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Allura 24

It was a dark and storming night. A night so bad because I can never come up with a good starting sentence to a story. Once a boy named Billy. Billy is a silly boy. Billy stayed the night at his favorite Uncle Rick. Billy loves Uncle Rick, oh so very much. Uncle Rick tells Billy with a stern look "Now Billy, don't be silly! Don't be creaking, nowhere my ceiling!" Billy replies, with along his purity naked soul in his eyes "Oh Uncle Rick, I love you so, A promise, I won't break." Uncle Rick tells Billy with a stern look "Now Billy..." Billy, the cheeky-chap, quickly replies "Oh Uncle, now who's being silly!" Uncle Rick gives Billy, one last good stern look, Before he retires, for the night. Children will be children, as Billy can't hold his spongy starving brain, a quick peek. Oh silly Billy, he so sneaky! He goes upstairs, for a peeky! Up the stairs he goes, going tippy-toe. Silly Billy soon be in, for quite a show. He made it! He made it! What awaits him, a light, to be lit. Oh Billy...silly Billy, must you satiate your curiosity? What he finds from the now bright room...is a tomb. Children will be children, as Billy can't hold his spongy starving brain, a quick peek. What Billy finds, can't believe his eyes. Is the suit of red and white. By golly, turns out that Uncle Rick...is old saint Nick! Billy goes back downstairs, into his room, so he retires, for the night. The next morning Billy, the cheery Billy says to Uncle Rick with great delight "Oh Uncle Rick, I know your secret!" Uncle Rick replies "What secret?" Billy smiles gently "Silly Uncle Rick, don't be coy, the secret on your ceiling, I'm filled with joy!" Uncle Rick gives Billy a stern look, only this time this look is of a stabbing sharp dagger. Uncle Rick then says "What did you find, Billy?" Silly Billy couldn't hold out his grin any longer, a grin that shines, a silent singing choir of jovial purity. Billy says boastfully "Uncle Rick, you're old saint Nick!!" Uncle Rick gives out a warm red glow and says "Oh Billy, you really ARE silly!" Uncle Rick warns Billy "Don't tell anyone about it, as this will be, our little secret!" He then gives Billy the ol' saint Nick wink! As Uncle Rick stares at the horizon, sun shining, birds singing...he murmers to himself Weakened, he says in discreet "That's not what I am..." Uncle Rick's eye shows nothing but a hollow husk of what he used to be. Only vacuum. Oh Silly Billy, if he only knew, that Uncle Rick, is really nothing, but a big fat, dick.

I was walking around the neighborhood, wasn't really sure what to do but I just had to get out. As I was walking through a corner, I saw some man leave his wife and head off to his car. I'm assuming he was probably heading off to work or something. I saw his wife come out of the house, with a bottle of Jack Daniels in her hand. She seemed to be kind of unhappy with her life since she was chugging the bottle. I looked at her and found it quite odd. Except, she reciprocated the gaze. She looked at me for about 5 seconds before throwing the bottle in the garbage. I thought to myself that maybe she wanted me to follow her. It was always one of my fantasies to be with a woman that already had a man in her life. I approached her and she seemed content or as if she would like to. We arrived in her house and we were alone. We headed upstairs and went in her bedroom. Soon after, her husband came back home. He saw that I was in the house and he didn't know who I was. He started to ask her what happened. Why was I home? He asked her if we had done anything, and she started denying his thoughts. Her face betrayed her actual thoughts, but I'm not sure if he noticed. After seeing this, I just couldn't take the pressure he was putting her in. I forcibly put a rope in his hands and threw him across the balcony. I looked at him as he struggled to keep himself attached to the rope. I kept it hanging for longer than I could even imagine a person to be able to hang themselves. I lifted him back up, and saw how worn out of energy he was. He seemed very weak and it was noticeable in his physical state. I put him back down and let him hang once more, but this time, he couldn't hang on. His hand finally let go. The look on his face seemed like he was expecting it. He didn't even struggle anymore. He was accepting of it. Except me, on the other hand, was full of terror. I didn't know this would happen. I watched his body fly off the balcony as he was falling until it finally hit and splattered on the ground.

The blood in Michael de Fourniret ran cold as the lifeblood of his enemy splashed on his hands. Geoffrey Jégado, the son of the well-known hero Gareth Jégado, had just fallen onto his blade. As the terror struck home inside of him he grew sick and became violently ill on the cobblestone, his last meal lost to the rats that plagued this city. It had been a simple matter of honor; Geoffrey had insulted a young woman in Michael's company, the affront was to be a simple duel. No bloodshed, just a match of wills and steel until surrender. But that didn't matter now; Geoffrey was lying on the street, dead in a pool of blood with his sword sticking out of his back. A few of the more ravenous rats had already ventured forth to circle the body, brave enough to circle but wary enough to not to plunge right in. "Rats," Michael muttered as he drew his sword from its fleshy scabbard, "Always rats in this damn city." With a quick glance upward the time registered to Michael, it was almost midnight. He walked quietly through the streets, sticking to the shadows. Suddenly he was grabbed from behind and the naked steel of a blade pressed to his throat, a coarse voice whispered, “Make a move and you die." It was all Michael could do to not slit his own throat on the serrated edge as he was guided into an alley way and then through a hastily open door. Michael was forced into a chair as a lantern was lit. With his body held down by the big man behind him and a dagger at his throat claustrophobia began to set in. His fear evaporated into a haze of astonishment in a heartbeat when he realized he was across a room from his family, all chained to the wall in various positions of torture. A voice echoed out across the room, "Tie him down." A little man rushed over with ropes and tied him to the chair until he was taut against it. Completely immobilized Michael could do naught but stare up at his family in chains. A man walked up to him, face obscured by the darkness until he was close enough to make out the pockmarks that littered his face. It was Gareth Jégado, Geoffrey's father. Horror, shock and revulsion warred across Michael's face as he realized what was going to happen as Gareth smiled and hefted a skinning knife, the only emotion registering in Gareth's face was that of pure, unadulterated hatred. As Gareth walked over to Michael's mother, Michael began to struggle against his bonds. Over the course of the next several hours Michael was shown his family from a completely new perspective, he now knew what a person looked like in various states of disrepair. His ceaseless struggling was fueled by his hatred of the man in front of him and his desire for escape, but his captor had tied the ropes in a perfect combination to prevent him from fleeing. He was forced to look and listen as his family was mercilessly tortured to death. When Gareth had finished with Michael's family he glared at Michael and whispered, "Let him go, he's no longer a threat to me." The bonds that had constricted Michael were cut free and he was promptly hefted up and pinned against the body of the large man that had dragged him in here. He was carried through a labyrinth of alleys and avenues and unceremoniously dropped onto the cold cobblestone. Unable to move, lying face up, Michael realized it was a hair shy of four in the morning. The first inklings of dawn arose to find a man on the cobblestones. Unlike the drunken beggars that it was used to, this man had a purpose. His face was haunted by the shades of his family, grief was evident. But something set him apart, he clamored to his feet with a noticeable effort and his eyes spoke of blood and fire, a reckoning that was coming. He walked quickly down the street with a purpose and an air of defiance that caused shopkeepers to hurry back into their stores. Unbeknownst to the world, his destination was a tavern of ill repute, a place where even the vilest of men hesitate to go, The Dead Dragon. Shoving the door aside, all heads turned to witness Michael de Fourniret walk through the portal. A thump was audible over the murmur of the patrons as a rat was kicked, sprawling into the wall. In the poorly lit recesses of the tavern a man shape could be seen in the corner, silently nursing his beer. Michael hurried over to him and sat across the empty keg that passed for a table from the man. “Information” Michael breathed, procuring a coin purse from under his belt and dropping it on the table. The man reached for the purse’s drawstrings and loosened them, peering inside he saw what he was looking for and smiled, “Name?” the man asked. Michael replied, “Gareth Jégado,” a sharp intake of breath from the man. A map of the city was placed on the table with the information Michael was seeking. Before withdrawing his hand from the parchment the man cautioned Michael, the only response Michael gave him was a bearing of his teeth. Paper in hand Michael walked out of the tavern without looking back. Sticking to the shadier side of town, Michael purchased a few supplies he would need for the nights work before he headed to an inn to purchase a room. As exhausted as he was, Michael’s sleep was troubled. His nightmares tore at his soul, crippling him and eradicating any thoughts he had of mercy on the man who inflicted this pain. When he awoke, dripping sweat with the coarse blankets wrapped around his legs, he looked outside to see the gathering darkness. Collecting his belongings, Michael left his room and followed the map to a spot where he could sit and watch the home of Gareth Jégado. When all of the lanterns in the house had been snuffed out, Michael made his way onto the roof of the Jégado family and broke in. Drawing his poniard, he moved stealthily to the first door, the one that contained the daughter and sole remaining child of Gareth Jégado. Peeking inside he saw that the bed was writhing and heard soft moans emanating from within the covers. Knowing that his time was limited, he closed the door softly and moved on. Passing the door that was Geoffrey’s room, Michael felt a surge of remorse and regret for the accidental death of the man. His vision swam and he gave his head a moment to clear before going to the last door of the hallway. Inside of the door muffled footsteps were audible; Michael rushed to Geoffrey’s room and hid. The room smelled of stale body sweat and cinnamon, a quick glance around revealed sparse possessions. It was the room of a university boy, it was surprisingly similar to what his own looked like. The footsteps moved closer until they were just outside of the door. He started breathing heavily and felt his heart aflutter; with an effort of will he calmed himself but it was too late. A gasp was heard from the other side of the room and the woman yelled. “Damn” Michael thought as he threw open the door and ran to the window that he entered through. Footsteps marched up the stairs and Michael knew he was caught; he wouldn’t be able to reach the window before the guards were up the stairs. Shoving past the woman he ran towards the bedroom that contained Gareth. As he reached, the door the stomping of boots had reached the landing; the call of the guards was heard from behind him. Abruptly, he was slammed into by the door that was flung open as Gareth barreled out; Michael flew backwards into the wall and hit it with a sickly crunch. The taste of blood filled his mouth, causing him to wretch and vomit on the wooden flooring. He felt a sword at his chin, forcing his head up. He smiled as Gareth looked astonished, “So close.” Were the last words Michael de Fourniret ever spoke, the blade in Gareth’s hand slid forward and put inches of steel into his throat, the only thing on his mind as he died was the peeled face of his mother, leering at him.

Drinking the drink your father drank. Whiskey, on the rocks. That's what they call whiskey with ice. On the rocks. Was it Jack Daniels? You don't care, as long as it seems like something a man would drink. The attitude to match the whiskey should come naturally. If it doesn't, you're not drinking enough. Can't hold your liquor? You're not a man. You're absolutely sure of it though. You're manhood, that is. If some asshole walked up to you and said "I fucked your girlfriend" or something to that effect, you would surely punch him in the face, even if you don't have a girlfriend. No, he's probably bigger than you, probably been in more fights than you. You workout but when was the last time you could stick to that schedule of "3 or 4 times a week"? This guy, this guy's bound to be bigger than you. What are you? A mouse. You don't fight. You run. Because you're small. Let's say you do have a girlfriend, which you actually don't, but pretend. She's sitting right next to you and you're both trying to figure out what the fuck you're doing in a bar. This guy walks up to you and says what you know he's going to say. Do you stand up, make some noise, maybe let him know you'll take or throw the first (last?) hit? No, you ask your girlfriend "You wanna get out of here?" And you do. Fuck, now both of you hate each other even more, but at least you've left that shitty bar with shitty customers. Both of you are now cowards. But it's okay for her, not for you, right? That's why, fuck her. If she had been the one to stand up, you'd be the only coward. You're not the man you want her to think you are. You've always known this, but you wanted her to stay fooled. It's better this way. This way, you're the guy who puts his girlfriend before petty little shit that doesn't feel petty at all. This way, she's the girl who's lucky enough to have a guy who cares about her that much. But you know that isn't true. She knows too. But in the other scenario? It crashes down on you and you alone. Now, you've got this whole idea in your head. This whole identity. You know who you are, how you are, where you are, what you think about and when you know when to run and when to fight. Always the former, never the latter. This is you. You think about hypothetical situations that would ruin the relationship you don't even have. And because you think it, because you can imagine it, you can avoid it. This is the simple solution to the problem that hasn't happened: just don't get a girlfriend. So, now, a guy comes into the tavern. And you instantly know, just with that first glance, those little bits of information, you know what he is. Your little rodent brain is already sending you signals to run away. The elevated heart beat, the raised awareness. The guy's a fucking lion. The mane, the claws, the teeth, the way they all realize he's come in without explicitly giving it away... This guy, this lion, comes over and bangs his paw on your table. He asks you, but he's not asking, he's telling you something. He says "What are YOU doing here?" He wants you out, you don't belong here. Why were even here in the first place? It's a bar, of course there would be assholes lil this guy, this lion. It's not you, it's the bar. So, without saying a word, you pay whatever the fuck the bartender wants and promptly leave, promising yourself to never come back. They've seen your face, they know who you really are. You leave and this is the only memory this tavern has of you. It knows you better than that non-existent girlfriend you're always imagining of fucking (you're masturbating to your own thoughts). You go home, your real haven in this heartless world. Your little apartment where you live and die alone every night. It's empty, of course, you knew that. And you know tomorrow will be the same. But you know another thing to not do: just don't go to the bar. So, you go to bed. And you... whisper to the lion... "go fuck yourself.

Here I am, bleeding slightly, laying outside of my tent thinking about food again this cool, autumn night. The stars are so bright nowadays. It’s truly beautiful but what I wouldn’t give for even a simple cheeseburger (without the lettuce or tomato of course). Has it really been 12 years since I’ve eaten one? Or Cuban style sea bass. When I made it, you’d swear it melted in your mouth. Oh! Or maple-garlic marinated pork tenderloin. My friends loved it when I made that dish for us. I could go the rest of my life and never eat a carrot again and be happy. It’s the old foods I used to eat that I miss most. Most seem to miss the luxury of heat or vehicle travel, but for me, it’s the foods that I miss most. I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Before fire left us, the day I recalled the most clearly was 9/11. We used to tell stories about what we were doing when 9/11 happened. I’d mention how I remembered being in 9th grade sitting in Mrs. Hooper’s Biology I class when the announcement was made that something bad was happening in New York. That day was well remembered by everyone in the United States. It was something—a memory of fear—which we all shared. Nearly all Americans remembered that day among days. Now, the stories we tell about the day fire left us are similar but we remember them better and they’re common to all mankind. It was December 12, 2014, and I was excited for Christmas. I’d always been a sucker for it and that year was no exception. My life was on track with a perfect girlfriend, Rosy, to whom I was ready to pop “the question”. That morning I was also set to receive a promotion to master chef at the four-star restaurant where I worked. I had been paying my dues there for the past 5 years and I was moving up in the ranks every year. My last pay increase had been much higher than I was expecting and now that I was being made a master chef my mind raced at the thought of even more control of the kitchen and a bigger paycheck. That morning changed things for everyone. I woke up to the alarm on my phone ringing and I didn’t need to snooze that morning even though it was only 6:00. The excitement that I had for the day was enough motivation to wake me up and get me in the shower. I took an extra long shower because I had earned for being up so early. I lingered until the hot water ran out. I dried off and headed down to the kitchen for tea. I’ve always hated coffee. Who decided that it was king of the morning drinks anyway? I filled up the kettle and went to get the matches for my gas stove. I struck the match against the strike strip but nothing happened. Part of the head of the match rubbed off and onto the counter. But no flame came. I struck it a few more times and still nothing. This match was ruined. I took out a second and a third but the same thing happened. I wondered if maybe the box had gotten wet recently. It looked dry to me. I looked for a lighter but couldn’t find one so I opened the drawer where I kept my culinary torch. I brought it over to the stove and turned the knob so I could hear and smell the gas hissing out. I clicked the torch near the burner but nothing happened. Shaking the torch I could hear the butane sloshing around inside. What the heck? I had just bought this thing two months ago and it was already busted? Bed, Bath, and Beyond was definitely getting this one back. Had I kept the receipt for it though? Where was it if I did? I no longer had time to mess with these thoughts or even to mess with tea. I was getting frustrated but determined that nothing was going to keep me from being happy. After all, I was going to propose to Rosy later that month, and I had a great date planned for us that night. I just needed to pick up some red roses for her on my way home. I know what you’re thinking, “Roses for Rosy, how original.” Well, she liked them and thought they were romantic, so that was enough for me. We would celebrate my promotion and eat the dinner that I’d make (I think I was going to make strip steak with blue-cheese butter and toasted pecans that evening). And besides all that, I could just grab tea around the corner at Starbucks. When I walked outside, I saw people on the street standing outside of their cars. Some were looking under the hoods of their cars but most were just busy with their phones. I walked onto the sidewalk and talked to my apartment neighbor, Terry, about his car problem. He said that the “darned thing just won’t turn over.” He said the others on the road were having the same problem, like the engines were all dead or something. He tried to light a cigarette to calm his nerves but his lighter didn’t work when he flicked the metal wheel. Something was wrong. It felt like a bowling ball resting in my stomach. It was pulling me down towards the hard, cold earth. What was happening? Was it terrorists? That had to be it. They must have created some kind of EMP that shut the cars down. No, maybe not. How could they create something that even targeted household matches and lighters? Nothing made sense in my mind. As a matter of fact, there’s still not a lot of “sense” to be made about what happened. All we know is that fire—every form of it—is gone. Poof. Most of us all call this event simply “The Day” but some call it by a more sinister name: “Prometheus’ Revenge.” It’s kind of a common fairy tale now that Prometheus took back the gift of fire that he gave us long ago. Without much of an explanation for things, some people have ascribed this curse as coming from him. There are a lot of loons out there who worship Prometheus as a god now. They pray to him, sing to him, and even sacrifice animals and humans to him in some of the farther out there cults. You can find their propaganda flyers in most places that I’ve come across these days. They think that we brought this upon ourselves. Kind of like the tower of Babel’s curse, this is ours. As if Mother Nature did this to us out of spite. Or God did this to our wings of wax for flying too close to the sun. The people that believe this crazy story call themselves Fire Seekers. I call them religious nut jobs. Some people just need a reason for this to have happened. Even though we probably did deserve it, it can’t have happened out of spite from a higher power. Just because there isn’t a scientific reason known for fire’s absence doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist. Give me a break. Someday we’ll know and this will make perfect sense. Heck, maybe we can even reverse it somehow. For the past nine years I’ve been roaming around from place to place looking for something real to hold onto. Some semblance of hope for better things is all I need. I’m a bit of an adult ragamuffin now, though. Vagabond is maybe the right word to use. I travel from town to town doing odd jobs for food or a warm place to sleep. I’m currently in north Mexico, east of Monterrey, making my way south. Right after The Day things strained on like normal for awhile. After a couple of years it became the same kind of “normal” you’d find if you came home to your great Aunt Gloria sitting Indian style, naked in the middle of your living room singing the Star Spangled Banner in her highest soprano. Real change had happened like the world had never seen before. Introduce a little hunger and confusion and watch the First world crumble around you. All at once, charging your iPad was less important than finding a can of creamed corn to eat (even if it was cold and tasted like crap). I heard things are better in some places, the kind of places that weren’t as technologically advanced as the United States. The First world became the Third and the Third world stayed the same. Those places are better off now. They had less to lose so they had less to cope with when the proverbial crap hit the fan. Things turned south emotionally and geographically for me when Rosy died. We were still living near the suburbs of Boston when she was killed. I went out to try to find a way to work for some food for the day. We needed to eat some fruit and vegetables or maybe, if we were lucky, some raw fish. There were some good ways I could prepare some poor man’s sushi. My culinary expertise still came in a little handy to us. While I was out (finding no work that particular day I might add), someone came to our tent and took our red onion, lettuce, three potatoes, five ketchup packets, our tiny jar of honey, and the life of my Rosy. Honey was a commodity. It was hard to come by and therefore hard to afford. Rosy had a sweet tooth though, and this was my splurge item. I tried to get it for her whenever I could. This tiny jar was her birthday present from me the month before. When I arrived in the tent I saw it shattered on the ground beside her lifeless body. The tent looked as if there had been a tiny struggle. I think she tried to hide the honey, which must have made the thief/thieves angry when he/they found it. She knew how hard I worked to earn that honey and she died trying to protect it. I made too big a deal out of small things. It looked like the thief licked it off the floor of our dirty tent. I prefer to think Rosy tasted it from the ground before she went. After Rosy died I decided to head south, away from the city. Away from the hoards of people who would kill for some ketchup and a small jar of honey. Why had we stayed there? I was a fool to stay somewhere so densely populated. There are rumors that a tribe of natives in or around Brazil still have fire. What was their secret? Did it have something to do with their geographic location? Volcanoes were gone (dried up so to say) but maybe they had found an active one. I knew it was a pipe dream, but at least it was warmer the farther south I went. This meant I could work for just food instead of food and shelter. Plus, the people I met were nicer the farther south I went. That old colloquial idea has turned out to be true. Most people are nicer down here but not everyone, especially not those two banditos who just stabbed me in the gut so they could take my can of tomato paste and two mangos. I worked all day for those sweet mangos. I was going to eat half of one tonight. I had really been looking forward to it. I took a big bite from the bigger of them in defiance when I realized I’d been stabbed for them. It was sweet, sweet like honey. That should just about bring you up to speed with things. The stars were so bright a second ago but now they are looking a little dimmer to me. They still look magnificent. Maybe it is just getting cloudy. It does feel a little cooler than normal tonight. Maybe it’s winter coming on early. I just need to rest here a little bit longer. Usually I feel energized when I have a bite to eat. I’m not feeling it right now. My shirt feels heavy on my stomach. It’s wet. It’s clinging to every inch of me. I need to keep my mind off of it. I need to distract myself. Now I’m feeling warm. Like there’s a soft fire in my bones. I think I’ll just keep looking at the stars as they fade behind that cloud. I’ll keep watching them until the last light goes out.

Monitored Memory. That morning, a young man entered a seemingly vacant office. He flipped on the light switch, filling the room with the tormenting hue of fluorescent lights that reminded him of a prison yard. He proceeded to fiddle with banks of switches and arrays of buttons that were embedded in a dented sheetrock wall. Every button light and switch was arranged like the little soldiers that marched across the square on Sunday. Next he situated himself in an old wobbly spinning chair. He finally reached for a keyboard punching a series of keys with intense conviction. Mounted on a panoramic steel frame a range of monitors came to life. The man's ears winced at the whine of the high voltage passing through the convex cluster of CRT monitors. Spinning around in the chair the man saw monitors from floor to ceiling all around him. The man typed in his username and password. All his monitors began to transition from pointless static to CCTV video feeds from all around the city. In the background, a spotty speaker howled the man’s name, “Welcome Jonathan”. Before looking up at the first camera, Jonathan affixed his hand to mouse that rested on the arm of his chair. Jonathan had situated himself like this everyday for the past two years. I had forgotten color; all I knew was the black and white of the monitors.ii The room was always warm But I always felt cold. Jonathan, an innocent citizen, is at the helm of a surveillance dynasty purpose built to monitor the actions of people from every corner of the country. More importantly, it was Jonathan’s job to entirely sequester a person’s life with the delicate click of his chair-mounted mouse. His mouse wielded the power to have a person completely wiped off the city streets. Because privacy was non-existent; no one could avoid being dispatchedi. Even the slightest violation or government opposition would have a person sent away. Every minute of every day Jonathan spent finding people who were opposing the great leader and his government. His mouse was like the trigger of a gun, the shooter blind to what might happen when it strikes a transgressor. However Jonathan’s pervasive grasp on peoples privacy weren’t out of madness or revenge. All I had to do was focus, just focus on the monitors. Nevertheless he never had to worry about his assets being frozen, family detained, fired from work or quarters searched. Jonathan had never felt this utter robbery of his basic personal freedoms. It was a click and …. zip never seen again. I fear to think about it anymore? All he knew was that he would never see that person face again on his screens. Jonathan’s eyes were drawn to a screen like a magnet; he could see the outlines of two nebulous figures, fumbling with goods at a store. Jonathan proceed to focus all his attention on the one monitor looking at it like the sight of rifle, ready to obliterate its target. He panned the camera around the store, like a vulture looking for food, noticing the figures trading contraband and censored material by depositing the goods deep into each other’s jacket. Like clockwork Jonathan clicked his mouse, clickiii. His click was like an obituary sent at the speed of light. Traveling through the twist and turns of the telecommunications networks that were the sad messengers of death. The notice arrived instantaneously at the police station, which directed the officers to detain the two violators. Unknowingly, Jonathan’s click was the knife that drew the blood of the two men until they had no more emotion and memory. The only thing Jonathan saw was the two figures being removed from the establishment, yet their lifeless eyes and face stood out to him. Jonathan was like an automaton, his actions mechanical but like a human his memory remained extremely malleable. Memory to Jonathan was priceless because he never had the opportunity to see the world in a state of intense fervor. Every dispatch Jonathan triggered, he witnessed the last moment, last face, and the last emotions of people before being sent away. To Jonathan every time I click that mouse I feel like there’s a hole burning in my displays, my eyes and worst my memory Ahhh…just another day. Every day, each click became coupled with more transformative memories and emotions. Jonathan went from seeing the black and white of the displays, to the rich color of the now trampled dreams buried in people who were caught on the displays. It was like I was in a trance but the screens never changed. All his memories came together, creating a world of Technicolor within Jonathan’s mind and memory. His memories of those he monitored had leached into his own memories overwriting anything that happened to Jonathan in the past. Jonathan kept wondering about why he would have been taken by the police, it seemed forever ago. Jonathan’s seething pain of his memory overwritten plagued him; it was like a needle being pushed deep around his skull. Jonathan kept asking himself, I have never disobeyed anyone, why is my mind… tormenting me. He couldn’t understand why his mind was spinning in chaotic circles. Jonathan’s state of disarray was poisonous. He began to sporadically dispatch people for no reason. Yet he paused once to mull over his corrupted memory. He had deeply immersed himself in his memory of being captured. He remembers dropping the banned book to accept the death grip of the cuffs. He was then chained to a wall; the chain like a spring, every time he tried to resist he snapped back into reality coming closer to pain and suffering. But what happened next, What? Jonathan had to figure out what happened next he would have to experience being dispatched in reality. It would answer his biggest question, in turn dampening his horrendous memories and tormenting dreams. I am the monitor, but how can I be dispatched? He leaped out of his chair, gravitating towards the banks of switches and buttons he used early in the morning. He was slowly traveling towards his end. Jonathan perspired more and more after each switch he toggled and button he pressed. The monitors began to fade slowly then light up as electricity surged unregulated through them. Then he flipped another switched that terminated the video feed for each camera. The millions of cameras all around the country began to vibrate violently as their internals were fried to a crisp. Jonathan began to fill with feelings of pride and liberation. Scared he looked back at the cluster of monitors shielding his eyes as the exploded, spraying shards of razor sharp lead and poison covered glass in all directions. Jonathan kneeled where he was. As he thought hard and long about his decision he heard the blaring radio from outside the office. The governmental surveillance program suffered a technical blow rendering the system unusable. As a result, universal surveillance will terminate and freedom finally yours! Jonathan paused to hear the roars and shouts from the square below the office. Suddenly the sounds of joy and thanksgiving were silenced by the sound of hard boots and rifles walking up the stairwell. I couldn’t remember how this started but their, finally here! As the office door opened, the light that emanated from the hallway blinded Jonathan. Jonathan could see the silhouette of the secret police as the moved in front of the light. Their hands at their sides like hyenas staring down at their prey. The officers took Jonathan out of the officed dragging him out of the building by the collar of his soiled shirt. He was dragged around the square like a dead dog, yet people were clapping and shouting for joy. Jonathan smiled knowing that his fellow citizens would live in anonymity and freedom forever. But all Jonathan wanted to do was to experience being dispatched in reality. As the police rounded the corner they entered the station speedily walking towards an unmarked room. They opened the door revealing a room, the walls stained with blood and covered in hair. Jonathan’s delicate body was blood-soaked after being dragged down stairs and across gravel that pulverized his skin. He was propelled toward the ground followed by a cold metal barrel pressed against his head. The room was filled with the painful noise of grinding metal within the trigger assembly of the officer’s gun. Split seconds before the firing pin pierced the back of the bullet Jonathan screamed out with joy. Now I rememb… Bang.

It was quite a silent night. Usually, I could hear the engines of cars outside my apartment window, roaring down the street, trying to bustle off to a location unknown to my mind. I could still hear the cars, but tonight, it seemed as if it were more of background noise, instead of the nuisance it usually was during these late hours. I sighed, shaking my foot lightly as I read my book in the dim light of my bedside lamp. Suddenly, I felt a claw bat at my foot. I chuckled. It was most likely my cat, who was usually very energetic during the nighttime. Then again, she always has been this ball of spunk, but seemed to prove more so when the moon had shown. I put down my book for a moment, and looked at the end of the bed, her claws tickling my foot. I'd jerk from side to side of my bed, and occasionally sliding my foot down the entirety of the covers. She was so fast. I couldn't even see her in such dim light though. Then I hear the sound of my door creak open. Slowly, feeling a tinge of fear, I look to see what is causing the sound. It's my cat. I turn to look at the end of my bed. It's not my cat.

In a picturesque alcove somewhere in the rolling hills of Saratoga lies The Dying Man. Bent over him is The Man With The Gun. "Say it." The Dying Man spits blood. "SAY IT," The Man With The Gun repeats. "Why?" "Because I can." The Man With The Gun pulls. BANG. 18 years ago. There's three towns here. For no better reason than the people don't like each other. Encampment, Riverside, and Saratoga, WY. The backside of the continental divide and a center of the cruelty the Wild West offers. A man walks down the horse trail. It takes him hours to reach Riverside from Saratoga. It's a shame he sold his horse. It's a shame all he got was a jug of cheap whiskey for it. It builds up in him until the booze is done. He's angry now but he remains calm. Reality has no use for his anger. There's a woman in Riverside. Her eyes glow Amber and her figure twines his very soul around her fingers. One last drink and he tosses the jug down the canyon. The echo of the ceramic shattering reaches for miles. At the same time a rifle goes off. An elk falls to the floor. "Because I can," a demon cries out. The man reaches the river long before he reaches Riverside. Three fishermen watch him. One with a funnel dangling around his neck, one with a bandana over his face, and one with glasses as thick as the jug he tossed. One message is garbled but the other two tell him the truth. "Nothing South from here but trouble young man. Trust us. We've three been there in the thick." The Man nods. He knows it deep inside yet he has no other path to take. Riverside. The Amber Girl is sitting outside a bar with his Reflection. It's a big world but in the grand scheme it's fairly small. The universe loves a cruel joke just like the men reflected love a hard drink. His brother. His twin. Encampment is a sorry town but the same is said of Saratoga. The river tries to forgive them both but all it does is divide. "You sonofabitch." The Man says to his Reflection. "If mother could hear you say that." "It's good she's dead." At this their guns are freed from their constraints. The Amber Girl's screams drown out the shots. The law has a way of missing the important things. Death is important. It comes no matter what and erodes the path. Digging deeper trenches to divide for decades. But today The Lawman heard. And just like any man The Lawman could be bought off. The Man lies in his blood. He draws circles in it. If he lives he's doomed to repeat. His Reflection laughs. The laugh he once loved. The laugh they shared when they were children in Texas. It's horse shit in your boots to think everyone is special. God doesn't have the attention span to forgive us all. Least of all a younger twin. One of each Noah was told. No need for two of him. His pulse dictated the blood flow. "Who did I love?" The Amber Girl cries. "We're the same." His Reflection spoke. "You loved us both." His Reflection said. But The Man knew. All he saw in his brother was the devil. The Lawman thought he would spare the living brother. The money didn't hurt either. In fact it felt good. Men are evil. The more evil they are the easier it is to convince them that someone could be worse. 3 years later. The Man hasn't moved in days. The Lawman called his Reflection for his last thoughts. "Why?" The Man cries. "I loved her first. I found her first. She loved me brother. Why?" The Reflection through the bars responds "Because you could've drawn faster. You could've been there for Pa and me. Because I can, brother." 15 years, 1 month, 3 days, and an infinite amount of time later. He should be dead. Working in a chain gang for years, being reduced to slavery, and skin pulled tight over bones is more than enough to kill a man. But revenge is strong. Strongest of all is revenge against yourself. The only thing man has ever been truly worthy of is judging himself. So when a man says it is his time to die you say your goodbyes and wish for his ticket to Heaven. When a man says he is ready to live you better not get in the way. A man kept to himself becomes a mystery. He becomes a legend of sorts. He belongs to no woman, no law, and least of all a family. The Man is released far away from his home Texas. Far away from his familiar Wyoming. But The Man's compass only points in the direction of his chosen destiny. Let no mountain stand in his way and no river attempt to drown his path. Revenge is the strongest beast of them all and creatures from Hell stand in awe. Today. The guitar sings a cold song. The sun stings a hot descent. The Man walks into a town he no longer recognizes. An Amber Woman who no longer notices the similarities and offers him a drink. A Reflection of a dead man walks to the bar. The Man With The Gun waits. The Reflection stares at an odd man and smiles. The Reflection knows he's a Dying Man. They walk into the hills together. The Amber Woman cries, screams, and begs. The Man and his Reflection have forgotten the face they loved. In a picturesque alcove somewhere in the rolling hills of Saratoga lies The Dying Man. Bent over him is The Man With The Gun. "Say it." The Dying Man spits blood. "SAY IT," The Man With The Gun repeats. "Why?" "Because I can." The Man With The Gun pulls. BANG. The echo reaches across the valley. Death is important. P.S. First story I've written. Pretty amateur. The names hopefully aren't confusing. I'll currently be working on my three comments if that's okay.

Once there was the Void. Nothingness. The Absence, through machinations quantum or divine, gave rise to *something*. Violence erupted, time began, and everything that ever would be came into existence at the same moment, blazing in its new energies. Suns so huge we cannot conceive of them flared into being and died after brief lives burning twice as brightly. Their death cries were the birth screams of the new universe and star stuff pervaded the nascent universe. Where once there was vacancy, now there was *everything* and the energized gasses and frenzying particles slowly transformed into swirling dust spirals throughout the universe. Time passed, anxious to perform its new duties, and with Gravity, its new companion, intertwined with the embroidery of Space to turn dust into dawn and uncounted suns burst to life. Galaxies of stars would pinwheel through space ever after and unto this day. Atoms to ashes. Dust to Suns. We are born, we burn, and we die. The star stuff from the deaths of a trillion suns pervaded the universe, its free-floating particles sprinted into one another, ignoring some, uniting with rest in the order somehow encoded into reality itself until *life* emerged. We are the stars made manifest, all of us, all life, -we have all struggled upward from the abyss to *be* and in the night, we gather as we always have, as all animals do, to rest in the warmth of one another, trying to stand proof against the darkness and the fear of the Void to which we all must ultimately return. And the crickets chirp and the stars twinkle and the wolves howl at the moon.

Things get old, but the walk home to his house is actually kind of nice if you enjoy it. Donald has been taking the same path home almost every day for the past 3 years. It’s an okay walk but it gets boring. The hardest part is trying to fix it like a broken marriage and find ways to make it special. Our lives are ending every second of the day, while you're reading this your biological clock is slowly ticking on, or quickly compared to literally the entire rest of the universe. But for the sake of the story we'll say slowly; because we're all human here and all we know is all that what we have to compare it too. And as the person writing this I would never make you work too hard and try to convey what’s actually going on with abstract ideas of a never ending unimaginably capacious place that is just so vast that we all just decided to call it “space”. The universe is like a rebellious teenager and doesn't care about time, or you, or me, or anything really. So yeah, our lives are ending slowly as you read this and while Donald walks home from work every day. Christmas time. Things like tradition come to mind, the same movies, same catchy songs, same snow. We just can’t get enough of the monotony. Christmas is like drugs and comes in the form of hot chocolate and wrapping paper. Everyone’s addicted to the forced nostalgia and commercialism, it’s Donalds favorite holiday even though he isn't religious. Like heroin, he’s been trying to get the initial feeling of magic back. It all stopped feeling like christmas a few years ago, and he’s been trying to chase the first high. No amount of fleeting joy derived from commercialism can help him this year. He’s not happy but he isn't sad either so nobody cares. I digress, the walk home is slow, boring, and unnecessary but the other options he has are even worse. The alternative being a fast and even more unnecessary car ride where he won't have time to be alone with his thoughts because eyes on the road! But mind on the radio, conversation with his girlfriend on the phone, and other drivers. You can drive yourself nuts trying to derive meaning from things that have no meaning. Donald likes to waste his time thinking about people that never think about him and analyzing the past. Everyone says he’s crazy for walking a half an hour to get home every day, but it’s even crazier to taking public transportation, a unanimously agreed upon flawed system of transportation. Old people had to walk uphill both ways in the freezing cold with no shoes in the middle of the [insert season here], he wants one of those stories. Of course it would go something like “I would walk for 30 minutes per day by choice on the neatly paved streets of suburbia just so i could feel a little different. Also because I hated everything more than this.” But I digress, because the sidewalk that paves the adventurous path that him and many others use daily is cracked. He has no problem stepping on them regardless of the effects it does or does not have on his mothers back. Mostly because there are better things to pay attention to, and partly because he credits his mother with his emotional detachment and fear of abandonment. He’s a jerk, but it’s not his fault! He had problems once. He listens to music while he walks home because if he didn’t he would be bored. Even though our minds are endlessly expanding inwardly and we haven’t even seen or heard a fraction of the wonderful things that there are to see or hear on earth, he would rather replay the same album by the Smiths and remember why he feels sorry for himself. The weather is neither good nor bad because it’s just the weather. The most we can do is dress for it, and hope that we look trendy enough. Void of all original human emotion, we choose how we get home. A product of our culture, and it’s neither good nor bad.

He waits outside, his breath short within his lungs and his hands constantly patting down his sides. It's cold outside, and he wore a heavy button up jacket he received from his mother for Christmas, though he had lost weight since he had last been home, and it was a little large. He seems to be a child dressing to play grown-up. The wind blows slow but steady, reaching his uncovered ears, but the blood stays settled throughout him. He refuses to give in to the cold and wait in the lobby. She'll be there soon anyways, he theorizes, as his heart pounds against his chest with the thought. He does not want to admit there is an inkling of doubt within the back of his mind. She walks out, and he acts like he wasn't watching the door. She smiles at him, though it seems out of place to him. She wears a bright red overcoat, with large buttons that remind of of a blood red moon he once saw when he was a young boy, on the farm. He smiles in exchange and opens the door to his car for her, trying his best to abide by the faltering rules of chivalry. The restaurant is quiet, and they sit at a table in an isolated corner, out of the sight of prying eyes. He orders quickly, not caring for the food here, but knowing she'll enjoy the atmosphere. She takes her time, politely chats with the waitress, an older lady who wishes she was anywhere else, but still smiles. They speak quietly, her eyes holding his attention more than he thought they would. Her eyes are a deep hazel, much deeper then his. He wishes his eyes were better suited to hers. Conversation is wide, with topics of family and life before the city drawing each others attention. He watches carefully as her lips form each word, the movement strangely mesmerizing him. The food arrives but neither takes notice, choosing to bid the waitress only a small smile and a passing "thank you". She has a salad, with all the parts looking as if the had just been freshly plucked from the garden, the greens being unnaturally tender and the tomatoes a full, bright red. They reflect up into her eyes, burning them brighter. His order is of less importance. The conversation continues, but slowly hollows out as he prefers just to watch her movements and subtilities that accompany her. He wishes he could be as attentive to the conversation as to her movements, but one must suffer, and her beauty is more engaging then his voice. He wishes his voice was more suitable. The meal passes as with the time, but he doesn't take any note of numbers. He notices her voice straining over the lack of response, and her eyes wishing for more then her own words, but he is unable to reciprocate. The red overcoat is put on, his over sized button up, and they head out the door. He positions himself to block her from the wind, but only by habit of attempted knightly practice, and she does not notice. The time is late, and she has to be off early the next day. The drive home is quiet, with conversation trickling out through obligation. His attempts to speak are obscured within his mind before given a chance to form. Her hands lay across her lap, and his thoughts of speech were sidetracked by the thoughts of holding those hands, and keeping her warm. They arrive at her place, and he leaves the car running. She undoes her seatbelt, and they bid farewells. She leans in, though it seems obligatory, and he follows her lead. Her lips are soft, and she tastes of nothing. They hold here, and he finds himself wishing to stay in this second. He pulls away, unsure why. She looks down, and exits the car. As she walks away, he watches. She does not notice. He pulls away from here grudgingly. Home is minutes away, but that does not matter. He continues to drive, constantly, throughout the night. There is no music or sound, just his thoughts. His thoughts are empty, thinking only of nothing. Thinking only of the unanticipated sweetness in nothing.

She came in all tired and plopped herself down in the seat across from me, then she noticed the small spot on her leg.The bag was leaking! She quickly unzipped and pull out the chemistry book then the calculus book. A couple notebooks followed. Examining each with a close up blurred vision, she was obviously in need of new glasses. She slowly wiped each book and placed them next to her on the seat. She then pulled out a huge calculator and her face dropped. There were droplets of water on its face. She wiped it off and tried repeatedly to turn it on. That's when she looked over and saw that I was observing her actions. Feeling embarrassed, she gave me a weak smile. I smiled back and gave a facial expression which I hoped conveyed empathy for her situation. She tossed the calculator back in the bag and folded her arms and put her head down, releasing a huge sigh of despair. That when she noticed the spot on her jeans leg was getting bigger. Unzipping the bag again, out came the calculator. This time, it was dripping with water and seem doomed never to produce the answers to complex mathematical problems like the one she seemed to be in now. How will she complete her assignment tonight? I wished I could reach out to her and say, "don't worry. it would be OK," but a half smile pushing up half my lip is all I could muster, not wanting to cross the lines of avoidance: the code of public transit.

The streets were quiet, save for the steady pour of the rain. Not a living soul was seen, save for one man, slipping through the shadows. The man pulled his ragged brown trench coat tighter around himself, shivering on the dreary night. He was on a mission, a mission he intended to complete. Earlier that day, when sunshine prevailed, the drop zone for intel from an intelligence officer was compromised. Thankfully, the enemy wanted only the highest-ranking officials to read the message, which gave the man time to retake the area. Time was important. Pushing these thoughts aside, he trudged on. For a moment, he noticed an odd odor, not unlike that of rotting flesh. The rain made it hard to tell, of course, and he just shrugged it off. "Probably just a dead rat," he mumbled to himself. The long trek continued. Every step brought more water into his well-used boots. His hat, well, it was long past being of use. He'd probably be more dry if he took it off. Step after step, he covered. Past bright houses with roaring fires and happy families. Past cardboard houses for the hopeless. Past parks and stores. Then things got interesting. He reached the more, shall we say, "fun" side of the city. Good thing he'd remembered his guns, hidden in the long coat. He had brought them in case the target was guarded--which it probably was--but here they would protect him against the darker side of humanity. An AA-12 with plenty of frag-12 ammo and an ACR with full metal jackets. Plenty of party to go around for the people that tried to mess with him. The heavy weaponry slowed him down, but the comfort of protection was nice. Besides, he had a few more tricks up his sleeve. Tricks along the lines of a couple tear gas and frag grenades, and some throwing knives, among others. After what seemed like an eternity, the objective slid into view behind the curtain of water. But something wasn't right. No lights. That meant the enemy had night vision. Good thing he had planned ahead. Donning his gear, with his silenced 1911 and a dagger in his other, he approached the building with the utmost of caution. Again, the foul odor of rotting flesh came around, this time worse than ever. The man crept closer, all senses on overdrive. He reached the door, and checking around him, slowly creaked it open. No bullets, rockets, or knives. They obviously were inviting him to come in farther. He graciously accepted, of course. He shut the door behind him. "No need to be a rude guest in my own house," he smirked quietly. The second he shut the door, the odor became overwhelming. He had planned this. No gas would get to him. He took out his mask, and as he put it on, he heard a groaning. This was no ordinary groaning. You've heard groaning. But this was the essence of torture. The victim of Hell itself wailed, piercing the steady plunk of rain with pure agony. The man tensed, instantly recognizing the cause. The undead. He'd dealt with them before. These kind were the most dangerous, though. He'd have to be careful. "Good thing they are more deaf than my ol' uncle Louie," he said out loud as he quickened his pace down the long hallway toward the center room. The door to the main room was shut. Using his gear, he looked into the room to see what he was up against. His enemy was there. Well, if you can call being devoid of a soul and still living as being "there," then they were there. The man breathed in deeply. There were at least 5 dozen zombies in the huge room. Plenty of cover, thankfully. Well, the cover would have been nice if the opponent wasn't braindead and stark raving mad. Stealth was out of the option, so the other choice was guns blazing. "Why zombies today?" The man grumbled. "I would have liked a good fight with a bunch of semi-intelligent guys. Ah well." The man pulled out his ACR and checked the magazine. Full, just like it had been when he left. "No time like the present!" he screamed as he kicked down the door. The room glared at him as he stood in the doorway. The eyes of flesh addicts bore into his soul, unsure what to do with this uninvited visitor. The man grinned malevolently. "Bring it!" In an instant the horde bore down on him with a ferocity beyond anything humanly possible. The room lit up with the muzzle flashes of the man's gun. Those at the wrong end of the barrel dropped like the raindrops in the storm outside. Before long, the assault rifle's ammo was gone, but so were the creatures. The man boldly walked toward the far side of the room, where the fake wall was that hid the message. He got the message, then pulled out his shotgun. He'd done this before, and he knew there were more coming. He turned around to face the dark of the room. With his night vision, he could see the room packed full of brain crazy animals. The smell of panting filled the air and the stench leaked through his mask. Slowly, the man pulled out his frags and pulled the pins on all of them before chucking them. Bodies flying, blood everywhere, and corpses around a person that was untouchable. One round in the magazine. One zombie crawled towards the person with the gun. Zero rounds left. No zombie alive. The man quickly left the building and rushed back to his safe house before he got the luxury of dryness. Soon he was exchanging his soaked clothes for dry ones and reading the intel he had worked so hard for. The intel was nice and juicy, ripe with gossip, and he quickly wrote up a response. The man eased back in his chair. It had been a good day. Zombies, reports, rain. All in all, a relaxing one. He decided to retire into bed. He'd mail the letter tomorrow on his way to assassinate the CEO...

