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Allura 24

I only worked on this for about 30 minutes sorry if its shit and wasted your time :/ “Wake” The voice is a whispering staccato in a seemingly silent state of comatose. “Wake.” It comes again this time apparently more urgent and almost palpable on the side of my head. Light floods in as my eyes open. The bright environment is a foreign feeling. I refrain from squinting to let my eyes adjust as quickly as possible. I realize there is something wrong with the situation I have awoken to. “Where am I?” The voice of my conscience rings clear in the dead silence of the illuminated room. Though the room is bright I cannot discern any fixtures of light, when I sit up I can tell that the floor of this room is damp almost cave like; but the ground beneath me is far too flat to be any natural creation. I stand up and a figure manifests at the end of the room, as quick as I notice the entity it phases through the nearest wall like a ghost. For an unknown reason I feel compelled to follow the shadowy being I reach out to press my unsteady hand to the concrete wall; instead I am astounded to discover that it too moves through the wall. With this new information I take a risk and dash through the wall, there the entity waits at the far side of an apparently identical room it tilts what I suppose to be its head almost like it is curious. “Wha-“ The Entity rushes through the wall again, this time I choose not to follow expecting it to come back. I take note of the amount of time and wait five minutes before deciding that it isn’t coming back, I rush through the wall. To my surprise The Entity isn’t waiting at the end of the room, instead at each of the four walls of the concrete room are reflections of myself. Each move at the precise time I do, each looking just as dazed as I. Taking four steps forward I notice a sound, a rising ring in my ears. It is discomforting in the silence of the unknown room; I press forward and come into a new room halfway through the one before. The ringing is now piercing as it grows louder and louder, feeling threatened I head back to the wall I just came from; to my surprise I cannot move through the wall anymore. A hysterical laugh escapes my throat with the realization that I can only go forward. The thought occurs to me that I haven’t tried to go left or right, I choose left but find that it does no use; I can’t move through it so I dash to the right. This does me as little good as going left did, I realize the ringing has stopped but my ears still hurt. A warm fluid runs down the side of my right cheek, with the tip of my finger I dab it and find that my ear is bleeding; I come to the conclusion that the ring did not stopped it just surpassed the audible frequencies of the human ear and has become so intense that it is damaging my ear. “I have to get out of here” the sound of my conscience comes again. I rush through the wall that now lies to the right of me in the new room the bleeding does not stop but only intensifies; I can no longer hear but that doesn’t stop the reality of pain from setting in. I forget about the entity altogether and start running through the rooms. I go through five, the bleeding doesn't stop, I can feel the blood caking on my skin, six, the bleeding persists, I keep running, seven, eight, nine, I hit ten and the pain is unbearable; I fall to the ground no longer caring whether I live or die just wanting it all to stop, and it does. “What have I done to deserve this?” This time it is not only my conscience that speaks but a voice of sonorous volume. “You have done nothing, this is merely a test.” The voice replies. “What are you?” I think. “Your worst nightmare.” The voice facetiously replies. It then lets out a brief chuckle. I feel its heavy presence lift as I move through the next wall, my vision dims as I realize what is happening. This place is like a level based game each amount of rooms possesses a new challenge; that at the moment adheres to the senses. I keep moving at this point I cannot tell if the light is going out or my vision is fading, a blur of movement catches my eye. Once again the entity appears but I can barely discern its shape through my inability to see. I start to sprint through walls and suddenly everything is black. I no longer see what lies ahead of me. I do not know how many rooms I have moved through when suddenly I can see again. The lights must have just gone away because I’m blinded by the sudden amount of light and can sense my eyes dilating with the abrupt amount of light illuminating the room. I feel the presence again. “What do you wish to gain from this?” I ask. “Knowledge” The voice says. To which I reply “About what?” The voice chuckles once more. “Are you the entity I keep seeing?” I ask wishing to know more about this being. “I am.” The voice is unnervingly calm. Annoyed I aggressively ask “Why am I here?” The voice remains calm and says “Because you chose to be.” This perplexes me even more and I feel the presence once again leave unexpectedly. I have an onslaught of questions to ask but it seems to be apathetic to the thought of letting me know what is going on. This indifference leaves an unsettling feeling in my gut but I keep moving forward. Through the next wall it is not a room but a tunnel, partially down the tunnel I see my reflections. I see that they too are walking at the same pace I am though they do not move. There are no walls, no mirrors, nothing for them to be reflecting off of. Nevertheless I keep moving as I move passed them a motion catches my eye; I duck quickly. The motion is one of my reflections taking a swing at me. They look just as confused as I do. I get the feeling of Déjà vu and can only think that this has happened before but they normally strike me, I waste no time and start sprinting down the hall. I can see a wall in the distance. “This must be it, I Just have to run through this wall and I’ll be fre-“Suddenly I slam into the solid wall and just I am about to fall unconscious I see only myself looking down at me with a wicked smile. “Wake” The voice is a whispering staccato in a seemingly silent state of comatose.

Once upon a time on the internet there was a girl who wanted to matter. The internet had shown her so many weird and wonderful things and she decided that it was her time to contribute to this magnificent invention. And so she sat down and began to write. She wrote what she knew, she wrote what she loved. She wrote to make things real. She wrote SnapeXDumbledore fan fiction. And it was beautiful. The internet is a harsh land though, it's over-crowded by content and stuffed to the brim with cruel and uncaring critics. And slowly, as time marched on, her beautiful masterpiece was slowly buried by the deluge of time. The idea of being the sole witness to her masterpiece made her sick, but she knew it was only a matter of time before her fated lovers all but disappeared. With a tear in her eye she turned away from her post and let it slip into the oblivion that is the old internet. She let a part of herself get buried that day, a part of her that burned too brightly not to smother. Many years and many posts later, the very same girl, now a woman, received an email. Someone had responded to something she had written. Something old, something forgotten. >*Dear SevvyXDumbledorable,* >*I don't know who you are and I don't know if you'll ever read this, but I need you to* *know that you have changed my life. Never before have I witnessed two more unlikely* *individuals fall in love, and in reading this beautiful work I have fallen in love with the* *most unlikely person of all myself. Who ever you are, where ever you are...bless you.* >*Thanks,* >*Barack Obama* So keep writing that gay shit internet. Because you never know when a president of the United States may be reading.

Diary of Wichita Anamel 1887 My family has been surviving off the remaining animals we have in the farm. It’s a little bit fucked up that we’ve already resulted to eating the first born, even though we have 7 meaty, adult cows in our barn. Civilization as we know it has been degraded to a shitty epitome of everything morbid, desperate, and ultimately an aberration of what is considered a day here, in 1887. It’s pretty disgusting meat too. My family said it’s like a campout, and we can’t have fire. Even though we do have one of those fancy lighters, my parents for some arcane reason do not want to cook this meat. My brother has caught some disease, and since everyone abhors my brother, we are contemplating killing him, cooking him, and eating him. I heard my parents discussing burning him alive just so he can feel the same pain he has caused them for 16 long years. My brother is a avarice asshole who makes decisions based on what is best for everyone. He often skips meals just so the other people in his family can eat more. Yesterday I beat him up and took his money. I then proceeded by calling him a cunt. I’m going to be candor here, I actually like this a lot. I can’t wait to immobilize him by stabbing a knife into his leg, and tying him up to a post, and then burning him alive. I want him to suffer before his death. I am a very brazen person, and I don’t think I’ll carry the burden of killing him for more than an instant, cause really I do hate him. He’s ugly and he smells like ass. Day after previous post^ I have gotten more circumspect, and have been in a complacency state for more than 48 hours. I have stabbed my brother, and he is tied up right now. He called me a cunt 7 times. I proceeded to call him a cunt to debase him, it has worked. I kicked him and took his money. I called him a cunt so eloquently to the point where he broke down and cried about how much he has apparently sacrificed so much to help his family. I don’t care, he’s on fire anyways. I’m thinking about drying his bones and possibly using that as fire wood, if his bones don’t work as firewood, I’ll keep them in the fire anyways to express my hatred. Day after previous thing in diary^ I am elated. I have successfully killed him. He smells really bad, I might have overcooked him just a little bit. My parents have had a more than generous serving, and are currently talking about how absolutely tasty that was. We even put some cooked eel over his eyeballs, it was fantastic. It was the kind of thing that you’d see in a premium restaurant. His eyes were so tender, and the eel was too. They make a fantastic combination. I will always remember my brother as a feral fucktard until he fades away in my memory. I will sign his death certificate with my poop stick, this way I can disrespect him as much as possible. This follows with my shitting on the birth certification, and pissing on it too. I will then crumple up the shitty piss covered death certificate, and put it in his own ass, which by the way we saved for this occasion. I have been gluttonous with my brother, I have eaten both legs in a day, and I am so full. I think I will inveterate this, and make it an occasion to eat a bitch as a celebration. Day after something^ This has been a very fantastic apocalypse. I am thriving, and I am jubilant. The death certificate has been in my brothers ass for 7 hours now. I have been eating a plethora of food, and it has been very good for me. Today, I ate a steak that would usually cost $180 at any restaurant, cause its the best piece of the cow. We have plenty of cow left, enough to last virtually a life time. It’s been a quaint time, I am enjoying myself. Plenty of food, plenty of things to do on the farm, and my family is not rash at all. In fact, We are having a great time planning to kill another fucker. Some days, we have been in a staid mood, and some other shit too. Last Diary Entry As you can tell by the name of this entry, this will be the last entry. My parents have decided that I should stop using the diary, since it is making me wanton and annoying for some reason. The most fucked up part is that they say I am vexing them for something? I don’t know. My days have been superfluous and it’s all because I am so amazing and serendipitous. I hope you learned something from reading my diary, and it becomes a “how to survive in an apocalyptic scenario” type book, and people really gain some knowledge from it.

This is my first attempt at this story. I have more to write so I will post it in sections. Please let me know what you think. Thanks! I got a job working in an office building in the downtown of my city. I had never gotten a job in a high-rise before so it was very exciting to me. I had worked with the company in the past as a consultant and gotten the job about two years after that. They were up high in the building, about five floors from the top, and our IT office was near the center of the building so we could hear the elevators going up and down all day. On my first day I got my access card for the building and needed that to get past the security desk each morning. There were three banks of elevators in the building, each one going to separate floors of the building. The first bank went from the ground floor to floor 24, the second from 25 to 38 and the third from 38 to the top. The only weird thing was that the 38 to top bank also went to floors 8 and 9, but you had to have an access key to get to those floors. After working there for a few months, I started to think about something that I had heard in the past. I remembered hearing that architects would either not put in a 13th floor, put one in but just skip the number, or they would put it in but you had to know how to get to it. Looking at the building from the outside I thought I could see the floor there but the elevator that I took everyday was the 38 to top elevator. I decided that I would check the other elevator to see if the button was there for 13. The next day I went through security and walked to the right bank of elevators. I walked into the open one and looked at the buttons. The buttons went from 12 to 14, but no 13, the stories were true. But then I wondered how you got to the floor, it was there, but likely just storage or something I thought. I left the elevator and went to the office still thinking about the missing button in the elevator. I always heard those stories but didn’t think they were true. They would always say that the architects and engineers were superstitious and would leave out the floor, or the button, so the building would be safe. I did some searching on the internet to see how to access the floor. The first thing that came up, of course, the stairs if the door wasn’t locked. After that someone suggested that some elevators could get to the floor if you pressed the 12 and 14 buttons together, like a secret button code. I worked the rest of the day, but the question was in my head all day; What is on the thirteenth floor?. I decided that I had to know and started work out a way to find out. After deciding to find the thirteenth floor I started out to see if anyone knew what was on that floor. My first inclination was to ask the security guard at the elevator one day on my way in. This shouldn’t look weird, I would just casually ask who else was in the building and then drop my question about thirteen. On my way in the next day I stopped and visited with the security guard, I had seen people do it before so it wasn’t odd. He talked to me while still checking id’s of the people headed into the building. I chatted about the weather, sports and then headed for the building. I started by asking who else was in the building and he told me a couple of law firms, some energy companies, CPA firms and other people. I acknowledged those answers and kept it casual by asking if any of them were people who advertised locally or had been in the news and he said that he didn’t think so. I then shifted gears to the floor question. I threw out like a casual thought, “Say I hear that the guys who design large buildings leave out the thirteenth floor, did they do that here?” He stopped and looked at me for a second. “You know my elevator doesn’t go to thirteen and I hadn’t looked so I thought I would ask.” I kept looking at him. He gave me a weird look and answered, “I think it’s there, but I don’t know if they put the button in the elevator. Maybe the service elevator but I don’t think the main one over there. Why do you ask?” “I had just read about the superstitions of building designers and wondered if it were true or not.” I tried to make it as casual as I could and was kicking myself for not thinking of the service elevator. “Well people don’t generally ask about that so it just caught me off guard.” he said still checking id’s. “Thanks man. I’ll let you get to work, I’m about to be late. Talk to you later.” I said and headed for my bank of elevators. I pushed the button and waited for one to come. I looked around and the people coming over to the elevators and noticed that the security guard I had talked to was talking to a couple of others now and they kept looking over at me. I tried to not notice them and just waited for mine to come. They kept talking and looking over, one of them was talking into his radio as well. I looked the other direction and saw two more guards standing at the opposite guard station now. They tried not to look like they were watching me, but they were. Finally the elevator arrived and I tried to walk in normally, not looking like I was rushing or anything. I pushed my floor and then the door close button trying to get it moving quickly. Right as the doors were closing a man got on in a button down shirt, slacks and plain shoes. He just looked like everyone else in the building. “Morning.” he said politely. “Hey there.” I nodded and pulled out my phone looking at emails. “Finally got cold eh?” He said, just trying to break the silence I would guess. “Yeah. Not too cold though so it’s not bad.” I never looked up from my phone. I’m sure he was just a guy but I couldn’t help thinking that this was someone from the building just trying to get a sense of me. I looked at the number indicator for the floor and I was almost there. I then looked over at him and he was looking too, but I noticed that he hadn’t chosen a floor and I felt some dread build up in me. Though, I thought, i don’t know everyone that works for this company yet so he could work there. I took a shot. “You going to 47?” I asked. He looked at me for a second and then looked at the buttons. He reached over and pushed the stop button and took a step towards me. “Why were you asking about thirteen?” We stood eye to eye, his voice low. “I was just curious about the building. I had read things about architects leaving it out, making it storage or mechanical because of the superstitions around the number. That’s all.” I told him trying very hard to not look intimidated or let my voice break. The emergency intercom broke the silence, “Everything ok in there?” The man looked at me, “Well I hope you got what you wanted. If you have any other questions just keep them to yourself. Ok?” He stared at me. “Oh yeah. Curiosity quenched.” I said and backed up a little. “No problem.” He leaned over and pushed the intercom button. “We’re good here. Get us moving again.” He never took his eyes off of me. The elevator started moving again and was at my floor in no time. The doors opened and I immediately stepped off onto my floor. “You have a pleasant day now.” he said and pushed the button to head back down. The doors closed and I headed for my office. What had I done? I was honestly just curious about the design of the building but obviously I had stumbled on to something more. Something that someone was trying to hide.

"Hey kiddo, grab onto this!", happily said the man as he kept placing bricks on me. He started stacking the new blocks over the ones that were already placed on my hands and they seemed to be staking just fine. But the man relentlessly continued piling brick over brick over brick. I actually didn't really have any problem with it. I love this job and I like to be there with him. But sometimes, it's almost like he doesn't see that my hands are so small. Not only that, my arms are even more weak and my legs are barely capable to support the whole thing. And now that the blocks are stacked in front of my whole body, suspended by my arms, I wonder if he even sees me? Behind this brick wall, my whole body is trembling. Well you know, bricks are bricks. And it's his job to do that and it's my job to hold them. I just wish I had bigger hands to have a better grip on everything. I remember when I was a very little girl, I use to work with other people like we did today, but then, it was different. It was never like this. All I use to do was put pressure on the paper wall while my friend would slowly run it along so it glues together. But you know, he's a smart guy and maybe he actually has better things in mind. And then all these thoughts started to overwhelm my mind. I wasn't paying attention to what was truly happening anymore but he didn't see this. He still continued to pile over and then everything just hit me. The weight had become too much for me to handle. I saw as the highest block there was slowly crept the floor until it hit the bottom. All the other blocks seemed to be held in place, but the bottoms ones were crushed into tiny pieces. I looked at his face and he appeared so discouraged by it all. I just couldn't take all that was given. It really was too much but I didn't want him to stop, I wanted it. He sat down to the floor, looking at what we had been building together for some time. I'm not exactly sure what it is he wants to do. I mean, I have some ideas but they aren't clear enough for me to say "Yes, this is exactly what is going to happen." So far, there are a few blocks glued together and stacked one another. It looks like some new-age bird house or something. Or maybe he had a house in mind? That actually does seem quite nice, but I don't know. They both sound so very nice. I wonder. But he stood there and he watched the blocks that had fallen to the ground. He didn't even say a word, and I waited to see what was he going to say about it. I thought he might've fallen in shock from the whole thing and that our project was possibly to an end. I silently waited for his response, and after for what seemed like an eternity of his gaze to the mess in front of us, he finally muttered a few words. For some reason, I just couldn't understand how I could've been so wrong about everything. I looked at the blocks that were placed on the ground and finally saw his own vision of it. It was so beautiful. I started to laugh and feel this bodily ache that I had previously. Yet, I wasn't even holding the blocks.

Life, at young or old age can be very confusing. Many of us wander around pointless seeking a “cause”, something to live for. You might be questioning yourself if there is something out there, something that will make us shine for the people we are. Different and alone we stand, other people do not understand. We are seeking intense, great fires. This intensity is noted by others but not always as appreciated. When desperate for emotional intimacy we will sometimes hurt ourselves. This is a part of life and most of us keep trying to find that connection we are craving for, we should. Be it friendship or love. Nothing makes us more happy then being there for someone, caring. Because caring we are. We have high values, insane values and we do not give credit to ourselves. Selflessness is a valued trait. Those who take advantage of this will hurt us immensely and those who take and give shall make eternal friends with us. We do not need much but that one person we feel ready to die for. Making those friends or finding the person to love for eternity can be quite difficult, especially when we do not fully control ourselves. And because we like to keep to ourselves, natural conversation is not easily started. Upon chatting with strangers we might find ourselves uncomfortable, there is no other option. We have to go through this hard part to get to where we want to be. Where **you** truly want to be. Daily life can be torture for us. We might find ourselves not happy with our current situation. Our job or education when chosen poorly can take a great toll on our mental and physical health. We should choose a profession that is fitted to our strengths. There are many professions for us people out there. We just have to choose the one. We are great inspirers and take great pleasure doing so. Do not forget, we are useless broken. People are depending on us and we must not fall. Therefore we need to keep ourselves together however we can while pursuing our dream. In this selfish world, filled with hate and corruption it will be hard times for us. We will need to protect ourselves. This is no easy task to complete because we are openhearted, honest people. We should not seal our door because it will isolate us. Keep the door open, just enough to be noticed by likeminded people. We will achieve what we desire, we will be an inspiration for those in need & we will be there for our loved ones until our last breath. Story by a coffee cup. Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving. There is more to share. Stories to tell. This is the first story I have ever written in my life. Therefore I do not think it will be huge. If you have any pointers I would love to see them. You can do this here in the comment section or through personal messaging. I am thinking on continuing this work, It gives me peace of mind. If it is liked it would serve a purpose as well, which I am carefully aiming for.

I had just walked across the length of the room and sat down in those annoyingly squeak prone chairs, yet they had a sort of comforting reliability to them. They were those kind of chairs that you could lean all the way back in, it brings you back to when you were a child and you would lean all the way back and hold your head upside down, like some sort of persistent dog trying to accomplish a trick for a treat. However, amidst all the commotion in the room, I must have glanced upward. Perhaps there was a light attracting my attention, or maybe somehow my unconscious knew, and it was trying to force me to notice. Once I saw her though I didn't know what to think, I didn't know what to feel. Her eyes shined like two ancestral jewels, brighter than anything I have ever seen. They lit up her face, her smile, every feature of her was illuminated, and it was in that moment that time seemed to slow down. All the noise around me, all the noise of life and the conversations of others slowly dimmed, it was as if I was caught in a moment of silent serenity as I looked at her and she looked at me. She smiled... I smiled. I wanted to run over and push the person next to her 5 feet away and sit down and introduce myself, but I never had the courage to act like that. What would she have thought? How would she have acted? In those forty seconds my mind worked harder then it had my entire life, I questioned every movement I made, every expression, I quickly grew nervous. Yet she had smiled. She looked me in the eyes and she shared some of that light. Over the next couple months this would happen, I would enter the room and look at her and smile, or she would. I had thought that maybe this smile was just a friendly greeting, a quick moment of expression to greet another person. Yet every single time I would experience that moment. If someone was talking to me, if someone was showing me something, I always knew to look up when she was coming in. It was as if the room got brighter when she stepped through that door... but only I could see it. She changed my world, this was no crush, no fantasy, no dream. She was there, but I simply could not step forward. Maybe I wasn't ready, maybe I was young and now I have grown. Maybe she thinks about those moments, maybe she remembers the smile. If I could go back to that moment, if I could lean back and raise my head to see her... I would smile. But... I would get up and walk into her light.

There is a time that is endless, it is endless. Endlessly running around the other times you endlessly failed to end this. This is not the time to.... How did you know? Know what? It was late in the evening And? He was in the study. What time was it? It was around the end. That's a good time. I would agree. The two headed monster went on like this for most of my stay in the little room. They refused to let me leave and simply argued about things I couldn't comprehend. Was it two? It was four? For who? For two. I listened and would occasionally try to break in to ask when they would move away from the door, but they continued to ignore me. Employ? Implore? It's all the same. Where was he again? In the study! It was late! Hours passed and they would not move. The room was small. The size of a child's room. It could have been my room. I'm not sure. There was a break in my thinking and then I was just in this room with this two-headed dragon keeping me from the outside. I had been meaning to go out into the main hall and mix with the others, but then this thing occurred. It occurred in my room and simply sat there and argued with itself. That's a silly thing to do. What's so silly about Billy? He's deeeeeeeeeeeee Ranged. Was I Billy? I began thinking back to the last thing I could remember, which was sitting on the bed and just humming to myself. I did this often before leaving the room. I am sure of that. I am sure that I needed to hum a bit before I got the courage to go outside. I looked around the room for evidence of who I was and there was nothing but a bed and a night stand. I opened the nightstand drawer for more information and found a bible and a coloring book. We addressed The address The address of where Billy is staying. Billy? I opened the book and saw my name scrawled across the top. Billy. Yes? "Billy - do you want to go out?" "Billy, what if you are out and can't get back in? Billy, have you thought of that? They spoke in high pitched squeals and when they finally addressed me, I couldn't respond. Until then, I figured they couldn't see me. But then they addressed me. I put down the book and "I would like to go out into the hall." "You would like to go out into the hall? Dreeble?" "He would like to go out into the hall. Out into the hall with them all, is that it?" "I would like to go to the common area. I would like to leave this room and go out to the hall. I want to see the other people." "Isn't that nice? Be with the other people. That would be swell." "Swelled right up the last time. Chester hit him with a chair. Wouldn't that be a shame if Chesssssssssss" "Turd! He called you a turd, and hit you with a chair." "I don't care. I want to go out with the other people." "But you're insane." "He was outsane before, before they locked him up. Now he's insane. Inside the asylum." "I want to leave the room." I began humming and they went away.

I have the most beautiful dreams. That’s one of the perks of this job. The catch is I can’t tell anybody what they’re about. That would violate the NDA. I got my interface put in at 18. A little later than most, but my family is poor. Even then I knew it was a spendy gift and wondered how dad managed it, but didn’t want to sour the occasion so I simply laughed and said I loved it. It isn’t a “real” neuroprosthetic, the serious hardware’s on the outside. I have to carry my slab around or I get no benefit from it. The silver lining is that this method saves me fedcoin by avoiding the need for surgery when I want to upgrade. Just to look at me you wouldn’t know I’d had any work done, since the interface talks to the slab wirelessly. I’m not superficial but I am conscious of appearances, and there’s no shortage of businesses that turn you away if you’ve got anything sticking out of your head. Security concerns. The hidden cost of this gift became apparent when dad started forwarding me job applications for a render farm. The same one that did that popular recent kid’s film about the three toed sloth who steals a military exoskeleton. They also did most of the past decade’s films starring deceased, licensed historical celebrities until backlash on big name VR lobbies convinced them to go in a different direction. It really came out of left field. I’m not a movie guy. But as I read it all the way through it turned out all I’d have to do is sleep. As soon as REM sleep begins, my brain is networked with the other employees’ in a distributed computing setup and the next set of frames begins rendering, timed according to our averaged sleep cycles. Easy money. I did a word search on the fine print. Sure enough they reserve the right to keep me under for up to twenty unpaid minutes if necessary to complete a set of frames. But beggars can’t be choosers. And I am confronted every day with relentless reminders that we are beggars. Residorms aren’t meant for whole families. They’re just one step up from a capsule hotel. Same manufacturer, slightly different market. Most of the people who live in these things just use them as a stepping stone to a real apartment after living on the streets. Then there are the NEETs. Some people don’t need anything more to be happy than an interface, a residorm and VR gaming. All their money goes into upgrading their slab. I remember flipping through an old album and seeing my dad holding an old timey slab up to his face. There was a 2D display on it. He said they used them primarily for telephony and controlled the other functions by touch. This was before neural interfaces were legalized, offloading the display to your visual cortex and the controls to your motor cortex. I jokingly asked if phones had knobs and dials before that. Turns out they did. I tried to picture people sitting complacently in their little pentagonal wooden shelters, wearing top hats and monocles, chatting over touch display phones with knobs and dials about foot-ball, petroleum taxes or whatever was important to people back then. At some point I realized I would have to cave in and take the position. Dad’s income isn’t enough. Mom teleoperates a service drone aboard a cruise blimp. Her employer sets people up to work from home, renting out their “general intelligence” to control service bots at whatever the going rate is that day. Licensing high end AI is costly and the fines for pirating it are ruinous. Paying the desperately poor a few fractions of a fedcoin per hour and getting human level intelligence for your robots in return is not too shabby. For the business owner. At least she can work from home. There just isn’t enough put away to fix the burst fluidic muscle column in her leg. I printed a bare bones substitute, it’s enough that she can hobble about to make dinner and whatnot but I wouldn’t want her trying to navigate the PRT network on that thing. I’ve seen enough candid video of strangers indifferently stepping over the wounded, too busy and too detached to help. Not if I could help it. The interview was done in under a minute. I received a notice two minutes later confirming I’d gotten the job. Most of what the interview for is to distract you while they probe for mental illness or dark triad personality disorders. *“By continuing to participate in this interview you consent to allow us access to your interface for screening purposes”* blah blah yes I consent. Privacy is another one of those old man words that dad won’t shut up about. As if he’s important enough for anybody to bother creeping on him. The over-abundance of microscopic cameras makes privacy a practical impossibility. They coat pretty much every surface outside of private dwellings. I’d be bothered if the footage weren’t public access. Really helps reduce the police workload when victims track down footage of the crime they want to report, crop it and send it in for review. If that’s too much of a hassle, must not have been a serious offense. That’s the reasoning, I think. My first night on the job was uneventful. Intro stuff mostly. I don’t know what I expected. When I woke up I remembered it dimly just like any other dream. It then rapidly faded over the next few minutes until I couldn’t recall any of it. I can make it stick if I try, but since I can’t talk about it anyway there’s little point. Spent my free time the way most boys my age do. Well, one of a few ways. Some people just want to eat, believe it or not. They go hungry most of the time irl, so in-sim, they gorge themselves with a stomach that never fills and hunger that is always sufficient to maximize the food’s appeal but which never becomes uncomfortable. Then there are people who want to kill and torture. That’ll put you on all kinds of Habsec watch lists, but they don’t care. No end of user content out there catering to those inclinations. Even I have one I use to blow off steam now and again. I think it’s just excessive use that’s unhealthy. But of course, loads of people only want to fuck gorgeous women all the time. Or men. Or human/animal hybrids. Or neotenized cartoon ponies, aliens, Japanese teenagers with neon hair and gigantic eyeballs, you name it. Videogame characters are popular. I’ve seen more meticulously rendered Pokemon genitalia than I ever wanted to. Then there’s dolphins, horses, and a variety of other animals. No actual animal, no crime although it’s still pretty fuckin’ weird in my book. I really wish I knew which sex sims people use so I could exercise some discrimination in who I associate with. There’s ways to find out. If someone pisses you off badly enough. You and some buddies can dig through his posting history, hack into his sim catalogue and find out what embarrassing shit he gets off to. Then spread that around and watch him disappear from the VR lobbies entirely. Total scrub of his online presence. It’s great fun unless you’re on the receiving end. I guess it’s somewhat hypocritical to shame the target for enjoying many of the exact same sims as the people doxxing him. But when you’re part of a mob, justifying yourself is the easiest thing in the world. VR Lobbies amount to a great teeming mass of novelty addicted maniacs, with an inexhaustible supply of brutal hostility. Usually that hostility is directionless, and while that’s the case it’s safe and highly entertaining. Provided you’re a nobody and haven’t made any enemies. Every so often, all of that anger will suddenly be focused on a single person and it absolutely shreds their life to pieces. The offense can be as minor as unpopular political opinions, contrarian views about a well liked television show or something similarly trivial. Dad says when he was my age, youthful follies were forgotten. Now, they are immortalized before a global audience. It is now precariously easy to slip up in a way that forever destroys your employment prospects and social life. With so little work needing humans to do it, employers can afford to narrow their search to people with totally clean records. And who doesn’t Google their date? The really surreal thing is to read the posts of the people doing the tormenting. While they’re the ones dishing it out, they see it as administering justice. The absolute worst is assumed of the target, every flaw is magnified, every good deed swept under the rug. His complaints about the suffering inflicted on him are roundly mocked as whining and exaggeration. But often, it’s turned around. One or more of the attackers become targets themselves. Then they change their tune entirely. Wailing about how miserable it is to be the punching bag of dozens, or hundreds. Villainizing those people for doing the *exact same thing* they were doing themselves to somebody else not so long ago. It really shines a light on the nature of human beings as primates whose social politics have always been predicated on ruthless group antagonism, petty gossip and violence. So I keep my head down. My opinion is always the same as that of the largest bully in the room. In that respect this job is perfect for me. Reduced exposure to humanity means reduced danger. I still leave the residorm from time to time. It’s part of a consolidated habitat, also zoned for shops, restaurants, hospitals, schools and just about everything else but electrical generation. So there’s loads to do, the air is always clean and there’s never any harsh weather as it’s all indoors. Outside is a different story. I haven’t set foot out there since I was ten. I don’t think my old gas mask would even fit me now. The sky was blue at some point, allegedly. I’ve only ever known it to be green. Methane hydrate and hydrogen sulfide released from the sea, long before I was born. The federally funded program to replace species wiped out by this has been going on for most of a century, rebuilding the ecosystem tier by tier with variants on those species modified for the new atmosphere. They’re up to small mammals now. Some of the new insects get really big. Creeps me the fuck out when they land on the windows. My last excursion was a field trip. They shuttled us all out into the humid, stinking jungle wearing matching coldsuits and gas masks. I remember this huge flying insect with four wings relentlessly colliding with the faceplate of my mask as I swatted at it. Never was much of a nature lover, even then. The movement I see is all inward now. Consolidation. Organization. Single structure cohabs outnumbered conventional cities as of about a decade ago. Way cheaper to heat and cool a single large structure than lots of small ones. Great for what’s left of the environment, too. The whole thing is easily walkable although there’s indoor PRT if you’re lazy, and no small number definitely are. That also accounts for the popularity of personal mobility devices. I’ve got a little two wheeled PMD myself. You stand on two small platforms just big enough for your feet, there’s a vertically oriented block of battery between them which you grip with your knees, and a little self balancing wheel under each foot. There’s nothing to indicate state of charge unless you ride it someplace out of range of the charging field, like anything else that runs on batteries. Come to think of it, I remember seeing a much larger, goofy looking version of this on the “retro media” VR lobby. Knowing Dad, he probably had one. I pictured him whizzing about on it, wearing a top hat and monocle, dialing a telephone number with his finger by pressing it against the 2D display of whatever passed for a slab at the time. I smiled, and a prismaview billboard I happened to be passing mistook it for interest in their product. I spent the next ten minutes emphatically arguing with the little sales agent that popped up in the center of my vision that I was not actually interested in trying speedfoam and did not know any friends or family who might be tragically unaware of the benefits of speedfoam. Clicking the box to opt out of any future ads just started a new argument.

Hey guys. I was browsing /r/WritingPrompts yesterday and I found the following prompt: > [WP]Everyone on earth has a "brain buddy", half the time you hear their thoughts, and half the time they hear your thoughts. Nobody has ever realised this or met their brain buddy, until you find yours accidentally. I thought the "brain buddy" thing was an interesting concept (although I used my own interpretation of it, not the one OP had in mind), but didn't much like the rest of the prompt. Too cliché for me. So I just worked on a short story with just the brain buddies. Because I ignored the rest of the prompt I figured I couldn't really post my story there, which is why I'm posting it here instead. To be honest, I don't really like the story, but I did enjoy writing it and a good friend of mine thinks it's a good story. So I'll just share it with you guys anyway. I'm not a native speaker, so any feedback is appreciated, especially about my use of comma's, because they're all over the place and I'm fairly sure most of them are not correctly used. Sorry for that. Anyway, here it is: "Brain Buddies" is what they call them. Everybody has one, presumably, yet no-one has ever found theirs. People have tried to find their brain buddy, hell, wars have been fought over them, but in the end we only know they exist because we can read their minds, and they can read ours. It's a mental connection of sorts, between two people that have never met, and probably never will. That's how it was explained to me. Every few months, two 'brain buddies' claim to have found each other. Every time, it's big news, but after careful examination by psychiatrists and other doctors, it always turns out to be a hoax. It's been going on like that for centuries, and many people hardly even believe in finding their brain buddy anymore. Still, just the idea of finding them is a big deal to these people. But not to me. I don't have a brain buddy. Or at least, I don't think I do. My mind contains nothing but my own thoughts and feelings. No eerie sensations or thoughts, that seem to form out of nowhere. No strange desire to go looking for this other person, somewhere out there. I'm just living my own life, doing whatever I want to do. People tell me I'm wrong. They tell me I have to have a brain buddy, after all, everyone else does. I was bullied at school, I was examined by a psychiatrist, I was even put on medication, all because I'm different. People tend not to like me. I'm not sure if that is because they're scared of me, or if they're jealous because I'm not being haunted by a brain buddy. Whatever it is, they don't talk much to me. Well, until two weeks ago, anyway. Two weeks ago a group of prominent scientists published a paper proving that brain buddies aren't real. Apparently it's all just imagination. The governments around the world didn't want the general public to know this. They thought it would cause chaos, and they were right. For two weeks now, people in every country have been rioting and the scientists that published the paper have received countless death threats. Not because people think they're wrong, but because deep down, most people know they're right. The media found me within hours. "The world's only sane person" is what they call me now. I've been asked how the world should respond to this new revelation, but the truth is, I don't know. I don't understand the concept of brain buddies. I know what they are, of course, but I don't know what it's like to have one. What I do know, is why people are upset. At first, I was considered the insane one, even though I felt perfectly normal. My lack of a brain buddy didn't cause me any real problems in life, but still I was considered insane. Now, all of the sudden, everyone else is insane. They've felt normal for their entire lives, never questioning their brain buddy's existence, and suddenly, they are proven to be wrong. It's hard for them, I suppose. No one wants to be crazy. Am I happy with the discovery? No. My life's been a mess the past two weeks. I can't even buy groceries anymore without being harassed by journalists and a whole mob of people who think I am somehow superior to them. Which I'm not. Our society worked fine before, why wouldn't it work fine now? Nothing has really changed, people have just become a bit more aware of the truth. I do think it's funny though. Historically, the majority always defined what insanity really was, and it never included themselves, but now the majority has come up with a definition of insanity and it turns out they're all insane according to their own definition. For a while, anyway. I'm sure they'll find a way to change their view on insanity. Change it so that the majority is sane again. In the end it's not about the truth, it's about the perception of truth.

GOOD SHIT It all began on a wednesday, just outside of Lufkin, Texas. Andy Miller, a perinneal drop-out and basehead junkie normally found half-naked on the floor of his backwoods trailer strung out of his mind on crack, meth, pills, or whatever he could get his heavily tattooed hands on. He was ambulatory on that wednesday, in-between his weekend-long sessions, and it was on this particular day that Andy and fate crossed paths; with fate's arrival marked with a fireball streaking towards his domicile. Sitting on his front porch in chair stolen from his mother at an old Panthers tailgating party some six years ago for his boyscout younger brother, Andy stared at the fireball, not quite sure what to make of it (much like many things in his sphere of experience) and only when it streaked past his Airstream and into ground behind what was just recently his toolshed did he jump up with a start. Running to check out the commotion (and to silence his braying dogs)- Andy came upon something very special that he didn't understand. It was a rock. "Look at that shit.." He comforted the bloodhound as she toed the edge of the quickly cooling ground near the crater. Inside of the crater, a three by five rock, with faintly luminescent orange crystals growing out of it, each shattered into bits by the impact. Taking one of the crystals into his hand, he stared into his reflection on the surface, then shook his dog with glee. "Mavis, old girl, I'm gonna be fuckin' rich!" He tossed the crystal between his hands and slowly stood up. "Oh my god, it's a fuckin' space rock. It's ... It's gotta be worth a fortune. No- Maybe-" He paced away from the crater, then back to the rock, briefly touching the crystal to his chin. "It's - I ..... Aaaahh fuck. What do you think, girl?" He asked Mavis, who whined as if responding to his question. He scratched at his arm, then stared down at the space rock. He wanted to get high. "I wanna get high." He mutters to himself. "Gotta..." He glanced back at the toolshed, as it slowly collapsed, then back to the crater. "Gotta cover this shit up somehow." He raked a hand through his hair. It took him about ten minutes to come up with it, but gathering the tarp and necessary rocks to shield the meteorite from the street was an ideal plan. Returning to his trailer and leaving Mavis outside, Andy did two things- 1. He smoked a pipe of meth. 2. He refilled it and smoked it again. After a good thirty minutes, tweaked out of his mind, Andy sat there on his smelly couch and admired the fragment of the meteorite in his hand. A jagged, broken-off ...chunk of crystal. ...Andy got an idea. Stumbling up to a stand, crystal in hand, Andy stumbled forward with legs of sand and balance best defined as "shaky at best." Resting the crystal on his kitchen counter, Andy stepped outside, and after a good while of sifting through the rubble of his toolshed, he emerged within his trailer with a Philips-branded claw hammer. Hammer raised, hammer comes down. Crystal cracks, leaving a beautiful opalescent powder all over a laminated kitchen counter. Andy psyched himself up and snorted a line. Immediately, he was overwhelmed. The crystal elevated the effects of the drugs already in his system, and not long afterwards, he was out like a light, hallucinating vivid dreams of crystal cities and streaks of cosmic light across the wide range of the heavens, and all the while, he was on cloud nine and beyond, his drool pooling under his gaping maw and his bloody nose already flaky and dry. Sometime after noon on Thursday, Andy slowly rose to a stand, and with a brief coughing fit, cooked himself something to eat with a crumb-filled toaster and a Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters-branded plastic cup. He reclined back on the beer can littered sofa and took a bite out of his toaster pastry. He felt weird. Not in a good weird, either, he mused to himself, briefly coughing before finishing his breakfast and venturing outside. He glanced at the faintly luminescent crystal he'd partially shattered the night before and fished for his cellphone in the cluttered mess that was his coffee table. A few numbers depressed and a call was made. "Hey. Philip. I need .." He pulled the phone away fro his ear, as the aggressive tones on the other end hurt his ear. "Fuck, man- Listen. I .. I got some good shit, I want you to check it out. I think you could sell it, we can maybe cut some kind of a deal, man, you know, because, like I said at that party at Chrissie's, I'm trying to like, make better of my life, and shit. You know? Okay. It's like, crystal, man. No, not meth, dog, like, crystal. I know what I said. You're going to have to come and see, man." He slowly stood and swayed where he stood, briefly sniffing hard at the blockage in his nose. Hours passed, with the drug addict going about his day- A shower, a change into barely-clean clothes, and chilling out on his porch after browsing through the internet with little gained but new links of cat videos. A dented black Nissan Titan roared into view down the lonely dirt road and came to a stop in Andy's driveway. Storming out was a man rocking scraggly beard, aviator sunglasses, and a bald head. "What? What's so important that you had to call me out to your place of all places? Why couldn't you have met me, man? Don't you know how busy I am?" He shrugged as he approached the trailer. Andy brushed a hand through his hair and shook his head, briefly reasserting himself. "Na- Naw, dog, see, this is worth it-" "What in the fuck happened to your toolshed?" Philip asked, removing his sunglasses to better take in the scene. "What's ..." He squints, catching a glimpse of a tarp behind the house. "What is that? That wasn't here last week-" He chewed the tobacco between his rear teeth and stepped over- with Andy hurriedly following. "See- Man, this is like, top secret, between the two of us, right?" Philip stared into the tarp and then over to Andy. "Uh. ..." His tough guy attitude was washed away by all-too-normal curiosity. I mean, it's not every day you see the remnants of a shed with a huge ditch behind it complete with a tarp hiding something at the END of said ditch. "Okay." He spoke quietly. Andy removed the tarp, revealing the meteorite. Waving his hands above it, "Check this shit out. It landed yesterday, and.." He slowly stood up. "It's got CRYSTALS on it." He tapped the side of one of them with his muddy boot. "...and better yet, they get you high as a fucking kite. It's like meth from space, man! Fuckin' aliens are fuckin' smokin' this and getting high as a motherfucker up there, man!" He jammed a finger up at the clear blue sky of Texas. Philip glanced up at the ceiling. "Huh. ...Okay, let's have a taste." Inside, Philip snorted a line. Then another. Stumbling back, the man buried his face in his hands and faced the ceiling. "AAAAwwwwwwww SHIT! That is the fucking BOMB!" He turned back to Andy, who was giddy as a schoolgirl before summer break. Shaking Andy briefly with excitement, Philip continued. "Fuck! Fuck- I-" He briefly rubbed at a bloodied nose. "Fuck, it's so fucking good, I'm feeling like a fuckin' spaceman, man! Oh man! We can call it that, or- We- We can figure it out. We've got to get this shit out there!" The next day, Andy and Philip stood behind a seedy liquor store in the ass end of Lufkin, Texas, waiting for the usual tweakers from the apartment complex nearby to come by to see what Philip had in store for them. After about an hour of waiting, a strung-out man in a Texans jeresy arrived, arms tightly bound to his chest. "..H- Hey, Philip." He spoke quietly, staring at the dealer's shoes. "You got more of that crystal, man?" "No, my man, I've got something better. Spacedust, man, new shit that we've been working on. You want it? It's pretty heavy shit, get you fuckin' strung out like laundry." He waved a small bag of orange, slightly glowing dust before the junkie's eyes. The junkie reached out, and Philip recoiled his hand. "You know.. Let me think. What the hell, man, first one's free." He offered it over. Andy glanced over, coughing briefly before crossing his arms. "First one's free.. what the fuck?" He raised a brow. "I.. Oh. You wanna get them hooked. What happens if we run out?" Philip turned around and planted his hand on the man's shoulder. "We'll put food coloring in the meth that David makes. We hook them with this stuff, and then we've got a fall back plan. We're going to be rich, Andy. Rich as fucking kings." He cracked a wide grin. Andy smiled nervously ...and coughed into his elbow. One week past Wednesday.. Andy leaned against the back wall of the liquor store, coughing up a frenzy. His nose fucking hurt. His teeth fucking hurt. His chest fucking hurt. His asshole fucking hurt. Everything hurt, and when he breathed, he could hear little wheezing sounds; and it fucking hurt to breathe. He scratched at his arms. "F.. Fuck." A woman approached with a torn sweater and tattered slacks. "I ain'-".. He thought briefly back to what Philip said. He coughed again, and the fringes of his vision flashed red. It hurt. Just as bad now as it did three days ago when the fits started in earnest. He struggled to reach into his pocket for packets of meth, but stumbled forward, collapsing to the ground, his body twisting and retching with each coughing heave. The tweaker bit her lower lip, then stole the packets of meth from his person. He coughed violently and the world went dark. Flashes of light crossed his vision, and with a struggle, he opened is right eye, finding doctors hovering over him in Hazmat suits. An oxygen mask was affixed to his face, and an IV hooked into his arm. He struggled, briefly, before being restrained. The doctor looked old; maybe old enough to be his dad- "Mr. Miller? What have you been breathing?" Andy couldn't speak. He struggled to get the words out, but no words came. Tears streamed out of the corner of his eye. Everything in his chest was agony. He attempted to feel around his sternum, and felt faint bumps pressing up from under his skin. The man's eye widened. Horror dawns. Crystals, colored orange, grew out of blue and blackened sections of his face where his nose once occupied in his vision, with his now useless left eye being home for a growth where his eyeball had been. Briefly, before the shock caused him to lose consciouness for the last time, Andy thought about all the souls he'd sold the dust to. Tens. Dozens. When Philip contacted his supplier, and his supplier contacted the Cartel, the rock was taken- and there was no telling how far the dust would drift on the winds before it settled.

