling; falling increasingly faster and faster. The ground is rushing at me, that which was so unimportant only a moment ago is now so very important. I think of what it took to get here. The training, the practice, the years of waiting, the checking of gas, wheels, equipment, radio, wings, instruments, and all the work just to reach the air. Learning and practice and practice and trust and building something that could work. Only to find yourself up high above the world, above it all, nothing can touch you. Packing the chute… Oh god the parachute. I touch the cord handle of the cord and recall this fall isn’t like the others. I’ve been here before, but I always landed softly, holding the plastic handle that was attached to my chute. There’s nothing safe about it this time. This time I will land hard. I’m passed the moment where I can actually deploy and safely land on the ground. I yank hard on the cord and my chute rips open; a chest with ribs broken and a heart looking at the surgeon beating softly with the thump of a speaker. Wind fills the parachute and I feel myself slow down incredibly fast. I look down and I see the ground only one hundred feet away. I brace myself and try to glide in along the ground, I pull my feet up and I pull the cords by me and I look and I scream, my mouth opens wide and it all comes flying out of me. I slide through high grass going far too fast; my body instinctively curls up and I roll along the ground cracking bones, bruising ribs, and generally fucking up my body. I inhale dirt and scrape a gash on my shin that deposits blood on the ground every few feet. The roll last 6 seconds, but I feel like I’ve been tumbling for months. Dust is everywhere and the cloud billows up around me as I finally come to rest on the ground. Broken, bruised, beaten, busted up and generally destroyed on every level of existence. I cough and blood mixes into the bare grass around me and I contemplate laying here forever. The sun is fading in the west I look over at it, and I watch, laying down in a mixture of brown, red, green, and yellow and realize that there’s nothing that has to happen, there’s nothing that is more important than finding my own strength and standing up to say I’m ready. I slowly rise up to my knees, and then one foot at a time, I stand up. I watch the sun burn the remnants of the day away, a bright orange ball that everyday cooks the world to a crisp, only to show up the next morning to a fresh new set of ingredients; ready to burn again. The sun’s flames lick the ground and for a moment, a lifetime of a moment, the ground glows red along the entire horizon. I shrug off my parachute and look back up the sky. I’ll be back up there again soon.

As the title says this is an unfinished work. I use to do a a lot of writing a few years back, found this in an old google docs account from back then. this was dated 12/18/08. " Pausing for a moment in front of the semi-mirrored glass that he always thought seemed ill fit for the large stone industrial age building, he runs his hand over his hair. giving his reflection a quick glace head to toe, tugging slightly on his blue dress shirt to make sure it looked just right. Mark always made sure he dressed up on Friday. despite the general attitude of his co-workers to dress casual, he had to be perfect. It wasn't always this way he too had enjoyed and would other wise still enjoy the casual dress code of Fridays at his office had it not been for that Friday back in march. when in his usual scatter brained manner he misplaced his bank card. It being Friday and Mark being in his mid to late 20's he wasn't about to be left stranded home for the week end. So at five when he would have other wise walked out his office, taken a left to the elevator, where he would suffer through the daily unpleasant conversation with bill from HR. bill would go on and on about his plans of various sexual encounters down to the the grittiest of details. though mark would humor bill and cheer him on with the typical machismo fashion of a frat boy, bill was none the wiser that his eye betrayed his every fantasy. he would go home, grab a frozen dinner and proceed to watch what seemed an endless stream of edited for television movies and infomercials till Monday morning when he'd return to work. spend most of the day searching dating sites in his office with brief interludes of actual work. bill would eat lunch alone as no one could tolerate his attempts at fitting in socially, often descried as pathetic and over bearing when mentioned around the water cooler. the later half of the day was spent day dreaming of fantastic social adventures at night clubs with two, three even four of the sexiest woman any man could desire, draping over him like a royal robe. then at 5 he would wait to leave his office till he saw mark whom he saw as his closet friend based solely on their 5 minuets of interaction at the elevator and on the ride to the lobby of the office build. When at the door bill would look at his watch make an exuberant claim about some meeting with a "smoking hot bitch". at which point Mark would then make his way through the barrage of traffic and into the subway as quickly as possible. Except on that Friday in march. Instead of his usual hurried escape from his office and and even more hurried escape from bill into the sub way he decided he'd make his way over to the bank located just a hundred yards away. it was one of those banks build during the hay day of the industrial revolution. large and comprised of blocks of granite, with the entrance to the lobby ornately defined with marble pillars. All together a very imposing building except for the small detail which mark would often find him self obsessively pondering. the large semi-mirrored windows framed with brushed stainless steel. the type of thing done in the 60's in an attempt to modernize the design, or so he figured.Pushing open the large glass doors, adorn with polished brass mark was, as he usually is taken back slightly by the lobby. It has polished white marble floors that run up the walls to meet the ceiling that was just as impressive. made entirely of some kind of dark wood that was painstakingly crafted by hand. a patch work of latticed beams that intersected an oval dome housing a mural and the banks slogan all lit by a grand crystal chandelier. as he took in the rare beauty of such craftsmanship he made his way to the row of wooden counters in the center of the floor. As he stood there looking over the rainbow of forms. Red loan applications, yellow deposit slips, blue withdrawal forms, fliers and pamphlets his eye was slowly drawn to her. she was just standing there, paused in the entrance of the lobby. he watched her trying not to seem as of he was. Reaching out and grabbing a pamphlet, fumbling it around in his hand. his head tilted down as if to look like he was reading but his eyes fixed on her."My god, she's beautiful." mark thought to him self as he watched her walk over to the row of tellers to the left of the lobby. she had a swing in her step, her brown curly hair bouncing as she moved. her walk had a swing in it, he hips swayed. Mark found him self fantasizing that she had seen him watching her and was putting on a show just for him. she had caprices on that hugged her form, emphasizing her womanly curves and a form fitting blue t-shirt. he couldn't help but notice her breasts. she stood about five feet 2 inches but she wore a slight heel, five foot even with out. proportionately her breasts seemed large. An over weight elderly man in an old three piece suite that barley fit had made his way to the counter and placed him self directly in front of mark on the opposite side blocking his view. He had lost all focus with what he was doing, perhaps this mans unfortunate placement was for the best.

Would anyone be willing to record themselves reading this? I'd like to use it for an experimental tape I'm making. I'd greatly appreciate it if anyone would be willing to take this on, and I'll send you a copy of the tape when it's finished. > Yesterday you woke up in a bed of flowers. You found yourself there, and this is where most often found you as well. You were wet from the rain the night before but the sun's morning rays were making short work of all of the water on the foliage around you. You looked up from underneath the pink daisies past the stems and petals to the vapor trail-ridden sky above you. It was a bright blue and full of clouds so fluffy they'd make an upholsterer throw a fit. You slowly began to rise and were rudely stolen from your euphoric state by the realisatiion that this beautiful patch of somewhat undisturbed tranquility was flanked by the brick walls of multilevel living structures, and the dusty colored curtains that hung in desperation over the undersized windows to keep the small cave-like dwellings hidden from the world. The defeated corpses that resided in these square cages were as repulsed by the sunlight as the most gruesome vampires literature could ever hope to give birth to. These thoughts never had a chance to do anything more than merely dance through your head as you shook the flowers from your hair and headed inside. There was a small pastel coloured kitchen that had fallen victim to trends of the fifties only to become immortalised by hipsters half a century later. The entire room was glowing orange from the sun tea in a glass container outside that eclipsed the sun with its amber hues and welcomed memories of your childhood to take over your imagination for the next few seconds, which took their leisurely time passing through. When you came to, a seeming miniature eternity later, you were reminded of something important you had planned for later that day, as well as the ocean. Always the ocean. Since your early childhood it was the single most beautiful and ethereal thing you knew of, and you visited it as often as you could. Your grandmother would joke when you were younger that if you spent any more time in the water you’d transform into a mermaid. That sounded just fine to you.

I sometimes go through a "i need to write" phase, usually an idea pops into my head and i feel the need to write it down. Unfortunately i have serious doubts about what i write down and think too much on it until i get bogged down and block. Would like some feedback(critique) on the following excerpt : >Looking out my window i could see the lights in the city dump. The huge pile of cars, containers and assorted trash silhouetted against the night haze. Hundreds of lights entailed thousands of habitants. The slummers, as they were called, lived there. They were not allowed inside the city, though everyone knew they came into it at night. Pillaging for food scraps from the streets bellow. I lived there as a child, among them. Running between the cars and the sludge. I was safe now, as safe as a slummer child could be that is. I was one the lucky ones, most didn't make it past their childhood. Killed by city guards, freak accidents, even cannibals. >I remember those days, when i spent my nights sneaking through the fences, avoiding patrols. Looking for a leftover dinner thrown out the window by the patrons and hunting for rats. A rat could feed our whole group, especially the fatter ones. It's funny how i feel nostalgic about those days. Nowadays i get access to the city rations. Rations are dehydrated products, vegetables grown in underground green houses with artificial lighthing and some smaller animal meat.The dehidrated dog legs and cat liver are by far the best. The days of dehydrated cow and sheep meat is long gone, I don't even remember eating any of it. The bigger animals started dying at the same time we started losing daylight and all the stocked up rations were eaten. Rations were only distributed to the patrons, so in order to eat we had to scavenge the city. Getting inside the city was a not an easy feat. In order to leave the dump we had to crawl under an electrified fence watched by guard patrols and the ocasional howlghast. Vicious geneticly engineered creatures with an incredible sense of smell and thick musculate legs. A ghast bite could rip a grown man apart, and they often did. Guards had the cruel habit of releasing their ghast in the dump and betting on which one would bring the bigger piece. Sometimes we just sat there watching the patrols, looking for a way in. We weren't allways sucessful, we had to wait for them to get distracted in order to sneak behind them.

