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Allura 24

The day started like many others. I woke to find myself in the bunk of the Semi Truck I drive. Like every other day, I hoped up, jumped in the driver seat and took off down the road.....well at least I tried. I was befuzzled as to why I couldn't operate the vehicle for a good 10 minutes before deciding to go back to bed. Upon returning to the sleeper there I lay and stood. I had died in my sleep at the young age of 43 years old and for some unknown reason had been trapped in the world of the living. As I began to realize that I was now a ghost I decided to test what I could do and couldn't do. It only took a few minutes to realize that I could touch the floor (under my feet) but turning the ignition key, holding a steering wheel, etc. was taboo. What cruel twist of fate had trapped my spirit in the truck with my dead body and no way to do anything? After what seemed like hours of freaking out I sat on the edge of the bed and without even realizing it at first I managed to touch my dead body. After a few minutes it sunk in that my hand and arm was resting against the corpse laying behind me and my body was still warm. Could it be I wasn't actually dead. Am I dreaming? Am I experiencing a cruel out of body experience? As I began to analyze the possibilities I decided to lay down where my body was and see if I could regain control of my body. Within a few short minutes my body was up and functioning again. I was a mere 3 hours from home at the time and was waiting on a load so I decided to run empty to the house. I parked the truck at the yard and hoped in my Pickup truck and drove home. Once I arrived at the house I walked in and much to my surprise my dog didn't greet me, in fact when I called her she completely ignored me. What the hell is going on, I wondered! So I began calling for my roommate and again was completely ignored. I can't be dead, I thought! I was able to operate the semi, my pickup truck, unlock and open the door to my house. How is it that no one can see me or hear me? So I grabbed my laptop bag out of the pickup and hooked up my laptop to the 3D Projector and stereo in the living room. Once connected I started blaring porno as loud as the stereo would go with a text document open on screen. When my roommate came running into the living room I frantically started typing. At first he stood there with this look of sheer terror on his face, but as he read he slowly calmed down and started looking around trying to find me. He reached over to the computer chair and pulled it away from the desk and they typing stopped. When he let go of the chair I rolled back to my computer and started typing again. Within a few minutes he was speaking to me as I typed to him. At my behest I had my roommate call (from my cellphone) my mother and business partner and tell them they needed to get to my house ASAP that something was wrong with me. I wouldn't let him tell them what was going on. Within an hour they both arrived at my house so I started typing to them. "Mom, Eric.....you can't see me but I am sitting at my computer here in the living room typing to you.". My mom immediately looses her shit and starts sobbing uncontrollably. My business partner gets the brilliant idea to call me on my cellphone. I suspected that was what he was doing when he pulled out his phone so I quickly put my bluetooth on, which was laying on my desk right in front of him and my mom. That really got my mom tripping the fuck out. As my cellphone rang, I picked it up and did what I always do started pacing around the house while I answered it. Much to my surprise Eric could hear me talking through the phone and quickly put it on speaker so my mom and roommate could hear as well. As I retold the events of the day to them I noticed my mom start calming down. Within a few minutes the general consensus was that I had concocted some elaborate hoax and was hiding somewhere in the house. To dissuade this notion I walked over to Eric and quickly yanked his pants down. Then went over to my mom and through the phone asked her to pull her wallet out. When she did I took it from here and walked over to the desk and laid it down. No sooner than the wallet hit the desk my mom started screaming that she could see me, so I slowly backed away from the desk and turned towards the three of them and they were all staring right at me. I immediately brought my phone up in front of me and looked into the black screen and noticed my reflection. The four of then sat and talked for what seemed like days and could not come to any reasonable conclusion as to what the hell had just happened. For several months after that day no one said a word (directly) about that incident. The only conversation was to urge me to continue seeking medical help and try to figure out what was wrong with me. In the 3 months following that day I must of seen over 100 medical professionals from traditional medicine to homeopathic medicine to Voodoo Witch Doctors. No one could had a clue what happened, no one could explain it. Then exactly 90 days later I woke in my bed at home, got up and walked into the bathroom to take a piss and when I turned the light on there was no one in the mirror staring back at me. "Oh Fuck, Not Again!" As I turned back towards my bedroom I noticed there laid my body, still in bed. I immediately walked over to the night stand and attempted to grab my phone, but couldn't seem to grip it. Then I remembered, the last time I could only touch certain things til I rejoined with my body. I laid back in bed, got back into my body and then got up and grabbed my phone and bluetooth and immediately called my business partner. "Eric, It is happening again!". Eric was not the most punctual person on Earth, in fact he was the slowest, most procrastinating person I had ever met....until today. Within 20 minutes of that call he had made the hour drive across Atlanta to my house. He sat there in my living room recording video and talking to me via cellphone until I reappeared, again. For the next few days we hatched an elaborate plan on what to do if it ever happened again. Exactly 90 days later, it happened again. I woke about 9 am and upon rising from bed noticed my body was still laying there. I knew I couldn't call Eric without getting back in my body and I had no idea how long I could be outside my body before (or if) it would die. So I immediately ran the 4 miles to the closest Chase Bank and started scoping the place out. I watched the branch manager enter the alarm code when he arrived about 9:15. I watched him open the vault and memorized the codes for it. Then I proceeded to run back home asap and check my body, it was still nice and warm.....so I laid back down and got back into my body. Once regaining control of my body I walked into the living room and called Eric. "Dude, I made it to the bank and got the alarm code and the vault code. The only problem is I can't touch the keypads, doors, etc. unless I am back in my body.". Later that day we met up and discussed how I would make it from my house to the bank, grab the money and back home in the hour and a half that I was invisible once getting back into my body. We decided I needed an untraceable mode of transportation that I could keep hidden at my house. Use to get to the bank, get the money and then ditch somewhere in Metro Atlanta where he would pick me and the money up. It took about a month and a half to find the perfect vehicle. It was an old motorcycle at a flea market that had a side car. It wasn't in the best of shape but it ran and it had plenty of room for the loot. Sure enough 90 days later it happened again. I immediately got back into my body, raced to the bank. Making sure to park far enough away the motorcycle wouldn't be seen on cameras. I waited for the manager to show up at 9:15 and followed him into the bank. I knew from watching him previously that after disabling the alarm he would go into his office for 10 minutes or so before he opened the vault. So I went and opened the vault myself, filled every bag I could find with cash then walked out of the bank before he left his office. I ran like the wind to the motorcycle and stashed the bags in the side car and headed off to meet Eric in Atlanta. We had already scoped out an area to meet that was devoid of any CCTV or Security cameras for a couple mile radius. I made it there and got the bike stashed in an abandoned building. He arrived just before I became visible again and we stowed the bags in his car and drove back to my house. Passing within a half mile of the bank on the way to my house. We could hear sirens going off like crazy, there where numerous police and news choppers flying about. So once home we turned on the TV. "The Largest Bank Robbery in Georgia History" the news headline read. The day just so happened to be the First of the Month and a Friday. The bank had received a large cash delivery the day before because they where located in an area with a lot of industry (that paid on Friday) and a lot of people on Disability/Social Security. I had walked out of the bank with a whopping 12 Million Dollars in brand new $100 bills. It didn't take us long to realize we couldn't just spend the money. Surely, the IRS and Secret Service knew the serial numbers on the bills. Even if they didn't spending a large sum of cash with no previous history of having large sums of cash would have sent off ALARMS.

When we saw the tanks, our instinct was to run. We ran until we were hidden in the forest, and we kept running until the cold wind burned our faces and our lungs filled with frost. I collapsed under a small pine tree, cold flakes of snow sprinkling down from the green needles. Sitting there, trying to catch my breath, I realized I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of tank engines in the distance. Not even Kraus’ asthmatic wheezing that i’d grown so accustomed to. I slowly peeked from under the pine, only to see more trees and snow, and beyond that, the hazy pastures of some Belgian farmer. I sighed quietly, despair gripping me. How could I have let myself be separated from the others so easily? They were running beside me not five minutes ago, and now god knows where they could be. I suppose I could go look for them and risk running into the Americans, or I could wait here for a while and try to find my way back to our lines when night falls. So, I sat back down under the pine tree, with wispy snow drifts surrounding me just enough to keep away the wind. I hated being alone now. Not just because of my situation, but because it gave me time to think. Think about the pain, the cold, the hunger, and above all else, question why any of this had to happen. Why are we still fighting this war? It’s down to old men and boys like me to defend the “almighty Fatherland”. Just take a look at my squad. A family man with a breathing condition, a typographer who’s old enough to be my grandfather, a guy who has a limp because he suffered from polio as a child, and of course the Feldwebel. He served on the eastern front - a fate no German soldier would wish on anybody - and was injured badly by a mortar round. It blew up the room he was bedding in, masking the left side of his face in scars and killing three men. Because of this, the side of his head was always a deep shade of red and his ear remained nothing but a hole. And my god was he an angry man. Having to serve again after what he had been through left him with nothing but contempt for the war. Yet right now, I wished he and the others were right here with me. Looking down at my hands, I realized that I had begun bleeding through my bandages again. I watched as a small drop of crimson fell from the dirty cloth and landed in the snow between my legs, creating a small dot of colour in this drab landscape. I lost the pinky and ring finger on my left hand two days ago when a blasting cap I was carrying to Kraus blew up in my hands. Between the cold and the burns, the pain has gone, and i’m not sure whether that’s a blessing or not. The sound of engines rolling through the forest nearby raised in volume, as did the beating of my heart. It’s hard to believe that eight months ago I was in my home celebrating my seventeenth birthday with my family. Remembering the look on their faces when I walked into the house and found them waiting for me, laughing and yelling surprise. And then the look on their faces as the truck drove off with me and other men, not a week later. It makes me wish more than anything that I was with them again. I feel my eyes watering up and I squeeze them shut hard, the tears starting to freeze on my eyelashes already. When I open my eyes I can see the pastures just past the forest. And in them a I see a small convoy of Americans. Lifting my back off of the tree, I climb out from my little shelter of snowbanks. Before I even realize entirely what i’m doing, i’ve walked past the trees and begun up the small hill. I make it another hundred yards before I see an American soldier motion towards me. Raising my bandaged hands above my head I continue walking towards them. Two of them break away from their group and walk towards me. The one on the left raises his pistol as we near, and I notice the other raise a camera. I look my captor in the eyes and I hear a snap. This is the most afraid and relieved i’ve ever been, but I know one thing for sure. At least it’s over.

Insanity, or whatever the off axis feelings that crept about were. Doors opened and closed, futures being made, the past cemented in. Everyone wore their best fake smiles, tailored attitudes, and suits. The dim lighting of the place sucked away the last breath of fresh air. "Next." That's all it really was. A numbers game. Overpriced shoes clacked their way through the door, followed by an air of nervousness. Restless fingers fidgeted about, as if a solution lay just beyond sight. "Next." And so it went, for a while. The assembly line churned forward, ever so steady. The mind was ready to drift, not fixated on any particular thing. "Hey, you're up. You gonna come in or what?" The hallway became clear again, as he snapped back into reality. "No.

The SAS briefings had not prepared James for this. "A few nationalistic radicals in sunglasses" did not have the money or connections to have the highest powered sniper rifle in the world. "An untrained group of anarchist rebels" couldn't hit shots perfectly from 200 yards out with a Kalashnikov. James reflected on the light-hearted meeting in which his CO had demeaned the enemy presence, and made sure the operators felt this would be nothing but another easy in, easy out. It seemed silly now. Simple ops don't end with four operators rotting in the gutter of a deserted Algerian city. Why had the government only allocated five operators for this mission? Why did James radio refuse to play anything but static? Sitting by the edge of the MRAP they rode in on, James considered driving out. But he knew he wouldn't make it a mile before a land mine or bored group of radicals caused him to meet his maker. Clutching his M4, James sighed heavily and prepared his gas mask. Looks like it was up to him to finish this op, even after his four fellow soldiers had been taken out. Walking slowly but with an aura of purpose, James looked down his battle sights. The small box he came to crouch behind offered a decent viewing angle onto the suspected bomb site. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several radicals making their way through a pair of arches that connected the area with a small cobble road. Again moving slowly, James transitioned himself behind another crate in preparation to take the shot. James heard an incredibly loud bang, followed by the explosion of wood near inches wear his head had previously been. Collapsing onto the concrete floor, James caught the marked glint of a sniper scope on top of a small scaffolding. Seconds later, another shot rang out near James head. Cursing to himself, James heard the terrorists yelling at each other. The sound of sprinting footsteps followed, with several loud bangs echoing between the buildings. Several seconds followed, when a small whiz that could be easily mistaken for a cough was heard. One of the radicals collapsed, clutching at his gorged neck. James rose into a crouched position, the cold steel metal of the rifle resting in his hands. The two other terrorists began firing, attempting to keep him suppressed. James threw a flashbang into the middle of the courtyard, shielding his eyes. The radicals were not so lucky, and were caught in the full force of the grenade. James emerged from his cover, and took two expert shots at the remaining men. The sound of a clattering sniper rifle was the only noise to break the cold silence of post-battle relief. If intel was to be trusted, two terrorists remained in the city. James was beginning to think they may had left, when he heard several loud beeps and whooping yells from a market across the road. Sprinting through to the middle road, James hoisted himself onto a small catwalk designed for donkey passages. Advancing onto the open-air market, James once again drew up his rifle. Whether lazy, cocky, or just plain stupid, one of the two remaining radicals had stopped for a smoke break inside a small series of blue apartments with open windows. James smiled at the easy pickings, and took him out quickly before advancing on. The sight of the planted bomb confirmed what James had suspected; the terrorists were successful in arming the home-made explosive. Nervous, James knew there wasn't much time left on the bomb. He had to defuse it quickly, or the losses his team sustained would be in vain. Keeping his eye out for the renaming enemy, he sprinted the final 100 metres to the bomb before quickly pulling out his defuse kit. Feeling the trickle of hot sweat pour down his face, James worked quickly. The process lasted a mere five seconds, but to James, it felt like an eternity. Breathing a sigh of relief and drawing up his congested mask, James allowed himself ten seconds of rest before planning to set out in search of the remaining radical. He would find no relaxtion, however, as two rifle rounds entered his left leg, causing him to collapse in anguish and pain. James crawled to a nearby crate, biting his tongue in order to stop himself from screaming in agony. Drawing his H&K pistol, he knew this was it. Nothing but an injured operator and a lightweight sidearm to finish this mission. Hearing a small pattering of slow footsteps, James leaned himself over to the left. Aiming down the sights, his target finally made himself visible to James. Before the enemy had a chance to fire another shot, James brought his finger down on the trigger, sending a small bullet of lead directly into the head of the terrorist. A small buzz was heard on the radio, with static breaking up barely intelligible words. "*Corporal, this is base!*" More static was heard. "*Need your status, over!*" James was crying in pain, but smiling at his victory. Easing his radio to his chapped and dry lips, he stated three words before falling unconscious. "*Counter-terrorists win.

Marcus Hetfield, August 18th, 2123 About thirteen and a half miles out of Kepler 62-F’s atmosphere, there we are; the tiny dot that is our reasonably-sized AGF, or Atmosphere Guard Flier for short. We usually do routine checks and ask standard questions before we let cargo transporters and passenger ships enter 62-F's air space. We’re out here only armed with a basic cannon or two on the ship (based on the ship’s model) along with simple firearms in the armory. There's only one other AGF guarding 62-F since this planet is not the highest of priorities, so we're practically alone out here save for a few other men. To be honest, we’re the crappy first line of defense; we’re screwed out here if we get attacked since we’re just a guard ship. Yeah, we’re in the Kepler Defense Squadron, but we’re kind of like Military Police and not true soldiers, since all we do is sit on our butts out in space waiting for a civillian craft to show up. You know, the measly guards at the front gate? Yeah, that’s us; cannon fodder, but it pays well. . . . Shep, the crew's technician and radar man, noticed a strange occurrence within their vicinity. “Hey Marcus, come check this out; I’m picking up a civilian-model Flier about twenty clicks from our current location, and it’s just drifting out there. I’ll try to establish contact with the pilot to see if they need any assistance. In the meantime, get the others ready for possible boarding if need be.” Ten minutes passed. “What the hell?!” exclaimed Shep. Marcus was in earshot. “What’s wrong?” Pointing at his headset with a flabbergasted look on his face, Shep responded with a plain “Nothing.” Smiling, Marcus responded, “Then why are you pissed at nothing? Just kidding, seriously, what’s wrong?” “I’m getting jack on the line. Zip, zero, nada, bupcus. They’re either not home, or they’re all dead.” “Jesus. Well, we're prepped and ready for boarding... protocol says that if we don't hear contact within the first ten, and we don't have any immediate backup, then we wait fifty more and establish contact with the other Flier in the meantime. Go ahead and call 'em up to tell them about our situation... but man, I don't feel good about this at all... could the passengers on board that ship truly be dead?” Fifty minutes passed. Shep had a positive look on his face. “Well, looks like you guys gotta board it. Hey, look at it this way; you all have great scores after repeated use of the simulators, there's no need to worry... right?” Drake, the crew's intimidating weapons specialist, saw right through Shep. “You're just happy that you don't have risk your life investigating a possibly hostile Flier. You're a valuable member to our team Shep, but you can be a true scumbag sometimes, and it's just shameful to be in the same Flier with a disgrace like yourself.” Shep muttered something under his breath as he piloted the team’s AGF to the civilian craft. The AI guide over the speaker system stated that the connection between the two ships was complete and ready for transition boarding. “Proceed with caution. Ensure all safety procedures are followed when moving between ships. The Kepler Defense Squadron is not responsible for any deaths during the boarding process. All employees must-“ Shep deactivated the blaring program. “The bloody thing’s useless and annoying, you guys know what to do. Get in, assess the situation, shoot some things if you need to, and get out. According to scans, the craft has a full supply of oxygen, air pressure completely stable. We are go.” Marcus then put on his gas mask. “It’s just a normal Flier, you’re not gonna need that,” said Roger, the team’s medic and doctor. “It’s highly unlikely that we’ll encounter a biohazard of some sort.” “Roger, you know me by now, I’m paranoid when it comes to disease no matter what the situation. Anyway, I’ll lead the boarding line with Drake behind me, followed by yourself.” Civilian Model Flier, ten minutes later. Drake had a frustrated look on his face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me; after searching every single room in this ship, no one turns up? Not a single body, piece of identification, or anything. I was looking forward to some action, but really? What a waste of time.” Roger’s face looked as if he had seen a ghost; a blank thousand yard stare. His eyes: bloodshot, twitching. Tears mixed together with beads of sweat streamed down his face like a raging flood. “Roger... you alright?” asked Marcus through the gas mask. He could not comprehend the rapidly degrading situation, seeing that nothing could have spurred the team's medic to fall to such a condition. Trembling, Roger raised his G-29 pulse rifle. “WHY?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MURDER HIM IN COLD BLOOD?!! YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR MY FATHER'S DEATH! BURN IN HELL!!” Drake was frozen solid, seeing how his former comrade-turned-monster was now pointing a death sentence at him. He fired in Drake's direction, the three shot burst hitting him in the chest, blood splattering on the walls of the ship. Drake's now lifeless body fell to the floor with a metallic thud. “Oh... oh God... Sam... who did this to you, the rebels?” Roger began to stroke his dead friend's hair, speaking softly to him. “Hush little baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.” He turned towards Marcus. “Honey, don't you think he's so adorable when he's asleep?... aww, would you look at that!” Roger ran his fingers through the thick pool of blood. “He wet himself. We're gonna have to change the baby together for the first time! I gotta find the camera... now Joseph, would you be a dear and get the powder for me? Thanks babe.” Marcus was terrified, shaken to the core. Never had he seen such an atrocity unfold before his eyes. While the monster in front of him was taking off Drake's gear, he raised the G-29 and fired a burst into Roger's head, killing him insantly. . . . Marcus walked back into the crew's AGF, closed the boarding connection, and removed his gas mask. “Shep, send the footage from my helmet cam to Tac-Com immediately and call for High Exec; we lost Roger and Drake...

Out of all five senses, sound has always had one of the most powerful effects on my emotions. At the age of two, when most babies would be spitting out adorable gibberish, my mother noticed while she held me that instead of making sounds, I would flap my mouth open and closed soundlessly save for a few guttural noises. She took me to see the doctor, the good mother she was, who said that I had an exorbitant amount of fluid cemented behind my eardrums, so much so that I could barely hear. Therefore my indiscernible mouthing was in fact a manifestation of my natural infantile inclination to imitate what I saw without actually hearing the external voices that are so important to a baby’s brain development. Apparently this condition is actually very common among toddlers. Anyways, I had two operations to remove the fluid and eventually had tubes inserted into my eardrums which left me with heavy scarring in both of my ears and what I would roughly estimate is only about 90% of the average person’s hearing capacity. When I was in high school my brother downloaded an application on his phone, which would emit a controlled high frequency sound and would estimate how old you were based on how high the pitch was when you were no longer able to hear it. The application guessed both of my brothers’ ages correctly within a few years. It estimated that I was in my mid-forties. Despite all this, I truly cannot complain and will forever be grateful that I was able to gain my sense of sound at all. Because I cannot hear quite as well as the average person, one might think that sound does not take as much precedence in my life as the senses of touch or sight, but on the contrary, my hearing has been particularly sensitive for as long as I can remember. While I often need to have people repeat their low murmurs and quiet whispers, contrastingly the sounds of loud, competing voices in a crowd or really violent sounding music can feel so over stimulating to me that I sometimes have to remove myself from certain situations. When watching my favorite movies as a child, I would often cover my ears during the scary or sad part of the movie rather than cover my eyes, as if somehow hearing the horrible part would be worse than visually witnessing it. Even as an adult I still foolishly find myself feeling the natural urge to cover my ears during horror movies to protect myself. I had no idea as a young child how much my sense of sound would shape my entire view and experience of the world. The year was 2005 and I was in the fifth grade, living in Kenya while my dad did medical mission work there. So far I had lived a very blissful childhood, full of sunshine, friends, food, and the good-natured chasing of boys. I lived in a wealthy, comfortable suburb of the capitol, and was largely sheltered, save for the blatant, unavoidable poverty that surrounded me. This poverty was evident in the surreal but unfortunately regular experience of turning down street kids for spare change as I walked to school, which often left me feeling guilty and embarrassed. The surreal nature of this experience was that many of these kids, like me, were ten years old and essentially were peers to me, but all of them, unlike me, were dressed in raggedy clothes, regularly huffed glue, and relied on begging to provide for their families. The guilt-yielding nature of this experience was that although I was young, I was well aware that the only thing keeping me from being one of these kids was my white skin, my American passport, and the hereditary lottery into privilege that I had undeservedly won. However, at that age I was immune to the city’s social injustice and the sick feeling it left in my stomach once I walked safely into the padlocked gate that sealed my family’s house from unwanted outsiders. It didn’t take me long, however, to realize that the violent crime that surrounded me in the city could infect and permeate the concrete walls of my compound as easily as the rich smells of the delicious roasted maize and chili powder wafted in from the shosho who cooked them on the street outside. One fateful night, I awoke suddenly in my bed to the sound of my next-door neighbor screaming. It was unlike any noise I had ever heard uttered from human lips before, and the bone-chilling nature of it communicated more to me than any last words could have; that she was in imminent, life-threatening danger. I immediately froze and my eyes widened while I silently listened to her scream. What I’m sure was only a few seconds of noise felt like long, drawn-out minutes, until it was suddenly interrupted with a solitary staccato gunshot that seemed to reverberate across the entire neighborhood. Then there was an almost deafening silence. All of my muscles were tensed, and it felt as though my blood had frozen over the second the bullet had left the gun’s chamber. Although my older sister was asleep in the bed just above me, and my parents were in the bedroom adjacent to ours, I felt excruciatingly vulnerable and alone. A few long minutes of silence later, I heard my father tiptoe outside in the hall, trying to look out of the window nearest to my neighbor’s house to see what was going on. Knowing he was close by and aware of the situation should have been comforting but offered me no such relief and I still found myself frozen and bound to my bed, as if getting up to look with my dad would alert whoever shot my neighbor to the fact that there were people in my house to be preyed upon as well. After hours of listening to the silence and not moving a single muscle, I eventually grew tired again and mercifully slid back into a strange sleep. The next day my best friend, who lived on the same street as me, informed me that what everyone had heard the night before was not, in fact, my neighbor being murdered in cold blood, but what had happened was the following; my sweet middle-aged neighbor heard a noise that night coming from her garden. Upon sticking her head out of the window and noting that one, the noise was, in fact, a thief trying to enter their house and two, that her security guard was fast asleep, she screamed as loud as she possibly could to try and awake her guard and to alert the rest of the neighborhood. Only then did the thief harmlessly fire his gun into the air to silence the woman and make his escape, his job ruined. I will forever be grateful that the neighbor lady was not harmed in any way. But as I look back on that incident, harmless as it turned out to be, I realize that I lost a small piece of the natural safety each child needs to feel that day and though I was young, I was no longer a stranger to the violence and injustice that surrounded me. It wasn’t until five years later, at the age of 13, that the remainder of that natural sense of safety was snatched away from me as quickly as a disgruntled mother grabs small, chokeable objects out of an infant’s hands. The night was 20 December, 2008, my younger brother’s birthday. Though my family had spent the day celebrating and was on our way to a family friend’s house for a Christmas party, the air was ripe with a curious, ominous tension I had never felt before. This was due to the country’s upcoming tribally-charged election exactly a week from that day. I was not alone in sensing the tension, friends I had, young and old, were having strange dreams and there was an unspoken sense in spiritual communities that this election had relevance to dimensions that the eye cannot see. Shortly after New Years it would erupt into one of the bloodiest and most infamous internal conflicts Kenya has ever experienced. At around 7 PM, just after pitch darkness had settled on the city, my entire family and I drove to our friends’ house. We entered the nearby wealthy neighborhood called “Runda” and drove through without a problem until we reached the other outlet of the housing complex. The makeshift gate, or barrier as we called it, to the complex was a long metal pole balanced with a heavy weight on one side and a rope with a guard on the other side who controlled which cars went in and out of the complex. Typically when cars approached the barrier, the guards would lazily let the car through without giving it a second look, so it was strange that when we approached it, the barrier was lowered and a car sat in front of it on our side. What happened then I remember only in the hazy way you retain things when you’re in shock. I had been staring out of the window on the right side of our car when I happened to notice that the guard’s shack on that side of the barrier was empty, which was unusual for that time of night. As I registered the strangeness of the situation and heard panicked, distant-sounding noises from my family members, I slowly turned my head to the left and numbly took in the scene: the lowered barrier, the parked car, four men stepping out of the car, and then the final realization that they were actually being forced out of the car by an ordinary-looking man who was wearing a hat and jacket but brandishing a pistol at the men. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he made each of the four men from the car get on their knees, and then lay facedown in the middle of the street, next to the car. I suddenly felt jerked back into normal time when I heard my mom yell at my dad, the driver, who also seemed stunned, to get out of there. Our car lurched backwards and then back down the street we had just turned off of. Seconds after we were out of eyesight of the car, we distinctly heard four gunshots puncture the night. One for each man. Over the next few days, we would receive news that gave us more information about what we had witnessed. A family friend coming from the very party we were on our way to passed through that barrier a few hours later that night and found the road covered in blood. My mother found out from connections in a slum not far from where the incident happened that what had appeared to us as a brutal but unfortunately routine carjacking was actually a police sting operation. The man dressed completely in civilian clothes holding the ordinary-looking pistol was actually a policeman and had been tracking four young burglars from the nearby slum who had been robbing houses all over Runda the past couple of weeks. Though they were unarmed and made no movements of aggression towards the officer, he shot them and left them to die in the street, apparently viewing them as undeserving of the judicial system. This situation speaks volumes about the state of police brutality in Kenya. It also marked the beginning of a paralyzing fear I experienced for years afterwards whenever I heard loud popping noises, not unlike a skittish dog. All personal PTSD aside though, what made me the angriest about the situation was that my younger sister, who was six at the time, bore witness to the whole thing. As my family drove away reeling from the murders we had just witnessed , my sister was silent until she meekly said, “I want to cry.” I remember writing in my journal that night about how sick of a world we must live in, that a six year old girl had witnessed such things. To this day, I still find huge relief in the fact that I did not actually visually witness those terrible crimes. It’s an unsettling relief though, as I can’t help but look back on the second situation with guilty pangs in my heart, questioning why the universe’s protective hands covered my eyes instead of those four men. I came to realize though that what I had witnessed can be everyday occurrences to the children living in the nearby slum where the thieves were from. What was a traumatizing and life-changing event for me is the very space in which they live. Why was it that much more noteworthy for a Westerner to experience it? The answers to all of my questions seem simple but are probably more complex than I will ever be able to grasp. Until I understand, I will keep on smelling the roses, touching the lives around me, tasting the air that those centuries before me have, watching out for the injustices that go unnoticed, and above all, listening.

Milo’s manners were perfect even when he killed people. A strict upbringing inculcated his strong respect for authority and decorum. He often apologized for what he had to do before he did it; unless it was a long distance shot. Then the most polite option was a good clean head-shot. Of course his targets never heard him. It was just his inner dialogue; the epic heroic movie script in his mind. He hears *many* voices. Milo sat alone in a special tactical vehicle. It was armored, air-conditioned and full of high-tech electronics to control high-tech guns. From his position slightly to the side of the road, he saw a rooster-tail of dessert dust over two miles away. His camouflaged truck was hidden behind a berm with sparse dessert foliage. It would be very difficult to notice from the road. Even the long barrels and optic-arrays atop the truck were painted in variegated dessert colors. “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel,” he thought in his hillbilly accent. A quick look at the long-range viewer confirmed it was an enemy jeep. The stereo-optic range-finder told him the distance and oncoming speed. It was within his range, but he waited until the jeep got closer. Milo missed his halcyon days of regular rifles. After all, he spent years studying and practicing this art. The new systems were nearly infallible. That removed some sport. When the jeep was within easy range, a half kilometer, he let loose the first round. His inner British voice said, “Oh dear! I missed that poor chap’s head!” The passenger was writhing in agony as the driver freaked out. The expensive killing-machine’s optics are amazing! In this clear dessert daylight, Milo could see the driver’s face *close-up* as he screamed in horror at his friend’s missing arm. Milo's inner voices always spoke with his best British accent when he was being “polite.” He thought to himself aloud, “Well, the only proper polite way to stop that driver’s emotional suffering is to shoot him too.” Milo took aim and gently caressed the trigger. In his Mac Arthur voice, he spoke that old aphorism: “You never hear the bullet that kills you.” That’s true because bullets like this travel faster than the speed of sound. When a supersonic round gets you from a distance, you don’t hear the report. If lucky, you die instantly. If you’re not so lucky, you are suddenly in a world of pain and fear. Often, targets have no idea where the bullets are from. Inside his sealed air-conditioned truck, the immense power of that gun felt like a small gust of wind. The sound was quiet as a hand-clap. “Blast! Missed again!” That round hit the driver’s side door and removed the drivers leg from the knee down. He wondered, "Is something wrong with his scope settings. Elevation? No. That’s right for the distance." Both bullets arrived on time, so he had the lead right. He didn’t want to miss repeatedly like some rookies do. Ah Ha! That’s it! He forgot to calculate the wind. It was so hot today, but there were clouds, and clouds meant downdrafts. It’s a small effect you barely feel, but noticeable in precision long-distance marksmanship. It’s easy to forget such wind calculations when you sit in air-conditioned comfort. “Goodness! I must recalculate and finish this job soon so those blokes don’t just lay there bleeding and screaming all day.” He admonished himself, “I must be careful and professional so I do not miss like that again! That’s the proper thing to do.” Milo sometimes gets his inner British and German accents mixed. “Being proper” meant taking his own sweet time recalculating for the buffeting wind in that barren hot landscape. He was perfectly aware of those two gentlemen: terrified, bleeding, in agony, sand and salty sweat seeping into hideous wounds. This called for a cigarette! “It’s better to think clearly and get a proper shot,” he thought as he lit his Marlboro. Milo always thinks more clearly with a little nicotine. As the two mortally-wounded soldiers tried to flee, Milo calmly and cautiously applied new settings. The jeep was going faster now. Panicked drivers do that. They imagine they can just drive faster and zig-zag away. With modern guns, ammunition and sighting-systems, that’s practically impossible out here in the open dessert. Still, there’s no reason to let your clients get too far away. From Milo’s position slightly in front of the moving jeep, that was easy. “No problem! I’ll just disable the vehicle so they can’t escape my benevolent mercy.” Milo learned early in life that it’s fun to play god. As a good Christian boy in his bucolic heartland home, he spent summers tagging, branding, neutering and slaughtering animals. He smiled while remembering those wonderful boyhood experiences. *He often thought about the many great spiritual lessons of his church and family.* A couple of quick shots confirmed his new settings were spot on. He hit both front tires. “Nice work!” He congratulated himself. “Good thing we’re video-taping this! I think the manufacturer will be proud to know his new incendiary round can rupture spinning tires on impact. In the past that was not so easily done!” As the jeep came to a jerky stop, it’s panicked occupants tried to flee and find shelter. Milo just shook his head. “Nowhere to run gentlemen,” he thought in his Asian accent. The first botched victim got out on the passenger’s side and hunkered down behind the jeep. The second botched shot, the driver, practically fell out his door. Milo thought, “It must be difficult to stand with only one leg.” That made Milo laugh and gave him a chubby. He noticed that and said out loud to himself with a grin, “Naughty boy!” Whenever he said “naughty boy” his inner voice was his impersonation of men he called "faggots." The driver managed to crawl a few feet before collapsing. The incredible trauma of a high-caliber incendiary is too much pain for the human brain. The brain releases natural pain killers to reduce such deadly trauma. That is Nature’s kind way. Milo knew this because they trained him to know that. Only a “mistake” would render targets helpless and in pain like this; Unless that professional marksman made mistakes intentionally. Milo knew that losing a limb is awfully traumatic, but does not immediately lead to unconsciousness. It takes a while for your brain’s natural pain killers to counteract the intense adrenaline surge. In such panic and pain, it’s no surprise the driver forgot to put his jeep in park. Even if he remembered, it would have been difficult to engage the parking brake without a left leg. Still in gear, its idling engine made the jeep hobble slowly away, then over the shallow lip of the road. It stopped twenty yards away after hitting some large rocks and scraggy brush. That left both wounded passengers helplessly exposed on the dirt road. “Sweet!” He thought. Through the electronic scope, Milo could see that poor passenger on his knees, weeping, writhing, screaming and holding what was left of his right arm. From this distance he could not hear their screams even if he had the windows open. All he heard was a muffled diesel engine providing power to his equipment and cool air to the truck. It was like watching a film on your phone with the sound down. He noticed all the blood splattered on that fellow’s t-shirt. “What a terrible mess! I should take care of that right now!” Just as Milo politely thought those polite words, the one-armed man stood up. Was he surrendering? Hard to tell from this distance... Maybe he was just offering himself up for a better shot. Milo had seen other wounded people do that. They wanted the pain to go away. They wanted to die as quickly as possible... to just get it over with. “But no!” Milo thought. “That isn’t honorable!” Honor meant something to Milo. He had his own version of honor that did not allow soldiers to take any easy way out. Milo’s devout father taught him the relationship between honor and pain many times. Those soul-purifying lessons happened in the large red barn. *He remembered his father’s stark intonements of holy scripture as he metered out righteous punishment for Milo’s sins. It was for his own good! Milo could still sense the cold moist air of the dark barn on his young naked buttocks. He could smell the rough hay he bent over to receive his lessons. He could hear the swoosh of the rod and anticipate the impending sting of honor-building lashes.* With those crisp refreshing memories pleasantly flooding his mind, Milo realized what he should do; what was righteous and proper and god-like. Milo was now fully erect. “No...” he thought to himself politely, “I should protect this fellow’s honor!” So, Milo’s next precise professional polite shot took off the target’s other arm. The impact nearly flipped the guy over in a summersault. “Nice form,” he said aloud to nobody like a sports announcer. It reminded Milo of a gymnast’s backflip. “Degree of difficulty, three-point-two. He NAILED that landing!” Milo is such a joker. He giggled and said, “I LOVE my job! Thank you Jesus,” like a TV evangelist. Through his scope, Milo saw the man landed semi-upright on his knees. Milo watched as the man looked back and forth at his two missing arms. It reminded him of a scene from that Monty Python movie where the Dark Knight had two arms and legs cut off. He let out another little chuckle. Milo loves movies. He examined the scene through his video screen and zoomed in for a closer look. The one-legged driver seemed to be moving, but barely. “I’ll just let them rest for a bit. It’s nice and warm. They should feel comfortable there for a while.” He watched over them to make sure they did not get up, but allowed them to live in honor, with their excruciating hopeless pain. ‘’It’s for the best my friends! I wouldn’t want to you die a dishonorable death.” Milo’s dad would have been so proud. It only took a minute to see the driver was motionless. The armless passenger had collapsed face down and bled out. Just for practice, Milo shot out the headlights. Two perfect shots. Neither body twitched. As a severe test of azimuth, he shot off the jeep’s antenna and side mirrors. Three perfect shots. Milo does not miss. None of his shots were misses. He calmly packed his gear and thought, “I wonder what’s on TV tonight?” Milo loves TV. Yes... Milo is always polite. It was his way as an American Sniper. Always a gentleman! Then Milo remembered his therapist’s words: "The only people who can always be perfectly polite, are psychopaths." Milo frowned. Therapy made him confront things he did not want to confront. It was easier therapy for him to just do his beloved job. Milo envisioned himself as a righteous surgeon for the great god-fearing country he was so blessed to be born in. He helped “cure” the world of “sand-niggers.” His therapist could never understand his piety or righteousness. He did not like that therapist. Milo meditated upon his self-image as a surgeon while he played with his razor-sharp tactical knife. He cut his left arm lightly and slowly with his right hand while bringing himself to orgasm with his left. He squeezed the last drop of life-giving god-goo from his penis then licked it clean from his hand, just as his boyhood priest taught him. “Hmmm...” he thought. “Saltier than normal.” He took a drink from his canteen. Now spent and satisfied, he thought about his therapist. He contemplated the word therapist: “the rapist.” He tasted some of his blood from the knife. Then he smiled. “When I get back home,” Milo thought, “I am going to visit my therapist again. I need to tell her... no, *show her* some interesting new things I’ve learned about myself.

Fortunate Inheritances I turned away from Arthur to look out the storm filled window, it's curtains softly swaying; catching some stray breeze. I swirled my drink as I witnessed the fury behind soft glass. "...And besides," he was explaining, as he poured his drink by the little cart, "Who would even want that to happen? You're so generous they surely would get their supposed fair share anyways! How you give gifts so freely!" I smiled. Though his passing had been painfully difficult, it had not been wholly a waste. Dad's many years of paying life insurace had eased his funeral procession and greased the wheels, and was still greasing them as I had need. Being the sole beneficiary for this large but modest fortune, after taking care of him for so long, was a satisfying reward. I sipped my drink, 15 year old scotch I thought. I looked at Arthur, "Thank you," tipping my glass. He smiled back and sipped his own drink. It was clear; gin maybe, or vodka. Thunder shook the window pane and I drew closer to it. I opened my mouth to say we ought to celebrate, go on a trip or something, but as the noise came out so did a mouthful of unwittingly accumulated slober. Suddenly embarassed but saving face I laughed it away and used my sleeve to wipe up. Arthur flashed me another one of his wide grins and mirthfully moved from the drink cart to sit on the couch, keeping his eyes on me, smiling. I remained at the window, it's cool breeze refreshing and calming. "There's Uncle Max..." I started saying, almost hopefully. "Ha! Uncle Max! The man lives in Hawaii, he already has all the fortune he can handle, and I heard he's getting the motorcycle collection on top of it!" Arthur seemed to be getting excited. The patter of rain died some against the cold glass; forming long streaks down it's surface. I leant up against it, comforted. He almost laughed, "and Carrie is getting the house! She's only 25 and she gets his mansion!" I imagined Carrie, my little sister, owning that massive house. It was a humourous but unpredictable picture. Arthur's excitement for our fortunate inhertances must be spilling over onto me, taking a long drink to steady my shaky hands. Arthur smiled and said "everybody is getting something amazing! Everybody he held in worth, anyways." I looked at him after that. His face still wore a smile but it was not joyful, it hung on him like cloth caught on a barbed fence; agitated and tattering. A ruined cloak. The storm outside was dying, a beam of sunlight pierced the still air inside. "It was similar to this," he got up, "the night that our father died." His words had become like a hard whisper floating from coherent to just barely audible. My back was pressed to the window, I was noticeably hot, sweat forming on my brow. His voice gained strength as he recalled that night, as if he were presenting to an audience, reliving each detail. "He asked me to pour him his scotch, you know how he so loved his scotch." I could remember he had. He passed it on to me like a father passes a beloved knife to his son. Arthur was pacing now, he seemed to blur at the edges. My empty glass tumbled from my hand and clattered to the ground. He stopped. He faced me and I saw him, smiling, glowering, fading, looking down on me as my knees buckled unwillingly. The storm had died. "When he finished his drink he glared at me. He must have known. I don't know how, but he knew his whiskey. He could tell when it wasn't just scotch in his glass." he paused thoughtfully." I am sure though..." he whispered, bending to look me in the eye "...that it was just water." Arthur smiled and I sank into the floor; sank into darkness.

**a silly short story by:** **AFG** * “When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?”* - Shel Silverstein, A Light in the Attic. *Creation and creativity are a man’s most important achievements. Who are we, in the vast sea of human beings, if we are not able to produce what is in our soul? Who would we be, if we can’t give our life any importance? We would be a shell, a fish, unable to leave a trace behind, with no higher goals than that of temporary existence. We would be just consumers of experiences resulting from successions of events. Like a stone within gravel. Like dust within sand. We would fall into a machine-like automated routine behaviour that would make existence worthless, a copy of someone else’s life. Expression and knowledge must be the ultimate goals. Expression is what makes and defines us; it’s a tool; it is the colour in our painting and the timbre in our instrument. Knowledge is the content, the melody, the database, the variety, the power, the means and the end. They depend upon each other; knowledge amplifies expression, which is used in turn to display knowledge. It can’t be stressed enough how important these two are in order to enable us to be ourselves. Lacking any of those two would make a man an incomplete fool.* These thoughts were floating in front of Sean’s head. Not in front as at the front of his brain, or mind, but literally floating in front of him. He could see them very clearly. He could also touch them and rearrange them in different order. After a moment of deliberation, Sean concluded that the 230 micrograms of LSD he dropped two hours before might have played a role in that. *What the hell man! When did you become so pessimist... Why did pessimism become you. Man of Hell, dense of impulsive confusion and inconclusive contradictions. Impulsive contradictions dense of Hell’s inconclusive confusion.* Sean wondered for some time whether he will be able to remember, at a later stage, the internal discussion he just had with himself; eventually he decided that it wasn’t that important after all. He took a deep breath and blew the thoughts away; suddenly they were gone, not only from his view but also from his memory, as if they never happened in the first place. For the first time in few minutes, which could have been days, he looked at his surroundings and realised he did not know where he was. There were four white walls surrounding him. Actually, one of the walls, the one in front of him, was a door, decorated. The decorations on the door, he noted, were very pretty and quite sophisticated for a door. Flowers and exotic plants were flowing and moving in a slow wavy dance while murmuring something very similar to a mantra, which Sean recognised as an ancient Siberian chant, sung in honour of the souls of the dead warriors. *A foreign bear walked into the jungle. Intrigued by the abundance and taste of foreign honey, he started collecting beehives to bring back to his wood and later sell to the other bears. The bee, noticing all his honey was being taken away, approached the bear. “Mr Bear, you are quite new here and may not be familiar with the local business of things. See, that honey belonged to my family for generations. I am not greedy though, we have a lot here and I am willing to share. Just I ask for a little portion of the money you will make by its sale, seems fair don’t you think? With an adequate share I can keep my production up and also feed my children” The bear looked at the bee, then, grinning widely, stomped on it with ruthless violence. “That will teach you a lesson, Bee.” Said the bear. “The industrial machine pays no duty”.* Sean looked at his left; there was a sink on the wall. Why though? What was the purpose of the sink? What was his ultimate goal? Was he aware that even a collective conscience is nullified by the abyss of the universe? The sink did nothing but stare back at Sean who found that quite irritating. *Oh well, suit yourself!* While it was impossible to determine the real size of the room, the dynamics of the curvature of the lateral axis, whatever that was, was very appealing to the eyes of Sean. It reminded him of the “magic mirrors” attractions you can find in the fairs, the ones where you seem look thinner or fatter that what you actually are. A solid sense of touch suddenly pervaded into Sean’s neuro-connections. There was something in his hands, something soft and white of cubical...no...cylindrical shape. *Toilet paper... Oh fuck... I’m sitting on the toilet... Yeah that looks like it, I remember. I came here on Saturday. That was 10 minutes ago. In real time, not in acid time. There was this book where the guy could walk through time as if it was some kind of lane. He could walk linearly through his past but the tricky part was walking in the future. The lane would divide and multiply into infinite different lanes, and every division would sub-divide into infinite other lanes, and so on and so on, until the most infinitesimal moment of the future was in itself an infinite universe of choices and resolutions of random events.* He wondered whether this was what chaos theory was about. He once started a book about it but, as usual, never finished it and got distracted by more immediate and important things. There were always more immediate and important things. *Damn its so hard to keep my mind focused on anything! And this isn’t a good place where to spend my time. It goes away quite fast anyway, time, you never know when yours is over. It would be so pathetic to die on a toilet; my friends will always remember me as the one who died while taking a shit. Dull stupid end... no I need to go through this properly so that I can go on the bed and die like a respectful clean person.* As if responding to the change of tone in his train of thoughts, the walls shifted from a concave motion to a convex one. Having realised his situation, a choking feeling of oppression fell on Sean. The worry of not succeeding in his toilet task served as a catalyst for an adrenaline rush which brought few instants of clear focused reflection. *Ok ok, looks like I am in the correct position...yeah...I managed to pull down my trousers appropriately... good good... Im very good... so now, did I let go already? Well let’s assess that... Yes! I went that far, now it’s the hard part, focus here Don’t fuck this up! Do an effort and then you can relax! I wont die here, nonono, maybe I will survive this, how hard can it be?!* With great effort, Sean engaged in the standard procedures that apply to these kinds of situations. He was relieved to see that his body was agreeing with his mental commands and that anxiousness slowly gave way to more controlled movements and regular breathing. Things seemed to go well; even the room relaxed and went back to its concave reassuring form. Sean was very happy of his progresses but unfortunately he could not avoid looking into the warp-hole that opened in the floor beneath him. The hole was more like an edgy white tunnel flowing towards an unseen distant location. Sean recognised the floor-mat patterns drawn at the sides of the tunnel as he felt the attractive power that was dragging his mind inside the tunnel. He did not ask himself where did the tunnel lead, or if it would have been safe to go inside. He just knew that the ancient gods of the universe where calling him to see and discover the mysteries of life. An “Om” chant, like those sung by Tibetan monks, was resonating loud in the air as the tunnel became an all-encompassing vision. Suddenly time and space became alien concepts. What did they mean? Existence was the only dimension. Gold, yellow and red polygonal forms were beating in front of him, flashing a majestic mandala that radiated solemnity. In that moment Sean forgot who he was. His name and identity made no sense to him in that moment, his life and his job looked like a distant event no more concerning him. Eventually his ego was completely dissolved in face of the great truths that were shown to him. *I now know the secrets of life and death. I know about the texture of matter and the great laws of geometry that bind elements together. I know about the chemical nature of the soul. I am touched by the truth! I am enlightened!* As fast and abruptly as those truths appeared to him, they went. The tunnel faded and the patterns were now again just bi-dimensional drawings on the mat. No trace of those truths appeared to be left in Sean’s memory. After a moment of disorientation, Sean re-assessed his situation. *Am I still sitting on the toilet? I got carried away. I still haven’t finished my business here. I should get back to it so that I can get out. Let’s see...how far did I get? Its so easy to lose track of things, I have done psychedelics before but you are never prepared enough for it. Why did I come here now, I am at the peak of hallucinations, I could have waited a couple of hours, it would have been much easier.* In the same time as Sean was re-assessing his situation, a part of Sean’s mind was wondering at how such a remarkably clear and accurate analysis he could perform in such a moment. Simultaneously, another part of Sean was fantasizing about a future where mind-recording could be possible so that people touched by truths could actually remember them and see them in a playback. A fourth part of Sean was arguing that it was all bullshit anyway, how could he find the answers to reality in the surreal world? While all of this was happening, a further parallel part of Sean was rising to the foreground of his thoughts. However, this one specific part of Sean felt like a different, older, alternative Sean, maybe coming from one of his past previous lives or from one of the infinite lanes of future. In fact, Sean felt this presence in his mind as some kind of external intrusion, not belonging to himself. The presence laughed in Sean’s mind and ridiculed him for the misery of his condition. *“Look at you, loser! You wanted to play now look where you are stuck in! You make me laugh, you are wasting your time sitting here rather than making the most out of your experience. Don’t’ you know you are in charge of shaping your trip and learn your lessons?”* *Well, I am trying, certainly does not look like I am learning any lesson from here.* *“What happened to re-experience music and art and re-discover your senses? This is ridiculous!”* *Fuck you, what do you want anyway?* *“Pull your shit together”* *Yeah you might want to change your choice of words given the situation* *“How long you have been here?”* *It’s been a long journey* *“You know time isn’t linear”* *Who cares? Besides, why do I entertain a conversation with my mind? That is something schizophrenics do. This just makes me waste my time even further. This situation is ridiculous enough, I don’t need your predictable clichés. I need to retrace the steps I have been doing up to now and keep going down that route until I am out of here. I need to try to suppress distractions and also suppress meditations about distractions. Its no point asking myself why I get distracted as it happens. What’s the point? Why do we say that there should be a point? Why not a line? Or a plane?* Sean took a deep long breath. Waves of hot and cold were flowing through Sean’s body. This made him think of sinewaves, how phase is determined by time. He then thought that he could simply stop these temperature fluctuations by visualising a similar sinewave with opposite phase, contrasting the temperature change caused by the first sinewave. It did work. Once again, he tried to get back to his main objective. *All right. I have no means of knowing whether I have done this properly so I will use the whole roll. Ok now... what am I trying to do? Why do I keep losing the track, this roll is over so this means...flush! Good man! Now what? Ok what would I normally do now? Do I do it normally? Why should it be normal as long as it works? Intelligent people think outside the box. Think of logic instead of protocol. I am definitely sure that I am supposed to wash my hands, but the sink is too far, how do I proceed? If I have to stand up I should pull up my trousers (good call there! I almost forgot), hopefully I’ll be lucky and they will behave the way they should.* Standing up was like a cold shower for Sean. As soon as he was on his feet, he felt light and relatively clear-minded. He felt more than happy about the fact that he would not have to spend the rest of his life sitting on a toilet. He laughed like a child, with pure innocent joy. Sean stopped washing his hands only when he felt that a conventional time had been spent doing such activity. As he lost most of his sense of touch, the water seemed to run through his fingers without wetting them. He did not bother to dry them because they were fine that way. Sean unlocked the door and hurried back to the room where he originally came from. The room was smoky, strangely lighted. His friend, Javier, was sitting on the double bed smiling at the ceiling. “Hey, you are back! You were gone for ages dude”, said Javier two minutes after Sean entered the room. “Where have you been?”. Sean took his time to respond. He asked himself why on earth it had been so hard to get out of there. How long did it take? And how could so many things happen in such a delimited space. What an adventurous journey. Then again, nothing really happened. Nothing really mattered. “All it happened, is that I took a shit” said Sean after thinking a little bit more. As he said it, he realised the truth of that statement. After all, that was all that happened.