Life and Death and Taxes “No folks I’ve talked to know for certain what happened that day. Hell, I didn’t know he was still ‘round town these days. Never saw him, sure didn’t hear from him, and I would wager most others ‘round here would tell y’all the same.” … “Naw, I don’t mind. I’ve known Jed as long as I can remember. Grew up together right here in Missouri, lived just a plot or two a part. Did the same things, did whatever things, day in day out to keep us good and occupied. Some point down the road he started having issues, come talking all kinds of nonsense to me bout finding meaning, finding anything.” … “Well for starters, he got all sorts of quiet. Field in the ice-cold winter quiet. Man worrying bout things he shouldn’t when it sounds like he got no money to fix up some real worries quiet.” … “Hold on just a minute, I came here t-“ … “Naw I don’t mind answering these questions, or more questions, huh, I wouldn’t be sitting here if I minded would I.” … “Well fine, then let’s keep on talking bout Jed, if that’s who we’re talking bout.” … “I would guess from what y’all mentioned, and what some others have been talking bout, the day went something like this:” BEEE BEEE BEEE BEEE B- The alarm clock exploded to life with a shrill, choppy screech and fell silent just as abruptly. Resting among mounds of exhausted happy meals and spires of sugar loaded beverage containers, to the outside observer it would be unclear that a clock existed on the landscape of the bedside table. The motion to silence the alarm was accurate, automatic. But weeks, months, years of a life in squalor lent itself to a certain familiarity with the environment. There was no reason for an alarm clock in Jed’s life. There was no pressing appointment, no old friend to chat with over coffee, no sense of purpose. He had always risen to the eruption of his alarm; the why was simply never considered. Most others, in a situation such as Jed’s, would have plenty of questions. What is the source of the stench pervading through the unassuming studio apartment? How does one create such quantities of trash without removing a single item? What is the color of the carpet? Jed was far beyond the point of questions. Gone were the times of reflection, even self-deception. A full-length mirror hung on the wall beside the door. Sometimes, purely by chance, he found himself facing the mirror. All the mirror threw back was a hollowed out carcass of what used to be a man. He slid around his apartment in a perpetual numbness, existing off what was left of his distant uncle’s inheritance. Jed handled a few of life’s necessities with the unconscious, reactionary approach he used with his alarm clock. Every 28 days he carelessly yet carefully dropped a check in his landlord’s mailbox. Every day some internal autopilot mechanism carried his body to a nearby convenience store or fast food joint to load up on salt, sugar, and corn products. Every few nights he inadvertently directed his deadened gaze outside his window to the silent, shabby area of town he would have called home. That is, if he had the capacity to feel the emotions one associates with a place when they assign it the word ‘home’, then he could have called his residence home. A sharp knock careened into the apartment. Most would be shocked by so harsh an intrusion, startled by the suggestion of an authoritarian. But Jed’s numbness was like a thick blanket of protective snow. When the alien noise eventually registered, he dragged himself over to the doorway. The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man. “Oh Christ,” the man muttered, “Are you - ahem - living here? Is your name Jed Abbot?" Jed replied with an uninterested, glazed over stare that seemed to continue through the man’s skull. The stranger peered past Jed into the apartment, with an inquisitive look. Quickly, as the haze pushed its way out of the apartment, the man’s face twisted into a sneer of disgust. “What in the..” he trailed off, beginning to gather the nature of the situation. “I represent Alpha Realty, and am here to make sure you are alive, and have been receiving the complaints filed about this residence related to a foul smell,” the man stated sternly. After waiting the customary time one expects a response to arrive in, the man said, “Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” Jed lazily refocused his attention to the man’s face as the sharp tone was eventually processed. “Alright then, have it your way.” The man strode into the apartment, brusquely shoving past Jed, heavy boots shattering the paper and plastic carcasses strewn across the floor. Debris flew, a handkerchief was used as a gas mask, and the first living human in years entered Jed’s apartment. “...yep, this has all gotta go, either we toss it, and you, or you go ahead..." Jed processed some of the words fired at him, but most careened off his uninterested ears. The man kicked piles of trash around, cleared the bedside table with a single crash as the alarm clock smashed onto the ground. For the first time in many years, there was warmth rushing to Jed’s head, seemingly out of nowhere. Something changed in that moment. Maybe it was the first physical human interaction he had experienced in many years. Maybe it was the severity of that interaction. Maybe it was the invasion of his home. Maybe it was the destruction of the fragile, rhythmic ecosystem his alarm clock was so intimately a part of. Something changed in that moment. The ice age consuming his mind was rapidly thawing, then melting, then burning away. The numbness which Jed was so accustomed to gone with it, overtaken by the heat, comforting, then burning, then scorching his mind as an inferno of feeling seeped, then pulsed, then ripped through him, consuming him. “Wait ‘til Jeff gets wind of this…” the intruder remarked to himself absentmindedly, snapping a panorama picture of the apartment on his iPhone. Jed burned forward, flames licking a pair of rusted scissors into his hand, melting them into his grip. It was over in an instant. Jed dripped sweat, panic dripping into his conscience as the blaze burned itself out. Awake and alive for the first time in years, he found himself in a filthy trap of an apartment, red warmth running down his hands. He found himself as he stumbled into the morning air, scarred by the burn of the cold and the heat. He found himself as he realized he was alive.

When you close your eyes at night, what do you see? Do you imagine new worlds, fields of green as far as the eye can see. Planets in orbit so close you can see them as clear as day, no matter the time. Do you see creatures that could have only been conjured up by the most active of imaginations. Do you want to know what I see? I see realms of light constantly in motion, like a composer orchestrating a detailed symphony. The light dances like waves of the ocean, pulsing back and forth and demonstrating the sheer power within them. I wish I could show you it, I wish I could bring you there. You can stand on the edge of a cliff so tall you could drop a stone and you would be awake by the time it reached the bottom. Sometimes when the waves reach high enough they will open the sky and let in the light of the galaxies around you. The world takes on a new shape under that light, the mountains move, the water flows, life begins anew. If I could take you there you would not be scared, you would not be frightened, I would hold your hand and show you my world. I would build you a palace out of stone, a fountain out of gems, a bed out of clouds. I would talk to you for years, care for you for decades, and love you forever. That is why we can never go. This world is beautiful, strange but inviting. I can travel among the stars, I can fly through the sky, I can do anything, but I can't be with you. I dream of standing on that cliff, looking out at the wonders of this place, when you touch my shoulder and embrace me. It is the most marvellous of dreams, but it will never be. If you were there... I would never wake up.

Hello all, This is a short story I wrote way back in school for a piece of coursework, now lightly tweaked and finessed. Its the first time I've ever shared my writing, so I hope you enjoy it! The Rescue It was a rainy day in 1943. The ground was covered in standing water, and all operations at RAF Leuchars, a coastal Command base in Scotland, had been cancelled. All except one. Somewhere over the North Sea at 22,000 feet, a lone DeHavilland Mosquito reconnaissance plane roared defiantly through the rain, homeward bound. "Not a moment too soon", thought the Pilot, Squadron Leader George Smythe, as he tried unsuccessfully for the sixth time to make contact with the airfield over the wireless. His mission to photograph the German defences in a Norwegian Fjord had been a total washout, obscured by the low, thick cloud. “Dash this weather,” he muttered to himself, knowing that the storm was disrupting his radio reception. Shivering, he huddled lower in his Irvin jacket and peered through the windscreen, straining to see though the driving rain that reduced visibility to virtually nothing, and constantly checking his compass to make sure he was on the right course. Suddenly, the starboard Rolls Royce V-12 engine coughed and backfired. With an ear-splitting bang, it finally seized and exploded, shredding a large portion of the wing. Smythe instinctively ducked as pieces of debris bounced off the cockpit and smashed the canopy, and fought in vain with controls as a severed aileron trailed uselessly in the slipstream. As an oil fire from the shattered fluid lines began to take hold in the remains of the wooden wing structure, the plane slowly rolled onto its back and went into a dive it would never come out of. “Mayday, Mayday, this is Red One going down, repeat, I am going down,” Smythe frantically yelled into the radio before, struggling against dive-induced the g-forces, he heaved back the battered canopy and bailed out. To his relief his parachute opened with a mighty jerk, leaving him to watch as the stricken Mosquito plunged into the dark swirling sea with an almighty splash. He knew with a sickening feeling that he would be following it. He knew it was going to be unpleasant, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of just how cold the water was – indeed, it was like ‘being stabbed with a thousand knives’, to quote the phrase he had so often heard from fellow pilots who had ditched in the sea and survived. As he went under, he hastily unbuckled his parachute to prevent it enveloping and drowning him. Gasping at the sheer cold, he swam to distance himself from the jellyfish-like parachute, whilst struggling to remove the Irvin jacket that was now rapidly multiplying in weight. For perhaps an hour, maybe two – he had no way of telling how long for his watch had stopped in the water – he floated in his Mae-West life vest, tossed about by the angry waves and aware that each further minute he spent in the frigid water significantly reduced his chances of survival. Surely he must succumb to hypothermia soon? He could no longer feel his hands or feet, and delirium began to set in as his body temperature dropped. Was he hearing things now, or was that a drone coming from up above? It was- it was an aircraft! A Short Sunderland search and rescue aircraft materialised out of the gloom, and he hurriedly fumbled with his frozen fingers to remove the maritime flare from his lifejacket pocket. He fired it just in time, and as the dull orange projectile streaked across the sky an inflatable lifeboat appeared from the back of the Sunderland. It descended towards him, landing with a loud slap on the water a few yards away - he was saved! Clambering aboard, he waved a grateful greeting as the huge search and rescue aircraft circled overhead, and watched as it turned and lumbered back to its port. He settled down in the lifeboat, safe in the knowledge that the crew would have passed on his position to the Navy. Sure enough, a little over an hour later, a trail of smoke appeared, and slowly revealed itself to be a Royal Navy cruiser. As it drew nearer, he could see men running about on the decks with binoculars, and he could hear crisp commands echoing across the water. As the cruiser drew alongside and gradually slowed to a halt, a greeting rang out from the deck. “Are you Smythe?” it asked. “That's me!,” he yelled back, “I say, how about getting me out of the drink?” “Hold on, grab this,” the voice replied, as a youthful sailor ran across the deck, leaned over the railing and fastened some rigging to the rail. With a practiced heave, he threw the other end over the side. No sooner had the rigging tumbled into the water, unraveling as it went, Smythe grabbed hold of it for dear life before the waves could whip it away again. Tying a securing strap from the lifeboat to the end, he proceeded to haul himself towards the ship with some difficulty, hampered by his saturated clothes and numb limbs. Reaching the railing, a waiting group of sailors grabbed his arms and helped pull him over, whereupon he flopped to the deck like a wet fish, exhausted by his exertion and the cold. Slowly dragging himself into a sitting position, he watched as the sailors proceeded to recover the rigging and attached lifeboat, manhandling it onto the deck.

“You bitch!” His voice echoed through the room. All else was silent. No words filled the emptiness. “You couldn’t think of us could you? Think of me… think of how I’d feel.” His voice trembled, he gasped for air as he spoke. His hands were trembling, unable to contain his emotions. He took a few steps towards her, his hands in a fist as I slammed it onto the table, creating a loud thud and some clanging of dishes on the table, still dirty from lunch earlier that day. Soon his anger began to turn to sobbing, doing his best to hold back tears. “And you can’t even respond to me. You can’t even tell me…” he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and choke back his tears, the room nearly filled with sobbing and wheezing now, “you can’t even tell me why.” He gasped for air again, his sobbing the only sound in the room now, his head looking down away from her. “Nothing! You can’t say a motherfucking thing!” His pain was tangible, the words stuck in his own mind like knives as he began to run out of any words to use. “Goddammit fuck!” He turned and flipped the table over, making the dishes crash onto the floor. He wailed in anger and desperation, trying to find any words to say. “Y-you couldn’t even have asked me to understand? You couldn’t c-come to me.” The trembling in his voice made it significantly harder to speak, barely able to choke out his words. “You can’t just fucking do this to me. You can’t… have just… fucking expected me… to take this…” He was taking breathes between each few words, trying to finish his last desperate sentences. His hand was scrambling at his side until finally he managed to unlatch his revolver from his belt. It shook in his hand as he tried to lift it. “I won’t stand for it… I-I can’t stand for it. I can’t do this, I can’t take this.” He wasn’t sure if he was done crying or if he’d simply run out of tears. His voice still choked as he tried to finish. “F-fuck you. Fuck YOU!” His words echoed again as he stared at her, tightly gripping the gun in his hand. His voice suddenly become soft as his sobs became softer and more sorrowful. “F-fuck you y-you fucking cunt…” His finger was resting on the trigger, he knew what he was about to do. He wondered if he’d regret it, what the aftermath would be, but he knew he had no choice to. “I…. I-I….. l-love you…” He managed to barely choke out his last words before he pulled the trigger, and joined his wife.

On a long road lined by a hundred glowing lanterns, long black automobiles climbed slowly up an impeccably manicured hill towards a house that rose from the ground and pointed straight into the sky. It was a lavish residence, back lit dramatically by the moon and stars. As the horseless carriages pulled to the front, their doors would be opened by greeters dressed in black vests and frocks and as the valet team would briskly requisition command of the expensive Bentley's and town-cars, the greeters would escort each guest to the front portico and then into the castle of the host of hosts, Bergdorf Lionel Buzzbin. Buzzbin had made his millions in imports and exports. Coffee, teas, furs and linens. Anything that could be labeled exotic and catered to an eccentric and wealthy crowd. A crowd looking for the unique and expensive, a crowd looking to spend money on that which made them feel more elite, more high society, more... "beau monde." It was this very crowd Buzzbin was currently entertaining, in one of his memorable and sumptuous parties. And on her way to the front of the line, in a yellow taxi cab with a dent in its fender sans one side view mirror, was Miriam. Miriam was the daughter of somebody, but that somebody no one would know at this party. Her family line had important, famous and royal blood in it, but if you went deep enough into someone's tree, who didn't? No, she was not a duchess, or from a family of money, nor was she involved in politics or claim to be a philanthropist. Truth of the matter, she didn't even own a stock portfolio. As her hackney pulled to the front of the estate she exited, giving the greeter a long hug, which surprised him. “So good to meet you,” she exclaimed as the yellow taxi sputtered away. The greeter stammered for a minute, awkwardly hugging back and then pulled away. "Thank you, ma'am. Your invitation?" She looked down and frowned, throwing her shawl over her shoulder. "I must have left it in the cab, silly me." And without waiting for his arm she moved forward through the portico and walked briskly into the mansion. The crystal chandelier sparkled above her as she grabbed a glass of champagne from a moving tray and entered the main ballroom. Music wafted from the center stage as Miriam swallowed the contents of her glass and gifted the empty flute into the hands of a guest. "Can you hold this for me for a second? Thank you." She walked over to a man standing near to the dancing who was winding his watch. "Harold, please, don't keep a lady waiting." He looked up bewildered as she pulled him closer. "My name is Charl-" he began before she pushed a finger to his lips, silencing him. She started to lead him in the dance and they moved past the others in delightful circles. The song was already near its end before they stepped onto the floor and as it finished and those around them began to clap, Miriam drew away, kissing Charles' hand. "Thank you, Harold." And she was gone. Floating towards the h'ordeurves, she studied them near a group of dignitaries and loud enough for them to hear said, "He served the same last time around. Mm." Grabbing a piece of cheese topped with caviar she placed the small piece in her mouth and smiled. "How sinfully delicious." She turned to a waiter. "Is this all for the entire night?" The waiter nodded. "Well, if I could make a sound by frowning, I would. No matter, we'll make do with what we have." And she walked away. A man wearing a General's uniform was leading a discussion with three woman and two other men. "It's simply put, a case of bad manners. A neglect for chivalry and respect. Honor is of little value and men are not what they used to be." A burst of out of place laughter came as Miriam worked her way between the two men and entered the conversation. "Madam our topic of discussion was not meant to be funny." She smiled at the General and replied, "Everything is funny peered through the right pair of spectacles, Major." She nodded to one of the men next to her and brushed a piece of lint from his shoulders and then she was off. "I write for the Times Post Journal." "A traveler of worlds far and places forgot." "An antiquities buyer." "I lead a life of the mind." "A thinker. A painter. A great many things." "I wish to remain mysterious. It's your turn to speak." She was just finding her way to the powder room when she bumped into Bergdorf Lionel Buzzbin himself. "Oh good, the master butler." "I beg your par-" he began before she interrupted. "Now, se il vous plaît, there are a great many guests grumbling about the temperature in the main hall. Something must be done, but you didn't hear it from me." His mouth dropped. “Just who do you think you-“ Miriam clicked her teeth and then smiled. “S’occuper de ses oignons.” Then rushed off. "The last party I was at had fireworks, I hope I'm not disappointed." "That tie doesn't exactly go well with your pocket square." "My husband? He's dead….. at least to me, I should have finished that sentence sooner." "Yes I would like to dance, but this song is dreadful, come back in a quarter hour." "Could you hold this for me for a second? Thank you." Miriam entered the coat room and picked up a large black fur. She put her pea coat on the chair, wrapped herself in the gaudy monstrosity and stared at her reflection in the mirror, spinning slowly. "Trade," she whispered as she left the room with the coat. She walked up to one of the greeters near the front. "It's nearly time for me to leave. Where do we pick up the gift baskets?" The greeter furrowed his brow. "Ma'am?" She waved him off. "Never mind that, now. My car has arrived." She glided down the steps and reached a waiting town car with its driver leaning against the rear. "Driver." "Yes, madam?" She signaled for him to step aside and open the door. "But I'm sorry, this is the Redforshire's vehicle." She raised an eyebrow. "Well of course it is boy, don't embarrass yourself. You'll be back for them soon now open my door before I cause a scene." He spun on his heels, "Ma'am, apologies." And she climbed in before he closed up and ran around the vehicle. They were coasting down the hill passing the glowing lanterns when she finally spoke again. "Martin?" He glanced into the mirror. "It's Jame-" he began before she cut him off. "When I arrived, just a ways down the road I saw the glow from a house down the street." He nodded. "Yes, madam. The home of Don Pedro Almoravid. It's his birthday, I believe." She stared at him through the rearview mirror. "Of course it is. Which is exactly where we're going now." She turned her head and stared out the window. "Yes, madam." Miriam shifted in her seat and closed her eyes as the line of lanterns disappeared and they pulled onto the main road. "Drive carefully, Martin, it may begin to rain." James looked through the sunroof at a brilliant sky filled with nothing but stars. The moon was burning bright in the dark as Miriam closed her eyes and began to hum.

I had to hurry; there was no time to lose. I was already breathing heavy, even though I hadn’t gone very far, but I’d been breathing pretty heavily the whole time. Didn’t matter to me though, I couldn’t afford to waste any time. I could clearly feel that the carpet of the apartment floor was just on top of thin wood underneath as it creaked like an old horror movie. The metal of the push bar on the door leading outside was cold, despite the spring air and high sun. It took some effort to open the door; the entire thing was heavy, completely made of metal and no windows to see what was outside. I wondered if anyone saw me heading outside, I didn’t even take time to put my shoes on, didn’t want to bother going to get my car, traffic would be terrible this hour anyway. The door led immediately onto grass, the cool bristly feeling brushing against my feet like a massive paint brush as I ran across the small area of grass towards the stairs. I almost fell, quickly moving to the side to try to avoid my landlord’s roses. Along with ruining the garden, thorns in my feet would in no way help. But I didn’t slow down as I dodged to the right across the building, doing my best to catch my balance. The cool soft grass met a sudden contrast to the rough and scratchy concrete, much warmed from being under the sun. I could already feel the callouses on my heels being scratched off and new blisters beginning to form with every step. But none of that mattered to me in this moment. I could feel them every moment, skipping a step on the stairs as I rushed up them to the ground floor. It had been mere seconds since I left my apartment, but every second I took felt like minutes of wasted time were passing. By the time I got to the top of the stairs I heard the slow closing metal door I opened finally click closed. I didn’t have my card to get back into the building, but I didn’t really worry about it at the time. I just kept running down the path towards the street, turning with it as it curved around the gardens my landlord kept up. A few times instead of turning, I’d just jump over the flowers; the rough concrete pressing hard against my feet like someone was hitting them with a cinderblock. But nothing was going to stop me at this point. The path led right to the crosswalk on the street. I honestly wasn’t sure if the light was on to cross or not, but there weren’t any cars at the moment, so it didn’t matter. The asphalt was much smoother, but also much warmer, the black absorbing as much heat as possible from the high spring sun. The forming blisters were accented by the rough heat, making me wince occasionally, but adrenaline helped to cure that. As I crossed back onto the sidewalk on the other side, the smooth feeling on my feet quickly becoming rough again, I couldn’t help but hear the phone call ringing in my head. It caught me off guard for sure. I was intending to take a nap before heading into work for the late night shift. I was already laying down before the ringing of my boring cell tone echoed in my ear. I waited a few moments, figuring if it were work they’d use my pager, but after it kept ringing I decided I should get it. Turned out to be work, but this wasn’t something that could just be sent to a pager. Tunnel-vision had kicked in from the adrenaline, but my mind filled in the blanks on the sides, I had been down this street far too many times to forget. It was exactly as you’d picture a city, big tall grey buildings on both sides of the street, housing hundreds of people, sometimes businesses or companies. I knew when I went across the cross-walk I was past most of the apartments. To my left was all of the small businesses; ya know, bakeries, diners, coffee shops and the like. They were bustling around this time of day from everyone going to lunch. I should’ve realized I’d be dodging through people. Occasionally I’d be physically pushing through people, making reflexive “excuse me” noises along the way. I never saw the diner, but I could tell I was close when the population got denser. At this point I was actually squeezing through people, feeling all kinds of shoes that I was stepping on along the way. Smooth dress shoes were sliding across the arch in my foot, shoe-laces indenting on my heel, the occasional indent of circles being made from crocs. I wasn’t sure if I preferred all the indents and rough spots on the shoes or the sidewalks. The shoes may have been a little kinder, the sidewalk was easier to move across quickly, and full force on the steel-toed boots of the construction workers was almost worse. I finally made it back onto the concrete, stepping onto a crack that scratched against the heel of my foot and made me stumble forward. I was close to catching myself before I felt my head hit what seems like a wall. Once I fell forward, I quickly realized it was a person, quickly throwing my hands out to catch the ground and keep me from landing full force on them. The sidewalk felt like hitting frozen gravel on my hands, abrasions forming as they slid slightly forward, but I managed to keep myself from hitting the person, however painful the heels of my hands felt. I noticed my gaze was met with the clear blue eyes of a young woman. She didn’t look angry or even scared, just entirely shocked, not knowing what to do. I only looked for a split second before picking myself up quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I really need to keep going!” I yelled the best I could over the noise of the crowd for her to hear me. I really wished I could have stopped and helped her pick up her bags, but I couldn’t waste time. I quickly pushed myself forward again, jumping over her bag of party supplies. Coincidentally, I was planning on stopping by that same store today, just a small party store, uncreatively named “Party Store” sitting on the corner of Main and 2nd. Erik’s birthday was tomorrow, not that it would be a big celebration. Wouldn’t be able to fit that many people in my apartment anyway. But I was doing what I could, I wanted it to be a good day, especially since he’d have to work, and he could always use some de-stressing time. I could only hope today wouldn’t interfere with those plans, at least not majorly. Going across the second crosswalk I didn’t bother to check the light again, but with much less luck this time. I heard a loud horn pounding my ears like an alarm clock in the morning just before I was punched in the hip by cold steel. I managed to turn and land on the seat of my jeans, feeling them tear slightly from sliding across the asphalt. I wasn’t sure what that should have felt like; I was probably not feeling everything because of adrenaline. Nothing was broken, I knew that by how well I stood up, but I definitely was going to feel it later. I think the guy was getting out of his car and yelling something, but I didn’t care, I didn’t even stop to make sure I myself was ok, I just got back up and kept going. Traffic was so close together I even had to jump, the smooth steel under my feet almost making me slide as I stepped across a car hood. Getting back off the car was worse, feeling the asphalt beneath slam my feet like the asphalt had actually been lifted against them. This sidewalk was no better than the previous, full of business suits and working boots. Past 2nd Street was all of the big businesses: banks, agencies, construction. Then it hit me that there was construction going on nearby. I didn’t step on as many shoes this time, but I knew immediately when I was hitting the construction zone. The sidewalk became even rougher as I stepped on dirt and gravel that had been left around, feeling tiny chunks of rock rolling across the bottom of my feet like they were being scraped by a pumice stone. I noticed ahead they had an orange plastic “fence” set up around an area of dirt that I wasn’t supposed to go on. But I didn’t have room to go off the sidewalk because of traffic, and I wasn’t going to slow down now. I braced myself approaching the fence and jumped off a small pile of dirt right by it. I tried to lift my knees up towards my chest, time feeling incredibly slow I felt I was going to make it. I knew instantly a look of horror was appearing on my face, my toes feeling like they were being flossed in between when my foot got stuck in the orange fence. Knowing I was falling forward I reached out. The area squared off was small enough that I felt the fence hit my grasp, instinctively grabbing on, my body dipping in a curve from gravity as I hung just above the dirt below. I could hear a nearby worker yelling to me, or was he yelling at me? Regardless I didn’t know what he was yelling, but within a few seconds I managed to get my foot free, the rest of my body following suit and dropping, the knees of my jeans smacking against the dirt and dragging a small bit, causing a slight tear. My arms were just angled up in the air, still grasped onto the other end of the fence, which I then used to help myself back up. The worker just got over to me as I got up. “I’m sorry; I really need to keep going!” I yelled to the worker, taking no time to even brush myself off, lifting myself over the other end of the orange fence, stepping onto another pile of dirt and stumbling forward. I wasn’t as lucky this time in my stumbling, eventually succumbing to gravity and scraping all of my arms from sliding across the sidewalk. I knew exactly what I should do to all of these wounds I was receiving, I’d been trained for it, but in the moment I didn’t even take a moment to think about it, quickly getting back up. I wasn’t past the construction zone yet. I ran past a few more workers, dodging to the sides or accidently slamming my foot on the steal toes of their boots. I almost stumbled a few more times, but I managed to have enough balance to stay up this time. Successfully avoiding any more mishaps I finally made it to the third crosswalk. I was thankful that Erik got out of his construction job; it was too much risk and caused too much stress for him. He had to use workman’s comp on multiple occasions while there. His concussion from a steel beam was finally what pushed him to quit, and I think it was good for him. He hasn’t been able to help with the rent lately, this was still recent, but I completely understood. He needed time to find a new job anyway. I was never too worried about him getting a new job anyway; he was still young and full of energy. In fact, he left before I even woke up to go for a job interview with a bank nearby the apartment. I reached another lucky spot, crossing right at the light to cross. For the first time I actually understood what someone was yelling to me. A man in a jumpsuit jogging was crossing opposite the way I was. “Are you ok man? That limp looks terrible!” Limp? I suppose getting hit by a car probably was making me limp, but I’d been too into going to even notice. I wondered what I must look like to this man. Here I was, running across the street, limping and favoring my right side, no shoes on, jeans ripped all over, possibly a bump on my head, and covered and dirt with blood dripping down my arms. I must’ve looked like an absolute wreck, and yet I continued on. “I’m fine, I have to keep going!” The man tried to slow me down but I, politely as I could, moved him aside, if there was a way to do it politely. I don’t think I managed to knock him over or anything severe, but I knew he had to at least have stumbled. I’m not sure if he went on his way or stopped and watched me, but I wasn’t about to take the time to see. I think the green light for the cars came on while I was crossing, as I almost got another shot to the hip, but I managed to cross without any other major incident. For the first time since I left my apartment, I stopped. I was gasping for air, and my breathing audible to myself, my ribcage almost painfully expanding with each breathe, trying to take in as much as I could, trying to think of what to do. There was too much construction now. There were too many workers to push through the dirt area, and even the road was closed off here. I had completely forgotten about this area, and going to the left would only take me to a road heading the wrong direction. For a moment I thought I was at the end, till I remembered an area on this street. Without wasting any more time or bothering to tend to my wounds I turned left and went about halfway down the sidewalk. Turning back to the right, I head deep into the back alley. Despite the cliché stories, this area never had any troubles with crime in alleys. In fact, there wasn’t anyone back here at all, nor was it shady, just the back doors to a lot of businesses and restaurants. But this was new, a chain link fence caught off the halves of the alley. I already knew what I had to do. With a determined look on my face, I braced myself and took off towards the fence. Being an alley, there was plenty of crap to step on, feeling everything from crumpled napkins and wrappers, to feeling the crunch of an aluminum can as I went towards the fence. As I approached the fence I pushed on the ground, feeling my ankle turn a little as I jumped off yes another can, hand grabbing near the top of the fence and feet dangling just above the ground. Not quite as planned, but I wasn’t out yet. Getting my feet to fit into the fence I finally started climbing, feeling the metal of the fence pushing divots into my feet as I climbed, occasionally feeling it push on my newly formed blisters, probably even popping a few. I didn’t stop to find out, getting high enough to reach my legs over the top of the fence, getting my pant leg caught at first. Thankfully I got it free without falling off the fence and climbed down. As soon as I stepped down, I felt a piercing pain in my foot. I didn’t need to look down to know what happened; I knew this alley well enough. I went on anyway, the glass from a broken bottle cutting across the bottom of my foot, but eventually leaving it. If the glass had stuck in my foot, I might not have made it, the glass tearing at my foot may have been too much even for adrenaline, but now I could stand a bleeding foot.

Waiting Room Simulator 2014 There is a waiting room. There is a door on your right, which leads outside, a door in front of you, which leads into the main hallway, and a door above you, which you can't reach because gravity exists. You've been here so long you forget what you're waiting for. You're beginning to get worried- it's taking forever for them to come out and get you. >Look I'm sorry, but this is real life, not a text based adventure game. There's nothing else in this room, at all. We have described everything in this room. There is literally nothing else here. No books to read, no games to play, and nothing of any importance whatsoever. >Read books There are 3 books on the table in front of you. Their names are: The Empty Book. >Read the empty book You can't read it; it's empty. >Open the empty book There's nothing in it; it's empty. >Put down the empty book You can't put it down; it's empty. >Make the empty book not empty You're really not listening, are you? You can't make the empty book not empty; it's empty. >Leave the waiting room You can't leave the waiting room; it's empty. Which exit do you wish to take? >The door on my right You go through the door on your right, which leads outside. You are now outside, not in the waiting room. >Look around. There is a waiting room. There is a door on your right, which leads outside, a door in front of you, which leads into the main hallway, and a door above you, which you can't reach because gravity exists. >That's the same thing it said last time. That's not a command. >Leave through the door in front of me You trip on the table which does not exist on your way out. Now your knee is broken, and you can't go anywhere for several days. >Heal my knee You're not a doctor. I don't see any medical degree. You don't have the required training. I cannot allow it. >Leave through the door in front of me Your knee is broken, so you cannot leave, because realism is important in a game with a door on the ceiling and an omniscent narrator. Also, if you did this again, you would probably trip on the table again. >Reset the game If you insist. There is a waiting room. There is a door on your right, which leads outside, a door in front of you, which leads into the main hallway, and a door above you, which you can't reach because gravity exists. >Leave through the door in front of me Look, I already told you. It's going to take a couple of days before you can recover from your knee injury. >Wait a couple of days. You wait for your knee to heal. Your knee has healed. >Leave through the door in front of me while avoiding the table You leave through the door in front of you. You are now in the main hallway. >Look around You look around. You see that the hallway has pictures hanging on it. There is a picture of a cowboy, a picture of a maniac, and a picture of a bank vault. >Examine picture You're going to have to be more specific if you want to waste your time staring at art in a TEXT-BASED GAME! >Examine picture of bank vault The picture of the bank vault is beautiful, a work of art. It's literally the best picture that's ever been hung on any wall, ever. Anyone who removes it must be crazy. >Remove picture of bank vault You remove the picture, proving you are, in fact, crazy. Behind it you find something that amazes you. Absolutely nothing. Just leave this hallway and move onto the next room, please? There's nothing of interest here anyways. There's probably an art hallway for the insane in your community, so please go there instead of wasting your time here. Just because I'm not a real person doesn't mean the time I spend narrating this pre-written text-based adventure game isn't valuable. >Remove picture of maniac There is no picture of a maniac. There never was, there never will be. Looney. >Remove picture of cowboy Behind the picture of a cowboy, there is a doorway. This doorway doesn't lead anywhere, so don't bother entering it. >Enter doorway You enter a dark corridor. It is black, and I would suggest you continue walking because you don't have a flashlight. >Get flashlight That's very funny, but you can't just get one magically. >Make flashlight You create a flashlight from thin air. >Turn on flashlight I'm sorry, but your flashlight does not have batteries. >Get batteries There are no batteries here. If I were you I'd probably go get the batteries from inside the table you completely avoided in the previous room, but you don't know they're there so I won't mention it, or I'll risk breaking the fourth wall. If anyone were to break the fourth wall in a text-based adventure game, it would be absolutely disasterous. >Go back You return to the waiting room. >Wait You wait. This seems pointless, but someone will probably come. >Wait You wait some more. Nothing happens. >Wait You've waiting for a third time. If you ask again, the game will default to the boring 'You wait.' message, so it's basically pointless to keep waiting. >Wait You wait. >Wait You wait. Again. >Wait You wait. You wait. You wait. Please, just STOP WAITING. You're going to have to wait here a really long time before anything happens, because- SPOILER -nobody is coming >Wait a really long time A really long time has passed. Your corpse has begun to decay. Nobody has come for you, and now you're dead. Aren't you happy that you decided to try that? >Wait Okay, I give up on you. Goodbye. >Wait I'm not coming back. >Wait You really are stubborn. Okay. I'll give you a hint. You have to get to the door above you. >Get to door above me Wow. You take everything literally. As I said in your last attempt at a run-through, you can't reach the door above you because gravity exists. >Unexist gravity Okay. Stop. Just stop. >Stop Game aborted. Restart? >Yes Yes what? >Restart Restart what? >This game This game what? >Quit I'm not doing anything. >Wait You'll have to do better than that if you want to win. >Win Congratulations. You have won. The end.

Just wondering what I should be trying to do to improve. I'm not sure if the story flows properly. If there is too much "nothing" going on at first or if it ends too quickly. Greatly appreciate any critique. Reading over it, it really didn't seem to great and I almost didn't post it, but I do want to improve and hopefully get some help with that. Thanks for your time. As the day ended, a husband and wife lied in bed. It was just after ten thirty and they had quite a long day. They didn't see too much of each other and despite the day being long for both of them and being away for so long; they hadn't much to say. They shut the lights off with a simple clap. "I love you, see you in the morning." The wife says to her husband. "Love you too, Gloria." He said with a smile she couldn't see. They faced away from each other and shut their eyes. "How did I get so lucky?" The husband thought to himself. He couldn't wait to go to the store the next morning with his lovely wife. Morning came and they did their daily routine. Saturdays were always their favorite day of the week since that is when they saw each other the most. They'd only been married for 3 years, known each other for 5. To Gloria it felt like she'd been with her husband her entire life. "George," she began. "You almost ready? I want want to be home before noon." He shut the water off to the shower and stepped out. Drying himself off as his wife brushed her teeth. "Yep, all done." The two of them finished up and walked out the door. "Hang on honey, I almost forgot my wallet." He unlocked the door and ran back inside, grabbing his wallet from the kitchen counter. "Alright, let's go." They got into the car and George drove. They arrived at the store when they noticed an old friend's car in the parking lot. "Hey, isn't that James' car?" George asked his wife. "Yeah, that's his license plat number." There was a spot next to where James had parked. George went over to make sure f they didn't see him in the store they could catch up for a bit outside knowing James would call them if he walked out and saw who was next to him. James was a friend of Gloria's. She had known him since they were just four years old. Now, twenty-two years later they weren't the closest they had been, but still friends. They hadn't seen each other in a couple months; Not since James told Gloria he was in love with her after a drunken night out with mutual friends. A bit nervous to see James as Gloria hadn't told George what happened, she tried to hide that anything had changed. "Can't wait to see James. I wonder how he's doing" George looked over to his wife as he turned the car off and took the keys out of the ignition. "Well, you know James. I'm sure he's getting by" They did their shopping looking around for James through the store. They hadn't seen him until they went to check out. "James!" George ran up behind him as his wife got in line. "Hey buddy, been awhile." The two had gotten close over the years and George grew quite fond of James. "Hey! George, Gloria how are you guys?" "We're alright, James. How are you?" Gloria asked in return. The three caught up quickly, making plans to go to James' house in the afternoon to catch up and hang out before dinner. The couple got home, put their groceries away and headed over to James' house, completely unaware of the awful events that were about to take place. You see, a man had been stalking James, plotting to murder him for awhile now. James is a tax attorney and it was an old client who felt a little more than ripped off. He had heard the trio talking at the store. They got to James house and a strange man had opened the door. "Oh, hey. James just stepped out for a minute, he said you guys would be here come in." The man stepped out of the way and introduced himself. "I'm Rob." Course, Rob wasn't his real name, just once he had decided on in the moment feeling he needed to act normal to lure the couple in. He fooled George and Gloria, as the two stepped in. They didn't realize he had locked the door behind them as he shut it. He turned around, gun in hand. "Get into the bathroom." He said as he gestured over. "Woah, what the fuck are you doing?" George asked stepping in front of his wife as the gunner pointed at her. "Not gonna tell you again. Get in now and drop your cell phones to the ground." They did as they were told and went into the bathroom. When they went in, they saw James. He was tied up on the toilet with tape over his mouth. George gripped the tape and ripped it off. James rubbed around his lips to ease the pain"Oh for fucks sake. I was really hoping you guys would not show." James was devastated that he had put Gloria in this situation. "What the hell is going on?" Gloria asked as the gunners voice came through the door before James could respond. "Five minutes" He shouted. "Then you make your decision and one of you walks out of there". "He's an old client of mine. I can't explain. I'm so sorry Gloria." His eyes grew teary and he tried not to cry after every word. "He wants one of us to give our life for the other two. We have five minutes to decide." George finished untying James. Gloria was stunned. She couldn't think, let alone speak a word in reply. "What if no one wants to die?" George asked trying to think of a way out safely. "He told me he was going to pick one of us at random and force the other two to live knowing that they could have saved whoever was shot."James sounded more worried than he did sad now. He knew he had to protect Gloria. George had the same thought, and time was wearing too thin to come up with any sort of idea that could work. Both the men knew what they had to do as Gloria began to cry. "Two minutes!" The voice from the living room pierced through the door and into the ears of the three unfortunate victims. James got up from the toilet seat and began pacing around. The three didn't speak to each other, each in their own thought. George thought long and hard trying knowing it was going to be either him or James to give up their life in the next two minutes. George thought and thought as did James. "I really don't want to die, but I can't make James give up his own life for me and Gloria. It isn't his responsibility." George was noble in his thoughts as he tried to think ahead. "If I don't give up myself and he kills Gloria I won't be able to live with myself. If he picks me there isn't a difference from me giving up my life anyway..." He slowly figured out how this was gonna play out. "I have to go out there to protect my wife. James was also thinking about what he should do. "If I don't give myself up George probably will. If he by chance doesn't thinking he can get ouf of this safely and Gloria ends up shot I wouldn't forgive myself. Even if George chooses to go out there... Gloria doesn't love me ." He dried his eyes and heard George begin talking to his wife as it broke his thought. "Honey, you know I love you so much, right?" George said as he began to cry. "No, no you can't" Gloria cried uncontrollably at this point, knowing what her husband was gonna do. At this moment James moved closer to the door. The words "Thirty seconds" were heard from the other side of the door as they cried harder. James gripped the handle ready to go out. "I'm so sorry but you know I have to" The couple's heads turned to the door as they heard it creep open. They were terrified. James stepped out and Gloria shouted his name. The gun shot went off. It was quick, and louder than anything they had ever heard in their lives. James fell to the floor. He was dead by the time he reached the ground, shot in the head. Gloria tried to run over to his body before George grabbed her and covered her eyes from having that image burned into her mind for the rest of her life. That's when George realized. James loved Gloria as much as he did. Maybe even more to give up his own life so that she could continue to be happy with who she had chosen.

Warning: a scene where a girl loses some body parts may be revolting. ‘See here this is death.’ She pointed to a dark vaporous hole below us. Wisps of purple smoke circulated its edges before dissipating away. ‘Death is that?’ I asked. ‘I always thought that death was going to be a white room of infinite dimensions.’ ’No one knows what death looks like beyond the hole. Death is this hole, but maybe there is a space beyond it that is white or red or green for that matter. No one has come back to tell about it.’ I looked into the black-purple void, squinting at it scrutinizingly. I felt a shiver at the center of my chest, as I looked on. ‘I’m cold,’ I said. I wondered if I was looking into a reflection of the emptiness inside of me, or as Virginia Woolf put it, a wedge-shaped core of darkness. It was an alluring darkness, however. If I looked closely enough, I could detect a dark whirl turning steadily at the center like the middle of a whirling body of water. I wanted to dip my face into the center and drink from it. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I realized that I had put my face inches away from the dark void. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. No, I didn’t mean to.’ I released a sigh of relief internally. ‘If you’re really curious about the void, just try dipping in a finger. Going all in with your face is more regrettable.’ ‘Ok, you really mean? What will happen?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know. It was just a suggestion. Don’t take it seriously.’ The void was beginning to grow on me, feeling almost too familiar or comfortable. When I looked into the hypnotic black-purple, and once I got past the fear, I felt a sense of reassurance. ‘Try it,’ a voice urged me in my head. I took my left pointer finger and reached into the void, slipped it through the blackness until I could see that my finger was about half-way in. The darkness felt like a cool mist, not wet as I thought it would be. I let my finger dangle in the void for awhile until I was no longer sure whether it was still there or not. I took my finger out. A black mist was pouring out of the end of my finger from the middle joint, the lower half of my finger missing, or non-existent. ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, observing my finger. ‘Hm, it seems like half of your finger has been lost in the void,’ she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Yeah,’ I said. It hadn’t even hurt. I tried moving my finger. It bend easily from the knuckle. The strange purplish vapor continued to emit from the end of my shortened finger. I looked down the finger but couldn’t see past the mist. In a risky move, I used my right hand to grasp my finger, effectively trapping the mist. But then, I noticed that the mist began seeping through the back of my hand, fire from a tiny pore between two knuckles and then from other pores that opened up in the back of my hand until the vapor appeared to be seeping out freely. ‘Ahhh,’ I exclaimed, removing my hand from my finger. The palm of my hand looked my finger did, a black-purple mist covering the whole of the area where the mist had made contact with the skin. I wasn’t sure how much of my palm was left, as I couldn’t see through the mist. The back of my hand was covered in a misty swirl at certain points, so I was certain that most of my hand’s back still existed. ‘It doesn’t hurt?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I said. The only ameliorating fact was that I hadn’t felt any pain in the quick dissolving of my finger and palm. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know.’ Knowing that the black void couldn’t be removed, or at least, not easily by simply covering it with something else, I thought about the permanent consequences carrying such a void could have. I wouldn’t be able to touch most things. There was a rock on the ground. I tried picking it up with my blackened palm. It vanished in the darkness. I tried merely pressing my palm onto the ground. A small, round crater was left when I removed my hand. I tried slipping my hand into a mitten. The void ate the cloth before it was even fully on. From now on, I would have to be careful about what I touched, as there was no way of getting around the void in either hand. I wasn’t sure if I could write or type anymore. I sat on the ground. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ’Please don’t try to do anything, since I’m going to do something dangerous,’ I said. I clasped my hands together, the void in my right palm quickly transforming my left one into a similar dark mass. I let the darkness eat through the matter in both hands until they were gaseous masses. I curled up my legs and grabbed each shoe with a hand each. Each foot disappeared and was replaced by a black mass that was climbing like a fire up my shins, consuming pants matter, bone, blood, vessel and everything. I felt the pounding in my chest grow stronger, although I suspected it was not from the sudden cutoff of a vital circulatory pathway rather than from an atavistic anxiety that was beginning to emerge now that a few of my limbs were gone. My legs contained the energy of a firecracker, dissipating smoke into the night. I put my fist, or the void left in its place, through my chest. It passed easily through. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t felt anything. Pushing the fist through my heart was painless enough; only, the throbbing heartbeat that I had felt through my body had stopped. I wondered if I would die soon now that my body had no pulse. I was still breathing, still sitting upright, still conscious. This wasn’t right. I had displaced my heart and still some magic was keeping me alive. Or was I alive? I looked at her. Her expression hadn’t changed. Those dark pupils stared on curiously, or boredly, at the disembodied figure of myself, black vapors spewing out from its body at random openings. ‘Am I alive?’ I asked her. ‘As far as I can tell, but as I don’t know the details of the void, I cannot say with certainty,’ she replied. Her answer was evasive as usual. I sat there, unmoving. Nothing. I felt the same. I looked over the edge into the black void, the center turning steadily. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked. ‘I’m thinking,’ I started, ‘that the void looks awfully peaceful.’ There was a pause. ‘So you’re thinking about jumping?’ I looked at her. She seemed slightly concerned in her demeanor, which had shifted a little, odd for a girl who had little issue with taking me here in the first place. ‘Yeah. Well, there’s no reversal of this void, and the way I am now…’ My voice trailed off. The black-purple darkness in my chest emanated silently. ‘Maybe, this is my real heart,’ I thought. ‘Maybe my spirit runs on this darkness.’ I considered briefly trying to displace my head, too, but hesitated upon seeing the purple masses move toward me. Also, what if my body still survived, somehow functioning without head or heart, but my consciousness was displaced? Then, I would become nothing short of a mindless, mutilated body, either waiting itself out by the cliff for eternity or crawling around on the limbs that remained, perhaps even becoming a danger to others should they appear. Overlooking the void, I thought about the simple move I could make; a quick exertion of strength from my elbows would send me toppling over right into the pit of the void. It wasn’t hard. I couldn’t be sure of the effect the void of have on me, if it would keep me alive somehow, or if I would finally disappear, body and mind, into the thick of its vapors. If she was right, after all, the void was death, so that much I could be sure of. Or could I? The void might’ve symbolized death to her knowledge, but she also didn’t know its contents beyond that, or if there is something other than it on the other side. ‘No one has come back to tell about it,’ she had said. I sensed her a little closer behind me now. It was time. ‘Good-bye,’ I said. There was no reply. I half-wondered or fantasized whether she might grasp my arm and prevent me from going, though she showed no such display of emotion. Emotion was not our strong suit.