This is a story I just wrote, that isn't finished yet. I've been feeling down lately and It's helped to write stuff down. It's kind of a fictionalized reflection of myself. Please don't bash too hard on my writing or grammer, this is the first thing I've written for a long time. Alexa Her sparklingly beautiful hazel eyes were locked to his. Dark auburn hair and thick black rimmed glasses covered part of her small freck covered face. A slight smile rose her cheeks. He smiled back, causing his heart rate rise exponentially. A feeling manifested in the pit of his stomach which he had never felt before. David would usually be trying to cope with his inconfidence by looking away, but for some reason this time was different, he didn’t care. The ice cream that she had scooped was starting drip onto her red blouse. As soon as she realized it was dripping all over her shirt, a middle aged mother with her two children started blabbering to her about not listening. Seven seconds was how long it lasted, and that was the end of it. She looked away, cleaned off the melting ice cream and attended to the demandingly ungrateful customers. The moment that David may never receive ever again had passed, forever. Seven seconds was how long it lasted, it was pure mental ecstasy. David craved these moments, but he thought they can’t happen in real life. He was probably the shyest person he knew, mostly because he doesn’t know that many people. In Fact, he only has one real friend, who only communicates on his terms with an outdated instant message service. David did not introduce himself to this beautiful redhead, instead he looked away awkwardly, got up and left. While walking to his appartment in a terrible neighborhood in Seattle, David mentally tortured himself for making this decision, because he knew that he would never see her ever again. David never speaks to anyone without them initiating first, it is a curse deep inside his being that he wish could just tear up into tiny pieces and burn them. Still, the image of her sparkly dark red hair was burned to his eyeballs, and it made him think about his choices and how he could have acted differently. Her imperfections were his favourite part about her. Her freckles were many and her small breasts were stunning in her red top. She was 11 out of 10. David told himself he “would do anything to just say, hello.”, but that wasn’t true and he knew it. He just didn’t know how to deal with the situation. David locked his apartment door, made himself a microwave burrito and went on to his laptop. This is the place where you can guarantee he’ll be for most days and nights. Reddit, netflix and 4chan were the usual. He didn’t use facebook much, since he didn’t have any friends. 2am approached and David told himself to go to sleep. So David did his nightly routine that consists of brushing teeth and and masturbating to clothed pictures of cute normal girls, since he wasn’t fond of big breasted asian hardcore porn. He wasn’t sure if he was being creepy or appreciating reality. After laying back and thinking in his pitch dark room, he couldn’t stop thinking about this girl. He didn’t even know her name, he just knew her face and in this moment, his dream of being an computer programming superstar looked so distant, he had come to an painful realization, his life might not turn out how he planned. David was 20 years old, mildly overweight but had a decent face, at least he thought so. His voice was very deep and monotone and he always wore dark blue jeans and some kind of geeky t-shirt. He starred at her, taking in her beauty. He couldn't get passed how beautiful her hair was, and that he was actually in the same room as her. The sunset shining from the window behind her blinded David's view, but it made the moment more exciting. She started laughing and looking down and kind of embarassed. The light shining from her eyes was more intense than anything he had ever encountered. It was the cutest and sexiest thing David had ever whitnessed. Then her smile faded and the sunlight shining through the large window began to engulph her. Whiteness surrounded her and David's eyes began to ache. "Are you okay?" David heard a girl's voice say. Then a loud alarm which sounded as if it were a firetruck screeched into David's ears. David awoke, his eyes clouded and his underware was surprisingly dry. David smacked the alarm clock which read 11:14am. He stayed in bed for a few minutes regaining his conciousness and thinking about her, and his life. He struggles with the things that most people might say are no struggle at all, but dispite all of that, David said to himself "Today is the day.

Yes, we were an odd family. Each with our own individual issues and problems. Day to day things being blown way out of proportion because of the stressful things we did. My mother, Jane, a wonderful woman at heart, always willing to go out of her way to brighten up my or my brother's day, even if it was just for a bit or only for a few moments. I never realized it as a kid, but they always say "Hindsight is 20/20 vision" and I guess that applies here too. My dad, William, he too would always try to get us to have fun. He understood and respected the fact that not all of us had the same interests as him, but when something peaked either my interest, or my brother's that my dad could relate to? He was all over it. He loved us, and that no matter what, he'd be willing to help us get to our end goal no matter how difficult. My brother Lucas, on the other hand was a tad different. Growing up he was always a bit headstrong and always felt like he needed to be top dog around the house. Maybe it was just the hormones rattling all around inside of his head, that made him like that. Either way though, we learned to deal with it, and loved him even if he had a bad attitude most of the time. Me? Well, I was the youngest of the family, save for Spot, the dog and Mega Tsunami, my fish I got on my 8th birthday. He was white with an orange spot right on his eye. We grew up in a small suburb in New Hampshire, we had land. Not a lot but enough for Spot to get his daily exercise and fun. Enough for Dad and I to play catch together. Enough for Lucas... To sit and just stare at the sky, blankly, almost in a trance. If you tried to ask him a question or something, he wouldn't answer. It was almost like somehow the sunlight and sky was a soothing method for him. We didn't think much of it, just that if it worked, let it go. Lucas was 4 years older than me. He was my older brother, and I looked up to him as such. He was a role model to me, and thought he was the coolest kid. By the time he was 9, he had all these cool friends over. Playing PacMan and Asteroids. I just thought he was the coolest. I didn't have many friends. Lucas was the main one really. I mean he knew all the ins and outs of the video games. He taught me everything he knew. Why bother go out when I had the coolest friend right here living with me? When Lucas had turned 13, he started to fall ill a lot, especially during the Winter. He would get a cold one week, take some medicine, and it would go away. Next week a fever. It almost seemed like he had an illness every different week. My parents didn't understand what was happening and me, being only 8, didn't know what to think. By Mid-Spring of that year, when he was still getting sick, my parents finally decided to take him to a doctor, now I know what you're thinking "Well, why didn't you take him to one before?" The fact was, that the medicine was working, he would get better, but just get sick from something else. The day at the doctor will be one I won't forget for as long as I live. We went to go see Dr. Thies. The tall gray haired man with a full beard, took one look at Lucas and only 5 minutes of what my parents had to say to figure out that he had a poor immune system, and with each illness attacking him, it was making it more and more weak, making Lucas more and more susceptible of dying from a simple cough. My mother was shattered. Lucas was her favorite. I really didn't mind too much, I liked Lucas more than I liked myself as well. Behind his tough-guy outer shell, Lucas was a caring, loving individual who was a perfect blend of my parents. Both caring and willingness to help out for others, again once you got past his tough-guy shell. Lucas hearing this became instantly scared. What do you think when you hear. "You can die, if you catch a cough."? Immediately all these thoughts go running through your head. "I can never go outside anymore." "I can never hang out with my friends anymore" "What if I get sick?" "Will I die?". At the time, there was nothing to really improve the immune system back to it's original state, only to prevent it from getting worse, but by this point, Lucas's immune system was pretty much in shambles. He had been getting sick for almost 5 months straight. Not good, but Dr. Thies said that if he just kept on the medication, that it should prevent all of the common things from getting him sick and making him susceptible to everyone's biggest fear. That night my dad found out. Needless to say, he didn't show much emotion. He wasn't a man of sadness or depression. He was always looking at the bright side. Tell him that we were going to lose the house in the next week, and he'd say "Well, at least we're all together." When he found out that Lucas could possibly die when he get's sick next, he didn't have much to look up upon. But instead on becoming more cold towards everyone, and keeping to himself, he started to care for Lucas, and started to be there for him. Started to get him more involved with things so, if he happened to die, his last thoughts being that no one cared, and looking at his bed. Dad wanted to show Lucas what living was all about and he did just that. He would take us out to local fairs, and amusement parks, which was rare since we really didn't have much in the way of extra spending cash. We would go out to eat more often and enjoy all the moments as a family, it was nice. This continued for the next 2 years or so, when Lucas started acting a bit differently. He started becoming withdrawn from everyone. Not talking much and staying in his room most of the time, this went on for about 2 weeks, before something really out of the ordinary happened. I was 11 at the time, sleeping when suddenly I heard a loud screaming from the next room. Lucas's room. I rushed into his room as quickly as I could. He looked down holding his left side with both hands. He quickly looked up at me, face red tears rolling down his face. "Get Dad" he said choking back tears. He collapsed and began shaking and convulsing, he was going into epileptic shock. Of course I didn't know this at the time. I rush into my parents room and start screaming "Lucas! Lucaaaaaaaas! Help him!" Then I ran back into Lucas's room where he was still seizing up on the floor. I remember putting my hands under him and holding him in his arms. He opened his eyes and looked up at me while still seizing. They were completely bloodshot, foam coming out of his mouth. I started to cry, scared not sure of what to do, so lost. I wanted to help him, but I couldn't. 10 minutes later, the paramedics arrived, but it was too late. I knew that he was gone. He stopped breathing after his seizure and that wasn't a good sign. It's been 10 years since then, and I still have difficulty telling this story. We all loved Lucas and still do to this day. I wanted him to know that I loved him, and I'm sure he does. Sometimes I wish I had said "I love you" before he fell into that seizure so he would've known, maybe waken up a bit early to tell him that, or to get help before it happened. I wish I had the chance to tell him. I know he loved me and maybe still does, but sometimes I think that wasn't the thought going through his head when he was there grasping his side, looking to his younger brother for help. I want you to know that I'm sorry that I couldn't help Lucas, and I still love you. **Thanks for reading. Some parts of this story were based on this comment thread I saw that really** **** **and I would like to thank for allowing me to use her story.** **Some other parts were based on personal experience.** **That's it, and again, hopefully you guys enjoyed, thanks for reading.

