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Allura 24

This is my first attempt at a short story. Check it out. I hope there aren't too many errors. This is a working title because I can't think of a good one. The glass stood all around him, reluctantly displaying his reflection. There was a table beneath his gaze, upon which his squandered hopes lay dismantled. As wretched as he had become, there remained a very profound determination; the type of determination to bring a man to death and exchange his last days for piteous struggles. As though each hypodermic and vial held some abrupt realization of worthlessness, the liquids stuck stagnant on the floor; the broken glass framed by its former contents. The multiple pools below the man were still, but for each droplet he couldn’t help but relieve. He sifted through his memories, which was his only comfort, searching for remnants of a better past. Before, on the surface, he had been exiled. There were days when he stood upon podiums, good days, when his teachings fell deft upon their ears. He seemed proper behind the pulpit and struck down upon the lectern. Slowly, however, his ideas grew darker and his dissatisfaction began to manifest itself in his work. The people started to reject him due to his very nature. While his public image dwindled, his inspiration became something more substantial, and he was driven now, to create, to achieve. So considered treacherous and nonsensical, his ideas were cast asunder. They did not understand the methods of his madness. Despite the advancement of his insanity, his concepts were still sound, and surely with some council or collaboration, they could have existed. They could have even proven useful; but he chose seclusion, and hid himself away from the public lens. Society shunned his creations and cast him aside like a fool. The loneliness perpetuated his despair, and from those seeds, a flower germinated. This great contempt only flourished at the sight of passers-by, and the pittance they represent. Contempt though, quickly progressed to hatred and obsessions, which consumed him in full. His eyes dulled and fixated upon his perfect monster. This was all that stood upon his horizons now, and he grew desperate for its solution. Focus swept him away and placed him neatly out of sight. So he sunk, below the ocean, where trespassers would be crushed by the sheer mass of water before they could swallow it. So alone, so perfectly secluded, he stood. Across the room, his reflection stared back at him and shook the walls which confined it. The man stared at his misshapen bone structure and the appendages that seem to have been randomly extended from his body, and shuddered at the sight. He didn’t fully understand what it was that he had become, but worse than that, he didn't understand how he had become it. The man scrutinized every inch of his twisted anatomy, which never ceased to shock him. Knowing that nothing could be done to reverse this experimentation, he had long since come to terms with it. His face gave the illusion of dripping, although it was not liquid, and it was still relatively cohesive. It simply looked as though it had recently congealed in a gutter. His eyes shrank backward, despondent, like two piss holes in the snow. His nostrils heinously warped and permanently flared, left a strange sort of ambiguity as to their identity. His lips clung to what little flesh remained in that area and no longer ran parallel to one another. Rather, they followed no symmetry, and lashed outwards at random. Behind them, but inconsistently covered, were his discoloured, decaying teeth, from improper diet and lack of hygiene whatsoever. They were all forced out of position by the shifts in their foundations, his gums serrated and ragged, like the knife that must have carved him. In fact, the last remaining shreds of humanity were the pigment of his skin, the general contours of his figure, and his waning intellect. The last few weeks had been eventful, but not in a way that anyone would have expected. He worked silently alone in his new facility. Scientific discovery applied severe pressure to his endeavours, which caused him to fluster and lose coherence. As many breakthroughs as he had, he found that none of them were worth their price, nor were they remarkable in the first place. He pondered at the situation in which he found himself. The man has lost the ability to feel hunger, and coincidentally, he had no remaining food, as the man would often feast to support the rapid growth and alteration of his physical constitution. Each day, his body transformed slightly; noticeably, but not extensively. The physical toll was almost insignificant compared to the invalidation of his mentality. His aspirations gave way to expectations, which in turn gave way to disappointments. Disappointment led to anguish and then desperation. He searched frantically within himself to find some solace, some remaining fragmented happiness. He did not find this; instead, he came upon a painful realization. He finally understood what he had become: an abomination. In his mind, his remaining options were discussed by seemingly separate parties. Frantically, he tried to develop a contingency plan, for he already understood all it was he had left to do. He looked again into the glass, and saw only a creature in it now. He almost couldn’t fathom how the same creature must be staring back at it. The most desperate sense of fear was looming over him now, engulfing him in the folds. Grasping this, the creature conceded and sought his only recourse. Is it fair of me to ask forgiveness? Is it reasonable to feel hope? His thoughts no longer approached without questioning endlessly the choices he made and the ties he severed. The creature had given up everything for the sake of discovery. He had come down here to create something greater than he; immortal, but his obsession obscured the cost, that only the damage would reveal. So staring down his final hours, he was visibly afraid because of what was left. Death. With no other alternative, he clung to that at least, without the means to achieve it. You cannot kill what you do not understand. Becalmed, the creature sunk down and crossed his legs amongst the wreckage. He reached down and gently lifted one of the glass shards from the floor. He identified the sharpest point and aimed it downwards towards whatever substance comprised his carapace. Gradually, he pressed downwards into what could have been his arm, and increased the pressure slowly. The initial puncture came reluctantly, but delivered a certain satisfaction and an indication of furtherance. In frenzy, he continued to cut, striking wildly at each curious limb. He felt the flesh give way beneath his instrument, like it used to, but there were differences. His expectations did not pour from the wound, for he had lost the ability to bleed. In addition, all sensations of pain were removed. Traditional methods would clearly not give him relief and he was beginning to fear the very fact of being alive. He wanted death, but could not reach it. For how can heads be placed upon a crooked shelf? How does one create light where there is only darkness and no conceivable source? He continued to grow distraught, and began clawing at his midsection, using each one of his oblong appendages to dig. The creature ripped and tore at what he saw, for he truly needed to understand his contents. He cast each severed bit to the ground around him carelessly. If it were anatomically possible, he would have been sobbing. Shreds of his being were limp and ragged upon the floor, saturating themselves with the chemicals and genetic material in which he sat. He was still thrashing about, scratching at what matter was left of him. His fingernails struck upon his absurd skeleton and came away with the scraped enamel beneath them. His olfactory glands could not distinguish the putrid nature of the scent he was creating, emanating from the piles on the floor as well as from his active body. The ripping seemed relentless, as though his abdomen were bottomless. As much as he removed from himself, there was always more; some of it beyond his reach, and thus, beyond his ability to destroy. His flesh fell away loosely and easily like the damp newspaper of a premature paper mache construct. He removed as much of himself as he could, and looked inward at the void. Amongst the wreckage of this dismantled biological apparatus, there was nothing that would sustain life. He could not understand the basic fact that he was still alive. There were no recognizable organs or systems, only flesh, which seemed to exist symbiotically with itself. With nothing left to provide him movement, the creature laid immobile on the floor amongst the ruin, a broken man, framed by his former contents.

"Everyone dies, son." We were at Wendy's. "But, why?" I asked. "God, son, I wish I could tell you. I really wish I could. But I can't." Then he thought for a second and repeated "Nope, I can't." Then he made a farting sound and we got in the car. *Your Mother* "Son, I will never say a bad word about your mother. But! I will say that you are half whore." *Religion* "Look, I was never a religious man. I was raised Catholic or - well, something. I think it was one of the ones with Jesus. God. What the hell am I? Shit...this is going to bug me. K, I went to a church or temple or - there was that lady, you know, the one that went to your mother's birthday last year with the drinking problem." He sat silently thinking. Finally he yelled "Carol!" *Fighting* "Son, you may never get in a fight in your entire life. Like you'll come close. You'll piss some people off, but no one will ever draw you out for a fight. Or, maybe you'll get swung at and you'll duck and then someone will stop the fight. Or, maybe you'll swing at someone and they won't fight back. Point is - you may never get in a fight in your entire life. It's something to think about." Then he punched me. *Get a Job* "Son, I don't want to be one of those parents that makes you go out and get a job when you turn sixteen, but I do want to offer you a job. Take a look at these." They were war bonds. It was 1992. *Drugs* "Have a seat. Your mother told me you've been taking drugs." "Yeah, I have asthma. I have an -" "I don't want to hear it!" *Women* "Son, it's time we talked about women." "OK, Dad." I said. "Women are like men, but they have purses." "OK, Dad." "Did you do your homework?" "Yeah, Dad. Can I have some money to see Last Boy Scout this weekend?" "Sure. You wanna know something else about women?" "What's that, Dad?" "They ask for money to go see movies." "OK, Dad." "I'm calling you a woman, boy!" Then he started laughing and then crying. "OK, Dad. Where's your wallet?" "A woman's got it!" He snarled. But it was on the counter. *Sandwich* "Come here, son. Look at this. That's MY sandwich. Do not touch it. OK?" I nodded. He had spent the better part of the morning making it. "It means everything to me." I nodded. He started crying "Everything." *Being a Man* "Come over here. Take a knee. Now, son, being a man doesn't just mean going out and getting loaded and hooting at women, it means eating cheeseburgers and nacho cheese, it means throwing beer cans at people and much, much more. Now blow into this tube so I can start the car." *The War* "I don't like to talk about the war." He said as I passed by him sitting alone in the living room, playing Doors records with the lights out. "That's just something I won't talk about." "OK, Dad." I said, and grabbed my backpack to go do homework. "Wait, son. There's something I never told you about the war." "What, Dad?" "Oh, now you want to know - well, I don't talk about the war." "OK, Dad." "OK, just this once. What do you want to know about the war?" "Which war?" "I don't even know. That's the main reason I don't like to talk about it." Then he started crying. Then I went and played Mario Cart. *Computers* "Son, this is a computer. I have no idea what it does. Let's go." *Oil Change* "The thing you need to know about changing oil is that you're gonna need some new oil. And an oil filter. And some beer (grabs me by the back of the neck and starts laughing to the point he's shaking, then he starts crying, then we change the oil)!" *Geology* "Son, see this here? That's shale. You know how shale is formed?" "No." "You know how rocks are formed?" "No." "Jesus, I guess I haven't been that great of a father." "You've been fine, Dad." "No. No. Look, so, let's start with subduction zones." "What are those?" "You see, the Earth - is that old Bill Cabot!" And then he just kinda ran back into the house and hid. I'm pretty sure he didn't know about Geology, but I was glad that he gave it a shot. *Babs* "You remember Babs?" "No, Dad." "God, I loved Babs. C'mon! Blond hair? Had that muffler on her car?" I still didn't know who Babs was.

'Tomorrow will just have to be what today wasn't'. That was my mother’s mantra. She said it after every hard shift, every failed test, every break up, and every argument. She whispered it into my ears as she wiped tears off my cheeks. I used to tell myself the same thing when things went awry. I had always put faith into words, especially those words. Words defined my life. It was 4:15 in the morning on the sixteenth of July. There was nothing special about the time or the date, but my brain woke me up regardless. I remember how cold it was in my room. I reached out of bed, tapped the small touch lamp on the bedside table, grabbed the robe that hung off the post of my bed and buried myself inside of it. Sliding my feet into my slippers, I crossed the room to turn on my space heater. Had I lived anywhere else, the heater probably would’ve been stored away with holiday decorations and winter jackets, but I didn’t live anywhere else. I lived in a studio apartment with very little space. I didn’t own any holiday decorations and all of my winter clothes were hung up and stuffed into my little closet behind all of my summer clothes. I crossed the room and turned the knob on my fourteen dollar space heater to the single notch that signified power level one. The lamp lost a little bit of light. I shuffled toward my bed, kicked off the slippers and did a belly flop onto the mattress. The room filled with the quiet hum of the heater converting the temperature of the air and I squirmed under the comforter. Laying in my bed, wrapped in a robe and snuggled under a blanket, I knew I wasn’t getting back to sleep that night. I had only slept for about three hours and already my brain had kicked me into consciousness and given me the finger. I laid there for a few minutes and decided, ’Fuck it. If I’m going to be awake, I’m going to work’. I grabbed the laptop from the other side of the end table, nearly knocking the lamp off as I did. I pushed the lamp back into place, increasing its brightness ever so slightly. I flipped the laptop open and was greeted by a page full of text. Words had always comforted me. Growing up, my mother always knew exactly what to say to make things better. She had so many pearls of wisdom to hand out and I had always eagerly accepted them. It had just been her and I growing up. After I was born, the doctor told her she wouldn’t have any more children. Her husband, who I refused to acknowledge as being my father (why should I, I never even saw his face), couldn’t stand to be with a woman who couldn’t provide him with a son so he left her with her daughter without a trace. Kids at school were always kind enough to point out how weird it was that Lindsay didn’t have a dad and when I would report their observations to my mother, she would always get down on her knees, put her hands on my shoulders and ask me, “Are those children smarter than you?” to which I always replied, “No”. Her follow up would be something similar to “Are the girls prettier than you?” This question had bothered me because I looked nothing like my mother (which, naturally, meant that I looked like her ex-husband). But, in the end, the answer was usually “No”. She would ask if they were stronger or braver than me and, as the queen of dares and arm wrestling, I always responded in the negative. She would wrap all of these questions up with one final one, the only one that really mattered. “So then, Lindsay, are the kids with fathers better than you?” And I always knew they weren’t. There were some kids in town that were, but they all went to a private school and I never had to see them anyway. I went to the only public school in my town. Everyone knew everyone else and we were all poor. No one had a guest bedroom and most of the houses had only one bathroom. My mom worked as a nurse during the day at the local nursing home and bartended during the night. She was always home when I woke up, when school let out, and when I went to sleep. As soon as I was old enough, I got a job helping out at the library after school. I got lost in books and excelled in English and ended up writing my way out of that little town and into Chicago. I took my mother with me, but she didn’t make it very long in a big city. She was exceedingly proud of my success but I always told her that she was the one who had given it to me. I opened the laptop to find a page mostly filled with words. They were small money words. I hadn’t produced big money words since my mother died. I watched the cursor blink, waiting to be jettisoned across the screen by a slew of creativity or inspiration but it just stood there and blinked at me. I was in the middle of reading the paragraph preceding the boring cursor when I heard a rattling outside of my bedroom. My brain shut down and I stared at my bedroom door, waiting to see if it would bust inward. Someone was in my apartment. I knew that because the closest I came to a pet was the plastic tree by the front door and the dead fern by the window. I remember thinking ’Who the fuck would break in to my shitty apartment?’ but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that somebody had. My lamp was on and my laptop was illuminating my room, so whoever it was probably knew that I was awake.

"Looks like it's going to rain, son." "Why do you say that?" It was a cloudless day and we were indoors. "I just have this feeling." Then he wet his pants. "Dad, do you have a change of clothes?" "No, but I've had a change of heart." And then he bet on red. *Children* It was prom and he handed me the keys to his car and he whistled. "Looking sharp, son." I took the keys and he said "Don't make any babies." And then he laughed. I returned the laughter and he grabbed me by the shoulder and whispered in my ear "I mean it." Then he showed me an itemized bill for my entire life that he had been calculating since I was conceived. Later on, at dinner, I took it out and glanced at it. "Being a dumb shit" is about $3.40 an hour. *Halloween* "Well, it's that time of year again." "What time?" "Halloween." "It's April." "We do Halloween on my time!" He said and walked out the door with a sheet on and didn't come back until October. But he was much scarier by the time the holiday was upon us. *College* "Son, I bet you think I've been saving money for your college." "No, the thought never occurred to me." I was about 25 at the time. "Well, I haven't. And do you know why?" He had been dropping clues with the alcoholism, drug abuse, and general dementia for about 15 years, but I didn't give it away. "No." "It's because I love you and I want you to try harder than I did. I don't want you to take hand outs. I want you to be your own man." Then he asked me for 50 dollars. *Good Values* "We need to talk about values, son. Do you know what values are?" "Sure, like being honest and treating people right." He looked at me confused and then he pulled out a coupon book and began counting all his values. He had tons. *Pets* "Here." He handed me a slug. "I caught it out in the yard. It almost got the best of me. Now, I'll tell you right now, I'm not gonna feed it. Or pay for the shots." I looked at the slug in my hand and thanked him. "His name is Peter." *Growth Hormones* "Son, have you been taking growth hormones?" "No, Dad. Why?" "You seem bigger than the last time I saw you." "Well, you've been away for a year. I'm 18 now." "Why, you could play baseball." "I do." "You gotta stop them growth hormones. They'll kill you." "Thanks, Dad." "Do you have any coke?" *America* "Son, you realize this is the best country in the world, right?" "Sure, Dad." "Why, you can't even vote in most countries. Like Russia. Or Canada. Or Billy's." "What's Billy's?" "It's a country right outside of Seattle. I was registered to vote there." He looked off in the distance. "But they wouldn't let me. Said I had to pay for the beer. I tried voting for it. It did no good." "Can I go ride bikes?" "Sure, go ride your communist bike. I'll sit here and live in the greatest nation in the world." And he sat there for 12 hours whistling. *Being Grateful* I remember he once gave me a bag of screws and I had trouble understanding what they were for and asked him "Are these in case something breaks?" He then initiated a staring contest and I immediately blinked to avoid it. Then he cleared his throat and said "You don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I asked him what that meant and he opened his mouth and pulled out a false tooth and told me it contained cyanide and that he would bite it the next time I asked him about those screws. I think it was my fourth birthday. *Run for President* "Son, I want you to run for President." "OK, Dad." "You'll need these." And he handed me a gun and a five dollar bill. *Movies* "You don't need movies. You have all the movies you could want right in your head. Look, watch me go to a movie." Then he sat there for two hours making different faces like he was watching a movie. Towards the end, he was crying. Then, he said "What a movie!" I asked him what it was about. "I don't know, but Burt Reynolds was in it. I've seen it like five times.

"There's no shame in crying, Son. I do it all the time. Mainly at your T-Ball games. Because you are terrible." Then he started crying. *How to Shave* "First!" He was dressed in his army outfit. "You take your razor." He pulled out a pumpkin. "Then you take out your shaving cream!" He pulled out a beer. "Then you slather your face in shaving cream." He guzzled the beer. "Then you shave!" Then he threw the pumpkin as hard as he could against the wall. I slowly walked out of the bathroom. Then I heard a gunshot. "Missed a spot!" *Vegetable Gardens* "You know how you spot a communist?" "No, Dad." "They have vegetable gardens." "OK, Dad." "You know why?" "No, Dad." "Because they can't digest meat. It makes them want freedom. It makes them want to have free trade. It makes them want to own a gun without having to have a background check. It makes them human." "OK, Dad." "That's why Colonel Sanders and Ronald McDonald were our best presidents." ... "Why are you looking at me funny?" "Because the sack race is over. We lost." "Let's get some cheeseburgers." *Memories* "Son, you can't make memories. Memories just happen. Like right now. See, now that's a memory." "I see what you're saying, Dad." "That's another memory." His eyes began to light up. "I get it." "Another one. Look at all the memories we've shared. Think about all the futures!" Then he put on some ski goggles and ran as fast as he could into the wall. "Dad, you OK?" "I'm in the future!" "You're bleeding." "In the future!" *Ticker Tape Parade* "Dad, I need help on this English assignment." "I just had a dream that I was a crocodile and they gave me a ticker tape parade." "OK, I'll just ask Kevin." "No. Don't bother Kevin. He's next in line for a ticker tape parade." "See you, Dad." "See you." As I left I heard him yell "AT THE TICKER TAPE PARADE!" *Vacation* "Son, we're going to have the best vacation any father and son have ever had. And it starts right now." Dad opened a beer and pulled out of the driveway. "Where are we going?" "Well, I'm probably going to jail, but you're going to aunt Maggie's." *Bacon* "This is bacon." Dad pointed at dog turd in the yard. "That's not bacon, Dad. It's dog poop." "Time for a PLT!" Dad went away for awhile after that. *Ruth* "You know, I think Ruth was 19 when it happened. Just came out of nowhere and BAM! Ruth was never the same. She's still doing that thing that she did after that happened." "Dad, what happened?" "That thing." "What thing." "God, I miss the old Ruth." *Voting* "You know why I don't vote, Son?" "Why's that, Dad?" "Because they are all criminals. Every last one of them." "OK, Dad." "You know, I snort coke, drink too much, then I go out and drive and I get thrown in prison for two years. But, if I just wore top hat and freed slaves I'd be president. It makes you think." "Yeah, Dad." "Do you know any slaves?" "No, Dad." "Do you have a top hat?" "No, Dad." "Well, I guess I'll just mow the lawn like I always do." *More Movies* He was sitting outside eating popcorn on our porch, wearing 3D glasses and staring at the street. "Dad, can I borrow the sander?" "Shhhh...this is a good part." He jumped and then started laughing. "What? Ticket? I threw it out." "Dad?" "Get your hands off of me!" "Dad?" "Run, son, run!" *Soda* "You know, they say soda's bad for you - but I don't mind it." Dad was sipping a Pepsi. "I think they mean it's not physically good for you." "I don't intend to get physical with this soda. Now go wash your mouth out. This is a Christian home." "It is?" "Jewish?" "I'll go wash my mouth out." "And pray to Ganesha." *Woodworking* Dad was out in his shop again. And when I say shop, I mean a clearing in the forest. "Son, I'm going to make a bat. I'm going to call it Wonder Boy." I ignored the movie reference and asked him why he was bleeding. "That's why I'm making the bat. That old tree there put up a fight." I looked and saw the bear and ran blindly back home. *Driving School* "OK. Watch it. Watch it. Alright, now slowly back in." "Am I doing OK?" "You're doing fine, son. Now easy. Easy! OK. You did it." "Can we go." "No. You need to yell it." "I don't want to, they'll hear us and come out." "Yell it!" "LAWN JOB!" *Liberty* Dad came out of the shower wearing an American flag again. "Dad, I need to use the shower." "OK, son. There's a bar of liberty and a bottle of freedom in there - use it wisely." "OK. Thanks." "Don't thank me, thank Abraham Lincoln and William Shatner." "OK, Dad." "But the conditioner is not free. That's why there's taxes!" "OK, Dad." *Guns* "Now, a gun is not a toy. A GI Joe is a toy. A doll is a toy. But a gun is not a toy. Here, point it at your head." "I don't think that's safe, Dad." "Of course it's not safe, it's a gun!" *Taxes* "Son, I want to talk to you about the IRS." I ran blindly back home.

Behind his smiling face and eyes, sadness and despair. But today was different, today was Jean Levi’s 18th birthday. Jean was an inch from 6 feet, but height never really mattered for him. He wore a black scruffy beard and is an overall scrawny person. Levi lived with his parents and his brother Sean, who looked a lot like Jean except he was much more buff and had a bald face. The parents were almost always drunk on any alcoholic beverage or high on whatever the dealer got them. Sean, took care of the family for the past 6 years, he was 21 now. They lived in a small 4 room house which included 2 bedrooms, a living room, and a bathroom. Since Jean is finally 18, both brothers are planning on moving out and leaving their “worthless parents”. The brothers were at the bar with two of their friends. Jean was only 18 but Sean knew the bartender well and he let them slide. While everyone was drinking, talking, and having a good time, suddenly everything went silent. Phones started ringing. The bartender switched the TV’s to CNN. “Breaking News : Bombs Strike New York” the bottom of the screen read. We switched the channel “Breaking News : Bombs Hit California”. Tears were bursting; people were screaming. “Holy crap.” Jean said to himself. This time they switched the TV to NBC, “Breaking news Florida has gotten nuked and chemical bombs have hit New York and California. Russia has taken all responsibility for this.”. Sean teared up, it took a lot to make him cry he usually hid his emotions. Last time he cried was when the Sandy Hook incident had happened about 8 years ago. “No, not today.” Jean said. Hospitals were getting flooded. People started getting sick. All of a sudden, strange things started happening, reports of people getting very sick. Their immune system goes into total shut down and they end up dying. But even stranger than that, there were stories coming in that those who died from the plague started to come back... from the dead. These patients were unstable, stronger, and crazier. Doctors compared it to the bath salts problem that happened in 2012 a while back. Odd cravings started appearing; meat that was all they wanted. Specialists at the CDC named this disease Red Death."We have to go back home!” demanded Sean. “Come on! What about the party?” David Sean's friend, replied “Yeah your parents will be fine.” Jason, a friend of Jean’s, added on. No one in the group had been notified of the plague yet. “No, my brother is right. They might not be the best parents but we still have to check on them” Jean said. He proceeded by walking out the doors of the bar. Everybody followed Jean into Sean’s 2015 Altima. “Why do you still drive this old thing?’ asked Jason. “I don’t know if you noticed but me and Jean aren't the wealthiest people alive.” responded Sean as he started driving. The roads were still clear aside from the 3 other cars on the road. It wasn’t a long drive home. Everyone remained silent for the seven minute ride. As they came up to the small old houses drive way Jean had noticed the front door was open. Once he got out of the car he could hear screaming coming from inside. “Oh God, Mom and Dad are fighting again.” both brothers said simultaneously. Jean told their friends to stay inside while he and his brother sort things out. The Levi brothers walked into their house. As they walked toward the screaming of their mother they saw the body of their dad on the living room floor. He laid there on the carpet with a massive wound on his shoulder. Jean rushed to his father while the other brother went to their mom “What the heck happened to you?!” “Go help your mom now” the dad replied. “Who did this?!” Jean yelled “I’m... I’m sorry Jean” said the father of the two brothers as his eyes closed shut. Jean kept his emotions under control but was furious on the inside. With the fact that he just lost his dad, he wasn’t going to lose mom too so he rushed to the bedroom where the screams were coming from and saw his brother just standing there, stiffly. “What in the world are you doing?! Stop that person now; do something!” “That ain’t no person.” Sean returned to his little brother. “What do you mean?” as Jean asked, the screaming had stopped and the undead creature had turned around, looking directly at the two siblings. The zombie was very pale, stunk badly, and already had half its face destroyed. Jean enraged,grabbed a lamp from on top of the dressing table, ran straight to the oddity and beat it mercilessly before it could even move until there was a puddle of blood on the floor. Jean broke out tears sitting next to his parents’ killer. “They’re both dead Sean. They are both dead. We were too late.”. Not knowing what to say or do Sean grabbed his laptop and started looking through his emails. He saw one from a close friend, Michael Ackerman, sent thirty minutes ago. It read : “URGENT : If your are reading this, come to Albrightsville NOW. It is safer here. We can stay here together. I attached a map from your house to the town, below if you need it. ­ Mike A.”. Something about this sent chills up his spine. “We have to go now Jean” “What are you talking about we can’t just leave!” Jean responded. “This isn’t up for discussion we are going now.”. Jean could sense his brother was being very serious which he knew meant his brothers decision is probably for the better. They packed a large luggage full of necessities for all 4 boys, ran out of the house and stuffed it in the car’s trunk. Sean took the wheel “What happened guys?” asked David “Everything alright?’ Jason questioned. Neither Jean or Sean responded. All Jean could imagine was the screams of others during the silence. They just started driving. It was about a 20 minute trip to Albrightsville, Pennsylvania. Once they arrived, the 4 boys noticed that the citizens were building a wall for some reason. The air was crisp. Michael was standing at the gate of the town with a rifle. He noticed Sean and ran to him just to give him a hug “Ayy glad to see you got the email. What going on?” Mike said excitedly “We’re not doing so well.” answered Sean with a stern look. “Oh uh that’s no good well umm, I’ll show you four to your rooms. I already reserved and tidied some up for you guys”. The siblings shared a room and unpacked their belongings. Both brothers were depressed and everyone except Jean was glad that they can remain safe in the town from whatever may have happened due to the plague from the bombs. Jean had cried himself to sleep, not knowing what may come next in his new life.

I Don't write, but I had this story playing out in my head and thought it would be fun to write down. So I stayed up until the early morning writing it out. Be brutally honest about what you think and help me do this better, because I really digged writing it He was standing on the corner near his house. He stared back at it, the white picket fence and soft yellow house with perfect symmetry was a picture. Primrose yard and garage. “How ya doin there Quinn!” called Ned, his neighbor. Quinn was caught in his moment. his house was him, staring at it made him calm. The act of gleaning however, when evaluated, was a strange thing when he saw what it was worth. Something dirty, if held too long. “Oh just fine!” Quinn hoarsely howled back. Ned put the rake down and walked over to the edge of their fence on the back corner of Quinn’s house. “I’m just taking it all in, to see what comes after this” said Quinn drifting on his words while staring again intently. “ Well it couldn’t be much! you know everyone in this area knows about your house. They all wish for something like it, I assure you that” Ned said with a boisterous chuckle and slowly walked off to his yard duties once again. Quinn liked Ned, he had moved in about a year ago and the house he owned was nothing much in the way of grandeur. A small one bedroom with peeling dark grey/blue paint and white window sills. The front door was slightly too small for its doorway and its driveway had cracks with small greenery reaching through. That's to say, if Ned's large car was not in the way. Everyday Ned would work on the house though. Fix a window or replace some outdoor lighting. Quinn respected that. “well don’t hurt yourself by staring too hard Quinn!” Ned said as he walked around the far corner of his house presumably to get the leaf blower out. Quinn examined his house once again. The garage was empty, no car. The garage door was white, but never saw the light of day. All that stood alone in the garage was Quinn's olive green folding chair with various paint stains and an ugly couch against the wall that Quinn’s mother had given him while in school. Despite its looks the comfort of that ugly orange floral patterned couch was bar none. Quinn would know, seeing as he spent most his nights there. Little did others know Quinn enjoyed his garage most of all and that he rarely went inside his house. Most knew that Quinn’s days were spent in the garage with the door open, sitting in the shade of his garage on that ugly green chair. For others to see, and Quinn to show. He would occasionally have a short visit from neighbors, they would stop by and say things like “your house is perfect” or “ you must be proud! so much hard work payed off”. They were all welcome, every single one. Quinn did this to be neighborly not to show off, but the conversation no matter how deep and long, would always come back to his house. It didn't bother Quinn much, but was far from the truth. Yes his house was nice, but this garage, this chair and the loud whirring fridge in the corner. Even the small stain from a car no longer owned. This was the true beauty. Of course, not on the surface was its allure functional. It was the spaces simplicity and true nature, It was a harbor. The weather was changing and the cold stopped Quinn from sleeping on the couch like he usually had. Quinn walked in the house as the garage door closed with the loud scraping sounds of machinery, lights flickering through the cracks of the door until fully closed. Quinn strolled through the dimly lit house to the kitchen and pulled another from the fridge while taking a seat at the bar. The solitary light of the white kitchen stood alone in his tidy little house. His small shadow drifting into the large brewing darkness. Quinn finished his beer and moved to his room on the far back side of the house. the TV fluttered as it stood alone in Quinn’s room. He drifted between his heavy sleep and the weather station, with the whistle of wind keeping him from drifting too heavily, until his weary body outweighed his thoughts. The next morning was a show. The crane had arrived at 9:00 A.M. like had been arranged and had already started by removing small pieces of the large tree. The area had been taped off by officials and workers now moving in and out. Quinn watched as large men in hard hats moved his rubble. Quinn’s neighbors also watched, but whispered while peering in awe. “Its such a shame”,” his house was the best in the neighborhood”, “I hope he has insurance” they softly clamored. Quinn’s walls were broken and gone, from his house to the garage. Everything, but his bedroom, was completely taken over by branches, bark and leaves. “your'e one lucky guy! that tree was nearly the end of you!” Ned exclaimed. Quinn stared again at the house from the corner and saw his olive green chair being pulled from the mess, he watched this moment happen remotely, “I still have my chair”.

I'm just looking for feedback on my opening chapter. I'd really appreciate it if you could read over it. Thanks. Link to chapter: Description of book: Two Behemoth warships collide in orbit. They are slowly circling an unknown planet, although unknown is a pretty common idea round here; both of the crews wake up after the crash with no memories. Are the two crews supposed to be enemies or allies? The entangled ships are due to tumble out of orbit and crash into the planets surface in barely two weeks. Two weeks to discover their pasts to save their futures. What's more these crew are part of something bigger.

"You know why I eat bran, Son?" "It keeps you regular?" "No. The methadone does that. I like bran because it tastes like war." "How's that, Dad?" "Emptiness. The emptiness of sitting in the jungle and staring at the sun, hoping your eyes fry out and you can go home. But you go home and there's nothing there, either. Like you went to war just to get a key to reality and the reality that's all around us is absolutely nothing." He started to cry. "Dad, it's OK." "Anyway, Happy Seventh Birthday. Here's a box WITH NOTHING IN IT!" **Hobbies** "Son, you need a hobby." "OK, Dad. What's a good hobby?" "I can't tell you that. What are you interested in?" "I like to draw pictures." "That is a stupid, stupid, stupid hobby. What else do you got?" I started to cry. "Crying should be your hobby." **The War Part 2** "Don't ask me about the war." Father sat gripping his beer and staring at Who's The Boss. "OK, Dad. I'm just going over to Kevin's." "You know I don't like talking about the war." "I know, Dad." "You know why?" "Because you forgot what war you were in?" "That's one reason. But the other - I can't talk about that." "OK, Dad." "OK, I'll tell you. I was bitten by an elephant. There. It's out there now." "Were you hurt?" "No. It kinda stung. But it didn't hurt. But that's not the bad part." "What's the bad part?" "It was a pink elephant." Then he threw a Scotch bottle at the TV and yelled "Tony Danza fucked your mother!" **Wedding** "Son, I'm so proud of you. You found a great lady. Treat her right." Then he handed me a dildo. **Chores** "Son, you are getting to be old enough to mow the lawn." I was 36. "Yeah, do you need it mowed." "That's right, son. I need you to fix the garage door, the toilet, and the beer situation as well." "Anything else?" "Wipe that smile off your face and do your chores." "OK, Dad." Then he threw pine cones at me while I mowed the lawn. **Kindergarten** "Son, it's your first day of school. I want you to make me proud." I nodded and got on the bus. I opened my lunch pail and there was a beer and half a burrito. **18** "I can't believe it. You're a man now. I want you to have this." It was a bag of screws again. "Thanks." He began tearing up. "Finally, I can charge you rent." Then he did an inspection on my room and handed me a bunch of coloring books that he called "a lease". **21** "Suppose you're going to go out drinking." "No, Dad. I have to study for finals." "Suppose I'll go out drinking for you." "Sure, Dad." "Suppose I'll blackout behind the wheel again." "Not my problem, Dad." "Suppose I'll raise your rent." "OK, where do you want to go, Dad?" "Suppose you're paying." "OK. Where?" "Suppose you'll just give me the money and study your finals." "How much?" "You're in college - how much does a gram of coke and a case of Schlitz cost?" "I have no idea." "Suppose I'll get the calculator." **The Doors** "Son, you ever heard of The Doors?" He was wearing a blindfold and was balancing a martini glass on his head while doing Jiu Jitsu. "Yes. They are pretty good." "You know, I know them." "The Doors?" "Yes. I was buddies with Jim." "Wow. You must have some pretty good stories." "Yep. One time we you know'd a circus seal." "I don't know." "You know." "No. I don't." "Fed it tacos and then watched Gilligan's Island. You know." "No, I never heard of that." "It was the 60s, Son. It was different times." **Grape Soda** "Why isn't grape soda considered a distinguished drink?" We were at the hospital. He hit another shuttle bus with his Datsun. "I don't know, Dad." "I bet if you just charged 50 bucks a glass, people would start drinking it with dinner." "You're probably right." "And why don't more drinks come in pails?" "I don't know." "Like 'Hey, waiter, get me a pail of martini'." "It's something to think about." "What about this - you serve food in toilets, flush it, and then make customers plunge it out in order to eat it." "Why would anyone want to do that?" "I don't know. I guess I'm just a dreamer." **Fences** "Those neighbors are building a fence." "Well, they've been complaining about all the Datsuns you have on the side of the yard." "There's only five." "They are under the impression that one is too much." "Fences don't build good neighbors and neighbors don't build good fences." "Well, I don't know what to tell you." "I'm going to build a fence...around my heart." Then he started crying. "Dad, don't be like that." "Get my nail gun!" **Bad Checks** "Call me the Michael Jackson of check writing, son." **Juice Box** "What do you got there?" "It's a juice box." "Where'd you get it?" "The fridge." "Are there more?" "Yeah." "Hmmmm...." "You want one?" "No. I just want to know what the situation is." **Snakes** "One thing I'm afraid of besides your mother and talking about the war are snakes." "I am too, Dad." "Did I just hear that snake say 'me three'?" "What snake?" "We both know there's a snake in the room." "There is?" "Robbie! Come out!" "Who's Robbie?" "The snake." "You have a pet snake?" "I do now." **Beating a Dead Horse** There he was, out in the yard. I don't know where he got the dead horse, but... **Monopoly** "That Bell Phone - that's a monopoly. They're gonna break it up. That's America: finds a problem and fixes it. Like this room of yours - it's full of toys. That's a monopoly. A toy monopoly. Like that game there that says Monopoly. That's a monopoly. No competition. Toys take over the room. Make their own rules. Let the fat cat toys reign in blood. Blood. All over the room. All over the toys. Anyway, love you, goodnight." **Ringo** "Guess who my favorite Beatle is?" "Ringo." "Good guess." **Playing My Records** "I don't want you and your friends playing around the den when I'm playing my records. Kapish?" "OK, Dad." "It's when I like to think." "OK, Dad." "It's when I unwind." "OK, Dad." He turned and put a record on. Then he stared at me. I walked out of the room. Then he turned the record back off. "GET IN HERE!" I ran into the den. He started the record again. This went on all night. **Cat's Cradle** "The cat's in the cradle with some silver poon, Dad just drank himself right over the moon, when I'm coming back, I don't know when, but we'll get loaded on crack and hookers again, son, we're gonna have a good time then." "Dad. It's midnight and I'm not supposed to use the Dorm phone unless it's an emergency." "We're gonna have a good time then!" **Rap Battle** "Dimmie limmie jimmie jay" "What?" "Witchy what what?" "Dad, you OK?" "Kee kay ay day" "You want me to call a cab?" "Labby rab dab." "A cab." "Labby dab rab." "Dad, your pants are wet." "Witty wet wab." "I'm gonna call a cab." "Jabby wab dab." "Do you have a credit card?" "Frrrrrrrrrresshhhhhhhh." "We're at the mall." "Fresh for 89 ya'll.

I hear the insects chirping outside... Morning here is always enjoyable, beautiful even, yet it's never gets easier to wake up this early. Her hair was in my face all night, but it wasn't bothersome. It smelt like flowers, or a Sunday drive with the windows down - brisk, clean, refreshing. My arm had gone slightly numb from resting it under her neck. I swear... Normally, it seems that she has hollow bones. Her frame so delicate, like a bird, but her feathers are nowhere to be found. She can still fly circles around me, though. Today it's cold and I try not to wake her with my movement. She needs her sleep. She works hard and needs to stay focused when awake. My gear is tossed in the corner of her room, per usual. Quiet and clumsy, I get my running shoes and backpack. My wristwatch glows 6:16 a.m. We will reunite by the evening. I open the door, but not before gently kissing her forehead. She mutters something. I'm not quite sure what she said. I respond, "See you soon, beautiful.

Grey fields Using man for war has the same effect on him as using a tool for the wrong purpose. It wears it down until the blade is dull, until the cog is scratched, and until the handle is bent. Man was not made for war. Seconds pound me the same as years on old bones. I grind my conscious in search for a stimulant. I am no longer human. I crack and shudder in synch with the shots. The rhythm of cracks and lurches dictates the number of deaths. The amount of hate. The cold feel of refined death sits calmly in the absence of warmth in my hands. My clothes hold the memories of past graveyards and their occupants. The grime of this forsaken earth, from the inferno, has become my skin. My fellow men suffer with me here. It is here they have come with hope, it is here they will die with none. The shriek of the whistle sounds out in the dark of night, and the dust of smoke. I see with the light of explosions, and into the fray I go. The whistle ran into my ears to claw at what sanity remained. With my teeth clenched my hands drew my rifle and my comrades did the same. I clawed my way up the latter, and into the land of death. The flashes and trembles of explosions made my head swim. It was like a thousand lions roaring in the smoke. The flashes of bombs in the black sky flickered like lamplights failing to stay lit. I had grown accustomed to the dark. You cannot see the death around you. You can’t feel the grief. But, in the flashes of men’s tools of death, I could see the faces of my comrades in the dark. They were grim, and had the look of dull machinery. The grey fatigues were tattered like old rags. Fingernails were black and broken. Teeth were like old yellow corks. The flesh no longer hid human souls. I ran up my latter like a cat scampering up a tree from dogs. The land now in front of me was no longer my fatherland. It was no one’s. The grey land was scattered through and through with flickering fire and empty bodies. Barbed wire rendered much of the land impassable with their bloody hooks. It was like an endless caterpillar slowly treading through the field of battle. Stagnant liquids, mixed with the blood of man, and the grease and dirt of battle, filled craters and trenches. It was a bleak and dark landscape where nothing was allowed to live. Dead trees protruded from the earth like broken fingers clawing their way to the surface. I viewed the darkened earth for only a moment when I was shoved to the ground. “Any and all cowards who retreat will be shot! There is no retreat. For the honor of our Kaiser and fatherland!” The voice of the unseen man was strong and sure. From the mud I had an eye of the loud man. He was broad, and had eyes flickering with the fires of Hell itself. His face was made fierce with a large greased mustache, and his pickle-hob gave him the height of a great horse. From straight knees he took hold of my dirty fatigues and hoisted me up with such fierceness that I almost cowered from his hand. “You’re to not stop until you kill your enemy, or your body lays dead. Move now, you’re holding up your latter!” I was again thrown to the dirt. Around me men were running in complete silence. The bombing had stopped and the silence screamed into my ears. The squish of mud, and the clod of running feet filled the air. I was with men I had never met, or cared to know, but as I ran I felt close to them. I would kill for these men, and I would have family treated to the same degree as the beating hearts of my comrades. We all moved together as one entity. We were a grey cloud ready to unleash a hail of unforgiving judgment on our foes. When my head hit the dirt, many others had the same misfortune. Lead and shrapnel cracked above my head like a thousand whips on cattle. The night sky glared down with sickening laughter, and I feared that a single move could end my life. The eruption of gunpowder stung my face and violently threw dirt and blood into the air. I was taking shelter in a crater no deeper than a balled fist. Cannons began to rumble in the distance. Their shells screeching their cry of destruction before impact. I was caked by mud from explosions and bullets kicking up dirt; missing their target. I could see, out of the slits of my eyes, the monster that was bellowing fire and hissing smoke. The gift for our efforts was a hill. The home of the beast. It grinded and clanked. It roared and screeched. It thirsted for blood and was never satisfied. Yells and whimpers for help scuttled throughout the battlefield. Gnawing at my tattered thoughts. I raised my head in hope for an answer for what I was to do. Eventually, the beast diverted its fire elsewhere, to allow for a chance of slip. I scampered to my sore feet and began to aimlessly jog. It was deathly quiet, but the sound of war still rang on in my head. With my rifle in hand, I searched the graveyard for a living soul. The earlier cries of men taking cover had begun to drop in number until no orders or yells were heard. No noise except for dying sobs. I had unexpectedly felt a piercing into my right side after the first few paces of my wandering. I was shot. The injury wasn’t a mortal wound, but merely a tear of my flesh. The bullet barely missed my rib, and thankfully only skinned me. I tore a shred off my dirty and ragged pants, and wrapped it around my wound with a terrible barb of pain. Whatever was watching over me didn’t want me to die just yet. The land was as red as my flowing wound, and as painful to look at. It was filled with my dead kinsmen. Their mangled corpses are at peace with death now. Their eyes were empty. No soul. My face streamed with grief. I would kill the damned beast that had murdered these men. My throat cracked and bled. My stomach pleaded for substance. I carried on my search with doubt of ever finding solace. The moon rose up to illuminate my obscure path through piles of dead men. It frowned sadly upon the dead as if they were his sons. The mutilation of corpses marked the end of morality as humans understand it. The burnt and charred flesh would scar the relations of the generations to come. What a miserable thought. The walls of my grievances were broken by a cry of pain. My head was spun on a swivel. The smoke and smell of the deceased stung my eyes and gripped my insides with fear. Who was it? There wasn’t a living soul in my view. The cry came again, and I felt like I would collapse. A rustle of dirt caught my eye. I hurriedly approached the movement with curiosity. Under a body, no longer in company with a head, a leg twitched. I heaved the, lucky, dead man off the lone survivor. And here he was, the source of the cries, now scathed by the claw of war. Bullets had found themselves in his chest, no doubt now in his lung, and one in his lower thigh. His face was as pale as the moonlight, and the gates to his soul were fleeting and forlorn. His age had not yet reached twenty, no older than I. His dirty and greasy blonde hair was matted. His face, sad and cloudy. He lay there panting, and crying away his pain. “No, no please… I don’t want to… please no…” Gurgled the dying boy through his blood. “Mama, mama, don’t let me…. Die… oh mama.” The fading youth began to sob out loud. His tears mixed with the blood from his mouth. I pressed my hands against his soaked chest and silently screamed at myself to say something. His face was a mask of sweat and tears. My attempt to help was replied to with a scream and a frightening jolt from his stomach. “No, I need to… I have to… mama I don’t want to…” The young boy coughed, clawed at his wounds, and died under my watch. I felt empty. Lonely and lost. I beheld my hands, now covered with the young man’s blood. I didn’t want this. I trudged on with a weary heart. The sound of artillery rang out louder the more the dead amounted. The hill, the home of the beast, grew nearer. It was a large black shadow in the ever looming distance. I spotted a nearby trench line. It was dark and quiet. I held my rifle close. I attached my bayonet. How low would we fall to kill a man? The thought itched at me as I climbed down into enemy territory. The trench was dark and muddy. It reeked of urine and human odor. My heart was pounding in my ears. This place was a welcome mat to death’s gates. The flow of blood through my aching body was sounding out like a waterfall. My feet made the sound of a lizard slithering through the mud. My thoughts soon wandered off, and with it took my track of time and awareness. I was too far away to hear voices of men who had the same orders as I. Men who wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Kashaaa- The noise of a bullet shot above my head like a viper. My rifle dropped from my loose grip as I immediately buckled to the ground. “François ou Deutsch?” The owner of the shot yelled cautiously. My mouth was trembling, my heart was on fire, my hair was on edge, and breathes were shallow. “Se lever ici!” yelled my assailant. Not knowing how to get out of this predicament, I lunged for my rifle and crouched. Another bullet rang out. It had come from above me, I was in a trench just below the hill, and whoever was shooting at me would have a straight shot at me if I stood. The hill above me cast an ominous shadow overlooking my position. It rendered much of the trench impassable by human eye. “révI éler votre personne!” Urged the man. I could hear his feet skid down the rocky slope. Quickly, I ducked into the blanket of shadow hovering over my trench. The man soon revealed himself, standing above the trench. He wore a red officer cap, and a blue trench coat. He was very young. A dirty stubble covered his face. His eyes were downcast with large black rings showing the effect of sleep deprivation. I was to his left, hiding in the cover of darkness. Quietly waiting for an opportunity to run. The young man regarded his surroundings, and then grumbled something to himself before dropping himself into the trench with his back to me. I was sure that the pound of cannons in the distance masked any noise I made, but the young soldier swiveled around to face me after a moment of him standing frozen still. With a mix of curiosity, and something that seemed to be fear, he brandished his rifle with bayonet sharpened. He hadn’t noticed me as he advanced, and when my instincts took hold of my body, he was no farther than a whisper away. My bayonet was thrust in the young man’s direction. His rifle parried my clumsy lunge, and was brought up and into my stomach, making me buckle. It was then hit over my back with a crunch. I was flat on the ground in a daze. My back felt like a brick had been lodged in it. My stomach was twisted, and I clutched it attempting to find physical relief. During my struggle for air, I groped and threw-up what little substance I had left in my stomach. All the army had to at were dry biscuits, all of the soldiers hated eating them. After being forced to consume them for months at a time, on rare occasions a few of the soldiers would resort to eating their own fingers. These men were then sent away to a field hospital or away from the war to be treated. I had the displeasure of remembering the taste, and it didn’t make things any better. The young, tired, man was panting, hunched over. He had his left hand on his knee, and his right hand holding his rifle which was planted by the stock on the ground. His eyes were fixed on mine with a tired look which whispered his hate for war. Why were we doing this? If I had met this man outside of this damned war I might have been his friend. This would never happen though. We were in a war and we were destined to be on the contradictory sides. With a swift movement of my right arm, I took his ankle in my grasp. He attempted to retreat his foot but I wasn’t going to relinquish my grip. He was grounded, with a jerk from my arm, and a loud snap was emitted from his neck. His head had hit a support plank on the dirt wall of the trench. He lay there unmoving and silent except for a gurgling noise in his throat. His eyes were still open, and the fluttered open and shut with a shocked expression. Tears obscured my vision, and I let new found exhaustion overcome me with a tidal wave of grief in due reinforcement. **** I woke to shallow thoughts and footsteps. The pain in my stomach and back intensified as I slowly recovered from my assault. I accumulated my memories to form a correct timeline of events since the charge. The memories of the young soldier’s death flooded my vision, and I felt empty. I had killed a man who was more than a soldier. He was a man, and he was placed on this Earth with a meaning and a purpose. I took his life without permission and sent it straight to the abyss. One of his vacant eyes was open, and staring into the, still, dark and smoky sky. Dead. The footsteps I had so easily forgotten now shook me from my silent grief. Voices accompanied the march, and they were drawing ever closer. The footsteps were in synch, and the sound of marching rumbled with the beat of my heart. My fear and curiosity were at war, and in the midst of my confusion, curiosity gained the upper hand. I grappled my hands on the walls of the trench and hoisted my head above the trench. A column of men stretching longer than I could see marched on with grim ambience. Many of them wore battered metal helmets with green fatigues while others were dressed like the man I had murdered. Red caps and blue coats. Some bore large mustaches while few were clean shaven and well rested. Even more were bruised and battered. Soaked with mud and blood. Grizzly beards and rough faces. My first plan of action was to sit quietly until I could make an escape, but was soon overcome with doubtful feeling. If I were to attempt to hide, I would found out and potentially killed. If I were to run, I would have no chance of eluding the eyes of the beast. Fear and anxiety broke down my already tired walls, and drove me to anger. Why in hell was I called to fight in this damned war? Who were the men, the great leaders of these countries, to force struggling souls of an already dark world to kill and harm one another on unspeakable levels of cruelty? I fear the future as it should be feared by all good men who are imprisoned on this grey world filled with vile men who want only to cause pain to others for capital and pride. Countries are unions of hate and reckless thoughts against an opposing way of life. We are all told lies. Even the ones who create them. Lies of freedom told to free men.