So, I put this together late last year for a writing competition, (which I did not win), I'm currently considering turning it into a series of 4 short stories if the feedback is at least halfway decent. Thoughts and criticims are more than welcome. Also, just as a warning, the humour is quite dark. Tim, the Boy With a Beak (Tentative Title) Hello, my name is Tim. I'm fourteen years old, in year eight and am an only child. I live with my mother, father and grandmother. I have black curly hair, green eyes...... And a beak. 'Happy Birthday' rang throughout my house. July 17th, my birthday. My favourite cake, chocolate, lay in front of me. My friends and family surrounded me and a considerable pile of presents lay beside me. I blew out the candles and made a wish. The rest of the day went fine. I opened my presents, ate my cake, saw a film and went to bed. The next morning I woke up and went to brush my teeth. I stopped suddenly as I moved the brush to my mouth. There was some kind of yellow patch on either side of my jaw... And it's rock solid. I decided to fake being sick and stay home. I continue doing this as the yellow patch crawled across my face. That is until Mum actually saw it and dragged me to the doctor's. "It kinda looks like a giant, yellow, eagle beak...?" murmured Dr. Raven. Mum sat in the corner petrified. "I... I've never seen anything like this. D'you mind giving me a moment to see if I can find out if some of my colleagues knows what in the f**k this sh-... I mean this horrible, horrible affliction is. He came back 3 hours later. "Yeah. This doesn't exist." Mum and I stare at him. "I actually can't do anything." After that Mum then forced me to go to school. That's when the ridicule started. And due to the ridicule, my friends left. And the lack of friends increased the level of ridicule. And the increased level of ridicule increased the number of people against me. And the increased number of people against me increased the isolation. And the increased isolation continued for three years after that. My footsteps echo through the underpass at the train station as I make my way to school. I cross over Main Street, abiding by the lights and almost get hit by a car, as usual. I arrive at school early and make my way to my locker. That's when I see her. Bertha, with her brilliant, flowing unibrow and radiant buck-toothed smile she looked amazing, as always. I collect my books, close my locker and head off for cla- "Oi, bird brain!" Mathew yells from the other end of the locker bays. I sigh. Mathew, with his chiseled, model-grade looks and perfectly sculpted blonde hair, strutted over with his little entourage. "What is it, Mathew?" I ask. He holds up a seed bell, meant for a pet parakeet. "I got you a present, Tim." He says, grinning broadly. I glare at him and knock away the bell. "Why d'you always have to be such an arsehole, Matt?" Mathew feigns shock and offence. "Don't squawk to me like that." His entourage gives the appropriate guffaw. "Tch, just leave me alone." The bell rings and I try and leave with everyone else. Mathew grabs me. "Oh, you're not getting away that easily, Bird Boy. I very graciously tried to give you a nice, thoughtful present and you just bat it away without so much as a "thankyou"." He raises his arm to punch me, still smiling. "And that, Capt. Macaw, deserves to be punished." His fist speeds towards my face and as it's doing so, the whole world slows down around me. As if in slow motion a duck out of the way and clamp my beak onto his arm, hearing the bones snap, I twist my head to the right, simply to break it even more. The snapping and popping of his quickly deteriorating arm brought on a rush of euphoria. And then the world sped back up. Mathew lay on the ground, screaming in pain, tears pouring out of his eyes. I panic, realising what I had done and run off to class. I get to class and sit down for the rest of Mr. Lark's long winded history lecture. The rest of the week played out as usual. And then Monday rolled around. As we all walked into Mr. Sparrow's math class he says to me "Ah, Tim, I'm going to need to have a squawk- I mean talk to you after class." The class laugh at his commonly made and annoying mistake. Class finished and Mr. Sparrow pulls me aside. Hours Earlier School Board Meeting "Alright, what's next?" Bellows the chairman. A weedy little suit at the table speaks up."Ah, the incident with Matthew Jones and Tim Parrot. The Tim boy broke Matthew's arm in 13 places." There's a short pause before the chairman yells "Holy sh t! I'm impressed, but still, the parents would be annoyed if we were not to expel him." Another board member stands up, quite a greasy board member. "There's a problem with that, sir. The Tim boy is a re'tard. There'd be an uproar from the PTA." The chairman frowns. "Well, how retarded is he?" The board members shuffle through their papers. "Ah," the grease-ball says mid-chuckle. "He has a beak." He whole board break up in laughter. Once the laughter dies down the chairman finally says, "Oh, just suspend him for a few weeks." "You've been suspended, Tim." Mr. Sparrow says in a hushed voice. "It was because of the incident with Matthew..." Tears start to well up in my eyes and I run out of the class. When I get home I explain it all to my grandmother. She pauses for a second in though and lights her pipe. Her crack-pipe. "Well," she says "there's really no point in crying over this. Frankly, all you need to do is get some revenge. Nothing better than a good bloodbath of a revenge." The tears dissipate. These people have been ridiculing me for the past three years. And... It wouldn't be difficult… As I begin my journey back to school I remember all that has happened in the past three years. Three years ago, I didn't even have this thing on my face. I used to be normal. I had friends. I was doing well in school. And then it started to grow. And my friends started to leave. And the taunts began. Birdbrain, Birdboy, Capt. Featherface, etc, etc… I walk through the school hallways towards my class. They wouldn't be expecting me, and as it appears as if I have no weapons, no suspicion was aroused. But, I do have my weapon. I reach my class and stand in the doorway. Everybody turns in unison. A glare flashes across Matthew's face. "What the f k do you think you're doing here Bird Boy?" I walk towards him calmly, bend over slightly so that we're eye to eye and then tear open his throat with my beak. The class screams as his blood rains down upon me. Matthew is my first kill but shan't be my last. My class make a run for the door. But they cannot for they are already dead... The corpses of my former classmates lay around me. The smell of blood is simply intoxicating. My breathing heavy, I walk to my final victim. Bertha was standing in the corner, petrified, as I moved closer. Tears flowing down her face, catching in her moustache. I didn't want to have to do this but, it is necessary now. I grab her head gently and get her to bend over slightly and open my beak as wide as possible. Once done I crush her skull quickly and bloodily. I make my way out the classroom and spit out some of Berthas brains onto Matthew's corpse. After washing the blood and entrails off of my face I make my way home. After arriving I explain it to my grandmother expecting congratulations and praise. "What the f k is wrong with you!? Who just kills 28 people after being told to by someone who was high on crack!?" Again, my grandmother makes a good point... "But, Gran, the person who sugge-" "I don't care what crackhead told you to do it! F k! I'm calling your parents." Gran pulls out her 2002 Nokia cell phone. "You won't want to do that, Gran." I say in a quiet monotone as I step toward her in her old Lazyboy. "Why the f k not?" She snaps back as she squints at the keypad, slowly typing out my parents' number. "Well, this is why." I say in a calm monotone just before I tear open her face with my bird face. She's screams in pain as blood pours out of the gaping hole in her face. I finish her off with another strike crushing the front of her cranium. The taste of her flesh is... Nice. But, I can't stay here. Someone will eventually find out that my grandmother is dead, whether it's her crack dealer or my parents, someone will know. So, I head up to my room and try and get some sleep. There's no use in running, there's nowhere for me to go. I awake to the sound of my mother screaming. Obviously she has found Gran. I then hear my mother and father running up the stairs towards my room. "Tim!" My father screams."Your grandmother has be-" "Yeah, I know she's dead. I was the one who killed her." They freeze completely in shock. "But, Timothy, you couldn't have. You've always been such a nice boy, despite your... Condition." I glare at my mother. She starts to back away. “Tim, we know why you have a beak!” screams Dad in desperation. I freeze. “It was when you were a baby, we we’re short on money. So, we took you to this military base that was calling for infants to be used in testing. They were trying to build a super soldier and they spliced your genes with that of a serial killer, eagle and a peruvian beetle that feeds only on the blood of human beings. We got our money and we thought that as the tests weren’t successful immediately we’d be able to have a normal child. But, they were a little delayed…” Rage slowly builds within me getting hotter and more intense. “You caused this!? All for a few bucks!? You caused me to be exiled from society for three long hard years and never told me!” I storm towards my father, bend over and disembowel him. I then turn to my mother. She makes a run for the door, but she isn’t enough. I tackle her to the ground in the doorway and decapitate her with one swift snap of my beak. Suddenly, whilst standing in a pool of my parents' blood, I hear police sirens ring through the house. Someone must've figured out that it was me at the school. Either that or Gran's crack dealer stopped by when I was slaughtering my parents. "Timothy Parrot. Please come out of the house with your hands on your head." I decide it might be fun to comply. When I walk out the front door I am met by about 200 police, 10 snipers on neighbours' roofs and 2 helicopters. Nice. 7 of the 200 rush towards me and tackle me to the ground and then cuff me. They obviously don't really know what's happened. As one of them reads me my rights and another drags me to his car, I turn and tear out Capt. Rights throat. I take a deep breath. The more blood I spill, the better I feel. This is incredible! Guns are fired as I tear apart one cop after the other until I'm left with just the snipers and the helicopters. I glare across the road at the snipers. They see me amidst a field of brutally damaged corpses and simply drop their weapons. Easier than I thought. However an insatiable bloodlust is still within me... Now, how shall I remedy this? I get into one of the cop cars. I've got a plan. A brilliant, ghastly plan. A plan that will make people give me the fear and respect that I deserve. I turn on the siren and blast through the traffic as fast as the car will allow. I arrive at my destination. Parliament. I gun the accelerator and speed up the stairs, into the air and through the doors. I grab the gun from the passenger seat and jump out. Unfortunately, my beak isn't long range. I shoot each of the security guards who confront me. I slowly but surely start to make my way up to the Prime Minister's quarters. The large wooden oak doors blast open and I stand before him. He sits behind a large desk. And as he sits behind his large desk, staring at me, his expression slowly changes from surprise to fear to sadness and then finally to pure terror. I pace forward. The Prime Minister doesn't move. Step. Step. Step. Step. I walk around his desk. My face now just mere centimetres away from his. And then I tear his face off. And he screams. Those bloodcurdling screams fill me with nothing but pure euphoria. About an hour later I've figured out how to get a PSA working and so I start broadcasting. "Good evening, people of this nation. I come to you tonight to announce the passing of our former prime minister. You may be sad or shocked at this point but, I assure you that his death was slow and painful. I made sure of it. Your question now may be "Who is our prime minister now?" and the answer is simple. He stands before you. Years later... I stand upon a balcony over looking my people. The pure ones. Their purity has been obtained through surgical beak implants. Any that refused were executed by myself. Beside me stands my beautiful wife Eunice, Bertha's sister, and our children that have their own glorious natural beaks, Charlyse and José. My nation flies under my flag, a brilliant eagle on a field of blood red. I have had monuments erected in my name. And as I sip my glass of baby blood a single tear rolls down my face. I realise that now, right now, I am truly happy.

Hi there, This story is by no means my best work, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! This is one of my first stories and is the first of them that I am posting. Feedback is much appreciated! Thanks! “Ow!” he exclaimed as he drove the needle’s cold point into his arm. This was his life as he knew it. His addiction had basically ruled him for as long as he could remember. Heroin was his drug of choice, but he had done every drug he could get his hands on since he was twelve. He loosened the belt around his arm and felt the warm embrace of the high as it overtook him. “No big deal,” he said to himself as he often did when he was coming up, “Just like a shot at the doctor’s.” In truth, he had no clue what he had just done to himself. He leaned back and tried to relax. His heart was pumping a mile a minute as his body tried to process the rather large dose of opioids now flowing through him. The alley he had chosen was not done so at random. He had observed it for weeks and knew enough about it to know it was safe for shooting up. It was in a relatively poorer neighborhood where people knew not to go out after the street lights were on. This meant little to no foot traffic and the police’s presence was almost nonexistent. For him, this was the most important part, as prison was the equivalent of death. Something wasn't right. He felt his muscles start to move as if they had a mind of their own, twitching and writhing violently as his body was overwhelmed by the massive amounts of heroin coursing through his veins. He was overdosing and he was very aware of it. In the midst of his violent seizures, his thoughts drifted back to the first time he tried shooting up. It was the most euphoric and relaxing experience he had ever had and he was instantly hooked. How can something that feels this good kill you? This was his last rational thought before he was completely gone. A rather foolish notion, but it had been his feeling his first time shooting heroine and ultimately his last time. His body shook even more violently as his mouth began to fill with a thick, frothy foam. He stopped moving rather abruptly as his heart finally stopped beating. He slumped over into a pile on the cold brick wall, another junkie murdered by The Shot.

“Papa, you’re gonna have to calm down,” I said into my phone as I sped along Route 220 towards Fincastle, Virginia. I was out and about on that cold winter day. My parents had just told me the night before that they were cutting off my gas money, so I needed a job. On this particular outing, I was turning in my application for The Glebe, a retirement community that hires high-schoolers to serve food to the elderly. I had missed a turn trying to find it and called my father to figure out directions. “Well listen, son, if you had listened to me before, you wouldn’t be wasting your- well MY gas.” My dad likes to lecture me, even for simple mistakes that anyone could make. “I know, Pop, I just need to know where to go,” I replied, wary of the police officer lurking in my rear view. My brother was still in the Air Force at the time and lived in Texas. It was he who had given me the 2000 Honda Accord that I drive. One of his, “modifications,” to the car was adding a stick-on window tint. This made my car illegal in the great state of Virginia. My dad spat the directions out, and I put my signal on to turned around. As I drifted over to the left lane, the red lights started flashing behind me like a crazed shark at a rave. My stomach dropped as I began to panic. How was I supposed to explain a ticket to my dad? Why am I getting pulled over? Was I speeding? Maybe he saw me on the phone. I pulled over to the right side of the road and turned off the car. Even though I had just had the heat on, the cold was already returning. I watched as the cop exited his cruiser in an authoritative manner. He was a short pudgy man. His blond hair was kept very close cropped and his mustache made him look like some one I probably wouldn’t want to spend an extended period of time with. He approached my window as I rolled it down and handed him my paperwork. “Do you know why I pulled you over today, son?” the officer asked as he reached for a tool in his pocket. “Can't say that I do, sir,” I replied nervously. “Well, your window tint looks a little dark,” he said examining the readout on the tool on my window. “Yup, that’s a ticket.” “Are you serious?” “’Fraid so, son.” My heart dropped into my shoes when he said that. As he leaned up I heard his radio crackle to life. “Any unit in the vicinity, we have a hit and run. Property damage and we might have a body on the scene. White female, around twenty three years old. Please respond.” The officer grabbed his radio and responded. “This is Officer Bundy, I’ll be over there shortly.” I looked at him with disbelief. “Don’t you have better things to do?” I asked, beginning to fume at this officer’s lack of responsibility. “No,” he replied, “I don’t think she’s going anywhere.” Something i wrote for class thats been tweaked a bit.

Trash. It is always the trash that is left behind. Out here there is nothing but the sandy, dry dunes as far as the eye can see and the refuse of before. Looking to the horizon all I can see is the waving images of madness, heat, where the empty blue meets the brown. I can feel the sand, sticking and dry to any uncovered area on my skin and the sweltering warmth of the sun. When I take a breath, I feel the heat deep and even with my mouth covered it burns. I feel every crack along my lips, parched, soon I must find something. There were once stories of places vastly different than here. One that I dreamed of as a child, born into the heat, of a place that was cool, wet. When I closed my eyes I can see the green, blurs of blues, color. Not like here. As I got older, that dream died, a slow, dry, death. Here I am, looking for metal, waste, refuse, and anything of value. Something to trade as I can only survive without something of value for so long. There is no pity, no kindness as each must pull their own weight. I should have known when I met Casandra that it would come to this. She was such a gem for a place like this, to have wandered out from the desert. Her hair flowed black as if in water, unlike anything we had seen here before. At a glance she was happiness, a cool winter’s day and a lass that would make any man squeeze water from stone. When she took it all, I knew it was her. I didn’t hate her but I had such rage inside. I have to find something. Anything. Please. This is the Last Oasis.

I was never considered a normal person. No friends, never spoke, barely could manage to get up in the morning. My mother disappeared when i was nine and I've never really been the same. I remember laughing, playing, having friends, everything a kid would do. The only exception is I was always told I had a very vivid imagination. I would claim that i could see things walking around that no one else could seem to see. I told people that in my dreams i could walk around town and speak to these beings. My parents called it a phase and i got gave up trying to convince them once they started bringing up "specialists" i could talk to. Here i am fourteen years later and I'm the most under appreciated person you now know. My name is Jacob Knight, and I'm more than likely the reason your miserable existence continues. Now you may be asking yourself, "how can this awkward, quiet kid with below average muscle mass have saved us all"? I would ask you to take my word for it but that just isn't very realistic is it? The only thing i can do is tell my side of the story, the memoirs of a 23 year old... So sit back, grab your favorite snack, and get ready for one hell of ride. It all started the day my mother dissapeared. She was very strict, but also very fair. Needless to say she was probably the person I hated the least. The day started a little different than usual. The sad regret of coming back to the monotony of reality after a night of unusual quietness. What some people call the dream world I call the inbetween. The inbetween normally is very chaotic, and loud, not really in a bad way, just almost as if you're in a large city full of people. Not today though. The normal hustle in bustle of the fine folk of the inbetween was now lifeless and cold. The glow that the moon light and stars shown on the world were now covered by the grey bleakness of clouds and fog. It was as if the life of the inbetween had been sucked away. After what seemed like an eternity in the inbetween I was awoken by the sound of my mother pounding on my door. "Jacob wake up!" "Your alarm has been going off for twenty minutes, don't even think about saying your sick again"! My mother was never really the type to fall for my attempts at being sick, I swear the woman could get a politician to admit that they were full of shit. So with as much disdain and attitude that i could muster i replied "oh really, was that my alarm going off"? "You better watch your mouth wise ass" ! Mom belted from the other room. I forced my self to my feet and made my way to the bathroom. The house felt cold, almost as if all the sound had been sucked out of it. Opening the normally very old creaky bathroom door was as silent as the rest. I looked at myself in the mirror. Shaggy black hair going in every direction, skin getting more and more pale by the day due to the lack of sun, but despite that, the joy of life still in my young eyes. After admiring myself in the mirror for another moment i came back to reality, I walked over to the shower and turned the knob. Nothing. Not even the creak of a pipe. "MOM"! i yelled at the top of my lungs. After a moment a knock on the bathroom door. "what honey"? mom asked. "The shower isn't working". Mom opened the door and began inspecting the shower with futal effort. After a few twists of the knob with no success she finally said, "welp lets check the pipes in the basement". Now you can just imagine the look on the face of a rosy cheeked nine year old when someone mentions going into the basement. Even with all of my experience with the inbetween the idea of going into the dark musty environment of the bottom most floor of our home was flat out terrifying. Alas i had to be brave, I figured if mom can do it then so can I. Down the first flight of stairs we walked onto the first floor, my heart pounding more with every step. Before I knew it I was at the door way to the dreaded basement. "Jacob are you ok" my mother asked with concern. "yea". I said inspiring little confidence. "Look sweetie if you don't want to go down there you don't have to". My mom was always very good at making me feel like I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to. "No mom I'm ok". I said with more false confidence. I took the first step, people say its the hardest to take, but suddenly just like arriving to the basement door I was at the bottom almost in the blink of an eye. Mom turned on the light switch and the bulb slowly came to life. The first thing I noticed was the floor was damp, as if in a marsh. We made our way over to the copper pipes lining the ceiling. We began to follow them as if on a treasure hunt. As we got closer to the boiler it seemed to be getting darker and darker, every childhood fear of the basement coming to fruition. "aha"! my mother boasted. "Theres our problem"! She pointed to one of the pipes that looked as if a shark had gotten a hold of it and ripped it apart. As water trickled out mom and I went in for a closer look. Then as if to be expected the light blew. "Jacob honey go grab mommy the flash light upstairs". My legs could not have moved any faster as I sprinted up the stairs back into the safety zone. As i approached the hall closet i started to hear creeks from the basement. They were faint but i could feel them moving in a certain direction. I quickly grabbed the flash light and made my way back to the basement. Down the stairs the flash light roared to life almost blinding me. "mom"? I called for her nervously. No response. "Mom"? I tried a second time. Again nothing. My flashlight scanned the basement slowly afraid of what I might find. Finally My flash light found the silhouette of my mother. "mom what are you doing? Whats going on"? No answer. She was motionless, head facing straight ahead, hands firmly pressed to her side almost frozen. I took a step forward. "Jacob"! My mother said sternly. " Don't come any closer". "Mom bu-", "No buts just go now". i could here a nervousness in her voice. She began to slowly take a step back, head still facing forward. My mom began to whisper, "Jacob run"."mom what are you talking about"? "I said fucking run"! she screamed. At that moment a large shadowy figure began rising in front of her. I began backing away as the figure grew taller by the second. Mom turned around and started sprinting towards me. I turned to run to the stairs but they seemed like an eternity away. Every step i took seemed to cover no ground. The sound of my mothers panicked foot steps behind mine got louder and louder. The stairs finally seemed within reach. I got to the stairs first, ran up towards the light of what was clearly salvation. As soon as i got to the top my mom got to the bottom. "MOM HURRY"! I was screaming louder then i ever had. I didn't even realize that tears were streaming down my face. My mom exhausted at this point was giving everything she had to get up the stairs. "COME ON MOM YOU GOTTA HURRY" Still screaming, becoming hoarse from it. She approached the top of the stairs, her pace had dropped significantly. She was crying now, she knew what her fate was if she didn't hurry. Over my mothers shoulder i could see the figure watching, almost enjoying our pain. My mother reached her hand out for help. "Reach mom I'll help you". I was scared, more than scared. I was holding on to the door frame reaching out as far as I could. "Mom just a little more". With out warning the sound of a chain hitting the ground came from the bottom of the stairs. "MOM PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE HURRY"! Right before our hands touched the sound of a chain flying through the air broke my concentration. The chain wrapped around my mother pinning her arms to her side. My mothers face turned into a calm acceptance. "i love you Jacob". The chain jolted my mother down the stairs into the dark abyss. The door slammed in my face, and my body crumbled to the floor. I must have sat there motionless for hours, tears dried to my face, and prepared to spend the rest of my days hunting for the ominous figure in the shadows.

(*This is my first post here. Any feedback would be much appreciated!*) He looked at his young daughter. She was Two. A mind not yet colonized by language and the concepts that are imported through it. But she was beginning to pick up some words. Learning to describe her experiences. Over time she would learn to navigate the rich marshland of her raw experiences using words and, in the process, drift away from it. That’s the price she would have to pay for being able to assign words to her feelings. That’s the price everyone pays. The cover charge for entering the grown-ups’ club. For what it was worth though, he imagined that her inner world was still a hinterland. Words had only begun to lay claims on her consciousness. Rationality was yet to misguide her imagination. He, on the contrary, had walked a long way and was left with mere words. A rich vocabulary as a compensation for a seized territory. An obscure, absurd, map to a world left behind. If he was lucky, he’d be able to trace his way back to his abandoned childhood. To the sanctuary of raw, uninterpreted, and anonymous feelings. To the experience untainted by commentary. Where he had left his heart and moved on to become an adult. Suddenly he became conscious of an alien emotion stirring inside him. For all his impressive vocabulary, he couldn’t find the words to describe it. A few agitated attempts later he let the feeling linger without poking at it, hoping that it would subside on its own. But the feeling, imprisoned in his mind and unable to be dispatched through words, raged on. Like a restless bird which has unwittingly flown into a room and is unable to find its way out.

The force of the blast was enormous. Were it not for the makeshift barrier Tristan had made out of the wreckage of the Isolt, they'd have been incinerated long ago. Instead all they felt was an intense heat along with a great light that blinded them to anything beyond the slim wall of metal. Gwen heard the metal groaning. It couldn't hold back the firestorm much longer. She looked at each of her friends' faces. Josh had his eyes closed, no doubt picturing the stars he held dear one last time. Next time him lie Anna's body. She couldn't have held on any longer, and had given in to the poison coursing within her. Tristan himself was screaming as he tried using his own body to reinforce the shielding. And she herself was only just learning to come to terms with her own surroundings, that this would be her final moments of life. How had she lived? As a fair queen of legend, as a great warrior, as a feeble girl, and now after all her travels, here she was, about to have every last piece of her DNA incinerated by the explosion given off by the end of Wrath's life. She consoled herself with the notion that she had been fair and kind to everyone she knew, and never wanted to hurt anyone. She even saved a few lives, Josh's being one. She even cracked half a smile. She lived a good life, one might say. But she was tired of fighting. Maybe if she just closed her eyes, it would end..... But she realized something. She had checked on everyone's last moments. But where was Isaac? It was then she saw him sprinting past, and felt the brown and blue fabric of his coat brush her face. He had leapt straight into the heart of the storm, but did not die. He stood alone, his eyes set and his jaw locked. His cloak billowed in the wind and heat. A voice cried from the inferno. "Well now, the loser's finally stopped wallowing in pity and has gathered courage enough to stand against me? What are you doing? Trying to save your friends by giving yourself up? They'll die anyway! Your death will have been for NOTHING!" Wrath's voice echoed with the might of the cosmos itself. But Isaac stood unafraid. He raised his ring, and a wall of power erupted to meet the oncoming storm of death. For a while, Isaac's wall held. But he couldn't do it alone. That's when Gwen noticed. All around Isaac there were beings, like avatars of energy. One burned with a fiery red aura. A manifestation of Isaac's own unique fury, Gwen thought. Another burned blue, an avatar of the goodness that Isaac possessed. Then came Isaac himself, his eyes blazing with rage and power. Then, finally, there was one more. This avatar wore bright, intricate, green armor, as though it was made from emerald. These three beings held out their right hands as Isaac did. They were holding the firestorm back! Soon the light began to recede. Wrath was running out of steam. If Isaac held out a bit longer, he'd have saved them. "Isaac!" Gwen cried, "You were always the strongest and purest of all of us. We would have been lost without your leadership! Wrath has no power over you, for you are stronger than your emotions! You are the King Under the Mountain, and you bow to no power of evil!" Isaac turned and smiled. Gwen still could not hear over the inferno, but she saw his mouth move. Thank you. All of you. My friends. Then the great light ceased. Wrath's form evaporated. The evil King was no more. Gwen nearly shouted for joy, but she saw Isaac. He still stood in the same place, but facing them. His eyes were glistening. The apparitions of his power had vanished. Now only he remained. His smile was finally perfect. His face bore no trace of shame, or regret, or brooding. Only peace. Then in an instant, without saying another word, Isaac's form turned to ash. He crumpled to the ground, his form breaking apart. Gwen was paralyzed. They all were. They could only watch as Isaac's smile faded, as at last his entire form had broken. All that was left was his ring, the symbol of his shield and strength, gleaming in the starlight high above.

My tale begins with a young adult browsing reddit one night. The quest for engaging and entertaining content at full steam. After crossing through the forest of Dumbemes he encountered a new and a strange something. This place took the form of an alcove. From where he stood, the young adventurer saw a small waterfall trickling down the rock face and feeding into a small basin. The place looked all but pristine, save for a piece of cloth hanging from a stick in the dirt near the top of the waterfall. The redditor made his way to the top of the wall-a small task compared to most adventures- and found the scrawling upon the silk. It began "Once upon a time...". Lingering in the alcove, the young adventurer could sense others in his presence. Hiding in the shadows. However, there was no fear. He knew that the presence around him was as equally intrigued by the alcove's promise as the adventurer was himself. And he tore some cloth from his undergarments, and using a charred stick from the fire, inscribed his tale for others to witness. The adventure left the alcove that night to continue his noble quest, but took a feeling and a desire to return to that place with him, forever.

I’m feeling stale my darling, stale. And I just don’t know what to do about it. The earth is crumbling, countries at war and yet I’m bored. Just bored. I can’t tell you what to do But you can, I’m happy to follow, be guided, be blind. Anything to just stop this feeling. How do you feel? Uncomfortable That will be the coffee, you know it makes you itchy But it’s more than that. Can’t I just sleep forever? Everything seems such a chore. I’m not sure who to blame Yourself It can’t be me, it’s not my fault Yes it is Well how can you say that, you see how everyone else gets the breaks. God, if only there was someone to guide me, GOD, ARE YOU THERE? See, nothing. I’ve been forgotten The only thing you’ve forgotten is rationality, you can’t expect things to be given to you, handed on a golden platter with fat free pizza, dancing reindeer's and a fucking gallon of hangover free beer. but… It’s your life, your responsibility and you put yourself where you are now. Sooner you work that out the sooner you might get off your ass and deal with your own life. … but… Stay where you are then, it won’t get better, you’ll just get bitter. Enjoy your sedation.

The year is 2296. Horber Thomson was just convicted of LCL-13-2-C by JusticeNet. JusticeNet is the most precise justice algorithm yet. It is always correct and exact when judicating upon matters covered by the Minor Laws. Horber has been in trouble before. The algorithm knew. So did the pickup van. So did JusticeNet. It was the third strike, or IX-Form-6-3-VOL3 as JusticeNet said. It had a voice, one that was familiar to the residents of the World by now. "We love JusticeNet, the way it always reminds us how to live our life." Horber walked down the ancient steps, from years where rock was used to build buildings. He looked around the warm April day. Below, government drones, these like mini dirigibles but with silent engines, sprayed IX-8-LIQUID, called 'anger juice' by those that still speak freely in the back alleys and off the grid, though that truly no longer exists. Everyone danced around like zombies, people pouring out of buildings to smell inhale the air. People jumped around. Some salivated. They looked at Horber and started to approach. Anger juice was a fine methamphetamine mist, laced with chemical to cause an instant addiction and lust for the stimulant. Government-specified vitamins were also included with every government mix, as dicated by the Department of Human Health. Some started screaming. A small crowd had gathered around Horbert. One woman was tickling him, others took the same queue. A man lit his pipe but then suddenly slammed it against Horbert's face. Horb tried defend, as a woman began to vomit on Horb, laughing with glee. An old grandmother was near; her cane him hard and he went down. He tried to defend himself with the restless crowd. There were thousands of screaming residents, all in a rage, howling, all excited at the prospect to torture, mail or kill Horbert. What he did, they did not know. No one looked up Suggestion Violation Numbers anymore anyway. The juice made him a juicy target. But then they fell silent. Their bodies drooped. One by one they dropped. A piercing government alarm sounded. What happened, am I dead, thought Horb? He was bleeding profusely and he wasn't sure whose urine he was smelling all over him. But he was alive. "There's probably some medicine that you can mix with meth to make people fall asleep..." he thought, remember his Harvard Medicine days from many years ago. Those thoughts landed him his first Aiding charge, he thought. And now, was he dead? And who was that woman in the drone carriage anyway? And where is she taking me now? Horb faded out, noticing the upward movement of the carriage on his way. "He'll make a perfect Unit Doctor", thought Harrissa. She cackled wildly and whipped her tail. "To the Falconbase, Stardust", she screamed. The ship took off.

Her Name Was Marine Sitting in the booth closest to the bathroom, I studied Marine with a squint in my eye. I liked the way she ate her ice cream. Anytime she'd take a bite she would flip the spoon upside down and lick the ice cream right off the spoon. We caught each other's eyes while I was observing. I saw a ring of light shimmer through her feathered brown eyes. She caught on that I was inspecting her, but she still continued eating. After I watched her pay the bill I walked out into the parking lot. Marine and her friend each parted ways, trickling back to their cars. I kept a close eye on Marine's car, the reverse lights lit up. I waited for her to turn out of the parking lot before I started following her. I knew her house was only a short drive. I liked looking into her car, I could see part of her face in her rear view mirror. She had on a pinkish-rose colored lipstick that complimented her angelic skin. I waited a couple minutes after she went inside her house before I got out of my van. I grabbed a blanket and my camera, then creeped my way to her backyard. I knew I'd probably be there for a while, so I was a little scared, but I liked the rush it gave me. The rush was kept me going. I sat outside her bathroom window with the camera placed off to the side just enough to catch her standing naked in front of the mirror. After about an hour of waiting she finally came into the bathroom. I peeked in her window to make sure she couldn't see me. She was still wearing the jeans and blouse she had on earlier. I inched closer to the window. I watched her stretch her arm at the shower knob. I started getting paranoid she might see me. I backed away from the window for a minute and just watched from the screen on my camera. My heart was my pounding, I could feel the blood rushing through my body. I reached down to grab my dick and it was swelling with blood. I slowly played with it until it got harder. I snuck my head back in the window. Marine had her top off. Her breasts were perfect, she had small pink nipples at the end of her perky tits. I started squeezing my penis, I began stroking it violently. The camera was recording video now, I would have all this material to go to later. She took off her pants, then her panties. I was going too fast, I didn't want to end this prematurely. Her pussy wasn't shaven but it was trimmed into a smaller patch. I never liked cleanly shaved pussy much. She started walking towards the shower so I knew I'd have to finish soon. She had voluptuous curves that my arms ached to caress. I got my last few seconds left and blew my load all over her window. She quick glanced out the window before stepping in. I really want to believe she knew I was out there the whole time. She was teasing me all night, making me wait for the big climax. I watch the film almost every night. I get to examine her whole body while I relive the moment. The thing I really wonder is, does she in some weird way, find it romantic that I devote myself to her physically without her even knowing.

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. Weeks pass with little to no change in my psychological demeanor. I-I'm not strong enough. I'm not good enough. I'm not... Enough. I remember climbing to the top of the building that my mom had worked at when I was a kid. The wind was howling at this height, pushing as if some great fan had kicked on. My jacket flapped around my torso like a hero's cape. But, I'm no hero. There was nothing heroic about what I was doing. I placed my feet at the edge of the railing and...... I never wanted this. I still don't. Oh, God what have I done? ****Thanks for reading! Sorry it's so short, but I think it gets the job done.

I fucked Muhammad. There, I said it. I sucked his dick, I kissed his lips. I sodomized him. I worshiped him, I really did. His cock, small as it may be, but thick. Oh so thick, throbbing, veiny. Did you know he’s circumcised? I was surprised. He was so insecure, he trembled as I ran my hand over his flesh. Scaly, leather like, but rough leather, not like the collar I had him wear. So ticklish. He’s fun to play with. The collar was beautiful. I let him pick it out himself, polished red leather, shiny accents. About an inch thick and strong, not something a prophet could break out of. I got in his head, deep in his head, I controlled him, I told him who he was, what to do. What to tell people. I told him people were dying because of him and he begged. He begged me to stop but I didn’t, I told him to do more. Kill more people, prophet, I teased. A moan came from deep in his chest. Another. He heaved as I thrust my thoughts into him. As I pushed him back onto the bed, testicles squirming in my hand I whispered in his ear. He didn’t hear it, but he let out a deep breath. I blew in his ear, kissed his neck, ran my fingers down his chest moved them to his butt. Such a firm butt for a man that does so little. Such a lazy man, letting people die because he doesn’t want to stand up and stop it. I told him to turn over but he didn’t, he couldn’t. He was sobbing. Did I say something? He cried for all the people that died in his name. I told him to get up. Told him he could stop it because I knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t care. He doesn’t care. He’s not a loving man, he’s selfish, and what he wanted was my cock. He wanted pleasure, not to help people. He couldn’t even turn over for me to make it easier. So selfish. I grabbed his legs, pulled him to the edge of the bed. No lube today, CVS is closed. Spit it is. I juggled his balls in my hand as I went down on him. Feeling he was about to burst I stopped. I laughed as I took out my cock. What a small man, what a lazy man. Useless, just a fuck toy. A glorified fleshlight. All he had to do was get up and tell people to stop, but he knew I would leave him. To him, cock is more important than human life.

The red faced man raced around the house entirely on his tiptoes. His little snot of a neighbor would be arriving shortly for tea. Every moment the man expected to find some misplaced manifestation of his guilt. His thoughts liquefied into yellow grease dripping down the wall or broken toys randomly tossed onto the hardwood. As per usual his computer history had been thoroughly cleaned that morning. The page refreshed 20 times to ensure everything was gone. All of the devices he used during those times were strewn inconspicuously about his bedroom. He could feel his heart racing in his belly and his legs were trembling for what was to come. He wasn’t even sure if Mr. Lupus would ask. But there was always the possibility. “Oh yes”. A Cheshire smile stretched across his face. As long as there was the possibility none of them were truly safe. Like a cartoon character he took long tip toe strides to the front window. Hunched over he looked out onto the boulevard.   The brown dot of hair stood out clearly against the concrete. Her frame was sure to give way at any moment as she struggled to push her bicycle up Lupus’ long driveway. The red faced man has watched her many times this past year. She mostly blended in with the other children that lived amongst the hills. But recently the man had gotten rather close to the parents and that was enough. “She could be the first” his knees finally gave way and fell with a thump onto the carpet. The child was handling the death extremely well. Perhaps her kitten being run over by a Dodge Caravan prepared her. The man’s heart started as he saw the fat lard which is Lupus make his way down the driveway. Lupus soon reached the front door and thus came the tinkle of the doorbell. The man jumped down the stairs. After smoothing his hair and making an underwear check, he gently opened the door.   Mr. Lupus helped himself to biscuits as he recounted the state of affairs over at the grieving household. The death had come as an abrupt shock to all of them. As if walking to their bedroom at night and expecting one more stair than there was. And essentially, he explained, the flight would be too much on Amelia. And they needed someone to watch over her. As she would be all alone in that big house you see. The red faced man’s frame tilted ever so slightly, completely concealing the basement door from Lupus’ view. Even then, man could feel the slight twinge of regret. “Well I’ll have to check my calendar”.

It’s dark. Where am I? I try to feel around but its tight in here I.. I can’t… Hello? Hello!? I hear the feint sounds of “…may she rest in…” I freak the fuck out. Rest in what!? Hello!?? HEEELLOOOOO!!!! I feel like I’m kicking, punching, banging my head Heeeellloooooooo!!!!! I gasp for air amidst the smoke FFUUUCCCKKKK!! I cough up a lung LISTEN TO ME!! “I’ll miss you, Danny” YOU DON’T HAVE TO!! Just get me the fuck out of here! Silence. No one responds. I need to get out of here. I start thinking back to all my training and the only coffin move to be known. I stick my fingers out, touching the top of the coffin with my fingertips, close my hand and punch as hard as I can OUCH! What the fuck! It did not work. My skin feels like it’s cracking as flames begin to appear around me. I get some light though so at least there’s that. I look at my hand tossed on my chest. I try to move it towards my face but it doesn’t move. I can’t move my legs, my arms, my neck – I feel paralyzed. Now I understand why I wasn’t feeling pain. Anymore. “Billy! They coming to fix the incinerator tomorrow. That good?” I should have never asked to be cremated.

Last night, about 2:15 AM, I woke up and decided to make a sandwich. Just as I was putting the mustard back in the refrigerator a time traveler appeared next to me. Looking almost alien and augmented with technology, he was obviously from the future. He informed me that I had just created the best tasting sandwich of all time, past and future. As quickly as he arrived he disappeared into the fabric of time. I stared down at my creation, a thick layer of roast beef, lettuce, onion and freshly sliced tomatoes, the situation weighing heavily on me. A moment like this should be shared with humanity right? No, perhaps this sandwich was solely meant for me to enjoy, a benevolent gift from a higher power. Maybe the Universe simply wanted to experience the sandwich through me....the existential possibilities were endless. I sat down at the kitchen table. My mind raced, but my stomach growled, reminding me that I was still quite hungry, so I took a bite of my creation. Then I took another and another, until it was gone. I washed it all down with a small glass of cold milk. I waited a moment, half expecting a temporal disturbance or some great sign, but nothing happened. With my belly full, I was sleepy again. I sat my glass and plate in the sink and walked back to my bed. My eyes were heavy and though my mind was still curious, sleep found me a moment later.

“It’s a rotting dead piece of wood,” Mr. Brown spat, “what am I to do with this?” The boy cringed at the sight of the red faced, wrinkled and balding man. He took a small step back, remaining out of arms reach and attempting the look of a meek, little mouse. “It’s a present.” He said, softly, “from a Mr. Leon Porter. He said I had to bring it to you today.” “Well tell him I don’t have a need for it. Bring it back to him. I’m busy.” Mr. Brown handed the tree back to the boy. The tree was half the size of the boy and was actually a carved, wooden stump with wire branches. Green twine was wrapped around the branches and small, red ornaments were glued in random spots near the top. “I’m sorry, sir, I cannot return this to him,” the boy replied, “He’s dead.” The room was quiet for a moment, the old man seemed to be lost in a thought. After a few seconds he asked the boy, “Did Leon tell you why he needed you to bring this to me?” “No, well kind of,” said the boy. “Mr. Porter, he umm, had trouble thinking. He said, he told me that he needed to return a favor and that I had to help him. This tree. That’s all I know.” Mr. Brown sighed, sitting back into his chair. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but Leon was a friend a long time ago, but not anymore.” His face went from soft to stone. “Anyhow, just throw it out then.” “Alright,” replied the boy. He grabbed the tree and left. Having no use for it, the boy tossed the tree near an alley on his walk home. Shortly thereafter a young, well dressed couple enter the alley. “I don’t know why on earth women wear shoes like these. I’m literally dying from the pain.” The woman said. Her companion grinned slightly, rolling his eyes while the woman removed the shoes and tossed them, quite furiously, down the alley. As the shoes went over a pile a rubble there was a sound of shattering glass. “Now look what you’ve done,” the woman said, glaring at her partner while he just shrugged. She went to retrieve the shoes and noticed the stiletto point had punctured an ornament on a raggedy looking, fake Christmas tree. She picked up her shoe and noticed a folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom. Her partner walked over as she unfolded the paper and read it: _ Joe Brown, What we had meant nothing. You had a wife and I was a widow with a child. We were both stupid. Love, affection, it’s nothing. You proved that when you said those words, “I cannot love you.” Well I’m dying soon. The only memories I can hold on to now are these. That I lived, I loved, I was lied to, and I died, first inside and soon physically. And it was all you. All you. I’m so angry. In a different world I could tell you that I’m scared. I’m scared to leave this place not having found love. What if it’s only darkness past the white light unless you’ve found some sort of connection? What if you’ve doomed me to an eternity of non-existence or worse, forever feeling your absence. I’m scared. Please remember me now that I’m dead. Please. It’s all I have left. Yours forever, Leon _ Joe returned home that night, waiting a few minutes in the car to compose himself. He didn’t want to see his wife, didn’t want her to see into his heart and wonder why there was sorrow there. He had to go in sometime though, so he left his car and put on a fake smile. “Hello, honey,” he said, closing the front door behind him. The room seemed dark and there was no response. He sighed with relief, thinking she must have stayed late at work. He worked his way upstairs to the bed room. After removing his coat and hanging it on the rack, he sat on the bed. He loosened his tie and just thought for a few minutes. _ That tree. That night he first met Leon. He looked so cold sitting in the alley. Something deep inside Joe had been hit hard, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. He stopped the car and approached the man. “You look cold.” Joe said. “Eh, it’s not too bad. At least I have. . .“ The man didn’t finish, just stared into the sky as if in thought. “Well it’s not safe out here. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” _ They went to a nearby coffee shop to talk. That’s where Leon explained how he lost his wife. That he had never really loved a woman, but the pressure. Karen was special; she deserved more. So he told her. She got the kid, the car, the house, everything. It all spiraled out of control from there for Leon. In his depression he lost his job and his will to live. How could he start again at this age? There are no fresh starts for old men. Joe eventually put Leon up in an extended stay motel. He hid the whole thing from his wife because of the money and because good deeds are better kept a secret. _ On the following Christmas, Leon had no one. Joe snuck away the day before Christmas Eve. He told Leon this would be their day. They built a small Christmas tree together out of carved wood, wire, and some old ornaments. It was that night that Leon made a move on Joe and Joe had to explain. “I love you, Leon. I really do. But this is not something that can happen between us.” “Oh okay.” Leon replied. It seemed to be the end of that. _ But things got worse from there. Leon started following him to work sometimes, watching. Writing strange letters. There were some calls to the house with no one on the line, probably Leon. He even followed Joe and his wife out on a date. That was the last straw. When he went to meet Leon it went very strangely. Leon barely made any sense. He talked about destiny and angels. He said Joe was his soul mate, that they were to become one and change the world. He cautioned Joe about his wife, that she was a devil intent on destroying the plan. Joe did the best he could to end it right there. He told Leon he could no longer support him financially. He tried to convince him to seek help and offered to take him to a hospital. Leon declined and Joe left. _ Sitting on the bed all these memories warred in his mind. There was something about Leon that really broke Joe’s heart and to see his life spiral out like that, to see him fall into the grip of mental illness was completely heartbreaking. Joe began to sob uncontrollably into his pillow. Then there was a rustling sound and Joe looked up. His wife stood in the darkened hallway with a strange look on her face and a paper in her hand. “We need to talk, Joe.” Lydia said, throwing the paper down on Joe’s lap. Included was a picture of Joe and Leon together. Joe went from sorrow to shock. “What is this?” “You tell me!” she responded angrily. “Susan found this on her walk home. What the hell is it? What the hell is it, Joe!?” Joe picked up the letter and begun to read. His heart sank deeper with each word, tears falling down his face. “I can’t do this right now” he said, trying to convey everything with just the look in his eyes. “Please, give me some time. I promise I can explain all of this to you later.” They stared for a moment and she nodded. He took the car out on some back roads and parked. He reclined his seat and screamed and sobbed and had moments of complete silence and nothingness. Eventually he fell asleep. _ The next day he met with his wife in a secluded coffee shop. Joe explained for hours what had happened, confessing that he had been using money to help Leon. He explained the stalking and the delusions. After he was done he stared in her eyes for what seemed like forever. He could see her processing. And then, after eternity, her face softened and he could see trust return in her eyes. He could tell, just from that penetrating glare, that she also understood the depth of sorrow he felt for his friend. He felt a deepening respect from her towards him, it wrapped him like a warm blanket. He knew, though the road was tough, they would now be stronger for this.