Thirty thousand feet up in the air, why decide that this row was the right one to move him to. Certainly, there’s more legroom, but there’s also the sensation. Looking to the left, ideas begin to form. The little voice says, “Do it. Do it and let yourself go.” But he can’t. Thinking about the plunge. The sensation of falling. Stomach dropping, G-forces rippling his face, tearing at his eyes, his clothes. Attempting to rip him apart before he inevitably strikes the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. And after the impact, darkness. The end. Yet that can’t happen. As the stewardess hands him his peanuts, he returns his attention to page twenty-three of the financial report he owes his boss when he lands. He pours himself a drink. A four and a half hour flight with two-hour delay, three hours to his office because of traffic, twenty minutes of listening to his boss yell at him because he’s such a failure and another hour home. Drinking his scotch, his mind returns to the row. The sensation that almost overwhelmed him. That almost forced him to leap from thirty thousand feet. That almost ended him. Here it was again. Dragging himself to the balcony he looks over the edge. The people seem so small and insignificant from his vantage point, as if they were ants, following their daily routines. He gazes up at the iconic statue, stationed in the harbor, which once welcomed his great-grandparents to the home of the brave. He climbs up onto the railing; still undecided. A flag whips about in the gust of wind. And a woman screams.

The blank page stares at me, haunting, taunting me to fill it with my dreams, ideals and stories only to be burnt, torn or just simply faded like my life. My life fades more each day, stuck on the roller coaster simply holding on, only this one seems to only free fall, as if I myself am falling. I looked for the light but it wasn't there, cast by shadows of doubt, lies and trickery... Who could ever decipher such a mess, still yet, who could blindly follow such rubbish, yet millions.. billions do. There is no escaping from these tightly bound chains, doesn't matter if you were Houdini or a locksmith with your tools readily available, all your efforts will leave you mangled and bloody; tearing at the flesh, as the chains grow tighter like a Chinese finger trap. A puppet that couldn't even achieve the simplest of dreams, I didn't need riches but a fortune of love and family. What happened; Why do my dreams take me back to these places like an elevator with each floor being a set memory; Inception, is this feeling of failure so strong? Who planted this seed, growing within my mind like a festering tumour just waiting to.. POP.. Why can I not take back control. How did this hole get so deep without me remembering to make a way out? All I have is this broken ladder, as I extend it and make my way to the top, it collapses back down on itself like a never ending staircase.. but where do the stairs go? Each step I take, I seemingly age, starring at the pictures of a broken youth as I make my way up, looking for the picture that reveals when I lost control, but its to late. I'm already old as the air grows cold.. I reach the top where a door stands waiting for me to peek to the other side, What lays ahead? A shocking realization, only death. So what is this life for? Why continue on? Guess I'll just have to ride the coaster, to see where it finally drops, if it doesn't do so suddenly..

I just wrote this after randomly remembering that camp song about squishing bumblebees and my proud mother. Its my very first short story and I just wanted to put it out there, see what everything thinks. Thanks for reading and letting me know what you think! "I'm picking up my baby bumblebee. Won't my mommy be so proud of me!" I frantically bombard the walls that have become my prison. Panic sets in as tiny fragments of light stream in. Is it just me or are these walls sweating? It’s as if the walls are alive, breathing, perspiring, anticipating. Moments ago my antennae was deep inside a particularly fragrant and productive pollen mine. Pink with streaks of white, this mine smelled sweet like home. Home. Will I ever see home again? The perfect geometrical patterns of the combs, sticky with the luscious elixir of life. There is a high pitched noise that I have suddenly become aware of. An indecipherable amalgamation of sounds, I have a suspicion that the sound is a voice, communicating to me. I have heard stories of this phenomenon. Singing, they call it. I must escape! Using the only tool available to me I unleash my weapon stabbing the walls in a desperate attempt to break through the impenetrable fortress. Once. Twice. This is fruitless. “Owww! He stung me!” I’m free! I’ve been released! With that combination of sounds my captor has been persuaded to set me free! Free to feel the open air, free to mine for the queen, free to fulfill my duty to society! “I’m squishing up my baby bumblebee, won’t my mommy be so proud of me!” The impact comes before I can register the danger I am in. A rush of air denies me my initial path out the front of my cell while I feel the shadows of my walls enclosing me again. This time the walls do not stop at cell like proportions; they suffocate me with their closeness. Now the walls are moving, gyrating against themselves. I realize now that I am the reason. The songs, the cell, the temporary release. All of it was done as a lead up to this moment. I can hear the voice repeating those fateful words. “Won’t my mommy be so proud of me”. I feel myself expanding, flattening into a paste. As the walls continue their deliberate torture I am struck by the suddenness of it all. You never truly embrace things until they’re gone. My queen, the sweet elixir of life, the fresh air. All of it, lost to the whims of this creature. Will your mommy be so proud of you? She better be.

On the shores of a mountain pond, along a log, upon a beach, an ant crawled, toiling in the dirt. Each speck of dirt, insignificant, when compared to the hill; each hill, insignificant, when compared to the park; Each Park, insignificant, when compared to this world; this world, dwarfed by space. Yet, the ant toiled on. With the gift of cognition, the ant would realize his insignificance. Yet, the ant would toil on. Though insignificant, the dirt would give a purpose. With the gift of cognition, some struggle to find a purpose. A few, as many did in the past, drudge on for the promise of paradise, and the others, with the knowledge that they are indeed insignificant. Those of us that do not find religion plausible must face the probable future. Soon, earth could be ripped apart by hurtling rock, or a wandering black hole; we could be exposed to deadly radiation. More likely, we will destroy ourselves. That knowledge looms over and can dwarf the importance of even the most honorable achievement. For many, purpose is not found in memorial, but rather in the thought of memorial, the thought of oneself. Many outstanding citizens justify their existence by performing volunteer activities: they feel good doing it. Others find purpose in vacation and in reflection, in technology, in premium foods. Many engage in apollonian and Dionysian ecstasy – finding worth and power in inebriation, nature, and dream. Marriage is crumbling: sexual relations are becoming more promiscuous. Many drink and smoke and enjoy music laced with sexual tension. Still others engage in the dream worlds of Apollo. The mystical sense of belonging in nature, and the creativity of a dream provide a place to find oneself, to be at peace with the soul. To feel good. Eventually, people tend to extend themselves, adding a limb with a companion and offspring, adding others to the self. As others become part of the self only the best of education and subsistence and life is desired for the limb. The limb begins to provide support. A family man is selfish, a drunk is selfish, a college student is selfish, even the selfless are selfish: they feel good helping others. Who then can chastise another for being selfish? All that do are hypocrites. It is selfishness that gives purpose to all lives. It is selfishness that helps us, as well as the ant, drudge on, toiling to make no mark. Bringing the speck of dirt to the colony insures the ant a place in the colony, and better odds of survival – an evolutionary purpose. To travel; to eat; to drink; to dream; to berate or belittle another’s selfish desire is a hypocritical belittlement of the origin, where purpose is conceived.

Another client was in front of me, filling out the same form they always do. I forgot she was there. Must have only been a few minutes—the paperwork here is simple, concise, and wholly unnecessary for the function of our office. For all I know, it might have been the same woman coming in and writing up fifteen identical forms since 8 A.M. this morning. I hazily recall a man here, but that may have been yesterday. She paused and looked up. I considered eye contact, but didn't want to risk remembering her face. I mustered the courtesy to gaze briefly through her vague shoulder region before pretending to sort my documents under no organizational guidelines whatsoever. "Hey, what is today?" There's a day-to-day calendar between us. Noon had come and gone, so I knew it was current. My supervisor either chirps or grumbles something passive-aggressive at me every day on her way to lunch while she tears off the top leaf. I wanted her to just look at the damned calendar and leave me alone. Still, I stared obliquely at that bold-faced number and failed to derive any meaning from it, so I couldn't very well criticize her. "I don't know, the usual.

One day, on a barren dusty rock hurtling through space, circling a big ball of fire, there was an ant. This ant was the last of his colony, maybe even the last of his kind. The ant had seen many things in its short life. It had seen fire spitting giants attack one another, until each giant remained still. He had seen big metallic birds that dropped mushroom seeds into the distance. He had seen smaller giants, half charred, running screaming from flames. The screams were too loud. He had witnessed the entirety of the battle. The battle lasted only twenty moons, but it made all of the green disappear. The ant was hungry. It had already eaten all of its dead brothers. He was thirsty; it didn’t rain anymore, and all the water had been sucked up by giant black tubes. The land around him was barren. But the ant wasn’t concerned. He went back down into his colony’s home, and resumed building his tunnel.

Clenched to the handlebars, my sun burned hands are kept in a kung-fu grip. Left, right, left, right, my legs keep going, no matter how badly my quadriceps tell me to stop. In my head: “Chicka cha chick chicka Chinese chicken.” “What a terrible fucking song.” The sounds of the chain rubbing the chain guide keeps time. The very reason why “The Pot Bellied Goddess” blasted from my ear buds to my eardrums. My musical career seems so distant, I can’t continuously hear music in my head unless I have that poor tolerance chain guide in my life. “Anywhere but here! Anywhere but here!” The wheels keep rolling, less, and less rubber with each revolution. I want to start a revolution. I’m not exactly sure what it is I keep trying to run from, but I never get away. I always do a loop. A huge loop. A school loop, a life loop, a love loop, a depression loop. Absolutely wonderful. A year is a loop, a day is a loop.