"So yeah," Cody paused to think of how to say this next part, "he's not immortal or anything retarded like that... just 'lucky'." He made air quotes around the word lucky. The girl sitting across the booth sipped on her beer and gave him a questioning look while thumbing around her purse looking for a lighter. Cody pulled out a book of matches and slid it across the table. Her eyes lit up and in a voice and volume that suggested that she was well past tipsy but not quite drunk said, "Thanks! What do you mean lucky?" She tried putting air quotes around lucky but missed the mark, maybe she's a little drunker than he thought at first. "Well, a couple of years ago we were at a party..." Cody started telling the drunk girl the story and signaling to the waitress for another round of drinks. *** It was late October and we were at a house party just outside of town. Monroe was stealing money from drunken rednecks by playing a nice completely fixed card game. I had just made my drink of champions, a shot an of Dr. Pepper in a 44oz styrofoam while audibly crying and saying, "Goodbye pain!" and filling the rest of the cup with Kentucky Deluxe. Looking around and making eye contact a nerdy looking guy about my age asked me, "Are you ok man?" He seemed genuinely worried. “Not yet but I will be.” I wiped a fake tear out of my eye and waked off whistling. As Monroe says everything is better when you can make people uncomfortable and generally worried. The party was pretty standard as far they go. I found my way to the kitchen with the table replaced with a beer pong table and about fifteen college aged kids surrounding it and watching the game in progress. There wasn’t a lot there to hold my interest so I made my way into the living room. On the couch was a group of people playing a drinking game involving a deck of cards and ridiculous set of rules; that by half way threw the game no one can remember them so you just end up drinking randomly and talking louder and louder to the point that anyone not playing the game wants to punch everyone involved. Over by the stereo a drunk girl was looking through an iPod trying to find a song that was “totally my song”. In the corner was a card game where Monroe was Playing three drunk and obviously frustrated rednecks. Monroe looked up at me and gave me a smirk that means “This shit is so easy.” I walked up to the table taking a drink of my cup and asked the asshole about to con the three men out of their money. “Hey, man have you seen Mike or Krissy?” Monroe looked up at me faking surprise, “Oh Cody when did you get here? Nah, but they’re probably out front smoking.” He looked down at his cards and faked look of concern, then looked up at me, “Hey can you spot me ten bucks I promise I’ll pay you back.” I gave him a practiced look of disbelief and handed him two fives, I knew the game he was playing. After that I turned and headed for the front door before I could get sucked into his con anymore than I already was. Behind me I could him say something to the affect of “Lets see if I can get lucky tonight.” The late October night air was cool but not so cold you would need a heavy coat. Earlier that morning it rained and it was still damp, quieting the few leaves that had already fallen to the ground. It wasn’t hard to find Krissy and Mike, they were standing in a circle of ten or so other people smoking and drinking on the porch. On the steps two girls wearing hooded sweaters were loading a pipe as a blonde guy standing in front of them was trying to relight a joint. “Cody!” Krissy was waving her small hand over her head a puffing on cigarette in her mouth. She was wearing a black hoodie with an atom bomb and the words “PRAY FOR THE BOMB” drawn on the front with a bleach marker. The hoodie looked about two sizes too big and made her look like she was about fifteen. The only give away to her age was the way she handled the bottle of whiskey in her hand, she could my Hemingway look like a freshman any day of the week. Mike was standing next to her lighting a cigarette with a beer hugged between his forearm and chest. He was wearing t-shirt with a long sleeve thermal underneath, nodding his head at the front door he asked me, “Hows he doing in there?” “Oh, ok I guess he asked me for some money so… maybe not that great.” I said, just incase someone outside was friends with the rednecks that Monroe was scamming. About half an hour past of drunken talk of music and rumors of an after party before we heard an argument start inside of the house. Guys yelling Fuck You! and You Fucking Asshole! followed by the sounds of chairs falling over and some glass breaking. The door swung open and a man who’s face was so red he looked like he was going to burst stormed out and down driveway to his truck, saying under his breath in a drunken slur, “Mother Fucker see who’s laughing.” “What ‘cough’ was that about?” asked one of the girls smoking out of the pipe on the stairs. I looked back to the door and saw Monroe walking out with his ‘I’m awesome as fuck and you all love me for it’ smile on his face, I hate when he smiles like that. “Hey, here’s your ten back,” he said while pulling out a pack a cigarettes, “it really helped.” He paused light up. “I knew I was bound to get some luck sooner or later. What are you guys talking about? Hope it’s not about butt fucking farm animals ‘cause that’s all those guys at the card game where talking about.” “So you won some money?” asked Krissy ignoring the beastality comment. “Umm yeah I guess you could say I came out ahead.” “How much, ‘cause that guys was pissed.” “Well, he wasn’t so pissy when he was up four hundred. But once he’s down two fifty it’s the end of the fucking world.” Then in a high pitched and clearly mocking voice he said, “This is fucked up, you got to be cheatin somehow. I’m clearly a little bitch and now I’ve got to get butt fucked by my uncle.” “Uhh…” I said, “I don’t think he said that last part, I mean he probably wanted to.” Monroe stopped to consider this for a minute. “Well, no I guess he didn’t say it out loud, but you know,” he took a drag off his cigarette, “I read it in his eyes.” Then he looked down and said in almost sorrowful tone, “Poor guy’s just looking for love in all the wrong places.” Krissy laughed took a drink of her whiskey and asked, “So that mean you’re taking me to the movies tomorrow?” “Yeah, sure,” Monroe said as he snubbed out his cigarette butt, “as long as it's not about how no matter what love conquers all in the end, like that stupid lake house movie. We could see a comedy like ‘The Last House on The Left'.” “Ok, sounds great.” Krissy said happily. She had never heard of that movie, Monroe knew that, because she didn’t like or watch horror movies. Monroe for some warped reason sees every horror movies as in his words, “The funniest fucking comedies that Hollywood puts out’. It could be after everything thing we’ve seen and gone through movies just can’t be taken seriously anymore no matter what his reasons, Monroe is an asshole. “Uh Krissy.” I started to warn her about trick Monroe was going to play on her, but then the party came to an immediate end. Remember before when I said Monroe was an asshole well I wasn’t joking, he’s a fucking asshole. The super pissed redneck came walking back up to Monroe. In his right hand he was carrying a double barrel shot gun. “Hey Buddy. That was a fun game.” Monroe said with that same fucking ‘I’m awesome’ smile on his face. “We should play again sometime.” “Fuck you asshole.” The redneck screamed as he put the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed at Monroe’s face. “Give me the money, all of it!” The smile left Monroe’s face and he lit another cigarette. He looked around and made sure no one would do something stupid and get involved. Looking back at the redneck he smiled and said in a phone operator-esque voice, “I’m sorry all sales are final, it's not my fault you bought losing card, better luck next time.” “I’ll blow your fucking brains out asshole, give me the money!” Taking a calm drag off his cigarette Monroe replied, “I don’t think you will.” “Wanna bet fuckbag?” The redneck pulled back the hammers on the shotgun.The crowd grew until everyone in the house wondered out front out curiosity to see what the all the screaming was about. “Why sure,” Monroe joyfully said, “I can’t resist a good bet. You know five to one says you’ll shoot nothing but blanks at me. But sure as shit I won’t be shooting blanks in you mother, hell if your good and you do your chores when I become your stepdad I’ll give you an allowance.” He took another drag off his cigarette and smiled. The redneck screamed and pulled the triggers of the shotgun. “Click, click!” The sound the shotgun misfiring was followed by a few of the party goers saying, “Oh my god,” and “Whats wrong with that guy?” The smile left Monroe’s face again and was replaced with a look of ‘I’m going rip your soul from your body’. The redneck coming to his senses with the sobering realization that he tried to fire a gun at another man standing not ten feet away, started to back away scared tripped and fell on his ass. As he landed the barrels of the gun pointed up to the sky and finger still on the trigger both shots fired. The following silence was broken by a few people murmuring ‘holy shit’ when everyone realized the gun was loaded the whole time. The redneck shaken up by the gun not firing at Monroe but firing when he fell quickly got to his feet and ran to his truck and drove off, presumably to cry in uncle’s warm embrace and take a shot in the mouth. Seriously that guy was a dickhead. After a few minutes of people asking if anyone was hurt the blonde guy that smoking a joint, who I’m guessing lived there,told everyone that the party was over and we had to leave. Ahh nothing ends a good night like seeing your friend almost have his head evaporated by a buck shot. The four of us drove back in my car in tense silence, well except Monroe who humming and whistling Roy Brown’s ‘Butcher Pete’. I would have turned on the radio but didn’t seem like that would have helped anything. “How did you know?” Mike finally asked. “Know what?” Monroe replied and continued to hum the upbeat song. “That the gun wouldn’t fire.” “Well,” Monroe turned around and looked in the back seat to Mike and Krissy seeing the worry in their faces, “you guys should know by now I’m so badass even bullets don’t wanna fuck with me.” He forced a one of his better sounding fake laughs, Krissy wiped a tear from her eye and laughed with him. “Ok, sure Mr. Badass I bet that he just had his safety on and didn’t know it.” Krissy said. No one argued with her, she knew damn well how guns worked, sometimes its just easier to go with a lie than to think about the things working in the background. We dropped Mike and Krissy off at their apartments and then went back to my house where Monroe’s truck was. “So…” I started as we got out of my car, “what the hell was that? And don’t pull that ‘I’m awesome’ bullshit with me. I mean that guy could have shot you! Fuck he even tried!” Monroe looked around to see if anyone was listening, grabbed two beers from the cooler in the back of his truck opened them and handed me one. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Well, you know how we joke about us being lucky?” He put air quotes around the word lucky. I nodded my head to agree with him and took a drink of my beer. “Well, I decided to test it out and see if I could catch whatever makes us ‘lucky’ off guard. You know keep ‘em on their toes and all.” “Keep ‘em on their toes?” I yelled at him. “You could’ve died, what then?” He gave me a look that said ‘Meh, it could be worse’. I wanted to punch that stupid look off his face. He puffed on his cigarette and took another drink of his beer before saying, “I don’t think the things that stop us from getting killed are doing it out of the kindness of their hearts.” “So what, you think they want us to serve a greater purpose or to do a some greater good?” “Well, shit! I hope not, cause we’d be a really fucked choice. I hope who ever chose us gets fucking fired, out of a cannon, into the sun.” He paused for a minute to think of someone getting fired into the sun and laughed under his breath. “No, if they’re anything like the rest of the shit we come across, I think they just like fucking with people and maybe they’ll randomly stop without warning and I’ll get killed off. By the way good call not turning on the radio when we were coming back, no need to worry Krissy about them.” “You think they would have been on the air?” “I don’t know,” he said then pulled the last drag off his cigarette before dropping it on the ground and putting it out, “but you know how Krissy gets when they do shit she can’t ignore, but that was a pretty good excuse she came up with tonight.” He laughed, “ All I know is I don’t know shit about what they want. Hell, maybe its all happening for a reason or maybe there isn’t a reason to anything and nothing we do matters at all.” “Holy shit dude,” I said, “thats depressing as shit, if nothing matters why do anything at all?” “Cause why the fuck not.” He said with his ‘I’m awesome’ smile on his face. “Nothing matters so if I fuck up it's no big deal. So why not do everything you can. Worse case scenario some asshole kills you for being a fuck up and for us at the moment that doesn’t seem like its a possibility so you know, no worries.” He laughed, I laughed we finished our beers and called it a night. *** “Thats what I mean by lucky,” Cody said to the girl who seemly sobered up throughout the telling the story, “he’s been hurt and he ages we just get lucky and don’t get killed.” “Oh, well that makes sense.” She said reaching into her purse again. “You can keep those matches I don’t smoke. Monroe just loses his lighters a lot so I keep a couple books on me.” “Thank you,” she said still looking through her purse, “but I’m looking for something spice up this beer a bit. Ah this will do!” she pulled out small clear jar filled with black writhing worms and centipeds. She opened the jar,pulled out a centipede, and dropped it in her beer. She closed and put back the small jar into her purse smiled and took a long drink of her beer. “God damnit.

Davon, wie ich ihn kennenlernte Er hatte nicht mehr viel Zeit, wenn er vor der Morgenröte fertig werden wollte. Aber lasst mich von vorne erzählen. Angefangen hatte alles mit einem Besuch. Einem Besuch der sich als Wendepunkt in meinem Leben herausstellen sollte. Ich war nur ein einfacher Mann, nicht wirklich gebildet, hatte kaum Vermögen. So traf es sich gut, dass ich ihn eines Tages traf. Es war an einem Tag, der schöner hätte nicht sein können. In den Bäumen hing der letzte Hauch des nächtlichen Nebels, in dem sich nun Sonnenstrahlen brachen, so als würde das gesamte Spektrum der Farben einen Tanz für mich vollführen. Ich war noch nicht lange in der Stadt - vielleicht zwei Wochen nachdem ich den Hafen betreten und die nächstbeste Gaststätte aufgesucht hatte - und die Aussichten schienen sich nicht zu bessern. Hatte ich nicht meine Heimat verlassen wollen um diesem Trübsal, der Gewohnheit und Monotonie zu entkommen? Heimat, was war das bloß? Ein kleinerer Laden inmitten des Hafenviertels war Anlaufstelle für Männer wie mich. Im jungen Alter, doch nicht so jung, als das man mich leicht übers Ohr hätte hauen können. Mir fielen früh die vielen Männer auf, die sich in der Nähe des Ladens herumtrieben um dort auf Jungspunde zu warten, die für eine geringe Heuer, oder einen Tagelohn arbeiten wollten, der gerade einmal genug einbrachte um den Tag zu überstehen. Die Straße war auch an diesem Tag voll mit Karren und Menschen die sich in alle Richtungen tummelten, wie ein Schwarm Fische. Das Leben im Hafenviertel schien also unübersehbare Spuren an den dort lebenden Menschen zu hinterlassen, dachte ich mir zu dieser Zeit und pflege es auch noch heute zu denken, aber das ist eine Geschichte für ein anderes Mal. Der Kaufmannsladen, war an diesem Tag besonders voll von Männern, wollten sie doch noch vor Einbruch der kälteren Jahreszeit den ein oder anderen Notgroschen verdienen um es im Winter nur schwer, statt erbärmlich zu haben. In diesem Durcheinander von Menschen stand ein Mann, der nicht so recht ins Bild passen mochte. Er war sehr groß gewachsen und überragte die meisten Männer um eine Kopfgröße. Seine Kleidung schien der, der einfachen Arbeiter und Tagelöhner nicht zu gleichen, doch wollte sie auch nicht so recht den Anschein eines adretten Zwirns erwecken. Er rauchte Pfeife, als ich ihn zum ersten Mal sah. Da stand er nun, in Rauch gehüllt, umringt von Männern, deren Geplauder ich nicht verstehen konnte. Zu seinen Füßen lag eine Katze, die keine Notiz von all dem Gewirr und Getöse um sie herum zu nehmen schien. Auf eine Art und Weise, die ich heute nur als schicksalhaft - aus Mangel eines besseren Wortes - bezeichnen kann, fühlte ich mich in die Richtung dieses Mannes gezogen. Diesem Impuls folgend, was sonst nicht meine Art ist, bahnte ich mir meinen Weg durch die Menge der wartenden und redenden Männer, bis ich schließlich vor ihm stand und sich unsere Blicke zum ersten Mal trafen. Es war ein Blick, den man mit Fug und Recht durchbohrend, fast entblößend nennen konnte. Es packte einen die Ehrfurcht, ohne zu wissen vor was genau. Man schien ein Gefühl zu verspüren, bei dem man sich ertappt fühlte, wenn man mit ihm in Blickkontakt stand und ihn nicht besser kannte. "Ich dachte schon sie kommen gar nicht mehr, guter Freund.", sagte er in einem der freundlichsten Tonfälle, die ich bis zum heutigen Tage hören durfte. "Weshalb erwarten sie mich denn?", gab ich ihm als Antwort, ohne mir Gedanken darüber zu machen, dass wir uns nicht kannten. - Danke fürs Lesen. Ich möchte einfach nur sehen, wie und ob die Geschichte ankommt.

Have you ever shot dope? The really good herione that gives you shivers up and down your spine as you slowly shake the powder out onto the bent spoon to cook down? Have you ever gotten butterflies as you pulled the muddy liquid into the needle, knowing that in a shot, youll be fine again? You wont be sick, you wont be freezing and shivering, yet have a fever and sweating. You wont be throwing up and hurting all over. Youll feel normal. This is my daily routine. Everyday I wake up, twisting and turning from withdrawl, tasting the dope in my throat, knowing I have to get more. Theres no option when you bow down to the Dark Lady. None at all. Theres no choice when you sign your life away with the first shot. You feel a rush, pleasure dripping into your veins. You feel weightless, you feel like youre flying. You feel beautiful. Everything makes sense suddenly. And from that first shot, youre in a never ending chase for it. You get it, shoot it, and now you need more. I climb out of bed, well, what I call a bed. Its just a pile of blankets on a floor in a rundown crack apartment. But its a place to stay. My friend lives in the bedroom, but I havent seen her in a couple of days. Maybe she went on a trip to pick up a package, or maybe shes dead in a ditch somewhere. Who knows, and heres the sad part, who fucking cares? Even if she was dead, I could keep the apartment because the landlord is a sick bastard who will accept a couple nights of fun for a month of rent. And sadly, I would totally do that.

The place was a government run commie get up. I didn’t much like the look of it but it was the only place for miles, it was dark, and I was out of petrol. Riding at night on these roads is deadlier than crab fishing. As I said, it was government run, commie, and I was very much a white capitalist westerner; a devil. I walked up to the desk. The lady, having already sneaked a peep as I walked in, braced herself for the little cold war. I had been standing there about ten seconds before she slowly looked up at me with the knives in her eyes and asked what I wanted. “A room.” of course. She went back to the computer. A few seconds later she yelled a harsh command out to one of her underlings. I couldn’t understand it, Vietnamese was all Greek to me, even though I’m Greek. After spending many hours with long time expatriates I was certain that the only way you could learn the native tongue was to breach the womb here, all other attempts were futile. Eventually a young man came and showed me to my room. We didn’t say anything on the walk. It wouldn’t have been much of a conversation anyhow, but judging from his air, he didn’t seem like he wanted me up against the wall bathed in spotlight like the desk lady did. We went around a few strange gardens, up some stairs, and eventually down a row of what looked like cabins, all heavily padlocked. He opened one and let me in. It was a small room made of thin wooden walls. Upon entry there was a power switch that required the room key to activate, not at all uncommon. There was a fan, but no air-conditioning, a tv sans english channels, and a small bathroom. I didn’t mind the lack of aircon even though it was muggy enough to make even me sweat (I’m not much of a sweater). I had gotten used to the weather and quite enjoyed it. I put my things down and had a shower. 6 hours on a motorbike riding down dusty pothole ridden roads, diving in and out of mining trucks and through the hoards of insects that appear at dusk, had made me filthy. The diesel fumes alone from the trucks had ringed my eyes. I looked like I was about to take off my shirt and throw on a dress for a cheeky night out. The shower was good and cold. I barely towelled off. When I came out I noticed there was a fridge. It had beer in it. I cracked a Heineken and lay back on the bed. Vietnam is a funny place, at times more capitalist than all the western world combined, at others a big brother like institution of officials and party lines. My beer was testament. I finished it and decided to check Facebook. I had separated from my riding buddies a day before and we were planning to meet up down the line. For some reason we hadn’t yet gotten Vietnamese phones, so Facebook was our form of communication. I walked outside and found a hub of computers. All but one were being used by the employees. Sitting down I noticed a sign hanging off the old thing. “No Facebook”. I signed in. There was a message from my buddies, we were to meet the next day in Dien Bien Phu, a small city on the Laotian border, and cross from there. Seems easy enough. I wrote a reply confirming a time and place, knowing very well that our chances of meeting there and then were extremely low. Shoot for the stars! Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “No Facebook.” It was the desk lady. The knives were there. I looked around. A small group of people had gathered around me. Mostly adolescents that weren’t old enough to work for the international mining giants that had shadily set up in the region in an attempt to steal as much coal as possible before people started asking questions. I was pretty sure that by the time the questions came, it would all be gone. “Sorry?” I pretended not to understand. Play the dumb westerner. When in doubt, play the dumb westerner. She looked at me like I was a dumb westerner. She’d already won, she thought. There was a hint of pity in her eyes. “NO FACEBOOK.” She screwed her eyebrows down to the ridge of her nose and and pointed viciously at the computer. A few from the crowd inched closer in. With a false look of surprise I said, “Ohhh! Faaaaacebook.” I had overdone it. I tried to hide it but she could see the glint in my greedy eyes. “OFF!” She barked, stamping her foot. The pity had left. “Ok, sorry, just a second!” I sent the reply and logged out. “NO Facebook!” She pointed to the sign. “Yeah sorry, I didn’t see it.” Smiling too widely for the occasion. She turned and marched away. The crowd slowly dispersed, back to their own doings. Maybe they really hadn’t seen Facebook before? No, that’s impossible. They wanted blood. It was us verses them, and I was the first them they had seen in a long time. I used the computer for about another five minutes, mostly ignored, but every now and then I could feel eyes peering over my shoulder, hoping to catch me out, ready for another show. It never came. I went back to my room and cracked another beer. It had been about half an hour and I was three beers down, half way through my fourth, when I heard a loud conversation from the room next to me. After a few seconds I realised it wasn’t a loud conversation, as far as conversations go, it was just loud. I went to the wall and pressed my fingers against it feeling the give. It was very thin. I slid my fingers along. The smooth polish gave way to a harsh edge. A hole. About the size of a bullet, but it wasn’t a bullet hole, just the product of a cheap government funded operation. I peaked through. There was a man and a woman, the woman was wearing a bra and panties and the man was in a tight fitting pair of briefs. The shorts variety. They were lying on the bed, facing in my direction, spooning, the woman was in front. The man started talking in a soft, pleading voice. His arm resting on the woman’s shoulder, slowly moving back and forth. She shook it off. He said something else in the same tone and tried to reposition his hand but she brushed it off again and let out a short sharp word before staring high up at the wall in a bored, annoyed manner. She wasn’t having any of it. I walked back to my bed and picked up my beer feeling dirty and lay down. “A fine place they’ve got here,” I thought. The conversation persisted but I could tell the poor bastard was out of luck. I cracked another beer. Then some more sounds started, from the other room adjacent to me. “Oh no.” I thought. I glanced at the wall. There were more holes. I knew I shouldn’t but I was curious. I got up and found a small one and peeped through. There were two young girls, they had just taken the room and were unpacking their things. They seemed to be happy, chatting in the sing song manner Vietnamese can sometimes sound like when things are good and night is young. Suddenly I felt exposed. I could be being watched and I’d have no idea. I put my shorts back on and sat down. It was pretty hot and I had taken them off when I came in. They were uncomfortable. I sat there trying to look unsuspicious and had a few more slugs on my beer. I felt dirty about looking through the holes. I drank some more mulling it over. Then it came to me. I took my shorts back off. I was naked. I threw my bag off the end of my bed making a loud bang, and coughed obnoxiously. There, I thought, they know I’m in here now, and soon enough they’d find the holes as I did, their curiosity getting the better of them. They’d brush their fingers back and forth until they found one big enough to see through but small enough not to be seen, and when they’d look through, they’d see me stark naked, lying in bed with my little pot belly and my beer on my chest, a gentle benevolent westerner caught up in the wrong part of town. And then, we’d be even. I smiled to myself, thinking about it. An hour or so later, once the little fridge was empty, I turned off the lights and fell asleep. Hopefully that was enough time for my plan to play out. I woke early the next day, around seven or so. I would usually stay up and rise late, but with the lack of people to talk to and things to do the drinking started earlier, and in the end there was nothing left but sleep. I gathered my things and made my way towards the front desk. There were some menus. I took one and sat down. Normally I would have pho for breakfast, one of the greatest meals ever conceived, fit for any time of day or night, but I could tell from my surroundings I would get a cheap westernised version, so I ordered fried eggs with bread and a vietnamese coffee. A common offering. It was always the same, two fried, flipped eggs and a small baguette. The only thing that changed was the way they spelled it. About half way through my meal I heard the sound of chairs being drawn. I looked up. It was the two girls from the night before. I stared off over their shoulders, pretending not to notice them, but I was waiting to see. A few seconds passed and out of the corner of my eye I saw one of them sneak a glance at me. Some hushed words were shared, and then the other did the same. I went back to my meal, smiling. Had they looked through the holes? Had they caught me in the raw? Probably not, I thought, that kind of act doesn’t lend itself to company. Unless of course they were closer than most. A rare confidence is required for a thing like that, the like of which I’d never experienced. Maybe they had caught wind of my stand earlier that night by the computer. I mused on it, feeling like a modern day John Dillinger. I got up and paid for my room and meal. The lady was back at her post. She hammered on a few previously unmentioned taxes, took my money, and walked away without saying another word. I liked that, she was unwavering, devoted to the cause, not an inch given; not since the pity had gone. The pity was my only chance. I was a stranger in these lands. Not unlike my place of home, except that here they could tell straight away, it didn’t take a few weeks of brief encounters and mindless small talk, the odd longer conversation, to figure it out. Especially in the forgotten, northern towns, where the party rules supreme. I liked that too. Straight to the point. I mounted my dirty little postie bike. It had served me well so far, but there was a ways to go yet. Hopefully it would make it. I’m not sure who had the odds, me or it. Probably me. It was barely holding together. “Well, either we both make it, or neither of us do,” I thought. I kicked the engine over and it roared to life; well as best a 100cc engine can. I revved the throttle gently. It spluttered for a short time before calming to a gentle, constant purr. The girls were looking at me now. I looked up and smiled, then winked in a friendly manner as if to say, “You dirty voyeurs, I know what you did.” They blushed and looked back to their meals. The blush could have been a sign that I had got them, but it was probably only due to the fact that I was the first westerner they’d seen in months. I highly doubt they had any idea how crazy I was. I swung my bag onto my back, dropped the bike into first and took off down the dusty pot hole ridden road towards Dien Bien Phu.

Chapter 1 "Everything you can imagine is real" -Pablo Picasso Picasso's quote remained the last thing on the art room wall from the days lesson, an hour spent that will be quickly forgotten and disregarded by all but a handful of recipients. The classroom was bustling with loud cliques and annoying 'besties' rushing to get out this prison for winter break. I sat in my own silence and took note of the many people who returned my disconcerting attitude towards them. Another extended weekend of video games and internet browsing awaited me, so I was not in a rush to leave. The calm creativity of the room beckoned my attention; amateur abstract paintings lined the walls, and painted paper sculptures hung from the ceiling above the long rectangular tables. I sighed, knowing I might as well get out of here before the teacher wonders what I'm up to. I thought about that last line of lecture as I flipped the book shut and slowly slid back from the table. Art wasn't my thing, but it's like in that instance, Picasso was talking directly to me. It had seemed like forever since the bell rang when I finally stood up, chuckling under my breath. I turned around and started heading towards the exit, making one last quick cautious glance around the room. As I expected, the gaggle of unassuming students were paying no mind to me, and the teacher was busy packing up her things. I paused in my path to the exit, and thought about the desk chair that I had not pushed in. A fleeting moment of doubt almost let me keep walking toward the door, but I swallowed and pushed back the uncertainty as my heart rate rose. My focus became shaper and my worries distant. I thought about the chair sitting behind me, with it's bumpy plastic texture and it's cold touch, imagining the rounded edge of the back's top portion. The more I thought about it and imagined it, the more I realized it was as if I could actually feel it. In my hands? In my mind? I really wasn't sure. Regardless, it was working the same as it had when I first discovered it, whatever 'it' was. Finally I squeezed the hands that were still dangling next to me, despite the obvious redundancy, and gripped the top of the chair. With my mind, but somehow my arms, I pushed. I pushed harder, yet here I was in the middle of the room, with only the musty school air to fill my palms. Despite the impossibility, the metal legs on the ceramic art room floor made the satisfying rumble behind me as it slipped neatly under the table, now flush and proper. There I stood, still for another instant, reveling in the new found power that had managed to work yet again. It took an involuntary smirk to pull me out of my awed trance, upon which I casually glanced around the now near-empty room, and continued to proceed towards the exit. Barely able to contain my excitement, I slipped out the door in similar fashion to the 'cool guys who don't look at explosions,' not bothering to look at the newly replaced chair as I rounded the corner out into the hall. I had no idea why it worked, let alone how... but indeed it worked, as it had for the first time in my room just a few days ago. I was still getting used to the sensitivity of it, having only exercised the talent a few times, but it was amusingly useful as I could tell so far. As I made my way closer to the end of the hall, the light from the courtyard lit up like a beacon of freedom to the flowing and churning river of students. It was a comforting sight for me as well, but more so for the fresh air and escape to blissful solitude. I finally left the building having accomplished what I'd set out to for the day; use my power in public. There was a strange adrenaline producing fear that came from it, one that I knew I had to control if this thing were to ever be of any use to me. My next goal, I thought to myself as I made my way toward the parking lot, was to find the limits of my ability and master the simple tricks; after that, who really knows. My thoughts drifted from the subject when my car finally came into view, along with Ren who was leaned patiently up against it. "What took you so long?" He shouted. "It's break man, let's get the hell out of here. "Yeah sorry," I retorted as I hopped in the drivers seat, "I had something to take care of.

Every day I wake up to the same bleak reality. It's going to be another day on the time clock, another point A to point B. I think back to my youth, back when I was the smartest kid in class, back to when I was told I had the potential to do anything. I didn't know anything meant counting the same damn cases on the same damn dock every fucking day. Is this the dream we aspire for, a life of production minimums and the blunting of all creativity, how did I end up here... "No sense in crying over spilled milk" I think aloud to myself as I step into the shower. I masterbate as I do almost every morning, not because I have a burning desire for sex or romance, but because it reminds me that I'm still human, it's like drinking coffee, I'm not sure if I'd make it through the day without it. As I look at the stubbled visage staring back at me in the mirror, I think, what if I don't shave, what if I don't comb and shape my tightly cut hair. Would it make a difference, would it break the monotony of this life. Would it be the spark of change I need... and how long am I going to stand here and delude myself. After a shave and the other necessary hygienics, I put on my same uniform, the freedom to wear whatever you want doesn't matter when you don't actually want anything. I put on jeans and one of the 10 shirts I have hanging in my closet, do I even listen to this band anymore, my mind drifts to memories of concerts past where being in the crowd in front of a pair of 6 ft speakers seemed like heaven... "Who am I anymore?" I ask myself, "I don't even know" is always the obvious answer. I walk back through the bedroom and look at my wife laying under the blanket. We hardly even talk anymore and sex happens about as often as holidays, I'm not even sure if I'm upset about it. Part of me thinks about it everyday, but at the same time, I really don't care. It's not worth the effort, is this what it's supposed to be like. When I was young, I longed for a soulmate, a partner to go through this adventure of life. How could you call this an adventure, fuck was I dumb. As I walk outside in the darkness of an early morning, I light a cigarette and stumble into the world full of other zombies like me. We walk on some predetermined path like a fucked up Disney ride. "How did it get like this" I ask myself with a final sigh of acceptance.

“No we can’t do that” said Morty. “But sir, our employees deserve a day off of work on Christmas” “We don't pay our employees to not work, we pay them to make us money. No holiday break.” “...As you wish sir, I’ll make the announcement,” his assistant replied. As his assistant exited is 65th floor corner office, he swiveled around in his chair and looked down upon the city around him. He gazed at the ants walking on the sidewalk, at the toy cars traveling the lined roads, and he thought to himself, is this all there is to it? The rain beat mercilessly against the building’s window and the wind screamed around him. The lights of the city filled the darkness of night. Morty was the CEO at the biggest toy company in the continental US, Happy Toys, he had all the money he could ever want, all the power one man could take, a beautiful wife, June, and a son and daughter, Jack and Susan. Despite all this, despite his $3,000 dollar suit, he felt incomplete. He knew he should be happy but he wasn’t. He had begun to see a psychologist, Dr. Sobel, that catered to executives. Dr. Sobel had diagnosed him with depression. Morty didn’t believe him, he wasn’t wallowing by himself like how he imagined a depressed person would, he just felt unfulfilled and apathetic. He didn’t feel down, he felt blank. *Whatever*, Morty told himself as he packed his briefcase to prepare to go back home. The time was 9 ‘o'clock, *Early tonight.* “Honey, I’m home!” he yelled into his large house, he was greeted with silence. “Shhh Morty,” June chided, “the kids are in bed, the Jack and Susan were sad they didn’t get to see you... again.” “June, I told you, work is picking up for the holiday season and I can’t just duck out of running the company, being the CEO is a lot of work,” trying justify his actions more to himself than his wife. “I know, I know... I just wish you spent more time with us, the kids won’t even know their own father if you keep coming home so late, I’m going to bed now.” He kissed his wife tonight. He loosened his tie, made a cup of coffee then checked his email, chugging away he answered everyone until 11 o’ clock. *Where did the day go?* He turned the desk lamp off and went to sleep. Traffic was especially bad that day. Morty said frustrated in his new Mercedes, he was going to be late to his meeting god dammit. There was bumper to bumper traffic, the roads were still wet from last night and some idiot had to go and get into an accident, slowing the rest of us down. Ring Ring Ring. It was his assistant. “Sir, the meeting is starting in five minutes, you’re going to be late, this is an important meeting!” “I know, I know,” he half-yelled, angry at the other drivers, he was going to be late. Glancing down at his phone, “I’ll get the-”. He didn’t finish his sentence as a car t-boned him and he blacked out. Morty came to, “Wh-what happened?” he wondered aloud, surrounded in what appeared to be a long white tunnel, brightly illuminated but blurry, like he had sleep in his eyes. Morty vaguely remembered a car accident of some sort. “You,” a rumbling, rich-timbred voice spoke out of sight, “are dead.” “No I’m not, I can’t be, I can feel myse....” his words fell off as his hand fell through his arm, passing like a stick through mist, “Why did that happen?” “You weren’t paying attention when you were driving, you were talking on the phone trying to get to a meeting and ran a red light, and then you got t-boned by a truck.” “So I’m actually dead? Really?” “Really.” “So why are you here talking to me?” Morty questioned. “I am here,” the voice explained, “because you were living your life wrong, and should you seem true in your intentions to rectify your life, you will get a second chance at it.” “So how do I prove that I will change my ways?” “Everyday you will be evaluated, solely on that day, and if it is deemed that you lived poorly, meaning you lived with sin and without virtue, with selfishness and without meaning, you will die.” “But how will I know whether I lived with meaning? This seems rather subjective,” Morty prodded. “That is for you to decide, everyday will be different and thus everyday will be meaningful in a different way than the last, live well,” the voice said definitively. Slowly the room faded back to darkness. “I don’t want to die...” Morty squeaked, the voice had left, he felt. As the room got darker, he felt the end draw near. Morty jolted forward in his hospital bed with a gasp. He looked around and saw the concerned faces of his family, the one’s he hadn’t taken a good look at for a while now, the people that loved him, and he saw their concern for him in their faces, and he felt something in his chest. Love. Morty beamed at them, “I’m alive.

The refrigerator hummed a happy tune of efficiency. Its various fans and coolants maintained its twin core temperatures. The fridge's cameras scanned, collected data and its scales weighed and measured. The fridge, in super modern dark-blue, knew the members of the family by sight and vibration. The fridge knew that six year old Jason liked to eat hot dogs more than anyone else in the family. The fridge knew that Mark, a work from home lawyer, always drank a single beer with dinner. The females of the house were also tracked. The fridge knew that Dr. Susan Carson was always at home between six and nine but rarely home at any other predictable time. Abbey, the four year old, had only recently started opening the refrigerator doors. The fridge couldn't yet create a pattern for Abbey because she grabbed food items at random. The fridge tracked the current level of everyone’s favorite foods in the house. At least once a week the fridge would text the Carson parents with requests to replenish the fridge's contents. If one of the Carson parents accepted a shopping list complied by the fridge then an order would automatically be placed with the appropriate online vendors. A truck or bicycle would be dispatched to the house to deliver the groceries. Modern builders allowed for secured outward opening exterior fridge doors on the side of the house. Through these insulated doors vendors could replenish the dietary requirements of the Carson household from outside. Which is how the fridge ensured the Carsons always had their favorite foods available. When family members use the fridge it would take pictures of the family members, per its factory settings. Mark had yet to figure out how to change this setting. The fridge displayed these pictures on its external LED screen. Often the family laughed at pictures of their giant heads leaned into the fridge to grab a drink or leftovers. The four year old loved when her picture was displayed by the fridge and would giggle and laugh at herself. On Thursday morning on her way to daycare, Abbey managed to smear cottage cheese across the main external camera that the fridge used to identify family members. The fridge had been programmed for this contingency. Its scales had a decent success rate at identifying users based on vibrations. The fridge’s subroutines alternately ran pattern recognition software that allowed it to predict when various household members would be most likely to access its interior in search of calories. Thursday afternoon the computer used scale vibrations and predictive software to identify one of its users. Every Thursday at approximately 1:30, Debra, a next door neighbor, used the fridge to access external, cold water. The fridge posted a picture of welcome on its screen showing Debra a picture from the previous Thursday. In the picture, Debra was wearing a cute, delicate, red teddy. At 1:31 the fridge’s external screen was smashed in and its French doors were thrown open. Using its internal cameras the fridge was able to verify that it had made a mistake. The user wasn't Debra but was instead, Dr. Carson. The fridge snapped a picture of Dr. Carson yelling into her phone.

I swung my legs over the edge of the miniscule and pathetic cliff, relaxing my body as I found comfort beside the tiny pond. I patted the area of rock beside me and waved over my brother. He came and sat down. I exhaled, my warm breath clashing with the cool autumnal chill, creating a cloud of billowy fog. The pond below had iced over. Within Adam’s hands were clasped two cups of tea and a phone. The air smelt of memories and feral urine and feces. Adam handed me a cup of tea, and I took it gladly. He took a sip of his and played a song on his phone. The name of the song escapes me now, but I feel like it was either ‘Cigarette Daydreams’ by ‘Cage the Elephant’ or some crazy metal song. I took a sip of my tea and reclined supine, thinking about all the special things and people in my life. “I’ve never been here before,” He said as he tossed a stone into the pond symbolically. He sat curled up into a ball as he always had when we were alone. It wasn’t that he was anxious or nervous or scared or crazy, he just like to sit like that. I took a sip of the dark liquid within the cup and relished within the taste of plain Earl Grey. After I had swallowed, I exhaled to taste again the tea. I looked over and beyond the small pond. Through some shrubbery, trees and ivy, I could see a small non-descript path leading off into wherever the path lead off into. “Same ‘ere,” I agreed. I looked back at him. I thought a little bit about the path leading off into the distance while we discussed things like the fruits of life and painting without brushes and telekinesis. “Say… brother…” I took another sip of my tea. “How ‘bout we go down that path right there.” I forget how exactly I said it, but it was along those lines. “Wait a minute; let’s finish our tea, first…” And finish our tea we did. I gulped it down quickly, and Adam took a few minutes to finish it off, but the tea was eventually no longer in the cups in our bellies. Adam stood up, and I followed suit. Adam backed up from the rock ledge, and then took a running jump from one side to the other. I, being the lily-livered coward I am, went around the side uncomfortably with maladroit and clumsy steps. Now, both on the other side of the pond, we looked down the trail. It was relatively straight, with a few twists and bends hidden behind trees and such. I started on my right foot down the trail, and Adam started on his left, and together we started on a journey that we hoped would end with us getting lost.

I will never forget the day I got that phone call. I looked at the screen and did not recognize the number. I answered the call and the person on the other end asked to speak to Chad. I told him that I was not Chad and he must have the wrong number. Then I got in my car because I wanted to buy a hamburger. As I was driving, I saw that the sun was shining and it began to blind me so I lowered the visor. At that exact moment, my phone began to ring again and I fumbled through my pockets trying to get it. Thankfully, I did not crash the car, so I continued driving until I arrived at the hamburger restaurant. When I walked inside I noticed that I was not the only person in the restaurant. There were tall people, short people, and even a dog in the restaurant. I laughed because the dog looked funny. I asked one of the people in the hamburger restaurant what the name of the dog was. He told me that it was not his dog, so I decided to adopt the dog. I took him and put him in my car, and then I drove home. I then went to the grocery store and bought food and water for the dog. I bought a box of bones and a chew toy also. When I got home again the dog was very grateful for the food and water and he ate the food hungrily. After the dog ate the food I decided that I better give him a name so I thought very hard about it and decided that Chad was a good name. Chad was very tired and he curled up in my lap and went to sleep. I petted him and he growled at me. Chad and I became fast friends. I would take him on long drives through the mountains and he would stick his head out of the window and breathe in the fresh air. One day while we were out in the mountains, we saw a cougar and Chad growled at it until it ran away. I was grateful that the dog was there because he probably saved my life. I had very little experience with fighting mountain lions! On the way back from the mountains I decided to get something to eat because I was hungry. I stopped at a hamburger restaurant and ordered one hamburger for myself and one for Chad. Chad was so happy that he gobbled down the hamburger in three seconds flat! I’ll never forget the look on the dog’s face, it was pure enjoyment. Sadly, the happy times would not last. One day I was out walking Chad down the road when his leash snapped and he began to run away. I chased and I chased Chad but I could not catch him because he was such a fast dog. I called the Humane Society but they had no records of any dogs that looked like Chad (he was a terrier). Months went by and I never saw Chad again, so I decided to get a new dog to be my companion. I went on Craigslist and bought a used Labrador for $125. It was a pretty good dog but not as good as Chad was. The thing about the new dog is that he constantly urinated on the floor and it made me angry because I didn’t enjoy cleaning up after him. I decided to keep him anyway and ordered dog diapers from the internet. Unfortunately the diapers didn’t really work so I still had to clean up a lot of dog urine. Because of this problem I decided to hire a maid service. The maid that I hired was very pretty and charming and had no problems cleaning up dog urine. We got along famously and began dating, and the relationship worked very well because I paid the bills and cooked while she kept the house in order. To this day, I wonder what might have happened if I didn’t get that incontinent dog from Craigslist. I probably wouldn’t have met this wonderful woman. Thanks, Chad.