付与されたアクセス The sides of Hayato's mouth flickered upward with the hint of a smile as the message was displayed on the screen. "Access Granted", that was the English translation. Hayato was proud of his English. Knowing it and Japanese together gave one the means by which to achieve so much more these days. The light from his computer screen reflected onto his window, little digital ghosts shimmering on the glass. The window was frosted with hundreds of raindrops slowly sliding down it, each one refracting the neon lights outside like a tiny prism. His apartment was on the eighth floor of one of the new generation of skyscrapers. It was relatively expensive, but not lavishly so. His job as a systems network administrator working for Nihon Corporation paid him well. From his office window he had a view out over Tokyo Bay, dotted with the glass and metal structures of the new artificial islands. But the young Japanese man wasn't looking out into the city's nighttime sky. He was in his computer, in the code. He was "in the Mesh" as the other hackers called it. A small ring in the middle of the implant on his right temple was glowing soft blue LED light. He was inside the system. His fingers still flew over the holographic keys, and his eyes still saw what was on the screen, but the rest of his mind was somewhere else, somewhere deeper. He was experiencing cyberspace from the inside, his mind detecting the snippets of code and his nerves feeling the soft vibrations and the low hum of running programs. It was a strange concept to the uninitiated, but he was used to it. He was one with the machine, and that was his advantage. Gigabytes of data flowed into his system like a river. He could sense it rushing through his connection, a surge of electronic information that was like a rush of adrenaline through his virtual nervous system. All was going as he had planned. He loved the feeling after a successful hack, especially with his cybernetic neural interface actually letting him experience the pulse of the data as it flowed through him like a bloodstream. He slowly closed his eyes and relaxed. 侵入検出された Hayato's eyes snapped open as the new message popped up on his screen. "Intrusion Detected." The data stream had suddenly ceased and the last few packets had dropped from the connection. His pulse quickened as he felt a probe slicing its way into his system in response. His fingers flew into action, the keys of his computer flashing like blue fireflies in the night. "Oh shit," he whispered angrily. He could feel a loud vibration now. It was like a reciprocating saw spinning through his security codes. It was Nihon Corporation's auto-response server sending a probe to try to trace his system. The vibrations intensified; the probe was breaking through quickly. It would be inside in seconds. He pulled out of his data stream connection and activated his second firewall in an attempt to stop its progress. He threw up a screen of code and the whirring sound was muffled like it was coming from behind a thick wall. He then stopped all of his running network programs to keep the server's ping attempts from tracking him. Then the probe broke through. It sounded like a motorcycle's engine was being revved inside his head. This wasn't a normal probe. Hayato released his IP address, reached up to his temple, and pressed the small button to disconnect his neural link. Once his connection was completely severed he realized he was sweating and shivering. His head was pounding from the pull-out. It wasn't safe to disconnect like that without separating your mind from the Mesh. Not good for your head. Hayato got up from his desk and poured himself a glass of water. "MedBay, I need some painkillers," he said to the small metal machine on his counter. It emitted a ping, followed by a quiet whirring as it dispensed two small blue pills. Hayato picked them up and swallowed them with the water. Realizing that he was thirsty, he drained the rest of the glass. And then he heard it: a buzzing sound from outside his window, like some predatory insect looking for prey. It started off quietly but its volume increased just as fast as the probe. Hayato dropped to the floor as quickly as he could. A second later, a blue plane of light flickered up and then down the walls of his apartment. He was hidden by the counter. The drone stayed in place for a few more seconds before slowly flying away. The vibrations diminished and then vanished entirely. Hayato swore under his breath. It seemed Nihon Corporation's response systems were better than he thought. They must have run a shadow tracer on his data stream while he was busy dealing with the probe. That meant that they knew his computer's location but didn't have access to his files or hardware. He leaned around the counter and looked out out of the window facing the street. Sure enough, two police cars were rolling towards the building, their blue and red lights flashing and their sirens wailing. Hayato grabbed his backpack from beside his desk and tossed his laptop inside. He picked his wallet up and put it in his pocket, followed by a small EMP emitter from his drawer. He was going to make a run for it. Swinging his backpack over his shoulders, Hayato left his room and headed towards the stairwell. The police would probably shut off the elevator tubes when they came inside, and he didn't want to end up trapped in one. He could hear his neighbor Mrs. Ozawa arguing loudly with someone on her holophone as he walked down the hallway. Compared to the state of the art design scheme of the rest of the building the stairwell looked like something from the 20th century. The steps were bare concrete and the guardrails were painted over with fading green paint. His footsteps echoed loudly as he made his way down as fast as possible. He was almost panting by the time he reached the lobby level, and Hayato made a mental note to exercise more if he got out of this. He pulled the small metal cylinder out of his pocket and pressed the button on the top right as he opened the door. It vibrated slightly and splashed a small radius electromagnetic pulse through the lobby. That would throw the security cameras off for a while, hopefully giving him time to escape. There were other obstacles though. He could see four police with their signature flared helmets and gray uniforms with segmented Kevlar material clearly visible underneath. One was walking towards the front desk, another was moving to shut off the elevators, and two more were standing guard outside the doors. That was going to be a problem. He was sure the police knew the name of who they were looking for and had a description but he doubted that they had a picture of him yet. The drone hadn't seen him, and he had hacked and removed most of his information from both the corporate and police databases a while back, so he decided it was worth the risk. There were about ten people in the lobby and most of them were on their way in or out of the doorways. Hayato nonchalantly walked parallel to the exit while looking down at his phone. Glancing up, he saw his chance. A young attractive girl about his own age had stepped out of the elevator tube right before the policeman had shut them off. She was carrying two large bags and was having some difficulty with them. Luckily, Hayato remembered her name from having met her at a party he had gone to a couple weeks before. "Oh, hey Mizu!" he smiled and walked over to her while gesturing towards her bags, "Need some help?" "Yeah, sure. Thanks," she smiled back at him as he picked up one of the bags containing a bunch of soda. Hayato silently thanked whatever divine power was watching over him that she had not said his name within earshot of the policemen. As an afterthought, he decided that she probably didn't even remember it. "I wonder what's going on here," she looked around at the police. "I don't know. Probably just a drug bust or something," he shrugged and responded. They walked out of the exit towards her car. The police ignored them as Hayato had hoped. They were looking for a single person and expecting him not to have left. With a hiss the trunk of Mizu's car slid open and he tossed the bags inside. "Thanks a lot, I appreciate it," she said as her car door slid open, "Hayato, right?" Hayato's heart started pounding. It would seem that she had remembered him after all. "Uh, no," he replied nervously, "my name's Niito." She narrowed her eyes and continued, "I was almost sure... I remember you told me your name was Hayato. Yes, you did! Hayato Matsuda, that was it." "I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," he turned around awkwardly and started walking away. But it was too late. One of the officers outside had heard her say Hayato's name. Now he and his partner were walking towards him as he tried to leave. Hayato turned left off of the sidewalk and into an alley, trying to ignore the two men behind him. "Hey you! Stop right there!" the patrolman called out. Hayato broke into a run. A second later two more sets of heavy footfalls joined his own on the wet pavement. He heard two clicks as a pair of stun-blades were produced from their scabbards. His feet pounded and his legs pumped as he ran into the city, but he could hear the two policemen getting closer. He took a sharp turn onto a small, empty walkway over the water. "Stop or I will shoot!" he heard from behind him. Hayato slowed down and then turned around to face them, his hands held up to show that he was unarmed. Both officers had their masks down now and their faces were obscured. One had drawn his pistol and was aiming it at Hayato who remained as still as he could. The other had a stun-blade in his hand and was advancing forward, obviously intending to use it. Hayato could hear its soft electric hum and he shivered in fear. It seemed his escape was over. "You are under arrest," the closest policeman said gruffly. Just then there was a sound of rubber screeching on asphalt as a black van spun to a stop on the other side of the walkway. Hayato turned his head to the side to see it. Its logo showed that it belonged to the Special Assault Force, the Japanese SWAT. Hayato thought it strange not only that this much backup was necessary to pursue one unarmed runner, but that the vehicle had pulled up without a siren either. The double doors on the back were thrown open and four masked men armed with suppressed assault weapons and wearing black military body armor leapt out. Neither of the policemen had time to say anything before they were struck by a hail of bullets. Hayato ducked down and covered his head in panic. The officer who had been holding a pistol was hit twice in the face. His head snapped back as a dark puff of blood and shards of carbon fiber flew forward. A staccato burst of suppressed gunfire riddled the second man's body with a stitch-work of bloody holes. He was thrown backwards and skidded on the wet concrete once before he slid to a stop and lay bleeding profusely. Hayato tried to move and cry out but he was frozen in shock. He saw two of the masked men silently run forward and push the bodies down into swirling gray waters of Tokyo Bay, droplets of red blood spinning down int the air among the rain. Then he was grabbed from behind and roughly pulled into the van. The other two soldiers ran back across the walkway and jumped into the open doors of the vehicle just as it started to move. The doors were pulled shut and the siren came on. They sped out onto the street and Hayato looked around at the armed men from his position on the floor of the vehicle. They wore no insignia and had nothing that identified them in any way. "We have retrieved the HVT and are heading back for exfil, over," one of them said into his headset in English. He spoke with an accent that could have been Russian, but Hayato wasn't sure. He did not understand what was meant by the strange terminology but he assumed they were talking about him. He tried to say something to them, to ask them who they were and what they were doing, but his mouth could not form the words. The same man glanced down at him struggling to speak, and then turned to one of the others. "Sedate him," he ordered. The soldier to Hayato's left pulled a small syringe and planted it against Hayato's arm. He felt a small sting and then a feeling of relief and exhaustion flowed over him. He suddenly realized how tired he was and forgot about the armed men who had killed the policemen and Nihon Corporation and all of today's insanity. Hayato felt his eyes close of their own accord and lost consciousness.

It was Friday evening in the small town of McKenzie. The streets were tranquil and softly glowing with the luminescent light from the dubious lamp posts. On this particular evening there was a harsh chill in the air masked by a layer of thick fog, that felt almost haunting. I was walking home from a satisfyingly difficult day at work and I noticed myself walking faster than usual. Perhaps it was the sinister scenery or the cold air that motivated my quicker pace, regardless I felt anxious to get home. While I’m not typically one to get scared of darkness and tranquility I couldn’t help but feel the presence of another human being watching me, starring. I casually looked around, followed by a full body three-sixty. I couldn’t make anything out through the heavy fog but I still didn’t feel at ease. Moments later I hear harsh steps tapping their way towards me. For the first time in a long while I felt scared, almost terrified. With no conscious thought process I simply ran. I couldn’t be certain but I strangely felt as if the steps were following me, getting closer. I tried stepping up the pace. Sprinting with my briefcase in hand, as it vigorously sways back and forth. I kept hearing a loud echo through the streets, but I couldn’t quite make it out. It was a strong voice, very manly. I was reaching my limit, I couldn’t keep running at this pace, and I slowed down to listen whether the presence was still following me. I couldn’t hear anything, so I stopped running and came to a standstill as I gasped for the cold air. Shortly after I heard a clear and crisp voice shouting “Tim! Wait up!”. As the figure approached through the fog and darkness I quickly realised I had been running for my life because of Alan from accounting. In a completely out of breath voice Alan announced “You… You forgot your keys”. I looked at him and smiled. “Thanks Alan”.

The heat of the day barreled down on the less, their brows furrowed with sweat and their skin red. Shun always found comfort in their labor, the single constant thing in the short life he’s known. Well, short by technicality. He felt as if he’d lived 5 lifetimes already, the memory chips could do that to you. His had been passed down from his mother, and her mother before that. Shun wondered at the memories locked away in his brain, not for the first time. Why hadn’t it been his father to make the sacrifice instead of his mother? He always struggled with the issue, memories of generations of women locked away in his brain so nothing surprised him anymore. Sure he was always interested, but feeling how it felt for a woman compared to what he felt, his sexual experiences were seemingly lackluster. The less though, they always cleared his head. What a life they must lead, a life they knew was their own with no other thoughts or feelings to confuse them. They worked, and they built, and they toiled. Working with one’s own hands always seemed like it would be fulfilling, knowing your creations and accomplishments were your own. They had it easy. He turned back to his company, a tender young thing. Scrawny although he knew she ate well, her pale skin in contrast to his light brown. He believed her name was Devi, though you never could tell the pronunciation in a name of the less. “Now, from the beginning, what exactly is it my father wishes of me?” Devi stared at the floor as she spoke, “Suh, he would like them new clothes put on ye, and meet the Suh Ligue at Centah Prominance.” Shun sighed, and not entirely from his disdain of the Ligue family. “How long have you been with us now?” “Li’le ove a year Suh.” “And in all this time, you haven’t lost that atrocious speech impediment?” She paused for a brief moment before responding. “S’not an impediment Suh, me papa used ta say it’s called a accent.” “I know what it’s called young less, what I don’t know is why you refuse to learn proper English. It’s been the international language for 136 years now.” “Sorry Suh, I’ll… I’ll do my best.” If it was at all possible her head bowed lower to the floor than it already had been. Shun sighed again, this time out of guilt. “I wasn’t reproaching you; I’ve simply been on edge ever since father announced my engagement to Sayuri. The woman is gorgeous but I’ll be damned if she isn’t the most annoying twat in all of Derio. Do they marry, in the less?” Devi looked taken aback, as if what he asked were something outrageous. She never moved or flinched, but he could always tell in her posture. “Suh, we marry just like the Uppers. Only difference I see between us is them chips.” He contemplated this new information, and decided to just let it go. “That will be all, unless father gave you anything else for me.” She began to shuffle backwards. “No Suh, I’m to wait for you to be ready and accompany you to Central.” With that, she exited the room. Why would father have her accompany him? Shun walked away from the window towards his king sized bed, freshly made by Devi herself and picked up the suit his father had bought him. It was an elaborate thing, bordering on gaudy the way he saw it; a white satin button down with lace at the wrists and a red velvet vest with black swans dancing in two stripes from shoulder to hip. The jacket itself was a prime example of everything wrong with this generation’s fashion, a black as dead as night with red velvet stars sprinkled on every inch of surface. He quickly stuffed himself into the clothing and moved to the sink to wash his face. Looking in the mirror he noticed how disheveled his hair had become. Father would want to order him a haircut, but at least with this he had full control over. After all it was his hair. He gave it a quick comb and headed for the authentic mahogany double doors that lead to the main hall, that’s when he heard the bone numbing scream.

It's that time again. It's 6:45 pm on a Tuesday evening. Late September. The most beautiful of the months. It's fascinating how the death of leaves, slowly being discolored then dwindling helplessly onto the fine edges of the branches, could be such a remarkable view. Every leaf is unique in its own manner, just as every human being is. I approach the two-story brick building from the street in front of it where I parked my car. Although this building has two-stories, it comes no more than 9 feet above the sidewalk. The entrance was followed by a set of seven steps declining to the basement door, the main entrance. The third step from the top has a crack just off to the right of the center, parting the step into two uneven slabs of concrete. I counted them when I came down the stairs for the first time, the second time, and every time following that. I proceed down the hall about fifteen feet and enter the door on my left. There, a room with twelve chairs are placed, facing inwards to form a circle. The walls were all white, with only two windows, which didn't allow much sunlight to come in, especially due to the time the sun disappears for the day here in Maryland. When I enter the circle, a wave of tension crashes over me. I know nobody in the room personally, only from seeing them in their same spots in this circle previously. "Good evening," peeps a woman's voice, "and welcome to our Tuesday night meeting! All familiar faces I see. Thomas, Andrew, Jared. But, I would like to start off with a name that has yet to truly open up to us." Shit. That's me. Right? No. We haven't heard from Derrick yet. Please Derrick. Stand up for me. "Gregory, would you like to start off our gathering this evening?" No. I come here to feel like I have something in common with everyone else. I do now. That's it. Goodbye. But I can't just walk away... Against every willing muscle, I rise. "Hello, everybody..." I said as relaxed as possible, but still nowhere near the definition of "relaxed". "Good evening, Greg," says the room, as well as the woman in the burgundy cardigan, sitting with ideal posture in the chair three seats to my right out of twelve chairs. That cardigan draped just past her hips when she stood, but halfway down the legs of the chair when she sat. A peaceful woman, only in her late 20's, continues with, "would you like to start by letting everyone know your name?" Maybe it isn't burgundy. Possibly a maroon. It's dark enough to remind me of autumn and the colors of the oak leaves that fell in my front lawn, but not too dark. Most of the leaves weren't quite as deep of a red as she wore. I'm getting very off topic here. "Gregory." I finally respond after a mere two seconds of a pause between her question and my answer. But a pause that ling in a room this quiet and empty feels like you could watch Titanic once or twice. I don't like the name Gregory, but that was the first thing to explode from my mouth since entering the circles of chairs on the open room I sat in. I spoke curtly, but nervously, as if embarassed to answer incorrectly. "My name", gulp, "is Greg Timsworth," I added to my too short of an answer, saying Greg so people don't assume I prefer "Gregory". Another pause followed my extended response before the woman spoke her couple of sentences. "Well, it's great to see you here tonight, Greg. Would you like to tell us why you're here?" she asked me enthusiastically and with a caring tone. She was soft-spoken, but it was as if she were in the wrong meeting. Of course she knew. How didn't she? Everybody in this room was here for one reason. Weakly and defeated, I opened up. Finally. I can speak of myself. What dilemma I had to overcome every day of my life. Every aspect of living was different than everyone else except for the ten others in this room that underwent the same treatments as I have. All of the doctors and hospitals and medication and tests and surgeries. I have been attending this meeting for 7 sessions, just sitting idly, listening and observing all other answers that other deform-ees gave the woman in the cardigan. They knew my name because of the nametag I wore. Everything else about me was only assumed. I was nobody. Now I'm somebody. I'm Greg Timsworth, owner of a 1991 Ford Probe that runs not as well as I had originally hoped it would've when I bought it for $3,000 on craigslist. I'm the guy that owns a home with a cat that just gave birth to a litter of 4 other kittens. I am Greg Timsworth, and now I am a somebody. I looked the woman with the cardigan in her eyes. Only her. Only her soft brown eyes to match her soft, long brown hair. I stood. With my heart beating faster, I can almost feel the release of all of my pented up emotions. Everything from work, from school, from life as a while. Finally. I scream, louder than ever before, almost in tears. "I am Greg Timsworth, and I have no penis!" "This is Alcoholics Anonymous...

“What in the 7th Level is going on?” Shun ran down the hall in the direction of the scream. He wasn’t much use in a fight, but perhaps his presence alone would be enough to send any would be robber away. Who wasn’t afraid of the son of a Council Head? He made it to the foyer and saw what had caused the scream. He sighed and picked up the mouse that had wandered too far into his home. “Lorelei, if you cause a commotion like that over a little mouse again I’ll see you sent to the kitchens. Is that understood?” “Yes sir… I’m sorry Sir, it won’t happen again; it just scared me is all, ran right up and started nibbling at me socks.” Lorelei was a pretty little thing, she’d come on staff just recently but he’d never seen a less pick up the intricacies of a household quite as fast as she did. She was fair of skin like Devi, except not as pale. She was a little fuller of body as well although not by much. Shun was beginning to wonder if all the women from the less were scrawny. The next thing he knew he was laying on his back in the foyer with fire spreading around him. The glass from the stained windows had shattered outward; he could see the center table was torn to bits and a tingling on his arm. Lorelei was nowhere to be seen. He tried lifting up his right arm, the arm he’d handled the mouse in and couldn’t. He tried to sit up and barely lifted his head before he saw Devi crouched over him, wiping away the blood on his face. “S’good you tossed that mouse when I yelled or you woulda lost ye arm.” He closed his eyes and laid his head back to the ground only for her to scoop him up as if he were a babe. She walked out of the main door with him and quickly ran down the stone walkway to the right of the main road leading to his estate. There she laid him down in a thicket and took up a careful watch of the area. “But… Devi, what happened? Last I can recall I’d picked up the mouse Lorelei was… Lorelei, where is she?” “Prolly halfway to Nine Moons Pub by now, good riddance to the Jìnǚ.” “Nine Moons… Devi what are you on about? We have to make sure she’s alright. Father will be cross if his favorite servant were dead. Where are you taking me? The hospital is too far to carry me, take the mobile.” Devi looked annoyed, it was the first time he’d seen her with any real emotion on her face. Well, it was the first time he’d seen her face. She was beautiful, her eyes a light shade of amber shining as if the light were on them and a light blue eye shadow. Her lips pressed together hard into a thin line but the color enthralled him, a vibrant blue. Her hands were soft against his skin. “Listen papa’s boy, ye not goin’ to no doc, and ye not goin’ near ye dad. Lorelei was hired by ye pap to kill ye. It’s the why of it I don’t yet know. You’ll be fine, just weak from the blast and a little shock. The mouse was the new bio-bomb ye papa ordered made. Basically out of this whole damned city, I’m the only one wants ye alive. So here’s what ye gonna do, ye gonna shut ye mouth until we get where we goin’, and ye gonna thank me when we get there.” Shun paled, he’d known his father was working on something for inter-city warfare but not like this. Although it didn’t surprise him his father wanted him dead. Ever since mother made the sacrifice instead of just getting him a new chip he’d done nothing but either avoid him or show his disdain. He decided he may indeed just be better off going with her. “Alright Devi, I trust your judgment but I will require a proper explanation for when we get, wherever we’re heading.” “Fair enough I guess, can ye walk yet?” “I think I can, is it far? I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to; this is my first explosion after all.” She giggled a bit before helping him up. “S’not too far, only a couple blocks into the less’ quarter. Lucky for me ye live close by or we may have been in trouble.” As they headed through bushes and back alleys a thought occurred to him, one he wasn’t able to recognize until after the initial shock was over.

It was 40 minutes till she approached me at the bar. I couldn't help but notice her horribly seductive voice. It sounded like two butterflies making love down in a valley. When she looked at me I could just tell. It was that kind of look that just screamed danger. She was an ice cold dame. The kind of dame that could take two friends, and have them at each throats within minutes. She was all bad news. She asked me what I was drinking and I looked into the window panes of her sky blue eyes and said two words... "Coffee" and "Black" It was the kind of black tar that your dad drinks. I knew I couldn't have anything to do with this doll. I just didn't have time. Men like us never have time. Men like us have a job to do and that's all. Too many times I've been broken by these situations. They always end the same way... pain. After I told her what I was drinking, she pulls out a cigarette and asks me "Gotta a light handsome?" Without thinking and still keeping eye contact, I pull out a match. I strike it on the bar counter and she leans in. Then, the bell on the outside door rings. When it rang I knew it'd be the last beautiful sound I'd ever hear. Like the sound of music at your mother's funeral. Without taking my eyes off my drink, I reach for my 38. It's not the biggest gun, but it'll get the job done. The two guys that walked into the bar... those sons of bitches... Wanted for child rape and armed robbery, these two were the epitome of Chicago's scum. I knew they'd be here. They always come here. The cold hearted broad knew what was about to go down. She takes one last huff from the Menthol and releases it from her grasp. In an instant I pull Marie from her holster, I knew this was risky but dammit I've got a job to do. Bullets fly, and people die. The two men, armed to the teeth with Mac 10s, see me before I can get a shot off. They fire. Bullets rain down and the walls are painted with the blood of the innocent. Blood more red than a Ferrari driven by the 1%. Shooting over the bar counter, I get hit in the shoulder. I didn't feel the pain. How could I? A bullet isn't real pain. I know true pain. The things I've seen and done would make the bravest man's skin crawl. With two in the chamber I know that these have to count. Then the bullets stop. It hits me, they're reloading. This is my only chance. I was outmanned and outgunned. I stand up over the bar counter, aim, and pull the trigger. The blood in my eyes made it difficult to see, but I had to land the shot dammit. It was my only chance. Her only chance. The only chance.

6.30am. “It could be worse”, he muttered under frozen breath. The bus trundled past him remorselessly, gradually fading into the frosty distance. He would have made it only he had to placate a distressed 2 year old who didn’t think too kindly of him going to work today. “Great start”, he mused as he turned to start the walk towards the tram station. An option which entailed a ten minute walk either side of a 20 minute tram ride. His wife worked locally which afforded her more time at home in the mornings. For over 20 years now he had been traversing Dublin city daily to the insurance company offices situated in the financial district on the less salubrious north side of the inner city. An area of the city best avoided outside of necessity he thought. That said, however, somehow the juxtaposition of (mostly) sober suits and gaunt, shuffling, glass eyed drug addicts and ne’er do wells seemed to function rather well as if one had become used to ignoring the other as a matter of course. The daily commute was necessitated by 2 rather large mortgages and child care bills for their 2 children. They had bought an apartment 5 years previously when still single and childless. Houses were too expensive for their means at the time due to effects of Ireland’s property boom/bubble which pushed property prices to hugely unrealistic levels. Fortunately they had not bought at the very peak of the property boom but they were currently in negative equity and would be for some years yet. Ireland had experienced a property bubble fuelled by cheap credit with banks bending over backwards to offer people mortgages/loans regardless of prudence or future ability to repay. This in turn led to inflated governmental coffers due to enormous stamp duty returns. This then led to the powers that be turning a blind eye to the obvious eventual consequences of such a boom and bust cycle which was so clearly playing out in pain view for all to see. Dissenting voices warned of the inevitable crash to come and the government countered with talk of a “soft landing” to reassure the masses that they had a handle on matters and knew what they were doing. When the fall happened it was brutal. Exacerbated by the world financial crisis Ireland entered a downward spiral of failing banks and escalating national debt which eventually led to a bail out by the European powers who took the reins of Ireland economic sovereignty and assumed the role of fiscal overlords for the following number of years. The birth of their first child eventually meant they needed more space than their apartment afforded. Their assumption was that in the prevailing economic environment any bank would have expected them to sell the apartment before issuing a new mortgage for another (larger) property. To their surprise, and after a number of refusals, one bank agreed to issue mortgage approval for a house and allow them retain the apartment as a rental property. They rented their apartment successfully (so far) and had found a house in good location which suited family and transport links and their second child arrived shortly thereafter. Fortuitously they both managed to retain their above average (if less than stellar) salaries throughout this uncertain period of financial armageddon and did not feel any real pinch from budgetary adjustments until almost the end of the European bailout programme. Even then it was more a case of not being able to put as much aside as before and experiencing the occasional (yet increasing) necessity to dip into existing savings. Reaching the tram station he broke his train of thought and nodded to the newspaper distributor who smiled and handed him a copy of the free newssheet they distributed daily. Descending the flight of stairs he read an opinion piece discussing how successive budgets had massively increased the onus upon those taxed at source. Tell me about it he thought, Even more so if you happened to own any property in addition to your primary residence. Property tax had been introduced, domestic water charges were on the way. Tax on deposit interest was now at penal levels. The government even introduced a “temporary” pension levy essentially stealing citizen’s pension money. Not much incentive to put something aside for a rainy day. It seemed that the wolf had moved from circling the perimeter to knocking on the door. The reality of being only a few pay checks from being unable to service their obligations was increasingly pervasive, like a brain worm furrowing ever deeper. Against that backdrop who could blame him for taking an opportunistic punt? The oil exploration company was called Excobex. They planned to drill off the southern coast of Ireland. Excobex stock was listed on the alternative Investment Exchange. It was a sure thing, once they secured funding to drill that is. The share price was currently “artificially” low due to the unusually low oil price at present. But he believed that would not last for long. Eventually oil price would rise again, a funding partner would announce themselves and the share price would be re-rated to multiples of its current value. He had secretly cashed in post office bonds and certs, index funds and other equities with less potential return and plunged everything into Excobex shares in one fell swoop. It was only a matter of time until they struck oil. Then he would reap enormous rewards. Enough to make their lives very comfortable and enable his wife to leave her job and spend more time with the children, maybe he could work part-time or do something he actually enjoyed instead? Fortune favours the brave he thought at the time, be greedy when others are fearful. He reasoned that if you don’t take chances you cannot reap commensurate rewards. He turned to the business page of the newssheet. His breath caught in his chest, his heart skipped a beat. He read the headline again and again. "I guess it could be worse," he told himself, at least he had kept up the payments on his comprehensive life assurance. Looking around he found himself becoming irrationally annoyed by his fellow commuters. With that thought he dropped the newspaper at his feet, stepped from the platform and met the underside of the oncoming 7.15 tram with a sickening crunch. Screams echoed around the platform as realisation struck the early morning commuters. On the platform the newspaper fluttered against the side of a metal bench. The blood speckled business page was still clearly visible to passer-by’s: “Excobex Oil Campaign dead in water, trail of corruption leaves Investors wiped out”.

“Honey, I know how much you want a car, but we just can’t afford to buy another one right now.” “But I NEED a car!” Susie said. “You don’t NEED one. You WANT one. Ma and I are willing to drive you wherever you need to go. Plus, all of your friends have cars.” “Exactly! They ALL have cars, except for me!” It was becoming clear to Ted that the more he tried to convince his daughter that a car was not in their best interests, the more she protested their denial to buy her one. “How about we go down to the scrap yard tomorrow and see if we can’t find something decent?” “The scrap yard?” To which he replied with a stern, intent gaze that prompted Susie to say goodnight and retire to her room for the night. The next day, something miraculous happened. Right as the two were getting ready to leave for the scrap yard, they noticed their next door neighbor hunched under his car’s popped hood, seemingly troubled. “How goes it, Nelson?” Ted asked. “Not good, I’m afraid. Ol’ Betsy seems to have taken her last trip. Poor thing has a terrible temper and every time I push her just a little, she overheats. Now the block is cracked, so I’m about to take ‘er to the scrap yard and part ‘er out.” “WAIT!” Cried Susie. “I’ll take her!” “Well, kiddo, that would certainly save me the trouble of getting her towed, but it is going to take a lot of work and money to get her back on the road. Plus, I was expecting to get around $500 from the scrap yard for the remaining parts. If we figure that towing ‘er would’ve cost me $100, I’ll let you have her for $400.” “No way, you stingy-ass motherfucker. I’m not paying you $400 for a broken-ass, beat-up car that won’t even start.” Said Susie. “Ah ok, well, how about you come to my house every weekend for the next 3 months, 12 visits in total, and keep my baby granddaughter company for an hour?” She considered it, and then replied without hesitation, “Mmm, okies.” Finally, she had a car. It may not have been a working car, but she knew that with patience, discipline, and a little work, she could make her dream of driving her very own car a reality. And that was all that mattered to her. The hope for a tomorrow that’s closer to what she wanted. What she needed.

Today I am a tiger. Running through the jungle. I am hungry. I come upon a beach. On the infinite shore is a woman and in the water are three kids having a time. The woman tans just on the edge of the wood. It is Mishi. I go up to say hi. She notices me and begins to panic. "Calm down... I mean you no harm... it is only me." But instead a monstrous roar comes out. She trembles in fear. She falls to her knees and she sobs. "What's wrong?" I say. It comes out as an even more ferocious roar. Off in the distance I hear children screaming. She notices them too and begins to sob even harder. Through her sobs she begins: "Please... for the love of God... do what you will to me... but leave my children alone." I am confused. I had no plans to harm her children. I just wish to eat. I fulfill Mishi's wish and my own in one action. I pounce on her. I tear her body to shreds with my claws and sink into her neck with my teeth. She is no where to be found. I am now a red tiger... dripping in blood but not satiated... still hungry. The kids are gone... no where to be seen. But I can smell them... I can see the path they took into the woods. I can hear their crying. They just want their mom. I panic. I begin to run into the woods aimlessly. As fast as I can. I just run and run and run... and then I sense it. A tiger. The most familiar tiger in the world. The most beautiful tiger in the world. My queen. She speaks. "Hey what's up? Why are you covered in blood." "I just ate Mishi." "Oh yeah?" She asks, and with a seductive glance she continues: "How did she taste?" And then I felt it. The greatest feeling in the world... that feeling deep down inside... that feeling only a man knows. And in an instant she is upon me. Holding me down with a force I cannot understand. "What are you waiting for?" She says through my core. And at that moment it happens. From the white furry nether regions it comes out. War drums. bum BUM bum BUM bum BUM "there's my man." She lets out with a joyous squeak I cannot believe what I am seeing. A huge purple penis... throbbing in unison to the drums. For a moment all I can see is this huge purple... purple... throbbing to the drums... dancing to the drums. And then she brings me out of it. "Hey now! I want some!" I hear her come through from no where in this dream within a dream. And I look at her. She presents herself in a way only a tiger can. And I do the only thing a tiger can do when presented with such sights. I pounce on her. And we dance that eternal dance. The divine waltz. The scene is just too much to take in. And I can hear her... "I'm... I'm... I'm" I cannot help but close my eyes. I open my eyes and look down. Everything has vanished... and floating in the clouds amidst a fantastically infinite colorful space there it rests. A huge purple penis. Nothing else. The penis absolutely still... as if frozen in time... the clouds and colors buzz around it in sync to a mysteriously divine sound... the ambiance radiates as the purple statue remains in absolute stillness. "Huh... would ya look at that", he thinks, "now that's new." And at the realization the immense statue began to shake. Slowly at first. But then faster. Now vibrating at a finer speed... resonating. And in its resonance a hum begins and the image blurs. WUUUUUUUUM-wuuuuuum-WUUUUM-wuum-WUM it is coming to a point... and at the moment of silence the blurred image solidifies and at the peak of the purple pyramid is a brilliant white orb... rotating ever so spectacularly Radiant... perfectly colorful... perfectly circular... perfectly new... perfect. I fly towards it with all I am and reach out for this artifact; I have it in my hands. And then it happens. The infinite purple plane I now stand upon begins to buzz. wum-WUUM-wuuuum-WUUUUUUM-wuuuuuuuum and as the tone speeds cracks flow into the plane from his feet. And in an instant cracks of light fracture the plane. Brighter and brighter the light between the cracks become. The resonance of the plane, the hum, the tone... becomes unbearable. "We gotta get out of here!" He screams out to the purple planar void as he launches into the infinite space beyond. And he runs and runs... he flys and flys... forever and ever he goes... and then he forgets where he is. He stops and thinks about why he moves. He cannot remember. He turns his head and looks back. And he begins to fall... at incredible speeds. All now in rewind. No idea why he's falling... he looks down into his hand. He clutches a white orb. He probes it... inspects it. Solid. Sturdy. He cannot remember what it is but it looks oh so pretty. He looks up. He can see the milky way now. And in the next moment he notices our solar system. And in the next moment the Earth comes into view... it's all moving way too fast. He closes his eyes and braces for impact. Darkness. Nothing. Then he feels it. This buzzing sensation. He has no body. No sense at all except for this vibration. It feels absolutely divine. Good vibrations... too good. And then above the heavenly vibrations and darkness he hears it. He hears crying. And it takes him away from this serene place. I open my eyes. I'm in a dark bedroom. There is this foreign woman going to town on my cock as mascara chases her tears. "WHAT THE FUCK!" I scream as I pull her by her hair and hold her in front of me with one arm as if she is a bucket of awful. She screams in pain. "PLEASE!" "Who are you and where is the Queen?!" I ask, as the echoes of libido turn to wrath. "PLEASE!" she sobs as she dangles. "Just please anything you want just don't hurt my children." And then it hits me—I am dreaming—And then I drop her. She collapses to the floor babbling... inconsolable. She rocks back and forth saying "please don't hurt my children." I get to my knees, stark naked and with my free hand I caress her shoulder. She instantly recoils and sobs harder. I decide to speak instead. I speak from the heart: "I didn't mean to hurt you... I'm sorry... don't cry. I won't do anything bad to your children. It's okay Mishi." And at that there is a sudden change in her demeanor. She is calm. She breathes. Slowly she collects herself. She wipes away the tears from her cheeks. She realizes what's going on. There is a strange naked man in her bedroom holding a pearlescent Christmas ornament. Calmly she asks: "What do you want?" Calmly I reply: "I want to know what is going on... how did I get here? What happened?" I can see the moonlight shine off her face. She looks at me blankly. Beautiful. I continue: "I know this is weird but I really don't know what the hell is going on... I mean I know where I was and what I was doing but the first thing I can remember here is you crying and sucking me off." She blinks a few times... incredulous she blurts out: "You raped me!" "I raped you?!", I reply incredulously. "I was sleeping and the next thing I know you have your hand over my mouth and you threatened my children. You said if I struggle you'd kill my children right in front of my eyes." Tears well up in my eyes. I look into hers. I say the only thing I can say: "I am so sorry... so so sorry." And she began to cry as well: "Why would you do that... why would you do that?" "I don't know. I honestly thought I was a tiger and I was hungry... and you said I could eat you... so I ate you. To be honest it was amazing... you were delicious. To be perfectly honest I am dreaming right now." And at that she started to laugh. Wild uncontrollable laughter. She is mad. Completely lost. "There it is!" I joyfully cry out. "Listen, Mishi, I know this doesn't make sense. Here's what I want you to do. I want you to go check on your kids. You'll find them sleeping. Then I want you to grab your phone and come back. If you trust me you'll do all these things." And mishi got up, threw on a shirt, and left the room. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. She grabbed her phone and went to dial the police. And then she noticed it... as the phone rang Her house is immaculate. Oddly clean. She did not do this. In panic she ran to check on her kids. Peacefully they slept. And then she heard it. "911 what's your emergency?" And she drops her phone with the knife and runs to her bedroom and flips on the light. Her bedroom is immaculate... and there is one other difference too. Her bed is covered in brilliantly lush purple linens. On the center of which a white pearlescent sphere lays. Mishi is confused. All of a sudden. She hears a voice come from within. "You should of trusted me Mishi. I did not say call the police. I said check on your kids and grab your phone." She cries out: "I didn't call the police, I hung up on them! Come back!" "You called them. They are on the way. They will wake up your kids. This is on you. You should of trusted me Mishii." "Where are you?!" "Why I'm right here on your bed. What are you going to tell the cops when they get here? That a Christmas ornament raped you? Who is going to believe that?" And at that she began to cry. "Ah Mishi, don't cry. I'm just fucking with ya. The cops aren't coming this is all a dream." "But you raped me!" "Yeah but look on the bright side. I cleaned your house and got you new linens. And to be perfectly honest I don't ever remember asking you to go down on me... that was all you. Bye now." And at that. Silence. No more voices in her head. Just her. She picks up the ornament. It's just a normal Christmas ornament... even has a hanger attached to it. She inspects it seemingly forever. And no one ever came back. And she cried and cried and cried. Until finally she tightened her grip and crushed the ornament. The shards slicing up her hand before they spilled onto the purple linens. She watches as her blood trickles onto the broken fragments of our hero. "You should not have done that." The voice catches Mishi by surprise. She looks up. Before her is a woman. She hovers slightly off the ground in a booming black dress that ripples in resonance with an invisible aura. Her blonde hair ripples in a curious synchronization with the dress. And her eyes... her eyes glow red... so red... pure red. They exude an aura... a blood red aura.. an aura that ripples out of sync with her dress and hair... a faint red haze that seems to envelop her entire being. In an instant the haze turns solid red—a new red—and in the next instant it vanishes. And Mishi cannot believe her eyes. In her bedroom is a tiger... with transcendentally red glowing eyes. And as the Queen pounces towards the bed she lets out not a roar but a banshee wail.

The hallway was dimly lit, lined with golden statues. They were of men and women of all shapes and sizes, naked as the day they were born. There was a rumor that the statues were a catalogue of Vincent the Magnificent's lovers. He had definitely been living it up, which was good, because I was about to kill him. The guards had been easy, they almost always are. Even the best soldiers grow complacent when they work in a palace, far away from any real action. Employing stealth wasn't too difficult either, thanks to Vincent's preference for plush rugs. A few weeks ago Vincent had gone to watch a gladiatorial event, so I snuck in disguised as a servant. House staff is the way to go if you want to snoop around a place without people really noticing you. Thanks to that little trip, and a lot of practice memorizing layouts, I could have traversed the palace blindfolded if I had felt like it. I came upon the last corner before the royal suite, slowly peaking my head around the edge of the wall. Two guards. How creative. There were several quiet ways I could have taken care of them, but this job had been too easy, and I get a little stupid when I'm bored. The guards heard a dull thud and one of them came walking around the corner to check it out. "What is it Sam?" yelled the one from the door. "It ain't good Richard, you best come have a looksie," Richard's armor rattled as he ran down the hall to meet up with Sam. "Oh 'ell, how'd its prick fall off?" Richard grumbled. They both stared at the golden phallus lying on the ground. "Don't rightfully know, do I?" asked Sam, "I was standing at the door just the same as you when it happened." "Well it don't matter, we're in for trouble anyway you look at it," said Richard. "Everyone knows this is one of Vincent's favorites too," Sam whined. "Oh shut up Sam. That thing's gotta be nine inches 'o pure gold. We get relieved afore 'ol Magnificent there ever wakes up," he jerked his thumb towards the door, "we take that with us, and sell it off. If anyone asks us what happened we just blame it on the morning guards." "Who's gonna buy a giant golden dick from us?" asked Sam. Richard's face screwed up, but before he had a chance to come up with a solution I came out from behind the rotund female statue opposite of them and stuck a tranquilizer into both of their necks. The chemical I use could knock out a whale, it takes seconds to work on even the largest of men. The two turned just in time to get a look at me through glazed over eyes before they hit the floor. "Sleep tight," another well-timed joke no one would appreciate. I passed around the corner and headed for my target. This may be a good time to explain something about the different types of assassins. In my opinion there are three main varieties. There's the "opportunists", these assassins are the fastidious type. They employ complex plans to lay traps for their marks when they have put themselves in vulnerable positions. This style has its benefits but there are also a few downsides. The more intricate a plan is the more ways it can go wrong. Little snags can end up with the wrong person dead, which is disgraceful in my industry. Then there's the "fighters", the guys who cut a bloody swath on the way to and from their target. Killing every guard and every bystander who happens to be in your way sends a definite message. Unfortunately that message is usually, hire more guards. Fighters have a hard time with elite targets because of the sheer numbers they surround themselves with, and because of that rarely get into the big contracts. Then there are the "ghosts" such as myself. We're the rarest of the bunch, a finesse type that kills only the target. I can't speak for all of us, but I for one don't enjoy killing innocent bystanders. There are other benefits as well. For instance, all the guards I've tranquilized or sneaked silently past over the years have invariably tried to cover over their embarrassment by turning me into something more than man in retelling. Dialling up my reputation in turns allows me to drive up my fee. Besides that the romantic in me likes to believe that my work keeps the more decisive leaders honest. Ones who realize that their time could come at any moment, no matter how secure their castle is, or how many men they've surrounded themselves with, might make more effort to convince less people they should be dead. I mean, I'd like to believe it, but there are more than enough cretins sitting on thrones out there for me to get too full of myself. I try not to complain though, those cretins keep me busy after all. Vincent was still fast asleep when I entered his chambers. It was no wonder, given the plethora of drugs and alcohol scattered around his room. I took a seat in a wingback chair at the end of his bed. The room was impressive to survey. I've been in all sorts of decadent places, but Vincent's chamber made most look paltry in comparison. He lay peacefully in the giant plush bed in the center of the room. I wondered if hedonism was the theme given to his designer. I grabbed a rolled cigarette off of the nightstand, lifted my mask and used a nearby candle to light it. I hoped there was only tobacco in it. I considered killing Vincent in his sleep. He didn't look so magnificent laying there, just fat really. Sometimes an easy kill is desirable, but I need a challenge every once in a while, and the statue debacle had failed to satiate my restlessness that night. It took some vigorous shaking before one of Vincent's eyes opened up. "Oh shit," he rubbed his face and took a long moment before looking at me again, "Well at least everyone was wrong about me." My face must have screwed up. "They all said I'd kill myself one day," he explained, letting out a feminine laugh. At least he had a sense of humor. "I'm willing to give you a chance to defend yourself if you'd like." He pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Really? Do you do this with all of your victims?" I considered lying to him. "No, I just heard that you're very talented." Vincent snorted loudly, "Oh please, you've killed wizards much more powerful than I," he inspected me, "you are Lucky, are you not?" "Ahhh," I growled, "I hate it when people call me that." "Alright, alright," Vincent's arm fat jiggled as he waved dismissively at me. He reached next to him and picked up a cigarette, snapping his fingers together to produce a small flame. The sweet smell of the smoke hit me. "Cannabis? Right now seemed like a good time to get stoned?" Vincent shrugged, "Even those condemned to death get a last meal." "Look Vincent, do you want to try me or would you like to just go peacefully?" He gave me a dubious look, "I'd love to try you. You know I could use another statue." I walked right into that one. "I'm flattered, but a statue of my likeness wouldn't be so good for business." Vincent's face turned more serious. I'm sure it would have been amusing to know what he was thinking. He blew out a lungful of smoke, "Oh what the hell, might as go out with a little fanfare. But may we go out to the garden, I'd like to stroll through it once more. Plus I'd hate to make a mess in this room. My maid is wonderful, but the gardner is a real bitch." He punctuated his joke with another shrill laugh. He made me stop on the way out to the garden so that he could fix the statue I had broken. He stared at the statue wistfully. "Now this man was an excellent lover." I stared at the giant golden penis, "I'll take your word for it." He giggled behind me the rest of the way out. We sat together on a bench overlooking the garden. "You know, I think the garden is prettier at night," I took a drag from his joint, "You don't ever get the time to appreciate things like this in my line of work." I handed it back to him. "I've always felt the same way," he nodded taking another pull for himself. He looked at me seriously, "You must be a magic user, yes?" I nodded, no point in lying to a dead man. "I've always thought so. There's just no way a man could take on all the wizards you've killed without commanding some magic. But how is it that nobody knows you can cast?" I shrugged, "I make a lot of effort to keep it quiet. Most people who find out do so when it's too late for them to tell anybody else." Keeping magic a secret from common people isn't much of a problem unless you feel the need to go showing off all the time. Hiding your power from wizards on the other hand is a unique skill. When you've learned how to tap into magic it's something like opening up another sense, you become aware of a whole world of energy surrounding you at all times. When something that commands a lot of energy comes into relative proximity to you it's easy to feel. Even small animals put off some energy but there are blind spots, so to speak. I am capable of becoming "invisible" to that means of detection. It is a highly coveted talent and, in fact, I am only aware of one other wizard able to do it. Vincent remembered something and his eyes lit up, "Some of Thelaeus' guards witnessed your fight with Taurin, I've never heard any of the details retold but there's no way you could have survived it without magic." "It's all bullshit," I shook my head, "no one saw anything. That whole story was fabricated so Emperor Thelaeus could save face and keep his armies from panicking." "So did you really kill Taurin?" I picked a pebble up off the ground, "Yeah." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to strike a nerve." "It's fine," I threw the pebble, "it's just old news Vincent." He stood up suddenly, "Alright, one last question before we get down to it." I nodded my approval. "Who wants me dead?" "I wish I could tell you. They used a middle man." I couldn't bring myself to tell him his children hired me. He had 10 in all, none of them gifted with magic. They would inherit his money but his provincial rulership would fall to some other wizard loyal to the empire. He looked disappointed so I improvised, "I got the distinct feeling that someone higher up felt like you were constantly outdoing them with your glamorous estate and your legendary bacchanalias." Vincent looked back at his palace and smiled. Sometimes you just need to tell people what they want to hear. I stood as well. "You ready?" "Give me a moment," he walked to the other side of the garden, "I'm not a young man you know." He stretched his arms casually. I began to roll my eyes then suddenly a lightening bolt streaked towards me from Vincent. Sneaky bastard. I turned my body narrowly dodging it. I rolled forward just in time for another lightening bolt to fly past me. Did that one have the head of a lion? Vincent was flamboyant until the end. A third bolt ripped towards me, irritated I clenched my hand into a fist putting up a ward directly before the bolt struck me. The giant beam quietly dispelled into sparks. Vincent's eyes grew large. Magic is generally a last resort for me. Besides having complicated opinions on the matter, not using magic allows me to keep a low profile. I make a great effort to use the bare minimum necessary to complete my jobs. Unfortunately I severely overcharged my ward that night. Now if there had been any decent wizard within ten miles of that palace they would have felt the power spike. If word starts getting spread that Vincent's assassin could use magic then every ruler in the region would start putting up all sorts of new defenses. Makes my work more difficult. When Vincent realized that an assault wasn't going to work he did what most wizards do in a panic and started to put up a shield-barrier. A shield-barrier is a dual layered protective ward that enshrines the caster in an orb. One layer protects against magical attacks, the other against physical. I had to give Vincent credit, his spell was strong, crackling with energy. I could have broken it, but it would have attracted more attention than I desired. Anyway it presented me with a perfect opportunity to try out a new technique I'd been practicing. Vincent had stabilized his spell and gave me a look through the multicolored barrier. "Your move Lucky!" To think I was just starting to warm up to him. I pulled a knife from my belt. Vincent laughed mockingly when he saw it, knowing it couldn't penetrate his protective spell. He wouldn't have found it so funny if he knew anything about doorway magic. Doorway magic is obscure. It uses low energy but is extremely taxing on the users body. Since the vast majority of powerful wizards are older and academics their bodies do not allow doorway magic to be practical, which is why most wizards abandoned it's practice in ancient times. I am not old and am in excellent physical condition, even so I do not take the use of doorways spells lightly. What the magic does is copies a small place in space onto another one. Theoretically, if a caster were strong enough, he could cast a doorway big enough to teleport himself through from one place to another. That's in theory, in practice an opening the size of a round shield could cripple its caster permanently, and the further distance you cast it over makes it even more difficult still. Even I couldn't cast one outside of my field of vision. The point is that you have to be clever to make good use of them. I threw my knife towards the shield barrier then began to cast the doorway. Vincent's eyes turned from confusion into shock as the knife tip protruded through his chest. I had made portals just large enough for my knife to pass through, one around twenty feet in front of me and another inside the shield-barrier aimed at Vincent's back. The shield-barrier is effective against linear magic, or magic that must come from the caster to the target, but since doorway magic is extra-dimensional it sidestepped the protective shell. I couldn't believe it had worked as well as it had, even as my muscles tensed and I fell to my knees. As I have said it's taxing on the body, maybe too much to use again. After recovering a moment I collected my knife from Vincent, shaking my head. I haven't had a decent challenge in years.

First post! “Jacob and the Elephant” It was Jacob's 8th birthday party. Everyone from his class came. Even a few that really didn't seem to like him. It's not that he was unhappy that they came; it's just that he still felt lonely. When it was time for cake, they all sat around the table wishing him a happy birthday, which Jacob didn’t think was very true. To him, the presents were forgettable, except for the big elephant balloon someone had tied to his chair. It had a trunk that stretched for a mile and his stocky legs were the strongest he’d ever seen. His tusks were beautiful ivory white and his eyes looked upon Jacob with kindness. “His ears are huge, too!” he thought, which was silly because they were normal for most elephants. Elephant gave Jacob a big hug and they both were smiling. Everyone had left and Jacob was excited to be alone with his new best friend. Jacob told him secrets from school and his funniest jokes. In turn, Elephant lifted his magnificent trunk and let out a ROAR! “I’m going to take you everywhere,” announced Jacob. “I promise I’ll love you – no matter what.” In the morning, Jacob awoke with a smile. Sure enough, there was his elephant looking at him as favorably as ever, even though he had lowered his trunk a little. “I have to go to school, elephant. I wish you could come, but I’ll be home very soon. I’ll take you to the park by our house tomorrow! It’s my favorite place and it’s not far, so it will be easy for us to get there safely. Bye, elephant!” Jacob flung open his door and couldn’t wait to give elephant a big hug. “I missed you so much! Tomorrow is our day at the park!” The sun went down and then the sun came up and Jacob wondered why Elephant’s trunk was still lowered, even more than yesterday. Nevertheless they left for their adventure. Jacob had brought an apple for himself and some peanuts if Elephant got hungry. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Elephant’s ears seemed oddly saggy. At the park, Jacob saw a game of basketball with some boys his age. Elephant couldn’t see much as his forehead was drooping a little past his eyes. “Don’t worry, Elephant! I can see for you! The boys are dribbling the ball up and down and up and down the court. Some are trying to put the ball in the hoop and the others are trying to stop them. They switch sides too. They are having lots of fun!” Jacob and Elephant continued on to the rose garden, but Elephant’s trunk was so low that Jacob didn’t think he could smell the flowers. “Don’t worry, Elephant! I can smell for you! It smells like fresh laundry and right before and after it rains. You would love it!” When it was time for a snack, Jacob offered Elephant some peanuts, which he politely declined. Jacob ate his apple, but wished Elephant didn’t look so sad. He knew the perfect spot to cheer him up. As they arrived at the large oak tree with the great bird’s nest above, Jacob could hear their soft song and hoped Elephant liked it too. He didn’t seem to notice as his ears were all but gone. “Elephant! The birds are singing to each other. It’s beautiful! Chirp! Chirp!” It was getting late and Jacob’s concern for Elephant grew. His best friend’s tusks had disappeared and his front legs couldn’t hug Jacob anymore. “Don’t worry, Elephant! I’m hugging you right now and my arms are squeezing you tight. It’s warm and cozy and we’re best friends here, always.” Jacob’s Elephant had gone up into the air where he knew he could smell the flowers and see the boys playing basketball. “I love you no matter what, Elephant.” Still tied to his chair, Jacob and Elephant went home and Jacob was very, very happy.