I had a home. It was such a lovely sight. It was a home for the entire world to see, but a home just for her and I. We had planned, arranged, blueprinted, and constructed an exquisite, splendid little home. It filled us with hope for a brighter future, for a better to-morrow. That future never came, and that to-morrow was ever elusive. Nevertheless, we had a home – I had a home. We were to live out our lives, our years, in that home. Those years would be filled with hardships, with grief and sorrow. Our sweet little home was merely an idyllic facet of our otherwise melancholic lives. It was through no fault of hers, or my own… it was merely life. Our home was located in an otherwise unremarkable field, a few miles from a small town. It was peaceful. There was not the cacophonous bustle of a city, or its night-sky quelling light. The location was perfect, for the most part. She loved our home; she loved me too. I loved our home; I loved her too. Our home carried us through our years, not seeming to care, but all the while keeping her safe. Outside our home, the world was a very dangerous place. It was dangerous for her, not for me. Her body was not capable of protecting her from the outside; I wish it could, not for my sake, but for hers. Her home had been meticulously planned to be completely insulated from the outside. She loved it, but the outside always called to her. Softly, the breeze would whisper, and she would ignore it. The outside was not for her, this place – our home – was. Within our home we abandoned the outside. For years our home kept us – her – safe from that outside world, and for years we lived in what we called peace. It wasn’t peace, though, and life was difficult; yet it didn’t matter. Within our home we had each other. I had a home – a home for her and I. The trees, the birds, and all manner of outside things became things of interest, and after time, she gave in. She had to explore. Years of being inside had made her restless; under the cover of night, she stepped outside. She stepped, and stepped, and stepped, until she could step no more. Our home was far behind; she stood, basking in the pale light of the moon. She stood, listening to the quiet of the night. She stood, with the soft breeze against her face. The grass called, and she answered, laying in it, still bathed in that pale moon light. She closed her eyes, and she slept. Under a blanket of stars, she slept. Her adventure was over. In our home, I awoke to no one beside me. I was scared, more so than I had ever been. She was always there. Our home never had just one. It was her home, and it was my home – it was our home, and we were always in it. I found her, in a field not far from our home. She lay in a field of un-cut grass, and she looked peaceful – more so than she had throughout life. I lay in that field beside her, and I cried. Tears glistening in the early morning sun rolled gently down my face; I lay beside her for the last time. In that field, she was buried, her funeral attended only by me. I had a home. I had a home that was not meant for just me, or just for her, but existed for her and I. That home was where I lived out most of my years, and where she lived out most of hers. That is not my home anymore. Without her, it is not a home, but merely a house. It is a house in an otherwise unremarkable field, a few miles from a small town.

The rocketing of passing cars outside woke me last night. In the dark I typed, "Man, I *wishbone* I could just drop the images right from my head into my phone." *Wish* came out as *wishbone* due to autocorrect, and then the thought of chickens distracted me from the dream I chronicled on that hellish tiny keypad before I fell asleep again. About the dream A new movie came out. The Kryptonian was played by and he was a first rate ass, only employing his powers for seducing women. The film was produced by and I was in it too. Using the , they'd discovered that Cruise *was*, in fact, Superman--although possibly only in the , since he achieved . His villain was a floating head encased in a mask like a sculptured Shakespeare bust with cut-out eyes, maybe an alien whose true form was unknown and he preferred to float in front of a red velvet magician's curtain. He was an unusual villain because he tried to help people and didn't hurt them. Superman's ultra beautiful and supernatural strippers regularly engaged the masked floater in high intensity gunfights. * * * At the bottom of a beautiful pool filled with tropical fish I swam until I had to come up to breathe but almost fell asleep at the bottom. "," the dentist yelled at me and then, "Come up. unite! Stop grinding your teeth!" But he pulled all my teeth anyway and I spit them out like popcorn kernels. A beautiful young woman wearing pink jeans also had all her teeth pulled and she cried on my shoulder because she was now ugly. She pinned a to me. "I'm aware of breasts," I said. "Yes, I noticed, but it's ." She dropped her other pin and leaned over the chair with legs crossed and bent over in the exact half pretzel shape of a breast cancer awareness bow. I think she was seducing me and then she sang to me in voice: *; just slice me some ham* *You don't have to feed me liver; I'll make do with spam* She got set to go on a Baptist mission trip to another planet with a pink fuzzy zero gravity suit with tentacles; a Pink Squid. Think without teeth. At that time Superman was blowing arbitrary holes in arbitrary people with a microwave gun, and sleeping with those supernatural (as they were called), these strippers who could pull anything from your brain. They inhabited tubes like subway tunnels of glass or plastic and used blue sludge from the sewage treatment plant down my street for power. First they tried to fission it, but it wasn't heavy enough, then they burned it, and finally they fusioned it. The same week I ate those was the week that I saw the infamous mushroom cloud over the treatment plant. That could *so* cause a tsunami, I thought, and I worried for Japan. They did call Superman to help, but he stayed with a Delilah instead. It was all over the news that he didn't bother helping. "Tom Cruise has been degraded by all of us; we should be ashamed. We lament the dignity he's lost in the eyes of the world," said and I knew he was right. Whatever his sins with microwave guns, I could hold nothing against him since the releases of and . The floating Shakepeare came to Pink Squid and me on behalf of Asia to trick Superman into spinning the earth back to the exact moment I chose to eat magic jumping beans thereby causing the explosion and subsequently the tsunami. I'd eat something else instead. *But what could I eat instead?* Pink Squid had connections with a Delilah and asked her to read from Cruise's brain the secret location of , David's wife, so many years missing. I spoke to Superman then with this information and he agreed to do as we asked. When I awoke again, time had been turned back. *But .. what would I eat instead?* The answer came unexpectedly: My four year old daughter was sitting on the bed. She giggled and said, "Hey Daddy, knock knock." "Who's there?" "Poop on the head!" "Poop on the head *who?*" "Chicken.