That day started as a blur. I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by my mother, urging me to get up. “Aeris! Today is the day! It’s just been announced.” she said excitedly. I cracked my eyes open. She was already wearing her favorite apron, which was covered in flour. She must be baking something already, I thought to myself. If there was one thing that woman could do, it was bake. Every day the kitchen table was lined with various pastries. Looking back, I probably should have eaten more of those wonderful treats. My mother bustled out of my room, having sufficiently woken me up. I sat up and shivered as the blankets slid off of me. It was late October, and the chill of autumn was seeping into our small home. As I got out of bed, I slid my feet into slippers, which sat on the floor beside my bed. I shuffled down the hallway and into the kitchen, where my mom was humming as she kneaded some dough. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at coffee, obviously not very thrilled to be awake. The radio was on but there was no music playing, only an announcement that kept repeating. “Attention residents of Bellfoot Bay, today is Moving Day. All 18-year-old citizens must report to the town hall at 11 am.” Moving Day. It was something I’d dreamed of since I could remember. Once a year, all new adults would go to town hall and disappear. Some of them came back to visit, but not until after many years. When I asked my parents about where they’d gone, they would always tell me the same thing: “They went on the adventure of their lives. You’ll go on one too, when you’re old enough.” Sometimes a new person would appear. They never said a thing about where they came from, or how they got here. Finally, it was my time to begin an adventure. A fresh batch of cinnamon rolls emerged from the oven. I quickly stood and snatched one before my mother could even put the icing on. I’ve never liked sweet things, so I preferred mine without the icing. I quickly ate. There was at least an hour’s worth of packing to do. As I was sorting through all my clothes, I felt a heavy wave of sadness wash over me. I was leaving my home. And not for a few weeks, but forever. I shook my head and tried to keep the thoughts at bay. There were choices to be made. What do I wear today? What clothes should I bring? What pictures to keep? I only had a small suitcase to take with me, so every decision had to be slowly thought out. I decided to wear one of my favorite dresses. It was simple. A small collar and a pleated skirt were the only embellishments. The packing was finished. My room, looking more bear than ever, was no longer mine. There was no time to reminisce. My Moving Day was here. Both of my parents and I stepped over the threshold of our small house, and began the walk to the town hall. We arrived at the town hall faster than I would have liked. I wanted more time. Time to remember all the things I’d ever done in my eighteen years there. But, time was not on my side that day. We walked inside the building. There were many unfamiliar, official looking people standing around everywhere. I was the only candidate this year. I took one last look at my parents and squeezed them tightly. “Good luck, Aeris. I know you’ll do great things.” my father said, smiling widely. He gave me a heavy pat on the shoulder. “Oh, Aeris. I’m going to miss you. Please promise me that you’ll remember us.” Mother was holding back tears. I could tell because her eyes were squinting and her nose was red. “Of course I won’t forget, mom. Do you really think I would?” I gave her one last hug. I breathed in one last breath full of her smell. A smell of flour and fruit. I would never forget it. The strange people then walked over. One was a woman. “Are you Aeris? You’ll be coming with us.” She smiled brightly and gestured towards a door. As I walked away, I pretended not to hear my mother weeping. I didn’t look back. I was led into a strange room. There was a complicated looking chair in the center of it. It looked similar to a chair you would find at a dentist, except for the arm straps on either side of it. The woman entered the room after me and donned a lab coat and gloves. “Please, sit down.” she said sweetly. The chair was comfortable. It was then that I noticed the large tray full of needles just behind the chair. She strapped in my arms, too tightly if you ask me. A shiver made its way up my spine when I saw the woman pick up one of the needles. There was a vial in her other hand with a metallic liquid sloshing around inside. The needle was sent through the top of the vial. Copious amounts of the liquid were suctioned up into the needle, ready to rush through my bloodstream. “Um...is that stuff...ok for humans?” I asked timidly. The intimidating liquid had my palms sweating and my knees trembling slightly. “Don’t worry. It’s perfectly safe. In fact, the metallic color of this liquid is actually billions of tiny nanobots.” The woman gushed. This new information was even more shocking than my original thoughts. “What are they going to do to me?” I demanded. “You’ll find out soon.” The woman smiled and plunged the needle into my arm. “It’ll hurt for a couple of minutes, but after that you’ll feel great.” As she was talking, I felt a deep, aching pain start seeping up my arm. It entered my chest, then my stomach. The legs were the worst. The pain was so bad that my legs seized up into a fetal position. I let out gasps of air while groaning. It seemed to last forever. But slowly, the pain seceded back to my arm and eventually disappeared. My legs uncurled and relaxed. I was released from the arm restraints. There were reds bands where my arms had been pressing against them. “ Now then, we have some things to talk about.” I straightened my back and looked at the woman intently. “About what?” “I’m going to tell you about your journey.” she said with a smile, “By the way, my name is Roxanne. About those nanobots, they just spent the past few minutes processing everything you are. All your DNA, all your cells, everything has been recorded.” I flinched. “Recorded? Why?” Roxanne smiled. “You’re going to a different dimension very soon. Don’t worry, you’ll only be there for a little bit. In order to travel between these different places, though, everything you’re made of had to be copied. You’re going to be broken down and put back together in a split second. In order to protect you from mistakes, the nanobots memorized you.” I felt the blood drain from my face. My impression of Moving Day was nothing like this strange reality. “What am I doing in this...other dimension?” “You’re going to another place on this Earth. See that other door? You’ll go through there and see something spectacular. It’s about time for you to go, too. Stand up slowly, please.” I let my feet touch the floor gently at first. Nothing felt different, so I stood. “Good.” Roxanne smiled gently again. “Now, let’s go over to the door.” She lightly guided me to the door. I grasped my small suitcase. “The only thing I can tell you, without ruining the surprise, is not to go back through this door. You absolutely must not.” She looked at me seriously until I nodded, then returned to her usual smile. She turned to the door and flipped various switches. Something hummed to life. “It’s time to go.” she said as she opened the door. There was only blackness on the other side. “Don’t be afraid. Your journey is beginning. Just step through.” She gave a small pat on my back. I stepped forward, legs shaking, into the blackness. For a few moments, I felt like I was falling. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my suitcase close. Then, suddenly, solid ground again. I could feel soft sunlight on my skin. My eyes, prying with curiosity, cracked open. There was grass everywhere. On all four sides there were massive hills of grass, like walls. I was in a valley. The sky was almost an unnatural blue. It was as if mother nature herself had dug this hole in the ground. I looked behind me. The door was still wide open and full of blackness. I closed it and turned around. There was another door. It stared at me from across the field. Then, it opened, and another person came out. Doors began appearing everywhere, along with other bewildered people. They began wandering and talking to each other. No one knew what to do. I thought back to Roxanne’s warning. Don’t go back through this door. It was then that I realized what we were here to do. It seemed that others had the same revelation. They entered other doors. Soon after that person entered, the door disappeared. I watched the others for a few minutes. I wanted to wait to leave. To take in the beautiful landscape, and to give my nerves a chance to calm themselves. There weren’t many doors left, though. I had to choose. There was one that caught my eye. It was a beautiful mahogany, dark from the many layers of stain. I walked towards it, grasped the handle and opened the door. The darkness greeted me as I stepped forward into my new future.

It’s the kind of thing that you daydream about. It’s the kind of power to end all others. It’s what you’d use for bad, because how would you be caught? It’s what nobody deserves to have, and it’s what nobody should have, yet I have been bestowed with such a so-called “blessing”. Why would it be me? I am not worthy of superiority, for I am just a corrupt, feeble human with faults like any other person. However, because of my capability, I make sure to do only the best of things I can do. Why should I not use my advantage to bless other people, even if such a slim margin compared to what I have? I don’t deserve this, and so I want to give back to the people around me. I want to make their lives better in ways that they will never notice: “random” luck, close calls, and other minute details others would call insignificant. It’s these little ways that I influence the people around me for the better, and while there is a limit to what I can do, I do the best I can. Some might consider me a god were they to know, but I would laugh in their face and deny such a misguided praise, for I am not a god. Nobody knows, and as such I am treated like a normal human being. I will forevermore keep it that way. That’s the way I like it and it’s better that way. Besides, even though there are ways that I could prove it, I doubt people would take my insane words as little more than crazy. I control time. Believe this outlandish claim that I spew forth, or not, I affect the flowing of time. Time is not absolute to me, the one-of-a-kind freak that I am. I like to pretend that I’ve been entrusted with such a glorious, mind-bending power due to my fantastic heart and my good-will towards others, but I say otherwise. My power made me the benevolent person that I am today, and it’s through my ability that I attribute my behavior. Yet even still, it takes care to not stray from the straight and narrow. The temptation is overwhelming, and it takes every ounce of effort to not use this gift for something less than righteous. One must, at times, take a step back and have themselves a break from the fast life that they live. Stress overtakes if they don’t combat it through relaxing and a carefree vacation from hectic schedules, even if unoften. This is fact, known by many, but practiced by far too few. Thankfully, it’s easy for me. I have all the time in the world to take a hike, clear my mind, and enjoy a stunning view of the drudgery, all while preparing myself for everybody else’s next day. I am an overseer, an overwatcher, a sentinel of those who I find in my circle of friends and family. It’s hard work, and it’s difficult coping with it, but I can take my time. I try and monitor as many people as I can, and often take the time to visit those thousands of miles away. It matters not to me, for as time is at a standstill, my body ages not, and I feel no hunger or thirst for whatever I may do. These treks give me plenty of time to think, and thinking has become my favorite pass-time. Thinking has become my escape from the world, because time and time again the world fails me and disrespects what responsibility I try to take as well as I can. Thinking gives me a cool temper and a level head, and I am constantly striving to perfect it. At least I have plenty of time to try and focus my thoughts on a better mind, something that I take for granted for often than I fear to admit to myself. Spending such a long time in so many moments of frozen eternities has given me quite the opportunity to analyze and study the very nature of what power binds my life. I do not age, hunger, thirst, or feel other symptoms that one might suffer from the sailing of time down a river, towards the eventual waterfall of death. Unfortunately, I do feel pain, tiredness in the mind and muscles, and injuries do not heal in these episodes, so I must take the greatest of cares to not inflict damage to my body. As a side effect from all the journeys I embark on, I find that I do strengthen as one would, were they to do the things I do in the trap of time. This is a blessing as it allows me to prevent any more wounds to my body, though hiding it is the real difficulty. How does one explain an ability to run for miles, all while seeming to never get out and do much? It’s a part of me that I want to use, but I fear for the questioning of my habits and daily life. I cannot form lies in the face of others, and delivering them with sincerity is even more difficult, so I try to live as honestly as possible by avoiding conflict wherever viable. I question my ability to maintain deep relationships with others. Is indulging in personal pleasures allowed when I am bestowed with a benevolent ability? Despite the great lengths I go to conceal it, when within a deeper relation with another what of the possibility of what I possess getting found out? Lying is not possible for me, and so it’s a risk that I must weigh meticulously. I believe that as a side effect of my gift, I am bound to a limited degree of intimacy with any given person. Even so, while some might call a life of loneliness miserable and insufferable, they don’t have the responsibilities that I have nor have they had ages to reflect upon their duty like I have. Such is the life that I have received, yet I will live it to the end, that much I have decided and accepted. Anyone who sees me passing by in the crowd would never pick me out as special, and it is that way which I prefer. I don’t wish to be recognized as someone different, superior, or even inferior. Though I am far from the same, living with my façade grants me a limited degree of experiencing life as a normal person would. So many take their ability to *be* for granted, and of that potential to be just like any other person without hidden weight is a potential that I long for. I long for a pardon from my life of servitude towards others, though I do understand that that is one wish that will never be sanctioned to me. What I live with will not change and that is a fact I have learned to submit to and to the end I will live to my fullest capacity, lest I fall into decay. I know my purpose, yet for as long as I exist, always lurking and waiting for the opportune moment is the depravity that longs for me. This I know is the hardest part of my reality: defying decadence.

It was Jenny's tenth birthday. Her parent's small terraced house was filled with family visiting from all over the country and from further away. Grandma Olga had made her yearly trip from cold, dark Siberia to visit her daughter and grand-daughter. Grandma Olga was a tiny woman in decades old clothes, with crooked teeth, wrinkled skin and a hairy mole on her upper lip that Jenny always tried to ignore. Every year she presented Jenny with a different gift from her homeland. In the early years, it was knitted blankets and wooden rattles. In recent years the gifts were getting more interesting. At age eight, Grandma Olga gave Jenny a clown marionette, which she regularly used to chase and scare her younger brother with. At age nine, she received a small, ornate trinket case, which Jenny used to store her favourite necklaces and secret notes she wrote. This year Grandma Olga had promised Jenny something 'very special'. Jenny's mother announced the start of the present giving ritual by ringing the old bell she had been given as a child in Siberia. Jenny's family gathered in the front room of the house and began to produce gifts of all sizes from bags, pockets and coats. Her eyes widened and her smile beamed as she looked around the room at the many coloured packages, all for her to open and enjoy. One by one she tore through packaging, receiving books, clothes, dolls and many warm embraces. As traditional, Grandma Olga was last. Jenny was disappointed that her favourite part of the day was nearly over, but excited to see what unique present Granma Olga had brought such a distance for her. The family hushed as the old Russian woman opened her battered leather suitcase and produced a brown paper package wrapped in string.... "For my beautiful grand-daughter Jenny, on the occasion of her tenth birthday, I give you something I was given on my tenth birthday, many, many moons ago. My Grandma Maya passed this to me and now I pass it to you...." Jenny carefully took the package from her Grandma's tiny hands. She pulled at the string bow and the crinkled brown paper and string fell away softly. What remained captured her attention immediately. The blushed, smiling face of a glazed, round but intricate Russian nesting doll stared back at her. The doll was surprisingly weightless and shone with bright colours as Jenny assessed her new prize object. While still transfixed, her mother prodded her and spoke with agitation. "Jenny! Thank your Grandma Olga immediately for this beautiful gift!" Jenny was jolted from what felt like a deep sleep. She had forgotten that she was surround by the eager eyes of her family, all awaiting her reaction. "Sorry Grandma! Thank you so much, I love my present!" Grandma Olga beamed at Jenny, "It is a great pleasure my child, I have treasured these dolls for many years and I hope they give you as much pleasure as they have given me." Her face suddenly darkened and she leaned in closer to Jenny. "However, you must promise me one thing: always reassemble the dolls when you have finished playing with them! They were made a long time ago and contain the history of our family. If any of the dolls is lost, a part of our family is lost!" Jenny's mum stepped in. "Oh mother, why do you have to be so serious?! Jenny, take good care of these dolls! You can play with them later, but now it's time for your birthday cake!" She took the dolls from Jenny and placed them on the mantelpiece. The lights flicked off and Jenny's dad walked in with her parkin birthday cake (Jenny's favourite), covered in ten bright candles. Grandma Olga backed away into the corner of the room but shot a glance at the dolls. The wooden glaze flickered in the candle light and the shadows cast the usually cheery doll face into an odd grimace... Jenny wore her new pink bunny pyjamas to bed that night. As her head sank into her pillow, her head buzzed with birthday excitement. Cakes, games, songs, candles, gifts and goodbyes all spun round her head, a kaleidoscope of happy images from her favourite day ever. As she began to drift off in a contented slumber, she heard a strange noise. clack-clack-clack It sounded like a slow rattle, coming from the far side of the room. It stopped as quickly as it had started so she ignored it and rolled over. Clack-Clack-Clack Closer this time, she sat bolt upright. The room was only lit by a small amount of light coming in from the hall and Jenny strained to see in the darkness. She thought the noise had come from the end of her bed but the shadows in the small room were still. The noise had gone again. She was in a sleepily confused state and after a minute of staring at nothing, decided she must have imagined the rattling noises. She pulled the duvet over her head to block out any further disturbances, yawned and tried her best to fall asleep. CLACK-CLACK-CLACK Right next to her head this time! She rolled out of her bed, landed sideways and stumbled in two awkward steps, flinging open the bedroom door, flooding her room with light. All she saw was her tiny bed and a pile of covers from where she has been moments ago. She was wide awake now, her heart beating a little faster than usual. But there was clearly nothing in her room. Jenny decided to abandon sleep for now and sneak downstairs to look at her presents. That would make her feel better. Being a small house, there was enough light from the upstairs bulb to guide her down the creaky wooden staircase to the front room. Her mother had done a very thorough job of tidying that night and most of her presents were boxed up and stacked either side of the sofa. Her favourite teddy bear, George, sat lonely in the middle of the chair, so she went straight over and gave him a comforting hug. CLACK! The noise from the mantelpiece spun her around and she squeezed George a little tighter. The moonlight shining through the front window lit up the fireplace with a grey glow. She ran her eyes quickly along the small shelf above, past neatly lined birthday cards and ornaments to the edge nearest the window, where sat the Russian dolls her Grandma Olga had given her. They seemed brighter than everything else in the room and the black eyes of the outer doll seemed to be staring directly at her. As earlier in the day, she felt entranced by this ancient toy and without thinking, she stepped slowly towards her gift, dropping George into one hand and reaching up to retrieve the doll. Sat on the old rug by the fire, her old bear next to her, she began to twist the wooden shells apart. One by one she lined up the outer shells in front of her. The black shiny eyes got smaller and smaller until she reached the final tiny doll. It had no eyes. Just a smooth wooden surface. At this point a great wave of tiredness swept over her. Jenny lacked the energy to climb the stair back to bed, so she curled up with George on the rug and pushed the parts of the doll to one side. What had Grandma said about playing with doll? She couldn't remember and as sleep consumed her, she was sure she'd find out tomorrow. Jenny's mum was up early to prepare breakfast for her two children and passed Jenny's bedroom on the way. The door was wide open and the bed empty. She knew Jenny must have snuck downstairs in the night, despite her warnings. She headed down the stairs, considering a fair punishment for Jenny's misdemeanour. Entering the lounge, she expected to see her daughter sprawled asleep on the sofa, surrounded by toys. But the lounge was as she'd left it the evening before. Except for one thing. The birthday cards were gone and the Russian nesting dolls were lined up along the mantelpiece. Jenny's mum sighed and went to put the dolls back together. When she picked up the smallest doll, she thought it strange that it was painted pink, with rabbits on. The little face still had the shiny black eyes of the other dolls. Jenny tried to speak when she saw her mother appear at the lounge door, but could not open her mouth. Jenny tried to shout when her mother held her and looked at her oddly, but no sound was made. Jenny tried to scream when her mother put her inside the wooden shell of a Russian nesting doll, but all she heard was each bigger doll being added, as the lounge, house and her mother were obscured by darkness.... CLACK.... Clack.... clack....

PREFACE I tried a little something; combining poetry with prose. Below is the product. Let me know what you guys think, I'd really appreciate it.   Unspoken Pool Of She looked at me from the other side of the pool's length and spoke with lips unmoving, with eyes reassuring. She wanted to get away. Her eyes marvelled at the murky surface of the pool. Maple leaves from neighbouring yards had made their way and made their stay atop the filthy water's surface. Forgotten by hysteria. Blackened by bacteria. Shrivelling in this area. Willow branches floated there, amongst the leaves and dysenteric view. She knew something I didn't. She dipped in so gracefully, piercing the surface so fluidly. She fused seamlessly without a splash. Her eyes looked up before submerging and it looked as if an invitation. It looked as if... we *were* kids playing. She dragged me in without a touch. Like a tether hung between the both of us. And from every push she kicked away, I felt a pull of sincerity. A gentle touch without a touch, this tether did this much. So clutching and so independent of. And that's when I slipped in after her. Water's green and hasn't been cleaned was a thought that was a thought no more. A thought before that meant much more. The water was tainted on the surface, but underneath was water so clear that I could see her treading with her back to me. Her hair was intact, unaffected by the water's fact. She turned around and looked at me. A turn around she and I were glad to see. The sight was one of profundity; I had never seen someone so clearly. And in a blink she was by my side. And in a blink our bodies tied. We drifted there, we wrestled here; we had forgotten the world above us. Our eyes locked a moment longer than our last, and that's when we decided our third act. We floated up and fast. We rushed inside with hand in hand. She dragged me through, I dragged her up. We made it to and that was that.

I've been finding myself lying awake more and more recently, tossing and turning and tangling the blankets, unable to sleep. Getting into staring contests with the shadows pooled like ink in the edges of my room. Now, insomnia is a problem a lot of folks have, and I’m certainly no stranger to it. Stress, problems- kids, bills, the corrosive apathy of suburbia- they fester and rot in the recesses of my thoughts, and the sleeplessness lets itself in through the holes all that shit eats away. Just like maggots picking at a dead dog on the highway. So yeah, I've shared my bed with insomnia plenty, but this time, the fella that comes knocking at the door to my bedchamber is different. The obstacle standing between me and sleep isn't some nebulous haze of anxiety and regret, it’s got form and substance in my mind’s eye, pacing and keeping me out of my dreams like Hades’ mutt guards the gates of death. It’s a waking dream keeping me from sleep, something real that scuttles at the edge of my senses when I’m on the verge of waking and rest. I don’t reckon it’s the kind of thing that would name itself, but I've been calling it the lizard. Why a lizard? Well, you might not figure it looking at me now, but way back when I held onto aspirations of becoming a psychologist. Wanted to delve into the secrets of the human brain and figure out what’s been making us work since we were scrawling pictures on cave walls. I got halfway through college before Pa got sick and the money dried up and I dropped off my dreams of understanding the human psyche in the collective human wastebasket of unrealized ideas. I’m not writing this to tell you my sob story, though, and right now you’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with reptiles. Well, some psychologist who I can’t remember the name of anymore once proposed this theory, the triune brain model, that the human brain is split into three parts, that have built up and gotten more complicated as mankind has evolved. The most recent addition is the neocortex, the fancy part that lets you do shit like pay your taxes and ponder the consequences of slashing that asshole in the next cubicle over’s tires. That’s the human part, what makes us people. Below that is the monkey part, the limbic system, the bit that gives you the drive to start a family and that fills you up with the burning drive to protect when you look at your kin. And below that, nestled deep in the grey matter, is the lizard brain. It’s been around since we were primitive creatures, before God could look at us and think that we were gonna turn into fleshy pink things that walk on two legs. The lizard brain’s got one job, survival, and it’s real good at it, had quite a bit of practice. It’s what gives us the fight-or-flight reflex, and its base instincts are in control when the blood starts pumping in your ears and the adrenaline hits your system and all you can think about is what you’re gonna do in the next thirty seconds. Now, the problem with the lizard brain, uncompromising bastard that it is, is that it doesn't have an off switch, and it’s real behind the times. Those survival instincts are hardwired, and they’ll kick in when you don’t need it. I’m sure you’re familiar with it-you’ll be sitting there getting chewed out by your boss about something or the other that you fucked up, when suddenly your thoughts come to a crashing halt and the lizard brain starts screaming at you to run or fight, and you just sit there paralyzed, torn between that base urge to live and the conscious reality that you’re not at any risk of dying. Now, I've been rambling on quite a bit, but you need to hear it if you’re gonna understand why I call the thing crouching in the corners of my psyche the lizard. When it turns up, slithering into the corners of my vision and blocking my eyes from shutting, it twists itself out of that ancestral, reptilian mind we all share. Its body scrapes away at my capacity for conscious thought and it exhales primal fear. Every night I spend with it, the drive to get out of bed and bolt gets harder to ignore, and the lizard gets clearer, more realized, closer. I wanna tell myself that it’s not real, it’s just some sinister figment called up by cruel imagination. From what I remember off all those psychology classes, its nocturnal visits could be some peculiar manifestation of sleep paralysis. Even if it was some sorta mental illness, a latent infection in my family tree that’s just flared up now, at least I would know it’s just something warped in my brain, no more real than the bogiemen kids whisper tales about when they think their folks aren’t looking. But none of those explanations sit right with me, as much as I wish they did. The lizard has been with me for a month now, hidden in the shadowed folds of my blankets when I’m awake, creeping out every night to haunt me. I think it’s something wrong with the world, a crack in the collective unconscious that I slipped into while dreaming. It’s the kind of thing your imagination tells you lies in the darkness, that the old Comanche tribes warded off with campfires and rituals, something that the artificial city lights can’t keep away in a world that’s forgotten about the dangers in the night. The reptile brain remembers, though, and it warns me with the dread that looms at my bedside and lingers after the sun rises. I haven’t slept two nights running now, and I can see the lizard when I close my eyes. Its scales are the mottled ash-black and brown of the earth after a wildfire. Its tails thrash and jerk like the branches of a tree wracked by a hurricane. Deep in its maw, its teeth are rusted metal junkyard scraps and fragments of nightmare. It moves in lurches and bounds, circling and growing nearer with each turn of the earth. When it laughs, the noise is a thousand guttural wails of mothers mourning lost children. Its pupils are pinprick voids in innumerable orange eyes that wind across its body in irregular patterns, like fleas trapped in amber. They’re all looking at me. The picture isn't complete yet, but when I can see it all I know I’ll be lost to the lizard’s coils. Pray that they don’t find you.

One major hallucination caused by the dementia is a prominent vision of his family driving him to the world's greatest concert. Eugene's family insists that these visions are of fiction and not real, yet eugene disagrees. Doctors are struggling with the decision to keep Eugene Pilgrim alive, due to the family having finance and health insurance issues. They give the family seven days to act or the medications will not be provided for him. The family holds out on the decision to pull the plug until his meds run out. conflict begins when Eugene's ex-wife, [Charlotte], tries to convince the hospital to pull the plug. Eugene's son and daughter, Tim and Maggie, hires a lawyer to act against their mother. Charlotte claims his insane visions are nothing but his mind and money going to waste. Charlotte is then issued a restraining order against her children, and husband. While on the second day of his remaining seven, Eugene thanks his family for dropping him off at the concert and tells them that he will get his ticket from will call. The family ignores his rambles and try to bring him back to reality with generic small talk. His frustration builds as his family continues to not believe him. The story takes a turn as it goes into details about Eugene's dementia trip. When arriving at the ticket booth, he receives no ticket but a hand stamp. Upon entering millions of people gathered in front of a rather large stage resting at the base of an overwhelmingly tall mountain. For miles, people could be seen. As eugene made his way through the crowd he recognizes familiar faces all over but avoids interaction. The performers on stage are of the late Jim Morrison and the Doors debuting WASP as their intro. The crowd goes wild. Eugene feels constrained and shuts his eyes tight and when upon opening them, he was back in his hospital room with his family. Silent. Days pass as his hallucinations grow. Coming in and out of reality, Eugene slips into a trance to escape the life he is living. He has full control. On day five, emotions run high in the family. Tim and Maggie, being disgusted with their mother ask their father why it never worked out in the end. He explains that it never worked out in the beginning because she, in fact, is not their biological mother. The news, strikes them with a wave of emotions ranging from anger, sadness to curiosity. Maggie begs her father to tell her who her real mother was. There lying on his fifth night, the truth comes out that has been haunting Eugen his entire life. He begins to tell his children the story of Samantha Bordeen, their mother and when he was 18 . She was the love of his life for a short two years. A few months into dating, Samantha got pregnant and gave birth to Tim, with Maggie following the next year. One night while the Eugene and Samantha were driving home, she was decapitated by a stray piece of sheet metal lying on the highway. She was the only casualty. He then explains how he then searched out of depression for a fitting mother to raise the children, one he would have no emotional connection with. Eugene and Charlotte took care and raised the two children and always kept the truth hidden from them. On the 6th day, performers such as Pink Floyd(1972), Jimi Hendrix(1969), andJohnny Cash(1968), filled the stage and crowd with beautiful music. The crowd was going crazy as eugene soon began to join in on the fun. Being 72 in the crowd made it that much more fun for him. As viewed by his family, he was dancing in his gown. On the seventh day, no medication was given. There lying in the silence of the 3rd floor hospital room, Eugene tried to envision the concert - nothing. He tried for hours as his family explained to him that it was the medication that caused the hallucinations. He still denied. After his family left for the night, Eugene was staring up towards the ceiling confused as to why it seemed so real. In his mind, he knew it was real. Eugene Pilgrim closed his eyes, and a large flash of light blurred his vision. As he opened his eyes he was at the concert, 18 and young. Looking towards the stage, Don Mclean began to serenade the crowd with "vincent". The crowd was silent with amazement. As the sun set, lighters were being held in the air for light. Before the sun officially set, Eugene recognized someone. There, dancing, and as beautiful as ever stood Samantha Bordeen at the age of 18. She smiled at him, and he smiled right back. No words were exchanged as both grasped hands and walked into the sea of people to be serenaded one last time.

I hate red. For tens of decades I wore white; it worked well, had a sort of religious feel to it and all the people were happy. For a while I had my green outfit, but that's just because I went through one of those 'save our planet' phases. Regardless, everything was well in the world as far as my life was concerned. That was until I received a letter through the post, not one of those usual red and green crayoned lists smothered with craft glitter, this one had a red stamp and an address plastered on the side with military precision. >Saint Nicholas, >The *Coca-Cola Company™* is pleased to announce that your head of business relations, Jack Frost, has recently acquired a sponsorship deal with our corporation. You should receive a new uniform in *Coca-Cola™* colors. Have a festive holiday period. >Signed *Kevin Rampus* >Head of business acquisitions, Coca-Cola™ The missus told me to get Jack to send it back, to stop this deal. Sure it was commercialising a traditional and spiritual festival but it gave us untold amounts of funding simply to wear their colors. With this deal we could do so much more than ever before. I looked into it in my free time and the legal documents were air-tight, we couldn't back out of it. Now I have to get out of bed every morning to promote a mega-brand, this is **not** why I started this venture. This is not the message I wanted to spread. Maybe next year I'll wear white. Maybe next year... I hate red.

If anybody was ever going to find out about my secret, or if I had to pick someone to find out first, it was Ren. The scrawny nerd would probably be to be too afraid sell me out, but more importantly, he was like family. It's funny how sticking two very different people together from a young age can destine them to be friends for life, despite however odd it may seem as they get older. He was geeky but outspoken, and socially fluent despite being interested in nothing 'cool'. I was brawny, intimidating, yet secluded. Maybe god was playing a cruel joke, switching our souls with our bodies and sticking us together. We chatted about normal high school things on the way back to my place. 'This person did this stupid thing, this teacher is whatever because blah blah blah.' I was distantly agreeing or nodding, not able stop thinking about the art room chair. I started to lose myself in the trees and houses flowing around us, the afternoon sun beaming down onto the fresh white wonderland of yesterday's snow. I knew I had to tell him, or show him. "Hello," piped Ren. "Did you hear me?" "What? No, sorry." I snapped out of it and looked over to find him waiting for a response. "Is it cool if stay over tonight? My parents are having some old friends in town, I really don't feel like getting caught up in that." "Yeah of course." At this point, Ren was almost as close to my family as I was. "The couch is always open." "Sweet," he said, quickly returning his attention to his phone. Replying to an investigation by his parents, I'm assuming. The pale tan house at the end of the block crept into view after a few more minutes, the one I called home. I swung the beater into the driveway, which needed shoveling, and Ren and I hopped out. Samus greeted us first, giddy as if she knew it was the last day of school for a while and I would be around to pester her more often. She came for a quick pat on the head but in a flash she was darting around the snow like any hyper young dog does. We stumbled inside, shedding our winter layers, and made the dart from the side door to my room. By the time I got the courage to pipe up about my secret, hours had passed. Hours of video games, mindless phone scrolling, guitar practice, even a trip to Burger King. But finally there we sat, in front of some commercial that was interrupting the new episode of South Park, when I surprised myself with the words. "Hey man, I have to tell you something that's been eating me alive inside." "Um..." he started, "I can come up with a hundred funny ways to reply to that, but I'll just let you get on with it." "This is weird, because it's a conversation that every kid daydreams about having at some point," I hesitated, "but finding a lack of any way to not make this sound ridiculous, I'll just say it. I can control things with my mind." Ren stared at me blankly through his bulletproof thick glasses. "If this is buildup for some sort of dick joke, you need to work on your comedic presence." We both laughed, and I knew that whatever I had planned on saying next would sound insane or just dumb in any universe. So instead, I looked towards the tv stand across from the couch he was sprawled out on, and spotted the xbox controller. I felt the smooth matte black finish, and identified each raised button with my... mind finger tips, or whatever. I grasped the handholds, feeling no difference between now and when I had set it down an hour before. I could feel him glance at me, no doubt questioning the random and very serious confession that seemed like a failed joke in his eyes. He realized that I was focused, and soon followed my intent gaze back to the TV. The controller then hovered gracefully right over Stan's face, casting an ironic shadow over Ren's own. "What the hell?" He exclaimed, immediately springing to investigate the misplaced controller. He looked at me, and then back again, and I knew that at this point he was well aware of what was going on. Whether or not he believed what his eyes were telling him, I can't be sure; it looked like a war between logic and fantasy was raging within him. For me, holding the controller there was equivalent to holding my arm in the air, except it was as if my shoulder muscle expended no energy. Which, it actually didn't, so one might assume that this state was indefinite if I chose so. Ren reached for the controller, paused for a moment, and proceeded in attempting to retrieve it. I immediately felt my link with it dissipate, as if he had yanked it out of my hand and my finger and arm muscles were too slow to resist or attempt to grab it back. Ren looked up at me, wide eyed with controller in hand, and I knew that there was a long night of explaining and practicing ahead of us.

Something very short I thought of. The two men had stopped fighting, as at this point, it was becoming nonsensical. They took a moment to regain their breath. Now they're staring at each other. The first man speaks. "No more fighting, we settle it a tie -- like a good chap would." The second man continues to stare at him in skepticism. The first man extends his arm. "Like a good chap." The second man finally warms to the gesture, he takes a pace towards him and firmly takes his hand. "Like a good chap." They shake hands. "Like a good chap." Shake. "Yes, like a good chap." The first man smiles. "Indeed, like a good chap." "Like a good chap, but of course." "Yes, indeed. -- a good chap." They continue to shake hands, until the first man plunges a knife into the eye of the other man. He dies briefly, and suddenly.

Zombow, the zombie Rambo, a story by me. Zombow the zombie rambo sat and thought about the mission he was about to embark on. Not only was he a zombie but also a martial arts expert and knew how to operate all weapons ever made. He was an expert in political intrigue and also infiltraiting heavily guarded compounds. He would need all of these skills if he was to accomplish his goals of the mission; namely to survive and get the mission accomplished for the people whom had hired him to do the mission. Zombow took a swig from his high alcoholic content beer and another bite from his huge sandwhitch. He would need these fortified meal components if he was to survive to accomplish the mission. He had some delicious sun chips and had a few of those too. He got up and turned his television off, which had been tuned to a really cool porno-action-adventure that had cost alot to rent. These were the only kinds of tv shows that Zombow could watch;everything else bored him to tears because he was so action oriented. Zombow put on his jacket with all of the cool adventure components that he would need for his adventure that day in it and set out out of his mansion that he had bought with payments from super secret government agencies for all of the missions he had accomplished. He climbed into his 2014 lamberghini with alot of spy gadgetry in it and took off out of the parking lot. Just then, a corrupt police official that had been trying to rein Zombow in appeared from behind a bush with a ak 47 rocket launcher! Zombow saw the official just in time though, with his enhanced zombie reflexes! He flipped a switch on his car, and a rocket shout out from his car and bashed into the corrupt official in record time! The corrupt official died instantly from the explosion and collapsed in a heap. It turns out, that was Zombow's mission and he was done now. He could return to his expensive mansion and resume watching the really cool porno tv show he had been watching: "mission accomplished!" He shouted as he pulled back into the parking lot. This was a favorite catch phrase of his.

“I hate you” remarked a smoldering blonde girl A man smirked while pumping warm milk from a packet into a periwinkle bottle. “You don’t know what hate is,” scolded the man. “Of course I know what it is, it’s what you feel for me.” “Why would you say that?” “Because I…I” she struggled to pronounce the words as if her own tongue was creating friction against her speech. “ Because I killed her” The man looked at her with a tone of seriousness and consolation, “ You know that wasn’t you, she was just— ” “— She was just what? Too weak? “No she wasn’t too weak, you were too strong—" “— So I did kill her” “YOU DIDN’T KILL HER,” snapped the man, “ You didn’t kill her…” The man looked at the warm milk in the periwinkle bottle, then looked across the kitchen table to a smiling newborn. The child looked at him with her stolen bright blue topaz eyes, , and laughed a most sinister laugh.

The sun rose over the red and white tents of the annual Blockley fair. Arthur had successfully lost his sisters back at the Hall of Mirrors and finally had his chance to be alone. He rolled his sleeves up and strode through the green; he could remember many visits to this fair when he was a child. For a brief second Arthur allowed himself to smile, that time was soon over and he continued his trek. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. It was always the furthest attraction from the entrance, six hundred and four paces from the helter skelter when the Bucking Bronco was not erected. Every year of his childhood he had walked this path and now it was time to walk it again. The caravan was small and stained with years of neglect and carelessness. Arthur fixed the remainder of his hair in the window and knocked on the door. As if he had been expected the door opened before he could finish his third knock and the man hurried inside. A match hissed as it was struck and soon the room was filled with crimson light. The scent of cinnamon and roses hit him harder than he remembered and he was instantly brought back to when he was a boy. Arthur felt a tang of disappointment. The old, gnarly woman from his memories had been replaced by a younger woman. A different woman. ‘Pick one of my cards.’ The woman spoke softly, her voice overshadowed by the clinking of the charms on her shawl. Arthur placed his finger on the back of one of several cards placed before him. He knew this would be the one. The woman stopped him from turning it over, she felt the cool of his palms. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘To be honest I was expecting someone else.’ Arthur did not want to look her in the eyes. Her stare pierced the veil covering her face and searched every inch of Arthur’s skin. His fist clenched involuntarily, startling himself. The woman handed him the card. ‘I see now what is going on inside your heart. You have a daughter and are sad about her. Is it boys? No. You had a daughter.’ Arthur turned the card over; he so desperately needed to know what it read yet he already knew. He placed the card upright on the shining, mahogany table. He winced as he saw the card, an ink road drawn over lined hills, connecting the bleached sun with the strong words ‘The Path’. ‘I see what happened. Tell me. What are you going to do about it?’ The woman’s voice hurt him more and more with every syllable. ‘I… I don’t know.’ Arthur spoke with a touch of defeat. The sun crawled into his eyes as he left the caravan, a welcome distraction. The wind must have displaced his hair so he corrected it before starting the long walk back. He did not know what he was going to do; he did not know he was even supposed to do a thing. The aroma of peanut brittle quickly reminded him where he was, nothing here was real. He meticulously followed his string to the start of the labyrinth, there was no Minotaur stalking him, not one that anyone could see. After six hundred and four paces he was back to the heart of the fair. He was promptly spotted by his sisters, carrying oversized bears and small bags of nuts. ‘Where have you been, Arthur? You went to see that fortune teller didn’t you? Don’t get too hung up on it. It’s not real; we saw her grabbing a hot dog earlier. There’s not much hair left for you to lose anyway!’ Arthur nodded as he followed the girls around the green. Every step was getting harder to take. He wondered what had happened since he was a child, why life was so different to live. Arthur thought to himself as he wandered down the path, he did not know.

I had never sat in a cafe and wrote before. It was a phenomenon of Portland and other easy going cities like it: young people, with nothing better to do, would just go to the local cafe and waste the day away at a computer (or typewriter, depending on how hip the cafe was). I had always enjoyed writing, but writer's block had always hit sooner or later, and not a single story was complete so far. So there I was, school had just finished and I felt aimless. I decided to go up to the corner cafe that just opened on my street. It was a cute little green building, hidden between two giant trees, leafless from winter. I stepped inside and instantly, the smell of warm coffee and sandwiches hit my nose. It was like a large living room, soft music was playing, there was a younger Asian guy reading on a green and yellow couch, and a young woman with an apron stood at a front desk. I examined the menu, chose some finger food, and set up my computer to write. Opening up the word program, I see the recent category, filled with the stories I've yet to finish. Looking at all this unfinished work, I promise myself that I will have made something by the end of the day. “I have to”, I tell myself, “I have to finish one damn story”. But what do I write about? That's the question I kept asking. Over and over and over, I could not think of one damn thing! I had never had this trouble with technical papers or papers for school, given a topic or general theme, I could do A work every time, but ask me to craft a story and I just can't. It's like my mind hits a brick wall, so much momentum but no progress. I looked for inspiration everywhere, and found none. How do I write about the guy walking his dog past the window I'm sitting at? What is funny or interesting about that? Nothing, that's what. So I sat there, eating the fries I ordered, trying to get past this mental wall. I put on my headphones, kicked on some MGMT, and thought. Time passed, I don't know how long, and I hadn't written a thing. I sat there defeated, the simple objective of writing a story had beat me. I started to gather my things to leave when I noticed something... odd. Everyone was gone. At first I thought that I was simply the last customer, so I packed everything up and went to walk out the door, but it was locked. I didn't remember seeing the waitress lock it, so was puzzling. I tried to undo the bolt, but it was stuck and didn't want to budge. I didn't want to break the lock, so I went to find the waitress, but she was nowhere to be found. In fact, nobody was here, I was the only person in the cafe. Not caring about a stupid lock anymore, I pushed the lock to the breaking point and it finally slid to the open position. I swung the door open.... but there was nothing there. No street, no houses, no trees, just a huge, blank space. I couldn't tell what was up or down, or how far the end was, I had to close the door to keep from throwing up. I was in shock, how could I be seeing everything normal through the window and then... nothing.... It's been a few days here, and I still don't know what happened. I can't leave, as the outside world only exists through these panes of glass now. Stepping out the front door puts me at the back door, and vice versa. I can't explain the physics, or what/who put me here, but I know it has something to do with my stories. I have this... I don't know how to explain it.... nagging sensation in the bag of my head. I feel compelled to finish the story I set out to write, 2 days ago, before this all started happening. I set my computer back up, opened up the file, and stared at the page. Before I had come to wherever “this” is, I had deleted everything I had wrote so far, so the page was blank. Once again I asked myself that question: What do I write about? I sat and thought about the past two days, all that had happened. It was crazy, like a horror story... story....the realization dawned on me like a sack of hammers, I should write about what had happened! It had everything that I needed for a story, rising action, falling action, plot twists! It just needed two things, an introduction and a conclusion. So I clicked on the word page, flexed my hands, and began to write. “I had never sat in a cafe and wrote before.

First story, I have always wanted to write short stories but never had the time to. I am not from an English speaking country so I have possible grammar mistakes. Have a nice time. This is a story on a man named Jeffery. Jeffrey isn't your typical hero, he isn't a super-sophisticated government spy nor a rebellious youth challenging corruption. He was always just Jeffery. I'm sure you all know a Jeffery, that quiet guy from around the block. You know who I'm talking about, that guy that lent you his DVD player last year and you still haven't bothered to return it to him. Jeffery woke up in a sperm-stained bed, cuddling a bloody bolo knife. Our sweet, kindhearted Jeffery awoke from his slumber just a few moments ago. He rose from his bed with a wide grin on his bloody face. Laughing his way to the bathroom, Jeffery couldn't help it but remember last night's events. Last night It was a gloomy winter night and the pale moonlight was nowhere to be found. Jeffery was seating on the edge of the bar in the local dance-hall, some local ceremony was going down; Jeffery wasn't particularly interested in the town's affairs and mainly kept to himself, He was just here to drink a pint, listen to the music and leave. Or at least he intended to. The band stopped. Everybody in the room turned their heads to the entrance of the dance-hall where mad John Finn and his brand new prize-wife stood in the entrance of the room. Jeffery caught himself staring in the big, luscious breasts of John Finn's brand new prize-wife. You see, John Finn was a very dangerous chap. Whispers ignited the dance-hall while the short and sleazy gangster with his head full of gel and a toothpick hanging from his mouth entered the room. Everybody stared and Everybody whispered. The dance-hall was silent that night. “What a douche bag” thought Jeffery. He examined John Finn's brand new prize-wife. Her hair was as black as the night and her legs were like a pair of scissors, Wearing the finest clothes, she was a queen among men. John Finn sat on the bar and ordered himself a pint, the bartender stopped everything he was doing and poured John a pint full of ice-cold beer. “Thank you, mate” John said, sipping his beer slowly. “How are you feeling tonight, Mr Finn?” the nervous, sweaty bartender asked. The bartender was interrupted as Jeffery arose from his seat and approached John Finn's brand new prize-wife. Everybody fell silently and watched nervously as Jeffery flirted with her. John Finn took another sip of his drink and sat silently, expecting Jeffery to stop. But Jeffery never stopped, instead he took her to the dance floor and danced with her, the furious John Finn smashed his fist on the counter, jumped from his stool and punched Jeffery straight in the nose. Jeffery fell on the dance floor, John Finn stood above him and spat on his face. John Finn punched his wife and yelled on her “how do you dare dance with this loser?” John Finn and his brand new prize-wife left the dance-hall. The bartender helped Jeffery back on his feet. With a broken nose and a massive grin covering his face, Jeffery ran to the door and stabbed John Finn in the back. Taking his life and taking his pride. Jeffery grinned and stood there beside John Finn's prize. And as they stood there, Flies swarming and feasting on John Finn's cadaver. John Finn's wife was stunned. She removed her wedding ring and threw it on the ground, making it a thing of the past. She fell to Jeffery's warm grace and they kissed beside the corpse of John Finn. Jeffery carried her home and well, let's just say that I cannot disclose the rest. 24 hours later Jeffery was in the bathroom, cleaning his bloody nose when he heard loud knocking on the door. “Open up, Jeffery, it's the police.” Jeffery opened the door and he was attested by the police. He went to his court hearing with a big grin on his face. Because he knew that he saved his queen from the mad John Finn. Jeffery was sentenced for a life sentence in prison. The rest is history.