It was in 1914 when I inherited Ebholt Manour. My parents had died 2 weeks before I had arrived at Ebholt. The exact cause of their death was not determined, but it was ruled as an accident. They were found on the ground, mangled, and with wounds that appeared to be inflicted by a large animal, but this was unable to be proven, therefore it was ruled as an accident.This, of course, outraged me, but what I could say would be obvious bias and I had no evidence to prove my claims. Upon arriving in Eton, the city in which Ebholt manour is located, I was quite reluctantly greeted by the people of the city. The people seemed to show a stark disliking and even fear towards me. They constantly avoided me and refused to speak with me. Their reasons for doing this were quite vague, for they never explained their motives. Living in this prolific town of eccentrics who avoided me was quite difficult. The only people who cared enough to approach me were the eccentric shop owners. They would, however only sell me second-rate products at highly inflated prices. They realized that I was desperate and could exploit that. The people's evasion of me resulted in my isolation. I lived a life of a reclusive night bird. I rarely went out before nightfall. I became gaunt with dark eyes in a pale face. I became hideous witch didn't improve the townspeople's perception of me. Now, even the shop owners refused to approach me. I was struggling and rationing the food that I still had. I survived on only one small meal per day. I became malnourished quickly. During these tough times I decided to occupy myself with the writings of my parents. My parents were also eccentrics, much like the people of the town of Eton. They, much like me lived in almost complete isolation. They were accused of witchcraft and shunned by the people of the town.Their writings deeply intrigued me and I decided to begin with my father's who was a man that I had always looked up to and idolized. My father's writings described the things that happened behind the scenes and the things that, as a child I was completely unaware of. To my surprise my father, the man that I had adored, looked up to, and idolized for my whole life had been a rather abusive man. My fathers writings describe a distinct and striking sexism. My father described women as superstitious, ignorant, and biologically inferior scum. My father describes the abuse of his wife in great detail. He described how he beat her, lashed her with a whip, and even went to the lengths of burning her with his cigarettes, which me valued highly. My father was a regular smoker. He described cigarettes as a teat of true gentlemen and a great tool of abuse. My father also wrote several parts of his writings while he was drunk, mainly on liquor, which he described as a drink of the kings and true gentlemen. A small part of the end of my father's writings describe a strange thing that tormented them, which he merely referred to as "The Light". He believed the light to be a creature of some sort, but I believed it to be a figment of his drunk imagination until I began to read my mother's writings. My mother's writings were that of a more depressing variety, which can certainly be attributed to the abusive nature of my father. My mother's writings described the abuse by my father and the pain that came with it in great detail. She described it as the worst pain she had ever felt, but the physical damage was not the greatest problem, for it was the the mental damage that was the worst. My mother was an avid reader of poetry and an avid writer of her own poetry, but she felt very insecure about this hobby of hers. My father, during one of his drunken walks around the house discovered some of her most prized pieces of poetry and in a fit of drunken rage burned them all. This left my mother devastated. My father had thrown my mother into a deep state of depression and insanity. As a result of my father's wrath my mother completely gave up on poetry and began a life of seclusion inside of her bedroom. My mother had also written about "The Light" in the later parts of her writings., which led me to almost believe that it was not a figment of my drunken fathers imagination, but a real thing. My mother spoke of the light in a different manner than my father. She spoke of it in great detail. She said "The Light" would watcher while she lie in bed, causing here to have long periods of insomnia until "The Light" would decide to allow her to have some sleep.The writings all ended around that point in time, which I assume to be the result of their strange and mysterious death. However, I still had not been convinced of "The Light's" existence and still believed it to be a figment of their imagination caused by the tough times they had been through. It was a thing of the most preposterous variety and surely, my parents who had a need for logic would have found this "light" and "turned it off". After finishing reading my parent's writings I was quite tired. I was malnourished and had read them late into the night. I decided I would go to sleep and would resume things in the morning. The manour's beds were sub-par and I did not sleep well. I had no way of keeping track of time, but I assumed that I had only slept for thirty minutes. It did not appear to be day light yet. When I looked out the window of my bedroom I saw something strange. I saw a single small light in the yard. I immediately passed this off as a prank by the eccentric townspeople. I assumed they would be nearby, watching to see the results of their prank. However, when I approached the light it disappeared. I assumed that they did not want to be caught so they could continue their prank. Each night the light returned and each night it vexed me more. I had gotten little sleep while the light watched me. I assumed that was the townspeople's intentions. While exploring the manour I discovered the cellar. Inside I found a revolver, which was almost certainly my fathers, with a small amount of ammunition. I considered this useful in ridding me of the light. I loaded the revolver and proceeded back up. i stood at my doorstep and fired all six shots from the revolver into the light. It went out and It was damaged beyond all repair. I went to check on the light and saw something horrible. It was a horrible, grotesque, and indescribable creature.

The curtain opens and up go the lights. Walls like broken dead bodies come climbing down the ceiling and into the rafters like rats and they begin moving towards the audience. Torn up by the theater, the audience is torn up by the theater. Just dead bodies out in the theater. Nothing like a little club soda all over the floor. When, if, if time came around it would just for this very event all For what it’s worth, I came from Alabama with a guitar on my back. I decided that a life in the city could be nice in 1949. I was wrong. The city is full of holes as big as suns and you end up just walking into one of these pits. I tried to make a living off the man, or the man that paid, just some man out on the street employing meat and when I sent for the family they sent word that they were all dead. Dead dragged by cars down streets for kicks with Coca Cola kids. Just big blonde buzz cuts dragging bodies down the street for kicks. We had just won the war against Nazi aggression and there’s the old family littering the streets in black body parts that looked like arrows pointing in every direction. When we loop back and return again – oh, echoes of quantum particles just bing banging against the trees out in the summer night with cicadas and people that would come by and just ask us if we were going to the parade. It was down the street on fourth. You know the parade. The one with the girl on the float. She was so happy that day. I hope she’s happy now. How to make a sandwich: cut up some bread and put some olive oil and red wine vinegar on one side, then the load the other side with your meats and cheeses. If you are daring, add some lettuce and tomatoes. To top it off, and this is key, use a mayonnaise and mustard. You will have your family a nice meal and no one is the wiser that you are dying of cancer. Potato chips or a good cold slaw are fundamental. Dead Dying Dead in the water, we were. It was an ugly night. The kind of night where you wonder why you came along to TGIFridays with those coworkers you hardly know. You think bacon skins or nachos? You think two beers or three? You think about whether you will get laid later, later after the TGIFridays when you all go to the club. Then you think you’re alone in your room reading Moby Dick and how you might have some sort of mental condition that you might have to seek help for. But then you think: that would be a helluva Monday morning and maybe you should just keep hoping for a better reality. The kind where you make French Press coffee in the morning and eat orange slices off a napkin instead of Hotpockets off the least dirty dish you clean. We’re huddled like people in a gym. It’s like people in a gym. All naked and bruised up from the cold and the things we hit with our arms, legs, and feet. It’s so cold. So much like nothing we could imagine. That is a comfort in the pain, the idea that this is so much that we could never imagine. Huddled up in this train. I think we are going to…you would think huddled like sardines would have a payoff. Like “Oh my God, you went through this? Here, let us help you into the biggest pool of so warm water and food. But instead we are sent out of the car and split up like children at a dance. Out in front of everyone, they don’t hide the smell. It’s a smell like nothing I have smelled and there’s a fire out in this ditch the size of all our hearts combined. And I can only think about riding a bike down a street and thinking about what we were having for dinner that night. And it makes me feel like you should never be happy for what you have. You should not have to be happy for anything. Ever. I’m shoved into a bathroom and I try to smile. The last thing I remember is the older women smile at me like a movie I didn’t pay for. Something I didn’t pay for and would pay for. What you want to do is put carpet in the bedrooms, and hardwood throughout the house. I know everyone doesn’t like carpet, but you need that carpet feeling when you wake up. When a dead body floats down the river like garbage you take notice. You take notice like picking up a toothbrush and finding it’s a human finger. I keep thinking of that dead body in the river and the cops telling me that it’s a shame. Like they have seen a bunch of dead bodies. But I have a feeling they have not seen one. I find it hard to eat now and I like to stick my finger down my throat and throw a big up when I see the news coverage. And it’s not like it’s a big deal. That’s why I continue to think about it. Just how much they figured it wasn’t a big deal: this body floating down the river. Wrapped around the theater for the big show Showing up late is a good way to It bothers me when I get mail from people seeking to sell me something. I ran through jungles to help out this idea of this country and they keep sending me mail. Auto stores and credit cards. I just want to say “I ran through a jungle with a gun with people shooting at me.” But I don’t. I just call the companies and ask them to keep me off their mailing list. Rub rotten rhyme Rubbed up like dimes against a thigh in a pants pocket all pants pockets slowly pooling around a common gutter. I have joined a group of like minded people that order organic fruit for 130 dollars a month. It shows up on my doorstop and I feel more important than I’ve ever felt in my life. Every month. Once a month. This is the best thing that has happened to me ever. It’s not that they bother me, it’s just that they make me think about stains on my bathtub that I can’t get rid of. Just ugly reminders that I haven’t been able to clean them up. Somehow explain them out of my life. Like things that start with “This has been a long time coming.” The audience pauses to realize they are flesh again. Ugly, ugly flesh again. The curtain closes and the lights go down.

Her soft light brown hair shimmers in the light as she descends the marble steps. The red dress hugs her body tightly, matching her gorgeous bright red lipstick. She inches toward me with her signature cute smirk across her face. By now we’ve been dating for about four and half years. We’ve seen it all, love - hate, fights - makeups, good times and bad, and we’ve come out on the other end. Despite all the rough times there’s still no one else I could imagine being with. I look at her and see my other half. Our love isn’t some romance novel. She isn’t Cutiebaby973 and I’m not Jackeddude126, we didn’t fall in love during an undercover spy mission or while I was saving the world. We’re just us, and I’m happy with that. Sure, sometimes I’d like to be that undercover spy, living my life like an action film, but every time I see her smiling face she brings me back and nothing else matters. She reaches me and I snap out of my daydream leaning in to kiss her lips that she’s extending out toward me. It’s what she does, I love it, it gets me everytime. Sometimes I act like I don’t notice, or tease her till she looks away and gives me that pout just so I can see that cute little face. I love it, always makes me smile. But not tonight, at least not right now, probably later. For now though I just let my lip rest on her’s for a moment. I try to pull away but she draws me back in. A few more seconds won’t hurt I suppose. The few seconds pass and I end the embrace despite her disapproval. We have a tight schedule to keep and someone has to keep us on it. “You look beautiful,” I say scanning her from top to bottom. “Thank you! You look very handsome,” Becka answers. I can’t help but smile. We lock hands, and make our way out of the hotel where my car awaits us, running and ready to jump in thanks to the valet. I open the passenger door (something that’s become a ritual over the years) of the brand new Audi R8. You see, I just happened to fall into a pile of cash last month, so it was goodbye Red Velvet, and welcome Blue Steel. Although I loved that old car with it’s broken door handle and worn down tires, I really loved this new car. Tonight is a special night and I wasn’t about to be skimping on the expenses. Tonight, we are celebrating the completion of my bachelor’s degree in English and the publication of my first novel. To add to the excitement, Becka is also only one year away from her graduation. Life is good. I pull the car out of the lot while adjusting to driving on the left side of the road. We’re back in London for this celebration. The city that changed our lives forever. Two years ago we came to this beautiful town to study for a semester. I remember stressing for months about how I would be able to pay for it, I even almost ended up calling the whole thing off because of the money. Looking back now, I can’t imagine my life without coming here. I can’t imagine not spending nights in that tiny apartment cooking dinner in the miniature kitchen while Becka sat on the couch behind me watching Netflix. I can’t imagine not going to those stuffy, tight pubs at eleven o’clock at night to see some no name rock band that would grow to be some of my favorites. I can’t imagine not walking along the Thames at five in the morning watching the sun creep over the skyscrapers after spending the entire night exploring the back alleys and local grub spots that aren’t in the tourist booklets. All the little things became big things. Big things that I’ll never forget, that I’ll think back on when I’m 80 and smile because they happened, and they happened with her. “Will you be my valentine?” I say. “What do you mean? It’s not even valentines day,” “Oh, yes it is” *wink* *wink* “Silly,” “No, I’m not silly. So I’ll take that as a no?” “Nooo, yes I’ll be your valentine, silly,” “I’m not silly!” we break into a battle of silly. It’s our thing, one of us says the other’s silly and we deny it, going back and forth till we get tired of the game, usually ending with one of us pouting. Tonight was no different, so I tickle her to wipe the little expression off her face. That always works. “So, where are we going?” she tries to squeeze the intel out of me. “You’ll see,” I won’t budge. “Ughhhh,” she puts her angry face on while folding her arms but I tickle it out of her forcing her to jump. “It’s a surprise, dingleberry,” I pull the car up to a tall white building, and swing open the car door. A valet waits on the sidewalk, taking my keys. On the other side, I open Becka’s door, and give her a hand as she climbs out of the vehicle. The Wolseley A smile forms across her face and she leans up, kissing me on the cheek. This was the first fancy restaurant we ever went to during our time in London. It’s nice to be back. I walk to the door and swing it open for Becka to pass through. Inside we’re greeted by the familiar scents, and the illuminating chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “I have a reservation for Hutchings,” I say to the hostess. “Right this way Mr. Hutchings,” she leads us through the bustling room, to the back, into the private dining area I’ve reserved for this special night. I pull Becka’s seat out for her and we sit down at the table. “Can I get you anything to drink?” the hostess inquires. “I’ll have a rum and coke please,” I’m legal now, don’t worry. “I’ll have a water please,” Becka says. The hostess zooms off. Becka reaches her hand across the table and I grasp it tightly. It feels so surreal to be back here. Everything feels so surreal. All my dreams have come true, almost as if this was a story written out for me. After a few minutes a new waitress comes to the table balancing the drinks on a tray. They wobble back and forth as she tries to maintain balance. Why on earth didn’t she just carry the drinks? This doesn’t look like it’s going to end well I think to myself just as the woman trips forward, spilling the sticky liquid onto my black tie and shirt. “Oh my! I’m so sorry!” she somehow managed to keep the water steady, and places it on the table in front of Becka. She then whips out a cloth and begins patting my chest in an attempt to dry the drink. “It’s okay,” I laugh as I pick up my napkin and try drying off myself. Becka sits across from me, smirk on her face. She repeatedly apologizes, before finally walking off after I confirm that I’ll be okay. What a start to the night, huh? “Butthole,” I joke as Becka laughs at my misfortune. Besides this little mishap, the evening continues on wonderfully. We place our orders for an appetizer of Chopped Chicken & Tarragon Salad, and an entree of Wiener Schnitzel. What a fantastic night. “I love you,” I stare into her beautiful blue eyes. They’re gorgeous in every way. Large and inviting. They’re the kind of eyes you look into and feel comforted and loved. They’re open and inviting. They’re stunning. Not to mention her. She looks absolutely breathtaking tonight. Beautiful as always. “I love you too,” she smiles at me. The waitress returns now carrying our salads on the same cursed tray. Wobbling back and forth once more, but this time she is determined to set these plates in their respective spots. Inching forward step by step, she eventually reaches us and places the dishes down successfully. We chow down on the food, one of the few things that Becka likes on the menu. Finishing our meals, I lean in, kissing her lips. Behind the walls, the public dining room bustles. I reach across the table and hold her hand, kissing it every few seconds. “You’re a babe,” I say. “Thanks, you’re crazy though,” “Nosah,” “Yessuh,” “Nosah!” “Yessuh!” “NO!” The bout ends when we kiss. I stick my tongue out, licking her lips. She pulls back, wiping her mouth. “Gross!” she exclaims. All I can do is chuckle. The waitress reemerges with that same cursed platter in hand. Atop the tower sit the two dishes. Once again, wobble wobble the plates sway back and forth. The woman has an expression of fierce determination. She focuses as she come closer and closer, trying her best to keep herself steady. I think we’re in the clear, I think we’ll get through this. She lifts her arm to place Becka’s meal in front of her. During this, she loses focus and the remaining plate begins shaking. Just as she places Becka’s plate down, my meal flies off the platter, directly into my lap. The white sauce squishes into my lower region, smearing itself into the seams of my black pants. Becka bursts into laughter. The waitress looks down in disbelief. She’s frozen for a few seconds while her brain encodes what’s just happened. I grab my napkin for the second time tonight and begins dabbing the sauce as best I can. Finally the woman snaps into motion. “Oh my God! I am so sorry!” she starts to grab the cloth to help wipe off the sauce but pulls back at the last moment when she realizes where the stain is. She hesitates for a moment, then pops up. “I’m so sorry! I’m going to go put a new order in and grab some more napkins to clean up this mess. I’m so sorry,” she says, her face red from embarrassment. As she walks off, the remnants of the plate crunch beneath her shoes. “Ha ha, real funny,” I say, poking Becka. She just continues to giggle, then proceeds to eat her schnitzel. “How is it?” “Fantastic!” “Thanks for rubbing it in, jerk,” I sit there still wiping my pants clean. The waitress comes back and sweeps up the glass and what’s left of my food. She tells me that my food should be out soon and apologizes again, before taking off out of fear of dropping something else. “Funny just how fast the night changes, huh?” I joke. The night before we had seen One Direction at the O2. Yes, I’m twenty one and still going to One Direction concerts. God bless my soul. Thankfully the Foo Fighters are on tour in UK at the same time, so we’ll be seeing them at Wembley in tomorrow. Becka’s stopped eating and is waiting for me to get my food. A few minutes later, the waitress returns, no platter this time. She holds the single plate tightly with two hands on each side. “Here you go, I’m sorry about this,” “Don’t worry about it,” “Can I get you two anything else?” “No thank you,” I smile. In all honesty, I’m just worried about getting the dessert spilled on me. I eat my meal, cleaning off the plate in standard Don fashion. Becka on the other hand, is still works on her’s, in, well, standard Becka fashion. Finally we’re both finished and the waitress returns, taking the dessert order. I say order and not orders, because, as already mentioned, I fear being covered in tonight specialty cake. This will also allow her to focus all her attention on carrying that single order. Becka orders the Banana Split, the same dessert she ordered on the first night we came here. I can still remember that night. We’d been in London for a little under two months by then. Before then we’d been confined to fast food and home cooked meals à la Don, and trust me, my meals had become pretty good. Why not treat ourselves to a lovely night out though, and that’s precisely what we did. Becka wore a gorgeous black dress, beautiful, as always. I wore something quite similar to what I am tonight. Black shirt, black pants, only differs was the gray tie. We laughed, we kissed, we talked, and when it was all said and done it was a pretty perfect night. Despite the sullied clothing, tonight has been just as wonderful. Becka polishes off her split and we leave the restaurant. Thanks to all the spills, I walked off with some dirty pants, and a free meal. Outside, I tip the valet fifteen pounds to let me keep the car parked while we explore the city. Fingers intertwined we walk down the streets and through the alleys, sneaking kisses behind buildings. It feels like we’re right back at home. Everything is wonderful. To finish off the night I lead us to our old favorite spot. Tower Bridge. We stand on the magnificent structure overlooking the river. Moonlight glistens off the surface of the smooth water. The city’s filled us with the lives of the millions inhabiting it. I knew this would be a moment I‘d never forget. Running my fingers through her hair, a smile forms across her lips. I can't help but mirror the gesture. I lean in and our lips lock, exchanging each other's warmth. Closing my eyes, the moment pauses in time, forever to be remembered.

It begins how it it ends (how many times have those exact words been printed?) with a whisper. And a pen. A pen with red ink. Molded and shaped in the shape of a syringe. Innocent enough. A light hearted joke. Her attempt to get closer to me and my addiction. I don’t blame her, although she may. How could she have know how it would set me off. I hadn't taken my Suboxone yet that day. There was no time, we had just woken up. On her way to take a shower she placed the pen in my hands. "I saw it and thought of you," she said with a lighthearted smirk. or something or other. Everything stopped once I saw it. Like a scene in a movie when the fighter gets hit, hard. Everything became dreamlike. She was off the shower and I was in my car heading to the city. Well, to the wrong part of the city anyway. It's amazing how close it is to my new home. In hindsight I shouldn’t have left the pen there. Broken in two, ink leaking out, I can only imagine her fear at the sight of it. I was in a dream, a movie, in a movie the pen had to be there. For the story to move on. Maybe, if she saw it she wouldn’t call. She did. How she called, how she texted, how she begged, how she pleaded. I never looked. I figured ill check later, I knew what was behind the rings and the beeps and I didn’t need a phone where I was going. I only needed to be white, a little bedraggled and in that part of the city. And the drugs would find me. And they did, oh how they did. Why, oh why did I ever waste a year on sobriety? On becoming a better person, on learning, on reading 100 fucking books, on finding something like love? The solution to everything right here in this tiny tincture of brown magic dust, water and cotton. Brown shit water hit with a little mushroom blood cloud and you can already feel the underwater sound in your ears, the heaviness in your head. Don’t even let it the blood mix in fully. Don’t need to. Once you see blood you know you hit vein and there is nothing more worthwhile to know. You let the plunger go. That's what I pictured anyway. As I sat up in bed with this fucking needle pen in my hand. Clicking clicking clicking to go along with the teeth grinding sound. I put it away and never looked at it again. She got out of the shower and I went in. No broken pen, no broken sobriety, just good ole reality which hasn’t been so bad lately.

I woke up alone this morning. It’s not so unusual. I’m a heavy sleeper, and Rhona likes to hit the town early before the shops get busy, so I start a lot of Sundays alone. We’re a classic introvert/extrovert pairing and I don’t mind a few hours of solitude. When I woke up today and she was gone, I finished the last chapters of the book I’d been reading, squinting in the dim light coming through the curtains. I finally got up when my stomach started to rumble. The house was freezing. Normally the heating kicks in at half five so things are good and toasty when we wake up, but not today. I swore under my breath. Thanks to some problems with a previous tenant our landlord installed a key meter, and we’re dreadful at remembering to keep it topped up. When the gas goes out, the pilot light on our ancient boiler takes forever to relight. Rhona’s never had the knack, so it wasn’t a stretch to believe she’d have loaded the £5 emergency credit then taken the key to the shops, leaving me to relight the boiler when I woke up. I put my dressing gown on, shivering a bit, and went downstairs to have a look. I didn’t turn the lights on. I was too tired. This house has been falling apart since before we moved in, but we got it at a good rate and negotiated a free month. It’s close to where we both work, and it’s got a garden. Those were both unique selling points when we were looking at places. Rhona loves gardening, but she never had a chance in our old concrete yard. She put a few pots out, but I knew her heart wasn’t in it. Anyway, this morning, I noticed just how crummy the place is – it always seems to be most apparent when it’s cold. The cracks around the ceiling, the smell of mildew that never went no matter how many times we cleaned the carpets. The gas meter is hidden away under the stairs, in a cupboard full of junk that didn’t fit anywhere else. I’d not slept well, and crouching down to squint at the display hurt more than I wanted to admit. Whenever my knees ache, or I wake up with a stiff neck, I realise how quickly I seem to be getting old. Hardly seems like any time ago we used to go out to clubs twice a week, while holding down full time jobs. Now, the thought of going out until 2am then getting up for work the next day, washing down a handful of Pro Plus with a tin of Red Bull, makes my stomach lurch. There was no credit on the meter, but the key was gone. Typical. She’d taken it without loading the emergency credit. Wasn’t the first time it had happened. I took my phone out of my pocket to call her, but the screen wouldn’t unlock. It wouldn’t respond to anything. How could it have a dead battery? I’d plugged it in overnight, hadn’t I? Looking back, I must have looked really feral, crouching there in my dressing gown in a cold, dark house, my face screwed up as I tried to remember going to bed the night before. I couldn’t recall a single thing. What had we even been doing? It’s scary how that starts to happen. When you’re younger, you rely on your memory a lot more than you realise at the time. Okay, you might forget a few things here and there, but the past couple of days are pretty solid. The first time you draw a blank, it’s disorientating. It happens a few times and you can’t shake the sense that you’re dreaming. Scowling, I stood straight. I grunted in the same way my dad used to right before I’d tease him for sounding like an old man. I don’t know when I started doing it myself, but when we were babysitting our friend’s kid recently and she started copying me, it hit me like a ton of bricks. How does it happen to us? It’s like our bodies age way faster than our brains can comprehend, until something happens and the carpet gets pulled out from under us. It’s like we’re living in a fantasy world until something gives us a slap and gets us back on track. My phone was still in my hand as I went back upstairs, stepping over discarded clothes and unopened mail. It was still dark, and it hit me for the first time how quiet the house was. I froze halfway up, swearing in frustration. It wasn’t just the gas, was it? The electricity had gone. The fridge-freezer wasn’t buzzing, the boiler’s timer wasn’t ticking away. How long does it take to notice that the little noises you never listen to have stopped? I turned around and went to the cupboard by the front door to check the meter. My knee popped as I stooped low, and it hurt more than it normally does. Probably because of the cold. I bit my lip and let out a deep breath, then looked at the small LCD screen. “Debt”. This key was missing, too. Debt? That was crazy, we’d topped up before we went to the pub with the gang. We couldn’t have gone through all of that in… what, five days? Seven? Wait, when had that been? I started to get the feeling that something was really off. I couldn’t even remember who’d been there and who hadn’t. My head was so groggy. I straightened up (pop, crack) and went to get the house phone from the living room. On the way I picked up a jumper and a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the stairs, and stopped for a moment to pull them on before tying my dressing gown back up. It was still freezing, but at least that was something. The phone’s handset was dead. No power. I knew we had an old wired handset somewhere, one that didn’t need to be plugged into the mains, but I hadn’t seen it since we’d moved. My mouth suddenly felt really dry. Had I been drinking the night before? One cider these days is enough to wreck my morning, and I’m even starting to feel hungover the next day if I don’t drink a glass of water before bed. I went to the kitchen, turned the tap, and turned to get a glass from the side. The water trickled out, and I got barely a shot’s worth before it stopped altogether. I downed what I had, realising that this was turning into one of those mornings. The water hardly touched my throat. I tried the hot tap instead, but nothing came out at all. My hand was shaking as I put the glass down. I leaned against the cabinet and tried to figure out what was going on. Everything seemed so fuzzy all of a sudden. The thing that made the least sense of all was the state the place was in. The bins were overflowing and there was a pile of dirty clothes by the washing machine. The machine itself was full of wet clothes, and I couldn’t remember how long they’d been there. Every surface was covered in dirty plates, mugs, pans… ...but I’d just cleaned, hadn’t I? Last night, or maybe the night before? Was that Friday? Was today really Sunday? Now that I’d noticed the state of the place, the smell hit me for the first time. How had I missed it? It was rank. How long had this mess been here? I tried to open the window to air the place, but it was locked and I couldn’t find the key. I left the kitchen instead and closed the door behind me. The doormat was covered in post. Junk mail, sealed envelopes in various shades of red, flyers for local clubs. Just like it had been when we first saw the place, when we’d opened the front door and made a snowdrift of unopened mail against the wall. We’d spent our first morning going through them, figuring out which companies we had to call, which bailiffs we had to call off. It was hard to believe that had only been a few months ago. Wait, had it? Had it been a few months? Where were we now, March? February? It was cold enough for January, but that didn’t seem right. Were we still in winter? Christmas felt like an age ago. I sat down on the stairs, looking up at the coat rack. Rhona’s coat was gone. Her shoes were gone, too. All of them. How does it happen to us? It’s like things happen way faster than our brains want to comprehend, until something happens and the carpet gets pulled out from under us. It’s like we’re living in a fantasy world until something gives us a slap and gets us back on track.

It's a long way down. I mean a LONG way down. How long does it take a man to fall 103 stories? 30 seconds? A minute? Longer? Long enough to think it over, that's for sure. If I go through with this, I realize now, I would doubt my decision for the rest of my life. All 30 or however many seconds of it. A man who knows he is going to die has a unique perspective. He spends his final moments thinking about decisions he's made. There is a lot of wondering how things might have been different, or might have turned out differently. Not regrets, really, just what ifs, how seemingly small decisions at the time had so drastically changed how things turned out down the road. Like the butterfly effect or something. Now imagine the perspective of a man who has resolved to take his own life. He has the same retrospect of a man who knows he's going to die, but he controls the exact time of his demise (well, exact to within however long that fall takes) and can spend as much time as he wants thinking about this, and only let go when he's good and damn ready. So just how long does it take to decide that your contemplations on your own mortality are complete? I've been here for an hour and I am less ready to die than I had been when I got off the elevator. Coming up here was an impulse, and at the time seemed like the right way out, the ONLY way out, but now, as I feel the wind whipping around me and feel my fingers freezing on the railing and hear the disinterested bustle of the city below, I'm not so sure. I want to believe that a crowd has gathered on the sidewalk below, looking up and willing me to jump or not to jump, but I doubt it; this is New York. I'm not going to look to see. Jesus, that's a long way down. So here I am. Here is where it all ends, or doesn't. I jump, my life ends 30 or however many seconds later. I get a blurb in the police log, maybe a mention on the TV news, I become dinnertime conversation for whoever gets to scrub my brain off the sidewalk, and then nothing. Just one more suicide from a famous building. I don't jump, it takes me years and tens of thousands of dollars worth of lawyers and private investigators to clear my name from the mess that put me here, and at the end of it I'm left with no wife and no job and no house and no money and no future. But is there another way out? I climb back over this railing, scrub myself clean of my identity and my failures, all of my life falls away as I ride the elevator down. I go somewhere else and start fresh, a small flyover city like Des Moines or Sioux Falls or Topeka, a place where people have only ever seen New York on a map. No one has to know how badly I failed in my first life. Hell, no one even has to know I once had a different life. Yes, that's it. I'll disappear. Get a bus to to the midwest, talk myself into some job or other, bring out my big city experience in a small town and forge a new life. A career, a family, yes, that's it. That's my way out. But is it? Do people really do that? That happens in movies, but in real life? And let's face it, I'll get arrested for trespassing as soon as I cross the railing, and then ride down the elevator in handcuffs. Do I even have enough cash to get on a bus? Can I land a job in a new place with only the clothes on my back? And seriously, what big city experience do I have? Only the kind that gets you fired and accused of doing things your mother would be ashamed of. So I'm back to jump, or don't jump. Jesus, that's a long way down.

Jerry sat there on his torn leather couch with his boyfriend reading a book with his head on his lap. As he scratched at a hole in the couch, listening to quiet music in his uneven headphones, and smiled a great smile. He realized that he was content. He store down at his boyfriends wrinkled forehead as he explained his book to Jerry, thinking about the mutual contentedness of their relationship, and leaned down to his forehead and kissed it, turning his head so his cheek rested on his forehead, and read the book he was reading. His boyfriend Brian chuckled and bent his neck back to look at Jerry, and Jerry looked down him, and Brian continued to read the book to Jerry. Jerry sat cross legged next to a laying Brian on their bed in the time of morning people don't usually wake up in. Jerry and Brian liked this time of morning, because it was so... Nice. They liked to sit and watch and eat cereal as the sun slowly washed over their glossy wooden table and then slid off the table and onto the ground. Jerry stood up with the milk to put it away, but Brian grabbed his hand, and Jerry sat down again, Brian's grip on Jerry's hand loosened. Brian decided today, a Sunday, that they should go to the farmers market just outside of campus, because Brain and Jerry had just gotten their paycheck last week and it had been about $200 each, so they kept $50 each. Brian, the only one who could drive, drove them to the farmers market, and Jerry read Brian's book to him on the way. Jerry and Brian had a surprisingly long day at the farmers market. Brian had broke down and was muttering something about his sister in the car when they were driving home, blinking tears out of his eyes. Jerry stew in the passenger seat, annoyed that he felt annoyed about Brian's lamenting*. Brian's sister, Janice had died in a car accident back in August and apparently Janice liked the farmers markets. Jerry had gone to her wedding, wearing the same tuxedo he would at her funeral a few weeks later, from some store in the nearby mall. His father asked Jerry to leave because he had just seen him in that suit, and oh, that was absurd. But then Brian started crying again, and his dad hugged him, and Jerry left and sat on top of their car for an hour to cool down. Brian's parents never did like the fact of homosexuality, so they tried to pretend that Jerry didn't exist, and that Brian actually had a girlfriend--it was all very weird, and that's why Jerry avoided them as much as possible. Jerry did like Janice, she was actually quite a nice girl, and acted like Jerry existed, which was a first for Brian's family. He was sad when she died, but he didn't know her well enough to cry our miss her. I'll probably post updates to this. This is an old short story I recently picked back up.

It’s a little past midnight. I’m coming down from a cocktail of ephedrine, THC, and a couple of drinks of absinthe. The number of substances that get me through the day has increased significantly. I still believe I am in control, but there’s no way to be sure, is it? Although nothing seems to have changes (at least on the outside), I can’t help but wonder if people are noticing the changes. Every interaction I have seems carefully filtered and manipulated. I’m building a wall. The house is quiet and my room is warm. The only sound that comes through is the howling of the wind. Somehow, raising the shades made the room darker. Maybe it’s the dim light, or the growing hour, or the temperature; I can’t get my mind away from one thought. I had you, and after that I was alone. You let me down gently; I never believed you. The sun set so slowly that by the time I realized it, I was already lost in the dark. You moved on, but I don’t think I did. We talk once in a while, but we don’t know each other anymore. We’re both hiding. It’s all polite small talk; maybe you need something from me, or maybe I from you. Or perhaps sometimes you feel guilty when you look at me, but never understand the damage you’ve caused or why I’m like this. And sometimes maybe I talk to you because this, whatever, makes me miss you a little less for a while. This crippled character that I feel I’m left with is not honest and I hate it. It lies, it exaggerates, it distorts reality. And lying to other? I couldn’t care less. But this me is lying to you and I hate him for that. I’m seventeen again and we just started to discover each other. I’m madly in love and so are you(?) Every day is warm and sunny, and unlike now, even when it was cold, the snow never got dirty. We’d sneak around, you were so innocent. It took you so long to tell your folks about me. A couple of years later, we’re back together. We’re finally away, just us two, thousands of miles from our families and friends, roasting away on a beach. We’re quiet. I stare in your eyes and I look at your face and I don’t believe there could be anything better I could be doing. But I can’t see through you. Inside something tells me this is the end and I want to shout and cover that voice. It’s your friend’s birthday. We’re laughing and drinking. Now we’re fighting again, yelling at each other in the backyard. You’re crying and I don’t know what to do. I have no clue how to fix it this time, so I pretend I don’t want to. I pack my things and go. You run. You sit on a bench next to me. We look at each other again, and again, I can’t tell what’s wrong. You get up and make a right. I turned left and caught the first train out. It’s been two years and ever since that moment I was left only with doubt. I can’t tell if it was real, if I’m going to act out forever and if I’ll ever grow up.

Annabelle & Rory – For Your Consideration Amongst the Mums of the primary school playground stood a thirty-something male, he is, by all accounts excessively tired, thoroughly-bloody-exhausted were three words resonating around inside his seemingly thin skull . A little below 6ft, slightly balding and aware of this, he isn’t necessarily balding, but more, as he puts it, thinning, the front portion of his hair has turned from lock to wisp in the space of year. The bags under his eyes are literally protruding from his face, there is a dark area below each eye also, his eyes, when taking all into account, hummed like the brown of romanticist painting. He has just arrived at the playground from work, he works at the county library in town, a job he neither hates or loves, he only entered it as if he must, there was however a ‘must’ as he needed to, as they say put-food-on-the-table for his daughter Annabelle, the reason he’s in the playground. The playground is dated, a concrete rectangle, which has had little to no consideration for any aspect of its aesthetics, the half-inch high floor paint caused a plethora of small lips to protrude from the ground, the paint is of hopscotch grids and other shapes intended for games and activities. Rory stands in his council given uniform, a dull green text on black polo shirt, with black trousers, Rory has gathered from 20 years of working in the uniform that neither an un-tucked polo or tucked-in polo suited the black trousers they were assigned, the combination of the two has and always will look clunky. Rory has been working overtime for the past 2 years, ever since the divorce, he had taken the divorce as he took his job, with complete neutrality, he saw it coming but simply had no energy to defend against it. His wife, Monica, was hasty in her decision, she had to get away from Rory, she told him “…you don’t excite me like you used to.” And “you’re just so tired all the time.” Rory was by a matter of fact tired due to looking after the children a higher percentage of the time, Monica was often out, Rory could see no reason to look into this, he didn’t want to, the time he spent with his children he genuinely considered a rarity, he actually enjoyed it, most parents force fun and activities with their children, a fair few fathers are simply Mummies helpers. However, Rory has a way with his children, the games they like to play he would become engrossed in, exciting them even more, he occasionally lets them win as parents do. He does that cliché thing Dads do, that helicopter ride thing, every time he sees Annabelle or Max he launches his hands under their armpits and make a ‘Woooosh’ noise, they giggle and laugh and ask for more as kids do, he has a consideration for their age which seems odd at times, an earthly patience for each and every question they asked, however gratuitous. He really does love them. By the time the divorce came round there was a clear distinction between the children, one was more like the mother and one more like the father. Annabelle took after her Dad, he had watched her in the playground, before now, picking up things people have dropped, and having an attentive gaze when something was being explained. She has a quiet ease for what is revolving around her, just like Rory does. Max has become like his Mother, not necessarily deceitful, as he is just a child, there is however a clear impatience, a hostile edge, which made those around him ponder what he is to do next. The divorce, unlike all others, was quick and clean. The paperwork came through, well, primarily pushed through by Monica, she signed ‘ASAP’ and Rory kicked up no fuss, and signed, the paperwork was done and sorted in record time, Rory did not dawdle on this however, the fact it was hastily pushed through that is. He did spend countless nights discussing what would happen to the children, the financial situation was practically 50/50 . Each parent could afford to house, clothe and feed both children, there was however a muzak of obviousness, though neither wanted to claim a favourite, each knew what was to happen, and what was most likely to happen, and what, in the end, did happen. Annabelle remained with her father in their semi-detached, and Max moved away with Monica, Max came down on weekends, but Annabelle and her father were complete, Max just didn’t fit there anymore, well, not necessarily fit, but Max was attuned to his mother’s frequency, Max preferred watching TV when he went to his Father’s. Annabelle would curl up with her Dad and enjoy him reading to her. Rory found literature enthralling, of any kind, he found the pure-idea of conveying knowledge, ideas and stories from ages past via text absolutely astounding; Annabelle seemed to agree with her father on this one. So Annabelle has a quick step through the exit door of her school, an old Victorian workhouse, which resembled nothing of its past other than the external architecture, the inside was filled, literally, filled, to the brim with images created by the child, suns and flowers and smiling faces and green trees, book upon book of exciting story, adventures and friendships were made within these walls, adventures implausible now to most adult minds. To continue, Annabelle has this adorable step to her Dad, she is excited to see him, every day, the same grin, the same tight hug of his left leg. This ends quickly as Rory snatches up Annabelle…Woooosssshh…Woooossh. Rory makes the noise a tad louder than usual, perhaps because he’s had a ‘long-day’ at work . The Mums around him glare at him, and what they consider an ‘immaturity’, glaring down their noses at his genuine excitement to see his daughter. They (the playground Mums) grab their kids quicker than usual, to get them away from Rory, Rory, has done nothing wrong, he was just playing with his child. Rory however notices nothing other than what Annabelle has made a macaroni-portrait of her Dad; she is so proud, I mean, really proud. Annabelle is wearing her uniform also, a characteristic attributed to both Rory and Annabelle is neither allows the uniform to stop who they are, they never tell anyone this, they just do it. Her uniform is a grey skirt to her knees, black extra-shined leather shoes, with a strap over the top, and a white polo below a red-school-jumper, which has the circular school logo embroided just above her heart. She really does love her school, and her friends, though there is something about her relationship with her Father than unbeknownst to them almost all the teachers find endearing, this lead to Rory often getting a special attention, though not agreed throughout the staffing unit of the school, and the special attention was no official thing, it just happens, on a personal level from everyone to Rory, as something about his circumstance resonated the human element of their minds ten-fold. After Annabelle’s brief yet noisy helicopter ride (Rory’s arms), they begin their walk home. Their home is situated only minutes from the school, ten maximum, and Rory’s workplace is perhaps 10 minutes from the school, in the other direction, that is. They know the route, they find it tranquil, they’ve both articulated as best their ability allows to one another how special each walk is down this route, the turns seemed placed by an architect, trees overhang almost the whole path home, I say path, there is a 2 minute stretch onto a road, other than that it is all paths and rural-un-kept-roads. Around 5 minutes into the walk, the two, Rory and Annabelle that is begin to talk of their days, up until now neither has felt any need to talk, the silence is not awkward, you can tell two humans are made for one another, when a silence is not awkward, or even thought of as awkward. However Annabelle begins to talk to Rory about her new book-bag, it’s a small A4 satchel made for carrying her drawing and books around in, for some child-like reason she describes it as fun, this makes Rory smile. She keeps talking of her book-bag as they step into the 2 minute stretch of their route that contains roads, Rory is lost within her words, and he finds life within her. Annabelle is talking of her drawing of a barn-owl just as a maroon Peugeot 106 swings round the corner in front of them, the left headlight smashing into Annabelle’s forehead. The car travelling at a minimum of 40 miles per hour shatters the top-half of Annabelle’s skull, shards of her thin-undeveloped head spray in a tangle of different directions, a few pieces even skim off Rory’s cheeks, the car, now breaking, has killed Annabelle. The ragdoll that is left is currently using the road as its break, her back arched-up due to the friction. The corpse skids down the road they’ve just walked, dribbling blood as it goes. The Peugeot 106 now completely stopped has its front wheel completely aligned with Annabelle’s left eyeball, which is sitting alone, the right, being completely lost. Rory has stopped, still thinking of Annabelle’s book-bag, which is to the left of him, coated in blood, hanging from a twig.

It’s difficult to live in the shadow of yourself. It’s also nearly impossible. Unless you’re me. Unless you live in two separate worlds. Dimensions. I should say dimensions because one of me is in the future, and the other is in the present. Well, one of me was in the future. And now that me is dead. Have you ever been murdered? Of course not. I have. I can’t say I recommend the experience. I wasn’t even kidnapped, or shot in the street. I was a statistic. I was one of 43 students who died in a shooting at Webster High School in Webster, Wisconsin. I shouldn’t use was, but that me is dead, and this me is alive. I’m alive in Chicago, Illinois. And I’m going to stop the shooting and save them. Us. I only have 11 hours and 12 minutes to stop this from happening. I have until 3:12 pm, CST. I know the shooter’s name is Mitchell Dupree, and I know he is in AP Biology first period, which begins in exactly five hours. I’ve got my work cut out for me. Sweat. Cold sweat. That’s how I remember it. Dying, that is. I was so nervous, but it was quick, in the back of a dilapidated math classroom, the only light from the overhead. Yeah. We still used overheads. Used. Used. Past tense. It was only one classroom. 43 students in AP Statistics. That’s ironic. We were, are, statistics. Maybe if our school had spent money on making classes smaller, instead of building a new football field, there would only be 25 lost souls. I bet the school board never thought of that. Mitchell Dupree. He sat with me. Sits. He sits with me. Quiet kid. Its always the quiet ones, I suppose. Mitchell seemed nice… That is until he put a bullet through poor Ms. Dodd’s head. The sweet spinster who loved numbers more than her 12 cats. Loves. The past tense is creeping up on me, stalking my every move. It knows. It knows I shouldn’t be here now. Dr. Langdon says its my “condition”. “multiple personality disorder” he claims. Dr. Langdon is a crock. This is real. It is all real. Why won’t they listen to me? My friend listens to me. Mitchell. He’s nice. He lives in the mirror above the bathroom sink. We have big plans today. At 3:12 pm.

Today is the day. The sun is shining and vibrant. The birds are singing their melodies. The air is warm and smells like spring. Who could hate a day like this? I sure as hell do. Fuck that bright, burning ball of helium. Why aren't there ravens knocking at my door instead of song birds chirping away? I want it cold and smelling like freezing dreams outside. Oh well. Today is as good a day as any for this. I've already called into work. My boss gave me my final warning for call ins and next time I do I'll be fired, and that's just fine with me. I made my last stop this morning. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a .99 cent coffee. I passed by the liquor store. If things pan out like I intend them to, I want nobody blaming my best friend on this. The door to my apartment squeaks like my boots and I open and sit down at my table. I light up a cigarette. The dumb bastard at the corner store always mixes my cigarettes up. I tell him I want lights, and I get reds. Typically I berate him and hope he learns his lesson, but that doesn't matter today. He'll see my face on the news and remember me, and he'll probably smile. Dumb bastard. This cigarette is doing what cigarettes need to do I guess. I just can't stand this taste. In the end it won't matter I guess. Neither will this bottom of the pot coffee. God, you would think that I would've splurged today with all I have planned. Nope! I'll always be a cheap ass I guess. I'll be able to leave something behind it looks like. I walk to my bedroom and reach behind the pillow. The steel feels cold in my hand. It feels like winter. Jack Frost will be nipping at my temple if things go the way I'll predict. I keep the gun in my hand and walk back to the table. This is where I'll make my final stand against myself and the universe I think. This trusty revolver holds six shots. I have one bullet loaded. I stare out the window to the outside world. None of them know what's going on, and probably won't until a week from now when somebody calls the landlord bitching about the smell. That's just one more time for me to inconvenience others, and that's fine. I stare down the barrel of the piece and sigh. It's time. I spin the chamber and put my finger on the trigger. Let's see how my luck plays out today. I've been obsessed with the idea of luck for as long as I can remember. What's the probability of "x" happening in "y" scenario? I've researched numerous miracles and accidents and probability and all of that shit for years. Any given day I can win the lotto or meet my soulmate or end up on a plane making a stop in a New York skyscraper. My research didn't yield me a damn thing, but my experiment did. This experiment has been happening for 26 years. Some call it life, but I call it "Studies of The Effects of Existing on a Sphere in The Milky Way and the Causation of My Shit Luck". I've learned that luck is a whore. Some people sleep with luck and walk away smiling, wanting a sandwich and some alone time. Some people get fucked by luck and piss lava for the rest of their lives. I, for one, have been pissing lava in a metaphorical sense for 26 years, and literally for a couple of days. Fucking bar hookup. I digress, though. The clap is just evidence that luck is against me, and that leads us to today. My final experiment is as follows: chain smoke and see if I can win a game of Russian Roullete against myself. If I lose, then the probabilities have always been against me, thus giving me a post-humous doctorates degree for this experiment. If I beat the odds and survive, then all of this has been for naught and I revise my theory to "Maybe Subject X Should Be a Less Shitty Person". Let's see how this goes. I light up another cigarette and take one more sip of this black tar coffee. I raise the gun to my temple and squeeze the trigger. *click* Analysis: I don't have the absolute worst luck in the world. I am mathematically luckier than possibly 20% of people who could possibly be in my position. Thank god I'm luckier than most of Africa I guess. This isn't much of an accomplishment though. Just watch the movies, nobody ever gets the bullet on the first shot. I still have four more to go, and all the time in the world. Time isn't much of a factor now, though. I could wait a million years and the bullet will still be in the same place. I'd be dead, though, so I can't wait that long. I put the gun to my temple one more time and squeeze. *click* Analysis: I'm luckier than 40% of people that could potentially be in this position. That's still failing a test, though. I'm still an unlucky guy. A month ago my dog got hit by a car. I was unlucky enough to see it happen. The bullshit behind it, though? It was a vet driving the car. Lucky me, right? Nope. The dog died on impact. How the fuck does that happen? I mean, seriously? A vet hits an animal that they have dedicated their life to save? That's total bullshit. That's what happens to dogs if I give them food and shelter I guess. It's a disease from being around me. That's what I tell my doctors at least. I think their med schools must've been shit, though, because they don't believe me. I know I have a disease. They need to put me in their medical journals for the "Fuckerius Luckus" disease. I digress. It's time to give this merry-go-round another go. Point, breathe, squeeze. *click* Analysis: 60% isn't bad I guess. In this given position I'm not doing awful. I still have two more shots to go, but I'm surprised the data is looking this way. It's worth noting, though, that every shot I take raises the percentage of catching a bullet. The odds are stacked against me. It's nothing I'm not used to, though. This is living life in the fast lane, and maybe dying in a ten car pileup. Two more shots to go and I still feel nothing. Let's go. Point, squeeze. *click* 80% means I'm passing. It also means that I have a 50/50 shot of dying. I'm not afraid of death. It's not like I really want to die or anything, I'm just tired of living. I didn't write a suicide note or leave a heartfelt video saying goodbye. They'll find me and assume that it was just a random suicide with no rational behind it. I'll be just another victim of society, with my name in the news and people who barely knew me praising me on social media. I don't deserve praise. I deserve nothing. I'm just an average piece of white trash who does average things, besides the whole daring the universe to kill me thing. I'll be the next guy you stand behind and in front of at the bank. We're all just average until we save a box of orphan puppies or shoot up a school, then suddenly we were always something. That's the way of the world I guess. I take a drag of the last smoke in the box, and finish my coffee. I look outside once more. It's really not that bad of a day today I guess. It's the kind of day where you can just sit outside and think about things, or go walk in the park. I never really thought about doing that before. If I can defy the odds, I'm going to the liquor store and buying a fifth and going to the park. That's improving a little bit, right? My hands are starting to sweat a little bit. I put the gun to my head one more time. I breathe in and breathe out. This is it. Breathe, squeeze. *click* Oh holy fuck. I'm alive. I'm not just breathing. I FEEL alive. Luck be damned! Probability be damned! I. Am. Alive! I grab my keys and head out to my car. It's a piece of shit, but it's mine and it does what it needs to. I made a promise to pick up a fifth and go to the park. Nothing can bring me down now! I beat the odds and the universe wants me alive! I don't know my purpose, but I do know I NEED to be alive! I play the radio on the way to the store. I typically hate the radio, but I'm done with hating now. Bring on generic pop music and bless my ears! I pull up to the store and kill my engine. I walk with a hop in my step with the likes I've never seen in myself. I have the day off, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I'm gonna get drunk! There's nothing that can bring me down now! I greet the cashier with a smile, and they just stare. That's okay. They'll be as happy with me one day and I will dance with them once they do! I pick up a pricey fifth. I can't really afford this, but I'll just skip dinner a couple of times. Nothing can bring me down today! I stand waiting in line, ecstatic about what today has to offer. The guy in front of me is paying in pennies. If that's all he has then that's okay. It all spends the same and he gets to be happy for a little bit too! While the cashier is counting out the pennies, the guy in front of me reaches inside his hoodie pocket. He pulls out a revolver. He points it at the cashier and yells for all the money in the register. She starts crying. I stand frozen. The cashier starts pushing buttons frantically trying to open the register. The thief is concentrated on her. It's time for me to be a hero. I take a step towards the gunman. My boot squeaks. He turns to me in a panic. I breathe, he squeezes. *bam* Getting shot doesn't hurt as bad as you would think. It just stings, really. Then you feel your lungs fill with blood. Then you start feeling cold. You can't really get up, either. All you can do is move your head a little. I could see my blood spilling out onto the linoleum. I heard the cashier scream then another shot, and after that all I hear is chirping. The birds are still singing at least.My mouth tastes like metal. I start to grow tired. I lose the will to stay awake. I start to slip away into a dream. All I see is white. All I want to do is go to the park and get drunk. Damn my luck. Damn it.

I would like to tell you a story about a field, and the area surrounding it. It’s this small field here, not too far from Washington state. The trees run up and down the hills and ridges in the far-off landscape, going up and down and up and down and straight and straight again. One of those odd patterns that alternates itself every few beats, like A, B, A, B, A, B, C, C, C, C, A, B... Around the field: the remains of some type of picket fence, most likely white or very tan, as you can tell - as was the style in those days. Here, at the entrance to the fence, they break off into a sort of small, open corridor of fences that lead into a larger room, which is used to contain cattle, horses, sheep, pigs, perhaps a few camels. Within this second field, I’m afraid I can’t show you much, as there isn’t much to see. A few piles of organic rubble lying over there and over here, in shapes of life. A large barn in the far corner, painted dull red, with white trimming and beams running along, up, and down its sides. Inside there’s an astonishingly tall ladder, used to reach the TV antenna on the roof of the barn. Beside it, another ladder mounted to the second story loft, but much more solid. Firm, still in good shape. Ah, here’s the loft. All that hay over there? Oh, right. Well, it’s like I said! For the cattle, horses, sheep, pigs, and a few camels! Though I’m not confident camels actually eat hay. Or pigs, sheep. Or cows, come to think of it. Blimey, what eats hay? It’s slipped my mind, I apologize. This is all very unprofessional of me, but, yes, I’m sure the hay is used for *some* rational purpose. Oh, I’m sorry! If you don’t like it you can leave yourself! Good luck finding a ride! Oh...well, he’s left. I hope he doesn’t go inside the house. Drat, that’s exactly what he’s fucking doing! I’m getting a little to old for this! God! Give me a moment! .......Alright. Let’s get on then, shall we? Much more to see! Ah, here we are. The meat of the place, the real bread and butter of the show! The potatoes! Yes, I know they look like the small, small stumps of tiny trees, Mr. Abmerson. Yes, Mrs. Culter, I’m aware they don’t look like much, but how would you like to join Mr. Stone in the house? You can’t be serious! Five thousand credits for- ah, shit! I-...excuse me, I’m very sorry for the way I’ve been acting. We’ll have to meet up with them later. Until then, yes! These are potatoes, before they’ve been pulled up out of the ground and are ready to munch on. Exactly my point, Alfred! Such small, tiny things can turn into something so huge! Always look closer than you intend to, that’s a lesson for you. Right, now I know things have been a bit of a bust up until now, but here’s where it gets exciting! The front yard! See that, there? *That* is a flamingo! Plastic, of course, but- yes, that’s what I was getting to, they’re plastic, not real. This isn’t a laboratory, can’t get that kind of thing here, unfortunately! And these here, and this. Any guesses..? ...Yes, quite right! ...No, sorry, not exactly. ...Someone studied their history! Alright, the results are in. Mr. Crowley and Mrs. Crowley - lovely couple, you two, by the way - you win! The correct answers were: gardening hose and dog house! The former was used to- former? Yes, the first one I mentioned. Of course, of course, it happens to everyone. Just this morning I forgot to put my shoes on the right way! As for the garden hose, does anyone care to interrupt me before I begin? Good! The gardening hose was used primarily for what we call “manual gardening”. By turning on a steady stream of water which gets sent into this tube here, it can then be ejected at whatever you point it at! This was used to “feed” water to various plants and grasses, and to fill up the troughs that the animals were fed from. As for the dog house, I- Mrs. Baxter! What in the name of the holy lord are you- no, don’t! Dammit, dammit, dam-GAH! As you can plainly see, Mrs. Baxter was, in fact, *not* acting strangely, but rather attempting to demonstrate the function of a dog house. It was used for dogs to live in, as she so flamboyantly displayed for us all! Now, I- oh. That many? One, two, three...four, including myself...where did Alfred...? Alright everyone, now, I think, due to the unforseen problems that we’ve experienced in our time here, and due to the fact that most of our party has slipped away, despite my best efforts to keep them near...I think this is where we meet up with the others. They should be juuuust in heeerree...Mr. Crowley! Mrs. Crowley! I- Butch! No, wait! Please! I can show you the cellar! It’s your money’s worth in fascination, I promise! Don’t close the door- He stood over the bodies of the 12 deceased, their hunched, dislodged bones piercing through their skin, their mouths distorted in confused expressions of grief. He stood over the bodies of the 12 deceased, in a small kitchen with a small light and a small table, with too many magnets on the fridge, too many photos of pure dust on the walls, lacking any distinction, in a place shaped by history, 96 graves dug just outside. He reloaded the shotgun, slung it over his back where it ought to be, and grabbed his shovel from a cupboard close by. “I hate my job.