(Apologies for the length and (lack of) formatting, ) ~ The night started as most nights hanging with my brother Chris tend to, us driving around parts of town I've never seen looking for a bar I've never heard of. This night was different in that my mother was in town visiting and decided she wanted some “grownup time,” which meant leaving the three youngest brothers at my apartment while she and I followed Chris to the aforementioned bar. Now, to grasp how truly awkward this was for me, it helps to understand a few things. My family is strict LDS. I mean church-every-Sunday, never-smoke-never-drink, indoctrinate-your-children-till-they-come-to-resent-you Mormon. My mother hasn't tasted a drop of alcohol since her partying days more than 25 years ago (of which I am a direct result). I didn't start drinking until just a few years ago, and I never really mentioned to her that there was a lifestyle change. I just didn't really care about whether or not she knew. Apparently, she always knew. When she came up to visit this weekend she wanted to try and reconcile with Chris, the best time for which happened to be that Saturday night.. When he invited us to what we would later learn was a birthday celebration for his girlfriends best friend, she quickly accepted. So, the night started with me and my mother following around Chris and his girlfriend (she had to leave early, so they drove their car) through dark industrial areas. After much cursing and u-turns, and a stop at a deserted gas station to get our bearings on phones and GPS, we finally found The Garage. It looked seedy. I mean really seedy. It looked like a renovated barn with motorcycle parking. I started to feel even more apprehensive about the situation. Chris has a penchant for angry drunkenness, and I really didn't think him in a biker bar was the sort of situation I wanted my mother to be in. She had seemed determined though, so I tried not to worry about it. A five dollar cover and a bit of a wait for my mother to go grab her forgotten ID, and we were snaking through tables trying to find somewhere decent to sit so we could see the stage. Apparently there was going to be live music. The bar didn't look so bad from inside. Actually, it was really cool. Folksy and digital all wrapped into a strangely appealing, if somewhat hipster, package. A glance at the tiny alcohol selection revealed no lagers. Wheat beers all night. But other than that it was one of the cooler bars I've been to since moving to Salt Lake City. I occupied myself with watching the television at the bar while the others worried themselves over where to sit. I don't care much for football, but ever since joining a fantasy league, I find it a lot more interesting. There is trash talk hinging on the matters these overgrown fanboys are discussing. “We're over here, bro.” Chris gestured to a group of six to seven people with a couple tiny tables between them. “We're gonna join these guys.” Chris smiled at my apprehension, then pointed to the only available seats, perfectly distributed between strangers. I didn't move. I looked back at the bar, wondering how rude it would be to choose solitude over the company of strangers. “Alright,” Chris smiled again, “I'll get them to move down.” People shuffled, and I'm able to sit between my brother and my mother. Here I could at least pretend to be comfortable. The band started playing. Mediocre folk, with off-tune singing and harmonica solos. It was much better than the pitcher of pale beer Chris brings to the table. Despite my distaste over the choice, I did my best to buy alternating pitchers of Blue Moon. I knew Chris would buy beer for everyone all night if I let him. We hadn't been there for long before Chris started ordering shots. Unlike most of the people present, he was here almost exclusively to get drunk. Natalie, the one who's birthday everyone at our “table” was there to celebrate, arrived around this time. She joined Chris for a shot, then dove right in, bouncing from person to person, from beer pitcher to beer pitcher, and from shot to shot. I'd met Natalie a few times before this night, mostly casual nights drinking at Chris' apartment. I'd always thought her quite pretty. The next hour was pleasant, decent music with excellent conversation to fill the gaps. I maintain that there are very few situations that I wouldn't enjoy with the company of my mother and brother. These are some of the only people who understand me at a very intimate level, and share far more with me than a sense of humor and genes. We drank, we laughed, we enjoyed the music, then we drank some more. Shots were being passed around the whole table at this point. My mother was handed a “fireball,” which smelled of cinnamon and tasted exactly like those hot jawbreaker-esque candies from our youth, for which they're obviously named. I was too inebriated at this point to remember the vague promise I'd made myself earlier, that I wouldn't let her get peer pressured into anything. Despite her 40-something outward appearance, my mother is still basically a 19-year-old girl who just wants certain people to like her. I knew that if I let him, Chris could get her do something she'd regret. I'd told myself I would step in between the two of them when he inevitably tried to pressure her. In the end, Chris didn't need to apply any pressure. My mother ended up drinking that shot, and another later that night, which made me strangely uncomfortable. It wasn't that she was drinking and being hit on in a bar, but more that I expected her to be more confrontational about the whole alcohol business. I'd been berated for most of my life about some of the very “morals” she just instantly threw out the window. I guess I just expected more conviction. I know I would have done or said something, if she had only given the slightest hint that she was uncomfortable or didn't want to be in that situation. Drunk as I was, I wasn't willing to look further for underlying motive or anything beyond the surface appearances. She can take care of herself, I suppose, and I believe she was having fun. The bands change. While the new one was setting up, I proposed a game of “Who Looks Least Like a Rapist?” directed at the new band members, which turned out to be quite difficult. Everyone involved almost unanimously agreed on the gangly youth with the long ponytail, which made me feel slightly gratified (having had long hair for most of my life). The long-haired guy wasn't immediately thought of as a creep, or at least not as creepy as the others. It's the small victories. Right before they started their set Natalie disappeared to the bathroom and Chris hurried over to the stage, and apparently asked the band if he could sing Happy Birthday to her. They declined, but said something about singing it themselves. Chris was skeptical. Natalie came back and Chris started insulting the band (quietly, and only to me and our mother) in between each song. Something along the lines of “I could take a shit on stage and it would be more entertaining than this.” is thrown out there. Then, several songs later, as I was about to make my way to the bathroom for the umpteenth time that evening, the newer band (which I'm fairly certain had a sitar player) broke into a folksy rendition of Happy Birthday. Chris had only good things to say about them from for the rest of the night. As the evening was winding down, things started to get a little strange (at least compared to what I'm used to). I'm drunk enough that I started refusing drinks. Chris was hammered, cursing purely for the sake of cursing. And it's at this point that Natalie started to get what she would later describe as “sloppy.” Guys from her work were swarming around her, buying her drink after drink, and doing what young men do in bars. Well, most young men, I suppose. Chris was glaring and getting angry. His girlfriend had left about an hour earlier, and he was becoming territorial. He said something along the lines of “I made a promise to [incoherent mumbles]... that she would go home alone tonight.” He started talking of fighting and throwing people around. I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier, or actually break into violence. I sat in an oblivious but pleasant haze, listening to the music and generally enjoying the atmosphere and snippets of conversation that floated my way. Natalie made a circuit of the table, taking something from every guy there. I don't know why. She took my suspenders, and had me help her put them on. I distinctly remember fumbling around with the clasp and the back of her pants for an awkwardly long moment. She took Chris's vaporizer, which just made him crankier. I don't know specifics, but around the time Natalie was returning her spoils, Chris said something to her. I was still oblivious at that point, fully engrossed in the idea of a ghostly face suddenly showing up in one of the barn windows above us. I was continually glancing at the building suspiciously while Chris schemed. He had apparently decided that distracting Natalie from the pack of horny men at the other end of the table with me was a good idea. I'm a safe bet in that he knows I would be far too timid to actually try anything, but I think getting a female even remotely interested in me is a feat quite beyond the considerable charismatic powers of my younger brother. Not one of his better plans, honestly, but with enough alcohol all things are possible. He convinced her that she and I needed to dance to the next good song the band played. I think it should be noted that I'd never danced with a girl before. Also, it should be noted that I'm a terrible dancer. Probably. But, as I said, with enough alcohol... The next song came on, and in a flurry of peer pressure my protesting was drown out completely. To be fair, I wasn't entirely against the idea. Also, I was in no state to protest properly. I was up and dancing with her in the back of the open area behind the bar, furthest away from the stage. I expect my hands were quite sweaty, and I vaguely remember at one point hitting my head on her watch. Apparently this awkward display wasn't enough. Once she was sure I wasn't going to trip or fall over and embarrass her, she drug me to an open area right in front of the stage, where a couple had been dancing earlier. We had mocked them several times. It was all a flurry of movement and sounds and lights, and I remember somehow catching a glimpse of Chris recording it on his phone. I had stopped dancing and laughed uncontrollably several times when she initiated twirls and I failed miserably. I was far too inebriated for a maneuver like that, even if she was the one doing the spinning. The song ended and I remember being escorted back to our table in what was obviously supposed to be a sexy fashion, her leading holding my hand over her head, but I seem to remember it as awkward and drunken. Both of us were sloppy. She spent the rest of the night sitting on my lap and flicking my suspenders and being very attentive. She talked a lot to Chris and my mother, but I don't remember anything from the conversations, as I was too intent on keeping my leg upright underneath her. I remember finding the task very difficult, as my leg kept pushing to one side or the other. Her ass was almost as bony as my leg, and I'm sure it was terribly uncomfortable for her. There were a few more drinks thrown around, but mostly people were just involved with loud conversations that bordered on arguments, or talking about how much fun they were having and how much they loved the stranger they were sitting next to. Natalie went to the bathroom again, giving my leg a much needed break, and Chris took the opportunity to drop a line I still smile at: “She's a flower, man. A flower among weeds. Who sometimes has sex with the weeds.” I remember turning to my mother, who hadn't heard the comment, after laughing at this and saying “Chris gets profound when he drinks.” It wasn't too long after that that the bar closed, and we were asked to leave. We found Natalie stumbling out of the bathroom looking green. She told Chris she wasn't feeling well and asked if she could sleep on his couch. Chris replied in the positive, and we made our way to the car, Natalie's hand through my arm. I remember at one point wondering at the lack of jostling between two drunk people stumbling through a parking lot, and remarked “I think we're swaying in unison.” “I like that,” she laughed. I opened the door for her as Chris fell into the passenger seat and our designated driver, my mother, took the driver seat. I walked around and pulled myself into the other side of the back seat. I don't remember much of the conversation as we drove. I do remember that shortly after we started driving, Natalie lay down and put her head in my lap. I thought I was being funny when I told her “Just don't puke in my lap and we'll be fine. You wouldn't want me to have to throw out these suspenders because they smell like vomit.” I look back on that remark and cringe. Classic me. I started to run my hand over her hair, pulling it out of her face. I remember this running of my hand over her hair, basically petting, lasting most of the ride. Looking back on it, it seems awkward, but at the moment it felt the right thing to do. At one point she reached up and held my hand. I took it as a signal to stop, but when she removed her hand shortly after, I resumed my petting. We dropped them both off at Chris' apartment, then drove back to my place. I don't remember much of the conversation, other than my mother making fun of me for still being awkward around girls at my age, then mentioning that I should keep the events of the night involving her to myself. If it got out that she drank with us and such, she would be reprimanded. Then she talked about how much she likes tequila and Long Island Iced Tea's. At my apartment we talked a bit more about the nights events. She again made fun of me for being awkward, said I had made her weekend by dancing, and some other stuff I don't quite remember. I drank a lot of water, and because I had work in just a few short hours we hugged goodnight and goodbye (she would be gone by the time I got off work) and went to sleep.

The sky was a dark and amaranthine black. The moon hung in the air, silvered and shining like a freshly minted quarter. The wind blew lightly over the fruited vineyard. A lone man could be seen walking the rows, inspecting the fruit of his hard labor under the pale moon light. His eyes were shown brightly, even more so than the moon, as he caressed the little grape leaves, plucking and pruning those that stood out as he walked. In the east, there was a flash of light followed by the rumble of its thunder. The old man's head whipped from its admiration of the vines to survey the coming storm. The wind gusted, nearly knocking him over as he turned. And in the distance, but moving quickly, he could see it. A broad funnel of cloud was touching down. Terror struck his wrinkled face, twisting it into a ghastly shape. He ran back to the little cottage on the hill as fast as his legs could carry him. His plump little wife, sitting in her lounging chair near the fire let out a sharp scream as he burst through the entryway. Without saying a word, he grabbed her and in a flash they were back outside. She too saw the horror that was whipping itself ever closer, and tried with all her might to stay close to her husband. He flung open the doors of the wine cellar just as the cyclone reached the field. His wife hurried down the stairs while the little old wine maker looked back over his livelihood, said a silent prayer, and closed the door behind himself. The cellar door rattled and rumbled as the fierce gales passed over the farm, trying with all their might to rip the door from its frame and hinges. Then it was gone. The little old man and his wife opened the doors and witnessed the wreckage that remained. The house in shambles, with its roof pried away from the walls, and the vines of the field ripped from their rows and cast about in all directions. In the center of the field, shining in the pale moonlight, stood a single grape vine. The weathered man ran with all his might, grapes squishing under his feet as he flew to the vine. With hands now wet from rain and purple from his ruined crop, he reached out to inspect the vine. It clung tightly to the posts that were driven into the ground, its little tendrils wrapped fast around the wire fencing between the posts, and a single cluster of grapes swinging gently in the breeze. He reaped his diminutive harvest, popped a single grape against the roof of his mouth, and as the juice flowed over his tongue, he could taste every hard days work in a blistering sun, and it was sweet. He cried silently as he shared the small knot of grapes with his wife, thankful for what he had.

The drums sound, *Thump Thump Thump* three steps, *Thump Thump Thump* another three. You snap back to reality from your day dream and re-adjust your helm. Suddenly a loud roar is heard,*"COMPANY, AT THE FAST TIME, MARCH!"* Reacting instantly you start stepping more quickly, lifting your shield a bit higher so the few weeds not trampled by the march of thousands do not drag on it. You grip your spear a bit harder as you feel you handle on the weapon to be a bit wet, from the heat perhaps. Then again, just a suddenly *"COMPANY, DOUBLE TIME, MARCH!"* You start a light jog now with a ridge about 20 meters in front of you, flowing with weeds, flowers, bushes and other assorted under-brush. You feel a slight anticipation as you start to ascend the ridge, fearing and wanting what lies beyond. Finally after what seems like an eternity to crest the ridge, and gasp as you jog forward at the sight before you, thousands of thousands of men. Then you notice something that seemed like a buzz in the back of your mind for all of this, the sound. You hear screaming, war-cry, and steel to your left, where your line has already charged forward. Then to your right is the steady beat of a multitude of men, all marching in union. Behind you you hear your brothers jog with you, with the rattle of equipment and the scrape of leather. Now the enemy seems so much closer, so much more dangerous, so much more **real**, but you go on, tis your duty. Then as suddenly as the first two you hear, *"COMPANY, PREPARE TO CHARGE!"* You shift your spear forward, your body and all those around you now in the prefect position to sprint forward the last few meters to the enemy, the perfect image of man at his finest and at his worst. Breaking this dam of tension blast a loud long horn. Then screaming with your brother behind your back you charge, running with all your might towards that hated foe in front of you, you spear parallel to the ground ready to impale that piece of flesh that dare get in your way. The enemy is a 10 meters.......5...4...3..2.1, then *SMASH*...............................