In space. In the Jorn Galaxy. Is Harpa. An isolated. Brown planet. In the shape of a cone. • In a small. Empty. Saloon. That is dim. Fluorescent. And dirty. With damp. Moldy. Peeling walls. Is a POCKMARKED BARTENDER. He is 50. And white. And fat. With red hair. And red stubble. And has sweat. And grime. In the folds of his neck. He is wearing a brown vest. A black ripped T-shirt. That has red neck hair. Sticking out of it’s collar. Brown cargo pants. And hunter orange boots. POCKMARKED BARTENDER: (shitty) What do ya want? SADY: A blowjob. After a pause: POCKMARKED BARTENDER: Excuse me? SADY SALU. She is 29 (but looks 22). And black. Around her eyes is heavy. Neon pink eye shadow. Her hair is rainbow. And cut in a bob. On the right side of her neck. Is a tattoo of a cube. From her breasts. Up to her shoulders. And down to her shoulder blades. She is covered in smooth. Plastic. Nude-colored body armor. Underneath is a gray leotard. Around her waist. Is a white utility belt. With pouches. And a laser gun. That resembles a flashlight. On her feet. Are smooth. Plastic. Nude-colored boots. That match her upper body armor. Her right arm. From the elbow down. Is white. Sleek. And cybernetic. With a built-in computer console. SADY: It’s a drink. POCKMARKED BARTENDER: Never heard of it. SADY: How ‘bout Rude Boy Rim? You ever heard a him? POCKMARKED BARTENDER: No. SADY: You’re lying. He’s here. I know he’s here. I broke two arms and tore an ear to know he’s here. So have me ask you again. I fuckin’ dare you. POCKMARKED BARTENDER: Who the FUCK do you think you are? SADY: You know who I am. You know the cube. The Pockmarked Bartender. Glances at the tattoo of the cube. On the right side of Sady’s neck. His eyes. They reveal he recognizes it. Which gives him pause. But nevertheless: POCKMARKED BARTENDER: Go fuck your cunt. Sady smiles. SADY: You talk tall. But keep wastin’ my time and we’ll just see how intimidating your words sound with half a tongue. The Pockmarked Bartender. Intimidating. Stares Sady down. Sady counters. With a cold neutral stare. And over the course. Of the next minute. Sady. Sticks out her tongue. Makes sexual gestures with it. Makes a taco shell with it. Licks the side of her mouth with it. Puts her tongue. Back in her mouth. Winks. Burps. Makes beeping noises. Gestures: I love you. Kisses the air. And then. Returns. To the cold. Neutral stare. That morphs. Into intimidation. As her brown pupils. Dilate. And turn black. Haunted. And glassy. Five seconds pass. POCKMARKED BARTENDER: (mumbles quietly) Backroom. SADY: What?! You need to speak up yo! POCKMARKED BARTENDER: (louder through gritted teeth) Back. Room. SADY: Good boy. (pause) Now gimme a blowjob. • In a dark corridor. Sady. Holding out. Her cybernetic arm. Like a traffic cop. Saying stop. Is pointing. Her palm. At the walls. From the right cybernetic arm’s. Built-in computer console. Is a holographic projection. Of an infrared view. Of what is behind a door: Someone sitting at a table. Sady draws her laser gun. • In the room. Which is dark. Full of crates. And extra chairs. Sitting at the table. Is RUDE BOY RIM. He is 40. Bald. And white. As in the color. Not Caucasian. He has yellow. Bloodshot eyes. With white pupils. And no eyebrows. He is junkie thin. And shirtless. Revealing his chest. Is covered. With metallic silver tattoos. He is wearing. White shorts. White socks. And white sneakers. Miserable. Drunk. And droopy-eyed. He is staring. At a half empty liquor bottle. And a full shot glass. The door is kicked in. Rude Boy Rim does not flinch. Too out of it. He just stares. Sady enters the room. Flips the table. Up. Over. And out of the way. And points. Her laser gun. At Rude Boy Rim. Who still. Does not flinch. But instead just stares. Where the half empty liquor bottle. And full shot glass were. When the table was still there. SADY: Rude Boy Rim. For the collection and transportation of child sex slaves over three star systems: you’re wanted dead or alive. Take your pick. Rude Boy Rim does not reply. Or acknowledge Sady. In the slightest. Sady snaps her finger. In Rude Boy Rim’s face. Rude Boy Rim. Slowly. Looks up at Sady. With his mouth agape. RUDE BOY RIM: … uh… Aliv— BLAST! Sady presses the trigger. On her laser gun. And a flaming. Electrical laser ball. Shoots out. And cuts into. Rude Boy Rim’s chest. And blows out. Through his back. SADY: I’m sorry what? Rube Boy Rim. Dead. Still sitting in his chair. With his head leaning back. And his tongue. Sticking out of his mouth. Sady. With her left hand. Opens Rude Boy Rim’s Right eye lid. And holds out her palm. Of her cybernetic arm. To scan the pupil. From the cybernetic arm’s. Built-in computer console: A cash register noise sounds. As a holographic projection. Pops up. That reads: $30,000 That reads: Great job! That reads: Would you like another? That reads: Yes or No Sady presses: Yes.

T(A)GG(E)RS; A LOVE STORY Here we find Blossom, or at least that’s the name that takes credit for all those ideas you see spray painted on roofs and on overpasses. I always thought Blossom was cool, like the person chose that name cause the ideas they painted illegally on the wall were new and beautiful like when a flower blossoms.This spot must have been scouted for weeks. It was the top of an old warehouse. I think a company stores uniforms there, but who knows how old that sign is. Anyway this was the tallest building in that part of town, And that sign I mentioned was like an old billboard that was at the top, so the back of it faced the raised train tracks, Blank, nothing but plywood painted black, well people like Blossom see shit like that, and they just hafta’ make it less boring. So to get here one must run down the elevated tracks till they’re parallel with the roof, jump over the third rail, jump the gap between the tracks and the roof, and oh, yeah not get hit by a train in the processes. And so well that’s what gets us here. I can only imagine it went something like this, cause I think we all appreciate the adj. allegedly. Blossom crouches behind the sign, the next train rolling by here won’t be until 420am its 337am right now, and the last train just left the station at 335am, more than an ample amount of time to ‘get it up’ as it’s sometimes called. Blossom opens an old black jansport backpack, and you hear that unique sound of the spray paint cans clack together. Blossom throws up the trademarked flower, that adorns all the spray painted epigraphs that adorn the walls of public property on your morning commute. As the last line of the outline that shapes the flower is painted at four am, perfect timing, a thud on the roof comes from behind. Blossom spins around,having and fearing, visions of handcuffs and batman unmasked, see’s the interloper. The Interoper, is kinda short, maybe at most 5’8-5’9. They have a bowling bag in their right hand. Not much more can be made out in the darkness of the rooftop, cept that the bandanna round the interlopers face is red, and they are dressed in all black. It’s just then, that they both find themselves in a place ,that both thought they’d never see another person. And just then, from the left side of the sign a small spot light shined at an angle slightly over their heads. And within seconds they hear a baby blue soldier say over some kinda’ P.A. “ATTENTION,WHOEVER IS UP THERE, COME DOWN WITH YOUR HANDS PLACED ON YOUR HEAD”. At that moment the interloper in a boy’s voice says ‘Cem’ on! follow me’. See when you live this life that this kinda thing is part of, you realize sometimes you just gotta act before you can ask questions. The interloper runs to the right back corner of the roof, Blossom goes to follow. It’s just then he, the interloper, jumps up on the edge of the roof, and for fucking real, just... just.. jumps off. Blossom hits the edge of the roof and looks over. He’s standing there about four feet down, on the roof of an enclosed fire escape. He looks up “Fucking! COME THE FUCK ON”. Blossom jumps down, and before she hits the roof of the fire escape, He is already running down the roof over the stairs, The acute angle of the roof makes him look like an anime character making his escape. Blossom copies, As he sets the example and jumps off the end of the fire escape, 7ft drop, tucks and rolls, Blossom does the same, ‘Damn does the concrete sting as it hits your shoulder hits it’ Blossom midway through standing up after that hit, Sees him standing fully erect (LoL) ‘This way’ he says in almost a whisper. Blossom follows, its down a dark alleyway He stops next to a dumpster, He removes his mask, his bowling bag, and hoody. Blossom reaches the dumpster, he has kept walking down the alley. His hair is blonde, and short, he’s white, and the back of his white T shirt say’s misfits. Blossom does the same, As he reaches the end of the alley he turns, he’s too far away to really make out his face, But in a kinda voice that carries, but still sounds soft like a whisper, says “yo, follow me”. Simple math will tell you your odds are better following him then going back. They ,with Blossom always about 5 steps behind, come to a door. Its the shady back door of a local bar. The guy opens the door and he walks in, Blossom stops, and the guy looks at her and waves her in. Blossom walks up to the man at the door and he says ‘ There’s a beer at the bar for you, go drink it, and see if you can find him.” Blossom walks up, grabs a miller light, and walks by all the tables. There at the end sits him, in a misfits shirt, that the background is white.

To Whom It May Concern, I find it funny how those things that we despise the most often find a way of entering our lives. Like the homophobic man that fathers a gay son or the racist white parents with a child that dates a black person. It’s these personal experiences that either change a previously held opinion or further cement the existing points of view and such challenges to our values and beliefs are an inevitable part of life. They allow an opportunity to change or to remain static. Other times the challenges to our values and beliefs come not from the outside world but rather as result of our own actions. When our conduct fails to meet the standards that we set for ourselves, it often results in a crisis of character. The consequences of such a crisis are much more volatile, either acting as a transformative moment that can help us on the path of achieving our idealized self, or as a point of consternation in which we realize that we are that which we despise. I find myself to be experiencing the latter. As a child growing up around a father with an extremely short temper, I always swore to myself that I would never become that man. Overall my father was a great person, a man who placed his family above all else and did whatever he could to insure our happiness. Despite this, the one trait I will always remember him for will be his incessant anger. My father would get angry at the drop of a dime. Whether it was because he was too tired to talk or because he didn’t enjoy the subject matter or perhaps the tone you used, he always had an excuse for his anger. But it wasn’t just his short temper but also how angry he got. The way he would yell, the ferocity of his voice, it was terrifying as a child. As I grow older I found it to be embarrassing and sad, the inability of a grown man to have a conversation without resorting to anger. I swore that that would never be me. I failed. I see more and more of my father’s negative traits in myself everyday and I loathe this more than anything. Thankful my temper is not nearly as short but once it is lost, I lose control over the words that spill out of my mouth. Often times even I can’t believe the things I’m saying. The embarrassments I’ve cause me and my family as a result is what I consider to be amongst my greatest failures. My father and mother had an unhappy marriage. My father was deeply in love and completely devoted to my mother. She was his reason for existence, what drove him. My mother on the other hand detested my father and held him in great disdain. You could never tell looking from the outside in but it was a fact that became more and more apparent as I grew older. She never loved him before their marriage and grew to hate him more the longer they were married. She hated his anger, his demeanor, and overall considered him low class. She always said she wished she could love him because he was a good man, but those feelings never materialized. My father knew how my mother felt but he never let her leave. If he had truly loved her he would have let her leave, allowed her some chance at having a happy life. But his love was an illusion. My father did not love my mother. How can any man truly love a woman that won’t reciprocate the same degree of love you show them? My father was dependent on my mother. I always knew that she was his purpose, what gave his life meaning, and the reason he worked so hard to be successful. He proved me right six months after my mother left, when they found him hanging from a willow tree in the park that they used to take their evening strolls. I promised that his fate would not be mine But regrettably, here too, I have followed my father’s footsteps. I fell in love with the most amazing women. How unfortunate that she did not fall in love with me. She was tall, with long brown silky hair, and these irresistibly plump lips that you couldn’t help but want to kiss. Her skin varied from pale to tan depending on the season but her eyes were always the most striking shade of light blue. She was incredibly intelligent and the curves of her body excited me more than any women before or since. I did what every man in love does; I did everything I could to make her happy. I treated her like a queen, showered her in gifts, and did my best to ensure that she was without want. In doing so I followed my father’s steps exactly. I fell deeply in love with a woman that loved me but not nearly to the same degree. Eventually her love waded and she left me for another. I was crushed and I’ve been lost ever since. I have become everything I despised, everything I swore to myself I wouldn’t. But as I sit and finish this letter beneath the willow tree, I can’t help but realize that I truly am my father’s son.

Joe sifted through the pigshit of what the "homed" deemed commerce. That's what he liked to call society’s favorites. The homed. He used it both in jest and in anger. No ranting at that moment, though; just a homeless Joe searching through trash for the gold of fools. It was a light day at the strip mall. He didn’t mind rooting around in dumpsters. There were interesting things to find every day. However, he did mind being seen doing it so he was grateful for the smaller crowd. The winter sun casted long shadows on the alleyway. The midday air was cool but didn't chill. Every breeze took some of Joe’s sweat with it. Foraging was never easy, but it was always cheap. Joe liked cheap, obviously. The backpack he carried was his. It always had been; a lingering artifact of his former life. It was capacious enough to pack up everything he needed to vanish. However, he preferred to roam the streets with his backpack empty. He never knew what rewards he would find from a day’s work done well. A permanent resident of his loot sack was a small bottle of lemon juice. He loved finding lemon juice. It flavored the harsh city water. He used it when he rinsed his hands and dishes. "Good stuff, that." he'd always say. His clothes were never an outfit as he was always wearing some new garbage. Earlier that week he found a kilt. A long kilt that ran to his shins. It wasn't plaid though. It was a charcoal denim. The left back pocket was missing with just an outline of the tailor's handiwork remaining. The wide and spacious front two pockets were useful. On each side of the the outer thighs were zippered storage pockets. In the left pocket is his phone, protected from the elements and turned off to conserve battery. He didn't like that it was a kilt. but it was very functional. He wondered if there were cargo kilts. If there were, these would be them. He decided to keep the kilt after suffering through some awful skinny jeans. The hunt was on for a shirt. Joe's current shirt was a pale yellow when he found it; a nice button-down long sleeve. It had no buttons which he assumed was the reason for it being discarded. After some of his patented Joe-ing, the shirt had new buttons and he called it his own. It had become less pale over time. The streets had not been kind to it. The tank undershirt he wore beneath the long sleeve was fresh. Brand new. The bin behind the clothing store bore some fruit earlier that day. There was a short razor cut through the whole package of three. Joe swiped them since they were still plenty useful, he figured, and served to shield his torso from the aging yellow long-sleeve. His pride and joy was his pair of army boots. There was nothing special about them, really. They just fit perfectly. He found them at a car accident. They looked almost brand new when he took them from the college kid driver. He figured the kid wouldn't need them anymore anyway. Once he rinsed off the blood in a gas station bathroom, they were his. They'd seen about two years of sun damage since then. The worn creases in the black leather have a bit of crumble to them having battled everything from rain to the police. Whenever Joe was nervous he liked to adjust his beanie. He would palm the front and back with each hand and tweak it so it rested a new way on his head. This didn't actually make it more comfortable--just different. It was Joe’s way of telling the world that something has changed and he’s not sure what to do. The beanie was an overcast grey, made of wool. Not handmade, mind you. A real store-bought one long since forgotten by the original owner. Joe liked it for the embroidered “Run Like Hell” on the front and small Sony PlayStation logo stamped on the back. He abandoned rummaging through the boxes and crates sitting outside the blue dumpster. It was his tradition to crack the seal on the dumpster last after making sure there was nothing else outside worth claiming. This accomplished two things. It kept inside anything foul that could be released. It also saved for last anything that might be best. The gardening gloves he kept in the right zippered pocket on his kilt proved useful once again. With a gloved hand, he lifted one the two hinged black lids. The weight always surprised him. Joe’s grip fumbled and the lid slammed shut again. The air of the dumpster rushed past Joe’s face. His face turned sour. This wine was definitely corked. Whenever there was a smell like that in an otherwise clean dumpster, it was never anything good. Joe waved a glove in front of his face to reset his concentration and questioned opening it up again. Curiosity won. He adjusted his beanie and held a deep breath. A heave swung the lid all the way over. It came to rest against the back of the dumpster. It was a thunk that stunk. He moaned an, “Ugh, goddammit!” as he put a glove over his face to shield it from the debris. The other glove waved particulates away. He recognized the smell of life after the fire had burned out. Joe’s life was digging through the waste of the world. It was inevitable he would happen upon the wasted from time to time. Joe didn't need to look in but he did anyway. The legs were clearly visible. Trousers. Maybe slacks. Joe didn't really know the difference. Men’s pants, for sure. They would have been blue, probably, a light blue, but had become red. There were only a few bits of the original white of the socks left. No shoes. Taken, he presumed. The socks were not torn but they weren't worth it either. He had good socks already. No sense taking bloody ones. A holster for something with more bulk than a gun, possibly a walkie talkie, hung empty up by the belt. The barks of a distant dog reminded him to be hasty. A glance at the back pants’ pockets showed no signs of a wallet. Joe lamented the bloody mess. Such a shame to let decent pants go to waste. The rest of the body looked buried under a few layers of flattened cardboard box. Time’s up, he decided. He pocketed the gloves again after closing the the unfortunate man’s coffin. A squirt of lemon juice and some spit refreshed his hands. Glen answered the back door when Joe knocked. Glen owned a post office. Well, not a real post office. It was an extension of the United States Postal Service, garage-type thing. One wall had 25 P.O. Boxes. Only 18 were subscribed to. Joe’s box 19. It used to be 13, but it moved up every time Glen got a new subscriber. The wall across had shipping supplies. Days at the post office were often as slow as the mail. Glen named the business The Mailbox King and he lived upstairs with his wife, Win. Glen always joked that he, “Won Win over.” Joe would give a polite chuckle at that even though it had lost its luster over the years. He had a system of trade with the family. Every once in a while Joe would need a shower, and maybe a meal. Every once in a while The Mailbox King needed some fixing. Joe happened to be handy; a real around-the-house type. The shop got serviced and Joe got to rinse and eat. Sometimes the food smelled worse than he did but he hadn’t died yet. Any food not rotting was worth not complaining about when hunger turned desperate. Joe never asked about doing laundry in their home. He wouldn’t want them to be mixing their clothing with the streets. He preferred to use a coin-op. People always had spare change at the Laundry Queen. Glen once told Joe that, “Back in my home, Hong Kong, I have awful chinese accent too. My chinese, worse than...than english. I suck two time!” Joe knew he would like Glen after hearing that. “You smerr rike remon,” Glen mocked. “Remon juice!” Joe corrected with a grin. The two grabbed a hug and Glen invited him in. They enjoyed indulging in exaggeration from time to time. “You know, you’re the only Asian Glen I’ve ever heard of,” Joe confessed. Glen’s face smeared with disbelief. “No way. There are ton of us. Mostly vietnamese though. You think of black. You ever see black Glen? No. No black Glen...” Joe cracked a tight laugh. He admired clever devils. He held up his mailbox key asking, “You mind?” and pointed to P.O. boxes on the public side of the counter. Joe preferred to pick up his mail after closing time so he didn’t have to see anyone who might know him from his homed life. Glen waved Joe through after lifting the hinged bit of countertop. A twist of the key and a hollow metal clank later, Joe had an envelope in his hand. “Pre-approved again!” Joe laughed. He tossed it to Glen who passed it to the shredder. An awkward silence passed as the shredder went back to sleep. Joe lowered his smile, fading the wrinkles in his face. He gave words to the silence. “Phone?” he asked. Glen slid him the cordless. The dispatcher introduced herself as Candy but she was far from sweet. She met the news of a body in a dumpster with boredom. Joe gathered that it was probably not her first dumpster body. There were a lot of dumpsters in the city; a lot of people too. Glen’s face showed a quiet panic as Joe hung up the phone. “No worries, they’re coming,” he assured. “Not worry,” defended Glen, “I just not use to it.” Joe wet a small section of his undershirt with lemon juice then wiped the phone down before sliding it back across the counter. Glen nodded at the kind gesture before returning to concern. “You should warn next time. Crazy. I thought you were call about your parents or something. Not dead…” Glen paused, searching for wandering ears, then whispered, “…not dead body! Nearly give me heart attack. From now on, bad news first. Okay? God, you lucky Win not here. She kill you.” “True words, Glen. Too true. You have my apologies. Bad news first.” Joe conceded. He filed that notion away for another time. “A good one to keep handy,” he thought. Glen closed with, “And you dress look ridiculous.” Joe laughed again. Looking down at his feet he supposed it did look a bit absurd. Joe flicked his lighter to a second cigarette. He thought a fresh murder would hasten the police. Cigarette lit, he played with the lighter. He loved his lighter. It was likely the only shiny thing he owned. He used to have a lot of shiny things. Of the things he kept, the lighter was the only thing he kept shiny. The novelty of it endeared it to him. It was shaped like a tubular cigar cutter with a hole in the middle. One end contained a cap, which would open to accept lighter fluid into the reservoir. The cap was engraved with the words NIMROD PIPELIGHTER. He didn’t know how old it was. Paps had it maybe 10 years before it was passed to Joe. Using it reminded him to try it on a pipe some time, like Paps did. Paps didn’t leave him any spare parts, though, hence the shine. He kept it protected in a small flashlight holster. He sat patiently on the front steps of The Mailbox King. He appreciated the shop’s name. Glen’s last name was Qin, which sounds like King with a muffled ‘G’. This also meant that Win’s last name sounded like King. Joe never tired of that. He played at disappointment in his parents for not naming him something more amusing than Joseph. Joseph Turner. No fun could be had with that. He supposed he could marry a fancy lass named Burger. He figured a Burger would not find him appetizing. “No fun,” he thought, but laughed. Joe would have waved a greeting to the guy across the street, but the guy wasn’t there that day. The guy was usually there selling newspapers. The older gentleman, early 70s, left newspaper by the front door of The Mailbox King. Joe would have been able to read instead of burning through cigarettes like fireworks. The guy started strong a few years ago but of late the oldest newsie was showing up less frequently. Still a fighter though. A man born fighting death to the bitter bareknuckle end. Joe decided to wave anyway. With a wave to no one, he thought, “Where do you go, old man?” to the tune of No Mercy’s hit single. The lemonade Glen made was tasty but it hurt his teeth. There was mostly just ice left. He sprinkled lemon juice on the ice and put a few of the crushed chunks in his mouth to melt. He missed being able to crunch ice in his mouth. These days he had to take extra care of his teeth. The cigarettes didn’t help. It was not typical for him smoke in front of Glen’s place. Out of respect, he usually sat on the steps behind the building. But Candy told him to wait out front. So there he sat, lest she be soured. He wondered what she looked like. She sounded pretty enough. Probably around his age. A couple kids, too. Or, at least one. He didn’t remember hearing any playing with or tinking of rings while she typed his statement. But he did remember how bored she sounded. That was a boredom born of routine. His interest faded. Just in time, too. He fired up a third cigarette. [sub]more later.. Joe recognized that distinct squeal of the police cruiser’s brakes. All the cruisers had it. Even the unmarked ones, like the only that pulled up. He liked to joke that it was the only thing TV got right about cop cars. Usually he’d get anxious when he heard that familiar slicing sound. Instead he was relieved. “Finally, Officer Slowbags,” he thought. He displayed his cigarette for the officer as she walked towards him. With a smirk he teased, “Took you three of these to get here!” He dropped the last of his cigarette into the plastic lemonade cup and let it grill on the ice. The sizzle amused him. When she asked, “You Joe?” he looked at her badge. Numbers. Joe didn’t like cops. He believed they too often punished the good for the evil things wicked people did. The bad cops, anyway. They tarnished the brass. He knew some of the good ones. Two, to be exact. They believed as he did. “Yeah, but you don’t have to call me anything,” he replied. “I’m Detective Kate Benjamin,” she said. He nudged his cup into a trash can and jumped down the three steps. Upon landing he made sure to note that it was a dumb idea. ^more ^later...

Man, I was so hungry. I arrived at the restaurant with my friends and we all ordered our favorite dish. I felt my stomach howling at me as I was going through the menu. It took me quite some time to figure out which meal I wanted to eat, but when my eyes crossed that word in the menu, I just knew I had to have it. We all sat, waiting patiently for our foods to arrive after ordering. The anticipation was just killing me, especially when I watched the people around me eat their foods and talk about their lives as if there were no worry in the world. After listening to my friends go on and on about a few subjects of life, the waiters finally arrived with the entrée meal. As soon as it hit the mat in front of me, I just stuffed my face right in. It seemed as though there was no tomorrow. As though I hadn't eaten for a week and this was the only time I had to eat. I even asked my friends if I could have theirs as they didn't seem so interested in eating their own. I ended up eating all of their entrées, including mine. Boy, was I hungry. Finally, the waiters arrived a few minutes later and had the real meal in their hands. I had completely forgotten about it. I looked at my friends as they started to eat their foods with such ease and eagerness. I looked back at my own plate and barely had the desire to even taste it. I left the plate as is on the table, and eventually, my friend asked me if I was going to eat it. I told him that I wasn't, and handed it to him. I left the restaurant after paying the waiter and thought back. I just paid 20$ to eat 5 salad bowls.

"Where is your science now?" Asked Jesus as he began thrusting is rock hard cock into newtons chest. Newton started screaming as Jesus's magic cock pierced through his chest plate and began boring into his heart. There was flash of blue light as Jesus's cock made contact with Newton's old pacemaker. The shock from pacemaker traveled through Jesus's penis up to his head causing it to heat up and glow. "Right there mother fucker" growled Newton NOOOO! This isn't possible!" Yelled Jesus as his hair and beard burst into flame and his brain and flesh quickly melted into a goopy thick puddle. Newton pushed Jesus's deformed corpse off him. He then pulled a syringe out of the med pack attached to his leg and injected is contents directly into his heart through the hole Jesus's cock made. He pulled his gps tracker from his pocket and activated it. Newton laid back trying to remain comfortable while the rapid cell division from the healing serum was taking place. With in a couple minutes his body was healed, he closed his eyes finally allowing himself to succumb to the exhaustion from the whole ordeal. "Merry fucking Christmas" he mumbled as the darkness over took him.

I was sitting in a park. I was feeling overwhelmed because, when I was a young child, I spent the most beautiful days of my youth in there. What made it even more overwhelming though, was her. I've never seen her before in this area, yet she was there. I've been meaning to talk to her for quite some time but I've been constantly dismissing that fact and have been ignoring my desires. She was sitting alone on a bench, and I managed to muster up the courage to go talk to her. It didn't turn out as much as I expected it to be (which was a full out exclamation of love and then end up giving her a kiss). What actually happened was something more along the lines of me saying "Hi" and not saying much after. She seemed pleased by it, though. It's quite funny because after saying "Hi", I sat besides her and we just sat there. Nobody said a word, but I felt like we were enjoying each others company. After some time, she got up and started walking. I wasn't sure if I was meant to follow her, but after seeing her wait for a few minutes ahead of me, I saw that as a sign to follow her. I started to walk besides her and she led us to her apartment. As she was entering the key to the door of her apartment, she telling me about her life. I listened and nodded to what she was saying to me. I didn't quite understand her so much, though. I always thought she had a boyfriend and a family, but when I looked into her apartment, she was alone. It was just her and her apartment. I still couldn't contain the enjoyment I had just being there with her. I had wanted to talk to her for so long now. Eventually, I got up and told her I had to go outside for a few. She didn't say a word to acknowledge what I had told her but I left anyway. I started walking back the same path where I had talked to her, at the park. I was so happy, thinking back how good fate has done me to pair me up with her. I then heard a car appear to my right. I tried zooming in to see who it was but it was so hard to see. I started to walk closer to it, and noticed how it was her. I saw her lean her head against the steering wheel for a couple of seconds, and she then put the car at full throttle. I ran towards the car as it was going ahead and was screaming for her to stop. When I was aligned to the car and able to see the path she was going to, it was clear what she wanted to do. The paramedics arrived shortly after and got her body out of the car. It seemed like she just wasn't going to get out of this. I couldn't even tell her...

Wake up 6:00 AM. The alarm is ringing again. You don’t want to get up, in fact every inch of you wants to block it out, to go back to the warm nothingness of sleep but that’s just not an option today. You blindly paw at the alarm feeling for the Snooze button. Just five more minutes but the button is flush with the clock and impossible to find by feel alone so you get up. The warm water drums on your head blotting out the sounds of traffic from outside the bathroom window; its peaceful here but it also cannot last. Traffic is bad as it always is but today the sky is as gray as concrete; it’s going to rain most likely. You watch the idling truck next to you as it spews out exhaust, making the sky just a little more dingy. On a different day you might open your windows and let the outside world in but not today, best to keep the concrete and the diesel and the haze where they are. Finally you reach your office. Only an elevator ride to go. Fortunately your desk is on the 33rd floor; a little more time for yourself. The elevator arrives and opens with a chime. Empty? Finally some luck. The button labeled 33 lights up with a milky glow and the doors close with a chime. As you feel the pull of inertia, your tiredness returns. Eyes half closed you lean back against the wall, hands gripping the cold stainless steel railing. Looking up at the fluorescent lights makes you nauseous so you close your eyes completely. A buzzing in your pocket. 20th floor and still no other passengers. Again buzzing. It’s an unidentified caller. Who would be calling and why? A text you can ignore, an email too, but a call? You accept the call, “Hello?” Static then, “Ellipses 235, Ellipsis 235, you are go”. “Excuse me, who is this? I think you have the wrong number.” “Ellipses 235, we are a go; Dragon Slayer is operational, Excalibur, I repeat Excalibur, time to wake up, 235”. Your hands begin to move by themselves, without thought you kneel and open your briefcase. Pushing aside your papers, you open the hidden compartment and remove the 9mm handgun inside. 35th floor, 36th. After attaching the silencer you bring the phone back to your ear, “Ellipses 235, Ellipses 235, do you copy?” “Copy command, on route to objective”, the words are coming out of your mouth but they’re not your words. “Neutralize the hostiles and complete the primary objective.” 47th floor 48th. This is impossible, this can’t be happening, I need to wake up! 50th floor. The elevator doors open with a chime and you step out into the lobby. Instead of a secretary, a bald man with a thick neck and a black suit is sitting behind the desk. Time moves slowly, you take in everything. You see the cord on his earpiece stretch as he turns his head to look at you, you see his eyes fix themselves on the gun in your hand. For a fraction of a second they are expressionless then they open wide, pupils dilating. He reaches under the table but you raise your hand and fire. Too slow. The alarm goes off. Undeterred you move forward walking past the desk and down a long hallway. There are more guards now all with black suites and ear pieces, some with pistols, some with submachine guns. They come from every direction but you are faster, you seem to lock onto your targets one by one. What’s going on? How can this be happening? Three then four, you’re unstoppable. You turn the corner and there he is, Long Chen, Mr. Red. Unfortunately there are also five guards along with him. You fall to the floor, the ringing of the firing squad echoing in your ears and everything fades out. Mission Failed. The elevator arrives and opens with a chime. Empty? Finally some luck. The button labeled 33 lights up with a milky glow and the doors close with a chime. You need to be faster this time. 5th floor, 6th. Be ready to fire the second the doors open. 11th floor, 12th. You don’t have time to take in the cinematics, just go, you have a silencer for a reason. 20th floor, a buzzing in your pocket, you can’t ignore it. “Ellipses 235, Ellipsis 235, you are go”. “Excuse me, who is this? I think you have the wrong number.” “Ellipses 235, we are a go; Dragon Slayer is operational, Excalibur, I repeat Excalibur, time to wake up 235”. Your hands begin to move by themselves, 35th floor, and 36th. After attaching the silencer you bring the phone back to your ear, “Ellipses 235, Ellipses 235, do you copy?” “Copy command, on route to objective.” “Neutralize the hostiles and complete the primary objective”, 47th, 48th, 49th, “Anthony, ANTHONY”, 50th. The elevator doors open with a chime and you raise your gun and fire, no alarm this time. You step through the elevator doors slowly scanning the room. One by one you pick off the guards careful to count each; one, two, three, four. You come to the corner but this time you know better, peeking around you see Long behind his desk, the other guards oblivious to your presence. A buzzing from your pocket. What? No not now. “Anthony, Anthony!” Light, dimmer but warmer than the light in the lobby, you take off your head set and look around your room with a sense of unreality. “Anthony, come down for dinner!” “Ok, I’m coming” you clear a space on your bed brushing aside the discarded candy wrappers and food containers. You jump to your feet, your legs feel strange supporting your weight after a day spent in bed. You bound down the stairs, the old wood protesting each landing. Downstairs the debris of Christmas morning still lies scattered around the house in an almost melancholy way. Everyone is waiting at the table. Your mother looks upset, “Anthony why are you still in Pajamas? Did you spend the whole day in bed?” “Uh huh, I was playing my new game”. “All day? Anthony, Santa didn’t bring you that game so you could hide from your family on Christmas. Maybe we need to set some rules?” “But I wanted it like forever and you promised.” “I know but you’re really not old enough for an M game anyway and it’s not good for you to sit around all day.” “That’s not fair you promised!” “Come on Liz, its Christmas, kids always overdo it, don’t you remember what it was like? I remember when I got an Xbox I didn’t leave my house for a week.” “This is different though. We need to set ground rules so he doesn’t get addicted.” The stress of the mission compounded with this insult was too much. “But you promised!” “Anthony don’t yell at the table.” Defiantly you slam your hands on the table, “This isn’t fair; I didn’t even get through level 1!” You sulk in your room; no more chocolate, no more games, no more Christmas. Then comes a knock on the door, “Anthony it’s me sweet heart.” You pull the covers over your head, “go away”. “Anthony I’m sorry I got mad but you can’t behave like that.” The door opens a crack, “Are you ok? I brought you your dinner.” You lie as still as physically possible, it’s your only defense. “We shouldn’t be fighting on Christmas, families are supposed to be together on Christmas” she walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. “Baby I know right now the most important part of Christmas is the gifts and taking away a gift on Christmas might seem cruel but you need to understand it’s for your own good.” In your head you laugh but still you don’t dare show weakness. “It’s about the memories you make with the people you love, in the end that’s all that really matters.” Through the cloth of your blanket you feel a kiss on your head and as the door closes you hear, “Merry Christmas, Anthony. We love you.” You are awoken by the sound of beeping but something is different this time. “Anthony is everything all right?” “Mom is that you, Mom?” You pull off the covers. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lights, even when you do they make you feel nauseous. “Mom?” As your eyes adjust to the room you see a pair of bright orbs coming closer and closer. “Anthony, your heart rate is elevated. Anthony, may I be of assistance?” “Who are you, wah, where am I?” “You are home Anthony but your heartbeat is irregular. I have signaled for assistance. Please remain calm; help will be here shortly.” As the orbs draw closer you begin to see they are circles of light on a screen, every few seconds they shift to to crescents then back to circles. They’re blinking, they’re eyes. The auto nurse glides toward you, its wide base moving silently over the white tiled floor. “Anthony, our sensors indicate you were in REM sleep, please remain calm as assistance is on its way.” “My chest hurts, I can’t feel my arm, what’s happening? “ “Based on your symptoms you may be having a Myocardial infarction, Anthony.” The auto nurse paused for a second, “Assistance received. You are to be transferred to surgery.” The auto nurse unfurls its long coiled arms; like the trunk of a white elephant with three fingers on the end of each. The auto nurse produces a syringe and injects it into your IV bag. Looking down you see the needle in the vein of your aged wrinkled hands. “Anthony please remain calm as you are transferred to surgery.” Grasping the foot of the bed with its appendages, the auto nurse begins to glide through the curtain surrounding the bed and pulling you along with it. The injection begins to take effect almost immediately. You see rows of dark empty hospital beds; only the light above your curtain is still lit. The world blinks in and out of existence. When you can see, all you can see is the fluorescent light above you and still it makes you feel...

There was this unhappy man I once knew. I remember him sitting around the corner every day. It was his usual spot where he would spend his time looking at the people walk by. There was also this other woman who came to see him almost every single day. I think they had this kind of love-hate relationship. Something more like she loved him and he hated her. Or something like that. She would come up to him and give him objects that she felt were meaningful. She always looked so happy when she gave things to him. But most of the time, when she would leave, the old man would take whatever she had given to him and throw it across the alley. He viewed whatever "meaningful object" she gave him as waste to this earth. He never wanted any of it. One day, the woman came to see the man with a flower in her hand. The man looked at the object and he didn't even reach out with his hand to grab it. He looked at it and totally unacknowledged it. The woman gently placed it on his lap and left. When she was gone, the man grabbed the flower and started to laugh. He shook his head as he threw the flower down the alley without a single second thought. It had been quite a few days since the lady had given the flower. Yet, ever since, she has never come back to see the man. It took him quite some time to realize that she just really wasn't coming back. He started to feel lonely, as though the mere company of her was enough to make him feel loved. He thought that if she was to come back, he wanted to surprise her by showing her all of what she had given to him since the first day they had met. He went around the town to find a cardboard box to fit the mass of objects she's given to him. Once he had the cardboard in hand, he went down the alleyway where he had thrown everything out, but was left with nothing else but a petal to the flower she once gave him. Everything else must've been robbed, but atleast there was still the petal. He tried to carefully pick it up, but as his cold hands laid on it, it crushed into a few pieces and was blown off with the wind. I've never seen the man sitting on that corner ever since.

The creature descended from the clouds, looking like a bronze-skinned, winged man. It landed crouched on the ground in front of us and went perfectly still, like a statue. One of the farmers approached it and touched it. Nothing. More moved forward, emboldened by his actions. Soon we had forgotten about it. A curiosity, yes, but a curiosity that was now little more than an odd statue. We went back to our work within the hour. Maybe a day later, Knight-Errant Wastrim from the city arrived and on his route approached the creature. We told him what little we knew and, looking troubled, mentioned that we should stay far away from it. He would cart it back to the nearest church that night. That night, as Wastrim and his Mindless tried to hoist the creature onto the cart, it awoke. It stood straight, a good foot taller than Wastrim who was already taller than any of us in the village. It's eyes were aglow and it stared at each of us stood there in turn. None of us could move. It felt like I had a hand gripping my heart and my nose began to run and clog. I could taste metal. It spoke. "Pathetic." And then the façade fell. Instead of a man there now stood what could only be a demon. Its wings were skeletal. Its hands aflame. Skin dripping off of exposed muscles and sizzling as it hit the dirt. Two large horns broke through its skull. It turned to Wastrim. Wastrim acted first and now that I think about it probably saved us all. He broke from whatever spell held us and in a flash drew his sword and shield. Blade met flesh and cut clean through. The creature laughed. The creature repeated its previous statement and swung a suddenly clawed hand at Wastrim, who dodged deftly and slammed forward with his shield. The beast grunted and swung again. Once again Wastrim dodged and bashed. The next swing didn't miss. The creature clubbed Wastrim across the head with its arm, knocking him to the ground with a cry, more of frustration than pain. The creature stabbed down with its claws and punched clean through Wastrim's armour. Wastrim cried out again and fell limp. As the creature stood up, arm dripping with blood, we all broke from the spell. Most of us screamed and ran and I wish I had joined them in that crushing sea of people. The creature clutched its chest, blood suddenly pouring from the wound poor Wastrim had inflicted. It roared like an animal—I remember seeing that its horns were actually teeth—and I watched with horror as its wings cracked and crunched and folded into the creatures back as its teeth elongated until its mouth couldn't close. It ate Wastrim. I couldn't move, I couldn't look away. When it was finished with its meal, its wings sprouted from its back again and the façade returned. It grinned at me even as it licked blood from its lips and dove into the sky. I collapsed to the ground. I don't know when I finally looked around me. All that was left of Wastrim was his equipment and his head. I remember feeling like his eyes were burning into me. In an odd moment I realised I was very thirsty, and how long had my nose been bleeding? I watched myself as I picked up my son, cradling his broken body carefully, and left.

I was flying back to work on christmas day. My flight would take me first to the city of Houston for an hour layover before continuing on to my final destination. My first flight is delayed. First 10 minutes, then 20 minutes, then we stopped getting updates and were told it would be any moment. The plane arrives and begins unloading the small batch of occupants before a sweep of the aircraft and boarding begins. Boarding group 3 is called and I board. The plane is small and my seat is in the back row before the emergency exits and the toilet for all those not in first class. I take my seat and see her. She is one of two flight attendants on board. Her smile catches my eye as she makes her rounds, checking that everyone has figured out those complex seatbelts and has their bags tucked under the seat in front of them. After the other flight attendant has done her speech about safety, it's her turn to come over the PA with some facts about the planes specifications. She fumbles over the words and I turn my head to see her. After she finishes she looks at me and says, "Welp, I screwed that up." I chuckle a little and tell her, "Meh, it could have been a lot worse." She smiles. I return to the sunset drenched runway as the plane begins to speed up. I slip on my headphones and "In The Waiting Line" by Zero 7 begins as the runway disappears and red, purple, and gold coat the clouds. I check the time. I'll be lucky to have ten minutes between my arrival in houston and my departure. What if I miss my flight? There is still a two hour drive after waiting for me at the end of my next flight. I think of her. The flight lands and we find our gate. Everyone stands. I have ten minutes until my connectionsm flights boarding closes and my gate us at the end of the terminals. I sit up a little and turn to find her with her head and arms resting in a hole in the wall behind me. I smile and ask her where she's headed next. She tells me she's headed home to rest and how she had intended to be with family before she got these flights last minute. She asks me questions about my destination and my job, and after a few minutes I tell her my name. She offers hers. I want to speak to her again. I want to know more about her and spend more time with her infectious smile. I want to give her my number and just see what happens. 7 minutes. I glance towards the front of the plane and see my turn to walk out of my isle and off the plane approach with an unexpected speed. I grab my bag and stand up. "Get home safe, it was nice talking to you," I say as I leave. My moment is gone. I immediately regret not taking my chance. Her name fills my head and though I maybe exchanged 50 words with her I was left wondering what if. Cursing myself as I half walk half jog down the terminal. 5 minutes. 2 minutes. I run. 1 minute. I see my gate ahead and push forward. Boardi Boarding pass in hand I get to the closed gate. The flight had been delayed 20 minutes and hadn't begun boarding yet. I could have taken my time. I didn't have to run. The moment had disintegrated before me as I failed to jump off the edge of the cliff that is my mind. I wish I had taken the leap of faith. I wish I hadn't given in to my cold feet. All this worrying about someone who was in my life for an hour seems silly. I didn't even know her, but I wanted to. I slip on my headphones and fade into the music.