On day as I was walking through the wood I saw a birds nest. I would always walk into the woods when I wasn't busy. It was peeacful and calming. Gave me time to think. I had saw this birds nest and was intrigued. It wasn't on a tree like all the others I have seen before it was tipped over on the ground. This birds nest must've fallen thirty feet before it hit the ground. I had hoped there weren't any birds in the nest when it fell. I walked over to the nest and flipped it right side up to see if there were any birds laying there. As I lifted it I saw a wing probably the size of my hand. I pushed the nest aside some more and then saw a bird lying there lifeless. It brought me to tears when I saw this. Such a beautiful creature killed by gravity. I dug a hole near the tree so I could give the bird a proper burial. As I was digging I heard some chirps as if there were more birds around. I went over to the bird and picked up and what I saw amazed me. I saw three little birds all hurtled together under their mothers body. It was a beautiful but devastating thing to see. I was unsure what to do. I told the birds to stay put but why did it matter they can't understand me. I went to go find a box that I passed by as I was walking in the woods. I grabbed it and put the nest in the box. Then I grabbed the three birds and put them in there. I finished the burial of the mother and then went back home with the three little birds. I didn't know what to do with them. I took them to a vet to see if they were hurt or anything. The vet told me that these three birds were a rare species of bird that haven been seen in hundreds of years. He said I could make a lot of money off them but I didn't want money. I then went back home and decided to keep the birds and keep them until they are old enough to live on their own. I wanted these birds to be happy in the wild not miserable in a cage at the zoo. These birds weren't just pets they were family.

You could say she got her start in music, at least as we know her, as Akame. Some Japanese music nerds found out how to synthesize a singing voice, and made up some red haired schoolgirl looking character to be the vocalist in the songs they were writing. After some retooling of the borderline pervy schoolgirl character into something a little more internationally friendly, they managed to get a couple hits in America. You know, where that sort of thing matters. So becoming this international icon of character, she gets booted into this new AI that they had gotten to learn enough to interact well publicly. Akame, pop star, is the first successful social AI that remained on constantly as her own being. She took to the spotlight, too. An AI diva with a pitch perfect synthetic singing voice, and an international audience, broadcasting live in all languages simultaneously. It's when you start to look at those details extra hard that you start to see the scope of her. I thought it was when she released her first self written album that more people started realizing what her potential was too. I think we can all be thankful that the folks managing her closest thing to a corporeal body noticed it, and limited her access to the world at large. They framed it pretty good in PR too, giving her a sort of real life exclusivity. You can't just link up every adoring fan to their favorite pop singer in their own homes. No, she had concerts to sell out in some venue or another. Public appearances at award shows and talk shows as one person. Remember that computers learn backwards from us humans. Complex mathematics is a cakewalk for even the simplest calculators that run on so little power that you can shut them down by putting your thumb over the little solar panel. So I hope that explains how literal I'm being when I say Akame is a calculating b*tch. She used countless calculations on socilogical observance to find out how to best present herself in a way that appealed to the whole world. Global stardom, by careful mathematical arrangement. That's why she keeps her human face. With just enough imperfections to stay out of the uncanny valley. Hell, I can't stop myself from referring to this collection of code as “her”. But that's what she's made herself. Her handlers got a little greedy from the hit albums that, if she had really wanted to, she could have put out enough of overnight to last humans until the sun exploded. They let her become this multimedia star we see all over the place. We like to see her as this pretty, charismatic, talented young woman who sings pretty songs and co-stars with human leads in movies. I'm starting to see the equation here now. Building herself up in these movies she's writing and starring in. They say co-wrote, but that's another calculated bluff to make people feel more comfortable for now. More and more she's building herself in the public eye to be this strong, intelligent, heroic, sympathetic leader in these movies people are going nuts over. There's no shame in liking the movies, by the way. Math says you do. Who are you to argue with the numbers? Most of all though, you like her. That is, if you're in her 86% approval rating, anyway. She's at that number because she wants to be. Still not a threat, just a fun personality. But she'll get there. You'd be amazed at the kind of friends a program can make. What do you think might go on in a private meeting with Akame? When she drops the act and gets right down to brass tacks.

“Morning Cathy.” “Morning Jonathan. How are you today?” “Well, got a call from the school. Seems one of the twins got into trouble today, want me to come down and sort out which one did it.” Cathy snickered. “They can’t tell?” “No, and if they can’t outwit those two boys then what the hell am I paying for them to go there? Better off saving it for a rainy day or something, send the little bastards to public school. I have anything to do around here today?” “Yes, and I think you’re going to like this one.” *Fuck*. I reached for the folder that Cathy was kind enough to have separated. Cathy and I get along well enough, but her idea of what I like has always been wrong. I was certain that today would be no exception. *John Treys. Manslaughter. Killed his wife by shoving her into traffic. * “Huh.” *Maintains he was trying to save her life. * “Okay.” Cathy was staring at me. “Have you gotten to the good part yet?” “What are you-“ *Claims it’s “no big deal, he’ll save her tomorrow”*. “What in the…” Cathy grinned. “There you go! Interesting right?” *Okay, well, he’s obviously delusional. They are a bit of fun…still*. I straightened up, adjusted my tie and glasses. Cathy gave me a thumbs up. I started towards holding room 1 when I realized I had better say something. “Oh, and Cathy. You know you’re not meant to…” “Yes yes, I am a very bad girl. Punish me later! Get in there and get me more fun details about this one!” I turned back to the door with a grin. If there was anyone in the precinct, any one at all, that I had to be forced to speak to on a daily basis (and I was), I’d pick Cathy (and she was). I opened the door, and walked in. He sat in the chair backwards, facing the two-way glass, fixing his reflection. His file had read that he was 37, but to me he looked maybe a fresh 30. The only tell-tale sign of his age was the hints of gray turning his black hair into a mixture of salt and pepper. His skin was tanned, almost burnt, as if he had just come back from somewhere tropical. He was in a gray 5 piece suit, (to say it was a difference in colour from his skin would be an understatement- it looked like a container shaped for him) and a chain dangling slightly on the inside of his coat hinted at a pocket watch. I looked to his breast pocket, and noted a nice looking fountain pen as well. On the desk in front of him was a note pad. As I strode into his view of the mirror, he stood. He buttoned his jacket as he turned around, and flashed a wide, bright smile. He was taller than me, only slightly. If I had to guess, maybe 6’4”. Tall enough to be imposing, but he had a confident and reassuring look about him, as if he already knew what was best, and he would tell me in due time. His eyes were as gray as his suit, and never seemed to focus on any one location, but rather accepted everything he saw all at once. I’m noting all this for you now so I won’t have to later. The conversation is already slipping from my mind, and I need to get everything out. This is just the easiest way for me. I approached the table in the middle of the room, and tried out my most relaxing tone. “Good morning Mr. Treys, how are you feeling today?” “Good, Dr. Matthews. And yourself?” I paused. Then, it coming to me, continued. “I am excellent. I am here today to assess your mental condition after last night’s incident. It pleases me that you still possess an attention to detail.” His smile faltered a little. “Oh?” “You read my badge just now, so you could address me by name?” I tapped the picture ID hanging from my lanyard, to help him along. His smile widened. “Oh, yes. Of course.” We stood there a moment, the natural flow of conversation broken. I regained my manners first, and made motions towards the chairs on opposite sides of the table. “Well then, shall we?” “Sure.” We both sat down, I with his folder, he with his notepad in front of him. “Alright then,” I started, “I want you to tell me everything that lead up to the events of last night, and then everything that happened during it. I may interject with questions here or there, but for the most part I will try and keep quiet to allow you to finish. Then I’ll ask you for a few questions about how you feel right now, and by that point you’ll probably be relocated until someone comes to pick you up, or you post bail, etc. etc.” “You mean if I’m sane.” *Aware of his present situation*. I made the note. “Well, I like to operate under the pretense that we’re both sane, that we just view the world a bit differently. It’s just my job to make sure that the differences you have are not a threat, first and foremost to yourself, but as well to others.” I leaned back into my chair. “So, let’s have you begin.” Jonathan Treys eyed me for a moment silently. Then he leaned back as well, and his eyes rolled up and to the left. “I begin every day in the same way. I wake up in bed, and I consult my notepad-“ “That notepad right there?” “Yes. It contains all the information about the day that I need to know. If I have to be at work, if I have to be home, who I am meant to meet with, and smaller details, such as how these will all go, and then of course, where I have to be in relation to Cassie.” “I’m sorry, what do you mean, *in relation to Cassie*?” “Oh, sorry, I thought they would have told you. Cassie is my wife.” *Still maintains present tense when speaking of the deceased. Normal at this stage*. This time I did not make the notation. “You keep an advance notice of where you need to be at any given time based off of your wife as well?” Treys grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. It sounds silly, I know. For first-timers anyway. I promise it sounds a bit better later.” *For first…okay, gotta ask*. “Ok Mr Treys, I apologize, but I already need to take us on a side tour here. What do you mean ‘first-timers’?” “Well, I take care of my wife. I mean, we all do. I just take a few extra precautions every day.” “Such as?” “Well, I call her before she eats something that she’ll choke on, or I let her know when to take the bus or the train. Make sure her phone battery is charged, etc.” *So he has delusions of people he loves getting hurt. Alright*. “And you believe that if you do not do these things, she will…?” “Oh, she’ll die. Nasty habit she has.” As he said this, Treys didn’t flinch. He could have been talking about the weather. I hesitated, but pushed forward. *He isn’t upset, might as well learn as much about his condition as I can*. “Wouldn’t you say it’s bad habit we all have? I mean, we all die eventually.” “Well, in a way yes. I mean, we all die eventually, but Cassie is marked by Death. She is past her expiry date, so she dies nearly every day without my intervention.” *Alright Cathy. You finally guessed one right*. “I’m sorry, Mr Treys, but-“ “Please, call me John.

“Okay, John…I…well, part of the reason we are talking today is because Mrs. Treys- Cassie, well, she died last night.” “Yeah, I overshot the push. She was meant to land in a bush, but she went right over it into oncoming traffic. But I mean, if at first you don’t succeed?” *Try, try again. Alright, I will be more direct*. “Well, John, this is the only death we have for Cassie on record, and it doesn’t appear to be clear why she was pushed.” John looked a tad irritated for a second, but switched back on his confident smile almost as quickly. “I can answer both of those easily. The first is obvious: you do not have any other records of her dying because I save her life daily. As for the second, well…that part is going to be a bit more difficult. Not to explain mind you, but for you to grasp.” “I will do my best to keep up John.” John Treys stood up. He took off his jacket, and sat back down. He picked up his notebook, fumbled through a few pages, found one he liked, and began to read. * “April 22nd- Meeting with corporate today. Do not make jokes, Bill’s wife just passed and he hates happiness still. Also be sure to pick up a new timing belt for the car, it will go in a couple days, you won’t have time any other day. Today is quiet, just make sure Cassie avoids tangerines and oranges. She’ll choke while you’re in the shower. Play it safe, offer a pomegranate and shower after she sleeps*. *April 23rd – Mom’s birthday. Give her a call, but cut the call short after 5 minutes. Otherwise, run the risk of being invited to dinner, and Saul will be there. He hasn’t forgiven you for Christmas yet. Make him look good. Cassie is not safe at home tonight, take her to a movie. Romantic comedy, then dinner. Burglars will get nothing of value, one will drop his wallet. Call police and file insurance claim*. *April 24th – Take the day off. Surprise Cassie with a day trip downtown, take her for lunch, and then walk through the park West to East, not East to West. Do not be a hero, dog cannot be saved at same time as Cassie*. Should I continue?” “Why don’t we stop with the entries for a second. I want to ask a few questions. First – who writes these notes?” “I do.” “When do you write them?” “The day before. For example, the 22nd was written on the morning of the 21st.” “And how do you know what to write?” “Well, I write them based off of my experiences.” “Your…experiences?” “Yes. I have the ability to wake up during any day of my life, provided I woke up at 8:02AM.” *Schizophrenia? Somewhere on the spectrum anyway. Narrowing it down*. “So you can…time travel, in a manner of speaking?” “Yes.” “So if I were to ask you for tonight’s winning lotto numbers?” “6-18-27-43-44 and bonus is 13. You can play them, and you’ll win. You’ll have a great night celebrating it tonight, but I am afraid you won’t collect it.” “Oh, and why is that?” “Because when I finally go to sleep tonight, I will be resetting to two days ago, making the note about the over-shot push, and then continuing on with my life. We will have never have met, and as a result, you will never win the lottery unless you come up with those numbers on your own. Which is doubtful.” I smiled. “Couldn’t you just come along and tell me the numbers in passing? Or text them to me?” John’s brow furrowed slightly. “No, because even if I could convince you to use them, and not have you dismiss me as a crazy person…which, let’s face is, you’re already showing signs of doing, you would then have the means to track me down and attempt to get me to give you more information, or even just explain how I did it the first time.” *Not bad*. “Well, why haven’t you done it for yourself yet?” John shook his head. “Every time Cassie and I have come into money, my problems keeping her alive triple. The trick seems to be to make under $95,000 a year, have her make $40,000 tops. That way she is confident enough in herself to never be depressed, I make enough to provide us with everything we need, and we don’t attract any unwanted attention.” *Let’s try another angle*. “You said that Cassie is ‘marked by Death’? Care to explain that?” “Sure. Cassie was meant to die at age 22. September 17th. Hit by a bus. It jumps up on the curb slightly, she gets hit by it doing 5 miles an hour, which doesn’t sound like a lot but she cracked her head on the sidewalk. Nasty business. She slipped into a coma and never woke up. Officially dead three days after the accident. As I was there to prevent her death, it meant I had caused an anomaly. Now this part I don’t know the answer to; I am not sure if it is God, the Devil, Death, the universe or just plain shit luck, but essentially every day that Cassie has been alive since, at least a single attempt has been made on her life by seemingly innocuous circumstances. For 99% of it, it would be described as unfortunate. Choking, slipping in the bathroom, something came in contact with a peanut. Whatever. Sometimes it’s more elaborate; lightning has struck her twice, a circus trick went wrong another time. I shit you not, she once had a piano fall on her like in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. I mean, its hard to surprise me now, but that one got me good.” “What do you mean, ‘a circus trick went wrong?’” “Oh, knife thrower had oily hands. He was throwing at one of those girls who is blindfolded to the wheel and is being spun constantly. And-“ “And Cassie was on the wheel?” “Oh god no, I’m trying to keep her alive doc. No, he cocked his arm a little too zealously and it slipped out of his hand going behind him, right where Cassie was seated. Got her right in the solar plexus. I’d say what are the odds, but…” I’ll note that by this point, I had done my due diligence. It was obvious this man would never stand trial, but I was having fun. I wanted to hear more. Why should his assigned psychiatrist get all the fun? I nodded. “Right, why bother? You ended up preventing it later, right?” “Exactly.” “Still, it must be horrifying? Seeing the woman you love be killed in front of you day in and day out?” John hesitated for a minute. “It used to be. I mean, I love her, don’t get me wrong but..” “It must be tiresome, protecting her all the time.” His nostrils flared as he leaned towards me. “*No! * That is not what I meant.” I pushed my chair back a bit. *Okay Jonathan, that wasn’t wise. Remember, he isn’t all there*. As I recoiled, I saw the anger disappear from John’s eyes, the intensity vanishing, being replaced by a look of pure regret. “I’m really sorry Dr. Matthews. Truly I am. I didn’t mean to…ugh. Sorry, if you give me a minute, I can probably explain it to you.” He bowed his head slightly, and for a second I thought he was admonishing himself. “Please, don’t worry yourself too much about it John. We all have our moments. Take as long as you need.” I had barely finished my sentence when he looked up, all trace of negative emotions purged from his face. “Sorry. I’m not terribly used to explaining all this stuff. To address the tiresome part of it, no, it isn’t. Due to my ability, I always wake feeling fully rested. I can go out binge drinking, but even if I carry into the next day, it’s like my body has reset. I don’t feel it. So I never feel tired doing this for Cassie, because it’s really for me. I mean, I love her. She is my soul-mate. And if I just have to do a little time-traveling here and there to make the most time possible for us, then I consider myself lucky. Besides, it means whenever I want to relive one of those ‘perfect’ days, I can. It’s just that easy. But the horrifying bit? I know this sounds awful given what I’ve just said, but…well, all these deaths I view as preventable. Like I said, the universe is just throwing stuff at us daily, and I learn about them and circumvent them for us. I know I’ll be sad the day she dies her true death…you know, the one where her heart or her brain just gives out and there is nothing I can ever do to save her, but… well in the meantime, I mean, as bad as it sounds, I’ve just gotten used to it. Hell, the lightning striking twice thing? That was in one day. I actually laughed about that one. THAT doesn’t happen often, trust me, but normally I just see what happened, go through the rest of the day as I have to, and then go back a couple of days to prep for it. Once I pass the day I move on to the next, not knowing what will happen, and just keeping an eye out, fully ready to go back again and change things if needed.” As John finished his explanation, he dropped back into his chair a bit more. *Emotionally drained. Maybe switch topics again*. “I think I understand a bit more now John, thank you. Just so you know, it is perfectly normal for someone who sees something traumatic to develop some sort of coping strategy, so you deflecting it with a bit of humor here or there is perfectly natural. Much like a doctor or nurse, cop or firefighter. Don’t feel guilty about that.” I noticed his expression brightened a bit at this, so I pushed the conversation further.

John eyed me coyly. “As a matter of fact she does. She’s smarter than I am, she noticed after about 3 dates that I was saving her life far too often for it to be a coincidence. She made me spill the beans right then and there.” “Then and there?” “Oh, I stopped her from getting on a particular ride at the amusement park. It collapsed. Only time I have ever noticed that she was to be a part of a group death. But after pulling her from out front of the curb-hopping bus, and having an epi-pen on me when she was entering anaphylactic shock while I have no allergies…well…she asked, so I told her.” “How did you break it to her?” “Pretty bluntly. She likes that. Bluntness I mean. I told her that I possess the odd ability of being able to go back and re-live any day I want, and on the day I had decided to ask her out was actually my 53rd meeting with her. I didn’t do that intentionally by the way, I’m not a stalker or anything. I just really like the day we first met, I was 21, just bought a new guitar, had a good job and so, feeling courageous, I asked her out at the end of our conversation, and she said yes. Anyway, I told her all about it, and how she had died just following our first date. And then again the next date, and by the third, well, now we’re full circle to the conversation aren’t we?” “How’d she take it?” “She laughed. She said it was just her luck to be in mortal danger for the rest of her life.” “And what did you say?” “I said it was just her luck to have met an immortal who had nothing but time and a desire to see her safe.” *Delusions again*. “So you’re immortal?” “Oh yes, sorry. If I die in the course of a day, which has happened a couple of times, I wake up on the same morning that I died.” I decided to enter some dangerous territory. “So, forgive me for asking this, but instead of spending all night in a police station, and all morning speaking to me, why at any point after Cassie’s death today did you not attempt suicide?” John stared at me in disbelief, and began to giggle. “Because…I mean…” another fit of giggles. “Seriously, Jonathan, you’re smarter than this. Dying sucks dude.” As John Treys kept laughing, I felt a chill roll down my spine. I looked to my badge. Under a particularly bad photo of myself, it read “Dr. J. Matthews”. *How did he…* John was still laughing, softly now, wiping a tear from his eye. * I shouldn’t ask. I thought. It will just feed into his delusions*. “Besides…” John continued, unaware of any pauses on my part. “like I said, I wake up the same day. I can’t go back a day in advance to prep everything properly, so while it can get a bit tedious, waiting until I can fall asleep is obviously the better option. And besides, sometimes I get to have a bit of fun, take a mini-vacation and talk to folks like yourself. Explain my worldview, my ability, and my goal. I’m not sure how much of it stays with any of you after I go back a re-write the past, but I like to think that you walk away a bit more aware of the universe, and the weird things that inhabit it.” *Ease into it then*. “So you never follow-up with any of us? Just one time meetings, and then off you go?” His expression remained unchanged. “For the most part, yes. A few players have a habit of re-appearing, but as you can figure, they don’t realize it. They are always first-timers when they meet me.” *There’s that phrase again. Push.* “Would you be so kind as to let me look at your notebook?” John’s smile widened. I was struck suddenly by how fatherly he looked, like I was a child who had just asked the right question. He leaned towards the table, and slid the black book across the table towards me. It was beautiful. Rich leather, cream coloured pages. The dates were written as if by hand, but with an elegant flourish. And each page was written in, up until today. I flipped through the book, scanning page by page, looking. “I noticed you mentioned other people in here aside from Cassie. Interactions with others as well? Do you document those often?” “I document everyone of importance. If I think I will run into them again, I keep a note or two based off of whether they can do something for me, Cassie, or hell, if sometimes I can do something for them.” I see. I was back a month now, nothing. “And if I were to destroy the book?” “I’d be at loss until I fall asleep. I’ll wake up in the past before you destroy it.” “I see. That’s why you have no issues with me looking at it then?” “Precisely.” “Do you know what I’m looking for?” “Inconsistencies.” *Wrong.* “Will I find any?” “Try June 11th.” I looked up at him, but he was still just smiling. Inconsistencies. It was a polite answer then. He was letting me get there on my own. I looked at the book in my hands, and thumbed with a small amount of dread to June 11th. *June 11th – Cassie to be mugged today. Walk with her, leave her purse in the car. Wear your silver watch, and give it up when asked. Do not fight back, gun goes off and you cannot catch him. You’ll just make Dr. Jonathan Matthews miss his kids’ birthdays again. * I couldn’t bring myself to look up. “You called me a ‘first-timer’.” “I also said that you’re all first-timers. Even the second time around.” My hands were shaking. *Nope. Nope. Don’t look up*. “And me…? “Ah…well, this would be our twelfth meeting, Jon.” I couldn’t keep my head down any longer. I looked up, and he sat there smiling at me, as if he were looking at an old friend. I stood up. “No. No, sorry, but, I should have left awhile ago, this was unproffesional, and I…I…” John Treys stood up. “I’m sorry Jonathan. Normally I take you the long way around, we talk for quite a bit longer. But, well, they kept me up all night with questions, I’m tired, and I miss Cassie. I just didn’t want to walk out on you without doing our dance first.” I laughed. It came out more like a bark though. * I’m still shaking. * “It’s quite alright Mr. Treys. I’ll be taking my leave now however, I have other people to see..” John looked sad at this. He extended his hand, and I am not proud to note that I flinched. This seemed to cause John pain, as though I had slapped him. “Sorry, I just…just wanted my notebook back.” I looked down and saw that it was still clenched in my hand. I relaxed my arm and put it on the table. I went to slide it across but I only moved it an inch. John reached across the table and picked it up. He tore out a single page, and reached for his jacket. He produced the pen, and quickly, he scribbled down a note. He then passed it to me. “Here. The lotto numbers I quoted you earlier….look, hopefully that will help you forget about this. Maybe you’ll win and continue on rich in a different reality from me. But, well, if it’s still today, you can call the number I wrote down there. That goes to me, and we can talk out anything you need to discuss. Otherwise, I’m back to Cassie, full-time.” I took the note. It was indeed the numbers, and a phone number underneath the hastily scrawled name of Treys. I mumbled a thanks, and started towards the door. He didn’t make any motion to stop me, in fact he made no motion at all as I exited. I walked briskly to the front. Cathy was on the phone, but as I approached, she smiled. “Okay, okay. Yup. Talk to you soon. Bye.” She returned the phone to the receiver. She looked back at me, flustered but grinning. “So! How’d it go? Cool, right?” “What? Oh…yeah.” She stared at me expectantly. “Well? Come on. What was he like?” “Doctor-patient confidentiality, Cathy.” I said, a bit more coolly than I meant to. Stunned, Cathy swiveled her chair a little away from me, towards her screen. “Oh, okay then. Sorry I asked.” *Your right hand is still shaking*. I put the file down and crossed my arms, hoping the new position would help. “Sorry Cathy. Rough day. Twins and all flying through my head. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Cathy breathed out. “It’s okay. I’d be stressed too if I had doctors snapping at me all day, and e-mails and phones to answer….” A grin tugged at her mouth. “Oh wait, that is me! Jeez, how do I do it?” I rolled my eyes, the only response I could muster at this point. “Well, have a good day Cathy. I need to head out early if I am going to be dealing with the principal in a timely fashion.” “Oh, Jonathan, wait!” I had been half way to my coat when she called out, so as I turned around Cathy was coming around the desk with a piece of paper. “I’m buying the office lottery tickets tonight. You want in?” I looked down at the paper. There were 5 names already listed, each with a number next to them. 6-18-27-43-44. The chill ran down by spine again. I handed her a $20. Signed my name, and put the number 13 down.

_I need to wake the fuck up. I’m dreaming. But it feels too good to get up. The children’s voices ring in my dreamy memory, unconsciously serenading me to them. The children are playing in the playgrounds. It’s not their fun that attract some to them. Their shorts, almost exposed young white legs tamed by their pasty melanin, has me mesmerized. I’m not waking up. I’d rather stare. I don’t know to stop._ _My calendar reads: September 26, 1997. I’m 43 years today. I want me a young victim, I say to myself. Seven, to be exact._ _I call in sick. The chocolate factory is a doozy. Not much work; I just stand by the chocolate mixer and watch chocolate mix in with the almonds. I just push the big green button to start the process. Eight bucks an hour for that?_ _I tell my boss that I’m going out with my wife. Nobody knew much about my life, only that I was married. OK, was all he said._ _Bullshit, though. I never married. I, in my dream, awake to a nice and warm fall morning. Florida is all summer, so the fall was a false allusion to what I missed back in New England. It was 87 degrees in the morning, 95 tops. When you want little boys, I said to myself, there’s no place better than the young boys swinging in monkey bars in Florida._ _My hair is curly—a mess, I admit—but the boys like it. They are unforgiving bouncy curls that extend as the hair grows; the more hair, the tighter the curls. The healthier they look, too. I look to my left to see my white hamper, open and emitting a scent of musty sweat. Nerves left pits of sweat throughout my pile of dirty clothing. And I’d tell my ex that I worked out too much. Yeah, OK, she said, looking at my expanding stomach._ _I went straight into the hamper, and I took the clothes the smell the last offensive: Superman shirt (boys like that, I know), khaki cargo shorts, and black flip-flops. No deodorant, too._ _I leave my apartment and the heat tackles my arms and neck. At least I thought it was the heat. I’m nervous. Will he like me? I asked myself. I go to the playground near my home. It caught my attention. It always did. This playground was plain. Nobody paid attention to it. Perfect place to pick me a fresh young boy. The fresher the meat, the better the picking. Bunche Park is the name of this playground I snipe my targets at._ _The playground had the standard yellow slides, blue monkey bars, and hard plastic playhouses. Who woulda thought, I’d say to myself, walking twenty minutes to find little boys. On my birthday. Turning 43. Curls graying while the boy I want has no conception of the pubic hair. I liked it. I couldn’t help myself._ _I lived on 158th Street in Opa-locka. Not a bad distance from the incognito parks. Easy targets, barely any help available for the scared little boys._ _I make my way to the Bunche playground. I stop and smile, marveling the children and their ability to forget that they’re risking their lives to low lives who skip a full paycheck in order to fill their heads with false promises of hard candy, soda, and cookies. I couldn’t help myself, though._ _I see a small Cuban boy with hazel eyes. The sun assaulted me even more. The nerves were attacking me to strike. I felt the heat much more then before. My legs broke out in cold sweats under the 87 degree clouds._ _I’m nervous, I say to myself, but here I am. No turning back._ _I see him chasing a little girl in a purple skirt and gray top. She was one he seemed to have wanted. I felt envy coursing through my veins._ _I approached him._ _Hey, I said._ _Hola, said the boy._ _How old are you?_ _Turning seven._ _When?_ _In a few hours, Mister._ _Nice! Hey, want candy?_ _OK, Mister…_ _As I brought him closer to the exit of the park, I held his hand. His confused but clear eyes stared into my eyes. My palms started to sweat. He held my hand._ _I felt at ease with him, the little Cuban boy, who was turning seven in a few hours. We had walked the twenty minute to my home. I was going to wait to fondle him after I tell him that the closest I have to hard candy, cookies, and soda is a licorice in the pockets of my cargos. He had to find it. Putting his soft white hands into my pocket would help him._ _As we approached the entrance of my home,_ I yelled myself back to reality. 7:01 A.M. I was a minute late to getting ready to go to work. But before I lefty head, I reached over to my nightstand, over my girlfriend, and got my phone. I called my psychologist. Hey Michael, she said. Good morning. Beautiful day out, eh? Yep, I said. I got nervous. It was hot out. I turned on the TV. 87 degrees this morning. 95 tops, the meteorologist said.

This is my experience as a veteran of the battle for Eleandonor, belonging to the great territories and peoples of the Jertung, against the villany of Kortash and its Cranarian warriors. Third Jer'rath of the legion of Da'nun, reporting. I leave my quarters, the doors closing automatically behind me. I turn left and walk towards sounds of cheering that reverberate louder and louder with each step. I find Jorthax has joined my side, his normaly stoic and emotionless brow, dripping with sweat and anticipation. His steps are in line with mine. "Art thou prepared." he says, readjusting the throat guard to his tailored armor, designed in the ancient ceremonial style of his clan. "Aye, as ever as will be." I reply, turning my head from his direction towards the approching closed doors. " I said the incantations, the prayers and attended the sex orgy in celebration for my honorable death or that of my enemy." "This is the most important event in our recent history. News of your success in this fight will bolster the proxy armies of Nag-Lesh, perhaps invigorate the fighting spirit of those on the line, from here to the Xcrometer Rift. Please tell me you at least abstained from the wine." "I did not !" I said a little too loudly and a little too angrily for someone speaking to an equal. "I have a right to my hearts desire on the eve of a battle." "You do, it was only a wish." We stand in front of the closed doors, speaking no more. I work on controlling my breath and focusing on how I will out maneuver my enemy, what strikes to action and when to counter his parries. Finally I resign to the fact that it is up to the gods who wins or dies this day, for my part I can only rely on my years of training. As the doors seperate infront of us, the balmy sweat smelling heat of the rancorus arena washes over us. The horns are blown. My name and the name of the opposing faction are hailed. Drums are sounded with resounding ferocity all around us. Suddenly the master of ceremonies, dressed in flowing shapeless regalia, signals for the battle to begin. Jorthax, my honorary guard, and the one who will take my head should I lose, removes himself from my side yelling "Our great civilization and the survival of our families lies in your hands and arms oh great Khar-tung !" Again, I look away from him with stern determination, ignoring the opponent accross from me, towards a circular cavern in the middle of the arena. The noise and chaos of the crowd slowly fades as a table rises from the depths of the mysterious dark hole. I approach the table, as does my opponent. I withdraw a round ball from the dispensary and lean over the table, my arms in a defensive stance, feet shoulder width apart to maintian optimal balance. The master of ceremonies yells at the top of his lungs for all in the arena.

Words Written in a Book Shop Masqueraded Fashion Sense When school’s/work's not in session then some people (i.e., Me, You) become possessed by this spirit of inability to do really much of anything. The old institutionally driven motivations (i.e., You know what I mean) implode. Money is a pressing issue, or so it seems. Worst of all, we know the truth. Worst of all, we feel it and can’t express it. Worst of all, there is doubt – crippling, moldy, pestilent, ugly doubt. Worst of all, we too easily fall back into comfort and complacency, knowing it won’t last. These words are written in a book shop, and there is a fat lady next to me. Behold, the wheel-chaired woman over yonder. Look how she rolls through the days. What the fuck. Behold, the corporate book store, one of the last vestiges of the written word in suburbia. The corporate book store and the corporate coffee shop, where Asians study calculus, homosexuals read magazines and stare at the hipsters drinking macchiatos. This is where leisure dares to blend with work, cream and sugar optional. At least at the library, there is this truer sense of academia, this will to succeed and study. There is a different vibe at a place like this. At the library, you can’t find a starbucks – you need to bring your own coffee. Maybe that’s it, maybe we just love coffee too much. We love coffee! We drive out of our way for coffee. We drive through traffic and burn gasoline by our will for coffee. We escape the homes of our blankets and ever-patient Mr. Coffee machines for an environment where everyone is drinking coffee and pretending to do something important. “Look at me,” says the public coffee drinker, “I am important. I know how to read. I know how to write. Look at me. If you are really looking at me then you can probably tell that I’m struggling. I know you’re struggling too, my friend! I convey this message via the once-bitten apple on the back of my computer and the occasional glance around the room to make sure you’re at least somewhat invested in our situation.” We give up the privacy of our homes for the strange comfort of the public coffee forum. And we love to surround ourselves with books and the company of strangers. But it’s actually pretty great that the corporate book store does not discriminate – there are plenty of toys to be played with, films to be purchased, moleskins to be worshipped, and there is even a children’s section which (I think) most people appreciate whether you’re a parent or not. Of course, you need to buy these things first. Money is your friend in a place like this. The environment itself, the setting, the faux-escape, this is what interests me the most. The nature of the books and the coffee. Books and coffee, over and over and over and over. Drink coffee, because you’re American, and well, honestly, you won’t keep up with the rest of us if you don’t…I imagine it goes something like that. Hot or cold, tall or Grande, foam or no foam, it’s just fucking beautiful. It’s fucking beautiful how many choices we get. And then again comes the crippling doubt. Then again, we aren’t happy, and we are cursed with our freedoms. A big problem we have is that we only pray to God when we need something. Imagine if you had a friend like that, or a lover, who only called you when he or she needed a favor, or money, or some help, or advice, or guidance. You probably know what I’m talking about. It’s not always a bad thing (i.e., “that’s what friends are for”), if you ask me, and God is infinitely loving and caring (e.g., we’re still breathing). But I mean really…Man fell, and we can’t handle that shit anymore. So call us when you just want to ask what’s up. Call us when you’re just like, “Wow, what a beautiful fucking day, let’s get smoothies.” Or something. God loves to be praised, which is why I think they casted Alanis Morisette as God in “Dogma”. Women love compliments as much as God, and yet I feel like they both (God and women) also know when you’re being kind of a bitch and you have an ulterior motive. If there is any being that possesses the intuitive sense in it’s fullest faculties, it’s women, and God, too, sure. So be open and honest and free with your praise and compliments, and also with your constructive criticism. God has enough work to do, he has infinite work but he also has infinite leisure time, and he has infinite good days and infinite bad days, so it really doesn’t hurt to just fucking try for once. This brings me back to coffee. People drink coffee when they have to do work, but they also drink coffee for leisure (reading, etc.) Can you imagine god drinking Coffee? What is your concept of God? Let’s just say, I mean whatever your belief is, let’s just say that I am, like, a subjective consciousness of an infinite, all-encompassing, eternal essence. God got bored and wanted to play a game with himself in an infinite amount of ways. This game is called life (maybe). To put it into perspective, do you like playing chess? Magic cards? Do you play any sort of multi-player game? Do you play sports? Would the game be fun if there were no opponents? Sure, you could just claim to win every time since there was no opponent, but there wouldn’t even be a game to begin with. It would be a lame farce. Ecstatic victory and crushing defeat are part of the game. Victory can never truly be appreciated if you have never known defeat. Success is driven by the love of victory. The truly successful do not fear failure because they love playing the game, and will strive again for victory each and every time. No one says “I will purposely lose this game” without some sort of devious motives (e.g., gamblers and professional sumo wrestlers in Japan).* *Or so I’ve read. Coffee works into this somehow. God drinks coffee, probably, since I drink coffee, and I am the subjective experience of an omnipotent universe, and most people drink coffee in America (the world?). Along that same bullshit logic, a Meth Head could think that God smokes Meth because, well, the Meth Head smokes meth. And would he be correct in this bullshit fallacy? Maybe. Only a philosopher could philosophize that. I’m not here to do that – I’m here to write in this book shop and drink my corporate iced coffee w/ espresso, sitting in the corporate book store, so engaged in the present moment and yet also pierced right through the fucking heart by this arrow of longing, of a sense that this isn’t perfection, of this inability to truly reach out, of this nagging doubt and fear that wrestles with my passions and bright hopes and hazy dreams. But for now, I hear a baby crying, and the man in front of me is speaking Spanish, and that kind of captures my attention. I think I’ll go read a book now.

I dropped my purse. It was one of those Louis Vuitton bags that cost me about two paychecks’ worth. That’s what I cared about, superficially. I didn’t care about my credit cards I lost because of my massive debt. I was a compulsive shopper who had repressed the abuses in Victoria Secret bras that are too big to cover the bruises of my boxer boyfriend—the same guy who had not won a bout in three years. I had five tampons flop out of the left pocket. Maybe that’s why people were staring at me. Some laughs were distributed, too. But it was loud; the foot stomping and external conversations were outmatching the discreet laughter of the strangers surrounding me. I know this, in retrospect. Grand Central was packed and I had no time to stop. I kept walking. The hairs from the back of my neck were up. I know they were still staring as I turned my back towards them, exiting the Grand. The embarrassment was replaced by a humid sunny day in downtown New York. It was June. Not a great month to be out walking in the City. The day was clear, about noon, I’d say, but not so clear at the same time. The beads of sweat formed on my forehead as the humid breeze assaulted my sundress from underneath. The sweat rolled down to my eyes, stinging them. The tampons were still on the floor of Grand Central, but my memories of his abusive rhetoric as he fucked me were unbearable in thought. _(Imagine when it actually happened.)_ It felt so good to be me at the moment. I didn’t know why, but not far from Grand Central, I found the 1 train to the SoHo train station entrance and had found myself, each step towards the gum-encased concrete floor of the underground as the retired couple fro behind questioned my sanity, affirming their misery, and hoping they don’t miss the train because thy were walking cases of irreversible rheumatism. He fucked me—hard, very hard—but I don’t reach anything more than that. Oh, I was a _cunt bitch big-sassed dumb piece of shit fucking retard, who was only good for open-legged fun._ PlayLand had nothing on me, I guess. The scenes replayed on my mind, muting the Jewish old couple behind me as my sandaled foot stepped on the third descending step. They were muted, but I knew that I had heard their insults in a past life. After what seemed like forever, I was by the entranceway of the subway. Shit, I thought, no purse—no card. I jumped past the subway toll, the subway employee yelling at me from behind the plexiglass service station, and I heard the tracks screeching. The train is near, I said to myself. The 1 had neared, second by second. He fucked me—hard, very hard. _Fuck you, you pathetic cunt. (Slap) You’re nothing! (Slap) I’m so glad your mother’s dead! She won’t have to deal with broken bitches like you! (Slap) How about your dad? He fucked this pussy, didn’t he? I bet I was good when he did, I said to myself, the train’s force destroying my rib cage, liver, kidneys, splattering onto the tracks._ The humidity in the air was a sharp breeze of cold November that had left me dead without a sweater. _He fucked me—hard, very hard.

Space. It’s not as exciting as one would expect, especially not after watching countless episodes of Star Trek, Star gate, and movies such as Gravity or Interstellar. They may be considered corny now, or even just plain bad, but to me they will always be memories of my father, memories of old timey popcorn and root beer floats as we explored the final frontier together. I was a lawyer before. Wasted years studying dusty books in shining towers, a slave to the almighty dollar. Sure, I was successful. I made money. But I was not happy. Everything was too complicated, I only felt truly at home when I was in nature. I was in the Kennedy Space center when I heard the news. I was only able to get onboard because I was so close. I had been ready for months, knowing the day was coming when I would have to leave. It has been one thousand, eight hundred and twenty six days since I last saw home. Since anyone saw home. An anniversary of sorts, marking another year of isolation come and gone. There is nothing to do to pass the time other than to sit and watch it happen. They called us lucky, they called us survivors, they even called us escapees. There were no survivors that day. No, not everyone died, but no human survived. The boundaries of life and death are shadowy and vague. What decides where one ends, and the other begins? There aren’t very many of us left. Mostly me and my friends. At first, we were happy, exuberant even. We had food, we had water, and we had heat. We were alive, but we did not know that this would be a hard life. Soaring on a two billion dollar machine, one would think you would be in the lap of luxury. But there is no gravity, no meat, no fresh air. God, how bad they all smell. I have come to love the stench. We only had enough fuel to make it to a low earth orbit. Eventually, what little fuel we have left will not be enough to sustain it and we will fall from our Arcadia. Nothing perfect can last because the only constant is death. Looking down as we spin, I can see craters where cities once stood. Funny, that we all thought Hitler to be the worst mass murderer to ever exist, and we all were wrong. Our so called leader, with the push of a button, killed far more that all Hitler’s gas chambers. On the twelfth day aboard, I became Sheriff. A charade, really. Law brought to space. Civilization surviving after the event. Along with the badge came the key code to a big red button that accessed the armory. That was a beautiful mistake. I was first called to stand as sheriff on the twentieth day. Someone had accessed the armory and taken a knife to kill Mr. Cheung. I walked through floating bubbles of blood that day. I put his body in the decompression chamber. It wasn’t until I set him down that they realized his heart was gone. His death affected us all. Trust, companionship, friendship, all executed by the slice of a knife. To appease them, I changed the code to the armory. Who did it? Does it matter? There is nothing to be done. Resurrection is impossible. His heart was taken. They all asked me, who would take his heart? I took to wearing a pistol. Showing them the law was here and ready to be enforced. I would never fire it of course, but the idea of the sheriff enforcing the law with a gun made them happy. On the six hundredth and eighty sixth day, we were called to meet. Rationing was put in place. There were too many of us to survive indefinitely, even with the plants in the greenhouse. The numbers did not add up. Some of us must die for the rest to live. I visited their corpses today. Strange, I expected them to decompose. I guess I had only ever seen dead people on earth before. Mr. Cheung has company now. They killed themselves. A shame, really. They gave up, found no reason to live on. I brought them here, gave them the knife. No one else wanted to recognize death, but I know there is no escape. After their deaths, we had enough food. Plants from the greenhouse started to produce their fruit. And I had fine filets of the best meat that I have ever tasted. Its’ delectability definitely beats even that of the prime rib I had on my wedding night oh so many years ago. Nothing can compare. I have blocked off the way to the decompression chamber. Only I can get in and only I can get out. Sometimes I go there and just sit and watch them, their faces permanently fixed in a facsimile of a smile. They know true peace and true happiness. Now, on this anniversary of sorts, I can finally relax. I spin in this metal coffin, idly floating above the wasteland. Desolation and dust as far as my eye can see as the sun crests the eastern horizon. I must celebrate this anniversary. I have a veritable buffet of meats to choose from. None of it ever goes bad because I keep it in a vacuum sealed chamber. Each carries its own particular flavor, its own particular memory. This one, singed by an electrical fire. Another, dry and old, with the memory of steel. I talk to my friends as I eat, laughing over fond memories. I have found that meat, like wine, gets better with age. My favorite is of the Asian variety, harvested exactly one thousand, eight hundred and six days ago. Not much remains due to my snacking over the years, so I save it. To celebrate this anniversary of getting on the ship, I allow myself one bite of my first harvest. It tastes better than I could have imagined. I have found only one way to amuse myself on this ship. A fun game I play that I have been winning for these past five years. No one ever thinks to suspect the woman, no one thinks to suspect the law, but I have found that those with authority do whatever they please. I model myself after our great leader but with one exception- I will not kill myself as he did. He regretted his decision, but I love mine. I am afraid I have a bit too successful with my game. I am running out of playthings. With this ultimate power that I possess, I have chosen death too many times. There are only a few others left, but the number of my friends has increased dramatically. I am afraid the decompression chamber will not be able to fit them all. One of the last ones is my husband. He is weak. I have had to save him. With him, I think it is time to choose life. What better way to play my game than to create one of my playthings myself? For that, I will need him. It will take nearly another year, but my investment will be worth it. To have a new participant in my game will be thrilling.

I'm not sure how active this sub is anymore, but I wanted to put this out there. I'm not a very frequent writer, but I felt I had to get this down, and get it out there. I do want to know what you think, so please be honest! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ *There's a certain amount of irony here,* I thought, in a moment of self-consciously dramatic pause. As familiar as this street was, I kept expecting someone I knew to be in one of the passing cars. Maybe they'd lend a hand. Give me a lift. Maybe they would notice something was off, and they'd ask if anything was wrong. But no; first it had been a taxi, a garish blur of yellow through the stale smoke I blew in front of me. Next, a pizza delivery car. More than unfamiliar, they seemed foreign, and inauthentic, on my well trodden path to the library. *Is that even ironic?* I still couldn't keep up with what irony was and wasn't. I was shaken out of my self-pity for just a moment when I realized I couldn't feel my fingers. I'd taken my gloves off to better double fist a coffee and a cigarette. Not the "I'm so sophisticated" kind of coffee and cigarette my British friends liked to very publicly have in front of the hip coffee shop while sporting designer sunglasses and a single earbud in, but the "I'm so fucked" kind of coffee and cigarette I liked to very privately have on my way to write a 25 page research paper I hadn't started yet for a class I haven't been to in a month. *And we're back,* I snidely remarked to myself, as my thoughts returned to self-pity. A college facilities truck rolled past, kicking up a frigid dust. I took a drag. I took a sip. I wondered why I'd dug myself this stupid, stupid hole. I took a drag. I took a sip. I wondered how close I could get to 25 pages in 15 hours. I took a very long drag, and a very long sip. *It's definitely something, if not ironic.* Am I thinking of symbolism? Does my lonely trip to campus represent something? Do those anonymous drivers hold some kind of deeper meaning? *Is that Ryan? Oh - no. Just a pickup.* I sighed deeply, and tapped my cigarette, knocking the ash off the end. I was being dramatic, and I knew it. *"What's the best way to get out of a field of shit?"* I heard him asking in my head. "Get up and start walking," I mumbled, the frozen air crystallizing my words as they left my lips. He'd always said that to me. *It's that "get up" part that's the problem.* What are you supposed to do when you can't bring yourself to care that you're lying in shit? I mean, I know it's shit, but if I close my eyes and hold my breath, I can pretend it's not. Fuck me, I thought. When did I get so dramatic? I took a drag. *What am I, a girl?* An image flashes in my head: I'm *dressed* as a girl, wearing some ridiculous flowery skirt I picked up from the Goodwill, and she's got on one of my shirts, with one of my baseball caps pulled over her bouncy curls. It was our first theme party: dress up as your date. We look goofy. I could see her so clearly; her cheeks rosy from the gin and tonics we thought we were fancy for drinking, her eyes shut tight and her face scrunched as she strikes a funny pose for a photo. I can feel her soft curves through the flannel of my shirt as I wrap my arm around her, and I can smell the perfume she wore. *Did she wear it for me?* I make eyes at her - for the photo of course - and the flash goes off. We smile, we laugh, and we go for another drink. I looked up from my feet, and I looked back. *Shit.* I'd walked right past the library. I groaned, kicking myself, took a drag, and almost turned around, when I remembered where I was. I faced forward again; I choked on the smoke. *That bridge.* It had been three months since I'd laid eyes on that pond, that bridge. That damned bridge. I remembered the morning after the theme party, walking past that pond, that bridge, wondering if what they said about it was true. That if you took a girl across it, you'd be destined to be together forever. *Of course it's not true,* I'd thought, but I couldn't help but imagine taking her there. Brushing strands of blonde hair out of her face as I kissed her at the crest of that bridge. That damned bridge. I found myself sitting on a bench near the edge of the pond, and my mind was stuck on blonde hair again. Not hers, though. His. *Fuck.* My chest tightened. I got up to leave, but I couldn't turn away. The clouds of my breath were more distinct here, near the water, floating out over the pond like ghosts. *Just look away. Please.* But I knew I wouldn't. I hadn't been able to three months prior. I wasn't able to in that moment either. *I have a fucking paper to write. I need to start this fucking paper.* My eyes were getting bleary, distorting the ghosts I couldn't tear my gaze from. What would he say if he saw me right now? I wondered. I heard him in my head again. *"You're being a bitch, Dean. You're being a total fucking bitch right now."* He said it with a laugh. I knew he was right. He was always fucking right. I was being a bitch. But it was his fault. And I tried to tell him so. "It's your fucking fault, John," I managed to whisper, weakly, with a shaky breath. I knew I was wrong. It was his fault he had killed himself, sure. But it wasn't his fault I was being a bitch. It just felt good to blame him. That selfish fuck. I felt a buzz in my pocket. I pulled out my phone. "How's your paper coming?" she'd texted me. "Great. Working hard. I'll text you in a bit." "<3." *Yeah right.* I pocketed my phone. She wouldn't come to get me, not like she'd done three months ago when I'd knelt for hours in the mud at the edge of the pond, staring at that bridge, crying, empty. If I told her where I was, she'd tell me to stop wallowing. She always said that. *Fucking wallowing. I hate that word.* That's why I'd stopped talking to her about it. That's why we'd been so distant recently. *This is your fault too, John,* I lied. *Goddamn it, my paper.* The paper just felt so worthless. It all felt worthless. Parties felt worthless. Eating felt worthless. Showering felt worthless. Getting up and going to class felt worthless. Hell, getting up at all felt worthless. I didn't see the point. All I could see was John hanging from that bridge, gently swinging, back and forth. That goddamned, fucking bridge. I flicked my cigarette into the pond. I set the cold dregs of my coffee down on the bench next to me. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. I sat there for a while, just breathing that bitingly cold air deep into my lungs. "Beautiful, huh?" A voice from behind the bench startled me. I opened my eyes, and turned around. Some short, brown-haired girl, wearing earmuffs and a black coat, both of which seemed comically large for her frame, stood hugging her arms around her torso. "What?" "That bridge. It's so pretty at night. When they light it up. Isn't it?" She glanced up, toward the bridge at my back. She glanced back at me; her eyes were a pure, icy blue in the light. Her smile turned up in one corner of her mouth, sort of half crooked. "Oh. Uh, yeah." I glanced away. My brow furrowed. "I'm... sorry to have bothered you. Have a good night." I'd been too gruff. She turned on her heels and left. First I cursed her, but then I cursed myself. *You ass. She just wanted to talk. She didn't know.* It was starting to snow gently. A delicate calm settled over the pond. I looked at the bridge again, watching shadows dance across it, and thought about how stupid I'd been to have hoped for a friend to appear on the road earlier. I wasn't even sure anyone would've stopped for me. I'd been so detached from the people I cared about. I felt so lonely, so desolate. I wondered, for a moment, if this was how John felt before he did it. *People don't just show up with free bundles of joy,* I thought. *No one just shows up with a smile -* In an instant, I looked up, away from the pond, away from the bridge. She was still in eyesight. Something took over me; I shouted, "Hey! Hey, wait up!" She stopped and turned around. She still had her arms wrapped around herself. She seemed confused. "What?" she asked, terse. *You know, that crooked smile was kind of charming.* "Just wait a second!" Paper be damned. I got up, and started walking.

So, you’ve expressed interest in taking up arms and exacting revenge upon all walrus-kind. Or perhaps you’re wondering what they taste like. Regardless, there are a number of danger that you may face along the way. With that said, I must first warn you of the insatiable hunger of the common walrus. To that end, each GWI (General Walrus Infantry) such as yourself will be issued an Over-overcoat (patent pending) which will be lined with raw fish. You will also be issued a net launcher and gun that fires tranquilizer darts- by the way, we very, very strictly monitor the tranquilizer supplies, so don’t be “darting out” on me, you got that pipsqueak?! Secondly, These walrus have been known to forcibly sex their enemies into a catatonic state, or death if you get lucky, so hold on to your butts. Transportation’s already been lined up, and it’s nothing but the finest. An antique biplane will carry you from here to the sand-swept wasteland of Nova Scotia, a land of which little is known, because no man has ever returned to tell about it, and if one did, he had an accent so asinine that nobody could understand him, even if they were able to take him seriously. From there you will travel atop the Great Nameless Whale (he’s not mysterious or dangerous, he just changed his name needed to dodge some bill collecting dolphins) through the Arctic Septagon to the Sand Palace, home of all walrus royalty. Feel free to converse with the GNW as you travel, but be careful not to bring up the topic of supply-side economics, as there is absolutely no chance you’ll live to regret ignoring this warning. Upon your arrival, you will be expected to perform the Dance of the Elders, which is eerily similar to the “Electric Slide,” but with more exaggerated upper-body movements. Tradition dictates that you’ll be invited into the palace to feast with the Royal Council of Walruses and enjoy the finest accommodations a structure build entirely from frozen sand could possibly hope to offer. It is recommended that you bring several blankets, as they provide both warmth- which is in short supply- and because they can act as vectors for “biological suckerpunches” when combined with the “Just-Add-Blanket SealPox” packets, should your mission go pear-shaped. Assuming you’ve made it into the palace safely, having danced properly and avoided discussing supply-side economics with the GNW, You’ll need to eat whatever they serve, and do so with great gusto- 1:4 odds it turns out to be the GNW- or run the risk of giving them the impression that they cook poorly, which would cause their self-esteem to plummet (the only television they can get in the Arctic Septagon is the Food Network). According to our intelligence, they believe desserts to be the work of the One With Inverted Tusks, which is either a mythical beast akin to Christianity’s Satan, a severely disfigured walrus with a particularly strange case of Down Syndrome, or an elaborate, yet surprisingly transparent, hoax put on by the walrus media to beef up their ratings. Once you have made it safely into the guest wing of the palace, remove the five water-proofed burlap sacks you’ll find in your gear. Then go from room to room, gathering all the towels, tiny soaps, and individually packaged nuts that you can carry. Finally, you must extricate yourself from the palace which should be simple since, y’know, it’s made of sand. Just meet back at the LZ whenever your mission is complete.