I remember once I found out I had a mouse. Not like I owned it or anything. I just had one that came into my house at least once because I saw it. It was in the middle of the night, and I guess I should admit that it wasn't a house at all, it was an apartment. I want to be honest with you all about the whole situation. Anyway, so I woke up to this noise and looked over into my kitchen, that's how much of not a house this apartment was - I could look into my kitchen from my bedroom. Maybe this story is really more about how I didn't have a house. But really, I think it's about the mouse. And that wasn't in anyway intentional rhyming. Moving on, I looked over and I heard bags moving around. I keep all the bags from the grocery store to use as garbage bags. I'm frugal in that way. That and the part where I bought an apartment where you can see the kitchen from the bedroom. Once again, I lied, I did not buy the apartment, I rented it. Anyway, back to the mouse. So, I look over and see nothing, because the bags were in the cabinet under the sink, but I could hear the mouse. I got up and grabbed my clock radio as that was the nearest weapon. Then I started thinking about how I'd have to throw the clock radio out if I got mouse all over it and decided against that move. So, it was decided that I should use hairspray against the mouse. These decisions were made in the dead of night when a man has no time to think about weaponry or physics or common sense. I approached the cabinet. At this point your biggest worry is that it's not a mouse but a rat. Or not a rat but a cat. Because that would be really bad if you totally forgot you had a cat and then maced it with hairspray because you thought it was a mouse. I'm thinking that and nuclear war are up there on my list of fears. I opened the cabinet and it was just a little guy. He looked at me and then I looked at him and then I sprayed him with hair spray. The mouse paused and kindov gave me a look like "really? hairspray?" and then darted off. It's amazing how fast a mouse can run. I mean, it's like fast. Like if you saw a guy running down the street and then a guy running passed him, it would be like that fast. The next day I went out and bought some poison. I didn't want to kill the mouse, but I wanted him to think that I served bad food. That way, he wouldn't come back. So, I just kinda put out only a little poison. The mouse ate all of it. This went on for three days. Finally, I told the apartment manager and they got a guy to come in and put out poison for me. This was good because I didn't want to be the guy that killed the mouse. I'm a coward in that sense. Also, I'm frugal. You'd be surprised how many cowards are frugal. There's like three of us. Not many. I know when you say "You'd be surprised how many..." you think it's going to be a butt ton of things, but no, in this instance it's three guys. So, the guy came and I came home from work and called him. "Did you see it?" "Yes. We put down glue traps and we caught it." "Glue traps? You didn't poison it?" "No, we use glue traps." "Did you catch any glue?" At this point I was being funny. I thought he would find it funny that I didn't understand glue traps. But I did. I was just being funny. "I don't understand." He didn't understand. "So, it's dead?" "Yes." "God." I put the phone against my chest and kinda got weepy. I then picked up the phone and "How was its hair?" "I don't understand?" I ignored him. "So, are the mice gone?" "I don't know, sir. There are more traps left. Please check them daily. Also, it would be wise to clean your apartment a bit." The two ideas hit me like a frugal coward: I had to look for dead mouse bodies every morning and I was a filthy animal. Oh, plus I was condoning the torture of mice. "Can't you do that?" "We will be back in a week. You have crumbs in your kitchen. You need to sweep your kitchen. If there's no food for the mice they will not come into your home." "It's an apartment." "Bye now." He hung up and I realized I had to become a man. The next morning there were mouse bodies. But they weren't dead. They were running from me as I brandished a bottle of Pam at them. I saw two. I then checked the traps and found no dead bodies. I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. I decided to leave the apartment. I made plans to go skiing and leave the mice to their own demise. While on the ski trip I began wondering what the mice were doing? What were they thinking? Were they dead? Were they wondering where I was? Did they have a name for me? Slowly, I began to love the mice and when this dawned on me I fled home to find them. But on returning they were all gone. Not dead. No, they had left. With no food and torture devices laying around the house...apartment, they had quickly surmised that I was not their friend. Sure, there was that night with the hairspray and the running after them with cooking spray - those were some good times, but in the end I had ruined it with my selfishness. I simply could not learn to share with the mice and so they left. I wasn't the same after that. I was still a frugal coward living in an apartment, but something inside me was broken. Something vital. It was my arm. I had broken it skiing and forgot to mention it in that part in the story when I was on the skiing vacation and all of a sudden left. Later, I would buy a dog and dress it up like a mouse and really wreck the dog's self esteem and the dog would become a dog serial killer, but that is another story. A story where a dog dresses up as a mouse and kills other dogs for sport. I call it Benji. But that story is for another time.

I first saw him out the window, getting out of his car. He wore vibrant colors: A bright red sports jacket, bright green pants, and a bright purple hat. He had a pencil mustache, and looked too old to be looking as he looked. He walked up to my door and knocked. I looked through the keyhole just to see his eye looking through his end of the hole, right back at me. I opened the door. "Well howdy partner!" He said in a terrible imitation of a southern man. "How can I help you?" "Well, I heard you're an interesting guy to talk with." "From who?" "Well, from everyone around the block!" "I'm not sure what they're talking about, so I guess I'm going to have to--" He walked right in, gently shoving me aside. He walked up to one of my paintings, something I had painted a couple years back. It was of a naked man holding a cat, which covered up his genitals. The critics loved it and made all sorts of claims of what the whole thing was about, and they couldn't seem to agree on a single thing that the painting was about. A lot of people asked me about it, but I never had any answers: I didn't know what the damn thing was about either. "Well, this is interesting." He paused for a minute, "So, the cat is the man's coping system for the world, in this case it is most likely depression or schizophrenia, and without it he would be completely naked?" This struck me. I almost told him he was right, but then he walked over to the kitchen table, picked up a knife, and chopped his fingers off. Then, he ran over to the painting and waved his arm around, splattering blood onto it. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1, but when I looked up after dialing it I saw that he was running toward me. He tackled me and started beating me with his good hand as his other dripped blood onto my face and into my nose and mouth. Then, he dragged me by the collar over to my backyard and dumped me into my pool. He jumped in and pushed me down. I gasped for air, but only sucked in his bloody water.

Benji wasn’t like other dogs…oh, no…he wasn’t like other dogs. “Owner thought he was a mouse!” Benji, like a lot of dogs, had an owner. He’d dress ole Benji up like a mouse. “That dog killed my Chloe!” Dog got a bit…meeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnn….Boy, I’ll tell ya. “That dog makes Hilter look like a pitbull!” That dog was a shame. Benji the dog was not right. The owner got weird and dressed him up like a mouse. There’s nothing right about a dog that thinks it’s a mouse. There he’d be out on the lawn of your house. Dressed in fur and cheese and looking like a mouse. “But how does that fuck a dog up?” That can fuck a dog up good. You know that dog out on 42nd? “That dog all full of fleas? That dog that just goes for the knees?” Yeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh. That dog. “Benji was one of them?” Benji is one of these. See, you mess with an identity and you get a dog that just ain’t right. Ole Benji he was a fright. He’d go across town and kill a spaniel or a shepard, it didn’t matter, coulda been a leopard. “You saying that dog’s a killer?” I’m saying Benji went Old Yeller. “There ain’t no serial killin’ dogs!” You seen Lassie, Daisy, Shep, or Bo? They’re all laying out in the meadow, so the answer is “No! We got stop that ole Benji!” Dog thinks it’s a mouse, it don’t know if it’s swinging Lassie or Mickey. “We gotta hunt that dog down!” Be my guest, he’s around town. Some say in your home. Maybe you want to think a bit before you leave yourself alone.

(This is one of the beginnings of a story I've written in my spare time. It's intended to be funny and is somewhat inappropriate for certain readers. Since I don't really use reddit much, I'd also like to know if there is a better subreddit for a story like this. In adittion, the story is unfinished and barely started. This is my style of writing and if anyone wants I can try to write more or submit some of the other stories I began to write and didn't really do much after) PART 1 Why hello there dear friends and beloved acquaintances. We find ourselves immersed in the deepest Ebola-stricken jungles of the South African Amazon Rainforest. Under the fifty shades of grey of many a fern and palm tree, lays a small rock. The rock doth gently lay and gently lay it does as though it hath been frozen in the coma of time for centuries past. A small echidna, native to these parts of the forest trots near the pebble-like figure and sluggishly places its anterior on top of the rock in silence and leans on it in the most suggestive of suggestive stances. Accelerating swiftly it humps the rock with powerful might and pummels his front-facing nether regions against it. The spikey creature ejects its fluids onto the rock and waddles away, praying to god nobody has seen it commit such atrocities. Needless to say, the rock agonisingly bore this punishment as it now continues its eternal struggle of stillness in this ‘moist’ and temperate environment. Simultaneous to this event was the occurrence of one of the other most fascinating events in the history of mankind; the birth of Irl. Irl? Irl isn’t a name for fucksake. People please give your children proper names so they don’t end up like the protagonist of our story. Like fucking seriously just don’t give them these scrub names. Of course being called Irl gave me – I mean – fak… Ok fine. My name is Irl. Laugh all you fucking want because after I tell you my life story you will laugh no more.

*** There were about 15 stories between me and the concrete sidewalk, with nothing but a layer of air between the two solids. Occasionally you'd have a few heads that would stick up closer, but only just, and they were far and few between on such a slow Sunday morning. The weather was beautiful, but with it being a weekend, not many were headed to work. The streets were empty, and it was serene. For the first time in years I finally felt relaxed. My legs were dangling over the edge of the building, my hands resting on the ledge, leaning back and soaking up the sun. I wanted to enjoy my last few moments, and I couldn't have taken a better day. After decades of fighting with myself, I had finally over-ruled my previous decision to live, and take the route I always intended. I was going to kill myself. 30 years ago I had tried for the first time and very nearly succeeded. I was working and spent half of my shift preparing to kill myself at home, a few hours later. The pain became unbearable, and I instead decided to move the schedule up and just kill myself at work. I was going to be dead, what did I care where the mess was or who had to clean the mess up? While this was a great theory, working in a desolate building with no one in it on the weekends, it didn't due to one factor. The building wasn't empty. There was one person in an office that I was unaware of, and he walked by at just the moment I tried. I had filled a basin and was drowning myself, and he hauled me out of the water. 911 was called, an Ambulance brought me to a hospital, which discharged me almost immediately for being perfectly fine. Neither the Hospital nor my work knew that it was a suicide attempt, both assuming it was an accident. When I told my best friend about it, he lost his mind. I caused him a lot of stress and heart ache, and I understood why, but he couldn't see it from my perspective. He kept saying that he couldn't understand how I felt, yet immediately followed it up with a request to not kill myself based on something from his perspective. Apples and oranges. It's impossible to explain it to him, because he doesn't feel the way I do. He doesn't feel the overwhelming, agonizing grief that I felt just existing and I'm glad that he didn't. I wish though, that just for a moment, he could feel how I feel and finally clue in to why I wanted to die. I spend each waking moment fighting for control over my own mind, fighting to sustain who I am as a person, and dealing with the internal conflict of trying to piece together exactly who I actually am. Having done it for my entire life, I couldn't do it anymore. Then came the moment. The moment when he asked me to live. The moment when he made me promise to live. The pain I felt was immeasurable, but so was the love that I have for him, so I went with his position instead of my own. I lived for no other reason than he asked me to, and I think he realized that. The next few months were rocky, to say the very least, but he stood by me. I didn't have any energy to do anything, I quit my job, and I was homeless and keeping it from him. When he found out that I was actually breaking into somewhere I used to work to sleep indoors at night, he dragged me into his house and put me on his couch. He fed me, he kept me warm, and he was there for me. Yet throughout all of this, I never felt any different. The past 30 years have only gone by simply because of that promise, and if he had never found out about my attempt and I had the chance to try it before he did, I would have without even a second thought. The pressure was on him, and he made it aware that he was uncomfortable with it, but what else could I do? He really was the only reason I was alive and although I tried to find more reasons to live, I never could. It was always him and only ever him. But he's dead now. My best friend passed away last night when he was struck by a drunk driver, coming back from a date. The lucky lady got away with not so much as a scratch, but Josh was considerably less lucky. Internal damages were too numerous to count or repair, and essentially all the Doctors were doing was emergency triage to extend his life by a few more hours so he could say goodbye. His mother called me, crying, and told me to go to the hospital. I feared the worst, but hoped for much better. After all, I was always a pessimist and things never did seem to go as badly as I thought, but today was different. My fears were realized the second I saw his broken body laying on a bed, tubes invading his body, and a strange look of pain and peace across his face. His mother was reluctant to leave the room but did at his persistence. I can understand wanting to be there for your son in his last moments, but I don't think he wanted to do that to her. He knew I could handle it however, and wanted me to be there for him in his final moments. So we talked. At first it was small talk, him mentioning some local sports results and making some weak puns. I laughed, as I always do, but it didn't have the same ring to it. “I'm going to die you know.” He said, his hand holding mine. I wasn't sure who was gripping harder anymore though, me clasping his to give him strength in his last time on this planet, or him for trying to pass his boundless strength onto me. I didn't answer him, but my reaction was enough. A hard gulp, a steely squeeze, and the draining of color in the face. I knew it, but up until now I didn't want to believe it. Josh always knew better than me though, and as much as I wished he would be wrong now, he wouldn't be. “Are you going to keep living for me?” My eyes watered, up until now being surprisingly dry, and my hand lost some of it's firmness. “I want you to.” I thought about it, and he didn't say anything in the mean time. I could tell that he was fading, but he was still holding on for me. Holding to help me. “I can't Josh.” My voice had lost it's resonating rumble and came out as a raspy squeak. I didn't want to defy him, but did he expect me to live without him when he was the only reason I was alive? Surprisingly, he nodded. “I understand.” If I wasn't already incapable of speaking then this would have definitely knocked the wind from my sails. “I've spent the past 30 years with you. You went from sleeping on my sofa to your own apartment. You dated others, but never settled down. You kept trying to find happiness, and I know you failed.” His words were true, but it didn't matter. They still stung. “For the first year, I knew you would get better. And as new yearly calendars were bought, it dawned on me that you wouldn't. So, why are you still alive?” The question was unexpected, but the answer didn't take long to form in my head. The instant response was “You forced me to.” The words that passed my lips were “You asked me to.” The pain from the answer was hidden, but not well enough. I saw the twinge of sadness, the pulling down on the corners of his mouth. He was hopped up on morphine but apparently it didn't do anything to dull emotional grief. “I asked you to stay alive because I was selfish.” Again, another couple of words that were more shocking than anything he had ever said. “I've known you through highs and lows in your life, and after every day that I thought that you had reached your rock bottom, you started digging. Each day I saw you soldier on through all of your agony, and push it aside. You never complained, you never blamed me, you internalized it and tried your best to deal with what you had. You lived because I asked you to.” Tears were streaming down my face, my hand gripping harder, and in clasping harder I could feel him fading and his hold slipping away. His eyes were losing everything that made him who he was, and I became painfully aware of how little time we had left. “That was unfair of me, Joey. Had I known that you would be 58 years old and unable to find any reason to live beyond myself, I never would have asked you to do this. It was unfair, extremely so, and I know no apology can make up for the misery I have caused you. I know you hate me for what I did, you spoke a lot in your sleep while staying with me, but I genuinely believed it was for the better. It's only now that I realize how selfish and stupid I was. I hurt you, someone I love, because I didn't want to miss you. I didn't want to wake up in the morning and know that you were gone, and I didn't want to have to hear your name only to be clearly aware that you had left me. I love you Joey, and I have only ever wanted the best for you, but I fucked up. Can you forgive me?” I did hate him. I had always loved him, and I still do, but from the moment he prevented me from killing myself again, there was a hate for him that burned inside of me. However, there was nothing on Heaven or Earth that could prevent me from forgiving my best friend. The words “Of course, you fucking idiot” came out as a garbled, sobbing mess, but he understood it. If he didn't, he understood the sudden burst of energy from someone who shuffled along as I kicked my chair back and wrapped my arms him and sobbed into his neck. His arms wrapped around my back, his fingers grasping now weakly at the fabric of my shirt. I kept repeating “I love you” over and over, and so did he. Then his hands slipped and fell, and he didn't say it anymore. My sobbing intensified, teardrops landing on his back and being absorbed by the gown. His skin started to feel cold, and clammy, but I didn't want to pull back. I couldn't see his face without the life in it that I had loved. It was a nurse who entered the room and was watching the entire ordeal who pulled me away from him. From what she told me later I was there for an hour and they needed to move his body to the morgue. I fought her, shoving her away and grabbing him again. It took 5 security guards to restrain me and 2 nurses to administer a sedative. I didn't go to his funeral, actually it was being held right now. While I was swinging my feet over emptiness, the only person I've ever loved was being lowered 6 feet, in a cedar box, into cold, damp dirt. I had always wanted to be cremated, but I changed my will yesterday. I even bought the plot next to Josh in the cemetery. I know I should feel guilty for not being there. His mother asked me to deliver the eulogy, but I knew that couldn't happen. I'd just be an inconsolable wreck. She had called me a couple of times in the past few minutes, but I just let them go to voicemail. I didn't need someone else making me promise something that I didn't want to do. The decision to slip off the edge was made easily, and the action effortless. The fall felt like it took hours, but I knew it was only seconds. His face was the last thing that I saw in my mind before it all went dark. Yet somehow, it was the first face I saw when the lights came back on. I became acutely aware of the fact that I was having conscious thought, and I expected to see concrete a few feet away when I opened my eyes but instead I saw Josh. 30 years younger, but his face looked as creased as it did when he was 60. His hand was holding mine, squeezing tightly, and the look of relief that swept across his face when I woke up was unmistakable. “Heaven?” I asked, my voice still sounding raspy. He looked confused, then to someone at the foot of my bed. I turned my head to see a Doctor holding a clipboard. “Common occurrence Mr. Cooper, nothing to be worried about.” I rolled my head towards him again, and as I saw his face again it started to flood back. The suicide attempt when I tried to drown myself. The 911 call. The ambulance. Most importantly, the phone call to my best friend. How could I forget about that in such an important moment in my life. Then it dawned on me that Josh's last name wasn't Cooper, it was Archer. But wait, no, it was Cooper. Or was it Archer? Something must have looked amiss because the Doctor spoke up. “Joey, you're in the hospital. Do you remember why you're here?” I nodded. “I nearly drowned.” The Doctor reflected my nod and added “You tried to kill yourself. Do you remember that?” Again, I nodded. “Do you remember agreeing to an experimental drug to help with depression in an emergency?” I started to shake my head no before it started to click into place, and changed it into a slow nod. “There have been side-effects of this particular medication, some have reported time loss, memory black outs, and false memories. They all seem to right themselves within an hour, but the initial confusion can be overwhelming. Do you understand?” I nodded one more time, before asking something. “Can I have a moment alone with Josh?” “Of course.” He said, as he turned to leave. After he closed the door behind him, I looked back to Josh and waited for him to say something. “Why did you try to kill yourself?” It was a cutting question, but one that I had at least already answered for him before. “It doesn't matter Josh.” His face grew angry, brows furrowing. “Of course it fucking matters. You tried to end your own life, that's kind of an important thing to do. And even if it doesn't matter to the rest of the world, it matters to me.” The conflicts between my memories had started to untangle and relax. I could tell what was a dream and what was a real memory. I knew everything after my suicide attempt was fake. It had to have been with me laying in this bed for that sole reason. The past 3 decades have been nothing but a hallucination, but one that had prepared me. After the disappointment of dying twice only to come back to life, I couldn't go on to live again.

"Oh, The Great Gatsby? That's a good one, a classic actually." John said. "Oh yes I'm very excited to read it, especially after the movie." The polite customer responded. "Oh, well if you like the movie I'm doubt you'll like the book a whole lot. In my opinion the movie didn't do the book justice." "Well, nevertheless, I've heard its a great book and I'm excited to read it." "Yes, well I know I lot about it. F. Scott Fitzgerald was actually my Grandfather's older brother." "You're related to F. Scott Fitzgerald?!" "I sure am. I get that response a lot, and sometimes people ask me why I don't write myself. Well, I think that there's been enough writing in the family already." "That is just incredible, absolutely incredible." Of course, John was not actually related to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Really, his family did not have any interesting ties. He hired professional researchers, went on websites, made his own family trees, but found nothing interesting in his family history. He didn't have anything interesting about himself, either. He was just a fifty-year-old clerk at a bookstore. "Ah, The Narrative of Frederick Douglass, a must read." "Yes, I read it in High School but I think I can just gain so much more from it now." "I'm sure you can, it's filled with rich details. My great, great, great, great Grandfather actually owned a slave plantation near the one Douglass worked, and almost bought Douglass. Now wait, I see that look on your face, so let me continue." John had dug himself into a hole, and did not know where he was going to continue on to, so he did what he did best: Dig deeper, "After the book was published, he read it immediately. He had always treated his slaves well, almost like family, but after reading the book he could not be associated with the institution any longer, so he took all of his slaves and ran up north. Then, he joined the underground railroad, and was vital to helping slaves escape, as he knew the landscape and the institution so well. He later joined the Union and became a prominent figure in the war." "Oh wow! And you're related to him?" "My great, great, great Grandfather." "That's amazing. What was his name?" John had not prepared for this, but was ready to dig deeper still. "His name was Cornelius Vanderbilt." "Cornelius Vanderbilt. I'll have to look him up when I get home, he's got to be famous." John realized he had just named the famous railroad owner, "No, no he kept a low radar. It's just a story that has been passed down generations." "Ah, well it's still neat. Maybe I'll look him up when I get home anyway." "Well the problem is that you might come across a Cornelius Vanderbilt of the same name, a man who owned railroads. Don't get the two mixed up!" "I'll be sure not to. Bye now." John was good at tying up the loose ends of his lies. He had told some of the most ridiculous lies ever spoken and made them believable. He even told a customer that he himself had saved thousands of lives while working in a medical research center when he discovered a new way to treat cancer, and, after that, he felt his work was finished there and got a job in a bookstore. "Hm! Into Thin Air! A great one, very exciting." "Yes, I just can't believe that some people are willing to climb a mountain so high with no backup plan. I mean, you can't just get a helicopter to pick you up when you're up there. If something goes wrong and you have to get down, you're on your own." "Believe me, I know all about it. I once climbed Everest." He actually did try to climb Everest once. After his parents died (They both lived well into their nineties) he received inheritance, and used it to travel to Nepal. He travelled beneath Mount Everest, looked up at the peak, and knew he would die if he tried to climb it. So, he returned to his job at the bookstore.

He was so young. So full of life. So talkative. So hyper. SO FUCKING ANNOYING! He would constantly talk about his abusive childhood, his sexuality, and just fucking random shit. I had to deal with him for two days. I had to share a room with him. He would cry during the night because of his "chronic nightmares". Everybody thought he was annoying, so I decided that I would do both society and people a favor. During the night, while he was sleeping, I grabbed him by the hair and jerked him out of the bed. Before he could scream, I shoved a pillowslip into his mouth, so no one could here the dirty deed I was about to commit. I grabbed my duffel bag full of my "tools". I dragged him down the stairs, taking his muffled screams and using them for my strength. I went out the back door of the hotel we were staying and took him behind the building. There was a door to an old bomb shelter used during wartime. This would be the perfect place for my bomb to go off. I threw him onto the floor and removed the pillowslip. I shouted "GO AHEAD! SCREAM! SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR FUCKING LUNGS! NOBODY CAN HEAR YOU DOWN HERE!!" I put the duffel bag on the floor and unpacked the contents. I first pulled out a hammer. I walked over to him and smashed it into his leg. He screamed loud, but even louder when I smashed his foot. I could hear the bones crunching under the metal head. It was...entertaining. I next pulled out a pipe from a sink. I made sure it was from a sink because he had a "certain history" with sinks(his father tried to drown him in one). I smashed his arm, watching as his arm twitched and then became limp. I could tell he was wearing out his vocal cords, by the raspy screams coming from his mouth. So, I decided to grab the knife and finish them off. I cut circular around his neck, making sure to hit the vital arteries. He wasn't screaming, but more like gurgling. He didn't have much time left, so I pulled out my last tool. A picture of his father. He had a love-hate relationship with his father. I wanted him to be the last thing he saw before the last breath of life escaped his lips. I put it to his face and screamed "YOUR DAD GOT WHAT HE WANTED! EVERYBODY GOT WHAT THEY WANTED! DO YOU THINK YOU'RE SPECIAL BECAUSE YOU WERE ABUSED?! GO TO HELL, CHATTY CATHY!" In that moment, his chest rose, but then descended one final time. He was dead. I looked at my creation. I had murdered someone. In cold blood. I made fun of him for his horrible past. I probably made him want to die. As all of this started to come to mind, I noticed I wasn't crying. I wasn't sad. I wasn't even sorry. I was....happy and satisfied.

"My wife and I arrived in Florence a couple years ago, and left just last january(well, only I left). Her mother even joined us for a short amount of time, without her husband of course. See, her parents had separated a while ago, and her father remarried, while her mother did not. So, as could be guessed, her mother took every opportunity she had to be with us, especially if it meant an 'adventure'. She was a lot like my dad really, who was dying alone after his marriage failed. My dad had asked to come to Florence with us, but I promptly told him no, as this was just a work trip. He asked if he could come visit some time, and I reluctantly said yes, as I could probably find some off time. As for my mother, she was out of the picture, living up in Michigan in a lake house with her new husband. "But anyway, after a week in Florence, my father came. He did not warn us he was coming, instead calling from a cafe in Florence, asking where our cottage was. We gave him directions, and he showed up. He slept on the couch while my wife's mother slept on the bed in the guest room. After a week, we tried to get rid of them both, but they would not go. After another week, my father was sleeping in my wife's mother's bed. "As the next few months passed, I grew to be suspicious of my wife's behavior. She had been going on a frankly unnecessary amount of walks. I mean, look, walks are great. They get your heart pounding, your sweat dripping(if it's hot), and really just elevate your mood. But enough is enough, and there's no way someone can not get sick of taking that many walks, so one day, I followed her. She led me to a cafe, where she sat down with some man with a thin mustache and wavy, slicked back black hair. I sat there as they ate, and then followed them up to the guys apartment. Someone let me in, and then I took the stairs as they took the elevator. At each floor, I got off the stairs to look if they were getting off, and, when I saw that they were not, ran up another flight of stairs. Finally I saw them get off on the fifth floor, and I waited until they turned a corner to step out into the hallway. Then, I watched from a corner as they went into an room. I ran over to the room quickly and, before the door shut, placed a pencil between the door and the doorway so it would not close. Then, I waited five minutes and listened to their exciting small talk. Once I heard them get on the bed, I opened the door and stepped in. They were both naked on the bed. I started screaming. The man seemed frozen, and my wife was very scared. Well, at first she was very scared. Then, she realized the best defense would be to get irrationally angry at me, and she picked up her shoe and started beating me with it. The man got up and separated us, getting closer to me that I would like a naked man to. I left, went back to the cottage, packed up her things and put them outside, told my dad and her mom about what happened, told her mom to take her home, and I never saw my wife or my wife's mother again. Well, I probably will see them at the divorce hearing. But, anyway, my dad left with my mother's wife and I was left all alone. "My work really began after they left, and all love was out of my life. I discovered many ancient relics and sites, but the most important discovery of my life came at the end of my time there. I dug up a burial site, and the first two skeletons I found were a husband and his wife, holding hands, dead for thousands of years.

#Author's note So I don't write often, but I'm going to make an effort. I strive for improvement, so please critique and be brutal. Wasn't completely sure what to tag it as, but since it is about an unwanted crush, figured it should be romance. #Story I scribble my notes furiously, page only inches away from my face. Darting eyes, rapidly moving from notebook page to textbook page. I was always good at speed-reading, and I only need to skim these notes anyways. The professor was passionately trying to brainwash another political stance into the students, desperately wanting to find purpose. Any purpose. I didn't look up. Looking up would mean looking at the speaker, at the teacher. Looking towards the teacher would mean looking up and to the left Looking up and to the left would put *him* in my line of sight. With his stupid hair, like ripples of molten chocolate. I could hear his shitty punk-rock music from here, playing it in a classroom. Tie-dye shirt and his Bob Marley attire, probably a pot head. Doesn't even play Bob Marley. But his smooth skin and that cute nose, smile lines visible as he smirked at something. Sharp inhale, like right before a sneeze, I snap my head back down to my notes. Scribbling as fast as I could. Focusing intently at the task at hand. I glance right, and see the man next to me began to put his books away. I finish my sentence and start throwing my book into the my bag. Snatching my headphones, I start blasting music. Riptide, skip. Immortals, skip. Take ü, skip. Basket case. I turn up the volume until I can't think. I grab my pack by the straps and run out of the classroom. Sharp right, to the main entrance. Leaving I see long, chocolate brown hair. 180^0 turn. I left my coat on my chair. With my coat on, I crawl out of the room, turn left to the stairs and head for home.

I think the new season of 24 was all right, but I almost wish they didn’t bring it back. I don’t understand why they only did twelve episodes this time, and I think some of the parts of this new season were corny. They should have pressed harder, it should have been less apologetic. Anyway, I’m gonna turn off the tv now. I always watch an episode of something before I go to sleep. It relaxes me and I hate going to sleep tense. I also always grab a snack before I go to sleep. Food usually makes me more tired. I don’t have a whole lot of energy though, so I’ll just make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Those never disappoint, and strangely I never get sick of them. By the way, I have my headphones in. I’m listening to some reggae. I like listening to music that lets me daydream. A lot of times, I dream that I’m performing the song myself, or I daydream about something else. Maybe I’m joining the army and—-it doesn’t matter. Its just a nice soundtrack for my thoughts. I go upstairs after I eat and put the toothpaste on my toothbrush. It still has my name on it, Bill, from last weekend when I stayed at my cousins house. I didn’t even use it there, just drank all day and passed out at night. I’m gonna go to sleep now. I wonder what I’ll dream about. Hopefully something nice, maybe something colorful—-what is a dream anyway?—-doesn’t matter, that thought is too heavy to have before I go to sleep. His name is Bill. He cut me off in traffic a couple months ago. I’ve been following him since, learning his living patterns, observing when he falls asleep. Tonight, tonight is the night I finish that bitch, the night I slide a knife across his throat. I see his lights turn off. I have a replica of his key, so I slide it into his front door and turn it. I tiptoe in, smell the air. Slob. I slide through his apartment and into his room. He’s fast asleep. I get on my hands and knees to make less noise. I crawl over to his side. I stand back up. I take my knife out.

William’s Eventful Smoke Up “All I’m saying is that once you start to purchase based on advertisements that randomly flash in your face, unavoidable, you start to buy into slavery.” Hugh ended this sentence as if there was more to it he hadn’t said. The smoke drifting off the joint filled the silence that followed. “Hey man, pass…” I put my hand out. Hugh stared blankly into space, frowning as if confused about something” “HUGH” I was getting impatient. “Shit, yeah, sorry.” He passed the joint “All I’m saying is” He continued “It’s not like you wouldn’t go into those shops the advertisements are advertising anyway.” “You are now just arguing against your own point. With harsh logic, surprisingly. You’re fucking crazy. Think before you speak.” I toked casually, leaning my head back and squinted at the ceiling. Hugh muttered about me being the crazy one in return under his breath. “You think Ollie will show?” I faintly asked. The smoke was filling the room. I continued to stare at the ceiling, suddenly intrigued by how ceilings offer great protection, but deadly confinement. “You know Ollie. He either comes or he doesn’t” Hugh said this with as much confidence to match the sentence’s stupidity. “That’s ridiculous and you know it” Conversation continued loosely, and time passed in a blur. The blur faded into buzzing as I regained consciousness to the sound of the bell on my 1 bedroom apartment ringing. “That’d be Ollie.” I got up and headed to the door. I looked through the keyhole and saw no one. “Hello?” I said for lack of a better of question. “YO MAN IT’S OLLIE OPEN UP” Ollie’s exaggerated fake white-ghetto kid’s voice boomed back at me through the thick door. “Opening up now.” I unlocked the three locks on my door (I’ve always been a bitch for security add campaigns) and slowly turned the handle to irritate Ollie as much as possible with such a simple task. As I turned the handle slowly I heard a weird unidentifiable noise from the other side of the door. FUCKING SHIT FUCK! The handle blows off and a large hideously grotesque creature oozes into the house through the door frame, flexible, yet firm. “Were is the Gluknarss, William the human shitpea!” “What in the holy shit. What the fuck is going on? This can’t be real. I-I-I’m losing my shit here.” The warmness of urine wetting my thighs is an almost welcomingly familiar feeling compared to monstrosity that stood before me. “I do NOT have time for such cock talk. THE GLUKNARSS! SPEAK ITS LOCATION” The thing bellowed from a gapping mouth full of purple-stained teeth. I heard a whimpering beside me a few feet away. I looked and saw Hugh. He was standing in his jeans only, shirtless, holding his shirt to his face and crying. “William I don’t want to die” He croaked. Barely audible over the bubbling sounds coming from the place that could most easily be described as a torso. The creature began to get visibly frustrated. The bubbling sound intensified and a gurgle raised from his throat. “ENNNOUUUGH” A tentacle shot out of his torso and grabbed Hugh by the leg. “Oh holy Jesus no” He cried. The creature hummed as he slowly dragged Hugh towards him. I fell back, not knowing what to do except unwillingly add brown to the recipe in my underwear. I backed up quickly to the wall, using my feel as air-flippers to shuffle me back. Hugh reached his destination. The process that followed can only be described as assimilation. Hugh screamed violently as his body was sucked into the torso, bones shattering as he was shaped by the creature to form with him. The process was brutal, and gradual. I watched in horror as I saw Hugh’s blood seeping outwards into the rest of the creature’s torso, the colour slowly draining as it seemingly absorbed every bit that used to make up my friend. I was horrified. My mouth was literally open in shock. “THIS will suffice for now. But be warned William-cocktease-human, the Gluknarss will be mine!” He started to laugh, I think, manically. The sound could hardly be described as a laugh, sounding more like jelly in a blender, but describe emotion successfully. Under this noise I heard a moaning. I looked closer and saw the twisted and metamorphic face of Hugh. Features contorted and twisted. He began to try and scream, but whatever was left of his vocal chords in that twisted mess was not strong enough to facilitate this need. “It…hurts so…much..will…ieam” He moaned. “Oh holy shit man, oh my fucking god Hugh I don’t kno-“ I began. He cut me off “I want to die. Kill me. I-“ The creature grunted, shifting his face towards Hugh’s location on his body. His torso tensed. Hugh’s face squished into a look of utmost agony as he was slowly sucked completely into the creature. He was gone. All that remained of him now in my house was his bong and a shirt, wet from his tears. “I speak no more. Remember my name, human”. He slowly left. I instantly threw up and shit more. That was some seriously fucked up shit to go through. A whole lot of therapy was had, and allegations of murder were thrown around after. Typical. But I swear to shit, he never told me his name. That kind of bugs me, you know. To do all that, tell me not to forget him, and to forget to actually say what his actual name was. Fucking loose ends.

Laura got into a Robo-Taxi 5000. There was some light rain that would've soaked through her outfit, and in any case, she didn't feel like walking. Her friends were still at the club and Brian was starting to piss her off. “Please enter your destination,” chimed Robo-Taxi 5000 with its automatic pleasantry. She keyed in “ 45 CHESTNUT AVENUE” and held up her phone to transfer the necessary credits. “Would you like to listen to SMOOTH JAZZ, CLASSICAL or CONTEMPORARY?” Laura stuck with smooth jazz and sunk back into her seat. It was spongy and comfortable. “Please fasten your seatbelt,” Robo-Taxi 5000 advised, not out of genuine concern for Laura's safety, but because it was programmed to tell her. She clipped on her seatbelt and the machine began to whirr peacefully along the railing. She could've paid extra for the faster 6000 model, but she wasn't in any rush to get home. All that was waiting for her was a leftover pasta bake and a crushing realisation that she would have to be up for work in six hours. Laura started biting her nails. Being a legal aide sounded like glamorous work, but she was more of a dogsbody than anything. Laura found that she spent a good deal of the day making cups of tea. A lot of tea. She toyed with the idea of going back to college. She thought of buying a cat. She remembered how her Dad used to take her to the park. That got her to thinking about his funeral. She decided she wouldn't drink white wine any more, because it was giving her a headache. She realised she hated smooth jazz. Laura leaned over to the keypad to search for something else to listen to. She hovered over the “most played” section, which was a jumbled mess featuring everything from Massive Attack to Status Quo; but one option caught her eye. It just said “Taxi Driver”. She was unsure if this was a band, or if it was some strange new setting. The last time she'd been in a taxi with a driver, she was about ten years old. She decided to press it. “Alright darlin?” came a voice from the speakers. “Err...hello?” replied Laura. “You're askin for it a bit wearing that, are you not?” This was really weird. Laura couldn't work out if there was a camera in the taxi, and was even more confused by the fact that the machine possessed conversational ability. “A skirt that short,” the gruff A.I. continued, “and you can't really blame a man for what he does.” She looked into an orb sticking out of the roof of the Robo-Taxi. Was this how it could see she was wearing a short skirt? “I'm not saying it to be horrible, but remember the town is full of fucking Romanians. They're notorious rapists. And the Pakis? They roam around in gangs of ten raping white women. They'd rape you just out of sheer badness.” Laura shifted in her seat and coughed quietly. “That's right, coming over here, taking all the jobs. There's usually about ten of them in a two-bedroom flat, and the social gives them all the flats of course. Bloody darky-loving politicians. Can't fucking trust any of them, I'll tell you that.” “Yeah...” added Laura. “Rivers of fucking blood sweetheart, I'm telling you.” Laura stared out of the window, trying to ignore the machine's tirade. “Jews in suits. That's who controls the money. It's been that way for centuries, I'm fucking telling you. You don't have to say anything. I'm just a hard-working guy who tells it like it is.” Laura nodded politely. The journey now seemed to be taking forever. She couldn't believe she had to sit here while this taxi driver used her as a soundboard for his despicable bigoted views. On top of the wine headache, she was now flustered and uncomfortable. “Had a fucking Polish guy in earlier. They're fine when they're doing your grouting, but I wouldn't leave one alone in my house. Thieves, the lot of them. I'm telling you.” Laura really didn't want to listen to the man any more, but she was overcome with middle class politeness and didn't want to interrupt his speech; when she suddenly remembered that what she was dealing with was no more than a computer programme. She leaned over and touched a few buttons on the terminal. The Robo-Taxi 5000 was suddenly filled with easy-listening music, and the disgusting opinions she had been listening to had vanished into thin air. Laura was glad she lived in the future.

High school would be starting next week. Until this morning, that had been the only thing on 15 year old Allerton Solvaire’s mind. He had gone shopping for new clothes yesterday with his mother. Although none of his classmates were old enough to drive, he seemed to be the only one that had to show up at the mall with a parent. How his classmates managed to get to the mall always eluded him. Now, here in the forest behind his home, the other end of the universe seemed closer than yesterday at the mall. Al realized he could not remember the last time he had walked this path, nor could he remember why he stopped coming. His mother would have a similar realization next Sunday when she would attend Mass at St. Peter’s for the first time in almost 25 years. The mourning doves above him and the ferns on either side of his path stood in stark contrast with the sparsely scattered beer cans and candy wrappers. He hurried his pace just a bit. It wasn’t so much that he was in hurry to get anywhere as much as he wanted to increase the distance from where he had come. He passed the spot where seven years earlier, he and his then best friend Jimmy Radcliffe from next door had built one of their countless tree forts. The forts had never consisted of much more than large branches, rope, and bits of scrap wood that Al had managed to smuggle from his father’s shed. On the day that Jimmy and Al were building the fort that he now passed, Jimmy had told him how his father would often come home from work drunk and angry and hit Jimmy and his mother. Jimmy told him how his father would yell at them both, calling them “ungrateful fucks.” This day was two firsts for Al. It was the first day that he had ever really heard “the f-word” said aloud, and it was the first day he had ever felt real hatred for a person: Mr. Radcliffe. Al and Jimmy didn’t speak much of the rest of that day while they worked on the fort. Al stayed awake in bed that night crying quietly to himself. Because his best friend’s father was a monster. Because there was nothing he, a stupid little kid, could do about it. Because for the first time he realized things aren’t always okay. Al reached the part of the forest where the path opened into a small field with tall pine trees along the perimeter. He surveyed his old territory. The same patch of tall blue flowers along the west. The same zigzag streak of clovers hugged close to the ground in the center. Even the same inexplicable rustying car door opposite the path that brought him here. The car door still defying logic by lying in a field almost 400 yards from the nearest road. He and Jimmy used to imagine ways that the car door had ended up here. Each time they would pass the it, the story would become more elaborate and the two of them would laugh endlessly, as only two eight-year old boys can do. Al walked to the patch of clovers and sat down. It was almost 11am on a breezy Friday in September and Allerton Jeffrey Solvaire wished that he was crying. Crying the way he heard his mother this morning as he slipped out the backdoor into the woods. It always had seemed to Al that when he cried, all of the conflicting thoughts and emotions circling each other in his mind were simplified into one compressed outburst. Things make sense when you are crying, even if the feeling is horrific, at least it makes sense. The only thing Al wanted more than to cry was for it to be yesterday, or for him to wake up in bed and realize today was just a dream. Since this wasn’t going to happen, he continued to sit in the patch of clovers. Jimmy Radcliffe’s drunken father was the first person Al had ever felt hate for. Today, he felt a new type of hate. The idea of hate stemming from a deep love was a few year’s beyond Al’s understanding, but you don’t have to fully understand something to experience it full force. It was just like Rob to do this. Rob was 23. Was. Rob was Al’s only brother. Was. Al was sitting down in the living room watching TV after breakfast this morning. His parents were in he kitchen washing dishes with the radio on. “And she‘ll have fun, fun, fun ‘til her daddy takes her T-Bird awaaaaay…” Al’s least favorite Beach Boys song. Al glanced out the window and immediately saw the men with the flag walking up to his front door. He saw the man carrying the flag and knew. It was just like Rob to run off to some goddamned foreign country to protect other people’s families and leave his own behind. Just like him to not think of Al. Just like Rob to go off and get blown up or shot or run over or… or whatever, and die and leave him here alone. Rob was an army officer. Was. From now on, everything about him would be past tense. Rob was in the army. Rob was my brother. Rob was enough of a jerk to leave me here with no brother. “Now he’s just a goddamned flag and a medal that we’re gonna hang over the mantle and stare at,” Al said aloud without realizing it. He stood up, dusted off the bottom of his jeans and approached one of the large pine trees along the edge of the field. As he began to climb the branches, he imagined the scene back at his house. The two Army officers would have left by now. His father would be standing next to his mother. His father silent, with one hand holding his coffee and one around Al’s mom.

I wrote this first draft for an English creative writing assessment, it's probably terrible, so constructive criticism is welcome! Sorry I haven't done any for other stories, I'm kinda new to writing and I just discovered this subreddit. Btw, you'll probably be able to spot the influences in this story ;) Tight leather gloves gripped the wheel, as the sound of the engines fired up. A deep roar reverberated through the vehicle, sending shivers down Harvey's spine. The 1970 Chevy Nova sped off in a burst of speed with an almighty cacophony of metal and rubber. Harvey was on the hunt. Heading down the interstate, Harvey stroked the Glock next to him in anticipation. In his mind, he purred. Seeing the neon sign of his favourite diner, he pulled over and parked his machine. One snakeskin boot at a time, Harvey sauntered out of the car and escaped the night, pushing his way into "Drool and Dine." This particular watering-hole was a seedy, run down place by the road, but it added to the charm that was so enticing. "The usual?" A gravelly voice echoed from the counter, where a dishevelled man stood, wearing a greasy apron. Harvey nodded his head and sat down in the nearest seat. His beady eyes watched the owner of the fair establishment shuffle into the kitchen. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly through the layer of cigarette smoke filtering through Harvey's lips. This man's addiction was not in the nicotine, but in what he was about to do next. With a flourish, Harvey slid out his Bowie knife, and held it up in the light. It glimmered and shone brilliantly as his leather grip tightened around the handle. He whistled a joyous tune and stood up. Several steps later, he began his work in the kitchen. By the time Harvey returned home, blood washed out of his jacket, the sun shone on his Americana dreamland. Disappointed with his catch last night, Harvey prepared for new prey. His arsenal, packed into his vehicle, included: two shotguns loaded with buck shot, a chainsaw, four Glock pistols (two in the trunk, two under the passenger seats) and his prized Katana taken from a pawn shop. The desert sun beamed down upon the caked earth. Officer Leon stared through his binoculars, scanning the horizon. After a string of killing sprees terrified the American population, the Highway Patrol was under constant pressure to find the man responsible. Two months of searching had went by, and nothing turned up; it seems as if the killer had disappeared. Leon sat back into his car seat and sighed in exasperation. He reached over and flicked on the radio. A couple of seconds of static. Then, music flooded the dry air, as "Baby It's You" by Smith poured out of the speakers and into Leon's ears. The officer leaned back and placed his feet on the dashboard. 20 minutes went by in a haze of simmering heat and song. Suddenly, a moment of static pierced the police scanner and a voice filtered through. "Calling Officers to Route 19, a suspected serial killer has been spotted driving up towards El Paso-" "Officer Leon here, going into pursuit of the suspect." the police officer replied to the voice in the box. The lights came on in a red and blue flash and the wheels screeched on the shining asphalt. If Leon caught this son of a gun, he thought to himself, he might finally get that promotion. The car sped down the road as Willy DeVilles "It's So Easy" started up on the radio. In the distance, Leon spotted his target parked by the road, the black Chevy Nova glinting in the sunlight. Even as the police car approached, there was no movement. No chances would be taken however; the police officer slid out his magnum revolver and clutched it in his hands. He then flipped a switch and took the responder handset. "If anybody is there, step out of the vehicle and have your hands placed on the roof of the car." Officer Leon spoke through the loudspeaker, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice. Suddenly, sparks ignited across the surface of Leon's car hood and the unmistakeable sound of a shotgun blast boomed across the desert. Leon ducked down, the adrenaline suppressing any pain he might be now in. Tires squealed as the other vehicle escaped, leaving the police car in the dust. Leon got up and fumbled with the ignition, ignoring the blood seeping out of his left arm. The engine revved up and the police officer got back onto the desert road in hot pursuit. The humid air made Harvey's mind go in circles. Why did he make the mistake of coming here? Was he that stupid to get caught now? He pushed these thoughts out of his head, as he knew it didn't matter. It was only a game of cat and mouse now. Harvey pushed the accelerator down to the floor and continued the chase. Leon felt the thrill of the hunt, now that he was in the shoes of the predator. He could see his prey getting ever closer, as he caught up to the speeding psychopath. Leon licked his lips and took the handgun out again. He lowered the window and aimed the piece at the other car. Firing a few rounds, all of varying accuracy, Leon knew he had to get closer to his target. The police car sped up with it's blue and red lights reflecting in the Chevy's side mirrors. In almost an instant, the killers car turned down a side road that Leon didn't even notice beforehand. He followed the vehicle and with a grin on his face, the officer caught up. Now the two fast cars were in touching distance, Leon pulled out his magnum and shot. The first bullet glanced off the back of the bumper. The second bullet pierced through the rear window and stopped inside a passenger seat. The third bullet flew through the air and hit it's mark, the rear tire exploding into pieces of rubber. The Chevy Nova was then smashed from behind by the aggressive police car. All control the killer had was now lost in those final moments of the car chase. It flipped onto it's side and skidded across the road, sparks flying wildly in the air. A satisfying crunch filled Leon's ears as the metal grinded and dented. The officer had to apprehend the suspect now, so he parked his cruiser and got out. All of the wreckage was littered over the landscape, with the main chassis laying dead in the dirt. Leon edged closer to the car, handgun still held between his white knuckles. He knocked on the seemingly empty cage of the car, but in the corner of his eye, he saw a gloved hand poking out. The police officer strolled over and aimed his gun at the man inside. Unfortunately, the man was doing the same to him. Harvey adjusted the grip on his second Glock and kept the cops head in his sights. Somehow, someway, he'd get out of this situation, but first, he had to sort out this mexican standoff.