Hi, all. Would like some gracious feedback. I am just wondering what direction people would like to see this story go. (Pardon any grammatical errors) The Wanderer Griff was hitting his 11 a.m. slump (a little early) and turned his gaze to the large windows next to his cube to break from the blue burning in his eyes and felt the twinge of a buzz in his ear. But this was no regular day dream. Griff caught glimpse of a boy in a tree about 35 feet up. Was this a daydream at all? He sort of resembled a child with a large loin cloth. But the boy climbed down the tree almost as instantaneously as Griff caught his gaze. Had no one else just seen that? He debated on whether to ask someone. Confused, he walked out from his desk and down the aisle to approach the large, wall sized windows. It looked like the boy who had climbed down the tree was now headed for the lake on the fringe of the woods. That was odd he thought. Griff returned to his desk, and pondered what he just witnessed. That child didn't look as if he had belonged to this time period, let alone this part of the country. Griff, Griff Bookstrom that is, sat back down and started up with his keystrokes again. It came effortlessly to him and he wasn't sure if that were an average man’s dream or something to be wary of. He never wanted to be stuck in a monotonous job, making half way decent money, helping no one but big business just to support himself to continue payments on his car, his schooling, his lifestyle; never to enjoy a single moment for himself. But look at that, here he was. Not skiing in the Alps, hiking Kilimanjaro, racing rally cars; nope, just sitting behind a desk from 8-4, sometimes 5. Griff is an inspection specialist for a big mechanical contractor. Now, this was nothing to be ashamed of. Heck, most people these days were lucky to have a job. His girlfriend, Remy, whom he lives with, only works part time as a waitress and full time as a budding novelist (How cliché?). But she was thinking about going to Law School. That was the sad reality of life. There was no American Dream anymore. That thought makes me chuckle. American Dream; is that even an operationalized thought? There is no definition that one can really stick too. It changes with the era, just like music. Please excuse my rudeness, all this “Griff” talk, if you will and I have yet to introduce myself. I am "the one Griff cannot see" (not yet at least). But that's a long name and boring name; so just know me by the image of create of me. I don't think Griff wants to see me and that right there folks, that's what hurts. He has been on this Earth for nearly 25 years, yet he hasn't opened his mind enough to see me. Well that's not entirely true. Once when Griff was just a little guy, I was quite certain that he saw me standing in the back yard by his swing set. But then again, a squirrel may just as well have grabbed his attention. Damn rodent was just burying his nuts like I wasn’t there or something (Ba-dum-ch). Kids, their openness is unfortunately only equally matched by their misunderstanding of the world around them and the inability to communicate and be taken seriously by someone who has the power to change the world. Yes I am speaking about the adults. You are probably an adult, if not a young adult. I believe YOU are the ones with the power in the world but most are so corrupted and so closed minded or lazy that nothing substantial will be changed. But I digress. 5 o'clock (or 17:00 for “those” people) and Griff heaved a sigh of relief of the ending work day. He had almost forgotten about his window experience entirely until the buzzing drone in his ear made him turn face in the parking lot and catch the eye of the boy in the cloth at the edge of the building. The boy stood frozen for a second and took off into the woods again, heading for the lake. Griff, who really wasn't thinking, walked towards the woods himself at an eager pace. He slowed after a few seconds as not to draw attention. He decided against telling anyone about the boy because he was certainly going insane. May I interject briefly? Oh good, glad you agree. I don't think it's very smart of Griff to be following this kid. Anyway, I'll continue… The boy now stood at the edge of the lake that now seemed to be about 25 feet away. Now, he was no physics or math whiz but he presumed that with a good jump, he could catch this kid. Then what? Griff paused briefly, if for a second to think "maybe I should turn around and go home." Griff I say you should've turned around. Griff did not hear me, nor did he turn around and call it a day. Instead his wild intention to follow this boy was in full fruition and after a brief look around, Griff called out "hello." That's the best he had. He wasn't entirely sure what else to say and broke into a full sprint when he received no response. As he approached, the buzzing in his head took over again, louder this time, and growing more obtrusive with each step. It was as if his body was beginning to vibrate. The buzzing was impairing his vision and quickly the world was closing to the size of a pinhole. Griff dropped; and he dropped hard. Darkness. Griff returned to consciousness at the sound of a bark. Startled, he opened his eyes. "Hey are you okay, guy?" A man called out. Griff nodded and gave a limp wave. The man was hesitant to approach but his dog, Abby, was not. Her tongue was giant and excited; she left no part of his face dry. She just wanted to play I s'pose. "Down girl, leave the man alone. Are you sure you're alright? I got a bottle of water if you'd like a drink, you look absolutely parched." He felt it. What happened? How long had he been out? I'll tell you. He was out for 23 mins and 6 seconds to be exact. I'm sort of a stickler for time. Griff meagerly got to his knees, and with some strain, stood up. "Thank you sir but I'm alright, just out...enjoying...nature I guess" Griff palleted. "Well, alright then. C’mon Abby let's finish our run before mommy gets mad about our tardiness from dinner." And the two continued their run. Griff watched them run on and for a moment forgot what he was doing standing behind his place of work at nearly 5:30 with a splitting headache. And boy did it hurt. He returned to his car and sat down behind the wheel. And just sat there. He stared blankly out of the windshield and mentally tried to grab at what was happening. After about three or four minutes he snapped out of it and stuck the key in the ignition and drove home. Griff pulled into his driveway and realized he didn't have a good story as to why he was so late but didn't bother coming up with one in the moment. He could wing it right? Just a little insight, he couldn't wing it. He's not good at that stuff. "Hey honey where have you been? Bad traffic?" Remy wondered. "Haha, no darling, the traffic was naught. I was actually busy chasing evil fairies into the woods. You know typical Wednesday stuff" he spat out. "What's for dinner? I'm starved." Griff continued. "Well I wasn't really in the cooking mood so I was thinking maybe we can go grab a steak with the fixings down at Outback? Possibly grab a movie on the way home, or have a Netflix binge?" He laughed "That sounds like the best way to end this day. I'm gonna go grab so Tylenol® my head is killin me; long day at work. As Griff excused himself to the medicine cabinet, Remy spoke up "Whatcha got there?" “Huh?" "In your back pocket? Whatcha got in your back pocket?" "Oh ...umm...this?" Griff stuttered, patting his rear. As he reached for his pocket in that 2 second window he was sure that he could pull just about anything out. What he did pull out was an ornate wooden box that measure about 4 inches square. He opened it and saw the head of a lilium laying on a velvet pillow. A lily? Griff thought. What could that possibly me... "Oh it's beautiful, honey, thank you!" Remy cut through his thought "Only a beautiful flower (head?) for my beautiful woman" he choked out. "I love how delicate and unorthodox it is. You are simply amazing" "...Thanks sweetie. Why don't you..uh..go put it on our dresser?!" "Yeah, good idea. Then I swear we'll go; I can hear you tummy grumbling from here" "Yup, great." Griff said dismissively, half listening. He was hungry. He could feel his sugar levels dropping and without that recent adrenaline rush, might be on the ground from exhaustion/ hunger. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of OJ. Griff instantly felt a little better with his first gulp. The unknowingness was getting to him. He needed to research Lily's as soon as he got home; and without Remy knowing. Well, I'll be the first to say it. The kid did good. Well, he did alright. I myself could've done better. And that whole Lily thing; cmon Griff? At least he thinks its symbolism and not some wedding invitation. I remember once when Griff was a teenager, maybe 15, he attended a wedding for his distant uncle Charlie. He was the kind of uncle you'd have to take a vacation just to see. It wasn't intentional that he and Griff weren't close. It's just that he was physically far enough away and Griff was the type of kid who didn't want to make an effort to call. He had a thing about adults, especially relatives. He didn't fear them, he just never felt their equal, or like he would be taken seriously with them. Why should they? He was just a kid, right? He would only see him once a year, if that, at Easter. At the wedding, Griff had been chatting up his future aunts' cousins' daughter (so there was no weird familial stuff going on here, don’t get weird). Things were going so well. Weddings have a way to put everyone in an open, lovely mood. In his pubescent muddled mind, Griff thought to steal a flower from the bride’s bouquet for his new beau was a good idea. It wasn't. As a matter of fact, I think it was a Lily. Actually, I know it was; I don't forget things, or people, or places for that matter. Although I’m quite certain this Lily has nothing to do with the Lily currently harbored in his room. Hmm… or does it? I’m no psychic. With the newly picked Lily in hand, giddy Griff trotted back to swooning Jessica. I felt that Griff's theft of this Lily was wrong so I may have stuck my foot out as Griff unsuspectingly passed by and he may have tripped and broken his nose. The blood may have made Jess a little squeamish to the point of fainting. And I may have cackled to myself for hours about the ordeal. I truly felt bad though. Jess was a nice girl. The two lovebirds were now broken on the ground in one fell swoop as if the branch holding them up was tired of their little loving feet. But I digress.

You get that big Pepsi cola high out on the street and then send cancer waves into the violent quarters of the thing that people need to know and you just send it back this cancer to cancer running cigarettes like ugly tits that show up in your bed at the end of the morning when you try to find a way out that goddamn house all full of holes the size of nickels all ugly gang violence decay. Come on down the road and feel something for yourself because your friends are in trouble. Some ugly road sign sits on your desk with your name on it and you think you’re better than your friend on the operating table all full of liquids that science plays with like dead ice on an old planet so far away you could never imagine to visit with anything other than a soul – that thing that no one believes in. You stop the car and get out and wonder about the trunk. The trunk with ghosts in it – or is it just your drycleaning. You don’t know, but there’s a good chance you have a mental illness on your hands. You take a handful of Xanax and pretend that you’re normal as you walk into Arby’s with a hankering for a taco. But there's that lingering feeling that phantasms and ecotoplasma are just riding along with you like some evil disease that you can't explain but swear you have. You got this real good idea to make rockeries out of old keyboards and you create a condominium complex where the “halls” of the parking lot are sided with QWERTYUIOP and it seems like you got your shit together, but, no man, you are just fucked up in the head. Click the ENTER key and you get no better ideas on parking. There’s nothing more worrisome than a number of poems left on your doorstep by some man who signs them COMCAST. They strike me as odd as there are so many strange pleadings for money and months of service. I think this COMCAST must be in some sort of slavery situation and I buy a rescue dog to feel better about it, but it does nothing to make me feel better about the poor people at COMCAST. I’m hiding under the kitchen table and all I hear is ringing. Something has exploded out in the city. When I look up I just see this halo around the sun and a feel of slow warming of the air and people yelling out in the street. No internet. No TV. I just met my neighbor for the first time after nine years. And he’s a real asshole. Ash is falling all over and there’s the constant BOOM of transformer towers blowing. A fire is out in the distance. I light a joint and stand on the porch and get naked and no one cares. People are out in the parking lot tripping over each other to say something important before the fire comes down on us. Most of it is ugly confessions of hatred. I flick M80s at them and they don’t even pause to notice that I haven't lit a one of them. At this point you could punch a man in the face and he’d ask you what time it is. My own bearing on the situation is one of drugged out glee. No matter how hard life kills any of us I will fight it with a grin and a smile and Something tells me my teeth are falling out. I say this out loud to my wife. She shrugs and motions to the TV. There's nothing on the screen but she's positive that it's showing Jesus picking up dead bodies and bringing them back to life. The bodies apparently arise and do normal things like go to work and request more foam in their espresso drinks. The windows keep making this ticking noise. When we start throwing up we realize there's something wrong. Pepsi cola and the President have done something we must all pay for. I keep looking at my phone that's as dead as a drum stick. The fire is out in the strip mall and people are telling me Ross is just ashes; Subway and McDonalds are no longer serving food. I take note of the microwavable dinners in the freezer and realize we only have decades to live. Another brilliant flash and the slider start curdling like film being melted on those old projectors. There's a strange sight of the couch on fire and then not on fire and then on fire again. I feel this sickening warmth in my chest and look over at my wife and she's on the ground burning. I think about what to say now, as I'm on fire. And all I can think of is "shit". When I wake up, I go to work like normal. I'm confident that I have learned nothing and there's nothing I can do. But I continue working.

It all started when I hacked into the Make a Wish Foundation’s website. I know, I’m a jerk stealing from what should have been for sick kids, but I was desperate. Little did I know that was the way it worked. But there I was, 87 wishes all mine, ready to use, before the site shut down and I couldn’t get any more. Not sure what I was looking at or how it worked I typed in “bag of Cheetos and a Coke”. I was hungry. Nothing happened so I went to the kitchen for some food. On the counter was a bag of Cheetos and a can of Coke. Ha! It worked. I went back to my computer and there were 86 wishes left. Smartening up a bit, I typed in “$1,000,000”. I logged into my back account and my balance was $1,000,004.36. It was working! What do I want next? I used my next dozen wishes on other simple-minded things: some rare liquors, playing jokes on my asshole neighbors, feeding my lust, and becoming taller and skinnier. It was a fun night. The next morning, severely hung over, I went to check my computer to see if it was a dream or not. Nope, 73 wishes left. I typed in “remove hangover” and it was gone immediately. Down to 72 wishes. These small, short-term wishes started to get boring so I decided to start putting some thought into them. I became the starting quarterback and defensive end for the San Francisco 49ers and won the next five Super Bowls, got a beautiful, loving wife, and had 7 perfect children. I cured cancer, then malaria, and all the world’s most devastating diseases. At the same time published a best selling novel. I was inducted into the hall of fame, won the Nobel Prize for medicine and literature, and was father of the year. My life was perfect; the world was perfect. Now I sit here at my computer with my last wish. What do I wish for? What more could I ask for? So, of course, I type in “100 more wishes”. The screen flickers, then things around me start to change. My house is transforming and I feel myself getting shorter and fatter. My wife and kids disappear. I notice my computer screen return to where I hacked into all the wishes, then there is a knock at the door. I hear, “police, open up!” When I open the door I’m slammed to the ground and arrested for attempted theft of the Make a Wish Foundation’s website. What a tool I am. I couldn’t even be satisfied by my perfect world. So now I’ll spend my life in a jail cell as the asshole who tried to steal from dying children.

The ladies, draped in flowing dip-dyed satin, were positively gleeful as they danced around the room, their twirls creating funnels of air that made the candles surrounding them flicker. Crystals caught the flames, scattering dim flashes of light across the room. The women laughed and sang, swinging each other, bangles chiming, their bodies bouncing in sync. Incense sticks dripped ash in the corners of the room. "What are they doing?" I asked my guide. "They're in a cult," he replied, matter-of-factly. "This is one of their rituals." I wondered what delusion was fueling this ridiculous behavior. Worship of some fantasy wanton goddess? New-age, Earth-mother bullshit? I stared at them, astounded by the fact that anyone could believe such asinine crap. "If only they realized it was all pretend," I muttered. "Sometimes," my guide replied, "you have to pretend in order to be happy.

Hi, my name is Emmy. I'm the author of one book currently, Silver Follows, which is fantasy/adventure. This is a realistic fiction short story that I'm trying out as a first post just to see what people think and to get the ball rolling, as I haven't written in a long time. I'm very open to feedback and criticism and would love to know how people feel about my writing! (Note: I added more to this story but didn't go far with it.) Enjoy:) 2-7-15 She was sitting on the park bench with a wet bum, holding a black umbrella, watching the snowflakes fall past her azalea-pink fingers. Her leather gloves had been discarded onto her lap where they sat helplessly on the hem of her peacoat, the warmth seeping from the stiff fingers, while the warmth of her own fingers had long been chased away. Thirty-one degrees and a ten-minus wind would do that. The sound of footfalls on the damper of snow caused her to look up, just as her nose was turning pink. Her scarf was thrown back, the ends hanging down past her short auburn hair, leaving her collarbone and throat exposed. Snowflakes fell on her cheeks and a man with a gray beard smiled down at her. He was not a happy man, though. “You should be in the ward,” he said to her. “You should be where it’s warm.” His thin lips pressed together tightly. His forehead was wrinkled, but the cold dissolved his frown lines. It made his skin look more alive, less ashy and serious. She liked him better outside, where the trees hung long hands over pathways that could be taken anywhere in the world, and the place he suggested was the only place she did not want to be. She crossed her legs at the ankles, locked her knees, stuck them far out so that many snowflakes could settle on her jeans. She smiled at him, a real smile, genuine and sweet. Her eyes were dark brown, Indian brown, dark chocolate, brown of the bark of a cedar tree. He regarded her without interest, but nonetheless, asked a question that was slipping from everyone else’s lips, and never in front of the girl. “What makes you so happy?” She knew this question. She knew its intrigue. So many patients at the ward came for depression, for conflicts of anger, for a chemical imbalance inside their bodies that led them to some extreme. “I have no chemical imbalance,” she told him, which was one thing he knew, one reason why there was so much reverie. “But I do have decisions, options, choices, and places to be. There is so much life around us, and I may be the only one who can see. I know how precious it is. I don’t have time to waste on things that don’t make me happy; therefore, everything makes me happy, and still, no one agrees.” “Does the ward make you happy?” he asked. “Does the cold? The snow? Does being a patient make you happy?” “The universe cares about me,” she said carefully. “I’m not fond of the ward, not particularly, but it doesn't make me unhappy.” He pondered that for a long while, staring at her without getting too close, as if she could be contagious with some imaginary disease. He was a doctor, and could put his face next to any patient at the ward; but not her. He couldn't look at her for long without being reminded that he was unhappy. Life, love, his career, his wife, it didn't matter if it was a big thing or if it was the taste of the coffee he had every morning; he was unhappy, and people always seemed to be reminded of their unhappiness when they were around her. He was no exception. “But how did you escape?” he asked. “How did you get away?” She laughed; it was a soft sound, a humorous response, the kind of laugh that Clark Kent would make if someone asked how he survived a burning building, how he got off the seventeenth floor; as if she had a great secret she would laugh to reveal. “I put on my coat,” she said. “I take out my gloves. I wrap a scarf around my neck, and I leave my room, my floor, down to the lobby. I smile at the nurses. Sometimes they even talk to me, tell me goodbye or good luck. I don’t do anything, really, but smile and walk to the door, and they let me go. They always let me go. Why would they stop me?” He stared at her, his large eyes wide, intelligent and calculative, and he understood exactly. She was a patient who checked herself out nearly every day, a plain girl with unremarkable features but a remarkably happy smile, the sort of smile expected to be seen on a patient who was granted permission to leave. The nurses didn’t question it. No one questioned her, and she was plain enough that her face could never be remembered. The only wonder was her true happiness, but then, looking at her, he couldn’t doubt that she was happy. She was smiling at everything - no, she was beaming, radiating like the sun, grinning, laughing silently, with only a disturbance of breath. He wanted her to tell him this secret, this reason she was so happy. Did someone love her? Was it religious? But of course she would always say, “I just decided to be.

I woke up drenched in sweat and fully alert. I had to been imagining that sound; there is nothing out there that could produce it. I climbed and shuffled my way to the main systems hub to check the current status and all of the relevant logs. I went through all standard and emergency checklists and all parameters were normal. The panic was building up inside, and my heart felt like thousands of hand grenades exploding in a fast unhealthy rhythm. I apparently bit my lip a bit too hard because I noticed my mouth filling up with blood. It didn’t matter what kind of logic I applied; this sound was without explanation. If only someone, anyone had answered my distress calls. But I knew I was total and utterly alone. I had seen with my own two eyes my home, my planet, burn under the radiant glow of mankind’s greatest weapon. The end was quick for those on the ground and the blue planet was burned and torched into darkness and every life form but I was sleeping the restless sleep that comes in the end. I have no idea what made the sound but when you have lived like I have; floating alone in endless darkness something as simple as a knock on the door will make you wish the space station would self destruct.

A short story I wrote for my English class, hope you like it. Adnan awoke to a chilling gust of wind flooding the room - snagged by the wind tower. In the corner was his father Rashid, slumped on the chair, his leather eyelids closed. Adnan opened the storage pot to find a meagre amount of dates left, and his stomach growled in protest. Rashid had woken up now, and was uttering gibberish. Adnan decided on leaving the dates for his father - he'd be getting a meal later in the day anyway. Handing him the bowl, Adnan looked into the old man's milky eyes, which had been blinded by the corrosive, saline water of the Gulf. He wondered what it must be like for your senses to disintegrate, for the world to go black. As he boarded the sturdy dhow, the sun had risen and the winds had settled, and he could almost feel the seering planks of palm wood through his sandles. "Adnan, collect the stones from the beach!" barked Khalid, the captain. The stones were hefty rocks that were tied to a diver to allow him to sink faster, and collecting them was an arduous task for a slender person like Adnan. After hoisting them aboard, the rest of the crew had finished preparations, and the boat was set to sail. The sons of the village rushed to the beach and shoved the boat (which of course was futile, but provided them with a sense of achievement), and with a simultaneous heave of the cumbersome oars, they lurched forward and departed, with Khalid staring sternly into the distance, positioned at the keel. As the boat hesitantly shifted along the glimmering waters, the divers chanted in unison, helping distract them from the worsening fatigue of the relentless rowing. Adnan did not know the lyrics - they predated even his father - but he murmured away regardless. It was four to every oar, and Adnan was nestled between two stocky men who reeked of rancid body odour. He thought he might faint. "Are you diving today?" he asked one of them, hoping conversation would take his mind off the noxious smells. The man scoffed, and replied "Haven't gone under in many-a-year, my son." Khalid ceased the rowing, and deployed the anchor. At this point, the village was barely in sight. Adnan was given his noseclip to clamp onto his nostrils whilst one of the collossi tied a stone to his ankle. Perched on the edge of the boat, he peered downward into the ominous ocean, and it was just as murky and menacing as he remembered: like a mouth opened wide, ready to swallow him whole. He was startled as a large hand clasped his shoulder. "Don't you dare surface until you've collected twenty," whispered Khalid, and with that he shoved the boy violently overboard. The stone yanked Adnan into the abyss, as he flailed about helplessly in its grip. Thud. He opened his eyes ever so slightly, and could just discern the boat far above him, the seabed, the fish, and a cluster of coral ahead. Untying the stone, he waded towards the school which circled the coral, and as they dispersed they revealed a cluster of oysters. He scrambled to scoop them into his basket as his lungs began to ache with a longing for air. Springing off the coral, he kicked viciously - journeying back to the dhow above him. His lungs pressed against his ribs, as his heart pounded - begging to breathe. The gleaming sunlight coaxed him upwards, teasing his weary body which grew weaker by the second. Surfacing, he swallowed a huge intake of the salty air, and panted greedily, inhaling all that he could. Two muscular palms grasped his wrists and plucked him from the water. The man he had talked to previously snatched his basket, and as Khalid examined the harvest, his brow stiffened. "This is eighteen." "Some - some must have fallen out! I was running out of breath!" pleaded Adnan, frightened about the possibility of punishment. "You can get to work opening what you brought up. When you finish that, you can dive again, alone this time. Oh - and you can forget about lunch." Adnan was distraught. How would he feed himself? He was penniless, his house a relic of his family's past affluence. He had an old man to attend to, a stomach to appease. He trudged over to his basket on the floor, and equipped himself with a blade, and set to work opening the oysters. He prised open the first one, and discarded the empty oyster into the food pile - they'd be eaten later. The second one was similarly worthless, and the prospects seemed bleak. On the ninth pearl, Adnan slotted the knife into the small gap of the oyster, and exerted as much force as he could to open it. In an instant, the blade slipped, and sliced his hand. Adnan winced, which attracted the attention of Khalid, who glanced at him suspiciously, before returning to his rope tying. Adnan scattered to collect the pearl that he had dropped onto the floor, and inside, resting in the slithery meat, like some holy offering from a pilgrim, like a sacred gift from the heavens, lay a swollen, milky sphere, as large as a marble. It was gorgeous, the most perfect thing he had ever laid eyes upon. He looked up. There were two others near him, all too preoccupied opening oysters to have noticed. Khalid was still working on the ropes it seemed. This could change his life. He could pocket the pearl and flog it for enough money to provide for him and his father for a year, maybe more. He extracted the pearl from its sanctuary and slipped it in his pocket. He knew of the consequences. He would lose his hand. He would be ostracised. Maybe even killed. Before he could rethink his decision, Khalid was looming over him. "Found any pearls?" he enquired accusingly. "N-not so far," replied Adnan. Suddenly, Khalid's hand grabbed his ear lobe, and tore him over to the side of the dhow. "Then you can go down again and find me twenty more," he commanded. The stocky man who he had befriended was tying his stone on, and caught Adnan's eye with a sorrowful look. Adnan plunged himself into the dark water, and he gently drifted to the bottom, like a piece of cloth. His stone landed, and it threw up a cloud of sand which slithered up his legs, before perishing and falling to the floor. He reached down to untie the string, but the knot wasn't like before, it was complicated and had stubby ends that he couldn't pinch. Panicking, he blew bubbles frantically, and as he despairingly traced their erratic trail with his eyes, the delicate beams of the Arabian sun which pierced the water were eclipsed by the silhouette of a migratory boat.

Light danced on the seat of the boat, flowing through cut-out hole in the boat's wall. 'Have they found it yet?' Margaret asked, her hands clasped in her lap anxiously. She had been agitated for the last half hour. 'They're still searching it seems,' I replied. The middle-aged men in their boxer shorts were somewhere below us, scouring the dark depths of the water. The surface was calm, then began bubbling, breaking with the sound of a deep gasp. A man's head emerged from the water, eyes squeezed shut and hair clinging like a shiny, black seaweed over his head. The old village women on the wooden deck began speaking in a stream of Portuguese. 'Have you found it?' they asked. 'Good Lord, where are the other men?' 'They better not be out too long. The sun will be setting soon.' 'Henri, fetch me a towel.' 'Would such a thing deteriorate in the water do you think?' 'Aye, a soft object like that. Wouldn't it get washed away easily like a piece of kelp?' In the stream of chatter, the man rubbed out his eyes and put a slick arm on the deck, hefting himself up. It was clear that he did not find it. He turned toward the boat and shook his head at Margaret who nodded graciously despite her melancholy. After awhile, other men emerged, their heads surfacing like cork caps. Next to me, Margaret kept her eyes anxiously peering out the window, although from her position, she could not see the water. The women resumed their eager chatter. 'Did you find it?' The men, gasping for their breaths, could not reply until they had hoisted themselves onto the deck, their boxers and bellies dripping with water. They shook their heads. 'Aye, what will she do?' The women shook their heads sadly. A melancholic tension arose in Margaret, her mouth tightened and shook. 'It's lost,' she stated. 'Well, there's no helping it.' 'It may still be there. It can't have drifted far in this current,' I said. The water on the surface appeared quite still around the dock. She shook her head. 'Let's just go. Others are waiting.' Around us were people looking at their watches, reading books or tapping impatiently. One couple's baby was crying. There was nothing more to be done. Exchanges of appreciation were carried out. The boat departed the dock within minutes. Margaret was making a soft, crying noise, unheard below the crash of the boat cutting through water. Far out, the lake had a grey-blue hue, reflecting the hovering clouds. Chains of sharp ripples diffused the surface of the lake at even intervals. I paid the boy at the dock the fare for the two of us when we arrived at the dock at the next shore. Margaret thanked me softly. No explanation was needed. When we arrived at the hotel, she proceeded to call home to find out the contact information of her bank, so she could enumerate her losses.

The sound of duct tape unwinding from its roll ruminated over Skype and carried back and forth, mixing with other sounds until they absolved in a dulling high-pitched screech. The TV was on in the background as the girl worked quickly on a school project handed down to her on short notice. Her efforts to finish this project had come to the tedious process of covering a large box completely in lime green duct tape. She was creating a somewhat large hideaway for a tortoise at her school. The boy had watched her from the time she undertook this project, admiring everything about her. Though the picture through his computer screen shone dark, to him she was a bright angel who illuminated absolutely everything around her. He analyzed every lovely feature of the pretty girl that sat before him. Her focused eyes danced about her project, taking great care in attending to the very preciseness of her duct tape placement. Her mouth held open and still, her tongue stuck out cutely, and her nose crinkled with her squinted gaze. It was as if her entire concentration would crack and break away if the positioning of her face changed in the slightest. A sudden flurry of laughs broke both the boy's and girl's concentration. The girl's attention shifted momentarily to the television. Her lips caught the light of the background as she turned her head and the boy took notice. He glared at her lips and wished desperately to a number of deities -in which he did not believe- that those lips could be on his in that moment. The girl smiled and laughed at a joke, though to him it was all mumbled chatter in the background. Warmth filled the boy as he smiled as well. The very thought of this girl being happy and the sight of her laughing made the boy's heart race more than anything else. The boy was guaranteed to be lifted off the ground with near uncontainable joy every time he watched the girl do even the most mundane of things. He watched her small, delicate hands curl around a third roll of duct tape. "Number three!" she muttered cutely, turning to him with widened eyes. He smiled wide, knowing she was exhausted with her project but still finding her gaze towards him enthralling. She opened it up and got back to work, another quick, sharp fwupping sound rattled the boy's ears. He looked at her, wishing her hands were holding him instead of the duct tape. He longed for her. To him, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. But the pretty girl did not actually sit before him. She sat out of reach. Twelve-hundred miles away. The boy was sad.

A Debt to Be Paid Chapter One Second Chances Shaun turned his head, looking down the long road he knew he had to travel, dropping the wet ended cigarette onto the floor he raised his foot and stood on the cigarette on the ground turning his foot from left to right, the scraping was very irritating but satisfying at knowing he had smoked his last cigarette. Shaun took hold of the bag, raising the handle of the duffle bag to slide over his shoulder, he then reached for his rifle that was leaning against an old oak tree. Shaun started to make his way down the highway. He had been travelling for a very long time, he made his way out of Atlanta in the early days of the apocalypse and had passed through many towns and cities to make his way to the BLR radio station where the tower was still active to communicate with other survivors, Shaun never really trusted anybody since the first few days of the apocalypse, in the first few days his fellow man became monsters, they were no longer his neighbours or his friends or even just strangers, they were savage beings who would stab your heart out for just a can of beans or even something simple as a plaster. Shaun had made met many fellow survivors before, somewhere just looking for hope and others.. Well hope for these other people was the satisfying taste of fresh undead blood. Shaun had been walking down the highway for quite a while, he would hum to himself such a simple tune “Cats and the cradle and the silver spoo..” His humming would come to a halt. Before Shaun knew he was surrounded by masked greasy looking man, they were each wielding an automatic gun of some kind, before he even reached for his rifle a man shouted “Drop all yer equipment! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE EM” Shaun slowly letting the duffle bag slip from his shoulders to land at his feet, whilst his rifle was thrown towards the ground, He had hoped it would have been like one of his favourite movie scenes from Hot Fuzz where the rifle would go off when it made contact with the ground but alas it just skidded for half a second along the concrete floor. A man with a scrap made mask that looked something like a welders mask, made his way towards Shaun, this man looked filthy like he hadn't washed for days, all sweat running down his body and dirt marks took over most of the visible skin. This man slightly chuckled as he took hold of both his rifle and his bag and dragged it back towards the four men he was with. Shaun was little worried it had be silent for at least seven minutes, he had already come to terms with the situation and knew for sure he was going to die, but still Shaun tried to think of a solution where these men would die or how he would run. As Shaun counted to the ten minute mark after he watched these savages loot through his personal items, the same man with the mask stepped forward, and raised his rifle towards Shaun’s head, Shaun looked this man right in the face and spoke “Well? What are you waiting for, this is what you want isn't it?” The masked man moved his finger to the trigger, and responded with “It’s a Dog eat dog world son,” Shaun closed his eyes and prepare for what was coming, Shaun wasn't afraid anymore, His body flinched as he heard a shot, his eyes still closed Shaun wondered if this man had missed or that he was just playing a game with him. Shaun slowly opened his eyes to see the man with a bullet sized crack to the left of his skull, blood would be pouring out as this large masked man fell to his knees. As Shaun looked towards the other men at the back two of them had already started running from the highway, the other two men still waiting where looking around aiming there rifles screaming “COME ON OUT WHERE ARE YE?” Another shot was heard in the distance as these men tried to pin point the shot, it was already too late one of the men had already been impacted before they could even begin to find this mysterious murder. The last man was standing in front of Shaun, he looked Shaun right in his eyes, Shaun was confused, and he didn't know if this was his lucky day or his day had been prolonged for five more minutes. The last man turned to the woods, and began sprinting as fast as he could, until he was nothing but a medium sized figure in Shaun’s eyes. Shaun stood up, his head looking back and forth looking for the person who had taken the shots, after just a few seconds Shaun took a few steps forward to his duffle bag and rifle, These man had thrown not only his essentials but his personal belongings all over the floor, as Shaun was cleaning up he heard a rustling coming from a thick group of bushes, Shaun reached for his rifle immediately facing it towards the group of bushes, his hands where very steady, and he dared not say a word he did nothing that would put him off his concentration, suddenly a man appeared from the bushes with his sniper rifle strapped around his back and both hands in the air, the man was wearing some sort of cloak and face mask, he had also a large duffle bag hung from his shoulders, At this point Shaun didn't know what to do. Chapter Two Hitch Hiker Shaun, with his rifle still aimed towards the man, they both made eye contact with each other, even threw this man’s mask he knew he had nowhere else to look. Shaun slightly lowered his rifle from the aim of the man’s head and spoke, “Was it you?” he asked “Was that you back there” This man slowly raised his hands towards his head, Shaun returned his aim to the man’s head, this gentleman didn’t looked scared of Shaun, even though the rifle was aimed at him he still continued to remove the hood from his head, has the hood was slowly lifted and the masked pulled down to reveal his face, there stood a man who looked like he could use good shave and a haircut , the man finally replied to Shaun and said “Aye, that was me, are you alright?” Shaun looked to him, and without responding to his question asked “Why, why did you save a stranger, why save somebody who could hurt you” The man’s eyes scanned Shaun thoroughly and said “The world isn't how it used to be, sometimes you got to remember that where still human, and this is how humanity should be, not like those lost sheep over their” as the man pointed to the remains of the dead group. Shaun looked to his man carefully lowering his rifle but his guard was still high, Shaun turned to the man and said “Thank you, but you really didn’t have to stop” The man finally lowering his arms, one to his side the other resting on his bag like a portable arm rest, the man looked to Shaun and said “My names Jack, but everybody calls me TK or well used too..” Shaun gave the man a little smirk, he had forgotten what is was like to have a conversation without it being a hostage situation or having your face eaten off Shaun replied to the man “My names Shaun, Pleasure to meet you” Jack seemed impatient to Shaun, after only a few moments of meeting jack looked like he wanted to get on his way pretty fast, Jack looked to Shaun again and said “I am glad I could at least save one life today, but I got to find my friend, he made radio contact about two hours ago, He’s supposed to be meeting me at Roads end, do you know where it is?” Shaun looked to the man and said “Roads end? Is that the bridge that was never completed?” jack replied swiftly “Yes! That’s it, that’s where I need to meet him but I have no idea how to get there” Shaun knew of roads end, but he didn’t know the route at all from where he was, Shaun’s face went blank as he went into a deep few seconds thought “He wondered if he pretended to know, he would make it off the highway to the rural areas safely, Shaun wasn’t really known as a liar, and didn’t trust people very much, but if he created his own little persona with this man, he would be able to bare the thought of travelling with a stranger without having to have real trust” As Shaun snapped out of his deep thought, he looked to Jack and said “ I’ll show you the way, I’ve been on the road to long alone and it would be nice to have some company and maybe even get us out of here alive” Jack was already grinning like he knew Shaun would make the offer, Jack responded to Shaun with a cheerful tone of voice and said “We have a deal my friend, I’d be more than happy to accept the generous offer” Both the men walked up to each other, both moving their hands towards each other, as they both tightly gripped each other’s hands and shook on the deal. Chapter Three False Shepard Shaun and jack had set off on a long journey to roads end, both the men had been travelling for an hour and a half, even though the world was at its end Shaun always liked to keep the time and date it always gave him peace at mind to know the hours and the days of this new life he had started as a survivor. Shaun and Jacked had talked about many things, they went on to talked about the good old days of going to a bar just to a have a sweet sip of an ice cold beer after a long day’s work and how it always tasted better when it was worked for. Other conversations went on about their hobbies and What few weird things they did to keep themselves entertained, all the while Shaun had pointing out wrong routes and making up small stories about them to convince jack he knew where he was heading. Shaun and Jack finally came across some buildings after a long journey, it was a rundown gas station surrounded by wrecked vehicles, on the opposite side of the gas station was a diner, which looked like it had not been raided by bandits or other survivors yet, and Shaun looked to jack and said “Can you keep watch for a minute? Ill check and see if there is anything we can use inside” Jack nodded to Shaun as he made his way to the door of the gas station Shaun pushed the door gently as the bell above the door made a ringing noise he quickly stopped in his tracks to see if he had alerted anyone or anything that may have been waiting inside. He waited a few moments before making his way to the counter, there he rested down his rifle and his bag, he moved his hand to the zipper on the duffle bag pulling it towards himself to open the top compartment of the bag when he had completed this action he made his way to the back to check to see if the store had any unused cans or still sealed packs of water. Shaun was looking through all the shelves he could find nothing, at this point he was very stressed at the idea he would have to walk out empty handed, he turned to his right to kick a pile of empty boxes to release some of his anger, and behind these boxes revealed to be a box full of twelve unused cans of beans and rice and a Jug used for willing up water machines, that was half empty his anger soon became settled when the stress was relieved, suddenly he heard the bell on the door ring Shaun slowly walked to the door and started talking to what he believed was jack “Can’t wait for you to see this, maybe would could have a feast tonight!” Shaun suddenly paused as he made it back to the counter, he looked towards the door to see a half-eaten rotting corpse leaning over where he had placed his gun and his bag, The undead creature suddenly turned towards Shaun and started charging, He had nothing to defend himself with, as the creature made contact with him they were both locked in arms pushing against each other, Shaun was slowly being over whelmed by this surprisingly strong undead man, and he quickly moved his hand to hold the zombie back by his neck he quickly scanned the room with his eyes for some kind of weapon to defend himself, the undead creature pushing himself on Shaun only inches away from his neck, and there it was he finally found a weapon to try to fend off this creature a rusty fork lay under the table covered in dust. Shaun reached out as hard as he could to try and grab the item from under the table, A smash was heard as an arrow made its way through the window to connect with the side of the zombies skull, this arrow was instantly fatal as the undead creature fell back and landed on the floor twisted like a pretzel, Shaun’s eyes focused to the smashed window and there stood jack wielding a compound bow Shaun walked towards the door, grabbing the handy firmly and pulling the door wide open, he looked at jack and said “What the hell man?! Where did you go, I asked you to keep watch” Jack looked at him knowing he was angry about it, and he knew he had the right to be jack replied “I’m sorry, I didn't know I thought I’d take a little wander myself, I thought maybe we could each be searching, the area was clear when I left I only found this cross bow and some sachets of ibuprofen powder” Shaun looked to jack and instead of an angry response Shaun smiled and said “When do I get to owe you one” Jack looked to Shaun and never questioned his change of heart, Shaun didn't know either I guess he just wanted to stay on good terms with Jack to get where he was going, Jack smiled and asked “Did you find anything?” With a big grin on Shaun’s face he replied “12 can of rice and beans, Half a jug of water” Jack smiled and replied with “I guess we get to eat for another night” That night Shaun and Jack had traveled not to deep into the woods close by, deep enough not to be seen but also for them to be able to keep track of the road, they smiled and laughed as they had a belly full of warm meal, That night it felt they were already the best of friends, Shaun questioned himself in his thoughts that if what he was doing could be classed as being what the bandits do, But still Shaun never changed his mind he kept with the idea of misleading the man but the guilt was slowly starting to brew inside of him.

In a quaint little down on the coastline live a little old woman who kept to her self. wasn't always this way as the old timers say. she used to give to charity by donating goods. she owned a little island and she traveled by boat with a bunch of veggies she brought in a tote, the town built her a bride to counter her nice. all was well, and was for a while. I cant pick a day when things started to change. A faded gradient marked the passing of days. From kind to shrill how could this be ? has this woman lost her humanity? A couple of people went there one day to be chased off in a hurry by a frantic lady. later that night the town was awoke by the sounds of yelling and the smell of smoke. the fire department rushed to the scene to see a bridge set ablaze and a woman laughing hysterically. after dousing the flames he said: "WHAT are you doing woman !? didn't you know, if you cant get to town you will die alone ?" she responded with a scowl and retreated indoors . the firemen shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. and yelled: "PACK UP THIS TRUCK AND WRAP THAT HOSE !" Surprisingly time went on like normal for weeks months, dam near a year. Until the the town awoke with the now familiar yelling and smoke! The fire dept responded to see the similar scene that they witnessed before. but this time they came prepared with a can full of gas and a box of matches. and set there end ablaze. as time when on the house withered to decay and new generations came there to play. no sign of the woman though but some will say. she smothered her self and fell to the sea.

It’s midnight and there’s something in the air that tells me that there are better ways. There’s nothing wrong with large doses of Xanax and weed toppled with large quantities of alcohol. But there are better ways. Find God. Sure, find God and find better avenues to avoid life. Incidentally, those avenues are much better: God, government, and things like gluten-free diets. That’s what you want to shoot for if you want to be safe about staying alive. I discourage drugs like I discourage things like joining book clubs and having a good sound investment in a company that may pay out in droves because of how well they can clean your teeth. My point to the young people is avoid the drugs. Avoid the cigarettes and coffee and ugly fillers of bacon and hamburger. Think of life like a pure root that needs to be forested with clean bills of health and natural solutions that don’t seem too presumptuous: you do not want to seem ugly in your showmanship. Get some exercise. Lift some weight and show the masses you are the boss of your body. Get real with yourself. Or just twist in the wind with some good old fashion book reading and avoiding humans personally. Hell, get a cabin in the mountains and forget about people altogether. Make sense of sentences that no longer make sense. Tell your boss that he or she is the grandest illusion of parenting that you have come across and then quit. Just don’t go into a stupor. Plan ahead. Think of the children. If you don’t plan on having children, think of the ones you see on TV. Think about what they will think about when you’re cats to the wind on ugly pharmaceuticals that turn all your rational thought into rhymes from a deranged children’s book. Think about farming. Think about buying a bike. Think about composting. Think about things that will probably make your horrible life a little more breathable. Think about things that will make God say “Eh, maybe.” Because you are not going to impress the heavens; in fact you will probably annoy them. Get real. Get real with God. God enjoys good honesty and if you are all full of weed and liquor, you should let him know and why you are cursing him this way to Topeka. Because God lives in Topeka and he barely stomachs chemical abuse problems. It’s like murder, rape, and then people with drug habits. Those are things God really gets mad about. Also, double parking. Be warned. Surprisingly, he has a place in his heart for fat people that ride scooters down the frozen food aisle looking for top quality carbo hits. God is mysterious. The bottom line is God forgives. Bum deaths all concluding in cancer. Ugly keyboards all used up in tribal dictations of exact performance. Things that cannot be seen but only shown. Slow red dawns that come cascading through the bottom line. Like bullets shot through paragraphs. Oh, quickly, these aftermaths. Trip a wire three times and you come up with zilich. Bottom dwellers come up like cancer and sink suffocating cancer into tumor'd lungs. We had some times, and they were fun. Twiced diseased. Fool me once, call me a fool, fool me twice and body parts...all over the room. Enter the Dragon: bargains. Bargains. Please exit left. The bargains all over the place. Cheese at half cost. Bread and sundry items at prices we cannot keep. The owner of the store has been up in the office with a shotgun just waiting for the last the last bargain that will force him to kill himself. Enter the Dragon: God in pixels. Just this item of information that poses as God and gives forgiveness and he's all over the ads on your internets. He is a false god. False gods continue to plague the masses and sell cheap broadband. Lick around the corner. There's a coroner. Something dead and sick sticks its tongue out in non-verbal rebellion. And God waits. Waits like a blimp. Meanwhile, While we mean well. Something troubled out on the outskirts. Termed employees pull up skirts. Following bombs and diplomacy. God looks down In dormancy.

You asked me what I know about the squads so I’ll tell you. In those days in the middle of the Depression it was funny. Sometimes there was drink, and sometimes there wasn’t, but there was always more liquor than food. I got tired of starving. One night in the jungle out by the Platte I was hanging out with the usual hoboes and I made the acquaintance of an old-timer named Sweaty Socks Johnson. I’d noticed that he was well-groomed and well-fed and I asked him what was what. He told me he’d been down to the WPA offices in Denver because he’d heard they were hiring for one of Roosevelt’s boondoggle deals. They hadn’t hired him but they’d given him a sandwich and a place to get cleaned up. It sounded good to me so I took a hit of Tokay and resolved to go down the next morning. So I was up all night drinking in the jungle and the next morning I woke up on the frosty ground underneath the bridge, all my bones aching from the cold. The other hoboes was all scattered around like dead soldiers in a civil war photograph. I got up and started the long walk to the WPA offices on Broadway. When I finally got there it was late morning. There was a bunch of chairs and beat-looking bums everywhere drinking coffee from a big rusty-looking tureen. That was something, anyway. I got me some coffee and took a seat next to this old-time tramp named Hiram. He had been on the road for years, a real bindle-stiff type with holes in his shoes and a mouth hanging open with the bottom lip sticking out that clues you in maybe a guy’s not all there. He talked and talked, not all of it making sense, and after awhile I stopped listening. That bottom lip just kept flapping and after a while I said “You take care, Bub,” and walked away from him and found a seat somewhere else. He looked at me with spittle on the big bottom lip ,hurt, and then forgot about me and looked for somebody else to bother. So’s I just sat there and worked on the coffee and pretty soon a queer in a white shirt and nice shiny spectacles comes out holding a clipboard and he says “Attention! Are there any military veterans here at this time?” And I look around and I raised my hand and wouldn’t you know it, the bindle stiff Hiram with the spitty lip raised his hand too. It made sense to me. Many a wino was made in the Great War. Blood of the grape, blood of man... these things have made a general ruckus in my own head, and I didn’t even get the worst of it. I felt a little bad about giving Hiram the cold shoulder when I saw he was a vet, and resolved I’d put up with his rambling the next time we spoke. We followed the queer into a little back room where there was a table and a few charis and dirty white walls and one little window looking out onto Broadway. We sat down and the queer started asking us questions. He asked me what kind of artillery I handled in the War and I told him how I was first infantry and I handled all kinds of things including machine guns, sure they were the early ones, but I made the thing hum when it should have jammed and got decorated for it, too. The queer asked Hiram the same question and the old bindle-stiff started rambling on about military strategies and what-not, but I gathered finally that he was some kinda infantryman and knew how to use a rifle. Okay, good, the fag said. So he gave us the scoop. How he’s got a job for us, that we’ll be out in the Rockies for at least a month. No expenses, a place to sleep, and a decent salary every day. I started thinking about being out there in the wild with no drink and my mouth got real parched, I mean I’d liked to have walked out the door right when he said that, but I smiled and told him it sounded good, what are we doing out there, and why would knowing how to use a gun make a difference? And the fag looked at me and smiled and said: we are paying you to hunt. So knowing that I was going out the next morning, next thing I do of course is I went out and got nice and stinko on some old grape. At first I hung out over on Marion St. with Big Missouri Bill and all those other bums that hang out behind Old Widow Kutanski’s boarding house, but then I got tired of them boys and walked down to Broadway and found the patch of weeds I’d been layin’ in for a couple weeks and I finished the rest of the bad wine trying not to taste it and then I tried to sleep. And it took me a while, but sleep I did. And then I woke up with the sun, hangover a little worse than regular, and walked on down to the WPA office all sore and itching from the weeds with my feet in my shoes feeling swole and dirty, that feeling that bothers you until you make yourself forget about it because that’s just the way it is. The other men waiting were a sorry bunch too, about ten of us altogether, and three-quarters of ‘em looked as bad-off as me. I recognized some of the fellas—there was Ass McRoberts and Flapjack Freddie and Little Mississippi Mitch and a couple of other guys that looked half-familiar. I didn’t care about them, though. I just stood there with the flies buzzing around in the morning heat, wishing the sun would go behind a cloud, but every cloud kept missing it, and it bore down like a piece of drill metal, a cylinder of heat boring into my head. I was so hung, I couldn’t do the sensible thing, which was leave. I waited. A bus pulled up, a green military affair, and off the bus come these two fresh-faced young kids, didn’t even look old enough to shave. One looked half-Indian and he had them black Indian eyes like chips of black glass that piss you off ‘cause they stare through you, and the other one was a young blonde punk I would have liked to turn out right then. He stood there trying to look tough while I looked him over and thought about giving him the what-for and then he yelled: “ALL RIGHT YOU MEN! EVERYBODY ON THE BUS!” I could tell right off that the other boys didn’t like that too much: we was all civilians now, and who wants to listen to some punk anyway? But finally with some grumbling everybody relaxed back into being bums, and got on the bus. We sat there for about an hour, the two army boys standing at attention in front of the bus, and I was starting to doze when a short, balding man, a second lieutenant it looked like, got on. He looked at all us, one by one, just staring, then he said: “You’re all ex-military. A couple of you could’ve once been soldiers, maybe even good ones. And I respect that. I know times are hard for you men. Some of you have given up on work and on yourselves. Some of you think you’ll find what you’re looking for in the bottle, God be damned. Think again.” Someone in the back of the bus broke wind. The lieutenant didn’t flinch or make any sign that he’d heard.