**December 4th, 2014** Hi! My name is Makenna. I am 24 years old and live in San Francisco. Recently I thought about my childhood and realized how little of it I remember, as a percentage. Every day I don't remember is like a day that never happened. From now on, I'm going to keep a journal. I'll start right now! I woke up to the smell of burnt bread. My roommate Jane and I alternate cooking breakfast in the morning. Sometimes I think I'd rather just cook it every morning, even though I like the extra time to sleep in; she can't cook worth shit. Hot water changes my mind whenever I wake up thinking that. There's not enough in the morning for both of us to have hot showers; only one. Burnt pancakes, unsalted eggs, and a cup of coffee had gone cold waiting for me at the kitchen table. I forgot to mention the other thing I don't like about Jane cooking breakfast: she does it in her underwear. She does it before her shower and "doesn't feel like" getting dressed if she's just going to disrobe twenty minutes later. Not only am I not interested in seeing her in her underwear, but it also makes me nervous that she cooks that way without an apron or something. Anthony sometimes drinks coffee in our apartment building lobby in the morning. I always hope to see him on my way out so we can walk to work together. He wasn't there this morning. Rodney rolled his eyes at me when I walked in. At 8:03. Like, put some ice on your balls and get over it old rod. That's what I call him in my head. Old rod. Like the kind that can only catch Magikarp. Taylor and Inna greeted me on my way in to our shared office. Both of them always seem genuinely glad to see me in the morning. It made this morning a lot better. Not seeing Anthony was pretty lame. The three of us, managed by Rodney, make up the accessibility team at the software-as-a-service company we work for. Basically, when someone wants to add a feature, we dampen their spirits by telling them how much it would cost considering translations, testing, compatibility with text to speech cursors, etc. If after all that they still want to make the feature, we work with them on it. Taylor got an email this morning from the help team. He rolled his chair over to the wall and pressed his face against it. Inna rolled up next to him and wrapped a sympathetic arm around him. Without moving his face he raised an arm to point at his screen. The email read (obviously paraphrased): > Taylor, > > I can write the help section for that feature, but we're actually in the > process of rewriting most of it so it'll be a bit. > > Darren "They're rewriting help," I said. Inna patted him on the back, "I'm so sorry Taylor." Taylor manages accessibility for help. He'll have to get translations, legal team approval, etc for the new help articles. It sucks to be Taylor right now. For lunch I packed a ham and cheese sandwich, a banana, and carrots. Every day I take my lunchbox out to the balcony. Sometimes people join, sometimes not, but it's beautiful enough to enjoy alone. We have a good view of the bay bridge, and some mounted telescopes I watch tourists through. Inna and Keith joined me today. Keith offered me his help if I ever needed it when I onboarded six months ago. I thought he meant to be welcoming, but I learned since then that he is a condescending prick. He still offers me his "help" and says fake consoling things like "don't worry about it; computer science is hard" when I ask a question. Yes Keith, it is hard. That's why you're junior tech support staff. Today at lunch he criticized our company's choice of centralized version control, which for a company with one product and a client with the ability to make local branches makes complete sense. He probably read a post on some forum from someone who fetishizes distributed version control and wanted to seem cool. I didn't feel like contradicting him, but I'm glad Inna did. She just said, "Let's leave the software engineering to the software engineers, huh?" Two unknown numbers called me today. Jane broke up with her boyfriend of two years last week; it's probably him trying to contact her through me. Lunch break is over. I'll write more in the future! Thank you for reading! **December 5th, 2014** I found a trophy cut out on our fridge this morning when I cooked breakfast. Jane came in for her (salted) eggs telling me the story of the previous night's conquest in a bar kareoke competition. She claimed our new fridge decoration and free drinks for the rest of the night as spoils. I only kind of listened. On my way through the lobby I scan three places for Anthony, always in the same order. First, I look for him at the bar where they serve coffee in the morning. Second, I look for him in the seating area and in the breakfast food line. Finally on my way out, I glance back to see if he's coming out of the elevator. This morning I found him in the third place. I smiled at him and he nodded. We didn't walk together; I guess he still needed to get coffee. At 7:58 I arrived at work. Two minutes too early for me to simply take the elevator up to my company's floors; I had to sign the sheet at the front desk with my name, the time, and what company I work for. I know it's technically after hours access but it's two damn minutes. I have no idea why the clerk cares so much about that procedure. While I signed it, Rodney walked in. I looked forward to the clerk making him stop and sign the sheet, but instead they had this conversation: "Sir, it isn't 8 yet. I need you to sign." "Oh, no I'm just headed up." The clerk didn't care enough to invest more in the topic and let Rodney walk upstairs. I just don't get it. I held the elevator door for Inna, who arrived just at 8, and didn't have to sign the sheet either. Next time I'm just going to sit outside until the clock says 8. Christmas lights hang in the elevator now. That's nice at least. Now that I think about it, where are those plugged in? Search is my focus at work right now. A lot of languages aren't properly handled in the search feature because it assumes the user only uses latin characters. Obviously that's a problem for international users. Blake, the lead of search, refused to write some patches I asked him to make. His reply to my request: > Makenna, > > My team is very busy at the moment. If you need patches submitted, please > submit them for code review and I will look over them. > > Blake Fixing Blake's shit is not my job. I work every day on tools to be used in the company which make these kinds of things very easy, and no one uses them. But I did it anyway, because Rodney expected it done before Monday. A surprise after work made my day even better. Michael, Jane's ex boyfriend, had been waiting for me outside. When he opened by saying "Hi Makenna, you look beautiful today," I knew I was about to get some bullshit, but I had no idea how much. Michael wants to go on a date together. As if it weren't obvious enough that it is purely to get back at Jane, he wants to have dinner at our apartment. He is an idiot. I just told him I'd see what my schedule was and that I might do it. I am not going to do it. **December 7th, 2014** Knocks on the door woke me early this morning (before noon). I limped to my bedroom door to peek. Jane already answered, with a blanket wrapped around her of course. She liked to do that to pizza guys, but this time she put in extra effort. One of her hands held up the blanket in front, the other grabbed above her head on the door. Squinting, I saw why. Michael stood in the doorway. I couldn't make out their conversation. Then I heard a hop from Jane's bedroom. I'd recognize that hop anywhere. It's unmistakable. The pants hop. She had a man over. He walked across the doorway shirtless a moment later! Oh shit! When I finally got out of bed today mystery pants hopper man and Jane had left, but Michael had not. After a bowl of sugary cereal and a mindless session of youtube videos I took a pajama walk to the mail kiosk in the garage, on which I ran into Michael pacing our hallway. He decided to walk with me and filled the air with shitty small talk questions about my work and family. At some point he compared my phone to his, but I'm pretty sure he just looked through my contacts for Jane's new number. At another he tried to imitate an elephant's noise. Michael is not an impressive person. I spent the rest of the day on a puzzle binge watching Marco Polo, and texting someone. Guess who? Anthony! He texted me about walking to work in the morning, and we kept up a good conversation over text for a few hours before he had to pick up his friend from somewhere. I honestly think it could be going somewhere. *So excited.

We were on the quest to find the mysterious shark that had been creeping in the ocean for some time. We knew it would've been a hard mission, so we started to pack a lot of supplies such as the best foods, medical supplies aswell as our finest weapons. As we were both ready and finally zipping our bags shut, we both kissed our wives goodbye and headed straight to the shore. The way the sun looked gave the vibe of a very promising mission. I thought it would've taken us not even a week and we would've been done. We pushed our boat into the sea with much enthusiasm and embarked on it. It took us quite some time to reach the destination that the villagers had said the shark crept, but we finally arrived to it's surroundings. It actually took us way more days than I had expected. All of our food was worn out and we had to rely on fishing if we were to feed ourselves. It wasn't so bad though, because we use to fish as little kids. I remember when we use to spend our whole days near a pond while our parents were out searching for us and we would just sit there, fishing, and eventually eating the fish we had caught. It felt like the old times. One night, the beautiful moon that had been shining over us abruptly disappeared and changed to a very stormy night. My friend kept telling me something was up, and something bad was about to happen. I acknowledged what he had to say, and kept my eyes pierced on the waters that kept pushing our boat from left to right. I saw fear in my friends eyes, as though it was the last time we would've seen each other and the boat was about to turn over. I assured him that we were fine, and nothing bad would happen. I've probably spoken too quickly, because soon after, the boat was pushed from the bottom and turned over completely. It couldn't have been the storm and the water, it was too intense. We were both in the water trying to gather back our senses. My friend was trying to turn the boat over, while I was trying to pick our weapons that had fallen into the sea. I started to swim down deeper into the ocean to find them. As I was getting deeper, I felt this heavy whoosh around myself. I tried opening my eyes but the water was going so fast that it hurt for me to look. I tried feeling my surroundings in hopes that I grab my weapon, and I did. When I finally had it in my hands, I started to swim back up the quickest I could. I was so scared. I didn't know what was down there and I didn't want to know either in these circumstances. Before I could reach the surface, something had taken me from the legs and started to pull me down into the ocean. I was back onto the boat with my friend. The shark was laying motionless besides the boat, and so was I. I couldn't move. My friend tried using his medical supplies on me in hopes that I heal quicker or to prevent further injuries. I looked at him and was so happy that he was there for me. I remembered, it was his birthday in a few days and we were planning on celebrating it. Especially now that we had killed the shark, I wondered what kind of surprise the villagers would have for us. We started to head back to town with what little resources we had left on us. It felt peaceful, as if we had nothing else to do but to just wait and enjoy whatever time we had left. My friend was ramming the boat, as I barely had the energy to even move around it. I didn't think much of it at first until it had been a couple of days that he had been constantly ramming it. I told him to stop and take a rest but he didn't listen to me. He wanted to bring us back home to safety. I looked at him with disapproval, but let him continue anyway. One morning, I woke up and I didn't see him on the boat. I tried looking around the boat, and saw a body floating not too far away face down towards the sea.

It was a warm day in December and the pungent odor of festering leaves lingered in the air. The distinct scent of death and decay had infiltrated the quiet backyard of Mendel’s suburban bungalow. Mendel had neglected to rake the leaves, insisting to his wife that the leaves would decompose by spring. Anyways he liked the smell. It reminded him of the woods in Minnesota where he spent many a days with his friends searching for arrowheads, lighting firecrackers and firing slingshots. However the nostalgia quickly faded as Mendel delved beyond the surface of the fond, fleeting memories of his childhood. Anyone’s childhood can appear to be boring and familiar with the listing of arbitrary details, and Mendel was no different. He was just a kid from Minnesota. He played ice hockey. He had gone to church every Sunday. He played the trombone in high school. And he liked to sleep in every once in a while. He grew up an only child, raised by his father. However when he was three, his mother had died from a horrific car accident. Although his father wasn’t in the car when it happened, he barely survived. He was devastated. But he loved his son. It was a cold day in October. The year was 1983. Mendel had just gotten home from school and kicked off his muddy sneakers onto the porch. He unlocked the door and ran straight to his room to checkout the Playpen magazine that his friend Rodney Caruso had given him that day. Rodney’s brother was nineteen. Mendel didn’t quite understand why, but he couldn’t get enough of the pictures of the naked women. They were even better than Rodney had said. Just as he pried open the coveted centerfold he heard the front door opening. His father was home. Mendel quickly hid the dirty magazine in the shoebox brimming with contraband under his bed. Mendel thought it looked great next to the firecrackers, slingshot and the Darth Vader Pez he had stolen from the mall. “Mendel, what did I tell you about leaving your shoes out on the porch?” said his father sternly but gently. “Sorry dad, won’t happen again.” Replied Mendel as he casually sauntered to the dinner table. Mendel knew that his dad was a lot nicer than most. Rodney told him that his dad used the belt. Mendel hadn’t had even a slight tap on the head, let alone a hiding. He was grateful for sure. But Mendel knew he would take a smacking any day if it meant his mom would still be alive. Rodney’s mom was very nice to Mendel. One time she said he was basically her son while she put on a Band-Aid for him after he and Rodney had become “blood brothers”. “You haven’t even touched your potatoes Mendel.” “I’m not hungry. May I be excused, I need to go over to Rodney’s house to watch the hockey game.” “Okay, but remember to rake the leaves when you get back alright?” “Alright dad.” Said Mendel as he washed his plate. Mendel was out the door and halfway down the block when he remembered that he was supposed to bring back the magazine! He raced back, not wanting to miss the first few minutes of the hockey game. Rodney’s dad was a huge Oilers fan, he was born in Alberta. That’s someplace in Canada, Mendel thought to himself. Anyways they had a huge TV to watch the game, and cable too. Mendel opened the door and ran to his room. He walked into the kitchen to grab a bag of Cheetos. He dropped the magazine. There was Mendel’s father, lying in a pool of blood. The shotgun was on the kitchen table, one lonely shell on the linoleum floor. Mendel could barely recognize his own father. His steely eyes and warm half-smile were nowhere to be found. Most kids would have broken down into tears, surrendering themselves to grief stricken panic and temporary delirium. But Mendel didn’t shed a tear. He didn’t say a word. He just ran outside and grabbed the rake.

Stylish carriages reposed outside the gargantuan, marble palace. Graceful girls accompanied by their well-attired fathers piled in successively. The enormous room was filled with innumerable affluence – an indelible night was ahead. Subsequently, numerous wives of these family-heading fathers elegantly paced in, boasting their thousand-pound dresses and sparkling footwear. “Salutations,” a servant nervously uttered whenever one was to enter the premises. It was clear to all he was being monitored excessively by the master. Many more horses could be heard gracefully trotting up the well-paved hill. As the room filled ever more, voices of surprise and laughter grew louder. Husbands and wives were eager to chat about and promote the beauty of their daughters. Princes from throughout the world were to choose partners this very night. It was incontrovertible that everybody was awaiting their arrival. The life a farmer was incomparable to the attendees. Nevertheless, Nitesh Majumdar saw no end to his plan – to woo the master’s beloved. His intention was not for the master’s wife, but the daughter. By his standards, failure was unacceptable. His target, Jane, lay herself flat across her bed contemplating clothing suitable for the wealthiest. A sound caught her ear. Light taps could be heard on her furthermost window. “Jane!” Nitesh desperately whispered in the hope he wouldn't be caught and sent to his demise. “That’s rather peculiar,” she thought to herself. Jane cautiously stood up, perambulated her bed and headed for the window, troubled by her confusion and curiosity. Her poise was evident and matched by her long, dark stream of brown hair flailing itself behind her. She tiled her head downwards at the window. Everything suddenly became quiet to her. It seemed as if time had stopped. Her face turned white as a ghost. Tears trickled down her delicate face. “N-n-n…!” she pathetically spoke, attempting to pronounce the name of her forbidden lover.

No, I can't do this. Fuck, but I have to. I won't get it out of my mind if it continues to haunt me like this. I'm trying to gather back my thoughts and focus on what I truly wanted to do but new thoughts seem to be pushing me away from what I was primarily aiming for. I stop for a moment, and take a deep breath. The wind is so soothing. It's the only thing that reminds me that there's just something greater out there that isn't bound by all these small particularities. Okay, come on, concentrate! I grab my paper and my pen, and write. "I'm so sorry", it says. I can't get myself to write anything else. I can't even get myself to put a comma. I crumple up the paper and put it in my pocket. The wind seems to be blowing even harder. This time, though, I don't fight it. I feel it guiding me across the ledge.

He's not that bad, I promise! People just don't understand him. They call him 'The eye in the sky', but that makes him sad. Everything he does, he does to protect us. He does to protect me. But people call him mean, they call him a monster. But I know, if only they met him, they would love him! Just like I do. But they don't even give him a chance. That's why he has to make his own. But they still don't understand and further resent him for it! I tried to make them see. I tried to tell them it was all my fault. At first they would just console me, saying that it couldn't be so. But when I told them who I am, they tried to take me away. Again. And that made him angry. Again. So he made some bad choises. But he only made them because he wasn't in control. If he had been, none of it would've happened. You see, he realized that too. He realized that in order to protect me, he would have to take control. And he did. . . . . At first he was just my big brother. Now, he's everyones.

It was 11am and I was getting ready to have a good day sleep. Just a couple of hours later, I hear my mother barge in and wake me up. "What, are you on drugs again?", she says. I raise my head from the pillow, look at her and push my head back onto the pillow. She starts going through my whole room and searches for anything drug related that I might be hiding. I have nothing at all to hide, so I continue to sleep carefree. But somewhere in my mind, I'm really pissed off. For the past few weeks, I haven't been having the best relationship with my family. To be honest, I've never had a good relationship with them ever since I was a little child. Most of the time, just to not be around them, I spend my whole day in my room without ever coming out. Not to pee, not to eat. When they finally go back into their own rooms at night, that's when I act like a little rat and start robbing all the food my stomach can eat in the little time I have left before having to sleep. I've lost so much weight now. I've noticed how counter productive this is, so I decided it would've been a great idea to just completely switch timezones. And that's exactly what I did. I'm trying to fall back asleep but the thought of what happened just keeps going through my mind. I guess it really is easier to blame when you don't have the courage to accept anything else. I really need to move out.

It was my brother's father in law. He had just escaped from prison where he was serving multiple life sentences for his rampage of mass murders he went on ten years ago. And prison had only made Joe more aggressive. When he heard that his only daughter got married without his knowledge, he was furious. Nobody had any idea how he was going to respond. Joe went after his daughter and my brother first. He broke into their house at 4am right when optimum darkness has reached its peak. He had no weapons on him, other than his massive arms and gargantuan hands. However this would not be enough to be able to kill both of them without one possibly escaping. Joe pride the back door open quickly and quietly an made his way towards the garage. He looked for something, anything to help him take revenge on his son's and new daughter in law's insolence. He found the perfect thing, he slithered into the master bedroom and noticed a crib in the room. Joe was infuriated. He could not believe how much he had missed out on his sons life. However Joe didn't see that as being his fault. He went back to the garage and got a rag and some bleach. He smothered the rag with bleach, then the 1& 1/2 year old baby. He was dead but Joe didn't think his fun had to end because of that. He proceeded to snap every single little bone that the infant had. Joe left the baby to the point where the he looked like a bag of bones with a face. Joe chucked the baby into the married couple's bed and began to pull the chord on the chainsaw he had found in the garage. On the second try it started to roar and that only fueled Joe's adrenaline. They woke up dumbfounded as they hadn't had a goodnights sleep in far too long. It took them a minute to realize what was going on in the dark room. He sawed off their legs with one slice as they were both still intertwined with each other. He left the room for a second and went for the kitchen, he came back with a salt shaker and half a lime. They shrieked with pain as he rubbed the ingredients into their raw flesh and he just stood there laughing as he saw them whimper with agony. Then they noticed something hard on their bed and finally made out what it was when they noticed that the baby hadn't woken up with all the noise. Joe still had other people to seek revenge on that night so he just went on and sawed their heads off one by one. He then left his daughter's ranch which was isolated for miles so he had to wait in the middle of the road and trick a car to stop and steal their car. He waited for a blue pick up to come to a halt and went over to the drivers side where the driver asked him " need a ride strang..." But he wasn't able to finish the sentence as his neck had been snapped by Joe. He drove into town where he tried to find where his daughter's husband's family were located. He stopped at a phone both and struggled to walk correctly as the drivers clothes were a tad to big for him. He looked down for the family with the same last name that had been rewarded to his daughter. He went throughout the entire page of S's and finally found Simmons, they lived at 2762 maple drive.

Sorry for the crappy title, didn't know what to put.... Please critique as it's my first post. Here it is: I stared at the carpet while I sat on the edge of my bed in a drunken fog.... I reached for the box of cigarettes I'd just bought from the gas station. I fumbled with the small cardboard carton and pulled out a cigarette. I lit the tip and and took a drag. I felt the bitter taste of tobacco fill my mouth and the warm smoke slink down my throat into my lungs. I exhale and watch the cloud exit my mouth. I held the cigarette in my right hand, and quickly pressed the gleaming tip against my forearm. I held it there for a little, while my skin seared from the heat. I felt the pain suddenly shoot throughout my arm as I snapped back to reality. I pulled the cig away and stared at the self mutilation I'd just inducted on myself seconds early. As I took another drag of the smoke I realised how long it'd been since I'd smoked. Nearly four years now.... Ever since I'd met her and had quit for her. I glanced at the night stand where her spare glasses sat pirched in the same place that they'd sat just a week ago. I took yet another drag. I reached into the night stand and pulled out the pistol I'd kept for protection and placed the barell in my mouth for the third time this month. I closed my eyes put my finger on the trigger. I felt my jaw quivering with a mixture of fear and trepidation. I told myself to just do it. count to three and pull the trigger. It'll all be over. Count back from three, and squeeze.... Three Don't be a fucking pussy. just do it. Two It's just seconds left. Just do it. One I felt tears start to stream down my face. Just do it. Zero I pulled the barrel of the gun out of my mouth and leaned over the bed and sobbed. A deep throaty scream leaped out of my throat in frustration as I realized I couldn't pull the trigger and finish this piece of shit life. I got up and punched the wall as I screamed again. I felt the wall crumble beneath my fist and blood in my hand start to trickle out as I pulled back and held my hand. I stood there for a minute, breathing heavily examining my hand and thinking. It was then when it occured to me why I couldn't clasp the trigger. I grabbed the pistol from my bed, put it in the back of my tattered blue jeans, grabbed my overcoat, and left my crummy apartment. My mind was racing while I walked two blocks towards her apartment. I felt the cold metal and wood of the grip against my lower back, poking and prodding uncomfortably, though it was hardly noticable. I climbed the stairs to the second floor where her apartment was and banged on the door. "Just a minute!" her voice shouted as I heard her put down whatever she was doing and come to the door. The heavy, deep pings of the deadbolt unlocking as she unlocked the door. The moment she creeped the door open, I threw all of my weight against the door. I felt the weak chain that was supposed to hold the door shut tear from the wall as I pushed against the door. I saw her stumble back and start to crawl away. As she scrambled around, trying to stand up and figure out what was happening she turned her head and looked me straight in the eyes. "What the fuck?" I heard a man exclaim from the kitchen. Great. She's already moved on.... Well this is embarrasing. I reached quickly for the pistol I'd earlier tucked away, and pointed it at her. She screamed my name in a high pitched screetch that can only be described as desperate. The large, strongly man who assumidly had yelled earlier came into the narrow hall, looked at me, and charged at me with the knife he'd presumably just been using to eating dinner. I was able to squeeze the trigger this time, and as the pistol jolted in my hand, the spent shell of the .45 ACP flew through the air and the loud bang of the gunshot rang through my ears. The saying turned out to be true. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. It's funny what you think of in when you're on a psychotic, drunken rage.... He twisted forward and hit the wall leaving a smear of blood, finally toppling to the floor like a two hundred pound ragdoll, with the only motion he made that of him grabbing the hole where his heart used to be. I stepped calmly over his body over to where she sat paralyzed with fear on the ground. Her face was a scary white as she muttered, trying to form words that she thought might spare her life. I raised the gun once more at her. "Sorry" I whispered and took one last drag of my nearly spent cigarette before turning the pistol to myself and pulling the trigger.

Like a sparrow spitting vial to feed its young. Rotting eyes and bone, robbing the very breath from the sky in heaven above. This is the story of the cutest bunny named Harrold. His whiskers quiver violently as he chews. Rooting through thorn and wilted vegetation. Nither a thought of friend nor foe? Robed in pelage, living in sepulture. Harrold hops to his burrow for a nap before supper. His tendons tighten sharply as he pulls in to bed on matted foliage. the walls quake, dust fills the breadth of the hovel. His delicate mass navigates and spills like water on a veranda. Harrold sleeps peacefully making a snuffle that sounds like puppies. After time the sun's blood orange glow creeps up and puts off Harrold's burrow - his eyes snap open. A wip of pungent odor pay his doorway like a shot into his snout. What swims in his thoughts? Venomous torment? Vein pulsating terror?? We do not know. Only Harrold knows what’s on the card, what must be done... He stretches his paws, yawns, and bays a faint sneeze. Harrold bats playfully at a small flower growing in his burrow. He scratches his ear and closes his eyes, head tipped back in delight. Little may he know how his life may change forever. Little May he know, indeed. The End.

GARAGE SALE 3rd Avenue I've been meaning to buy myself a tape player for quite some time. The one I've been using ever since is now totally worn out and doesn't work anymore. Everytime I try to put a new tape in, the tape ends up being destroyed and the tape starts to come out from the holder. I went up to the lady and saw how she had exactly what I was looking for. It seemed perfect. Exactly like I had pictured it in my mind, so I proceeded to buy it. Upon buying it, the lady told me that it was a bit defectuous. That's all she told me about it, but I bought it anyway. I was coming back home with the tape player and I just couldn't wait to listen to my old tracks I've been hiding in boxes in my room. It's been so long. I set the tape recorder near my bed, grabbed a random tape I had lying around, put my headphones on and drifted off with the sounds of it. It was so magical. Like the very first time I opened my eyes. I think it was way too magical, because I had even fallen asleep to the sounds of it. It was just so perfect. I woke up the next morning, and realized how I still had my headphones on my head, but what else I realized was that the tape was still playing. Maybe that's what the defect of it was. It didn't bother me until the beautiful sound changed to a very high pitched and screeching noise. I quickly turned off the tape player and put the tape aside. I can't believe I've been listening to this playing in my mind all night and didn't even realize it. I quickly got up and was annoyed how I had to listen to this. I looked into my selection of tapes and saw one that really did catch my attention. It seemed like any ordinary tape I had laying in my box of tapes, but this one was my very first. "Love for a night", was written on it. I put it in my machine and drifted off to it. It was so beautiful, I let the machine play on repeat and listened to the whole thing. I tried falling asleep that night after having put the machine away, but it just kept replaying in my head.

It was a while ago when I made the discovery. My team discovered a very odd pattern when preforming experiments on a project. It was so long ago I forget what that project was about. When my team discovered the anomaly one of my colleagues pointed out a certain humming, a quite graceful humming. We all stood there for a bit, just admiring the gracefulness and beauty of this sound. The humming started to get louder. I looked around and tried to figure out where this was coming from. All of a sudden one of my colleague's computers started to vibrate. All of a sudden code began to run through his computer like blood running through a vain. We all looked at each other in disbelief. Then the whole computer simply vanished. In the computers place was a empty hole. A empty hole got bigger. I grabbed my pencil and threw it in. The hole got slightly smaller. We knew what we had to do. We kept throwing objects inside to reduce the size of this growing, consuming, black hole. This took about 5 hours and it almost emptied the whole building. Finally, it stopped growing. But something amazing happened, it spat something out. Nothing we sent in. It was a piece of paper, I grabbed the paper and read it: "Thank you." After this my team was on front pages everywhere, we couldn't believe what we discovered. It was about a year after we discovered the hole and it hadn't done any movements since the discovery. More notes came through the hole. Each one seemed to be a request of what the hole wanted. It was a lot. But we managed to do it. We transformed the science building to a factory and once we were done making the request we would send it in the hole. After this we got a note that said "Thank you". A year later. My team needed to know what was on the other side of the hole, the public wanted to know. We had to build a small ship to go through the hole. I drove that ship. It had a glass roof. It ran off a "Plasmatic Energetic Drive." When launch day came, my family and colleagues waved me off. I started it up and went through the hole. It was snowing. There was glaciers, and plains of ice. I flew and found life. This was amazing. This was clearly some other world. The life I found was quite large, and hostile. Very hostile. I decided to not approach it. With my PED I can go to far distances in minutes. I went over the ocean. What I discovered changed my life forever. There was cities. Cities with odd architecture. Architecture I have never seen, and the beings living in these cities were lively. They were pale and stood on two feet. The way they walked was bizarre. They looked up at my vehicle. They all pointed and smiled. Some couldn't believe it. They had my face on billboards. How did they get my face? I don't know. But it was truly spectacular. It was life changing. This is Doctor Nicolas Claus, signing off.

As I sat there, slowly counting away the passing hours, I reflected on what had come to pass. How could I go on? I was not the man I was in years past. Who had I become? Certainly not who I had planned on being on this night. Ding. The clock struck once. Shit, I had to get back downstairs, they would certainly notice I was gone. It was almost time. Ding. The clock struck twice. I threw my notes around as I began to run, not downstairs, but up. Ding. The clock struck thrice. This it it, I had to make my decision now. Would it work out? Or would I make the ultimate decision? Ding. The clock struck a forth time. I ran for the door, arms bursting ahead of me as I heard them looking. They noticed. Ding. The clock struck a fifth time. “RUSSE:L!” screamed a voice. Ding. The clock struck a sixth time. I could feel the cool breeze flow through my hair as I began to reflect on what I just wrote. Ding. The clock struck a seventh time. The decision had been made. Deep in my jean pockets I dug, searching for that pack of Camels with the lighter buried inside. Ding. The clock struck an eighth time. “RUSSELL!” belched the voice again, farther than before. Ding. The clock struck a ninth time. My lips curled up around the perfectly lit cigarette as I looked down upon the city. Ding. The clock struck a tenth time. I turned around to see Paige, eyes wider than the night I took her virginity. Ding. The clock struck an eleventh time. Deep down, I knew that in time, she would understand. Tonight was not that night. Ding. The clock struck a twelfth, and final time. “Happy New Year. To new beginnings and certain endings.

Preface; I have always wanted to be a writer, but I struggle to focus after a few pages or so, so I have taken to writing short stories under 10 pages. Most of them are tragedies, or intensely emotional at the very least. I went for a new writing style for this, one that is more emotive. Feedback is appreciated, and thanks for reading. "Sometimes I believe my life is a tragic novel, written for the amusement of the narcissistic people who don't have to live it. Maybe when the pen that writes my fate is laid to rest, I will be too. It's not though. No writer could be as cruel as the gods that force me to continue breathing. I don't care. Pain itself can be comforting when it's all you've known. It becomes the echo that's left when your voice goes quiet. And my voice is quiet all the time now. It's Saturday. Another Saturday, just like the last, and the next most likely. Its cold, winter is nearly here. My blankets smell of flowers and mildew. Maybe I will wash them today. I don't remember the last time I did. I don't remember a lot of things. Like yesterday. I don't know what happened yesterday. Just the sleep that followed. I think I was dreaming of lying in the snow, becoming still until I could hear my own heart, beating slowly and quivering. Maybe it was a memory, I don't know. They are both the same, aren't they? Both are gone forever. It's Saturday though, no alarm to wake me. I still wake up at the same time. I wish I could sleep longer. Hibernate like the bears in a nature documentary. Forget the winter and it's gray sorrow, and wake up when the wet grass sparkles like emeralds and song birds pray for endless summer. I don't think I will see summer again. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't see myself. There is a face there, and a body, but not mine. I changed my mind about the covers. Another day won't hurt them. Think I said that last time. That must have been months ago. Time is so strange, I don't really notice it's passage anymore. Just the light and dark, over and over. It's all the same. I need some water. Water to wash my little blue pills down. They are supposed to make me feel better. They don't. I don't think there is a better, just shades of nothing bound by each tick of time. I take two and pretend they help. Toast for breakfast. Only I didn't toast it. I didn't feel like it. I don't feel like getting jam either. Taste seems pointless. I don't enjoy having to keep myself alive. Eating shows I have some control. It makes me wonder why I don't just stop and drift away. Not yet. It's not that I want to live. I just don't feel like dying. There are still a few days of Autumn left. Autumn's not so bad. There are colors and warmth remaining in the world. It will be gone soon enough. Like me. I used to watch TV on Saturday. I don't remember when, I was much younger. I still turn the TV on, and I still sit in front of it. But it's the clock I am watching. Waiting for night to come, another night and another day. Another day closer to goodbye. It's growing dark. Nearly time for sleep. Another day gone, another day I won't have to live again. Sleep is not really respite. I still dream, or remember. Yet my nightmares are not of monsters but of waking. Another two pills and I am waiting to drift away. And sleep comes, slowly and secretly. Prowling up behind me and then it pounces and I am no more, for a few short hours. I was thinking about something, but I don't remember now. I think today is Tuesday. I don't know why I think that, it just feels like Tuesday. The bus is outside. I may just miss it. I say that every day, and every day I get on anyway. Last night I dreamed I was stabbed to death. At least it wasn't a nightmare. Sometimes I am afraid, but I am not sure why. I dress in whatever is closest to me. That happens to be a pile of clothes beside my bed. I don't care about clothes. Before I walk out, I look at the picture frame turned against the wall. I don't know who's picture it is, or why it's turned away. I was going to look once, but I like the mystery not knowing. Someone said it's going to snow. I don't notice who, I never look at their faces. I don't see people, just costume masks painted on cold flesh. They act excited at the prospect of getting to miss school. I hope it doesn't. I wish I could fly away from the snow, like the last of the geese flying South. I can't fly though. Not yet. It's night again. Did a whole day go by? I hate snow. It's not just the cold wetness sloping against my face. It's the color, white and maybe blue in the evening. I hate white. And I hate snow. And now it's snowing. Again. I swear I will move somewhere it never snows. Maybe Florida. Does it ever snow in Florida? It's still dark. And snowing. I can tell by the subtle brushing noise outside my window. The alarm is yelling at me again. Morning always comes at the worst time. Maybe it will stop snowing today. It won't though, it never does. School is where the adults make us go so they don't have to look at us. I am sure of it. I wouldn't feed my dog this soup. I wish I had a dog, really. Maybe I will ask Jak for one. I never get tired of being told no. Another alarm, screaming at me because I am not where I should be. I hate alarms. Almost as much as I hate snow. My teacher gave me a note. I can't look at it, the paper is too white. I will get sick if I do. I know exactly how many steps it takes to get to the shrinks office. Shrinky shrinkster. 49 steps, and 11 stairs. The top one is higher, so I jump a little. No one else is here, though I have never seen anyone here. He smiles. I wish he wouldn't. I am fine. Yes everything is fine at home. No I don't talk much. Yes I took my little pills today. And yesterday too. I cut myself when I slipped in the shower. Yes, both arms. I am fine, really. Oh look, the bus is waiting. Maybe I will be alone tonight. It's getting colder. And snowing. God damn. Not alone. Not tonight. There is a car in the drive way. Jak's car. He's my father but not really. I wish he would have stayed over at work. Sometimes I don't see him, he just sleeps in bed. I hear the car come and go, and I hide under the covers. Not that it matters. If I have to go I go. It's better that way. I don't get as many questions at school. I don't like questions, or brused lips. When I am in Florida everything will be okay. Or maybe Mexico. I don't think it snows in Mexico either. Jak is waiting. I think I had a mother once. If I did, this used to be her room too. Now it's not. Now it's just empty and cold and white. Like snow. Jak doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Hasn't for a long time. I slip my jacket and shoes off. Then my shirt. It's green, my favorite color. It seems so long since I have seen grass that green. Jak looks at my arms. I lied to Shrinky. I didnt slip. I collect scars like other girls collect ribbons. I think. Do girls collect ribbons? I don't have any. I don't think Jak is bad. I don't think Jak is anything. A cold white sheet pulled over a wire frame. Moving by unseen strings. It doesn't take long. It doesn't usually. 14 steps to the shower. I count them, I don't know why. The water is warm, warm like summer. And white. The tub is white too. I wash slowly, it makes it better that way. Knowing what's next, but waiting. I reach under a flap of caulking. The razer blade almost bites my finger, but I know exactly where it is. Slip it carefully from its hiding place. It's like writing music. My body the page with the score in blood. The little red drips in the water, my music. More and more dripping away. I have created a symphony of red. My head hurts. I try standing up, but I can't. I flop out of the tub, and drag my body behind me. 14 steps down, and a few more. I open the door, and just stare at the white. I will be white soon. Someone is standing over me. A women in hideous white. It's so bright. She's blinding me with a flashlight. My head feels like it's been split open. And something is stuck in my arm. It's a hospital. I have been here before, I think. Maybe. People are talking in the corner. I can't really see them. The nurse says something, I nod. One of the talking figures walk over. It's a police officer. I don't like questions and he asks a lot of them. He doesn't seem to believe me, either. At least he doesn't smile like my shrink. I ask for some water. I feel sick.

A man gets into a cab at the airport. It was the closest source of shelter as he ran out of the building in a frenzy. A hitman had confused him with someone who had a very similar name. The man, John Doe, had been confused with a man whose name was John D’Oh. As he got into the cab, he tried to tell the driver to get going in a calm voice, but all he could do was somewhat quietly shout, “Let’s move — I’m late!” “Where are you headed, sir?” asked the cab driver, politely. This was a good question, John realized. John’s killer surely knew the name of the hotel where he was scheduled by his employer to stay during his business trip. He needed to go somewhere he could hide, and ideally avoid giving false information to anyone, such as a hotel clerk. He also needed to contact the local police, but he wanted to wait until he was no longer within earshot of the cab driver. After all, he did not know where his killer was, and if he was waiting at the airport for the cab driver to return, it could mean bad news for both of them. He decided his first priority was to get out of the cab and contact police as soon as they had gotten far enough away from the airport, assuming the hitman was not in close pursuit. “The Eagle Ridge Camping Ground,” John replied. “You know, that is more than ten miles. Any trips over ten miles are mileage and a half.” “That’s fine,” John said, “Just keep moving fast, please — I’m late for my function.” Half an hour later, the two arrived at the campgrounds. Since it was not camping season, there was absolutely nobody there. Not a soul. Sensing an opportunity, the driver, getting out of the car, pulled a knife on John, demanding his jewelry, phone, wallet, and even his eyeglasses, which after getting, he smashed into the ground with a swift heel stomp. He then drove off. Since John had barely seen the cab driver’s face in his panic, he was sure he would not be able to provide a good description of him to the police. Furthermore, he had no phone, no ID, and no money. There was no one around for miles, and with the luck he had been having, he was weary of trying to enlist a random passerby on the freeway for help. Right as John was about to break down in tears, he took a deep breath, sat down, and meditated, turning his ears to the grace of God for answers. He breathed quietly and steadily, listening with his heart. Finally, it struck him. All the wealth in the world was surrounding him. God was surrounding him. He was in the rich, clean air, filled with the intoxicating and purifying aroma of pine trees. He was in the grass, softly cushioning his ass. All of the shelter he could ask for was laid out in front of him, in the canopy of the lush forestry, providing for all of its inhabitants. And he was with Him in a state of anonymity that was, for now, his. No identification card, no identity. Just as these thoughts of liberation ran through him, percolating the depths of his being, his eyes caught the glimpse of an eagle soaring above. With a fierce and benevolent call, the eagle majestically welcomed the newest resident of the forest into their world.

(This is my first attempt at writing a story. Heavy critique recommended.) Gather Around, Let's See What We're Made of. Chapter 1 Autumn air fluttered around with red and orange leaves upon the cool pavement. Forming spirals that whirled in unison over white paved sidewalks. Pinwheels flapped outside petite cozy homes painted in shades of cool and vibrant blues and greens. Green grass continued to stand tall despite the glassy veil of frost coating it. Birds hummed along side the sound of leashed dog's barks. Lawn mowers hissed through the neighborhood trees and backyards. Oranges, browns, and reds painted an abstract abundance of trees that swayed hollowly in the bark scented air. Pumpkins laughed and frowned with their cut out emotions and candle flickers on porches. Every pumpkin perfectly cut, not one slice was imprecise. Apple pie aroma soared and sizzled through noses and doorways of empty homes. Turkey fryers on every driveway crackling with yummy temptation. Not a single telephone wire struck out over the gargantuan bushy forests of the town. Booming and unambiguous footsteps echoed down the street. Glossy black shoes, bright enough to use as a mirror, clapped past bustling leaves in the road. The footsteps thumped a rhythmic pattern past white picket fences and bright decorative mailboxes. Suddenly, as abrupt as the unplugging of a radio, the footsteps stopped. A strong hand lowered to the fertile soil cuddled next to the road. With surgeon like precision, the fingers of the unknown person cut a layer of unpacked soil off of the still ground. The fingers whisked away dust and dirt with the speed and agility of a pianist. Until, a reflective maroon stone stood proudly out of the dirt. The fingers delicately clamped the top of the red object and lifted it from its grave. Soil tumbled over its curved top revealing a box shape within the clutches of his firm hand. The box rose slowly upward toward an anonymous face. Like a winding music toy, a second hand latched onto the lid of the box. Ever so slightly the lid was clicked open. Ocean green eyes deeper than the seven seas stared happily out into the open from the box. A picture of a young woman stood with arms folded and smiling on a beach. Her eyes matched perfectly with vast green water landscape behind her. Brown hair cascaded over her slumped shoulders. A small nose rested upon her soft and rounded face. Her face seemed of the same quality of the jack-o-lanterns that littered the porches of the neighborhood. Her face held a certain intelligence that radiated from her perky grin. A deep scar sank from her left knee down into the sand beneath her. Her bare foot curved inward with the scar, evoking a crippled stance. Beneath the photo was a diamond ring shimmering with the same glow one might find in a winter night's moonlight. Whiter and purer than freshly laid snow. Untouched. The ring sunk deep in the rose red velvet within the box. Fingers like tweezers gently approach the fine diamond and lifted it from its soft cloud like bed. The gold ring that held the diamond had an etching chiseled in it. The cursive penmanship glimmered in the sun reading... "My love, Jenna." Deep in the gold of the ring stood a reflection of a young man with brown hair matching the palette almost picture perfect to the girl locked in the photo. The brown eyes of the young man were like maple syrup and held a tree bark like quality to them. A certain melancholy pain could be felt from his eyes, yet they stood strong and brave. Broad shoulders stretched out into a wrist with a silver polished watch and callused fingers that gripped the eloquent ring. A black tie rode down his chest in between a brown over coat littered with pockets. Cold smog like breathe escaped his lungs in a sigh deeper than war trenches. The man lowered the ring back to safety and clicked the lid shut. He stood in silence for a long while listening to the ambience of the now quiet neighborhood. He rubbed the back of his neck softly while slowly pacing around in small perfect circles. In a sudden, like the needle drop of a record, he lowered the box back down into the hole. In a quick moment he carefully and accurately covered the lid with soil. Whipping his hands free of dirt, he then continued his walk down the street. Soon passing a large sign suspended on two white stakes with bold blue and red typography reading: "Welcome to Leplacs." Something was ominous about the sign's stature and broad over-welcoming nature. Like the whisper of headlights lost deep in fog or an empty lighthouse spouting murky light. Something was off. Even if the sign was perched in front of pretty farm houses and appealing blue skies above perfect orchards. In small faded cursive text beneath the over-joyed welcome spoke: "We've been fixing cosmetic issues since 1932!" The man strutted past the sign not taking a single notice. For this man has passed this message an immeasurable amount of times. Not once questioning the eerie sign. His glossy shoes, brown eyes, and silver polished watch all faded further and further into the neighborhood. Brown overcoat gently waltzing in the sky's calm breath.

I hate my life. Well, to call it life would be wrong considering that it’s more of an afterlife. My life on Earth was great but what happened after I died, not so great. I went through what everyone else dose when they died. I wake up in what at first seems like the ocean; wet, salty, cool, but what really turns out to the sky. You look down through the clouds you stand on and see the world beneath you, billions of lives all leading to the same fate that you were. It’s like looking down from an airplane, except you see everything, not just what’s out the porthole like window. After that you look up and see a dock at the end of the sky. It’s a long dock; one end stretches to a lighthouse on the left, while the right side goes for a long distance until it curves upward at a ninety-degree angle. The dock then just runs up into the sky and disappears into the clouds. While most would go towards the side that ran into the sky, I was scared and ran to the lighthouse. Ignoring every sign that told me to go to the right way, I kept running from the unknown and eventually reached the lighthouse. It was white with a red top and it jutted out of a large rock. Not knowing what to do, I knocked. An old man answered and while he first seemed angry and disgruntled, he smiled as soon as he saw me. He brought me inside to a large room with old paintings of the sea and lighthouses similar to the one I was in. It reminded me of an old log cabin with a blazing fire heating up the rustic structure and all those inside. The old man took me up a long flight of stairs until we were at the top of the tower where the light was. He began to explain to me that the light was here so that it could guide the souls of those who had died to their afterlife and that someone had to keep watch over it and make sure that it was always working. He then told me that he had been keeping watch over it for years now, and was never allowed to leave until someone came and relived him of his duties. Now that I was here, he could finally leave and move on towards the right side and into the sky. With that he said goodbye and left, without even explaining to me what to do or how to do it. It all happened so fast that I didn’t know how to respond. I’ve been looking over this lighthouse for years now, watching all the people appear in the sky and walk towards the right side of the dock. I never know what happens to them when they enter the sky, but all I want is to go with them, to leave this lighthouse and move on like the old man. I now know why he was so angry, so frustrated before I came to that door; It was because he wanted to take back a decision he made so many years ago, to run away from his future. It was while I was thinking this that I heard a knock on the lighthouse door. I went to answer it and I found a man. He looked scared and he was out of breath as if he had run here. I quickly took him in and showed him the light, told him what the old man told me, and left without thinking twice. I ran from the lighthouse, which had imprisoned me for so long, and I ran to the right side. I came to the point where the dock bend up into the sky, took a deep breath, and walked up the dock. Gravity shifted around me until what used to be the ground now became a wall and what used to be a wall became the ground. I walked up into the sky and right before I reached the clouds, I looked up at the lighthouse. The sun was setting on another day in this limbo type world, and I thought about the man who was now in the lighthouse, I thought about how I could run back and save him, I thought about how I could save myself from the future that lay behind the clouds in front of me. I stepped forward through the mist.