As the rain fell There she sat, she and her friends gaunt and tired in a pit, tightly together to keep warm in the rain. There were few thoughts that managed to stay persistent and stick nowadays. The mind is said be stronger than back, but the back will carry the bag long after the mind has given up. Apathy and an empty gaze out towards nowhere had taken the place of sleep. For they were just too tired, to tired to be able to sleep. Everything was so quiet that the sound of the rain was almost deafening, every breath could be seen in the cool evening air. She did not know how long they had been sitting in the pit, and frankly, she did not care. All she and her friends wanted, was for it to end. How, was of secondary meaning, as long as it would end. In the beginning, which now seemed like an eternity ago, they had all been nervous and scared. Now, fear would have been a welcome feeling, all they felt now was the cold. The emptiness in their faces concealed many a secrets, but there was an eerie calm in the pit, a tranquility only radiated by those who have accepted that they are already dead. She leaned her head back against the muddy edge and gazed up towards the sky. The rain caressed her lacerated face, she could see the moonlight shimmer down through the trees and radiate of the bark. - It will stop raining tonight. A shadowy figure opposite her, raised its head slowly from the knee on which it had rested on. His empty eyes glistened in the rain. -How do you know? -I see the moonlight. -That fucking sucks, then you'll have to crawl through the mud if you want to go for a shit. Both of their heads dropped again. She closed her eyes and tried to remember, remember the time before, before all this. It was useless, the only thing she could think of was how cold she was. The rain did not fall as hard anymore and it felt like there was more moonlight that reached the pit. How much time elapsed since the last time she looked up, she did not know. A minute, an hour it made little difference to her. She slowly rose. -I have to piss. A few hands were raised in the pit as confirmation that the others heard what she said. With much effort she managed got up and out of the pit and with heavy steps she lumbered off into in the dark. She glanced down at her vague but long shadow, every step felt like a march of the white Kepi. Suddenly, her shadow gone, replaced by moonlight and raindrops. she felt something in his chest, warmth, yes warmth, it spread slowly through the body. The silence was broken, the air was filled with the sound, but as the warmth spread the sounds became softer and so did the rain against her face. She felt happy, she felt like she could fall asleep. Would she finally be able to sleep? She closed her eyes and could almost feel the dreams as sleep crept ever closer and closer, a smile appeared on her lips. It had stopped raining, everything was quiet again and she slept quietly with a smile on his face in the red grass.

As Chad approached a lone Chelsea he asked in a deep-white-chocately voice, "Hey there cheese face, let me pop the pimples of love on face... NOW KISS ME!" Chelsea in a frantic scramble to protect herself from the best slug tosser in school grabbed a nearby sock with soap in it and bashed his head in. This was followed by the exclamation of "You wot m8?". An unconscious Chad laying on the floor aroused Chelsea and she proceeded to have quite the sexy time with the slugs that Chad kept in his pocket, at all times. She first prepared the slugs in an orderly fashion with lining them up and rolling them into balls. She then used the frying sink next to her to make a good dish of Escargot. When Chad woke up to smell of burning flesh he then realized the horrors that has befallen the situation as he exclaimed, "You're tearing the slugs apart Chelsea!". She looked at him with a semi-dazed look and said, "It's all ogre now.

It was a pretty big discovery. And an unexpected one at that. Year 2134. Through the Incredibly Huge Visioscope they had spotted a star system about 3 billion light years away, harbouring the first ever exoplanets seen. Dors went upstairs after eating at the party in the common room. What a stroke of luck..that's all it really was. He had almost missed the thing. Stars were a normal occurence, but they had never spotted a planet before, let alone planets. The system was estimated to be about double the age of this one. And there was an exoplanet slightly smaller than Bumi, in the habitable belt. He started up the visioscope and focused to the now saved *Dors System(FUS862)*. He stared at the system for awhile. Wonderingly. There might be or might have been life on that planet. And as old as it is, intelligent life... Hesitantly, he focused on the habitable planet. He tried to clear the image persistently for the better part of an hour. He glimpsed a perfect image of the planet for a split second and he paused his adjustments. There it was, focuses on the screen. He could see them. He was dumbstruck. Lights. All over the dark side. *Cities*. He looked at in awe. Life. Intelligent life. It was there. Maybe still now. More advanced. Three billion years of growth time, they could be gods by now. Kings of the Miwai. He stared at the image longingly. Then he saw more lights. One after the other. Bright dazzling lights. Then all the lights vanished. Dors stared at the image in horror.

The Good House by Justin Tuijl – 4192 words – Genre: Science Fiction / Fantasy Alison loaded a shell into the breech of the tank’s gun and Claire gave her the thumbs up from the commander’s position. The tank was stationary in a wide wooded gulley; not the best landscape for the large tracked vehicle. “Have you sighted the soldiers yet?” Claire asked Sally the gun aimer. “No, I think they are laying low,” returned Sally. “Ok Anna,” she said to the driver, “take her slowly ahead.” The cold winter day suited its engine and the loud diesel clattered into life. The tank moved along the gulley and was able to drive directly over the smaller trees. Claire worried that they were heading into a trap but there was little choice to their current course. She decided not to tell the others of her concerns. Though it was cold outside soon the insides of the tank were hot again. It was always like this, she reflected, the engine heated them while on the move, then the cool again while it was turned off and they rested. They all wore slim outfits designed for living in the tank. The material breathed in the hot but kept them warm again when the tank cooled. Claire thought of her life in the tank as she felt the tracks rumbling over the rough stones of the gulley bed. It had been the same all her adult life, always on the run, always hunting or being hunted by the soldiers. -- Further up the gulley the soldiers were waiting. They had come down the sides of the wide misty valley to where the trees were thicker. James eyed his binoculars and said to Peter, his second in command: “No sign of the tank yet.” Steam rose from his mouth in the cold air. Peter took his own binoculars from a bulky pack: “No, I think we have them this time though, they must be following the gulley.” “Definitely, Sir,” added Dave, one of the privates. In contrast to the tank personnel the soldiers carried all their equipment which made their appearance bulky and large. Indeed under the uniforms they were muscular and strong from the many hours on foot carrying heavy equipment. “This has been a long time coming,” said James, “too long.” He thought of the years they had been trying to catch the tank. Living off the grey land; catching and eating small animals. The land beyond the gullies scared him: vast tracts of waste land where nothing lived or grew. -- Anna watched carefully ahead through the thick small glass of her driving slit window. Wet sleet was lashing the tank and the little wiper pushed it aside frantically. Gently and slowly she guided the big tank along, aware of how much the others depended on her. Sally eyed the grey rocky landscape through the gun aimer’s turret windows; all the time she made calculations in her head; working out the trajectory of the shells to bombard certain areas she sighted. They had not needed to fire for a few weeks now but always she kept up the calculations as each new attack could be the last. Claire watched the same scene from her squat commander’s turret. She had a better view of the bleak landscape than the others. She reflected that this could be the reason she was more circumspect than them. Her bleak world was bigger. She noted that the trees were thinning here and there were less of the big wood obstacles. The tank had more power in this atmosphere and could drive over most of the saplings. She could see that, unfortunately, up ahead they thickened again. She considered taking the tank up into the land beyond the gullies to loose the soldiers, but she thought that it had absorbed too much radiation the last time. Then the Geiger counter had been beyond maximum, but they had had to stay out of the gullies as the soldiers had been thick that time. “Can you see anything of them?” she asked Sally. “No, but I think they must be ahead.” Claire thought of the soldiers. She often felt an overwhelming desire for their big bodies, such a contrast to the slim women in the tank. Why were they like this all the time? She wondered what the war was about. When she saw them stripped to the waist she wanted in invite one inside, but no, this was war and further: she really was very afraid of them. -- The soldiers had tracked the tank all day. It was now stopped, resting. They knew it would rest for an hour and they took the chance to rest and eat themselves. A few of the small caught creatures were cooking on the fire. The soldiers were, as was customary, stripped to the waist. This, they knew, made them stronger and James took the cold with a manly strength on his strong body. He thought over their battle plan. The pincer movement was working and, though the tank did not know it, they were finally closing in for the kill. He was looking forward to breaking the tank open and finding out its secrets. “What will we do after we break the tank?” Peter asked him. “Oh there must be more out there to get.” “Do you know of any?” asked Peter, a look of concern on his face. “Sure, don’t you?” “No, not really.” “Well, no time for that now,” said James, dismissing doubts from his head. “We are soldiers, it is what we do.” If anyone else, but his second in command, had said this he would have berated them, but his bond with Peter went back many years. All that time as comrades who could rely on each other in battle. Peter was the person he was closest to. He wanted to stop talking as the same doubts were in his head and he wondered if there was something missing: something he wanted but could not place. -- Inside the tank it was quiet as they ate the rations: small compact pots of nutrition. The cold was coming again and after an hour they would have to start the engine or freeze. It was always the way, always had been, thought Claire. She looked though one of the windows, as she ate, at the grey and cold. “Do you think there is more to find out there?” she asked Sally. “No, I think we have it all under control.” “I mean more than this fighting.” “What? I don’t know what you mean.” “No, it is fine,” she said wishing she had said nothing. Sally kept quiet, but Claire worried she would think from her comments, that she was no longer an able commander. It had happened before that the gun aimer became the commander. Sally, her world made bigger by the commander’s turret, found it hard to let her mind focus these days. Always now she had small doubts, it had been different when she used to be a gunner like Alison. Just loading the shells and looking after the gun; such a more simple life it had been. Once they had finished eating they fired up the engine again and the tank started to follow the gulley to its final resting place. Little did Claire now that her world was about to change forever.

I slipped over the cool railing and onto the thin strip of concrete thinking of everything that brought me here. Years of that black spot in my soul. Years of acting happy when I'm slowly rotting away on the inside. This demon has stolen everything from me. I stopped that train of thought dead in it's tracks and choked down the tears that were fighting for a way out. I've cried enough. I glanced to my right and nearly jumped off the bridge by accident. A woman was standing there. Staring at me with the same defeated look in her eyes that I, myself, have seen in the mirror. She was a thin white 20-something who was only wearing a pair of capris and some sort of graphic-t, like the ones you'd buy at a concert. Her shoulder were slumped lower as if the weight of all of her problems were physically holding her down. Her hand loosely gripped the railing behind her as her hair, loose and unkempt, danced in the weak breeze. "It's awfully cold for you to be out here without a jacket, miss." I remarked as I examined the intricate design of the R-J The Rapper album cover on the front of her thin long sleeve shirt. "That's the least of my worries, man," she replied in a in a small voice devoid of any soul. "So... I guess I should ask what brings you here," I replied blankly, slipping back into the solipsistic coma that the momentary shock of seeing someone else here had dragged near to the surface. "I suppose so," she sighed and slumped her shoulders even lower, "I've been broken for as long as I can remember. Something about me was just a little... Off. I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I turned 14, and have been on more meds than I can count for the past 10 years." "I dunno," she continued in a downtrodden tone, "I just recently started thinking my family is just, I dunno, wasting their money? I'm broken and I can't be fixed. We're not a very rich family, not rich enough to support my constant need for mood stabilizers, anyhow. So, why not just save them the stress and cash and end it?" The last two words hung in the air like smoke from the end of a burning cigarette. There it was. The two words that were playing like a drum beat in the back of each of our minds. "Makes sense," I replied, "I have also been broken for a long time. Since this will be the last time I speak to anyone, I guess I should confess some things. I took a deep breath. "When I was 6 my uncle...touched me." I paused. This is the first time I had ever told anyone this in my life. The truth needed to be dug up from the very deep grave it had been shoved into. "It messed me up," I continued, "My head, I mean. For a long time, I couldn't even get naked to shower because of how insecure it made me. I blinked back hot tears, "I never told anyone. Finally, I stuffed it away, but it slowly evolved into a much bigger problem. Full blown depression. I was 25 and being diagnosed with bipolar depression. I'm 34 now, have two beautiful kids and an ex-wife who's trying everything in her power to keep me away from them. She's seen me in my worst and thinks that I'm unfit to care for them." She had listened to all of this quietly and attentively, nodding and saying thinks like, "mmhm,”and, "ohh." "Well," she said, breaking the the silence that had settled over the two of us, "do you love your kids?" "What kind of a question is that," I asked, "of course I do. More than anything in the world." "How do you think they're going to react to finding out their father killed himself?" she replied, "That's going to break them." "Your one to talk," I snapped back. "You have a family who has given everything for your happiness and you're just going to throw it all away. Pretty selfish if you ask me." This struck a chord with her "This, coming from the father of two who's shirking all responsibilities to his children." In this moment, it hit me where I was what l was doing. She was right. I am the selfish one. I needed to fight to be with my children who I have helped raise for the past 5 years. I slowly looked over at the woman who had opened my eyes to my own foolishness. "I'm not jumping." I said finally. "Good," she replied, "you better get out of here. It's not going to be pretty when I hit the ground." "Wait," I said, "you have you're whole life ahead of you. You have a family who loves you. You can't do this." I could tell by the look in her eye that her mind was made up. "Look," she said, "you're a nice guy, and truly I appreciate your efforts. But, this is all that's left for me. I'm not getting better and I never will. I know it's going to be hard on my family, but this is MY choice, not theirs." I drew a blank. Truthfully, I didn't want her to die, but I was out of ideas. Her logic was astounding, and while they say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, this was a permanent problem for her. Sometimes, the best solution is also the worst. I clambered over the rail and looked at her, the broken woman. "Okay, fine," I said, "but we can talk about this. Let me buy you a coffee and if you still want to kill yourself afterward, I won't try and stop you." She looked up from the street below and sighed. "Fine," she said, "if you think you can talk me out of this, be my guest. At least I get some free coffee out of it." I almost smiled. I watched her slip under the railing and stand up, her shoulders still slumped as low as when we first met. "So," I said as we made our way to the coffee shop, "My name is Philip, what's yours?" "Tina." We walked in silence. All I could think was that this woman I barely knew had saved my life. I don't think I could ever repay her, but I guess a cup of coffee was a good start. ******************************************************************************* Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Truly this was one of my favorite stories to write. Feedback and criticism is much appreciated.

I picked up the dirty rag from the ground and started to polish my colt 45, I snapped open the barrel to check how many bullets I had left, only three. I'll have to get more in the night time, its too dangerous to go out in the day. I stared at my gun and thought of the past, how life was before this happened, and how much I fucking hated the people who were responsible, the 1%. Three years ago the economy crashed, worse than anyone couldve thought, you see times have changed sense I was a teenager, the middle class couldve survived back than, hardly anyone gave a shit about the 1% but soon they collected enough money to have more money than our central government. The Fed begged and pleaded for them to buy government bonds to help balance this out, ha all those years of tax exemptions and under-the-table deals and the 1% back stabs the fed pretty good. Everyday counted, unemployment was rising unbelievable within weeks of the crash it hit 35%. We needed to be bailed out, the U.S. was going to be bankrupt, but no one wanted to help us, our sins as a nation was the reason, we were too involved. Soon grocery stores like Target and Walmart were standoffs as killings and robberies were common occurrence, now they are bandit hideouts and places of worship. I lost my son to a thief, I told him to quickly grab some water and suddenly his skull and brains were painted against the wall of the freezer door, the robber took my sons backpack off as his poor dead body hit the floor. I couldnt do anything than, I was in shock, how was I going to explain this to my wife? Well life had too laugh at me again, as I hot-wired a car to my house, there were three men who had tied my wife to the chair, they were waiting for me. I knew them, I used to work with them back before the depression hit, I was the one who laid them off. Two of them hit me right in knee caps, I screamed in agony, they tied me to the ground and raped my wife, all of them. Finishing on her face, before violating her more, they shoved the closest thing to them up her ass, a snow globe. Blood was all over the floor, and tears against the table as they kept going, finally their sadistic fun was over with a bullet to her head. They raided the rest of the house and kicked me in the face,knocking me out. When I woke up they were long gone, but they left me one thing, my colt 45, the one that my father gave to me for when i was being bullied in middle school. It wasnt to defend my self, my dad was just that fucked up, he always thought I was the black sheep. He was rich, almost a 1%, he owned a small business that was going to go wide scale, they sold textbooks at a very cheap price. Of course this was illegal the way he had it set up, he was pirating them online and make copies from a machine that he had purchased. Anyway, he didnt like me very much, but that doesnt matter now, he jumped off the roof of his hotel once the crash happened. I had to get back at the 1% some how, so I thought of something, I took my colt 45 and walked over to my neighbors house, went in through the well, and by the time they noticed me they had two bullets in between their eyes. I hot-wired their car and drove, kept driving till I found you kid. My eyes moved up from the gun, to see him weeping, his tears ran down his face, past the duct tape to the ropes that bounded him to the chair. He was no older than nine, but I didnt care, I stood up, putting the dirty rag on the dusty floor. He cried more as I walked closer to him, his nice uniform tied being ruined by the dirty rope. I said to him "Shouldve just stayed with youre daddy, kid. You 1%ers dont have the right to live for the corruption you have brought to the world." I moved the colt 45 to his head, he cried harder. I pulled the trigger, blasting his little brain right out of his skull, I carried his body, used a stapler I had found in the office building I was in currently, and stapled his skin to the wall. Cellphones still work, so I called his fathers corporate office to tell them, to go the location. I picked up my backpack and got to the roof of the building, and started to hop, it was starting to become nightfall and it was time to get supplies.

This is my first short story, I don't really know where it came from, I was just laying in bed and thought of it. It's most likely really bad, but I'd thought I'd share. -No Title- I awoke at some point in the afternoon, as I did almost everyday, the smell of fresh cut grass seeping in through my open window, which was strange to me because I had never cut my fucking grass in my life, hell I didn't even own a mower. I laid there for a while thinking why I smelled fresh cut grass, it really didn't bother me to much, I didn't even have the slightest fuck to give to go look out my window and figure out the mystery. I fell back asleep hoping to dream of something, God knows I don't dream of anything while I'm awake. I didn't get much more sleep, some asshole outside was making the most annoying noise in the world, I wanted to get up and tell him people were trying to sleep, but I remember I'm the lazy prick who just woke up at three o'clock, I didn't have much room to argue. I got my ass out of bed, tripping over the cans of beer on my floor from the night before, see I don't feel much of anything anymore, alcohol gives me some kind of feeling, it might be the worst fucking feeling in the world, but hey, it's something. I peeked out my window, I didn't see anybody, he must of taken a break, I could still hear the mower running. Now I was little confused because I didn't know anybody in my neighborhood, so it was odd to me that someone was in my yard, mowing my grass, keeping me from my sleep. I got dressed, if you want to call throwing on a smelly old bath robe, getting dressed. Now I'm rushing downstairs to figure out who is mowing my yard. As I'm moving down my stairs and into the kitchen to find something to eat, I think to myself, who could this asshole be. Maybe one of my mom's friends, yes I still live at home, I'm that guy that makes women cum at the very sight of me, everyone loves the guy who lives at home. Another guess is that maybe she hired a gardener. I find both options very doubtful. I find myself a very nutritious breakfast, a leftover cheeseburger and a nice refreshing glass of flat soda. I cared even less than I did when I woke up, who was mowing my yard now. He was just there now, an almost distant memory. The sound of his annoying mower that woke me up, was just background noise to me. I finished my breakfast and decided it was time to see just who was in my yard. I opened the front door and guess what, nobody was outside, just blackness and silence. I went back to bed.

I sat in my car for a good 45 minutes before I felt brave enough to walk in. It has been months since I had seen her and I was ashamed. She probably wondered if something happened to me, worried for a while, then assumed I had found someone else. I hadn't. I took a deep breath and said to myself, "It's now or never." The sun felt good shining down on my face as I briskly walked towards the door of her place, the wind whirled my hair around my face reminding me of the last time I saw her. She was brilliant and talkative like usual, bustling around me, rambling about something in pop culture as I sat there staring into nothing and nodding every once in a while. My mind was preoccupied in those days, with work and recent family events. Even though I had left home at 18 and now lived hundreds of miles away they still called me almost every day to involve me into their drama. I tended to try and avoid the calls, but had gotten tangled up in the newest drama of my sister leaving my brother-in-law for her ex-girlfriend. They all thought I could talk sense into her, they didn't know I had advised her to do exactly what she did. She was an adult and was going to do what she wanted anyways, I just wanted her to be happy. Snapping me back to reality I felt a hand on my shoulder, "Are you even listening silly?” I sheepishly grinned knowing that she caught me deep in thought. I tried to intently listen as she finished her story, something about the newest craze for women and snails crawling on their faces. I will never understand why women are always focused on looks, looks that would fade as time marched on and across their faces. It was then I took a stolen glance at her face, attentively concentrating on her task. Her eyes were so intense I almost gasped. I realized then I never really looked at her before. I had seen her and knew what she looked like, but I never looked this closely, this keenly. I could see crinkles forming around her eyes, and along her mouth from always smiling. I could see the freckles along her cheek bones. I saw her lips pursed as if she was awaiting a gentle kiss upon them. I didn't realize how long I had been staring until she snapped her fingers. "Welcome back to reality!" she said and we both laughed. As I stood up she grabbed my arm, "Hey...." I turned and looked deep into her eyes, knowing what was coming next. "When are you planning on coming back?" she asked, thinking it would be the same as always. I stated as such not thinking it would be long. "I look forward to it!" she said with a wink. My mind jars back to the present as I reached the door of her place. I glanced at my reflection making sure I looked somewhat presentable. As soon as I walked in I could smell all the usual scents, bringing me some familiarity and relief to my anxiousness. I nervously looked around for her, scanning the room. She was here but she was with someone else. I calmly stood there, my mind racing. Would she be glad to see me? Would she slap me for not coming back for the last 6 months? Would she even remember me? It felt like an eternity before she turned enough to see me out of the corner of her eye, she flashed a smile, "Give me two seconds, we're almost done here." It was then I knew, she was excited to see me, I could sense it in her words. I could barely contain myself as they parted and she came up to me. I was bouncing from one foot to the other in an awkward dance when her gaze finally met mine. "Where have you been?" she asked quizzically with a raised eyebrow. I smiled not able to get the words out, my tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. "Come along then" as she sauntered to the back. Following her I noticed the place was the same, same pictures and books, same little rug in the front but wood floors throughout. She turned when she reached the chair and gestured for me to sit, I complied. Now both of us staring at each other in the mirror I finally felt my tongue loosening as I said to her, "Just a little off the top.

Rattan drapes rotting through let scattered light enter in. Empty cans everywhere, the pungent smell of week old beer permeating everything. Hector England hadn’t been here in almost two weeks. Only god knows where that boy got off too. Strange too, how it’s his house yet Parkes is there more than he is. Parkes sat on the tattered chartreuse and yellow plaid couch with a pack of Kools cigarettes, one lit between his fingers. Smoke wafted through the air spiraling slowly upwards towards heaven before being caught in the maelstrom of the barely spinning uneven ceiling fan. Pull to lips, drag, exhale as bronchia wither away. Blue matte Nokia brick phone sitting next to them. His calloused hands set down the T.V remote after pausing the news and picked the Nokia up that was sitting next to the sawed-off shotgun and flipped it open. Still no new messages from Hector. Where could that boy be? Everyone already knew what he had done. Now it was just a waiting game. The electric clock turned past midnight. Now exactly two weeks since Hector had been here. Quarter to one the door slowly creaked open. Muddy boots slipped inside. Hector didn’t look like hector anymore. For one, he had shaved his head. Secondly he now possessed an awful mustache barely filled in. He’d changed his style from t-shirts and shorts into leather and denim. The clothes barely fit; they were too large for Hector. Untying his boots and pouring himself a glass of whiskey, Hector called out for Parkes. Parkes, you there? Listen, we need to talk. Something came up and that’s why I’ve been gone so long. Come here and speak then boy, you know I have a listener’s ear. Parkes, I don’t even know where to start. Everything was going so well, then all sudden everything just went to hell. We all just thought it would be quick. We went to that liquor store way over in San Fidel. Sam was there and couldn’t stop his tweaking habit so he just went in as lit as a candle. It all went smooth til Sam started shooting, but once that started I just grabbed a small bag of that cash and ditched. The clerk pulled a shotgun out and just plastered Sam. I fucked up Parkes, I fucked it all up. That you did my boy, just look here on the news. Your face is everywhere. Let me tell you something boy, ever since you were young what have I told you? That you’re a terrible terrible liar. We all know what happened, especially me. I know you shot up that liquor store, Sam doesn’t even know how to hold a gun. You missed someone in that joint, a witness. Says they saw it all. You just walked in guns blazing, you were the one tweaking. Demanded all that money all bull-like. After he passed it over, you shot that cashier point blank in the chest. Cackled like a banshee apparently right afterwards too. Sam decided to question why the hell that idea popped into your head and decided to try and split. And for some reason known only to God and yourself, you decided to shoot that boy in the back. You’ve known him how many years? Since he was a boy, he’d just turned nineteen. Now sit down and finish that drink, because let me tell you a little secret, Sherrif Dan’s in the bathroom finishing a piss, after that he’s hauling you in. And if you so much as move from that chair I’m not afraid to plaster you like you did that boy.

My first serious short, let me know if you like it or not. Might write another part if it is liked. Here I sit again staring into the distance, watching the cityscape roll by, hearing nothing but futuristic loud banging music. Or so my grandmother would call it. “What a racket!” She would always say. I rather prefer the term sweet melodic pounding techno music. I look around and I see more people then empty places. Maybe I should have said I am sitting on a bus. God knows where to, if there even is a god. Well I know where this bus is going, maybe I’m god? Well I said I know where the bus is going, I know where it is going the next 10 minutes, to the station. But where will it go afterwards, will it drive for years until it breaks down into a cloud of smoke or will it be driven into a ditch by a sleepy driver. He was called Jaques Piqurd, he knew he shouldn't have been driving that day. He was up all night sitting next to his dying wife Marie Piqurd. But as we all know, money doesn't grow on trees and so Jaques went to work, drove his bus and 30 passengers into a ditch. I hope Jaques isn't driving the bus now. I am on it, what if all passengers die, what if I am one of them. Better not think about it. Maybe I should get off the bus now, I am nearly there anyway. A little walk wouldn't hurt me. I ring the bell, once of the bus I just think to myself thank god Jaques hasn't crashed the bus yet. Maybe it was a bit premature to get off the bus here, now I have to walk another 15 minutes. I don’t even know why I took the bus in the first place. I could have walked the whole distance in half an hour. I don’t even know why I am going there again. Every time I go there it is pure misery. Sure it feels good to be with her and to talk and cuddle. But every time I go home I am filled with guilt and sadness. Just a few more blocks. I’m not alone on the street, people all around me. And of course there is always one. I smell them, then I see them, and there he walks with his cigarette in his mouth. Every time I see one of those smokers, I want to shout at them: “What are you doing? Don’t you know that inhaling those toxic fumes will kill you? The smoke will beat your lungs up.” But why would I bother they never listen, I don’t even listen to my own advice. It’s doesn't even take ten seconds seeing them smoke for me to feel the need myself, another ten for me to grab my own packet of cigarettes. And as I take the first breath it feels so good. I love smoking, I know it will kill me one day, but I just love the hit. I smoke too much even, one day my lungs will explode because of all the tar that is clogged up in them. Finally her door, she opens it looking beautiful as always. My dearest Sophia, I love her, I really do but it just never works out. We always have these afternoons. We talk, we cuddle, we kiss, we do everything people in love do. Except for one thing, we will never be together till the end of time. We would both want it, we tried it before, multiple times, it just never works. So I just walk in give her a kiss and close the door behind me.

I would love some honest feedback - cheers In the dark of the winters his belief in everything began to fade. White clouds and blue skies and sun beams all around brought happiness and contentedness, and so long as the spring buds brought forth sweetness in the fall people would still come, and swap various things and dance in time to the gentle wind that blew in from the rolling hills that did rustle and gently jostle the chimes above the hearth. And as a chill grew in the air people would come to huddle in the warmth of the Junnypede complete with a hearth warmed from the rocks below, and whilst those at the centre slept contently those cousins who dwelt on the edge of the circle withered and fell, and each new cycle brought forth a howling cry as the sun fought its way above the horizon. The Long Winter set to the backdrop of the Long Night. The cruel trees withheld their bounties to save themselves and the myriads of poppet-like sprites that nestled within the old growth, enough would be needed to sustain them until spring, but was no charity given to those who dwelt outside. In the depths, despair had taken hold and only the coming of strange hyphae stirred the mass within the hearth-barn, that which dwindled by the day and which moaned loudly as the night winds brought in yet more misery. As the good people slept they dreamt of warmer climbs and the wines that would burst forth from the strange elms that did so well by the mausoleum and the charnel houses. It was there that the hyphae took them, mould like mass swept over each exposed man and woman until no one could tell the mother from her dam. Then a strange thing occurred. From the base of the mass of shivering things a grotesque leg-like appendage burst forth and hurriedly decamped the shanty, unaffected by the dry wind that blew outside it made off down the street like a great worm in search of a meal. When it came upon a dwelling it would, rather discourteously, enter via the opened window and as the body of it pulsed the families that dwelt inside were conveyed toward the place where the mass did lie. For many a day this did continue, more and more appendages sprouted from the dirty corm that lay, now larger than ever, within the tattered shack. And with each departing leg came a new member, deep in slumber and oblivious to the role the poor soul would play in events to come. Eventually the beams and cobbles that formed the walls and ceilings buckled and burst - like an egg hatching a protoplasmic chick. On the 15th day a great cyst formed on the grey-white carapace that now surrounded the great mass, and from within a myriad of small scuttling horrors poured out. Wherever those blind scuttles came across a fine oak or proud elm they burrowed deep beneath the roots, and yet more peculiarities were brought forth. Each tree, once majestic and formed of woody boughs and branches resembled great green vat like blobs with open, hopper-like tops filled with pink goo. And the goodness that lay in the earth, that which was reserved for the good people of the valley and their seeds saved for the spring, was brought up and soon the land which lay in slumber beneath the deep snow was extinguished of all life save for strange worms that sat far far below in caverns formed in aeons gone by. The great white blob was now far larger than the town and in the desolation sat contentedly, only pulsing occasionally to pluck a plump bird from the air or a migrating froglet from the snow melt. As the fresh rays of the spring sun crept over the valley a moment of chaos occurred as the jelly like horror contorted and warped in the great nest it had amassed from stone and wood, and a great sail like wing larger than the sails on the tallest of ships sprouted like a turnip top from its flank. And as the wind gathered its strength the great thing was carried off in the wind like a puff-bloom in summertime. For miles the moon like object waxed across the sky. It caught an upwelling in the lee of a great mountain and took flight up to Claybourne peak and there it nestled Within the foamy drift that smattered the young, craggy peaks. and only hardy mountain yaks and salty crag goats could hear the quiet murmurings that emanated from the unusual opening which passed for a mouth piece, and the great white blob offered its apologies to Stone Faced Brown and Mother Yapp the Butchers wife for all the suffering that it had caused, and it sung a lament that would resonate only with Otters and those in possession of sensitive ear-parts. As the tuneful song died away a great particle stream of emerald green light blasted forth from an unseen orifice and pierced and sliced open the nearby mountains, and a great cataclysm was brought forth as lava and smoke rock poured forth from the wounded earth. And great ash clouds carpeted all around, to the point where the already weak and feeble sun passed out of view. The weeping ball, fraught with guilt, bled out its milky cargo across the hills. And so vast was it that the trickle turned into a torrent so powerful that vast rivers snaked down into the valley between the newly formed foothills. In the oxbow lakes that formed in the soft earth there came to be forests of red water-weed that choked the depths and margins, and in tiny buds clustered amongst the weed grew tiny men and tiny women, transparent and glistening with a tint of gold, and with that a new dawn had begun.

This is a story my friend /u/ecisco01 wrote for shits and giggles. So there I was pumping the gas into my new kickass 2015 Chevy Silveraydo that I just purchased as a gay weightlifting faggot in a ford pick up truck pulls up beside me. There must have been atleast 5 layers of rust on this sumbitch. He pressed on the brakes and the sound of a dog whistle rang through my ears. It sounded like he had duct taped his brake pads to keep them from falling off. He opens the door and steps out lookin like the biggest piece of trailer park trash that has ever walked on this earth. He slams the door and the the door comes off the hinges and drops to the ground and he stops and looks for a brief second and goes on to pump his gas. He pulls out his hello kitty wallet to get his Visa card and his faggy friend in the passenger seat smoking a cigar as big as the dicks he sucks says "here's your card honey". I burst out laughing at my pump which causes all the attention on me. The big fag looks over to my pump and says "what's your problem chevy?" With a face of disgust. He looks back at the dicksucker in the passenger seat of the ford fuckmobile and says "get him". I hurry and yank the nozzle from my gas cap faster than a ford lovers boyfriend pulls out and i slam it shut. I hop in my Silveraydo faster than a ford lover gets jealous because he just got beat in a mud bog. I then come to realization that I dropped my keys outside my door. I look out the back glass and see the two faggots butt fucking in the bed of my new Silveraydo. I swing my door open ready to whip some faggy ford loving piece of shits asses. I pivot my body to the left and step my shit kickers down into the gasoline stained concrete. The ford fuckers realize I'm pissed and try hopping out of the bed of my Silveraydo. The cigar fag tripped over my tailgate and fell flat on his face. The dildo in his ass prevented him from being able to clear the 2 foot tall obstacle which caused him to drop a good 4 feet into his faggy face. But still yet, the big fag was still standing in the back of my BRAND NEW Silveraydo. I step one justin boot at a time into the back of my built to last piece of machinery that is now a wrestling ring. He grabs my belt trying to undo it. I grab my built in ass kicker 9000 which is in the toolbox on the back of my truck. I pull it out and drop the faggot like a rock. The faggot jumps back up and says "I like a tough guy like you" and it disgusted me. I kicked his head into the backside of the bed and curb stomped his head so hard the rainbow dildo shot out of his ass. I lower the tailgate and sweep the fag juice out of the bed of my truck. I hop in my Silveraydo and take off. Just a normal day in the life of a chevy man.

He had not meant it to be this way. He adjusted his makeshift pillow, taking care to not get any sand onto the mattress he was sitting on. After much shuffling, he rested his head again, still uncomfortable. He wrinkled his toes in the cold sand, feeling the soft particles slide through the gaps and finding refuge under the nails. A fact he read the other day - something about the human finger being able to feel the difference between a car and a house if it were as big as the Earth. A sharp northerly wind cut across his face. Quickly, he fixed his hair. A futile effort, of course, but in such grey weather, it seems that even fixing one's hair can be addictive. One of the girls made a start to get up now. She didn't fix her hair. It was flowing behind her like the Star-Spangled Banner flying on Iwo Jima, feeding on the wind, growing curls as she manoeuvred her body into a kneeling position. Her slender figure blocked out much of the sky, and it was difficult for him to look away. He got up suddenly. He tried to find something to justify his movement and picked up a frisbee disc. Holding the prop, he looked up and smiled at the girl. Cue line. "Wanna play?" He asked with a shine in his voice. "Sure," she replied, smiling a brilliant smile without looking at him. She had a tendency to milk every drop of each vowel, collecting it all in a bucket and dumping it on the other side of the conversation with a splash. They found a perfect space on the beach and the dance began. As they threw the disc back and forth, he was acutely aware of the rhythm of everything: his swinging arms, her shapely legs, and the disc - gliding and crashing. He scoured anxiously for the next cue, running his mind through every crease and ridge, clawing through the void for something that might anchor him, but he found nothing. It was all too smooth, too flat, too even to be anything. The set piece fell, the audience gasped, and the fourth wall was broken. He jumped for the disc and caught it with one hand. The waves were getting closer. As he threw the disc he saw her fixing her hair. He had not meant it to be this way.

He told me that I could leave my umbrella inside; he didn't mind if the floor got a little wet. I wrapped it up and leaned it against a small cabinet. He took my coat and went to the closet to hang it, and I sat down at his coffee table. Martin always liked talking at his coffee table, I never understood why because the seats were so low and didn't offer much thigh support which bothered me. But he liked them, maybe because he was short. But he wasn't that short. Martin hadn't fidgeted in a while but today he was a little fidgety. I noticed because he almost dropped my coat and he stuttered twice in one sentence. He only stutters every few now. It used to be a lot worse; he used to stutter almost every word sometimes. It took him a while but he got better. It was something to do with his paranoia problems or something, we didn't talk about it much and I paid only polite attention, but his doctor gave him pills and some treatment or something and now he's better. He came back from the closet and his eyes flicked around the room. He was nervous about something, I could tell. People always tell me I'm good with finding emotions. He sat down and adjusted his glasses. He cracked his knuckles and asked me if I wanted coffee, tea, anything to drink. I asked if he had cranberry juice and he said yes he did. He came back a minute later, a glass of cranberry juice for me and a beer for himself. I asked him to pour a bit in my juice and he did. He sipped it up fast. I said that he looked terrible and he said that he knew. I asked why, taking a gulp from the juice. I was awful thirsty. Rain always does that to me. He took a deep breath and leaned forward a bit, putting his elbows on his knees. He couldn't lean back because the chairs for the coffee table had no backs. He said that he had a case of the nerves and I told him that I noticed and asked him what was wrong. Quickly snatching up his drink, he took a swig, swallowing it at the same time as drinking it. Then he looked at me with sort of said eyes and started telling his story. "I was cleaning up after dinner and all that stuff, washing dishes, you know. Cup, plate, putting things back in the fridge," he paused, "right?" as though he was trying to confirm with me what really happened. Of course, I didn't know because I wasn't there but I nodded and agreed with him, just to keep him going. "So I went to my bedroom to make sure I didn't leave any glasses there or anything that needed to be washed." Martin always liked to drink milk before sleeping. He used to tell me that it gives you good dreams. I never believed him; I don't like milk; it gives me stomachaches. "So I'm looking for any cups and things and I happen to look out the window, just real casual-like, you know." He was searching me for reassuring again. I nodded the same way as I did before. Then I shifted in my seat because it was uncomfortable and I thought the room was getting a little hot. I never liked heat. "And there's that window, across a bit from mine, we're both on the second floor so our flats are—you get the idea." I did. "So, I look there real casual-like and the light's on in the other window and I see two people in there." I nodded and made an interested face. The air was thick and rather bothersome. "And one's a girl, maybe like eighteen—twenty so or something, couldn't tell. Other's a man, and—" He drank more of his beer, once again letting it pour directly down his throat as it entered. He had a bad case of nerves, easy to tell, but now it was getting irritating more that anything. "He's dressed up that man, all black. Can't see his face that's black too and no hat just his head was black I think he was wearing one of them caps that cover all your face cept your mouth an' eyes, that kind." He was talking faster now, stuttering more and more. I adjusted myself again and considered telling him that he should probably turn the heater down but then decided maybe it wasn't the best time. "And he was…" A look of despair poured from his eyes. "Beating her. Hitting her hard and she…she tried to fight back…a-a-and he did things violated her that." Martin's words were poor excuses for sentences now and he was losing himself in his own story. I loosened my collar because it was getting real itchy and bothersome. I had the urge to get up and turn down the heat myself but I didn't. It didn't seem right. Instead I told him to calm down, because by now he seemed to be almost half-weeping or something. He nodded and snorted and took another drink of his beer. "He hit her until…until she fell past my viewing…under the sill and the man leaned down…and then he stood back up…" He took a deep breath. "And I just stood there, staring, and then…" This seemed to be the hard part for him. My mind wandered. I felt like I'd heard this story before; it didn't interest me now. "He looked at me. He stared right into my eyes…and I couldn't look away, I couldn't, and he just kept staring and then he pointed to me, then…" Martin paused for a moment and just stared. I brought myself back long enough to tell him to continue. Someone once told me there's nothing worse than not letting someone finish their story. "…and and and he put his hand to his ear in a phone motion then shook his finger no or else he made a motion or else he's slit my throat…then…then he leaned down and took her away I think…or something…" Martin looked at me and his eyes pleaded with me. I cleared my throat and wiped my forehead. It was slightly sweaty. The room was too damn hot and I wanted to at least open a window or something, anything to cool it down. I held my feelings off for a moment to look at Martin. He was very distressed, I could tell, and he was waiting for me to say something. I said that I hoped he called the cops, but he quickly shook his head and shuddered. He said that the man would kill him if he did and I asked him how would the man know? And he told me that the man might have his ways and he had no intention of testing them. So I asked him if he wanted me to call the cops for him and he said what good would that do. I told him then maybe this man couldn't track him down or something. He just said that it was pointless and he'd figure out some way to get him eventually. Then I started getting frustrated and I said what good am I then anyway? It was true because it seemed like I couldn't help so I was pointless and it made me a little angry that I had to drive all the way here just to hear this. But he gave me a real sad look and I was pretty much forced to take it. Then he said that he just needed someone to talk to and I was always good with reading people's emotions and helping them with troubles so I was the first guy he called. That made me feel kind of good because I like to be helpful to people, even if I don't particularly care about what they're talking about. The air was really getting to me so I stood up and then said that I'd better be going I have an appointment. He nodded slowly like he understood and said something about it being too bad I could only stay for a bit. I told him at least for the little time I was hear I could help him and he agreed. He told me to wait and he'll get my coat. He came back a minute later and this time he handled it fine and I noticed his stuttering was less so I guess me coming over did some good. I took the coat back and I put it on. It felt real heavy. I was leaving so I wanted to give him a last piece of advice. It felt customary. I told him to find a pay phone a bit away and call the police and tell them that you saw a man dressed in black kill a girl, wrap her in some blue curtains—I told him to make sure to remember the details, blue, black, all the colors were important—and dragged her away. Then he gave me a funny look and told me that he hadn't said anything about curtains. The room was really hot and I just wanted to leave but now he still wanted to talk which made me a bit angry. And I realized I'd slipped and I tried to get up and mumbled something about a lucky guess but I knew that I couldn't get back up this time. My coat was heavy and it was hot and I really wanted to open the door to let at least a bit of breeze in but I couldn't because even with the silencer it's best to have as little noise as possible. I relieved my coat of some of its heavy and I quickly apologized to Martin before shooting him in the chest. I didn't want to shoot his head because it might have gotten blood on the walls and cleaning blood off walls is a lot harder than cleaning it off of the floor. After he died I opened the door and let some breeze in which felt really nice because the room was so hot. I looked outside. The rain had stopped. I was glad because I really hate driving in the rain.

As I walked up the stairs into the small apartment there were a few peculiar things I noticed. The first thing I noticed was the two easels next to the back wall of the apartment that had beautiful paintings on it. I thought this was something that I would see in a museum, not a rundown one bedroom apartment. The rest of the small living room was empty, aside from a coffee stand next to the easels with colorful paint splatters all over it. When I glanced at the walls I realized they weren’t normal. They had murals painted all over it. It was awe inspiring. There were thousands of details to these murals. It must have taken whoever painted them hours upon hours of time. Adjacent to the living room was the kitchen. There wasn't a wall separating the two rooms, there was just differences in the layout. The kitchen wasn't beautifully painted like the living room, in fact it was bare. There were crumbs all over the counter and the wrappers of frozen pizza were spread around. Besides all the crumbs on the counters the only other thing was a beat up microwave that looked as if it had been used 1000 times without so much as a wipe-down. I browsed through the cupboards but found very little. There were only a few cups and plates that looked as if they hadn't been washed, just like the microwave. Whoever resided in the place had very little money for necessities. They also were very untidy. I stepped back into the living room and proceeded on to the next room. I assumed, by the blankets and pillows on the floor that this was the bedroom. The walls in this room were painted as well. Amazingly, one entire wall was a beautiful landscape portrait. I heard a bang from one of the doors and quickly scurried out of the beautiful house. After getting a running a safe distance away from the house I thought to myself: How could anyone with such a talent in painting be living in such a rundown place? Such things as struggling painters are a shame. If only the world knew what I knew about the resident of that house, maybe they wouldn't be so poor.

John sat in his booth, as he had done for the past year, watching the time creep by. He wasn’t happy in his job, but someone had to do it. Since the fall of the government the border had become a main priority for the rebels. They had tried multiple times to breach the divide, but to no avail. John sipped his coffee and played solitaire on the decrepit computer he had been given. A cool chill ran down his spine. There was something amiss. He was alone tonight. He didn’t like that. His partner Rosaline had asked for the night off, and John didn’t have the heart to say no. He reached for the cup of coffee again, and took another sip. He noticed a set of headlights approached from the northern side. He tensed up slightly but took some deep breaths and tried to relax himself. He heard the low beating of the engine as the car came into earshot. He couldn’t make out the model from where he was sitting. The black car rolled slowly towards the crossing. The brakes squeaked as the car came to a smooth stop. John peered into the black tinted windows but was met only by his own gaze. He signalled to the driver to lower the window. They obliged. The dimly lit interior made it difficult to distinguish the passengers of the car. He could only make out the silhouette of the drivers face under the bright halogen lamps overhead. But he didn’t see the handgun that the driver pulled from beneath his jacket. John’s head snapped back and his legs crumbled under his limp body’s weight. The driver placed the gun in the glove box of the car, and grabbed his radio. He grunted a command down to his accomplices. Suddenly from the hill that the gunman travelled from, a row of lights began to turn on. The rebels stormed towards the crossing. They had done it. They were in control now. The news reached the makeshift capital within hours. The rebels made sure that their presence was known, launching flares and firing bullets into the air. They could afford to do that. They had a plentiful supply of resources. William Cardinal, former Taoiseach, now leader of the resistance, had worked tirelessly for the past few months, but now his hard work had been undone in a matter of minutes. He had been asleep before the sound of gunshots had awoken him. A common sound in modern Ireland. It didn’t worry him anymore. It was the new recruits being trained. Even the youngest and weakest of soldiers were being readied for deployment only a few miles from where they had once lived, ate and played. In matter of months the whole democracy had been overturned. Although not complete anarchy, the only guidelines that the people followed now were determined by their own moral compass. Ireland had never been more dangerous. The country was in the midst of a civil war. William felt the warm tears flood his eyes and run down his face. He had laboured all his life to be in this position, now he would give anything to be out of it. He was interrupted by a knock to his office door. The door burst open before he had dried his face of the salty tears. He turned to face the window before he saw who had joined him. The familiar voice of Devin McKeown, his right hand man, greeted his ears. “It’s not good Bill, the rebel hordes are advancing quickly towards the capital.” William knew this would happen eventually. But he was prepared. He quickly cleared his face of tears and turned to face Devin. “Please sit.” He gestured towards the luxurious leather armchair that resided in his office. He reached for the file on his desk and threw it towards Devin. The file was mark classified and was virtually untouched. When Devin opened the file he was greeted by the title “The Exodus”. “The Exodus? What’s that supposed to mean?” “We’re getting out of here, I’ve got a man who can take us out under the cover of night. He’s got a boat and we can be in Liverpool by tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” Devin asked. “I’m leaving tonight with or without you. I need to know where your loyalty lies.” “You’re asking me to abandon my country. What about the resistance. What about all of the soldiers that we’re training to die. Have you no morals? Have you no conscience? You honestly think I will commit treason for you, a snivelling, overwhelmed excuse for a leader.” “Watch your tongue. Just because you have served me well thus far, doesn’t mean that I can’t have you taken care of.” “So it has come to this. Threats. Abuse. You don’t understand what it’s like to serve for your country. You don’t know what it’s like to be thrown into battles you have no chance of winning. You don’t understand. You never will. I’m not like you. I’m not comfortable abandoning my country when it needs me most just to fade into obscurity. I don’t want to be remembered as the man that helped the cowering Taoiseach to his escape. I want to stand and fight. And if I die, so be it. I will leave behind a legacy. Years from now when our children’s children are learning about the Rebellion, I will be remembered, I will not be erased by death. My legacy shall be everlasting.” William regretted it immediately when his fist struck Devin’s chin. He collapsed. He was out. William grabbed his bag and fled the office. He took into a light jog through the damp and murky hallways trying to get to the nearest exit. One of the fire exits was left ajar, so William darted out the opening. He decided against taking the former government car as it would attract too much attention. He climbed inside Devin’s blue hatchback. Devin always left his keys on the back driver side wheel. William was in the clear for now. He reflected on what Devin had to say while he drove to the docks. His years in politics had made him tough-skinned to criticism. But this time it was personal. Someone that William had trusted so dearly had turned on him. It hurt. It was approaching four in the morning, dimly light and punctuated by the revolving yellow light of the nearby lighthouse when William had reached the docks. He left a small rucksack with a sum of money inside at the designated drop point. William approached a boat that resembled that of the one that had been described to him. He approached one of the men that stood at the stern of the boat. He shouted up to him, “I’m looking for Morpheus.” Morpheus was the codename that his assistant had given themselves. William boarded the boat and went down to the lower decks. He was instructed to stay in the engine room. He entered the room and closed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. He had done it. He was free.