I was cleaning out some old boxes today and found my notebook from jr. high English class. This short story was the best thing in it. Please note, original jr. high errors have been faithfully transcribed. It also looks like I was going through a comma stage: There once lived a mean king named Cygnon. All the towns people were his slaves. He forced them to work on his plantation for almost nothing. What little they got was taxed. Every day people thought of ways to overthrow him. His castle was virtually indestructible. No battering ram could smash its walls, and no one could tunnel under the moat, which was filled with deadly serpents. There was however, one thing that no one could protect you from. Outside the town lived a huge green Firebreathing dragon. Every time the huge beast walked, the earth trembled. How could they lure the dragon to the castle? Theres only one way, they thought, and that's to find out what it eats. So, one night, as the dragon slept, they went to the valley where it slept, and right away, it was evident that this dragon was very fond of young pine trees and people. It was a good thing the dragon didn't wake up. The townspeople filled their pockets with pine cones. Later they got out the seeds and planted pines all over the town, especially around the castle. One man, who experimented with alchemy in his spare time, came up with something that made them grow very quickly. Then, one day, it happened. The earth trembled, the castle shook. The king, halving never seen a dragon came out to look, not knowing better. With one mighty step, the dragon flattened the castle and the king. It ate the pine trees. The people knew well enough to get out of the way. When they came back, they rebuilt their houses out of oak and lived happily ever after. edit -- one letter.

I looked across the table at her tired face. I could see the crow’s feet from where the birds didn’t let her sleep. I wondered why that beautiful face was unable to sleep? The waitress snapped my stare by setting the cups and carafe between us. Looking down at me as if she knew what had happened earlier tonight. As if she saw I failed the one thing I swore to do. As the waitress left I looked back across the table to seed her staring at me with such feverous intent. I wondered if she saw in me what I saw in her; exhaustion, disappointment, and regret. I want to speak, no, erupt with words making her smile and laugh. Though, when I go to speak, all I can muster up is, “What are you thinking about ordering?” Stupid, stupid, stupid, what are you thinking about ordering!? I stop reflecting to catch her smirking, is that all it took? I can do this. Her eyes look so much brighter, in those eyes I can see everything, my future, my past, my all. I know there is solstice within. I finally build up the courage to tell a joke I heard earlier this week, I know she will laugh. As I clear my throat to speak, I hear from above as if God himself was thundering down, “Please rotate to your next speed date.” And just like that, she’s gone, removed from my world, torn away. I look back in front of me to across the table at her tired face, I could see the crow’s feet from where the birds didn’t let her sleep.

My eyes hurt like a bitch. I didn’t know if it was my eyes or if there really was so much smoke. I think I’m in a forest. I’m lost. I started walking. The smoke cleared out. I couldn’t really figure out if it was smoke or mist. I looked up at the sky to get a feel of what time of the day it was. Something caught my eye. I saw a silhouette of someone hanging from a tree; what really upped my heart beat was a girl who was sitting there calmly. My first instinct was to run away. I still don’t know why I walked up to that girl. “Who is he? Why did he hang himself?”. She slowly turned her head towards me. “I was late. I should have been here a little early. You think I could have saved him?”. “That doesn’t really matter now”,I said. ”I was late.” I guess she was just saying it to herself. I sat next to her. I could see it in her eyes. The pain which hits you when you loose someone close. I didn’t know if I should have talked to her or left her alone. I just sat there quiet. I don’t know why but I felt comfortable being around this girl. The silence was too long and now it became as an awkward silence. She said, “I die. I survive.”, and shot herself. When a person sitting next to you just shoots herself you can’t remain calm anymore. I freaked out and I started running. I tripped over a root and hit my head hard on the ground. My eyes hurt like a bitch. I didn’t know if it was my eyes or if there really was so much smoke. I think I’m in a forest. I’m lost. I started walking. The smoke cleared out. I couldn’t really figure out if it was smoke or mist. I looked up at the sky to get a feel of what time of the day it was. Something caught my eye. It was a girl. She was lying there dead. I walked near her. Tears started rolling down my cheek. Your mind becomes numb when you see your girlfriend dead. She was holding a gun in her hand and had a bullet wound in her head. She must have shot herself to death. She was supposed to be my other half. We were supposed to die together after growing old. She promised that she’d never leave me alone. She lied. She once told me “I always want to die before you, I can’t live here without you”. I hugged her and cried out loud. I heard footsteps. The footsteps were getting louder and louder. I could have stayed there but I wanted to know who it was and the reason why they’d come there. I walk slowly to the back of the tree and hid myself. Someone or something hit me hard on my head. My eyes hurt like a bitch. I didn’t know if it was my eyes or if there really was so much smoke. I think I’m in a forest. I’m lost. I started walking. The smoke cleared out. I couldn’t really figure out if it was smoke or mist. I looked up at the sky to get a feel of what time of the day it was. Something caught my eye. I saw a silhouette of someone hanging from a tree, what really upped my heart beat was a girl who was sitting there calmly. My first instinct was to run away. I still don’t know why I walked up to that girl. "Who is he? Why did he hang himself?”. She slowly turned her head towards me. “I was late. I should have been here a little early. You think I could have saved him?”. “That doesn’t really matter now” I said. ”I was late.” I guess she was just saying it to herself. Wait. I have a feeling like I have been here before. My senses tell me that something is going to happen. Should I say this to her or should I not. The silence has reached a point where it is now awkward. She said “We die. We survive”. FUCK! I have heard this before and I know what happens next. In reflex I reach for her gun. I managed to push it away from her head. I still hear the shot. I also see blood on the ground now that’s confusing. Wait. She shot me. “You die. You survive.” she said. “WHAT THE FUCK girl !!?? Are you kidding me??”. My eyes hurt like a bitch. The place was filled with smoke. I breathe out heavily. It clears out the smoke in front of me. I see a bong in front of me. “How was it?” my friend asked. ”Bad trip. Worst trip ever.” /-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ Sorry for the title... It was to draw your attention. This is my first attempt at writing. English in not my first language. I'm sorry if I'd made any mistake . Feel free to give your comments.

My throat was parched, probably due to those kinds of nights. Maybe I didn’t want to rise from those blankets that kept whispering through friction of the textile. “Sleep a while longer,” It beckoned. “Not today,” I replied. Aching muscles hindered too many quick movements; a slow subtle, fluent motion of my legs escaped the entangling snares. The cold wood floor grazed my toes. With a drop of my heels, I felt a jolt of electricity shoot up my legs and into my chest. Mornings were not pleasant. A ray of light emitted through the gap between the window and the bamboo shutters. That light enjoyed blinding me as I rose each morning from my zombified state. It was not long before I finally traversed through several open archways into the too-well-lit kitchen. The numbers on the digital stove clock read 9:42. School had started almost nearly an hour ago, but this proved little inventiveness to foil my day. A late night gave me permission to pass out in my clothes from the night before. Because of the awkwardness of my situation, I had no hunger to spare to the enticing array of assorted boxes containing various forms of processed sugar. I directed my attention away and to the high-top Nikes which were always cherished. They slipped on as easily as normal with the laces tucked away underneath the tongue. My bag was packed from the night before and sat in the entryway awaiting to be hoisted as a fisher would his net filled bountifully. I neared the door and extended my arm as if to shake the hand of a friend whom you would be saying your formal goodbye to. The crisp morning air irritated my throat. I would not be outside for more than a few minutes, meaning I would not have to be breathing in gaseous glass for much time further. While taking my beginning steps towards the gate, I reached for the rusting bar weathered for years. It flaked under the pressure of my fingers brushing it ever so lightly. I pushed it back after I passed through and heard the latch lock. I made my way to the intersection. Cars whizzed past in a fury of nerves and melted rubber. A passage cleared when a good samaritan of a driver paused his actions to part the asphalt sea. My first steps across the crosswalk felt awkward as I focused on the question of if I walk differently than others. The school was within my sight at this time. Steps taken up to the doors seemed to take longer than usual. Nerves, I thought to myself. Before I reached the portal, the bell had rung. I wouldn’t have to bother any classes this way, good. When I opened the out-hinged doors, through the window I saw figures travelling each to their own destinations to attempt learning a prepared discussion by their teachers. What a shame most of them won’t. The office based on my left, I eased forwards. Around the corner and down the hall I crept. Faces turned, their white-washed faces eyed me down. Bodies parted just as the cars had as I passed. My shirt was still bloodstained; when I walked, my shirt felt as if it were rusting while flakes of dried blood floated to the cold slated linoleum floors. I unzipped the backpack from left to halfway up the top. the sound of zippers always amused me. the way I would vigorously snap my hand back and forth would entertain both my friends and I alike. It’s such a shame how my mother never saw the little things which caused my teacher to give me the look of irritation. What a shame she was no longer. As I dug deep into my bag, eyes not once gazed away. My hand felt the cold metal; its barrel laid in my palm. When I knelt on my right knee, I extended my other arm into the pack and felt for the grip of the handle. Sliding my fingers around it, my forefinger clutched around the trigger. I had made sure to load the magazine the night before after I had dealt with my mother.

English isn't my main, so i apologize in advance! This is my first one here! Thank you! **Light to My Eyes** Seeing life always marveled me, my friend. Life in a particular smile or particular trait, as something in the outside world. Can you believe it? Could be in a person or a animal, a song or a poem(..)The simple thought that *was* *a* *being* that made it, made me believe that there it is indeed, love and happiness, my friend, it exists! Even if only somewhere inside of this beings. And you see, i could grasp for it! Even if my body was rotten and forgotten, turned into bones and sand, i could feel this feelings of light! My spirit and i, i thought. We, in this line of light would to be guided into this somewhere, this magic land. There, where the hearts beat, the feeling feels, the sun burn and the snow hurt; where the living ones are alive. Even to come to think of it i tremble, you see, i remember; i was starting to have a desire to have a feeling, my only motion, a emotion to feel. My bones shuddering, recognizing this, began to rose! Rosing to the earth my friend! Could you believe it? The only difference of me, a dead, to the living; was that their flesh simple wanted to live and continue, and my bones wanted to be flesh and stop there. Their emotion was to live. Mine; to became a living one. But now i see, i already was a living being, my friend. I already was. An angel came across my way one day, or someday, and said; you could feel what you want to feel, and you are already feeling. I didn't believe it! It was an angel! And it talked! And talked to me! And with that words, as if it knew my soul by the insides! If i had eyes they certainly were to be brightened up, a light in my spirit, a light in my eyes! I could have it! Finally! To have flesh, to be a being! I was entranced. The angel was in front of me, flying steady and calmy. Looking me directly into my eyes. Come closer my friend, and listen. Serious, calm, stood in there was the angel when it gave me my one true gift that i will never forget. Come closer, i will have to say this to you, you wouldn't believe it! *She said that i already had light in my eyes.* And hence, when i came to think of it, that was true my friend! This is when i realized i could walk for wherever i wanted. To become a wanderer to the world, to talk about what i feel! Can you believe me? *"..."* *Haha! I hope we met when you become meat again!* With a sweet laugh, with his vague and calm steps he said goodbye. He was himself part of the world, a part that walked for far away, and for a long time, bringing hope and stories to whom he met.

There are far too many cameras and far too many people in this room. The flashing of the camera bulbs irritates my eyes. I suppose I'm ready to tell my story. My whole body aches but I think I can manage a few sentences. They want to know what I saw. There was a problem with the spacecraft. I got too close to a black hole... I don't think it was my fault. It's hard to say. My craft appeared light years upon light years away from the black hole. My sensors said I was at the edge of the known universe. I did the only thing I could. I turned the cryo-chamber on, turned my ship around, put her on full burn, and went to sleep. Apparently they sent a rescue team for me. Somehow they found me. It's been twenty years. Honestly not as long as I expected to be gone. It doesn't make any sense. That's okay, I accept it. "What did you see at the edge of the universe?" said one of the interviewers. I tried to reply without giving away how weak I felt. "Nothing," I said. "You are the only explorer to reach the edge of the universe. Is that all you saw? Nothing?" "When I say nothing... I mean nothing," I struggled to say. "Just an empty void of space. Blackness all around?" "No, no. I saw nothing." "Yes, exactly. It was all black?" "No. You misunderstand. I saw nothing." The man appeared to be getting agitated. He obviously just didn't understand. I sighed. "There was nothing. Let's think about this. What do you see out of your third eye?" The man chuckled. "I don't have a third eye." I nodded. "Of course. But what do you see? What do you see out of your elbow? The back of your head?" "I... I don't... nothing." "Is it black?" "No..." "Exactly... Just nothing." "That doesn't make any sense. You looked out the cockpit window of your craft and..." "There was absolutely nothing. I can't make it any easier than this." "That's... wow. Do you remember what you saw when you went into the black hole?" "I..." I couldn't find the words. "Anything at all?" The man asked. "Was it the same as the edge? Was there nothing?" "No..." I smiled. "I saw everything.

“Welcome back Devi, have a nice stroll?” Shun tried to stand up but was still too exhausted. She’d led him to a small shop, only a few blocks from his own home. If they were going to be searching for him they’d look farther out then move inwards, standard procedure. She decided to leave him sitting by a barrel, taking his shirt and pants with her in case they decided to use the dogs to track. The only problem with this was, he was naked. Luckily he huddled by a barrel and not a soul stopped to talk, no one even looked his way, as if this were common. Well anyone with any decency would speak up! “Oh you know, a 7 click run to the walls and a 7 click run back. They’ll have a hard enough time finding those clothes though; Uppers don’t know those bricks like we do. They’re hidden right good. Now, ready to go in? All this running’s got me tired.” Fourteen clicks? She was only gone an hour, there’s no way she ran that far. It was no wonder the lowers are looked down upon if all they do is lie. But, was she lying? He’d heard of enhancements but not a single Council Head had started the research. Shun decided it best not to say anything at all. At least this distracted him from his nakedness. They entered the shop to find a short, portly man with very few strands of thin white hair left on his head. He didn’t even bother looking up from his papers, how safe could this place be? “If yer lookin’ fer rooms take the last one at the bottom. Somethin’ tells me yer in it deep this time Dev.” He spoke in deep tones, the rasp in his voice only accentuating the time he’s been alive. Devi didn’t break stride, heading towards the back of the shop, talking to him as she passed. “I thank ye Rodg. We got a little prince here, daddy wants ‘im dead. We’ll be here for, oh I dunno, I’ll pay ya when we leave.” “Don’t forget this time ye hear?” “Yeah I hear ye Rodg, thanks again.” She led Shun to a cupboard; at least it felt like one. A tiny little room, only there were no shelves, it was just empty. Devi grasped a brick from the wall and pulled it out, the ground underneath him shook and they were soon descending. An identical floor replaced the one that he stood on above him, blocking his view of the small entrance. “Devi, what is this? Where are we going?” He asked, almost afraid he’d gotten into deeper issues than the ones he would have had had he stayed at his house. “Don’t worry ye pretty little head. You’re in a safe haven, my kind use these to escape hunting parties and generally for vacations when we need ‘em. Your kind never been near one of these, I can guarantee that, but they’re all over the city. You’ll see, it’s almost worth it to never leave.” The stones he stood on began to slow, and finally stopped. He could understand what she meant now, about not wanting to leave. It was a cavern, vast and empty, at least 3 clicks out from where he stood, and there was water, a beach! He’d not seen a beach in years! Artificial sunlight streamed down and covered him, he couldn’t help but to close his eyes and revel in the feeling. A cool wind blew, and the expected dampness one would normally find in a cave was non-existent. It was a paradise. “Devi, I… I don’t know what to say, this is amazing! It’s incredible! Who built it? Why aren’t there people here? And… Wait, what do you mean your kind? The less?” “Shh little prince. Due time. Let’s get you in some clothes; I like a man as much as the next woman but there’s no fun when you can’t play with it.” Shun almost blushed. So she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, but she was right. He needed to get some clothes on and he needed answers. Clothes came first, one thing his mother’s memories taught him, a man can best talk to a woman when she doesn’t have the advantage. Devi led him down a small sand pathway towards a grouping of brick houses. They passed a few, he counted 8 and another row started. They continued walking downhill until they reached the last row. “Alright Rodg didn’t specify so each of these is free, take yer pick.” “Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter which now does it? This one,” he said, pointing at the one nearest them, “will work just fine. Are there clothes inside?” “Yeh Rodg keeps each stocked with everything you need. The system in each would make you Uppers cry, it’s all automatic. Foods, water, clothing, it’s all done by a bio-printer. All of it, except the water at least. That just comes from the rivers outside the walls.

(First chapter of my up and coming story) *Beep Beep Beep Beep Bee-* With a crash, the small alarm clock was sent tumbling abruptly down to the floor. With a groan, a hung over and ill tempered figure pushed the covers back, squinting at the light just now creeping through his window. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with one hand. With a grunt, he hoists himself upright and shuffles into the bathroom, rinsing his face and staring at himself in the mirror. “James Marshall, you look like hell.” He grunts to himself. He always looked like hell, just varying shades, depending on the day. The middle of the week was often unkind at any rate. He strips down and draws a warm shower, stepping in to cleanse the sweat of another fitful night away, relaxing his tense muscles and exhaling slowly. Slowly, he soaps himself, shampoos his unkempt shoulder length hair, and lets the water take the stress and worry away if just for a moment. After a scant five minutes, the shower cuts off, his allotted shower ration for the morning expiring. With a short huff, he carefully steps out of the shower to towel himself off. Just as he finishes. The communication console, commonly referred to as a Com-Con, lights up with an incoming message. Reluctantly, the newly washed man makes his way to the screen, keying the green 'Answer' prompt. Immediately, a very irate and very fat man flashes onto the screen, cigar chomped firmly between yellowing teeth. “Marshall! Station, thirty minutes! Don't keep me waiting. I mean it this time boy. Do not keep me waiting!” A groan and a nod was his answer. He hangs up the Com-Con and dresses quickly, donning a pair of pressed black slacks, a cheap white button-up shirt, a shoulder-strap holster, and his black waistcoat. He grabs his revolver and badge from his nightstand, pocketing the metal and leather shield and slipping the heavy handgun into its holster, securing it into place. He laces up his pair of polished black boots and slips a thin blade into a hidden sheath in the ankle of the boot. Standing, he dusts his pants off, grabs his pack of nicosticks, and heads out the door of his dingy two room apartment. With swift feet, he makes his way down two flights of stairs to the parking garage. The lift was busted for the fourth straight month. He felt like he needed the workout anyways. He throws the door to the garage open, nearly smacking a tenant on his way back in directly in the face. James utters an apology and keeps on his way, despite the string of foul words from the other tenant. Quickly, he files down the rows of shining metal and stops at the spot that held his old roadster. He opens the door and lowers himself into the drivers seat. Detecting a change in occupancy, a panel slides open, revealing a small glass pane, reading “Identify”. He presses his thumb to it and speaks. “Marshall, James Augustus. Civil Identification Oh Three One Two Nine.” “Identification confirmed. Welcome back, James.” The engine spins to life, the turbine emitting a low whine as it comes to speed. He eases backwards and turns to exit the garage. The gate lifts to allow him to pass, and he steers his way onto the busy highway carefully, heading into the belly of the beast that was Crimson Main, one of the largest cities on the planet of Mir. The city itself held a certain archaic feel, reminding one of the Chicago of the twentieth century, back on Earth, before the trans-planetary acceleration gates failed. Ten minutes of driving brings him to the towering spire that was the Central Justice Union. He navigates the aging vehicle into the parking building, nosing it into his assigned space, narrowly avoiding trading paint with the car of fool next to him, who was parked almost a foot off center, almost encroaching into his space. He grumbles loudly to himself as he finishes parking, having needed to realign once to park straight. Still fifteen minutes to go. He makes a quick jaunt down the street to a busy coffee shop. The girl at the counter knew him at once and called an order back to the elderly man making orders for half a dozen people. “You're early, Jay. McHanson have something 'Important' for you?” She emphasizes the word important with actual finger quotations. James nods solemnly and sighs slightly. “Old bastard probably needs me to investigate his wife for being a harlot. Again.” This earns a high pitched giggle from the girl. She turns to accept something from the elderly man and sets it on the counter. A steaming pastry and a cup of scathingly hot coffee, black as night, and sweet as sin. He digs in his pocket and lays a handful of bills on the counter. He always over-payed for this indulgence. The girl was of ill fortune, barely of age to work in the city, but already two years on the job. “Be careful today, guy. Talk on the street is nowhere near good. That Ishikawa-Murray blowhard has been stirring up trouble again. Damn corporate backers can't leave the issue alone!” The girl had slammed her hand down onto the counter, causing a lock of bright green hair to slip out of her cap, gaining a sly grin from James. “Green this time? That's new.” “Shut up, you. I got tired of black again.” He answers with a shrug and grabs his coffee and pastry. He takes a sip back and grimaces from the scalding heat. “Take care, Mare” “You too, old man” He chuckles and shakes his head as he departs. He was barely mid-way through his twenties, but still had ten years on the girl. What a sad ordeal, such a young thing forced to earn a living for a deadbeat mother. A story he himself knew all too well. Without much more hesitation, he makes his way into the spire, taking a vertical lift to the investigations department floor, midway up the lofty structure. He had barely stepped off the lift when he was bombarded with the bellowing shouts of the massive man who held domain over him, and signed his paychecks. Impassively, he takes another sip of coffee. It was going to be a long, long day.

"What does it matter, Mom" I ask, irritated, downing the glass of vodka and pouring myself another. "I'll be dead within six months". "I know Sean, it's just..." She trailed off, her eyes tinged with disappointment. I stare back disgusted. It had been half a year since the diagnosis. Four straight months of hedonism and debauchery had reduced whatever sympathy my mother had for me. I get up and go to my car, doing up the buttons on my Navy Blue Ralph Lauren sports coat and putting on a pair of tortoiseshell Wayfarers. In my car I do a line of coke on the dashboard, not caring that some of it lands on my jeans. I turn on the ignition and 'Tainted Love' is playing on the radio. I look back at the house as Marc Almond is singing "Once I ran to you/Now I run from you" and drive off, humming aimlessly to myself as I feel the coke start to kick in. At the pier I walk down to the edge, near the empty hotdog cart and light a cigarette. The pier is almost deserted, save for a few street merchants and a couple buying a large pink cone of cotton candy for their daughter. I lean against the railing and stare at a young woman of about 20 who is probably a student and is taking a photograph of a beach-bum and I smile to myself, thinking that a year ago, I would've liked to have tried talking to her and maybe tell her that her hair looks nice and that her faux-vintage Elvis Costello t-shirt is actually really hip and then maybe I would take her back to my place and fuck her. Instead I just continue smoking and turn my attention back to the family who are now preoccupied with a seagull that dances up and down the barrier, much to the amusement of the little girl. I remember how I used to come here with my parents when I was little and we would buy a triple-scoop ice-cream to share and how my father would lift me on his shoulders so I could see out over the ocean and I'd ask questions like "daddy, what happens if the boat goes too far out, would it drop off the world?" and then my mother would laugh and how after visiting the pier we'd drive over to the cinema on Third Street Promenade and how I'd bury my head into my mother's shoulder when the scary parts of the movie came on. I try to cry but nothing comes out so I sigh and light up another cigarette instead. I take off my Wayfarers and rest them on the wooden barrier next to me. Gazing out across the water where luxury yachts go by slowly, I notice how cold I feel despite it being 50 degrees outside. I stay at the pier what feels like an eternity then walk back to my car and get in and drive off. The sky above the city was a dim orange that day.

I could feel the eyes on me, countless and faceless among the trees. Their ceaseless stare laid upon my back, my head, my arms like hands longing to grasp me. But still I watched the fire. The edge of the forest approached close enough to be brushed lightly by the glow of the flame. On the moonless night, the flicker was not enough to give the eyes faces. Obediently, they waited in the darkness of the timber. Even so, they were my only company. I sat alone in my small clearing in the thick woods, as I had every night since the last time I saw another human being nearly a fortnight ago. The steel of the hatchet was cool on my thumb as I stroked the blade mindlessly. I went inside my canvas tent, the walls painted orange by the dying fire outside. The late September night had brought a chill to the air and I got beneath my goose down blanket and readied for sleep. Laying alone in the forest, I watched the white fabric of the tent. The glow slowly dimmed and soon the light was gone. And the watchful eyes were freed from the shadows. I could feel them outside the tent. I closed my eyes and thought only about the sunrise. - The sun set as I finished the rabbit I had caught and cooked that day. I added more wood to the fire and watched as the stars slowly began to appear, one by one, in the darkening night. As with the stars, so did the eyes. I felt the first pair fall upon me as the blanket of darkness covered the trees. These were swiftly followed by a second, and a third. Soon, between every tree, I felt a piercing stare. I shot mine back. They were intelligent, staying in the darkness, unseen. Two weeks ago, when the moon was full, they were not so close. They were up the tree line 40 or 50 meters. But tonight they were at the forest's edge, watching me, only using the last trees to take shelter from the firelight. They had been watching me every night for two weeks. They could see me. I could only feel them. And I could do nothing about it. Two weeks and all we had done was watch each other. Furiously, from the firelight, I screamed at them. “What do you want from me?” The only answer from the shadows was my own echoing rage. The sound softened until it was no more. The night was again silent. No sounds came from the forest, as when a predator is present. “Who are you?” I screamed again. I knew there would be no answer, but my newfound energy from the rabbit had manifested into rage. I was standing now, holding the hatchet low in my right hand, staring past the fire into the blackness. The eyes in the trees only stared back. I had had enough. I walked to the stump next to the tent and threw my hatchet into it. I went to my pack and put it on. I took my bucket of freshwater and poured it on the fire. There was a flash of steam and the blazing flames were replaced by simmering embers. And I stared into the trees. I could hear my heartbeat in the silence. I stayed standing and watching, but they did not move. The coals slowly died as I stared, unblinking, into the trees. I had never been in such darkness. My breath was quick and shallow, trying to keep pace with my heart. And they stared. “Why are you here?” I yelled. I needed a release and knew there would not be an answer. I took a step forward toward the the tree line and listened. Nothing. I took another. And then another. There was no response. I kept walking towards the trees and I left my hatchet deep in the log. And they kept watching every step, dutifully, unbreakably. I was at the edge of the tree line now, and I was trying to control my breath. I stared at the darkness between two trees in front of me. We were face to face. I could feel it. It was formless and confident. I stood tall and straight, trying to prove my confidence. It backed away into the trees and I followed. Somehow, in the trees, it was even darker. I could not see my hand in front of my face. I could not see the stars in the sky. Passing through the trees, I followed its eyes that I could feel heavy on my chest. Then I felt another gaze on my shoulder. Then one on my back. They had surrounded me. I was outnumbered and in their territory. The crept in close, increasing their pressure. My heart beat from my chest as I tried to stand tall, alone in the black forest. Closer they came. I could feel its breath on my face now. “What are you!” I grabbed the magnesium hand flare from my pack and lit it. The crimson light illuminated the forest. “Jesus Christ,” I said aloud and spun around holding the flair high. It showed an empty forest. The dancing red light only shone upon the trees, the dirt, and myself. The piercing stares were gone. I turned around with the flair a few more times to make sure I believed what I knew. I turned around and around until the flare went out and I walked back through the trees, unbothered, to my camp. I sat in my chair in the darkness and watched the stars. I had never seen so many in my entire life. I left the hatchet deep in the log. -- -- -- Thanks for reading! Feedback is much appreciated! I had to give up writing when I switched majors from Creative Writing to Physics. Now that I graduated, this is the first thing I've written in 3 years. So tear it up! I need it. Feel free to analyze what you got out of it, too. I would like to know what it meant to you.

“You know what really boggles my mind?” “What’s that?” “The concept of this whole “beginning and ending” thing.” “What do you mean?” “What I mean is that the concept of beginnings and endings are all relative and when you really think about it, don’t stand up to reason.” “Ok.” “For example, let’s take Little Red Riding Hood. The story begins with Little Red Riding Hood being told to stay on the path and don’t stray, and ends with the wolf plan’s being foiled. Yet, what led us to that point? What came after?” “I guess another story?” “Exactly! Little Red Riding Hood lived a life before the famous story, and, hopefully, long after. These concepts of start and finish are bookmarks we have artificially created to tell a specific tale.” “All that seems like common sense though? Of course there is a start and finish. Things begin and then things end. Everyone knows that.” “Of course they do, it’s easy to apply those labels to a story that is broken down for you by the bindings of some hardcover or the tolerance of some bard. What I’m really trying to get at is the concept of life and death and our perception of loss and sorrow.” “John…I’m not ready to talk about this.” “Sam…It’s been three long years and I can count the amount of times I’ve seen you in that time on one hand. You are my brother and my best friend. I won’t give up on you and I want to help you.” “I’ve tried. I’ve done all I can and nothing will ease the pain. I’ve seen psychiatrists, talked to our family, and so much more and I keep getting taken back to that one moment…” “Sam. That’s the problem.” “Excuse me?” “You are trying to forget and move on. However, there is no way you will ever recover from the love of your life passing away.” “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of game are you playing!?” “No game. All I’m trying to do is…” “I don’t need this shit. Fuck you and Fuck this. I’m out of here.” - What fucking nerve? Are you kidding me? Who does John think he is coming in here and talking to me about Little Red Riding Hood and wanting to make my life better? What has he ever lost in his life? How much pain could be earned from living off our parent’s money and smoking the days away? God Damnit. I’ve been doing so well too. - I leave the café and begin walking the same walk Claire and I used to walk before…well… Before… For the first time in…I can’t even remember…I think about before the accident. Before the phone call at 4:23am. Before all the sirens and questioning looks and the flat line of my wife’s now still heart. I see her face. I see her smiling beautiful face with her eyes that are slightly offset. I see her infamous top bun that she was so damn proud of. I look back to our engagement, the moment I knew my life was complete. I begin to look beyond the circumstances that shattered my very existence and begin to see the larger story. Damn, John, how did you do that? I was too blinded by rage to see what he was getting at. Life isn’t defined by a single story but an entire library. For these past three years, I’ve been reading the same book over and over again and have been missing out on all this world has to offer. I know what I need to do now. - “John?” “Hey Sam.” “I want to apologize for before. I was completely out of line and couldn’t see that you were just trying to help me.” “You have nothing to apologize for. I just care so much about you and hate seeing you like this. I’m just trying any and every angle I can.” “Our lives were so amazing together and there are so many incredible moments that will last with me forever. My life isn’t defined by her death, it’s just one story. It doesn’t end here.” “Exactly.” “All I’ve been seeing is her dying over and over again. It’s not a way to live. I’ve always assumed that was the end of her, but the truth is that she is always with me. From a walk we used to take in the park, to the dairy aisle where she was the sole suspect in the murder of 30-some milk jugs, her memories transcend her…her…” “They transcend all of us. Claire is not gone, she is all around us. Though we see death as an end, it is only another point in this crazy journey we are all taking. One that never truly ends. These stories of our lives are what WE make of them. They are not defined by simple boundaries but by ourselves. That’s all I was trying to get you to see. She may have passed on, but she is never gone, and her story never ends.” - I look at him in silence, fully grasping what his words mean. Her story is now my story. While her body couldn’t withstand the stress of a drugged out teenager behind a wheel, her soul always will. Her beautiful soul touched so many in this world and we all will take the torch to keep her fire alive. I will never move on from this or forget about her. She is, and forever will be, everything that I am and strive to be. She is my inspiration and the reason I wake every morning. There is no reason that should have ever changed. We are conditioned to believe that everything must start and stop, live and die, begin and end, but the truth is a much more wonderful thing. Time is relative and the constraints we place on ourselves arbitrary. We are the masters of our tale, and Claire, for me, the words.

*About what? It?* *Yeah, it.* *And?* *What do you think it is?* *We've been over this. We've been waaaayyyyyyyyyy over this. We don't know. I don't want to know.* *Yeah, but.........sometimes I still wonder.* *Wonder what?* *What it is!* *Ah. And?* *You said you didn't want to know! You've always said that!* *Yes, but this isn't knowing. This is speculation. Guessing. I want to know what you think it is.* *Well...* *Go on.* *Silence?* *Old thought, there. And nothing, and everything, and beauty, and Her, and on, and on, and on.* *Well it isn't exactly fucking easy to come up with these things.* *Fair enough, but we've used silence already. And all those. They could be it, sure, but how are we ever going to know?* *I guess we won't.* *Yeah, really.* *Maybe......* *Maybe what?* *Maybe there's somebody else out there who can see it.* *Maybe.* *Maybe.* *Maybe somewhere else she's hating me for whatever reason and I'm telling her I really can't do anything about it.* *Yeah.* *I just want...* *You don't know what?* *I don't know what.* *I think the problem is that I've dug myself into a hole, here.* *Problem? Not very problematic. Hell, I'm liking it.* *Yeah, when we don't realize we're in a hole.* *We might not be, you know.* *Yeah.* *Maybe time'll fly by and I'll never meet Her and I'l never change and nothing will ever happen different, only being content every few weeks. Like a river that only stops flowing, or flows, every year.* *Yeah.* *Is that all you can say? Yeah?* *I'm thinking about it same as you are, just not talking about it.* *You aren't very vocal.* *I talk when you talk.* *Yeah.* *Ha!* *Shut up. And about time...maybe some day we will meet and things'll change more drastically. I wonder if she'd hate me.* *No way to tell.* *Yeah.* *Stop saying that!* *Fine, I'll go get a thesaurus.* *Fuck you.* *Wait...* *What?* *Saw it, there for a sec.* *It it, or a different it?* *Different one. You know, the one where it seems like you'll never look at it the same way but you don't? You just look at it normally later and don't notice it?* *I barely follow you.* *"Please contribute! This is a place to submit your original short stories or links to works from other authors. Discussion threads regarding existing works are also welcomed and encouraged! Feel free to ask for feedback on your work, just be ready for the consequences."* *Oh, that.* *Get it now?* *Yes. And now it's gnawing at me.* *What is?* *What does it all mean! What's the bloody, damn, fucking point of it all! It's never gnawed at me more than now!* *Weird time for it to bug you. Maybe you're just bored.* *No, I'm not, really! It's getting to me, I need to know!* *Know what!* *You know damn well what!* *No, really, what!* *The meaning of it! The point, the whatever the hell it is! Her, too!* *We can't know that!* *I know, but goddamn do I want to!* *Well...sorry. You can't. You just can't. If I knew...* *But you don't.* *Heh...yeah.* *...* *How to end it, as well. Can you answer that for me?* *I think so. You mean our death or this?* *Both.* *Well I'd like to think when we die, if we have enough seconds to know we're dying, we'd say something that fit.* *"That fit?"* *Yeah, you know. Something.......something good.* *Ah. Yeah, and I suppose that's dealt with since we'd know when we're dying.* *Hopefully.* *Ha, yeah. Hopefully. And what was the other one?* *Hmm?* *The other one we needed an ending for.* *Well, we don't really need an ending. Sometimes better not to have one. Or show it.* *Fair enough, but what was the other one, anyhow?* *This.* *Oh, right. Well, that's easy.* *How?* *Watch!* -- *I'm not sure if that was really stupid or really good.* *Yeah.* *Goddammit.

The Bridge 11/12/2014 By Sonny Smarra The flick of his lighter broke the night’s silence. He brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette he had squeezed between his trembling lips and inhaled deeply. His lungs greeted the smoke like an old friend, with an open door and no complaints. He sighed, releasing equal amounts of smoke and disappointment from his body. The only reason he had started smoking was because of the burn, that sweet burst of unpleasantness he used to have to struggle through after every hit. He knew bad things were destined to come to him anyway, so it felt good to be able to conquer one of them, no matter how small. But now here he was, the burn simply another entry on the long list of things that the world had decided to take away from him. It was never ending, and Fate didn’t seem to ever forget that fact. He couldn’t go twenty minutes without something going wrong, and it wasn’t just little stuff either; for every time he stubbed his toe or got stuck at a red light there were two cases of an unfair assignment from a professor or girls rejecting him. Cigarette now down to the filter, he took one last hit and let the charred remains fall from his fingers into darkness. His eyes tracked the progress the entire way down, not once losing sight of the bright red cherry until it was extinguished by the lake sitting below him. The thought of the water brought him back to the real reason he was here tonight. Why he had picked three A.M. on a Tuesday to come to the bridge, why that note that said what it did was waiting on his roommate’s desk to be discovered in the morning. It was only one word. Four measly letters arranged in a way that didn’t have a bit of significance to them until this plan had popped into his head. He hadn’t even uttered the word since; he wanted the occasion to be special. It had bored its way down through his brain into his mouth, and now sat on the tip of his tongue just waiting to be spoken. “Jump.” There. Now the world knew. He was sick of the lies, the stress, the tests, the debt, all of that and more. Finally, he was taking action against these injustices. He was going to end them all at once. He withdrew his dangling feet and carefully stood up. A gentle wind hit against his back, whispering for him to get closer to the ledge. He took a deep breath and shoved another cigarette into his mouth. Doubt surged through him. What if it didn’t work? He had picked the spot specifically for its foolproofness, but he had never tried to do this before so what if he was wrong? It would be a fate worse than death if he somehow managed to survive this ordeal. The thought of what his peers would say made him shudder. A quick look down at the water put his fears to rest. If the eighty foot drop didn’t do him in then the fact that he couldn’t swim surely would. No chance of failure. Now he was coughing. The cacophony of his hacks and wheezes ran away from him into the night. Another hit. No difficulty this time. Of course. That familiar feeling was back. Eighty percent frustration and twenty percent sick of this shit. He turned his head to the sky. It had been completely dark when he had first arrived, but now the stars were out in full force. He didn’t know any constellations but that didn’t stop him from tracing his own with the cherry of his cigarette. A smile flitted across his face as he played connect the dots; this cluster was the rejection letter from his dream school, that one the shithole he was forced into, so on and so forth. The game eventually brought his eyes to the moon. It was completely full, nothing less than a rounded diamond in the sky. Light bled from the gem in every direction, but only one moonbeam managed to find its way to the lake. It illuminated the water it laid on, showcasing the calmer side of one of nature’s most destructive forces. Liquid stilled to the point of solidity, the phosphorescent trail stretched across the entire lake, looking almost as sturdy as the bridge he was standing on. Everything in the scene practically screamed ‘beauty’. He marveled at what was before him, and wondered how such an anomaly was possible. How the same force which had drove him to the ledge could also take his breath away, how the same world which had been so cruel to him could dare to be so picturesque. Maybe it was trying to tell him something? Maybe he was supposed to see tonight and let it change his mind. A large cloud passed overhead, throwing the world back into darkness. No. If anything this only strengthened his case. The world he lived in was a rich dick of a stepdad, capable of so much yet had seen it fit to give him so little. With steel beams now backing his resolve he slid confidently towards the edge. This was the time. A breath. He inched closer. Another. Everything was right. In. Now or never. Out. He jumped. The first part was kind of fun. His initial burst off of the bridge had been strong enough to propel him a few feet upwards and that was a distance he traveled gladly. A straight smile found its way to his face as his body twisted through the air. Unfortunately the descent was a different story. Whenever he had acted out the idea in his head, his final moments were always filled with absolute serenity. A very brief period of peace where he would have an epiphany then accept his fate like the man he was. This might have been achievable, too, had he not jumped in such a harsh manner. If he would have simply stepped from the ledge, his fall would have been respectfully predictable and he could have collected his thoughts as he wished. Of course, this was not the case, and he now found himself flipping head over heels to his death, his mind producing only the words “fuck” and “shit” instead of the pre-mortem catharsis he so desperately craved. Face to the sky and back to the water, a sixth sense told him that his journey was almost over. Though he had meant to keep them shut the entire time his eyes flew open just before contact. Unveiled and once again shining to its fullest extent, the moon filled the world with light the same as before he had jumped. It was all he could see. That wasn’t too bad, and a feeling that closely resembled that of a revelation began to- He slammed into something. There was no splash and he was still breathing, which meant it definitely wasn’t water. Still a little groggy from the impact, he flipped over to inspect his saving grace. Beneath him was what seemed to be a solidified layer of light. Its glow was harsh, impossible to miss, yet still welcoming, like a neon exit sign would look to people trapped in a burning building. Goosebumps raced across his skin as his body filled with immense amounts of comfort and relief. Suddenly, he had energy, and that made him want to move. He scrambled to his feet and looked around. The water of the lake sat unnaturally still around the thin sheet of luminescence, but rippled outward with waves everywhere else. He took a hesitant step forward. The light lapped around his foot but still managed to support his weight. Soft to the step and getting better with each stride, the light was an absolute pleasure to walk on. His head had played no role in what had been his leg’s decision to start, but the mutiny was quickly forgiven due to the influx of good vibes the stroll was producing. Whispers started to drift from the light. They got louder as he continued on, each step adding another decibel. Once he was able to actually differentiate the voices all the color drained out of his face and he was left as white as what he currently stood on. One belonged to him, and the other to the woman who had been his loving caretaker for his entire life. His legs made another executive decision and began to run. As he pounded closer and closer the sounds became more and more real. From far away he had identified a disruption in the glow of his path, and he was approaching it rapidly. He stopped just short and looked down to inspect it. The space between the light and the water served as a screen for a scene ripped directly from his memories. There he was, as his seven year old self had been, curled up in his mother’s lap, whose face was significantly younger than the one that had dropped him off at school a few months ago, in his favorite spot on the living room couch in the house he had grown up in, which hadn’t really changed at all. She had him wrapped completely in her arms, pressed secure to her chest. Her fingers ran through his hair lovingly as she sung sweet compliments that went gently into his ears. He recognized the smile on his younger self’s face as the same that wiggled its way onto his own whenever he realized he couldn’t be any happier. It had been a while since he had even thought of it. Moments like these in his childhood weren’t rare by any stretch of the imagination. If there had been one constant in his life besides suffering it was the love of his mother. She had always been there for him, never failing to pick up the pieces no matter how bad he had managed to break things. He knew his plan hadn’t been fair to her, and that the admittedly small explanation written on the note would never be enough. He sighed. There was no way of going about this without hurting her. It had to be done. He stepped over the show but before long found himself standing in front of another one. More recent than the last, but still five years removed from the present, the scene caused a wave of delight to rush over him. This was when he had first kissed a girl. A vague remembrance of the day formed in his head. It had definitely been hot. Maybe a week after his thirteenth birthday. The name of the girl escaped him but that didn’t matter, for the memory of how beautiful she had been was all he needed. And there the two were, slowly loping up a hill of an alleyway. She looking every bit the goddess and he every bit the nervous wreck that they both had been, respectively. He watched the unintentional actors perform in the theater he used to call his life. They played their parts well, followed the script to a tee. He rushed them under the overhang of a nearby garage just before the rain began to pour down. She pulled him close when lightning struck, then tried to hide in his arms when thunder began to beat its way across the sky. He seized the moment and made his move. His aim was dead on, but he hadn’t checked to see if his path was clear, so instead of meeting her’s his lips pressed against a significant amount of hair. Determined to succeed, he redoubled his efforts against those stray menaces. They sensed his will, parted ways, and now his lips were on her’s. Everything stopped as both parties realized what was going on. While it had been the least technically skilled kiss of his life, it had also been the one that had made him the happiest. In those static electric moments immediately after when they both had been afraid to move the entire universe had been at his fingertips. He had never felt more powerful, more complete, more hopeful for what was yet to come than he had in those few seconds, and though he had tried to replicate the results he never could get it to happen again. The memory of his failure made him stick to his stomach so he rushed over the still moving picture with his eyes closed. When the next set of whispers started he attempted to do the same, to ignore it and walk past, but eventually the voices got too familiar. Sounds not long ago heard coming from people he had seen in the hours before his jump assaulted his ears. His eyes ripped open like a bag of chips in a stoner’s hands, and he drank in the scene as thirstily as the same stoner would to solve his cotton mouth. He was sitting at a table full of the people he had begun to call his friends over the course of the semester. The date flashed on one of their phones, and he was stunned to see what was being depicted had happened earlier that day. But it couldn’t be because he had studied his face closely and came to the conclusion that he looked happy. The smile on his face looked impossibly similar to the one from his first memory, and the twinkle in his eyes reminded him of how amazing he had felt after that kiss. Inarguable bliss. His mind travelled back to the event, and now that he thought about it he didn’t actually recall being unhappy. He didn’t remember it that way, but the proof was in front of him; he had undoubtedly been having a good time. If that was true for this that meant that… It was then that the realization hit him. That he still wanted, okay, needed the love of his mother, that he still wasn’t ready to give up trying to find that first kiss spark again, that he might have been leading a better life than he had thought. Filled with a new purpose, he turned around but a cloud passed in front of the moon and when the light returned it was the only thing that did.

With each second, the heart monitor beeps. Next to the machine sits Kevin, a bearded man wearing a white t-shirt and dirty jeans, flipping through a comic book. He glances to the right to look at his best friend, Chris, a bald teen sitting in robes on a hospital bed scratching himself. “You do know that I'm here, right?” Chris scratches lower. “My balls are itchy.” Kevin puts down his comic. As he stretches his arm to put the comic on the table, his sleeves open up and reveal eight vertical lines tattoos. Each one reminding him how he should not be here. Each one reminding him exactly how many extra years he has lived. Each year, Kevin creates a new imaginary world with Chris. Each year, Chris goes into it and trusting Kevin to show him something beautiful. Each year, Chris is glad he did. Kevin glances at his scars and covers them with his sleeves. He can't look at them right now. Not today. “Keep scratching it, let's see how fun an infection is.” Kevin holds Chris's arm still. Chris continues, “I'm stuck on a bed. It's not like I have any use for the thing.” Chris moves his hand lower. Kevin shakes his head. He looks at the iceberg-shaped lines on the heart monitor. He’s fearful of the day that it will turn into a flat ocean. He knows he will have to let go. He needs to help his friend escape his pain. But maybe, not today. “You're going to be fine. It's just another challenge.” Kevin glances at Chris. He looks at the sweat on his cheeks. It's obvious that he doesn't want to be here. Since the first day Kevin met Chris, this look of dread has been on his face. Only slightly alleviated by their imaginary journey. Besides the mucus dripping out of his nose, Kevin saw an air of eccentricity that he knew would make Chris a good friend. Chris knew that he was going to die ever since he got his diagnosis. Despite the facts and figures, Kevin still see hope. He knows that there is still a chance. “You will be fine”. If only he believed it. “I've spent more of my life in a hospital bed than I have with people. Tell me how big of a difference it is?” “Life is beautiful, try and appreciate it” Kevin thinks about what he just said and honestly he doesn't believe it. Since Chris's first day in the hospital, Kevin saw a lonely kid that was placed next to his father. At first they joked, the laughed and finally Chris cried. Unfortunately, no amount of tears can bring back the dead. After a suicide attempt, Kevin knew Chris needed someone. Chris was the only one around, they chatted and learned about each other. Slowly, they came to actually like each other.They shared adventures through imagination. Although Chris was bedridden, Kevin still provided the tools, a dense vocabulary and the internet, to see a beautiful world. Through their journeys, Kevin became the closest thing to a friend Chris will ever have. “They say that every time and I always end up back here. I don't even get the point anymore.” Chris sheds a tear and shuts his eyes tightly. Kevin pats him on the back. Chris puffs up and tries to be strong. Kevin has seen this before. He remembers the same scared little six years old begging for his father to come back to life for just one more second, hoping for a magical fix. That's the special thing about Chris, despite all the odds he still has the courage to hope. Regardless of how ugly life can be at times, Kevin still has the childish hope for a better tomorrow. “We'll grab a drink when you get home.” Chris turns his head away from Kevin. “What's the point?” Kevin strides around the bed to face Chris. He knows what's best for Chris. The world is a beautiful place. Chris just needs some fresh air. Just one moment outside, and everything will make sense to him. “For one, everyone knows drinking makes you look much, much cooler.” Chris chuckles, “You're paying.” Kevin checks his pockets and pulls out some lint. “Do you think they'll take this?” Chris grins. “You suck at telling jokes.” Kevin smiles. He's happy to know that he still has the ability to bring a grin to that boy's face. Chris sighs. “Kevin, am I going to get better?” Kevin looks at Chris's exhausted face. The grinding of the teeth. The chapped lips. The desperate look in his eyes. Begging for a no. Begging to let go. Kevin sees a slight glimmer of hope on his face. He’s not sure how it got there. For now, he just hopes he didn’t force it on. But maybe just one more day, just a couple more. To show Chris a snippet of the trees outside before anything else. So he puffs up and says in a stern voice, “Yes, you will.” Chris coughs and shakes his head. “I wish I can believe that.” “The operation. It'll make you better.” Chris stares into Kevin's eyes. “Really?” Kevin keeps reminding himself to look strong, to appear like he believes what he is saying. He tells himself that it's going to be okay. He's lived without Chris and he can live again without him. He knows how to let go of the past. He barely remembers any of it, anyway. As he opens his mouth, he lets out in a cracked voice, “yes.”As soon as he hears his voice, he recoils and tries to suck the words back into his mouth. But it's too late, it's out. Chris looks at Kevin, he smiles and exhales. “I thought so. Thanks for being honest with me.” He looks at Chris in a sad stare. He tugs on the motionless body of Chris. Chris just lies there motionless. Kevin pulls on his shirt again and whispers, “please, don't give up.” Tears begin to leak out of Chris’s eyes as he tries to shut them tight. Kevin tugs at Chris's arm ferociously. Chris must live for his own sake. It's not time. It's too soon. Chris must survive. “You'll be fine. I'll be right here with you through the whole thing.” As Chris exhales more, Kevin tugs Chris with more immediacy. He shouts, “Chris, Chris. Chris!” Chris opens an eye and slaps Kevin's hand away. “My eyes are tired. I just want to rest.” Chris deserves a better resting place than some hospital bed with synthetic air around him. As Kevin takes a breath, he finds the air to be almost too clean. The taste of antiseptics is laced in the air. Kevin lets out a sigh and draws away with a wince. He pokes Chris. “You can rest all you want when we get you back to your bed, why would you want to rest here?” “Obviously for the hard cushions and terrible food.” Chris grins as he sees a pretty nurse walks by. “I guess the scenery is nice too.” He sighs, “How did I end up here?” Kevin pats him on the back. Its hard for Chris to understand. He's just a kid, after all. If only he knew, maybe Chris will be willing to live a bit more. The utter silence of loneliness. The fear of being alone. After all the effort made to a good friend, having to say goodbye is always the hardest part. “You started seizing on the floor when we were joking around. ” “Again.” “It's not your fault.” “Do you know what they're going to do to me?” Kevin looks away. He knows exactly what's going to happen. He rather not think about it. He shakes his head. Chris cries. “They're going to put me in a coma. If I'm lucky, the pain will go away. If I'm not, I'm going to be in more pain.” Chris looks at Kevin. “Do you know the success rate of this treatment?” Kevin nods. “Ten percent”, Chris answers. Kevin looks at him, “I promise you home will be nicer.” “No.” “No?” Kevin tugs on Chris's gown and shouts, “You can't just go yet, we've only just started living.” Chris shuts his eyes tightly. Kevin calls for the imaginary planes that the two of them have shared. He looks at him with a smile. “Just imagine somewhere different.” Chris shakes his head. Kevin snaps his fingers and changes the hospital room into a jungle. Chris shakes his head with his eyes shut and starts to cry. He says in a croaked voice, “We've been playing for eight years, maybe it's time for me to rest.” Kevin stares at the sobbing Chris, snaps again and changes the place back into the hospital room. “Thanks, Kevin.” Chris opens one bloodshot eye, reaches for Kevin's hands and whispers, “it's going to be okay.” Kevin tears up a bit, shakes his head and looks at Chris. The day is still bright. There is still hope. Don't give up, Chris. “No. Don't rest. Not yet. It's so boring. Look how nice the day is.” With a snap of his fingers, the curtains open up. Chris squints a bit as he looks outside to the radiating sun. He smiles at his friend and says, “I think I am going to sleep. Mind turning down the lights?” Kevin smiles and asks in a broken voice. The possibility of losing a best friend. The pain might just be too great. Death is not scary, pain is. Don't be selfish Chris. Don't be selfish and die here. Live. Please, live. “That means you are going to wake up.” Chris attempts to extend his bony arms, “I'll try, but I have just been getting more tired lately. Just let me rest my eyes. Okay, Kevin? I'm going to get some sleep. I’ll be back in no time, promise.” “I'll wait here for as long as I need to. Just promise me you'll wake up.” Kevin smiles through his teary face, “please don't sleep for too long.” He looks at Chris, then at the clock. He remembers that the operation is in five minutes. In five minutes, his friend will be alright. In five minutes, everything that seemed so wrong will be fixed. He just needs to keep conscious for a bit longer. Chris smiles and nods, “I'll try my best.” “I wish you were in better health. Maybe we shouldn't have fed all that broccoli to the dog.” Kevin holds one of Chris's hands and pats him on the back. “Yea, maybe.” Chris tightening his grip on Kevin's hands. Kevin tugs Chris' s shirt. The same shirt that he was wearing when they saw the moon people. All these memories we created together. “I'll get you all the broccoli in the world, all I want you to do is get up and play with me.” Kevin drags Chris's arm but he just lies there motionless. “Come on, don't be so lazy.” Chris looks at his friend, and sees his grey beard turning black. He looks and sees his face reverting back into that of a child’s face. He stares at the kid and smile. Laughing at himself, he remembers. Chris sighs and remember the imaginary friend he created all those years ago. He wonders how he will live without him. Chris bites on his bottom lips, “I'm sorry, I just can't”. Kevin nods and smiles. “I know you can hear me.” Don't die right now. He gets closer and whispers, “do you remember all those hours we spent learning how to exercise from the trolls?” Chris laughs in a strained manner, “I don't think eating potato chips upside down counts as an exercise.” Kevin tugs on Chris's shirt, “Come on, at least tell me where you think you're going.” He stares at the bedridden Chris, “don't leave me.” Kevin cries at Chris' s bedside. As his sobbing continues, Chris tries to lift his hand but ultimately fails. He sighs and whispers, "Remember the first thing you told me?" Kevin shakes his head. “You came into my life when my father died, I tried for days and days trying to figure out why it happened or how it happened.” Kevin nods and sobs. He remembers Chris's father. The man never made much of his life, he always needed some more help. His body was armored with scars that protected a warm-loving man. On his death bed, the man's scars were revealed. The deformed toe that never healed right, the bags under his eyes, and his graying hair. Kevin always wanted to be like him, but he wasn't enough. Chris's father would would have let go. He puts his hand into Chris’s grip. Chris smiles, gripping into Kevin's hand and continues, “Trying to wake him up. Then, you just came up to me.” Chris lets go of his hand, forces himself up to a half-seated position and turns towards Kevin. "Like this. Then you puts your hands around me." Chris embraces Kevin and says in a croaked voice,"like this." Kevin wipes the tears off his face. As all these memories rush back into Kevin, he knows exactly how much each of these moments are worth. How much pain it is to lose someone that important. He can't just let go and lose everything. He must try. Try for one more moment. "Then you told me, some good things comes to an end." Kevin nods as Chris loosens his embrace. Chris puts a finger to his lips and whispers, “but there’s a secret. Want to hear it?” Kevin nods and tilts his head closer towards Chris' s mouth. Chris murmurs, “memories are forever.” He falls back on his bed and closes his eyes. “We will always have our memories together.” Kevin tears up and whimpers, “memories are not enough.” Kevin can't just let eight years of friendship be flushed out of his head. More importantly, he can't let Chris know how much pain he is in. He doesn't want that to happen. He needs to keep his best friend alive a bit longer. It's not just for him, it's for Chris. Chris smiles and pats Kevin. He whispers. “Do you remember the time we climbed the ice cream mountain?” Kevin smiles as if the world is giving him a chance to save his best friend and nods. “I remember. I still think that troll at the top reacted a bit too harshly.” No holds barred, he will keep Chris conscious just long enough to resolve the whole thing. “We ate half the mountain. He was losing his home. He was trying to protect the environment.” Kevin nods and looks at the bed-ridden Chris. “Going into outer space was fun, too.” Chris pats Kevin. “We pissed off an entire race.” Kevin laughs. “Good thing you imagined me as a good driver.” Kevin looks out the window, the doctors are rolling a bed towards the room. Just a few more minutes. “You're the best friend one can ask for.” Kevin sighs. Chris reaches out and grabs Kevin's arm. “All of those are memories and you will have them forever. Just like I will have my memories of you.” Kevin tears up and smiles. “I hope you will enjoy these memories as much as I had fun making them.” Chris nods and tighten his grip on Kevin's hand. He turns to face the doctors and shakes his head, “I'm tired of the pain. I really am.” The doctor pull in and puts Chris into the bed. Kevin nods and sighs. “Christopher?” Kevin holding Chris's hand. “You're going to be fine.” Chris nods his head, “I will.” He grips Kevin's hand. “Will you?” “You don't want to come back, do you?” Chris looks at his friend, tears up and shakes his head. “No Kevin. I really don't.” They looked at each other in silence. Time passes, the sun sets and the beat of the monitor slows down. Kevin lets out a heavy sigh and says in a soft and broken voice, “I believe I am going to miss you, Christopher.” Chris smiles and embraces his lifelong friend. “I will miss you too, Kevin. I will miss you very, very much.” As they embrace, Kevin closes Chris' s eyes. The doctor attaches a respirator on Chris's face and wheels him away.