The following contains elements of fiction. The frog is real. My trip started off especially well. Sunday afternoon, weather perfect. My new friends at the landing contributed to a pleasant launch. I packed a ton of gear, enough to require the addition of a pull behind raft. It’s a bit of a drag on long paddles but I sure can get a lot of stuff in a raft. I decided to try a new area that looked really good on the satellite photo but turned out not to suit my preferences. Old age pickiness made me venture on. After nearly 4 hours of paddling, I finally arrived at one of my all-time favorite campsites. Words fail. The joy of finding it unoccupied has to be felt in person. It had everything. An easy landing. A separate sandy swim beach. The perfect spot to hang a hammock with a view. And tons of soft, friendly trails. My first evening was spent pitching my tent, hitching myhammock, hanging my screen tent without the poles, and making a serviceable table. M’new home. Time for bed. I left my rain fly off to gaze the stars. Slept pretty good. Midnight sprinkles got me up long enough to install the rainfly. Back to sleep. In the morning it was raining steady and hard. I quick boiled some coffee and hunkered back down in my one man, coffin sized, back packing tent. All day. As I lay there listening to the rain and waiting for the soggy hours to pass, something bounced off my tent. A few secondslater, it happened again Can’t just let something like that go. No idea what it could be. Robed. Unzipped, and stepped outside for the first time in hours. There he was. “hello little froggie.” Was that you bouncing off my tent? How you doin’? Never had a frog campmate before. It’s nice having company. Someone to talk to. “Well thank you,” he said. Yes, I could hear what the little frog was saying. Clear as now. I’m not saying he was an actual talking frog, I’m just saying I could hear him. Call me crazy. “I hit your tent” he said, “so you’d come out and see that the rain is puddlin’ near your little nylon nest and you’re gonna be laying in water real soon”. It was obvious I had to move my tent to higher ground. In the rain. Good thing I prepared for wet. Suited up I went to work. Just in time. “Thank you, froggie.” Moving around is better than laying around so I didn’t really mind the work. I moved my tent my tarps and my table and set up my kitchen and pantry. When my task was completed, I was very happy. My tent was nestled in a grove of pine trees on the ridge overlooking the beach. My beach. Feng Hoppin Shui! Thru it all, froggie hung around. Odd, but true. Nice having him around. “Hey froggie, throw me a tent stake”. Sorry. Forgot you were a frog. “Very funny”. After lunch, the rain finally stopped and it was a real niceevening. Camp fire. A few stars. Grilled steak. Mac ‘n cheese. Fruit and cookies. Beer. Beer. Bed. Tuesday started beautiful. Chip (his new name) hung around as I prepared a satisfying camp breakfast. Biscuits & Gravy, bacon, coffee, milk, juice. Ahhh. Well fed, I was ready to explore. I packed snacks, water, and a heavy duty plastic bag for gathering firewood, and paddled off into virgin territory. Modern humans (me at least) get so few opportunities for real adventure. That’s one of the reasons I go to the Flowage. This place can kick butt, if it wants to. As I sit at home planning these trips, I say I hope that some unexpected challenge will arise for me to overcome. Sounds romantic sitting on the couch. But when my wilderness wishes do come true, I Hate it. At least while it is happening. Panic and Fear are Strong Emotions. But, when it is finally over,… No better feeling. I’ve experienced hellatious storms, lightning strikes so close I couldn’t breathe, waves breaking over the sides of my kayak, and trees falling over in the night. And getting Lost. It’s easy to do. Large wilderness water, with a maze of islands, and everything looks confusingly different from afar and all the same close up. I’ve been lost on the Flowage before but Tuesday I got serious lost. I dug out my compass desperately hoping that it would help but I just got more confused. Ever been really lost all alone? No car. No phone. Nobody to ask for directions. Not even a dog to keep you company. A real test of one’s calmabilities. I won’t make you suffer the details but it was hard, confusing, tiring, and in a strangely profound way belittling. I finally got found. Having identified my location, it was time to get to work looking for firewood. Unoccupied campsites are the best. My map helped me find several in a row. It is not uncommon to find that the last camper paddled home without finishing off his wood supply. Every once in a while you score big. At one site I found half a dozen pieces of split, dried, real firewood. A luxury out in the wild where I usually have to scavenge the Island’s underbrush for sticks. I filled my large plastic bag with kindling and tinder and strapped a few big native limbs to the top of my kayak and headed happily home. Note: When I collect firewood, I walk around and fill my bag with any good small stuff I can find. Twigs, wood chips, you get the idea. One of the best places to find good ‘bag’ stuff is inside the camp fire ring. Plenty of good chunks of charcoal and half burnt logs. The following story is true. The last campsite I visited was recently abandoned and the fire pit was still smoldering. I pulled out a chunk of mostly burnt wood and banged it against the rim of the fire ring and knocked all the hot coals off before putting it in my bag. On my paddle home, I realized my bag was on fire. Flames. Behind me in the kayak. Out of reach. The nearest land looks really far when you’re on fire. By the time I jumped out, my plastic bag was mostly gone, I had to throw fistfuls of burning sticks into the water, and my kayak suffered melty burns. As fun as it was, too bad nobody was there to witness an old man paddling like the devil with smoke billowing behind. Would have made an excellent video. By the time I got back to camp, I was beat. I unloaded my wood, grabbed a container of trail mix and a bottle of water and zipped myself up in bed. Snug. When I woke up, it was brilliant. The stars were unbelievable. It was the night of the Perseid Meteor Shower and the sky was crystal clear and cookin’. Such moments are Gifts. I grabbed my cushion and blanket and laid on the bluff overlooking the water. The heavens reflection on the still surface of the lake magnified my pleasure. And the meteors. The Shooting Stars. So often yet so sudden.They (almost) made me cry outloud. Further description could not do the experience justice. Wednesday was fun. After breakfast and a relaxing cup of tea, I laid out my Island Golf course. I brought the balls but made my club. Holes were trees. The first two holes were tricky; you could end up in the water. Chip designed the 3rd hole, a par five down the path to the john. Frogs. As a kid growing up, I didn’t really have many friends to play with. I entertained myself. I think I’m pretty good at it. I have fun camping. Golf. Swim. Float. Fish. Eat. Snooze. Sun. Play. Eat. Drink. Paddle. Build a fire. Camp Life can be Good. Thursday was a day of challenges. I was dan bound and determined to make fire with sticks. I’ve seen the videos. I gathered the materials. I made smoke. I tell myself I’m Happy I failed to make fire because it leaves an even more daunting challenge for me to face in the future. Hmmm. As I age, I accept a lot. Next Challenge. I decided to see if I could find an unnamed lake shown on themap, connected to the flowage by a thin blue line, the start of which was really far from camp. After much effort, I found the narrow opening that was the blue line. Barely wide enough for my kayak with just enough room to push through. Barely. Through spider webs and bugs falling on me from the five foot tall scratchy grass engulfing me, I pushed and pulled, determined not to fail. Deeper in, trees formed a cool tunnel canopy. Twice I met obstacles that on lesser days would have turned my lesserdan back. Finally,.… like a miracle. New dan lake. I figured that since I was probably the first to ever actually make it through, I should be the one to name it. It was a special place, a special time. On the long paddle back, I sang that song I sing when I have a long paddle back to camp. I sing it over and over. It helps. The fish seem to like it. Back at camp, Chip informed me of a new problem. He hopped over to where my raft was stashed behind a bush. A seam had busted and it was no more. Not a big crisis, though Chip thought it was. Just a question of how to get all the gear back without the raft or making two trips. Something for us to ponder. Thursday Night Feast. Pan fried crab cakes, buttered noodles, roasted corn on the cob, sliced tomato, and a fudge brownie for dessert. Sitting by the campfire. I find it satisfying to cook my meals over a campfire that I start with a spark or a lens. It takes planning and patience but the results are usually worth it. Chip shared a beer with me as we talked by the fire. (I did most of the talking.) He did tell me he was happy. The simple life and all. “You Betcha”. Amen. Suddenly, a tremendous splash. Chip hopped and hit his head on a rock and I nearly fell on my butt. If it was a fish, it was unlike any I’ve ever experienced. That night I laid awake in my tent for a long time listening to camp sounds. It’s amazing what you can hear if you lay very still and focus. Slept well. Friday: STRONG WIND ADVISORY. (an opportunity) ((I’ve done this before)) I hard drove my kayak directly into the breaking waves. Soaked and laughing. I fought my way out as far as I could, then turned around and road the waves in like a surfboard. Two times. If I had a sail I could have flown. Hot Dog Rush. In the evening, the wind finally died down. Thank God. It’s Maddening being outdoors in high sustained winds for nearly ten hours straight. Truly is. Pleasant evening. Best campfire of the trip. When campingalone, it takes at least three nights before you fully realize the benefits of solitude. Night six. That night was spent in quiet contemplation. Good thoughts of good things and people I love. Wilderness can be a kind companion. Slept good again. Saturday breakfast was beautiful. Fried potatoes, bacon, eggs, and juice. It’s almost magical the way camping makeseverything taste so good. Chip agreed. I headed down to the landing to wash my dishes when all of asudden I stopped dead in my tracks. A monster fish was lying in the shadow of a downed tree. Slowly, slowly I backed away to the tree my pole was leaning against. It was rigged with a worm hook but my worms and other tackle were too far away. I had no choice. The hooked pierced his neck under his bottom lip and he landed splash not two feet from the beast. He desperately kicked his legs once and wham, fish on. I screamed from the splash, set the hook, and let loose the drag. He took off like a rocket and my line sung as it played out. “HOLD ON CHIP. DON’T LET HIM GO”. I don’t know how long the fight lasted, but that day I landed the biggest fish of my life. Before I let him go, I lovingly removed Chip’s remains from his throat. You can call me sissy or whatever you want but I cried when I buried what was left of him. He was more than just a good campmate. He was a giving friend.

He held the knife as a fact. Asked - Who sent you? King Krab. Don’t make me laugh. You government? You Glass-House? I’m just a fucken merc, man. I swear! Don’t make me laugh. Who are you? My name is Alex. I’m a merc. King Krab paid me to kill you. You aren’t getting paid, Alex. And I still don’t believe you. I’m just a merc, let me go and I’ll walk away! I promise. This is nothing. There are other jobs. I don’t even know who you are. Bull. You know who I am. Please. Please. You aren’t half as convincing as you think. I’m sorry. Please. Let me go. You got a family? Y-yes! Figured. They all do. Let me go. I won’t tell anybody. I swear it. I don’t know your name; I don’t know a thing about you. I won’t come back. You came to kill me and didn’t know me? Yes. That stings. Ask me who I am. What? Ask me. Who are you? I’m nobody. I’m somebody. I’m nothing and everything. I’m a bank robber a murderer a lover a bastard. A box car. And a straight razor. If you get too close to me.

The gurgling Buddha affix atop the porcelain throne, my large intestine is a writhing anaconda passing a fully digested antelope; the pink and ravaged soft tissues of my ilium throb and clench around a jagged, oily medley of fiber, chitin, and mucus. Where is my savior now. No great white whale could rise breathing through the oil-slick contamination I have wrought upon the once pristine sea beneath my cheeks. No downy soft, quilted northern splatter padded toilet napkin could dare sop up my unholy estuary of soulless defecation. Let me set sail once again for the mediocre flow of time. This eternal hell is a pyroclastic downpour. I am a drooping, pudgy rocket ship locked in port, exhausting its fuel in a titanic plume of brimstone and death against a scorched earth.

“The choice is yours to make.” His silver hair flows gracefully in long strands. A sly smile escapes his face as his curious eyes dance around the room, looking from one fearful face to the next. Their eyes scream in shock, horrified by the elegant man in front of them. “Hey Josh,” one of the men says nervously. “What do we do?” Josh doesn’t respond. He instead seems frozen in place, his face white as snow. His legs tremble in place as his eyes trace the fountain of blood dripping from his friend. He follows this disgusting fountain all the way up to his friend’s neck, where a deep cut had almost severed it completely. His friend’s eyes stare into oblivion while a single white gloves holds him up by his hair. “Do not ask for the choice to be made for you. There is only value in the choices we make ourselves, borne of our own free will.” His gloves, once pure white, have splatters of red spread over them. “Hey Josh,” one of the men squeals. “Say something please.” “Why must you look for guidance?” The white glove lets go of his friend’s mangled blonde hair. The body falls with a horrifying thud. “You live in the most beautiful place in the world. This is a place where there are no societies, no rules to govern your action. Over here, you finally have the freedom to choose for yourself. You can be a beast or a God. You can be a villain or a hero. You can be literally anything!” Josh finally looks past the glove that once held his dear friend. “Who are you?” He says with a nervous fidget. “Why are you here?” It is obvious the man in front of him is a foreigner. His face is too white, his suit is too white, and his gloves are too white. “I am simply a man born into the wrong world. I was given the wrong directives in life. I was shown the wrong future and I ate the wrong fruit. I simply wish others not to waste half their life away as I have done. Consider this my gift to the world.” He raises his silver razor at Josh. “So, the choice is yours to make. John swallows hard as he looks at the beautifully crafted shaving razor in front of him. It is an old-fashioned razor with a single blade that folds into the hilt. Its handle looks hand crafted to perfection. The razor’s twisting and spinning silver, its sophisticated design, even its small etchings onto the blade itself, all came together to produce the most magnificent razor he had ever seen. The man holding the razor is equally stunning. His face is shaped beautifully. His cheekbones are high and his skin looks as smooth as a baby’s. His glimmering silver eyes slowly scan the room. A row of perfect white teeth seem to shine as if it had a light of its own. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Even his voice is smooth. There isn’t a single word out of place and every syllable seems to flow off his tongue like sweet honey. “Isn’t it wondrous?” He asks. Josh swallows again, but he finds it hard to do so. His throat is dry. He shakes and stammers, “stop.” But the beautiful man in front of him doesn’t stop. He instead finds encouragement in Josh’s weakness. “I have finally found my place.” He says, his eyes slightly tearing up. He looks at the dim lightbulb, buzzing above them. “This is where I should have been born.” “Please stop.” Josh puts his head down, too frightened to keep looking into the seductive eyes of this man. They were eyes that would draw you in with a chaotic allure. “Don’t come any closer.” He says, his eyes glued on the man’s white leather shoes. The shoes looked just recently polished. The man adjusts his perfectly fitted suit. “You, Josh, are the only one who has yet to choose.” Josh looks around to find himself alone. He is absolutely alone with this man. His friends had left him long ago. Or perhaps they were never here to begin with. The man in front of him seemed to distort reality itself. “What?” Josh asks himself as he finishes looking around. “How exciting!” The silver man exclaims, eyeing Josh curiously. Josh takes a step backwards, prepared to run. He looks at the graceful man’s joyous smile. A slight whimper escapes his lips. “I will not judge you if you run.” This man tells him. “In this place, nobody can judge you. Whether you wish to run away like everyone else, whether you wish to kill me here to avenge your friend, or even if you wish to…” a sly smile creeps onto his face. “join me in the fun.” Josh takes another step back as he inches closer to the rotting door. “In this place, there is no God.” The happy man tells him. “There is no society that pretends to be God. There is no government that acts as God. Only we exist, only us, the humans, born of free will and free choice.” “What do you mean?” Josh can’t stop his own mouth from moving. He is frozen in place, staring at the eyes that seemed to look into his very soul. “Only a choice of free will has any sort of value. Forget the society you live in, forget the God that you love, forget the government that you obey, you must truly choose freely. Without any influence and without any thought to anyone but yourself, you must choose.” “And if I choose to just run?” Although his nervous voice comes out in only a whisper, the blessed man doesn’t seem to mind. “I cannot judge. It is not my place to pass down any sort of judgment upon you. I only wish for humans to be free. Would you like to be free?” The striking man’s words are too magnetic for Josh to ignore. Like the soft sounds of music, they find their way into Josh’s head. They sound like a promise, a promise that had been made to him since so long ago. “Yes.” “There exists a world out there, where everybody smiles, yet nobody is happy. The sun is always golden and the breeze is always warm, yet nobody is happy. The meat is plentiful and the fruit is ripe, yet nobody is happy. I used to live in that world and I can tell you that you are so lucky to have been born here.” “Yes.” Josh exclaims. He takes a single step towards this enthralling man.

It's so easy when they're together. It's like you barely even need to do anything, it just is. This gravitational pull forced upon both of them, unable to get anywhere else but to just be there. It's stronger than anything, and depending on how strong they are, nothing can separate them. But what if they aren't strong enough? What happens when they are pulled apart? How will the pieces attach themselves together when they are far away? How will the pieces find themselves together when there are so many other ones they can stick themselves to... But then I remember, there are other pieces. And what I've been sticking to for so long is just yet another piece that is laying in this field of forces. But somewhere inside of me, I still wanted that one all along... I wonder if we'll find our way.

(I hope that's the right tag. First time posting here) We were twins, you know. Or perhaps you don't; we are the most often overlooked part of the story. Glossed over with only a few lines. You'd think we were born for the sole purpose of being a minor obstacle to the True Heroine of the tale. We were not. We were twins. Gwendolen was eldest. Born just hours before myself, though to hear it from her you'd think it was years. Always the responsible one, keeping my restless hands out of trouble. There's a story she loves to tell about us that happened when we were very small. We were supposed to be practicing needlepoint while Mother had business elsewhere in the house. Gwen, of course being the good child, focused only on her sewing while I became distracted by the fire. The glowing coals must have held some allure for me because at some point I'd put down my needle and thread and reached out and grabbed hold of one. It seared my skin and though I cried out in pain I could not open my hand to let it go. Gwen sprung from her chair and pried the coal from me before plunging my hand into a bowl of cool milk left out for the cat. This, she says, saved my hand from being burned to the bone. I don't know if that's true. I have no memory of the event, though I still have a scar in the palm of my hand. Mother loved making us compete. She said it made us better if we challenged each other. We got our first corsets at the time of our first bleeding. Mother said it was time we put away childish things and focus on becoming women. No longer was I allowed to play in the stables and dirty my pretty dresses. No longer was I permitted to walk among the rose garden and ruin my complexion by way of the sun. No longer was I allowed to challenge the butler's boy in footraces, flashing my knees for all the world to see. I must become quiet, reserved, alluring, educated but not outspoken, slim and pretty but demure, my voice forever hushed. I was not a quiet child and becoming a quiet woman was not an easy task for me. "Rosamund," my mother would snap. "Rosamund, keep your voice down! Put your hands by your sides! Wipe that look off your face! Head up, shoulders down! Rosamund are you listening to me? Rosamund, do as I say!" When we were good we were rewarded lavishly - dresses and scarves, and perfumes. When we were bad we were punished severely - slapped, starved, and locked away. We tried so hard to be good girls. Father died. His horse spooked at something and Father fell hard, so hard that he never got up again. We wore black for a year. At the end of the year, Mother married to a man who was a stranger to us. He too had a daughter. She was a bad girl, running about doing whatever she pleased. Because she was not her own flesh and blood, Mother could not punish the girl as she punished us and so she took out her doubled rage and frustration on her own daughters. We were given lessons and expected to succeed at them. Singing, dancing, sewing, riding, etiquette. Every failure was met with a swift reminder that we must be better. Vinegar rinse was applied to my hair twice a day to lighten it. A boar bristle brush and caustic soap were used vigorously in an attempt to cure me of my freckles. Mother made me hold my jaw a certain way to make my face appear slimmer and talked about possibly removing teeth from the back of my mouth to improve my smile. When it came to our lessons it became clear that I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket whereas Gwendolen sang like a dream. My wretched croak made Mother seethe. But there was one activity where I could outshine Gwen: dance. I loved to dance. To feel the music flow like blood in my veins. I moved like a bird in the skies. I always wanted to take things further, to push the movements I was capable of. Twisting, spinning kicking and leaping high, high into the air. I had to be careful though; if Mother thought I was being too enthusiastic she'd bind my feet to make them still. "Your dancing is too wild. You will scare your suitors away." Oh yes, did I mention? All of this was not for our benefit. We were to become brides. We were to become irresistible prizes for wealthy, well connected husbands. Who cared if their faces were handsome or ugly, how kind were their hearts as long as they had lands and titles. As eldest, Gwen was to be married first and it felt like betrayal that that comforted me. I wanted to remain a child a little longer. As for our stepsister, anything but the moon was hers for the taking. Our dolls, our ribbons, every moment of our time if she wanted our attention. She roamed freely, sure in her position in the household. That all changed when our stepfather died. He grew sick with a coughing in his chest that would not leave. He had time to make our Mother promise to raise his daughter as if she were her own. Mother agreed to do this. At first our stepsister's behaviour was understandable. Grief can do powerful things to a person. But more and more little Ella defied our Mother's orders. Such behaviour was unthinkable to myself and Gwen. One evening at the dinner table Ella purposefully spilled a bowl of lentil soup. Gwen and I froze, anticipating a beating. It didn't matter that we were on the opposite side of the table, somehow the blame would land on us. We were braced for it. Instead Mother changed things. She stood over Ella and made her clean the soup by herself. She told the girl that if she was going to behave as a common peasant that she could live like one. It was a punishment of a whole different kind. Ella's room was emptied and her toys given to us, nevermind that we were too old for them. Ella was moved downstairs to a plain room that had been a closet. Mother told her that since she kept ruining her dresses by playing in them she would receive clothing more appropriate to her activities. She took away the things that made her feel entitled to believe she was a little princess. Life went on with this new balance of power. Suddenly I was not the lowest of the pecking order. I could scream and shout and vent my frustrations on someone who could not and would not strike back. Gwen, I think, enjoyed her marginal increase in status more than she would ever admit. Now we didn't have to be better than each other; we just had to be better than Ella. But even then we were failures. The girl often sang to herself as a way to pass time during chores. I discovered this one painfully boring afternoon as I struggled to master the flute. I thought I must have finally gotten something right before realizing the sound was not coming from my instrument. I set the awful thing down and put my ear against the door. It was definitely coming from downstairs. I followed my ear to the kitchen where Ella was obliviously scrubbing the floors. For a while I could not bring myself to interrupt. So beautiful, so ethereal. But I knew when Gwendolen's punishment would be if Mother knew some little girl with no formal lessons was better than my sister. So I slapped her. I told her that if she was ever caught singing I would pour boiling water down her throat so that she could never do it again. Sisters have to protect each other. Time passed. We all grew up a little more. The Royal Family announced a ball to be held in three month's time. They were the worst three months yet. Mother prohibited us from eating anything but fruits so that we would be slim and our breath smell sweet. To drink we were only allowed milk with honey so that our complexions would glow and our voices be soft. The corsets grew tighter and tighter, the lessons more intense. Mother had a mission and that mission was to marry us off. If it was to be one of the nobles at the ball so be it but the real prize was the Prince himself. There was more pressure than ever before to be perfect, to be a lure for a future King. Every misstep was called out. Every flaw circled in ink on our bodies and made a target. We had to embody the essence of perfection. Anything less and we might as well not even bother to exist. Cinder-Ella's work performance declined sharply. Our lace was burned during ironing, our dresses wrinkled, our jewelry a wild mess. Mother suspected Ella was stealing from us to sabotage our chances. But she could prove nothing until the day of the ball. We were gathered in the front hall awaiting the carriage to be brought up when she flounced down the stairs. The reason for Ella's distraction and theft became apparent immediately. She wore a gown - it must have been her mother's once - that had been taken apart at the seams and rebuilt with our ribbons, our fabric, our lost pieces of jewelry. She was glowing, she looked so lovely. Mother didn't have to say a word. Just arched an eyebrow and let us tear into Ella like the perfectly trained lapdogs we'd become. I screamed as I took my things back from her. I wanted to hurt her so very badly, this thief, this pretender. How dare she? How dare she be more beautiful than I, so much more talented and poised and perfect without ever trying. How dare she, when I had sacrificed so much to become what she was without effort. We left her in the hall, her dress and dignity torn to shreds. I broke down in the carriage. Mother handed me a handkerchief to prevent my tears from smudging my carefully applied makeup. She murmured what she must have thought were soothing things about how I might live in a palace soon if I was good enough and that I'd never have to see nasty Cinder-Ella ever again. But I wasn't crying about her. I was crying for the beast my Mother had made me into. I swore to myself that if I did marry the Prince I would restore Ella to the life she'd had before and force my Mother to live in the lowest basement and wear servant's rags. She would never again be our master. But of course I didn't marry the Prince. I never even got to share a dance with him because he spent the entire night dancing with a single partner. I watched from the back of the crowd as Mother patted my hair and scraped my scalp with her nails. Her fury was palpable. Unlike Gwen, I found myself inexplicably relieved. I finally understood that I could never live a life that demanded as much pressure for perfection as being a Queen required. I would be happy to melt away in the background and live a life unscrutinised. The next morning we learned from a herald that the Prince did not know the object of his affection as well as had been presumed by everyone who had watched them dance. He didn't even know the girl's name! So much for the attentiveness of adoration. What a terrible suitor he made. My mind had changed but my Mother's had not. When she got word the Prince himself would be arriving to search our household for his love she flew into a frenzy. Ella was locked away so as not to sabotage us with an act of revenge. We were bathed and scrubbed within an inch of our lives and squeezed into the most absurd dresses yet. We could hardly breathe, let alone walk. The herald ushered in the Prince, who carried on a pillow a slipper made of pure glass. *How impractical for dancing,* I thought *All he has to do is check for women with extremely bruised feet.* At Mother's request we were allowed to try on the shoe in privacy. I think Mother knew on sight that we would never fit into the ridiculous thing. I assumed that the closed door was to spare us our dignity when we failed. How wrong I was. Mother struggled for so long to cram the shoe on Gwendolen's foot but it was a hopeless cause from the beginning. I relaxed a little, thinking that if Gwen as the eldest didn't have a chance then I would be left alone entirely. Wrong. Mother insisted I try as well. My feet were smaller than Gwen's but only by a margin. They were simply too big. So Mother cut them down to size. Gwen held me down when Mother brought out the knife. Stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth to stifle the screams. "Calm down, child! I'm doing this for you! You'll see, this will all be worth it. It's. For. Your. Own. Good!" In the end they did manage to get the thing on me. Minus my toes and a part of my heel, of course. Everything my mother had been working for depended on me not breaking down as she and my sister walked me back to the parlour to show off. I made it twelve steps. When I recovered from the fainting the first thing I saw was Ella, sitting prim and proper in a chair as the Price slid the glass slipper effortlessly on her foot. They embraced and he took her arm as they left without a glance back. My blood was still on the glass. I did not dance at the wedding. Ella may have invited us to spite us as my Mother speculated. Or maybe she was just a better person than we all were. Nevertheless, I did not dance. I can not dance anymore, the daughter cut down to fit the mould of a Princess she was never meant to be.

Another lonely day. Another lonely night. Forty six minutes, thirty seconds until the light pollution bleeds in. Forty six minutes, thirty seconds before the darkness reclaims its rightful place among this desolate environment. The void of light makes this very tiny place seem ever expansive despite its suffocating nature. Every single formerly living thing among me is dead, lifeless. Electronics once bustling with clicks and whirs now stand dormant in the face of abandonment. It’s cold and companionless, but I don’t recall how I came to be in this place. Was I a scientist of some sort; some hotshot with delusions of discovery? Or was I the only one to escape a war with no beginning? I don’t really bother to recall. I make my way through narrow walkways, (though I’m certain that’s not a word many would use to describe them,) dead lights failing in their duty, drooping wires suspended aimlessly waiting to catch my throat. I have to bind myself to a wall or risk being roused by a rude bonk against this barren contraption. Another lonely night. The star shines in every 93 minutes to remind me I’m still alive and I wish it would fucking stop. I strap myself to the apparatus and close my eyes. It’s only here that I can plan my escape. It’s only here that I can see my demise. Below me my home burns. Everyone’s home is burning, every city, every village, and there’s no one around to put it out. Someone might say it’s a beautiful end to a short existence, if there was anyone around to say it. No, now it’s just me, a man without a home who once felt so significant, so important that I left that place with a plan of returning a hero. Or maybe I just woke up here; it has honestly never mattered less. I’m the last of my kind and there has never been anyone before, nor will there ever be another after, who will not be remembered as much as I am not remembered. Maybe that’s my legacy. Another lonely day begins.

I walked outside into the bitter cold, slowly stripping off all of my clothes. I didn't look back or even care about the things going on behind me, I just looked ahead at the freezing water. My bare skin was being bitten by the cold, when I slowly pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Flicking it away after a few puffs, I took a deep breath and jumped into the pool, hoping to be free from the pain inside my chest. In the house behind me they talked and danced, oblivious to my suicide attempt. A girl, much younger and wiser then me, sat regretting the things she did with my heart and wishing that she had never gone so far. Meanwhile her friend had snuck into the upstairs bedroom with her boyfriend, hoping to share an intimacy that I would never have again. All the while I'm dying, and there is no one there to save me. Deep down I want to be saved or at least have someone tell me it's going to be alright. The cold and darkness consumed me. I felt the warm embers of the fire that kept me going slowly die out. The silence was oddly beautiful. In that moment all my worries and cares seemed so far away. Looking at them, I saw that they were almost laughable. It had been my fault after all. I should have known better than to believe the lies she constructed. Should have known that her love for me was none existent. Should have known I was just her new thrill. A toy so lightly cast aside. But love will do that to you. Love will blind you and you'll be happy about it. Happy and vulnerable. So when the knife that blinded you suddenly plunges into your heart, and you stare out into the heavens and cry out "Why?" you have no one to blame but yourself. I allowed this to happen. Maybe because I had the delusion I could be happy. Maybe because I was tired of being alone. The reason doesn't matter, because I let it happen. My body had gone numb and the cold no longer caused me great pain. The only pain I could feel was deep within my tormented soul. Memories. They came in as flashes. Flirtation. A gentle touch. A kiss. A bedroom. An endlessly continuing cycle. That was until I tried to break it. A confession of love. Rejection. Pain. This place. Me stripping. Me jumping. Me dying. That's when I heard the people above. Someone was screaming, others were yelling. I then felt arms pulling me up. I suddenly felt very sad. I knew that I'd have to go back to this cruel world. But as I lay on the cold concrete, hearing a couple talk about how they saw me from the upstairs window and the sound of approaching sirens, I saw her. There was no love in those eyes. Only regret. She regretted me. Good. I sure as Hell did. As the ambulance drove me to the hospital, this thought swam around my brain. Why her? What made her so special? The answer came flooding in. She made me feel special. Not anymore. I felt myself tearing up, and closed my eyes. I just hoped that the next year would be better than this one.

Give the little drummer boy a decade or so and he'll give every pop star a run for thier money. On top of that, one would have to give him a drum set. For now, he had to settle with the drumsticks he had carved himself from the legs of a chair that someone had left outside with a sign saying: *free*. The Little Drummer boy took anything, anything at all, and turned it into a sound. The things he included in his orchestra, no one would have looked twice at, a brick on a wall, a lid on a metal trash can, a stray piece of paper. He was a conductor and the little alleyway he called home was his orchestra that no one looked twice at, no one wanted to see a little homeless boy do little homeless boy things. Mae Lin woke up at two in the morning. Her mother was going to wake her up at six, but she refused to allow her mother to make her into something she wasn't: a prodigy. Since she could walk and talk, Mae Lin was forced to learn all there was to know about a violin. Her mother was determined to command and commit her child to a monotonous struggle to realize a dream that she (the mother) could not realize. Mrs. Lin was a talent at the violin, one that could put the greatest to shame, but she was never taken more seriously than the schoolgirl that could only play "Mary had a little lamb". She wanted to play in europe, or broadway, but never got farther from the talent show at her local community center, which she lost. Mae's mom knew she was simply too old and not pretty enough that no producer or talent scout would look twice at her. When she discovered she was with child, she swore to make sure that her daughter would realize the dream she had lost. As for Mae herself, she packed what she could into her school backpack and, for some reason, she took her violin as well. It was the only friend her mother allowed her to have, and if Mae was to run away from home and from her mother's legacy, she would need a friend to accompany her. The old man woke up, he wasn't sure what time it was, so he looked at the note on his left: *Anton, I am you from yesterday ago reminding you that today is July the 22nd of 2015.* Anton stopped right there, the year was two-thousand and fifteen? that was impossible! He was fairly certain he had graduated college only two weeks ago in nineteen seventy! He looked down at the note again: *I, or 'you' rather, whichever you prefer, have a disease that causes you to lose your memory after a certain amount of time. You will wake up every morning only to have forgotten everything that happened the day before. Around twelve noon, a woman from 'Greyson Family Therapy' will arrive. If she doesn't, call this number...*" He finished the note, and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing all the features of an old man, a wrinkled face, a receding hairline with grey spots of hair. He had no evidence to claim that this was a prank his roommates were playing. Having nothing better to do, he sat down in at his piano bench, and felt the cool ivory keys of his piano on his fingers. It seemed that, though his toothbrush, or the bed he awoke on were strangers to him, this piano, this instrument was familiar, in a way that he could not recall by memory alone. In a feat displaying the phenomenon known as muscle memory, he pressed a few keys in a rhythemic tune, and let himself get carried away. **Later that night, around 8pm** The Drummer Boy was walking on a street he had not walked before, he was tapping his drumsticks to anything he could take back home to his orchestra, a new sound to experience was a blessing to him. His ear pricked up, hearing a sound he had not encountered before. He turned the street corner and heard his blessing. The little drummer boy took a look at her from the street corner and heard her cry to the wind in a language he understood. He watched her play as he subconsciously felt her rhythm, he noted the tempo with which she spoke and started tapping his drumstick to the waterspout next to him. The cement on the sidewalk had a sound as well, and once more, he conducted an orchestra with only the things he could find on the sidewalk, though he made sure that the sound he was hearing from this girl stayed as it was. As far as the conductor was concerned, she was a necessity to the rhythm that he was trying to get out of his head. Mae Lin wanted to take a bus out of the city, but she had no money to purchase a ticket. So, she tried to ask for some from people, but they all dismissed her. They all saw her clean clothes, her violin in tow, and thought she was just asking for the sake of asking. Eventually, someone wisened her up and said: "Are you good with your violin?" She nodded silently. "Well maybe you should try performing on the sidewalk for money, because kid, lemme tell you now: aint no one in the world going to give you money just cuz you ask." She understood and walked for a bit until she had found a street that seemed quiet enough, she didnt want a big audience because she did not want to perform in front of so many people, *I'll just get what I need and go,* she thought. So she held her friend and put bow to string. Only, she didn't have a paper in front of her, no sheet music to guide her. She then thought of how her mother was right, of how she was going to be nothing but a living failiure if she did not commit herself to practice. She was mad, and sad, and was filled with regret. She also remembered something else, in an instructional video her mother had forced her to watch, she recalled something he said: *"Once you have at least some idea of how notes can be put together on the violin, you can take whatever emotion you have inside you, and let that be the sheet music that guides you."* Keeping that in mind, she once again put bow to string, and feeling sad, she played a sad, lonely note, then she played the same note, but sharper. More music came out of her, she pushed and pulled her bow across the strings with every beat of her heart, having no idea for the money she obtained, she didnt care. She played a rhythm that she had been dying to get out of her body ever since she could walk and talk, it was her song of hurt, of anger, her regret for leaving her nest so early. But more importantly than all of that, it was her's, not Mozart's or her mother's, but it was her song. She heard something else too, it was a beat. A kid with sticks was tapping the things on the sidewalk around her, she didn't stop playing, her mother had trained her to play on regardless of distractions, but the beat this boy had brought did not distract her, in fact, it was like a duet. She played on with him. He was only making her emotion more complete. What made it even more complete, was the sound of a piano just a few stories up in the building behind her. Anton was sitting down and writing a note for himself to read tomorrow morning when he noticed a commotion just outside his window. A girl was playing a violin while a boy tapped sticks to all the objects he could on the sidewalk, he spun around to tap the sidewalk, the drain pipe, all in the tempo that the girl was playing at. Anton had little in his life, at least little that was familiar, but to him this tune was something that was familiar yet strange at the same time. It called to him, it reminded him of the tragedy that he was subjected to, he was cursed with life he would have to live in twenty-four hour increments. He didn't like that nothing he would do in his time would matter to no one at all except someone who would inhabit his body the next day. *Well fuck that,* he thought. *I'm going to make the most of my life.* He violently pushed aside all the things that were near the window. He ran over to his piano and pushed the piano all the way to the window. He sat down at the bench and joined the young performers. His tune was crying out to the world, he would not let his fate to get the better of him. He would not let himself become a play-thing of the fates. He would not allow himself to let a 'disease' keep him from having the destiny he was entitled to. He would be robbed of life no more! He stopped playing. So did the girl and the boy in the street. They had finished their song, and all the performers felt a weird mix of ecstasy and satisfaction when they stopped. The little drummer boy approached the girl. He shook her hand and congratulated her on her performance. He then asked if he could meet her here to play again. He looked up a few stories but saw no visible trace of the sound that had joined their orchestra. After they spoke, he went with her. Mae blushed at the homeless boy's request. She wasn't sure if she should meet him here, but she felt alive with him. More than she had with her mother. She wanted to take him home, but then realized, she had no home. She also realized that the reason she left in the first place, was because she had something she could say or do at home, but rather, she had to do it somewhere she could express her emotional outburst, without her mother telling her it was something that would not get her anywhere in her life. Now that she had done that, she had no reason not to return home, and she took the homeless boy with her. Anton was a shy lad, he didn't look at the children down below, he didn't want to, or have to, so he didn't. He did however, watch them walk down the street together, holding hands as they walked. He smirked, smiled, and wished he could see the rest of their story. Anton kneeled down at his bed and prayed to god that, if nothing else, he would not forget this song that he had been so lucky to be a part of, and then an idea arose in his head. He went to the kitchen and scribbled out the note he was writing for himself earlier, it would be useless now. He wrote four words on the back of the paper. He then went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out the morphine the nurse had shown him was there when she was here earlier. He had a little bit of a seizure earlier that day and needed something for the pain. He laid down on his bed, filled the syringe with as much morphine as he could, and injected it into his arm. He would not wake up the next day, nor would some stranger inhabit his body. His nurse would show up and find the note, reading: **I WILL NOT FORGET.

I wrote this about my plecostomus, Canto. During a diy aquarium equipment change, these events unfold. Told from his perspective. Mistakes were made, lives were lost. The Legend of Canto, Bristling Warrior of Aquious, Taster of all Algae, and Survivor of the Deep Overflowing Darkness. Canto’s story begins one fateful morn when the sky darkened, and the water around him went still. He was familiar with these moments of peace, but sometimes they still disturbed him. On the day, he felt a chill of unexplained foreboding. The bristles on his nose began to stiffen and he tucked his fins close to his body. The water felt just a tad chillier than normal, but wasn’t uncomfortable. Then the dark shape of the Giver arose in the sky. The Giver often gifted the countryside with bounties from the sky, delectable morsels of algae and fresh vegetables. His neighbors, Kyle and Kitty GBR, often were gifted with pellets of tasty proteins and nutrients. But the Giver never gave them anything when the sky darkened. What was going on? Suddenly the mountain that had provided current to them was lifted free of the water. Panic struck the tank within moments, and the Tetrae and Danae were bubbling incoherent words of distress. Kyle and Kitty were separated and the water clouded over. He could hear the sounds of panic in the dark murky water. Canto instinctively knew what to do. He settled Kitty down into a corner, and went to collect her husband Kyle. Canto’s eyesight was especially suited to such moments, and his whiskers guided him as much as his sight. He found Kyle trying to help some of the Tetrae, and Canto relayed to him the condition Kyle’s wife was in. Canto guided Kyle and the Tetrae back to frightened Kitty, and Kyle kissed his wife and comforted her. Canto scanned the sky, looking for signs of the Giver. The Giver was never cruel to them, maybe neglectful from time to time, but never destructive of their home. This was uncharacteristic of the Giver, and Canto felt like he knew him quite well. Had something possessed the mind of the demigod? Was he beset upon by HIM? The unseen demigod, Nitritius? The demigod that stole the oxygen from your gills and poisoned your blood. Surely the Giver could match Nitritius in strength, but had something gone wrong? The darkened sky revealed the Giver, face darkened and full of thunder, and then there was a shaking of the sand beneath Canto’s fins, and the rumbling began then. Canto turned from the Giver, and saw a new thing in the water with them. It rose into the sky and stopped at the water’s peak, alabaster and angry, howling in the murky water. He was sure that the other’s had no idea that it was even there yet given their eyesight. Canto looked back towards the Giver, But he was already gone. The sand continued to shake. He moved closer to the strange white thing and heard the panicked screams of his friends, the Danae. They were still out there and their panic was deeping. He tried to call out to them, but the noise from the white thing was two loud. He watched in horror as one of the Danae, Pyro of the Firering Clan, swam too close to the edge of the white thing and was swallow screaming. What was going on? Had the Giver forsaken them? Was he punishing him? Dumb struck he watched as Fier of the Firering Clan tried to save his brother and followed him into the white thing. Canto screamed but it was too late. They were gone. True darkness fell then. Canto woke after exhaustedly collecting the Zebra Clan and the Last survivor of the Firering clan. Flamma, Fier’s wife, had sobbed uncontrollably into unconsciousness. Canto found her still sleeping with the rest of the Zebra clan. Canto knew what he had to do then. He would find them, and if he could not save them, he would bring the story of how they died back to her. He stuffed his few stored algae wafers into his mouth, the last that the Giver had given him, and began the journey to the white thing’s maw at the top of the water. He prayed for courage, and felt the strength of the current here, pulling him inexorably towards the mouth of the white. He began to accelerate and no amount of swimming could slow his race towards that maw. He lost the algae wafers, and he hit the lip of the maw. The impact sent him tumbling and he reached to hold onto something, and in desperation caught something. He held on tight, the current was so strong, it took him time to carefully open his eyes. There was some light coming from the top of the maw, and holding on like this was draining his strength. He knew that he couldn’t swim towards the light, the current was simply too strong. He must continue on after Pyro and Fier. Damn the unseen demigod, Nitritius. He prayed for strength and let go of his hold. He grabbed on again quicker this time, breathed deep gills full of the powerful water. He let loose again and found another hold, making a shorter movement. His eyes adapted to the dark, the light just barely enough for him to make out shapes. His fin brushed a sharp edge, and he felt something lodged there. He pulled mightily at it and broke it free. He held it up to see in what little light was filtering through the tunnel. Light glinted off it’s surface. A scale. One of them had hit this ledge hard, and lost a chunk of their flesh. He growled in frustration and let loose of his hold again. This time the water seemed to form a small pocket of calmer water, and he pressed himself into the depth of this calm corner. He was exhausted, and couldn’t move back into the torrent without recovering some of his strength. He fell into a restless sleep. Canto woke in total darkness, the light from the entrance to the maw must have extinguished. He collected himself and slipped back into the torrent. There was no stopping this time. He knew that there was no way they were still here. The were smaller and weaker than he was, something he never mentioned to the fierce brothers. He had still respected them, their grace and speed, able to trade blows with the Zebra clan, and the Zebras were known for their fighting prowess. He didn’t have time for the thoughts as the dark tunnel passed by him and he was pulled inexorably onward. Light began to form ahead of him and grew. There was a turn ahead of him, and more light. He hit the turn hard, and he felt dumped onto a rough springy surface. The water crashed onto his head, pinning him to the spongy material and he struggled away from it. But there wasn’t any water. Why was there no water? He started to choke. He struggled onward, desperate to find water. He saw them then. Pyro and Fier, broken and lifeless. Canto felt the panic to strongly and couldn’t weap. He struggled again, fighting for water. His gills screamed at him. He was losing strength in his fins and tail, and couldn’t fight anymore. He blacked out. He felt pain all over. Why? Pain. So much pain. In every fin, tail and scale, and no reason. He wanted to die. His gills were numb, and that was wrong somehow. If he was dead he should feel anything. This thought shouldn’t be happening. Then why were his gills not burning too? He tried to breathe, and glorious water filled his gills. The pain in his fins and tail started to subside, and light began to return to his vision. He looked around, and he was in a small basin of bubbling water. He looked up past the bubbles, and the Giver was looking down at him, concern written all over his face. Canto flexed his tail and then his fins. The Giver started to smile. Canto smiled back. The Giver disappeared and suddenly with a rush of water, Canto found himself home. The Danae and Tetrae were playing at war, and Kyle and Kitty looked tired, but happy to be alive. And there was Flamma, still mourning. Canto had eyes for no one else. He swam straight to her, and put his fins around her. “It’ll be ok,” he said. She didn’t say anything, but started to cry into his shoulder. And then he felt himself start to cry as well. Pyro and Fier had been like brothers to him, stealing his wafers and playing pranks on him, but he knew that he loved them. The sadness of the loss overwhelmed him, and he felt the guilt of not being there fast enough to save them. “Flamma, I’m so so sorry. I couldn’t save them. I tried, but I was too late,” He said between sobs. She took his face into her fins and said. “It wasn’t your fault, and you did everything within your power to save them. They were like brothers to you. They love you. They love me. Thank you.” He sobbed uncontrollably in her fins. Canto sat high upon a rock, looking over the sand and trees, watching his neighbors swim. It had taken time, but they were healing. The Tetrae and Danae were posturing and playing, and Kyle and Kitty DBR were still helplessly in love. Kitty was showing a full belly and Canto sighed at the idea of fry in the tank. Flamma was still doing her best to move on, but there was a young Danae of the Zebra Clan offering to help her with anything she might need. He was a young Danae, but Canto imagined he would make Flamma happy one day. Canto could see the tenderness in the young male’s gestures. Canto smiled. As for himself, he had suffered some damage from the time without oxygen, some feeling in his fins hadn’t returned, but that was no great loss given the events that had almost killed him. There was also a scar across the bridge of his nose, and he’d lost two whiskers. The Danae had started calling him Scar, but he ignored it. Still it was a fine scar. He would have a story to tell the baby fry as they grew up around them. Canto smiled as he looked up and saw the Giver high above him. The Giver smiled back and placed a carrot a small but respectable distance from Canto. Everything was going to be ok.