It was a warm summers eve when the time of the month hit sophie waller, and she started to straight up gush blood from her fuck hole. This was her first period. She went to her mother and said “mommy why is me pee pee bleeding” and her mom said “shut the fuck up sophie, im trying to watch family matters.” After this sophie only knew one thing, she needed to make herself stop bleeding before she died, and only one name came to mind. Uncle alec. Sophie saw her father sitting in the living room and said “Daddy where’s uncle Alec live these days? My pee pee is pouring red water.” “Well Sophie, your uncle lives in Washington, but I think I can cure your vaginal catastrophe. Bend over.” Mr. waller unzips his pants and lets an 8 foot monster drop from his zipper, and proceeds to try to plug up sophies hole, but all he does is make the bleeding worse, and bathes his genitalia in blood. “I don’t think it’s working dad!” exclaims Sophie. “Hang on sweetheart, I have another remedy.” Mr. Waller said this as he pushed Sophie to the ground and bent over. He put his mouth on Sophie’s bloody pee pee, and started saying “Gobble gobble gobble gobble” as he motorboated it with his frothy mouth.” “STERP IT DEDDY” shouted Sophie as she ran away, panties down, arms flailing, all the way to Washington. She needed to find Uncle Alec quick, and she knew just the way. She lit up some crack and said loudly “GEE WHIZZ I REALLY HOPE NO ONE STEALS THIS FROM ME!” Five seconds later she is knocked out by a man falling from the sky, and wakes up in a strange laboratory. “What brings you to Washington, hunny bunny?” asked Uncle Alec as he inhaled a 5 gram crack rock. “Well, my pee pee is bleeding and I need a remedy” said Sophie. Uncle Alec did not give a single fuck,and said “I dont have time fo yo piddly ass problems woman, but check this sweet ass shrink ray ive been working on boo boo” “But Uncle Alec, I’m 16 years old. This is my first period. I need you to help.” “Lol fag” said Uncle Alec, and kicked her out of his lab, forgetting that she had his shrink ray at the time. Sophie put the shrink ray in her pocket and starting running down the street, crying, when she bumped into a most peculiar fellow. .He stood at about four foot 5 and was pale as a mitt romney. “Who are you oh mystical elf being?’” sophie inquired “Gee whiz, my name is Max” said Max. “Y’alls a bunch of bices.” “That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard anybody say. Ever. Like, who the fuck would ever use that phrase. What is wrong with you? Were you dropped on your head as a fucking baby you moronic idiot? Anyway, wanna help me stop my pee pee from bleeding?” “OK, sounds delish” replied Max, choking back a tear from her previous remark like the weenie he is. “Just so you know im “asexual”.” LOLOLOLOL IDGAF” said sophie. “Ive got roofies.” When they arrived at maxes humble abode. “Yesterday i had a girl named bianca over so its kinda messy. We played with legossss.” OMFG HOW INSENSITIVE OF YOU. THATS SEXIST AS FUCK. HAVENT YOU EVER HEARD OF MISOGONY? BITCHHHHHHHHH!” Sophie said as she started fingering her bloody vag. “JUSES CRUST!” max said like a nibblet, but was too feeble to make a coherent retort. “Wanna come in?” max asked “wanna cum in me?” sophie replied? “not reallllly….” max said “lololol kk” sophie said as she gently slipped a roofie inside maxes anus. The last words he spoke before he passed out were “Fuck, not again...” Sophie was pondering over ways to plug up her bloody leak when suddenly a very elderly fat manwoman burst in through the door, and said, “WAT” Sophie couldn’t help but reply “WAT” the manwoman grew two extra heads and said “WAT WAT WAT” before jumping through the window and splattered a bloody mess of gore and diabetes on the pavement. Sophie didn’t care and kept pondering. She thought, “ponder ponder.” Sophie finally came up with the most brilliantesticle of ideas. She said, “Wow, I’ve finally come up with the most brilliantesticle of ideas.” as she took out her Uncle Alec’s shrink ray and pointed it at Max. She set the little thingy to “shrink” and let’er rip. Max shrunk to a state of shrinkiness , about the size of a tampon. “HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM, I WONDER WHAT I COULD DO WITH HIM NOW?” Sophie asked herself, as Max woke up and looked around. Max started yelling “HACKS HACKS HACKS HACKS” as Sophie picked him up and stuffed him into her bloody mess of a pussy. Sophie felt the vaginal period blood rush back to her brain, and thought to herself, “wow, what a stupid fucking idea THAT was.” Now that she had her brain and all of its faculties functional, she decided to take a rest, and sat down. Little did she know that she sat on the shrink ray and broke it, which made her entire body shrink down, mysteriously leaving her vagina the same size. Sophie woke up in a place which she could only describe as North Africa. Then she saw ovaries flying everywhere and thought to herself, “The only logical explanation here is that i used a shrink ray and shrunk myself down into my own vagina.” Suddenly, she heard a squeal, and saw a leprichaunic shadow. “you bic” THE END……………………………………? P.S. it isn’t the end. Sophie and Max shall return in……. MAXI PAD 2: OUT OF THE FRYING PAN, INTO THE VAGINA COMING NEVER to a theater near YOUUUUUUUUUUUU That’s right, you, you narcissistic fuck.

LOS ANGELES | vriNDUSTRIES COMPLEX | SUBJECT: THADDEUS JAMES | 2127 For the first time in as long as he could remember, Thaddeus James could walk. He could smell the scent of rain-soaked dirt, feel the smooth and oily backs of the amphibians crawling on the ground next to him. The luscious green of the forest filled his retinas, and the chirps and chatters of the animals created a sonic landscape for Thaddeus to admire. And though his body sat still, his mind, his senses, told him that he was walking. So he walked. His legs needed no rehabilitation, there was no soreness and fatigue, and as James sat in Room 0 of the complex – wires snaking out of his cranium and into a machine - he walked through the jungle. LOS ANGELES | vriNDUSTRIES COMPLEX | SUBJECT: REDACTED | 2129 **2 YEARS HAVE PASSED** Thaddeus ran about in a corn field on this day. Whatever his mind willed was granted, his greatest pleasantries becoming his reality. Next to him – not in the jungle, but in Room 0 – stood George Connors. A man of 24, he looked into the still, yet glowing eyes of his father Thaddeus. He noticed a woman passing by in the open door behind him. “Lydia, how much longer does he have?” She walked into the room, analyzing the data on the screens lining the far wall. “Somewhere between 5 and 6 days, it looks like. I do sincerely hope you find this cure, George.” George ignored that last, empty remark. Lydia only knew his name because he was her boss, and he figured she only cared about his circumstances for the same reason. For all he knew, she wouldn’t give a damn about him and his father any other way. George walked over to Room 127 to attend another matter. It was a luxurious room indeed. Like Room 0, this area was fully lit, with a warm incandescent glow contrasting with the metal sheen of the floors and walls. In the middle of it sat a woman - her eyes still yet painfully vibrant – internally writhing and screaming in pain, but externally resting calmly. Within her head, the woman was being tortured. Her deepest, darkest fear – that of snakes – tormented her, the creatures slithering on her skin, biting unrestrainedly, she was scared, so scared that the snakes would kill her and *oh god why are they doing this to me please GOD PLEASE MAKE IT STO-* “Pause it,” commanded George. The scientist in front of the machine typed a command, and the woman’s eyes began to move. She looked up to George - out of a terrible internal reality - in a desperate plea. “DON’T YOU PUT ME BACK! PLEASE, GOD, DON’T PUT ME BACK!” she pleaded. “YOU WILL ADDRESS ME BY MY NAME, YOU APATHETIC SHIT!” George screamed. He addressed the scientist standing by the machine. “Hadley, give her a mental shock.” Hadley turned a dial, and the woman became blank. In her mind, she writhed, screamed, shouted, and begged for mercy at the intense pain beginning to spread through her body, but this pain was shown only on a screen. Her physical body was unaffected. Internally crying, she regained her senses to see Hadley dialing a switch back down. “Now,” whispered George with a shaky voice, “you are going to tell me how I can save my father.” When George’s father was injured in the Great War of 2125, it was George who stood by his side. George was the one to provide financial support, and to rally in anger when MedCorp denied Thaddeus leg prosthetics in pursuit of political neutrality. And in 2127, when Thaddeus became ill, it was George who vacated Room 0 of his virtual reality complex. He knew that if his father could live without the needs of a physical life to drag him down, Thaddeus could enjoy an extended life in the co-reality of the machine and his mind. But the mind, even, needs the power of a heart and blood, and the energy produced by the human lung. This body was beginning to fail its mind, and Thaddeus would die if George couldn’t find a way to save him. Somebody had to know how. Thus, George modified the code in vriNCORPORATED’s machines. Its business uses, sexual diversions, entertainment industry, became inexistent, replaced – without the consent of those in the machines - with a docile simulation that asked its users to solve Thaddeus’s sickness. But when that didn’t work, George knew that extracting this answer would be harder. He devised a torture simulation to feed off of his subjects’ fears. Maybe, they would offer sympathies to a dying man in light of an experience worse than death. His beloved scientists maybe even have had the answers. But someone had to run the show, and the threat of being placed in the machine was reason enough for confidentiality. Meanwhile, *the woman refused to speak.* She stammered, yes, but no words came out. Her mentally tortured soul cried out for help in Room 127, but her mind blocked the useless words from ever reaching her mouth. “This one’s useless, Hadley. Kill her off.” Hadley entered a command, and the eyelids of the woman in the middle of the room closed. George closed his eyes for a second as well, to think. *“Someone in this damned building will give me the answers I need, Dad. I promise you your life.”* George Conners walked out of the room, stepped down the hallway, and entered Room 128.

Excerpt from found journal at site 225-A9. Author identified as only Doctor S. PHD. Dated March 14th 2035 Noted location: "Old World," State-run Hospital VA-02295 "St. Francine's" ... As I read the chart I noticed the results of the State mandated Gen-PreF tests. It reported that my next patient couple was decidedly more comfortable with a "male" doctor. I was disappointed. I thought about how I would have to announce myself as "Mystr S., PHD." It just didn't roll of the tongue as well as "Miss" did, or even the more simple "Dr. S." and leave my gender neutral. I wasn't worried about passing off as a man though, I had just visited the barb-ilist. The thym that worked on me did a wonderful job, not too long, not too short. The perfect blend of "long-haired man" or "not too short-haired woman." My other traits have all been sculpted to be "visual kei." I still, to this day, swear the hip shrinking pelvis shaving surgery was far more painful than my breast reduction, counter to the common claims of my peers. The State supplied hormone pills took care of everything else. When I stepped into the room I took a quick measure of the persons in front of me. The "male" was decidedly trying to be neutral, but his haggard complexion and signs of stubble on his face, gave me the impression of "him" more than anything. I allowed him the improper variance given the womyn in the room. "She" was nervous, her eyes darted down from him to me as I walked in. She was several weeks pregnant, and starting to show. "Hello, Miss J. and Mystr K., my name is Docto- I mean Mystr S., PHD," I said, slipping. The man narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down, but kept his mouth shut. She was in a sitting position in the chair in the middle of the room, he was standing over her left shoulder, his hand on it. "I've been reading your chart, here... no family names?" I asked conversationally. The womyn looked up at him and squeezed his hand as he cringed, "I don't have a family." She looked back down to me and said, "I used to have a family name, but I went through a deerkin phase and had it legally changed. After I met K. here I changed it back to my given name but kept out my family name for hym." I noticed the inflection when she said "hym." Keeping up appearances I assumed. It was well enough, because I did have the power to incite sanctions against them for not keeping to the rules of neutrality. "Ah, so J and K it is then. Not Myssus hmm? You aren't legal life partners yet?" I quizzed sitting down in the swivel chair provided for me. The man stood taller and said almost monotonously, "No, but we have cohabited for two and a half years now." This response was acceptable, since the State funded OCare that was paying for this visit only allowed them to be here if they met certain criteria. Marriage is no longer a legal coupling, one of the few concessions the retro-conservs won from the peace talks after The Gender Wars, but cohabitation for a period longer than two years was. What I found most interesting was their nervousness in using the State funded care. Nearly everyone did now, and since the demand was so low, non-funded health care was pretty cheap. Heck, with nearly everything provided to me at my andro housing barracks, my stipend of 'fun' expenditures could easily afford the cost of a legally enforced gender checkup during pregnancy. Not that I would ever get pregnant, disgusting. Genetic tailoring and the use of synthetic wombs is such a cleaner option. "Very good. Let's take a look at your fetus shall we then?" I said as I down the chart, grabbed some latex gloves from the counter, wheeled closer, and pulled the ultrasound caddy closer. Everything checked out okay, with one exception. "Healthy, but sorry, it's a boy. As you know our current sector has too many male children. When would you like to schedule the termination, this afternoon, or sometime later this week?" The female unit started to cry.

It doesn’t matter how many times I replay the moment in my head, each detail is still as fresh, each breath as exciting. It was the first time logic seceded from my thinking to allow something more real to seep through. The sight of her drew me in. I had seen her before, or at least I thought I had though I wasn’t quite sure now. The way she tilted her head, her hair flowing over her burning cheeks drawing my attention first to her smile, and then to her eyes. Her eyes were like diamonds, entrenched in a sea of scarlet flesh, or more like the sea themselves being as they were at once both alluring and dangerous, as I feared I would slip into them to be lost forever. No, though she reminded me of the sea her eyes were more dangerous. They were sirens and I was Odysseus, bound to my mast just for a chance to look into them, risking my sanity which I surely lost, and they drew me in. When I say she drew me in, I don’t mean that I was enamoured, which I surely was, she literally drew me in. The drawing began with my birth, and since then many less talented artists had been drawing me, starting with broad strokes, outlines, leaving spaces for the details, many making mistakes. Her deft hand traced over the previous lines, erasing them when necessary, and adding parts to me I’d only believed possible for others. Her eyes could only do so much, it was her words that added shade and texture. “You make me feel special”. The words rang hollow at first, it didn’t make sense. I realised that as her pencil had created me, I had also been at work. I had built Special as a home, like a log shack in the treacherous mountains, to which she held the only other set of keys. I could never make her enter the shack, all I could do was keep the fire burning in the hearth until she returned, and hope she could see the smoke rising from wherever she was. We continued to talk, creating each others worlds in a way I’d only believed possible of the gods. Once we had finished our work, we turned our attentions to the boat, the one we now travel on. The boat was comprised mostly out of driftwood and acceptance, it had many leaks and the sail seemed shoddy at best. But it worked, and we continue to fix it, and it keeps us afloat.

First off I wrote this to this so I'd appreciate it if you listened to it while you read to get the full effect. Also this is my first story so it'll probably suck but hopefully you can enjoy it: With the pattering of rain on the window he looked out. The world around him was small. His world was small, yet the world kept turning unaware of the existential questions imposed upon it. If the world could reply maybe it would say “We’re in this together, hold on. The sky becomes clear eventually”, he pondered. Not hearing the words his heart desperately wanted to hear, he let out a sigh. “Maybe this is too much. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I should never have left”. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, another crack of light “1, 2, 3, 4…” replied with another rumble. “4 miles” he said to himself. His absent minded stare half reflected back upon him. His deep blue eyes seemed tied he thought to himself. Then he heard it. Softly at first, but gradually getting louder; a piano played a simple tune. The pitter patter of the rain fell away. Entranced by the music his mind carefully and delicately un-wrapped its tune. Soon more instruments began to play; he could feel himself getting lost in the music. The violins called to him and he let go, feeling each note’s embrace his spirits began to lift. As if the world had felt this shift, a single ray of light broke through the storm. “Hope” was what he heard the world tell him “Experiences of wonder and beauty, this is what it truly means to live”.

. Dead. How? He couldn’t be. He could barely muster the strength to read the report again. This could not have happened. For 5 years now he had been the key to keeping the tide of war in their favour, keeping them in control. Every single plan devised by the scheming sons of bitches on the opposing side had been fed into his hands, and every time he had all the time in the world to counter their moves, force back their troops. They had been in control, and it was all thanks to him. The war hero. The brave agent working craftily under the eyes of the enemy, daringly stealing secrets crucial to the war effort. He had been the motivation that kept the entire force working. How could he possibly be dead? How could he be gone? He was no fool of course, he knew men were ultimately expendable and died often, but not him. He was too talented to be caught. Surely this must be a joke. But no, he couldn’t afford to be a fool. He was dead and there was no way round this. There is still a war to fight and he of all people could not be seen breaking down. He was the leader of the whole cause, his people could not see him collapse. No, the effort must continue. A military funeral must be arranged, of course. Of the highest honours, he of all people deserved it. New spies must be recruited, new methods developed. This war did not rest entirely on the shoulders of one man and now he must go out to prove that fact. The show must go on. Adieu, Cpl Rier. *Cpt Forest shouted in jubilation*. He was dead! Finally the traitorous bastard had been caught! For so long his plans had gone missing, stolen from beneath his nose. Every manoeuvre cut off, every secretive operation exposed. His hands had been tied for so long and it was showing. Retreats and evacuations, battalions flanked and eliminated, tens of thousands of men left to be massacred in blood-stained fields. And all because of this one, tiny, insignificant, rat. Well the rat had been caught. As one of his own secretaries no less. That would not do wonders for his personal status. But now was not the time to be worrying, it was a time of celebration. For the nights of worrying were over! The mole had been found and the mole had been shot. No more information would be leaked, no more documents stolen. The suffering had gone on far too long, but now the war could swing back in their favour. And he was very happy to take revenge on every man who stood in his way and had benefited from this piece of shit uncovering all of his tactics. He had been made to look like a fool, but now it was over. No longer would his men suffer. It was their turn to bleed. Cpt Forest spat in the trash can at his feet which now held the name badge of the once mysterious spy. Rot in hell, Cpl Rier.

Happiness can only be obtained by the ignorant. Entering the ward, I hurriedly found my way to the room. Upon first glance, I understood the silence of the attendants. For it was not something I would believe if told; it had to be shown. While out, my beautiful wife was strolling through her gardens as she always had, fingering the tulips, tasting the apples, breathing the air. Every breath was one with the ability to sing to the trees and touch my heart. Though, this time she did not return as she was. She had collapsed. The reasons elude the doctor and nothing else can be done. My eyes transfixed on what was once my vision of beauty, and strength. Now had become nothing more than a humble shell of what she once was. Pale and exhausted, she still greeted me with a smile. Yesterday it would have warmed my heart to see this. If all else was lost, I could press on knowing I could one day see it again, but this smile was different. It was not like the rest, it was a true smile, one that can be only adorned by a man or woman when they are in true accepting of fate. With my vision blurring and my steps faltering I clambered to the bedside, sobbing for the first time since becoming a man. I fumbled through the sheets and grasped for her hand. Finding it, I was startled by the cold. Frightened, I clasped it with both hands as if trying to return the warmth. She reached up and touched my cheek. She gazed into my eyes with content and love. Unfaltering she said not a word but watched and smiled. As if by some sort of magic I was no longer afraid. My hand slipped through my wife’s hair and behind her head, the other went under her knees. I lifted her up as if weightless, and carried her through gates and out to the field. I sat her down carefully leaning her upon the trunk of the once mighty oak. Next to her, my arm around her waist and her arm across my chest we sat in silence, knowing what doesn't need to be said. We watched the sun peek at noon and set at dusk. When unexpectedly she reached up and turned my head. She leaned forward and embraced me for the last time. I watched as her eyes rolled back, and her hands slipped from my face. I cried once more, hugging her as if it would bring her back. Sobbing into the nape of her neck, my heart dimmed and my soul became lost. I did not start to live until I met her, and I do not remember life without her. I couldn't remain. I stood up and began my walk home. Every sight reminding me of her. The road we always took to the market. The lake we swam in. I could not escape her. Wandering the streets I found myself home. I solemnly walked up the stairs; the house which once felt warm and inviting felt nothing but cold and alone. Trembling I reached out to the door and pushed it open. I could not enter. I collapsed to my knees and wept into my hands until I could hear the birds chirping. At another time it would have pleasantly awoken me from sleep alongside my love, but today it made me feel bitter. Strange how a simple bird can invoke a feeling of such loss. I had to stop it. I reached for the nearest item and threw it at the window, shattering it and scaring off the bird. Suddenly I wanted the bird back. I miss the sound, the memory. My head spun with endless thoughts. Unable to grasp at the nothing that was there I became overwhelmed by everything. Every picture, every piece of furniture, everything slapped me in the face. She is gone. My life, my dreams shattered before me. I walked on a path of glass, but my feet were made of stone. Every step I tried to take only threatened what little sanity I had left. I had no escape from it. Finally I entered the room. A mistake at heart but a feeling of necessity compelled me. Upon opening the door her fragrance hit me like a spear into the heart. It hurt but it comforted me slightly. I walked to the bed and fell upon the mattress, falling asleep comes easy to the weary. Many believe dreams are gateways to the soul. Mine must have been in hell. That day we decided to go to the market. She needed some peaches to make us some cobbler so we left early to get the freshest ones available. When we got there we spent hours searching the market for nothing. Exhausted from the day, we returned home, had a pleasant dinner and went to bed just like any other day. I awoke the next morning feeling her presence beside me, I rolled over assuming she would be there, but she was not. I suddenly realized that it was just a dream and nothing more. What kind of torture is this? My own mind tearing me apart. I could not handle another dream so I did not sleep. Days went on I watched the couples outside my house. I began to hate them. I began to hate love. Why shouldn’t I? It betrayed me; it left me with out a word and attacks me when I can't fight back. When life takes your lemons, you're left with just an empty glass I have not slept in weeks. I eat only when it becomes unbearable. I keep the curtains drawn, and the lights out. I do not like the light, it has become unwanted. My neighbors come in uninvited to check on me. I am no longer trusted to live life myself. They say its concern, I call it intrusion. But still they come and make me wash myself and change the bandages on my wrists when they got dirty. They try to comfort me, but I reply to them harshly. I like their company but I do not want it. I just want to be alone. I wanted to slip into a sleep and dream of her forever, but I did not want to wake from the sleep. That would hurt far too much. They don't understand my loss. None of them do. I know what has to be done. I know how to be happy. When all is lost and you stop looking, you are lost. I waited until just before dawn. I used the darkness to conceal me. I do not know what I was concealed from, but it was comforting. My pack slung behind me I ran out of the city. I can finally be happy again. For the first time in a great while I was excited. The old oak was still there.... unchanged from that day. I climbed up the tree giddy as ever. I perched myself on the highest branch. I tied the knot pulling it tight. Staring at the sun as it crested the horizon I slipped from the branch. And finally fell asleep. ...I didn't dream, I could no longer dream.

I woke up to the sun of another day, as it blinded me and my pack. The sun was beating down on me, but my ears covered my eyes. As I looked around, I notice one of my members was missing, Odawa. Where we saw him yesterday was now a splatter of blood, staining the rocks we lay on. There were now 11 members in our dakota, the only 11 Dene we have seen for what seems like weeks. Most of our Dene are starving, the food becoming scarce; I wonder if one of our own devoured Odawa as we slept. I see no blood on them. I, am Chata, the leader of our dakota. We scour the vast Wampanoag of our world, searching for food, or other Dene. If they will be friends or foe, I do not know for certain. As the wind blows into my ears, we decide to move forward, in search of food. After we search for what feels like weeks, we finally find a small oasis, we drink what we can and Sahnish, Ndee, and Inuu eat all the berries before we can eat a single one, leaving the rest of us to starve. We decide this would be a good place to stay for the night, and rest as the night falls upon us. I awake as the golden sun rises, as I look at our members. Sahnish, Ndee, and Inuu are dead, blood seeping out of their eyes, nose, and mouth. The berries were poisonous, leaving another 3 dead. The others want to eat them, but I tell them the poison would still be in them, and would only kill us. Now, there are 8 of us. We drink what we can from the oasis, and we encounter a group of 3 Hopi, riding a creature with humps in them. We pass by them, and continue our trek across Wampanoag, finding small lizards to eat, only giving us a slight boost of energy as we continue. We stop to rest for a moment, and as we do, Yavapai attacks Quapaw, killing him. Although it seems wrong, we all eat his corpse, leaving nothing but the bones. We decide to rest the night there. We wake up, more Dene dead. Now, it was just me, and Caddo. We eat the flesh of our once Dene, and we feel more satisfied than ever before. We continue, heading towards where the sun raises in the morning giving us light. As we walk, I turn around to check on Caddo, but I find nothing but the sand. I howl, hoping for a response, but what I hear is naught. I hear the explosions, and it can only be the Kawchottine, who kill us for no reason. I must run, before they hit me. They hit me in the leg, and they walk up to me, and hold their strange thing to my head.

It’s a brisk, cold, October night in the city’s south end. The streets are unusually empty and quiet. The night’s cold creeps up the spines of the few pedestrians rushing home after a long day. A stray car passes by, revving its engine loudly and disturbing the silence of the night. Far away, the city’s downtown lights can be seen, but their glow is shrouded in mist and darkness. The city slumbers and purrs like a sleeping cat, curled up against the cold of the outside world. In the midst of this seemingly peaceful night, danger arises as a man, wrought with jealousy and rage, seeks out his target. Dressed in a long, dark trench coat and heavy cargo boots, he walks hurriedly, cautious of his surroundings and desperately hoping not to cross the path of anyone who will keep him from his intent. He wears a rough beard and long sideburns, but his head is shaven. A large tattoo of a raven is etched into the back of his skull. A remnant of a former life he wants to forget. He notices a lone police car parked in the distance and his body tenses. He quickly stuffs his hand in his pocket to grab the silver switch blade he has brought with him. He feels the smooth, sharp steel of the blade and the onyx pearl handle. It calms his nerves. He slows his pace after realizing he has sped up to get past the police car. Not a good idea to raise suspicion at this point. A single motorcycle passes him by and it refocuses his attention on the mission at hand. He knows his victim very well. They were close when they were children. Jeremy and Chris; nothing could separate them. But now things are different for him. Things are about to change. After an eternity of walking, he finally reaches his destination. He looks at the cheap apartment building and grunts his displeasure. He hesitates at the stairs for a second to rethink his plan. He wonders if he should really go through with it and face the possible consequences. “Of course,” he mumbles to no one in particular. He scratches his beard and rubs his head. His hand lingers on the raven tattoo. It gives him motivation. “This has to be done. He…he…” A confused look disturbs his face. The memories bring him pain, but he shrugs them off. He reaches the top of the stairs and rings the doorbell. As the door opens, his eyes take in the tall, muscular frame of the man before him. The recognition dawns in both of their faces. “Jeremy!” exclaims the tall man in the doorway, “I didn’t expect you here tonight! Wh…What are you doing here?” Jeremy feels a bout of nausea coming on, but fights it off. “Oh not much, Chris. I just wanted to talk. I was in the neighborhood and took a chance that you might be home.” For a split second, his face registers worry, but he smiles his familiar smile. He cannot let on his intentions to Chris. He must be invited in. “Well, come on in Jeremy. It’s cold outside tonight. Feels as cold as death out there.” The irony doesn’t escape Jeremy, but he forces down the urge to laugh wildly. “Thank you, Chris,” replies Jeremy. They both walk into a simply appointed living area. It has mismatched furniture and bare walls. A gas fire crackles in the corner fireplace and the television is playing an old rerun of ‘House’. “Would you like a beer or something, Jeremy?” asks Chris. “Thanks but no. I won’t be here for long.” Jeremy watches Chris turn from him and sit in a large, overstuffed chair. “Have a seat, Bro.” Chris waves towards the seat opposite his own, but Jeremy doesn’t move. He notices how oddly Jeremy is dressed. Not the usual attire for Jeremy. His coat is too large and the pockets are deep. It gives him the look of a gunman ready for action. A cold chill runs its way through Chris’ body and for the first time he wonders why Jeremy’s right hand is still in his pocket. “So, ummm, what is it you want to talk about, Jeremy?” he asks, narrowing his eyes warily. Jeremy looks at the man across him, wearing a worn bathrobe and disheveled blond hair. The familiar blue eyes glare at him almost as if they could read his thoughts. He turns his eyes away. “Well, the truth is Jessica…well….she’s….I’ve found out that she’s been cheating on me.” “Your wife?! Man that’s rough, Jeremy. Are you sure? What are you gonna do?” Jeremy grits his teeth. He knows that this coward of a man is lying. Beads of sweat start forming on his forehead. He knows his temper is flaring. “Is there anything I can do for you, man?” asks Chris. “Yeah, you can. “ “Anything, Jeremy. Just name it.” “Apologize.” Jeremy’s voice is calm, but his eyes are blazing. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.” Chris rises from the chair abruptly. “Apologize for taking away the best part of my life!” Jeremy’s voice begins to get louder. “Don’t play dumb with me, Chris. Jessica told me the whole, disgusting truth.” “What?” Chris is dumfounded. “I can’t believe I never suspected anything. I didn’t notice the phone calls, the late nights at work. I was blissfully unaware.” Jeremy’s voice is angry. As he continues, his hand slips ever so slowly out of his pocket and the knife glints menacingly in the firelight. “I trusted both of you and never questioned anything. I was stupid and blind, but no longer!” Chris is shocked. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters and is close to tears. “What? I didn’t hear you, Chris.” “All I can say is I’m sorry, Jeremy! It just happened. It was a moment of……” “Shut up! Just shut up! I don’t want to hear it! Sorry isn’t good enough, Chris. Why didn’t you come clean? Why did you two continue to see each other after we got married! Or after Raven was born?” Jeremy is visibly enraged and crying. “Why did Jessica….” Chris begins, but he is interrupted by Jeremy. “Why did she confess? Don’t blame it on her! It was ALL your fault. You were the one who wouldn’t let up. You always thought she should have ended up with you instead of me. You bastard! Look what you’ve done to my life!” Jeremy notices the look of pure fear on Chris’ face and realizes that the knife is pointed menacingly towards its intended victim. He knows that if he intends on going through with his plan, he must act now. “I should have known. I should have seen the looks between you two. I should have realized that ‘our’ child looks nothing like me. Blond hair! Your blond hair, not my black hair. That’s why I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. That’s why I keep my head shaved. It reminds me of the betrayal” Chris realizes the danger he is in. He backs up, shaking and trying to think of a way out of this situation. Jeremy is also shaking, but it is from despair and hurt. He lurches forward and throws himself against Chris, who turns and tries desperately to run. The knife slices through the air and finds its mark. The blade cuts deeply into Chris’s arm as he screams in fear and agony. The two men fall on the floor. Jeremy is top of Chris who is flailing wildly, trying to get away. Jeremy turns Chris onto his back and sits heavily on his chest. “I’ve already said my goodbyes to my family in a note I left at home. I have nothing more to lose. How about you, Chris?” Before Chris can say anything, the blade plunges a second time into soft flesh. But this time, the knife finds Chris’s chest. All of the air is forced out of his lungs and Chris can do nothing but look into his brother’s eyes. Jeremy is now controlled by his anger. He pulls the knife back into the air and plunges it a final time into his brother’s heart.

Hello! This piece is quite old, this is my first time creating a reddit acct., and also my first time posting one. I hope you'd appreciate it! I will post stuff here from time to time (I hope it'd be frequent tho) ^_^ "I am but exiled; I've and I am destined to be forgotten." said he, a prince. His cloak was rather a representation of a man hiding from the sun, than to glorify what he is--what he once was: a Prince. "No longer am I a part of anyone. And if ever I was, and I am... sad as it is, I am to be forgotten." Old Sam. A guy in his forties, sitting in a bar, a Piano beside him; an accompaniment-filled atmosphere of nothing but adoring melancholy. He sits, a cigar lit in his left hand, carrying with it a glass of gin--to ease a pain that's long to be, and should have been forgotten. The player was through, as a courtesy, he asks, "Old Sam, what do you want me to play?" "Pathétique, Beethoven." A reminiscent of the old, the days he wished he is there. He states to himself. Familiar it is, the music, the setting. Pretty much, young was a man of forty; to him it seemed forever--old. The player started playing; to Sam, it was bitter--it was sweet, and somehow sour. A melody and memory of the past, coming through him, bursting at every moment. The keys, accompanied by blows of his well-lit cigar, and every shot of the tonic, and the gin. Old Sam, enjoying his music. The past he never was and never came to be. *** "Why is it that you've been here for so long?" "It's because I belong here... I'm not young, I'm old." "Why do you keep on saying you are, you never did, you've never been." "I was..." "You were Stuck." *** An unfamiliar piece of the music remains unanswered with his thoughts. He was old, he says. He grew up he says... "what's been left, what's gone?" *** "Why can you not let go of what you feel then?" "I don't know." "If you don't, then why bother thinking of it?" "..." "If you don't, have you ever thought if she knew?" "She never did, that's what it was." "Then if she did not, why bother thinking of the past?" "Please, stop. Boy, it's great. You've got some future with that tippity-tut in the Piano." He sighed. He can't take the questions that's been asked to him by his music... "Why can you not let go of the past, why can you not let go of her?" He looked at the glass of gin being grasped by his hand. It was a night. "I'm done with the past... I can never let go of the present and the future that I've never become a part of hers.

Standing outside rain dribbles from above, lands in my hair, and forms a muddled puddle on the gritty pavement below. Several bass samples ripped from creation itself vibrate the fluid in my eyes but the noises remain barely audible through a soundproof door. A vacuum of bass causes the door to stick as I pull and air gets sucked into the club. I follow the wind indoors and my heart skips a beat as the colors and noise swallow me whole. The line in front of me has thirteen guys waiting to get a glass of their own socially acceptable drug and I wonder why the place is so slow, how many of the guys are fags, and if I'll run into my boss here. The line’s order ends up being 11 colorful faux martinis, one Captain and coke, and a bottle of Fiji water. The fruity martini guys are gay, the rum guy is straight and the water guy is on ecstasy which means his sexual orientation is still up for debate. When I ask the bartender why the place is so slow she hands me a shot of congealed green snot while murmuring something about a curfew in a country on the far-side of the world. I try to picture Jordan but realize I have no idea what it looks like. Italy was a boot and I take my shot. Canada is America’s hat so I order a whiskey neat. Germany is shaped like, well, it's next to Poland so I have some Jäger. A song ends and some guy in a Mickey Mouse hat plays a mix where people rap over loops from an old Beatles song. Here comes the sun… I've got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one. Everyone is gray. Everything is grey. I can feel that I still have a few tablets left in my pocket so I grab a rum and coke, stretching my arm to grasp as I head to the restroom. I'm not exactly sure what these tablets are since a dealer named Nicolai presses these in his basement. If I had to guess by the one I shot earlier I'd wager them to be Meth, Molly and Heroin. I swallow two and crush one up on the toilet paper dispenser. Taking the straw from a pocket embroidered with some guys name I prepare for total bliss. As soon as the drugs enter my nostrils the world flips over again. I forget why I came here. Blue-green yellow-orange fluorescent bulbs flood the bathroom ceiling and they are already growing. Soon the room is pure orange, pure blue, pure white and then the room is so sterile that color has lost all meaning. What must be three stalls away one of the guys who ordered a fruity martini is sobbing that his friend is overdosing. I think about asking for their dealer’s number but reconsider and leave because their drama is already making my forehead turn read. Hopefully he’ll die so I can tell my coworker about it tomorrow instead of out usual small talk about weather. A Candy-Cane Goth who’s dressed up like an Everlasting Gobstopper stops me outside the bathroom while the door struggles to pull itself shut and she asks what the screaming is about. “Some Puddle Jumper laid down a hot shot.” “You get their dealer’s number?” she asks. “No, but if you come have a drink with me I'll show you some of the best you've ever had. “ Matin writes her name on my hand while I order for us but the ink is already smudging under the heat of the club’s blue and orange jelly lights. While I hand her a Long Island Iced Tea I can tell she’s trying to smile. Trying because her fresh, infected, swollen lip piercing is large and choking. She suffocating from what looks like a hemorrhoid on her mouth and her smile is a talking sphincter. It’s puffed full of puss, tight like an overage actress just after a fatty marshmallow lip injection. I take a lock of stripped pink and blue hair and pull it over her face. She smiles again; This time her hair covering the sore. I tell her she's stunning and a flash of green flies by and is gone and skipping across the floor before I can even identify if it was of this world. In this place I’d guess a glowstick. It’s stunning. Everything is grey. The drugs have taken control of my internal clock. Somewhere between 5 and 55 minutes later were sitting in a booth of crushed red velvet talking about Valentines Day. “Love is for people who want to fuck the same person more than once.” “Love is,” she replies, “Love is, it's giving up and fucking the same person more than once even though you don't want to. Love is surrender.” Everyone is blue. Everything is grey. Time is still askew and I'm back by the bathroom meeting Matin for the first time. She's asking about the dealer’s number again. Like the wind I pull her through the door into the restroom. Somewhere in there we've taken drugs off a guy sipping a martini because he was convinced we were vice cops; He happily turned over what looks like Meth. A few lines later were having sex in a stall while guy three stalls away is crying that his friend is overdosing. A rainbow aroma of vomit is filling the room killing my focus so I focus on Matin’s tattoos to help prolong my climax. It's working and time lost again. She gives me a snot green coagulated mixture of liquors to ease the pain. Grey. I'm outside the door to the club and rain runs down the back of my ears, my forehead, my nose, and filling my eyes. I can feel these tears shake with the beat of the club. I go to step inside, or outside? I can't remember if I was coming or going.Everything is grey. Ink drips thorough the cracks of my fingers so that there's nothing left but Mat—when I reach my car.

Alan washed his pale face under cold crispy water that flowed out of the dingy bathroom sink. The bathroom smelled of sweet lavender and cigarettes. While not a pleasant combination this scent is the only scent Alan knew and and the only scent he ever wanted to know. Alan grabbed a towel that was hanging from the dusty towel holder and dried off his face. He then grabbed his wedding ring from the bathroom counter and slipped it on his finger. Alan glanced in the mirror as he was just about to walk out of the bathroom. The quick glance lured him in and Alan found himself standing in front of the mirror studying his reflection. It was obvious he needed sleep. The dark purple circles under his eyes gave him an unforgettable look of sickness matched with his pale complexion. His soft blue eyes seemed to fade into the rest of his face only becoming noticeable when they were bloodshot from crying. The dark brown curls that sat neatly on top of his head gave him a boyish look. Instead of 25 he looked 18. According to his wife, every attempt at growing facial hair to try to enhance his age was pity and only made him look homeless and dirty. The desire to please her was the only thing that had not been replaced with the sadness that she left behind so he was freshly shaven every day in hopes of her return. After studying the man Alan no longer knew in the mirror he slowly slumped out of the bathroom into his bedroom. The bedroom was quiet and dark. A quick flip of the night stand lamp switch illuminated the room with a dark glow. Alan unhurriedly and thoughtfully walked around the room so careful as not to touch a single item. He wanted to preserve the room as it always has been. A messy yet organized room that could only be created by one person, but never recreated by another. Alan slipped off his clothes in the usual spot that he always did and neatly put them into a laundry hamper he had just bought. As he made his way to the bed he switched off the light, careful not to bump anything on his way. The bed smelled of fresh lavender. As Alan laid on his back to start the nightly routine of staring at the blank ceiling for hours he could feel the scent creeping its way into his lungs and eventually into his memories ever so easily. Nothing got to Alan more than this scent. As he laid in bed the flow of tears silently trickled down the sides of his burning cheeks and onto the white satin pillow. These eerie reminders of everything he once had always sent a flood of emotions through his fragile body. As hours went by Alan gave up on waiting for the apartment door to open bringing in what once was the meaning of his life and now was the cause of his pain; he turned over and went to sleep. As the birds sang their morning songs outside the window the next morning little light was shed into the apartment through the tightly closed blinds. Alan turned over and looked at the clock facing towards him on the night stand. It read 9:37 a.m. This was too early to be awake. Especially since Alan’s days now only consisted of waiting. Alan got on his feet and quietly made his way to the shower as if not to disturb anyone in their sleep, a habit since he was always the first to be awake. Alan turned on the shower, took off his wedding ring which he set on the counter, and hopped in. The water felt cold and rigid running down Alan’s spine sending false feelings of refreshment through his body. After half an hour of standing silently in the shower letting the water turn his entirety into a weak and cold figure Alan decided it was time to wash his hair. He grabbed the light purple bottle of lavender shampoo and squeezed a small sized amount onto the palm of his hand, barely enough to wash his full head of hair. It was the last of the shampoo. Disregarding the full bottle of men’s shampoo that sat right next to the empty bottle of lavender shampoo, he washed his hair quickly and stepped out onto the cold tile. The empty bottle of shampoo meant that Alan had to make the rare occasion of leaving his apartment to go to the store. Alan got dressed carefully making sure not to disturb anything in his path while looking through dirty clothes, searching for an outfit that could pass as clean. He needed to do laundry. After a long search for a “clean” outfit Alan settled for jeans and an old t-shirt. Pacing back and forth he did not know whether or not the trip to the store was worth the risk of leaving his apartment. Alan found himself becoming anxious when he left his lonely sanctuary, worrying that at any moment his wife would return and Alan would miss his chance to see her again. Except this time Alan knew he had to go. He ran out of coffee two days ago and even though Alan didn’t have an appetite anymore he knew he needed to buy some food. Most importantly, Alan did not want the smell of the sweet, sweet lavender that he loved so dearly to fade from the apartment and escape his lungs. For that smell of lavender was the only thing Alan had left. Finally, after a long moment of debating himself Alan grabbed his wallet and started his short walk to the grocery store at the corner of the block. Before he left, however, Alan made sure to leave the door unlocked and cracked open just an inch to give his wife an inviting message, in case of her return. Alan wanted her to know he wasn’t mad about her leaving and that she could come back home where he needed her at any time. In the store Alan picked up the few essentials he thought he needed to last him a couple of weeks so that he would not have to venture out again for a while. Canned soup, bread, coffee, toilet paper and lavender shampoo filled the bottom of his cart as he walked up to the cash register to pay. A quick swipe of his credit card and Alan was on his way back home. As Alan approached the door to his apartment he noticed that it was now open a lot more than just an inch. His heart began to beat fast as he made quick steps towards his door. Excitement and adrenaline started to replace any sadness and anxiety that was once there. Alan flung open the door. Practically throwing the bags of goods he had just purchased at the store Alan looked around the room wildly. The living room was empty. Alan could feel the familiar burning of his cheeks approach as he ran to the kitchen only to find a room full of emptyness. As anger and disappointment was slowly rising inside of Alan he ran to the door of his bedroom. Before he opened the door Alan took a deep breath and squinted back the tears that were fighting to be set free. He opened the door to find his usual company named Loneliness attempting to eat away at everything in the room. Loneliness had a history of leaving nothing left, not even an ounce of hope. Out of a fit of rage Alan headed back towards the living room and punched the bare white wall. After a couple seconds of pure anger he collapsed on the floor and laid there absorbing all of the small details around him. The door gently swayed from the wind out in the hallway as Alan had realized that he had sent himself on an emotional roller coaster ride for nothing. As the door continued to sway gently back and forth, back and forth through the day and night, Alan let himself eventually fall asleep on the floor of his living room making no noise but an occasional whimper of sorrow. The next morning Alan woke to an uncomfortable feeling. The feeling of being watched. As he turned over on his stomach the light felt warm on his heavy body that was sprawled out on the wooden floor. Alan peered through the shining light looking for the entity that made him feel watched, knowing just what he would find. Sitting across from Alan on the reclining chair was Loneliness. Alan looked Loneliness dead in the sinister eyes. Loneliness did not just consist of loneliness, Loneliness consisted of anxiety, depression, fear and hate. This had not been the first time Loneliness had overstayed his welcome. As the two stared at each other with blank expressions Alan felt as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. A whole day went on with Alan not eating, crying, moving, or thinking. The two just existed with no purpose or meaning attached to their existence. As hours passed and the night grew longer. Alan decided it was finally time to give in. Alan slowly picked his stiff body up off of the floor. Paying no attention to Loneliness who had already consumed half of the living room he made his way to the kitchen. On the counter sat the phone that hadn’t been used in weeks, waiting for a phone call that would never go through. Alan picked up the now unfamiliar device in his hand and dialed. “Nancy, I’m sorry. I know you’re probably sleeping... Yes, it’s happening again. I’m sorry. Yes… I’m sorry. Okay, I’ll be here. Goodbye.” Alan took a seat on the kitchen floor and began to cry. His shoulders heaved up and down as he began to scream through the short gasps of breath that were barely escaping his dry lips. Alan’s realization of the situation began to set in as his neighbors called the cops due to the shrilling screams dancing down the apartment hallway making their routinely appearance. Although Alan was repeatedly told to let go he couldn’t. He repeatedly held onto the hope that always transformed itself into the monster that lead him to his insanity. The door shot open as Nancy came in to see Alan in his state of weakness. “Get up Alan.” She stated as she gently coaxed him into a chair. “How long have you been like this?” Nancy looked around the house. It looked the same as it usually did when she came over. Alan was back to his old antics. “I don’t know. I thought she was coming back. I’m sorry. I just thought she was coming back.” Alan whispered as he buried his head into his lap. It pained Nancy to see Alan this way. Ever since her sister had died Alan had had these occasional episodes of whatever it was that made him think her sister would return. No one was hurt by the loss more than Alan was. He had always said his love for her was undying. But he had taken that expression too seriously, she thought, as she looked down at the man who she no longer recognized. “Let’s go, Alan. Grab your things and we’ll go see Dr. Hoffman. She has been waiting for a visit from you. I called her. Let’s go.” She grabbed her bag and waited for Alan to get up. Without a single care for grabbing his belongings he walked to the door awaiting Nancy to follow. Three weeks later Alan opened the door to the apartment; returning from the mental institution. Not to his surprise the apartment was cleaned up, everything was not in its usual place. The apartment no longer smelled of lavender and cigarettes, instead it was replaced with the strong smell of bleach. Nancy always cleaned up the apartment when Alan was away. She didn’t think it was healthy for him to live in an environment that he tried so hard to preserve. Alan set down his belongings that he got from the mental institution at the foot of the door and started the interminable process of setting everything back just the way his wife had left it before she died. Undoing all of the hard work that Nancy did Alan carefully wandered around the apartment moving things to match the pictures that were engraved in his mind of what it used to look like when she was alive. After everything was back in its usual place Alan sprayed the last of his wife’s lavender perfume around the rooms. He inhaled the smell as if getting a high off the memories the scent brought to him. In his bedroom Alan laid on the left side of the bed. The right side was reserved for his wife. As Alan fiddled with the ring on his middle finger he began to doze off to sleep. While sleeping Alan heard the front door of his apartment creek open and shut quietly. Soft familiar footsteps made their way to Alan’s bedroom and opened the door. Alan didn’t have to open his eyes, he knew who it was. As she got into the bed in her self proclaimed spot Alan felt like he could finally breathe again. A flood of relief made Alan’s body almost tingle as he turned on his side, careful not to open his eyes. “I’ve missed you,” he said as he dozed back off to sleep to the sweet smell of lavender and cigarettes.