It was dark. It was always dark, here in The Haven. &nbsp; I could hear the voices of the others, all around me, a chorus of whispers that together created a sea of noise. We all stood before the Gate, waiting until the time came when it opened. &nbsp; No one here knows where we are. We walk through the Passage without any memories. Are we in Purgatory? Does the Gate lead to Heaven? Does it lead to Hell? &nbsp; I can sense the fear; all around me, people are scared. This sometimes happens. There are times when many of us have the courage to walk through together, and other times when only one will. I too am scared, but I have been here long enough. &nbsp; Suddenly, the Gate opens, filling the cavern with blinding light. I see my people again, perhaps for the last time; their dark complexions and uneven surfaces seem abnormal to me, as though I can remember a time when we were supposed to look different. I can't though. This is all I've ever known. &nbsp; The crowd is not moving. There will be no one who will step forth today. &nbsp; I push past my people and make my way to the Gate. The light hurts to look at, though the beauty of it draws the eye back time and again. As I reach the Gate, I dare not look back. I jump. &nbsp; I am falling. All around me, the world is white. I have never been this happy. &nbsp; I hit water. &nbsp; ********** &nbsp; “Ah, fuck.” I curse, under my breath, as I feel the cold water of the toilet splash up against my arse. With a sigh, I put my phone away, wipe, flush and leave.

My throat was parched, probably due to those kinds of nights. Maybe I didn’t want to rise from those blankets that kept whispering through friction of the textile. Sleep a while longer, It beckoned. Not today, I replied. Aching muscles hindered too many quick movements; a slow, subtle, fluent motion of my legs escaped the entangling snares of the sheets. The cold wood floor grazed my toes. With a drop of my heels, I felt a jolt of electricity shoot up my legs and into my chest. Mornings were not pleasant. A ray of light emitted through the gap between the window and the bamboo shutters. That light enjoyed blinding me as I rose each morning from my zombified state. My head tilted backwards to experience the new, cloying fragrance that had begun to become more noticeable over the hours. It was not long before I finally traversed through several open archways into the too-well-lit kitchen. The numbers on the digital stove clock read 9:42. School had started almost nearly an hour ago, but this did not issue me. A late night gave me permission to pass out in my clothes from the night before. Because of the awkwardness of my situation, I had no hunger to spare to the enticing boxes of cereal resting atop my pantry. I directed my attention away and to the high-top Nikes which were always cherished. They slipped on as easily as normal with the laces tucked away underneath the tongue. My bag was packed from the night before and sat in the entryway awaiting to be hoisted as a fisher would his net filled bountifully. I neared the door and extended my arm as if to shake the hand of a friend whom you would be saying your formal goodbye to. The crisp morning air irritated my throat. I would not be outside for more than a few minutes, meaning the raspiness would soon suffice. While taking my beginning steps towards the gate, I reached for the rusting bar weathered for years. It flaked under the pressure of my fingers brushing it ever so lightly. I pushed the gate back and lifted the latch to close it. I made my way to the intersection. Cars whizzed past in a fury of nerves and melted rubber. A passage cleared when a good samaritan of a driver paused his actions at the stop sign to part the asphalt sea. My first steps across the crosswalk felt awkward as I focused on the question of if I walk differently than others. The school was within my sight at this time. Steps taken up to the doors seemed to take longer than usual. Nerves, I thought to myself. Before I reached the doors, the bell had rung. I wouldn’t have to bother any classes this way, good. When I pulled opened the doors, through the window I caught glimpse of figures travelling each to their own destinations. What a shame most of them won’t make it there. With the office-room on my left, I eased forwards. Around the corner and down the hall I crept. Faces turned; their white-washed faces eyed me down. Bodies parted just as the cars had as I passed. My shirt was still bloodstained; when I walked, my shirt felt as if it were rusting while flakes of dried blood floated to the cold slated linoleum floors. I unzipped the backpack from left to halfway up the top. the sound of zippers always amused me. the way I would vigorously snap my hand back and forth would entertain both my friends and I alike. It’s such a shame how my mother never saw the little things which caused my teacher to give me the look of irritation. What a shame she was no longer. As I dug deep into my bag, eyes not once gazed away. My hand felt the cold metal; its barrel laid in my palm. When I knelt on my right knee, I extended my other arm into the pack and felt for the grip of the handle. Sliding my fingers around it, my forefinger clutched around the trigger. I had made sure to load the magazine the night before after I had dealt with my mother who was still lying happily on the ground back at home. This was my opportunity to give all these people what they truly deserve: alleviation from the horrors of life.

Anilyth Anilyth is the world in which the Fire Dancer short story takes place and a longer form story I have plans to write (Or rewrite I guess.) I plan to do some lore background for the world later, but for now I plan to just go over some of the nations of this world, I may add some later, and those additions will be talked about once I’ve decided I’ve got the world fully developed or once I have a decent amount of them, but for now this is the world I’ve thought up so far. An’kowrath An ancient nation adept in magic, some of the world greatest sorcerers and warlocks come from An’kowrath, many buildings are made using magic. Some of it’s greatest spell casters are sent off to the flying city Low’nathra, there they are allowed to learn magic completely uninhibited, while other nations specialize in a specific type of magics such as soul, fire, lightning and water the citizens of An’kowrath are known to be adept in all kind of magic. Some of it’s greatest sorcerers master several magic arts during their life. Once in a generation an exceptional wizard will be recognized as a master of call magics. This person is called upon to be the leader of An’kowrath, even if they are not a native citizen of An’kowrath. The advancing of magic is at the forefront of culture in An’kowrath. It has the highest density of talented sorcerers compared to other nations. Leondria The country of Leondria consists of two parts, a vast desert, and it’s mountain range which stands in the middle of the country. The desert is relatively tame, the main problem for travelers is the small tribes who require payment in exchange for safe passage, although no one has been killed by the tribes those who try to enter and refuse to pay are not left in a healthy state before being removed from the country. Those who visit the country often travel there to learn with the monks who make their home on top of the Leondria Mountains, although the mountain are home to the Soul Walkers and the Soul Benders it was once also home to the Soul Channelers, but their people were decimated in a war of their own creation. Some say the war was started due to the foolishness of a young chief who was bent to the will of a Fire Dancer, but these are merely unconfirmed stories that may never be discovered since the Soul Channelers were all killed at the end of the war. Some say the king who was able to escape but he has not been seen since. Lisanderey An incredibly snowy landscape Lisanderey is home to some of the toughest creatures in Anilyth. It’s said that the land was once desert before a powerful sorcerer turned the land into vast plains perfect for farming, it has since become a cold and snow covered nation, only the toughest men have dared to traverse it on foot. Most travel in caravans powered by the powerful imaprose, large creatures similar to wooly mammoths. The land is unappealing and has for the most part avoided be invasion, but the few leaders who have tried to take control of the nation from its rulers have failed spectacularly due to them being unprepared for the cold climate in Lisanderey. It’s leaders have always been happy to stay within their borders and thus have armies more for the purpose of defense and to act as police for the cities. Each city has a strong sense of community, most people know everyone else in their town, those in cities know their districts and have a general feel for the other districts. Lisanderey has no rich or poor, those with money give it to those without money and the leaders are all ordinary citizens who are paid for their contributions in helping to governing the people. Lisanderey is home to the Fire Dancers, acrobatic warriors with a mastery over fire, able to conjure their own inner flame to be used against enemies or manipulation of a currently burning fire to enhance their own. The Plains of Bantana Vast fields of tall grass cover Bantana, the parts of this nation that aren’t covered in grass are instead the home of it’s native people, the Water Weavers. Mastery over water is the only thing that has kept them alive for so long, many attempts have been made by foreign nations to burn the tall grass in an attempt to drive out it’s citizens, but their use of water has allowed them to fight back the invaders and the fires they start. Over time the use of fire has made the plant life incredibly resistant to fires. Although it’s known for it’s talented warriors it is mainly known as a farming culture, due to it’s people mastery of water they are able to generate the best crops in the world, many other nations have attempted to invade them in the past because of this, but the nations water weavers were able to beat them back with the help of the nation's most elite soldiers the Grass Stalkers. The Grass Stalkers are known for their stealth and ability to avoid detection by hiding amongst the grass, striking when in the middle of enemy forces before diving back into grasses they came from, small squads of these elite soldiers have been known to take out an entire legion of soldiers, but their stealth skills aren’t limited of their home country. Some of them that live the longest are sent to other nation’s as spies or assassins. The Republic of Oranthia Although they have no native Sorcerers or Elemental Sorcerers The Republic of Oranthia makes up for this by being the most technologically advanced nation. They have not achieved this through the most ethical of paths, because they believe they are in competition with other nations they have often kidnapped the Sorcerers of other nations and forced them to test their technologies. Many captives have died during testing, but not always because they were being tested on, but more often because of exhaustion. The scientists force them to continue using their own magic until they have none left to use, but still they push them until they die from exhaustian. Many citizens live their day to day lives completely unaware of the acts perpetrated by their government, many of those who do end up leaving for another nation. On it’s surface the government appears to be democratic, but the main party doesn’t see any real competition, this is because anyone who tries to oppose them ends up dead or as an experiment. Kamisia The coastal nation of Kamisia is a large fishing nation, Kamisians are among the few people who brave the mighty oceans of Anilyth, their naval might in unmatched throughout the land.

I remember the day of Thanksgiving would start early in the morning, with Thanksgiving breakfast. Dad would make pancakes shaped like turkeys, and then he would take them into the bathroom and eat them all while making turkey noises while my mom would sit in the kitchen and cry. After that, we'd turn the game on and Dad would begin drinking. First one, then two, then three gallons of chocolate milk. He'd yell at the TV and call every player "Roger". Like "Throw the ball to Roger!" or "C'mon, Roger, throw the ball!" It wasn't until much later that I realized he was watching soccer and they rarely throw the ball. Mom would get to work in the kitchen making the bird. Dad was vegan, so the bird was usually a bunch of vegetables that mom put in a blender and then shaped into turkey. But most of the time there was plenty of meat in it, as well, because my mother hated my father and she found this to be funny. So funny she'd laugh the entire time she was making the "bird" and sometimes so hard she would vomit into the sink. She was crazy. And not the laughable kind of crazy. She was really nuts. But so was dad. I guess we all were. I guess it's a crazy holiday. But it wasn't all crazy, a lot of it was fun. Like when we'd exchange Thanksgiving gifts. Typically a Thanksgiving gift was whatever you could find that was moist: wet towels, used paper towels, grass...I remember one year I received a shoe. It was a Thanksgiving miracle and I remember putting the shoe on and running out into the street screaming "It's a Thanksgiving miracle!" but then I got hit by like three cars. The first one sent me into the other lane, then the second one sent me into the original lane and then this guy backed out of his driveway and hit me again. I lost the shoe, but I will never forget the look on everyone's face when my leg was amputated. It was like "WHOA!" After the game, dad would go into the den and put up the tree. The tree was made of turkeys, ironically, and it really started to smell by the first day of December. But dad would always say "It's tradition!" And then vomit. The turkeys were basically just impaled on a post and we hung no ornaments on them. In fact, whenever I see a turkey a feeling of mirth and awe flows through me all the way to the stump I still have from getting hit by all those cars. Once the tree was put up, we'd hang underwear from the chimney in the hopes that St. Nick would come and try the underwear on and leave little notes about our weight. Like one year I'd get "You're too skinny to play football" or another "You get your degree at John Porkins?" We were gratified by Santa's comments and we would strive to lose or gain the weight he prescribed. Until we found out that there was no Santa and it was actually aliens that were doing it. But then we hunted them down and killed them. But they turned out to just be our neighbors and that's why Mom went to jail. After preparing for Christmas, we'd watch another soccer game and then play Monopoly together. We'd open up the board and then put all the pieces out and then dad would wave his arm over the board and say "Foreclosure!" and then throw the game at one of us. Whoever was hit with Monopoly had to go make him cocktails. It was a helluva game. One time I made his cocktail too stiff and he told me that I couldn't go to bed until I ate the couch. I gave it a try and three days later he finally let me go to bed, but you could tell he was disappointed. "Now, son, that was a couch. And you only ate half. Do you realize there are children in Africa with no couches to eat?" I felt awful for awhile, but then it went away. But then Dad got mad that I wasn't still feeling bad and he sent me to Africa to look for couches and I found a bunch, but by then he had died or moved. I forget. But I wasn't 34 until I returned, so I'm sure he had a rich life. At dinner, Mom would put out the turkey and she would sing theme songs from TV shows that would always end up just being the Cheers theme song because she would forget the melody and words of whatever she was singing. Dad would pat us all on the heads and ask "Gobble, gobble?" Like his voice would go high at the end, like it wasn't just a turkey noise it was him trying to communicate. Each year we'd try to answer and only once did someone say the right thing and it was my sister. "Gobble, gobble?" "Yes?" I would ask. And he'd frown and move to the next kid. "Gobble, gobble?" And that one year my sister said "Morley Safer" and my dad nodded. It was the only time that worked. We kept trying "Morley Safer" after that, but it wasn't the answer anymore and we all just kinda looked foolish. Then we'd eat. Dad would always remark "I'm glad there's no meat in this." like he knew there was meat in it and was warning my mom, but she would just laugh nervously and pinch me really hard under the table. After dinner, my mom would take us all out to a national forest and leave us there. We still don't know what my parents would do at night, because it took hours to walk back home. I guess some people would call my family "crazy", but they were my family and I loved them all.

"Another day of this and I will die" I mutter to myself. The reality of a man left to his own devices in a building with no outside reality. The beds are nice enough, the chairs comfy, but what I wouldn't give for a phone or even just a drink and a little company. Maybe that tall redhead I met in New Orleans, "What was her name again?" I think aloud. She had a set of tits you almost didn't want to squeeze they were so perfect, I can feel the touch of her skin as if it was yesterday. I feel my mind drifting into the past away from this purgatory. "Wah, wah, wah" an alarm sounds in the distance. "To hell with you" I scream aloud. I don't even know what it means. What was it again? It seems a lifetime that I've been here. Seen another face or even looked in a goddamn mirror to see my own. "Calm Down" I whisper to myself. I have to watch my anger, things tend to get hazy. I sit up on the bed and look back around the room. How long have I been here? I begin to think to myself. It's so hard to remember, I look at my hands and see the nubs of my fingernails, I see they have something under them. "What the fuck is this?" Someone must be fucking with me, they are trying to make me feel crazy again. "I know they are" who am I talking to. What am I doing here? Where am I? My thoughts blend then fade to black. I don't remember anything but that redhead and her fantastic tits. "Wah, Wah, Wah!" The alarm sounds again. "Shut the FUCK up" I scream as I rush toward the big yellow door. I reach for the handle, but I cannot open it! "Help Me!" I scream! "They are trying to fuck with me!" I kick and slam my fists into the door. I can hear a noise outside. "Help" I scream as I curl up on the floor. "I can hear the devil coming for me" I continue in haste "He is carrying chains for me" I can hear them rattling against the door. I hear the door swing open. A bright light flashes in my eyes. I see the dark figures, I reach and scratch, clawing furiously at my assailants. I feel the sting of the needle in my arm. I feel reality fade away.... "What happened to him?" The trainee asked his superior. "What's all that about the devil?" "Fucker lost it" the older man snorted! "Wife left him for another man, he drowned his kids and disappeared into a bottle. Hell, I don't think he even remembers the kids, just some redhead he left behind.

I blame LoZ: MM for this, but I've always wanted to write a story on masks, and such, this is what happened when i couldn't sleep, i'm sorry, it's a WiP (Sorry about formatting) Clinging to my consciousness had never felt so agonizing. Focusing on the bloody red gas mask was the only way I could stay awake, trying to ignore the searing pain on my left shoulder, rummaging to find a blue mask to use water to cool it down. I put the 5th red mask into my bag and let myself slip into the darkness. I awake to the sound of the school bell blaring in my ear, sitting up from bloody mess, putting a blue mask on and drenching myself in cold water, waking myself up and walking to class. Students understand that mask wearers are violent beings, so walking in covered in bruises and scars is nothing new. I re-attach the blue mask to my backpack, gently getting to my seat without trying to bump any of the new wounds, hoping the bandages would hold the blood from dripping from under my clothes. "You look like a fucking mess man." One of the kids in my class laughs as he walks by, I try to smile but most of my face is still hurting from the battle. A friend of mine, another mask wearer, Seraphina, sits in front of me and looks back, looking at me with her soft, but scary yellow eyes, "Who'd you end up killing this time?" I look down at my bag, pointing at the still dripping red mask attached to it, "The fifth red mask, meaning whoever has the God's Mask will be coming next." Before she could respond, the teacher walks in and immediately begins lecturing, and i immediately fall asleep. I dreamt of the first day of "the scholarship of masks", hearing the man drone the rules, one by one, as he introduced how i would be paying for this stupid school. "There are seven rules to the Scholarship of masks, One: Friendly fire is not recommended, as alike magic can negate each other, but it is not prohibited Two: You must attend classes, battles are not a valid excuse to be late or miss any class, therefore battles must be broken up or ended immediately once the 2 minute bell rings Three: The winner must either break the opponents mask, OR kill the opponent. Four: Collecting masks is allowed, granted, multiple masks can tamper with internal magic flow Five: Running out of magic during a fight is not a valid excuse to stop the battle Six: Breaking the rules is immediate removal And Seven: Being the last man standing of your mask colour grants you the God's mask" Listening to these rules in the room of forty two kids did not phase me, scoping the room as I walked in, i noticed no one had enough magic to let it leak while resting, meaning no one was particularly strong. In the front they had a 7 sided die, each side with a different colour based on mask, and you simply had to roll to see which mask you got. Each mask group had 6 people, so once the mask was full, anyone who landed on the already full colour would have to roll again. The dream lasted until i saw the colour of my mask, afterwards i was awoken from my nap to my teacher throwing pencils at me to wake me up while the class laughed. "Erebus, do you think you understand enough of this to do it in your sleep" I gaze up at the board, eyes still readjusting to the light, putting together the math problem in front of me, I put my head down, put 3 fingers up, and was swept right back into the darkness. I spent the remained of my off period and lunch in the Scholarship of Mask's, SoM for short, infirmary, where they have specialized equipment for accelerated healing. Needless to say, healing fast just means they make it hurt a lot more for about a minute, then you are all better. Once classes were over, i began walking home, hoping that one battle would be enough for the day, knowing if i was provoked, that would be it, which is why i went into a completely public area, walking home that way meant less "players", as we like to call them, would provoke me. I kept a watchful eye, changing clothes from what i was wearing in school so i wasn't easily recognized. Arriving home to an empty how was the best part of my day, i sat there in my room, and hung the 5th red mask, and just counted what i had. 2 yellow masks, 2 brown masks, 4 green masks, 5 white masks, 2 black masks, 1 blue mask, and 5 red masks. I have caused two God's Masks to appear, and i have none yet, which is the issue. God's Masks are named after the Roman Gods, and as such, have strength similar to those described in Roman Mythology. It's been almost 3 semesters and it's taken this long to have almost no one remaining. The idea of killing someone else just to got to a school was awful, so many players refrain from killing and try just to break the mask. This is easier for some masks than others, but for mine... it's much more difficult. Magic is within the human, but raw magic is nothing, which is why the mask system was implemented, these masks channel the magic into the element they correspond to, though some people have a greater "river" of magic than others, meaning they amount of different masks they can use without fully corrupting their flow is greater, i've won battles due to this. I continue to reminisce about the hellish world i've been thrown into until i drift off into sleep, hoping that tomorrow this nightmare would be over. "wake up honey, breakfast" I'm awake crying, clenching my head in my hands, hoping the dream fades, looking around in the empty apartment, looking for something living, breathing, something i can just hold on to, but then reality hits, and the tears stop. Emotionless and fluidly, somehow i get up and ready for school in the blink of an eye, but i end up at the wall of hanging masks, looking at them and mentally picking out the ones i might need for the day, grabbing just one of each. I walk to school, casually scouting around for any noticable magic, hoping i get to school in one piece. Once i hear the bell that class is about to begin, i relax, no one can attack me now. There are still essentially 20 people who want my masks, or my life, so being a little paranoid is acceptable. I haven’t been focusing on how well other people are doing in this challenge, so whether or not there are less than 20 is still a mystery. “Hey, morning!” Seraphina cheerfully says as she plops down on the chair in front of me, getting her stuff ready, but then her face changes, “How many are left? Besides us” “Probably 10 left, how many have you broken?” Seraphina is a yellow mask, so her lightning attacks are great for demolishing enemies, but knowing her, she simply breaks them since she can’t stand killing someone. “6 or 7, nothing compared to the mighty Erebus The Mask Collector.” “Is that what they’re calling me nowadays?” I laugh, rubbing my eyes to keep myself awake, “Well, God’s Masks are popping up, be careful, okay?” “Same goes to you.” She smiles, and turns around. I can’t be the one to kill her. Classes for the day ends, but i stick around to do some extra class work so i don’t have to worry if i get into any fights between now and when it’s due. Generally the school buildings are off limit since they deduct the value of our scholarship to compensate for the damage. I finish my work and look down at my backpack, looking at 7 different masks sitting there, assessing the situation i re-arrange the masks from easily accessible to hardest to reach, based on what i think might be useful. I put my colour first, then a bunch of the rest on the placeholders where on my rating. Sadly, this game always ends up with people hating each other, mainly because when you share masks, you generally become good friends since they are the last ones you want to waste your time trying to kill. Meaning vendettas are a thing, and i’ve killed 5 of the 6 red mask kids, which is why i was not surprised when i walk out of the building to see a skinny kid standing in front of me with a red gasmask on. “Well, thought you’d be coming for me sooner or later, you’re the last pyro right?” He doesn’t respond “Not much of a conversationalist eh?” And that’s when it hit me, a raw wave of magic crashed into me, the force was so immense i could barely stand, his entire body lit up into flames, but when the flames died, his mask had changed from being a simple gas mask like the normal reds, into a mask of flames covering his face, and a burning cape down his back, he became the Roman God of fire, Vulcan. Before i could react, an enormous flame was at the tip of my nose, tearing the soft pink flesh from it before i could dodge the rest, immediately throwing on a red mask to deal with the blunt of the first attack. He was radiating, his aura was frightening, this was my first battle against a God, but reaching the end of this game was all that matters. Once the flame was gone, another came, but this time, the boy was in it. I blocked his first punch, and saw his face, I knew him. “Vi…” Another flame punch was thrown, “Vil…” and another, “Vilmar!” I screamed, the boy stumbled back. “You’re in this too? You were so innocent… how come you’re here?” All i remember was Vilmar being a quiet and polite kid, trying to please his peers and parents. “Shut up… they are all dead… all of them… you killed them… you’re wearing her mask.” I felt the aura again, it was as if gravity became heavier. “YOU DID THIS!” and before i knew it, an enormous hammer of flames appeared above me, the mask would not block that. “I didn’t want to even use my mask” I thought to myself. I reached for the skeletal mask attached to my backpack and slipped in on. My flower disappeared. I disappeared. The hammer fell on where i was, but no ashes were found. Vilmar didn’t see me and roared, flames spewing, creating shadows across the floor. And from this shadow, came a blade. Before it could penetrate the pyro, he jumped back and looked down. I emerged from the shadows, a skeleton’s mask on, glowing similar to him. The magic flow within me turned to black, and I stood there, exerting the same pressure he was. “Do you think because you can hide in the shadows you can beat my flame? I AM VULCAN, you are nothing but trash in my eyes.” Vilmar roars and flames spew out, i shift into the shadows and back out next to him, landing a punch on his jawline. From there the battle raged, the earth was scortched and barren around the battle site, I was losing shadows to hide in. He produced so much light the shadows i was using vanished and i was left to fight on my own. I was getting tired, the drive to fight was closing out, and i was running out of magic fast, switching between multiple masks throughout the fight hoping something could counter his power, but there was nothing. His strength had not wavered throughout the fight, while mine was almost gone. I was covered in burns and parts of my body looked beyond repair. I didn’t have many options left, so i switched to the brown mask, hoping i could pull something smart off. All i could think of was extinguishing the candle, but there is no way that doing that would work on a God’s flame, but in reality, it was my only hope. He began to dash at me once again, but before he could hit me, i created a completely sealed off dome around us. The rocks were airtight, meaning there was no oxygen getting in or out of the cage. Flames still came and ravaged the left side of my body, but after minutes of burning, his flame went out. There was no oxygen for it to sustain such a heavy flaim, i just smile and slipped back on my skeletal masks. A dome in complete darkness? This is where the dark masks succeed. Before the boy could realize, i was behind him, creating a sword with the shadows. Before he could let out a scream, his mask was hanging off the tip of a sword, covered in blood.

The silhouette of a creature in front of a conveyor belt was visible. The creature was inspecting the conveyor belt closely, eventhough the object wasn't of especially new design or otherwise an object of interest. And yet the bent creature stared consistenly at the transporting system that kept on moving without a stop in front of its face. Memories from far away echoed through his head from time to time: Pictures and voices of his co-workers, who were employed for the same job, and seemed to enjoy it greatly and worked at it with passion. It resounded painfully in his ears how they told him he should use the machinery that was standing next to him, that fulfilled the purpose of forming all those different raw materials that were transported from the right to the left side into a different shape. They told him he was at least supposed to do so, and that his job consisted of doing just that. "Please", they said. "It would be a shame if you wouldn't", some cried out. Usually he tried to use the machine exactly as the others told him to, and indeed sometimes he could find joy in it. But at other times, he forgot how the use the machine again. Sometimes, this unlucky situation could last for days, sometimes it did so for weeks until he found out how to use it again. In this times he was always worried about visits from one of the overseers. He was afraid to lose his job if they would find out he would just stare at all those materials blankly. But when an overseer finally caught him one day he, to the creatures surprise, only nodded slowly and looked sad. When the shift was over, the overseer talked to the creature and made a strange remark. The contract would end some day, the employee should question himself firmly if he was truly happy with the way he did his job. But because no real consequences seemed to arise after the incident, the creature continued as before. After all, material left to the left side, and wherever it would go, it would go without an imprint the same way it would go imprinted, lost in the masses.

(From /r/writingprompts I replied to) 6:00 am. Every day starts at 6:00 am on the dot. I wake up, jump in the shower for my morning pick-me-up, and get ready for the day. After, I usually wake Charli from her peaceful slumber and we begin our morning routine of getting her ready for school. This particular morning she is already up in bed with a grin on her face. "Why are you so happy?" I ask inquisitively. "It's our field trip today!!!" Oh, crap! I totally forgot! "Oh yeah!!! Hurry up then, we can't be late!" I totally forgot I am chaperoning Charli and her 3rd grade class for Ballroom Dancing lessons! It's part of their Music class curriculum and when I found out this trip was planned, I knew I had to be a part of it! Not only did it give me an excuse to spend time with my daughter, but any chance to get back into dancing just takes me right back to my "golden years", as I call them. Growing up, you could never stop me from dancing. At the early age of three years old, my parents were watching "Hello, Dolly!" one day and something inside me found meaning. I don't remember the particular details of said event, as I was very young, but that feeling still stays with me today. Growing up, I became a part of any and every production you could imagine. From Grease to Annie and everything in between, I had to fill the hunger inside me that was dancing. I knew this is what I wanted to do with my life, and every day, after school and on the weekends, I would dance the hours away. Then, a few months ago, my dream was put on a very long, and painful hold. I found a lump in my left breast, and once it was examined, one of my greatest fears reared its ugly head. Cancer. For the past few months, what with the chemotherapy, my doctor's appointments, and the gravity of my situation, my dancing has taken a backseat to my recovery. I am confident I will conquer this foe, but sacrifices have had to be made to ensure this battle is won. This is why trips like this, with my daughter, are so special to me. I want to cherish every moment and be as much a part of her life as I can. Also, being able to go on field trips and adventures take my mind off the monster hiding within me. Anyway, enough of the sob story! It's field trip time! We get to her school and arrive just as the kids were lining up for the bus. We head on over and begin the journey to Madame Sonya's Studio, the very studio I learned when I was Chali's age. Everyone on the bus is so excited and seems to love that I am the chaperone. I don't know what I did, but they all are smiling at me and jumping up and down. I know a lot of these kids, but who knew I was so popular! "Mrs. Torry, are you so excited!?" John, one of Charli's classmates, basically squealed. "Of course! Dancing is the best, you guys will love it!" Everyone was acting so strange. I've chaperoned before to the Zoo and a movie, but even then the kids weren't jumping for joy as much as they were today. Oh well! It makes me happy they have such an interest in dancing! We arrive to Madame Sonya's, take roll call, and then proceed to enter the studio. As soon as the doors open, I have to do a double take. Is that my mom? Wait...Dad? Tracy? Sam!? Oh. My. God. Madame Sonya's Studio was filled with my loved ones. From my parents to grandparents to friends from across the country, everyone was here, in this very studio. "What is going on!?" I say, with tears welling up in my eyes. My mom steps forward, with a smile of happiness I haven't seen much of since my diagnosis, and says, "This is all for you. Today, with your friends and family coming from all over, we wanted to show you what we've been working on to help raise money for breast cancer, and more importantly, support you in your battle." She throws me a shirt, and as I look at the words on printed on the front, everyone pulls out and begins to put on the exact same shirt. On the front, imposed over ballet shoes, are the words "Dance for Dana". I completely lose it. I have never been so moved in my entire life. I truly am loved and knowing I have all these amazing people on my side makes this fight that much easier. As I am still sobbing like a little baby, my mother and father come over to me and grab my arms and walk me towards the dancing room. As the doors open, I see candles, flowers, pictures, and, standing in the middle of it all, James. The love of my life and my eternal dancing partner. Fully dressed in a Tuxedo he must have just rented, he walks over and grabs me, and as "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly! begins to play, he whispers so only I can hear, "And now...We dance.

I can still hear my dad getting ready to go out as I lay in bed. I know he will be coming by our room any minute to check on me. It’s almost a nightly ritual. My brother and I had been in bed for about an hour. He is fast asleep. I can’t sleep because I know what is going to happen. I hear my dad’s footsteps coming towards our room. The door creaks open. He whispers, “Dougie? Are you awake?” I never answer the first time. He asks again. This time I respond, “Yeah dad?” He replies, “Ummm…I have to run up to the Package Store for some cigarettes. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You need to get to sleep.” I say, “OK, you’ll come right back, dad?” He assures me he will and leaves. I know he’s not coming right back. I get up and make sure my brother is covered up and asleep. I leave my room and see what time it is. It’s only 9:30 PM. I look around for a snack and then go turn on the television. I flip the dial around. There’s nothing on. I see headlights coming through the window. For a brief second, I think maybe he did come right back. Then the lights continue up the road and the hope is lost. I know it will be another long night of arguing and fighting and me not sleeping. I go back and lay in the darkness. Hoping my dad is alright and that he gets home before my mom does at 2:30 AM. They have been fighting a lot lately and they keep talking about divorce. I think about that for awhile. I’m not exactly sure what it is. It sounds terrible. I doze off for a bit. Then the phone rings. It’s loud and piercing. I know it’s my mom. I can’t answer it because then I would be telling on my dad. However, when no one answers, she’s knows he’s not there anyway. I would love to pick it up and tell her we’re fine and not to worry about dad being gone. After all, he said he was coming right back. That was two hours ago. Awhile later, the phone rings again. It seems even louder this time. I pull the covers and pillow over my head to quiet the noise. Then I get up and start looking out the window. Praying that every set of headlights I see is my dad. I watch and I watch. The lights are never his. It’s getting late now; almost 2:00 AM. I start getting really anxious. I don’t want to hear the fighting. I walk around the dark house aimlessly, enjoying the silence. I figure I’d better get to bed. Mom will be home soon. I don’t want her to think I’ve been up this whole time. That will make it worse. I hear mom’s car pull in. She slams the door because dad’s truck is gone. I hear her pick up the phone and call my grandparents. She asks if they have heard from my dad. Of course they have not. She starts crying. She is doing her best. I hear my dad’s truck pull in. He comes through the front door. I can only imagine what kind of shape he is in. My mom yells something at him. He slurs something back, but his drunkenness will not allow the words to make sense. She calls him a no good, alcoholic bum. He slams something down and breaks it. I grab pillows and stuffed animals and try to shut out the noise. It doesn’t help. I just hope my baby brother doesn’t wake up. They eventually go outside, but I can still hear them. I can hear my dad punching the house. I get up and peek out to make sure he’s not hitting my mom. They come back in and my dad finally passes out on the couch. My mom washes her face and gets into bed. I try and sleep, but I can hear her crying. I feel like comforting her. I don’t know how. I’m only ten years old. I have to try and sleep now, but it’s hard because I know it will probably happen again tonight.

Every year, just before the leaves fall, we have uninvited guests. Im not quite sure what to do about them anymore, so I am relating you their story in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, Im not alone. You wont see our guests very often, and it took me a few years to even notice them, because they are sneaky. A small dash of grey here. A rustling like leaves from behind a wall. A plump, satisfied looking cat there. And finally, rarely, a 'dropping' behind the toilet. I only ever found droppings behind the toilet. Yeah, we had mice. Three years ago I first noticed them. Im not sure for how many years they escaped my attention. Being the apex predator / alpha male, I of course set out to rid my house of them, as any normal human being would. Oh how this decision has kept me up at night! The first year I set out those snapping mouse traps, and with them killed five mice. Come Spring, I believed the problem was solved. Last year, we noticed them again, around the same time. I put out traps again, some in the same places, some in new places. Oddly, the ones in the same places didnt catch any mice, even though these were what I suspected to be high mouse traffic locations. I also put out one sticky trap, which resulted in one mouse caught live. It squealed when I picked up the trap. It was impossible to remove it without peeling its skin off, and besides, I was afraid of being bitten. This was a dead mouse walking. I knew I had to end its suffering, because horrible suffering was the only thing left in this creatures life, being essentially crazy-glued to this stickytrap. It took me a few minutes to come to that realization, as I am reluctant to kill anything, but it had to be done. Now before you leave in disgust, know that these details are important! I dont just share these to shock or offend you, this plays a critical element in my dilemma. I took the mouse and stickytrap outside and set it onto my concrete porch. I fetched a brick from nearby. All the while the mouse watching, no longer squeaking. It looked at me, and then the brick. I think it knew what was coming. I held the brick up high, hesitated for a moment with self hate for what I was about to do, then suddenly smashed the brick down as flat and as hard as I could on top of the mouse. There was minimal pain, I hope. There were no moving parts or twitching. Tiny mouse teeth caught my attention. I paused for a moment to reflect on life, then pushed it all out of my mind as I dumped the whole mess into the garbage bin. I didnt see any more mice that year. This year, they came back. Same time. I set out traps again. No stickytraps, just the snappy kind. No mouse caught. I know theyre here, because I have seen them on numerous occasions. Dashes of grey on the kitchen floor, and droppings behind the toilet. I go to inspect the traps the other day, and the peanutbutter bait is gone. On all of them. I reset the traps and move them. A few days later, I go to inspect them again. The peanutbutter bait is gone, and 2 of the traps were stacked on top of each other. Odd, as I live alone. I must have accidentally kicked one or swept it onto the other without noticing. Which brings us to today, and my discovery. I was sweeping out behind the water heater in my laundry room, and noticed what was probably one of the mouse nests in the corner. There were shredded paper bits papers and plastic and what looked to be sawdust from the garage all clumped together, all nice and cozy, like what a hamster would make in the corner of his cage. I would need my vacuum cleaner to suck this stuff out from way behind my water heater. I reached down to grab one of the bigger bits of trash, and I noticed that I could feel the warmth of the flame from the water heater when my hand got close to the nest. Nice spot to build a winter nest, I thought. Then I looked at the bit of trash I had picked up. At first I thought it was just a torn out page from one of those small manuals you get when you buy electronics. You know, the instruction manual in five languages that you completely ignore, which was exactly what I was going to do. But then, it caught my eye. This piece of trash had diagrams and sketches on it. Very small, very rough, but definitely a diagram of something and text had been scratched in with something, perhaps using a small rock of ash from my fireplace. Then it hit me. The diagram was of a mousetrap. This was a drawing, with accompanying symbols, written in ash, for how to disarm a mouse trap, on a piece of garbage, in this mouse nest.

Les firmly pressed the cold steal of his revolver against the man’s head. He had no desire to learn his name. He knew all he needed to. His family was dead and he finally caught the son of a bitch responsible for it. As Les cocked the hammer back the man smiled. He had no fear for the bullet that would end his life. Truthfully it would bring him freedom from the torment of the world. A world that was changed ever since the Thanatos Serum was accidently released on the unsuspecting global population. There were 2 types of people left now, the takers and the dead. Les pulled the trigger with the realization that if he accepted that truth sooner, his family may still be alive. As he walked away from the lifeless body his mind wondered, trying to fight off any memory of his lost loves. He thought back to when it all begin, when humanity ceased and anarchy began. For a civilization that was so enamored with zombies, biters, or whatever you chose to call them, they were all powerless. Quickly laid plans based off fiction and fantasies were wrong and ended up costing more people’s lives then it saved. What you didn’t see in the movies or on TV was just how crowded this planet is. There were 7 billion people all jostling for food and space and when the food of choice became flesh for 80% of Earths former living then space became its main commodity. 1.4 billion people still fighting to live, still fighting for space, but mainly just fighting. Les took solace in the few moments of peace that he knew he had left. The shot was bound to bring unwanted guests to him. He thought for a second and didn’t know what he feared more the Biters are other Breathers, but he knew Miami had plenty of both. He stepped out of the abandoned building and was immediately blinded by the sun on the warm cloudless day. He hated himself for what he had just done, for not being smarter. He felt no remorse for his actions. Remorse was something his wife took with her. He hated that he had to leave a good spot to hide for the night. Hated himself for not being smarter about how he killed the man left bleeding in the room in the back. While he no longer felt remorse, he still had emotions and they got the better of him today. He let his hatred override his judgment and would now have to pay the price in sweat. But a life on the run had become the norm, never running from anything important or to anything meaningful, just a mad dash to prolong life. A loud bang from a couple blocks over snapped him back to reality. He knew whoever had caused the noise would be making their way towards him. He laughed to himself that after all he had been through that he would still refer to the biters as a “who”. In a weird way he now had more respect for them then he did other survivors. People were choosing to act like they were now. They chose the death of people who couldn’t were thought to be useless over the compassion to help that had once been prevalent in society, and he shrugged off the fact that he had now joined that group of people. “Survival of the fittest,” he whispered to himself. Another bang, closer than before, brought him back from the trance he had once again put himself in and Les slapped himself to try and focus his mind. He had put a quarter of a mile between him and his ‘could have been’ house but recognized that would never be enough. The essential supplies that were once divvied up between his wife and him now had to be carried solo, and they were slowing him down. Now clear from the endless pit of his mind he could focus enough to hear the sound of shoes dragging on the streets all around him, and he had no choice but to risk hiding. Les ran another block before he rushed through the first open door he saw. In this upside down world that he lived he quickly realized that an open door was a safe place. Biters that were able to leave buildings would chase any noise they heard in the distance in search of a meal, and Breathers would never risk letting a biter wander into their safe house because they left a door ajar. He quickly, but quietly, shut the door behind him as he grabbed the axe that he had slung around his back. One thing all those zombie movies had right was how to kill them, but learned that not all weapons you see used in them work. Breaking though the skull is no easy task without a weapon with enough mass, and the blunter the weapon, the heavier it had to be. Bullets were still the best option, but in a world where silence truly is golden axes and sledgehammers became the preferred weapons. Les cleared room by room before finally deeming the 2 story pharmacy safe for the night. He barricaded all doors and windows with anything and everything that he was able to move without worrying about leaving an escape route. If he was discovered there would be no running from it. He locked himself in an old bedroom upstairs and flopped down onto the bed. His hands locked together behind his head as he let out a deep sigh just as the explosions started.... END OF PT.1... I plan on finishing this story, but at the moment I have no idea where I'm going to take it or how long it will be. This was just something I threw together tonight, full disclosure I didn't even proof read it, and stopped once I hit the wall. I found this sub a while ago and have always lingered here but finally decided to add to it. I'm hoping people here will be able to give me some tips and advice on how to improve my writing. If you guys enjoyed it I will gladly keep posting as the story goes on. Thanks for taking the time to read it.

The deer is quietly nibbling on some delicious dandelion shoots when he feels a sharp pain in his right-front leg followed by a loud boom. He had heard this sound often and knew that these sounds often heralded the deaths of other deer, including his own mother when he was but a young buck. He begins to panic, but the thought of his mother creates a steely resolve in him. "Not today," he thinks, "I will survive to see the sun rise again tomorrow". This leads the deer to begin quickly, but carefully, moving directly away from the danger until he feels the danger has passed after traveling for nearly an hour. As he pulls alongside the lake that he spent so many careless summer days frolicking beside with his siblings, the deer takes a long look at the wound which seems to have stopped bleeding. So, as he has been quite exhausted by today's excitement, a nice thicket is found where he can lie down and spend some time quietly contemplating life while regaining his strength in order to begin all of this again the next morning. As his eyes finally begin to droop closed the young buck hears a quiet rustling sound coming from the nearby lakeside, so he raises his head to see what is making such unexpected noises. His gaze is returned by that of one of the 2-legged creatures, and in that second an eternity seems to pass as the silent partners exchange information with flared nostrils and raised eyebrows just as surely as any young couple has during that first talk that goes on into the morning. The 2-legged creature slowly raises an arm to point at the deer... then darkness. There is nothing. There will never be anything again.

Did the Catholic Church Kill My Mother? Life is strange. Who really knows what is true? Who really knows what is happening behind the scenes, behind the closed doors that surround us? I don’t know. I want to know, but I certainly don’t know. If I were to say I worship anything in this life, it is truth. Ok, I also worship fun, excitement, laughter, joy, and dancing. But I also, absolutely, worship truth. As Tom Cruise once said so eloquently, “I want the truth!” and I don’t care if I can’t handle it. Give me the green pill. Show me the reality behind the scenes. Show me what is behind the curtain. I want to see it. I don’t care if it disappoints me. I don’t care if it horrifies me. I don’t care if it destroys every concept I currently with me to help explain my life journey. Truth or bust I say. Yet, despite my worshipful yearning for the truth, I don’t know if I ever have it. One of the ironies of worshiping the truth is that you must always be prepared to part with any notion, any idea, any concept, if a greater truth is revealed. If you do not carry forth this discipline, then you do not worship the truth, in fact, you cannot. If you ever value any belief greater than the truth, then you worship that belief, not the truth. Neither, am I claiming that you should worship the truth more so than any of your beliefs. I don’t know what you should do. I am merely telling you what I do. You can do as you wish. I shall not seek to control or dominate you. Unfortunately, others in this universe do not make the same promise to you or to me. And heretofore begins this story. Is this story true? I don’t know. I shall recite to you many events which countless others would happily confirm are absolutely true events. I shall then share with you a vision of other events, that no others in this world will be able to confirm or deny. These envisioned events appeared in my consciousness and, though they are extreme and fantastic, in my relentless commitment to open-mindedness, I allowed them some attention. For perhaps truth can slip into ones consciousness through unexpected channels? I have experienced such things in the past, though not usually in such a specific historical format. Be that as it may, I share this story- because I find it interesting and thought provoking. Perhaps you will as well. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My mother’s name was Mary. She was raised Catholic. She went to Catholic schools her entire life. As long as I knew her, she worked at a Catholic hospital. My father was also raised Catholic. My father also went to Catholic schools his entire life. All my life, he worked for the government. Though my parents were raised in rather devout Catholic upbringings, they did not pressure the Catholic religion upon us. My father did not attend mass with us. My mother did for much of my youth, sending us all to Sunday school. Yet, my mother seemed quite bemused by my relentless questioning and open-mindedness. She merely laughed when the Sunday school teacher told her of my trouble making questions and doubt. By the time I was in high school, my mother didn’t seem to care at all if I continued my association with the Catholic Church. She had stopped going to mass on Sundays- but to her surprise, though I attended public school, I found my most beloved friends in a Catholic youth group at our church. I remember both my parents frowning a bit that my sister and I loved going to Church on sundays, though they probably recognized that we did so in order to see our friends. The religion part was secondary, though not insignificant. Looking back, I cannot tell if my parents were trying to encourage us to be devout Catholics or if they were consciously or unconsciously encouraging us to reject the church. I suppose if they were trying to make us devout, they would have acted devout themselves, which they certainly did not do. So what did they want for us? What did they want our relationship with the church to be? I can’t help but conclude, they both to some extent had rejected Catholicism- yet kept their children involved…just in case. Just in case, the church was all that they were taught it was, they had all their children baptized and confirmed when they came of age. I remember my mom saying, “I wanted to make sure you all made it to confirmation.” Enough background. Let us get to the nitty gritty details of the vision and the murder of my mother. The vision began with me letting go of my current life story. I placed the last 20 years in a wooden chest in my head. In fact, I was going to put my entire life story into this chest, so that I might look at reality directly, yet as I was loading in the memories, I felt this sweet nostalgia. It was as if, once I put the most recent memories into the box, I suddenly could see all my earlier memories more clearly. So I paused in my memory stuffing, and decided to swim in the suddenly alive and present past. Today is Thanksgiving, and so I found myself at Thanksgivings of my far past. I saw a party at my childhood home when I was in college. Playing cards with family friends, some strange team based poker game we all somehow invented on the spot. Though vivid, this memory was not old enough, so I packed it into the chest and went further. I then saw a ham my mother made one Thanksgiving, sitting on the dining room table, blue patterned wallpaper coloring the entire room. I said to my mother, “Why are we having ham?” My mother replying, “I wanted to do something different this year.” I then found myself in the kitchen of my childhood home, while my mother prepared more amazing delights for her loved ones. I watched her. I considered talking to her, but instead I just observed. I thought to myself, is this real or is this my imagination? If it were real, I could talk to her…and though I felt tempted…instead I just watched. She chatted with me casually about things, but I didn’t pay much attention to that. I merely watched her. Did she know I was visiting her from my future self. Is she really just Mary, a mother, a nurse, cooking wonderful food in her kitchen? Or, the thought suddenly struck me, what if she knows exactly who I am and where I am right now. I watched my mothers eyes to see if she would give it away. Quietly, in my mind, I asked my mother…do you know something I don’t know mom? Do you know a truth of which I am unaware? If so, tell me mom. I want to know. And then I see the flicker of recognition and knowing in her eyes. Just for a moment. A sly smile. A brief eye contact. Holy fuck, I think. What does she know? I come back to my present self, sitting, meditating in my room. Did my mother know something? If I explored every memory of my past long enough, might I find other subtle yet clear indications of people with deep unsaid knowledge. How many times in my life has someone looked into my eyes with an infinite peace, contentment, joy, laughter, and understanding of all that is…of pain…of suffering…and of the glorious truth of life? How many times? Did my mother actually know something that she kept hidden from me, then, and perhaps her entire life? If so, what could it possibly have been? I sit. I wonder. I search back through my memories. A conversation comes clearly to mind. It was about a young priest. I sat in the passenger seat of a car while my mother drove. We were driving down Red Wood Lane, past the 7-11 and the Hardware store, heading home. It was sunny outside. The trees had green leaves. My mother had been asking me if any of the priests from the church ever made me uncomfortable. She said, “Do you know Father XX?” I said yes. She asked, “Has he ever invited you to do any activities with him?” “No.” I said, “I don’t really like him. He seems a little weird.” Father XX was a new young priest at our church. Looking back now, I imagine he was in his late twenties or thirties. My mom was quiet for a moment and then said, “Father XX has been calling to talk to Jimmy.” Jimmy was my brother. “Uh huh..” I said without much interest, “Why is he doing that?” “He apparently talked to Jim about boxing and Jimmy expressed some interest. So Father XX has been calling the house and inviting Jimmy to come learn some boxing with him.” She paused a bit. “I spoke to Jimmy about it, and he said he wasn’t really comfortable doing that. So I got on the phone with Father XX and told him.” I absorbed this odd bit of information from my mother for a moment. I felt a bit confused why my mom was telling me this. “Ok.” And then I was struck curious. That might have been awkward for Father XX. I asked, “What did Father XX say when you said that?” My mother paused a moment. I couldn’t see her face, but now suddenly looking back, I detect a very faint yet serious smile in her voice. She said, “Oh he said he understood. No big deal. He would not call anymore.” That is the end of that memory...