She was asleep at a table when I entered the cafeteria, the remains of her meal pushed out on the plates in front of her. I grab my lunch (sandwich, yogurt, a milk) and sit down at my table. Time to do homework. With a gargantuan yawn, arms outstretched, piggy little eyes surveying the remainder of first-lunch, she awakes. The scraps are consumed. It lumbers off in hunt of delicious, stationary sustenance. I meet eyes with Skinnygirl; she has a malicious smile on her face. With cheeks puffed out she rocks side-to-side in her chair, a caricature of the creatures waddle. Returning with a tray of plates loaded with enough food to feed Skinnygirl and I for a week the ritual begins. With every meal I imagine her swelling like a balloon, breath by breath, bite by bite, the folds of her shirt are actually rolls of fat. I am not imagining. She is growing before my eyes. Skinnygirl’s jaw has dropped in shock, I can see her food, cranberry chicken salad. It continues to eat. French fries, mixed vegetables, a whole burger in one bite, a fatted calf, Skinnygirl. SHE has created her own gravitational field, my glasses are sucked in, she eats them too. Her energy radiates as light and heat; it’s beautiful. Floating towards me she extends her hand, “Join us.” My flesh melting I take her hand. Together we leave this behind and travel beyond the land, beyond the earth, into the stars. We are the Sun.

Whistling at the dark He stood in the blackness, his lips pursed together in a defiant sneer against the night. A soft sound escaped his lips, a pliant, fleeting tone that slipped through the night like the soft cries of a cornered prey. But it was with that sole musicless tone that he fought the night. It was like a dirge to him, a requim to be repeated over and over lest a chaotic fate take his life, some form of protection. The night carried dangers, of course. The night always carried danger, slow predators, fast prey, the ever present spiral of life and death. The forest in the distance was a trap. A slow death for those found within, pressed by others who would take their life for sustenance, and by the slow grind of the human machine which presses in on the trees like a vice, both metaphorical and not. The roads nearby hummed with motorcycle engines and the low drum of tractor trailers. The night was barely audible. The trees' rustle was sorrowful, as though they were aware of the sparse environment in which they grew. Perhaps they knew that their seeds, their children, would find pavement and poison. Perhaps plants were aware of the damage we did them. Perhaps not. These were not the questions that He pondered as his tones and scales passed into the night. The question he pondered was a simple one. Does the night threaten, or protect? If a man finds his way into the forest at night, can he use the night as another tool, like a hammer to be weilded against the nails of the world? Humans were so good with tools. They used their world and changed their world and were positively okay with changing with their own alterations. Each new hell we press upon the world is one which we will pay for. We are punished by our sins, not for them. The tone changed. The man's face twitched, like he had caught the odor of something wistfully foul in the enveloping black. The whistling was a bit faster now, more of a plaintive groan than a playful twist of wind. The man had made a realization. His mind had pierced the slow gloam of humanity to find a small point of universality. 'We are all trees' he breathed softly through his pursed lips. Then the meteor struck. The large rock flying through the universe had picked his small backwater planet and found his small backwater field where he stood whistling in the night. It was so massive, he had no chance of escape. By the time the news had reported the scientist's findings, the blast radius covered his entire nation. No vehicle could bear him from the damage now. He and his family would be lost, his home burned beyond even molecular recognition, with a force like an atomic bomb striking so close. He would be lost. But life would not be. The meteor was a predator, a cosmic wolf with gnashing teeth and cracked claws. But prey could be clever. Humans were so good with tools. Inside a small black box buried feet under the ground lay a seed. A small seed, a tiny oak rock filled with all of the DNA and potential and history of life on Earth. The box was cracked, and water from the new storm clouds forming over the planet found its way to the cushioning around the seed. It took time. The little life had to crack its way out of its own shell; then the shell of the man, the little black box designed to handle even the force of an atomic bomb. It found its way out. Through the ashey dirt it fled, past the atoms of He and his family and their home and the ashphalt and chaos of humanity. Past humanity it fled, reaching towards light, unsure if the earth above it would bury it. But humans were so good with tools. A sharp metal stab rang out near the plants' new growth. It could feel the earth above it rended, torn from its roots and sent flying into the air. But its roots were strong, buried in humanity. The rending stopped. Above the plant, a small something opened up. It could not tell what it was; had never seen sunlight before. But there was a mass there, a white shining mass of hydrocarbons and polycarbonates. It was a human, come to sample the soil from the strike. 'Hello' said the plant in its own indiscernible language. 'and thank you.' Later, a mighty oak grew in that spot. The small metal box rose to the surface over the years, and was discovered years after the tree was fully grown. On it, it said; “Humanity does not refer to human beings' selfish nature for self preservation. It refers to the quality within us which protects all life, both ours and others.

The Day By: Jason Martinez Today is the day that gossip and rumors will be silenced. Today is the day trash talking stops, and dedication is put to the test. Today is the day, the big day, the day everyone is counting on me. Every decision I make today will effect the rest of my life. On this day I will not dissapointed, nor will anyone dissapoint me for today is the day. I've looked forward to this day my whole career. Today is the day men get separated from the boys. Am I a man or am I still a young boy going through life? Am I prepared for this day? I think I am. We will see. Today is the day of the biggest football game of my high-school career This day chooses my destiny. The past 18 years of my life has prepared me for this. I've used rational and Irrational thinking and decision making my whole life. I've sympathized for things I care for my whole life. One thing I will never sympathize for is the people on the other side of that football. On the other side of that ball is the enemy. Acheiving glory is our common goal. A goal I will not let them acheive.

I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy. Prologue: Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. Chapter 1: 2 days earlier… "The front line?" "Yep." "But we've only been here for a couple days!" "Well, you won't miss it then." I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show. "So, Alan, how long for?" "2 weeks, then they rotate us out" "Only 2 weeks?" "Yep. Pack your things." Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack. Chapter 2: The front line… Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets. Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches. About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour". Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge. "Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!" Chapter 3: The next day… Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is- "Sam?" I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast? "Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now. "Yeah, Alan?" "We're moving up-trench" "Really? Why?" "Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight." That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked. "Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds" I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?" These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting. Final Chapter: The next day, I had had an epiphany. I was that man, now. I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by. I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand. Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend. It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander. These men would follow me to hell and back. Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us. The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go. 18. 15. 11. Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped. Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same. Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping. I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner. And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.

**I'd like opinions and Creative Criticism** "Up we go!" She shouted in a cute and childish manner as the elevator brought us up to the third floor of the parking garage. "So, which one is yours?" She asked. I pointed to a grey Saturn Ion parked at the back of the garage. "Not that cool I know, but hey I make do." We walked to the edge of the garage and stared at the buildings below us. "This would be an awesome place to play frisbee." She said as she took a seat on the edge of the wall. "I guess, but what if you throw it off the roof?" "Ya that would suck" We sat in silence for a few moments. Only the muffled harmony of the cars below us could be heard. I reached out and placed my hand on hers. She looked up and we locked eyes. Giggling she turned her head and looked out in the distance. “Listen.” I spoke. “I... you know.” “No I don’t.” She replied suddenly, slowly moving her hand out from under mine. “Yeah you do.” “I mean, isn’t it pretty obvious?” “I’m just confused.” “Should I spell it out for you?” She ignored my question. “I like you. I want to be with you.” The silence drew on even longer. “There…” I finished angrily. “Why would you?” She finally said. “I dunno. It’s one of those things you know, but can’t explain.” “I guess I like how you find happiness in small things. I can’t do that on my own. I focus too much on large problems. I need someone like you. Someone who isn’t afraid to have fun… The fact that you’re absolutely beautiful doesn’t help either.” “Shut up” She mumbled. “I’ve liked someone else for a while now. I kind of just want to try pursuing things on my own.” She added. “To be honest, I envy you. At least you can act on impulse and tell me those things. I can’t even talk to the guy.” She crossed her arms and turned away from me. “It’s not impulse.” I interrupted. “I guess it’s stupidity.” “This… is impulse” I turned her around and placed my hand on her cheek. As I moved myself closer to her she pushed me back and turned around again. “No… that’s stupidity.” She said in a scolding manner. Upset, I too turned my back. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lighter. Lighting a cigarette I hopped up on the wall and stared off at the building tops. We sat like this for what seemed like ages. Looking down over the edge of the roof I started thinking. If I were to fall, I thought, would she care very much? Would she remember this night? The night I slipped and fell to my death. I looked at my phone, it was getting late and obviously the night was over for me anyways. The humming of the cars seemed softer now, almost non-existent. “Listen.” I finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I just know that I’m sorry.” She remained silent. Annoyed by her silence, I stood up, threw the rest of my cigarette on the ground, and walked over to her. I grabbed her again, but this time I embraced her. Soon I felt her arms wrap themselves around me. I buried my face into her neck, wishing I could do this more often. Her skin was soft and smooth, I almost thought of kissing her neck, but soon remembered that I had no right to. I held her for maybe a few minutes. Longer than a standard hug, that much is for sure. “You’re shorter than me.” She giggled. “I know.” I forced myself to let go. I walked to the opposite side of the garage and leaned over the railing. Would she come over and grab my shoulder? I thought. Maybe she’d spin me around and tell me to stop frowning. Maybe she’d try to cheer me up. Maybe she’d hold me a bit longer. I heard a door shut behind me and I fell to my knees. “Fuck.” I whispered as I slammed my fist into the ground.