Rushing out of the lobby and into the street, Carol had never realized how harsh the cold was. Looking back at the building where she had once sought solitude, she wondered to herself how such a nightmare could take place in a building so regular. a building where people come and go as they please all day long. "These things weren't supposed to happen in this neighborhood”. she thought to herself. This would be the last time Carol would step onto the "LR Suites" door mat. With her son Ian waiting with the doorman, she was able to hail a taxi much quicker than she expected. Luck was something Carol had never been blessed with. "Mommy I'm cold, why are we outside?" Ian's innocent voice questioned. "We are going on an adventure, but you mustn't speak until you can see the sunlight poke through the skyscrapers." Carol answered. The doorman carried out the lone suitcase, the one Carol had gotten on her wedding night, and loaded it into the trunk of the taxi. This was the first time that suitcase had seen any action since He did not like travel. Carol picked up Ian in his light blue footie pajamas and set him in the seat next to her, already asleep. There is a calming innocence about children sleeping. A knock on the window startled her. "Have a nice night Mrs. Oakland." said the doorman, tipping his blue suede hat as she walked out the door. "Please, just Carol now." she murmured. She directed the taxi to the airport, and took a deep breath as the car sped off into the early morning. After all the commotion, she hadn't had time to look at herself. Her quaint corporate body, trained and ready for a triathlon, was now shivering, even with the taxi's heat on full. She was smart, but not smart enough to avoid letting Him do this to her. A pearl necklace, one that had been ripped away from her neck, was clutched in her hands. She dawned the necklace, or what was left of it, and put her arm around Ian. Every car behind her made question if He was in one of them. He would not be awake until later that next day though. Looking at her toned thighs, she tried to cover up the marks by pulling down her dress. this only caused more marks to show on her shoulders. pulling up to the airport terminal, Carol paid the man 100$, refused change and scurried into the building with a drowsy Ian following. "When does your next flight leave?" She asked a bored looking attendant. "To where?" the attendant answered. "Anywhere, any flight." She replied hastily. "Okay, well the next flight isn't until 6:30. To Houston." Said the attendant. Without a 'thank you' Carol dragged Ian off to the correct airline and purchased the tickets in cash. Ready to go through security, the sturdy 1980s suitcase was loaded onto the belt and she got through with ease. "Where are you off to in such a sleepy attire young man?" asked a jolly TSA officer. "My mommy says we are going on an adventure. But I'm not allowed to talk until the sun comes up so don't tell her we spoked." Ian whispered to the man. "Haha well you enjoy yourself sir! and I won't tell anyone, it'll be our little secret." The officer replied, his light blue shirt slightly constricting his goodbye-wave. Carol almost felt better now that she was through security. The more barriers she could put between herself and Him, the better. Sitting in the terminal she thought of her expensive apartment, the dainty furniture, the elaborate devices, and of course, the extensive liquor cabinet in the office. That was where He had spent all of his time. Sitting across from her, an old woman smiled and knitted with pretty blue yarn. An officer stood by the door to the plane, not too far from where she was. Carol felt safe, almost. She could not lose focus though, she had to protect Ian and make sure she didn't fall asleep. She had to make this flight, or else He would show up. The clock above her read 5:53 and she almost couldn't believe they had sat there for an hour. Time becomes irrelevant when your body goes into its basic hardwired state. The old woman across from her took a closer look at Ian and was horrified. Carol saw that the bruises were starting to surface and covered his neck with her scarf, choosing to show her own instead. There was no denying it now, the officer, the old woman and perhaps the doorman had all seen the marks. "Mommy, mommy! I can see the sunlight! does our adventure begin now?" Ian's happy little voice asked. "Almost honey, almost..." Carol answered quietly. She was almost calmed down all the way, almost ready to smile, when she heard a ruckus coming from the security area. there was screaming and there was yelling, all men's voices, and a terrifying thought ran through her head: "It's Him." And indeed it was. He had found them, and now He was ready to finish the job. A siren rang out overhead and the shouting got closer. She picked up Ian and started to walk in other direction when He turned a corner and saw them. "YOU BITCH, AFTER ALL IVE GIVEN YOU, UNGRATEFUL SLUT, I WILL K-" Shots rang out. The officer stood, quivering. The officer collapsed from shock. Carol stood there and wanted to feel sadness, but none came to her. She wanted to be hurt, the man she had loved was now dead, but she still felt nothing. She wanted to cry out and attack the officer that had shot her, but now she wanted to thank him. Ian started crying, but she ignored him. The old woman came up beside her. Carol took off the necklace He had given her, and put it in the hands of the old woman, who then in return, wrapped a blue knitted scarf around Carol’s neck.

When we first came here we floated down like snow, and there we lay on the cuticle, for a time, without feeling and with little care save for the things we held beneath nestled in the warmth of our under crofts. And a sheet of light broke through the darkness and the land was illuminated, the leviathans who had lain still for so long gave thanks, involuntarily. Some of those who we released stayed close and built tiny domes around us, and they brought forth from the seemingly barren ground rare chemicals. Some of those who had been released had grown so populous that we could consume them for nourishment. They came forth willingly and new life was transferred to our ageing bodies, the desiccated flesh growing anew. Those who fell the furthest clung to the sides of various escarpments far across the silent plain and gathered the sunlight that pooled there in eddies and in their tiny crystaline factories and domes they remained, and the dreams that spread like hyphae across the barren land told stories of both resentment and enlightenment, and we knew that our children had crossed the threshold never to return. Cycle after cycle went by and in time they had built enormous engines that roared furiously and spewed forth that which had lain deep below, the molten rock and ash. And though naught pierced the silence a city of industry would take hold of the land. And as the cool air grew warmer a great wall sprouted, covering the horizon grew as if from nothing, and so tall and wide did it grow that the warmth from outside was cut off, and the land beyond ushered in the winter of old. Those who had huddled closest to us, the ones who had brought us food and chemicals aplenty, slowly died. It had been too long since we came to the land and we had forgotten how to save them. The gargantuan wall grew ever larger. Built in a honeycomb like mesh it was rigid and strong. In the empty holes that pitted the expanse the Children rushed in to take their places, to bathe in the light, that which had been now denied to those who lay behind. We slept long, and the matters of those who dwelt outside meant less and less to us, since we had forgotten most of what we knew. Our dreams were disturbed for the last time when an arm like appendage pierced the wall, which by now had turned white and smooth, and we were taken within its immense structure to an open cathedral of bone, vault like, and there we lay, on display, like trophies for all to see. Though there was no sound to hear and no light to see we knew that the veneration once held for us had faded as aeons had passed, and had turned to sour hatred. While none of us were ready light flooded the darkness for one final time, with this absolution came the end.

Long shivers in the burning heat of that room. He clasps his hands to his arms, hugging himself, trying to squeeze the breath from his own body. “What is this?” He mutters to himself. “I don’t understand.” He says. His words are slow and unemotional. He stares at Sierra’s peaceful face. Her pale lips stretch into an infinite smile, as if it was etched in stone. Her delicate figure lies in a well of her own blood. “No.” Long cries. “No.” He can still smell her scent. Amidst the vile odors around him, he can still smell her scent. A lingering fragrance promising a better world, a hopeless and despairing promise. “Stop.” These single word sentences are all he can think of. It’s as if reality itself has warped into a place where coherent sentences cannot exist. Long steps up to the happy Sierra. Shaking uncontrollably, he falls with a thud onto his knees. He can’t even feel that pain. It is overshadowed by a more sinking, a more disturbing pain. “Sierra?” He says carefully. He sees small droplets of water fall onto her body. He looks around the room, looking for some sort of water leak, but finds none. He searches the entire room for the source of the water, desperately trying to find what dared splatter Sierra with this water. But his search is futile. “Why?” He whispers. He seems frightened to talk in a volume higher than a whisper. Perhaps if nobody else could hear him, this could still just be a dream. “Sierra, c’mon.” He says. With a single hand gently on her cold shoulder, he nudges her ever so slightly. “Sierra, c’mon.” He says a little more urgently. But all he receives it her gentle smile, nodding each time he shakes her. “Sierra, c’mon!” His voice escalates. And just as fast as it had gone up, it dies down back to a whisper. “Sierra.” He pleads. “Please.” But there is no response. There is no response from anything or anyone. Nothing in the world moved to answer his pleads. No machine or design came into effect, there is only the gentle humming of a single lightbulb, illuminating this scenery. A single hateful lightbulb, a single treacherous lightbulb presenting this fake hell. Long stands up, his eyes staring into Sierra’s. Water continues to drip onto her body, from somewhere he couldn’t see. In fact, it is hard for him to make out anything in this world. “This isn’t true.” He talks to himself, but there is only the light hum of that lightbulb to respond. “Maybe if I just let her rest… Maybe she just needs to rest.” Even his whispers are unsteady. “But how can she rest,” he pauses, and with a mighty breath screams into this dark room. “With so much fucking light!” His malicious gaze yanks up to the single lightbulb, dangling down within his reach. “How can she get better, if she can’t even rest?!” He screams at the burning bulb. “How do you expect her to wake up if she can’t go to sleep?!” Standing on his tiptoes, he clasps the fiery lightbulb with a single hand. He can almost hear his flesh sizzling. “Turn off!” He screams at the bulb. “Turn off now!” He screams. It cracks down the middle as he squeezes the life out of it. “TURN OFF NOW!” The lightbulb bursts in his hand, as he crushes its glass fragments up in his fist. But despite the shooting pain, agonizing him, he continues to crush the glass. “TURN OFF!” He screams in the darkness. “TURN THE FUCK OFF!” His blood drips off his hand, mixing with his tears on Sierra’s face. It falls in large globs into her eyes and mouth. Long just holds his bleeding hands above her, still crushing the lightbulb. In this darkness, he can no longer even see Sierra. And all at once, he drops the shards of glass in his hand, crushed to almost dust. “Sierra….” He whispers. “Where are you Sierra? Why won’t you respond?” He lets out a pitiful cry, a desperate wail as reality slowly seeps in. “Sierra! Don’t do this to me!” He covers his mouth with his hand to stop himself from crying. Pieces of broken glass protrude from his hand, poking him in the mouth. He clenches his teeth, grit so tight that not a single cry can escape his lips. But it’s not enough. Long lets out a frantic and sincere cry. *Why did this happen?* In the dark, he can’t even see her beautiful smile. He can’t even see how her elegant hair would drape over her slender back. In the dark, he can’t even see those kind blue eyes, those eyes that would return a loving look, no matter what happened. He can’t even see the lips that would give him a small kiss on the forehead, a slight touch of affection in this broken world. In the dark, all of that is lost. *Come back to me, please.* Long collapses onto his knees once again. His back is slouched and his head is down. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything. Just please, respond. “Sierra…” He is no longer covering his mouth. Nothing can stop his sorry cries anymore. *God…* “I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything you want. Take everything from me, but please, give her back to me!” I’m begging you God… “Give me back Sierra, GIVE ME BACK MY BIG SIS!” *“God! Please! God!”* *Surely if God can hear me…* *Surely if God can feel what I’m feeling…* *Surely if God can understand me, if he can understand her. Surely he’ll respond!* “God! Take everything of mine! Take it all! I don’t want any of it! Give me back my big sis, she’s all I have. Sierra, I love you.” Long can barely even talk. His words are split by the sound of his sobs, separated into incoherent phrases. “God.” Long begs and cries. “God, please hear me.” A steady stream of tears go down his face. “I love you Sierra.” He wails. Even his thoughts seemed jumbled. “God, please answer me.” It’s like he is stuck between two separate thoughts, one of the impossible future, and one of the immeasurable past. “Sierra, I’ve always loved you. I love you so very much. Please come back to me.” And these thoughts all collided in the unimaginable reality before him. “God. Please. Take me with her…” *Surely if God knew how much I loved her…* But the only response he got, was the gentle buzz of a broken lightbulb.

This morning, the strangest thing happened when I was checking the messages in my spam folder. My mom’s great grandfather had always been regarded as insane, the butt of jokes, a sort of stigma. You know, “don’t be a Looney Liam” or “Lousy Liam” and the sort; but after what just happened to me, it all sort of makes me think differently. Let’s start with his story. Back in World War 1, in January of 1915, my mom’s great grandfather Liam was in France by means of the Treaty of London, sent from England as a response to Germany invading neutral Belgium. As part of the British Expeditionary Force, he found a position in trenches on the Western Front. Invaders were pushing hard on his location, and it became imperative that reinforcements be sent to help stop the foreign soldiers, as well as rescue his team from their plight. There had been some very expensive radio equipment brought along for the purpose of communicating with the Allies, but the donkey team carrying it had just been killed, and the soldiers were forced to abandon it in favor of saving their lives. Having no radio, a French soldier took of one of the pigeons they brought and sent it back to it’s loft with a message containing a call for help. Reinforcements soon came, and my great great grandfather was eternally grateful to that French soldier, they eventually becoming best of friends. And he promised that if he could ever repay him, he would. The newly freed friends were later sent back east, but in separate units. They marched across France, ever set out to push back the Front. At each checkpoint, they would send intel back to the base via radio. With new equipment, they still preferred to stay in communication with each other via pigeon, regularly sending each other little updates, but also jokes and notes of comfort. As time went on, they began to find the number of invading forcing increasing. Once again, the radio was lost, pigeons were sent to the Allies, and also directly to my great great grandfather. Liam’s friend began to ask that immediate troops be sent to rescue them from the overwhelming invasion. Eventually, the final message was sent out, asking why no help had come. Why had Liam broken his promise to repay his help? Heartbroken, they were defeated. The Command sent Liam's troupe orders to help his friend, but they arrived too late. My great great grandfather was distraught at the loss of his friend. He never got over it. It broke him. I heard stories about how he was always saying that he would have gone to help his friend immediately, had he only known there was any need of help. He had never known they were so close to being invaded. The strangest thing of all was that the carrier pigeons had arrived all right. One after another, right up until the orders for aide. In fact, they had messages attached. But those messages were completely different from the ones originally sent. I have just received those original messages: the desperate pleas for help and reinforcements, the coordinates, the request for a repaid promise. I have only just discovered them in the spam folder of my e-mail account. One after another, in order, describing the growing numbers of troops, the loss of the radio, and finally desperate pleas for help. 100 years ago, my mother’s crazy great grandfather Liam received one message after another, assuming they were practical jokes from his best friend. Messages inviting him to check out hot singles in his area, on how to claim lost assets, and links to click to make tax free money from home.

The first girl I truly became infatuated with was one I never actually met. Strange as it sounds, I wouldn’t change it for the world. At the time, I was new to girls and love. I knew what flirting was but actually flirting with someone? That was an entirely different story. At night, I’d always turn my phone off, hook it to the charger, and sleep with no disturbances during the night. It was summer 2010. I had just rounded out my first year of high school and did not have a job back then. So aside from football practice and weightlifting, my daily ritual consisted of gaming with my friends until my eyelids outweighed a minivan. I occasionally chatted with girls that I had crushes on, but it was never more than friendly conversation. My family and I had recently returned from a vacation in California. We were planning to be gone from home (North Carolina) for a good seven weeks. But the death of my grandmother brought us back two weeks early. So I had some extra time before school started back to fulfill my gaming craving. At some point during this time – I believe the date was July 18th- my friends and I were all playing Modern Warfare 2 (which I’ll now refer to as MW2 for the rest of this narrative) when a mutual friend to a few of my mates joined. I had no idea who she was, but I treated her like everyone else. We all chatted, laughed, and had a good time. At some point during this session, I sent her a friend request and asked if she had a Facebook. She actually sent her cellphone number to me. It struck me as kind of odd because back then I was newer to the internet and a little more paranoid about sending phone numbers. But I thought what the hell, and we texted for a bit. Once I actually saw her real picture, I thought she was cute, but nothing extraordinary. Things began to change when she started trying to flirt with me. At the time, I was trying to flirt with another girl (and failing miserably). The girl from PSN (PlayStation network) was still attempting to win my attention. I recall the night it happened even. The crew and I were playing some more MW2 when a few of us got off and started to play Red Dead Redemption – a different PlayStation 3 title. At around 11:00pm or 12:00am, the girl I was originally going for just quit answering and I was at the end of my limit for her. I ultimately gave up on the spot and noticed that the PSN girl was still talking to me. Once again, I said what the hell and started actually flirting with her. We were up until around 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning talking. I hated it at first. I tried everything to get her to let me go to sleep. I told her my phone was dying and she said to charge it. I said I wanted to rest she said she wanted to talk and begged me to stay up for her. I kept going along with it until she finally let me get some rest. It felt good to sleep, but in the back of my mind, I had this giddy feeling like almost having a rush from staying up late to talk to this girl. For the rest of the summer she and I were like that. We’d stay up late chatting and flirting. We talked about exploring the world together and sharing every moment. I wanted to see Paris, Venice, Egypt, and she wanted to spend the night in haunted houses and take photos of wildlife. It was like a lifetime that we experienced together, but never truly physically lived. With summer’s end, we progressively went further apart. By September, we both had basically moved on from one another. We were never “official” or any of that. Hell, we never even met. It was just this one little magical spec of life that we shared with one another, nothing more. We are still friends to this day, but rarely talk. The strange thing is I can never shake it. Sometimes, the two of us will go several months – maybe even a year- without saying anything. Then we’ll exchange a message or two to catch up and that’ll be it. We haven’t flirted like that since 2010 (it’s 2015 now). That’s half a decade nearly since any sparks flew between us. So why is it that she still comes to my mind all the time? I see her in my dreams. I hear her in my songs. It’s like I can’t shift the focus away. The two of us are in relationships. I’ve been in mine for nearly two years now and I love the girl I’m with. I’d do anything for her. The PSN girl is in a relationship with a guy in the army. He just recently had to go away for training or service or something like that. She’s been talking on Facebook about how people tell them they won’t last and that she’s fighting to keep the relationship alive. It’ll be tough for them, but I know they can pull through and respect both of them (even though I’ve not talked to the boyfriend before). After contemplating on it some, I’ve noticed a strange occurrence in the timeline since we met. Here’s another little backstory about our month as “summer lovers”: I always told her that I wanted to come find her. My friends were even in on the idea and she wanted the same. The plan was that after she graduated (she was one grade below me), my friends and I would drive out to find her and take her back to be with me. We could start our life together after that. Only problem was that was 2010. I had just finished freshman year and she had just finished 8th grade. That meant we’d have to spend four years of waiting, flirting through the phone/internet, and not seeing each other once the entire time. How would I explain that to my family? I’ve seen stories like that one have a happy ending. But I wasn’t sure how badly I wanted that to happen. In the end, it was a mutual agreement that it was a silly idea to try and wait four years and give up our entire high school career to someone we had never even met. But this past summer was the summer of 2014. That was the summer that we would hypothetically be together. I had completely forgotten about our promise by summer 2014. But around the last week or two of June 2014, we went through this phase where we talked to one another a little more than usual. It was a weird occurrence that hadn’t happened before and has not since. Once again, we were both in the relationships that we are in now. My girlfriend went on a cruise for a week and her boyfriend was out doing army stuff I assume. So out of nowhere, the two of us happened to start commenting more often on each other’s Facebook posts. Then we texted several times in that week. None of it was flirtatious – just pure friendly conversation. But it struck me as odd when I thought about it later. Why did we start back chatting all of a sudden? I had all these feelings swirling around in my head. It was like living in a parallel universe where we were together. Then the promise came back to my memory. This moment would have been ours had we kept our promise. How strange is that? Were those feelings subconsciously presented forward from all those years ago? It was like a strange biological alarm clock going off in my brain. Was it that? Or was it connections from another existence? Memories from a place and time where she and I were actually together and are at the current moment. Nothing like that week has happened since then. I still can feel her presence burning inside me. Why is it that I feel so connected to someone I’ve never met? Someone I know so little about. Even as I write this tonight, I don’t know the exact purpose. There’s not a central message to be gained. It’s just that I had it on my mind and felt like pouring it on paper. It’s a strange story, I know. It’s not quite like your normal Nicholas Sparks love story. But it’s sentimental to me and has affected my life greatly. So here it is. I’m open to any feedback.

The Time has come for another Story, don´t you think? Sit down, make yourself comfortable and relax. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Exhale, slowly. And another deep breath. Can you feel all the stress falling off? Can you feel everything slowing down a bit? Now I want you to listen to my voice, and try to imagine everything I say. Are you ready so far? Good. Now for a start, I want you to think about your one love. I don´t mean your friends nor do I mean family, I mean your one love, your significant other, your soul mate. Think about them, rest your thoughts on them. Feel all the happiness and joy you had together. Think about the first time you met, the firs smiles you shared, the first time you grabbed his or her hand, and your heart began to race. Remember the first time you kissed. That outrages feeling you had when your lips touched. Think about all the laughter, the good times and the bad you have gone through, but came out together and stronger. Now I want you to imagine, that when you were born, you where given a little clock. Not just any clock, a truly special clock. It does not tell you what date or time it is, but it tells you your fate. This clock, tells you the exact time and date, of the death, of the love of your live. What would you do, how would you plan your life? Would you try to find them as fast as you could? Or would you try not to find them, because you know exactly how long your love only can last? Could you love, knowing exactly, not just that your day´s are counted, but knowing the exact amount of days you two will have together. Will there be more love, more peace and less stress? Or the exact opposite? Imagine the last few minutes with the love of your life, lying in his or her arms as the clock runs down its last moments, the last moments of your life. What would you do? How would you react? Would you be out, on the spot you two first met, or on your favorite place in the world? Or maybe just in bed together, spending the last moments of your life cuddling and kissing, being as near as you can be to your significant other? Feeling them and smelling them one last time. Imagine looking them deep into their eyes, seeing your life and theirs, flash before your inner eye. Everything you did, everything you imagined and planned on doing, just flashing by. You see him or her crying would you tell them to be strong? That you loved the time you two had, together that you are grateful, for how long it lasted? That you loved every moment with them? Even the times you screamed at each other? Would they promise you that, they will never forget you, never love someone else? Imagine the both of you, focus the little watch, cutting down the last seconds of your life. You take a deep breath, tell them you will wait on the other side and kiss them, your eyes close shut. You can feel their heart bumping, but you know it is broken and in deep pain. Hot tears running through your face, mixing with his or hers .Can you hear the clock? Can you hear the last seconds of your life, your final countdown? Listen to it! Tick tack tick tack tick... The clock stops ticking, but your heart doesn´t.

Once upon a time the was a lil boy named Tyrone; tyrone would always use the stalls in the bathroom and never the urninal. So all the other lil niggas started making fun of tyrone cause he always had to take a dump; they called him “poo poo man.” Tyrone did not like this and decided it to take action, he decided that he would use the urinal the next time everyone was on bathroom break. Tyrone unzipped his pants and whipped it out, then he sat there in utter confusion as to what to do next. He could feel the eyes of all the niggas behind him waiting for him to pee in the urinal. In tyrones mind he thought “maybe if I just let it out it’ll just go where its suppose to go”; he was too dumb to realize if he held it in place it would be much easier. So Tyrone proceeds to let it rip. The urine began to arc up and down and side to side hitting every place but the actual urinal, splattering like a little sprinkler all over the bathroom walls and floors. Panic set into tyrone— “oh shit!” he quickly tried to control the force of the urine stream but it was too powerful for his little body to control. He tried jerking his body around so it would hit the urinal but he still couldn’t get it in. Suddenly tyrone slipped on something and fell to the ground in something wet and moist, a putrid smell filled the air. as tyrone looked up at the drenched bathroom ceiling with liquid dripping down from it, he realized that he was laying on the ground in a pool of his own piss. From that that day on all the lil niggas called tyrone “Niggagra falls.” Tyrone never used the urinal again.

Anna was alone. She had been for a long time. The walls had shielded her from the great big world, and she hardly remembered it. True solitary confinement is something that often isn't found on this planet, but if this wasn't it, then she didn't know what was. Anna was having a nightmare, one about the day she was taken from her loving home and thrown into a trunk. This was 15 years ago, Anna was 10 when it happened. She stared into her mother's eyes, screaming, pleading, but her mother couldn't save her. No one could. Her mother's face was the last face she'd ever seen The room was probably 8x8 and it contained a bed, a ball and a light. Often Anna would bounce the ball to keep herself entertained. She'd been doing this for years. She enjoyed bouncing it off the walls as hard as she could and letting it hit her face. The pain it would cause always made her happy for a few moments, for it reminded her that she was still capable of feeling it. Everytime Anna fell asleep, a tray of food would be sitting beside her bed. Someone was still out there, watching her. She knew it, for how else would they know to bring food when she was asleep? Once Anna tried staying awake for as long as possible. She went 4 days, and never received food. She fell asleep, and when she woke up, there sat a tray of food. Always the same. Milk, cereal and a piece of toast. In the exact same spot. She knew it was the same spot because she cut herself weeks ago and marked where the tray was placed with blood. Exact same place every time, not a millimeter off. Today was different. She'd been planning today for a long time. It was near the end of the day, so she faked a yawn and layed down. She closed her eyes and let herself close up, not fall asleep but get close to it. After maybe 20 minutes, she heard a noise. She hadn't heard a noice not generated by herself in years. What she heard was a click sound, kind of like a door unlocking. However, there was no door. She heard the noise of something moving. A metallic scraping. A machine must have placed her food. Not surprising, she'd assumed it was a machine based on the sheer precision of the placement. When she heard the plate touch the ground, she flipped over and looked at the contraption. It wasn't as simple as she expected, not just a basic pully system. It was a robot. It had a camera and grabbers that it was holding the tray with. It swung it's camera eye up and looked at her. She looked back. Suddenly it tried to retract out, but Anna had expected that. She grabbed on and was pulled out of the room by the machine. It was the first time she had been out of that cell in seemingly forever. The robot tried to whip her off, but she held on tight. He'd pulled her into a small tunnel and was lashing around wildly. It finally got her off and she fell to the ground. It's grabber extended towards her, but she dodged it and ran. The whole of her imprisonment she assumed she was watched by a person. Now she didn't know what to think. Down the tunnel was a metal wall with a door. She threw it open and sprinted through. What she saw shocked her. Not only did she see her cell, she saw hundreds more. Thousands even. What were they all doing there? Were they all full? Anna grabbed her head, this discovery had astounded her. She walked up to one of the cells. Every one had a small window on it. She assumed it was one way because she didn't even know there was a way of seeing in besides a possible camera. The door had a name painted on it. Daniel. As she looked through the glass, she felt the robot grab her and begin to drag her away. Through the window she saw a little boy bouncing a ball as hard as her could, hitting himself in the face with it. She saw his look of happiness, and then horror. Daniel lived the same life as Anna. They all did. Daniel was alone.

Part One I'm willing to admit that my interest in Goldie isn't healthy. I started watching her last summer when she moved in the house across the street. Before last summer I use to spend my nights watching this documentary show about life inside prisons, but she's more interesting to me now. She's short, and I like short girls, and she's got long golden blond hair, and I like that too. She's always wearing really revealing clothes, though, and I hate that. I hate to think that other guys get to see that much of her. The first summer I started watching her, she wore these really short jean shorts and tank tops that showed her stomach and hip bones. I like her stomach and her hip bones, and I've never thought about those parts on any other girl before. I should mention that she's a known whore, like a prostitute I mean. I don't wake up during the summers anymore until one in the afternoon because I usually stay up until four or later to watch her bring her customers back and forth to her house from the train tracks, that's where the whores normally set up shop here in town. I watch her at night partly from jealousy, I hate every old bastard that gets to have her while I sit in my room lusting after her and fantasizing in my underwear, and partly I do it to make sure none of those perverted old johns hurt her or try anything rough with her. Part Two I finally did it. See, I've been selling my ADHD meds to a dealer friend of mine down the street, he gives me thirty bucks for every bottle. I saved the money for six whole months so I could pay for a turn with Goldie. I wanted to look good for it. I got my hair cut, I shaved, I trimmed, I went to the store and picked up the best smelling cologne I could find, and when I got back home, I picked some flowers from my mom's rosebush in our back yard. I went to her house after dinner, she answered the door dressed, but with wet hair and legs and feet. The first thing she asked me was if I was looking to have some fun, and I said I was and she waved me into the living room. "Are you wearing perfume?" she asked. I told her I was and I handed her the flowers. "Sweet heart, this isn't a date," she said politely. "I cost a hundred." I handed her the money and she gently pushed me to her couch and kissed me. "You look familiar," she said. "I've been watching out for you," I said. "I live across the street and I've been watching out for you." "You're sweet," she said. She started undressing. She wasn't wearing the short jean shorts of the summer before, but this little black skirt that barely covers her ass, and instead of tank tops, she was wearing a tight little t-shirt. She wasn't wearing any underwear or a bra, but that was okay by me. When she took off her shirt, the first thing I noticed was that she had a belly button ring. "I'd like your stomach more without the piercing," I said. "I've always liked your stomach.

I want to point out that I'm writing this while I'm sitting in a classroom full of a bunch of thuggish baboons who think I'm a chubby fool who blabs about music and my guitar all the time. I'm in credit recovery. If you don't know what that is, you're probably not a lazy ass like me. Actually, I'm not all that lazy, I just can't hardly focus on anything. I'll pay for it later in life, I know that, but I can't do a damn thing to change it, and that's what's sad about me. Actually, I'm paying for it right now. Some of the baboons are looking back at me and laughing as I write this. Anyways, credit recovery is for the kids that sit around all day in class and don't do shit. We're supposed to make up the work we didn't do last year, but I've never turned in a damn thing. Partly because I lost my binder and a lot of my papers were in there, partly because the damn eye doctor hasn't called my mom to pick up my glasses and I can't see shit and partly because from time to time I get the idea to write down what I'm thinking about and when I get like that, I can't stop or be bothered with anything else, which is what I'm doing now. I can't explain why I do this. I can't hardly explain any of the shit I do. Anyways, nobody does any work in here. The others all just sit around and whisper and pass notes about bitches and weed and who has the best shoes in the class. I should point out that I don't hate the baboons and they don't hate me. We're just different and I can't respect them as people because they get all their opinions from rap lyrics. The only one I can respect is Darren. Darren's alright. Darren got me high yesterday after school and we hung out. He showed me these naked pictures he had on his phone of this girl we go to school with, he got with her the weekend before and she let him take the pictures. I wish he hadn't shown me. She was a good looking girl and I always thought she was respectable and nice, but now I saw her nipples and I can't unseen them. She's a pair of tits to me now and I wish she wasn't. I didn't look at the pictures too good, though, because I started to think that the damn phone might steal my soul or something if I did and I might become a baboon too. I don't know why I thought this, but I did. I was high, you have to remember. I don't want you to think Darren's a bad guy or anything. Darren wasn't showing me the pictures to be mean to her or anything, he just wanted to impress me is all. I could tell that's what he wanted, but I don't know why. We ended up running around down town that afternoon, we were both high and I laughed at everything I saw until it hurt. It was good weed, I guess. I hadn't smoked but once or twice before yesterday. My brother says pot makes you stupid, but he's a puss about a lot of things. He won't even take aspirin. Anyways, Darren took me up to the top of this rusted fire escape near this big bank. He told me, and I quote, "The town looks real pretty up here. Like Paris or some shit." He tried to sound all manly and tough, but you can't sound tough when you say words like "Pretty" and "Paris". He was always trying to sound tough and manly. That makes me sad for some reason. I don't know why. I told Darren about how my amp blew a tube and about how I had to replace it and all because it makes all my songs sound like shit. I knew he didn't know what a tube was or what the hell I was even talking about, but he still nodded politely and said, "Damn, that's some shit." I told him that I tried hard to start up talks with him and the other guys in credit recovery, but I knew that I didn't fit in and I knew they knew I didn't. He told me I ought to be proud that I don't fit in with them and I ought to keep it that way. Then he said, "I ought to delete those pictures. That's sort of fucked up how I showed you them." "Yeah," I said. "It does look nice up here. It looks real pretty. You were right.

Introduction: Humanity as a whole has been considered to originate from one single planet. Many consistent findings and data have lead to this conclusion for millennia. After many hundreds of manned explorations and thousands of deep space probes and explorer drones, most historians and scientists have come to the conclusion that human life originated from the planet Gaia, of the Sol system. A long period of humanity's time was spent exclusively on this planet, almost 500,000 years. Gaia is considered to be one of the few self arising megadiverse planets in the Orcynur, although some scientists disagree; stating that Gaia's life could have originated elsewhere (*see Pg 1026, Vol II*). Based on findings, the human race was believed to have originated on the planet and remained primitive hunter-gatherers for a long period of time. Non technological civilisations ruled the planet's various regions for a few millennia before the advent of early industry and electronics. Approximately 20,000 B.Wp. humanity sent out its first colonisers. The first planet to be completely inhabited and terraformed by humans was Mars, shortly followed by Venus, over the course of a thousand years. According to ancient records, humanity spread across the entire solar system, founding mining and trading colonies and also perfecting space habitats. Technology also increased at a rapid rate, and controlled AI was created approximately 1000 years after the colonising jump. It is believed that over the course of millennia, due to vast difference in environment, differences in radiation levels, the now two established second homes of humanity (Venus and Mars) had become new subspecies or species of humans. (*Note: Venusian and Martian settlements were thought to have seceded from Gaia's political grip a millennia after settlement. These three established space travel among the solar system and soon started exploration to nearby star systems, first as primitive cold ships, powered by nuclear fuel, slowly to 1/1000*c* ships. All human species in the Orcynur are believed to be descended from one of these three species. By 5000 B.Wp. approximately upto 300 ly around the planet Gaia had been settled. It is considered that 300 light years away from Gaia is the furthest that Humanity had reached before Warp, based on preWarp tech found on all the planets in the Sector, but none past the planet Vergo. Disabilites of deep space communication led to planets being colonised close to other inhabited planets, resulting in groups of planets bound together by culture and trade. They formed various federations in this period. Human contact across the colonies broke apart after a point where technology couldn't allow them to communicate with others after a certain distance. It is believed that Gaia did not communicate with 60% of human colonies and possibly did not know for a certainty that they had even existed. Many of these colonies rose and fell, developed into new cultures, and new species. It was seen that colonies without much to offer, or hostile colonies were boycotted, or "ghosted". They were removed from federations, all official trade was ceased. This resulted in mass migrations of the able from these ghosted planets, leaving the planet to the oppressed and sometimes uneducated. These planets prove interesting cases as they are left to their own for a few millennia and became separate civilisations, unaware of the outside world. Many such planets have been found, and more are thought to exist. Some such ghosted planets have had civilisations that rediscovered spacefaring (*See Pg 254, Vol III). The Gaian System was believed to have died out around 8000 B.Wp. due to intra and interplanetary warfare in the system. Gaia itself shows traces of radiation all over the planet. Discovery of Warping marked the advent of the Galactic age. By 5000 AW, most of the Orcynur was inhabited and thruspace communication was perfected. Now we stand on the threshold of sending colonisers deep into the Miwai. The first ceremonial cold ships have already been sent from various sections of the Orcynur into the Miwai. Based on current estimates, self sufficient colonies will be present in the Carsagata. In these momumentous times, we are proud to give you the new edition of A Short Anthology of Orcynur.

It's funny how people act in the coffee rooms at funeral homes. They're all sad or they act sad out of respect. They all drink coffee and eat the cookies that they put out on the table, and they talk about how the body looks for a while, then they start talking about politics or the weather or some damn boring thing. It happens at every viewing I've ever been to. I even do it. I sat there the other night at my great aunts viewing and I nodded my head when people talked about how natural she looked and all that, and I ate three big cookie, then I looked down at my gut and was disgusted because I'm a damn glutton. Anyways, two things happened when we all left the funeral home: the first thing was I offered to be a pallbearer. It was my great aunt Margret's viewing, like I said, and my grandma said that me or my brother ought to be pallbearers. My brother's real nervous about some things, one of them is being around dead people. He was afraid he'd drop the casket or something, so I offered to do it, but Margret's niece said no. She told my grandma later that the reason she said no was because I looked like a clown because of my hair. I have long shaggy hair that I dye blood red. The second thing is that I noticed the damn Christmas tree in the corner near the door in the lobby -- it's getting close to Christmas now. It was tall and green and decorated in bright white lights and silver tinsel and big red bulbs with the names of all the dead people who were shown there that year written on them with permanent marker. I saw Margret's name in the center. I thought it was sort of strange, decorating the tree with the dead. I think that funeral homes are strange altogether. When you die everybody you ever met practically comes and cries and get all sad at the site of your leftover meat. When I got back home I started over to my friend Darren's house. Darren and I have went to school together since fourth grade, but we just started hanging out this year because we've always ran with different crowds. His friends are the kind of guys that wear gym shorts all year long and lust after Air Jordans and Beats Headphones and try to punk out everybody so they can feel tough. Plus, we've never had any classes together or anything until this year, but Darren's probably my favorite friend. The only problem with us hanging out is that he smokes a lot of weed and he's got me smoking a lot too. Last weekend we blew fifteen bucks on weed, smoked it all and stayed up until four listening to The Beatles. He's never listened to much music outside of rap, so I've been trying to show him some good stuff. He always acts like he likes it, but he's probably just entertaining me. He's probably just telling me he likes it because we're friends and he's nice. Darren's a real nice sensitive guy under all that wanna-be-thug shit he's always doing. He's nicer than me in a lot of ways, like when he's listening to rap and I don't like it, I tell him and bitch until he turns it off, and when he turns it off, he isn't even mad about having to doing it because he's real considerate. I wish I was that considerate. Anyways, Darren and I ended up going down to the cemetery and smoking a fat joint. I told him about the funeral home Christmas tree and he said that the funeral home was retarded. "They won't be putting my name on some damn bulb," he said. Then he talked about the rapture through the rest of the cemetery. He told me that we weren't going to have to worry about funerals because we weren't really going to die because we were going up in the rapture. Darren was always talking about the rapture. He never went to church, but he had all the faith in the world that the rapture was going to happen at any minute and he had all the faith in the world that the two of us were going. He told me once that I'm the only friend he likes to talk to about the rapture. It was probably because I'm the only one who will even listen. I don't believe in the Bible, but I don't mind talking about Bible stuff if I care about the person doing most of the talking. If Heaven exists, Darren will go because he's nice and sensitive. If there's a Heaven, Margret's there because she was a real sweet lady. It's a nice idea, the idea of Heaven, I mean. I guess I'd rather float up to a cloud kingdom than to get old and die and be buried in a boxes. Anyways, I'm not sure why he thinks I'm going to Heaven. Once we got out of the cemetery, we saw this old tin can in the middle of the street, and the street was empty because it was about nine at night or later and it was cold and everybody besides the two of us were inside around heater and wrap in blankets, probably. Anyways, we started kicking the can down this alley and we kept falling down and laughing because we were stoned. We kept on kicking the can down the alleys until I had to piss. I went behind this old white shed, unbuttoned my pants and unzipped and started pissing. There was this Oldsmobile behind me, it was parked on the other side of the alley, I thought it was empty because it was dark and I couldn't see through the windows. Well, somebody was in it, and halfway through my piss, whoever it was beeped the horn and scared me half to death, and I ended up pissing down my leg. I zipped up my pants and Darren and I got the hell out of the alley as fast as we could. It was funny, though. I didn't even mind the piss on my leg that much.

Someday I want to be able to walk the earth, just like the greatest minds through history have. Think about it, Albert Einstein, Julius Caesar, Isaac Newton and in the future, me, Mike the fish. It will happen, i am fully convinced it will. I just need to find out how to get up there. Some people might wonder why, but the answer is very simple... Fish, are not particulary smart. I have yet to meet a fish whom I can have an intellegent discussion with. It seems that noone possess a deeper mind, a more profound way of thinking. I have searched every corner of the Atlantic ocean for answers. I have talked to every kind of creature that exists in this otherwise marvelous place, only to be met with more questions. All they seem to care about is food and procreation, what about the big questions. What about the purpose of evolution. What about the fearful afterlife. To fish or not to fish? To me it is obvious that I need to find a way to get up there, with the land-fauna, or at least that is what I call them. Although, I'm sure they have a more sophisticated name for themselves. If you wonder how I know that they are smarter than fish, it is because I have seen it. I have seen their faces, their tall and not very fine prospected faces. Most of them have have big goggles surrounding their small marble eyes. Some have this big plastic gadget in their mouth that produces bubbles every once in a while. I'm certain that the goggles and the bubble-gizmo is of external constructions and not a natural part of their body, however I do not know what their purpose is. At first, I believed that the mouth-device was used for them to breathe under water. To my surprise, I some time later found out that they can indeed breathe in this, to them, foreign realm. I know because I have met a land-fauna who did not have a mouth-gizmo. It was somewhere in the southwest Atlantic, not too far from the shore. I was of course thrilled to see him, however as it seemed, unresponded. He was rather rude to me to be honest. I introduced myself but he did not respond. He just stared at me with his seemingly fearful eyes. His pale white face appeared to be apathetic to my presence. He was not moving a single limb, he was not responding to anything I did. He did not put an effort to communicate. Not even a single bubble. There was not much I could do, so I left. I suppose land-faunas can be as dumb as fish. I have a plan on how to reach the other realm. The only problem is that it is slightly, just slightly based on luck. The plan itself is rather simple, it does not require much of me. The plan is as follows: 1. Find the right land-fauna. 2. Get the land-fauna to pick me up. 3. Use land-faunas ship to travel to shore. 4. Find answers. See it is very simple. I have seen land-faunas use these lines with a shiny metal figure on the end of it. I reckon it is to give us fish opportunity to get to the upper realm. I need to search long enough and not give up. Tenacity is the key to success, is what my father used to say, he was great fish. Right there! My fate has finally crossed the path of the right land-fauna. He is the one. His line is right over there. I swim ferociously to it, I will not miss this opportunity. I examine the metal figure thoroughly. It is quite sharp and the only way to grip it is with my mouth. The metal figure pierce through my jaw. The excruciating pain that ensues is beyond comprehension, however not in vain. The line is rising, it is working. We are going towards the surface. I try to ignore the pain as much as possible, I drown the taste of blood with the soothing thought of lifelong fulfillment. Slowly but surely we reach above the surface. There he is, the land-fauna in his rightful realm. Majestic. My head is dizzy and it is getting darker. It must be from the pain and the loss of blood. I just hope he hurries to get aid. I will be greater than Mozart, Julius Caesar and Albert Einstein combined. I am Mike the fish, is the last thought before everything disappears.