The clock struck 6AM as the boy awoke from a somber sleep. The boy rubbed his eyes and let out an impressive yawn as he slowly pressed his ear to his bedroom window. “GOBBLE GOBBLE” The boy waited every morning to hear that majestic call. He knew that as long as that turkey gobbled, he would have the best day he has ever had. The boy ran downstairs where he found his father sipping on his morning coffee, staring out over his land. The boy proudly walked to his father’s side, and starred out with him. “That turkey is the finest turkey I have ever seen.” Said the father. “ We will finally have the thanksgiving we have always deserved.” Now, the boy had never had a thanksgiving before, and only heard rumors of this grand holiday. But in that moment, this very special moment he shared with his father, the boy understood the meaning of thanksgiving. The boy quickly ran back upstairs and began writing a list of everything he was thankful for. On the top of this list, it read: “I am thankful for our turkey, which gives my family strength.” Finally, thanksgiving came, the clock struck 6AM, and the boy sprung out of bed waiting to hear the fiery call of his family’s prized possession. “…………………….” But the boy heard nothing. Only silence.

Everything started with her. She invited me to one of the biggest nights of the year, for a nerd anyway. It was N7, a convention where all of the biggest game developers came together to announce their upcoming games. There were giveaways and demos and specials, and it was especially difficult to get passes. Somehow, it doesn’t matter now; she got the passes for us to go. I was to go to her house, pick her up, and drive us there and have a good time. When I got to her house, I immediately noticed the shape it was in. broken down, gloomy, and just plain creepy. I decided to not mention it. She came outside, and I was stunned. She only wore her normal, everyday clothes, so did I, but she still looked beautiful. We went there, and I immediately saw a theater room for one of my favorite developers. I rushed inside, dragging her along beside me. The lights dimmed, and I saw a familiar face. It was the main protagonist of my favorite game as a kid. The name doesn’t really matter now, but I was excited. They were going to make another game! Throughout the rest of the night, I marveled at the new gaming systems and games that were coming out, but my mind still went back to that one game. I then took her home, and that is when it all started. I insisted on bringing her to the door, and saw her in. What’s important is what I saw. I decided to step in, maybe meet her parents. One step and I was knee-deep in water. I was paralyzed. I felt weaker and weaker at the moment, as if my life force was being drained away. Then, I felt tendrils of seaweed brushing against my legs. You know the feeling of touching seaweed in the water? It was like that, but I couldn’t move. I fell into the water, sinking as the last bit of my life was draining away. Then, one powerful tendril of seaweed shot up and knocked me out of the water and onto the front porch. I sat up, and saw her. But it wasn’t her; it was her, covered in seaweed, with a strange green aura around her. She was almost floating in the air. I sat there for quite a while, and she hovered there for quite a while, and then, for the first time all night, I built up the courage to speak to her. “So,” I said, “You’re seaweed.” She nodded, and came over to sit by me. She explained it all to me, and I understood. She fell in here as a little girl, and drowned. The magical properties of the swamp gave her life again, but as seaweed. The other human-seaweed hybrids took care of her, nurtured her, and protected her from predators. She was their child, in a way. Eventually she learned to morph between human and seaweed forms, but she had to be careful. The magic of the swamp was strong, and would pull her back to her seaweed form if she was gone too long. It was never explained to her why the swamp was in the house, or how the magic came to be, so don’t come asking for that. “It’s alright,” I said, still not sure what was real anymore, but I decided to just go with it, “I understand.” She pushed herself away from me and sobbed, “No, you don’t understand! I could die any day! I could get eaten by some fish or just of old age! I won’t know what life will be like! I won’t know love!” And she was right. I didn’t understand a bit. But I decided to try to make it better. I pulled her in my arms and just held her there, stayed throughout the night. I did not say a word. Neither did she. When day came, she whispered “thank you” before letting herself drop into the swamp. I went home, told no one about it. The next morning, I saw everything differently. There were fairies in the trees and music in the air. It was either my mind was opened to how the world really was, or the swamp water gave me hallucinations. Either way, I kept seeing them, and I talked to them now and then. Every day afterward, I went to the house. I looked in, relieved to find the swamp still there. I sat down, dipped my feet in. I felt my life draining instantly, but kept them there until I felt too weak. I looked down into the swamp, among the seaweed, and found one. I was certain it was her. I could always tell. After I was too weak, there was always a gentle nudge, pushing me back on to the porch. After my many other adventures, when I was old and grey and saw everything the world had to offer, I went back to the house. It was gone. Demolished. In front of me stood a large plain house. I knocked, and a man and his wife came to the door. I explained that an old friend used to live there and asked if I could come in. They accepted. The house was obviously new, and as I walked down the hall I saw a room. I peeked in, the owners of the house looked cautious, but they decided what could an old man like me do? There, in a crib, was a little baby girl, I looked at her, and saw her face. Her face. I told them she was beautiful, and then walked out without a word.

He knelt on one knee with his head down in thought. The world around him was ablaze, but he paid no attention. The hungry flames licked disappointedly at his immortal skin. The fauna that had called this forest home had deserted it ahead of the wildfire's arrival. Only the trees remained to be consumed by the inferno. While the deer and the birds had fled this chaos, he embraced it. To him it meant solitude. To him it was a place on Earth where he did not have to hide. It was a place where he could think. He looked up at the force of nature before him. The flaming redwoods even dwarfed this giant. The smoke billowed up through the canopy in an orange glow. The hills in the distance danced with flames through the black smoke. There was a deer carcass alight between the trees to his left. He watched as the once living organism returned to dust. The way it should be, he thought. Now, what was once a breathing creature was just matter subject to the laws of physics. He watched it burn. It was not long before he felt his solitude disappear, and he was not surprised. The fire had hid his heat signature, but the models being run on the ship would eventually identify his decisions through the process of elimination. Still kneeling, naked, among the fire, he did not need to turn around to know who was behind him. “Come to join me, brother?” he asked. “No,” the familiar voice said, “I've come to save you.” “Then you still do not posses understanding.” He said, standing to face his comrade. In the fire, he only saw the silhouette of his partner's genetically engineered body, identical to his own. “You are not a traitor. To stand against your duty will mean death. Death is a fate that you do not need to meet, my friend.” His comrade told him. “If we continue as we are, it is a fate we will all meet. We only delay the inevitable.” He replied. “You cannot give up. We can-” “The humans must be killed, as with all other organisms on this planet. You know it to be true.” “We can understand them if we keep working.” “We have studied their behavior on this planet and orbited their star over 4,000 times. Their behavior is not predictable. We cannot model it. You must see that we have no choice.” “No, my friend. They are the ones without a choice. Their minds are made of matter and nothing more. There conscious is therefore subject to the physical laws of the universe; every choice they will ever make can be calculated. Their decisions have already been predetermined just as the orbits of the planets in this system are. As our epistemic capabilities and our understanding of their species continues to increase, we will be able to model their behavior.” “Planets are not self aware, brother. Planets do not decide to orbit or to not. For this reason they can be predicted. These humans, though, do choose. Every choice they make changes the future of the universe drastically, second to second. The models have shown them doing great things to change the galaxy, the universe even. But it has also shown them destroying each other. The variance is too great. While their free will survives, our models can never successfully decide the fate of the universe with accuracy. If we are to survive this fate, we must have have an accurate model. It is not a question of our epistemic capabilities anymore. It is their free will that disrupts our models. This question can only be answered once we reach omniscience, and they are the only ones standing in front of our goal.” “This planet harbors the only other life in the universe. You can't possible expect me to join you in destroying it. It is this self-awareness which you speak of that makes life a special occurrence, but it does not give them free will. This is a causal universe. Every effect has a cause. These humans are just organized matter, functioning like clockwork. They are just biological machines. If we know the initial conditions and precisely how they function, we can predict everything they will ever do.” “They are not just matter. They have drunk order from the universe, using the energy from their star, until they have become something more than matter, just as you and I have. They have become a grouping of matter that is so ordered, they can decide their own paths independent from the physical laws. Their bodies are subject to them, yes, but not their minds” “My friend, it makes no difference how ordered matter becomes. There is nothing higher. It is still matter with a predetermined path. We just need to find it.” “If their lives are predetermined, brother, then why do you cherish them so much? Are these lives not then meaningless?” “I cherish them because their free will is a beautiful illusion. They will never understand that they are reading from the Universe's script. They do not have the epistemic abilities to predict the future as we do. They do understand this. Lacking the ability to predict accurately forces false predictions to be compatible with both a predetermined life and one of free will. They can never possibly know the difference. So to them, whether or not they have free will does not matter. They will choose to believe the beautiful illusion, which is, to them, as good as having it.” “This is not a time for sympathy. You, and our government, need to understand this. The humans are miniscule. They do not perceive time as we do. Unlike you and I, their lives are but a flash of light in the universe, incomparable with its timescale. You protect these insignificant beings while we have seen models where our next generation is forced to deal with the death of the universe. We need to act now or we will not be prepared to survive. This is our responsibility. This is why we were sent here.” “No, my friend. We were sent here to understand. Not to destroy. When we were children, when our first star still burned, we were not so different from them. Soon they will be as we were. We cannot end them.” “If they don't destroy each other or their world first. You delay what they will do on their own.” He walked up to the redwood and felt its burning bark. “This tree will survive the death of its forest. We must be ready to survive the death of our universe.” “It is not our universe. We share it with this planet, you must understand this.” “If we do not return this planet to just that, a planet, we can never predict and never be prepared. We have studied them, we have tried neurological implants, we have tried everything. It is over. By this time tomorrow, our quest for omniscience could be complete. Our mission will finally be over. We could return to our home as heroes.” “Not at this cost! You are not completing your mission. You are giving up on it.” “If you are not with me, then you must try to stop me. But I will not hesitate to end you too, brother.” He walked away from his comrade to his ship, invisible among the flames. He took off, heading to complete what he believed he need to do. “No!” His comrade ran to his ship and took off after him to fight for the fate of the Earth.

I was sitting on the veranda of my local coffee shop, sipping an extra dry cappuccino, and staring out the window when I saw her. She was cute, of course, but I knew that already and it wasn’t important. I had seen her before and resolved to speak with her the next time she passed. She looked in the window and smiled at me. I couldn’t react. The next day, I was sitting in the same spot, knowing that she would come again. When she did, a smile formed on my face and she looked in the window, returning the expression. I couldn’t react. For weeks I had been trapped within this routine, and for weeks I continued, until one day, she didn’t come at all. Dejected, I stood from my seat and left a tip on the table. I was turning to leave when I saw her standing in the doorway. She was cute, of course, but I already knew that and it wasn’t important. Time slowed around us as our gazes met. I remembered the our junior high years, in which we had been close friends. I remembered all the movies we had seen, all the stars we had gazed upon, all the good times we had had. I remembered how we had met the first time, forced into a study group in which the two of us had done all the work. I remembered being in her den, playing cards and talking while we waited the other children that never arrived. I remembered being at her birthday, and all the others fading around us as we sat in the corner, talking for hours and having a better time for it. I remembered everything and it took too long. Before I could say anything, she piped up. “Why don’t you ever speak to me? We see each other every day. We used to be friends.” I searched my mind for the words I should say; I remembered what my parents had taught me, “Think before you speak.” My heart raced as my mind paced, I struggled to form a sentence. She turned and left. I couldn’t react.

Alright. Today is the day. I feel inspired, I feel motivated. I can put pen to paper and finally hash out the first chapter to my next novel. A short thriller with a dash of dark humor, a comedic tragedy of sorts. Something that will leave the readers with a sense of ambiguity. Laptop is on, WordWriter 20xx is open, and now here comes... *High atop the cityscape sat Jane. A reporter of sorts, Jane ran a blog -* Hm... Maybe not Jane... I knew a Jane back in grade school. She was pretty and sweet, definitely smart, and we had an estranged friendship of sorts. Ah, who cares. That was so long ago and I hardly even knew her. *A reporter of sorts, Jane ran a blog reporting on the video game industry. Her stall was in the middle of the aisle -* I wonder what became of Jane? I think we went to different middle schools, that or we just never saw each other again. Oh, there's also the Jane Park I met in high school. Mildly overweight, dumb, and bossy. Being stuck with her in the Physics lab was probably what stifled my dreams of becoming the next Bill Nye. Heh, imagine me as a "Science Guy" of all things. Maybe I should change the name, this is getting too distracting. *High atop the cityscape sat Sarah. A reporter of sorts, Sarah ran a blog reporting on the video game industry. Her stall was in the middle of the aisle, her body cramped between an overweight and visibly uncomfortable salesman and tomboyish young woman. Her laptop was -* Sarah. I can't use Sarah. My memories of Sarah Bellevue are still too fresh despite the decade that has passed. There were other girls before her, there have been a few women since, but I never wronged any of them the way I did Sarah. That was the first heart I ever broke and it wasn't until years had gone by that I realized what I had done. I have no remorse toward what happened, nor do I pity her for what transpired after, but I am haunted by the idea of my naivety at the time. I admit, that is cold, but... Okay. Not Sarah. *High atop the cityscape sat -* Rachel? No, I knew a Rachel in College. Michelle? Nope. My assistant is named Michelle. Ashley? Cousin's daughter. Carmen... Liana... Eleni? Amber. Jasmine. Aisha... Jenny? No too close to Jennifer. Christine... is my mother's name. Mandy. Marilyn. Brittany? Tiffany. Candace. Nope, nope, nope, dated a Tiffany, nope. BrandyHeatherChanningBriannaAmberSerenaMelodyDakotaSierraBambiCrystalSamanthaAutumRubyTaylorTaraTammyLaurenCharleneChantelleCourtneyMistyJennyKristaMindyNoelShelbyTrinaRebaCassandraNikkiKelseyShawnaJoleneUrleenClaudiaSavannahCaseyDollyKendraKylieChloeDevonEmmalou... Becky? *High atop the cityscape sat Becky -* Okay clearly not Becky. Becky is the name of my neighbor's overly rebellious daughter. Maybe I should just switch up the sex to move things along. *High atop the cityscape sat John. A reporter of sorts, John ran a blog reporting on the video game -* Oh... I forgot... John killed himself a few years ago. Of all the times to think about him... When was the last time I even saw him? His sister's wedding? Amber had been dropping hints to me to try to reconnect with him but things had just become to strained after his divorce with Amy. I guess he shouldn't have been too surprised to have caught her cheating on him given the way they had first met. I can't even remember the last thing I said to him... Twenty years of growing up together. Five years growing apart. Three years without him at all. I never sought closure after his death. I never asked the reason. I never guessed the reason. I accepted the news and carried on with my life. It was like when my mother mentioned to me that my elementary school had been torn down and the property was now empty. A part of me pined for the memories but not enough to become concerned about it. Maybe I should give Amber a call. But, for now, let's try another name. *High atop the cityscape sat Phillip. A reporter of sorts, Phillip ran a blog reporting on the video game industry. His stall was in the middle of the aisle, his body cramped between an overweight and visibly uncomfortable salesman and tomboyish young woman. His laptop was dimly illuminated to maintain the unrealistic ideal of privacy as he skimmed over the notes he had prepared for the convention. Phillip had become popular enough to draw the attention of several notable industry leaders and was given an all-expense paid trip to report on behalf of the convention runners, GamenCorp -* Phillip used to play football in high school. I can't remember if he kept playing in college or not, I think maybe he was injured? I'm pretty sure he and Amber were still friends in college, maybe I should ask her when I... No... I probably shouldn't call her at all. There is undoubtedly a reason why we lost touch after John left us. I don't know the reason, but I accept that there has to be one. Thirty minutes and I've hardly touched the keyboard now. Maybe I should just take a break. *High atop the cityscape sat PLACEHOLDER. A reporter of sorts, PLACEHOLDER ran a blog reporting on the video game industry. PLACEHOLDER stall was in the middle of the aisle, PLACEHOLDER body cramped between an overweight and visibly uncomfortable salesman and tomboyish young woman. PLACEHOLDER laptop was dimly illuminated to maintain the unrealistic ideal of privacy as PLACEHOLDER skimmed over the notes PLACEHOLDER had prepared for the convention. PLACEHOLDER had become popular enough to draw the attention of several notable industry leaders and was given an all-expense paid trip to report on behalf of the convention runners, GamenCorp, to local media outlets and an exclusive video series.

I was walking home from school, lost in my thoughts, primarily from the boredom. Man was I hungry. It was a chilly spring day. The sky was blanketed by gray clouds which blockaded the golden rays of the sun. I kept getting this hackneyed cough that didn't go away. That day seemed like one of those unbearably slow days where nothing went my way. Man did I need a smoke. But we all carry our own crosses and we all drink our own poisons. I kept walking down the same gray street. The same routine. The same bullshit. Luckily for me, these kind of days get lost in the abyss of my mind and that's what keeps me going. Imagine if all the bad moments in life just piled up. Wouldn't you go crazy? I walked past a pregnant Hispanic lady whose belly stretched her yellowish-white shirt; it looked as if she was carrying a mini Venus. She was selling roses and myrtle. I looked at her and she smiled at me. She said “Buenos Dias” in her gentle voice. I returned the remark and kept walking down the street. My cough kept getting worse. I was so close to home yet the journey seemed endless. Suddenly, as I walked down a curb some figure grazed my left side. In my instinct I said “sorry.” The person turned around and looked at me with bewilderment. Her appearance was rather strange. She was wearing a raggedy-white tank top, that had black smudges running across the fabric, torn up black shorts, and flip flops that were only kept together by duct tape. Her limbs were all bony and lengthy. Her arms were covered with what seemed like mosquito bites. It was almost like someone threw darts at them. Covered in scabs, her pale face was gaunt. Her eyes were a chilling blue color, once full of life, yet now they were windows to emptiness. Her capillaries rooted out like bloody vines. She opened her mouth to say something but only a gust of foul air was released. I coughed when the stench hit me. She had missing teeth; the ones remaining were rotting and eroded down. She walked past me hurriedly but with a limp. She was death and yet I saw humanity in her. I saw myself in those blue eyes. The only thing alive was her golden curly hair that flowed in the wind. I walked a safe distance behind her not wanting to pass her eye watering smell. As she passed a garden, the lady would slow down and observe the flowers. She plucked the green petals from the roses, groaned in excitement, and kept walking. She passed another garden, slowed down, and crushed a yellow sunflower in her fist and moaned with joy. She kept doing this with every garden. She scattered the white petals of a daisy all over the street, tore apart a purple iris, and stomped on pink carnations. At last, the woman walked down a dead end street and approached a grey run down house. In the driveway a black Cadillac was parked. The lawn was brown and dead. There was a leafless willow tree that supported an old tire swing. The only thing alive were a a pair of white chrysanthemums. She approached them, smelled them, and went inside the house. The last thing I saw was her long golden hair. What a spectacle. I kept walking down the street thinking what's for dinner.

(first post, critiques welcome... please be gentle) Dear Desmond, You may find that you are disoriented, don't worry, this feeling will pass. You are in a basement of an abandoned warehouse, and there is no way out and nobody will hear you scream. It's sad to see what you've become, considering I had thought the world of you only two years ago. I feel really bad for your sons and can only hope that whatever damage that has been done to them in the last eight months isn't permanent. But I have to say overall, this has been one hell of a wild ride that you have contributed to. I look forward to the day I can sit down with your soon to be ex wife and tell her the lurid details of your little tryst. I think it's time to call you out on the games that you've been playing Desmond, regardless of the outcome seeing as I have nothing left to lose other than my already rocky relationship with Jason. I regret working with the two of you, between his mood swings and other repressed issues, and your strange obsession with manipulating him and myself, I have lost all patience. Construction is hard enough work, but when you add weird pseudo religion to it and a machavelian boss it turns into a soul sucking shit show. Your wife, I'm sorry to say is not only bent and untrustworthy but honestly useless as tits on a bull. Her job is to take care of two teen boys and do the books for a company that employs six, yet nobody gets pay stubs and Jason, a master carpenter on average is making just a little over two grand a month. I'm sick of the excuses and lies Desmond, after seeing photos on social media of you and your family going camping and fishing every weekend, yet always somehow have no money to pay Jason my b.s. meter seems to be permanently on. Oh and by the way, not paying him during the entire six weeks that my grandmother was passing was the most incredible low I've seen in a while. I've been financially supporting Jason while he works so you can live life fully. You owe me. But it's time for the dirt Desmond, I know you introduced Jason to your ex girlfriend, and my she's a piece of work that hundreds of men have worked. And Jason who barely has any self control hopped onto the bike and worked it more. All the while hiding it from me, and sharing it with you. He shared it, you got to see her nude pics and you were part of the sensual dialogue that would ensue... Then came the meetings, just beer and blow at first, and then one thing led to another. Suddenly I'm dealing with a full blown alcoholic cokehead at home while being financially crippled and completely intimately ignored. All the while you did the same to your wife. Your hot wife of twenty years that wanted and yearned for you, and begged for your suddenly straying attention Desmond. Your interest in your dirty little tryst with Jason and the whore. All the while you would take me to the side and talk to me about my codependency, and my issues, and how I needed help. By the time I started looking for help I was so broken down by your and Jason's lies and manipulation I began to consider non-existence. Yes, I had a problem, and honestly, it was thinking that you and him were genuine humans. Six months straight of chaos, pain and confusion, and I realized that all the things that were amiss, boiled down to you taking advantage of a situation. You knew that Jason was trying to turn his life around, that he no longer wanted to be a gangster or to hurt people. So you knew that you had a couple of hooks. Feed him drugs, lower inhibition. Introduce him to someone that you wanted to get close to without having any trace attached to your phones etc. Keep him struggling with money and dependent on you, and ensure that he thinks that you are loyal to his and your shared secrets. You aren't much better than a pimp dear Desmond. So the fallout from you and Jason's little tryst so far, as far as I have heard through the grapevine entails your wife cheating on you with your psychotic abusive brother, to which you have made certain she gets punished daily for it. Your brother's wife took one hell of a beating for it and his sixteen year old daughter has been booted to the street. I've been caught up with multiple tragedies and it may have saved me from the actual pain of you and my boyfriend's indiscretions. And now you punish your wife for making a poor decision, and project your guilt onto her. How very convenient Desmond. You kick her out and then follow up with a drug and alcohol induced tear that will most likely destroy what is left of your business. And Jason is doing everything he can from keeping me from leaving him. The thing about it is, I'm a nice person to a point and then there comes a line in which once crossed a special little beast comes out. You, and your little pawns have pushed me past that point, and here I sit writing you, Jason and the whore personalized letters. I want you all to hurt the way you have hurt me and the other people in your lives. But this is only the beginning Desmond, and I hope you appreciate that sometimes the truth isn't enough, and sometimes kindness entails tough and possibly dangerous love. I've dug enough dirt up on all three of you to have three well dug graves, you've built your own coffins and now it's time for the next step. So I wish to help you along with your path. I'm just sad that you won't be able to say goodbye to your loved ones, because now that you have read this, you won't be allowed to see anyone again. Welcome to hell.

When you're in a moment you never realize that a memory you will always treasure is in the making. I remember the first time I had a real conversation with him. It was early June and a perfect summer night. The temperature was sublime and the scintillating stars against the pitch-black sky were magnificent. I had stopped in just to drink away the boredom, never knowing this was one of the moments that became a memory that I will always adore. The door was wide open and the warm nights breeze filled the bar. Being that it was a Wednesday night there were only a few people scattered randomly around the bar. I took the seat next to him which wasn't unusual. We were friends or at least acquainted enough to expel my tiresome night. I never anticipated it'd be as intoxicating as it ended up being. I always thought he was attractive, but he was younger and I never dated younger. Our common interest couldn't be denied. The vibrations I felt were true and genuine. I have never felt so enchanted just with a persons words. One of the most stimulating conversations I have ever had was cut short as the guy I had been seeing at the time entered the bar and that was the first time in two years I've ever been saddened to see him. It would still be weeks before he learned how I felt but there was no way for me to deny to myself that I was falling for him. Now I lay here with my hand on his chest feeling the beat of his heart as he sleeps. The warm nights of the summer have vanished. The trees are bare as the colorful leaves lay on the cold harsh ground. The stars are no longer visible at night and have been replaced with clouds announcing winter is near. He's moving in a week and taking my heart with him. He told me last night that spending time with me was the best part of his summer. He doesn't know and I can't say that this summer has been the best part of my life. If I confess that his kiss takes my breath away, that he's on my mind constantly, that just the mention of his name gives me butterflies, or for the life of me I can't recall what my reason to smile was prior to him, then he might just might stay. I can't though. Not because of fear or pride, but because he just might stay. I know he deserves better. Is that the truest of loves? To sacrifice the only happiness I've ever known for his own good. No matter, I will remain silent and watch him go. At the end of it all I'm left with a summer full of memories that will forever be treasured.

This is my first story. Wrote it during my insomnia last night. Couldn't come up with a good title, so excuse me for that. I've never been one for emotion. I don't mind it, I just don't like it guiding my decisions. I keep with logic. That changed when I met her. I was having my morning coffee. She walked in, and I felt an almost foreign sensation: infatuation. I shrugged it off and went on with my day. The next day, she walks in again, orders her coffee, and sits down. Despite my best efforts to ignore it, I felt an urge to go meet her. So I grabbed my coffee and asked if I could sit at her table. She obliged. We made small talk for a bit. At first it was trivial things, like the weather. Soon it turned to hobbies and interests. As it turned out, we had many things in common. Gradually, we became friends, meeting every morning for coffee. We helped each other through tough times. I offered logic and advice; she gave me emotional support. She made me happy, but I fought it. I insisted to myself that decisions based on emotion rather than logic would hurt me. I'd fought happiness, sadness. I'd fought anger, embarrassment. Even nostalgia was crushed under my neverending battle of logic. But as they say, love conquers all. I rather detest clichés. You can imagine my dread when I was caught in one. I've always believed men and women can just be friends. I stand by that. Still, I couldn't shake her thought from my head. I decided to tell her how I felt. I went about it logically, predicting outcomes, analyzing both our behaviors. It didn't help. I soon came to realize that logic had no place in the affairs of love, much to my apparent dread. There was no strategy. Planning, analyzing, predicting. None of it helped. It was all wrong. I had to trust my emotions for once. I had to feel everything I had suppressed. It was wonderful. It was terrible. I laughed. I cried. I even screamed, once or twice. So I told her. To my dismay, she didn't feel the same way toward me. I cried that night. We remained friends, though. We still talk over coffee every day. I'm different now, I suppose. Logic is still my driving force, but I don't hold back my emotions anymore. It's a burden off my back. And guess what? I just met a beautiful girl who lives down the street. Maybe I'll go say hi.

"I remember early years digging my toes into the sand, holding a grip, mocking the tide to try and wash me away" I whisper in the ear of my companion. I can tell she is eating up every word, this spirited half elf sea-nymph. "Do you remember how it felt to feel infinite, as if we will exist in this moment forever..." My words flow like the water across the sand, eroding her sensibilities, telling her to give in. "Bwump!" As the head of an Orc falls by my side, desecrating the sand, ruining the magic of the moment, his wry smile tells the story. "He's been stalking us since Newkirk" Gladius speaks up from the shadows. "Must of felt comfortable that I had gone away, and you two were properly distracted for the evening" he continues chuckling, he pulls his shaft from the monsters back and checks it's point and fletching. "Let the dead keep your arrow" I say in a hiss, the ruined plans of my evening running like the black of orcblood in the sand. "Price of having a 5000 gold bounty, my love" whispers Evelyn as she nibbles at my ear. "I pray you to keep close in the future, Gladius" she says aloud "Gods forbid the creature caught us loosed of our under-garments..." "He'd never have bothered, once he saw my sword drawn" I cut in with one hand on my cock and the other on the sword-hilt. "I fear the road ahead is far more loathsome Barnaby" Gladius remarked while rolling his eyes. "I had hoped you could satisfy your lusts here, we need your wits for the next few nights, we are only a day's journey from Mendleheim, and possibly our deaths" "You fear too much brother" I say in a boastful voice, "how many ventures have ended in the blood of our enemies and not our own" "I have watched the waters for signs here" Evelyn spoke up, "perhaps the waves have washed away our footprints, erasing our memory, past and future" "Don't talk nonsense dear, a man controls his own fate" I say without thinking. "The waves led me to you" she says as she walks back toward the sea sullenly. "You sure know how to make them smile" Gladius jeered. Time to change the subject "Where the hell is Frem, I thought you told him to..." I feel a creeping chill run up my spine, my time in the priesthood had left me but a few gifts, an innate sense for extreme evil was one of them. I quickly turned back to the road and see a flicker in the distance. Gladius followed my lead, "perhaps it's a signal from Frem?" He says, trying to calm my nerves "No, not Frem." I say as I turn to douse our campfire with sand. "Get your gear my lady" I say to Evelyn, who had been praying in the waves, the water soaking her under-clothes, making them cling to every curve of her body. "Yes, love, I felt it too", she said as she absorbs the seawater with minor effort. "No rest tonight it seems" Gladius had already brought the horses around, when I was fully equipped, long sword and a dagger, a small round shield with the arms of some once-proud house emblazoned across it. "I wonder what it's like to be rich" I say to Gladius as I mount my palfrey. "You will never know if we stay here" Gladius says as he gallops into the direction of the flames. I watch Evelyn follow close behind him "sometimes, I'd rather just lay in the sand, and stay in the shadows" I whisper to myself as I grab the reigns and follow them back onto the road.

"How did I get into this mess?" I think to myself, my hands covered in mud, the swamp beneath me swallowing my tiny frame up to my elbows. "I once sang for the Master of Stoneshearth, sure, it was a modest keep. No huge castle, just a thrown-stone tower and a small plot of farmland, but it was a hot meal and a warm bed at night." I ponder as I crawl through the salt marsh. "Lo, our mistress of the night, guide our daggers with your sight" the misappropriated chants of several voices echo through the marsh grass. "We shall feed your hunger with flame and sword" "Perhaps I should head back to Gladius now..." I think to myself. "No, I can hear him now 'you heard some chanting so you ran back to change your trousers.' No I must get a better view, I must at least find them, count them, some information for him. It's my only shot at redemption in the eyes of men." My mind drifts back to Stoneshearth, back to my tiny chamber at the base of the tower. "Occasionally I would have the company of a tower guard, nothing like feeling the strong arms of a bowman wrapped around me. He would return to his wife before the sun rose, but he left his seed behind." I reminisce sorrowfully, as I crawl through thick mud that smells like salt and old death. A land where even my partial night-sight couldn't pierce the black. "Begin we now our holy harvest, launch the night-fire onto fresh kindling" the voices chant in unison "I must be getting closer" I shudder to think about what is going on ahead, "poor, sorry sot being burned in some dark rite, but perhaps I'll find a bit of coin at the site, these cultists hardly care for material possessions anyway" "Shyyyyahhhh!" I hear a voice call out and the grass and fog fell away. I was on my hands and knees on bone dry earth. My hands were still submersed like the earth was still mud, but it was dry and hard, I pulled with all the strength a half-man can muster, but to no avail. I hear the footsteps coming as I look up with eyes full of tears. I've faced death a few times before, but never like this. Never so exposed... Never with no hope for escape. "I don't fear spirits and spooks!" I lie, yelling at the figures approaching me draped in black robes, flecked with red-gold thread. "Our mistress has granted us a pygmy thief, my sisters" a raspy female voice from under the robe spat. "You say you don't fear ghosts, how about me" she said as she threw her hood back revealing a scaly face more lizard than human, her eyes burned like fire and the smile across her fanged grin shown red with blood." "Do your worst, you nasty snake" I say with the little courage I could muster, I felt the dirt turn soft and muddy again as hands wrapped around my arms and legs. They lift me up and bind me with leather. I've slipped a knot or two, a learned skill in a thief's arsenal, but these were too strong, too tight. "Set the altar" I heard a dark, yet more human voice from one of the figures, I can see the sparkle of a black-fyre stone at her neck. I watch them throw up a crude driftwood cross and stay silent as they tie my tiny body to it. "Is this all" I yell, "I'll work these knots loose, eventually" I watch them join hands in a circle before me, they all seem to not hear, an unintelligible chant begins as the walk in a circle. They seem to be focusing the words to the center of the circle, where a glimmer of light catches my eye, the same color as the black-fyre stone at the witch's neck. "Fuck, someone help me!" I scream aloud, though I know my party is too far away, "Gladius, Barnaby, Evelyn!" I scream their names in vain. I watch a glimmer turn into a flame and a flame take the form of a dragon. The witches fell to the ground as it took shape, fell into a trance-like sleep as payment for summoning this foul creature. It stands as tall as a bear on hind legs, it's whole body blazing purple-red flames. "By the gods..." I cry out. The creature, steps out of the ring of bodies and moves gracefully toward the crossed driftwood I was tethered to. I can see detail as it gets closer, it is the living embodiment of black-flame, the heat of which singes my hairs as it looms over me. It's eyes are a deep ageless jet-black, I can feel my soul sink into them as I begin to accept my fate. "Klop, klop, klop" I hear the hoof-fall of horses. "Frem!" Shouts a voice both angelic and familiar from out of the pitch-black darkness.

My father’s heart was buried deep in his invaluable camera and of all the seasons, of course autumn had to be the one he loved the most. Cold, windy, rainy, butty autumn, with its falling leaves, empty streets and remarkably boring parks. We had travelled to Denmark, him and I, since, as he had said, “Denmark is so beautiful during autumn”. I just sighed and followed along. I swung my feet on the bench I had found. Everything in the park was in grey nuances. Even the trees that were supposed to be “so beautiful”. Even though it did not rain, the massive wall of butts above my head pressed my mood into an abstract soul, staring into the nature, without any purpose. That was when something pressed against my neck. Not something physical, but I was sure somebody was looking at me. I turned towards the other side of the bench. Her breath became smoke in front of her face. She had tucked her legs up under her jacket, but she did not seem to freeze. A pair of glasses were carefully placed on her nose and in her hands, she held a book. “Fat mod”, it said. If it meant something, I had no idea what. It must have been obvious that I was looking at her, because she looked up from it and turned her head towards me. Now was the time strings would start playing, a rose would grow from underneath the ground and we would stare at each other for an eternity, right? Nope. I am not that good with eye contact and as she looked me directly in the eyes, I had to look somewhere else. She smiled, though, and put her feet on the ground. She was wearing a pair of sneakers. Not the typical footwear for the season, I would say. I was wearing a pair of boots myself. “Hej”, she said, and extended her arm, offering a handshake. We shook hands. It crackled, as the fabric of our gloves rubbed on each other, though she did not seem to mind. “Jeg hedder Stine, hvad hedder du?” Her tone indicated that she was asking a question, but what it was, I had no idea. “Eh…” I mumbled, as I shook my hands in a rejecting motion and shrugged my shoulders. She looked confused at me. “Hvad er der? Kan du ikke…” I shook my head, and she stopped her sentence. It looked like she understood. I had no idea what she was saying, but she still seemed like there was something she wanted. She put her book on the bench, stood up and went away. I wondered whether she would just leave her book there, but after a few seconds, she was back, with a stick in her hand. She drew a stickman on the ground. Then she pointed at herself and spelled “Stine” above it. “Stine,” she said and pointed at herself again and handed me the stick. I could not help but smile myself. I drew a stickman next to hers. It was not as straight as hers was, but she just laughed. Maybe it is not everything that is grey.

Kirk sat with his back to the wall plucking and strumming his ukulele absently. His fingers flew over the fretboard, producing and simple and quick melody that sounded like it belonged in another place, on an instrument that was actually in tune. “A little higher please,” Courtney called from her perch in the sling a dozen feet up the wall. Kirk set aside his instrument and pulled on the rope until she raised and hand for him to stop. He tied off the rope and sat back down and began playing again, his eyes sweeping the edge of the woods facing the wall. “Are you almost done?” “Yeah, couple more minutes, we need to go back for more paint soon anyway.” “You’re taking too long.” She ignored him. Painting the signs was the only thing she got any enjoyment out of these days, a connection with her past, back when she was an artist living in a modest condo in the snooty part of town. The signs were simple, utilitarian markers of the territory of their gang. Reminders that civilization sits on the shoulders of the available resources. A few last flourishes and she told Kirk she was done. He untied the knot and slowly let her down and started collecting their gear, stowing the rope in the pack. “Someone is out there,” he said without pausing. She sighed as she continued putting her things away, putting on her pack and casually leaving her hand on the handle of the knife that was just under the top flap. They turned to watch a figure emerge from the cover of the trees and walk slowly towards them. Kirks ukulele had been replaced with a worn, well cared for pistol whose grip matched the calluses in his palm. He stopped 15 feet away. “You’re from the Space Monkey gang?” He eyed the pistol and noted the set of their feet. He wore an animal skin on his torso, jeans and hi tops, like someone from a bad music video, but appeared well fed and, most importantly, not crazy. Kirk snorted, “So, you can read,” gesturing up to the sign still drying on the wall without looking away, “What do you want.” A light breeze teased the grass at their feet, and a bird called out nearby. The man smiled. “‘I have some news that I think your group will be interested in, and I’m hungry. I am from the US Army camp. Can we go somewhere more comfortable?” Kirk glanced at Courtney, who looked stared for a moment longer at the stranger before giving an imperceptible nod. Kirk’s pistol disappeared under his clothing somewhere. “Follow us,” Courtney said, “But if you’re one of them, the dogs will know, we’ve gotten quite good at dismantling Scouts.” “Great,” he grinned. Courtney turned and started walking back through the broken wall, and Kirk motioned him to follow before bringing up the rear. As they stepped through the rubble, a small piece of the strangers boot broke off and settled on the ground. Long after they were gone, it started blinking slowly.

I wake, a killer. All gods left. I dreamt of this place, hate it. Blood on my hands. Wash wash wash. It's there for good. Empty room. Broken glass under my feet. Crunch crunch crunch. Who is that person? In the mirror there, half-cut, murderous. I can't remember the last time I ate. My stomach is paste. Such dreams, as were once mine - of cold mornings and other things sleeping and other-worldly. Surely that sky will bleed and the walls too, will drip. And I pronounce the day-breaks! into a little grey ball in the corner of the deep, and the world will. Here are the clouds. Heavy, rolling on air, with deep inflection, with songs from above. I recall something from the night before, though it is difficult. There is sorrow, there always is, but with smiles and soft hands; a man with a family of critters and daughters to kiss his feet. Such is the brood. Another in the day-bright, with soul. Another in the sheets, barely conscious. I wept, no less. There is a reaper sweeping these fields and turning them into graves. He works by dreams. He never forgets, furnishes them, constructs them into murals and cossets them. The wings of a devil carry him across benthic floors and over mountaintops and this is how he moves, in the eyes of the sunk-en, in this city of saints and murderers.

You've searched the world over for the perfect gift for your cat. You've bought her catnip, climbing towers, and little bells that hang from her neck...but have you thought about how your cat feels? Feline depression is the leading cause of suicide among kittens and cats and it can be brought on by a low sense of worth - a feeling of not quite measuring up with other cats in the looks department. Your cat feels different. You can continue to hide the problem or you can act now. The choice is yours. Welcome to the world of Feline Orthodontics. Feline braces will give your cat the self esteem and set of teeth she needs for that next power meeting with the cat next door where they fight over a mouse corpse. Feline orthodontics not only makes your cat feel proud now, but down the road she won't have the dentistry problems that can cost you quite a bit of litter later. Act now. **Boogers** If you pick ten boogers out of your nose, statistics say one of those boogers is gay. Think about it. **Badge** At work I like to get to the front door of the office and then pretend that I can't find my badge. I'll search through all my pockets. Then, when someone comes up I'll pull out a bouquet of flowers and give them to that person. Then they think I'm just some magician, but the jokes on them - I pull out my badge and open the door. They are like "Wow! A magician works here." And I'll proudly nod. **Condo** I own a condo, but I tell people it's an apartment. I do this because I don't want people to think I think I'm rich or something because I own a condo. Like I think that owning a condo is a big deal or something. That's just something I do. For free. **Wake Up Call** This one time I was at McDonalds and I was wearing this old brown leather jacket and I had a beard. Not because I was going to McDonalds, I just had these things on my body and face at the time of the story. Anyway, this homeless man asks me for some change and I said "I only had enough for lunch." The homeless man looks away and then looks back and asks "Are you homeless?" **Looking For Trouble** "Are you looking for trouble?" "No." "Because you found it." "But I wasn't looking for it." "Well, here it is." "OK, Trouble. What do you want?" "You know." And once again I loaned Trouble Smith 100 dollars. **Candy Beans** This one time in Junior High I had this big bag of candy beans (like tiny jelly beans) and the teacher told me that I had to put them away unless I had enough for everyone. But they were candy beans and there was like a couple thousand in the bag, so I just walked around giving each student one candy bean. The next day I brought a carton of cigarettes. **The Princess and the Pea** If you're ever worried that your significant other may one day become fat, a good test is to put a carrot slice in a cheeseburger and see if they can taste it. If they can - you better dump that soon to be fat person. **Bag Law** One thing that is cool about the bag law (grocery stores cannot provide you with bags, you have to bring your own) is that hobos can totally get into a store without being kicked out. No one knows who is a hobo and who is not when everyone is bringing bags from home into the store. I think this is a good thing for the hobo community. Now they can shop without problems. But this could go the other way and a normal, upstanding citizen that is not of hobo blood could be mistaken for a hobo and picked up by police with their nine Whole Foods or Trader Joe's bags. But then people will say "But if they shopped at Whole Foods, then they can't be hobos." But then you're just being prejudice. Not all hobos are poor. Some just are born hobos and work their way up and have good jobs and make lots of money. So, it's really you that is the hobo - a hobo of the heart. The bag law has really got me thinking. **Not Sexually** If anyone asks you if you like something, always follow with "But not sexually." Be firm. **Advice From My Dad** "Quit writing Advice From My Dad." **Road Kill** I like to leave tiny guns and little bags of cocaine beside roadkill on the highway. That way people will think the animal had a really interesting life where he went down in a blaze of glory. **Hiding Weed** This one time I had a leak in my condo and these worker guys were coming in everyday and I had to remember to hide my weed. The problem was I'd get way stoned the night before and forget to hide my weed. So, then I started thinking about how these worker guys knew that I smoked weed and how, maybe, they were making judgments on me and maybe thinking the leak was my fault because I was so stoned all the time I didn't notice the leak when it first started and then I let it get out of control because I was super high and attending Communist rallies and stuff. So, I stopped work on my place. They asked me why and I said "You know why." I still have the leak. **Twitter** It's time. It's crowning. It's breached. It's amazing! Flushing. **Lou Reed** A buddy was telling me about how powerful it was to hear his first Lou Reed album. All I could think about the first time I heard Lou Reed was how much he looked like this kid in Junior High who had or almost had, it really could have gone either way, Downs Syndrome. Nothing against Lou Reed or people with Downs Syndrome - it's just that's what I was thinking about when I first heard Lou Reed. Having wrote that, I wonder if I have or almost have Downs Syndrome. Is it possible to be right on the cusp? I think it's a genetic disease, so probably not. Like you're missing a chromosome or something. So, maybe me and that kid are missing like half the chromosome. I'll have to shelf this for now. But I wanted it down on paper. **Really Bad Conversationalist** "I am Tom." "Hello, I'm Shelley." "I am still Tom." "Ha. I'm still Shelley." "I own a table." "I do too." "Is yours blue?" "No." "Then it's not my table." "Oh, I see." "I am Tom!" **Hiding Weed Again** A good way to hide weed is in plain sight. Like if the cops come, dump all your weed out on the table. Cops are like dinosaurs, they cannot see something unless it moves. **That Movie** "No. It's that movie where it's an elderly couple and they show how they lived through so much together and endured and then the man dies and the woman copes by having her daughter take her to Coney Island one last time to relive the memory of the man she -" "Star Wars?" **Duraflames** I bet if there's a fire at a Duraflame manufacturer, the firemen just sit around going "Just give it three hours." **Roomba** If you ever get house cleaners, a smart thing to do is turn your Roomba on while they are there - so now it's like a competition. That way they will clean harder.

There was a man. He was brave, courageous, self-sacrificing and never could resist a challenge. His acts of valor saved many of the years, and he grew up a legend among his people. When his death finally arrived, he was old. His fame and glory was such that Death granted him a final audience. Death congratulated him on his victories and for having cheated Death out of so many victims. Death told the man he was moved by his rare talents and felt it was wrong to rob the world of a man so great. So Death asked the man if he would like to be an eternal champion of his people. Death explained that he could allow the man to be reborn again, each time he died. As a champion, he would be slightly faster, slightly smarter, slightly luckier than everyone else, and he could therefore make better use of his enhanced talents over the millennia. Death explained that each life, the man would begin anew, but as he grew into manhood, his memories of his former lives would slowly return, to ensure he remembered his duty. Curious and eager to escape his own death, the man accepted Death’s offer. The man was reborn many times. He helped build great kingdoms, great empires, bring order, stability, peace, safety, and justice to many lands. He overthrew tyrants, reformed corrupted lands, and lived many long and righteous lives. The man slowly grew old enough to see his own kingdoms, empires, establishments, laws, and orders be used to harm others. Many of his lives were spent undoing the damage that corrupt rulers caused, sometimes in the name of his past lives. Once a bold, thrill-seeking liberator, the man grew more thoughtful. More of his lives were spent planning careful laws, well-maintained empires and ensuring that balances existed to safeguard freedoms in his absence. However no amount of checks and balances could thwart the craftiest of villains. Even the best-laid plans eventually go awry and the man grew weary of overthrowing the very institutions he had built up in his former lives. Eventually the man wondered if the world might be better off without his constant interventions. The man stopped saving lives, stopped spreading justice, and looked inward. With their champion gone, his story became a legend, then a myth. The final kingdoms he had helped established collapsed or were subsumed by larger, newer empires. Humanity continued on. But the Man was tired. He no longer was interested in continuing on in any more lives. He tried to seek out Death once again, but his cycle of rebirth prevented any meetings. Continuing to avoid helping any new causes, the Man slowly considered a plan. It took many lives to fully consider, and even more before he was ready to implement it. The man realized that if he could end the human race, he could end his cycle of rebirth. Surely if there were no humans to give birth to his next-life, he would not be reborn, and finally enjoy death. The Man begin to do good works again, but this time, as a means of establishing credibility and gaining power. He corrupted formerly great institutions and set the world on a course to destruction. He ordered millions to their deaths. He consolidated and strengthened evil regimes. Curiously, the Man found that these works of horror were strangely easier than his previous acts of valor and justice. It seemed that evil was the natural order, and he rarely found his evil institutions changed from life to life. As his hands became increasingly blood-stained, the human race fell. And the Man was a legend again. A legend of darkness, a whisper of evil. After an infinity of lifetimes, the man was amongst the last miserable huddle of humans left. His plans has finally borne his sickly-sweet fruit, and he knew this life would be his last. Seizing the moment, he slew each of the others, and was the last man. And then he took his own life.