1. The wheels spun franticly as the car sped down the deserted street. The light rain tapped lightly on the thin aluminum plates scattered across the car in thin streaks, meant as a better protection. Gregor was breathing heavily, blood squirting slowly down his chest. "Hang in there, Greg" a thin woman in the drivers seat said nervously. She knew what was going on and so did he. He had seen it a million times before in friend and enemies alike. First you forget everything and then you turn. Had he seen that woman before? Was she someone she knew? Did the gold metal on her ring mean something? He felt so tired. What was he in? What is happening? "Im so hungry" he thought. "Have to find something to eat". He reached forwards, hands grasping for something, anything to satiate the deep, deep hunger he felt. He grabbed something. Was it meat? Was it a piece of ham? Whatever it was, it moved frantically. Annoyed, Greg grabbed whatever that was closer and put it to his mouth but before he could manage to take a bite, he slammed hard to the side of whatever he was in and lost his grip. Before he knew it, what he had hoped would satiate his hunger had bolted away, leaving behind a shiny circular object. 2. Greg stumbled to his feet, still hungry. His movement impaired by what felt like something wrapping around him and yet he could not see anything that was amiss. As he walked forward, one slow step at a time, he saw, heard and smelt more than he ever could. In a matter of moments he saw a potential fix for his insatiable hunger. Whatever he was riding in had hit something soft and warm and somehow he knew it was food. He staggered slowly towards the twitching hunk of food and bit down hard. The food stopped resisting after he took the third bite, the food stopped resisting. Every bite was like an explosion of ecstasy before vanishing as quickly as it came. Even though he no longer felt hungry, he kept on eating. Did all food taste so good? In the clearing behind Greg, he heard a rustling of leaves. As he slowly turned to face the origin of the sound, he saw something move, slowly his way. He did not know how or why but he knew that was a friend and continued eating. After a long time, or was it a long time? The friend joined him at what was left of the food. Trying to remember how to speak, Greg tried to communicate with his new and only friend but all that came out was a sickly gurgle of a whisper. Even though that did not seem as much of a communication, his friend responded in the same tone and from that, he knew that they had to travel together 3. As Greg and his friend dragged their legs across the leaf covered road, they noticed more and more moving bags of food, too fast for them to reach despite no lack of trying. They did not know where they were going so they just walked what seemed as the easiest way to traverse. The clearing in front of them, somehow did not contain anything that could stop them rather than the ways at their sides that were covered in some strange, thin columns with lines dragging out the sides. And then another friend emerged from the wall to their left. His walking was somewhat slower so Greg and his friend slowed down to a crawl so he could join. When night had fallen, Greg had lost count of his friends but he knew they were somewhere between tententen an tententenfive. They moved slowly across the clearing "No, not clearing........A ROAD!!". Satisfied with this recent discovery, Greg continued to stumble down the road, trying to figure more and more things out. 4. The morning dew had just formed when Sarah reached base camp again. A hidden military camp, deep in the woods and the road leading to it were the only man made items in the forest she knew of so she sticked to it. As she approached the gates a burly man came out to meet her. "Hey Sarah, how was the hunt?" he asked right before he realized the came walking. "Where's Greg?", "Where's the car?", "What happened?". The look she gave him was all the answer he needed. Almost crying, the pained look in her eyes and the limp way she stood was the look of someone that had lost something. And since Michael had met her since military school, she had never looked so defeated in her life. "They came out of nowhere........" She said softly, almost whispering. "They were on us in a matter of seconds and.....and" She started sobbing. Michael immediately took her in his arms and the floodworks started flowing. Long streams of sparkling tears fell down the rosy cheeks between sobs and Michael tried desperately do comfort her to no avail. He knew how hard it was to loose a spouse. The sun was straight above Michael when Sarah finally came out of the barracks. Her eyes red and cheeks puffy, he knew she had cried the whole time. It wasn't easy to watch a loved one turn into the monsters the virus created. The base they were in was a cozy one. One main barrack, made of aluminum and wood, a sniper tower made out of concrete with a radio tower on top, a command center in witch the main operation had taken place before the even and finally an underground bunker that doubled as the armory. They were lucky, the base had been abandoned before the event so there was little risk from biters all the way up there. When Sarah finally got the courage to walk up to Michael, she instantly grabbed him in a desperate attempt to get a kiss. Michael immediately pushed her away and yelled sharply "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WOMAN??". As she laid there, he realized what was happening. The same had happened to him went he lost Martha. "Turning to others for comfort will not ease the pain" He said sharply. She laid there, taking in the words, thinking the words over, nodding eventually and returning to the dark barracks, to drink what was left of the booze, he guessed. 5. The road was now crowded, barely wide enough for all of Greg's friend to fit in and yet they stumbled forward. He did not know why but he kept on walking. Sometimes, someone managed to grab some of the moving food but that rarely happened and when it did, the food was finished in a matter of seconds. He no longer felt hungry, though even days after the last feeding but he still craved food for that short moment of complete bliss. Then he noticed something......Something Far....Far Away, sitting at the other end of the road, he noticed bright lights and sounds and he knew there was food there. The entire hoarde of friends he had suddenly picked up speed, not a lot of speed, mind you but the sounds encouraged everyone to keep on going. Michael was hitting the door to the command center frantically, knowing he could not break through the heavy metal door, he tried to get contact with Sarah. "Damn it....She Got the generator running". For weeks, they had tried to get the generator working again but all that was missing was what Sarah and Greg had tried to retrieve. The rubber band that spins around so it can actually generate something. Now the generator was running and with it, all the lights in the base and the speaker system, now blasting "Thunderstruck" with AC/DC. He knew that it would attract every biter in the forest. He did not think that they were many but he did not take any chances. They could probably hold of a couple hundred off but any more and he did not want to think about the consequences. Suddenly. The doors swung open, revealing Sarah, butt-naked, holding a Desert Eagle in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. "Come on and FUCK me" She said, as she slowly aimed the gun towards him. "I wont do it, its wrong and you know it" He said, the nervousness in his voice clearly showing. "Fine then". BANG!!!! The bullet grazed Michaels shoulder witch caused Michael to spring forward and tackling Sarah. Embarrassed by the situation, he disarmed her and covered her with a blanked. "Put some clothes on" he said as he turned off the lights and speaker system. However, as soon as the speakers were off, they head it. A low moaning sound was heard all around them. Nervously, he turned on the outer spotlights that revealed what he had feared. Thousands of biters had completely surrounded the base. The sight of them was enough to sober Sarah up a little bit so she put on some clothes and grabbed metal rods to defend herself. 6. The sound had stopped but they knew where the food was. Greg was joined by thousands of others, banging and pushing at the metal fence, trying to knock it down or find a breach so they could eat. Did Greg know the skinnier one that was running around? Had he seen her before? "Yes, I remember. She was important to me" and suddenly a slight comprehension came to him. "Wait, what am I doing? Why do I want to eat them. They are just like me". By the time the fence gave away, Michael and Sarah had gotten to the armory and had stocked themselves up in the sniper tower, ready to defend themselves. As the biters slowly circled the tower, they started shooting. Only headshots counted so they shot slowly and aimed carefully. Fueled by adrenaline, Sarah was sober enough to shoot surely. But no matter how well they aimed, they were not trained in guns. Every other bullet went past a head and into a torso that seemed to ignore it. "We don't have enough bullets" Sarah yelled over the continuous gunfire. "We don't need all those bullets when we have these" He grabbed into a black box and withdrew a couple of grenades. "Pull the pins and throw in a group of many". And she obeyed. They had around 12 grenades and by the time they were depleted and the bullets as well, only a handful of stragglers remained. Varily, they sneaked down the stairs, holding their M16's like clubs, ready to finish off the last remaining strugglers. But as soon as they came out, they saw Greg standing there. Sarah immediately burst to a sprint towards him but Michael stopped her. Greg tried to speak, tried to communicate somehow but his body betrayed him. He realized he did not yet have full control over it witch could be problematic since a large man was heading toward him, gun in hand the wrong way. But as the man...Who Was that man......"I know him as well, that's Michael". "M.........cl..." Was all he could produce. But it was too late. Michael raised the gum above his head the gun flew down on his head. But not Michaels gun or Gregs head, oh no. It was Sarahs gun and Michaels head. Knocked down, Sarah hurriedly dragged him down a hole in the ground and locked the......ground? "No.....BUNKER" His wits slowly returning to him, he tried once more to speak. "Sa........rh" was what came out his cracked lips. As she locked the bunker, sad with regret, she heard it. It was faint but she knew she heard it. After she knocked her gun through the skull of a biter crawling to her, she turned to face Greg, standing there, still, witch was unusual for a biter. And he was unscathed that meant he was not near the fighting. She walked towards him, each step harder than the last. All her instincts told her to run away but her heart said run to him. Then she heard him say it. "Sa....Rah" It was all she needed. She ran into his arms and embraced him as hard as she could. As Sarah was holding him, he tried to say something more but he could not. He found himself forgetting again. "What a nice, fresh bag of meat". Thank you for reading.

One of our favorite activities together was taking walks in the snow. Winter time always feels sad when you’re alone, but in a relationship, it can be a wonderful time for bonding. Any time it snowed, we made the most of our days off from work or school, gallivanting wherever we wanted to go. Some days it was a trip to the park with the dog, others it was a trek down to the local coffee shop to sip on a glass of warm, sugary hot cocoa. Some days we’d walk with no specific point B in mind, just a chance to enjoy the day and clear our heads. We had been together for a few months, both fresh out of long-term relationships that had grown dull. We both missed the excitement of starting something new. We missed the conversations over a cup of coffee where we’d explore each other’s minds, learning what made the other tick. We missed the thrill of adventuring together for the first time and planning exciting dates, hoping to impress the other with our hobbies and interests. We missed the walk up to the other’s door and the seemingly infinite moment between saying goodbye and whether or not we would share a kiss for the first time. With each other, we had reclaimed these moments. I would take her to my favorite places, she would take me to hers. On days when we couldn’t drive because of the weather, we’d take our walks in the snow. The snow sprinkled our bodies like powdered sugar topping a dessert. I grasped her hand through her maroon, knitted wool gloves. We made our way down the icy sidewalk, carefully plotting each step to avoid slipping. I had not prepared for the weather, and the wet snow barged its way through my canvas shoe and into my socks. She kept her body close to mine, giving off a warmth, but not just a physical warmth. The kind of warmth that feels like the bright, morning sun shining in through the windows of your soul. The kind of warmth that makes you want to stay in a moment forever. The kind of warmth that makes you forget all about the flurrying snow, the slippery ice, the wet socks. My last relationship ended because I was complacent in life. I had abandoned responsibilities, be it in life or to her. I was in a living cruise control mode, just going through the motions, every day the same as the last. I did not concern myself with the future, and I barely paid attention to the present. She had grown tired of listening to me reminiscing about my high school days as if they were the only good times I would ever have. “I don’t think you know what you want - and I know I don’t want this”, she said to me before leaving. Those words ingrained themselves into my memory like a burn mark on a slab of wood. I had made adjustments for the better, but it still seemed like a charade. Around others, I was a hard-working, motivated young man who learned from his mistakes - but in time spent by myself, I found it easy to slip into old habits. It was almost like a split personality, and it was confusing to tell which was the real me. On the surface, I told myself I’d changed, but deep down, it was questionable. She liked me for who I was, but wanted to be with me for who I’d become. However, the relationship was still fresh, and as long as I was still interesting - she was mine. But was it just a matter of time until my old habits overcame my new ones? Was it inevitable that she would get fed up and leave, just like the women of old? We made our way to her house, trudging through the frozen, packed snow. We approached a small area of grass in between a pair of townhouses where the snow had gathered rather high, deprived of human contact. “Let’s jump into it!” I exclaimed. She was hesitant, like any other normal human being, she had no interest in getting her clothing wet or catching influenza. I grabbed her by her wool glove again and motioned her towards me. “I’m going in whether you like it or not, now are you coming with me?” She let out a shy laugh and came closer, and we both fell backwards into the snow. The warmth of the moment overshadowed the snow encompassing our bodies, and we giggled like children on a playground. This was new, and I had captured her interest yet again. And like dropping a coin into a parking meter, I had bought myself a little more time. She would love me a little bit longer.

The Calrad The Calrad- A lost medieval tome, dated 700 years before the Second Empire, detailing the brief unification of Calradia in the 14th century. Believed to be only a legend, it survived the trials of time buried in the tomb of the famed Calradian historian Ilioneus Rex. It is a tale of politics and of scheming, of brotherhoods and backstabbings, and the reign of Acidus Alcimus, the Golden King. The Calrad has been revered since its rediscovery; it is the most prized piece of literature belonging to the Second Empire. Even before its unearthing, its stories were known to Calradians through paintings and works of art that survived when copies of the book itself did not. The book gives a history of the 14th century, along with all the stories, and builds a window into a forgotten epoch. All that is known of the Lost Age comes from the Calrad. The Lost Age, as it is referred to as, was the period of time following the fall of the Calradian Empire until the birthing of the Second Empire, almost 1000 years later. The book begins in a land torn between 6 kingdoms, each seeking to rule Calradia. It gives the tales of many- kings, lords, knights, and peasants- and details the brief unification of the land, an Empire that could have been, if it only lasted longer. It tells of the temporary shining of a golden lamp in the decrepit filth of the Lost Age... Dawn of the Blackblood Marauders Alexis stood tall over the mountains. He was a thief, and a criminal. A grin rested on his face. The grass was green today, and the river flowing in the distance. Nothing could be better. He rested in the shade of a tall oak, three caravan guards tied and bound beside him. Is there such a feeling as robbery? Certainly nothing was half so exciting. His pockets were full of denars, gold and shining. His share had been the biggest, of course, but the men had gotten their fair pickings of the loot. Alexis knew how to keep his men happy. His nose picked up the scent of a pig roasting. There is nothing better than this. The Marauders had visited Aldelen earlier to demand their tribute, and had robbed a caravan they happened upon by chance as they were on the mountain pass that led out of Aldelen. The caravan had been en route to Tihr, but had opted to go over the mountains instead of through the Jelbegi pass. I didn’t know traders were so hasty to be robbed. The mountain passes were notorious for the high risk of robberies, mostly due to the presence of the Marauders. Caravans didn’t usually make the mistake of crossing the mountain pass. Alexis sat to a feast of blackened pork around the campfire with his fellow bandits. They were mostly army deserters, but some, like Jerome One-Eye, had been manhunters, and more still had been common peasants. Alexis now led a band of over 40 men, though he had started with much fewer. And soon he would have 3 more new recruits- or 3 bodies to throw in a ditch. The caravan guards lay unconscious at the moment, but they would be given the choice when they woke. Alexis found that most people desired to keep their lives more than their honor. The sun sank deep into the horizon, leaving cloaks of pink and purple laying in the sky. Robbery is the life for me. The Blackblood Marauders had been living up to their reputation as of late, looting and plundering up and down the Nordic coast. The Nords were at war with both of their neighboring kingdoms, leaving the chance ripe to be a criminal without consequence. Only a few things called out to Alexis- gold, and glory, and both of those were to be found in the life of a bandit. The last few months had been a dream come true for him. The gold poured as fast as the wine, and the glory came with it; tales about the Marauders spread from village to village, town to town. Names have to be made somehow. Alexis woke up the next morning in the forest, high upon the nor’easter mountains. There was a briskness in the air, but a drowsiness in the light that fell through the treetops. A fine morning for some banditry. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the peace that accompanies a calm morning. The gentle sound of hooves carried to his ears from the distance. They picked up, louder and louder, until Alexis’ senses came to him, and his eyes shot open. Some of his men were up around camp, and were stopping to listen as well. Alexis signaled to Sam Fleetfoot and Rayle Robins. They hurried to him over the leaves and branches of the forest. “Sam, Rayle, keep the men out of sight, and quiet. Keep order.” “O’ course,” Rayle promised. His hair was black and greasy, and pimples dotted his face. He was scrawny, and not much good in a fight, but he was loyal, and had been a Marauder from the beginning. Sam was also black of hair, with a wispy beard, but he had a good build- strong and muscular. The men looked up to him; he was a fierce raider. They could be counted on to control the men for a while. Alexis slipped off into the sun-brushed trees, tracking the sound of the hooves. There were many horses, by the sound of them. Unusual, for the farmers and merchants who traveled the pass. The sound of hooves rose and fell. It sounds like an army was moving through the mountains. Soon they came into view, and a view it was. The banners of King Harlaus rose to the treetops, the black lions on his banner dancing in the wind. The King of Swadia was leading his army on to besiege a Nordic city, no doubt. The sun glimmered off his armor as he led his array of knights and crossbowmen through the woods. There is nothing to fear from this old king. We have no bounties on our heads in Swadia. Alexis slipped back off into the woods. The men were packing up camp when Alexis arrived. Most of the men were dressed in simple tunics, some embroidered with the crests of their former lords. There were men bearing the black raven of King Ragnar, the three swords of Jarl Gundur, the red tower of Jarl Knudarr, and others too. Some other men were dressed in boiled leather, and others still wore nothing but furs. There was not a piece of solid steel armor to be found amongst the lot. They had all gathered to be looters and bandits, to fight the feudal system that had enslaved them. Alexis walked through the camp to his tent, a sprawling piece of fabric held in place by two leaning trees. Beneath the folds of the fabric, Sam lay with a captive girl, and Rayle was nowhere to be seen. I can count on these two, my arse. Alexis left Sam to his pleasures and began his rounds about the camp. The men were almost packed, as they carried nothing but the clothes on their backs and the loot in their sacks. Jerome One-Eye caught up to Alexis as soon as he saw him. “Alex, my good man, let me give you my weekly report.” “Very well, One-Eye.” “The men are satisfied, but we run low on rations. We must need be making another stop in Aldelen or Rizi for food. We’ve got denars aplenty, and 15 horses, belonging to me, if you’ll remember. With the new additions, our numbers are about 45. Enough to raid any village in Calradia.” “To Rizi it is, then. We’ll replenish our rations, collect our tribute, and recruit a few young lads who are tired of taking it in the arse from their liege lord.” Jerome laughed at that. He had been a manhunter before he joined the Marauders. The manhunters were men paid a slight salary to ride around on horses and round up petty thieves and small bands of criminals. The pay was low for the work, and most manhunters turned to looting themselves, such as Jerome One-Eye. He was a gruff man, with a graying beard, but the eye he had left often twinkled in mischief. The men were ready by mid-morning, and the Blackblood Marauders were halfway down the mountain by lunch. The men ate the remaining food as they walked, bread, sausages, cold pork, and wine. A couple of men were singing a vulgar tune, as bandits tend to do. “If I see a maiden, I’ll tell her that she's fair, I’ll play nice and call her pretty names, then stick it you-know-where!” The Marauders spilled out of the wooded highlands, and found themselves walking through a field of bodies. King Harlaus’ men, and Jarl Turegor’s men as well. A battle had raged earlier in the day, it seemed. And by the look of that head on a spike, the Jarl suffered a grievous death alongside his men. “It seems our work has been done for us today,” Alexis mused. “Help yourselves to the best armor and weapons you can loot, boys!” he shouted. “We’ve come across a miracle, young Alex!” Jerome was shaking from excitement, as he rode up to Alexis on his horse. “More weapons than we can count! More good steel than we can carry!” “Indeed, One-Eye. Tell Sam and Rayle to oversee the looting. Our men must wear all the armor they can bear, and stuff their sacks full of what they can’t carry on their backs. They will drag all this loot if they must.” “We should bring all this loot to Tihr, for sale, if I may offer some advice. We’ll be rich and richer still.” “Don’t you see, One-Eye? This is our chance for glory, glory brighter than all the shining of golden denars. This is our chance to take the dead Jarl’s castle, claim land for us Marauders. Hrus Castle will be ours. It lies but a short walk from here, I can see it in the distance. It will be empty but for these ghosts.” That is, if King Harlaus hasn’t taken it first. The castle did lie only a half-hours walk from the battleground, and was sitting seductively in the afternoon sun. It stood tall above the treeline of the woodlands behind it; the banner of Jarl Turegor still stood in the wind. In his mind, Alexis saw his own banner flying high above the ramparts- a maiden weeping a river of black blood. “Aye, we’d be feared then. Our tributes would triple. Bandits, looters, sea raiders, pillagers, and deserters would flock to join our ranks. Inform the men. They will be anxious to hold their own castle, I imagine.” Jerome One-Eye rode off to inform the men of the plans, kicking up dirt in his wake. All around Alexis, men tried on gauntlets, greaves, helms, and chain mails, grins splitting their faces. He had almost forgotten to pick out his own new set of arms and armor. Alexis surveyed the field until he found just what he was looking for. The only thing suitable for the leader of the Blackblood Marauders- The armor of Jarl Turegor. Alexis found the body a yard from the head on a stake. The Jarl’s armor was magnificent- a thick coat of plates, cloaked in a maroon tabard, which was once white. He found a helm suitable for a warlord, gauntlets and thick iron greaves as well. Close by was a heavy bastard sword, though if it was the Jarl’s, Alexis could not tell. It mattered not, the sword suited him all the same. He stripped to his tunic and breeches, and began to fit himself to the armor. One day I will have a squire to put on my armor. Perhaps that day is not so far now… The armor was heavier than Alexis expected. It was made of thick steel plates, tied together with leather straps. I’ll need a horse to ride now. He could hardly walk. This will take some getting used to. Alexis could feel the stares of his men as he walked through the battlefield. God had let him stand taller and stronger, instilling loyalty into his men. The time is right to take Hrus Castle. The Castle gates stared Alexis down. “Should we knock?” joked Sam. A smile crept over Alexis’ face. “No. Hack it down.” A handful of men with axes over their shoulders started chopping away at the thick oak doors that led into the castle. Under the eye of Jerome, a couple men were sorting the loot beside the castle walls. The rest of the men were still struggling to carry all the loot from the battlefield to the castle. The gate was down within the hour. The castle yard was seemingly deserted. The Jarl must have taken his entire host to fight in the field. A fool’s mistake, and he paid for it. “Let us become acquainted with our new castle.” The men streamed in after Alexis. Jerome was taking inventory of the loot outside, but he had a number of the men transporting it to the Lord’s hall as he counted it off. The Castle felt like home already. The men took up residence in the guard towers and barracks, resuming the beds that had been filled with other men the night before. Alexis examined the Lord’s hall, his hall. The hall had a homey feel. It wasn’t cold and stony as other castles Alexis had seen; the hall was fitted with worn wood planks and a threadbare rug. Feast tables lined the walls, surrounded by stools. Braziers kept the hall well lit and warm. A bears pelt hung from one wall, and a large fireplace sat at the end of the hall. Alexis was surprised to see a small group of women sitting by it. “And who might you ladies be?” He sauntered towards them, Sam and Rayle following him as guards. A couple other men stood by the door, taking position there. “I am the Lady Aesa, sister to Lord Turegor. And who might it be that intrudes his castle?” She was a brave woman. She showed no fear, even with the armored thieves treading all around her and her halls. “It is his castle no longer. Jarl Turegor is dead. I killed him myself, defeated his host in battle.” “I wonder how much we can ransom her for,” whispered Sam. Lady Aesa began to sob. “Drag her and her handmaidens off to my quarters. I will deal with them later”. “As you wish,” said Sam. Rayle went with him, leaving Alexis alone in his hall. My own castle. A castle for the Marauders. Great thoughts filled his head, and Alexis fell away into daydreams.

The air was freezing, and the horses weren’t doing well for it. We hadn’t yet crossed to the north, and even if we had I was too paranoid to feel safe there. Because of this, we were heading up to Canada. We had decided that enough was enough and camped out for the night in the backcountry. I had been a slave on a large plantation, without family since my ninth birthday, and bitter about it to this day. I was freed by Daniel, a large muscular brutish man, yet surprisingly sweet. We had left in the dead of night, under the shimmering guide of the stars. We had headed north, and moved steadfast through dozens of miles of southern country. We had stolen horses from a small farm, a crime I felt was entirely just. Of course, the year was in the fall and I felt as if travel slowed more every day. But, Daniel assured me he would help to the north, no matter what. We had a less than nourishing meal of racoon and cornbread. The night sky shone beautifully, a blanket of thousands of stars along the glowing full moon. The sky was clear, consequence of a strong storm the days before. The horses were at a near stream, drinking, and Daniel was out hunting for whatever small game would be willing to have the petty life this wetland forest could provide. I decided to look for herbs, a skill I had learnt from Jasmine, a fellow ex-slave I had a short encounter with, and who had a talent for gardening. I took a small water jug and a lantern and started scrounging in the over growth. I found a rosemary plant and nothing much else. I returned to the camp with my hands covered in dirt and my eyes straining to stay open. Daniel was nowhere to be found, a long time to be gone, even for him. I hoped nothing bad had happened. Don’t be stupid, I thought. He was a powerful guy, and he could handle himself. So I stumbled onto my bedroll and fell asleep. In the morning I woke to the sound of birds chirping. The sun creeped forwards at a low angle. I sat up and looked around. Daniel was still gone. A knot formed in my stomach and I stood. “Daniel!” I shouted, apparently to no avail. Where could he be? I paced around the campsite, hoping he had left some kind of note. Alas, I found nothing at the campsite and decided to try to go out and find him. I was starting to get desperate. I would not get far without him. I stepped from the camp and crawled through the dense vegetation to get one of the horses. However, when I creeped to the stream, I didn’t find the horses. Instead, I found nothing but the ropes we tried them with, cut. Someone stole the horses. Now I was really starting to worry. What if Daniel was hurt? What if he was dead? But I was interrupted from my thoughts when two men, both wearing large coats and carrying muskets, stomped into the clearing and aimed their weapons at me. I stared at them for a seemingly infinite while, afraid they would fire, before a horribly familiar voice spoke out from behind me. “I’m really sorry about this. The long con, you know? No money in freedom fighting, but bounty hunting? It’s the best pay in I’ve gotten in a long time.” “Danie-” I didn’t even get to finish my sentence before the butt of a rifle was slammed into my skull, and I fell to the ground, induced into a painful sleep. Daniel. Of all the people it could have been, it was Daniel. I awoke in a caged wagon, hands bound. I didn’t try to escape, I didn’t even shout. I just cried. When I was done crying I waited, and watched the forested countryside slowly crawl by; the unassuming deer and towering elms peering at the caravan. I had a realization that day. A painful one, and one I didn’t want to realize, not until I was a lot older. There are no friends, there are no enemies. But everybody has a mission. Me, you, and Daniel. And people will crush you under their feet to finish that mission.

It's bitter and shocking isn't it? Cold, that is. As I slide my finger across the banister, the cold air seems to pierce my fingers and remind me. My car isn't much better but at least it keeps the wind out. It's quite hard to poison yourself effectively when the wind blows out your cigarettes. The fog from my mouth is almost crisp and refreshing which is absurd when it's a toxic cloud of bad decisions. This wouldn't be the last bad decision I'd make today but I mustn't forget, my car's getting cold. The apartment's lined with wooden floors and modern design. A chilling and cold monument to my ridiculous fortune in the face of such an addiction. The room was built by an Italian architect yet still, it's so cold. "Relax Amanda! Have a little fun! We did good today!." I didn't want to become some kind of breathing stereotype so I refused. The Model's party lifestyle is not something I wanted. It's an unrealistic expectation to think that the euphoric rush from being the room's centerpiece wouldn't mix into a bitter cocktail when mixed with stimulants. The lifestyle is just cold. That's not me though. Good thing I got out of that. I have what I need here. I'm not one of *those* junkies that I can look down on in the frozen streets. I'm getting cold. I wonder what he would be doing now? His addiction killed him along with the family he hit in his truck. It's abrasive to think about the young couple and the two kids being trapped and burned to death. It's a good thing he didn't have to see who he hit because he'd already put the knife in his chest. I'm cold. This is all really inefficient. What will I have to ruminate about in 10 years if I don't do something destructive and stupid now? I live in a nicer house than most people could imagine, my job pays well. It's a big cushion to keep consequences away. Addicts don't have such things, that's not me. I'm getting warmer. If I were to walk through a field of snow, I wonder how long it would be before I gave up and succumb to it? How long would it take before I dropped to my knees and floated away into an encompassing lake of warm milk. I could close my eyes and feel it, wrap itself around me gently. I'm warm. Why would I stop doing this? Everything's fine. I'm better than fine. I'm warm and the world seems to be calling me to it. The unlimited potential I have has been unlocked. I don't have to worry, I'm not like them. I just wrote this about a few days I've had in the winter. I hope it was at least entertaining to read.

There are a couple of things you should know before we get started. My mother, Gwen, is an American. She was born to an unknown single mother in Harlem, New York. At the age of four she was adopted. My father, Gerry, is an Englishman. They met, and married, in Montreal, Canada in 1945. After the war Gwen sailed to England, and set up home with my dad in London in an old Victorian house. I, along with my brothers and sister, were brought up there and treasure the place. Still do. It has a proud, faded glory, out of step with modern times, just like my mum’s stories of her family: stories of polar explorers, New York bankers, and millionaires. This was a history hidden deep within the American branch of our ancestral tree, but we paid little attention to these wild tales, possibly because, with my mom’s adoption, they were more than twice removed from our blood line. They were disconnected to not only our family, but also reality. There was nothing physical linking us to this past: no castle, or great wealth, just one or two newspaper cuttings mounted in a scrapbook forgotten in a cupboard. And, besides, they were stories about those “crazy yank” relatives. We were British, or so I thought. I left England at nineteen, moved to Canada by myself, and over the next four decades I returned to my parents, and to that old house, as often as I was able. Each visit would mark the passing of time. My mother’s memories would slowly fade like snapshots from the roaring twenties. On my last visit there was a new addition hanging in the living room, a room that already resembled a museum with all the memorabilia from a well-traveled life. There staring down from the wall was an old, large oil portrait of a sophisticated, gray haired woman. The character in the painting appeared stern, but comfortable, in her new surroundings. She controlled the musty room with a dignified gaze as if she was now the lady of the house. “Who’s that?” I asked my frail mother. “That’s Dappen,” she told me with rare clarity. Gwen had inherited the portrait from her American mother. “Her real name is Julia Clarke. She’s your great, great grandmother. Her second husband, James W. Ellsworth, owned coalmines and castles…her son was Benjamin Clarke Fincke…my grandfather… and the Clarke after which you are named…her stepson was Lincoln Ellsworth… the famous polar explorer.” It all sounded amazing, but once again I paid little attention. There were other things to think about. My elderly parents single-handedly still looked after themselves and the old house, and I was concerned with all their futures. I returned to Canada and to my wife and hip-hop teenagers in our downtown Toronto apartment, and thought little of Dappen’s portrait and her role in our family. I would soon discover that the children of Dappen and Mr. Ellsworth would leave their mark not only on history and art, but quite literally, on the map of the world. That December in Toronto my wife brought out the boxes of holiday decorations and started the ritual of decorating the Christmas tree. One of the boxes contained a collection of Christmas cards received from previous years. Feeling nostalgic we started to sift through the correspondence and tried to read the signatures, remember the names, faces, and places from our collective past. One of the cards was from my deceased American grandmother, whom we called “Ma”. Contained in the holiday greeting was a handwritten letter in my grandmother’s hard-to-decipher, distinctive loopy style. I had completely forgotten about it. It was written just before her death and Ma had committed to paper the family history as she remembered it. Some of it I already knew. But one thing stood out – a reference to “Uncle Billy”. My mother had never mentioned him. He must have been Benjamin’s brother, and Dappen’s second son. I then recalled that carelessly stashed away in a plastic shopping bag at the bottom of my sock drawer was a haphazard collection of old trinkets and cheap jewelry that I had accumulated since I was a boy in London. One of the items was a gold fob used on the end of a pocket watch chain. I vaguely recalled that it had some connection with what I thought was my great grandfather. I found the worn bag and tipped its contents onto the bed, and there was the distinctive item. It was in the shape of an American football. There was an inscription written in faded blue on three sections. On one section of the football it read: Hill ’96. On another: 118 - 52 and as I turned it over I expected to see the name Benjamin Clarke Fincke. But it wasn’t my great grandfather’s name that I saw. The inscription read: William M. Fincke – Captain – Quarterback. This had once belonged to Benny’s brother – my great uncle Billy. Why on earth had I been carrying a memento of an unknown great uncle for over thirty years? How had I got it? Who was he? What was Hill? Maybe it was Ma that gave me the football fob to remind me of Billy. I couldn’t be certain, but here it was in my hand, having traveled over a century and anxious to tell its story. This time I wasn’t going to ignore the family history. I googled William’s name – and bingo! – there were hundreds of hits. In his youth Billy had been an All-American and played quarterback for Yale, and was captain of their athletic team. More importantly, he was a hero to the American labour movement. He, along with his wife Helen Hamlin Fincke, had dedicated their life and fortune to the worker’s cause, and the less fortunate, like single mothers. They had founded the first labour college in America – Brookwood. Their names were listed in “The Red Network”, a book that catalogued American socialist/communist sympathizers. Billy had been jailed in 1919 while participating in a steel workers strike in Pennsylvania, campaigning for free speech. Helen had actually run for political office in 1920, the year women had the vote for the first time, on the Farmer-Labor ticket! They were the founders of the Manumit school, something Wikipedia described as “an experimental Christian socialist boarding school in Pawling, New York.” They would have been as unwelcome as the Spanish flu in some privileged homes even though they both came from highly respected families. There were cross-references with James W. Ellsworth – millionaire - and his son Lincoln Ellsworth. James, besides being a wealthy industrialist, was also a connoisseur of the arts. He had helped establish the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893. He had commissioned one of the first skyscrapers in the windy city. He had been president of The Union National Bank of Chicago. He owned a famous castle in Switzerland, and an even more famous villa in Italy. And there was a reference to New York’s Metropolitan Museum that displayed the family’s gift of Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Man. His son Lincoln was also an overachiever: polar explorer and winner of the US Medal of Honor. He also had a connection to Canada. Lincoln had been part of the surveying team that laid the Canadian Pacific railroad, he helped establish the town of Prince Rupert in British Columbia, and he had been a prospector on Alberta’s Peace River. There were other entries about an area of the Antarctic that Lincoln discovered and named Ellsworth Land. This was getting exciting. I had uncovered an incredible cast of characters and an epic tale, not just of my family, but also of early twentieth century history. The fact that I was somehow connected, albeit tentatively, to this story of fortunes, adventurers, and politics made the whole thing even more inspiring, and made me want to discover more. Normally, I ignore vague family connections that are revealed on-line. In this new Internet world it seems everybody is connected. But this discovery empowered me and I paid no attention to Internet decorum. I tracked down via the web somebody in Boston I thought may be a descendant of William’s and sent a “cold call” e-mail. Bull’s-eye! I had made contact with Billy’s grandson, and he too had Clarke in his name. It had been handed down on his side of the family, along with the history, but the two branches knew nothing about each other. Why was that? What was even more remarkable was all this history and delight sprung from a simple memento, forgotten for decades just like Billy’s dedication and commitment, eclipsed by his stepbrother’s monumental accomplishments. His timepiece fob was possessed of a certain dormant power that had now been released. Originally a gift from mother to son, it had now become magically active and I had picked it up and ran with it. The complete story is for another time, this synopsis will have to do. But if I’ve done my part correctly, maybe Dappen’s portrait will smile that final time I return to England having passed the golden football to you.

Mick’s ninety year old mom had moved into a nursing home, close to where he lived in Nottingham so he could take care of her in her final years. But she still owned her home close by to my parents in London. He was down from the Midlands renovating the house in order to rent it on her behalf. He asked me if I’d help him and of course I said “yes”. While at his mom’s slim old house I realized that, in all the fifty years I had known him, I had never actually been inside his family home. As we replaced worn out sinks, cleaned up bathrooms, and laid new brown carpet I asked him which was his bedroom when he was a kid. He told me he never had one, well only for a short time. I was shocked. Here I was in the house that nurtured him, which he had left at fifteen years of age to come live with us before he signed on for the Royal Navy, and it was only now, half a century later that the pieces of his early life sailed into view. For the first time ever he told me about the house and his grandfather. This is that story. “I remember my grandfather vividly. His name was Arthur, like that of that legendary King of England. The four of us all lived together: my grandparents, my mom, and me. I shared a bedroom with my mom while my grandparents had the other bedroom. It was the 1950s. We had no television, telephone, or fridge. We kept the butter on a marble slab so it wouldn’t melt in summer. I remember grandad as being small, about five feet six, thin in face with a roman nose. He had a good head of hair even up to his death. He was slightly stooped and walked with a limp, a reminder of his time as a private in the Middlesex Regiment during the First World War. The wound was the result of shrapnel buried deep in his leg during the battle of the Somme. His was the fourth party to be ordered to take a German observation post. The first three parties had been annihilated. I remember the story he told me: “We were ordered onto the Somme. The mud was so heavy and thick that two soldiers who had bayoneted each other died standing up, their legs held fast by the black muck, stuck like statues. We passed them as we marched up to the front on our way to certain death.” But he didn’t die. They took the objective. He was wounded in the battle and sent home. He never got over the war. Our house was important to him. It was his one asset. He and my grandmother had had to move to South London from North London because theirs was a mixed marriage – not mixed along racial lines, but religious ones. He was Protestant and she was Catholic. It’s almost forgotten now, but a hundred years ago there were fights, particularly in the Tottenham area, between the two religious factions. I remember my grandfather telling me that after school the tough lads would tie string around their caps, and twirl them like a scythe. The hard rubber peaks would cause serious pain if it clocked your enemy around the face. Both families frowned upon my grandparent’s marriage, and so they moved to this little house. But it cost them contact with the rest of the family I think my grandmother’s brother had been a judge in North London and had done very well for himself. After I was born my grandfather struggled through a serious of odd jobs. I remember he worked as a car park attendant for the Granada Cinema in Kingston. He would catch the 667 trolley bus to his job. I would sometimes join him. I was a youngster then, not yet in my teens, but I helped him take the silver sixpences and shillings from the customers, shining bright in the palm of my unblemished hands. We would stay warm in the attendant’s wooden hut during the winter months, huddled around the heater like soldiers. He told me stories about the war and our family as we listened to the BBC on the radio. Saturday was a big day. It was busy at the movies and he was constantly parking cars as I collected the coins. We would listen to the football results on the radio just before five o’clock. He wanted to know how his Spurs were doing and whether he had been successful that weekend on the football pools. He loved the wireless. I remember him returning home at night, sitting in the front room in his wing-tipped easy chair, smoking his pipe, listening, occasionally moving the dial through the many voices and languages of Europe. There, listed on the tuner, were names like Monte Carlo, Luxemburg, Paris and Moscow: an escape to foreign lands and another time just like all those years ago when he camped under the stars dreaming of innocent times. I remember sitting on his knee, happy to be close to him. Things changed dramatically after Grandma died. She had contracted food poisoning. It was so severe that she was hospitalized for life in Teddington hospital. When she eventually passed to the other side my grandfather became very depressed. He moved out of his bedroom and set up a bed in the dark, small wedge-shaped cupboard under the stairs. For the first time in my life I had my own bedroom as my mother moved into the now vacated other bedroom. But it was a sad situation. My grandfather would stay behind his slanted closed door almost for the whole day, hardly coming out. He pinned newspaper cuttings to the wall as if he was back in the trenches. My mom was angry, and worried, when he started to burn candles in the low ceilinged room rather than using the single naked light bulb. He could have set the whole house on fire. The winter of 1957 grandad contracted pneumonia. My mom and I had to move him from his hide-away and back upstairs in his bedroom, so the doctor could visit and check on him. I’ll never forget the November day he died. I was twelve. It was very cold. I was busying laying a fire in the front room. My mom had the oven on in the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast?” she shouted to me. Before I could answer we heard a thud from upstairs. My mom looked worried. She lit a cigarette. I’ll always remember that smell of burning tobacco. “You go up and check on him” she ordered. Sheepishly, I climbed the stairs and looked in the room. He had fallen on the floor. I noticed that he had shit the bed. I was horrified. I touched his body. He was dead. I was sure. I ran down and told my mother. She went upstairs and checked on her dad and then told me to run down the road to the public telephone box and call 999. When they came to get his body my mom didn’t want me to see my grandfather that final time. Young people were not supposed to see the dead in case they were scarred for life. I was confined to the kitchen. I was not even allowed to attend the funeral. But I had to clean out his bedroom in the cupboard under the stairs, remove the press clippings from the walls, and tidy up his few remaining possessions. Inside I shut the door and sat in the darkness and thought about his life, and what he had given me, as he retreated back to the trenches: his dugout of dreams.

I can prove that the universe is deterministic. Ok, I know I'm jumping right into it, so let me back up a bit and give you some context; I have juvenile diabetes, which as you might know, means I have an issue with sugar. The simplified version is that my pancreas is broken. It’s a small organ, not responsible for much. When it comes to organ failures, I got one of the better ones really, but it does mean I need to manually regulate how much sugar is in my system, something that most people’s bodies do automatically for them. Again, in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t too much of a problem - sometimes the amount goes too high, and I inject insulin to lower it, but as someone who is fine with needles, this isn’t an issue. The other end is where it gets interesting: when the amount in my body is too low, my brain loses the energy it needs to function. At first, this means acting drunk (always fun at 9am in the morning), but a few times it’s gone even further, where I’ve passed out and needed an ambulance to revive me. In both cases, my brain on little sugar has traversed into some weird places. It starts out very similar to a dream, but with me just living normally, with no indication that anything is different. As time progresses, things get more predictable - I can start guessing at what will happen next, and eventually conclude that the entire universe must be predictable, deterministic. What is worse - due to now being able to forsee the future, I can see what I’m about to do, and that is: come up with an undeniable statement that will somehow also convince everyone else. Kind of like “This sentence is false”, but at a much more powerful level. Once that happens,the fabric of society crumbles, physics is essentially flawed, and quite quickly our universe comes to an end. At this point, it starts up again, and the cycle restarts - like a song stuck in an endless loop, but containing all of existence, ever. It is at the point the world ceases to exist that I wake up, surrounded by medical-clad ambulance members, and regaining consciousness in the ‘real world’. Now, I’m sure that sounds crazy, and if you’ve never been thoroughly convinced about the end of the world in a dream before, it’s undoubtedly quite hard to conceptualize first time around. Believing that the universe is on a loop, and that you currently are the only one that knows it, is by no means a pleasant experience. Believing that you will have to experience it every time the cycle comes round is even worse. Most horrifying though, is the realization that both times this happened, I had no idea that I was dreaming. It felt then exactly how it does now - in both cases, something triggered my thinking about determinism, and by the time the universe collapsed, I woke up in a different one. So these days I mostly try to avoid thinking about it. I feel like I’m probably in the ‘real’ world, just one where if I start thinking about something, the universe might end and I’ll end up waking up in hospital. Except that I live alone, so perhaps no-one will be there to revive me, and when the dream universe ends, my life in the real one will too. If I start thinking too hard, I might die. Sometimes I can’t help myself though. Have you ever tried not thinking about something? If I told you not to think about an acorn, I’m sure the first thing you thought of was a acorn. I could be walking down a street, avoiding other pedestrians, and I’ll start trying to predict which way they’ll move when coming at me. Pretty soon I’m wondering what influences their decision, whether we’ll ever be able to made a machine that knows before they do, and eventually whether the entire universe is deterministic. I can’t find a way to stop it, which is even more horrific. My thoughts appear in my brain without me having control over what they are or when they happen, so not only can I be killed by a thought, but I can’t avoid having it. My thoughts play out in my mind, but I have no real agency at what comes up or where it leads. If you could measure the state of my brain, I’m sure you could figure out when I was going to think about it, and stop me. But then the same applies to you - you don’t have the free will to do that, it is simply a result of some thoughts that occurred outside your control. I’m stuck, unable to *not* think about determinism. Through the unstoppable march of time and consequences, I’m forced to never be sure if I’m going to wake up again. Or if I can wake up from a sugar-low-induced dream world into the ‘real’ world, what is stopping me from doing likewise again? Do I just have to think about something...there’s no place like home? Instead, the thoughts that I didn’t get to choose made me conclude that this makes an interesting story, and I should share it. Maybe I already know what will happen, as I’ve lived through this before, not once, not twice, but forever. And you don’t know about it. And that now you’re thinking about determinism too. And the more you read this, or others read it, the worse it’ll get. And that, really, there was no way of avoiding it. And that I can’t stop it, because noone would believe me or stop it until it’s too late. Because I already know they won’t…..