Donna clutched the teddy bear to her chest as she walked down the hall, trying to draw comfort from the small stuffed animal. Tears stained her cheeks, slightly smearing the makeup she wore and leaving light trails down her face. Her long black hair reached to her middle back, and flowed softly as she walked. Reaching a door, she opened it without knocking. The room she stepped into was simply furnished, a large desk opposite of the door taking up a large portion of the free space. The man behind the desk looked at her calmly, his soft eyes taking her in. He was a good looking man, with short blonde hair and blue eyes. Without speaking, he gestured towards the chair across from him, and she sat quickly. “The police haven’t found anything yet. No one has any idea where he is. I-I don’t want to give up hope, but...” her voice trailed off as more tears started to come down her face. The man watched her for a moment, then reached out and covered her hand with his. Donna looked up and gave him a strained smile. “Thank you. Please, I want to know where he is, or at least if he is alive. Can you do this?” The man smiled at her. “Did you bring something of his? Something he was close to?” At his request, Donna held out the teddy bear. “It was his favorite toy,” she said, her eyes lowering to the stuffed animal. The man took it and held it in front of him, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Donna sat forward in wrapped interest. “Its dark... I can’t see anything... so cold, so cold... I see him, he is curled up. He is calling ‘Mama, mama’. He is alive. He is alive.” The man’s eyes snapped forward once more, and he started, glancing around. Then he looked at Donna once more and smiled. She once more had tears, but this time they were accompanied by a smile. The psychic handed the teddy bear back again, grasping her hands as he did so. Donna walked out of the room, her heart several beats higher, clutching the bear once again. She almost missedthe dark-clad man leaning on the wall, outside the door. “He is putting you on. There is no such thing as a psychic.” he said, is deep monotone little above a whisper. Black bangs hung over his teal eyes, and his tall frame was a good foot over Donna’s. She turned back to him, eyes searching his with a look of pity. “Josh, I know you don’t believe. But I know that my son is alive now. How would he know that if he wasn’t psychic?” “He doesn’t know it. There is no way of knowing. There’s a 50% chance that he is alive, or that he would be alive at the time of the prediction. He doesn’t know anything.” Josh’s eyes didn’t move from their position on the floor. Donna turned her back to him, eyes closing to keep in the tears. “No, he has to know. Mama, that’s what my son calls me. He calls me Mama. He couldn’t have known that otherwise.” There was silene behind her for a long moment. Then she heard a soft sigh. “Just don’t get hurt, Donna. I don’t want you to have your hopes destroyed.” Donna turned around to retort, but Josh was gone. Turning once more, she hugged the animal to her chest once more. She would not give up hope. Her son was alive, and she would find him. Back inside the room, the psychic took out a bottle and drank deeply, before resting his face in his hands, hoping beyond hope that the child was found alive. ********** It was three days later. The body had been found in the river. Decay had done its damage already, though the boy was still identified easily enough. He had died painlessly, as far as the authorities could figure. But it didn’t change the fact that he was dead. Donna sat on her couch, eyes void of emotion, as she unconsciously clutched the teddy bear to her chest. No more tears ran down her face, though she did tremble slightly, as if the sobs wished to escape. So many times she had heard stories of dramatic rescues and last-second escapes. Nobody publicized stories of defeat. Then again, nobody wanted to talk about it either. It didn’t matter though. Her son was dead. Josh stood at the door, watching her. His stoic face betrayed no emotion, although he had to swallow the lump in is throat several times. Quietly, he closed the door, leaning his back against the wooden frame and letting out a soft sigh. Nobody deserved to go through this. And though he hated to see his closest friend hurt, there was nothing he could do to bring her son back. Donna turned as her friend entered the room, a small smile gracing her features. Turning, she leaned her back against his frame once he sat down, resting her head in the crook of his neck. She had always felt safer around Josh, ever since she was little. He had grown to become her surrogate brother in many ways. But today, she felt no comfort. Her son was dead. Josh brought his arm protectively around Donna, allowing her to lean against him. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t feeling, and that worried him. “Are you going to be ok?” Donna smiled a bit once more at her friends question. Josh was never one to beat around the bush. And he deserved an honest answer. “I don’t know.” “Life is still worth living. There are still people who care about you.” Donna closed her eyes. “I don’t know if it is, Josh. He is gone. I don’t know about anything any more.” The complete lack of emotion in her voice scared Josh. His mind racing, he tried once more. “Your son loved you. And he knew that you loved him.” “The last time I saw him, we had a fight,” Donna said, her voice threateningly calm. “I never got to apologize. And I never got to say goodbye.” Josh closed his eyes. He hated his idea. But it was the only way he knew right now how to keep her alive. The psychic re-read the same paragraph in his book for the umpteenth time. In his head the news of the boy’s death haunted him. He felt pain, sorrow and fear. Mostly fear. The boy had been dead a week. She would figure it out. Looking up, he jumped slightly as he saw the dark-clad man standing before him. The psychic recognized Josh, the one who was so close to Donna. The one who had never believed him in the first place. The smaller man swallowed nervously. “I know you lied. I know you are fake.” Josh’s face stayed neutral, but his eyes burned with hatred for this man. “I am willing to make you a deal. Don’t screw it up.” The psychic wrung his hands slightly, trying to keep his composure. “And what, exactly, is this deal?” Josh’s glare deepened, and he motioned the man to follow him. Donna sat, her arms outstretched, as the smaller man took her hands in his. Between them sat the teddy bear. He murmured something, swaying slightly, and softly spoke. “Mama? Mama, is that you?” Donna’s face lit up, and a tears sprung to her closed eyes. “Yes, its me. Its mama,” she breathed, barely able to contain the emotion in her. Color returned to what was previously an almost grey face, and she smiled for the first time in days. Josh turned and shut the door, unable to watch the event any longer. In his heart, he hated the small man. The dead were dead. You couldn’t talk to them. There was no such thing as a psychic. Turning, he walked silently down the halls, looking out the windows periodically to the snow continuing to coat the ground. He had done what he had to do, to help his friend. He hated to lie to her. He hated even more to let the psychic deceive her once again. But he did what he had to do to keep her alive. That was the responsibility that came with being her friend. Josh opened the door, and, with a moment’s hesitation, walked out into the falling snow.

Aaron took the stairs two at a time up to his apartment. The leftover rain on his coat slowly dripped onto the carpeted hallways as he walked on, casually and relaxed. He breathed in deeply and smiled. Nothing like the smell of rain. It had to be one of his all-time favorite smells, along with mint leaves and sticky raspberry yogurt. Was sticky a smell? Aaron entertained that thought long enough to admit that it was, well, a stupid thought. He was beginning to think that he was recently having one too many of those. Taking out his keys, he quietly unlocked the door, grasping the smooth metal handle carefully as he did. Trying to sneak in on Bruce was always impossible, but he always tried anyways. He opened his door to find his roommate waiting for him. Aaron smiled, white teeth contrasting with his dark complexion. “You know, one of these times I’m gonna do it.” Bruce, wearing his typical bored expression, simply shook his head and sat back down on the couch to resume his game. Aaron also shook his head, still grinning, as he walked into his room. Dropping his backpack with college books with a muffled thump, he plopped down on his soft bed. He could already feel the energy draining from his body. It had something to do with the bed, he figured. In another minute he would be too tired to get up for anything. “Amanda came over,” Bruce called from the other room. “She was looking for you.” Aaron shot straight up, suddenly full of energy again. Amanda with the great legs. Amanda the woman from 3B. Amanda, the reason he had almost taken up dancing. Amanda with the great legs. The legs were worth mentioning twice. “What did she say?” he asked, trying to sound uninterested. He failed miserably. “If you are so excited, why don’t you ask her yourself?” the blond haired Caucasian answered, his attention never leaving the game. “What makes you think I’m excited?” Bruce looked up at him for a moment. “Maybe the fact that you practically teleported from your bed to the couch when I mentioned her name.” Damn. Aaron leaned back onto the couch and let out a sigh. “Is it that obvious?” “Only to people with eyes.” Aaron rolled his eyes. “So what did she want?” He asked once more, his curiosity beating out his pride. “Something about wanting ‘to see the world’.” “... And?” Bruce looked at his friend once more. “You don’t actually think I was paying attention to her words, do you Aaron?” "You're an ass." "I know." “Did you at least get your eyes off of her body long enough to know where she is right now?” Bruce thought for a moment. “I believe she was heading back to her room. That would be the first place I would check for her.” Aaron was almost out the door by the time his friend finished talking. Taking the hallway down to the elevator, he pushed the arrow a few too many times. It was only after he was inside did he realize how he was acting. “Man, get a hold of yourself,” he mumbled, his palm on his forehead, as he tried to regain some composure. “She just wants to talk, maybe she saw your game last week. Or needs help with the writing assignment.” He paused for a moment. “Yeah, she doesn’t need your help.” When the elevator doors opened, Aaron was once again calm and controlled, with the exception of his extremely wide eyes. The sunglasses could fix that. He knocked on the door, then rested back on his heels, trying to look as comfortable as possible. Two seconds later, it opened. She was wearing volleyball shorts. At this moment, Aaron was very thankful he was wearing the sunglasses. Her long, blond hair ran just to the middle of her back, and was complimented by her beautiful blue eyes. Her whole figure was, well, amazing; not a toothpick, but athletic, curvy. Even her nose was attractive, and her lips looked great, smiling and forming words... Shit, she was saying something. “... said that you were out.” she finished, still smiling at him in that cute way, her eyes twinkling. She had one hand resting on her hip as she leaned against the door frame, looking like a model. Aaron stopped himself before going into another embarrassing lapse of attention. “Yeah, I just got back from class. So what’s up?” he asked. He was getting better at this. “Actually, I was just wondering what Mr. Hassle gave in our class yesterday. I missed it ‘cause of a dentist appointment.” Aaron looked at her for a moment, then leaned onto his heels once more. “Yeah, I’ll bring it over after dinner if you want.” Stay calm, stay calm. “Thanks,” Amanda said, her smile returning even brighter. “I appreciate it.” “Yeah, no problem. Oh, and what was that you mentioned about seeing the world, or something?” Amanda stared at him for a moment, confusion written on her face. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she answered slowly, still smiling. He was gonna kill Bruce. “You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you after supper,” Aaron called as he turned toward the elevator once more. Finally, a study date with Amanda, sort of. This day just got about a million times better. Now all he had to do was find a way to hid Bruce’s body, and the day would be perfect. Roommates.