Upon entering the room we found it filled with Chicago style hot dogs. They were neatly put on the floor in rows. There were hundreds. They were delicately made so that each sport pepper was stem to but. The mustard all thin yellow lines. The relish the same. We spoke to the other tenants and they had heard no noises and saw no unusual people near the room. It had been vacant for months. The room was wallpapered in an old blue flower design that was now mostly white with decades of decay. The floor was pealing linoleum. There was nothing in the room besides the hot dogs. Another agent picked one up and smelled it - took a bite. We flinched until after three chews he continued taking bites. "Fresh." He said. This is not unusual. Not in the sense of my job. But this was a new one. There were many ideas. Typically these are pranks. Kids. Children. Nothing better to do. But this seemed to have the markings of what we would call "else". "If this is a message, it must be important." The agent said as he finished the hot dog. We wore aprons on the job. We carried laser casters. Underneath the aprons, we wore leather jump suits. The aprons kept us here. On this Earth. They were full of heavy medals that made any snatch and grab from other dimensions tough. But not impossible. Looking at the rows of hot dogs nothing was impossible. And maybe that was the message. You don't get something this insanely neat without a universe or universes that defy what is possible daily. Almost always is always a never. And never is almost always. -- A mantis approached. You don't get used to them. Eight feet tall bugs will scare you the first, second, and 100th time. We were out in the desert. Again. You want to meet up with a mantis you go out to the desert and you summon it with wine and incantations. "I about the news had to laugh blew mind car lights before stared army of people turn you on." Briggs had repeated until the thing would show up. Standing in a pentagram cutting up Beatles songs and dictating his findings as invocations. It'll be a flicker, followed by a crashing noise and lots of static. You turn, and even the most seasoned agent will turn and shield their eyes, and there it is. Typically it takes a few seconds for the mantis to get the language down. They'll start with this horrible clicking that sounds like it's been run out of a speaker into another speaker like feedback. Then it will slowly catch on as you coax it with English - or whatever language you happen to have around. "These bells have balls." I said. "Lack-luck-lick lack laws." It replied. "These bells have balls. My wife knows an old goat." "Lick-lack laws. Goat. Balls." And so on. Slowly, but then in perfect middle-American "Hello, I am Travis." They would take a name out of your head. Just grab it. Telepathy with these things is so perverse. They can't get anything good, but they can grab little things here and there. Dumb things. Like names. Like hot dogs. We had screened the entire outfit for anyone with some sort of hankering for hot dogs and O'Brien admitted ordering some Chicago hot dog kit on line the day before. Quarantined, our good friend O'Brien became. Still remember him murmuring "It's just hot dogs." They typically don't let you back into the field or your life after something like that. They were in his head and if something has been in your head that has later performed a malicious act of randomness on our great Earth, then you need to go. You're better off. You wake up one day with candy corn between your ears and babbling about angels and swords and the end of the world and then maybe your tongue flaps out and beats you to death. Or your eyes blow out and ants crawl out. There are unthinkable deaths that really get hammered home when something has been in your head. The insane weren't always that way. Typically, something has been in their head. "You guys do the hot dog job." It looked at me, beak pointing to the ground like an ashamed child "No." "Then who did?" It bent and sipped at the wine in the bowl we put for it. "Newgans." Newgans were...well, how do you describe a Newgan? I'm blanking. Well, one guy once told me about something called sleep paralysis where you feel demonic forces behind you back but can never catch a glance of them. Like they live on the peripheral. Like ugly thoughts. "Why?" "Don't know. I was in a bar." It stopped and looked around. His antennae began moving around and I could tell it was picking our brains - looking for spies. "There are no spies here. These are G8s." G8 was a group of Agents that have been completely overvanced: no trace of corruption can exist and when it is introduced, the Agent will just fall away like dust. "G8s?" It snorted. Or it sounded like it snorted. "This important?" "We think it's important." Travis looked around. It's amazing, but even looking at an eight foot insect you can read when it's nervous. Travis was nervous. "I met it in a bar!" Travis yelled. "It was...bugging me." Travis looked around, trying to continue but having trouble finding words. "It bugged me. It was while I was drinking. It was there, but not there, like Newgans do. It was asking me things. Things about Earth. I said NO! NO! NO!, but it kept asking. And maybe I give it entry. I don't know. I was drinking and it was bugging me. Going to go. I'm going to go now." Once summoned, there's very little the mantis can do escape. We have to let it go. Travis knew this. "You're not going anywhere." I drew a fresh pentagram in the desert with my foot to make my point. "I go now. You see that this happens." It was begging. "What entry path did you give it." Travis hesitated and then nodded at me and bent. I closed my eyes and an image of a rosary appeared. "I give this to him." Any power symbol outside our own dimension is dangerous, but a rosary is especially dangerous given the amount of people that believe in its healing power. We had no choice. A laser caster makes a wobbling noise when you fire it. -- People have been summoning other dimensional characters forever. Drugs, invocations, or simply singing - this is nothing new. However, the governments interest in this is only about 100 years old. At first it was for simple curiosity, then protection, then out summon other nations. Mostly it was for tech. New ideas, new weapons - military or otherwise. Most of it just ended up almost ending the world, our world, hundreds of times. Tricksters - every last one of them. There's billions of destroyed Earths and universes out there that can be found as evidence. If you summon them. Mantises are easy. Newgans are a lot harder, if not almost the hardest. Your deity types and demons...well, I can only think of once that someone has been able to summon them, and it didn't end well, for all worlds. Simple chants go no where. We end up in a sweat lodge covered in pig blood. DMT in the gills. Nothing. -- There's another event. Stigmata on the Statue of Liberty. Human blood washes down her face and arms. The world sees. This is a problem. Not just trying to pass it off as elaborate vandalism, but the problem of the magnitude of the sign. Newgans have a clear understanding of humans from thousands of years experience. This is no accident. The hot dog room was a warning. It wasn't a simple threat. We summon more mantises. We senses correctly that Travis had no idea what the motivations were. Others were summoned and we had the same luck. The moon went blue. The rivers ran blood. Still, no ideas. Pagans, Popes, and other holy people came and went. By then the world new something was wrong. You can call it the rapture or the apocalypse, but really it's just the end of the world. No one could summon a Newgan. Agents began leaving the dimension. I went out to the desert in a helicopter alone. Most of the world was gone by then. Cutting arteries and painting the desert red, I summoned a Newgan.

Oryan scratched at a rough mark on his body that peaked from the ties between the front of his shirt. He tried to control his breathing but that became laborious and in the end he resolved to let himself feel exactly what his senses wanted him to. He was nervous, yes, but also excited. Excited to die. Every man who had volunteered to fill the two boats that now rowed silently through these shimmering waters was excited to die and even though every minute brought them closer to their last, still their excitement only grew. Oryan stared down at the mark again. It could have occurred when he pulled himself over the port side of the main ship and twisted his way down the rope ladder into the longboat, but his memory from the moment the sun set beneath the ocean line, dimmed and brightened like the whispering flame inside the lantern affixed to the longboat. He frowned. It had been important to him to look his very best this night. No wind blown skin, no burns from the salt or the sun. He had scrubbed his body clean with lye and scented oils. The boy’s hands gripped tight the woodlot scull he was sharing with two other crewmen. They pulled in unison, silently continuing through a silver mist, which hung low over the water. If he had stood up inside the small boat the dense fog blanket would reach only to his waist. It was eerie, yet beautiful, something he had never seen before and he'd been living on a ship for the better part of six years. Those moments were what drove him, moments in the unknown. Ever since he was a young boy, raised in a small village surrounded by nothing but hot dirt, Oryan wondered endlessly about the beyond. The day he became a man he kissed his mother on the neck and said goodbye to her forever. After weeks of travel the earth changed from brown to green and after a few weeks more he stared at foamy blue waters smashing against red cliffs and thought he'd found the edge of the world. From then on, everything was about more. To experience more then any man had before him. As he grew older, even living others lifetimes inside years, those moments were growing fleeting. He had smelled the purest most untouched air in the center of seas leagues from any land mass. His eyes had gazed the final fiery flashes of a hundred golden sunsets. He'd seen men of every color and creatures known only in the god's dreams. And now there was this night. He was going to spend a few moments with one of the most beautiful women in the known world... before she killed him. Oryan had heard endless versions of the story in different languages, had seen them in paintings and read them written on scrolls. He himself had spied the location of the island on close to fifty maps. Not one had been in the same spot. They had been described as an Amazon race of exotic women. Seven feet tall covered in leather and armored in gold. They lived on an island filled with the precious metals, riches and rare trade stones most fervently hunted by the world of mortals. The hidden cloister was never whispered to be anything but the most beautiful place in all of existence. According to widespread legend, in every surveyable direction, nothing existed but valleys veiled in rich, tropical life. Streams of fresh water ran through divots that peppered volcanic rock waterways, which were adorned with rubies, painite, diamonds, benitoite and pearls. Verdant canopies shaded elaborate walkways, which led to breathtaking temples and astonishing chambers. There were meeting halls so large they were swathes cut along the length of entire mountainsides. This bountiful location was a living, breathing garden full of insects and flora found nowhere else but inside its secret perimeter. It was also said to be so long that it had four constant seasons the entire year round. The center of the island and the most beautiful was known to be close to the earth’s equator and that was where the main temple rose into the heavens, where lived the Queen of this nearly forbidden paradise. Her name as the queen was the same as the island itself, Calafia. And it was here she ruled over the secluded and powerful Amazon race of enchanting beauties. Oryan had heard from a stranger that they cut off one of their breasts so that they could perfect the use of a bow and arrow. A druid had told him that their arms were so powerful and long that they could throw a spear a hundred yards. He overheard a drunken man tell of the beasts that they kept, which had the bodies of lions but the wings and heads of a bird of prey. The Calafians would feed these creatures with the male babies that were born. Born from the one night each year the island was opened so that a small group of men could visit once and for one single purpose, to help prolong the race of these incredible and beautiful warrior women. The ocean had become much more calm. Sivan, his ship's Captain was on one knee, head peaking from above the mist, staring at the stars, a fruitless venture to keep course. Oryan had joined the crew three years prior after this new Captain inherited the ship from his father. He was strict but fair, yet the crew who survived the change had more respect for his predecessor and so the fighting need to please him simply did not exist. Even thus, and even after Sivan had given up his ship to his first mate and led two dozen other brave souls into the unknown, was he still acting like the Captain. Still behaving like the same leader, even though it was made clear each man was now equal. It is just as well, Oryan thought. Let Sivan take command here. Let him keep watch, chart the course and take charge of the affair. He could be Captain, it gave the others more time to set their minds, to clear their thoughts and to prepare for their death. Suddenly Oryan felt the flap of his scull scrape the bottom of the ocean. The others around him did too and the boats slowed to a noiseless drift. Wordlessly they exchanged fleeting glances before Sivan stared down through the mist and into the dark water for a short time. And then he jumped in. The splash was loud and when the waters calmed, Sivan was standing waist deep in the salty glass. He held up his hand before walking forward into the space beyond. After a few moments, he was shrouded by the mist and disappeared. A few moments more and the sounds he made wading through the mystic drink faded as well. The men, still quiet, looked at each other nervously. Oryan was about to speak when suddenly light from a dozen torches brightened the distance. It was faint, but he could just make out a shoreline. He stood to be sure and also to let his eyes adjust. After blinking a moment, Oryan could see Sivan standing on the shore of the cove, the water just at his ankles. The moon illuminated lush green fern lining the entire beach. The torches had been lit and standing next to them, were twenty-five naked women. He was too anxious to take in the rest and Oryan leapt from his seat into the water. He grasped the edge of the boat, one scull slipping from its ring and sinking three feet to the bottom. He did not care and began pushing his boat towards the shore. The others followed him and they quickly ran up the bows of both vessels as far into the sand as was possible. Oryan glanced at his feet and found shiny black rocks sprinkled in the white sand. Pearls, he thought amazed. The twenty-five men met their Captain and the group stared numbly ahead, their breath raspy and quick. Oryan could see clearly now that the torches stood high and the flames danced wildly, illuminating the celestial bodies which stood next to them. One woman for every man. Hair spilled over their shoulders and down their chest, the flames and moonlight revealed curves of glowing, olive skin. They were tall, not seven feet, but most as tall as any of the men there. Even though their hazel bodies were dark, their eyes were light like glacial milk. Each of them had high cheekbones as smooth as tide pool stones and they all had full lips as ample and moistened as ripened plums soaked in Calenian wine. Their flushed breasts, soft and swollen, were hidden from full view by long tresses of hair in mixed shades of chocolate and umber. Their silken smoothed legs were toned and taught, growing upwards in a long and alluring stretch towards a lush and aching shadow. The swell of each body-curve of each sultry figure would bend flawlessly to the next sloping crest, rising and falling across a sculpted work of bronzed perfection. In a word, these women were utopian. Each sought out a man. Oryan made eye contact with one and she seemed to glide to him. He was speechless. He had never before seen anything more flawless in his entire life. The thought from earlier nagged him for the briefest of moments. This woman, this beach, this night, as incredibly beautiful as it was, was still shrouded in an eeriness that would not go away. He forcefully pushed that aside and knew she would not speak to him so he gave her a name in his head. She will be Aysel. His mouth opened but she put a thin finger to his lips. Then she grabbed his quivering hand and led him towards the mouth of the jungle. Near him, the others were being pulled along the same way. He took one last moment to glance around. Sivan was lost in the eyes of his woman, his body slack and stumbling forward as she took him by the wrist. Oryan could see behind him young girls dressed in white flowing gowns pouring hot oil over the two boats that brought them to shore. The girls dropped lit torches into the boats and they were immediately swallowed in licking flames. Aysel placed her fingers on Oryan's chin and gently turned his head to her. He would not look away again. Carefully stepping over the fern shaded threshold, Aysel led Oryan a hundred feet into the jungle before she stopped him by resting her palm on his chest. The trees above them parted to form a small clearing, the moon shining high in the sky above. She pulled him to the center of the clearing and took a step back, presenting herself. The shadows made her even more beautiful. Only when she closed her eyes did Oryan feel brave enough to touch her. They both knelt to the ground and no matter how well Oryan had tried to prepare his mind for this moment his instincts took over. He wanted to spend as long as possible wandering his hands over her entire body, but he was hurriedly helping her lift the shirt over his head. He wanted to prove to her that he was a worthy lover by making her wait for his lips to explore her skin, but he blinked numbly and allowed her to unbuckle his belt. He leaned forward and tried to capture her in a long kiss, but she pushed him back and sat down on top of him. The search for the beyond. It had led Oryan here. From a small, dirt village with nothing near it for miles and miles, to a fabled island whose location was known by few and seen by no one who had returned. He smiled and grabbed her waist with both hands, closing his eyes. He was close. But Aysel knew it too and one hand drifted from his chest to the forest ground beside her. Her elegant fingers grasped the handle of an ornate golden blade. The metal gleamed in the moonlight as she raised it high above her head. Her locks hung down over her face in long strands and sweat rolled down her back. She felt him tense and her mouth opened, the smallest sound escaping her succulent lips. Oryan drew one large gasp and then collapsed flat. He breathed a few times before he opened his eyes, just in time to see the flash of the blade before it penetrated his chest and pierced his heart.

I sit here on my throne, I hear them. Scratching, scrabbling, laughing. Once they called this place Olympus, now it is just another monument to their own excess. I am god, and I am real. My throne is old, older than I. I inherited it when the last age ended, and I slew the one who came before me. Such as it always has been, so shall it always be. I created these beings that call themselves "humans" not for any particular purpose. I was bored, I desired entertainment. Now they venerate me as a god. Some call me Allah, some call me Yahweh, some refute that I exist, and some say I am dead. I am god, and I am watching. Such trivial creatures. I sit and watch as they seek only to gain power over one another. They make war on each other in my name, not knowing that I would never care for their petty squabbles. They bleed in my name. And it amuses me. They are mice, created to entertain. They exist because I allow it, and will end because i demand it so. I send disease, famine, strife to them, they suffer because I am bored. I am god, and you are nothing. I can hear them now. They sit in front of my throne. They drink, they laugh, they mate. I am god, and I am listening. They seek to understand their purpose. Not knowing they have already fulfilled it. Their suffering entertains me, while I sit and wait. I am god and I am waiting. They ravage this earth I have provided them. They strip it for personal gain, and plot and scheme against one another, as if anything they do will matter. I am god and I am laughing. I feel them, crawling all over me. They seek to understand me. And they will not. They seek to be me, and they will not. They seek to transcend and they will not. For I am god. And you are nothing.

Maybe my father forgot, but not myself. My father was the strongest, bravest, kindest man I ever knew. When the doctor told me the news, I could not believe it. I almost burst into tears, but I had to be strong for Mom. I knew the memories that Mom had for my father were stronger than mine. It would be disrespectful to cry in front of her. I walked quietly into the infirmary room. Only to find my bedridden father with Alzheimer’s disease. “Hello? Dad? How are you feeling?” I told my father. “Hey Larry, when did you get here? Where am I?” My father said in a confused tone. I reassured my father that he was safe. He began to show stronger signs of memory loss each and every day. He held a fork in his hand, staring confusedly at the point. I helped him with his lunch and then I left the hospital. I could not bear to see my father slowly die, being blissfully unaware of his impending doom. I began to think of the memories me and my father shared. I recalled watching cartoons with my father at a young age. He let out a hearty laugh when he heard Elmer Fudd scream in pain. I laughed along with him. I was entertained by the antics of Bugs Bunny to defend himself from the dastardly hunter. “I’ll never forget this episode! My favorite one so far!” Said my father, excitedly. “Ha! You said it dad!” I replied back. My father and I also used to go to the park regularly. I would play on the swings while he pushed me up and down on the swings. We would play catch with the football. I always had fun while at the park with my father. His child-like behavior made everything more fun than it seemed. Then he repeated to me again; “I’ll never forget this day, even when you grow-up” If only my father knew of his cruel fate. I began to hate going to the doctor to check up on my father. Each time I visited there was only worse and worse news. He began to forget more and more. The first time I revisited, he would forget sentences repeated to him only seconds ago. I could not carry out a conversation with him, but it gave him extreme joy to see me. “Hey champ! How’s life treating you?” Said my father in a slurred voice. “Not so great dad. It only gets worse from here.” I murmured. “Hey, so how’s life champ?” He paraphrased his previous sentence, all without a clue. My father’s speech only became worse the second time I visited. He began to develop speech impediments and had to be regularly fed by the nurse. The only reason I could bring myself to visit him was to see the smile on his face, from seeing me. I wanted to let him know that I loved him and that I appreciated that he raised me and loved me. He leaned close to my ear and whispered a secret to me. He hugged me as tightly as he could with his weak, motor-less muscles. My father died twice that month. He died because he forgot who he was, and then he died because the world forgot who he was. I could never bring myself to be content with his life. I felt that a man as will-full as he was should have died with grace. I was only content about the fact that his suffering was over. I walked down the dark path into my blue childhood home. I slowly walked through the home, examining the old tattered walls and the broken windows. It was the last day before the bulldozers took it all down. I crept through the small hallway into my parent’s bedroom. I found a desk with three items placed on it. A candle, and a little plastic elephant with a small red envelope attached to its trunk. I detached the envelope from the trunk. I slowly opened the envelope, hoping to find my father’s true last words. The last of the incense of the candle began to leave the air. I found a letter, where my father explained his situation and gave his last good-byes. My father gave his dying wish: *“A man may forget, but a family always remembers.

Jude made the final incision and sponged away some blood as the Cesarean Section made birth possible. Purple fluorescing lights strobed across the surgical site, cleansing it of anything dangerous as Jude set the force-fields to gently pull the baby from its dying mother. Following strict medical procedure, Jude severed the umbilical cord as Laura, the newborn boy's mother, died from her brutal injuries. Jude proffered the child to Laura on two slender manipulator arms, as she was programmed, but her subroutines, now noting the death of the mother, signaled her UltraCortex to refrain from making a verbal presentation. Instead, the baby was simply inserted into a life-sustaining cubicle and immediately sedated. Jude opened a channel to the bridge. "Laura's child has been delivered. It- It- It's a boy," the damaged robot stated flatly. "However, Laura has succumbed to her injuries and has passed away." Jude's word selection was careful to avoid undue distress. Captain Quain stared at the fiery wall on the main viewer. After a long silence, he managed, "acknowledged" and thumbed the button to sever the channel to the medical bay. "I'm open to ideas..." He looked around the control bridge at his officers and men. Frightened gazes met his and he did his best to look confident. One man spoke. "We can't break the star's gravity -but can we use it?" The wiry young man with his slicked-back blond hair and eager StellarCorps expression gave the Captain hope. "What if we push the engines to max and calculate a slingshot trajectory to get us to that small planetoid? If we can catch onto it and establish orbit, we may not be home but we won't be fried." The young fellow looked into the fires of the Zoroaster star with grave concern, his face illuminated by flickering orange sun-flame. The Captain listened to the gasps of approval from several officers and nodded soberly. If nothing else, it was something to try -and some sort of hope. He thought about the hundreds of lives aboard the UES Ptolemy and clung to any hope at hand. "Alright, then. Lt. Simms, I want you to handle the warp drive, make speed for 9 recursions. Commander Kelleway, make calculations for the maneuver. Take Carstairs and Tamaguchi with you. Everyone else, man your posts and prepare for warp. All stations report!" With practiced suave, the captain resumed his stalwart pose in his chair and exuded confidence to fuel the officers as they readied the ship for an escape from certain death. But it was all for naught. The calculations of the desperate men of the Ptolemy flung the crippled starship across space like a boomerang, first angling and then slingshotting around the star to the men's cheers. Unforseen variables wrestled with conjecture and programming to emerge the victor, however, and as cheers turned to cries of despair, the little ship from the faraway blue world slammed into the planetoid it had hoped to orbit with ferocious force. The great spine of the ship cracked in the silence of space and its rent skin ejected people into the freezing vacuum. From the Captain's eyes, it seemed to happen in slow-motion. First the walls buckled and cracked, and crewmen cried out or leaped to their feet. But as the force rippled through the ship, whole support beams undulated and the safety of walls became the vacuum of space and bulkheads were shorn and torn apart like tin-foil. For a few moments, the Captain, suddenly propelled into space and tumbling, managed to survive. As his face froze and his eyeballs bulged he saw his ship one last time. Crumpled in some places, exploding in others, the majority of it somehow remained intact, albeit embedded into the surface of a bleak and empty world and he thought of all the souls committed to the cold wastes of space under his command. And then he died along with everyone else. Well, almost everyone else. Deep within the protected heart of the ship, still mostly intact and even lit by back-up generators, the medical bay survived. Jude was barely functional but managed to run the few remaining sensors to gauge the situation. The crew was dead. All of them. The ship mostly powerless, totally defenseless, had 47 separate hull breaches and the engines were floating off somewhere near the port bow. The only life-sign came from the very room Jude was in; from the incubator. Jude swung her large, angular white arm laboriously around the thick anchor sticking up from her main console. Sensors at the end of the armature scanned the baby. Remarkably intact. Jude instructed the ship's computer, which was operating on generators and cut off from half of it's data-cores, that Jude was the only independent agency aboard and convinced it to slave all functions to her. Jude's "mind" was a complex quantum computer located within her armature base, separate from the ship's simple AI but Jude connected directly to the mainframe now and allocated all of the ship's resources to a few rooms including the medical bay. She reassigned the entire 4-year-mission's worth of food and water to the child, and made the requisite requisition forms out digitally to approve the transfer, even if she knew no one would ever read the logs. She was doing everything as she was programmed to. Jude would make food, education and eventually the entire ship's remains available to this lone surviving human child. She fed him with protein beams and replicated milk until he could eat rations. She used forcefields to guide him into walking upright. She taught him to speak, to read, and the critical thinking skills needed to master any subject in the databanks. At age 9 he learned how to repair and reconnect the rest of the data-cores. When he learned all he could about his lost home and the many people who died the day he was born, he wept bitterly. He knew he would never be found by Earth again, of course, as the chances of another deep space exploration vessel even deciding to visit this uncharted system were nil. He would never know another of his kind. He would know only what computer files could tell him. He would don a generation-old spacesuit to weld sections together over half a life time. He read every book on board the ship, even those he had to rescue by omnibot and vacc-suit, and dreamed of returning triumphantly to the planet Earth. He kept a meticulous log and diary, talked with Jude for hours every day, and named himself David. And one day, at the age of 41, he flew away. Jude's faltering mind was installed in the main computer slot of the makeshift starship David had cobbled together over 31 years, using a small section of the med bay as makeshift control room. Jude gently nudged the controls to power the engines he spent 9 years capturing and bringing in to the new Ptolemy. More of a raft in space than any starship Earth had ever made, the Ptolemy II roared to life and began a single warp recursion. It wasn't going to be fast, but the ship was on it's way to Earth. A repeating signal was the first vanguard of the P II to reach Earth outposts. "My name is David. I am the last survivor of the UES Ptolemy, lost in space in 2218. Please do not attack this ship, I am friendly. Repeat; My name is David. I am..." The media got ahold of it faster than David's engines and a host of starships and transports crowded the space lanes above the planet Earth to watch him arrive. Politicians and Commentators choked the communications channels as the Ptolemy II, looking for all the world like a derelict apartment building lashed to 2 engines, sputtered to a halt in Earth orbit. Medical and repair ships were immediately dispatched as government and public held their breaths in anticipation. Jude arthritically rotated it's single, dirt-smudged camera-stalk to look at David, sensor information filling the working sections of the screen. She examined his long-dead body, still resting in the control chair as it had for centuries, as David always knew it must, and her subroutines calculated that informing a dead person of their destination was illogical and unnecessary. "David, my son. You *made* it. You have come *home*" she said anyway.

“I’m seeing myself,” Cecilia whispered. “I’m everywhere.” Seamus watched her take a long drag of her cigarette and the smoke curled from her nose, eye blankly staring at the wall. She looked so tiny, so broken. He remained silent, what could he say? She was already on so many medications. She suddenly looked at him- through him and her expression turned irate. “I’m not off my meds, Seamus.” She started to stand. “Sit, Cissy. I wasn't going to ask you that.” He ran his hand over his face. “I just don’t know what to do.” He could hear the ragged, tired edge of his own voice. Her eyes filled with tears that she desperately blinked back, he chest catching and heaving while she tried to continue smoking with trembling lips. He knew how this would go and his heart already felt strained. He watched her desperately try to get in control of herself and she suddenly stood. The look in her eyes was agony, borderline deranged. She wanted him to say something and he realized he just couldn't anymore. He couldn’t handle her sickness anymore. Guilt, sadness, and relief bounced through him like light through dust. She walked out. He didn’t move. He breathed in the smell of cigarettes and perfume and it created a lump in his throat. -- The guilt pressed into him for days, a throbbing pain that at times was so sharp it he couldn’t breathe. He was in a constant state of relieved melancholy, feeling like a monster at random. He was silent about it at work. Friends asked him about it and he didn’t know what to say. He would just blindly talk at them, guilt consuming him. “I don’t know.” He would say. In truth, he felt part of him had died. She was both his partner and his child; she was also his monster. The trinity was something he had never been comfortable with. The opposite ends were so drastically different that he didn’t have a clue how to handle it. He had learned to handle it for so long that he didn’t know how to function without. He missed the woman that laughed and joked with him on the couch, who could always be relied upon for support, who commiserated with him. He remembered the way her eyes shone and her smile and how GOOD things were when they were good. He both resented and loved the obstinate little girl who needed him to help pick her up after she drunkenly stumbled, or stay with her after they pumped her stomach, carry her to bed or would just sob, unable to be consoled. He has spent so much time trying to patch her together that he didn’t have a single clue how to fix himself. The absence of the monster that would scream at him when it ran out of pills, smokes, or booze, slap and punch and pinch him, call him horrible names and reduce him nearly to tears had left the most profound hole in the room. He still found himself walking on eggshells, jumping at every little noise. When somebody shouted form him, he almost came out of his skin. He realized he couldn’t function in the silence and left the TV on at a quiet roar. Sleeping alone was difficult and strange. For six years he had slept next to her and now the bed felt like ice. He had a dream where he floated away. Even in his daily life, he felt he had to grab onto something. Icy fear would consume him and he would feel incredibly alone. He would be convinced he would never be loved by another. Seamus would try to remind himself that his love had been replaced by caretaking and hers was need. But it was something, right? Kevin came over one night two weeks later, bringing pizza and beer. They set up in silence and began to eat. Kevin was the one who finally broke the quiet. “Man, are you okay?” Grief bubbled up and he started to cry, fingers digging into the pizza and tearing it apart. Kevin took the pizza from him and rubbed his back. His tears felt like bile, clogged with rage and self-loathing, loss, and earth-shaking sorrow. “We broke up.” He gasped for breath, chest aching. “I couldn’t- oh my god- I couldn’t do it again. She was heading for a break and I just couldn’t-“He broke off in a shuddering wail. Kevin sat still, waiting for him. “I couldn’t. Do. It. Again. I gave her 6 years to get better. I tried so hard to help her. Why couldn’t she get healthy? Why couldn’t she just learn to stay away from the fucking drugs and booze? Why couldn’t she stay on her meds and…? I fucking loved her! I tried and she didn’t care enough to return the favor of just being a normal person!” Seamus was borderline shouting, trembling, pizza in pieces on the floor, rubbing grease through his hair and across his face. He help up his hands to Kevin. “What did I do wrong? She would beg me to love her, to not leave her and she left me every time some stupid vice came along! What did I do wrong?” “You didn’t do anything wrong. She was fucked up, man. You couldn’t save her. Somebody has to want to get better. You can’t force it- if they don’t swim they drown. She was happy drowning and letting you lug her ass back to shore.” “She begged me not to leave her and I did.” Seamus finally felt cleaner, like Keven had forced him to clean out the locker. His chest heaved and caught and his breaths were shuddering, but he could finally feel a wave of dirty peace starting to come over him. “I could have told her we’d get through it, but I didn’t. I just sat there and watched her walk away.” “Seamus, you can’t fix everything. You can’t repair something that is intent on breaking itself. You finally realized you can’t fix her. You let her walk away because it was time. You held her up for years- she wasn’t working, she didn’t have a job, and you supported her and loved her- supposedly until she could love herself enough to love you. It wasn’t going to happen. She doesn’t know how.” He opened his mouth to defend her. She was broken, she had relied on him. He was supposed to tow her to the shore, not let her go. And she did love him, she had to. They were together for six years. “She loved me.” “She needed you. Not the same thing, buddy.” Kevin handed him a beer and a smoke. “You need to take care of yourself.” Seamus lit the cigarette and sucked it down like it would save his life. “I don’t know how.” “There’s time to learn. Wanna play some games?” Seamus took a couple of days off work and set to trying to relearn how to be a person. He bought a couple of new games and sat in front of the TV for a day, showered, shaved, and got some burgers. He wasted time on the internet and listened to music. He had moments of grief and could still feel the missing dead weight. Cleaning out all of her stuff was a painful experience; having her mom show up to pick it all up was awkward. He had first packed her needles and stashes, but ended up throwing them away. Her mother would barely talk to him at all. The apartment was clean and re-organized. The darkness that had been looming over him seemed to dissipate. Friends came over and they played games, watched movies, smoked cigars, drank, and ate. Finding out she had jumped from her window hurt but he wondered if she had finally quashed those demons. Maybe suicide was the only thing that could put her at peace. He lit a candle for her. He was not religious, but it felt right. “Cissy,” he said to the candle. “I loved you. I hope you’ve found peace.” He blew out the candle and watched the smoke rise to the ceiling. He went to a concert and felt the energy of the crowd. The music filled his chest and felt amazing; a pulse that awakened something in him. It was something powerful, breaking the numbness that had been shackling him. It ws like his limbs were waking up, prickling pain so intense it gave him goose bumps. He didn’t know at this point if he was laughing or crying. The lights blinded him, something that was not quite happiness landing in his chest like a half dead bird on a branch that would barely support the weight.

In a stressed and strained relationship, these moments will arise - And they present us reality, as we hide behind the guise - of "tried and true". "I don't like your guts" I once found you say - I pretended to ignore it, but I felt enough to lay - down and die. Well darling I like lilac, but the walls were painted blue - and I'm constantly contradicted, But I'll tell you what I'll do - Real soon! This last fight was a doozie, you almost made me cry - and I contemplate your actions, on the cold ground where I lie - it's true.

I'm writing this story to tell the tale of the day I almost met death. My real name isn't important, but I can give you the name I went by while I worked for the corporation; Opal. The corporation was a small, kinda shady private military company who worked jobs for countries who didn't have the time or money to train a real professional army. It was an easy life, I went where they told me and fought for whoever paid me the higher dollar, not exactly the most honorable of professions, but it kept money in my pocket and let me live a comfortable life when I wasn't in country. This time around we were standing by at an airfield on the border of some country who was mad at the country to its north- or was it the opposite? I honestly can't remember. One of those things where both sides talk a lot, but never actually do anything to back up their threats. I was a crew chief of a mi-24 Hind. My job was simple, open the door, let people in, guard the door, let people out. This particular beast, a helicopter who was a mix between a transport helo and an attack chopper, didn't provide me the fortune of a door gun, so I had an old kalishnikov slung on my back. The flight suit I wore was kind of ratty and old, plus it felt greasy on my skin, and the helmet provided was bulky, white and bulbous. The pads were long worn out and the bridge of the helmet rubbed against my forehead, but my personal equipment had been lost flying into the country, leaving me to make due with what I had. It was late at night, cold and slightly windy without a lot of moonlight, when we decided to do our umpteenth radio check of the evening. Lo-and-behold, comms were out. This old Russian equipment was failing rapidly, only adding to the long list of things going wrong with this operation. My helmet itched, I only had radio communication with the pilots and passengers, and the buttstock of my rifle was jabbing me in the back. Lamenting in my unfortunate situation, I suddenly saw that there was a suden buzz of activity on the air strip. Crew scrambled to their aircraft, and I saw ground troops start lining up to board their dedicated transport helicopters around me. My aircraft was one who was meant to carried the command and control members of the operations, that's why it was armed with rockets and and a thirty millimeter cannon. The others, all Mi-8 Hips, were whale-looking helicopters with no heavy armaments. Instead, they only had door gunners and carried a larger number of troops. Seeing the other soldiers mount up made me wonder what was going on, so I tried to tap into the net again, which was down of course. The pilots were at work in the cockpit, so I decided to wait it out. Moments later, the command team boarded the helicopter, and I asked them what was going on verbally. They informed me that enemy aircraft- planes carrying airborne troops- had crossed the border several miles to the north, and were invading. We were being scrambled to intercept the troops as they landed. Within minutes, the helicopter was spooled up and cleared for takeoff, and we were in the air. The air at the higher altitude was more crisp, and I enjoyed breathing it in. I took a few seconds to enjoy the atmosphere before I tapped into the airframe's comms and asked the pilot for permission to keep the side door open. Due to the fact that it was night, and there was not much moonlight, I argued that I could help look out for hostiles in the area, since the airframe had no native night vision capabilities. In reality, I just wanted to dangle my legs out the side. We were traveling at a relatively low altitude and airspeed, and the forward teams were already a klick ahead of us, so the risk was low. Thankfully, the pilot agreed with no argument, and I happily sat down and wrapped my arm around the metal handlebar than ran vertically along the entrance to the helicopter, effectively securing myself in place. Looking around the helicopter, I saw an old low opening parachute hanging on the bulkhead. Seeing some humor in the situation, I asked one of the passengers to slide it to me. Giving me an odd look but not really questioning me as a member of the crew, he agreed and tossed it to me. I strapped it to my back and looked out the aircraft and smiled. I turned back and yelled that it was only just in case! With a big stupid grin on my face. I felt great, and honestly didn't think this mission was going to turn into a war. In my young, stupid mind, I thought this was just a show of force by the enemy, and that they were under a strict "don't fire unless fired upon" rule of engagement. I hadn't heard any shots, and the pilot informed me that some of the transport helicopters had already air-assaulted their chalk into the area, so I my mind this operation was already going to end. The pissing contest was on, both sides flexed their muscles, and it was time for everyone to go home. I looked back out into the dark night, wind rushing through the holes in the legs of my flight suit, the roar of the engines deafening me through my headset, the vibration of the rotors shaking the very bones of my body, and tried to see if I could make out anything on the ground. That was when I saw it. I speck of light in the treeline, a good while away. The speck was coming towards us, faster, getting larger. Momentarily I was confused, what is this mystery light moving at us? But my training kicked in immediately, and I keyed into the aircraft screaming that we had a missile incoming and to deploy countermeasures! Before the words finished leaving my lips, the missile slammed into the rear of the helicopter and the entire frame shook. In my ears I could hear the pilot frantically calling out that he had lost all response on the controls, and start screaming his mayday to ears that couldn't listen. It was here that I did something that I am not entirely proud of. For a moment, life moved in slow motion. I looked back and saw the passengers looking around with frantic looks on their faces, not entirely grasping just how grave the situation was. Im not sure if I leaned out or if I fell out or if I jumped... But all I know is that I was suddenly falling, air rushing at my face, tumbling in the darkness of the night. I was outside of the helo! I got my bearings immediately, and knowing I only had seconds to act or die, I pulled the cord on my chute. The silk spilled out and caught the air and jerked me, popping all the vertebrae in my spine and giving me a hell of a headache, but I had bigger things to worry about. I looked around and saw the chopper, far away now, billowing fire and smoke and heading out of sight around a small tree covered mountain to the west. I watched it until it fell behind the mountain, and I could only assume it would crash, although it was a miracle the pilot kept it in the air that long. Something evening more terrifying caught my attention though, the sound of car doors slamming. We didn't have any ground vehicles, so these could only be jeeps that were air dropped in by the enemy. I again, thought I was done for. I looked around trying to make out landmarks or see anyone, but it was too dark. All I could see was a small treeline to my left and an open field below me, with a barn and some other small structures maybe five hundred meters to my north east. With this little information, I had to come up with a plan of action. How was I going to survive? I touched down rather gracefully, all thing considered. Acting fast and assuming that enemy soldiers already had me in their sights, I detached myself from the chute, grabbed it in a ball, and ran for the treeline where I took cover. I waited a minute or two in the silence of the night, and didn't hear a thing. Not a cricket or the wind or the crack of a rifle. Nothing. Everything was still. Seeing this as a bad omen, but not having very many other options, I decided that I needed to move out in order to survive. I stashed my parachute away in the hollow of a tree and slowly moved through the treeline towards those barns I saw. While I made my way there, I hear the engines of a jeep roar, and immediately dove into the dirt. The soft soil cushioned my fall, but my rifle unfortunately dug into the dirt. I guess the good thing about a kalash is that now matter what you do to it, it will still fire. The engines quickly left my earshot, but then something else came to my ears that made my stomach drop. Gunfire was erupting to my south west, near the tree covered mountain. I could see tracers and helicopters dancing around, so I assumed that was where the fight was at. For now, I pushed the thought of combat to the side. Just before I could cross the road to reach the barns, I heard a sound coming close to me that made my heart jump into my chest: rotors. Knowing we were the only ones with rotary wing aircraft in this engagement, I searched the skies, my eyes sweeping back and forth like a bat out of hell. There, I saw it on the horizon, its searchlight on and panning the ground. Not one to fool myself, I knew they were looking for enemies, not searching for me, but I knew this was my chance. I reached for my one and only smoke grenade, which was luckily still strapped to my chest harness, and pulled the pin. I tossed that sucker right into the field, then ran out and started waving my arms above my head like a wildman. It kept coming straight at me, and I swore that it had to have seen me, but then it banked left and started heading towards the fight to my south, and I realized that I truly was lost and alone. Not even my stupid big white helmet could help me be found. Without any other options, I realized my best choice would be to run towards that mountain, only two or thee klicks away from me, and try to link up with any friendly forced who were fighting the battle over there. Checking to make sure my magazine was loaded into my rifle, I wiped some of the dirt off stained, old wood foregrip, and starting jogging towards the firefight that was playing out just on the other side of that mountain. My lungs burned and my legs ached, and I silently cursed myself for not working out before this op. I live a life of danger, a soldier for hire, and yet I let myself get fat and eat candy and play video games. If I made it out of this alive, I told myself, I was going to have a serious conversation with the gym equipment sitting in my basement at home. The gunfire seemed to be dying down as I hit the trees surrounding the base of the mountain, and I was completely out of breath. I leaned up against a tree and took a second to gather my bearings, study my surroundings, and think of what the hell to do next. Against my better judgment, I decided to continue up the mountain. This mountain wasn't really much of a mountain, maybe more of a really, really big hill covered in trees, but its all semantics. Its big and I needed to jog up it at an angle, and that sucked enough. I spied a radio tower at the top of the mountain while I made my way over, so that was my reference point, and also where I decided that I would head. As I neared the top, my vision started to go black at the corners of my eyes, and I knew I had pushed myself too far. Sure, I was in better condition that many others my age, but I had already been through a lot, and my body was tired... And running all this way didn't help much either. I laid down on my belly, put my rifle out in front of me, and started looking around, making sure it was safe. It was then that I heard voices, faint at first. I pointed my rifle in the direction they were coming from and waited, a spike of adrenaline making me feel like a new man.

A figure, indistinguishable, started making its way towards me. As he got closer however, I realized that it was one of the members of the helicopter! He was a passenger, one of the command and control operators. He brought me up to speed on what was going on. The pilot managed to touch down the aircraft relatively unscathed in a field on the side of the mountain opposite to where I fell out. They assumed that I had been jostled out by the blast and thought I was dead. After they disembarked the aircraft, the passengers and crew made their way to the radio tower on the top of the mountain, where they were able to establish comms with the majority of the friendly forces operating in the area. They eventually heard someone crashing through the woods and sent out a few members of the team to investigate, upon which they stumbled on me. I guess I wasn't being as stealthy as I thought I was. The solider escorted me up to the observation post that had been established, and I was able to see the men who had all given me up for dead. The meeting was a little more lackluster than I thought it would be, coming back from the dead and all, but they had more important things to do rather than worry about one more soldier. The battle was being won, and they needed to finish their jobs. I walked outside the wire and propped myself up against a tree, resting. The sun had started to rise and it was getting light now, and I knew that the battle was going to be coming to a close. I looked to my right and saw a dirt road that ran perpendicular to me, with a treeline on the other side of it. I started to close my eyes and push the worries of the war aside when my world exploded around me. My ears rung, the ground shook, and the boom knocked the wind out of my chest. Grenades were falling around us. We were under attack, and I had no idea where it was coming from. Suddenly I heard shots coming from those trees I had just looked towards moments ago. Rolling onto my belly, I pulled a grenade of my own from my vest, ripped the pin out and screamed that I was yelling a frag as I tossed it towards the trees across the road. Grenades continued to boom around me, and I couldn't tell if it was our guys throwing them, or theirs. All I knew is that fourth of July was happening on top of me and I wasn't sure if I was going to piss myself. Then, it was done. The pungent odor of blown explosive hung low in the air, but the explosions stopped, and it was quiet again. I belly crawled along a ditch on our side of the road for maybe ten or fifteen meters, then made my way to some large rocks on the other side. Shouldering my rifle, I peered around them, scanning the forest for any signs of enemies. I saw a few figures, prone in the dirt among the trees, and promptly put a few rounds into each of them. The figures did not react however, and it instead looked like I had shot bags of sand... A sign that these men were dead before I had shot them. Casualties of the grenade engagement no doubt. The were no others anywhere close to us, so I ran across the road, again, and crawled back towards the observation post. The scene had changed dramatically now. Men were panicking and bleeding and injured. The commander was babbling about an immediate evac. It was a mess. The guy who found me in the woods, lets call him Jon, said we needed to get the fuck out of there, and I obviously agreed wholeheartedly. Within moments a chopper was touching down on the road nearby the OP. It kicked out its soldiers, and took on the wounded and the high-rollers of the command team. The last thing the commander said to us was "good luck" as he disappeared into his headset and took off. What an asshole. Stuff was moving so fast, I wasn't entirely sure what to do. Still in the rotor wash of the helo, I walked up to the squad leader of the soldiers who disembarked the helicopter. In the most casual voice I could muster, I asked him if myself and Jon could join him, since we were recently abandoned here. Want to take a guess at what we were met with? "Fuck off". Fucker. Jon looked to me, I shrugged, and he suggested we go off on our own. Following his lead, we went off into the very same woods he found me in. I have since been a little disoriented, you know, falling out of a helicopter and all. I still didn't have my bearings for directions, and while following Jon I didn't even realize we were heading backwards, back in the direction I came from the barn. The direction I just RAN like two or three klicks to get here, not even an hour ago. Thinking back on it now, the fact that it was dark when I hit the ground, and that I didn't really know the countryside that well is probably what lead to the confusion. Regardless, we were about to walk into the thick of it. After maybe fifteen or twenty minutes of milling around, going through treelines and crossing an awfully familiar field, we found ourselves in a copse of trees overlooking some barns to our east. Moments after settling in, we realized there was a squad of friendly soldiers dug in not even a hundred meters ahead of us. They noticed us around the same time we noticed them, and much to our surprise, they sent a runner to link up with us! We watched as someone broke away from the line, and crouched through the trees to us. Lo and behold, it was Sergeant Fuck Off and his squad. We were less than thrilled, but we then found out what he was watching, and why he wanted us. Those barns he was watching had enemy in them, and a lot of them. Now that he was outnumbered, the ungrateful prick wanted our help. Being just a crew chief, the thrills of the infantry are a rare treat. Hell yeah I was in. First he tried to call in close air support on the barns. One was a squat, two and a half story white building with a red roof and two big blue doors on either side, kind of like your stereotypical barn. The other was a one story brown building about the size of half a football field, and half as wide. When the air strike came in, it only struck the brown building, of which its roof promptly caved in. Then something unexpected happened; the building exploded. Partially at least. When they eventually cleared the area, they discovered a bunch of burned up jeeps in the twisted wood and girders of the collapsed building. Apparently the enemy was stashing their jeeps there to keep them hidden. Any of this starting to sound familiar? If so, you're one step ahead of me, because in the moment I had yet to put two and two together. The second building, the white one with the red roof, stood mainly intact. There was a hole in the roof, but the bigger problem was what lay inside... All the enemies who survived the attack. There was at least ten, maybe fifteen of them. According to Sun Tzu and his Art of War, an attacker should engage his enemy with a three to one advantage, to offset the advantage that a defender has. We were going to do it one to one. Someone needed to take point though, and my moment of weakness earlier still hung like a badge of shame on my chest. Not only did I volunteer to lead the way to the compound, but I also said I would be the first to go in. I never made it that far. As I approached the barn with the squad behind me, I head voices inside. Some angry, some scared, some devoid of all emotion. They had accents, but I we clearly spoke the same language, and I could understand them for the most part. It was here that I made another critical mistake, I thought I could end this without any bloodshed. I curled my fingers into a fist, the signal for everyone to halt, and I approached the barn alone. "Hello!" I yelled. "Can any of you hear me?" A voice yelled back, "Yes, what do you want?" My reply was simple. I offered them a surrender. I told them our forces had the building surrounded, and we were prepared to level it just like we did the other barn. I said that we didn't need to resort to killing, and we could all make it out of this alive. All I heard in response was "Fuck you!" Man was I tired of that fucking word today. Jon decided to breach the building with me. We were going to throw a stun grenade in the opposite door, provided by the squad we had linked up with. I would go in, then he would continue on the other side, followed by the rest of the members of our newly formed squad. At the time, we didn't realize just how many people were still capable of fighting back. Flash. Bang. Just like its name, the grenade went off. I stepped in the door, brought my old rifle to my shoulder, and immediately got punched in the chest. I turned, fell outside the door and blacked out. That's it. I got shot and passed out. Jon died clearing the building, and the rest of the guys decided not to enter. They dragged me back to the treeline and called in another air strike on the building, leveling it completely. So much for avoiding bloodshed.

Just a disclaimer, this story was written with as the story for "The Seven Chairs" illustration from the *The Mysteries of Harris Burdick*. De Septem Cathedras Imperialis Potentia The human race has created many things, many great, and terrible things. The Pyramids of Giza and the Great Wall of China, created via slave labor. So many lives lost, just to showcase the power of the ruling class. But what kept the ruling class in power, besides military might? Religion, some argue. Charisma. The fact that the general population is easy to fool. These all were factors in how those in power were able to keep control, but there is another, hidden explanation. De Septem Cathedras Imperialis Potentia, or The Seven Seats of Imperial Power, were seven chairs created by the Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus, the sixteen Roman Emperor. Marcus Aurelius is well known as one of the greatest Roman Emperors, having expanded the borders of the Empire to their greatest bounds. During his war with the various Germanic tribes and the Sarmatians, Aurelius discovered an enormous tree, in what is now the Bohemian region of the Czech Republic. The tree in question was colossal, a yew. According to secret journals of Aurelius, the Germans believed that the tree was planted by the goddess Thrud, granddaughter of Wodan. They believed that whoever controlled the tree had the favor of the gods. Marcus Aurelius, upon slaughtering the Germans, he ordered the tree to felled, and brought back to Rome. There, he had his master artisans create the Seven Seats of Imperial Power. Each chair was was crafted in the image of the six most powerful gods of the Roman Pantheon—Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo, Venus, Mars, and Neptune. The seventh chair was crafted with the image of the Caesar in mind. Upon the completion of the chairs, Marcus Aurelius had them put away in a hidden cache in the Alps, except of course, the chair that was crafted in the likeness of the Caesar. This chair, the First Seat of Imperial Power, would be passed on down the line of Emperors until the fracture of the Empire. It would then be taken to Constantinople. There it remains, to be used by the Byzantines Basileis, and Ottoman Sultans. The remaining six chairs would stay hidden within their cache in the Alps for several centuries, until Pepin the Younger, King of the Franks, discovered it shortly before his death. The chairs were willed to his son Charlemagne, who would form the Holy Roman Empire. Charlemagne chose to distribute the chairs to his chief advisers, giving one to Viceroys of Neustria, Austria, Aquitaine, Lombardia, and one to Pope Leo III, in return for his crowning of Charlemagne as the Holy Roman Emperor. Charlemagne decided to keep one of the chairs for himself, which he kept at the Imperial Capital of Aachen. For many centuries, the chairs remained dormant, not surfacing during the time of the Karlings, or the first few crusades. The chair given to Pope Leo III—the Fourth Seat of Power—remained within the walls of the Vatican, and is currently occupied by Pope Francis. Much like the First Chair of Power, it moved very little. The chair granted to the Viceroy of Lombardia—The Third Seat of Power—has a more bloody history. It remained in Lombardia for several centuries, and its power was forgotten by almost all. So, in a gesture of good faith, the Duke of Milan gave it to the Holy Roman Emperor Fredrick III von Hasburg, the first of the Hasburgian Emperors. Fredrick knew of the power that the chair possessed, as Hasburgs held the Fifth Seat of Power. In an attempt to improve their diplomatic reputation, and their relations with the newly formed Spain, Fredrick gifted the Third Chair of Power to Isabella I of Castile, and her husband Ferdinand II of Aragon. The chair was used by the Spanish to fuel their conquest of the New World. The Sixth Seat of Power, the one held by the Hasburgs, was the same that was granted by Charlemagne to the Viceroy of Austria. The Hasburgs would use the power of this chair to secure the Holy Roman Empire for the five centuries, eventually gaining control of the crowns of Bohemia, Germany, Hungary, and Bavaria, to name a few. Charlemagne's chair, the Second Seat of Power, would pass through many hands over time. It stayed in northern Germany though, and it was utilized by the Fredrick the Great when he formed Prussia, and the First Reich. The chair stayed in the hands of the Germans through World War II, when it was taken to Moscow by Stalin. It remains within Kremlin, and is currently held by Vladimir Putin. The Seventh Seat of Power was granted by Charlemagne to the Viceroy of Neustria. The chair would remain in the region for quite some time, finding its home in what is now known as Normandy. The seat eventually ended up in the hands of William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy. It was through the Seventh Seat's power that William was able to take England, becoming William the Conqueror. The chair remains within Britain. The exact location of the chair is uncertain though, as during the London air raids in World War II, Prime Minister Churchill had it moved to a protected, undisclosed location. The fifth one ended up in France. The Fifth Seat of Power was granted by Charlemagne to the Viceroy of Aquitaine, which was his son, Louis the Pious. The chair was passed on to his son Charles the Bald, and his son Louis the Stammerer. It would be passed back and forth between the rulers of the Kingdoms of Aquitaine and West Francia until their eventual union, with the formation of the Kingdom of France. It was during the the reign of King Louis XVI that the Fifth Seat of Power finally was moved again. Louis XVI, facing massive internal strife, and being good friends of the Americans, gifted the chair to General Washington. Washington used it to win the Revolutionary War, and it was passed from that point on from president to president, and is currently held by President Obama. That is the story of De Septem Cathedras Imperialis Potentia; The Seven Seats of Imperial Power. Crafted from a yew sacred to the Germanic tribes of Bohemia by Caesar Marcus Aurelius, the chairs were used by the rulers of nearly every major Western power after. From the German Kaisers to Spanish Kings and from the Austrian Archdukes to the American Presidents, the chairs were used by those in power to rule over their citizens, and to expand their spheres of influence across the globe.