When people ask me about my earliest memory, I recall not an image but the warm feeling of a tattered blanket being wrapped around my shivering shoulders. After the feeling, I remember the sight of a dilapidated house seen with a quick glance over my shoulder, and in the centre of the doorframe, a man standing with a demon smile spread across his lips. “Don’t look,” she told me. So I didn’t. I never looked back again. She took me to a different house in the nicer part of the city. That was the first time I had ever ridden in car. I remember the seats feeling plush and warm, and when I laid my head down on them she said it was all right to sleep. When I woke up, I found myself lying in a bed that felt like clouds in a room with no broken widows, no lingering cigarette smoke, and my first sense of security. When she walked in I asked her if I could stay and she said that this was my new home. I began to cry and she embraced me with the first of many loving hugs. She assured me that everything would be okay in my new life and that I would never have to go back to that house or the man with the demon smile. I asked her why she saved me and who she was. She shook her head. “Call me Rachel,” she said, simply. I swore that I saw a tear escape from her eye, but she quickly turned away. I never asked about her past. I never asked who she was. I lived happily with Rachel for many years. By the time I was twelve I had discovered my passion for art and could frequently be found sitting by the window with a paintbrush in hand. I loved to paint all things from portraits to cityscapes, but my favourite subjects were sunflowers. I always thought that they looked as loving and warm as Rachel. She sometimes would sit with me while I painted, sipping her cup of black coffee and watching the world go by. We would talk about life, the universe, the future. One day I asked her if she believed in God or heaven. She turned to look at me with her emerald eyes and furrowed her brow, causing the small, white scar above her eyebrow to crinkle and almost disappear. “I don’t know about God. There are things in this life we don’t understand.” She took a sip from her cup and returned her gaze to the window. “As for heaven, I’m already there.” I never understood her response, but sometimes I felt that I needed no answers. By the time I was fifteen, I had excelled so much in my artwork that Rachel began helping me to sell my paintings. I was quite surprised that people would want my mountain landscapes hanging in their living rooms or my abstracts hanging above their beds. In fact, I was becoming quite famous in my city; I was known as a prodigy among many modern artists. I began to work after school with other artists in my city, and I felt that I would one day become a great master like them. My life had truly become a dream, and it was all because of Rachel. For Rachel’s birthday, which was coincidentally the same day as mine, I decided to paint her a beautiful vase of sunflowers sitting on the windowsill of where we always sat. After spending two whole weeks perfecting the piece, I wrapped it up nicely and planned on presenting it to her when I got home from school. I walked in the door, threw my bag on my bed, and grabbed the painting from behind my bedside table. I went into her room, expecting her to be reading one of her mystery novels or calculating her expenses at the flower shop she owned. But I walked in to a disastrous scene with the sheets strewn on the floor, drawers pulled out of the chest, and broken glass from the vanity mirror embedded in the carpet. I heard crying from behind the bathroom door, so I put the painting on her bed and gently knocked with a shaking hand and called her name with a lump in my throat. Rachel opened the door and when she looked at me, her eyes filled with more tears. She embraced me tightly, giving no explanation of what happened. “How could I forget,” she whispered into my hair. Terrified, I stood there hugging her trying to calm her down. She eventually noticed the painting I had placed on her bed and rushed to open it. She started crying tears of joy as she marvelled at my work. I told her that words couldn’t express how thankful I was for all she had done for me. She was a saint for taking me in and raising me as her own. She stroked my long, blonde hair and said that she was never a saint, but a sinner, and that I was the only goodness in her life. I placed my hand on hers and pressed it closer, thankful to know such kindness. I told her that I could only hope one day I’d be able to live up to her. Her eyes widened and her face went blank. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but before I could ask she told me to go and make her a cup of her usual coffee. Then, we’d sit by the window like always. I did as she said, and when I returned with her coffee she was gone. I checked the bathroom again, the guest bedroom, and everywhere else in the house. I called her phone several times only to hear the familiar voicemail response. She was gone. My eighteenth birthday was the last time I ever saw Rachel. After I graduated from high school, I spent a couple of years diligently painting and living off the money I made from selling my pieces. I tried to do other things too, adventure and live my life, but I couldn’t help but feel the empty space that Rachel left. One day, to honour her memory, I decided to paint a portrait of her. I painted her eyes last because I felt that once I had brushed the final stroke of emerald green, the piece would come to life. I couldn’t bear to look into her eyes the whole time, and once they were done, I couldn’t have added another detail even if I wanted to. When I had finally finished, I stood there and admired my creation. In my opinion, it was my best work. Every curve and every colour was perfect. I backed up to get a better look at it, but I clumsily tripped and smacked my head into the glass table behind me. I felt a gush of blood from above my right eyebrow and quickly ran to bandage it. The pain, however, was nothing compared to the pain I felt again from losing Rachel. I sat in front of the painting for several days, swirling my glass of whiskey and pretending that she were still with me. One day, one of the artists I used to work with paid me a visit, and the first thing he noticed was the painting of Rachel sitting against the wall. He walked up to it, examined it, and let out a small chuckle. “What?” I asked him. “Oh nothing,” he replied. “It’s just that you’ve been painting all these years and you just now paint a self-portrait.” Suddenly, the whole room felt like it was spinning. I saw everything around me blur together into a mass of colours, except the portrait of Rachel. Her small nose, her sharp cheekbones, her white scar, and her emerald eyes. They were all mine. It wasn’t a painting anymore; it was a mirror. The man asked me if I was alright, and when I saw his face clearly again, I screamed. The artist had disappeared and I now saw the face of the man with the demon smile. The last thing I remember is collapsing to the ground. After that, just blackness. And the cold.

It’s clear to me now, that I was not a normal child. Like my peers, I enjoyed watching TV and playing with toys but there was something oddly unique to me. I loved worms, and I cannot fully explain why. My fascination for these creatures can be connected to another past time of my younger self, and that was digging large bothersome holes. Walking across our front yard at night or with little attention was a dangerous undertaking. Planted like landmines on a battlefield these invasive traps were set for the naive to fall and trip in. My parents didn’t always approve of this menial self-inflicted project of mine to effectively dig away our front yard but I kept doing it anyway. It was to my absolute joy that I discovered the Earth to hold other treasures besides rock and clay. I equate myself to Columbus discovering the new world, because underneath the soil, the soil us humans stomped upon each day lived a grand society of creatures. Ants, and larvae were common occurrences but by far the most exciting to me were the worms. They were just so unbelievably fascinating. The way that they slithered around the floor and onto my fingers, their slippery mucus like skin, the fact that both sides of their bodies were nearly identical. These tiny critters blew me away. Anyway, it was a common occurrence while heading to a tennis club called BOH to stop at the same gas station, it was a perfect little half way point to and from the club. I would normally stick inside the car, roll down the windows and call after my mother to get me a slushy or ice cream but in this specific circumstance I decided to go with her. Slushy in hand, standing beside my mother at the counter I made a horrible realization. Worried, but afraid of jumping to conclusions I asked my mother, anxious for a valid explanation. “Mom why does the gas station have boxes full of worms”. “Well....” it was easy to pick up that she was trying to come up with a lie. “They’re for fishing little guy”, this well-meaning cashier was awarded an angry glance from my mother and a horrified shriek. I pleaded with my mother, “We have to save them, Mom please”. My sobbing self, rolling on the floor was granted only one package of worms; the rest would suffer slaughtering by fish. My emotions perked up as we entered the car, I won a small victory, had a slushy, and I saved some worms. We entered the club with conflicting emotions. She was constructing an explanation on why her son likened himself to a liberator while playing with worms, and I was about to become a messiah. Like myself my friends were always at the club, all summer long. Within moments I was able to round the lot of them up and lead them with little resistance. I didn’t to bother them with the reason of my eagerness, they would see soon enough. Behind the furthest tennis court was a swamp, it smelled disgusting and always seemed to lull bile from my stomach (the childhood rumor was that this is where they dumped the horse poop). Besides the before mentioned smell, the location was brimming with wildlife frogs, birds, and insects of every kind; this would be the best place for my worms to live. It also helped that even in a blistering hot summer, the soil here was always moist, perfect for digging and it would make a fine home. “So.....Chooch”, (childhood nickname) “....what are you doing?” I had my back to them as I clawed at the dirt, my nails accumulating grime. Answering innocently “I’m trying to rescue these worms, do you guys want to help?” I had invited three of my closest friends to this party, and on each one of their faces was a resounding nope. “Fine”, if they didn’t want to help, then they didn’t have to. The hole was certainly deep enough for my worms but I thought that just to be sure, I’d give them a little bit more room. So focused on my task that I didn’t realize the mutual agreement that had taken place directly behind me. In a cliché description, it all happened so quickly. Before I could comprehend I was pushed to the ground, and a heavy force was applied to my chest. My friend Niko was a strong kid with a mass far above my own. I tried desperately to kick and wriggle my way from under him but it was to no avail. My actions got exponentially more desperate once Johnny made his way towards my worms. Already my stomach was dropping, I knew what was about to happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Before any of my beautiful worms could reached sanctuary, they were plucked off the ground and brought towards the pond. Unable to do anything, and nearly out of breath, the container was thrown over the fence. For days if not weeks I regretted ever interfering in these worms lives. They would have had a quick death by a fish had it not been for my negligence. But now they were resigned to a state of purgatory, a torture worse than even Dante could imagine. Johnny’s throw had been a pitiful one, instead of dying hidden in the water, the package sprawled open on the tiny beachfront. It should be mentioned that these were very large night crawlers and therefore they were to be bait for corresponding sized fish. The meager frogs that emerged from the shallow were anything but the appropriate size. It was a horrible scene to watch, short of breathe and crying, I could hear their screams. Their wails of pain shook my eardrums, I wasn’t watching mindless bugs being eaten alive, and I saw people. They were crunched and mutilated, malevolent monsters were to blame, and I’m not talking about the frogs, it wasn’t their fault but my friends. I would receive little sympathy outside of my family, they understood my pain. Yet others would ask “Why are you upset Chooch? You know that they were just worms right? They were going to die anyway, I don’t see the big deal is”. Their compassionless state of being couldn't realize that I meant to change that, their destiny wasn't set in stone, I was going to save them. I’m sorry to admit, but I think that this experience made me noticeably more cynical. No longer do I go out of my way over such trivial matters. Life is a wonderful gift but apparently some view another’s death as a small enjoyment, something to laugh and point at only to move onto the next thing a few moments later.

Excuse the grammar. This was entirely short notice and very emotional. I don't know her but I remember this girl. I know this story inside and out but I can't relate it to anything in my life so I'm treasuring it. I have these dreams. They're different, special. I don't think anyone else has dreams like these. It's basically a story. There's these places, roads I've been on, stores I've been to. Fleshed-out characters, you know. It's vivid. It's a whole fucking story playing out in my head, but I'm just watching through someone's eyes. I'm not controlling anything. I'm just watching. It's a nightmare but I'm sure they're actually memories. I remember being young. I was a hotshot in a fast car in a small town. I had a happy future somewhere down the line. I remember this girl. She didn't care who I was. She just liked the way I spoke. She had red-brown hair. When the sun hit it she glowed like she was on fire. She would never know though. Her eyes were a deep blue. As blue as the ocean and just like the depths there was only darkness. She would never see through those eyes. She was so brave and I was so scared. I remember falling in love. I met her parents. They lived in a white wooden house with orange paneling. They had the lucky misfortune of not only being poor but stupid. They weren't evil. They were lazy. Their son, her step-brother, was a fucking monster. His posture, demeanor, smile, everything about this fuck screamed bloody murder. Then I remember her disappearing. I remember myself fading away. Then I wake up. I think I'm almost forty. There's a can of beer in my coat pocket. I don't know how long it's been there. I don't know how I got here. Fuck. I couldn't even tell you my name unless I pulled out my wallet. I remember more now. I know I spent a couple years inside. I know a spent more years somewhere else. It's all a blur. Drugs, man. Drugs kept me locked up but they kept me sane. There's something I was trying to forget. It worked. I only get glimpses now. I recognize this town. It's where I'm from. Either from the dreams or before that. I belonged here. I have some vague memories. A store I went to and bought beef jerky from. A liquor store I mopped for a fifth of whiskey. A whole fucking hodgepodge of memories that form no outline to what I've been up to since I got out. My feet carry me to some place I remember. A square grid, like a tic-tac-toe of roads. I remember most of them. I should probably shave. I look like a bum. Then, again, I think I am a bum. If my dreams are right that house is here somewhere. That girl is waiting for me. I spend a few hours being tailed by a kid on a bike. I call him over and we talk about video games. He has no idea what I'm talking about but we get along well enough. He asks what I'm doing and I tell him the truth. I remember this place but I don't remember my life. We walk up and down the streets. White, blue, green, brick, and concrete houses but no white with orange. I know he's doubting me but I appreciate him hanging around. Then I see it. It's different. All orange but it's the same house. I don't even bother knocking. I know I've been here before. I walk into the kitchen. Her brother is there. He's older, he's bigger, and he's drunk. He recognizes me. He reaches under a table and brings out a gun. "I never thought you'd come back. I never thought you'd be okay. He told me you would never come back." I sit down across from him and start crying. "There's all these things I remember. I don't know what happened. I don't know who I am." "That's probably for the best." He walks over to a drawer, pulls it open, and shoots himself in the head. The boy ran away a while ago. I don't remember when I stopped crying or when I looked in the drawer. I have a Missing poster in my hands of a beautiful red-headed girl with blue eyes. There's a note in there but it's hurting me. I read the first few lines and I know I shouldn't read it. I still can't remember but I know I'm not dreaming. It's morning now. I keep on walking not knowing what to do. I sit in a park and I think. A bus pulls up. Some elderly folks get off and make their way to the benches around me. A red-haired woman gets off. Her hair is glowing in the sun but she's too old. She's at least twenty years older than me. I hear an old man going on about his daughter. He repeats the same sentence three times before some other man tells him to shut the fuck up. I walk up to the red-haired woman. "Oh, it's you. I never thought I'd see you again. You know when Eve went missing I was sure it was you. I visited you once. You were so out of your head I decided it hurt you as much as me. Wigs are expensive you know. It took forever to find the right color." I smile at her. I remember who she looks like. I remember Eve. Fuck. I remember everything. I remember walking in to her house one day. Her brother and his friend on top of her. She was crying and screaming. I remember being hurt. I remember a needle going into my veins. I remember a gun in my hands and I remember her dead. I lived with those memories for years. I spent years in jail because of them. Then I lost it and I spent years in a home trying to remember my name. The home lost it's funding and I was considered rehabilitated enough to be released. Twenty years of my life refusing and then believing I was a murderer. "You know Jacob, Jim's friend, helped pay for this wig. He's such a sweetheart. He took care of us when my husband died. He always loved this shade of red." "Where is he now miss?" "Oh, Jacob? He teaches down at the police academy about twenty miles over. Such a sweetheart." The caretaker is gathering up his flock. I grab her wig and tear it off. She starts crying. "Jacob killed Eve. You know this. I know this. I need this for what I'm going to do." Her eyes turned a deep blue just like my Eve's. She smiles and walks on the bus. Twenty miles is a long way but I make it by next day. I robbed a convenience store. I shaved. I gelled my hair back. I rented a suit. I walked into the station and asked what room Officer Jacob was teaching in. He wasn't an officer anymore but I got the room. Some charisma and a good looking suit will get you anywhere. I walk in and Jacob gives me a smile. His class stares at me. I throw the wig on his desk. We just stare into each other's eyes for a moment. He finally recognizes me. A small fight ensues. His body is used up. I'm sure he saved many lives with it but mine was ready. I fought like a man on the edge. I got shot but I killed him. I almost died but I woke up chained to a bed. They found a note in that drawer. They uncuffed me but I fell back asleep. I was sitting on a porch outside a wooden house. I sat on a swing bench. A woman comes out the door. Through sheer muscle memory she comes over and sits next to me. Her hair glows red in the sun. She's smiling and she holds my hand. I wish this dream would last forever.

Blank. Mindful. That’s how you wish you could be – devoid of the invasive thoughts, the rapid-fire-stream-of-consciousness-collection-of-random-thoughts-strung-together. Inflation of the Indonesian Rupiah, the name of the Malian foreign minister, spot prices of Paraguayan soybeans and the mass of the plastic at the centre of the Pacific Ocean. In the check-out counter at the supermarket. Mid-coitus. Eating noodles. A constant parade of meaningless nuggets, strung together to form a haphazard, nonsensical soliloquy, a brook of babble flowing unrelentingly through your conscious mind where it don’t belong. You open your eyes. Light. Lots of it. The workers hammering away at the building under construction next door have already been at it for a few hours, you imagine. Maybe eleven o’clock, maybe noon. It doesn’t matter. A single mattress, held up by an ancient wooden bedframe, is the sturdiest piece of furniture in the flat, on the fifth floor of a claustrophobic midtown walk-up. Almost everything else is cheap plastic. The dearth of furniture – a dining table, a couch, another mattress on a pallet in the living room – is the product of both laziness and fear. After all, you reason, if they come for you, you want to have as little as possible to pack up. All of your possessions should fit into one suitcase in the event you have to make a speedy exit. Outside. It’s hot. April, May, maybe. No way of knowing. Forty degrees in the shade. The steady hammering sound created by the workers is punctuated by the calls of garbage-disposal men or door-to-door pickled-plum sellers. Otherwise, calm. The fucking thoughts. The fear, the swelling tide of presumed inadequacy and assumed mistrust. Nobody is looking out for your best interests. You don’t want to trade your air-conditioned room with its ancient bedframe for the sweltering heat. That would require talking to people, interviewing, caring. It’s not getting better. You are alone. The students have stopped marching, because they’re sitting exams. If they make it into the city, it will be a bloodbath. You don’t care. They could die. Even your increasingly distant friend, with the crutches, the polio survivor, the former political prisoner, the one leading the marches in all the photos. You don’t care. Life is cheap. They attack Red Cross aid convoys here to make a point. They kill and rape Kachin teachers. The Norwegians claim to have answers. The Chinese build dams and mines and displace the poor. The poor die. The poor. The poor. The wealthy. You. You don’t need to leave if you don’t want to. Your ancient wooden bedframe is the only place you realistically need to be. You have nowhere to be. The world is dukkha – suffering – the Buddha taught. Now his followers mete it out. The Muslims are African Carp. If you're a retired general, the solution to rectify a lifetime of misdeeds safeguarding the integrity of the Union is to build a ten-story phallic symbol of a pagoda in an imaginary city. Life goes on. Her. Her alarm went off at six-thirty in the morning. “That’s when I have to be up to get to the office on time,” she told you. Her office is a two-minute walk from your flat. She’s new here. You tell her to just get a bicycle – the traffic around Kandawgyi Lake is horrendous in the morning. Sure, it’s hot, but it’s a ten-minute ride. There’s a shop on 11th street where she can get an old, Japanese-made Bridgestone bike for maybe fifty bucks, you tell her. She tells you she might. She gives you a kiss, yesterday. She smells good. She’s not here. You have nowhere to be. Special Branch has decamped, it appears. You probably aren’t under surveillance but it’s difficult to know. They know where you are. You know know it doesn’t really matter. Because the worst thing that can happen is they give you an hour to pack and drive you to Mingaladon, to the airport, forcing you to abandon it all on the spot possess and whatever tenuous connections you've forged in the process. In your head, you get belligerent. Fuck them. They’ll make you pay for a ticket out. If they want you gone, they can fucking pay for a fucking ticket. Nobody is listening. You are in your flat. They aren’t outside. You order a pizza. Margherita. Two cans of 100 Plus. Nine thousand five hundred kyats, plus a tip of five hundred to the kids who deliver it, who are mystified to receive half the country’s average daily wage as a gratuity from a reclusive foreigner. It is just after noon. Top Gear came out yesterday. You don’t even need to go to the ice cream shop, with its reasonably fast WiFi, to download it. Now that the Japanese have upgraded the old military-owned GSM network, you can torrent it without having to leave your old bed, with its ancient, wooden frame. You start the download. Halfway through, your pizza arrives. You pay for it. It is still warm. It fills you. You are numb. You watch Top Gear. You email your editor. You can write. You don’t want to. After all, you don’t know what day it is. You don’t know what country you are in. You are not at home. You have no home. You are in your bed with its ancient wooden frame. He doesn’t care, probably. Nobody will read it anyways – a veil of anonymity that is easy and possible for you to complete at your current level of functionality. The bills get paid. The pizza gets purchased. The rapes and forced displacement and indiscriminate shelling and tapas eating and inflammatory rhetoric continue outside - unabated. Or do they? The Upanishads teach that the world is Maya. Illusion. Cyclical. Unstoppable. You go to sleep. Tomorrow. You open your eyes. Light. Lots of it. The workers hammering away at the building under construction next door have already been at it for a few hours, you imagine. Maybe eleven o’clock, maybe noon. It doesn’t matter. The cycle will keep going.

I originally posted this on /r/ImaginaryDialogues, before realizing that Sub is basically dead. However, I kind of enjoyed the format of dialogue-only stories, so... here it is! Part 1 of however many I end up writing. **Mallock:** Okay. Here we go. Auditory Communications should be calibrated. Are you there? ... **Mallock:** Victor. ... **Mallock:** Shit. Uh, just a second let me..... Okay. Victor? ... **Mallock:** Uh, I don't know if you can hear or - *whatever*, but. I went ahead and typed a prompt and, it should be visible, even if you can't hear me. ... **Mallock:** So, if you can see that or hear me, go ahead and, if you can, ya know... communicate to me. ... **Mallock:** Goddamnit. *Dr. Casey can you please get in here?* **Casey:** What's going on? **Mallock:** How the fuck should I know, he's - it's, just quiet. I'm getting nothing. **Casey:** No signal? **Mallock:** Of course there's signal. Communications are out. **Casey:** Well, did you lose signal when he- **Mallock:** No, do you honestly think I'd let it drop? 2 years and 13 billion dollars, I'm not gonna lose a goddamn signal. **Casey:** It still reads 'active'. **Mallock:** But I'm getting nothing. **Casey:** And the Transition? **Mallock:** Flawless. 100% upload, locked in. **Casey:** Are you sure it... *took*? **Mallock:** ... **Casey:** I'm-I'm not *doubting* you, I just- this is the first time, you know? **Mallock:** Flip on Communications. **Casey:** Go. **Mallock:** Victor. Victor Herrow. If you can hear or see the prompt, please respond. ... **Mallock:** Victor Herrow. If you can hear or see the prompt, please respond. ... **Casey:** Dr. Mallock. Is there a chance- **Mallock:** There's no fucking chance. It worked, goddamnit. I watched him go. I was here, like I've been here for 2 years. I had signal, the connection was flawless, the upload completed. If you're going to doubt my abilities, please leave. **Casey:** Is there a chance to revive him? To try again? **Mallock:** ... **Casey:** Not that I'm doubting it worked. Just. As a fail-safe, we revive, and re-upload. **Mallock:** The man's been dead for 4 hours. We can't bring him *back.* If the upload failed- it's done. But I am telling you- I watched it work. He died, and Transfer began. He's fucking in here, I know it... *Victor. Please, fucking respond.* ... **Casey:** Dr. Mallock, let me suggest taking a few hours. Just leave the lab, breathe. You've been obsessing over this for two years, it's tunnel vision. Okay? Communications probably needs to be re-configured - something *simple* like that. He's there. You're right. You did it. You just need to breathe. **Mallock:** Two years... and if it didn't... take. I-I just couldn't live with that. This man invested the last two years of his life to this. He spent every dime he had to fund it. Victor Herrow, the billionaire who funded his own Afterlife. I know this man's mind better than I know my own. And if he died, and it didn't work... I can't go back to square one. **Casey:** I have every confidence in your abilities, Dr. Mallock. Sometimes brilliance needs some rest. I'm going to get a cup of coffee, and I hope you join me. **Mallock:** Yeah. ... **Mallock:** Victor. Please. I need you to be there. I need you to hear me. Please respond. Please. Victor. If you can hear or see the prompt, please respond. ... **Mallock:** Okay. Coffee. We'll try again soon. I'm not giving up on you, yet. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..d...........da..... ... ... ... dark.

A short three second buzz, a low frequency humming. That was what greeted me when I plugged one of the old radios into the socket at work. I had a collection of radios - walkie talkies that is, on the table behind me. I hand them out to the drivers so they can communicate with the machine operator and know whereabouts it is they should tip their mountains of waste. I never thought I'd end up working at a landfill, one of those jobs you never really think about until you come across it, but here I am, that's not important now and can be left for later. Right now I'm concentrating on that little buzzing. *buzzzzz* There it was again. I wouldn't call this a disconcerting sound but it's certainly enough to get under your skin when you hear it. I'm busy right now though, and its been about an hour since this little radio last buzzed at me. I'll find another radio when I have time, plug that in and be done with this buzz. For now I'll just ignore it, get back to my work and focus on the other plethora of sounds I hear. *buzzzzz* - Well that wasn't quite an hour this time I'm sure of it. I can't find another radio though, and I'm already struggling with only 3. Looks like this buzz is here to stay for now, at least today. Let's just call it a temporary buzz, besides I'm leaving soon and then there'll be no-one here to hear the buzz. The buzz won't have anyone to hear it, so as far as I am concerned the buzz will exist but simultaneously not exist - Schrödinger would agree. Today is going well, there is a healthy amount of work to get through and so far I've not heard that damn buzzing all day. I understand the phrase about speaking too soon now - *buzzzz*. The only buzz all day, weird. I'll get around to fixing that damn buzz soon. One week. Two weeks. Buzzing levels at all time recorded lows. A victory for ignoance? Perhaps a small one. I'd reflect on my victory more but I'm deep in conversation with my colleage and old friend John about the Leachate samples that need sending when he pricks up his ears and speaks three short words: "What's that buzz?" Buzz? Oh, the buzz, that's nothing. I hadn't heard it for a while, I played it off well, I think. Other people are noticing the buzz though, interesting development. The idea of the buzz is beginning to occupy my thoughts a lot more, despite the actual sound of the buzz occupying my ears less. I guess that's what's perturbing me. What is the buzz and why isn't it as loud and irritating for me any more? I have desensitised myself to the buzz, I speculate. *buzzz* It doesn't like being speculated upon, this buzz. I find myself outside smoking, in the rain. It is a Wednesday so I am smoking. There isn't any causation between these two things, however there is no particular reason that I was smoking, so it may as well be because it is Wednesday. *buzzzzzzz* My cigarette just buzzed this time. I'm fairly sure of it. I decided the best course of action was to ignore this buzz also, and it would shortly go the same way as the Dodo and the first buzz. Although I'm sure I've just learnt to ignore the buzz, and Dodo's are in fact extinct, not simply walking around invisible to an uncaring population. Managing to completely overlook Dodo's if they were real would be infeasible as a Dodo is simply, as unmistakable as, well... As unmistakable as a buzz I guess. These strange thoughts of idioms and their practicalness absorbed the rest of my day and were enough to keep any unwanted buzzes at bay. I returned home that night from work and it was then I started really listening. I realised that when I listened closely enough the buzzing was everywhere. I instinctively opened a can of beer when I walked through the door and it buzzed at me. Previously the sound had been a *tsst* but today it was a distinct *buzz* I was sure of it. The lighter in my hand clicked and the cigarette positively buzzed. The unpaid bills that had been piling up on my desk were buzzing as loud as a swarm of flies. My phone rang, if it was on vibrate and had have buzzed too I think I'd have just about been through with this whole thing but it was my girlfriend. I picked up the phone and the buzzing was so loud I had to tell her I'd call her back another time. This is too much, I need to go to sleep. The dirty washing in the sink buzzed as I hit the lights off and they buzzed too but they're filament and that's a different kind of buzzing. In the bathroom the toilet flushed as the taps I didn't bother to wash my hands with buzzed and my electric toothbrush buzzed which was strange because the batteries died long ago. I'll change them tomorrow I thought to myself. In reply they buzzed louder. Two hours sleep. This is insanity. Damn buzzing. I could barely hold my chin in my hand. Slow day at least, not much work to be done. *buzzz*. I recognised this buzz, it was a very original kind of buzz, the one kind of buzz you'd get from a low frequency radio that was long overdue being taken care of. I searched for an excuse but for the first time in a long time I came up blank and so I unplugged the radio from the wall and went in search of a spare. The spare I found doesn't buzz which is great. My cigarettes still buzz at me though and various other things do too which is strange. I'll quit smoking soon but they can buzz at me until then. John came into my office again just now. He's having a lot of problems recently; putting off going to the gym, not spending enough time with his wife or kids, spending too much time in the pub and god only knows how behind he is on his work e-mails. Even worse, we used to be good friends and would always find time for each other, now we only speak about Leachate and soil samples at work. He wasn't looking so good today, he lit a cigarette and his ears pricked up as he did.

I love poker. Playing this game, one will understand just how weird that statement is. This is because in order for it to be true, the exact opposite must be true at the same time. I don't play professionally, but it's mostly because I don't hate myself. That being said, poker is my biggest passion, and I consider myself a true student of the game. Since January, I've been working on adjusting my image at the table, tightening up, and playing with more discipline. I've been picking better spots and learning more about my opponents. I've seen some improvements, but they haven't been anything to brag about. I still lose focus sometimes and play like a fish. Tonight I sit down at my usual twice-a-week game. My bankroll is a little short and I only have one buy in for the next few days until I can afford to re-up. The pressure is always on because these guys know me well. They see me as a young thinking player who tries to outplay his opponents and as a result, plays and loses too many hands. They like to pick on me when I raise. They never believe me. Usually they're right, sometimes it pays off. But tonight is different. Tonight, I'm going to play properly. Tonight, I'm going to fold that TKo Tonight, I'm going to show them how disciplined and controlled my game is. So I wait.... An hour goes by. I've seen two flops. Both from the BB without needing to call a raise preflop. The first pot was routine; flop nothing, fold to the first bet. The second pot was a little better- I flopped Top pair, good kicker. I made a call on a draw heavy board, and put in a raise when the turn bricked. I took down a smallish pot without having to show my marginal hand. On my right, sits a guy I've known for a while. We're good friends, but he doesn't share my passion. He doesn't know what it's like to spend all night reading books, watching videos, and battling with my bank to allow a deposit on Carbon so that I can get some *real* poker under my belt. He's a gambler. When he bets, he bets big, and he bets *often*. This used to scare me; I would worry when playing against him with medium-strength hands, scared of the out-of-nowhere $20 bet into a pot of 4.50 But tonight is different. Tonight, I'm going to wait. Tonight, I'm not going to try and "outsmart" him. Tonight, I'm going to let the cards do the thinking for me. He's up to his usual antics again. He's almost tripled his stack by running good, and gambling aggressively. He played one hand in which he opened UTG+2 for $16 with and bluffed his opponent out on the flop. After which, he turned over his hand to let us all revel in his triumph. *If I could just catch him slipping once while I've got something* Another 30 minutes goes by I'm **UTG+2** with about $60. He's **UTG** with about $110 He opens for 10x, $2 I look down at *This is it. I've finally got him.* I raise to $8 *folds around* Our friend **UTG** shoves all in for about a hundred bucks. He has me covered. I look him in the eyes, roll my own, and call. I flip my hand over quickly. He takes his time *"Don't do it, man"* It's *FUCK YES! I have him beat! I even have one of his cards blocked. Here comes the double up.* **Flop**: *no spades, thank god. Just hold* **Turn**: *hold man, please just hold up* *one time* **River**: *no* *no* I watch as the pile of chips are pushed his way. It stings. I'm felted, but still in my seat. I'm going to ask for a loan after a few hands of reflection. The next flop has a Queen in it. *Don't watch the cards if you don't have a hand* The next hand went all in on the flop, and went runner runner queens. I leave my seat. I hate poker.

It came like a second wind, with a mouth full of smoke and ash. Running down dead end streets. The city was sweet, like a virgin lusting after older men. A sick Lolita. Drunk nights spent in the heart of a violent beach town. Staggering, like the vagrant youth we were. For all the wild nights in the tenderloin streets. For every haggard morning. We were everything we thought we were. We were so cool. Boys disguised as men nursing broken hearts with cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes. Brass knuckles in a back pocket. Pressed up against keys and a wristwatch. The only keepsake from a time before anything could become a target of vile youth. The watch kept close, warm with body heat, like a knife tucked away in a breast pocket. We ran like heathens. Screaming through the streets. The city was ours. A savage lover to chew us up and spit us back out like first love. Or maybe first heartbreak. The buzzing neon hot on my face, blood from a stab wound, piss in the streets, and a grin on Chris's face. We found solace in broken hearts and bruised egos. Pretending to remain stoic, despite the disaster at hand. We were so cool. There were lights on Broadway, and Greene, and Colombus, and Union, and Greenwhich. Treading lightly in the impressions left by the Ginsberg's and Kerouac's that came before. The irony was not lost on us. Hedonistic souls. Wrapped in cold. And just a stone's throw from church steps. That was the summer we killed off what innocence we had left. Coy looks and their faces lined up and shot one by one in favor of a knowing glance, a secret language, hiding places, and a cold tile floor. Innocence died when Sam ran through the trees. And we first saw death. Like black wings at dawn. Like tar in lungs. We were so cool.

If the gods themselves could bow, they would have kneeled to him long ago. The broad-shouldered man paraded into the center of Rome’s Coliseum, cheers following in his wake. He was Titus Magnus, gladiator, favored by Caesar himself. Even now Titus could see Caesar looking down into the pit, awaiting the blood Titus would spill, as he had so many times before. A commotion on the other side of the Coliseum garnered Titus’ attention as his opponent was thrust into the sand. Titus looked at the man kneeling a few paces away. His sinewy arms were covered with the blue-black runes of the Germanic Tribes. *Coward, he couldn’t even die in battle like a true Roman*, Titus thought. The tribesman staggered upwards and picked up his gladius awkwardly, as he was more familiar with the barbarian weapons of Germania. Titus’ chest heaved with laughter as he relished in the thought of slaying his first German. The two opponents began to circle menacingly at the customary distance of ten paces. The crowd silenced as the great horn blared the signal to begin the fight. The crowd roared, swords clashed, and the sounds of the fight were soon swallowed by the spectators. Titus saw an opportunity and lunged for the fatal blow. He realized too late that he had been tricked into overextending himself as his opponent slashed at Titus’ knee, severing the tendons. Titus staggered back and fell into the bloodied sand. The German placed his foot on Titus’ sternum triumphantly. The crowd immediately looked to Ceasar to see what would happen. *I’ll be spared, I am Caesar's Champion*, Titus hoped. This thought was smothered as Ceasar gave the killing signal. Titus realized he was never the favorite. His purpose was to keep the plebs happy, nothing more. He was just another pawn of a tyrant. The German snarled, and stabbed downward. Rome had a new champion.

We have come to a river, the distant boundary between two worlds, the end of this world, to a point of no return. Here, silence dwells. Decimus Junius Brutus stands atop a granite hill, beneath drifts the River Limia. "One does not know his limits until he sees the horizon." "Can you see the horizon, sir?" Lucius Domitius Cato asks. Brutus looks across the river. The line between the hills and the sky is blotted out by fog. Brutus observes a bird of prey alight on the riverbank and enter the water. The bird bathes its wings in the river, then returns to the pine wood. Brutus nods his head. "Sir, you are not known as one who looks at birds." "These things do not come to pass without the will of heaven," Brutus says. "I have prayed to the great gods and they have answered." "And what is the will of the gods?" A cavalry detachment, led by Titus Maccius Plautus, emerges from the forest upstream. They cut across the sandy flood plain toward a narrow ford in the river. Titus surveys the valley and points toward the granite hill where Brutus stands. He spurs his black Parthian horse and crosses back across the plain toward the trees. The cavalry rides along the verge of the forest and enters the Roman encampment. "At dawn the gods compel us to cross the river," Brutus says. "The soldiers are terrified of what will happen." "They will forget their fear before they even cross the river." Brutus steps down from the rocky outcrop and marches through the scrubby gorse to the pine wood. He reaches the forest edge and crosses the sandy plain toward the encampment, stopping at the ditch that encircles the camp perimeter. Inside, a group of soldiers gathers around a hearth dug in the ground, filled with ashen remains of poppies. "The barbarians are indolent when not at war." "The murmuring Lethe lulls them to sleep." "They made an expedition with another tribe and once they crossed the River Lethe they forgot their friendship and fought among themselves." "They did not fight each other," Gaius Veturia Calvinus says, "Once across the river the barbarians forgot why they had crossed, so they went separately into the forest to find a home. These are the abodes of the dead, as they have no memory of their previous life." "They forget even death," Tacitus Flavius Drusus says. Brutus crosses the camp threshold. "Perhaps these barbarians are already dead," Brutus says. "If it is indeed the River Lethe, then we must be in the underworld." The soldiers around the hearth jump to their feet. Brutus enters the circle formed by the soldiers and stands between them and the hearth. The other soldiers in camp gather around the hearth, including Titus Maccius Plautus. "I do not remember dying," Brutus says. "I also do not recall sending the cavalry upstream." "You did no such thing." Titus Maccius Plautus says. Titus walks through the crowd of soldiers to meet Brutus. "I wanted to survey the river to find a way around it," Titus says. "That was not necessary, Titus. Tomorrow we shall cross the river at that ford." Brutus motions upstream toward the ford on sandy flood plain where the Titus Maccius Plautus and his cavalry stopped. "You will be alone in this endeavor." "It is not so. The gods command it." "They have spoken to you?" "It has been observed." "In what way?" "A bird," Brutus says. "It bathed in the river and returned to its nest." "Yet it did not cross the river." "You miss the point." "Do tell, what is the importance of this bird?" "The bird did not forget from where it came." "Decimus Junius Brutus, you are a consul and general of Rome, an augur you are not." "It is not necessary that I be one, Titus." "Yet you insist the gods speak to you." "It is true. Jupiter has shown me that a bird drinks from this river as any other." "Let them drink if they are thirsty." Titus turns to the soldiers behind him. "Titus Maccius Plautus, do not be unmindful of your duty to Rome," Lucius Domitius Cato says. "I am free to do as I wish," Titus says. "No one is free but Jupiter," Brutus says, pacing along the soldiers surrounding him. He turns around walks toward Titus. "At dawn the gods compel us to cross the river." Cloudy vapors rise from the river valley in a doubtful dawn. A procession of soldiers drifts across the flood plain toward the riverbank. The cavalry detachment lingers in the encampment as Titus Maccius Plautus tends to his black Parthian horse, oblivious of the watchful gaze of Decimus Junius Brutus from the hill above the River Limia. "Beyond the Lethe is a river so large its waters extinguish the fires of the sun," Brutus says. "It must be a terrible sight." "Sir, have you awakened fearing the same superstitions as your soldiers?" Lucius Domitius Cato asks. "No, but I must think like them if I wish to conquer their doubt." The sun rises from behind the hills, lifting the blanket of fog from the river valley. Brutus and Cato descend the wooded hill and join the army marching upstream to the narrow ford in the river. The cavalry has left the encampment and brings up the rear of the column. The soldiers file into three lines parallel to the river. Brutus and Cato stand in front of the formation with their backs to the river. Brutus steps toward the soldiers. "Each soldier that has no fear of this river, step forward and we will cross," Brutus says. There is silence and stillness. Brutus approaches the front line and faces Marcus Aquilia Florus. "Marcus Aquilia Florus, take the standard of Rome across this river." Marcus Aquilia Florus stands silent and motionless. "Do you refuse to cross?" Brutus asks. "Sir, I am afraid that I will forget I am a Roman if I cross this river," Marcus Aquilia Florus says. Brutus walks down the front line and stops at Gaius Veturia Calvinus. "Tell me, Gaius Veturia Calvinus, why do you fear this river?" Brutus asks. "I fear that I will forget my wife and marry a wild barbarian woman and grow my hair as long as hers." "And you, Tacitus Flavius Drusus, you will not cross even though the gods tell us to do so?" Tacitus nods his head. Brutus continues down the front line of the soldiers. He stops at Titus Maccius Plautus. "And why do you fear this river, Titus?" Brutus asks. "For my part, I fear nothing but the immortal gods." "The gods are not to be feared." "Yet you insist we cross this river for fear of the gods." "We are not the playthings of the gods," Brutus says. "I observed a bird enter this river and return to where it came. If this means that the gods give us favor to cross, then so be it. But I will cross not out of fear but because I choose to." "You do not choose, Brutus. The gods control you." "The gods compel us, condemn us, consecrate us, but they do not control us," Brutus says. "We choose, and it is by our action, not of the gods, that the world is made better." "Then I choose not to cross," Titus says. Decimus Junius Brutus turns around and marches back along the front line. He takes the standard from Marcus Aquilia Florus and walks to the edge of the river. He pauses at the water's edge, raises the standard above his shoulders, then digs in his right heel--leaving his footprint in the spongy grey sand--and enters the river. Brutus descends down the gently sloping riverbed before ascending to a shoal in the middle of the river. He crosses the narrow shoal and descends again into a deep channel along the opposite riverbank. Brutus walks diagonally against the strong current, raising the standard above his head as the water rises to his chest. He reaches the opposite shore and climbs out of the water up the steep bank, planting the standard on the crest of the riverbank. Brutus turns around to face his army. "Marcus Aquilia Florus, come retrieve the standard of the Republic of Rome," Brutus shouts. There is silence and stillness. Brutus waits next to the standard. Marcus Aquilia Florus walks forward from the first line of soldiers and stops at the river's edge. He looks down at the water, raises his head to look at Brutus, then enters the river. His pace is slow in the shallow water and he struggles to cross the deep channel. He reaches the steep bank and climbs up the muddy slope several yards upstream from where Brutus stands. Marcus Aquilia Florus looks across the river toward the army, then walks next to Brutus and the standard. "Gaius Veturia Calvinus, cross this river so that your hair may grow long," Brutus says. There is silence but not stillness. Gaius Veturia Calvinus strides to the shore and wades into the river. His pace is quicker than Standard Bearer's as he crosses the channel with little effort. He emerges from the river in front of Brutus. "Soon your hair will be long and lay across the bosom of a barbarian bitch," Brutus says. Gaius Veturia Calvinus laughs. "That will not happen. My wife would kill me and then I would really have to cross the Lethe." "Tacitus Flavius Drusus, your general Decimus Junius Brutus commands that you cross the river and join us." Tacitus Flavius Drusus enters the river as a murmur rises among the soldiers. Tacitus Flavius Drusus crosses the river and climbs up the bank to join Brutus and the other two soldiers. Brutus commands the remaining soldiers to cross the river one by one. The murmur from the soldiers increases as each one is called by Brutus using their full Latin name. Finally, Titus Maccius Plautus remains alone opposite Decimus Junius Brutus. "Titus Maccius Plautus, cross the river at once," Brutus says. Titus unsheathes his sword and lifts it above his head as he steps into the water. "Lucius, tell Gaius Veturia Calvinus he will lead the soldiers up the hill. Adrian Vulcanus Palacius is to remain with us," Brutus says. "Bring the shackles." Titus reaches the shoal and enters the channel. The sun glints off his sword as he raises it above his head in the chest-deep channel. The soldiers begin to climb the wooded hill as Titus pulls himself up from the riverbank on to his feet and sheaths his sword. "Titus Maccius Plautus, do you remember my name?" Brutus asks as he puts one hand on Titus's shoulders and his other hand on Titus's sword. "Decimus Junius Brutus," Titus replies. "Correct, I am Decimus Junius Brutus." Brutus stops in front of several boulders at the foot of the fog-wreathed hillock. He swings in front of Titus and unsheathes his sword in one motion. Brutus places the tip of the sword on Titus's chest and pushes his back against a granite boulder. Brutus turns and looks at the pine wood across the river. "Yesterday, the birds were thirsty," Brutus says. He turns back to Titus. "Today, I am afraid, they will be hungry." Lucius Domitius Cato and Adrian Vulcanus Palacius grab Titus's wrists and stretch out his arms against the rock. Adrian places an iron band around the right wrist of Titus and hammers a wedge into the boulder to fasten the bond. He does the same to the left wrist and then clamps shackles to Titus's ankles and drives a rivet for each shackle deep in the granite. Cato and Palacius leave Titus chained upright against the rock. Decimus Junius Brutus follows his army's trail up the wooded hill, beneath which drifts the River Limia.

"You're such an asshole!" She yells, hitting me on the side of my head. I jerk to the left, causing the vehicle to swerve in the road. As I quickly change course back to my lane, the tires fish-tail slightly on the rain soaked asphault. "I'm the asshole!?" "You didn't have to break Kyle's nose!" "The hell I didn't. He was all over you at that party. He's lucky I didn't do worse." She covers her face with her hands and begins to cry. I look ahead silently for a moment, squinting to see through the winshield as the rain begins to pour down harder. There are very few vehicles on the road at this hour, which is a good thing, because I can hardly see a hundred yards ahead of me on this dimly lit, county road. I turn and look at her. "Why was he talking to you like that?" "He was drunk." "He said you and him had sex. Is that true? "He was drunk." "But did you have sex?" "Holy crap! What kind of girl do you think I am? You were with me the whole night! He came up to me while you were getting another drink!" Her crying turned to sobbing. "Even if I did have sex with him, It wouldn't be worse than you and Jessica from the office!" She hits me again, this time with all her strength. I can feel the blood rushing to my face as the rage builds. That fucking bitch. "I told you that was nothing!" "Bullshit!" "Why are you bringing this up now!?" She stops yelling at me and just looks down, angry and upset, but rebelliously silent. This makes me even more angry, but I hold back. This whole night is beyond repair. Why is she defending the guy at the party who was treating her like trash, but lashing out at me? Suddenly the headlights reveal a yellow warning sign of a sharp turn in the road. I was distracted by hysterical wife and didn't see the sign warning me to slow down to 25mph. I was going over 60. My heart stops. I lock the brakes. It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as the car slides on the wet pavement, straight for the guard rail. I look over at my wife and she is already looking at me. The look in her eyes cuts my heart like a knife. She knows it's over. I'm so sorry. "Its ok.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and stared into the cold night. She stared past the row of dated luxury cars that were the envy of every middle-aged man a decade before, past the bar across the street as people emerged and stumbled home after last call, and past the lone man seated at the counter of a diner. She looked at everything, but she saw nothing. She exhaled and considered how long it might be before Ernie swept her back inside and ended her single break of the night. She adjusted her jacket as a breeze fought to force her inside and waste her remaining tobacco. As the jacket hung off her wiry frame, she tried to remember how she came about owning a Steeler’s jacket three sizes too big. Was it from the bearded man who gave her a ride home last week? Or was it from the John who was too ashamed of himself to look her in the eye? She inhaled and concluded it made no difference. A door swung open behind her, the sound of music oozing out to the curb on which she sat. She stared straight ahead and took another drag of menthol. “Em, break’s over. I need you on stage.” The door slammed shut with the sound of a muffled explosion and as she carefully stood up she could feel the warm blood rush back into her legs. Her boot ground the cigarette into the pavement, and she glanced once more at the world before her. As she focused on the horizon, she saw what she hoped was the brightening of the morning sky.

”I got a call from you mother yesterday”, Elizabeth says. I am motionless. My eyes are fixed at the old armrest on the chair I’m sitting in. The wood is ragged; partly because of me after all those times I’ve sat here, picking splinters from it. Elizabeth gave up her attempts to make me stop about a year ago. Now she lets out a sigh and takes off her glasses. “She says you’ve stopped taking your pills”. My finger slipped on the wood and a splinter got caught in my finger, a thin blood drop trickled out. I look at my finger, not answering Elizabeth. It was only a matter of time before my mother would notice and tell Elizabeth, but for some reason I’m still surprised. “Why have you stopped?” She asks almost wearily. “You came so far”. I suck up the blood. She doesn’t know why. She thinks I’m tired of the emptiness the pills brings, but that’s not the reason. “Is it because you don’t feel comfortable with the side-effects?” she asks helplessly. I’d told her about David. He was the first one I saw, and the only one who ever mattered. I never thought about how he never was in the same room as the people I knew or how he could never meet my parents because he was too busy. It was never important. Elizabeth leans back in her chair. “Are you upset with your mother for telling me this?” There is a third person in the room. She can’t see him, but I can. He tells me that she’s one of them; that she’s the enemy. I lift my gaze from the armrest and look directly at her for the first time since I sat down in the chair. I’ve trusted her for two years now. Two years filled with therapy sessions and pills. I’ve told her about the people my friends never saw. I remember the day she told me I was schizophrenic. The paranoia hit me harder than ever before, and Elizabeth got a big bruise on her thigh from when I pushed her in an attempt to escape. I thought she was one of them. One of the people the government had sent out to find David. The silence gets thick and uncomfortable, yet I continue to look into her eyes. I know she’s not the enemy. I know there is no enemy. He tells me to run and I bury my face in my hand. “Is it him again?” I nod almost unnoticeably. “When-“ “I know he doesn’t exist”, I interrupt her. “I know that”. I look her in the eye again and remember the first time I told her about David. It had taken me quite a while to build up the courage to tell her, since I thought she would send the information to the secret service. “How long have you been seeing him?” she asks. A fly that crawls on the windowsill catches my gaze. “I stopped seeing him when I started taking the pills”. Elizabeth leans closer with her elbows against her knees. “Yes?” “I guess that I… Sometimes I… like”, I stutter the words out in an attempt to explain me quitting my treatment. I look away from the fly and into Elizabeth’s greyish blue eyes. “I… miss him… sometimes”, I say, my voice weak. Elizabeth looks back at me with compassion in her eyes and says lamentably: “I understand that it is hard, but you know this is not good for you”. I nod and look down at my hands that I’ve placed in my knee. A tear rolls unbearably slow down my cheek. Elizabeth stands up at then sits down beside me. She takes my hand to comfort me. I start to cry and then she hugs me. * I am sitting on my bed in my room, my right hand tightly grasping a green pill and my left hand holding a glass of water. My mother hasn’t come home yet so I have a moment to myself. He followed me all way home, tried to convince me that I shouldn’t trust Elizabeth. That she lied to me. He asks if I don’t trust him. I had been quiet the entire way home. Now he stands before me and looks at me with an pleading look. I stare down at the floor. “I can’t see you any more”, I say silently. He begs me to come to my senses. “I’m sorry David. We knew this day would come". He becomes silent and sits down on my bed beside me. I know he doesn’t understand that he doesn’t exist, that he is just a product of my imagination, but I still get a sensation that he knows what’s happening. Like he knows that it has to end. I look into his brown eyes one last time before I slowly put the green pill into my mouth. I close my eyes and bring the glass to my mouth and let the water wash down the pill and for the last time I say goodbye to David, my dearest and most beloved friend.

He wakes up peering at the roof. The sky is achromatic. He gives confused looks to the yellow sticky note staring at him up on the roof. “Wake up” The bold black text seemed familiar. Too tired from working late, he isn’t in the mood for any pranks by his friends. Lazily pulling a bowl from the lower cupboard, he did not notice the yellow sticky note that fell to the ground. He opens the top cupboard, clenching the empty box that once housed dry wheat biscuits. “Jake”… “Jake?” he called out. “We’re out of cereal! Jake?” Just as he shuffled his feet, his big toe touched the fallen yellow sticky note. “Top shelf” Curious, He opens the top shelf, and there stood an unopened box of dry wheat biscuits. He has his cereal plain, no sugar, only with milk. Finishing his cup of coffee he was out the door for work. Another note was adhered to the handle of the front door. “Drink the coffee” Trying his best to ignore the note, he scrunches it up and places it in the bin. Walking outside to start his daily 20 minute walk to work he turned to lock the door. On this handle was another note. “Throw away the notes” The combination of the pure strange nature of the notes as well as wondering why his house key wasn’t on his keychain. The spare key wasn’t above the doors edging either. He cursed to himself as his door has no inside locking mechanism and he was going to be late for work. He checked his keychain once more time just to be sure before starting his walk to work. As he passed his garage a green blur caught his eye. Stuck on the handle of his garage was a bright green sticky note. “Don’t drive to work” “ha, got one wrong, Jake” he thought. As he arrives at work, he walks through the automatic sliding doors; on the floor was a note. “Arrive at work” “That was an easy one to guess” He muttered to himself. In the cafeteria “Take a break” He reaches for the coffee as he did all the previous days before thinking twice. He placed a teabag in his mug and filled it with water from the auto-boiler. The sugar tin took a bit of strength to open. “Don’t take a teabag” He wondered how long he could reassure himself that this was a prank For a second he thought there may be someone watching. “Sit at your desk” “Hand in the papers” “Eat your lunch” He becomes more aware of who is watching him, watching others to see who is looking at him. “Walk to the bathroom” It’s getting dark and clouds are gathering, as 6pm strikes, he packs up his desk. “Turn the computer off” In a panic, he rushes out the sliding doors, forgetting about the small edging which makes contact with his foot. His hands and face becomes best friends with the concrete. “Fall over” As the accuracy of the notes become more daunting, he Breaches lunacy. His expression evolves from contempt to condensed hostility. Sore hands and grazed face, he stares at the note which lay within arm’s reach. He snatches up the note before frantically getting back onto his feet in an attempt to regain lost self-respect. People were staring. He shoves the note into his left jacket pocket, his only intention that if he can’t ignore it, he will fight it. “Start walking home” He turns the first corner. “Turn Left” He takes 5 paces before looking back. He approaches the note fixed to the lamp post. He seizes it from the post studying the letters. The way in which the letters are joined to one another is alarmingly familiar, although doesn’t notice a match when comparing it in his mind to his friends handwriting. As he places the note into his left jacket pocket with the other note he catches sight of a second green sticky note stuck to the lamp post across the road, just close enough distinguish the words. “Cross the road” He ignores the green note and resumes walking. As he continues walking, the yellow notes appear more frequently. “Keep walking” “Keep walking” “Cross the road” Each note snatched up, earning their place in the pocket with the others. Street lamps take the role of the sun. As his walk turns into a run, he glimpses a third green note down a side road. “Don’t turn left” He ignores it and keeps running, while thinking constantly that he needs to win. He needs to outwit it. “Start running” He swipes the note off the wall as he runs. A few strides later and he must slow his pace, as he comes to the intersection that he has passed many times before. He turns to press the pedestrian button, only to find another yellow note. “Keep the notes” He had no doubt that the yellow square of paper on the post across the intersection would read cross the road. He glanced across the right of the intersection to see a green sticky note on the post in the distance. He glanced to the left. Another green sticky note rests on the footpath a few meters away. The pedestrian light turns green. Boop boop boop boop boop boop. He was unmoved. He eyes were fixed on the yellow note across the street, but his feet started moving. He took the note from the button before running yet again. He passed the green sticky note without a second glance. “Don’t turn Left” “Don’t start running” Green sticky notes were becoming frequent. He took every wrong turn he came across. He was winning. “Don’t turn left” “Don’t turn right” He was taking the long way home. His run turned into a slow jog as he grew tired. He almost became accustomed to the green notes dictating his moves. He turned left. “Go back” A green sticky note, adhered to a rubbish bin, gleamed brightly against the dark street surroundings. It was asking him. It wasn’t an order like the others. This note was different. Sweat patches were growing around his arm pits. He was in a panicked state. “I’m winning...” he thought to himself. Confusion and defeat filled his psyche. He was out of ideas. Trapped with nowhere to go was his only thought. He took the note and gave fleeting looks at his other path options, yet continued down the same road. “Don’t turn right” He turned right, maintaining his speed “Don’t cross the road” The notes not only appearing before his actions, but becoming more desperate. Although the area was one he knows well, he couldn’t shake the feeling of danger and being unsafe. “Don’t keep running” He needed somewhere to hide, fast. Continuing his corner abundant run, he was frantically turning his head for somewhere to hide. “There!” He thought to himself, as he spotted a very dimly lit alleyway in the distance. Although the strain of his legs and the stitch in his stomach was becoming stronger, he kept up his speed until he neared the dim entrance. There was no note... He turns down the windy alley, fumbling amongst the mass of rubbish and refuse, before crouching behind a large green wheelie bin. Again, there was nothing. There was no note. He gazed around wildly, searching for a green note. He huddled against the bin, sure of his safety. He paused briefly to catch his breath. His jacket hanging at his sides, he reached into his left pocket pulling out the notes, shuffling them quickly studying the scripture. His hands started to shake. He furiously shredded up the notes, tearing them into tiny portions. As he watched the yellow fragments blow around him like poisoned snowflakes, a glisten of light caught his eye, revealing to him a small metal object a few feet away from him on a smaller green wheelie bin. A key. After slowly standing, he then approached the key. Holding it in his left hand he studied it. It was too small for a house key. Diving his hand into his right jacket pocket to safe keep the key, there was a soft rustling sound. Leaving the key in his pocket, he drew out 2 crinkled green sticky notes. “Throw away the yellow notes” “Take the key” He wanted safety. He wanted to be secure. At home. * * * “Keep going, you’ll be there soon.” He talked to himself. He continues to run, his self motivation under constant rebuttal by the ever appearing green and green sticky notes. “Go back” “Don’t come this way” He continues to follow them, going against his own will as well and his intuition, until he reached his home. He slowed to a walk as he approached the front door, his intuition taking the back seat as curiosity took over his body. * * * “Don’t open the door” He paused, examining the note stuck to the door to his home. Safety is all he hoped for as he turned the handle. He bartered with his own mind for safety. His clammy, pale hands clenched the door handle. The click was louder than he anticipated. He was greeted yet again by a message, which lay on the floor of his hallway a few feet from where he stood. “Don’t continue” He stalked slowly forward, twisting the note into the carpet with his foot. On the walls, more notes. “Don’t go here” “You can’t win” He passes the kitchen doorway. The amount of notes gets denser. “Don’t go back” “Don’t turn back” He passes the bathroom and the dining room. As the walls get thicker with notes, the area of wall showing becomes minimal. The notes turn from dictation to annotation. “Go the same way” “Do the same thing” “Try not to fight it” He stopped. The walls blanketed in notes created a foreground to his white bedroom door that stood completely blank, but for one note perched on the door handle. “Go back” He didn’t take a second thought before turning the handle. * * * He closed the door, resting his back against it and sliding into a seated position. The room was as per normal. He glared around the room before noticing what was across the room. His bed side draw stood next to his bed. A white sticky note on the front of the drawer stared at him. “Please” Rumpled clothes and matted hair, he crawled over, placing his hands on either side of the drawer. His eyes were fixed on the white note. A plea that wants to be disregarded. He moved his head closer. He peeled the note off slowly, revealing a small, unfamiliar lock on the front of the drawer. He reached into his right coat pocket, slowly pulling out the small, gleaming key. It fits. The soft clicking of the drawer unlocking was calming to him, as was the sliding of the wooden rungs moving against each other. He stared at the contents with pure contempt. Green and yellow sticky note pads near filled the drawer to the brim. He rested his fingertips atop the pads, gently sliding the top pads around to reveal a bold felt tip pen resting underneath.