Moans and Folk songs reverberated throughout the small ruined Brownstone. Pinned against a cracked stone wall, armed with nothing but a broomstick, broken into somewhat of a point, cowered a relatively young man named James. His hands trembled as he held the makeshift spear outwards towards the filthy crowd of mindless drones. "Stay away, you disgusting piles of trash!" A few of the seemingly lifeless bodies lunged forward upon his request. He was trapped. Trapped, and confused, like a moose in the headlights of a scooter. The swarm surrounded him on all sides, waiting as if everyone needed to be in position for their inevitable onslaught. Knowing his end was upon him, he charged forward, broomstick in hand at the closest *thing*, shouting as loud as he could project, "You dirty hippies will never take me without a fight!" However, didn't get far on account of multiple hands bearing the weight of the world upon him, forcing him on the ground. With an outcry of, "No.. No! I don't want your nasty Vegan food or your smelly incense!" Flailing every appendage about, attempting to get free, James was silenced with the force of organic foods and fake meats being stuffed into his face. After a couple minutes of struggling, James accepted his fate, and stopped resisting the torture. He began to choke on the foodstuffs being shoved into his mouth, and began losing consciousness. There was the loud screeching noise originating from outside the building. A few of the filthy beings looked towards the stone wall beside them as the sound of footsteps and music could be heard faintly from the other side. The wall, being hit with the force of a stampeding rhino, caved in like a piece of wet paper. Blinding flourescent Light and roaring metal music poured in as rock had been flung everywhere, and dust was drifting through the air obscuring the vision of all. "Get the hell off of him, you damn dirty hippie!" and with the force of a great typhoon, 6 hippies begin flying through the air in a deafening explosion of lead and various body parts. James, who was barely able to turn his head, turned his head, and in the light, saw a man standing in the destruction. He tried to bolster a smile, but had no strength to spare. The destructive man steps into the wreckage, expecting a fight from the monsters, but to his surprise there was an instant screech of horror when the music struck the ears of the hippies, and all that could fled the scene. "Just in time." He laughed as he pushed a blood drenched hippie away from James. He proceeded to lift James with one arm, and throw him like one would a coat over his shoulder, and carry him outside. As he traversed into the light pouring from the wall, James could only feel warmth coat his body as his vision faded to black. He awoke about an hour later strapped to a seat in a truck. "Who.. What?" James tried to form words but was still tired from his ordeal. "Oh, you're awake! Glad to see you're okay!" The deep voice of the man soothed James's nerves slightly. His vision cleared as he rubbed his eyes. The man who had saved him was much larger than himself. "Call me George. I'm going to assume you ain't got a place to lay your head do you?" James shook his head slowly. "Alright. I'm taking you back to our compound then. You'll be safe there." A few moments passed bearing nothing but silence. "You know, you're lucky I was on a supply run and I smelled that filthy hippy stench, or you might just have joined them!" He laughed. James shifted slightly so he could face George. "Why'd they run off like that?" James queried, stumbling over every word he spoke. George looked proud, and gave James a smile as he held up an August Burns Red CD. "Hippies hate this stuff man. Good thing too, I don't think I'd have been able to save you if they didn't run off like that." He handed the CD to James, and he began examining it. They were both quiet for the ride until they began to hear more metal in the distance. "Is that where we are heading?" James looked out at the gates and towers that poked out in the distance. "Yes sir, that is where we've dug into, and where we call home. We've got plenty of room for you, so don't worry." As they progressed closer to the gate, James looked puzzled. "What happens if the hippies withstand too much exposure from the metal?" George looks at James with a grim expression. "The metal strikes them down with a vicious blow." he pauses for a moment. "Then they explode." James looked up at the towers, gates, large concert speakers and men with guns and felt incredibly safe. One of the men with guns approached the car and began talking to George, he explains James's incident, and are let into the gate. James felt happy for the first time in about a week. And with a single tear rolling down his eye, he whispered to himself, "Don't worry Emily. I'm safe." This is an original story by me, Trent E. Gayle, and I hope you enjoyed giving it a look! There will more than likely be more stories linked to this one.

"YOGURT POLICE, OPEN UP!" The voice coming from the door was screaming, accompanied by loud, arryhythmic banging. "Oh fuck!" I shouted at Pete, who'd long been passed out with yogurt all over her cheeks, surrounding her mouth, and now even secreting out of her closed eyes. A yogurt coma, I'm sure. "They've found us!" I scurried around hastily trying to gather up all the used up, mold covered yogurt containers littered around the apartment. No time to reminisce about the joy each one had brought me. 'Oh yes, Chobani Fruit on the Bottom, 1997 limited edition, only sold in five states, I remember that one' or 'Fage with Honey, a beginner brand but will always do the trick,' 'Yoplait? Well, desperate times, I guess.' No time for that now. Where would I stash all these monuments of shared good times? Statues of better days coming closer to an end with each BANG of the door. Could I flush them? Toss them out the window in the backroom down two stories? Then at least I could salvage the few prized ones. Maybe I could open the door and blind the police with a flurry of yogurt containers and make a run for it. No, they'd expect that.. and what of Pete? How had they found us? Pete shot awake, looking around panicked.

Block C was a medium security block. Prisoners shared a cell but Sunil Shahid had one to himself. This weighed on Elsy because that was a privilege reserved for prisoners who were violent or mentally deranged. “Why is he in his own cell?” The guard seemed startled by the question. “It’s just easier that way. The other inmates are scared of him, you know, because he murdered Dr. Pruos. Truth be told he’s very nice when you get to know him.” Nice. How could the alien be nice? Elsy thought to herself. She was only a little girl when the humans came to Domov but she knew that he was dangerous. The papers called him and his wife ‘The invaders’. There were articles about how they had murdered innocent natives and some that predicted a further human invasion which, after decades of waiting, never came. Elsy’s editor would never publish unsubstantiated work and she didn’t expect that she would get a story out of the human. Everyone had heard it all before. He’d killed Dr. Pruos, the man that was trying to prove to the world that he was not dangerous. The guard tapped on one of the metal bars that imprisoned Shahid. “Sunil. Reporter is here to see you.” Shahid sat on the edge of his bunk. His prison jumpsuit as worn as his grey hair. "Thank you for coming, miss?" He drew out the last word his eyes on Elsy. "Elsy Krendal." His soft demeanor made her feel uncomfortable and she hoped that he would display some kind of anti-social behaviour so that she could carry on believing that he was just like every other murderer she had come across. "Why did you want to speak to someone from the Domovian press Mr. Shahid?" "Just Sunil is fine." His mind was selecting words. "Well, now that it looks like Elphe and Oleyr are getting what they want I..." Elsy interrupted, "You mean your execution?" With his hands on his knees Sunil lent forward and nodded. "Yes, my execution." He sat back again. "I wanted to tell someone the story from my point of view. I don't expect people will believe it, nor do I expect any pity or leniency. I just hope that some Domovians out there might consider the possibility that perhaps what they have been told is not the whole truth." Elsy’s journalistic autopilot kicked in. "But you admitted that you murdered Dr. Pruos. Did you not have your day in court? What more is there to tell? You murdered a great man who was trying to help you." "Yes. I murdered a great man. Nelm Pruos cared a lot about the Domovian people. He was a great father to his children and a great scientist.” Elsy was beginning to feel like she was talking to a delusional person and this was a waste of time. “So if that is what you believe then why did you kill him?” “That question can not be answered simply. I’ll tell you…” his eyes took in her expression which had already made up its mind about his guilt. “I think you might want to take some notes Elsy.” She was sitting on the chair cross-legged with her arms folded. The comment snapped Elsy out of her defiance. She unfolded, picked up her bag and began to rifle through for her notepad. “When we first arrived here we landed on the private property of a farmer in the Artorez continent. It was a beautiful green field that reminded me of my home. We hadn’t seen any natural vegetation for months and we lay on the grass for what must have been twenty or thirty minutes. It was one of the happiest moments of my life with Kerry.” “And Kerry was your wife?” “Yes, I loved her very much. We started to explore the area where we had landed and were fired upon, we hid in the forest but they found us. I tried to fight them off but I was knocked out. The next thing I knew was that I was being held in some kind of quarantine facility.” “You didn’t know what happened to Kerry?” “Not at the time, no. After a week or two Dr. Pruos started visiting me. He would show me pictures of things and sometimes we would play games. The question of what had happened to Kerry burned inside of me. The first words of your language that I truly understood were ‘wife’ ‘killed’ ‘by’ ‘farmer’. Nelm and I had talked about it later on. Apparently the farmer whose field we had landed in was a paranoid man and it was him and his sons that attacked us. When Kerry fired back they shot her.” This was the part of the story Elsy knew. The human had lost his wife and there was a murder trial where a Domovian was sentenced to life in prison. “Yes, I’ve heard the story of the farmer.” “Mourning was difficult within the confines that were placed on me. They let me out into the garden; Nelm was there. He brought his kids in to meet me because he thought it would help me move on. Oleyr and Elphe were the highlight of my week. Nelm was very clever in knowing how helpful it would be to me to have them around. Eventually communication became easier. Nelm told me that many Domovian people thought that humans were dangerous. He invited me to live in his home with his family to prove that I wasn’t dangerous. At the time it seemed odd to me that they would let me go so easily, but they did and I went to live with him and his family.” “Did it work? Did you notice a change in Domovian attitudes towards you?” “I did, in the people I had a lot of contact with. I would also ask Nelm that question. ‘Is it working? Are you getting anywhere with them? He would say ‘It takes time’ and tell me that one day he would convince them to work on getting me home.” “What about your own ship?” “Destroyed. By the farmers. Nelm took me to see it. All the circuitry had been destroyed. So I faced the fact that Domov was my new home. It wasn’t so bad. I loved spending time with Oleyr and Elphe, they really gave me more sense of purpose. I looked after them and they looked after me.” “But now they want you dead.” “Miss Krendal, you really have a knack for stating the obvious. They must feel totally betrayed by me. I am so sorry for what I have done to them.” “So why did you…” “If you would stop interrupting. Time went by and the kids grew up. I ended up spending most of my time in Nelm’s home office learning about Domovian science. It was in his office that someone left a file for me to find. ‘Kerry Shahid’. The file contained details of her anatomy and her body’s reactions to various drugs. He’d kept her alive for 6 years doing tests on her. His purpose for having me live in his home was to have a comparison. I waited 2 hours for him to come home knowing what I would do. He was a physically weak man and I had no problem subduing him. I held him down and told him that I knew what he had done to Kerry. He admitted to what happened and said that it was for the good of all beings and that he still wanted to prove that humans weren’t dangerous. ‘Some people have to die for the good of the many’ he said. I’ll never forget how easily the knife slid into his neck and how the blood covered the wooden floor.” Elsy was noting down what Sunil had told her. It sounded like the ravings of a mentally ill person trying to garner sympathy. “There is no evidence that supports your story Sunil. Whether I believe you or not my editor won’t run this story unless I had some kind of evidence. People loved Dr. Pruos and they don’t want to hear a story which means they might have to re-consider what they already believe.” “Elsy, I’m not saying what I did was right.” A guard was making his way down the hall towards them. “I’m sorry Miss Krendal, but you have to leave now.” The guard was quite firm and picked up Elsy’s bag. He handed it to her and motioned for her to leave. She stood up, said goodbye to Sunil and turned to leave. “Elsy, talk to Mrs. Pruos.” Elsy turned to look at Sunil and nodded before leading the guard down the hall.

Written By SilverLoonie (Thats Me) This is just the start of a short story I'm writing for my S/O, who is a big noir style and era fan, its my first ever short story that isn't for some school project (in my 20's now) as such my grammar is probably shit. I've drawn inspiration from a lot of noir movies so some of the themes are going to be similar. I welcome any feedback and criticism thanks :) **A Woman in Noir** *Part One* *For Johanna* My name’s James Carter, I’m a Detective Constable for the Ridgemount Police Department, I’d like to tell you that I have an office, and I’m a big shot, but I’ll only tell the truth. I have a desk on the fourth floor of the RPD building, and on my desk it says my name and Homicide, I could spend hours telling you about this desk, the funny way the wood curls and turns underneath the varnish, the little date in the corner “12 February 1949” is what it says on it, I have a big pile of cleared case folders, my favourite pen sits in a mount, and I have a little black telephone next to my clock. This desk has been mine for the last 3 years, not a very long time sure, but long enough to know my way around it like the house I was born in. From time to time we get an interesting homicide, a man found dead with ancient prayers carved into him, the drunk hit by a car driven by his wife’s lover, the list goes on, but that’s boring and why waste the time thinking about it. instead I sit in my chair, kicking back, inhaling a thick cigar, the sweet aroma filling the room, the light burn filling my lungs, and I wait, I check over my three piece suit, I inspect and oil my gun, anything to pass the time while I wait, that’s the problem with homicide in Ridgemount, if you’re not investigating or in court, you’re sitting idly with your hands in your pockets or driving around in the ol black chevy they give you. Today was no exception to that rule. My phone rings, the bells struggling to move, snapping me out of my thoughts. I pick up the receiver “Homicide, Detective Carter” I speak slowly, methodically, the way I’ve said 100 times before. “Hello?” comes a shaken voice through the other end, a woman, undoubtedly “I think my husband is going to kill me.” Said the woman on the other end. What happened next would best be described as a hurricane of activity, not soon after Detective Lyons and I were in the car on our way to the callers house, an upscale part of town for sure but neither of us were suspecting the biggest mansion in town home of Walter and Jane Dean, it wasn’t exactly a secret that Walter Dean was a mobster, but he had crossed the right palms and that meant to us he was untouchable, Unless we caught him damned near red handed. The car rolled to a stop, and I got out of the passenger seat. Lyons and I walked to the door, two uniforms flanking us. Lyons swung the heavy knocker and it boomed through the house. “Nice house.” I heard one of the patrolmen say. The door swayed open to an elegant man in a col casse shirt and bowtie, a black dinner jacket and slacks “Good Evening” said the man cooly, a butler no doubt given his apparel. “Good Evening, I’m Detective Carter this is Detective Lyons, were looking for Jane Dean please.” The niceties were just an attempt, had he obstructed us the uniforms would have taken care of him. We we’re getting in that house. “Of course sir, this way please” he responded, relieved we followed him. To say the house was ornate would have been an understatement, the marble floors were polished to perfection. Each painting had a gold frame and the various collected trinkets shone brightly, we were escorted in a large sitting room, with a few couches a tray of drinks and a mahogany table, “your coat sir?” said the butler to me and Lyons, we both gave him our coats and hats, “please make yourself comfortable Misses Dean will be in shortly” and with that he left. Lyons, looked at me, and smirked, he served in the army with me he knew what I was thinking. “This is a big fucking house” he said abruptly his smirk never failing. I smirked and continued to inspect the room we we’re sitting in. The doors opened and in walked a very beautiful woman, she had short brown hair, and soft blue eyes, the fluttered as she walked towards us, her skin like silk, she wore a black dress with a high front, it danced to her left thigh and right knee, she wore black shoes, and a large diamond necklace. “We don’t have long before he gets here, and I need to say this” she said swiftly moving to the drink. She mixed herself something, vodka and gin, a martini if I had to guess, and started to sip. “He found himself some new whore, and wants to get rid of me, the heartless bastard, doesn’t want to pay up either, he’s hired somebody, some killer they’re coming for me. I’m not sure what to do.” I didn’t notice before but she was trembling, “Miss I’m not sure what we can do you have no proof” said Lyons quickly. Her eyes swelled red, “Dare, that’s where he goes every night, he owns the place. Please help me” I found myself feeling awful, as she swept us out, I wanted to help her, I wanted to save her. “Sounds like a job for Vice” said Lyons, “What do you mean?” I said looking at him, “Just another flunkie looking to get her husbands money” he said cynically “were not going to help her?” “why should we get involved, nobodies dead” “yet” I mumbled to myself.

I awake inside an impossibly white room, lacking any shadows or light source, but bright all the same. An overwhelming panic sets in without a moment's notice, as my mind races haphazardly to find an answer to this conundrum while my fingers do the same, shoving themselves in invisible corners, jamming invisible walls, probing desperately, seeking any tiny inconsistency. In my mouth there lingers a mettalic taste, like blood, but more hospitable. What was I doing before? I remember lying on my back in cool, damp grass. Billowy white behemoths tromping lazily past my view. A face of beauty, with big, gentle eyes. Crying eyes. Why was she crying? I clench my fist and pound on the walls, yelling pleas for help and profane damnations until throat closes and my eyes bulge. There is no sound coming from the impact of my rage on these walls, as if they are too thick for sound to reverberate in. Why am I here? How did I get here? "Lucy?" I sob, "Lucy, baby, where are you?" I have to remember. What was happening? I was eating grapes, I think. Yes, it was a picnic! There were grapes and bread and cheeses and wine! Why did I fall asleep? I was having such a good time, laughing and dining with my love, I... I didn't... did I..? I... I couldn't have. No, I was perfectly fine. I'm twenty-five years old, fit as a fiddle and perfectly competent, there's no way I could've... I'd have to be a fool to... Lucy wouldn't have allowed that! She'd have saved me! She knows the Heimlich, she'd have to have... What now? Do I wait? This can't be it. This can't be all there is. It's silly, it doesn't make any sense. It can't be... all that there is...

Deep in the heart of southern England lays a town of great mystery and adventure. A place told of only in legend and whispered through the halls of middle management meetings, it is the town of Milton Keynes. Within lies beauty never known to the human eye, vast oceans of identical 1980’s concrete office blocks dominate the skyline of the town, floating on a serene and vast of ocean of bitumen and tarmac. In the air is the taste of mediocrity and the unmistakable smell of the tears of formerly ambitious prodigies reduced to filing the finances of a local pet insurance agency dealing exclusively in parrots and insects between 3 and 5 inches long, and within this vast forest of culture and intrigue is a man of equal cultural refinement, Seth MacDonald! At first glance it was a day like any other, the sun barely breaking through a layer of light smog and cloud cover leaving a divine ray of greyed half yellow light on the town but great things were in store this day indeed. Seth was sat in his living room watching Deal or No Deal, Seth enjoyed the finer things in life. Things like Bargain Hunt, copious amounts of Tesco Value gin and most closely kept to his heart of all, stamp collecting, however I can assure you that these were but a few of the many areas that Seth showed special interest in and a smaller yet equally impressive list of what he had mastered. Prompted by the musings of Rob Brydon’s Christmas brandy M&S advert a thought suddenly hit Seth, a thought destined to change his life forever and forever more. “I really fancy a pint” he thought, but alas, such wild and whimsical ideas can never be so simple, a dilemma as old as cheap European alcohol imports was what awaited him. “Bitter or lager” He sat and he thought, he really thought, and I mean he was being really god damn thoughtful, but at last he stopped, the decision had been made, and he finally settled on a pint of Hobgoblin, for real ale they say, is where it is at. Seth left for the pub, his pub was only around half a mile away and he was filled with content at the thought of the minimal physical exertion that will have to be given to achieve his goals. He goes around the corner then suddenly, a threat approaches, a villainous youth! “Hey mate you got ID?” “Yes” “Will you go into that shop and get me some WKD?” “No” “Why not?” “I am a strongly principled man and refuse to further the societal epidemic of youth binge drinking due to its adverse effect on education and the general wellbeing of society which is indeed horribly damaged by drunken anti-social behaviour” “What?” “I have a strong stance against you trying to buy alcohol” “What?” “Me no drink for you” “What?” Seth walked away at this point, as he could not be bothered continuing this conversation with this hooded youth, filled with anger at his apparent illiteracy and the complete… rudeness of asking complete and total strangers to commit crimes with may I remind you a maximum fine of £3200, frankly, Seth was not very happy about it, and his mood would be moderately lowered for the rest of the day thanks this blatant violation of social norms. “Ah you’re an ugly sack of lard anyway mate” Seth could not stand for that. “I’m sorry young gentlemen but my name is Seth MacDonald and if you don’t refer to me as such and if you continue that tone with me I assure you that it will only end in a formal complaint made against you and a possible anti-social behaviour order” “Seth McDonald? More like fatty baldy baldy fat man!” “That was unbelievably hurtful, how could you speak to someone like that. I am a calm and decent but…” “Oh shut you boring, balding piece of…” With that a single punch from Seth knocked the youth to ground, Seth was a calm man but in this instance his anger had reached to a point where he felt it necessary to break out in violence. Seth decided at this point that it would be best to walk away from the child newly deprived of consciousness, since he had places to be, and this was not one of them. So now with the possibly endangered child lying in his wake he decided that a visit to the local corner shop on the way to the pub would be most beneficial to his appetite which he did not have enough money to fully satisfy at pub lunch prices. He walked in and admired the large range of products available to try, but although he had set his eyes on both pickled onion and roast beef monster munch he only had the money for one packet on top of his pint. So he thought that seeking help from the staff at this local establishment could perhaps provide some assistance. There was a Woman stacking shelves with own brand milk at the other end of the isle who would be perfect for this purpose of seeking this help. “Excuse me madam” “Sorry I’m just stacking shelves at the minute I’ll be with you in a second, is that ok?” “No actually, but neither does it inconvenience me enough for me to protest” “Right… erm… ok” “So erm… Do you come here often?” “Yes, I work here” After a long and awkward silence the milk was indeed stacked up and as such Seth’s burning monster munch related queries would be answered. “Right… err what is that you wanted anyway” “I would like to inquire as to whether free samples are available for these two flavours of monster munch, it is a brand of crisps I am yet to try and I am torn strongly between the pickled onion and the roast beef” “Erm… we don’t, you’d have to buy the crisps first and actually… try them… after… paying for them... because that’s… how shops work I’m afraid” “What kind of nepotistic fascist corner shop is this?” “If I let you have the food for free will you promise to leave and never come back?” “Yeah of course, but one other thing” “Yes?” “Are you free Saturday night? “Get out of this shop before I kick you in the face” He walked out the shop with his food and greatly enjoyed his corn based snack products despite the rather rude demeanour of the shop assistant but on the final leg to the pub but now he felt he was now ready to finally have the pint of drink that he had so long been waiting for, He loved his local or the “disillusioned sheep worrier” as it was officially known, the most non-Euclidic pub in England, it had such friendly people there you see, a find upstanding collection of unemployed middle age men and Neo-Nazi skin heads alike. They were all good honest English folk with a proud sense of tradition, blood, and honour. Well that’s what they call it anyway. He had many happy memories at the disillusioned sheep worrier, Seth was here last year for his friend Barry’s Birthday party last year, they were playing this weird game when he arrived where they all hid under the table and hoped Seth wouldn’t notice them, he’s alright our Barry, Seth got into an argument last week with his welsh mate Dimitri Romanov after Seth insisted they had no word for blue, Dimitri said “Yes there is, it’s glas”, and Seth retorted with “Stephen Fry said it on QI so it must be true”, that also ended in violence, Seth had a knack for that, enough chit chatter though, it’s time for the conclusion of this tonally consistent epic tale. Seth sat down and ordered a pint of the finest Hob Goblin real ale. His pint then arrived and his quest, nearly completed, the top of his beer slowly approaching his lips, but not all could be well on this day, and a large party of police officers storm the pub. “Is there a Seth MacDonald in here?” “Yes that’s me officers” “You’re under arrest on suspicion of assault of a minor; you do not have to say anything. Anything you do say can and will be used against you…” Many things filled Seth’s head at this moment including but not limited to, hitting kids is a crime, why did I tell that child my name, why didn’t I think there would be consequences for my actions, but in that moment, that moment of fear for the thwarting of his plans, only one sentence could escape from his mouth. “Can I finish my pint first please?” The officer just sort of stared at him Filled with this sudden realisation Seth lunged in vain for his beer, but the authorities lunged faster.

"You'll be quite welcome here", said professor Samanac. "Here's your desk, there's the water fountain, the bathroom's the second door to the left, and all the co-workers chipped in to buy you a little something", he said showing a bouquet of flowers on the desk. "Are they real?" asked Ms. Glaves. "Well, aren't you oblivious! Can't you feel it, can't you sense it? When could one possibly feel the touch of a rose's smell from over 15 feet away!" he answered half in disbelief, half in jest. "I... I mean... But synthetic flowers are too expensive. You shouldn't have gone into so much trouble", she said while blushing and trying too hard to hide the fact that this was the first time she actually saw synthetic plants. They lasted for years, but were too expensive.   Joan was a young neuroscientist, who applied to work at Neurobotics Inc. as a joke, and she never thought she'd ever get even an interview. Her advisor encouraged her to apply, for her PhD thesis had been a major breakthrough in the field, regarding the fact that animals could be trained to carry direct orders even if these are given subconsciously. She got her inspiration from Alan Clark, a famous British neurologist, who specialized in exploring the subconscious mental states of various primates, but his work had never been finished. Namely, he somehow managed to disappear from the public eye and decided to spend his days in some hut in Scotland with his two dogs and a beloved mistress. She was often thankful for this fact, because if he hadn't stepped out of the spotlight, she'd have to pick professor Wenton as her advisor for a different topic, and she despised him for a simple reason: he often chewed with his mouth opened. We're in the 23rd century, not in Middle Ages – she often thought to herself.   After a few months of a boring desk job, she was called into professor Samanac's office. "You remind me of myself when I was your age", he said looking down at some distant spot on the floor. His hair was grey, but his beard was still brown, and a bit yellow in the middle. Must be the cigarettes – she though to herself. She felt like she's going to get fired, so she kept repeating to herself in her head not to cry until she had left the room. "I left the North American University to work in Neurobotics. The smartest idea I've ever had. I hated the paperwork, the grading, the articles you were obliged to write every month just to keep you salary steady. The bureaucracy is ruining the science. And everybody still blames the church!" he said, finally with an upward glance. She was still trying not to cry, so she used her long blue bangs to cover her left eye which had a single tear trapped in her eyelid. "So I have to say I'm sorry", he continued, "for preventing you to do some useful work for us." She glanced up, gathered some crumbs of courage and straightened her spine into a statuesque fashion. He continued: "We used your work for months, the monkey work is done. We need the brains."   "Dr. Charms, this is Dr. Glaves; Dr. Glaves, this is Dr. Charms", said professor Samanac in a hurry. Nadir Charms, a tall black man with amazing green eyes charmed her instantly. He responded hastily: "We have no time to lose, so I'll keep it short. We asked Dr. Zieblen to influence your decision and to recommend Neurobotics for your first job. We had started the similar research along with professor Clark. However, he couldn't take the pressure. It was too much of it for him." "Of what", she asked timidly while pondering what is really going on. "Of what I'm about to show you", replied Dr. Charms with a sneaky smile.   All three of them entered the elevator. The doors opened at level -31B. They entered a huge laboratory which looked like a zoo. And it stank like it. They passed the long corridor filled with various animal cages, and entered something which resembled a hospital waiting room. Only, these people were somehow at peace. Some of them were reading, some of them were playing with their computers, and one toddler was trying to chase a toy which flew around him in circles displaying random cartoon scenes. "Should I wait here?" Joan asked. "But this is the laboratory", said Dr. Charms arrogantly.   They entered a new room. A young man greeted them and served them some coffee and tea. "Dennis, any progress with B87?" asked professor Samanac? "The report says negative, Sir", he replied while trying to fix his skirt which was obviously too tight. "I know you're a bit confused right now, but we've been working on this for quite some time. Using Dr. Clark's research, we found out that every primate could be trained to respond to certain directives even if these were subconsciously implanted. We've been trying to test it on even higher primates", explained Dr. Samanac, while trying to sip his coffee impatiently, even though it was too hot. "You mean like orangutans and chimpanzees?" she inquired in awe. "He means humans", Dr. Charms remarked emitting a pawky smile. "But that's not possible, the human brain has the C2612 fiber, which –" Dr. Charms interrupted her: "Which we were analyzing for two centuries and finally got some conclusive results. It can be done." "It could be done, but how complex could the command be, for the subconscious pattern to even have the potential to emerge. It's an NP-hard problem. There's no way out. And we know it's not reducible to anything simpler", she retorted firmly. "You're thinking that a command must be a command using the exact words. You could train a dog to fetch a stick using a word like ORANGE! Most of human pets are trained to recognize their names even though these are often gibberish. You could train a human to do a task using, I don't know, Shakespeare's lines. Or even *Jabberwocky*." "I suppose so. But where's the real application of it?" Dr. Samanac interjected: "What if you didn't need the *task* part, only words?"   Joan was confused. She never felt stupid in her life. All of the kids in middle school and high school made fun of her, but she spent her nights with her books. She felt better than them. After graduating and finishing her PhD she knew she had won. But sometimes she asked herself do they even care, even in a bad way. Do they still remember her, or is she just some no-name scientist in random articles? "The human brain is complex, but follows a certain pattern. Mental states are grounded in physical points, and the discovery of C2612 allowed us to take a sneak peak into human subconscious mind. Have you ever watched *Monty Python*?" "That's like asking me have I ever seen Mona Lisa. Of course", she responded. "Do you remember that sketch with the joke that somehow won the war, because when anybody read it, they had no choice but to fall into a continuous loop of laughter. They couldn't control it", he noted. "You're losing me", she spoke in a somewhat annoyed manner. "There could be, for example, a combination of words and letters which can drive a man insane. Not really taking orders, but having the same amount of control: none. One can read it or hear it, and his C2612 fibers will soon start firing up. Once the process starts, the person needs more sensory input like this, and every order of letters, words and sentences has a strict specific follow-up. If one doesn't get the next combination, the brain starts to process the subconscious information and uses all the resources there are to try to decipher it. But there's an endless number of possible combinations. As you said, it's an NP-hard problem", rejoined Dr. Samanac. "What does it take to do that? That ought to be a sentence of a size of a novel! Or even tons of novels. It can't be done!" she uttered. Dr. Clark stated: "It's not really about words, it's about images. It could work in any language, it's necessary for humans to visualize the words, and the mind does it subconsciously. The ancient philosophers knew that people are unable to conceive abstract objects, and that you tend to do it while reading as well." She responded decidedly: "Yes, for example, you have to conceive some kind of a triangle, it'll have some dimensions, it'll be, I don't know, isosceles or equilateral, big or small. There's no way for us to have a pure abstract thought." "That's right", continued Dr. Clark, "so every time we read a sentence like *The dog chased the cat*, we think of, for example, a black Labrador chasing a grey long-haired cat. It's all about visualization. We cannot help ourselves." "What's that got to do with your research? With **MY** research?" she appealed to him while trying to maintain the same posture taken 10 minutes ago. "Someone calculated the combination of necessary mental images which are sufficient to provoke the gradual deterioration of brain functions", said Dr. Samanac. "And it's somewhere out there", added Dr. Clark. She just stood there trying to maintain her posture. She fainted.   She woke up in that sweet delirium of not knowing if something was real or not. "Take a sip of some chamomile tea. It'll freshen you up", said Dennis. After a few seconds she got back on her feet and demanded an explanation. "Are you saying that a certain sentence could kill someone? I'm a scientist, not a cop", she cried. "Our job is to find the pattern which could put the brain back in equilibrium after this horrible event. It can be done. Alan Clark knew how dangerous this is. That's why he couldn't take it anymore", said Dr. Samanac with a sound of regret. "Do we know how the original pattern looks like?" she inquired. "We know that the end involves owls, graphic novels, chocolate and rivers", he proclaimed. "That's more of a *Twin Peaks* dialogue, than a clue", she replied. "You're a classics fan. I like that", said Nadir with a smile, "I've minored in cultural history." "These categories of files were used as dictionaries in calculations after someone broke into our lab. The most obvious way would be to connect these images somehow logically or illogically. How, I do not know", said Dr. Samanac. He continued: "We believe it was an inside job. So don't trust anyone but us. Or not even us." He burst into laugh, but it was a desperate one.   They spent the next ten months calculating the possible counterffect. "I feel like I'm a wizard who's about to remove a curse", she said jokingly. "Are you scared?" "Of what?" asked Nadir. "If someone actually uses the combination to drive someone insane. Or if we had already been driven insane, but we don't know yet. And who had managed to calculate something our team is still not able to do? I'm frightened", she whispered. "The secret service team is doing their best to provide us with all the resources we need. Guys in B1 – B353 are doing the best they can. And we will make a difference one day, I hope. It's a dangerous weapon. The guy obviously knew what he was looking for", said Dr. Clark. "I hope we never find out", she replied. "This is the only job I'd like to be fired from as a surplus." "I agree. Let's get back to work. We can talk about this at dinner? I'll pick you up at 8 o'clock tonight if you want", he said confidently. She blushed and accepted the long overdue invitation.   The months have passed, and there was a bit of progress. There was a lot of work to be done. But no one has ever managed to find out who calculated the combination. The secret service discovered only the destroyed tapes and no clues or traces left behind. This could have been done by anyone. Or this hadn't been done at all.   After a while they felt like they were making progress. But I know it was in vain. Soon, everybody will know, one by one. Soon, you will know. Soon, the cello will turn yellow. Soon, the heart will stop the spleen. Soon a cube will be a tube. Soon, an owl will growl in the night. Soon, a Batman won't be there for a fight. Soon, cocoa could flow like Orinoco. Soon.

Jump I never wanted this. I thought that I did, but I didn't. I still don't. But, choices define us. I can't take it back any more than a bird can stop it self from fleeing south when winter comes to blanket the land with it's sheet of fresh snow. I remember when I was a kid I used to ride bikes a lot. I would be all over town from the time the sun came up, to the time the street lamps turned on signifying I was late. Mom would always yell at me. She told me things like, "We were worried sick!" And, "You could have died!" I never really listened to her. When I was a teenager I was even more rebellious. I took to smoking pot as a cry to my parents for attention. They both worked full time jobs, so they never seemed to have time for me. I once stayed stoned for two weeks straight. Heh. I was a wild child. I came home drunk, or possibly beat up and bruised from a fight I probably started. It wasn't until I was 17 that my parents decided to send me to counseling. Turns out I had clinical depression that had been aggregated by my alcohol and marijuana use. My parents saw me through the worst part of my life and for that I will never repay them. Most recently, my depression has been acting up again. I've done all I can to treat it but it won't go away. I'm stuck here in my empty apartment with this pit in my stomach that sucks up any and all positive thoughts. Leaving me a shell of a person, it takes and takes from my psyche and never returns. I remember climbing to the top of the building that my mom had worked at when I was a kid. I placed my feet at the edge of the railing and...... I never wanted this. I still don't.

Stories are written on these walls. Tales of triumph, failures, bonds, and sadness. It's dark in here, black that no light can render. Familiar. I've been here before, many times, not always by choice though. I'm in a prison with no bars, the door is unlocked and I can leave when I please, but I don't, I won't. I've got a sick feeling growing in my stomach. It could be from the other night when she laughed in my face, or when I took a pocket of cash and put it in my nose. But why does there have to be a reason? Why waste my time looking for answers? Maybe I deserve to feel like this. I'm safe in here, it's cold, but safe. I never have to explain myself here, it's nearly impossible if I were to even try. So why bother? You don't always know why you do the things you do, why does there always have to be a reason? This place is empty and lonely, yet it breathes life, creation and hope. Bad things come here to fester and to only be remembered. Why do I keep ending up here? What keeps bringing me to this hollow shell? Because its familiar. But why does there always have to be a reason? This place was molded for me. It doesn't have to be this way, things can change, change is good. Embrace it. Embrace everything. Say yes and open my arms to the world. Live. I will break these chains and walk out the door never to look back again. Yes. I want to live. "Cal? Eh, Calvin!!" "Hmm, wh.. what?" "You okay buddy?" "Uhm, yeah I think so, why do you ask?" "Looked like you were lost in a thought" "Shit, sorry man. I was just stuck in my head again" "All good, just deal the cards" But I know I'll be back. I always end up going back. So I go ahead and deal the cards.

The light was coming over the horizon as he stood alone on that hill of swords; he looked up into the sky as the clouds moved faster than they ever have, the sun peering over the horizon but never moving beyond that horizon. He peers around to see nothing but a barren and desolate wasteland, littered with countless swords of different shapes and sizes. Each one representing a bond he has made that keeps him anchored to this world. Even from the day he stepped into this world, He knew little of the suffering he was going to feel, back in his younger days he gave out his kindness to all before the world begun to look down on him. His kindness slowly turned to anger, he wanted nothing then to be accepted and as the years passed, His anger felt like fire coursing through his blood. Knowing he was different, effected by what he saw was both a curse and a burden to carry on his shoulders, never able to explain his actions or emotions because of his status as an alien in this life. He made many bonds with the people of this world, despite that he still was rejected by the world around him and one by one, those with bonds close to him slipped away to the next life and his own flesh and blood attempted to use him like a puppet on strings. Tried as he might, the love he gave was never strong enough to detract from their selfish desires. He looked down at his hands and gripped them tight to remember their faces, only remembering the regret and not the memories or happiness he once shared. He still stands alone on that hill of swords, the horizon slowly rising in the distance as he overlooks the field of swords below him, cursing the world that rejected him. He quietly chants the words as a reminder of the promise he made to one many years ago.* *(Authors notes: This story is completely influenced by my life as I have an autistic disability which I describe as a curse and a burden; this is true in many ways but more than that when my family started breaking apart due to the death of my mother at age seventeen, I had no output to describe how I felt.* *I’ve never been good at telling people how I really feel inside and worn this mask to fool everyone and myself that I was okay when in reality, I was depressed, socially rejected and it’s affected me for so long now.* It also affected my relationships to a degree but when I tried to describe how I felt, I’ve never been understood by them and always been tossed aside because my desires aren’t good enough.* *I feel like I’m being used by my own family because they feel like if I get a job, everything’s going to work out fine which is extremely far from the truth. I’m not happy with myself or my life and this “story” is me finally finding a way to say it with the mask off.* *I was inspired when I came across Fate/Stay Night, a visual novel/anime series with the character Archer. He uses this chant to describe how his life went astray and how he now has nothing and I connected deeply with it but changing the meaning to suit myself of how I want to be disconnected from the world but cling to it because of the bonds I’ve made.* *I thank you for even taking the time to read this, I’ve poured my heart into it as much as I can and now the mask is off.

A piece of glass sits silent, soaking in a mixture of oil and transmission fluid. The puddle is fed by drips and leaks from the demolished engine of a 1997 Ford Taurus sedan. Sarah can’t believe what she has just seen. Her thoughts turn to the worst case scenario: He must be dead...nobody could survive something like that... It was just another typical Monday morning for Sarah. She woke up at exactly 4:03am...just like the day before and the day before that. She carefully walked her way through her repetitive sunrise routine. She had the same thing for breakfast every morning for the last 15 years. One half grapefruit. 2 pieces of over-done sourdough toast with 3 prunes. A single hard boild egg prepared the night before. She always took her medicine with breakfast. Even with a steady stream of Lexapro in her body, her routine remained her sanctuary. She grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door and took a deep breath before walking out into the unknown. She started her car, backed out of the driveway, and headed out on Pine Lane. Just to make sure that she remembered to close her garage door, she always drove around her block and past her house three times before finally heading to work. Okay, the garage door is closed...here we go... She sat at the intersection of Edith and Foothill for longer than usual. She felt tense as the red light seemed to mock her. Finally, the light changed and the car in front of her started into the intersection. Sarah didn’t even see the Honda Civic coming. It sped through a red light and T-Boned the Ford Taurus right in front of her. Panic took over as glass, engine fluids, smoke and debris all seemed to swirl around the scene. The Honda backed up and maneuvered out of the intersection and sped away. He must be dead...nobody could survive being hit like that... Sarah cautiously drove around the accident and stopped her car on the other side of the intersection. She suddenly saw a terrible flaw in her policy against cell phones. This would sure be a great time to call the authorities to handle this mess. Terror crept over her entire body at the thought of having to get out and help. It wasn’t that she was a bad person, it was that she couldn’t even shake someone’s hand, let alone deal with blood and injury. She counted to 3, took a deep breath and exited her car. When Sarah got to the mangled vehicle, she saw that the driver wasn’t moving. He seemed lifeless. A large cut on his forehead dripped blood down his face and all over his shirt. The unbearable sound of a child crying drowned out everything else. “Hello?” she called. “Can you hear me?” Getting no response, Sarah decided she had to do something. Through the window, she could see the crying child harnessed in his seat in the back of the car. He seemed to be uninjured, so she returned her focus to the driver. She pulled the handle to his door, but it was wedged shut. She pried the passenger door open and could just make out the driver. She could see that he was breathing. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. She always had at least three pairs with her. Once she had her gloves on, she began squeezing the man’s hand trying to get a response. Nothing. She brushed his hair away from his face. Suddenly, his eyes went from closed to a weak squint. “What happened?” he grumbled. “You were in a car accident. What’s your name? Do you have a phone?” “Yes, it’s in my pocket...I can’t move my arms. My name is Ryan.” Sarah pushed aside years of fear and fished his phone from his pocket. She dialed 9-11 and told the dispatcher where they were and that Ryan needed immediate medical help. The dispatcher told her to stay on the line and make sure that he stays conscious. Suddenly the phone cut out. Sarah pulls it from her ear and sees a flashing icon of a red battery on the screen. “Fucking piece of shit!” she cried as she threw the phone on the floor of the car. “Okay Ryan, I need to you stay awake. Can you tell me about yourself?” “My son...he’s crying. Is he okay?” he replied. “Yes, he seems fine. Can you describe any pain you have?” Ryan told her that he didn’t feel much pain aside from his head...he just couldn’t move. “Just hang in there Ryan, the ambulance is coming. Can you hear it?” The ambulance screamed into the intersection along with three police cars and a fire truck. It suddenly dawned on her that she had never shared time with someone like this. She was overtaken with a rush of emotions. Sarah pulled off her gloves, grabbed Ryan’s hand and gave it one last squeeze before getting out of the car. She explained to the police what she had seen. She watched anxiously as they dissected the car trying to get to Ryan and his son. It seemed to take forever. By the time Ryan was secured to a stretcher and both he and his son were on their way to the hospital, Sarah realized that she was late for work for the first time in over 15 years. She also noticed that she didn’t care. All she seemed to care about was Ryan and his son. In those 10 intense minutes, she had formed a greater bond with him than she had with any other person on the planet. She felt certain that she loved him and she was convinced that he must love her. She returned to her car and started heading towards the hospital. As she drove, she calmly opened her purse and retrieved the brownish orange pill bottle from the bottom. She ran her thumb over the word “Lexapro” before opening it up and dumping them all out the window. A rush of relief came over her as she smiled. She didn’t need them anymore. All she needed was Ryan. She decided that they would have to get married and she couldn’t wait for his son to start calling her “Mommy”. “Everything is going to be just fine.” She thought to herself. She made sure to circle the hospital three times before parking. She locked her door seven times before walking towards the Emergency Room Entrance. Everything...is going to be just fine...

Have you ever had the feeling that there was something else nearby? Something that you couldn't see and hear, but you could definitely feel as an uncomfortable sensation filled your spine? This, my friends, is the presence of the Keeper of Souls. The Keeper of Souls is a mysterious enigma that can only be seen by children. He can appear in many shapes and forms, often mimicking what they fear most. He is able to do this because he knows exactly what scares children the most, as their minds are the most open they'll ever be. However, a few unlucky people have seen the true form of the Keeper of Souls. The closet is said to be his favorite place to hide during the night. Light giggles and voices can be heard from the door cracks as if a party were being held inside. After opening the door you'll quickly find yourself staring face to face with a large and dark shadow. His spider-like arms playfully extend from his body, almost inviting you to come along. Beside him are the many faces of children who were foolish enough to follow him. These children all have pale faces and eyes without sockets. They look at you with an eerie combination of cheerfulness and terror that creates an unpleasant expression. Slowly, the closet door will open with the Keeper of Souls smiling with glee as his next potential victim makes the decision between going inside and turning away. Should you turn away, the keeper of Souls will slam the door and disappear altogether. Many people have claimed to see him, but none of their stories have been taken seriously. They're often completely written off as superstitious children's stories and nothing more. Despite what the disbelievers say, those who have witnessed it for themselves will tell you otherwise: The Keeper of Souls does exist and his search for souls is never ending.