Somewhere, lost in Yemen, there stands a banana tree. Not just any banana tree...your banana tree. And your banana tree grows tall and fruitful as all banana trees should. Otherwise they would not be banana trees at all. They would just be trees, or, even worse, seeds resting upon dead soil. But your tree is a tree. Your tree is a banana tree and beneath your tree is an empty chair made of ancient mahogany. On some days people come to the chair to sip coffee with God but most of the time find only you. They say you seem close enough, though you too know so little of anything holy. And they bring you their problems to see if coffee can drown them or at least to test and see if the bastards can swim. Some problems will drown away beneath the strength of a particularly powerful brew, but most slurp the Belgian bean roast up, making them new problems altogether; more indignant and dastardly things. And the people cry and cry until you convince yourself that they are all oceans, and if you look at them like a reflection you can't help but think to yourself that you really are quite ugly and alone here. And those broken little problems cry. They wonder why you hate them and why you don't love them like you do those whom they call home. And you wish to help them too, but you can't, or won't, or shouldn't, or haven't, or something. The beasties curl their knees tight to their chests dissolving themselves into little balls clutching tightly to tattered issues of Calvin and Hobbes, promising themselves that one day life will resemble those pages. You see all their pain and wonder where all the caretakers went off to. Why no one will hold you like they hold that book. All you want is to know them, to call them all by name, scoop them up into your tree's branches, point to the stars and say "that one is yours. That one is how you remember that I love you". But you possess no words to convey this love...so you bawl until you wash them all away and they too become oceans, or ocean, and you really are alone in this world, except for one girl you find lounging beneath your banana tree. Her name is Guanchala, but she calls herself Gigi. She loves listening to people sing from their depths. "There is treasure buried there". Her depths sound like Joni Mitchell and raindrops gloriously pitter pattering agains pavement. And she always smells of petrichor. She says she knows home as the place where souls and nerves all touch at once, until the edges of where she begins and you end become indistinguishable. Often she builds tire swings amidst your branches and lets her feet dangle in the void separating soil and God. On certain nights she sneaks into the valley, scales the branches and reads to you excerpts from Zora Neale Hurston. She "soaks in the moonlight glow and the soprano hum of passing lightning bugs" until she overflows with light and songs. The beauty mark at the edge of her mouth arches toward the heavens as she radiates words from within the worn beige covers of her collected stories. "She was the world and the heavens boiled down to a drop." She tells you of dreams of sailing away from all this loathing one day; That she shall "stow away upon the S.S. Lewis and sail with you clutched tightly in one arm and her tattered beige book in the other." But, she never asks you to help her find that boat. She is more concerned with what the two of you will become on any given day. "What does your face look like today?" In these moments you are not alone. You are there and she is there. The two of you sit on the shore digging your toes into the sand. You look out onto the crashing waves of the ocean and upwards into the stars hanging heavy against navy skies. You take turns calling each star by name as they implode before your eyes and become dust. Now there is only man, woman, and a tree. She buries her fingers into the rich chestnut soil and holds you in her cardigan-covered arms. Stardust floats down into soil. The cries of the ocean no longer sound of sorrow, but of wedding bells. The two of you rise and begin to march towards the altar waiting beneath the banana tree.

Tag walked carefully along the thin stone wall. He was trying to get across a fairly large sized river, and this was the quickest, most effective way of doing so. It reminded him of how he used to play on curbs when he was younger - trying to balance on them without falling off. Only this time it was not a game with petty consequences if you fell off. It wouldn't be scraped knee or elbow if he lost his balance; this time it would probably mean an end to his short 23 years on this planet. This cruel, unforgiving planet. "Hurry up, dude." a still somewhat unfamiliar voice said from behind him. "Sorry. I guess started daydreaming about how ridiculous this situation is. It almost makes me want to laugh." Tag replied. "If you would have told me what we were doing here a couple years ago, I would have laughed right there with you buddy." The voice said in a sympathetic voice, then paused for a moment. The tone quickly changed to an assertive, almost aggressive tone. "But every minute we waste here is another minute the sun gets lower in the sky." And with that, Tag started walking again. The pair of men were walking on what used to be one of the walls of a walkway across the river. The original wooden walkway between the two walls had since deteriorated, and was unstable to walk on. It was even missing in most places. All that remained were the two walls originally surrounding the walkway, and the steel canopy above it. It certainly would have been much easier to climb up onto the steel canopy of the old bridge, which was still intact, and cross the river that way. There was one problem with that though. It was sunny out, with barely any clouds in the sky. For that reason, they needed that same steel canopy to shade their walk across the wall. Another possibility of crossing the wide, yet shallow river, was to simply wade through it. A practical and easy way to cross. Tag could also potentially not even get wet by hopping from rock to rock the whole way across. However, the sun prevented such a simple solution once again. They were now about halfway across the remains of the bridge they were walking across. Tag could feel the waves of light reflected from the clear water below. Water was especially good at reflecting rays from the sun that Tag, along with every other "new generation" human, feared so much. As he walked across the slim wall, the reflected sunlight caused him to itch and become increasingly uncomfortable the longer he was exposed. Only a little bit longer and they would be across the river and back into the shade of the thick forest on the other side. A few minutes later, Tag arrived at his destination; the other side of the river. He hopped down from the wall onto the shaded soil, and entered the forest just enough to prevent any directly reflected light from the river from reaching him. Tag had started becoming lightheaded near the end of the river crossing from the prolonged exposure to the indirect sunlight. Any longer on that wall and he might have risked fallen off due to simple lightheadedness. Tag lay there on the cool soil and recollected his thoughts. Being in the shade cleared up his consciousness and the uncomfortable itchy feeling, almost as if he had taken some super-drug that instantly cured him from sunlight exposure symptoms. It felt as if a cool waterfall had been slowly poured over his entire body, soothing away that heated feeling. After recovering, tag looked back at the old bridge and saw the man he met earlier today, still slowly walking across. "The shade sure feels nice over here, old man" Tag said in a taunting voice. He waited for a comedic retort, as that was what he had expected of the man by now. It seemed that during the past few hours they had talked with each other, the middle aged man always had a funny comeback no matter what tag said to him. Tag liked having someone to talk to for once, and was glad it was someone amusing. Something wasn't right. There was no reply this time, just a small mumble. "Hey, are you coming or what?" Tag announced, this time with a bit of concern in his voice. No reply came from the man. Not even a mumble this time. In fact, his facial expression looked calm, which was unusual, considering the situation he was in. So calm looking, it was almost as if he was going to fall asleep right there on the wall. It was at that moment Tag started putting the pieces together. One. They both started crossing the bridge at the same time - yet the man still had a few minutes of walking to do. They were near each other around midway of the crossing, so the man must have slowed down his walking recently. Two. The man wasn't acting in his jovial character as usual. His posture and facial expression mimicked that of a lazy man, ready for a nap. Three. His footing looked sloppy. Tag analyzed all of these facts in a few seconds. He knew what would happen if he left the man to continue crossing the bridge on his own, without assistance. Tag dropped his backpack and left it on the soil, shaded in the trees. He ran to wall which he had jumped off moments ago, and climbed back up onto it. Just as he gained his balance and was setting back across to help the man finish crossing, he heard the man mutter something. It sounded like "help". Tag looked straight ahead, just in time to see the man lose his footing. He saw the man in what seemed to be slow motion, tilt sideways, and slowly fall off the wall. This was it. The man would no longer be a part of Tag's life. He hadn’t even had the chance to ask his name. Wait. Tag watched in amazement as the man fell inward to where the old wooden walkway had been, and landed on one of the few remaining sections of walkway. It was a miracle. "Stay right there, don’t move. I'm coming to get you." Tag said quickly, while moving across the wall towards the location where the man now lay. Tag wasn't sure if the man could hear him, if he was conscious, or how he would even get him back on the wall and across the river. Those questions could remain unanswered until he reached the man. Reaching him was the first objective. One step at a time, Tag thought in his head. He finally reached the man after what seemed to be an eternity, but really was only a minute or two. He looked down at the limp body, barely supported on the old wooden walkway. Tag cringed at the sight of sunlight streaming below the wood. "You awake? Give me your hand if you can hear me." tag was sure to say this in a calm and low voice, as he didn’t want to startle the man. It was clear he was exposed to the strongly reflected light too long, and was unstable both mentally and physically because of that. Despite this, the man slowly turned his head toward Tag, and reach out an arm. "Thank you." the man said very quietly, in a slurred voice. The blank stare and lack of alertness was obviously the work of the sun, Tag thought, as he reach out his hand as well. Just then, the wood underneath the man creaked, and broke. Rotten wooden chunks plunged into the river, about two stories below. The contents of the man's backpack had opened, and followed the wood shortly after. Each object falling into the river made the distinctive sound of water being splashed. This time for sure, this man's story was coming to an end. Right here on this bridge. That was Tag's initial thought. However, the man was holding onto Tag's outstretched arm, which was supported by Tag who had braced himself by laying down on the wall, placing both legs downwards, on both sides of the wall; otherwise they both would have fallen due to the sudden weight of the man offsetting Tag's balance. Again, another miracle. They had grabbed each other just in time before the wood collapsed. Now they simply needed to find a way to get the man over across the bridge. Maybe they could crawl slowly across in this position for the remainder of the way. Even if they did that, surely they could get across within a few minutes at most. Tag should have known better. He already knew this a long time ago. Miracles don't happen in this world anymore. They simply don’t exist. He was reminded of this as soon as he saw the setting sunlight striking the dangling mans lower body, as it showered his exposed lower legs. The man was wearing shorts. It was nearing dusk, just as the man had mentioned earlier. This was one of the two most dangerous parts of the day, the other being sunrise. The long shadows the sun provides at these times are unique, and can sometimes be useful, but it is a double edged sword. The sun also penetrates places normally shielded from objects, such as the area under the steel canopy. Technically, they were below the steel canopy. However, the low hanging sun in the sky ignored the familiar, mid day shadows, and the man was exposed the its vicious rays. The previously confused, lightheaded facial expression Tag saw moments ago was now replaced with a wide eyed, painful one. The man began screaming as his exposed legs absorbed the sunlight at a rapid pace. Tag knew it was over. He regretfully turned away an closed his eyes, and let go of the man he had grown a small liking to. "I'm sorry" tag said in the softest voice possible, most likely because of the guilt of letting the man fall. There was no large splash in the river. Instead, there were multiple, tiny splashes that followed the man's short lived scream. These multiple, tiny splashes were from what used to be the man that Tag did not know the name of. The large amount of sunlight absorbed by the man's body was not able to be contained, and he exploded mid air before he had hit the surface of the water. This is the curse that the "new generation" of humans has come to live with, as Tag had unfortunately experienced firsthand, many times. He painfully adds today as another tragedy to his mind, along with countless others. The human genetics project that would "change the world" certainly did. In ways that no one could have imagined. Tag half-heartedly crawled his way back to his original destination across the river into the dense tree line. He picks up his backpack, and silently begins walking once again, with the sound of softly flowing water in the background. Alone. Edit: Feedback is welcomed.

It was going to be a terrible day. I'm a forensic scientist working for a police department in a major US city and I am not good at my job. Yesterday I botched another autopsy and by botched I mean that the family will be furious when the remains are released to them. This was the third major mistake I've made in a year. After my second mistake I was called into the chiefs office... Forensic scientists usually have no reason to talk to the chief. "Miss Black, what are we supposed to tell the family of your latest 'victim'?" The chief said as he eyed me with the sort of malice he usually reserved for serial killers and cop killers. "Tell them I slipped with the scalpel as I was making an incision?" I replied meekly, knowing that this would not be good enough. "THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH" the chief roared. "You're a loose cannon Black, and I' I've never had to say that to anyone from forensics before... If it wasn't so hard to fire people because of the damn union you'd be out the door. One more fuck up like that and I'm relegating you to the deepest darkest corner of this station." So I've had my three mistakes and now I'm staring at an unopened letter on my desk. I told you it would be a terrible day. I opened the letter with the misplaced hope that I was over reacting... Suzy Black, You are being reassigned to B174. Gather your personal effects and report there for your new assignment. I groaned, what job could I possibly be reassigned to? Frisking arrestees or menial paper work probably, something at the bottom of the totem pole. So I made my way down to the basement with my box of personal items and I arrived at a door marked 'B174 Paranormal K9 unit'. Someone must be playing a joke on me. I sigh and knock on the door "helloooo" a voice answers seductively, "come in." Sufficed to say I was weirded out, this seemed odd. I was on edge. I opened the door with apprehension to be greeted by the sight of a a very disheveled looking man. His hair was unkempt there were massive bags under his eyes, with which he was staring at me expectantly... I stared back. "Well you're a bit chubbier than the usual girl but you'll do. At least you're a red head." He blurted out. To say I was taken aback was an understatement. "So Skully, I've got a really large mystery for you to help me solve" he said while winking and leaning back in his chair. "My name is NOT Skully, I'm Suzy Black, your new transfer" I said as the colour drained from his face. "Yes of course, my new transfer... I'm Mike Kobb." He fidgeted and offered me his hand, which I did not want to touch but I shook it anyways. " I'm head of the paranormal k9 unit, we get cases that are too spooky and supernatural for any other department." He said in a mysterious tone. "You've got to be fucking with me!" I snorted. "If this is a k9 department then where are the dogs?" WOOF WOOF I jumped out of my skin completely startled. I turn around and there is an angry looking blood hound staring at me. The hound had a holster containing a pistol strapped to its side. I was dumbfounded , "now I know this is a joke, a dog with the pistol strapped to it, this is over the top and unbelievable!" I exclaimed. "No", he stammered " that gun is specifically modified so that Agent Dog can use it. The trigger has been placed so that he can use his mouth to fire it. It took a lot of training but that dog hits over 50% of his intended targets." I rolled my eyes, "agent dog?" "I can't tell you his true name or you might use it for evil... It's a witch craft thing" he said defensively. "So your department is a cross between Scooby doo and the x files?" I said while giving him the dirtiest look that I possibly could. GROWWWWWWL I twist around to see Agent Dog baring his teeth at me menacingly. "Agent Dog really hates cliches so try not to compare him to Scooby doo. Do not say or do anything cliche." He said quickly while trying to calm the dog down. "Can we get to work or something? Talking to you this long has me worried that I might catch schizophrenia." He frowned at me and shook his head. "Have it your way... I do have a case on the go right now." He said as he started handing me packets of salt. I raised my eyebrow and looked at him in a way that was both quizzical and angry. " don't worry I'll explain on the way to our assignment" We were on our way to my first assignment as a part of my new unit, my new unit consisted of me, my insane boss Mike and his dog, Agent Dog who could supposedly shoot a pistol. Needless to say I was saddened that my career was crashing around me, this transfer clearly meant that the chief was trying to get me to quit the force. Mike gave me the run down of our current assignment which was 90% crazy and 10% real police work. The police side of the story: a house near the eastern side of town had been seeing a lot of traffic from known drug dealers. We were being sent to observe the area to see if we could observe enough suspicious activity to acquire a search warrant. The crazy paranormal side of things: Mike specifically requested this assignment because the patrons of the house were rumored to be a group of occultists. Mike believed that this specific group was trying to summon a demon called xelotath... I don't know how Mike acquired his information or how he has a job as a police officer. Apparently ghosts and demons hate salt for some reason. According to Mike it can contain or repel most paranormal beings. This is the most illogical thing I've heard all day and it has certainly been a day devoid of logic. Why would demons or ghosts or whatever he believes in be afraid of sodium chloride. Table salt . It is one of the most abundant chemical compounds around. Can a ghost get close to a bag of chips or is it too salty? Rhetorical question because ghosts aren't real. BARK BARK WOOF WOOF. I am shocked out of my train of thought by the barking of Agent Dog. It was the seedy side of town, it was getting dark out and Agent Dog was leading us down an alley. " I always follow his hunches!" Mike exclaimed. "By the tone of his barking I'd say he smells a demon; probably a succubus." We rounded a corner and came upon an old lady being mugged. WOOF WOOF Agent Dog whipped out his pistol and pointed it at the mugger. The mugger pulled the old lady towards him , using her as a shield. The mugger put his knife to the old lady's throat and threatened "I will slit this bitches throat If you come any closer." GROWWWWWL " Don't even think it Agent Dog! Your aim is terr" BARK BARK POW POW POW BARK My jaw dropped to the ground, "Holy fucking shit your dog can actually fire that gun." " He didn't even hit that old lady! Goood boy! Who's a good police dog!" Mike cooed The old lady was screaming as the mugger fell to the ground with three holes in his skull.... It took a while to calm the lady down but she was grateful for our intervention in the end. "It's a good thing that your dog is armed to the teeth" the lady said in the typical way that people over 60 deliver puns. GROOOWL. "Armed to the teeth is a cliched phrase. Don't use any more or Agent Dog will probably shoot you. The one thing he hates more than demons is cliches." The lady looked frightened and started walking away very quickly we decided to just let her go. Mike told me that we shouldn't report the muggers death to anyone, he said there would be a lot of paper work involved and who likes paper work? So we continued on towards the home with the apparent occultists. I was starting to believe in Mike's credibility. If a dog can shoot a gun then there might be a house of people that are trying to summon a demon. We approached the house. It felt dark, darker than the rest of the neighborhood some how. On the front door was a giant pentagram. " I told you so! Fucking Satanists, I should have known... Let's go stop this before it's too late." Mike said excitedly. "We are just supposed to observe!" "Fuck that! We are going in!" BARK BARK! Agent Dog drew his gun as we approached.

If you were to ask me to name my favorite color, I would, without hesitation, say “grey.” You see, if colors could speak, he would have the most to say. Because sadly, my dear friend grey is only a placeholder. For, at some point in my life, my favorite color was red. I was sitting in my local coffee shop, sipping Chai and watching the crowd of customers seep through the doors, inside from the cold winter snow that still felt so odd to a native Californian. As I sat, watching, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and a soft voice ask, “do you mind if I sit across from you?” “Of course not,” I replied. “But let me warn you, I’m feeling talkative today.” And so, she sat across from me, and her appearance struck me with awe; she was gorgeous. The observer of the small things in life, I immediately noticed her cherry red lipstick, and the stain it had made on the white lid of her cup. Little did I know that she would leave the same impression on me, I the canvas, she the artist. We made small talk, no topic more profound than our wishes for the weather. However, I did learn her name: Catherine. Eventually I excused myself and went on my way to my nine-to-five. At that time, I was enrolled at Stanford University, pursuing a degree in architectural engineering. Through my undergraduate program, I had gained an internship at a local home design business. It was mostly record keeping and information management, like any internship, but I would occasionally get to watch the architects do their work. All-in-all, my life was going just the way I had hoped. I was pleasantly well off, considering that I was just starting my first year as a graduate. I had my own one bedroom apartment in downtown San Jose, along with my trusty Chevy Silverado. During the next few weeks, I went to the my usual coffee shop, drank my usual chai, watched the usual customers. Every now and then I’d see Catherine and her red lipstick. She’d sit across from me and we would partake in the usual small talk. As time progressed, I grew more used to her long, brown hair, her tendency to rabble, and how she would apologize when it happened. The next week, four weeks after we had met, we went out to dinner. I wore a pair of black slacks and a grey dress shirt. She wore a short, red dress that matched her cherry-red lipstick. When I took her home that night, she parted happily, staining my cheek. See, many people believe that Heaven is enclosed by a golden gate, leading into a splendid whiteness. However, it is now my assumption that, while the gates may still be golden, the trinity sits on red thrones. This was the beginning of our beautiful, but tragically short lived relationship. Around this time, my life had changed dramatically. As a result of the recent increase in property price, my employer was forced to cut people from their payroll. I was, unfortunately, one of those people. Between paying for gas, rent, and the basic necessities of living, I was struggling to make ends meet. This, along with my history of chronic depression, threw me into a downward spiral of despair. If there was ever a time that I needed a companion, someone to talk to and confide in, that time was now. To put it plainly, Catherine was my saviour. She was my second coming of Christ, my salvation. If religion is the opium of the people, she was my heroin. I, sadly, grew dependent, and as my condition worsened, I could see a physical strain that she persisted to keep at the wayside. She was stronger than me, more stable, my rock. After a year of dating, we decided to move in together, to test the waters. At this time, we learned countless things about each other. She learned that I was quite disorganized, and that I would often stay up late just to wake up early in the morning. I learned that she was a fantastic cook, which, to me, wasn’t too surprising, as I had taken up a diet of Ramen Noodles and microwave pizzas. I also learned that she wasn’t hesitant to cry, as I would often waken to her sniffles. This was one of the most surprising things I found out about her, as she was never anything but happy when we would go out. That summer, we decided to go on our first road trip. Excitedly, we packed our suitcases into the back of my old truck, and drove to Seattle for the week. At this point, she learned another thing about me - I had terrible motion sickness. Throughout the course of our drive, which we somehow accomplished in two days, I had to pull over eight times. Due to this, we spent most of our time in Seattle visiting restaurants and shops that were within walking distance of our hotel. To this rule, we made one exception. On our last night in Seattle, we decided to get reservations for the restaurant on the top of the Space Needle. Coincidentally, for nostalgia’s sake, we wore the same attire that we had worn on our first date. The stars shone above us, her features being exemplified in the pouring moonlight. She was beautiful. Little did she know that, in my pocket, I carried a small diamond ring, purchased with money that I had mustered up over the course of the last few months. And so, in the night air, witnessed by the patrons at the needle and God himself, I got down on my knee. Never the aficionado of speech, I blushed and, holding my breath, brought forth the small box, accompanied with a single line we’ve all heard. “Will you marry me?” Nodding her head and holding back tears, she took the small box from my hands. She whispered a simple “Yes”, and, her hands shaken removed the ring from its prison. However, I suppose the trembling of her hands didn’t help her in the act of sliding the ring onto her finger. She dropped it. She covered her mouth, an exclamatory “Oh!” breaking from her lips as one of the staff stepped on the ring, producing a crunch loud enough that it was only seconded by my breaking heart. Then, it was an unhappy accident. Now, I believe it may have been a sign. The next day, both for wanting of our sunny home and the fixing of the broken ring, we left our hotel. We left Seattle early in the morning, hoping to drive as far as we could. While on the road, it began to rain. This, coupled with the darkening sky, made my occasional stops an extreme nuisance. My fiance and I had a small argument, she telling me that it would have been wise to take something before we had left the hotel. For the next hour or so, we were silent, a silence which, unknown to us, would never be broken. My truck was quite old at this point, at approximately fifteen years old, I had often worried that the airbags wouldn’t function. As it turns out, my cause for concern was justified. As the downpour of rain increased, road conditions became increasingly worse. This, coupled with the longevity of our drive, and my heated attitude, led me to not notice the headlights in front of me. An oncoming truck in my lane. Unfortunately for me, my airbag deployed. Unfortunately for Catherine, hers did not. It was at this point that I learned that the only red deeper than that of her lipstick was the tone of her blood. Her head had hit the dashboard, bouncing off of the hard surface and into the passenger side window. When the paramedics arrived, there was not much they were able to do; she had suffered a brain hemorrhage due to the force of impact. The police later told me that the driver of the truck in front of us had been had been drunk. However, I have never shaken the feeling that I had caused my lover’s death. Maybe it was due to my inability to stop the accident, but the more I worried about it, the more I realized that it was due to my stubbornness in conceding fault. Over the course of the next month, I was reduced to a hermit, only leaving my apartment in order to buy food. The next semester, I failed every class that I had signed up for, ruining my chance to ever become an architect like I had always wanted. The revelation that I had single-handedly ruined my life only worsened my downward spiral into the current state of depression I now find myself in. I didn’t have the income to pay for a therapist or to buy antidepressants, so I was forced to trudge through my daily life, hating myself for every mistake I had ever made. Today, for the first time in about two months, I decided to go out. Peace hasn’t come to me, and I doubt it ever will, but I can not continue my life as it is going now. When I went out, it was raining; it had been doing so for the past few days. It matters not to me, however, for all I see is grey, all I ever feel is cold. As I walk, I can’t help but think about the humility of the human race. We are the passengers of an overly large atom of dust, flying endlessly into the void and emptiness of space, with no destination in particular. And so, I went back to my apartment complex, and, looking upwards, decided that it would do me well to gain a bit of perspective. I ride the elevator to the twelfth story, from there proceeding up the stairs out onto the roof. The wind, of all things, was the first thing I noticed. Wanting to see the street from such a height, I stepped onto the brick railing that separated the roof from the seeming nothingness of air. One step, and I would plummet to my death. The rain, helped by the growling wind, felt like icy needles piercing my skin. I watched the seemingly endless amount of black and grey umbrellas scurry around like ants. How small we are. From the distance, I was able to clearly make out a vibrant, red umbrella, separated from the crowds of greys and blacks. My heart leaped as my mind was brought to my dear’s red lips, the stains they left on my skin. She seemed so close, just an arms reach away. Just one step, and I could touch her, feel her again. So, like my heart, I leap.

Apologies if another genre tag would have been more appropriate, but I'm not sure exactly how to classify this. The universe in which this excerpt takes place is an alternate-history fantasy dieselpunk North Korea in which mythological creatures are factory farmed for materials, food and alchemical drugs to enhance the lifespan and capabilities of the elite. This particular story was inspired by a post on /r/writingprompts, but the setting is something I've been working on for quite a while. I'd really appreciate any critique you can give me. Ryugyong Hotel, 97th floor Pyongyang May 6th 2004 She looked absolutely majestic. Chestnut curls spilled halfway down the tanned flesh of her back. Her eyes were iridescent viridian and her face youthful, with rounded cheeks and a strong nose and daubed with mottled warpaint in thick curved lines that cradled her delicate features. Lacy olive fabric hugged her bust and stomach, a single opaque tube from collarbone to waist. Her legs were not in fact legs at all but the body of a vast deer with flanks of rich mahogany fur and great hooved legs. Her back was spotted with patches of cream and a bushy tail the shape of a tapered bulb sprang from her rear. She gripped a staff carved in a tight spiral and ornamented with a dozen mystical woods. “I am Nayeli the huntress, great fertility goddess of the plains, and I demand that you cease your exploitation of the great creatures gifted unto you lest I be forced to crush you and all of your foul mechanisms.” He laughed, the throaty chuckle of a man both cruel and wise, and then Kim Il-Sung spoke. “You expect that we would forsake our great wealth, our great power, this glorious civilisation, at the whims of a feeble goddess?” He wore a greatcoat of crimson hydra-scales (in effect a rich, heatproof leather) festooned with communist iconography and riveted steel reinforcements. It formed not only protection from the elements but also a sort of flexible exoskeleton that worked with the cocktail of extraordinary reagents coursing through his system to vastly enhance his fighting capabilities even unarmed. Its tiny diesels belched black smoke behind him. Frustrated, she snarled, and the two figures dove forward. Enchanted staff clashed with protective steel and magelight bathed the enhanced-concrete structure of the building. She sprang back, surprised by his tenacity, and he advanced relentlessly. Despite being ninety-two years of age, he maintained the physique and determination of a man barely forty, and the first clash was followed by a second and third wish the same conclusion. The combination of mythical scales and machined metal easily outmatched the primitive magic of the goddesses’ staff, and she was driven back blow after blow. “You see.” He spoke comfortably, as if deflecting her blows barely tired him. “I am supreme leader Kim Il-Sung, eternal president of the republic, commander of the Korean People’s Army and herald of the great mythological revolution.” A flourish of his wrist and her weapon crackled with the sound of strained wood. The hotel was formed from a trio of upright triangles fused to a central column in a sort of ‘Y’ shape, and she’d already backed half the length of her ‘wing’. “NO!” Her voice was strained, desperate. “You cannot defile the world in this way! I cannot allow you to do this!” “Fool. You don’t have a choice.” Another step forward and one arm deflected her blow while the other delivered a punch to her gut. She doubled over in pain and slid backwards almost two meters. The angled glass was only a few meters behind her now, thick and uncompromising. Pretty soon she’d be trapped between her relentless opponent and the three-hundred-meter plunge to the concrete below. There was no way either of them could survive a drop like that… She had a plan, at least. His next two blows failed to connect as she darted backwards, no further effort to assail her opponent, and as she’d hoped the brief lack of contact frustrated her opponent. He dashed at her, drug-fuelled muscles lending a burst of speed, and her attempt to dodge was futile. The supreme leader crashed hard against her lower body and smashed her against the unyielding glass, but that failed to interrupt her. With a pained roll she flipped their positions such that he was closest to the windows, and he eyes we squeezed tightly shut and incantations spilled from her lips and she was smashing the staff hard against the ground. The whole building rocked from the force of the blast as her weapon was completely vaporized. As thick as it was the glass shattered instantly, spilling a cascade of white fragments down the side of the building. He was not so easily crushed. Though the force of the blast had thrown him from the window he’d kept a firm grasp of her leg, and now *both* of them tumbled faster and faster on the almost-vertical glass. Without her staff she was defenceless, however. *Crack* Her nose broke. *Crack* Now her jaw. *Crack* Her ribs splintered and buckled as well. *Crack* He struck her temple, hard, and she slid dizzily backwards off the side of the ‘wing’ and plummeted vertically towards the ground and then he was scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass and not finding any.

Looking down at the red-tinged dirt on my boots, I knew I was in trouble. The Sergeant will have me for this. How could I let my boots get so dirty? The dried blood had soaked into the tanned leather like a varnish. I looked around to my left. The boots of the blokes standing in line with me were in a similar shape. Damn, I thought. We’ll have to have them clean before the next inspec- ***FWOOOOTTT***. The soothing, familiar sound of the whistle interrupted my boot’ish concerns. We’d practiced this, so I knew what to do. As my right foot made contact with the first rung on the ladder, I saw this action repeated a hundred-fold to my left and likewise on my right. This command was easy. We’d practiced it a lot back home. I wouldn’t mess up the way I did with my boots. My right foot dug into the second rung. Mum would be proud of me, so will my country and folks back in town. That’s what everyone says. Left foot third rung. Some guys were already over the top of the parapet and dirt was flying everywhere. From the bullets, I guess. As my torso left the familiarity of the hastily dug forward trench, I felt the radiating brilliance of sunshine on my face, simultaneously as the four machine gun bullets smashed through my body, tearing my flesh apart and turning my eighteen year old brain into soup.

Your car is low on gas. In fact, you've been running on E since Tuesday. At least you've got a car, though. I mean, you made it through not having parents who gave a shit. You made it through teaching yourself how to survive when no one else would. You made it through sleepless nights in the cold with no idea where your next meal would come from. All you have to worry about now is all the miscellanious bills, bill collectors, traffic violations, if your daughter still loves you and when you'll get to see your little girl, how to solve your spending problems, treatment plans for the infection obtained from a coexistence of lies and if just one more bottle will do any harm. After all, your next paycheck should get your bank account out of the negative. It's hard to believe you would even think about having another drink. Don't you know this is all your fault? You did this. You fucked up. You should have used softer pillows when you made this bed. But you didn't. You're pathetic.

(polite criticism welcome) We didn't replant the lettuce today. We didn't plant more carrots last week. We didn't plant anything new at all in the last two weeks. I'm scared. Since I arrived here, the one constant has been the daily planting of new seeds and saplings. Today was another beautiful day, one I should have spent harvesting from the garden and helping to replant the seeds as directed. It was a lot of work, done every single day, but I didn't mind. From the day I stumbled into the valley, I'd eaten well, directed by the silent Lady of the house, helped by the other children who haunted the house and out buildings. We were a scrawny lot, but even the quietest of us was slowly filling out. Me, I still remembered the hunger of being an outcast, fleeing from the edges of a war I never understood, that took all the adults from my life. The day I found this valley was almost magical in my memory. One minute I'm scrambling between two rocks, chasing a particularly plump looking lizard, the next, I'm tumbling down a hillside, landing in front of a woman in a dark dress, black hair pulled back severely, holding a basket of freshly harvested food. She took her time looking me over - her deep brown eyes meeting mine and holding them for a time, before she pulled a cluster of grapes still glistening from the morning dew from her basket and gave them to me. Without a single word being exchanged, I knew I'd found a shelter. Four years I'd been here now, and the routine was almost ingrained deep enough for me to do what I need do in my sleep. Wake up, wash up, go get a hot breakfast and then head out to the gardens. Every day the group of us would find our baskets, our tools and twists of paper holding seeds set out on the edge of the porch. Every day we would plant what would always turn out to be the exact right amount of seeds to feed us when they harvested. Sometimes we would hoe a new row and plant seeds there too, and always, when it was ready to harvest, there would be a mouth to eat the food. Until today. This spring, we had hoed extra rows for day after day, planting seeds until there were little left in the boxes that lived on the porch. Every day, more things planted, each that took less time to grow than the ones planted the day before. Every day harvesting, cleaning, eating, quietly existing in this oasis of calm, where children scarred mentally and physically from a distant war slowly healed with the good air and good food. Nothing was ever said about how the Lady knew what to plant, and when, but we trusted that the food would continue to last. For four years, it had never failed us - even in winter when we used the small green house. Today I harvested the last of the perfect lettuce I'd helped set into the ground. Today I helped harvest the last of the oats we struggled to get in the ground in early spring. We'd never planted this many before. We'd never planted as many of anything as we had this spring. I'd been slowly growing more afraid with each extra row we planted, looking over my shoulder sometimes at the two rocks that marked my entrance into the valley, as though to see whom might spring forth from their shadow. Today, we harvested everything, and nothing remains growing in our fields. Nothing remains growing in the green houses. The porch and the ground in front is covered with piles of food and we stand beside our Lady, watching her calm face, her two hands grasping each other, glancing at each other as the shadows beneath the rocks grow in size.

This Saturday is finally it; I get to complete my long con. This will be the best Valentine’s Day of my life! It all started nearly 20 years ago in middle school. I was a little awkward, had no close friends. All the other boys played football or basketball together. I didn’t see the point. I was happy when I got home after school and could continue my game of Dungeons & Dragons. There was nothing more soothing than creating and controlling this world, especially when I played all the characters. Everything changed when Stacy moved to town. She was absolutely gorgeous when she showed up at school the first time. She wore a purple dress with brown stockings, pink shoes, and a yellow bow tie in her long, straight black hair. I loved the way her glasses magnified her stunning brown eyes like she was always watching your every move. At recess the boys were playing a big game of football and the girls were gossiping about the cutest boy of the week. I sat in my usual corner between the brick walls of the building thinking about my next D&D adventure when Stacy came up. “Whatcha doin’? She asked. I put on all my charm. “Thinking about my 26th level elf. Last night he single-handedly took out the evil Orc to save the princess.” I said proudly. I never understood why everyone laughed when I told them about my adventures. “Ooooh.” She genuinely replied. “Maybe he could take my 15th level druid along next time.” That was the start of something amazing. Every day we would plan our adventures, then once the bell rang would run home to play it out. We were inseparable. Not a care in the world about what the other kids thought. That is until high school started. She started to mature and care about more “adult” social interactions while I still enjoyed getting lost with her in our world together. Our daily games turned into weekly games and I was getting lonely. But it wasn’t until lunch half way through freshman year that I realized that I had lost her. She was talking with a group of her friends. I came right up to her and told her about my adventure ideas for the night. Obviously embarrassed, she pretended like she had no clue what I was talking about and that I should get a life and “go away you weirdo.” I was devastated. I had lost my best friend. And even worse, I couldn’t play D&D anymore. It just wasn’t the same without her. She ruined my life. Nothing was fun, food didn’t taste good, and I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning. I had a miserable time finishing high school, but made it into college and became a computer programmer. I was doing pretty well by myself. Stacy was no longer in my thoughts, I was making good money, and being a bachelor, I owed a pretty nice house. That is when Stacy entered my life again. Twelve years ago she became the new secretary at my company. Out of all the people, it had to be her. All the rage came back, I started missing work trying to avoid her, and I became more recluse. That’s when the idea came to me. I can get her back for what she did to me. That bitch will pay! I came back to work pretending like nothing was amiss. “Where have you been?” She asked. “Oh, there’s this new project idea I have. Was just trying to sort through the details.” “Really?” She said intrigued. “What’s the idea?” “How about over dinner tonight?” I asked. “Sure!” She giggled, excited about going out. We had a nice dinner and I told her all about a new game the company had been working on, my “great idea.” After a few drinks we went back to my place. It was much easier than I though. I guess having a nice house and extra spending cash was more attractive than I had imagined. She quickly fell for me. Before long we were going out or I would cook for her every night, and she moved in within the year. It didn’t take much convincing once I planted the seed that she wouldn’t have to pay rent anymore. Then the day came. I proposed to her. We had traveled to the Caribbean for one of our long weekend getaways. After a romantic dinner, we walked up to the top of a hill for a nice view of the beach where I had hundreds of candles laid out to say, “Marry me, Stacy.” She was aghast, and crying said, “Yes! Of course, I love you so much!” I had her. She was in my pocket. She won’t know what hit her. We planned our wedding for Valentine’s Day of 2005. How romantic. We were married in the French Riviera with all her friends and family out for the ceremony. She was so happy. Little did she know. We had three kids together and had many wonderful family vacations. Every Valentine’s Day we would leave for a weeklong romantic getaway to celebrate our anniversary. I treated her like a goddess and she ate up every bit of it. But now, finally, our ten-year wedding anniversary is this Saturday, Valentine’s Day 2015. We are renewing our vows with all our friends and family invited back to our wedding venue. I finally get to tell her the truth in front of all these people, that this whole life of hers has been a lie. I have never loved her or those god-awful kids that came out of her. It's going to be amazing. I can’t wait to see those tears pouring out of her eyes when she understands. Let that be a lesson to you, Stacy.

“America was founded under the Constitution in 1787. 219 years later, America abandoned the Constitution as its governing document. 1 year after that, militants seized the White House and executed most of the executive branch of government. For another 5 or 10 years, the remainder of the old Government clashed with the rebels, but eventually failed. Their only fighters were members of the U.S. Military. These men and women no longer wished to fight, and gradually they left for their families. 3 years ago, the old government surrendered. With no governing body in place, former Americans formed their own communities, generally known as principalities with the exception of the Empire of California. I used to worry about them, but once they realized that most of the US military used to lay east of the Mississippi they decided to stop there. Now, I run the Principality of York. We would have been overrun years ago if we had not chosen an old naval weapons station as our seat of power. Much to our joy upon settling, the men inside the Arleigh Burke Class destroyer Winston S. Churchill didn’t much like constantly living on a boat and agreed to merge with our community under my lead. Nobody wants to fuck with a destroyer, especially one with most of its original crew.” “After 3 years of strife things are starting to look up. The farms in Gloucester recognized our authority and power and provided us with food. Our recent acquisition of the Anheiser Busch plant just up the peninsula provided us with valuable beer to trade for essential goods from other principalities. Our citizens are happy for the first time in God knows how long, and you want WHAT?!” Emily picked her head up. “We want you to join us” she said once more. She clearly didn’t like my speech. “The York and The Potomac, if they joined together, could dominate the entire eastern seaboard!” her voice raised. I needed a drink. “Need a drink?” I asked her, already pouring myself one. “Ill pass, I will never understand your obsession with rum” “Just a bad habit I picked up in my college years. Listen, Emily, I have the utmost respect for you and the Principality of the Potomac, but the entire reason for the Anarchy was to get rid of tyrants” I pointed to the picture above my desk. A picture that ignited the old country, a picture of the Old President, slain, with the words “Sic Semper Tyrannis” in bright read across the middle. “Will you have to see the benefits here. The Churchill will only last so long until it needs to be maintained at a larger shipyard. “We’ll go to Nor—“ “The Norfolk Naval base is a hellhole and you know it. The Naval Academy has been retrofitted to accommodate larger ships, we can help the Churchill. I swished the rum around in the glass. “It’s not going to happen” I thought for a minute. “What about a compromise: a trade agreement. You and every other leader after the Anarchy understands the importance of alcohol. Back before the Anarchy whenever there was a hurricane my dad wouldn’t stock up on anything but beer, you know why?” Emily’s eyes had glazed over, she said nothing. “Because when a tree falls on your house your neighbors will be happy to help as long as there’s beer.” Emily rolled her eyes, “Get to the point” “We get use of the Naval Academy docks once a year, in exchange you will get 10% of the Busch Brewery production” Emily said nothing and walked out in a huff. “I need some Coke to go with this” I downed the rest of the rum.

Prologue In a world where humans made contact with a group of peaceful aliens, who had an ability most people never used to believe in, seeing the future. At first we where able to coexist fine, but then humanity being humanity brought war. This was later to be known as the Desecration. That war consumed hundreds of planets, and killed this alien race, and all but wiped out humanity. A small group of humans were fighting the last battle of this war, and with them was the last alien. During the soldiers last stand the alien took a mortal wound, and as he lay dying it gave one last gift from its race to the humans who had protected it against their own. That gift was that as soon as anybody turned 5 they new the exact amount of time that they would live in their life. A fitting gift from a race that had just seen its last second. Its was wills 5th birthday and he was tired, it was too early in the morning. He was also very exited, because he had been told that this was the day he when he would find out exactly how many more years he would be able to get presents. Will was very anxious to see this because he loved presents, (what 5 year old doesn't?). Suddenly Will felt as though something had clicked in his brain, and he new exactly how long he would live, and he decided at that moment he would live his life to be the best life ever lived! But first he wanted to sleep for five more minutes. It was Will's 55th birthday, 50 years from when he had made his promise to himself that he would live the best life that their ever was. so far he had done pretty well. Making his first million at 19 years old, and at 24 winning a Nobel prize for curing cancer. At 35 he was a billionaire and one of the worlds most renown scientific minds, and had the most beautiful, caring, loving wife. 2 years later he was the father of 2 twins. By 42 he had become president, and would soon run again after his term and get reelected. He later created a clean energy source that the entire world used, and single handedly had stopped the use of fossil fuels, winning him yet another nobel prize. At the age of 66 had built 78,567 orphanages around the world, and had donated 45 billion dollars to charity. The world loved him. Finally at his 100th birthday, Will lay on his death bed, the entire world had shown up to wish him a happy birthday, and to soon mourn his pass. His wife sat on one side and a news reporter had come in to hear his last words. He was asked if he had any regrets left in his life, being that Will was considered to have led the best life in the world, to have been able to have any object in the entire world, and also being a savior to billions of people, and possibly the savior of the planet. All Will had to say, as he looked lovingly at his wife was, "just five more minutes", then he layed down and breathed his last.

I slid the key into the lock before shoving into the door of my apartment. As my weight pushed the door open, air rushed across my face; stagnant nicotine with a touch of greenery. I stepped inside, hanging up my coat and hat before turning to eye my plants. They were on guard duty. I called out to my "buds", speaking softly, but with intent. I was the alpha allele. They knew it, I knew it.   "Mikhail... Doris... Rupert...?"   They sat motionless, returning the eye contact I gave to them. Frozen. It's not easy to completely control an amaryllis, but I had done it. Every word I said to them, they ate up. And they say Stockholm syndrome cannot create total obedience. I stepped closer, tempting them to greet me as they used to, nothing. I placed my fingers on Rupert's stem, surely that would warrant a reaction. I pressed my nail in slightly as I stroked his long, green stem. Again, nothing. I withdrew my hand suddenly before violently spitting onto the plant. Nothing. I let out a deep laugh, emerging from my diaphragm, as I lit a cigarette. I inhaled and exhaled the smoke methodically before speaking to my prisoners.     "Enjoy your cells...

“Tonight is the night. The night I finally do it. The night I finally end it all. Soon I’ll be no more; soon I’ll have peace.” Looking out at the city before me, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In just a few more steps I would fall and end. In a few more steps I would finally be free. No more worries, no more pain, no more confusion and no more feelings empty and alone. I take a step forward. It feels like a dream; “Is this real? Just 2 more steps and I can go far away...” The city seemed quiet, as if it anticipated something horrible was just on the horizon. It was midnight and I was alone, again. In my room staring at my computer, once my comfort now a reminder of my hell, it felt like the walls were closing in. Memories stared at me on the screen, so many colours, so much that has happened. “Where did it all go wrong? Did I make a mistake somewhere along the way? Maybe I should watch something to take my mind off things”. I turned on an anime that I had heard so much about: kanon. I spent the next few hours carrying on from where I left off. Soon tears began to flow down my cheeks. Slowly my heart began to ache; I could feel it; a real tangible pain that could only be described as brokenness, as if my heart was shattered and hanging together by thread. This only made things worse. The thoughts I tried to hold back soon flooded me. The worthlessness I felt, the darkness that I tried so hard to supress. Soon I was back to the topic that haunted me… Suicide. The idea was horrid. How could I leave behind so many people? How could I abandon everyone for my own selfish desires? What about my family? Could my mum and dad recover? Would my sisters ever forgive themselves for not seeing it? Who would find me? Can I really put other people through this? What about all the things I had yet to do? All my hopes for a brighter future, could I really turn my back on who I want to be? Could I betray myself? This all seemed so impossible; it weighed against me as if the world was begging me not to. I couldn’t keep going the way things are though. I was falling behind at university and even at risk of failing it, all because I was losing the will to live, funny, it’s like a trap designed to be inescapable with only one ending… death. I had no one who loved me and I couldn’t see how I could possibly find someone. I couldn’t even see how anyone would even be able to learn to love me when the realised how messed up I am, another trap. This was it then, I was destined to live and die alone, with a life holding no significance or purpose, no real achievement, nothing that separated me from the crowd. “Could I be saved?” I couldn’t get this thought out of my head. It was now 4 am and the city was still asleep. “Maybe a walk will clear my head” and so I set off, not knowing where my feet would take me. The occasional car drove down the road, I always thought of the streets at night as a good example of my feelings. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but there was something about the streets at night that just resonated with me. With one foot after another I kept moving forward. The occasional siren could be heard in the distance; the sound of the city mourning a loss. I couldn’t help but remember a Relient K song, the lyrics playing in my head, siren’s that sing me to sleep and the words I don’t need a soul. It was kind of fitting for the way things were shaping up this chapter of my life was closing, soon either my life would end or how lived would end. Eventually I arrived at where my feet were leading me. In front of me was one of the tallest buildings in the city. At least 100m tall! I felt small standing underneath such a mammoth of human ingenuity, this only then served to strengthen my resolve of carrying on my journey upwards. So here I was, stood in front of the world ready for everyone to see. “2 more steps” I muttered to myself. Maybe I’m not ready for this; I mean this is a permanent decision after all. “NO! I can’t back out now, I can finally be at peace these last 2 steps are what will bring me this”. Doubt entered my mind. After all I never wanted to die; I just want this pain to stop. I take a step forward. The air suddenly felt thick. Indecision, doubt, hesitation, fear. Emotions crackled out from me like electricity, wild and untameable. I lifted up my foot and hovered it over the abyss. My breathing was all over the place, my heartbeat rising. Every inch of my body screamed no. Every part of my soul screamed yes.