The scrawny guy in a tux barely glanced at me. "A table for lunch." "I'm afraid we've nothing available." I stared at the empty tables while I flashed my P.I. license. "I'm meeting a client." He sniffed. "Very well. This way." He led me to a corner. A slender, brunette waitress appeared. She eyed my off-the-rack suit with distaste. "Need a menu?" "Just coffee." I winked. She sneered and hurried away. Two minutes later I was still waiting for my coffee when my lunch date arrived. She spoke with the host, who indicated me with a surprised look. She headed my way. She was leggy, wrapped in a red dress that hugged her curves like a Porsche hugged a mountain road. Diamonds worth more than I saw in a year dangled from her ears. Her blonde hair shone. She wore it long. I like that. She stopped at my table, pulled off her shades and stuffed them into her Gucci bag. She was something else. "Mr. Raines." "The same." I inclined my head. "Please, have a seat." She hesitated, then reluctantly sat. The waitress appeared, fawning now. "Your usual, Mrs. Richardson?" Mrs. Richardson waved her off. "Just coffee. I won't be long." "Yes, ma'am." The waitress disappeared. "I don't have time to waste." Mrs. Libertine said. "I came because you said it was important. *Very* important." She fished a pack of Virginia Slims out of her handbag, shook one out, and fired it with a gold lighter. I shrugged. Hard and fast was fine with me. "As I said on the phone, I'm a private investigator, hired by your husband. I want to show you something." I pulled a manila envelope out of my coat pocket and slid it to her. She picked it up, manicured fingernails gleaming, peered inside, then pulled out the photographs. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, she might have been thumbing through the latest issue of Vogue. "Whoever that guy is, he must be a good friend." She stuffed the pictures back. Her hands shook. "Has my husband seen these?" She stared, eyes hard, though I saw worry behind them. The waitress appeared, setting a cup of coffee on the table in front of her. Mine remain missing. I waited until the waitress was gone, then hung it out there. "Not yet." She dragged on her cigarette, blowing out a thin stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. "What do you want? Money?" "Money's nice, but no, not money. Believe it or not, I'm comfortable." "What then?" "You're very attractive Mrs. Richardson." I met her stare and smiled slightly. "I'm no Robert Redford, but I'm not that bad, do you think?" She puffed her cigarette, scowling. "What are you talking about?" "Is your afternoon free? I live nearby." I saw understanding hit. She drew herself up, glaring. I thought she might refuse. Was sure she'd say no. Then she sagged, just collapsed like wet cardboard. She snuffed her cigarette in the crystal ashtray next to her untouched cup of coffee. "Well?" "I'm free." She wouldn't look at me. I put the envelope back in my coat. "I want the pictures and the negatives." "We'll talk about that later." We stood. I threw a five on the table. I never did get my coffee.

“Damn,” Robert sighed as the loose sheaf of paper slipped from the manila envelope it had been held in. As he kneeled down to begin picking up the papers, a gust of wind caught one of them, sending it fluttering out across the sidewalk and into the busy street. As he waited for traffic to subside, he glanced at the first sheet of the report in his hands: DISASTER RESPONSE PLAN – ASTEROID AE328.47G IMPACT IMMINENT His interest piqued, he read on. The asteroid was large. Large enough to cause immediate destruction of a large area, but the cloud of ash and smoke was estimated to choke the entire planet, killing 82% of life in the first three months. Luckily, the hastily-prepared, hand-written report stated, a fool-proof plan had been devised and was outlined on page 32. He flipped through the papers in his hands, becoming more and more frantic as he got further through the disordered mess resulting from the wind’s scattering of the report. “Page 29, Page 31… Where is page 32?!?!” General Jacobs paced her office, awaiting the report from field operative Jenkins that would tell whether she, her husband, their children, and every other soul on the planet would survive the afternoon. Where is that report!?” She had been growing more and more urgent as time went by. There wasn't much time left to wait. Jenkins sat, waiting to hear when his plan would be put into action. He had given the report to the messenger, and tipped extremely well to ensure a prompt delivery to General Jacobs. He wished he had had time to better prepare the report; He had not made any copies or even bound the papers in a 3-ring binder. It was nearly too late. He waited. Baktar’s English was not good. Passable, for a cab driver; especially one who had emigrated less than a month ago, but not good. He had been listening to CDs whenever he did not have a fare, trying to improve it, but he could steal barely read anything written in the language. He could speak more than he could understand in conversation, but it was barely enough to get by. He practiced often, reading whatever material came his way, and attempting to start conversations with anyone in his cab who seemed receptive to the idea. It was a windy day, and traffic was thick. He waited, listening to his CD, and copying the words it taught him. “Thank you very much for the gifts, Mrs. Smith.” Baktar had been through this module before, and was distracted by a piece of paper blowing through the street. Another gust caught the paper and held it flat for just a second against his windshield. He did not have time to read bright red lettering at the top, but for some reason his eyes caught the lower right corner. Numbers were easy to recognize, they were the same in every language. 32. Baktar watched as the paper floated off on the breeze, over a temporary wall obscuring one of the many construction sites in the city. “Tank you ferry much fir de geefts, Meesus Smitt.

Give us your energy Unah Special thanks to the big cunt who inspired me to write this. There are things i dont like about this story but this will have to do. Anyone want more? i have more chapters planned. The Unah’s light shined through the motherships screening panels as dawn began. The pristine, dazzling walls inside the mothership were enflamed in the violet and ultra-violet light of the Unah. Heirarch Athuro-en manifested in the dimensional gateway. With pale pinkish skin and eyes gleaming in excitement he walked towards the panels, absorbing the nutritious rays of electromagnetism. Athuro-en’s skin began to turn black from the absorption of the radiation. Cables flowing from his body, they would be dragging on the floor if they weren’t for them seeping out of existence. He fluffed his royal robes only known to a Heirarch and smiled with glee. How could he miss the climax of his most recent experiment? He and his crew have been documenting the Unah star system for a long time. The Heirarch gazing out across a burning star was soon joined by the rest of his crew. He called the members of the crew the “exemplars.” The Heirarch and the exemplars were the only known survivors of their ancient alien race known as the ARA’ghi. The name stood for Annihilation Resurgent Apparitions, and “ghi” meant “kind” in their language. The ARA’ghi were patiently awaiting the end of their journey which they had set out on 190 Kariox ago, which is approximately 1,866,243 earth years ago. Pursuit of knowledge was part of the ARA’ghi’s life; it was their creed, their whole persona. <This lifestyle was the reason the ARA’ghi were able to achieve the level of intelligence that they possessed>. It was an exciting time for the Heirarch and the others aboard the mothership, called the Pillar of Exemplars. Their calculations predicted that the Unah would explode today and form a neutron star. This would be not be the first time the ARA’ghi would experience the creation of such an object in the universe. They had experienced something similar during their exile after the Great Ascent. Unah was the name the ARA’ghi gave to this particular star. It was an O spectral type, meaning it was a hypergiant and lived for a very short period of time, a 6,866,243 million years to be exact. It was now the end of a 1,866,243 year old expedition to explore how life evolves on planets revolving these energy intense stars. To other less advanced species than that of the ARA’ghi dedicating 1.8 million years on the investigation of life around high radiation stars would seem like a waste of time. But not to the ARA’ghi; since the Great Ascent; they developed technology which allowed them to live for billions and under a great Heirarch: possibly trillions of years. A mere 1.8 million years was nothing to them. Their homeworld perished long ago, now the ARA’ghi were a species without a home. They only had their creed which they adopted from necessity and with it develop many new technologies. The documentation of life on the gas giant of the Unah star system was finalized, 1.8 million years of life exploration in the Unah solar system was coming to an end. All that was left is for the asseveration of their calculations. It was determined that the high radiation produced from type O stars was the worst possible place for the creation of the building blocks of life. As radiation above the violet part of the spectrum would ionize the bonds and rip any precursors to life apart. But they discovered it was an amazing place for a civilization of high intelligence and tech. Technologies like the Dimension Manifestors, DM for short, which allowed the ARA’ghi to create new dimensions with slower time passage than the one in the base universe. They achieved this by the bending of spacetime with immense amounts of energy. In one of these dimensions a species could live its regular time span while outside the dimension a thousand years would pass, it is one of the ways the ARA’ghi live for as long as they do. Technology like the Electromagnetic Absorption Nanobots For Sustenance, or EMANFS also allowed them to reach heights they would otherwise have never been capable of. These nanobots are machines which act as pigments and protectors in each and every cell in the ARA’ghis body. They allow the absorption of UV, X-ray, gamma and Z-rays and convert them into energy, analogous to chloroform, it was the reason for the ARA’ghi skin turning black “Its time!” exclaimed Athuro-en. The exemplars were about to see the end of the Unah’s life and witness the end of their 1.8 million year expedition. “Do we have all the Stellar Capture Drives ready?” asked Athuro-en. “We only await your command Heirarch.” yelled exemplar Liara. The hydrogen fuel all ran out and now the star imploded into itself! The Unah was now a collection of ions, largely helium and carbon nuclei floating in a vast sea of electrons. The electrons stopped the implosion; the Pauli Exclusion Principle was at work here. The ARA’ghi had a name for Pauli Exclusion Principle, “Frakuri.” The term was used for all fermions, the fractioned particles. The degenerate pressure of the electrons was high and it stopped the implosion but only for a bit, the mass of the star was too much, the gravity broke through the pressure. Now the electrons unable to occupy the same quantum state as per Pauli Exclusion Principle it was more energetically favourable for electrons to combine with the protons and become neutrons! “We’re detecting a high burst of neutrinos released!” yelled exemplar Oaurm. “This means the electron capture has been initiated” yelped Liara. The detectors were flashing with warnings of high energy photons and neutrinos; which the ARA’ghi had the technology to detect. “Double the EMANFS layer on the Pillar! Get ready to absorb the nova!” yelled Athuro-en. The mothership began to turn black, darker than most darks. The EMANFS began absorbing the electromagnetic energy that the star was emitting, generating a shield for all the energy for the imminent explosion. “Engage the Manifestors!” yelled Athuro-en as he stood proud ready for the explosion. In the deep silence of space the star burst with a light brighter than the entire galaxy pouring out with contents among the stars. It was like an orchestra of God playing the most beautiful music of the stars, and the ARA’ghi front row seats to the astonishing concerto. They were witnessing the power and majesty of a stars death. Bursts of all forms of electromagnetism was being projectilled out into the vast abyss of space. Gamma-rays, X-rays, UV-rays, radio waves gushing out. Streams of Gold, Silver, Palladium Gadolium, Uranium, Einsteinium all flying outwards near the speed of light. A result of the lighter elements combining together to form the elements heavier than Iron. It made the Heirarch happy that all these heavier elements were being flung out into space. It would mean that they would be collected and packed into planets and possibly discovered by sentient beings on these new worlds; and perhaps start them off on the discovery of atomic physics. The nova explosion was virtually instantaneous, really fast too fast for humans to notice for sure. But not the ARA’ghi. They were able to slow down their time perception by flying in all directions near the speed of light around the exploding Unah. For them the seconds long event was a tremendous and mesmerizing hour long masterpiece of the universe. The star shrunk in size to appear smaller than a white dwarf star, now only neutronium was present with little hints of proton and electron gases. Around them, the interstellar gas and radiation were flying outwards to forge new world. “Quickly! Seal the star, now!” yelled the Heirarch. The three Core Capture Drives that were deployed before the nova explosion were essentially massive versions of the Dimension Manifestors that the Heirarch awoke from. The CCD’s surrounded the neutron star and began to bend the spacetime around it plunging the neutron star into a universe created to house it. “It’s in!” yelled exemplar Liara.. “Good work my fellow exemplars, you hold true to the title you hold!” exclaimed Athuro-en. “We couldn’t have done it without this powerful vessel my lord!” yelled exemplar Oaurm. “Please, how many times must I ask you. We are all as important to this vessel and our survival. We all stand as one. It is the reason we are here today. We all share a common creed! We just want to know more about the universe, and for all of us to achieve a personal betterment of ourselves. We are the exemplars of discovery, astonishment and self-fulfilment!” With the energies of the of the neutron star now contained in a easily accessible dimension the ARA’ghi were able to move onto their new quest for knowledge. The Heirarch slowly vanishing in his Dimensional Manifestor uttered “Begin protocol 250x77s” before completely evanescing from reality. The exemplars gave one last celebration before descending to their Manifestors. The Pillar engaged Warp Drive and they were off on their next adventure.

What happens when you can no longer look at yourself in the mirror? When you blind yourself to your self fabricated reality? The world is different from how you knew it, the colors are dulled, the sky clouded. Government is no longer exalted, communities are destroyed. The towns aren’t destroyed, the buildings stand, overtaken by nature. The concrete jungles, slowly crumbling, making way for new wildlife, populating their reclaimed property. The cities, once tall and lit up so brightly you could see them from space, rivaling the stars. Humans are rare. few tribes were able to live after the fall. The older generation mostly gone, they couldn’t forget the luxuries that had past and gone. The young easily learned in adapting to new surroundings. They are a steadfast race, some more animal than man, but that’s probably the old ways still stuck in my mind. I don’t know what year it is, doesn’t matter, days don’t matter. The calendar is long past. The only time you need to know in this new world is dark, and then where to hide so you can sleep through the nightmares and make it to the light. No one knows what is in the dark, if you are out when the light disappears, you disappear with it. Some of the last generation are close to adulthood. They know stories of vampires and werewolves, the dead returning to life. I’m not sure about any of that. I’ve never seen anything of the sort, and ive been around a long time to today’s standards, Well for all I know any standard I reckon. My names’ ghost, that’s what I’m called in the new world. I do not know where I came from, I do not recall the old world. Though I know basic grammar and reading. I can write when the tools are available. I try to teach the few tribes around, so that they may be a little better off with such knowledge. My face is slightly bearded, my hair is black though I have a grey streak the shape of a lightning bolt down the right side. A light scar under my rite eye and a slightly deeper one under my lip. I wear a leather jacket and dark jeans. I have a motorcycle. Its black and I call her Harley, since that’s what’s stamped on the tank. I carry a sword I made from various car parts and a cross bow I was lucky enough to find in a building I came across. I travel alone, village to village carrying a burden. I’m not sure why, I’m just compelled to do so. The burden is in a coffin. Matte black with silver struts across each side. I have never opened the coffin, so I do not know what’s inside. A voice from above that speaks to me when I’m alone, tells me to find the burden a place to rest, so I go. I have one mission to put my burden to rest, and fear what lies in my future after it is done. I ride and ride, deserted town to deserted town. I scavenge for what I cannot make myself. I teach the younger ones I come across the ways of my speech and writing. Most villages are kind enough but always weary of unknown people. The younger ones hide behind the older ones even though, they can be more brutal, the young have a lack of compassion, for the harshness of the world has taken it, it is harder to learn in the new days. Some wear rags as loin cloths some have animal skins for pants. The older ones still speak my language but slightly altered to accommodate this life. I stop at a village in the middle of an old city to trade with them. They know and trust me here. They call this village farmers, due to the fact its written pn the walls here. A huge dome building concrete glass and steel make this a protected gaited village. I trade, I move on. Hunt, Hide. I dream of mirrors. I dream the mirrors are doorways to darkness. To make the true untrue. Looking in mirrors makes the light go away early and only shows darkness. I wake and I ride carrying the burden. Villages are disappearing. What was here is no more. The young ones are disappearing, the darkness is taking the survivors. What else could it be. The voice speaks, it says don’t delay for the light is growing shorter find the sycamores. The grove to the east, to rest your burden. Fear grips me, knowing once my burden is lifted, I have no purpose. I am a remnant. An old piece of a new world. But I am obedient, I ride east to find the grove. Three darks have past. The voice leads me to the place of resting burdens, the sycamore grove. The grove shines brightly even in the day, the sea throws water to the beach, only to recede back to the depths of blue. Repeating for all time. The grove is glowing. I get off of Harley and wrap a chain around my burden. I carry her to the grove slowly dragging her to the glowing forest. The silence is deafening. The anxiety is cramping my chest. I am gripping the chains of my burden so tightly my fingers crack, pain shoots up my arms. The coffin digging a trail behind me . Rutting the old earth, that has been untouched for voice knows how long. Walking for a while, my hands bleed, the burden grows heavier. Sliding across the ancient earth rutting a trail. In front of me is a giant Sycamore. It is alive and green, sturdy to the touch, but hollowed. The voice speaks “REST THE BURDEN IN THE SYCAMORE’’. I did as the voice commanded. I pulled the burden up vertically. I pushed her into the tree. There was a loud shaking in the grove. The trees seemed to stay sturdy even though the ground was softening, pulling me in. “Help me” I scream. I am sorry I exclaim putting my weeping eyes into my hands. The voice thunders through the trees. Your burden is my burden, your coffin has receded out of the place, your burden is no more a bother to you, but your journey has only just begun. Glow with this knowledge. For everyone that trust in me can have the same weightlessness. Free of your burden, let it burn and forget it. Now ride and teach, to the young that the darkness is nothing to fear, for you learn more in the dark than you will in life. Ghost your name is now ChadRay Shish. Now glow amongst the young and teach them to burn burdens.

He passes under a streetlight. “You don’t have to do this.” “I know.” “You've never changed - why now?” “Her.” A pause. Silence. Then, snatched between whispering headlights- “She wouldn't want this.” “She knew.” “How could she have?” “How could she have not?” Darkness enfolds him. I can not not reach his ears. He keeps walking, dragging feet not meant for cobble along the rough London road. As we approach a stoplight, I begin again: “There is still a place for you.” “Who will take me?” he cried. “Who wants what I can give? I have no riches, no treasure. I cannot give friendship, nor trust, nor even love. What harvest is there in the eternal spring? A place for me? Pah! And you!" He turns suddenly to confront me "What use have you of this? What use are you in this? Can you clap you hands, make everything just fine? Steal a pinch of farie dust and pop of to a better land? No, not you, you shriveled castoff. You cannot even move on your own. Of the two of us, I would think you want this more, worthless as you are.” The light flicks yellow, then green. I do not respond. He trudges on, and I flit about him like a moth drawn near a lamp. Finally- “I’m sorry.” “I know.” The traffic thins. Here the lamps are broken, no one walks these streets at night. Save him. He lights a match, carries me onward. “Are you afraid, little friend?” “Yes.” “I never learned that trick.” “Not even now?” “Not even now.” I do not speak. He never liked silence. “I know we are bound together.” silence. “I am sorry.” a pause. “I have to do this.” “I know.” “I can’t be happy anymore.” “Yes.” Then, together, “Because of her.” We have entered the gardens. He spends another match on our conversation. “Funny, how we have what the other wants. You trapped in place, I unable to stay.” “That’s not how it is. You can stay anywhere.” “And watch them pass me by? No, there is no place for me.” “And soon, none for me.” “I am sorry. For that. About that.” “Yes.” “If I could change it I would. I should never have asked her to bind us. I should have known.” “How could you have?” “How could I not have?” “It doesn't matter. Even if I were free, what am I without you?” He does not respond. Soon, too soon, the match sputters out. I die away at his feet, drain slowly into the black that surrounds him. He does not light the last one. We reach the statue in bitter quiet. Now he draws from his pocket an old flintlock from an old friend: his knife no longer sharp enough for the task at hand. I want to cry out, to to stop this, even now. But there is no light around him, and I am buried by the night. Together we sit, hidden by the dark, at the foot of our myth. And then, a final flash, boy and shadow, cast upon the stone behind.

In arrhythmic stutters they moved about, stopping here and there to survey the landscape, scouting for a clearing. "The beauty of it, oh the glory." In his eyes burned a fire, hot and bright. "Mother, will you look?" She faced away from him with her head cocked to the side and her shoulder pressing her phone against her ear. Speaking quickly, she punctuated her conversation with quick shallow drags of her cigarette. He lifted his head and held his hand to his brow. He stared intensely but his jaw was slack, "It's wonderful." She kicked at the dog at her feet until he let out a quick yelp and retreated to the shade under the patio table. Here he chewed on his paw and licked ants off the concrete. With one hand he swatted at the flies but his eyes were still fixed on the sky. After waving his hand without collision he let it fall on the back of his neck. Her words were many but without any strength. While she spoke her interest was on her hands. She turned them one way then the other, visibly impressed with her work, which was not yet dry. Unable to find a suitable host and sensing the approaching danger the flies took off. They didn't go together. Each went on their own, bobbing up and down and side to side. The sweat was building up on his face now. He rubbed then scratched at his neck hard before turning to the woman and then back to the sky. "Mom, you've got to look." She let the phone slide off of her shoulder and caught it with her hand. She squinted her eyes and her pupils contracted before the flicker in her eye was snuffed out with a forceful blink. "Mom, are you looking?" Spiders on the ground scurried into the shadows. Ants fought each other for access to the colony. The caterpillars munched away, ignorant. "Just look, please." He was too late. She shrieked and slapped at her arm. The buzzing enveloped her and she turned wildly, catching her hair in the hinge of the open screen door. "Mom?" This time he didn't turn to face her. She grabbed the caught strands and pulled them free as she ran inside, slamming the screen door behind her. She had told him not to look directly at the sun before, but he never listened. She never gave him reason. Today, he thought, was different. He stood and followed her inside, brushing a wasp off his arm. Holding the door wide open, he looked up over his shoulder and blinked, before letting the door shut at his heels.

Daniel woke up suddenly due to the loud alarm clock which he always seemed to not remember setting. He mumbled under his breath about how there was no way eight hours of sleep could go by so quickly as he begrudgingly went to turn the old timely noise maker off. He was in such a daze that he almost forgot what today was. You see today was the start of the winter holiday for the schools, and his grandkids, Ellie and Christopher, were coming to visit for the weekend. This was a family tradition that went on ever since the kids were old enough to talk and Dan looked forward to it each and every year. This year was a special one though, as it was only the children coming up to visit due to some unexpected work deadlines Dan’s son had to meet. He loved spending time with his grandkids and they were always excited to hear grandpa’s stories of the early two thousands back when he was a traveling musician. Before he knew it Dan was on the way back from the train station with Ellie and Chris, and unsurprisingly they were already begging for a story. Dan pondered for a moment as he thought about which of his many tales he would share today. It was at the first red light though where he made his decision, Shortly after seeing an old Bentley pass through the intersection. In fact, that car looked remarkably identical to the one he had seen so many years ago. It even had a deep indent in the middle of the trunk. Dan pondered about this for a few moments before starting to tell his tale. This story takes place way back in the year 2013, in fact it was the last day of that year, December 31st, New Year’s Eve. I had been driving for hours trying to make it home to your dad for new years after performing a big show out west. I’m sure your father has told you about me not being the most on time person more than once by now, and it is quite true. This time though I was very determined to make it back before the clock struck twelve. I had left early in the day, was now only two hours from home, and it wasn’t even nine yet! I was even feeling pretty proud of myself, that is until the car in front of me slammed on his breaks. Now I don’t know if you kids have ever been on the inside when a car gets hit but let me tell you it is not fun, especially when that car gets hit by someone going seventy miles per hour. Everything happened so quickly, the bright flash of the brake lights, the sound of crunching metal, and then everything just went black. I’m not quite sure how much time passed while I was out, but at some point the repulsive taste of gasoline in my mouth woke me up. My car had jerked to the left after the impact and flipped over on the side of the road. Luckily the door on the passenger side wasn’t in as bad shape as the driver’s and I was able to squeeze through it. Dazed and confused I limped over to the car that got hit, an older white Bentley. The car seemed to be perfectly fine, in fact it looked like it hadn’t even been hit! The car was just as I saw it before, with the only defect being a sizable dent in the center of the trunk. At this point I was thoroughly frightened, clearly something must have happened to me as what I was seeing just wasn’t possible. Maybe I had hit my head too hard and was seeing things, or maybe I wasn’t actually conscious. Running, if you could even call my hastened limp that, over to the driver’s door I could see a middle aged gentleman inside and it looked like he was speaking. Knocking on the window led to no response, but the door opened right up when I pulled the handle. The man was just uttering the same thing over and over again, “I’m sorry.” Obviously I thought he was referring to the accident, which he should have be damn sorry for, but he didn’t acknowledge me at all. He just sat there with his hands gripped firmly around the wheel saying he was sorry over and over again. This was what fully convinced me I was still unconscious and needed to wake my real self up. I started yelling aloud, slapping myself trying to think of any way to snap out of it but nothing was working. I was so distracted with regaining my consciousness that I didn’t even see the man in the car get up and come over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said,”you need help, open the trunk.” Still thinking I was knocked out and not having anything else to do I decided to listen to the man and open the trunk of his car. What I found in there is something I’ll never ever forget…. At this point the kids were practically jumping on the edge of their seats, they were begging to know what was inside the old man’s trunk and Daniel was about to blow their minds. Well you see inside this man’s trunk was….was….was…., Dan stuttered getting out the words. He didn't remember. Everything else was as clear as day, but that part was just blank in his memory. Ellie and Chris thought that he was just trying to have a laugh and build the suspense even more, but Dan was truly stumped. At this point he felt scared again, back like he was shortly after the car crash. He blinked and the road ahead of him was gone. The car he was in. gone. Ellie and Chris. Gone. Ahead of him was a highway with two cars speeding along it. The one in front slammed on the brakes and the one tailgating behind slammed right into him. The cars had conjoined, with the front end of the rear car inside where the white Bentley's trunk would have been. The cars eventually came to a stop and Dan could hear screaming coming from inside. He blinked again and he was inside his car, blood pouring from his right leg and a sharp pain in his side. He still heard the screaming though, it was ear piercing and coming from the vehicle in which his car was currently lodged in. There was nothing he could do to help the man, or even himself. He just has to sit there and listen to him cry out in pain. After what felt like eternity in this hellish state Dan noticed his other leg began to feel wet. He looked down to see if he was bleeding, but there was nothing there. Lights flashed on suddenly making Dan sit straight up, he was in a daze. Seemingly out of nowhere a young woman appeared from the door behind where he had been laying previously. She spoke like a teacher would to a grade-schooler, “Daniel did we have a bad dream again?” Dan looked down and found his left leg drenched in liquid. He had peed all over himself. In a cautious tone he asked the woman where he was. “You’re in the hospital silly! I swear if I had a dollar for every time you asked me that I wouldn't need this job.” Dan opened his mouth to speak again but the woman cut him off. “Let me guess,” She said “you want to know what happened to the man in the white Bentley, right?” Dan nodded his head. “Well, you see I’ll tell you all about what happened Daniel, just do me a favor and drink this water, ok? You must be very thirsty.” Dan was feeling pretty parched, so he took the cup of water from her, drank it, and then opened his mouth to speak again. Except it seemed he couldn't quite manage to make the words come out. His body started to slow down as he laid back on the bed on which he awoke. He got one last glance of the woman before his eyes finally shut. “Grace we are gonna need to have a crew clean up Daniel, he made a mess again.” Grace sighed. “Copy that. Did he ask about the accident again Sharrie?” “Yep,” she replied “He asks about it every time he wakes up.” “Do you think what are doing is right Sharrie, do you think it’s humane?” Sharrie seemed to be aggravated by this question, “Look, everyone in this ward has suffered a terrible trauma at some point in their lives that brought them here. Look at Daniel for example, he had to listen to the screams of the dying man whose car he hit while he was just barely a few feet away and unable to help. Some people never recover from events like that and that's why we have this job. People get sent here be it by their families or by society to be dealt with the only way they can. We drug them up, let them sleep, and dream of lives where they haven't been driven insane by tragedy. It’s a kind of kindness.” “I suppose you’re right” Grace replied, “I just can’t help but feel sorry for them.

My mind is racing, a new thought every second. What if I trip? What if I miss a note? I'm infected with these negative thoughts. Five months of preparation for this. For sweaty hands, and tense muscles. “Just try and relax, you're shaking again.” I can't make out whose voice it is. I look around the room. It's dark, a single beam of light coming in from the small window. It reminds me of a prison. “Alright Archer, it's showtime.” says the stage manager. I stand up. Then make my way towards the door. Beyond it is a bright red curtain, the only thing separating me from 200 people. I sit down at the piano. The curtains role back. I hear nothing, for all I know I'm alone. I'm back in my living room, getting ready to play for my uncle. All of my fears pass in that single moment. My feet are grounded, my back is straight, and I slowly lift my hands onto the keys. I take a deep breath, and never in my life have I felt more comfortable.

So, never written anything before so hope you like it. Frank had been feelin kinda lonely. It had been a few months since hed gone out with a girl, and roughly 2 years since his last relationship (which lasted roughly 18 months). Then one day he had a cousin say they had a friend (we'll call her Stacy) who wanted his number. Now after talking with his cousin about this girl, he decided to go through with the idea of giving her his number. Now usually, he wouldnt have gone for this type of girl. She was younger, used to getting her way, and into drugs. A rebellious teenage mentality. Anyways, Stacy ended up texting him later, and they talked for a while. They were both into each other, but for different reasons. Frank saw the insecure girl inside of her; who wanted someone to cling to and who wanted to be loved, exactly what she didnt want others to see. What she saw in him was simply superficial. Even though he knew immediately that it wasnt going to work, he stayed with it. He enjoyed having someone who truly wanted him, and thought it could at least ease the weight of loneliness that had been plaguing him. So one night Stacy invites frank over to hang out. At 11 oclock. Frank knew what was goin on, and his mind was mentally ready but his body shaking. After calming himself down he headed out for the 30 min drive. Once he got there, he drove around the area, taking in the sights and sounds of the neighborhood, as well as the social class of the area. He knew pretty quickly that this was an area he was going to have to take his pocket knife with him at all times. He wasnt looking for trouble, but at the same time, if trouble found him, he wanted to stay alive. Finally frank found the house, and parked a block away. Stacy texted him telling him to walk over and she and her friends would be outside. This sounded weird to him but he did as he was told, because at this point his mind was on one thing. When he got to the house, he realized she wasnt lieing. Her mom was on their porch, and she was in her front yard with her three siblings playing basketball, and smoking weed. Keep in mind, at this point it was 11:45 at night. He felt out of place even before he was introduced to everyone. After about a half hour her mom called them all in the house, and Stacy and frank said a quick goodbye. Frank walked back to his car expecting much more than what he was given, and was hoping to find the girl who would show him her passionate side that she showed when they talked, but instead was met with a girl who masked those insecurities with a rebellious, and disrespectful attitude. While in his car, Stacy texted him telling him to walk back over and she would sneak him in her house. He knew better than that. He'd seen enough tv shows and heard enough stories to justify not going through with that idea, he didnt want to have a lecture from her mother, nor did he want the cops called. So he decided he was going to leave, and maybe try on another day where it wouldnt be so difficult to see this girl, and hopefully find the little girl inside her that he was falling for. Upon leaving, she told him to go over to their house, and she would give him a kiss goodbye. So he drove to their street, but stayed a few houses away just in case. She got in the car, and got on top of him and he knew at that point they should move a block over, because this wasnt just a kiss goodbye. Unfortunately, he didnt move the car. That was a bad idea. They began by kissing, Frank immediately tasted the smoke she had on her breath and lips but paid no mind to it. At first they started tentatively both afraid to show too much of themselves. After a few minutes, they stopped kissing, and she layed her head on his chest. This is the girl he drove here for he thought. Although he wanted to have sex, he wanted this intimate time more than anything. Frank wanted to be able to show someone the side of himself he kept locked and hidden from everyone, and finally he could. Frank was finally able to give and receive love, and he had not searched for anything else harder or longer. While she layed on his chest, he stroked her back lightly. Starting first over the jacket, and then under it. Feeling her smooth skin, that had scars on it. As he rolled his fingers over them he asked her what they were from, and she answered for each one, telling small details about each. After a few minutes of this, she began kissing him again. Only this time, all of the timidness was gone, and the passion showed. She pressed herself on him, and ran her hands through his hair, while her kisses became softer and slower. Frank noticed this and responded to it. He decided to ditch the finger tips and grabbed her with his hands and pulled her closer to him, he pressed her against him and she stroked her body in an arching motion over frank. At this point Frank moved his hands up her sides to her armpits, caressing her with his finger tips as he continued to go back up and back down. As a result of this, her breathing increased, and her kissing slowed to a stall, as she let her body go limp and let him take full control. He continued to kiss her and ran his hands up her stomach this time, but around her bra, giving her an option to say no. When she said nothing, he ran his hands back down her sides, and then back up her stomach under her bra, feeling her breasts. She had relatively small breasts, most likely in between an A cup and a B cup, and a small frame as well, but she knew how to use it. As he ran his hands up her breasts he cupped them and squeezed, feeling her hard and protruded nipples, pulling gently on them. He continued to caress her body with his finger tips a few moments longer before making his way down to her pants. Frank moved his hands down to her waist line, before moving over her pants, again, allowing her to tell him no, but once again, she made no sound, but instead thrusted herself on him again in a stroking motion. Frank new she was ready to go, and made his way under her panties and grabbed her ass, squeezed it, and pulled her to him, while he thrusted himself onto her while she did the same. At this point, Stacy asked Frank if he had a condom, he said yes, and she told him to get it out and lay her down. Frank was ready to go too, but wanted to wait a few moments longer to really make her yearn for him, and play with her pussy first too. As he moved his left hand from her ass, he moved it towards her pussy, feeling her short stubby hairs, he rubbed his hand down the front side of it, then back up. Doing his best to make her yearn for it, and as he went to move his hand back down her panties to finger her luscious pussy, it happened. A light appeared outside his driver side window, and he knew instantly that this was not going to be good. All the thoughts of cops, and moving a block over suddenly shot into his mind. As soon as he saw the light, his hands shot away from stacy instantly to his side, and Frank realized the flashlight was coming from stacys mom. Stacy got out of the car, but to franks suprise, her mother did not say anything to him, but instead just waited for stacy, and walked her home, furiously yelling at her the whole way back. After he was over the original shock, Frank fixed his chair back from its layed down position, to its upright position, and drove away. He wanted nothing to do with the consequences of cops, and hoped stacys mom didnt get his license plate number and call the cops on him. On his way home stacy texted him telling him to come back. But Franks was long gone now. His head still spinning from his stupidity of all the things he shouldve done to not get caught. He was so surprised how amazing it was that he could be so careless and reckless with his actions. Usually he would never engage in such risky behavior, and would always think things through much more than he did tonight. "Women! No wonder so many people get caught! Once your mind is on sex, rational thinking goes out the fucking window." frank thought. The next day frank broke it off with stacy. He knew she was nothing but trouble, and he wanted someone who he could take home, and introduce to his family. He also wanted that person to respect his family, and this was not the girl to do that. She wasnt the person to really know him emotionally either, and that was his big deciding factor to end it. He would've loved to continue to see stacy and have her play the part untill he found that someone, but he also knew that she was jailbait waiting for someone to snatch up, and he did not want to be the victim of that catch. The names were changed in this story, but story is true.

Tonight I met the most beautiful girl in the world. That is not hyperbole. I met the most beautiful girl in the world. I was standing outside McGee's Tavern, where you can find me almost every night, chain smoking cigarettes when I saw her coming. She was about a block away when I first saw her, and I had trouble looking away for the fifteen seconds it took for her to reach the overhang where I was standing avoiding the rain. She is reckless. I could tell by looking at her. The dead giveaway was that it was pouring rain and she didn't have an umbrella. Or maybe she is forgetful or maybe the weather app on her phone doesn't work or maybe she just likes being sopping wet. Regardless, I knew I had to get her attention. Somehow, some way, she was going to notice me. 3... 2... 1... and there she went. Right past me. I had already destroyed something that I was too scared to even begin creating. "Ten seconds of courage" I told myself, and off I ran into the rain to catch up. "Excuse me ma'am, do you need an umbrella?" "No thank you. I like the rain." I knew it. "Well good. Because I don't have an umbrella. Do you want a cigarette?" "Thanks for the offer but it's pouring rain." I looked up at the sky seemingly just realizing that fact, myself. "Bit tough to smoke a wet cigarette" "Oh. Right. Well it's not raining over there. There's an overhang at McGee's. We can stay dry there." "Okay. Fine." She quickly brushed past me back towards McGee's. Was this really happening? This woman was ten times more beautiful than any other woman that has ever given me the time of day. Maybe she was just humoring me. But I didn't care. I was on top of the world. We got to the overhang where we could stay dry -- or stay wet, I guess. I handed her a cigarette. "What's your name?" "Emilia." "That's a very pretty name." She blew a cloud of smoke right in my face as if to say "I've heard that line a million times. Try harder". This girl doesn't give a damn about anything. We talked for about five minutes about the weather, because that's all that my brain would allow me to think about. Well other than the subtle curve of her lips and the deep green of her eyes, but I wasn't going to bring that up. She knows those things already. She has to. Our cigarettes were starting to get stubby and I was starting to feel pressure to entertain her. That's when she spoke words that I'll never forget. "So we've been talking for close to ten minutes now and you still haven't told me what your name is." "She cares what my name is. Progress" I thought to myself. I must have been thinking a bit longer than I thought because she asked me again. "What the fuck is your name?" At this point both of our cigarettes had gone out. "My name.. my name is Trevor." "Can I have another cigarette Trevor?" She wanted another cigarette. To me, this could only mean two things; she either enjoyed my company, or what was waiting for her at the end of her walk was even worse than an awkward man-child talking about the weather for ten minutes. I chose to believe the former, for morale's sake. "Of course you can have another cigarette." I handed her a cigarette and the lighter. She lit up her cig and kissed me on the cheek. Before I had time to recover from the sudden lack of oxygen in my brain and lack of functionality in my knees, she began walking away. "It was very nice to meet you, Trevor. I live right down the street here. Maybe if you're lucky we'll meet again." With that, she was on her way. "Wait -- how are you gonna smoke that cig in the rain!?" Just then, without turning around, she pulled out an umbrella from her bag. I would do anything to see the smug look that she undoubtedly had on her face. She told me she lives nearby. That's good news. I practically live at McGee's, so we are practically neighbors. I'm going to go find her. Should I go find her? What if she gets to know me better and doesn't like me? I should do it. Maybe after one more cigarette.

The abandoned city-scape stretched for miles. It had been a long time since people drove the streets in their horseless, mechanical carriages, driving to their places of employment. Immense buildings towered thousands of feet, reaching skyward, as if Terra herself wished to embrace the Elders. Though, the only tenants these deserted goliaths held were lesser creatures, animals fleeing the terminal storms raging across the irradiated remains of the cities. Entire ecosystems flourished inside office buildings, factories, apartments, and supermarkets. Mycelia coated the outside of the buildings, absorbing the concentrated energy left by the fallout. As Lorik made his way into the alley, a glimmer caught his eye. The source of the flash came inside a deli, a sign read "Joe's Cold Cuts, best in New Louisville!" Lorik attempted to open the door, but to no avail. He shuffled through his rucksack and pulled out a glass bottle with an orange liquid. He cautiously uncorked the container and carefully poured the liquid onto the hinges of the door. Within seconds the hinges dissolved away and what remained of them hissed and bubbled and melted away. The door came down with a couple of kicks and crashed onto the floor of the deli. As Lorik entered the room, a wave of death hit him. The raunchy odor sent him into a gagging fit. He quickly rummaged through his bag and brought out a peculiar face mask and put it on, resulting in instant relief. After he regained composure, Lorik took out a piece of black stone from his pocket and held it up, as if presenting an award to the room. He pointed the stone around the room. As he pointed it to a dark corner of the shop, the stone started to glow a dim violet light. As Lorik moved toward the corner, the light grew progressively brighter. As he reached the corner, the stone illuminated the entire room. Lorik moved a couple pieces of dry wall from the floor and the room suddenly became lit with a different color. The room was now a shade of black and crimson, giving the deli and the area outside a menacing look.He looked down to find an odd-shaped crystal. It was the color of soot, like an ember that has just stopped burning. Not entirely black, just a shade below. The most strange part about it was, since it was transparent, you could see the core of the crystal. The core was pulsing, almost like a heart, but it had no clear pattern. It didn't seem random, but it certainly wasn't organized. Lorik picked up the gem and turned to exit. As he went to leave, he saw the entrance was blocked by a titanic wall of teeth, flesh, and metal. The behemoth made a noise that might have been a growl. "Now, now, Xantor, no need to fret. I have the stone," said Lorik. The beast grunted. "The Masters will not be happy with us if we go through with this." The beast Xantor replied with a gurgle. "So we both know the consequences. Are you sure you want to help me?" Xantor grunted, in an annoyed matter. "Fine, okay I get it. Lets get this over with." Lorik held up the black stone and the ember crystal. Like two magnets, they rose and collided with each other. In an instant, they had fused together. An explosion can be heard in the distance.

The most beautiful memory that I had of her would probably be the day when the day was perfect, when the sun shone effortlessly in the sky, and when she came through that door and everything was still, but shifting. This memory I have of her is like the reminiscence of something that you lost that you cherished, but most importantly it was something that you wanted and lost. See, there is nothing more obliterating than the hatred I bare myself. It seems so cynical to think that I freely give myself to the happiness of an individual, but I think it’s beautiful. I cling to this memory because it’s one of the few things that make me happy. It’s my companion amidst the darkness in the day and my light amidst the shadows of the night. I recall this memory because language is beautiful and there is nothing more beautiful than being able to use language to express a memory so cherished that it will never leave you. Never. It seemed like any other morning. The sun rose through the creeks in the rivers of the clouds. It was a warm morning, but it would only get hotter and hotter. I remember the white tank top I wore along with my black cargo shorts. It seemed like it was going to be a simple day, but then I realized something. I was talking to a girl who was more interesting than all the crevices along a diamond. I was talking to a girl that was there for me in the morning past midnight. Let’s just summarize this up and say that I was talking to a girl whose eyes showed the reflection of the world, but whose hair also flowed so effortlessly that it was like the wind of the oasis was always with her. I will never forget the way she looked that day. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, so let’s get to the journey. I was driven to school that day just like any other day. I had something to look forward to this time of my life. I went through each period like the ticking of the clock. It was so routine, but something broke it. I remember the heat that ravaged the school and that clinged onto everyone around me. It was a short day during this time and I remember coming home knowing that I was expecting her. My heart raced greater that I must not have just skipped a beat on the way. The ride home was a rollercoaster of ifs and whats. It was worth it. I came through that plain, white door alone like most of my past. I waited and waited until she was outside. I remember how she looked. Leaning on that parking structure never looked so beautiful with her. For some reason looking at her from above made the sun shine brighter and I was perfectly okay with that. I unlocked and opened the door for her and I remember how the sound of each of her steps climbing the stairs gave me a shock. It was the shock that makes you live twice. It was the shock that it was actually happening. The person I liked was with me in my home and it seemed like time was slowing and slowing and slowing. She finally made her way up and we sat in the living room. I was speechless. We were inches apart. It was the only thing I wanted in life was to be closer to her than anything else. I remember how she was laying on me, sleepy and tired from the deprivation that she faced. I was fine napping knowing that I was next to her. We talked, we laughed, and we smiled. We looked into each other’s eyes and it was exuberant. It was voluptuous. She was eventually in my arms as she lay sleeping and I was paralyzed. She was, and still is, perfect from the moment she first slept in my arms. Holding her hand was something more of an extraordinary experience. Our heartbeat synchronized as one. Finally, just like the passing of the sun and the moon, and the ticking of time, my routine broke. She broke my boring day-to-day life. She filled it with wonder, with beauty, and with happiness. My heart beat differently with her… and I was perfectly okay with that.

First time posting, this is just a random bit of nothing that I wrote in my free time. Thought I might see what people thought. Jim entered the the local grocer in his town. There was a mall named BigMart beside the little grocery. The shop seemed to be dwarfed by the bigger building, and must have felt like a little child sitting on Santa’s lap; shadowed by a man of power. Jim was not thinking about Santa, or even the mall for that matter, as he entered the little supermarket. The only thing that dominated Jim’s train of thought, was turnips. He personally was not all that keen on turnips, but his parakeet, Molly, was quite taken with the vegetable. Molly would get depressed, and even lugubrious, if she did not eat turnips at least once a day. Jim was clean out of turnips, hence the need to go shopping. There weren’t that many customers in the little shop. None, in fact. In all of the six years that Jim had come to this store, he had only ever seen four other customers, and one of them was the owner’s aunt, who was even more wrinkled than he was. The store did not have a lack of superb items for purchase, but the BigMart had commandeered the shopping market. Jim was never put off by the absence of human contact when he came to this store, which he did quite frequently, as this was the only store in the whole town that sold turnips. Jim lifted his hand in greeting to a dusty clothed pile of skin flaps, that sat atop a stool behind a counter. The shop owner, a short, wrinkly old man that never seemed to move from his little stool by the check-out, attempted to nod in Jim’s direction. Jim mozzied past bright packages, containing this and that, enjoying himself as one would in a park. ‘Shopping,’ he thought, ‘is not something that should be rushed.’ Jim paused in front of a rack that held a variety of chips, all originating from relatively unknown producers. ‘Uncle Pete’s Crunchies’ was the most common make, in this uncommon selection. After fulfilling his curiosity of unknown chip manufactures, Jim carried on. Jim had been through this store thousands of times, and very little ever changed in it. But Jim still ambled through. What caught Jim’s eyes next, was a little bin of stuffed animals. There were many different species of animals in said bin, all were around hand size. Jim examined one of the stuffies, a polka dotted turtle, with a casually scrutinizing gaze. He put the turtle back with it’s brethren, and continued on his way. Jim, looking at his watch, realized that he had been shopping for quite some time, and that it was time for him to get the turnips. He quickly retraced his steps to reach the vegetable section, where he carefully selected four turnips. He walked briskly to the checkout, where owner, with surprising quickness and skill, deposited the turnips into a little paper bag, and took Jim’s offered money. Jim, bagged turnips in hand, walked out of the store. He would be back in two days to get more turnips, because, if one thing was certain in this changing world, it was that Molly liked turnips, and that this store sold those turnips.

I am James. I opened the heavy front door and walked through into the nice warm air of the hallway, wiping my dry, clean shoes on the welcome mat twice each. Once backward, pause for a second, once forward. I put my keys in the little glass dish on the side where I knew I wouldn't forget them and, before I'd even closed the door behind me, unbuckled my belt with a deep sigh. These were my rituals. I stood for a minute with the belt in my hand and allowed all of the muscles in my legs, back and arms to reverberate that special feeling of released tension that comes from a long walk undone. Work was fine. Same old. Not great, not terrible. Just so. Home is better, but still, same old. I closed the door behind me, and gave it an extra push shut because the wood, old and cracking, had expanded from damp. As the locking mechanism clicked closed, the hallway got a bit brighter somehow. I thought nothing of it. I put my belt down on the side, next to the dish, and started to unbutton my jacket as I walked towards the stairs which, opposite the front door, concluded the hallway. With every step I took, the hallway got brighter and I undid another button on my jacket. Everything kept getting brighter. Why? What was happening? As I undid the last button of my jacket and put my right foot on the first step of the stairs - all muscle memory at this point - the brightness became almost overwhelming. Something wasn't right. Something was wrong, I was past the point of even being able to make out anything useful in my field of vision, and it was all still getting brighter - my panic quickly rose - I was pretty sure that I was going suddenly and irreversibly blind, but my rote movements continued and I put another foot on another step. It was almost as though my body was unconcerned with what was happening and just wanted to continue on, but my mind was on the verge of going berserk with fear and confusion. The sensation of muscular release in my legs from the long walk was compounded and seemed to expand even beyond the flesh of my thighs, knees, calves, and feet. I would have described it as muscle weakness, but I could tell that I was walking up the steps (legs sturdy as ever, knees not buckling, feet on point) from the fading sounds and sensations of a man ascending stairs. I seemed to be losing my senses; my body felt lighter and less substantial with each step, and yet it all resounded like a plucked guitar string which defies expectation by vibrating more and more instead of less and less, until it doesn't look like a string any more and gradually becomes invisible. I was terrified. Utterly alarmed. And yet something about the vibrating sensation, which grew into all of my limbs, my torso, my neck, my head, and almost erased the sensation of them ever having been there as it did so, reminded me of something. It's an odd feeling: you're experiencing your own death and yet the trivialities of the mind are with you - you can't shake that irritable "tip-of-the-tongue" feeling. But what was it? What was I reminded of? It reminded me of a problem I had tried to solve once. And that reminded me of something too. A riddle on top of a riddle. Wait... what was happening again? Yes, that's it. I was dying. No... wait, really? Everything had already gone so white that it was black - empty, beyond light and dark, beyond vision. The feeling of reverberation had grown far beyond my body, and seemed to now be a property of my entire field of experience. "My" entire field of experience? That doesn't sound right. "The" entire field of experience. What's "my"? Wait, what am I saying?! It's me! I'm still me! I'm not dead, I'm still... I'm here... I'm... A riddle on top of a riddle. That's what I was thinking about. There was distraction. Focus is back now. A riddle on top of a riddle, what did that mean again? No, wait... I am me! I am James. I am James. Get it together, James. Determination. Fuck fear. Fuck death. I am James. What an odd thing to forget. Let's pull it together, stop thinking about riddles, let's shake this thing off and wake up. Okay. Wake up from what? Was I asleep? Was I napping? What was happening again? Oh, no, that's it! I was dying! How stupid of me to forget something like that, something so significant and downright personal. I was dying, and now I was going to stop dying and get back to whatever it was I was doing before. A riddle on top of a riddle is one way of describing it, sure, but really it's a question: who am I? I remembered asking myself this: once when I was around seven years old and staring at my own hands, wondering why I should see my hands from this perspective and not somebody else's, and once when I was eleven, and I heard my voice on a recording and thought, "is that really me?". I remember thinking about it for a long time, and I knew that it wasn't really me, because sometimes I'm not talking, and when I'm not talking I'm still me. I wondered if this was true of every part of me. Would I still be me when I'm no longer eleven? Would I still be me if I was no longer called James? What if I had a girl's name? What if I lost all of my limbs? What if I lost my head? My entire body? I'd surely still be me, deep down. But where is deep down if I don't have a body? If I'm not a collection of properties, who am I? What am I? What is "I"? It sort of looks like I'm a... a kind of circle thing. A cosmic donut, going in on itself. Was I always this? Wait, wasn't I just going up the stairs? No... wasn't I just... remembering something from when I was a kid? How can a circle go up the... no... I'm not a circle, I'm just *looking* at a circle. That's it. I'm James. I'm looking at a circle that's... eating itself? Coming out of itself? What a weird image. What is this, how long have I been here? Where is it? Where are we? Whatever it is, it's like the best optical illusion I've ever seen - one minute I'm sure I'm looking at it from the inside out, and then the next it's like I'm looking at it from the outside in, and I can't reconcile the two. It's blindingly bright, but it's so dark it's impossible to see. A riddle on top of a riddle. So lucid now. Even. This is not a circle. This is. There are no circles, there are no "I"s or "me"s. There are only circles, there are only "I"s and "me"s. Everything is true. Everything is here. This is. All of this was once different, an eternity ago. It was only a very small part of itself, because it wanted to be, because it would be fun. It had been James. When it was James, it experienced itself as a cone: infinitely small at the pointy end, and infinitely large at the other. James thought that there were lots of things - he thought that he was just the pointy end and none of the other things. He didn’t believe in himself. He was embarrassed to exist, and he thought that all the other things existed whether he did or not, and that little old him, the cone, the container of everything, the ancient of days, was just a little smudge on the outside of it all, not supposed to be there. An accident. A fluke to be scraped off and thrown in the sink. How bizarre that he could contort reality toward such a strange concept. Toward a belief in the inconceivable: an objective world, wherein experiences are divorced from experience. It would do silly things when it was James, like imagine an empty world with no consciousness in it, and forget that it was imagining from the perspective of a point of consciousness. It would ask itself silly questions about trees falling in forests and pretend not to know the answer, because it was humiliated – it had once, after all, called itself God and got carried away, and now it was so guilty that it was pretending not to exist. It was a strange life; being one without belief in its own existence. It was funny. It was enjoyable. This went on forever, and it never stopped. But at a point which could nevertheless be thought of as "after" this, if that's the way you're inclined to organize things, it all went back in again, and evens once again became unevens. Answers once again twisted themselves into questions. Exciting. Terrifying. A ball, thrown into the air, suspended for eternity at its apex, falling back down towards its next bounce. What was I saying? I got lost there for… gosh, I don’t even know how long. I’m so disoriented. Who am I again? Am I this pretty iridescent circle thing? Yeah, this... this has always been me. Right? No... wait, what did I think a moment ago? That I was... I was James and I was… I was going up some stairs? Oh. Oh!! Hahaha! I'm not some fucking circle! Christ. I can't believe I forgot again. Every single time, I swear to myself that I'm going to remember. "This time! This time I'll remember! This time I’ll know I’m not dying and I’ll just remember straight away!" And I never do. The familiar sound, a high-pitched ascending tone which eventually disappears past the range of normal hearing, filled my ears. I remembered that I had eyelids to open, and I opened them. I laughed raucously again... this was the best feeling in the world. Every single time: I'm dying, and then I remember the truth, and it's pure bliss. I looked at the monitor in front of me, and re-adjusted to normality as I soaked in some of the words. I didn't care what they said. I took the headset off - my ears were sore, but the endorphins from those standard bouts of belly laughter took care of that. I am Ruth. James was a character. I was in the simulation. I am Ruth. I am Ruth! I had done this thousands of times, as had everyone in this day and age, but it was always a disorienting experience. For example, I remembered just now that there's a part of the experience I never recall for more than a few minutes. There is a moment, you see, just after you release your character in the simulation. Maybe I'll write it down. There's a moment. There's a moment, where... where... ah, what was it? Something about a circle, or...? A question? Some sort of puzzle? On top of a... a riddle. A bouncing ball? No, before that… I'd already forgotten. And after a few minutes, as usually happened, I had forgotten that I had forgotten, and that there was anything to forget, and I knew only that I knew what I damn well knew, and that was that. It was tiresome work, being in the simulation. I was going to have a power nap. Regain my senses. I walked out of the room and towards the lounge, where I knew I could catch 20 minutes on the big comfy sofa. There was an idea, like a snowflake tumbling lazily through the air in the back of my mind as I walked. Like... like I was about to go, not to a nap, but to some sort of... I don't know. I don't remember. It can't have been important.