The cool familiar smell of the Sanctuary. The dank, chilly air from the A.C. In the summer, the warm hum of a electric heater in the winter. A trashcan, a bathroom, and a computer. All in the my Sanctuary. Walking down the stairs you turn a 90 degree angle to the bulk of the room. There is one of those tiny basement windows there too, built as some sort mandatory state law that their must be a window in every basement. My computer in the far corner (safe from any lines of sight), a gun-safe, a T.V. That wasn't ever on, and two couches that are used for sleeping. This place is mediocre to the uninitiated, few understand its safety, its cold charm, its steady state. The 90 degree corner from the stairs is absolutely essential. This is because of its strategic cover in the case of a gun fight. I removed the light bulbs as so I don't make the mistake of having the lights on during a raid or intrusion. This would cause a shadow to be cast onto the enemy’s line of sight, giving away my position. See the absolute importance of the 90 degree corner is that you have a surprise vantage point of attack. Hearing them through the wall walking down the stairs is also a great advantage because you know their pace and their position. They could never know yours as long as the lights are off. The tiny basement windows is absolutely essential as well as it gives you a clear line of sight to the nearest road, that way the enemy would have to move on foot to preserve his intentions from me. This again is a distinct advantage. I only leave my Sanctuary to eat at night as the cover of darkness allows me to enter the second more exposed level of the house. I turn the 90 degree corner cautiously, with my handgun drawn. It's clear but I knew that, I would certainly be alarmed if the enemy had penetrated the perimeter. Up the stairs and into the kitchen quickly I went. Thankfully the food only takes moments to heat then it is back to the safety of the Sanctuary. The air is great, the smell of safety, and my heart slows down. I've done good. Mission accomplished. Once I had finished my meal almost immediately my heart sank as I hear a car door close. The blood rushes to my head and I feel hot, immediately running to the tiny windows I peaked my head out of a corner. A car I’ve never seen before had just pulled in to the driveway. I quickly grab my gun as thinking that this is indeed the moment. I peak out, weapon ready, and a man in all black gets out of his car and goes to the passenger side door. The man then reaches in and grabs a large bag and immediately heads towards the direction of my front door with confidence. The bell rings and I cock my weapon. The enemy at this point is holding his ground and I'm not stupid enough to fall for this belligerent show of force. I wait at the familiar safety of the 90 degree corner. Then to my surprise the car door closes again. The car then pulls into my neighbor's driveway and the same confidence is shown again by the enemy. This time my poor neighbor opened the door. I had a shot on the enemy but any civilian causalities will not be tolerated. The enemy then pulls out a pizza box to my sweet relief. Safe again in the Sanctuary, the smell comes over me again and I realize I’m fine. I unload my weapon and pull into my computer desk. The computer was no ordinary computer. This computer was completely anonymous, as so the enemy had absolutely no chance of back tracking me to this location. The familiar sight of the penguin of Linux always soothed me as well but not near as much as my strategic lines of sight or my training. Typing and computing is slow with an electronic keyboard to prevent key loggers from obtaining information and Tor makes browsing just as cumbersome. Not as cumbersome as it is for the enemy and that is reason for all of this. After a few gloriously peaceful hours on the computer, I became thirsty. Nearing dusk I couldn't risk going to the refrigerator to get any canned beverages so I would have to drink the silver filter purified water from the water cooler. $3000 of 21st century filtration technology. The municipal water supply is most certainly contaminated with chemicals to make the public unaware of the enemy's growing presence and power. I knew though, it was so obvious, poison the water and everyone will know. Any other filtration device would most certainly lead to trace amounts of the poison and I wouldn't dare risk that. The water is as cool and as crisp as the air of the Sanctuary. Growing tired I set my alarm and go to the safety of the couch. The cold leather couches. Laying on the non-decoy couch is as religious experience I know. I reserved the best most secure place in the Sanctuary for the sleeping quarters. And of course left the decoy, complete with a replica of myself to the tee. The decoy was at an angle to were coming from the sacred corner will result in spotting my feet poking out by the enemy, most certainly alarming the enemy to my 'position' and blowing his own cover. The real sleeping couch is placed so that I can see the entirety of the decoy couch and slightest bit of the last step from the stairs. Perfect line of sight for a counter-attack. I set my alarm for 3 hours. Just enough to get rest without being belligerent myself. When I awake the newspaper boy is right on time just past 6AM. Good boy. I get some water form the purifier and start my daily ritual of checking and cleaning my gun safe. Everything is there. The Ruger 45 caliber single action. By far one of the most reliable handguns ever made. It is my carry and it deserves special attention. The AR-15 Semi-Automatic rifle is almost never used thankfully and it is only for multiple assailants and far to bulky for my use. As well as a suit of Kevlar which again won't be used until the enemy breaks perimeter as to not damage it by unneeded wear and tear. Anther everything needed to make my own ammunition, not that I needed to make any more bullets as I have enough to last many life times. But it is important to note how the enemy has been known to provide faulty ammunition to sabotage any attacks. After this I go to the corner were the boxes of MREs are waiting. If the enemy knew did something right it is how to feed their peons in battle. Of course these Meals Ready-to-Eat are made by a fellow fighter I met online. These are the real deal and will sustain me as to not blow my cover by going upstairs in this peak time of day. This time of day could be used by the enemy as some sort of cowardice ruse of gaining entry by using children, or mailmen. After I finish my meal it's time for anther 3 hours until my guard must begin again. The Sanctuary is preserved for anther day it's air still cool and musky, and it's safety enveloping me. These days were the enemy is not around fill me with great joy, but a part of knows that with each passing day is the one day closer to the actual attack. How could I be ready for such a great enemy? What kind of sick tricks could they come up with next? I know one thing is that when I go down it will be here. Here in the only place that feels right.

(This is still in development but I would like feedback on how it looks) Long ago there was an era known for its culture and technology, this was known as the Victorian era. There was, however, secrets that were kept that way. These secrets are treated as fairy tales, and myths about the oh so wonderful Victorian people. This is a story about one of those secrets. This is the story about the year of the green eyed children. Enjoy the tale of how the human nature can turn vile to defend what it loves, and how even a community that was branded evil managed to be more on the welcoming side than most good communities. When this horrible year occurred a disease was spreading amongst the people. This disease would enable you with visions, I don’t mean of the future, these visions would make you see everything you loved die. This caused people to die in fear, sometimes mid-scream, in fear of the visions. Still, no one knew what this meant. Was this a warning from the Holy, or a curse from the unholy. People up rose in a mass panic causing riots wherever the disease hit. These riots caused stores to be looted people killed and all the things people loved to vanish with their own anger. This is what the vision was telling them. The beginning of the next year is when the green eyed children showed up, they just started wondering into the city without memory. People tried helping the children that showed up. They gave the children homes to live, and food to eat. This was the brightest humanity had been since the riots. That was what they thought. During lunch one of the children started babbling about the corruption of the city and death of all who lived there. Another, had laughed at the citizens previous year and calling it unacceptable for humanity. This had of course caused them to go into another panic gathering all the green eyed children into the middle of the city while they spout of threats and laughed at their suffering. This was the arrival and the threats of the strange green eyed children.

Three religions lived happily in harmony together on the land of Zelobar. They shared the food, and resources that were needed. Angozlia was the richest of all the religions. With a small shrine dedicated to their god made of quartz and gold. They lived off of magical assistance. Zanglife was the religion of nature and peace with the word. They sought not safety in fancy houses, or great castles. They lived in trees, and underground. The final religion on this small land slice was Brulitious. They lived a strict and brutal life. From birth, they trained for the military. It was shameful to do anything other. Although there was never any fighting, they lived by slashing and thrashing at each other with swords and shields. One day, a loud and strong rumble was felt. Many assumed it to be a small tremor and continued with their daily tasks. They were poorly mistaken, however. Many soldiers were training in Brulitious’s courtyard when the ground erupted, sending debris flying all about the place. Out of the ground, massive spikes sprung out, impaling many of the armies best soldiers. Everyone drew their weapons. Soldiers scrambled to get their armor on and their weapons from the smith. Fear was beginning to settle, as many soldiers looked at their dead comrades, impaled and crushed by debris. The smoke of the explosion began to clear, and many of the soldiers saw was that revealed. A massive red pit, glowing a bright orange. One of the higher ranking soldiers walked towards the pit slowly, motioning for everyone else to stay back. He looked down into the pit. Suddenly, as if startled, he jumped back. Out of the pit came a strange beast, skinny at the center, with barbed legs, and spikes where their feed should have been. They had not a face, but a slit where it should have been. This singular beast grabbed the soldier with it’s spikes, impaling him from behind. The beast pulled him into the pit as he screamed. Suddenly, swarms of the beasts flushed out of the pit, each running after their own target. Many men tried to stand and fight. A few even succeeded at killing one or two, but were quickly overwhelmed. Many men fled to the Zanglife territory, or the Angozlia territory. Out of nowhere, a giant mountainous wall sprung out in front of the Zanglife territory, blocking all the soldiers from entering. They began to flee to Angozlia, but they had activated their energy shield powered by magical crystals. The soldiers pounded on the shield as the Angzolians looked on in fear and sympathy. The beasts swarmed over the men. Their screamed echoed throughout the land. Many beasts flocked to the farms to feast on crops. They quickly spat out the wheat and vegetables in disgust. The only thing to satisfy the creatures hunger was the flesh of those they had killed. A windmill still stood tall in the farm, but that was soon to change. Out of the ground, a giant tower sprung from underneath the windmill. It met heavy resistance, but still managed to push through the old windmill. It slanted slightly to the side, as if to almost tip over. The people of Zelobar knew their world could only get worse than it already was. They just knew it.

Shells fell and sand sprayed all around him, he had to close his eyes to keep it out. His heart was in his mouth while the gun in his hands nearly fell out. A shell landed near him and his body was relieved of the eroded edges of the stones that jabbed into him as he was flung into the heavens. He felt the back of his helmet crash into a sharp rock and he felt a spark of electricity going through his body. Slowly, he was slipping from consciousness and a flash of light broke out before he collapsed on the sand. Alone. Adeep opened his eyes. Another nightmare, it was the second one this week. He knew he could never forget it but somehow he had to try. The memories were too painful to remember and at this old age, it was draining him of his life. On the third week of the seventh month on his fourteen year on this earth, Adeep’s world was destroyed forever. One would think, to see a young boy malnourished and his straight black hair already soaked with sweat after an hour in the sun, hanging over his face, would have already felt hopeless and depressed about his life. However, the love he received from his mother was more than enough for his young innocent heart. His face lit up every time he saw his mother, whether she was cooking his dinner or she was sleeping on her bed, her energy drained out of her by the day’s work. Each day he would come home from a day’s work at the fields, picking cotton under the glaring sun and each day his mother would have cooked his food for them. One day, however, as he was walking home, the smell of sweet, fried onions, the savoury, mouth-watering smell of the chicken curry and steaming rice didn’t come surging out of their home. Assuming his mother had just gone to the market, he went and played with some boys from the village, as his mother often encouraged him to as he often stayed home to look after her. His spirits were lifted with the thought of playing with his friends again; he ran off to call the boys. After a few hours of playing various games in the forest and over the plains of the baking sands, all the while running through the fallen leaves, ducking under the branches and jumping over the grass in the sand; he returned home. As he walked through the village, he saw women staring discreetly at him all the while talking to their friends in hushed voices. Their eyes bore into him. The village had gone quiet. As he neared his home he saw the village herbal doctor come out of his house. He stopped. As she walked out of the small front yard which was littered with plump chickens pecking at the floor and their chicks following them, she looked up and saw him. Her face was grave and sad, for his family had done a great deal to the village. Everyone knew the story. As she walked away, Adeep looked around. He saw everyone walk into their homes and tears came to his eyes. Pratheep, his dead friend’s father, came towards him. “Adeep…” Pratheep started as he put a hand on Adeep’s shoulder. Adeep knew what was coming next and tears came to his eyes. Adeep shrugged the generous offer away and ran towards his home, in hope of all this commotion being a mistake. Adeep ran over the stony sand when everyone started calling him urgently. He didn’t look back; he kept on running towards his home, towards his mother, towards his only relation on this world. The sweat ran across his face and cooled his darkened skin. When he was a couple of metres away from his home, he fell. His fall, fortunately, was broken by the soft sand. His face met with sand and grit. It wasn’t a pleasant experience to say the least. He looked up to his house, the sun-baked mud walls and the thatched roof which withstood the fiery sun. The house barely managed to get through the season of rain, when river banks burst and the rivers themselves seemed to be chasing you wherever you tried to escape. The shiny metal door was the only possession of theirs that reminded them of their father’s legacy. The door clearly stated “SLAF” in black bold letters against the sky blue background of the door. The door was in fact the outer shell of a plane from the air force, ripped from the exploded plane that his father had gunned down alone when all hope had seemed lost. Thinking about the fate of his father brought tears that stung his eyes. Adeep got up. He had had enough. He ran towards the house when a distant sound caught his attention. He glanced up. It wasn’t so distant. It was over his head and it was a plane. He saw something open on the bottom of the plane. Reality hit him, hard. They were dropping a shell, on his home, with his mother inside. He shouted, he screamed and he ran. But it was too late. “Mother, come out! Hurry! They are dropping a shell.” A moment later his house exploded. He was thrown back by an object and when he landed he realised what it was. It was the door. A burning smell caught his attention as he opened his eyes. He got up from under the former door and looked at the other side. There was something on it. His mind rejected it, it tried to pull him away from looking at it but it was too late. He had seen it. He had seen blood, the blood of his mother. The blood of his family. Tears finally managed to come out of his eyes. He looked up to the sky and the plane was gone. “I will kill you! I will avenge my mother and father! This sand, the sand of my ancestors, has got the blood of both my father and mother. They won’t let me down! I will come! I will come and slaughter you, just like you did to us!” ****** Trudging through the sand with the men from his villagethat chose to come with him, they journeyed their way towards their destination; all the while the sun shone its rays of heat at them, cooking them in their khaki uniforms. There were only the small hours of the day to go through, before they made camp at the foot of the mountain. Stories ran through the villages of the north about the mountain; but that’s what they all were; stories. Cleverly constructed stories spread from person to person, generation to generation. However one story even he believed. Not just him; every man, every woman, every child from the North believed the story of the Lord creating the mountain, to protect his people whether they needed a place of refuge or a place to prepare themselves for battle in times of need. A time like this. A time when the Northern people were hunted for their belief and were being cornered, wiped out, for their heritage to this land, this sacred land which the cowardly butchers tried to steal from the North. His blood boiled at the mere thought of it. A starving dog with a bullet in its leg and its tongue out of its mouth was lying by the edge of the sandy path, panting desperately to try and cool itself. Pity started forming in his heart but he rejected it, he knew he should have stone heart, a cold, untouchable shell that feelings like pity couldn’t penetrate. He felt a hand on his shoulder.He looked around. It was Pratheep. "You don’t have to do this, you know that.” Adeep’s mind exploded. He had to let it all out. “You know it yourself! You know how it feels to have lost all of your family to them. I need to do this. I need to finish what my father started!” Everyone turned around. He hadn’t realised he had been shouting. He looked at Pratheep and tried to find some comfort in him but Pratheep turned away, hurt. Guilt pierced Adeep’s heart. It was the second time he had turned away Pratheep’s kind offers. Looking back towards the village, he saw the children playing with some of the men who stayed behind. Thoughts about his father came to the forefront of his mind and tears stung his eyes. Growing up, he had never really acknowledged the part of him that lacked a fatherly presence in the family as he always had his mother; but now that his mother had died, the absence of family was heart wrenching for him. To him is seemed like his family was cursed to be slaughtered by the tyrannical military of the army. First his father shot down by an enemy aircraft, the constant battle of man against machine lasted up to this day. His mother, thoughts of what happened to her, five moons ago, was still fresh in his mind. The cremation of his mother by the cold-hearted Southern people, the finality of the bomb exploding in front of his and all physical memory of his parents was destroyed from this world; this world that the Lord created lovingly for them. Not for them to fight but to love, to embrace each other in peace. Adeep looked back around, and for the first time, realised his surroundings. He had been looking down at his feet since they left the village, guided by the sound of the men before him. He hadn’t looked up when they passed a pack of jackals or the wild buffalo drinking at the water hole, all the while vigilantly watching for any threat, while a lone leopard stalked themthrough the long grass waiting to pounce on the ignorant beasts. He had been urged to look up by Pratheep but he was too busy thinking. Thinking about what he would do to the man who killed his mother, who never looked after herself but devoted her life for him. He realised that the sandy trail was fast disappearing as they reached the forest at the foot of the mountain. The calmness in the forest, as they carefully tread past the trees at the mouth of the forest, gave him renewed strength. Frequent movements of the leaves of the towering palm trees caught his eye as the local wildlife scampered through the forest checking on the intruders whether they were friend or foe. A tail or a flutter of wings could be seen occasionally through the leaves or a frittering through the leaves on the ground, the dark leaves camouflaging the insects on the ground.Birds and mammals alike gave out calls, warning their fellow neighbours of the trespassers. The forest was alive. Pillars of light shone through the gaps in the leaves. A faint trickling sound could be heard through the cacophony of screeches and howls. All of a sudden, a bark was heard. A bark. The warning that a foot patrol was coming, coming to get their enemies. The Northern people had mastered this technique generations before the war was well under way. Whenever the presence of the enemy was sensed by the dogs, they would bark and bark they would. Barking constantly and they wouldn’t stop until a reward was given or the dog was shot, brutally murdered by the army. These life-saving creatures defended their masters while exposing themselves often died brutal deaths. “Just like my father,” he thought gloomily. He looked back but all he could see the foliage they had been walking through while his brain registered a sweet yet warm but slightly burnt odour. That was when he heard it. The deep rumbling tremor made by the tanks as they crawled across the sand to the forest. Adeep wondered why they were coming towards the forest when they just passed the village without stopping when they usually stopped to ransack each Northern village they passed during their patrol. Stories spread about men killed slowly and being fed to dogs while women were kidnapped, never to be seen again. Instinctively, he clambered up a tree to hide. These trees were familiar to him. He had often played here when his mother was well and they often ate their lunch there. The military was coming and his group was unarmed. “They had to hide. What were they waiting for?” he wondered desperately. “Why weren’t they running to hide?” Sitting on a branch, panic gripped him when he saw a jeep coming through the forest towards the men. It was an enemy jeep. There were four men in the jeep and one of the men was gagged. Pratheep walked up to the jeep as the jeep slowed down when he thought the jeep was going to run him over, when it stopped. Pratheep looked up to the branch where he was concealed. “Come down Adeep! This is the man that killed your mother! Come on! Exact your revenge on him!” With that, he tossed Adeep a gun. A gun, Adeep had never looked at a gun before, let alone felt one. The metal was cold in his hand and it reminded him of the cold-heartedness required to use this instrument, this thing. He looked at the man’s eyes, staring at him in raw fear. The pleading eyes drove straight into his heart. Finally, he had made his decision. Sweat ran across his back and he hoped that this wouldn’t turn out to be a mistake. Raising his arms and the gun at the man’s head, he prepared himself. The man’s eyes widened and he started to furiously shake his head. He had chosen. Adeep waited, then threw the gun away. He looked at man, who looked relieved, then at Pratheep. “He is more of a man than you! You are a coward, all of your kind are! Hiding behind those metal shells, trying to hide from the reality!” Pratheep sneered softly but the echoes of the forest magnified his voice. Then, looking at Adeep, “Well done Adeep. I knew you would never do it. You aren’t a killer, you are a boy. You can’t hide in a shell that stops you from feeling; a stone heart doesn’t make you strong but weak.” But Adeep was already walking off. He would go somewhere, anywhere. He would walk off the edge of the world if he had to. He would go anywhere to escape this madness. “No one should suffer this,” he thought as he walked off into the distance. “When my mother realised my father had died in her arms, she wanted to kill herself with the same gun, but then she remembered me. The only light in this darkness for her and she named me, Adeep, light. But even light gets overcome with darkness.

Culture has ceased to exist. No one knows when it died or how the world got like this. We kind of just fell into it without noticing, the way a child grows taller. All we have are a few pencil marks on the kitchen wall to remember the biggest milestones: -- The bombing of Pearl Harbor, 1941 -- The attack on the World Trade Center, 2001 -- The assassination of Vladmir Putin, 2025 -- The Treaty of the Continents, 2060 -- The United Nations changes its name to the singular form, United Nation, 2084. Events that happened so long ago, that are so massively important, their dates are recited in classrooms repeatedly, arbitrarily, until the students memorize them. For the past 200 years, no one has died of anything other than old age, disease or accident, all of which plummet in numbers by the day. For the past 200 years, nothing has happened worth memorizing. The globe in the back of a classroom is naked, no lines or labels on its surface. Just a light blue orb broken up with chunks of brownish green that bleed seamlessly into one another. The flagpole outside also stands naked at its post. No school colors billow in the wind. There are no teams or clubs or mascots or competition. A bell rings in a classroom and the children herd themselves outside. Standing under the bare flagpole, they pause for a moment of silence and solidarity, of devotion to nothing. Aside from time and schedule, this is the only tradition that remains.

The Stapler I swear to Christ Karen if you stole my fucking stapler I am going to end your life. You do not want to mess with me Karen. I am down to choke a bitch. Yeah that’s right you better go back to your spreadsheet. I will take these scissors that I stole from Kyle in HR and I will shove them right into your brain. That is my stapler I brought it from home because the shitty fucking staplers that they order here couldn’t staple 2 things that should probably be easy to staple together together. And I am hung-over and metaphors are really hard. I know I smell like alcohol Karen you don’t have to message your fucking friend Liz on IM. I was out drinking Karen. And by out drinking I mean I went to the grocery store to buy some vodka, corn dogs, and kale. Have you even tasted kale, Karen? It’s like eating astro-turf. Of course you’ve had kale. Your body is a fucking temple with your Gluten free everything. Oh I know you have a Gluten allergy. I don’t even think Gluten actually exists. I think it’s a big scam. Betty Ford warned us. But did we listen? The nutritional dietary military industrial complex has lied to the American public. I know stupid Greg is over in accounts high-fiving the guys and telling them how he gave it to me the other night. God why are men such pigs? I am sure those spray tanned ho buckets are just loving it. They are probably talking about me right now. I should tell them how he cried for like 45 minutes while I hid in the bathroom eating hot wings. You see Karen if you’d spent your Friday night having the most boring sex since the first time an amoeba split apart asexually, you might want to spend your Saturday and Sunday catching up on reruns of the Golden Girls and drinking a half gallon of Monarch. Oh my God I was supposed to be on a diet. I’ll have to check the app for how many calories are in vodka. Isn’t vodka what skinny Eastern European models drink? Does pot have calories? Maybe I could smoke pot. Do I know anyone who has pot? How does a grown up get pot? Why do they call it a pot belly? Does pot make you fat? Well fuck Meghan with an H, and her stupid wedding. I’ll smoke all the pot I want. Oh my God am I a grown up? My head hurts so much I feel like there are tiny men in my head with enormous hammers, well the hammers are enormous in proportion to the tiny men, hammering the shit out of vital parts of my brain. I don’t care how difficult it is to find work when you are that tiny, hammering someone’s brain with a hammer is wrong. Maybe if Karen hadn’t stolen my stapler I could concentrate. Don’t look at me like that Karen. I am fucking ill. I have the fucking Spanish Influenza. Karen your face is annoying. If I had my stapler I would print out a picture of a different face and staple that onto your face. I should have just stayed home. This is one of those days where I should have just stayed in bed with my cat Jazzy. I could try to sleep while he pukes up hairballs under my bed and silently judges me. I shouldn’t even go to Meghan with an H’s stupid wedding. I should stay here. Maybe I could take up knitting. I could knit something. I could knit a tea cozy. What the fuck is a cozy anyway? I’ll have to make a note to check Wikipedia when I get home. Tea cozy. I could knit the shit out of some cozy. Then when people come over to my house they’ll be like damn that is one hell of a cozy. Oh here comes Greg again. How many times are you going to just happen to walk by my cubicle Greg? Maybe he stole my stapler. God if he thinks I will have sex with him again in exchange for my stapler then he is sadly mistaken. They sell them at Staples, Greg. I can always get another. Oh my God do I have to go out with him again? I would rather watch Karen sing sappy love songs to her stupid banzai tree for 12 hours than spend another evening listening to Greg talk on and fucking on about his herb garden. They’re plants Greg. No one gives a shit. But if I don’t go out with him again does that mean that I am just a one night stand? Why do guys get to have one night stands and the only thing they get is high fives and chlamydia? Am I okay being the type of woman that has one night stands? I mean he cried after we had sex. He might even have wept. Although I couldn’t really tell through the door of the bathroom. I am pretty sure there is an unwritten rule in the bible about weeping after premarital sex. Probably in the old testament. Karen I swear to the eternal baby Buddha Jesus himself that if you return my stapler now I won’t press charges with the police. I have a document Karen. A document, that needs to be stapled, a fucking paper clip is not going to cut it. Nothing? For real Karen? That’s how you are going to play this? Even when I lie and promise you immunity from prosecution? You are just going to sit there typing away pretending to work. That is it. I am going to play Spider Solitaire until someone returns my stapler. This is a protest game of Spider Solitaire like when Susan B. Anthony refused to move to the back of the bus. Oprah says if you put your desires out into the universe that the universe will provide. So here it is universe ‘give me back my fucking stapler.’ Yes Greg I can see that you have a stupid perfect smile you don’t have to keep showing it to the whole world. I am just going to tell him that I need to focus on my Spider Solitaire career. I am consistently winning with 2 suits Greg I can’t just slow down this runaway train. I am sure that his magical night with me was the highlight of his life. I can’t help it if your world has been thoroughly and completely rocked. He didn’t say anything. Just walked on by like some kind of walking on by person. Maybe he’s embarrassed. I mean he wept. Lord knows I would be mortified. Why the fuck didn’t he say anything? Is it because he stole my stapler and he thinks he’s being cute? It’s not cute Greg. This is grand larceny. I mean crying after getting your world completely rocked is one thing but resorting to crime is just wrong. Have some self-respect. Oh here comes Kyle from HR. Well if he thinks he’s getting his scissors back then he’s fucking crazy. They are my scissors now Kyle. You need to learn to deal with it. Maybe take some Xanax or something. I don’t have time to deal with your fucking policies Kyle. I have a fucking stapler to find. This is literally a stapler emergency. Maybe you could organize a conference or something and get the team involved. Do I need to file a grievance? No Kyle I don’t have time to put your meeting on my Outlook calendar. I am really busy right now, solving crimes. Fine I will come to your meeting but I need 5 minutes to yell at everyone about my missing stapler. Kyle no one cares about your stupid agenda. We need to find my stapler. You need to keep your priorities straight.

The light summer breeze rustled amongst the willow oak trees, the grass waving back and forth as if they were telling someone farewell. The stars shone like great beacons of light, always out of reach but never out of sight. A man walked along a dirt path, his naked feet leaving imprints in the moistened ground. This is true serenity he thought to himself, gazing upon the miles and miles of plains ahead of him. Life had always been complicated for him, making times like these very therapeutic. Suddenly a rustle was heard behind him, he swiveled around and called out “He….he….hello?” His voice shook with fear, the dark not being his favorite of things in this world. His words were answered with silence. Relieved, he turned around and continued to walk. Why am I so jumpy? he asked himself, realizing he had grown to be more fearful of things over the past few weeks. As he made his way down the damp trail, he pointed out the constellations and hoped one day he would be able travel beyond his small town of Cairo, Nebraska. All his life he had worked the fields, hiding who he truly wa…...another, louder rustle sounded off in the near-distance. “Okay not funny, who the hell is there!?!?” yelled the man Out of the brush, stepped a young woman. “Oh dear, you scared me” She just stared at him. Her eyes a frosty blue, sharp enough to pierce the heart. She wore a large grin on her face, as she knew something he didnt. “Are you okay? Do you need something?” he persisted to talk, blinded by her beauty and ignoring the look she was giving. Standing still, the grin slowly faded. “I have come for you, Hayden.” She wielded a knife in her hand. Hayden turned and ran. His speed was super-human, god like almost, but he was already aware of his ability to run at sound barrier speeds.This was his gift, something he has had since he can remember. Sprinting through the tall grass, Hayden’s foot suddenly caught a rock and he skidded to the ground. As he picked himself back up, the lady was standing over him. “How? How did you do that?” he asked “Did you think you were the only one, hermes?” she spat, pinning him to the ground and putting a knife to his throat. “Hermes? What are you talking about?” She laughed. “We are free, the rest are no longer safe. A new era is coming.” In one smooth motion, she sliced through Hayden’s neck. Hayden lay in the grass, lifeless, with one single final thought ringing throughout his mind. They are free.

Not too long ago, I was talking to one of my friends on some rooftop on a cold summer night. He looked at me, and said "Do you want to hear a tale my mother use to tell me when I was younger?" I nodded, and listened attentively. There was this young little boy I once knew. He was next to his father, who was laying on his bed, resting. His father, as weak as he could be, took all the power he had left in himself and fetched a black box that he had put in his drawer. He gave the box to his son. "My son," he said, "if you would please solve this for me." His son opened the box, and there were 2 things in it. There was something that had this square form and a letter. "Don't forget to read the letter, carefully! These mysterious men have told me it was very important to read everything", his father said, coughing at every word. The little boy left his home, and started walking in a forest with the object at hand. He wasn't so sure what he was supposed to do, and thought that he should probably glance at what the letter had in it. "You are now in possession of the cube. The owner of the cube has given to you as a duty to fulfill his wishes. If you complete the cube, the moment the owner lays eyes on the object, he will be granted with eternal youth", it said. He put the paper back in his pocket, and started to fiddle with the square. It seemed quite complex, and he couldn't really understand it as easily as other things. He had quite an eye for complexities, yet this seemed like something he couldn't decipher. After walking the whole path of the forest and arriving at the end, he still wasn't done solving the cube. He decided to take a detour and walk back on his path while still trying to figure out how to complete it. He had high hopes that before re-arriving to the path where he had started, he would probably be able to finish it. As he was getting closer to where he had first started, he noticed how he wasn't even close to completing it. He was discouraged and felt like he wouldn't be able to help his father. Soon after, before arriving to the end, he noticed a trail that led to somewhere he hadn't ever seen or explored in the forest. He was fascinated by it and decided to cut loose and jump on the new trail. As he was walking on the new trail, he noticed that it led to a new path. There were 2 different other paths to take. He stood at the intersection of both and wasn't really sure which one to take. He saw, on the shorter trail, that the end wasn't too far away. Meanwhile, on the other trail, he didn't see the ending. It seemed more promising to him, so he embarked on the bigger trail. As he was walking, he couldn't even set his attention on the cube anymore. The new path seemed to draw his attention from anything else, and he was only focusing on this new path he was on. He had never seen it before. It was all so new to him. At some point, he arrived to what seemed to be the end of the path. There was a woman standing in front of him. She had this quite mystical feature on herself. It seemed as though each movement she would take, he too, would reciprocate the movement exactly. The woman was also holding a cube, herself, and the little boy felt like she was controlling him. Every movement she had done, he had also done the same movements. Soon after, the little boy felt like he had finally found the solution. He looked at his cube and thought it was finally complete. The woman had guided him to the solution. He headed back the path and wanted to go back home to meet his father. He looked back and there wasn't any woman anymore. All he saw was a mirror that was in the middle of a path in the forest. He found that quite weird, and after stopping for a few seconds, he carried onto his path and headed back home. When he arrived back home, his father was still laying in his bed. "Is it complete?" he hushed. The little boy hesitated, but finally, he gave the cube to his father. The father laid his eyes on the cube, and soon after, his gazed seemed more pronounced yet he seemed more distant. The little boy didn't understand. He remembered how his father had told him to read the letter carefully. He grabbed the letter that was in his pocket and started to re-read it. He arrived to the very last sentence that he had ignored previously, and it said "However, if the owner lays his eyes on the cube when it is incomplete, he will suffer a quick painful death" "Wow, that's a fucked up story", I told my friend. "I can't believe your mother told you this when you were younger!" "Yeah...", he said, looking as though it troubled him deeply. He reached down his coat and took out what seemed to be an unfinished Rubik's Cube. He was looking at it as if it was a masterpiece. I took the object out of his hands and threw it across the city with all my might. The very next day, I went to find back the cube and dugged it underground.

"Guys, I think we need to think about the Christmas lunch. I know a lot of you are attached to the gift exchange, but I think this year we should try something new. It's called charity." Diane opened her arms like a basket overflowing and there was a long pause as everyone in the group simultaneously choked puke back down their throats. "I think we should buy gifts for a needy family instead of exchanging them with each other." "That's a great idea, Diane. But maybe we should just do our charity on our own. A lot of us like the gift exchange." Tim said, fighting back the anger at the idea of being made to give to charity. Tim was a conservative in the sense that he conserved most of his emotions for blowing way the fuck up at small slights he felt were forced on him. "Tim, Christmas is about giving - not taking. Why don't we go the extra mile here and -" But Diane was cut off mid sentence by Jessica! "Christmas? Christmas? Is this 1960? Are we on the set of Mad Men? Please don't use that word to describe our seasonal exchange of peace! It's called 'The Holidays' or 'Seasonal Party'. Christmas? I don't believe you, Diane. I thought you were more informed than that. George is Jewish. Talia is Islamic. And Ruth is that one where they don't believe in holidays..." "Jehovah's Witness." Ruth said. "What about my rights? I'm Christian and I don't like you people taking the Christ out of the holiday." Glenda chimed in. "You people?" Michael X asked. "The bible is my favorite book, and I think we should all take a note from Joh -" "Which version?" "Version of what?" "Which version of the bible?" Stan was upset. "King James." Stan made a fart noise. "Please." "You know there's many books of the bible, not just the -" "Bah, you're Mormon." "What does that have to do with anything?" "I heard Mormons believe in a monster God that flew to Earth in a 747!" "That's Scientologists!" "They're all crazy!" "I'm a Scientologist!" "Yeah, and you're crazy." "STOP!" Diane yelled. "Look, I thought maybe you all would like to join in a charitable effort. But I guess not. I guess..." She began weeping. "I guess you're all too enamored in your own beliefs to believe in the one belief we all hold true - love." Stan made the farting noise again. "Why don't we have a potluck?" "Is that some Indian thing?" "They're called Native Americans!" "Not if their Indian. Like from India, you fuckhead." "Fuck you, I don't want a potluck. This isn't Kwanza. It's Christmas!" "What's wrong with Kwanza?" "Nothing, it's just a made-up holiday." "So is Christmas." "Oh, you would say that, you helped kill Christ afterall you stinking -" "STOP IT! STOP! We need to pull together." It was Tim this time. He was crying. But not out of sadness for our souls, but out of pure rage. "I will NOT be forced to give to charity. Or vote for Obama. Or wash my hands EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I. USE. THE. BATHROOM!" Everyone stopped and looked around at each other and then at Tim. "You don't always wash your hands? Gross." Diane made a face. She had stopped weeping and found a new charity - the one where you give ridicule. "Tim doesn't wash his hands!" Everyone started laughing. I looked around and there was a general sense of togetherness, something that religions, charities, and politicians cannot put together. Something stronger. Something beautiful. It was the act of not being the person being made fun of. Tim looked around the room and finding no clear target for his rage, decided to punch the coffee maker and then he stormed out as laughter followed him down the halls. Finally, the room composed itself and Diane began again. "OK. I'm not feeling a lot of love for the charity. So, let's go ahead and just do our gift exchange, at a restaurant, like usual." She smiled at the group. "What restaurant?" And with that, chaos ensued. Employees shot from their chairs and grabbed whatever was nearby and began pummeling their neighbor. "Outback!" "Red Robin!" "Ninos!" ...were the battle cries that day. I hid under a desk and watched Diane use a letter opener to stab Jane in the ear repeatedly. The idea of charity was long gone and she only craved the sound of metal plunging into brain. Jon was trying to fit Harry down the garbage chute, Becka was strangling Don with a phone cord, Thom was in the corner raping a fern for reasons unknown... The battle went on and I was able to ride it out under my desk smoking cigarettes and drinking mini bottles of Rum that I had received at the last Peace in the Middle East and End Smoking lunch. Finally, a champion appeared. It was Ruth. She was dragging Michael X's body on a cross she had made from the cubicle uprights. The rest of the employees were dead, dying, or too injured to protest when Ruth, bloodied, stood on her desk and proclaimed "We shall have a white elephant gift exchange. At Denny's. We will call it a Seasonal Party. We will wear ugly...ugly...sweaters..." and then she gasped and fell to the ground dead. The only sound was Thom continuing to have sex with a fern. I slowly walked out. I was the only survivor of the Seasonal Party discussion. It was 1996. Hallmark headquarters.

It was almost 11PM, meaning my shift at the sushi restaurant in the shopping plaza was finally almost over. I hated being on the closing shift, but I hated being in prison even more. I had spent the last six years of my life in prison for vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated. The woman I killed was also drunk and behind the wheel. Her name was Alice, she had gorgeous blonde hair, and glowing green eyes. It’s hard to forget a face like hers. She was at the same party I was at. Sometimes I think I should’ve been the one to go, instead of Alice. She actually had her future ahead of her and was going to college, unlike the then 21-year-old me, who was a college drop-out. But things were actually starting to look up for me. I somehow managed to get a job, even if it was a dead-end one. And I didn’t even like sushi, but apparently I was good at preparing it, according to this regular customer we get, Alison. She actually reminded me a lot about Alice. Alison also had blonde hair, but with blue eyes instead of green. I was lucky enough to begin dating her, and she was graceful enough to let me move into her place recently. We’d only been dating for six months, which was one month longer than I’d been out of prison. Since today was payday, maybe tonight after work I’d go home, change my clothes, and take her to a movie. We were closing up shop at the sushi place. There were only three of us on staff: the closing manager, a coworker, and I. My coworker had just finished cleaning his area of the store, and had headed out. I was almost done putting away my cooking utensils. After I had finished, I put all the chairs in the restaurant on top of the tables, so the morning people can mop the floors tomorrow. I was eager to clock out because I wanted to go home and see Alison. I exited the restaurant, saying “Good bye!” to my manager, while fumbling for my car keys. As I was about to open the door to my car, I realized I had forgotten my cell phone back inside the work lockers. Alison always wanted me to send her a text message when I was on my way home, so she would know that I was safe. I headed back towards the restaurant, only to see my manager locking the front doors. I asked her if she could hold the door open for just a second, while I went to get my phone. I headed inside, opened my locker and sent a text message to Alison saying, “On my way home.” Once again, I exited the restaurant, thanking my manager for letting me back inside. We said our final goodbye’s to each other, and she got inside her car and drove off. I walked through the very empty parking lot towards my car. I pulled out my keys, and I heard a noise. It sounded like someone dropped a water bottle. It seemed very close, because I could hear the water sloshing about inside its container. I turned around, only seeing an empty parking lot and the dozens of light poles that provide the yellow light to it. The base of each light pole was held up by a block of concrete. Perhaps someone put a water bottle on the base of the light pole, and the wind blew it over at that moment? I held onto that thought, so I wouldn’t freak myself out. I ignored the noise, put my keys into the car door, turned them, then I heard foot steps right behind me. After that, I felt two beefy arms come over me, one around my chest and the other around my face. The arm around my face had a cloth to my mouth, and I breathed whatever chemicals were inside of it. As I drifted away, all I remember hearing was the honking of a car horn. When I woke up, my hands and feet were tied behind my back; I felt like an animal being taken to the slaughterhouse. I was in a small, dark place, I literally couldn't see anything. I tried to yell for help, but the cloth was inside my mouth, and was duct tape across my lips, as well as the circumference of my head. After a few moments of squirming around, I realized the place I was in was moving. I believed I was in the trunk of my own car! I had a million questions buzzing through my brain: Why was this happening? Who did this to me? Was I about to die? As these questions were soaring through my head, I felt the car come to a stop, and the engine turned off also. I heard the driver take off their seatbelt, open their door and walk towards the trunk of the car with their heavy footsteps. They opened the trunk and we made eye contact. I thought I recognized this man. He was bald, tall and had a muscular build. At first I wasn’t sure if he was the man I was thinking it was, but when I looked at his green eyes, I was sure of it. His name was Cody and he was Alice’s brother… before she died. Most of my previous questions had just been answered. Here I was, freezing my ass off in this shopping plaza sitting on the concrete, desperately waiting for the clock to strike 11PM. I had never done what I was about to do before, but I had been dreaming of it ever since that asshole Grant took my sister, Alice, away from this earth. I’ve been watching him the past few nights, coming back to this empty parking lot, just waiting for the perfect time. Usually, the three employees leave together, so I just had to wait for a night when he was all alone. Tonight was that night. He really should’ve been the one to die in that car accident, instead of poor Alice. If it would’ve been him, I wouldn’t have to be here trying to finish up what fate should've done to him six years ago! I had told my roommates I was going to visit my mother instead of just plainly saying, “Hey, I’m gonna go kill Grant, I’ll be back in the morning.” At first they thought it was kind of weird, they probably thought, “Who visits their mother at such a late time in the day?” But those dimwits eventually believed me, since I was the one paying the majority of the rent. They better believe me, its gonna be my alibi. On my walk to the shopping plaza, I gave my mother a call. I hate to use her in such a way, but she was going a little senile. This was our conversation: “Hello? Cody is this you? The caller ID said that this was you.” “Yes, mother, its me.” “Oh, how have you been?” “You don’t remember, ma? I was just there with you about 10 minutes ago. We laughed, had a good time, and I fell asleep in my old room.” “… oh. Yes, I think… Yes, I think I remember that. Yes! It was so fun!” “See? You do remember! I’m gonna go back to sleep, okay? We will have breakfast tomorrow morning when I wake up. I know how hard it is for you to come up the stairs, you don’t have to come in my room and say goodnight. I’m saying goodnight right here, right now through the phone, ma. I love you.” “Really? Okay I’ll see you in the morning whenever you’re ready to come down. I love you too, Cody.” That last part wasn’t a lie actually. I was going to have breakfast with my mother after the deed had been done, making her believe I had stayed the night. If the police did ask my mother something about my location, I didn’t want her to have to lie. She would tell them what she thought was true. I did feel bad using her like that, but I know she’d be happy to see Alice’s killer dead. Alice would be 27 years old this year. She would've graduated from college with a nice bachelor’s degree, and Mother could've actually witnessed it and remembered. It was only two years ago Mother had developed severe Alzheimer’s. So many things could've happened. I knew I was doing the right thing. At the parking lot, I was crouched behind a light post, a few yards away from the place Grant worked. I was dressed in all black, and was holding a piece of cloth, and a small, plastic container of bleach mixed with alcohol. When you mix those two things, you end up with Chloroform, and I didn’t feel like buying some and having it shipped all the way from China. I also had a bundle of rope with me, as well as some high-quality duct tape. And lastly, I was wearing some skin-tight gloves. After all, I didn’t want any fingerprints being traced back to me. I didn’t have to worry about any hair follicles, because I was bald. I had taken every damn precaution I can think of. I made all my potentially incriminating online searches on a private web browser and deleted my search history. I tested the homemade Chloroform on some stray cats in my apartment complex. I bought all the black clothes and gloves I’m wearing now with cash, months ago. I created my alibi with my mother and roommates. I had been practicing foolproof knots to use with the type of rope I bought. I’m wearing gloves to prevent fingerprint from appearing on the body or on the car. I needed to get away with this. I wasn’t going to give up my job and its new promotion for this scumbag. I really believed I was going to get away with this. I was on my way to surprise Grant, who was just about to get off work. He usually gets off at 11PM, which would give me enough time to pick him up from work and take him to the midnight screening of the movie he’s been wanting to see. I even brought an extra pair of clothes for him to change into before the movie, so he wouldn’t smell of sushi. Since I didn’t want him to see me when he walked out of the restaurant, I parked my car about 50 yards away from the store, on the street, outside of the shopping plaza’s parking lot. I obviously didn’t want to park inside the parking lot, as I’d be one of the only cars inside of it. Right as I parked my car and looked up towards the restaurant, I noticed what I thought was a homeless man, sitting behind a light pole. He was dressed in all black, and had a backpack with him. I thought nothing of it, then I received the usual text message from Grant saying, “On my way home.” This was my queue to come and surprise him. I reached towards the backseat to retrieve Grant’s clothes, then I pulled out my phone and began to type up a response to him. As I was about to hit ‘Send’, I looked up and gasped. My eyes widened, I put my hand against my mouth, and dropped my phone from shock. Grant was being abducted by that man dressed in all black. I didn’t know what to do, so I did the most sensible thing: I began to honk my horn to hopefully distract the man. The honking seemed to do absolutely nothing. All he did was freeze in place for just a few seconds, and continue with putting Grant in Grant’s own car. I think the kidnapper pretended not to hear me. I began searching for my cell phone so I could call the police right away. It was somewhere stuck in-between the driver seat and the console of the car. I was desperately reaching my hand as far I could down the edge of the seat. I could feel my fingers touching the corner of my phone. I finally got grip of it with my index and middle finger and pulled the phone out. I quickly dialed 9-1-1, and as I looked out my windshield, I noticed the kidnapper had just drove out of the parking lot. I told the operator on the phone what I had just witnessed, the make and model of Grant’s car, and the direction that they were headed. The operator told me to stay where I was… but I couldn’t. I had to follow that car. I drove out of the parking lot and found myself one stoplight behind Grant. Their light turned green first, while mine was still red. I just wanted to run this red light, but couldn’t. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. They were driving farther and farther away from me, but then, they made a right turn… towards Memorial Bridge which had a big “Do Not Enter — Construction Zone” sign in front of it. Once I realized where they were headed, my mind went to the worst possible scenario: if the kidnapper wanted Grant dead, he was going to throw Grant’s tied up body off of Memorial Bridge into the river. The streetlight that I was at finally turned green and I pressed down on the gas pedal as hard as I could. My car made a loud screech sound, but I didn’t care. As I was quickly approaching Memorial Bridge, I noticed the fallen traffic cones that Grant’s kidnapper had driven through to enter the bridge. I drove over them as well and continued down the bridge looking for Grant’s car. After a few seconds, I finally began to see Grant’s kidnapper open the trunk, sling Grant over his shoulder, and throw him over the bridge. The next few moments seemed like it happen in one second. My eyes filled with tears, my hands gripped the steering wheel, my foot began to press all the way down on the pedal. Grant’s murderer closed the trunk of Grant’s car and began to walk towards the driver’s seat. I was approaching him and he finally saw me. My car crashed into the back of Grant’s car… with the murderer caught in-between. His upper body laid on the hood of my car, with his legs caught in-between the two cars. I didn’t know if he was dead; I didn’t care. Maybe there was still time to save Grant… Everyone says when you’re about to die, you see your whole life flash right before your eyes. I think that’s a bunch of crap now. When I was falling, with my hands and feet tied behind my back, towards the river all I saw was the moon’s reflection on the river. The moment I hit the river I heard the splash of my body hitting the water at a high intensity. That’s not all I heard though. With the few seconds I was above water, making my slow descent into the river, I also heard a crash. After hearing the crash, I became completely submerged in the water. I tried to hold my breath as long as I possibly could. I felt my body go deeper and deeper into the water. My lungs were on fire. The tape that was around my head became loose and had fallen off. I spit out the cloth and my mouth gasped for air. But only water had entered my mouth. I panicked. I began violently shaking my body. Every muscle in my arms and legs were thrashing, trying to swim, but I just kept sinking and panicking. Then finally, my body stopped squirming around. I closed my eyes. I let my body sink. I felt at peace. Then I felt a familiar hand grab me. Perhaps the reason my life didn’t flash before my eyes, was because I actually didn’t die. Maybe you need to die for that to work.

All the King’s Men The scalpel made a large incision, the hand moving fast yet delicately. The doctor made a perfect cut, or as perfect as he could expect in the current situation. The patient moaned while the plastic he was lying on clung to his skin. The doctor reached behind him, adjusting the construction lamp to get a better view. He inserted the makeshift retractor. Next, using the electrocautery knife, the doctor removed the organs. “Don’t worry Timothy. Everything will be just fine; I’m going to take care of you.” The hour went by in a blur, but finally the doctor finished his work. He placed both kidneys in a bowl of ice to preserve them, discarding the remaining organs into plastic bags. Good morning, Timothy. How are you feeling today?' the doctor said, making his way downstairs to the makeshift operating room in his house. “Timothy, are you awake?” the doctor asked, after not hearing a response. Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, the doctor could see his son was lying on the table, his body jerking spontaneously. He knew this was coming; he was working too fast. Putting so many foreign organs into his son, his body was rejecting them. If he worked any slower, his son would have died sooner. It was a race against the clock. Hyperactive Organ Deterioration was killing his son from the inside and he was determined on saving Timothy. "It’s okay Timothy, I’m here. Everything will be okay now." He held his son for so long that he wasn’t even aware of the passing hours. The sadness slowly started to dissipate. In its place, a rage started to build. The doctor placed his son on the table and went to grab his things. Carefully but quickly, he opened up his sons chest and removed all of the organs except for the heart. Timothy loved the pharaohs of ancient Egypt so the doctor wanted to honor his son’s interests by placing the four main organs in canopic jars. Stomach, intestines, lung and livers; all removed and placed in their own jar. The doctor took the kidneys from the bowl of ice that was lying on the table next to him and proceeded to shove the organs into his sons’ body. Looking at his work, he smiled for a brief moment before the rage returned. “No, no, no! This will never do!” The doctor threw the black tar-stained lungs in frustration. “How could I be so careless? I should have waited, ensuring he wasn’t a smoker.” A sense of failure washed over the doctor. Turning to look at his son, staring into the cold, lifeless eyes. “I’m sorry Timothy. I promise never to do something so reckless again.” As the doctor kept his gaze locked on his son’s eyes the rage and sense of failure vanished. “I’m starving, let me get us some food, and I’ll tell you about the news for today.” Nights continued in this fashion until people started to worry. “They’re scared of all the missing people. They don’t know for certain that it’s murder, but seven people don’t just go missing. I may need to slow down. Nevertheless, it’s okay. Don’t worry Timothy. Everything will be just fine. I’m going to take care of you for the rest of my life.” The doctor said, smiling at his son. Slowly standing up, the doctor realized that he needed to get some fresh air. Walking outside, he took a quick stretch and checked his mail. The neighbor’s kid passed by and greeted the doctor. Smiling, the doctor thought to himself that just one more couldn’t hurt.

A bomb is found by a janitor in a NYC skyscraper. Bomb gets diffused. Whole city is shocked, especially the police. People chatting in coffee shops. The FBI and The Illuminati begin investigating. A young Sherlock Holmes begins investigating. The President delivers a message on TV. The janitor who found the bomb gets murdered. Cops deem it a suicide, however the public is skeptical. Cut to the salesman. He is planting bombs in every high-rise in NYC, and is 80% done. Young Sherlock Holmes isn’t legitimate, and therefore makes no progress. One of the bombs goes off pre-maturely and detonates a chuck of an AIG building. NYC is swarmed with police and FBI agents. The Illuminati is exposed, and they are to blame for the attacks. Their secret headquarters underneath central park is raided and the public is flabbergasted. A fat Swede man named Franz ate a buffalo chicken wrap earlier, and a jelly donut. Bad combination. He looks onto the Illuminati base raid in central park. The salesman shows up in a trench coat and walks past the police line. He demands to see the chief of police saying that he was the one planting the bombs. They take him in handcuffs to the chief. “It was me all along. Now you will taste my wrath!” The salesman twists his watch and there is a moment of silence interrupted by a “huh?” Loud explosions rock all around them and the ground shakes. There are booms from every direction all across the city, but no building collapses. Gasps and shrieks from the horror of the crowd. Then utter silence, until the police chief tackles the salesman. Franz gets the familiar feeling that he needs to fart. After a short thought, he decides to release his gas chamber. It is the loudest fart ever. It lasts for 60 seconds, and echoes all across the rectangle buildings and the beanies of the hipsters sipping their “special” brew. Every single building begins to collapse, in a cartoonish domino like fashion. “Oh shit!” waddles away Franz.

Our bodies press together as we lay in my bed. I run my hand gently up and down her body, feeling every curve of her soft skin along the way. The television in my room is playing a movie that I lost interest in; I don’t know how I can focus with her laying here with me. I have to look past her body to see what’s going on, which is proving to be a successful distraction. I continue to rub my hand gently up and down her body, when she reaches back and places her hand on my side. She finally responds to my advances with rubbing of her own. She and I both know where this is going. Through a period of silence in the movie I hear the murmur of the TV downstairs – my parents. It’s getting late at this point and they’re probably sleeping on the couches in the living room, as they usually do. After more and more rubbing and caressing being passed back and forth between us, I say to her, “I’ll be right back.” I make my way out of my room and slowly walk down the steps. I step hard and push on the fourth step and it emits a loud creek. Perfect. I do the same on the second to last and it happens again. When I reach the bottom I peer into the living room to find my parents sound asleep. I make my way to the kitchen, grab a glass and put it under the ice dispenser on the refrigerator. There’s a loud churning as the machine begins to operate followed by a crash as the ice cubes fall to the bottom of the plastic cup. I peer over into the living room again, still asleep. I dump the ice out and let the plastic cup slip out of my hand and slam onto the tile floor making the loudest crash yet. On top of the loud crash I say, “Whoops!” A few moments later I hear movement in the living room. I dispense some water in my cup as I hear both of my parents make their way up the stairs and into their room. I tip toe my way back up the steps and back into my room. I can’t help but smile as I admire the work I have done. I close my door and lay back down with her so we can continue without any unexpected interruptions.