Please take a couple minutes out of your life to read a very short story I wrote (1-2 pages in word @ 12pt). I guess I can only partially (IMO) take credit for the inspiration for the story. I wrote it almost two years ago, and I had forgotten about it until today. Within a couple days of writing it I had people who were close to me read it (mother, step mother, father, sister, GF, stepmoms daughters, buddy from college). I had made very minor corrections to wordsthat were stucktogether<<< since I had written it hastily so as not to forget the important details, then saved it, only to eventually forget about having the copy. I would not call myself a writer. I don't write literature. I just wrote how I talk. So I put it all down the best I could in one go. Please give me honest opinions. I want to know if this touches/affects other people like it does the people who know me well. Ok, so, thank you if you've made it this far. Please read on and leave feedback. **I LIK WIL** My name is Will. I have a brother named Jack who is, well let's say, different. He has always been upset/angry with/resented me, because I’ve always been “perfect” (normal/fine/regular/not sick), and he has always been “broken” (sick/crazy/stuck/hopeless/sees things/in his own world, and he has a hard time relating/conveying thoughts and feelings to the outside world). We’ve always got along and loved each other, but all that has mostly been masked by arguments, misunderstandings, and miscommunications. Jack lives in a fantasy world, which-for all intents and purposes–lies mostly far away from people in the “real world”. He and I have always had an extra special brotherly connection, in that, when we are together I am able to enter his world (or he is able to project his world onto me). It is a mix of delight, wonder, imagination, nostalgia, loneliness, regret, desperation, fear and anger (etc.). As time went by, however, though the realism of the realm I shared with him grew ever stronger, my ability to stay constantly present there faded. I would get sucked in so strongly, so fast, but get spit out just as quick. I can remember happier times in his room, in his world, where his toys performed the way they would when he would play with them, all on their own. Model planes and cars would zip through the air, drawings would be cast on the walls and ceilings, seemingly coming to life, dinosaurs roamed the miniature forests, and toy soldiers waged their meaningless wars. Given his lack of ability to convey his feelings properly/accurately to others—although slightly easier to me with our special bond—Jack found ways to project or imprint the scars/outcomes/effects of his all-too-real fantasies into the real world. Toy soldiers would be left broken, smaller dinosaurs left mangled from the mighty t-rex, toy planes obliterated, walls damaged and even Jack himself would be left with minor cuts, even scars from time to time. The nature of the arguments we had mostly pertained to his frustrations with me having all the advantages of a normal life, and him left broken, scarred and shit on, and my frustrations with him being somewhat of a burden, or annoying/irritating/etc. Like I said, Jack practically hated me—in a way—for these reasons, and could never really explain to himself how/why he was the way he was. So unlucky, whereas I had more than enough luck than one man needed or deserved. Jacks powerful fantasy world grew stronger over the years, and with it, grew our special connection, his projections onto the real world, and the level of our “battles” within said world. I will never forget the biggest argument/battle that took place in his/our special world. We were in our mid-forties at the time, and much too old for all this nonsense. Had I known it would have been the last time I would ever see my dear brother, I’m sure I would have done everything in my power to create a different outcome. The dispute was over the same old topic. Although my love for him would never and has never changed, I could not help the growing resentment inside that my selfishness has caused me to create. The fights were annoying, arguably pointless. He was shouting the same old lines. I too was guilty of this broken-record behavior. In this particular battle we each wielded a toy light saber, made ever so real in our growing fantasy realm. Growing quite frustrated with all this bullshit, and him advancing on me, I made one precise strike to his neck with my furious blade. He began to bleed, as was the way in his world. Imagination can be quite a powerful thing. When he turned to retreat to the corner of the room, reality came back to me. As far as I was concerned, we were simply in his normal/real room, in the middle of our argument. However, this time, Jacks physical projection of what had happed was portrayed by his cutting of the surface skin of his neck with a razor blade. I could see the blood dripping down to the floor as he remained facing the corner. I was angry. Why would he cut himself? It was just another frustrating action to add to the situation. He turned around with tears in his eyes, anger and confusion in his face. I turned and left the room. Planning to step out for a smoke, I reached the back door when I was suddenly flung around by my shoulder. Jack stood there with his bloody razor held firmly to my throat. He was hysterical. Sobbing. Trying to yell at me, he conveyed his usual frustrations yet again. Worried at this point, I tried to calm him, urging him to sit down with me to talk it out. He complied, but all the while, forcing the tip of the razor into the surface of my s.kin. Realizing the severity of the situation, I started pleading with him, not to do anything rash. He then proceeded to pour his heart out to me to the best of his ability. While doing so, he pulled a second razor out of his pocket and pressed it to his own neck. I was absolutely terrified. Crying, he tried to convey his feelings of despair, which only came out as anger towards me and confusion about himself and the shitty hand dealt to him at a very young age. He was trying to think, contemplating how to end his misery. Kill himself, or kill me. No other option existed. At this point his hatred of me was clear. After one final desperate sob, Jack sliced deep into his own throat. A look I will never, ever forget came across his face. As he slumped lower to the floor, the razor withdrawing from my pierced skin, his left hand came from behind him. He looked at me in his final moment, with a look of regret and sadness on his face. Sitting in his lifeless hand was a book he had written himself… for me… Sobbing uncontrollably I looked at the sloppily written, misspelled title… I Lik Wil… The book described all of my poor, sweet, helpless brother’s thoughts about himself, about me, about life. He never hated me. Jack hated himself. He could not understand why he was the way he was. Although jealous of my normality, he loved me deeply. He was filled with regret that I had to deal with him my whole life, and how he could do nothing but project his torment onto me, as many people are guilty of. Though, he had an unimaginable difficulty—above all others—accurately conveying his feelings. He resented the way he was and how he caused me so much heartache… I was destroyed… There was no way around feeling that I was to blame for letting it get this far, for getting so frustrated, for building up my own resentment. I killed my brother. The one I loved most in life. I put him to death. I’m sorry Jack. I miss you. I Liked You Too… *This is a story of a* **dream** *I had that played out in a perfect sequence of a couple scenes. I had 40 years worth of memories. I don’t know what I think about dreams. Are they random images/smells/etc. thrown together with some logic sometimes, sometimes not so much? Or do they have deep rooted meanings? This dream was so powerful at the time that I woke up absolutely sobbing and basically continued like that, off and on until sometime after getting to work (several hours). This dream had meaning to me, or at least, caused me to give it meaning. I can only explain it by my own resentments of my personal shortcomings in life. My faults, my let-downs, to myself and to others, the mistakes I’ve made, the disappointments… all the things I don’t like about myself that have ever appeared in my life, all projected into this alter-ego. The other me. The “bad” me. Will represents me, all the good in me, with the bad mixed in. Jack is the me I wish had done better, studied more, made the phone call, been there for the friend, cleaned up after myself… the list goes on and on. Normal human things that any number of people I’m sure are guilty of, all brought down on me at once because of a couple ‘big’ personal disappointments and worries that have happened recently. Take this story and apply it to your life. Do good. Be good. Be happy. Appreciate the good in your life and the people around you. It’s worth it, and we don’t have a lot of time. Thank you. MtM. 10.16.2010.

"Excuse me. Are you drinking two cups of coffee?" "You noticed?" "Yes. They *are* yours? You're not waiting for someone else?" "No." "Oh. But why two? Why not order-" "-A double? No, no. I don't do that. It wouldn't be fair." "What do you mean by fair?" "Well you see, I have this theory that everything needs to come in pairs. In twos. All the time, everything." "What do you mean?" "Like when you wake up in the morning you put on a pairs of socks don't you? And a pair of earrings? Pair of shoes? Pair of gloves for the winter, right?" "Right." "Well there you go. What if your...say, bracelet, is watching you put on two earrings and yet he has to travel on your wrist alone? That's not fair. Also your left wrist, who is bearing the bracelet, looks over to your right wrist and feels guillty because-" "-My right wrist doesn't get to wear a bracelet." "Exactly. Coming in pairs is a universal trait. It all goes down to the simplest most basic components of life and the universe, since beginningless time. Do you know what I mean?" "I know exactly what you mean. Even electrons come in pairs." "That's it! And *hence*...my pair of coffees!" "You know love too comes in pairs." "Love?" "Well whether it's man and woman or man and man, or whatever, love comes in pairs too right? A couple is a pair of lovers after all." "Hey, you're right." "OCD really can be a wonderful thing. We make quite a pair.

Anna flipped the laundry basket over, dumping the newly-cleaned clothes onto her bed, before hurrying back outside to retrieve the rest off the clothesline. She had noticed that certain pieces of clothing had gone missing over the past few weeks, and wanted to make sure it didn’t happen again today. Hurridly, she grabbed the remaining garments and stuffed them into the basket, until the line hung empty. Her friends, when told about the missing clothes, had all critisized her on her use of a clothesline in lieu of a modern drying machine. Anna had replied that she didn’t have the money to buy a dryer, and honestly didn’t want one, as the clothesline did the job just fine for free. However, the missing clothes were beginning to make her think about changing her mind. Tossing the laundry on the bed, she busied herself with sorting and folding the various shirts, pants, and undergarments. Sure enough, something new was missing. A pair of jeans that she had just recently bought, and was quite fond of. Exasperation set in as she shoved the clothes into their drawers. Of all the things I have around here to steal, why my clothes? Back outside, Anna carefully approached where the clothesline was. Perhaps, she figured, there might be a few footprings, or other incriminating clues, as to the culprit responsible. Unfortunately, grass grew under and all around the wash area. Her entire property, for that matter, was green. Anna turned to walk back inside, nearly tripping over a sleeping dog. She glared. “Tony, you really could bark every once in a while, you know, if you see anything. Those were my favorite jeans.” The dog lifted his head, blinking slowly, then smiled with his tongue hanging out. Anna rolled her eyes, then made her way back inside the house. Tony could hear her opening and closing drawers and cubboards, on the off-chance she had misplaced her missing garments. He put his head back in his paws, and licked his chops. "Yeah, they were my favorite so far, too.