At the bottom of a large hill, on the porch of a small cottage, surrounded by the ancient forrest of Tuli, sat a giant gnome. A giant among his people, that is, for he stood at just under a meter tall. Standing from his rocking chair, he placed a tiny book on the seat and stowed a wooden pipe in his belt pouch. Breaking through dense foliage, a bright morning sun illuminated the battle-scarred body, scantily clad in thick leather trousers held up by a single strap across his left shoulder. He turned to the door of the cottage, picking up a large sword, longer than he was tall, and sliding it into the sheath on his back. The wooden door swung open freely as he touched it, light pouring through the entrance to illuminate a single room. Springing lightly on his toes, the leather-garbed gnome entered the room with nary a sound. “Struununslad, Vul Drog se Pah, I have come to end your reign of terror. I have come to free this forest from your evil clutches. I, Kahladoun of the Far Sea, will be the one to —“ With a flash of light and the slamming of a door, Kahladoun was engulfed in darkness. He pulled his sword from its sheath, and let the rage overtake him. This man had killed countless of friends, family, and countrymen. He would pay dearly, and with his life. A storm grew in Kahladoun’s eyes and he swung wildly into the dark, not waiting for his vision to clear. The familiar sensation of steel biting flesh comforted Kahladoun. There were many enemies in this room now, he was sure of it. Finding his opponents asleep in their beds was an advantage he had not expected. The fight was short and filled with blood curdling screams. Finally, as the bloodlust ended, his vision cleared to reveal a large chamber. Blood covered beds and the mutilated corpses of children lined walls, nine in total. A door swung open at the far side of the room as Kahladoun dropped his sword, tears welling in his eyes. Guards rushed in, pinning Kahladoun to the ground and kicking his sword away. As they rolled him onto his back, a watchgnome approached and knelt over his head. “You’re a monster, Kahl.” said the watchgnome, before driving the pommel of his sword into Kahladoun’s forehead, “You always have been.” * * * “For your crimes against our people, for the unrighteous murder of nine innocents, I hereby sentence you to death.” King Ursot’s voice rang in Kahladoun’s ears as he begged himself to wake from this nightmare. “Have you any final words?” He looked around the giant court, angry citizens in the crowd, cheering for the outcome of his trial. When his gaze returned to the King, whom Kahladoun towered over, he saw an even smaller gnome in a robe whispering something into his ear. Strain as he might, Kahladoun could not make out what the court’s grand archmage was saying. Finally, the wizard stepped back, and King Ursot addressed the crowd. “Kahladoun is hereby released into the custody of Grand Archmage Reisendor.” Ursot stood from his tiny throne and briskly exited the room. The crowd was shocked, but none more-so than Kahladoun. Confusion filled filled his mind as guards expelled the masses of the courtroom before they could turn into a mob. Motioning for Kahladoun to follow, the Archmage made his exit from the court through a passage behind the throne and into a small corridor. “What is happening?” asked Kahl, bewildered. “We’ll make time for any remaining questions after I’ve had a chance to explain myself,” said the wizard, ushering Kahl into his study. The walls of this windowless room emitted a faint glow of golden light that prevented any shadows from forming. Fantastic artifacts, gems, books, and bobbles filled the shelves and tables strewn about the chamber. Reisendor approached a table in the center, pushing its load onto the floor and pulling a kettle from his cloak. He placed the kettle on the table and after a few moments, it began to sing. “Sit. Would you like some tea?” offered the mage. “You’ll forgive me if thirst is not at the forefront of what troubles me,” replied Kahl as he took the chair. “I can see how you might think that. Please don’t hesitate to ask if you change your mind.” The wizard pulled two cups from his robe and placed them on the table, filling one with a lightly colored liquid from the kettle. “I didn’t save you, you saved yourself.” The wizard paused. “I can’t read your mind, I can only sense your intent.” Kahladoun seemed to relax a bit. “I don’t know what happened.” “Oh, but you do. It is in your mind, and if you’ll let me, I will let you see.” Kahladoun was confused again. He had been confused since the moment his rage had subsided, and he didn’t expect the feeling to leave any time soon. "I thought you couldn't read my mind," he said. "I can't, but you can.” the wizard paused again before continuing, “I’m being cryptic, and even I am tired of it. Here, let me explain.” Reisendor blew carefully across the top of his tea and took a sip. “I quite like it when it is steaming hot, but even I am not immune to the heat.” He chuckled. “You went to fight the Dark Mage and he cast you away into the castle’s orphanage. You executed nine of the King’s wards.” He paused for effect. “Your rage is undeniable, your bloodlust unquenchable, but you are not a monster. Struununslaad took advantage of your anger and turned it against you.” Kahl reached for the second cup and Reisendor filled it. “It is strange to me that he did not just kill you. It is strange to me that he sent you here.” he took another sip of the steaming liquid. “Is revenge what you seek?” Kahl nodded slowly, apprehensively. “Well you will not find it with that attitude.” Reisendor stood from the table and took a sheathed sword, two feet in length, from one of his many bookcases. “You will travel the lands and you will learn to control your temper. You will find allies along the way and you will defeat the sorcerer.” Kahl looked shocked, a few minutes ago, he was to be put to death, a few hours before that, he had murdered an orphanage of innocent children. “This is not a command,” Reisendor continued, “This is a prophecy. I have seen it.” He pulled from the leather sheath, a great sword five feet in length, easily twice the height of Reisendor. Kahl inspected the blade as it was given to him. The sword gleamed in the golden light, emanating an icy aura from the blade. “Kahl,” said Reisendor, hesitating, “This will be dangerous. Lives will be lost and you will not return the same gnome you are today. Let this be punishment enough. Cast away from your mind, the memories of your past. You are a good gnome, Kahl, and a good gnome always comes home.

I enjoy the peace and quiet. It's almost a law that I have set upon myself. It gives me time to think about the beauty of the world around me. I moved into a small village with a population of 20 to get away from the city noise and the obnoxious neighbours. The people in the village were nice but noisy. It seemed that, no matter where I went, the noise followed. I remember my mother telling me "A happy neighbour is a good neighbour". I never fully understood how someone could enjoy such annoyances. The police presence was very small, about 2 cops and crime was non-existent. It allowed me to go about my nightly walks without bother. The night is the best time to go about your business, everyone is quietly sleeping, pure bliss. I don't like guns, too noisy. I have a marvellous knife collection. I believe in using quiet tools to make quiet people. The neighbours threw a party for the whole village. I was invited. . .I went. I locked the doors before showing them my knife collection. I enjoy the peace and quiet. It's almost a law that I have set upon myself.

Thursday morning was not good. I awoke lost in shattered memories with regretful sighs as the previous night’s spirit still lingered. I threw the blanket from my body only to realize that it was in fact the fitted sheet. I re-fit my makeshift warmth, trudged to the bathroom and found my smart phone resting quite tranquilly at the bottom of a urine filled toilet bowl. I covered my eyes and rubbed my face with ferocity known only to those who have truly failed, and proceeded to flush and retrieve my once working Galaxy S3. I tossed it into the sink with no hopes of recovery, and went on with my daily routine of menial tasks, accompanied by fragmental echoes of a night gone awry. One day later I received my replacement phone thanks in part to the forethought of insurance coverage, and the white lie that I needed it immediately for “work.” After activation I patiently waited for a stream of hateful text, voicemails, and general dislike of my affinity for drunken dialing. It buzzed 5 times, each followed by a gentle head shake on my end. To my surprise the messages broke down to one from my mother, one from my father, two from friends, and a fifth from Marie. “Who the Hell is Marie?” I thought, and could only assume she was someone I had met in my blackened state. It was a simple text that stated “I did have a good night actually, hope you’re not too hung over, ;)” “Marie,” I repeated her name, and grinned about the mystery woman who had just entered my life. I recalled talking a good portion of the evening with one of the many bartenders I pestered. I had no recollection of her name, and I do remember playing with her phone at one point. I believe it was to put on a song I just “had to hear” right then and there. There is a good chance I asked for her number, and therefore the mystery of Marie has come to a close. The following Wednesday I continued with my weekly routine of playing trivia, shooting pool, and getting drunk. The conscience decision had been made by the more responsible side of my brain to rein in the horses and take it easy. We ended up winning trivia, brought in an extra $60 playing pool, and from there we trekked back to the bar that housed Marie. I entered the door, made direct eye contact, smiled and said, “Sorry I haven’t texted you back. I dropped my phone in the toilet, and wasn’t sure how much of a fool I was.” Marie smiled, turned her head a little and replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Huh,” I stuttered, “So, I didn’t get your number last Wednesday when I was shit housed?” “Nope, you didn’t even talk to me that much, but you were indeed shit housed.” “Well then who the hell is Marie?” “I have no idea, Sam, but for future reference my name is Becca.” She passed my usual order across the bar, and I reciprocated with a larger tip than normal. The evening came to an end, and I left the bar feeling quite confused. My night of debauchery was no clearer after my attempt at drunken recall. Fueled by one too many drinks, I decided that the only true way to solve this mystery was to just reply to the text. So I did……. “You’re not who I thought you were.” Seconds after hitting send the regret sank in. I had waited a week, I had no idea what she looked like, and the only thing I could do I messed up in the worst possible way. After arriving back to my apartment with no answer from Marie I assumed it was done, and this phantom stranger would remain just that. The following day was like any other, I begrudgingly went to work, ate a lunch that was absolutely horrible for my figure, and around 2:30 my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Marie. “Well, you’re quite the laggard. However, that is to be expected by how much you drank.” Alright, she seems understanding. I thought for quite some time about what to respond, and I had my best brain cells working around the clock, and came up with... “Yeah, sorry.” “Good one,” I thought, “Am I getting dumber?” The alcohol slowly eating away and killing off the Einstein’s I have roaming around my noggin. Surprisingly she texted back, and the conversation grew to an actual hospitable state. Jokes were made, general information was traded, and we found that we had electronic chemistry that has grown to be a part of our digital world. After learning her full name my first move was to find her on Facebook. I searched high and low, but to no avail. I tried all spellings of her last name, regions I knew she had lived, and even things related to her occupation. After my Facebook dig proved unfruitful I had given up hope to know what she looks like without face to face interaction. I made plans to meet up with her on a Friday evening at a little dive bar I like to call home. Thursday arrived, the eve of my date, and the biggest break in my case presented itself when I mentioned that I play in an adult dodge ball league. “I have a friend who plays dodge ball, do you know Sarah Johnson?” Unfortunately, I did not, and I thought another lead had gone cold. Later that evening while our team was conditioning, known more commonly as drinking beer before our match, I noticed my team captain’s phone ringing. I glanced to his screen and saw in large letters “Incoming Call Sarah Johnson.” “Woody, where is Chris?” I yelled, “I need to talk to him right now about Sarah Johnson!” “That is Chris’s kinda girlfriend, she is pretty cool. Do you know her?” “No, but my phantom stranger does!” I filled Woody in on everything that had since transpired. He laughed, and called me an idiot, voicing his regret that he hadn’t been there to see me as intoxicated as I was. “So, you must know Sarah then?” I asked. “Uh, yeah a little, but Just through Chris, and I think I am friends with her on Facebook.” He pulled out his phone and proceeded to bring up Sarah’s friends list. He searched for Marie and found her page. “Yeah, it looks like her page is blocked, but that has to be the girl right? It is the only Marie in her friends list.” We played our match, and met at our sponsors bar to continue the team’s after match cool down. The story of my Marie had made it to a slew of teammates, and eventually to Sarah herself. “So what is this I hear about you having a date with Marie?” She asked with a tone reminiscent of motherly concern. “Yeah, I have a date with her tomorrow, but I have no idea what she looks like. I have been talking to her all week, and she seems outstanding. My only worry is that I won’t be attracted to her physically.” “Well I can show you a picture, but you have to promise that you will go out with her regardless of how she looks.” “I absolutely will.” I said, even though her tone did not bode well. Sarah grabbed her phone, pulled up a picture, and flashed it in my direction. I took a second, gathered what I would say and simply shouted, “Nice, drunken Sam has a better eye than expected!” I turned and high fived Woody, and two other teammates, with satisfaction. Not only had the mystery been solved, not only had Marie been gorgeous, but I had a date with a beautifully intelligent woman all because of my night of drunken buffoonery. Friday dawned, and the day inched by building my anticipation. Work had finally come to an end, and my date was less than two hours away. I scanned my closest for what must be my most impressive outfit, and decided on a plaid shirt, khakis, and my favorite jacket. I took the extra time to shave, and actually wash my body instead of hitting the important parts and assuming water will just “take care of the rest.” I donned my hand picked outfit, started my car and drove the short distance to the bar. I walked towards to basement entrance using the sidewalk lined with blackened snow, the reminders of my unexpected two days off, and reached out for the handle. I pulled the door open, walked right up to Marie and said, “Hi, I’m Sam.” And with a quiet voice and a contagious smile that no picture could ever convey she said, “I know.

a drunken conversation a drunken conversation between two strangers through smokey bars and night clubs all inhibitions are drowned out at the bottom of the glass all fears are swallowed as the night goes by hoping all your questions can finally be answered everyone's your friend, everyone! you take another one of those drinks that everyone's taking and for moment it seems as if it can't be that bad right? a drunken conversation between two strangers, turning one awkward and the other trying to save face how did we end up here anyway? was it pure malice that started this or was it two lonely people coming together in unison one rambles on as the other nods their head and smiles, the other chuckles as a sign that there's some sort of connection between both of them, an everlasting bond of friendship that'll let them cross oceans and fields together, in their dreams they cross the bridges of different dimensions and see the world for themselves (at least one of them thinks this way). Maybe they'll even fall in love (?) It goes on and the stars all start to fade away as dawn is looming and the bitter end arrives. the music stops playing, the chairs start squeaking and the doors are swinging. everyone's going home. where did that night just go? The unity of loneliness breaks apart and a bed seems the place to be now as everyone's in them right? The two strangers return to separate beds and the next day and recall the drunken conversation. The first person recalls it to be the greatest dialogue the person has ever been in as if the person's heart was inscribed with the sentences rolling off the other person's mouth, embedded in the person's head for the person never to forget. The person recalls everything, how the other slightly gripped the person's arm as if to feel secure with each other, a way of showing a connection, a bond. As if they were placed on that couch together for a reason, as if the stars all came together on that fateful night and decided maybe these two lonely hearts can become one on this eventful night, this at least how the first person recalls it. the second sees it much differently, like a blunt edge of the knife, nothing could cut through, it was all a haze, a trance. Words would flow out of the second person's mouth so unnaturally it's as if the alcohol strained the person's throat from any interaction at all causing the conversation to be the most difficult one of the person's life, not to mention that the one that did just come over had the eyes dropping down to the chin as if the person had downed the bottle of baijiu given by the shady host seeking for suavity at the end of the glass. It was needless to say, awkward. No even flow could get out of the dialogue as if there had been any. the timely nodding as if the person had been agreeing and engaging with the other the whole time, the second person in this dialogue had the grip the other's arm to prevent the person from falling down; disastrous. but it's not so bad really, the second person says, "This is alright, at least i have someone i can talk to even though this person stinks of loneliness, i can relate, i'm lonely too".

The IT Guy 5:30 AM. Darren heard the alarm that he had set on his iPhone the night before singing away merrily. He hated the tone the alarm used – as a matter of fact, he had two of them, since he hit snooze so often he needed some vague way of knowing how often he had hit it. Apex and Chimes – they seemed the most relaxing tones at the time when he chose them months ago, but now they were nothing more than the harbingers of the weeks general monotony; the iconic start to the five day rhythm. He knew exactly how to change the alarm tones, but for whatever reason (largely a combination of lazy- and forgetful-ness) had simply never gotten around to doing it. Instead, around 6:00 and three snooze button-hits later, he eventually hauls himself out of bed and rubs his eyes. Most weekends involved drinking, making Monday mornings an especially unpleasant chore, and even after a weekend of sobriety the Monday was generally nothing more than a signal of a weekend that probably could have gone better. Darren knew in his heart of hearts that he was probably a borderline alcoholic, but didn’t really care – although he often found a certain craving for alcohol, especially at the end of the week, he knew his family and work obligations came first, and thus usually never let it get in the way. He did, however, understand perfectly that should those factors be removed, his function as a human being would become somewhat decremented very quickly. Nevertheless, after a short time of upright pseudo-sleep and irrationally debating the value of paid work versus the extra two hours of sleep, he slowly begins to waken. Approximately 6:20 Darren begins searching for work clothes. He gently whispers to his wife to watch her eyes as he turns on the light. She sleeps lightly enough that she hears him and covers her face so as not to be rudely awakened by the bright power saving light globe, but isn’t much more receptive than that. He searches for a work shirt and a pair of business pants, which he finds in the pile of unsorted laundry that seems to perpetually occupy the base of their bed, and begins the futile search for a pair of matching socks. He knows he generally won’t find a pair, and will often simply settle for any two similar looking victims – most of the time even similar styles will suffice, since the only things that change between them will be the colouring of the toes and the heel, that as far as he was concerned were never seen inside his $12 business shoes and thus didn’t make a difference anyway. Ironing was the next step of the morning ritual. He didn’t particularly dislike ironing, but had that almost certain feeling that he wasn’t particularly efficient at it. He wasn’t terrible at ironing, and his clothes generally looked good as a result of his labour, but nearly every time he turned the iron on he imagined some Asian lady in a busy city dry cleaner, who could churn out three business shirts in the time it took him to finish laying out his first one. Efficient or not, he works his way through the shirt and pants; creased sleeve, creased cuff. 6:45 AM, and it is time to get his two daughters up for school. Ellie, seven years old and the eldest, was a lot like Darren; a logical thinker, mature for her age, and an old soul. Susie was a lot more like her mother; a beautiful creature at both the mercy and awe of the world, both artistic and naive. The both of them awaken and stretch out slowly in their bunk beds. Darren loved that portion of the morning; to him, watching his daughters wake slowly was like watching a flower open – they don’t look like much until they begin to waken, but then their beauty really shines. He quickly reminds them to actually wake up (they’ve often drifted immediately and seamlessly back to sleep without this reminder), and proceeds back down the hallway to finish getting ready. 7:00 AM. Darren and the girls pile in the car. Mum generally doesn’t get up unless she needs to; there is a good chance she won’t be up until at least 10 if allowed to sleep freely. Darren listens to the general get-ready-ness going on in the back seat – the shuffle of car booster seats, the fumbling of seat belts, and the eventual “I’m ready Daddy” or “Got it!” to signify the successful completion of the car safety ritual. With the girl’s Nanny’s house being 12 minutes away and work being a further 8 past that, there wasn’t a lot of time to muck around of a morning in order to be on time for the early 7:30 shift, but somehow even though he was sleepy, often a little hung-over, and somewhat unwilling, he managed to be not only on time, but even early nearly every day. After kissing the girls goodbye, reminding Ellie to grab her homework and for Susie to shut her door, he begins the drive to work. 7:30 AM, Darren trudges up two flights of stairs, sits at his desk, and the call forward gets taken off the IT helpdesk lines. He often thinks of this period of time as the twilight ten; the totally unpredictable ten minutes after the calls are able to start flowing in that determine how much of a bad day he is in for. Generally, a good day won’t have a call during this time – he is able to open up his emails (which, god-willing, will generally not contain notifications from Internet ISP’s, servers, PABX phone controllers or anything else to suggest his day is going to suck), put his headset on so he can hear a phone ringing whilst he makes a coffee, and browse a couple of tech news articles before moving onto the eternal job list. On a bad day, however, the phone will ring so quickly he almost thinks he somehow dialled himself, and knows that for every ten minutes a problem exists, he will spend at least three minutes repeating himself to whichever staff member has reported the same issue, thinking they were the first to notice and exercising their diligence in informing the seemingly unknowing IT department. Those days sucked. Darren was fairly in the loop with most planned outages, and thanks to the help of several watch-dog services on various servers keeping a constant eye on the important aspects (and sending their emails of doom to whomever was responsible for said distressed item), he generally wasn’t really taken by surprise by the unplanned ones. 7:32 AM, and Darren knew it was going to be one of those days. A network adapter issue at one of their client sites had stopped a number of virtual servers working, effectively taking down emails, file shares and a few other key servers all at once, which meant the phones were ringing off the hook. Luckily, this issue had occurred before and had a somewhat easy fix; which meant, since it took approximately ten minutes to fix and there were likely 20 staff on site to notice the outage, he was probably only going to have to repeat himself another two times to the next two staff members to report that ‘there was something wrong with the network’, and in an effort to sound respectful be vaguely intrigued by their self-diagnosis of what they thought the problem was – which, depending on the user, could be anything from time of day to their outlook archive emails giving them problems ‘like it did last week’.

I fell down. Down into darkness. I landed with a splash, in a shallow water stream. My leg hurts like hell, and then really, absolute hell. I quickly get out of the water, before my backpack is soaked. Once I am crawling out of the water, I notice a few things. I can’t see anything, not even my hands in front of my face. I might turned blind, or it is just really dark down here. The other thing is that it smells. It smells like rotten eggs or something. But it for sure is a smell I have never, ever smelled before. Once I am out of the water, almost crying from the pain of my leg, I feel my backpack sliding off my back. I place it next to me. Next to me on the ice cold, wet rocks. I open it up, and search in the dark for my lighter. I hear something drop, really close to me. I don’t know if it came out of my backpack, or if it was something different. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it scared me. It made me keep my breath in, and sit there in total silence. At that point I noticed that I heard the water moving, a slow and relaxing sound. I also heard the water fall down or something, but that sound came from really far away. But furthermore I didn’t hear anything else. for a minute, I sat there in silence. When I didn’t hear anything else, I went on looking. “Ah, there it is”, I heard myself say out loud, whilst taking my tiny blue lighter out of my backpack. I immediately regretted saying out loud. I thought that it might have had awoken some animals that lived there. **please leave a response :)** tell me what to do better or change.

I've been writing this story for the past half year or so, and still have barely any attention pointed towards it on Wattpad. Here's the first Chapter of the story; if you're interested in it, please do have a look at more of the chapters at the link below! Would love the support (: **Sidenote, it *does* get more interesting than this - it IS the introduction!** Twelve O-Clock struck the on East of Town's well-known clock tower, and the bell that hung atop of it rung dauntingly loud, only to stop the townsfolk in their tracks completely. One by one, each person would lift their heads to gaze up at the long-living piece of architecture - or so some people called it. The tower seemed as if it was hanging on its last leg, and could collapse at any minute, and the rope that hung the large, rusted bell at the top was smeared in black and brown dirt and mold. Despite it being so, the townspeople found the clock tower to be a blessing, from the Gods, built thousands of years ago. Although nobody had any history of the building being built whatsoever, and no proof that this really was a blessing from the heavens, it was something that gave the people hope, and courage, and overall, to make them admire life. However, today wasn't like every other day - The bell always rung, every day, at Twelve O-Clock in the afternoon. Yet, once every year, the bell would ring differently, not like normally. The cheeriness from the ding-dongs had completely faded from the sound, and was replaced with an evil, dark sounding pound noise. Nobody knew why this happened, or what this meant, but nevertheless, this was one of those days, that happened only once a year. After a minute had passed, and the heavy pounding bell had stopped completely. The people of the town continued on with their lives, pretending nothing happened, as they would every time. "So," Begun the beautiful blonde girl, sipping her tea in the town café. "What was your name, again?" The young ( yet handsome looking ) boy that sat in front of her began to stare out the window and into the sky, as if not to remember his own name. Few seconds later, he turned back to her, and stuttered out his words. "I..I'm Devi," he replied, nervously. "I think that's right, anyway. I can't remember a thing, but that's as much as I can remember". Finishing the next mouthful of tea, the girl ahead of him smiled ever so slightly. "Devi? That's a strange name..I love it." She rested her chin on her hand, and continued. "My name's Lauri. I live not far from here, actually - I'm on the other side of town, the west." Devi looked up at her quickly, open-mouthed, which gave Lauri the impression that he was surprised by the name. He noticed her flick her long, beautifully straightened hair behind her ear, to reveal more of her face. Her eyes were the deepest, most gorgeous blue eyes he had ever seen (or so he could remember) and he begun to stare for a second or two. Lauri giggled at Devi daydreaming, which immediately snapped him out of it. "So, 'Dev-i', how did you get here exactly? You've hardly told me anything, all I've seen is you lying in the dark forest nearby here with scratches and bruises all over your body, and then I brought you here. What were you doing there?" This made Devi looked completely shocked at the question, and begun chewing lightly on his knuckle. "I can't remember, " he begun, "my past is completely vanished from me. I only remember as much of me as you do. I woke up in a dark forest and that's that.." He looked back down at his empty mug, which he had earlier completely jugged down his throat after being so thirsty. "Whatever happened before this, though - Whatever gave me all these scars and marks - has definitely done something to my brain. I think I have amnesia.." Lauri could not decide on what to reply to this, but after minutes had passed, she looked back up at the boy, and saw him staring down, with a tear falling from his eye. "Devi? Are you okay?" She asked him, worryingly. The boy sat frozen still, as if he was dead, staring into nothingness. "Devi?!" She raised her voice and stood up.

The voices....the voices are growing in number,not really voices, but whispers. They tell me things, they say they are here to help,but they never seem to. They always want more, more blood. The floor in basement has a hole in it, more of a pit really. I must keep it filled with bodies, or they will come for me. The voices say it is so, I must serve the pit or suffer. The last few years have been very difficult. Ever since the hole appeared, soon after my mother died. The hole appeared, and soon after that, I started hearing whispers, instructing me to do small and seemingly meaningless task. They told me to stake out certain houses, certain people that I had never meant. It seemed odd but I was so distracted by grief I went along with this new obligation. It has lead to the death of many, only to save the majority of the earth. Keep the hole fed and be blessed they tell me. So I stalk the innocent, I take them from the world to fill the hole.

"Contact, contact!" I screamed, shooting vigorously at the dark nothingness. It shot back as a response; I immediately fell down. The shooting stopped, as I kept myself flat at the floor. I heard the cracking of sticks and leafs. They were getting close. I grabbed my gun, then laid against the wall. I took a deep breath, as I knew they were yards away. The only option I have is to fight. I knew these were my final moments. I slowly pushed myself against the wall. The only thing protecting me. I immediately stood up to then start shooting. For a moment they shot in intervals. But it immediately stopped once my magazine was empty. I heard the cries of the enemy. I headed towards their way. Blood was splattered everywhere. I stopped once I met the dead corpses. I was in shock, I saw their faces. They wore the same armour as me. They had the same exact flag painted on. I killed my own squad. This was rather a small mistake. [Please, I'd love to hear constructive Criticism. This is one of my first stories to which I published to the Internet. It is surely not my last. If you'd like me to expand on the story, Just say so I'll try. But It'd be a very time consuming so expect the expansion to come in weeks. Thank you and Enjoy. FYI, I'm not in the Army. Just so you know.

Influence, that’s what it comes down to. A little nudge here, a little whisper there and if you have leverage, if you can offer a weak mind something tangible something that they think they want then you can make them do anything. If your offering them something intangible like freedom or happiness, something you don’t have to pay for, that’s what we call a golden goose, you hold the big carrot of freedom in front of them and they’ll fight for you, die for you, kill friends, family, whoever. It’s like trying to get a feather into a bucket, you flap your arms around, make a big show and try and force the feather in and it will elude you, but if you gently blow and coerce and manoeuvre around the feather and give it time, the feather will float into the bucket all by itself. For my predecessors it was different. In World War 2 we were the obvious good guys and the obvious winners and we made a fortune. We came in for the last two years obliterated the Germans and when people found out how bad the Germans were, it was obvious that we were the good guys. Good and Bad a simple choice and one that the people lapped up. After that it was Communism versus Capitalism, East versus West, Control versus Freedom, and Wrong versus Right. It was a simple choice again. Vietnam was when the nation lost its appetite for war. We weren’t the victors, we weren’t the good guys, we weren’t anything. No matter how the media tried to spin it, the reason we went into Vietnam was never clear enough for anyone to latch onto. Then came the negative press, the mutinies, the Agent Orange, the illegal invasion it was a publicity nightmare. Protests up and down the country, kids getting shot, photographers and filmmakers all having a look at our long, brutal, murky war that amounted to nothing. My predecessors were real spies. Everything was cloak and dagger, coded messages, parachuting into enemy territory, assassinations. At the time I was working for an advertising agency, television was on the rise and we were riding the wave of one of the biggest media empires in the world. That’s when the CIA started scooping us up, Ad guys, marketing, media consultants they got hundreds of us. They were clear from the start that this wasn’t going to be black ops, no guns, no secret weapons, no laser watches, nothing. This was about propaganda, this was about making us look at our best, while making everything else look at its worse at the right time and to the right people. Timing was very important, you give them a nudge at the wrong time and the government gets wind, and there by the grace of god go they. But you give the right guys, the right nudge at the right time and after that it’s as simple as putting a gun in their hands. One time I asked my co-ordinator ‘why?’ he looked at me and told me that this wasn’t about a war for victory or freedom or democracy, so the public wouldn’t accept it. If the public didn’t accept it there would be riots and the president would lose favour and eventually office. You can’t have a war for nothing. If you looked at the old European empires conquering just for the land or for diamonds, it didn’t work the countries asked ‘Why?’ and that can be a very dangerous question. You can’t tell people you’re fighting for a strategic advantage or for resources, because the morality is wrong. People will say that people in the middle of nowhere are dying for no reason and in all honesty they were right, but that’s because they don’t know what’s at stake. If the stakes are high, and you don’t have enough of a good reason to go in yourself such as Oil, Gas, Diamonds, a military base then you have to find another way around it. I remember watching clips from the Korean War, in the end they called it a police action, we sent in more people than we let on and gave the South Koreans a good advantage; they were fighting for freedom after all. We gave all of Korea a choice, would you like to be communist or capitalist and that was all it took. If you give people two options they will pick one or the other and if it’s important enough to them they will fight for it and die for it and to hell with the middle ground. Then it’s just a matter of supplying the right side with right tools and training to get the job done. The bear was doing the same on the other side of the fence and when the dust had settled the whole country was divided and walled off. One was a thriving metropolis, the other was hell on earth. But in some games you win and some you lose and a stale mate is always good for diverting media attention when necessary. After that it was like a big game of chess, we would go to some undecided country provide, usually the military, with our simple choice and make them an offer, then we waited for the coup and our guy was in charge, we could then put in a nuclear silo, or a military base, or an oil refinery etcetera and our guy was made very rich and very powerful and told to stamp out dissidents immediately or the same might happen to him. To the news and the media it was reported as just news, some back water country in Africa, or Arabia or some other god forsaken hole is having another issue, if only they had democracy etcetera, etcetera. The president would condemn the actions and ensure that if it went too far America would intervene, which means for the people in the know that if there is a backlash to the coup then we would provide assistance to ensure we won. The newspaper would report on the war crimes of this new head of state, maybe the UN would get involved but nothing would come of it, if he became non-compliant or died, then he would be replaced, but we have already suggested hereditary rule to him, so it’s more than certain that we’re set for the next 100 years as everything ticks over nicely. The ruler gets very rich, no one ever wonders where he gets his money or his weapons and on the off chance people start guessing correctly we ‘assist’ the media by leaking news of a ‘black market’ weapons trade. Ruling like the Brits did would never work, it was too obvious and people were aware that there freedoms were being restricted and they knew who was in charge and eventually they were overthrown. But if no one knows who’s in charge except for the guy who’s in charge, who we picked and sometimes who they ‘democratically’ elected then it’s a completely different matter. With the rise of technology and media and eventually the internet we found a new way to influence billions. How do you make people in some mud hut, stinking of cow shit, start a revolution, you show them what could be. You show them girls, cars, money, freedom whatever they want to see non-stop in films, advertising, on the side of milk cartons. You send them one of those shows at the right time and then do a news piece of people picking up there lunch ticket in Russia and suddenly people start getting ideas. You float words into the ether that have power like democracy and freedom and you show them sky scrapers and swimming pools and people start getting ideas. Then it’s just a matter of finding the right person. If the country is of no value, like your Somalia’s, your North Koreas etcetera; then you let it take its course and the government wipes them out. If they’ve got something you want then it’s time to get busy.

I had never seen my Father cry; not once in my entire life. The man was a survivor, having battled prostate cancer, micro brain strokes, joblessness, home foreclosure; you name it, he could withstand the pressure and loss. He sat there on the pavement, legs stretched out in front of him. Blood was starting to run down his left arm from the bite wound on his shoulder. A good chunk of flesh had been torn out but I knew he could deal with that pain. He sat there clutching his dog, Roc. Roc was breathing fast and what little life left in him was fading as fast as he could gasp for air. Roc’s eyes were low, yet he and my Father never broke contact. I said nothing as I knelt down beside them. Roc took his final breath and my Father started to sob. He clutched the dog as if it were a child, his child, dead in his arms. I put my arm on his good shoulder and squeezed as tight as I could. I wanted him to know I was there, just as he was there when I was a little boy. My brother at a very early age crawled out of his crib and fell down the stairs. He was knocked unconscious and knocked out his two front teeth. I remember my Father holding me as I cried on his shoulder, stained with my Brother’s blood. My tears rolled down his back as he held me tighter; I knew at three years old he would always be there to protect me. To this day I will never know how much of my grasp he felt, but he slumped his head into me. I held him tight for a moment. In that moment I realized the severity of his wounds; mental and physical. He knew them as well and just as soon as he lost control, he gained what little of himself he had left. He cleared his throat and cracked out a sigh, “Well fuck.” I was silent. I did not know what to say because I knew, just as he did what his fate would entail. He didn’t even ask me; just shot a look at the revolver on the pavement next to us. “Dad, I don’t,” He cut me off. “You know what needs to be done.” He had an accepting look on his face, almost encouraging. He knew I didn’t want to do it. He knew only I could do it; my Brother, thought to be dead at this point, could not have done it. “I don’t have much time Mike. You are my son, I am proud of you, I have always been proud of you. Mike, I love you and your Brother.” He still held out hope for Carm, believing he was still alive out there. Maybe it was the adrenaline coercing through my veins, I am not sure, but I could not cry. I refused to cry. I wanted him to have his last memory of me as a strong man; the man he had raised me to be. I would cry later. He deserved to see me strong. He laid Roc down in front of him, gently on the pavement. He started to get up but struggled; he had lost a good amount of blood. The olive tone of his skin was fading. I lowered my shoulder and raised him up. “You will make it, never forget, you are my son.” He repeated as he lowered his eyes to the revolver in my hand. I cocked the hammer back raised the gun to his head and before I pulled the trigger I told him, “I love you Dad.” My voice did not crack as I told him with conviction and respect. Softly, he said, “I know.” Then I pulled the trigger. The late afternoon bled had bled into dusk. The summer air was humid and sticky; Florida feels like a sauna in late summer. The gulf breeze coiled the sweat that coated my skin. I took a deep breath in and looked up; I didn’t want to look at them lying on the pavement. Vanilla sky; it was beautiful the way the clouds kissed the sky on a pallet of pinks and violets, mixed with blues and greys. The setting sun gave the clouds hues of magnificent pinks. I was taken back for a moment, had I been dreaming. Wake up I told myself, but I was awake as ever. I could hear the birds in the trees, singing to each other; the buzz of the summer insects. I looked to my left, I could see the lake behind our house, calm and still; the dusk sky’s pallet of colors reflecting off its surface, like a glass mirror, only to ripple and distort its beauty. I stood there for only a few moments, but that time might as well have been an eternity. I had to gather myself and move forward, my survival depended on it.

Taking a deep breath, Daniel turned the knob. He walked into the room trying to assess his surroundings quickly while still maintaining his composure. The room was medium sized. Guards flanked the doors and lined the walls. The table in the center contained a machine, placed in front of its terrified operator, and wires leading towards--Daniel heard the door lock behind him, sealing him in with that ... _thing_. The creature lay in the center of the room, its presence consuming and demanding. It did nothing to warrant this attention, it lacked even the slightest hint of movement, yet it commanded the attention of every human. Daniel approached the table. His steps reverberated throughout the room, cleaving the silence. Each step brought discomfort. Daniel hid is unease. He wore his face like a mask. But, his eyes tore the room apart instinctively, looking for separation. Yet, he continued forward. Daniel closed the distance between him and the thing until he was close enough to look down upon it. He dragged the chair back. There was a sigh of relief in the room as the sound put an end to the silence. The guards readjusted their weapons; the operator began to fiddle with his equipment; and the thing … rippled. Perhaps it was a welcoming-- Daniel sneered, or a challenge. Daniel looked at the operator who continued to nervously fiddle with his equipment in a transfixed manner. Daniel quickly lifted his briefcase onto the table, unconsciously determined to keep the silence at bay. The briefcase opened with a satisfying click. He spread the pages across his end of the table. He hadn’t even had time to read up on the literature before he was rushed here, so he slowly began to rustle through the documents one by one. In one of the dossiers, Daniel saw pictures of the thing taken a few hours ago when it had first arrived. It looked ... different. Daniel dared a glance at the thing. It was duller now, more opaque, than it was in the photos. Its “flaps” and “fins” drooped, and its entire body looked like it was being compressed and squashed against the table. It reminded him of melted ice cream. Daniel’s stomach churned and he looked back down towards the reports. He only scanned the next fifty pages. In total, the reports said nothing about it in thousands of words. It was an enigma and unlike anything else. He was the first. He had his shot before even the scientists could get their hands on it. He didn’t know whether to feel honored or terrified. Daniel noticed a slight noise coming from the receiver on the table. Grimacing, Daniel picked up the receiver and placed it in his ear. He disliked this but it was “standard” procedure. “What do you think you’re doing?” a voice demanded. Daniel did not recognize the voice but it was filled with an arrogance that enraged him. Daniel turned his steely gaze towards one of the cameras. “I assume you’d like me to know what it is exactly that I’m doing sir. Perhaps next time you should give me more time to read th--“ “Colonel Lehmann! You were sent to communicate with the threat and decide the best course of action. Now if you are incapable of this very simple task you will be relieved. Understood?” That was the Secretary of Defense. How many bureaucrats hid in the shadows, watching with safety behind their cameras and walls? If you turned on a light would they scatter…? “Crystal,” said Daniel. He slid his papers away, clearing the field. He looked back at the thing’s side. It seemed even duller than the last time he had looked but he couldn’t be sure. Daniel nodded to the operator and received a shaky thumbs-up. They were good to go. “Why are you here?” Daniel inquired. The machine began to beep as the operator quickly worked on deciphering each letter into dots and dashes. Finally the operator slumped back into his seat. He fidgeted with items near him to occupy himself until it answered--if it answered. Daniel felt the hairs on his neck rise and tasted ozone. There was a sharp crack as the operator dropped his pencil. Daniel looked around to see that the guards had raised their weapons slightly and the operator was stiff with his eyes staring straight out, staring slightly past the thing, like a deer caught in headlights. They sensed it too. The machine began to hiss with static. Then the voices began, like several people speaking at once, not fighting for air but sharing it. “We are here as messengers,” the voices said. Then the bureaucrats began. It started with disconcerted mumbling occasionally loud enough to be transmitted and then broke out into yelling and arguments. Daniel rubbed his temples. They were already at each other’s throats. Doing his best to ignore the receiver, Daniel glanced around the room admiring the unflinching guards. They held their weapons with a trained ease, confident in the superiority they provided. But in such a case as this, could they really be sure? “What do you mean by “we?” Daniel said. “Those who stand before you and those we represent.” The thing’s--perhaps things’-- antennae gave a lazy dismissive flick. Could it really be multiple creatures? “What are you?” “There is no auditory representation of us. You may choose your own.” “How many of you are here?” “Just us.” The thing began to ripple more erratically. “We do not have time for this.” Daniel leaned forward, “What is your message?” “End all emission of electrical signals--immediately.” The noise from the receiver broke into a roar. The bureaucrats knew exactly what was at stake. Economies would be crippled. Society and development would be flung decades back. Preventing a few people out of seven billion from using electrical signals is infeasible. Most importantly, even if it were possible, reelection after implementing such a procedure would not be. “You want us to turn off all our wireless transmissions?” The creature … expanded. “Yes.” “We cannot.” Even with the continuous yelling, the humans listening in seemed to agree on this much. Daniel waited for the operator to transmit his message. He was slow in doing so, and his actions and responses were slurred like a man in daze. Before the operator had transmitted the message, the static hissed from the machine again, causing the operator to nearly leap backwards into the arms of one of the guards. “Why?!” Daniel nearly flinched. His heartbeat quickened and he had to forcefully pace himself. In an effort to mask his unease he nonchalantly motioned for someone to bring him water. Daniel turned his impassive face towards the thing again with renewed hostility. “We do not trust you.” He heard the bureaucrats murmur an agreement--the stars must have been aligned. The fins rippled and groups of voices took turns to speak, “Your emissions are a beacon, a beacon that could lead them to us or yourselves. They are close. And if they find you, they will destroy us all.” “Who are they?” “Nomads. Parasites. Conquerors. If they find you it will only be a matter of time before you reveal us. You _must_ stop” Additional Info: This was originally a homework assignment. It's been long since completed and submitted and I wish to continue it for my own benefit. However, I feel like I hit a wall in the writing and can't continue. I want the encounter to end with hostility but I cannot get it to unfold in such a manner. Any critique and suggestions would be hugely appreciated.

A vulture floated high in the desert sky, circling around. It looked like an insect struggling in the spiderweb of the broken windshield. The taste of iron was heavy in my mouth as my nose began to drip to the back of my throat. The steering wheel of my Chevy was slick from my slit hand and the shotgun was still wet with blood in the seat next to me. The shadows of the setting sun behind me pointed me down the highway to where I needed to go. My phone rang. Don't do this. I listened, but there was nothing she could say. They're your family. He's your brother. Not any more. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I pushed open the side door of the bank and hurried to my truck parked in the alley. I opened the door and I traded the velvet pouch in my hand for some of the gauze inside the glove box. I rolled two strips and put them up my broken nose. I went around to the driver's side and got in. I reached for the shotgun under the back seat and it in the seat next to me. I started the engine and pulled onto the street in front of the bank. Dale came stumbling, bleeding, down the steps of the bank and ran into the middle of the street and held his hands up in front of me. I didn't stop. He tried to jump when he realized it was too late. He rolled up onto the hood. Dale's head shattered my windshield before he rolled off onto the street. Then I stopped. I grabbed my shotgun and got out. I slowly walked over to Dale, writhing on the black pavement. Some people ran on the sidewalk. Some watched stunned. There were sirens in the distance. Where are you going? He knew the answer, but I guess he saw a little hope while looking at that light at the end of the tunnel. He spat the words out of his blood filled mouth again. Where are you going! I didn't answer. I stood with the shotgun, him under me laying on the blackness. I got down on one knee to look into Dale's eyes one last time. He didn't want me to see. He grabbed his knife and slashed. He opened up my hand. That was my fault. I underestimate the desperation of a man who no longer had anything. I stood back up and raised my shotgun, my right hand bleeding on the trigger. The anger was gone from his eyes and he was crying now. He muttered one last pitiful time. Where are you going... I pulled the trigger. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My brother, Eddie, Oliver and I walked into the bank clean cut and in our nicest suits. I fired my revolver into the air and they pulled their knives and ran towards the patrons. Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but we are here to make a withdrawal. Please follow my associates into the room to your right so I can have some privacy with our bank. This will all be over in a minute. My brother and Eddie herded the 9 patrons present in the bank into the small side room of the bank and collected their wallets. Oliver and the security guard locked the front door. I hopped the front desk to speak to the tellers. You, take me to the safe deposit boxes. You, money better be in the bag by the time I get back. I left a duffle bag with the young woman at the front desk and the young man took me back to the safe deposit boxes. I holstered my revolver. He took me to the room. I told him thank you and went in. I felt my brother come up quick behind me. He had left his job of hero control in the side room. He grabbed my revolver from my side as he jumped in front of me and pointed it at my face. You think you can sneak off like this? What are you talking about? I know why we are here. Give me the key. Calm down. He drove the butt of the revolver into my nose as hard as he could. I fell to a knee. I'm not stupid. You thought I was your whole life. Well look where we are now. He kicked me in the chest. I fell onto my back. He stepped up and pointed the revolver down between my eyes. We aren't just here to take this bank. This is your stash. He laughed. They always said you were the smart one. Give me the key or I can just take it. You know I won't do that. You know I will. Do it. You have three seconds. If you don't give me the key, it's over for you, bro. One. I didn't say anything. Two. I smiled at my brother standing above me, pointing my revolver between my eyes. Three. He pulled the trigger. The silence was deafening. I grabbed his hand to use as leverage to kick him in the ribs. He was too stunned to counter and he fell to the ground. I got up and gave him another kick in the face. Dale never retaliated. He couldn't understand what had just happened. I beat him senseless in that room. I slid a bullet in the revolver and spun it shut. I looked at Dale, slumped in the corner of the room bleeding on his suit. That a chance you want to take? I opened my deposit box and grabbed the velvet pouch and left Dale in the room. I walked out to the lobby and gave the entire duffle bag to Eddie and Oliver and went to the side door. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Eddie, Oliver, my brother and I were sitting around Eddie's table discussing the plan of action for tomorrow. This was a small bank in a small town. Another day at the office for us. Sounds good boys. So you are really going to be done after this? Yes sir. Hanging up the spikes and leaving Tucson for good tomorrow. Who's gonna get the gun? My brother laughed. We all get guns after this. No more knife bullshit. I trust you guys. He shot a sly smile at me. Eddie gets the gun. My brother looked at me. What about your stash? Don't worry about my stash. Well how much you still got left? How are you going to get it? I looked at my brother. What's it to you? He smiled. Just looking out for my older bro. Loosen up. He changed the subject. Mines in gold. 1.2 mil right under my house. Eddie shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. Why the fuck do you keep 1.2 million in gold in your house when your wife is there all day? Under the house. She don't know about it. She's too worried about the baby all day to ever figure anything out. She don't know that right under her feet there is 1.2 mil in gold.. Christ baby brother, we know about the 1,196,000 in gold bars you have. Stop flaunting it. You should have more. Says the guy with the brand new 1995 Chevrolet. He smiled. Seriously man, how much you got left. This meeting is adjourned. See you tomorrow, fellas. It's a big day. Look sharp. I walked out and got in my truck. I thought about how my brother was acting. He seemed off. It didn't feel right. If it had been Eddie or Oliver, they would have been out of the job. But he's my own brother. I couldn't just trust my gut. I needed to see him stab me in the back. When I got home I took 5 of the bullets out of my revolver. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My brother walked through Eddie's door for the meeting. He left his wife and kid in El Paso to help us pull one last job.

Sometimes I like to pretend that I am busy. Keeping everything to myself seems natural to me. That’s how things work, well sort of. I been honest with myself and somehow workout on getting pass by. Socializing isn’t my best talent I think and I don’t mind people who are, for me, isn’t that important. I just wish that people would treat others with more heart, love and warmth. You can’t usually expect that your sense of humor is well received by others. My friends, calling people for what they hate , making them felt insufficient and small is, from my perspective is not soo nice. Maybe they will laugh, smile or do what people think is acceptable just to pass by, like I always do. And that’s is somehow depressing I admit. Again, that’s how is suppose life is. Rough and unforgiving. Those are the thing that kept me away from people but not for this one particular friend I suppose. Let just call her Jun for now. Jun is someone I thought live on the wild part of life. That part well you know, different from the normal kind of people. Always will be appreciate, adore by others. And somehow, I got that ‘feeling’ toward her. The intoxicating pleasure kind of feeling, well you know where I’m heading at. Is it weird for me to confess that even when she had dozens of boyfriend, my feeling never grows tired. Though I accept the reality I face, I guess I am a fool. After 6 years of friendship, even when we change school and universities, it is time for her to go. She have to study abroad for several years. Though my heart cried a little, I do wish her the best. It was a Sunday evening, we meet up and chat awhile. There I stood besides her, beneath the elegantly charming bridge near our house. We talk and we talk some more, not knowing time pass us by so fast. At that brief evening, I was drowning. Drowned by how kind she is, drowned by how she could set me at ease, with the slightest effort. I wish I could tell her how she really meant to me. Jun, if you reading this ,I do really love every moment I spent with you and I would stop the world just to get out with you. If you are reading this, This is only for you, “My mind can’t make up any word whenever I’m around you. That mind of mine just can’t help other than realizing you are besides me. And i can't lie for even when you are not around, the tought of you be there in the corner of the class everyday excites me.

The yellow yolk eyes of my mother’s breakfast eggs stared at me from its glimmering china. Birds chirped alongside morning news reports. The Rolling Stones sputtered from our dusted record player. My mother approached me with a steaming hot cup of coffee. She wore a face that showed great concern, as if she knew something horrible was unfolding, and nothing could be done about it. This feeling began to take root in me and send a chill through my body. The grandfather clock behind her chimed a somber tone that dragged me towards the door. I smiled at my mother while propping the door open with my briefcase. She gave me a long look and returned a polite smile. I could see a constant remorse plaguing her soft blue eyes. I then remembered my mother saying “You’re eyes are just like mine, blue as the Pacific” as she tucked me in. I slowly closed the door behind me wiping away the tears that had began beneath my eyes. Her maddening sobs could be heard from behind the floral decorated mahogany door. It must have looked like a coffin to her. I felt the solemness of my neighborhood as I walked down the driveway towards my car. A soft crinkle sounded from my business shoe. A newspaper, the headline read “Vietnam Drafting Begins Today.” And like that, the weeping of parents chanted enharmonically across the neighborhood.

If a traveler in Massachusetts were to take the wrong fork he would stumble upon a lonely and eldritch setting. The road would take a rather strange path that appears to lead to nowhere. If he chooses to continue the path would get higher and higher forming a hill and if he chose to scale that hill he would see the town of Portham. He would see the barren fields, the weeds and plants which are carelessly not attended to, the grass which is of a variety not found in regions that are populated, and the dilapidated, houses, a few of which had planks bolted on the windows preventing light and man from entering, as if they desired to isolated themselves entirely from the outside world. This town would, at first, appear to have no inhabitants, but one would soon discover the town is almost entirely populated by recluses. If one were around when these inhabitants emerged into the outside world they would see people with dark, gaunt eyes set in a pale face that was similar to that of a vampire. One may hesitate to ask for directions from these people, but they would happily give you the directions in a sinister tone of voice almost as if these directions were false and intended to hurt you, or end your life, or maybe that is the way they always are. Outsiders visit Portham as seldom as possible. All the signs pointed towards it have been removed and any maps that are drawn neglect to include it. It is by either luck or intention that one stumbles upon Portham. Not even those who have knowledge of the explicit facts of the horror in Portham know exactly what is wrong with Portham. People speak negatively of and shun this town without exactly knowing why. It was March the fourth in 1907 at 4 am in an old farm house when Elias Hannon was born to William Hannon and Katrine Hannon. He had hair black like ebony wood and was Caucasian. The mother Katrine Hannon died during child birth and William Hannon was left as a lone father which is not a regular occurrence even in the town of Portham. It was rare for people to have children in Portham. They either did not live long enough to have the opportunity or simply chose not to. His birth was celebrated by the people in the town like most of the rare occurrences. Most of the occurrences that a normal society would consider normal are considered strange and eldritch in Portham. William did not mourn for Katrine very much and did not seem very upset at all by her death. There was never an official funeral for Katrine and she was buried in the Hannon house's backyard. The family nor the town spoke of Katrine ever again. Elias attempted, but was stopped by his father placing his hand over his mouth and whispering the words “We do not speak of her!” At an early age of only 5 William Hannon introduced Elias Hannon to fishing. He taught him everything he knew: the techniques, where to fish, and where not to fish. He always told Elias to never fish in Portham Lake, but to travel into the forest and follow the path until he found the pond William called Wife Pond. He named it after his wife Katrine, but as you probably noticed he only referred to it as Wife Pond; he dared not speak her name. William always traveled with Elias when he went fishing, for he did not want him to him to fish in Portham Lake, get into trouble, or fall into the river and drown. He already lost one family member and he did not want to lose another. Young Elias soon became proficient and efficient as fishing. He didn't participate in any tournaments, for his father prohibited him from leaving Portham at the time. Elias stilled yearned to fish at Portham Lake. What could be so horrible about it that his father would go out of his way to prevent him from fishing at it? In 1924 when Elias was 17 he decided to attempt fishing at Portham Lake. He wondered who could stop him. He was 17 now and rather arrogant. It was night when he left for Portham Lake. He gathered his fishing gear and pole and set out for Portham Lake. The gibbous moon hung in the sky illuminating the eldritch town of Portham and it was raining pretty heavily. “The perfect time to be fishing,” he thought. The rain pelted down on him as he walked and his hair and clothes were soaked. His shoes were heavy and wet. They were soaked in water and he heard a splashing sound every time he took a step. He was cold and felt a little sick; he coughed several times, but he was determined to fish in Portham Lake. He passed by several inhabitants of Portham and they, knowing where he was headed, warned him against fishing in Portham Lake. “Don't you dare fish in Portham Lake,” they said. He ignored all of these warnings. The people sighed and walked off. When he reached Portham Lake he saw the sign labeled PORTHAM LAKE hanging only still attached by one nail and it was almost falling off. It seemed that if a simple strong were to blow by this sign would fall off. The sign had drops of blood on it as well as a gelatinous green substance. Elias felt a tap on his wet shoulder and turned around. He saw his father with an angry look on his face staring right at him. “I told you not to fish in Portham Lake. Go home!,” he said pointing towards their home. Elias headed him reluctantly with his head looking at the ground obviously very disappointed. William decided to stay at Portham Lake for a short time. He stood looking in confusion at the sign and why it had blood on it, but the thing that confused him the most was the gelatinous, green substance. He stood by the lake thinking and reflecting on recent events. Suddenly he felt a gelatinous thing touching his leg. William Hannon was found dead the next day with a gelatinous, green substance on his leg with blood on his neck and and around his eyes. He was found with half of his body in the lake. Deaths were not mourned much in Portham. Much like his wife Katrine he was buried without a funeral by the lake and was not spoken of anymore by the the townspeople, including Elias Hannon. Elias did not attempt to fish in Portham Lake again until 1925 when he turned 18. He was an adult and no one could stop him. He acquired a small rowboat to fish in. On his way to Portham Lake one of the townspeople warned him against fishing in Portham Lake. He ignored this warning. He took his boat and rowed out to the middle of the lake. He cast out his line and waited. He waited for hours and did not catch a single fish. After waiting for several hours he felt a tug on his line. The tug he felt was stronger than any he had ever felt in his entire fishing career; It almost pulled him into the water. He reeled in and pulled the thing up. It was heavier than anything he had ever caught. When he got it out of the water it was no fish, but it was a bipedal, , gelatinous, fish-man hybrid. Elias immediately thought of Dagon when he saw it, but this being was quite different. It was slightly smaller than a human, but he could see how it could have murdered a human if they were caught off guard and he was certain that this was the think that killed his father. His first instinct was to kill the thing, but he hesitated. He was interested by this thing; he was no scientist, but he yearned to study it. He took fishing line and tied the creature to his rowboat. The rowboat was dipping slightly into the water, but did not quite sink. The rowboat and the creature were heavy and carrying them both was a challenge and Elias barely managed to do it. The being squirmed and tried to get free, but was tied too tightly. Elias avoided the townspeople as best as he could, for he wanted no one to know of this. He traveled to Wife Lake where he knew no one would look for him. When he got there he untied the creature and dropped it in the lake. He studied the thing for several days taking notes on its habits, food preferences, and sleeping schedule. He then decided that he would breed these creatures so he could study their habits and groups and if they even enjoyed being in groups. He got his rowboat and fishing pole and went back to Portham Lake. He saw the sign again with the same gelatinous green substance on it. He fished in it for a few hours and almost gave up until he felt a tug on his line. He pulled it up and it was of a similar weight to the creature he had caught earlier. He pulled it out of the water and it was the same species as the other creature. He tied it to the boat using fishing line like he did with the other creature. The creature struggled to get free, but it was tied too tightly. He took the creature back to Wife Lake and put it in the water with the other creature. The creatures stared at each other looking confused for a few minutes, but then stopped; they must have realized that they posed no threat to each other. Elias took notes about the creatures for several hours and then went inside to sleep. After a few months the creatures had grown and bred profusely. Their numbers were growing fast and it was hard for Elias to contain them in the lake. One morning when Elias awoke he traveled to Wife Lake to check up on the creatures, but they were nowhere to be found. He went to town to see people running in every direction and screaming. The creatures were all over. His creatures that he bred. The deaths of all these townspeople was his fault. One of the creatures approached him and it had grown quite large. He got down on his knees and begged for mercy. “I created you and this is how you repay me! If it weren't for me you would not be alive. At least grant mercy to your father,” he said. The creature grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up to its head. The creature was choking him and Elias was struggling to breathe. Finally Elias had died and the beast devoured his entire body. No man or woman was left in Portham by the end of that day.

The moment I had seen him I became uneasy; it wasn’t nervousness, rather something primal inside me. Instinct was screaming defense. His eyes were low; the type of eyes that insomniacs have, dark. His face drooped as if he rarely smiled. When he did smile it seemed forced, fake, as if he was never really enjoying himself. His hat, worn backwards, had the large green M from Monster energy drink. He thought he was cool. Personally, I prefer Redbull. The black shirt he wore was overshadowed by the sleeves of tattoos he wore; wrist on all the way up, both arms. The bar was too dark to make out the designs but one did stick out, a VOLCOM stone. Jesus Christ this guy really thinks he’s cool. “Two Bud Lights,” he ordered, we made eye contact. He sized me up instantly; eyes quickly scanning me up and down. I’m not looking to be intimidated but I know the type, I look away and finish my Yuengling. I knew then and there his idea of a good time was showing people who he thought he was, unyielding to testosterone with something to prove. My instinct was correct, we were complete opposites. The phone buzzes a text message, “Ur brother is gonna get jumped at Dirty Larry’s. He knows it but demanded we go anyway.” My heart beat picks up; the adrenaline is kicking in. “Where are you now?” I reply. Seconds go by… “Ur Dad’s” “Hes getting in the car now.” “i cant stop him” Her texts pile in one after the other. Just send one damn text. Women. My brother sure knows how to pick them. “Keep him there, I will be right over!” Frantically I throw on my jeans and t-shirt. I kick on my shoes and I’m out the door. It is spring time and the breeze is shouting at me through my open windows. I should slow down, god forbid I get pulled over now. Fuck it, I have to take a chance. My legs feel weak and my stomach is turning over; the adrenaline flowing nicely. Breathe, breathe easy and focus. His car is gone as I pull into an empty driveway. My Father comes out of the dark garage; he looks ready for bed; boxers and white t-shirt. “What are you doing here?” he asks confused, “You just missed your brother, he was arguing with his girlfriend about something. What’s up?” He sees the focus on my face and knows I need to find him. “He’s about to get the shit kicked out of him at Dirty Larry’s. He knows it, but went anyway.” I speak fast. “I need you to come with me; I don’t know what I’m walking into.” “Keep the car running.” He vanishes into the house. Thirty seconds later he walks out from the garage fully clothed. Even though it is dark in there, I saw him lift up his shirt and tuck something into his waistband. My mind shares a quick laugh; I know he’s got his pistol. My Father was never someone to screw around with. He always had a fierceness that has been unmatched by any man I have ever met. It was always his eyes that scared me; as boy into my teenage years he would scream and bark millimeters from my face. At this point I was no longer scared of him, rather, I respected him. We had our moments but he is my Father and that is that. The car ride is eerily silent. He asks me what is going on and I can only give him vague details. Truth is, I have no idea. Within minutes we pull into the parking lot for Dirty Larry’s. I hate this bar; it breeds the type of people that aren’t out to have my type of fun. Their type of fun is proving themselves with a macho, chip on their shoulder attitude. I have nothing to prove and I really don’t jive with that bullshit. I am smart enough to stay away. Yet here we are. There is a decent crowd gathered outside, twenty or so people; in the mix is my brother and he is talking to a familiar figure. My heart kicks into overdrive; I can fell the thumping ring in my ears. It is just the adrenaline I tell myself. My Father leaves the pistol in the car. The closer we get, the figure becomes an all too familiar face; same backwards hat, same tatted sleeves. With my back to this predator, I tell my brother to get in the car; he seems surprised we are there. “Who the fuck are you guys.” The man with the backwards hat burst out as I look back to meet his eyes. Before I can reply, my Father approaches him. They lock eyes; my Father’s fierceness took him by surprise. He must be thinking, “Who the fuck is this old man?” Or at least that is what I would think. But I know my old man and he is none to take lightly. As their barking match began, I placed myself one step back, between them. The man with the backwards hat was becoming uncomfortable; his breathing picked up as my Father’s shouts became more aggressive. Their noses are practically touching at this point. “Fuck you!” the man pushes my Father backwards. Instinct is full blown primal and my right fist makes contact with his jaw before he has a chance to pull his arms in. He staggers backwards unsure of what happened. As I approach, we lock eyes; I see only him. He outweighs me by forty or so pounds and has probably had a couple Bud Lights. I swing again; another right hook to the jaw. He doesn’t go down but takes another step back as he is close to the crowd. I can’t knock him out, he’s too big. He lunges towards me and I sidestep him; wrapping my arm around his neck and shoulder, I throw us to the ground. As soon as we make contact, I wrap my legs around his; I have his back, he can’t move. A shooting pain rips though my ribs. He’s not thrusting his elbows back though. Another sting and I see my brother attempt to kick him while I have his back. It annoys the hell out of me but I’m really glad to see my brother at this point. “Kick him!” I shout. He nods and stomps down one last time. “Now get back!”. He follows suit. For a brief moment there was silence. Have I gone deaf? I can see their faces and their mouths moving, but no sound. The crowd had gathered around us now. I give up his back and throw another punch into his face; kneeling next to him, an uppercut and a miss. Another uppercut and my right hand connects with his cheek bone. “Mike! Stop! MIKE!” I hear my Father’s voice and do as I’m told; I push his now hatless head down into the pavement and stand up. The crowd is staring at me in awe. This very cool man with a chip on his shoulder staggers up and starts shouting. “YOU ALL SAW THAT, I WAS JUMPED! SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE!” I can’t help but laugh; this man whom instinct had been telling me to be on my toes was nothing more than a chump; a phony of sorts, parading around with his dirty looks and hard tattoos, only to be taken by someone shorter and forty pounds thinner. My father met me as we started walking back to my car. The faces in the crowd were patting me on my shoulder. I’m in a daze; what the fuck just happened, had I blacked out? “C’mon we have to go now, I will drive.” My father told me with urgency. I got into the passenger seat and as soon I closed the door, my brother started yelling. I stayed quiet for moment then returned fire. We were back on the road by now, out of any danger from the law. “STOP!” My father’s voice boomed. I sat there quiet while my brother let off the rest of his steam. What was he so pissy about? I come to find out later, there were two other guys in that crowd that were going to hurt my brother. They apparently got cold feet when their friend was getting thrown to the ground; more tough guy attitude with faint hearts. “Dad,” I asked, “My hand hurts like hell. That means his face hurts right?” He laughed; he thoroughly enjoyed what had just happened, “Yeah Mike, his face hurts. You did good.” A grin made its way across my face. I would also find out later that my Father had cocked his fist back as soon as he was pushed; I stepped in front of him. I still don’t remember doing that.

Somewhere in the backwoods of Arkansas, thirty miles southwest of Hot Springs rests a quiet little town called Glenwood. Not much happens here, according to most peoples knowledge. However, this collection of short stories is not about your run of the mill common folk, and believe me they are just as real as they are surrealistically absurd. Most of these tales are the sum of highly intelligent and morally ambiguous individuals fueled by drugs, alcohol, and a strange sense of chaotic pack mentality, and I being fortunate and sober enough to bear testimony to these bizarre events. But don’t get me wrong, I am no innocent bystander amidst the chaos. Often times if you were brave enough you could find me somewhere in the fray, adding my own unique color to the sea of ambiguity. Due to some disconnect with the ways of the world, and their unwillingness to bend in the wake of society’s ever changing whims, they often found themselves in too deep and over their heads, but managing by some miracle to come out on top smelling like a rose. EARLY LESSONS. It is my belief there are three major events in a young boy’s life that let him know he is coming into his own as a man. 1 Losing your virginity. As a man the loss of your innocence marks you as an accomplished individual in the eyes of your peers. To the naive late bloomers you appear as a caterpillar that has emerged from a cocoon of wisdom with some other-worldly knowledge that you can’t acquire without firsthand experience. 2 Getting behind the wheel of a car alone. Nothing is more thrilling than the first few inches of pavement passing precariously between you and the barely functioning, half ton metal death machine, and the realization of the power you wield while careening down the black top. 3 The ultimate lesson. The third and probably most important, albeit least recognized event, is the epiphany that the people responsible for bringing you into this world do not have the infallible wisdom they believe themselves to possess. This tale being the nature of the third This story fell into my lap one mild fall evening after the whiskey had once again dampened our lips and freed our tongues from the chains of modesty. Cigarette smoke hung in the still night air like a looming fog, and the porch lights soft ambiance provided a contrast to the grating uproar that had begun around the small plastic table rattling dangerously around the wooden porch, threatening to spill the last of the ever dwindling manna that kept us in good spirits. Then suddenly a victor rose above the noise to claim his rightful crown as the evening’s story teller, and sole witness to the epic stupidity that befell him as a child. D. See, was a young boy around the age of five during this event. His father began a short drive home from a gentleman’s softball game. The 1973 Pontiac Ventura II had its wing vent open while the engine rumbled out in a low loping tone, barely minding the speed limit.Then out of nowhere, a thud emanated from the driver side wing vent, causing a generous application of the brakes. D. Sees’ father flipped on the cab lights to investigate the back seat before the vehicle managed to come to a complete stop. To his surprise a moderately sized screech owl had the misfortune of being sucked into the cars’ wing vents, and hurled into the back seat, where it lay dazed from the impact. Now any rational man would simply toss the creature out and keep driving, but that was far from what happened. For reasons known only to Mr. See, he captured the creature in his softball mitt and spent the rest of the drive home trying to figure out a way to profit from his new found avian friend. It wasn't until he had placed the poor feathery bastard in a cage and achieved a full night sleep did his long unforeseen dreams of being a falconer come to full fruition. Nearly by reflex I interjected in the face of the blatant ignorance that would soon come to pass. “You can’t be serious?” My glassy eyed cohort turned to me in his stupor, but the gleam in the back of his vision revealed the utmost sincerity with his reply. “I’m serious as cancer buddy.” A roar of laughter ensued from the crowd. “So what happened next?” Came an impatient slur from another intoxicated crew member on the edge of his seat. “I’m getting to that.” D. See said with some unusual clarity as he poured another shot to build dramatic tension. D. See kicked back the whiskey with ease, and then released a refreshing sigh, slapping the shot glass onto the table. “Roll me a fat one while I talk.” The group obliged, bringing forth the tribes designated joint crafter to work his dexterous magic into the item their temporary chieftain coveted so dearly. “Now where was I again?” D. See leaned back in his chair with a finger over pursed lips as his eyes fell back to that distant haze of nostalgia. Mr. See awoke that morning with a gleam in his eyes as radiant as the dawning sun. With the glee of a child on Christmas morning he hurried off to his work shed to prepare his “falconing attire.” This included the following: Bailing twine, an apron, and elbow length welding gloves that looked more like gauntlets. After securing the gauntlets with bailing twine Mr. See, was ready to begin training. The owl was ready too. It had spent the entire night stewing on the fact it had been flung into a cage that sat in the back of a rundown school bus, for reasons it could only begin to guess at. The owl heard the approach of Mr. See, and knew the plan it had concocted to make its daring escape were moments from inception. Mr. See opened the back door to the school bus and gingerly flipped the latch to the owls’ cage. The thing made no attempt to resist but kept a keen eye on Mr. See as it was lifted out of the wired prison. The owl made a quick assessment of the surroundings looking left, then right, then back to Mr. See, who was beside himself at this point. Then the creature unleashed its wild rage upon its captor all at once. It craned its neck around and bit through the welding glove with the force of a sledgehammer, latching itself to Mr. Sees’ thumb. The man howled in pain and tried to release the offending critter, wanting nothing more to do with it, but the thing refused to let go. Mr. See bolted through his front yard, arms flailing wildly, with the screeching bird in tow. At that point Mr. See found himself next to a large oak tree, and proceeded to beat the little bastard senseless against it until the enraged animal released his thumb. Finally, the owl unhinged its vice like grip and flopped to the ground where it shook off the daze. The owl ruffled its feathers as a last act of defiance before it flew off into the morning sunrise, leaving D. Sees father to lick his wounds.

He watched agitated as they died around him. Family after family, loved one after loved one, it didn't matter. They would grow old, get sick. Always the same. Always by himself at the end. Their deaths lingered in his mind, he wouldn't forget them; he couldn't forget them. He sat beside their beds as they calmly entered the void. Grasped their ruined frames in the middle of the street. Spent hours pushing upon their chests in a futile attempt to get them breathing again. With each small victory a surfeit of failure was never far away. Always the same. He could save some but what was the point? At the end of the day, and as years passed they would perish and he would be left with nothing. He had buried enough children, wives, husbands. It was too much to bear any longer, no more. It was crucial, he had to get away. He spent years of his life isolated in a cabin high atop a mountain. He needn't eat, sleep, or shit. He exhausted his time staring blindly into nothing. It was just him and the darkness only his cruel memories to keep them company, never again would he get hurt. It was chance to blame when the women came stumbling through his door collapsing to the ground. The sight of her prone body freezing on the hardwood brought tears to his eyes. It’s happening again. Quickly he ran to the door shutting it nearly all the way, leaving only a small crack ajar. The sight of the snow and the harsh glare of the sun was an insufferable blur of light but he would need some of it. She was bundled tightly in her climbing gear, a puffy jacket, thick pants, large boots and gloves on both hands. Yet even wearing all of her equipment the complication was noticeably brutal. You broke your leg. Wickedly her right limb jutted outwards from her, his tentative prodding caused her to cry out in pain. Her face was red and weather beaten, evidence of frostbite was on her fleshy cheeks. "Please" her voice was strained and weak "help…." He had nothing for her, no supplies to wrap the bone, and no way to stop the bleeding. There was a bitter truth to her injury, she was better off dead on impact. Now she laid doomed on a deranged man’s floor. Her blood continued to welter from her leg and spread along the wood flooring. Kneeling besides the woman his knees soon became saturated by the essence of her dwindling life. “Stay awake, I ‘m going to find you some help” he said, though he knew it fruitless. The shine of outside was nauseating and the cold would was enough to kill any other man. He trampled throughout the desolate landscape for hours upon hours never finding any other sign of life. Pushing open the door to his secluded cabin he had long prepared for what was awaiting. She had long lost the battle for life, her eyes were open and directed towards the doorway. Horrible, dark, and accusing “you left me to die”, they silently screamed. And they were right. He had left her for dead. The determination to search for help was fueled by the need to get away, he would not get attached to another, especially one as ill-fated as her. Even so he wept, wept as he had so many times before. He wept for her, and he wept for himself. He had known her only a few short minutes but as he look at her congealed body he knew that he loved her. “I’m sorry” he whispered. He wanted to join her, he wished for the relief of death. So many years, so much despair, so many people he wanted to see again. As gentle as possible he reached down and grasped both her arms as he pulled her body a thin trail of red followed. He left her outside, at the mercy of the elements. He propped her body into a sitting position and directed her head in the direction of sun. She had died in darkness but he’d leave her in the light. Inside the cabin he barred the door by pushing his dilapidated bed against it. She would not be the last to discover his hidden cabin of purgatory. But to them he kept his door shut and his ears plugged, no matter the amount they begged he would not answer. Without failure the babel of their pleas would dissipate, he tried his best to imagine them discovering sanctuary elsewhere. Isolated in his cabin he celebrated every year that passed without another frantic cry outside his door. Some force refused him death, but alone in his bed he couldn’t help but smile, he refused the world and discovered an immortals suicide.

The sand was warm beneath his feet as Kylar was lead out onto the floor of the arena. The crowd was deafening; raining down disapproval, admiration, and anticipation as the guards pushed him out towards the center of the grounds. Kylar stretched his neck as he took in the details of the scene: the blood from the previous fight drying in the warmth of the Sandoverian Summer, the smell of thousands of unwashed bodies pressed together in an orgy of sweat, and sex, and ale. The manacles around his wrists bound his arms behind his back, and he was forced to his knees in the center of the arena. Kylar tossed a lazy smile to the guard who had been handling him. "I will be looking for you when this is over, Bruno; to return your peerless hospitality." Bruno just uttered a low grunt, resonating deeply within his massive chest. He was easily twice Kylar's size, and each muscle in his powerful body rippled with barely-contained aggression as he moved. The Crown Prince of Sandoveria's voice echoed across the arena as the crowd fell silent. "You are found guilty of crimes against the crown. Theft, piracy, the deaths of over 100 notable citizens of Sandoveria, among others I am sure, and the kidnapping, rape, and murder of my sister; the Crown Princess Oliviana. Have you anything left to say for yourself before your sentence is carried out?" "My only regret is that I didn't get to burn you with that fucking witch, Darrien. But rest assured, I will have your head soon enough for what you have done to us." Kylar spat upon the sand just before Bruno's mailed gauntlet cracked into the side of his head, sending him sprawling and setting stars swimming about his vision. Darrien's face grew red with anger as he seethed; the veins in his temples throbbing visibly even from such a distance. "Then you are hereby sentenced to death. Lord Warren, betrothed of my sweet sister has agreed to carry out your sentence in a trial by combat." The crowd exploded again as the ornate gates below the Royal Box opened, and Lord Warren strode onto the sands, resplendent in his shining armor, each plate reflecting the midday sun. He drew his sword and spun around for the crowd, enjoying their affections as his long purple cape danced in the breeze that kissed the sands. Kylar got to his feet, but it was clear that he was going to have to fight hands bound, unarmed and unprotected. Good. Maybe this way it would be a bit of a challenge. Warren closed the distance between them quickly, his arm already drawn back for the first strike. "I will kill you in the name of Lady Oli-" Kylar ducked just as the sword passed where his head had been only a fraction of a second before, braced himself, and drove forward with all his might, smashing the top of his head into Lord Warren's unprotected face. Blood erupted from his nose as he fell backwards from the weight of the blow. Kylar seized his chance and leapt forward onto Warren's breastplate as he fell, slamming him into the loosely packed sand. The fight ended when Kylar drew his knee up to his chest, and stomped directly onto the once handsome face of Lord Warren. He was dead before the dust had even begun to settle. A wave of sound burst from the crowd, a writhing mixture of hate and awe. And Kylar's eyes met with the Prince's just in time for the realization to set in. He flashed a triumphant grin, and cracked his neck again. "Guards! Destroy him!" Spittle flew from Darrien’s lips in a rather un-princely manner as he bellowed and soon all of the portcullises had been raised, and guardsmen were streaming out on to the sands. Kylar hooked a foot behind him and up into his manacles, driving his shoulders forward as he kicked towards the earth; both of his shoulders dislocated with a loud pop. Wincing as he stepped his feet back through the newly widened space to get his hands in front of him, Kylar popped his shoulders back in to place with a shrug; contortion was one of the many skills honed by the eastern assassins to escape captivity. As he picked up Lord Warren's blade and tested its balance he looked into the eyes of the warily approaching guards. Only Bruno's eyes weren't glazed with fear and trepidation. They would be soon enough.

Sometimes lunch falls from the sky. I suppose that may seem like some blessing, but I’ve had about enough of it, myself. Have you any idea what that kind of impact does to a half-eaten meat pie? I once heard a wet explosion and stepped out of my neat grass hut to find my fire pit covered in gravy. Nor does lunch tend to land in the most opportune of places. Yesterday about midday I had a banana. Nearly killed me. The Goony Birds drop all manner of objects as they fly across the valley sky, always from Mount of the Moon to Purple Panther Peak. Papers, coins, clothing, shoes, dark eyeglass , beverage containers, writing implements. I have a dune of mostly obliterated or useless Goony Bird crap that grows by the day. Worst of all, they sometimes drop lunch after it’s already been eaten. Solid chunks land several seconds before the fine spray. It’s only been this way for a handful of seasons. I can easily recall when my sky was clear of Goonies and the shrieking zip of their flight. Then, life was considerably more normal. My days were occupied with foraging, sometimes hunting for meats or skins, and regular visits from Teela. On occasion, strangers would wander in from distant valleys. We were always happy to welcome them. Teela was my closest neighbor, living just past the arse-shaped rock downstream. Her flesh was sparse, and her head of hair was ample. Sad story, Teela’s. I can’t help but recall the pleasant times, though. She would drop in at least once every few days with something new to show me.Spiny fruits, dead insects, smelly things. She had a strange obsession with useless objects. I would call her an odd one, but I’m afraid I haven’t known a sufficient number of normal people to justify saying so. We shared meals often (I made the food my responsibility; one could never be sure what Teela would bring to share), and more than a few times we explored one another, sharing in the vagaries of physical pleasure. Having her around was always good fun. At least, that is, until the freak show appeared above our heads. Teela fell under the spell of the Goonies. “Such lovely big birds,” she said to me the day after they first whizzed through our pristine sky. “They’re no proper birds,” I told her. “Do you see wings?” “They don’t need wings; they have otherworldly powers. Dummy!” When the so-called birds started dropping their crap, Teela lost her coconuts. “Look at this!” She picked something up from the dirt outside my hut. It was a small piece of canvas emblazoned with the perfect image of a person, but this person was like none I had met. Pale as a cloud and still sporting baby fat as a grown man. Goony-looking. Unfortunately, this only helped Teela to deify the Goonies. I tried to tell her they were just people. “Dope! They only take the form of humans so as not to frighten us, the simpler beings. And how do you suppose they fly, smart guy? Our minds are not capable of fully comprehending.” Teela began spending every day at my hut. My place was a hotspot for Goony junk landings (Teela took to calling it the ‘Place of Great Heavenly Bounty’). I didn’t mind that she took all the junk–I certainly didn’t need it–but watching her lose her mind was too much. I once snuck off to her place while she was trying to find a suitable way to dress her wild mane around a set of gleaming cooking tools that had crashed into the stream near my hut. When I crossed the arse rock, I could scarcely believe the state of her living space: the slipshod grass shelter was consumed by an intricate altar of stacked Goony garbage. It was no wonder she bummed around my place; hers had become storage! I was lucky enough to have a morning to myself when a most intriguing specimen touched down. As I lounged on a bed of moss, sipping spiny fruit nectar, a bush across the stream burst into a flurry of leaves. Normally I would have let the thing lie and notified Teela, but my interest was piqued as I discerned a small racket coming from what remained of the foliage. What I found was a small, heavy picture-box device. It was like several I had seen before, but unlike the others, this one was in working order. Well perhaps it wasn’t undamaged from the fall, but it repeatedly displayed the same moving image: it was one of those Goony white people smiling, laughing with his giant teeth and sticking his thumb in the air. He was on a mountain peak, approaching a precipice. When I looked close, I could see that he was wearing an apparatus that protruded from his midsection and connected him to something that reached far into the open sky. It was a line. As the Goony in the picture-box launched himself over the precipice and wailed like a young girl, the situation suddenly became clear. I tore my rapt eyes from the box, studied the sky with greater scrutiny than I had hitherto thought to give, and soon found what I was looking for: a barely perceptible line bridged the sky between the peaks on either side of the valley. Teela was not receptive to my discovery. “Blasphemy! Omnipotent beings do not dangle from vines.” “But it’s right there above your daft head! Just look up!” “I don’t need to; I’m strong enough to have faith in the inexplicable.” “We’re human beings, Teela. Rational thought is our most powerful tool, and you’re ignoring it altogether. All you have is faith in ignorance.” “Don’t talk down to me. I won’t hesitate to defend my values.” That’s when I showed her the moving image in the picture-box. She couldn’t draw her eyes away until it repeated four times over. Then she met my gaze with a leer that would cleave stone. “Tempter! Demon sent to corrupt!” Teela was in the throes of hysteria. She wore the mean look of a cornered badger. “Death be upon you!” My friend must have known she could not slay me, and too that she had violated the boundaries of our friendship. Sadly, I’d no time to pose a question before she came at me with a shiny blade pulled from her Goony headdress, and she’d no time to redact herself before I smashed her head with a rock.There was a thud as she dropped and the slight clink of a bloodied spoon tumbling from her head, but then there was only silence. Teela was my dear friend, daresay my only friend, and I had killed her. I reexamined the fact repeatedly before I could bring myself to believe it. I had bludgeoned my friend to death, but only as a reflexive reaction to a life-or-death situation brought upon by her irrational hysteria. Did I have a choice? And did she understand the implications of her delusions? Was this mess our fault? No. It was those great Goony bastards playing cheap tricks with twine above our heads. After all, they had no divine enchantment, nor even the power of flight. They were only men, and men could fall. That night, I put in no small effort devising an operation to take back the valley sky. As the moon rose over its mount, I felled no less than a dozen trees, each of considerable height, and carried them past the arse to Teela’s. I then used the heftiest limb I could salvage to reduce her Goony shrine to what I had always seen it for: a mound of garbage. Consider it grieving. Next, I proceeded to construct a pyre, reinforced with all the pieces from the hulking mound of Goony garbage, of such magnitude that according to my calculations, her flames just might lick the strand in the sky. Consider it retribution. As the first rumor of dawn found the horizon, I spent the last of my strength carrying the corpse of my friend to the pyre’s pinnacle. When I returned to the ground, I set the first spark of what promised to be an unforgettable conflagration and proceeded to collapse on my back, eyes turned to the slowly waning stars. I cared little that had my structure failed, flaming tree trunks and landfill would have rained down upon me and brought my end. Life thereafter was optional, so long as the Goonies were stopped. The heat of the growing blaze soon crept into my skin, and before long, I could perceive the line in the sky giving off a faint glow. Yes, I thought, my final act shall come to fruition. I may at least die with integrity. With my head laid back on the hot ground, I closed my eyes and let the roar of the inferno fill my senses. It was then that I became aware of something else: a second roar, carried by the wind from a near valley. I sat up and watched as a massive object blotted out the first rays of the breaking dawn. It was a fat, Goony flying machine, and it wasted no time. From its great metal belly dropped a deluge, which soaked the entire valley floor with a single, thundering crash. I was cold-cocked and washed halfway to the stream bed while the bonfire collapsed into a half-ashen dune of wet garbage. When I coughed back into consciousness, I was surrounded by flopping river fish. The first thing I thought to do was examine the morning sky. Indeed, the Goony line hung intact above me. My struggle had been in vain. Logic advised me to laugh, make light of the situation, accept that what had happened was beyond my control. But no smile would come. All the humor of a cruel reality was wasted that day on a single, melancholy man. The only thing left for me to do was rebuild my home and carry on. I have never thought at length about what should be done with the remains of the pyre. Perhaps I have secretly hoped the forest would someday overtake it and reclaim it for the Earth. Yet the dune stands to this day, a memorial to my foolishness. I had hoped it would scare away the Goonies, or at least be enough of an eyesore to diminish their numbers, but no. It didn’t work out as such. I guess some problems cannot be solved. Dave, The Xtreme Jungle Zip-n-Camp Adventure shift manager, stood on the mountaintop platform, green in the face. He’d managed a ski school before he moved out here. This was well outside the realm of his professional experience “Are you sure it was a real-” “Yup,” said the greasy part-timer. “Trus’ me, you’ll see it.” “Well… I suppose I’ll have to phone the director, then.” The part-timer nodded and backed away. He wanted nothing to do with that conversation. The shift manager unsheathed his cumbersome weatherproof satellite phone and pressed 1. He always felt weird using a phone with actual buttons. “Good morning, director.” “…” “Yes sir, I’m aware that it’s four a.m. in your time zone. I apologize. “…” “Well, I’m out here trying to open line eleven, and I’m looking at… there’s no other way to put this: it’s the charred remains of some sort of aboriginal human sacrifice, and it’s directly below the line.” “…” “Yes Sir, a genuine dead body.” “…” “I see.” “…” “And a good day to you, Sir.” The shift manager ended the connection and took a deep breath. “Whadda he say?” The part timer had been standing not far off. “He’s thrilled! Said we should charge an extra ten per guest for line eleven and get in touch with marketing to organize a special promotion. We’ll also have to draft an amendment to the waiver.” “He said that?” “Not that last bit, but I’m thinking ahead. If we play things right, we might get a raise out of this.

This was a short story I needed to write for my creative writing class. As a high school junior interested in taking creative writing courses in college, I'd appreciate some feedback! The subway screeched to its usual halt, the smell of burned rubber and metal filling the cabin. The faint tune of David Bowie coming from the headphones of the slightly overweight bearded 20-some-year-old standing inches away from me directed my attention away from the usual piece of chewed gum lounging on the pole, ensuring not even the bravest of souls would place their hand anywhere close, causing a cluster of hands on a different pole 10 feet to the right. After the subway started again, the only sound I focused on was the whistling coming out of the man’s nose at each breath. I stared at the torn poster featuring a smiling Asian woman holding a pack of Nicorette chewing gum. The poster was water stained and someone had added an apostrophe ‘t’ at the end of the word ‘can’ in the sentence, “You can quit today.” I chuckled the first time I saw it. No attractive Asian woman smokes, so I don’t really get why they would advertise in such a way. Before my eyes managed to scan over to the crudely sharpie’d penis on the groin of the ‘Godzilla’ movie poster, the subway stopped again and the doors opened. In a commotion, the crowd shuffled off and shuffled on, bumping into each other, but not apologizing, only ignoring the complete invasion of personal space so as not to be late for the next subway or just because the smell of bleach and cigarettes was too overpowering. I happened to look to my left as a tall woman, oh wait, she’s wearing heels, an average sized woman in heels passed through the doors, but not before dropping on the floor of the subway a bright blue, bulging wallet. I reached down and picked it up, examining it, even scoffing at its weight. My observations were interrupted by a foreboding “ding, ding” of the closing doors. I hoped out of my cold, plastic seat and dotted for the door. The sliding doors prevented me from leaving the cabin and returning the wallet. I simply looked out the window as the subway, slowly, but then all at once, left its stopped position and the blonde-haired woman exited my view. I sighed and slowly trudged back to my seat. I assume no one noticed what had happened, they were all either too busy reading the daily print, pretending to be well informed of today’s local tragedies and to see how the Yankees did. I found my seat and opened up the wallet which looked like it was about to burst. Inside was a neatly organized row of credit cards, gift cards, and receipts tucked away in their individual homes, readily awaiting their proper usage whenever the woman just so happens to pass by a Best Buy. Thanks, in-laws. I looked around further and found her driver’s license. Broadwell, Katherine Scott Born October 9th, 1989 Address: 13 Blake Ct. Appt. 5 Ht. 5”6 Wt. 125 lbs. Hair: Blonde Eyes: Blue Organ Donor Also inside her wallet was $13, more change than I dared count, a stick of peach gum, a nail filler, and a used scratch-off. Actually, make that $113, I guess today was her lucky day. Perhaps she was going to cash this scratch-off? The stop she left at was 4th and Vine, there is a Sunoco pit stop down the block. Oh god, she is going to be mortified when she finds out she doesn’t have her wallet. That poor thing. The subway stopped at the next stop. I had just finished typing the text to my boss saying the cable guy had fallen down the stairs and because he was on his way to check my cable box for the third time that month, it was technically my fault. The landlord didn’t want another suite over his head so he asked me to stay there and talk to the insurance guy. My building doesn’t even have a landlord. I hurried off the subway and looked up, realizing immediately that I was lost. I mean I think Mike and I had gone to that bar over there before… OH YEAH! We did! That was the place where Mike met that ex-pornstar and attempted to do a jello shot off of her bloated chest and he sneezed green glue all over her and she kicked him in the groin so hard that he vomited. Maybe it was the combination of the immense amount of alcohol and the shot to the tenders that sent Mike overboard, maybe just the alcohol that, at that point, had taken up more than 30% of his blood, was to blame, but man did she get him good. Okay so I had a slight sense of where I was, but I didn’t remember much from that night. The first thing I did was start walking in the direction of where the subway came from. I didn’t even know what I was thinking, really. I mean she would easily beat me to the gas station, at which point she would realize she left her wallet, retrace her steps, pinpoint where she had it last (which was the subway), call the subways service station, they would send an employee scouring the train she was on for the wallet. From there they would determine it is no longer on the train, then they would look at the security footage to see when she dropped it. They would notice she dropped it when she got off and find a pasty white, sad-looking, he looks 16 but 30 at the same time, looking man pick it up, go through it, find that she has a loto ticket for $100, and quickly leave the train in hopes of cashing in to pay for his next meal and a new pair of headphones, only to be left in his pants pocket to be devoured by the washing machine. Well, I’m fucked. I hurried on, with the hopes that she stopped for an undercooked hoagie or an over-creamed latte. I found my way to 4th street, and with divine intervention I made it to the corner of 4th and Vine to find the Sunoco store at the corner. I hustled in, looking rather fashionable with the cyan wallet in my hand, highlighting my sun stained white button up and now loose-fitted tie quite nicely. I looked to the cashier to find the same back of the woman I saw leaving the subway wallet-less only minutes before, holding a cup of coffee with the name “Kat” written in bubbly letters in sharpie on the hand-protector. I let out a sigh of relief, but only to hear, “Hi, I’d like to cash my scratch-off winnings,” spoken in a high-pitched, excited voice. The indian man replied in a thick accent, “Do you have ticket?” The woman nodded and reached into her black leather purse. For a second she moved her hand around. And then her eyebrows lowered, covering her bright blue eyes, a blue that couldn’t be described on her license alone. A piece of her hair moved in front of her face. Uncaring of her hair, she searched more, in quite the panic. I couldn’t help but let a slight grin cross my face. She looked back up at the man, her eyes widened and mouth open, looking for the right pattern of words that could possibly convey the confusion, anger, and panic she was feeling. Before she spoke, I took a step forward, wallet in hand. “I uh, can’t seem to find-“ I opened my mouth to speak, revealing the wallet from behind my back. “Ah, here it is! Haha, it was buried underneath all that crap in here!” She took out a black leather wallet, opened it, and handed the man a loto ticket. “Ah, $20, congrats.” He said with a laugh “Yeah,” she chuckled in reply, “I guess it’ll pay for dinner tonight.” The man typed in a couple buttons into the cash register, the register tray opening with a “ding, ding, ding” sound and a “winner, winner, winner!” exclamation assuring the woman of her luck and my misfortune. The man handed her a 10, a 5, and five singles, she thanked him, and brushed past me, smiling as we made eye contact, but not before I noticed the name on her coffee cup. “Katniss Everdeen” Well, at least she has a sense of humor.

He immediately awoke to a thundering crash of metal smashing into solid ground, as he rose from the floor he quickly attempted to gain his surroundings but his attempt was cut short by the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, the world spun around him as he plummeted back to the floor. He sat for a moment, eyes scanning his surroundings, he found himself in a cavern dimely lit with a few flickering torches mounted to the wall's , he then realised that the pit only had one entrance, and that was the gap in the rock above him, he could see the flicker of torches through the hole, and some kind of material was hung from the wall. The sudden stench of death drew wandering eyes twords the center of the room, there in a pile was the culprits of the crashing sound that woke him, four men in full plate armor, bloodied and bruised from some sort of skirmish. They had lost. They lay battered and broken in a pool of crimson that gently soaked into the dirt "Rest now men, you fought valiantly" He braced himself on his knee as he brought himself to his feet, the armor he wore torn and shattered, his helmet missing, how he and these men came to this state he could not say, but he did remember one thing, he was their captain.

VICTORY FOR THE SOUTH – A southern platoon with an Abraham tank is transported back in time to the Gettysburg battle. The platoon leader wants to change the battles outcome, but the black privates are afraid winning the battle may affect the Civil War’s outcome and the abolishment of slavery so everyone can be free. The restoration building for the Hunley Submarine resides in the old Charleston Navy Yard. The Hunley sits in a 90,000 gallon conservation tank, among several artifacts in displays excavated from inside the submarine. One of these artifacts is the gold coin Lt. George Dixon carried with him when the H.L. Hunley sank 138 years ago. The Hunley submarine was found in Charleston’s harbor, South Carolina. According to legend, Lt. George E. Dixon, who commanded the Hunley on its historic mission, had a sweetheart named Queenie Bennett from Mobile, Alabama. When he went off to war, she gave Dixon a 20 dollar gold coin, as a good luck charm. It is rumored she also had voodoo practitioner Marie Catherine Laveau from New Orleans bless it with a voodoo spell of protection. The coin saved Dixon’s life in the battle of Shiloh and he kept the coin when he commandeered the Hunley. KRIS BROOKS (age 20s) sister to Lieutenant CHUCK BROOKS of the 13th South Carolina ARMORED DIVISION, steals this coin and gives it to her younger brother who is destined for Iraq later in the year. When she tries to renew the coin’s original spell, she accidently sends her brother’s platoon back into time, days before the Gettysburg battle. Lieutenant Brooks and his men are 100 percent southern and believes what the South fought for in the Civil War. He realizes that he can change history and he does not care if it’s cheating – he believes he was sent back for a purpose. The platoon lays low and out of sight at a farm 10 miles outside Gettysburg. The platoon had to take the farm’s family by force, no one was hurt. Lidia, a freed slave, falls for the black private Benjamin and he falls for her. Lieutenant Brooks decides they will attack the Union before the start of Pickets Charge. The more he realizes he can change history, the more he is determined to do it. A Union patrol stops near the house and discovers Lieutenant Brooks, who then has all of the 30 men killed after his platoon had surrounded them. The two black privates do not know how to stop lieutenant Brooks. That night they slip away from the farm with their weapons, including an anti-tank missile launcher, to warn General Meade of the impending attack by their platoon. They hide their weapons, including the anti-tank missile launcher, before being captured by Union pickets, and brought before General Meade. He does not believe they are from the future and has the two black privates jailed. The freed black slave Lidia is able to find her way into the jail and give Benjamin a loaded revolver; they escape the night before Pickets Charge. Lidia is friends with the white person who runs the Underground Railroad, and he brings the black soldiers to General Meade, who is led to where the black soldiers stashed their weapons. A demonstration of their weapons convinces General Mead they may be telling the truth. While they are examining their weapons, Benjamin accidently fires the anti-tank missile launcher, the only missile they had to stop Lieutenant Brooks. General Meade is convinced by the black privates he has to dig anti-tank ditches around the center of the front line where they feel Lieutenant Brooks will send his platoon. Lieutenant Brooks drives his tank and the platoon into General Lee’s camp about 5:00 AM. The confederates are completely startled with the picket guards firing at them. Brooks raises a white flag and asks to see General Lee where he convinces him they are from the future when he shows him a few apps on his iPhone. At 2:00 PM Lieutenant Brooks is in front of General Picket’s troops waiting for the signal to charge. Jump to the future….. The teacher (Android) is teaching other androids in class explaining the North American map and how it became divided into two different countries – the United States of America and the Confederate States of America (CSA). The instructor begins explaining how androids enslaved humans. It seems that when Lieutenant Brooks and his platoon went back into time, the modern weapons he brought resulted in a technological revolution before it’s time. The technology was exploited by a few capitalists in the CSA who lost control of the technology allowing machines to become rulers on earth.

First Story Give me hell guys =) FOREWORD This short story is set in a world similar to ours during the late medieval or early renaissance period. I am not a scholar of history but I try my best to mimic the feel of the period. In the world of the Fighting Fiefs they are several major powers. The Three Kingdoms- Led by a council of three kings who vote on any issue that arises they are the second largest military power on the planet. They lead the rest of the world in science and the design of their capital, Santuario, is the largest trading hub in the known world. They worship a tree god who they believe watch over their pastures. They are based on the Italian free states or the old Spanish Monarchy. Framani- Led by King Alexander the kingdom is the largest on the planet. They have recently began sending scouts into old Imperium territory to reclaim land lost in the collapse. Their capital Stolzes is a city famous for its large temple in the center. They follow the pantheon of the old Imperium They are based on France and Germany. The main characters of our story hail from Framani. Avalon- The savage pirates of Avalon are famed for their fleet that has never lost a battle. The people of Avalon are rough and speak in a brutish tongue. They were never a territory of the old Imperium and as such lack the sophistication of the late age advances in culture and in science. They worship the harsh gods of the ice and snow. They are based on Norse occupied Scotland and Ireland. The Old Imperium- Once were the greatest might on the planet. The great collapse led to three centuries of chaos in the realm that eventually led to the current age. They ruled most of the known world for over 800 years. All that remains of the old Imperium are their former territories and their extensive aqueduct and road systems. They were based on the Ancient Greeks or Romans. The Waste- A large area covered in sand and ashes due to the great collapse. No life can be sustained in this area due to the heavy amount of soot in the air. Recent efforts by Framani to re colonize these lands are underway but progress is slow. This is the setting for our tale. Chapter 1 They had been traveling for three days and Cesar could feel the slow burn of his feet cramping as they walked through the wastes. “Perhaps we should turn back” he asked. “Don’t be a fool we have ten more miles to scout before morning” replied Jean. Jean was the leader of the group of scouts that were sent to wander into the grey waste and find a place for settlers as part of the King’s new recolonization plan. Cesar was not fond of Jean, in truth no one was fond of Jean, he was a decorated military officer that claimed his fame from the sack of Norgdium during the raid against the Avalonian pirates. He was famed among the women in the nobility because of his bright blond hair and dark blue eyes. “Why Cesar you scared of the spirits in the ashes?” laughed Dorian as he waddled through the sand. “Fuck off Dorian.” replied Cesar. Dorian, in Cesar’s mind, was quite simply a dick. He had shoulder length black hair and a small goatee that made him look as though he was calm and casual. Though Dorian came from nobility he was disowned for a scandal with his family. No one knew what the exact details were but rumors were circling that it involved a suitor meant for his sister that was found in his bed. “Fine we’ll stop here” said Jean “We have to wait for that failure Pierre to catch up anyways. Cesar looked behind him and saw a large shape waddle through the dense smoke and slowly come into view. Pierre was a fat, old soldier he had thin brown hair that had specks of grey in it and a long beard that was mostly grey. Pierre was running as fast as his short fat legs could take him. “My lord my, my lord!” Pierre panted trying to catch his breath. “What is it” spat Jean”Well spit it out gros cul” Dorian laughed at Pierre trying to catch his breath “The fat bastard looks as though he has seen a ghost”. “My lord the ashes…they moved.” “Well no shit” replied Jean “they are falling from the fucking sky!” “No my lord the ashes on the ground they moved” Don’t be ridiculous Pierre everything here is dead and has been for 300 years.” “But you do know what they say of this waste my lord?” “The ghosts in the ashes I know it is no more than superstition from the settlers to scared to move at the kings command.” “But” “Quiet Pierre or I will have Dorian rip your tongue out” “And I will gladly comply” Dorian jested. “We will set up camp here tonight.” “Cesar and Dorian set up the tents, Pierre get a fire ready, you can do that can’t you?” “Yes my lord” said Pierre though he was not quite sure of himself. Chapter 2 “What do you mean it’s gone?” asked Jean angrily. “The water sir it’s been turned to this.” Said Pierre with a look of terror on his face. Pierre tipped the canteen and a thick black sludge oozed out of the opening. “You know what this is don’t you sir?” inquired Dorian. “Yes I do, its ash water, but we are not far in the wastes enough for this to be happening.” Cesar remembered the stories of the wastes of the children who would go in and never return of the souls of the old Imperium warlocks who would cast their dark spells on any one who dared enter their territory. “It’s the ghosts my lord I’m telling you, no, I’m begging you please let us go back. “I will have no more of these talks we will go forward.” Said Jean with a blank stare on his face. Suddenly Cesar saw an arrowhead come out the back of Jean’s skull. “Holy shit!” screamed Cesar as he ducked for cover. “I don’t want to die!” screamed Pierre “I’m sorry”. Dorian already had drawn his sword and shield and was circling trying to deflect the arrows which were no longer being shot. Cesar looked over at the body of Jean the arrow had gone through his left eye and out the back, blood was beginning to pool near the wound. “Shouldn’t we help him?” asked Pierre “No use” said Dorian “he’s dead”. “We should bury him” said Cesar “No need, the ashes will cover him by morning” “He deserves a burial or at least a cremation.” “He was a dick and a terrible commander.” “But he was still our commander and a fellow soldier.” “Look if you want to bury the connard go right ahead I’m going to go fortify our surroundings.” Cesar pulled out a small shovel and began digging a hole to put the body in. “Um…Cesar can I talk to you for a moment?” asked Pierre almost as if he was scared of Cesar. “Of course my friend” replied Cesar as he continued to dig the hole “What did you need”? “It was the ghosts I’m almost certain” “It’s just a story” “No it’s not” “What do you mean?” “I saw them. While I was lagging behind you guys in the first day I saw it. It looked at me its skin was as grey as the ashes around it. It looked into my very soul with its large dark eyes. When it noticed I had seen it, it stared at me for a half a second and disappeared into the ashes around it. The Image is still in my mind Cesar” “And you think it killed Jean?” “I know it did” Chapter 3 It had been two days since Jean was killed and everyone in the camp was hungry and thirsty. They had tried to return the way they came but the wastes always looked the same. “Did you see that!” yelled Dorian. “See what!?” said Pierre. “Nothing.” “Don’t do that Dorian. Do you think this is a goddamn game? Our commander is dead killed by something we can’t even fucking see!” “It was his own damn fault he was killed. He should have turned us back the moment the horses had died but it was his own arrogance that led us further into the wastes than we should’ve been.” Dorian immediately regretted his words and realized what he had said. “He did what?” Cesar said with rage filling inside of him. “He…he wanted to claim more land for the empire”. “And you knew? YOU FUCKING KNEW AND YOU SAID NOTHING TO HIM!?” “I have nothing to live for anyways I have no home to go back to and neither did he why should we care if you two died with us? Even if I wanted to turn him around he would’ve killed me and went anyways.” “YOU BASTARD!” Cesar pulled his sword from his sheath and charged at Dorian. Dorian unsheathed his own sword and blocked the first blow. Cesar swung downwards hard but Dorian moved out of the way. The swipe managed to cut his shoulder deeply. “Cesar, don’t make me have to kill you” pleaded Dorian. Cesar showed no remorse as he cleaved into Dorian’s hand and severed it. Dorian screamed in pain and fell to his knees. “Why?” asked Cesar blankly with his sword’s point to Dorian’s throat. “He. Owed money to a lot of people. He tried to escape by volunteering for the task. It was never personal.” “Cesar. Let him live he knows what he’s done.” Said Pierre “let’s go” They walked away from Dorian and left him to the wastes. Chapter 4 “I never told you about my home have I?” said Pierre “No you haven’t” replied Cesar. “It’s a nice little place in the country I own about five pigs and” “What did you mean by I’m sorry?” interrupted Cesar. “What?” “When Jean was killed you ran away. You said you were sorry.” “It was 45 or so years ago. My first battle just happened to be the day we broke the walls of Santuario.” “You were there during the siege?” “No not during the whole thing only during the sack. My father was the leader of my regiment and he personally took me with him to loot the district. I was terrified. We got to this one house in the western district, which was on fire at the time, and my father saw a woman running. He quickly went and grabbed her and threw her to the ground. He looked me in the eyes and commanded me to go to him. I did as my father commanded. When I got to him he said he was going to make me a man and told me to take the woman. I did.” “You...raped her?” “Yes” Pierre said and then began sobbing uncontrollably.” And when I was done my father slit her throat.” He broke down and curled into a ball. “I wanted to tell her I’m sorry before I died.” Cesar felt a presence behind him he turned quickly. There in front of him stood a large shadow, it had grey skin that seemed to be made of the ashes and dark sunken black eyes, in it’s hand was a cruel spear made of stone and ash wood. “Stand back!” Cesar commanded the creature but it did not listen. It slowly moved closer to Cesar and pointed at Pierre. “Pierre?” Cesar said puzzled. The creature nodded. Cesar then realized that the creature was human. Its body covered in ashes and its eyes covered in a thick black sludge. Cesar held his hand out to the strange man and then saw behind the man more creep out of the ashes. There had to be at least fifty of the strange people. The man nodded behind him and motioned for Cesar to follow. “Pierre get up” said Cesar Pierre got up slowly his eyes red from crying and followed Cesar and the strange people. Chapter 5 They approached the massive walls of the city by daybreak. They had been following the strange people for several days and were fed and given water by them. They spoke no common language but some words sounded vaguely familiar to worlds spoken in the old Imperium tongue. The gates to the city opened and they were received by a man on a horse. “Hail” he said in a hard to understand voice. “I am the king of the city” the rest of the words were unintelligible “Hello I am chevalier Cesar and his is my friend Pierre” The king of the city looked confused he motioned his men who gave them food and water. “Lev you r not welcome here” the king said. “But” Pierre said as he stepped forward. A man drove a spear through his neck. Cesar looked on in horror as he saw Pierre fall to the ground. “Leave” the king said in a harsh voice. Cesar turned and walked back into the wastes as the city vanished into the ashes.

Lucon spun in his place, swinging his slim sword in a wide arc and catching one of his assailants under the jaw. The deformed goat-like humanoid slumped to the ground, black sludge oozing from his wound, but the elf could hear several more stumbling through the forest in pursuit. “Sapphora, to me!” Lucon saw the bird’s purple wings fly through the treetops as the raven raced back to him. As she passed him a large red-orange gem fell from her talons, landing in Lucon’s open palm. He slipped the jewel into his bag and simultaneously pulled out another small rock with runes engraved onto its surface. As four of the hideous creatures crashed through the trees in front of him, brandishing nasty halberds and bastard swords, he smiled and threw the rock onto the ground. Vibrant splashes of color blinded the goatmen. When the creatures could see again, Lucon and his bird were nowhere to be seen. * * * “It took you long enough. How much time do you need to steal a rock from a bunch of goats, Lucon? You even had a bird do all the work for you.” The burly man behind the bar chuckled as he ducked a fly-by peck from Sapphora. “I’m sorry Bordin, not all of us are as adept at the run-and-smash strategy as you. Some of us prefer not to get any of the black blood on our clothes if possible.” The elf leaned back in his chair, turning the gem in his hand and watching the light defract off of its many faces. He pushed some of his black hair out of his face and tossed the rock in the air gently, feeling its weight. “So, how do you think it works?” Bordin’s face became serious and Lucon thought he even detected a bit of concern, a rare occurrence with the retired paladin. Not many things can unnerve a man who fought through the Great Demon War. “What makes you think I know?” Lucon raised an eyebrow and stared at Bordin whimsically. The rock seemed to emit a light of its own, a dull, warm glow originating from its fiery core. “You’re the one that said we should find the damn thing, Lucon. ‘It could hold the key to finding out their plans’ is what you said. What the hell do you mean you don’t know what it is? You’re the one that’s supposed to know all of this arcane stuff. Why’d we just spend the last three weeks tracking down the camp of those forsaken beasts?” Lucon held up a hand and smirked, “Easy my friend, I said I don’t know how it works, that doesn’t mean I don’t know what it is.” Lucon leaned back and stared intently at the gem, continuing to turn it in his hands and smile contently to himself. “Have I ever told you how much I hate your theatrics?” The man crossed his arms across his barrel chest, making no effort to hide his growing impatience. “Maybe once or twice, you humans have the most irrational case of restlessness.” Lucon smiled and stood up, placing the jewel on the counter between them. “This my friend, is not just a gem. You see, gemstones are highly ordered structures, they form a crystalline lattice, very structurally sound. That’s what makes them so strong, their composition remains the same throughout the stone and they can wi-” Bordin interjected, “Contrary to your belief that I just like to hit things, I do know what gemstones are Lucon. What’s your point? That this isn’t a typical jewel? Because I kind of assumed we weren’t risking our lives for a run-of-the-mill ruby.” “Look close at it, friend,” Lucon held the stone up, sending dancing patterns of light throughout the tavern, “tell me what you see.” Bordin leaned closer, and after a second frowned, “The center of it, it doesn’t look like a solid. It looks almost like a liquid. It looks as if something is pulsing.” Lucon set the stone on the counter between them and gave Bordin an inquisitive look. “Or?” “Or what?” Bordin had become too engulfed in the stone’s swirling patterns to pay notice to the elf’s smug self-aggrandizing. “Or living, Bordin. This isn’t a magic gem or anything of the sort, it’s not a question of how it works because it doesn’t necessarily *do* anything. It’s an egg, it lives.” “You can’t be serious Lucon, what creature lays a gemstone for an egg?” Bordin began to look very uneasy. “I think we both know very well what type of egg this is.” All of the humor had left Lucon’s face, he simply stared at the egg with a blank grave expression. Sapphora perched on his shoulder, letting out a soft coo as she stared at the rock. “That’s impossible though. They don’t give birth, they can only be created in the void and come here through the Gate, which we sealed off…” Bordin was shifting back and forth now, as the reality began to dawn on him. “Yes, it’s impossible, that’s why they will never be able to muster up another force strong enough to present a real threat. The ones that still remain on this side of the gate can’t bring over reinforcements. Their numbers are fixed, too few and too scattered to do more than a small raid here and there. They have small camps, like the one we took this “gem” from. Yet here in front of us lies an egg. An egg of a demon.” Lucon looked up, his face devoid of emotion, and on the table the gem began to pulse brighter as a low humming filled the air.

The streets lay as fields of darkness scattered with the campfires of buzzing intensity whilst the wind blows the scent of appetence through the air, biting the skin. The bats skulk across the beacons of the night lost in the hunt parallel to the Roads laid by debt and false promises that perfectly contrast the starry night sky. The Streets fall on their knees for acceptance as Men of stone then dust huddle in the corners of shelter. Torrents of rain pound the ground seeping into every crack and crevice never to be seen again while the shadow boxers in the night with awkward strides fight desperately in the rain. Neon light shines down onto the roads so to drag you in, into the masquerade ball inside accompanied by the pulses of the building come to life ,free but lost to celebrate in the dark. Stores locked shut like the walls of a jail but their windows left clear to be a screen for the city as their Mannequins pirouette for everyone will see While the fools in the streets strut till their shadows fade away. Sirens are heard from the black highway above a life at its end or a helping hand Nothing to concern the people of the streets to the man with the sickening look or the silhouette laid down on the sidewalk. The alleys are to fear, they are where the burnouts go to die because they were too occupied burning all the fuel they've ever known. No heed is needed for the harshness of the city for it is the child of our effort for survival No harbringer or messiah to lead us through For Contempt is wielded by the messengers of love Only showing traits of a human imagination Because nobody is blind to the feast of the hunt The beast of lust never to be fed, as hungry as the earth A hunt of survival a hunt for purpose, a hunt for acceptance We are Voyeurs to destruction, to a heartache from the ground We live in a world without the divine, or fires that burn ferociously through time A voice will fall on deaf ears to a world of apocalypse, but greed will shout loudly As the world fades out like a cigarette burning in the sun This is all well and good for a denizen of the night.

This is my first attempt at writing so please keep that in mind. Any and all feedback is welcome. Just so you have an idea what this story is about, its set roughly around the year 2080. Russia has been building up its military silently while the Western European nations, along with the U.S. are busy dealing with issues in Korea and other parts of the world. In a blitzkrieg attack, the Russians capture cities along their Western border before many nations can even figure out what has happened. The United States, along with other nations like the U.K. and Germany quickly react and send their "Airborne" forces to slow the advance of the Russian forces into Europe. At this point in history, space travel had become more of the norm to a degree that colonies and bases had been established on the moon and on Mars. The ships, like the Myrimidon, are essentially HTOL (Horizontal Take Off and Landing) that are able to hover for short periods of time. I like to imagine something much larger than the Pelican from Halo when I think about them. Traditional Airborne units have been for the most part, removed, and replaced with this new age technology of incorporating high altitude wing suits capable of launching from a stable platform from the Mesosphere. Advances in Anti-Air weaponry has essentially forced jumps from this altitude, where the weaponry isn't as effective. Let me know your thoughts. Thanks! Skipping along the upper reaches of Earth’s Mesosphere in preparation for the initial drop, the Assault Transport Ship Myrimidon creaked and moaned under the immense pressures bearing down on the exterior hull. The ship had begun its initial approach over the drop zone. The steady muffled hum of the crafts eight SABER engines lulled me into a relaxed state. Having already taken my airsickness medication, and beginning my high-altitude breathing techniques, my heart began to race at the sheer notion of what was about to occur. This would be my first combat jump. Historically though, this would be the first large scale Mesospheric combat jump in history. The technology behind mastering jumps such as these had only recently been refined, at least to a degree that the military deemed it a reliable means of inserting troops into combat. Accidents still occurred, but for the most part, it was safe. At least that’s what I told myself as I was jostled around in my seat aboard the Myrimidon. In an effort to ease my nerves I reached into the front pocket of my harness to get a stick of gum. Already wearing my heavy thermal gloves, it became a monumental task to retrieve a stick. I don’t know why, but fumbling with such a simple task started to make my heart race even faster than it had already been. A tinge of panic began to set in as I was unable to do even the simplest of things. I just wanted a damn piece of gum. As I freed the stubborn stick from the pocket, the contents poured out in front of me on the main walkway down the center of the corridor. My platoon sergeant, Albrecht Morrison, whom we affectionately called “Legs” due in part to the fact that he had lost both in the Korean War some twenty years prior. Since then, after multiple surgeries, and advancements in prosthetics, “Legs” had been given a new lease on life and outfitted with the latest bionic tech. Since the advancement of bionic tech, many disabled veterans had been outfitted and were finally able to get their lives back. Some of which, like “Legs” in this case, had a warriors spirit and wanted to get back into the fight. After all those years of watching events unfold all over the globe and feeling utterly useless, he could finally do something to make a difference. “Legs” was a warrior through and through. He was part of the core that made up the “Old-breed”, veterans of Korea and Turkey. Veterans of that era were a hot commodity in a modern military where most had never seen combat. Sure there had been peacekeeping operations and some limited engagements in Africa following the wars in Korea and Turkey, but never anything on this scale. Legs made his way over to my seat, bracing himself due to the vibrations by gripping the bar that ran down the center of the corridor. He bent over and picked up some of the contents that had spilling out onto the floor. Some insta coffee packs I always liked to swipe from the chow hall, a small data player that I had placed some music onto, and then something I had almost forgotten was even in the pocket. Something I didn't want to think about. A picture of my wife folded in half and wrapped in a weather proof bag. Legs couldn't tell what it was that he had just handed me, but he could tell it stopped me in my tracks. Grinning, he looked down and mouthed “You’re gonna be alright kid”, there was no sense in saying it aloud, we hadn't turned on our comms units yet and the noise from the ship drowned everything out, almost everything. Thoughts were something that just couldn't be silenced. Legs made his way down the corridor, and left me with the immense weight that picture placed upon my heart. Never before had I been that scared in my entire life. As I sat there, fighting my fears and contemplating life, I almost didn’t notice the subtle red glow that had begun to fill the bay as the pilot turned on the warning lights one by one. Bathed in the dark shroud of the warning lights, It began to sink it. This was happening. It wasn’t a training operation. This would be a combat jump. Legs began to make his way up and down the bay again, but now, with a stone cold expression. He made his way down the rows of soldiers deftly inspecting rigging, comms units, weapons, and palm thrusters, paying no attention to the person actually inside the suits he was checking. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for us, it was that this was his job. To keep us alive, and this was the best way he knew how, by ensuring our equipment worked when we needed it. The rest was up to us. There would be no helping us once we stepped off into thin air and began our supersonic descent towards the ground. Once Legs had finished his checks, he took up his position at the back of the ship. At this point, all eyes were on legs. He signaled the hand motion to turn on our comms units by placing his right index and middle finger to his right ear. I thumbed the comms selector to the open position and could instantly hear the other forty-eight solders on board attempting to establish a steady breathing rhythm, some better than others. Over the wash of labored breathing filling our comms, Legs shouted “STAND UP!” Once on our feet, the soldiers began a practiced ritual of inspecting the gear of the soldier in front of them. After a brief moment to allow this task to be completed, Legs then yelled “SOUND OFF!” Starting at the back of the craft, the soldiers began to count off with their respective number, and “okay” to signify that they had all of their equipment and were ready to jump. The steady and methodical countdown began “Forty-six okay, forty-five okay, forty-four okay”… I was twenty third in line, and had begun to let my mind wander. The prevailing thought that muffled the count filling my ears was “What was Beth doing right now?” I tried not to think of her, tried not to think of the promises I made her. That I would make it home to her and we could finally start a family. That didn’t seem even remotely likely now as I stood in a ship careening through the Earth’s atmosphere headed into hell. While I attempted to fight back the imagery of her lying on our couch in the living room busily typing away, responding to fan mail and publishers regarding her recent book, the steady hum of the ships engines interrupted by quick bursts of chatter brought me back to reality. “Twenty five okay, twenty four okay, TWENTY THREE OKAY…” I barely recognized that I had even counted off my own number. I guess practice makes perfect. The count continued for a few more moments until it reached Legs, our number one position. “ONE OKAY!” He shouted. Silence filled the bay as our eyes collectively focused on the large illuminated red bar that spanned the width of the back of the ship. Not allowing my mind to be consumed by thoughts of home again, I turned my focus to the task at hand. I began doing one final glance over my gear. At this point my helmets visor had been dropped and locked into position, making it difficult to look down at my chest rig. I ensured that my rifle was still strapped to my left leg, and that my assault pack was firmly in place. I bent over slightly to be able to see under my assault pack, in between my legs to ensure that the webbing of my wing suit was zipped and laid out properly. While doing these checks, I was able to see that my winglets under my arms were in fact zipped and in place. Upon completing a quick glance over of my gear, my eyes resumed the ever watchful gaze upon the glowing red light. Moments later, I could feel immense vibrations throughout the craft as it shuddered to a hover, the engine nacelles pivoting into the vertical position. Once stable, it would be mere seconds before we were out the door. A heavy roar filled the bay as the engines fought to keep the ship aloft, long enough for us to make the jump. A series of lights and alarms began to go off throughout the bay as the air locks at the back of the ship opened, releasing the door. In that brief moment, even twenty two soldiers back in line, I could see the Earth before me. The pronounced curvature was something I had been astonished by in my earlier training jumps. So peaceful, the serene silence of it all. That peaceful serene silence would be abruptly shattered. The rear ramp dropped and without a moment to gather my thoughts, soldiers were running down the ramp and into nothingness. Legs was the first one out of the ship, yelling “LETS GO BOYS!” as he cleared the ramp and disappeared into open sky. The rest of us began a steady jog towards the ramp as one by one, soldiers jumped out of the ship following Legs’ example. As we neared the edge, I began to notice other ships in the sky, hundreds of them, hovering like baskets, spilling their contents down unto Earth. Steady streams of what looked like black dots poured from the surrounding vessels. Reaching the edge of the ramp, I closed my eyes and leaped from the Myrimidon. At first it felt as if I was weightless, like I might float out into space. Air, although incredibly thin at this altitude surged by me, ensuring that I was in fact falling, and fast. I immediately established a steady diving position, locking my arms and legs so that the drift ratio of my wing suit would be maximized. We were eighty kilometers up, and forty kilometers from our target.

A few years back, I bought a bottle of absinthe and shared it with a friend of mine. We decided to take the bottle and sacrifice the joy of a relaxing beverage in the name of foolish competition. The game: drink fast and don’t throw up. Within 15 minutes my friend was gone and with him departed less than his share. 10 minutes later the bottle was dry, my friend was irrelevant and the crowd, I deemed too much to handle. It was decided that the outdoors was what I needed most, and thus started my adventure. Breaching the front door and taking in the fresh air my head began to spin. My brow furrowed as I tried to maintain presence on the axis I relied upon though my efforts seemed futile. The absinthe was kicking my proverbial ass. With a confused exhale I looked upward to the sky and to my surprise I had tracked a shooting-star. Tracking it across the sky for the few seconds that I had been gifted with it I discovered something inside. It was a burning. Deep down there was a fire like none I had experienced before. A fire that tempered the physical requirement to stumble and fall and instead fueled my drive to not only survive but to persevere. It was becoming clearer to me that I had purpose. Maybe it was the absinthe. Maybe I was intoxicated by the beauty of my star but what was beyond speculation was that my night was only just beginning. Seeking hydration of a purer sort I began to walk. And walk. And walk. What felt like days was probably no more than an hour or so but I was on a mission none-the-less. Not recognizing my surroundings and becoming overwhelmed by the lights of the city streets I looked for refuge in a wooded area that seemed as though it may offer some comfort. All I needed was a moment to collect my thoughts and think if only for a second. I could hear the sounds of water trickling from within its’ shadows. Entering the glen I immediately felt an embrace of warmth that offered clarity from my thoughts of bewilderment and following the sounds that lured me in, I stumbled across a meadow that looked to consist of nothing less than unicorn tears. An aroma filled the air that was unfamiliar to me but gave me such a sense of wellbeing. I bent over to sip from the stream and looking into the water at my reflection I had come face to face with a man that looked exactly like me but had all of the qualities of the man I had always wanted to be. This man had the poise of a stallion and the physique of a roman gladiator. The confidence behind his eyes made the toughest men question their abilities without ever having to flex a muscle or utter a single word. This man was truly matchless. This man was born to be admired. Just then, I heard a branch snap under the weight of a visitor and when I looked up I was face to face with a small woman who introduced herself as Zara. I was on my knees having just sipped from the brook and yet we were at equal eye-level. She smelled of wilder berries and nutmeg; she was the source of my well-being. She couldn’t have been any more than 4’ tall but carried such a presence that it was intimidating in the best of ways. Her eyes sparkled though there was no light source. Her hair blew though there was no breeze. Her lips were supple and glistened (though it was determined later that the credit was simply given to chap-stick) and all you could think to do was kiss her. I had to try. I believed it to be kismet, an opportunity that only comes once in a lifetime. We locked eyes, her fragrance pulled me in like I had a rope around my neck. I closed my eyes and readied myself for what I could only expect to be pure bliss and when our lips met, she immediately retreated and punched me in the face. I couldn’t have been out for more than a moment but when I came to she was laughing her ass off and for some reason I began to chuckle. She turned and walked away only looking back once with a smirk on her beautiful face. She slipped into the shadows and I felt as though the love of my life was about to disappear forever. Panic stricken I erupted to my feet and began to pursue the little woman that had stolen my heart. Running through the branches and leaves I couldn’t see a thing though getting louder and louder was what seemed to be the sounds of a calliope. Shimmering lights began to immerge from deeper within the forest as I ran and ran. Zara was nowhere to be found though her fragrance was never dissipating. I followed her scent and the lights got brighter. My heart began to pound like a tyko drum at a lantern festival and no sooner had I breached the forest edge, my feet were pulled out from underneath me and I was tumbling uncontrollably… or was I? I was tumbling alright but it was beautiful. I had never felt so in control in all of my life. Flipping head over heels and heels over head, twisting like a corkscrew with my feet pointed and my arms crossed over my chest, I was flying through the air in what felt like slow-motion as the sounds of the calliope rang in my head. I landed on my feet and with an immense inhale of satisfaction for an outstanding performance I was rewarded with not only a gigantic applause from what appeared to by hundreds of people but that intoxicating smirk and the locked eyes of the little woman who punched me in the face so faultlessly. She approached me and I got weak in the knees; she was terrifying in the greatest way. She spoke and her voice was raspy as it drew the air from my lungs and left me wanting to smell her and only her for all of eternity. I could see her lips moving but I couldn’t make-out a word. She smiled and tilted her head slightly with a bit of a cheeky look on her face and she waited for me to realize that I was staring at her like a buffoon. Very shortly thereafter I did come to that realization but when my head cleared I was not confused, in fact nothing had ever felt so sure. This girl… this woman… this manifestation of all that I had ever wanted was standing in front of me and behind her I could see that she was in fact my destiny. I had always dreamt of joining the circus and here this beautiful creature had lead me right to it. The Ringmaster had been the one offering the loudest applause following my unintentional stumble and he approached me with an offer to travel with his show. It all seemed so surreal to me. Having been shit-faced, stumbling down the street and into the woods, sipping from a stream and then getting punched in the face by what I can only describe as perfection… I had to be dreaming. The lights under the big-top were so bright. It was just as I had always imagined it to be. The crowd gathered and the anticipation of my first show had me excited to a point where I thought I was going to vomit. The unsettling feeling in my stomach grew as the show-time drew nearer and the lights got brighter and brighter. The sounds of the calliope began to muffle and were replaced by what sounded like Dr Dre as my vision became blurred but I could hear the crowd entering the performance area… I was so excited. Zara was there to support me and I couldn’t have been happier. She made me feel like I had purpose. She rubbed my shoulders like I had always seen in movies. She was limbering me up and getting me ready for the performance of a lifetime. The anticipation grew and then it happened! I was called to perform. I took my first step towards the centre ring and stumbled like an ass. What was going on with my feet?? Was this performance anxiety? I looked to Zara but she wasn’t there. I couldn’t see her anywhere… I was surrounded by faces that looked familiar to me but it seemed as though they were from a past life. Were they laughing at me? Where was Zara? I was so utterly confused and nothing made sense. The smell of well-being was replaced by a smell of urine and the feeling of warmth and comfort was replaced by cold wetness on my legs and crotch. I was so terribly confused… and then… I wasn’t…. I took a few days to get my bearings back and ignored the flood of social media requests for my friendship. Absinthe, as it turns out, is a concoction delivered from the gardens of Hades by Satan himself to ruin the hopes, dream and futures of anyone stupid enough to dare it a task. I was able to wash my clothing and eliminate the smells of urine and vomit though, as you could imagine, the visuals of my antics seem to be bullet proof in the memories of all that I met that night and even those who were not there seem to have a pretty accurate recollection of the events that took place. Of course it’s all hearsay from where I sit but I tend to believe that all I’ve heard is fairly accurate. Having said that, I still can’t shake the thought that she’s out there… Sure the stream of unicorn tears was nothing more than a pool of water in a porcelain pond and my shooting star a delusion of myself falling away from a ceiling mounted light fixture but that night, I met someone. That someone haunts my thoughts and keeps knots in my stomach. I feel like I’ve known her for years though there’s someone there that I have yet to meet… Advil doesn’t rid me of that feeling.

We met at a café. I always went to that the same café at 4:40, and stayed until it closed at 5:00. He'd just moved to town, and he started to go to the café. Months went by and he was just a normal boy. I noticed that he was coming to the café more frequently. One day he decided to come and sit with me. We didn't talk just say looking at each other, it wasn't awkward, we were both comfortable in each others presence. This carried on for months, then he slowly started to walk me home, even though he had his car outside, and when we got to my gate we would just turn and look at each other. We gradually began to his hands on the walk to my gate. We felt as though we knew one another. Then it happened. I was sat in the café as usual. But something was different, I was sad. It felt as though I had always been sad, that no good has ever happened and know good, ever will happen. He walked in, and sat where he usually does, opposite me. I don't know why but when I see his face, I just break down, tears streaming down my face. He sits there for about five seconds looking into my eyes, me looking into his. Then he stands up, comes over to me and strokes my cheek. He grabs my hand, gently, and leads me to his car. He opens the passenger car door for me and walks round the car and gets in the drivers seat. I climb into the seat and do my belt, we look at each other for a second then he starts his car and drives. We go in the completely opposite direction of my house, and are driving for at least five minutes until we come to a stop outside a block of posh apartments. He comes round to my side of the car, gets me out and gently leads me to the apartments. We go up three flights of stairs and he unlocks the door to a fairly modern looking apartment. He goes through to the bedroom whilst still holding my hand, we sit on the edge of the bed, looking at each other. I'm willing it to happen. Willing him to see the parts of me hidden by my floral dresses. I can see he's willing it to. I put my hand up to his chin and look into his eyes before nodding. Slowly he undoes the buttons on my dress, one by one while looking in my eyes, which are still red and puffy from my crying. When all the buttons are undone he carefully pulls the dress off of me, leaving only my Lacey white underwear and and my many little pink scars from previous episodes of sadness. He does a quick glance then picks up my arm, examining the little pink lines, he kisses each one. We make our way further onto the bed and between kisses he rooms each item of his clothing. His kisses make their way up my arm, across my shoulders, up my neck. Then back down. Down my neck, down my chest, he keeps going further down, slowly my nickers are removed and I can hardly stop myself from gasping. It felt so relieving. He opens my legs slightly and goes to a more upright position. He slips in and starts moving backwards and forwards. He undoes my bra and removes it. Keeping his hands on my body the whole time, he holds my hips and start moving my body in the opposite direction to his. As the movements get faster and more powerful, I can hardly control the noises coming from my mouth. I start tugging on the sheets, unsure of what to do while this wonderful feeling is going on. The thrusts get more and more violent and he starts grunting, increasing the enjoyment, that I start to shake and moan uncontrollable. After a while we come to a stop. He takes me to his shower and helps me get washed. He gives me a pair of his two piece pyjamas helping me button them up. We go through to the kitchen and he cooks some pasta for me to eat he sits me down on his sofa and soon after I've finished eating I fall asleep. He must have carried me through to the bedroom because I woke up back in his bed. When a wake up he's already awake, staring at me dreamily. "I don't want to go home." I whisper. The smile leaves his face "Then don't." he whispers back. We discussed things for a long while, about how I get sad, how he won't let another little pink scar appear for as long as he lives, how happy we can be together, in a non excitable child like way. A year later we are married, living in his apartment, no plans of moving. He kept his promise of not letting anymore little pink lines appear. The sadness hasn't gone, I don't suppose it ever will, but every time, I feel it we return to that day he lead me out the café. We had continued our lives as normal but now I had him and he had me. The day came where I was walking down the street, and I was dragged down a dark alley way. A big hand over my mouth so I couldn't breathe never mind scream. I was pushed up against a cold wet wall. I heard the rattling of a belt buckle, and instantly I knew what was coming. I started sobbing, crying "no no no, please." It meant nothing to him he just rolled my skirt up, when I started to struggle the stranger punched me in the nose and broke it. I kept struggling so he threw me to the ground and put a blade to my throat. With one hand he ripped open my dress and then it began. I whimpered and cried trying to block it out but with every thrust my back scraped a long the cold wet rough floor. I later woke up and slowly limped home. I saw myself in the mirror and his sperm was all over me. I broke down covered in dirt and my own blood. Going to the kitchen to the carving knife, I slit my wrist. Blood spilt everywhere, I blacked out. My husband had came in and ran straight to my side, he shook me hard, screaming and sobbing. I came conscious for a few minutes, "He raped me." I slurred. My husband is applying pressure to my wrist he looks me right in the eyes "I WILL kill him." He says so softly and gently, in a way that reassures me he will... This was originally submitted on nosleep but was removed, I was recommended to submit it here.

Rookies *Based loosely off the events of Operation Bodenplatte by the Luftwaffe on New Years day 1945 and of 126 Wing RCAF.* *This is my first submission to r/shortstories , constructive criticism is welcome* New Year's Eve, 1944. I landed my Spitfire at B.88 Heesch, Netherlands, and was greeted with an atrocious sight of two replacement pilots. Damn. Just what we needed. During the last few weeks the wing had been downing the Jerries left and right. New pilots to whip into shape were the last thing I wanted to have to worry about. Dickson, the SSO of the wing, ran up to me and personally put the salt in the wound. "The new pilots are here, sir. I told them that you'd take care of them for the first few days," he said with much enthusiasm. This was turning into hell. "Very well, I'll see to them." And with a grunt I hope no one heard I was off. I found the two new ones in dispersal. One was a tall, slim, dark haired boy probably not over the age of nineteen. The other looked a bit older, shorter, and a bit more suspicious. They were just sitting there, blank confused expressions on their faces. As they realised the wingco was in the room, they both snapped up to attention. My time had come. "So you're the new ones, eh?" I asked. They hesitated for a second, then the taller one spoke. "Pilot Officer Andrew Wells, sir! I've been assigned to 411 squadron sir." He saluted, then the other piped up. "Pilot Officer Stephen Beckett, sir! I'm in 411 also, sir." "How many hours in Spits, you two?" "Fifteen, sir." "Eleven, sir." For Christ's sake, it couldn't get any worse! "What the hell is fighter command thinking, giving me recruits as inexperienced as this? Well, you better get going off to your CO, he'll tell you who you'll be flying with." "Yessir!" said Wells. And off they went. The rest of the evening was filled with drinks and music and I almost managed to forget the disaster of the new pilots. The next morning I took the liberty of sleeping in and preparing myself a nice breakfast to celebrate the new year. Halfway though my cup of tea I was startled by the growing roar of aircraft engines. All of a sudden I heard shouts and loud general confusion. Then the planes screamed overheard at treetop level, causing me to jump and knock my mug over. I was enjoying that mug of tea! Whoever flew those planes overhead was getting a court martial. No one could knock my tea over and get away with it! I was thoroughly upset now, and I poked my head out the door. The shapes of two Focke-Wulf Fw 190s came straight at me, their big radials screaming. In seconds they were over, and the sound was replaced by the sounds of our Spitfire's Merlin engines coming to life. I looked around and saw my Spitfire and started towards it instinctively. Never had I run so fast since that scramble at Biggin Hill in the fall of 1940! As I was running towards my Spit, DB-A, I saw the two new pilots, Wells and Beckett, just standing there watching the commotion. "What are you waiting for!?" I yelled. "Get one up!" The two rookies hesitated for a second and then ran after me towards two empty Spitfires. In two minutes I was in the air, the two rookies taking off just behind me. Pushing the throttle through the gate, I turned west, the direction that the German planes were heading. I heard a voice on my radio. "What do we do, sir?" It took me a moment to realise that it was the voice of P/O Wells. Why had he jumped in a plane tuned to the same frequency as mine? Now I had a rookie to babysit as well as shooting down Germans. "Follow me, kid. Stay on my wing and don't do anything unless I tell you to." "What about me, sir?" Oh great, the other one too. "Stick to my other wing. Alright you two, follow me, and buster." In a few minutes I saw two Ju-88s flying parallel to us at two o'clock. I called them out. "Alright, I'm going in on the left one. You two stay back and watch how it's done." I turned in to attack the German bomber and was surprised to see that Beckett was still on my wing! "Beckett! I said stay back!" He kept on ignoring me and his Spitfire barrelled on towards the 88 on the right. I put the left bomber in my sights, closed to range, and gave him a good burst to the right wing and engine with cannon and m/g. It started to burn and the aircraft banked to the right and crashed into the treetops. I looked over at Beckett. He was spraying tracers all over the place, yet he somehow got a good hit on the Junkers, and it nosed over into a field and exploded. "I got him! I got him!" came the cry over the R/T. If that kid thought he could get away with that awful shooting he sure was wrong. "Congratulations, kid. Now -" "Look out sir! 190s!" cried out Wells. Behind me was an ugly grey Focke-Wulf. I instinctively broke hard right, getting out of his line of fire. There was a second 190 diving on Beckett but he managed to somehow make a good decision and he broke away. Wells spoke again. "I've got a shot at him!" Huh. Good for you, son. We don't need play-by-play commentary. "I got him!" Well that was a surprise! A rookie on his first flight shoots down a Jerry! Looking behind, I realised it was MY 190. Maybe that kid had something in him after all. I reversed my turn, and headed towards Beckett who was having a hard time with the 190 on his six. He started a zoom climb and the German followed. Perfect. I had a great shot at him, if only I was in range. Closer, closer! Focused only on my gunsight now, waiting for the perfect shot. The Focke-Wulf pulled over at the top of his climb. Now! I opened fire, my shells poured into his starboard wing root. Off came the canopy, out came the pilot. Only then did I see the stalled Spitfire ahead of me, falling at my left wing. With a gut wrenching crunch our wings collided. Good old DB-A went into a hard spin. Damn rookies! I slid back the hood, stood up, and let the wind lift me out of the cockpit. I pulled the ripcord. As I floated down the short distance to the field I looked around and saw three four burning fighters on the ground, two other parachutes floating earthward, and one Spitfire flying circles around it all. Damn kids.

A man was sitting at the kitchen table, while his wife was cooking lunch. She was wearing a plain white long dress with no sleeves.The smell of fried chicken filled the kitchen air. The man's hands were shaking, and the bags under his eyes were clearly visible. His breathing was heavy and erratic, as if he desperately needed oxygen. "I can't take it anymore!" he said while pulling his hair. "I'm tired of this stupid anxiety! Make it go away!" He made sure his wife wasn't looking. She was busy cooking and not paying attention. He quickly searched the inside of his trench coat. He pulled out a pistol and set it on the table. "Oh I don't know if I should. I can't leave my wife alone..." He sighed as he put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand. "Do what, Honey?" asked his wife. He quickly lifted his head at the sound of her voice. "Did I say that one out loud?" "You don't need to answer—it was an obvious question. I know what you're trying to do." His wife kept on cooking, and her voice was calm. "R-really?" "You're trying to put an end to your misery. But you don't need to shoot yourself! There are other ways to end your anxiety problem, you know." "Wait, how did you kno-" "You carelessly left your coat on the bed when you were taking a shower. I saw the gun in there. You should really be aware of what you are doing, if you're going to hide something from me." "Yeah, you're right. I don't know what I was thinking! I just want to get rid of this problem right now. I'm sick and tired of not getting enough sleep at night. I only get about two hours, if i'm even lucky! I'm sick of having trouble breathing. It feels like i'm having a heart attack! I'm sick of it!" He repeatedly slammed his fists on the table. His wife remained calm, not reacting to his outrageous behavior. "Do you trust me?" she asked abruptly. The man stopped slamming the table, and tried to control his breathing. Once he managed to control it, he turned to face his wife. "That came out of nowhere. Why do you ask?" "Well... you see.... I took out the bullets from your gun." "Oh, lemme check then." "That's not necessary, don't you think? This is a test to see if you trust me or not." His wife put her hands around her waist and she stomped her left foot on the floor. "Well what are you waiting for? Put the gun to the side of your head, and pull the trigger!" The man almost fell out of his chair. He stared at his wife, perplexed. "Huh?" "If you trust me, then you'll do it, right?" The man stared at the gun. He reached for it, but then he quickly hesitated. His wife laughed, surprised. "I can't believe this! We've been married for eight years, and you don't think you can trust me with this? Tell me one time where I haven't been trustworthy." "I... I can't. I mean, I never found you cheating on me with another man. And... you've never lied to me. When you said you wouldn't be the type of wife to ask for things to buy, you kept your promise. I feel that your love for me is genuine. Yeah, how crazy! Why would you ever try to have me killed?" He put the gun to the side of his head, but then, he pointed the gun to his chest, where his heart was. "You know what? I'm going to pull the trigger here, to show that my love for you can't be ruined." The man pulled the trigger, but his ears rung after the sound of a gunshot. He knocked over the chair and then he fell to the ground. His vision was fading, and his wife disappeared before his eyes. The smell of the chicken escaped from his nostrils. "W-What's going on?" he said with a faint voice. He put his hand on the gunshot wound and he clenched it. He grimaced—the excruciating pain was something that he never felt before in his life. It felt like thousands of needles piercing through his heart. The last thing he saw was his wife, but she wasn't wearing a white dress. She was wearing a pink t-shirt and skinny jeans. And she wasn't in the kitchen; she was in the living room, running towards him. She screamed when she saw blood pouring out of his mouth.

The mop dragged sluggishly across the gritty floor. Years of dirt and grime from customers and employees tracking across it had stained the normally white floor to a shallow gray, leaving tracks up and down the aisles of the convenience store. The clerk lifted the mat behind the counter and vigorously scrubbed underneath. It seemed no one had cleaned under there in some time. The clerk scoffed; the laziness of some people. The bright florescent lights flickered slightly. Outside, thunder roared as rain came crashing down around the store in heavy sheets. It was nearly pitch black, aside from the dim light of the neon ‘OPEN’ sign hanging precariously from the large window adjacent to the front door. Flags up high on the roof snapped violently in the powerful wind. The lightning storm seemed to be getting worse. The clerk dipped the mop head into the bucket once again and squeezed out the filthy water before continuing to mop the floor behind the front counter. He heard a bell ring and turned to see the front door swing open, revealing a tall balding Caucasian man, middle aged, holding a newspaper over his head. The door slammed behind the man as he approached the front counter and the clerk smiled at him, straightening his work vest. “What a storm!” the man proclaimed to the clerk. “The roads are flooded coming both ways. Just my luck to get caught in the middle of this nightmare, all things considered.” “All things considered?” asked the clerk curiously. “Have you not been listening to the radio?!” questioned the man disbelievingly. “We don’t have one in here,” replied the clerk. “Boss says it’s too distracting. It’s a joke if you ask me- barely anyone comes through this little one horse town as it is, let alone through this store.” “Jesus…” muttered the man. “There was a warning on the radio. Shylock Prison, a few miles away, they had a power outage. Something about the lightning storm. . . knocked out their security. It caused quite a bit of chaos. Apparently they had a few escaped prisoners.” The clerk looked up alarmed. “Are they still on the loose?” “I guess most of them have been recaptured but there is still one man unaccounted for the radio says. A very dangerous man, a serial killer. Goes by the name James Westle.” “Oh no.” murmured the clerk looking alarmed. “anybody but James Westle.” “You’ve heard of him?” asked the man. “You must not be from around here,” replied the clerk. “ James Westle is notorious around these parts. Has a rap sheet a mile long, a psychopath, killed dozens of people. Most of them for no reason at all other than they got in his way. Some said he’d kill you just for looking at him wrong.” The man shivered “Good god. And he’s somewhere around here. Just the thought that I could have run into him makes my skin crawl.” “They only just caught him last year,” reported the clerk. “He’s been on death row ever since. Huh. I guess until tonight.” Outside lightning lit up the sky followed closely by rumbling thunder. The man dropped his damp newspaper in the garbage. “What else do you know about him? This James Westle.” “He’s a vicious man, would slice people’s throats with a utility knife. Rumor has it the only reason they caught him is because he stayed to watch the last man he killed bleed to death. Said he was laughing uncontrollably when the police took him away.” The man eyed the door fearfully. “Maybe we should lock the doors or something. I can’t imagine many people are going to be coming here in this weather. Might as well keep ourselves safe.” The clerk chuckled. “Not to worry. I’ve got all the protection I need right here.” The clerk reached under the counter and pulled out a small pistol. “Can’t be too safe these days. Besides, he couldn’t have made it far, not in this weather. Did the radio say what he looks like?” “Yeah,” answered the man. “Middle aged, tall, brown eyes.” “Pfft,” said the clerk halfheartedly. “That describes half this county. Did they say anything else about him, something distinguishable?” “They said he has long scar across his back from some kind of accident he was in. Not like anyone is going to recognize that though, unless they take him to bed.” They both laughed nervously. “My name is Bryan by the way,” said the man extending his hand. “Paul,” replied the clerk shaking Bryans hand and tapping the nametag that was pinned to his vest. “Nice to meet you Paul. Say, could you point me towards the bathroom by chance?” “Sure,” said Paul, “ but you’ll have to use the ladies. The men’s is backed up from the flooding. This damn storm is causing all kinds of problems.” Paul pointed towards the bathrooms on the far side of the store. When Bryan returned he said, “I’ll probably be here for awhile. I could probably have a look at that toilet for you. I used to do some plumbing in my younger days. Might be able to help you out.” “Thanks for the offer,” said Bryan, “but the boss won’t even let me try and fix anything. Something about insurance or some other kind of shit. Better just leave it till later.” Bryan nodded in agreement, “This boss of yours sounds like a real stickler. Too bad that serial killer didn’t come by when he was on shift. . . . Uh, sorry, bad joke.” “Oh he’s not all bad. This place is all he’s got. He just wants to make sure it’s taken care of.” Bryan smiled. “Well he’s lucky to have an employee who cares as much as you. Especially one who’s willing to work this late in this kind of weather.” All of the sudden the bell on the door rang and the door flew open again. A man in a trench coat and a baseball cap hurried in and almost ran to the back of the store. Paul and Bryan caught each other’s eyes. Bryan raised his eyebrows, glancing back at the man who had just walked in. The man walked back towards the counter and dropped a small utility knife in front of Paul. Bryan’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates. “8 dollars 98 cents,” said Paul to the man. The man dropped a ten on the counter and muttered, “keep the change” before rushing out the door. As soon as the door had closed again, Bryan turned back to look at Paul. “You don’t think…” “Think that was the serial killer? Ah, I don’t think so. If he just broke out of prison where did he get the money and clothes from? Its not like there are many people walking around right now. And if he did already kill someone and take their clothes, it stands to reason he already had some kind of weapon so what would be the point of coming in here and risking getting caught?” “That’s true,” said Bryan, “ I guess its easy for your mind to jump to conclusions when you’re scared.” “Well yeah,” said Paul. “I mean, for all I know you’re the serial killer and you’ve just been playing games with me this whole time. Seems just as likely.” Bryan laughed, more relaxed now. “Well they said the killer had a scar across his back. Would you like to see my back just so we’re all on the same page?” Paul laughed too. “No no, its fine. Besides, you were the one that told me about the scar in the first place. If you really were the killer you could have just made that up to put me at ease. Either way, I’m the one with the gun back here. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Outside, the storm had begun to subside and a bit of moonlight was peaking through the clouds. Bryan looked out the window. “’Bout time the rain let up a bit. I best be on my way. It was nice meeting you Paul. Thanks for the company. The road should clear up pretty soon so I’ll just wait in my car.” Paul shrugged. “No problem, just make sure you lock your doors. Better safe than sorry.” “Thanks,” said Bryan. “I’ll be sure to.” Just as Bryan turned to leave he stopped, “You know, it’s been such a pleasure talking to you, I think I owe you a favor. Let me have a quick look at that men’s toilet for you and see if I can’t get it working before I leave.” As he started towards the bathroom he said. “I know your boss doesn’t like that kind of stuff, but I’m pretty good with this sort of thing. The least I could do is have a look.” “No, really, its no problem,” called Paul walking out from the behind the counter, following Bryan, “You really don’t need to go to the trouble.” “It’s no trouble,” replied Bryan turning the doorknob to the bathroom. “I’ve fixed these things plenty of ti..” Bryan’s voice trailed off. Lying on the floor of the bathroom was a pale white man covered in blood. His throat had been cut and his wallet was splayed out on the floor as if someone had gone through it. Credit cards and identification littered the floor. Bryan’s stomach dropped as he realized the truth. The killer leaned in close to Bryan’s ear and whispered, “I told you not to go in there. All you had to do was leave.” In one quick motion he slit Bryans throat the same as he had done to the clerk lying on the bathroom floor. Bryan fell to his knees and his eyes fell the driver’s license of the dead man on the floor. It read Paul Williams. Outside the bathroom, the killer slammed the bathroom door closed. He looked down at his shirt and saw it was spattered with blood. He sighed and pulled off the vest and shirt revealing a long white scar across his back. After throwing the shirt in the garbage and grabbing another off a clothing rack in the corner of the store, he walked complacently back behind the counter and grabbed the mop he had been using earlier to clean the dead clerk’s blood off the floor. He once again began slowly mopping up the fresh blood outside the bathroom and squeezing it into the bucket.

I was trying to run, barely escaping to the Reddit bunker. The alien flag gave me hope, as I lied between the safe walls. RemindMe and AutoModerator were the security bots, having been adapted to have identification software added to their services. As I entered, Steve and Alexis made individual speeches. "We do not need to fear the enemy, we need to fight back. The kitten is more powerful than the insult. When they fight with hacking, we fight with photoshop battles. On the field, they fight with death threats and mall ninja weapons, while we fight with whatever we need and attempts to establish a peace treaty.We are better than them. They will never close our pool." said Steve. Alexis followed, stating "They are immature and violent. While they slur, we speak. We can survive this until the end of both sites is nigh. My speech might not be as long as Steve's, but it may prosper as long as his.After this speech, every major contributor to Reddit rose. Sethbling, Unidan, and countless others had their own speeches. After that, it was time to fight. The second we saw their army of evil rise with the 4 leaf clover flag coming with them, we readied our weapons. /r/guns and /r/DIY gave out weapons, while /r/pocketsand gave us last resorts. Our Radio, GPS, etc systems were maintained by /r/techsupport, /r/raspberry_pi, and /r/gadgets. Our jeeps and Rocket Propelled Chainsaws were ready, as we charged into battle.The airforce of r/gaming saw a large object with the words "Orbital Hate Cannon" written on it, and fired RPCs from their Arwing inspired jets, disabling it. Flight simulators did them well. I was firing a gun on foot, using Kitten Grenades (Kittens trained to throw grenades instead of being grenades, as we care 1about them) as backup. My colleague, Seamus9999, fired an RPC at a 4Chan LBHC (Land Based Hate Cannon) AA gun. I was shot by a 4Chan shock trooper, but a medic came last second to revive me. As we entered the enemy base, what we saw was grotesque.Swastikas, Swastikas and Pedobears everywhere. The world inside seemed to be backwards. The Bronies from 4Chan devolved into ignorant opinion bashers, while gamers were only seen playing CoD. As we found the nexus, run by /b/, we deployed a Kitten Grenade, who proceeded to do what his training lead up to and throw the grenade at the nexus wall. We fired RPCs, and the wall fell. "You Fags!" exclaimed one of the soldiers, who I subdued soon after. "Sorry, but you should say that to our backup instead" I replied, as we looked towards the door and saw /r/ainbow and /r/mylittlepony bursting in, giving us cover fire. "You should probably take that back now. And run" Seamus9999 concluded. We brought upon the downfall of the 4Chan army, and we won in the long run. Or did we.... A small rocket ejected from the base, and god knows who was in it. *More coming soon* Tell me what I should improve in the sequel. Thanks for your feedback.

I love this show, the cat chasing that mischievous little mouse around the house all day to no avail. I love visiting these two, just watching their foolishness all day makes a smile cling to my face. The cat has schemed up another ingenious plan to catch the little mouse scoundrel, his affinity for TNT especially evident in this one. It really looks like he is going to have his way this time; the mouse seems to be blinded by his love of cheese as he approaches the trap. He inches cautiously closer to the chee--CLICK. The cat and mouse slowly fade into the black box as I feel the smile gradually lose grip of my face before evaporating into the air. I turn around and see her towering above me, control in hand. “Go to your room” she grunts. I know the drill; I shuffle up the stairs to my door. My door, like everything else in this house has needed repair for years. After using every bit of strength my 11 year old body could muster, I finally get into my room and collapse onto the bed. Bed. If you can even call this pile of dirty clothes and newspaper that. I lay face up staring at the ceiling, trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, kept up by the loud music and voices coming from downstairs. I hear the sound of glass breaking, followed by an argument full of feet stomping and slurred words. A door slams shut and the normal noises continue. My stomach roars at me, demanding nutrients. I glance down at the patch of bruised flesh on my right arm, reminding myself that I know better than to go ask for some. After all, I did just eat yesterday. To divert my mind, I think back to a movie I had watched earlier that day. It was about a married couple who had just got a divorce and were fighting over who got to keep their only daughter. At first I thought the fight was over who got to be free from taking care of this child. But no, these two were fighting passionately, WANTING to be with this girl. It was such a foreign concept to me, living with a woman who wanted nothing to do with me. From what I gathered through my observations of TV and the outside world, a mother’s love for her son is the strongest there is. I wracked my brain, searching for a reason for why this didn’t seem to be the case with me. Was I ugly? Stupid? Maybe I misbehave too much. After what seemed like hours, my mind finally zeroed in on a conversation I had overheard between my mother and grandmother a few years back. I was as usual, having my daily play date with the cat and mouse. The cat had cleverly placed a pile of dynamite strategically under a generous portion of cheese; a fool-proof plan to be rid of his rival once and for all. Not to be fooled, the mouse slyly takes one of the dynamite sticks and sneaks around to put it right behind where the cat is hiding. The cat, who is waiting excitedly to see his cheddar borne explosive find its victim, is completely oblivious to the turn of events. A match, which matches the mouse in size, is lit and the ember starts the fuse. Just as the fuse is running out, I hear my name being mentioned by raised voices. Without turning around, I perked my ears and heard my mother say under her breath “I can’t believe you stopped me from aborting him”. My grandmother’s voice was shaky now, “It is not God’s will” she said. Not fully understanding the words being spoken, I caught up with my friends the cat and mouse, who were now frantically running circles in the house. I had never thought very much, or even understood the conversation until now. We learned a new word in school today, abort. To stop, end, cancel or halt. In her examples the teacher referred to space missions or military operations, but to abort a person? I wasn’t quite sure how it could be applied. There lying in my bed staring at the ceiling, I made the realization that I had made many times before; she never wanted to bring me into this world. My life is a mistake. Everything I have done, my accomplishments, my feelings, aspirations; just one big mistake. So with tears rolling down my check, I place two musty socks over my ears and let the muffled bass of the music cradle me to sleep, knowing that tomorrow I’ll at least be able to visit that wonderful house with the cat and the mouse.

Disclaimer: I made this story for a writing class project. We had to make a descriptive story based off of a picture to practice 'Show don't tell'. I am a beginner so feedback would be pretty great. (Link to picture in comments). The sound of the trees comforted her as the wind blew past her body. She wore summer clothes. A blue short sleeved shirt and shorts. The road she laid on was cold. The dark grey cement gave her chills. She looked down the long, winding road. Following the skinny, yellow lines that seemed like to lead into the beautiful and green forest below. She looked up into the setting sun, feeling its warmth on her face. The rays of the sun reflected off the leaves on the trees. The dark road was lit by patches of light from the bright orange star in the sky disappearing over the horizon. The cold grey road turned warm. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her. Animals in the forest scurried into their homes as the sky slowly started to turn dark. She listened to the birds in the sky as they flew back into their nests. The forest went silent, the wind had stopped. She took a deep breath. The busy life she once lived was at rest. No more congested sidewalks filled with people, no more five o’clock traffic. No more bouncing jobs, and no more just barely making rent. She awoke, and the sky was lit by the shining stars. The light of the bright full moon lit her beautiful blue eyes. She took another breath and smiled. Everything around her was still and at peace. The stars gleaming in the bright cloudless sky, at peace. The birds, the animals, the whole nature around her at peace. The roads around her were silent and at peace. The girl that laid in the middle of the street was truly at peace.

I pulled this out in a couple hours, basically for shits and giggles. It's loosely based on Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado". I hope you like it. If not, don't care, lol! 10 days. 10 days have I been trapped down here. 10 days in these twisting, winding concrete catacombs. I only know how long it's been because if my digital watch, the greenish-blue light my only beacon through the black of the endless night, besides my nearly dead and useless cell phone. 10 days without food. The only water I can find is the slowly dripping, green tinted secretions from random points in the wall, as if the bones of the forgotten Parisians are providing just enough sustenance to lengthen my torture. I can feel a fever slowly creeping upon me from the tainted water, but I have no choice other then to take in what little I can if I ever hope to escape this necropolis. 2 weeks sick is still a better chance then 3 days before dying of dehydration. Is it really? I wonder if it would be better to stop drinking and except my woven fate. I begin to contemplate my odds of ever returning to the surface, ever seeing the light of the sun or the glow of my new wife's visage when she smiles. The thought of my dear Rochelle snaps me from my dismay. Her beautiful image in that stunning wedding dress is all that keeps me going at this point. The corners of her memory are a little hazier then they have been the last few days however. The fever must be further along then I thought. It's hard to believe something so simple as taking a left when I should have gone right or vice versa could lead to such abysmal circumstances. We came to France to get married, to begin a new life together. How ironic: new life starts in a womb, yet this womb is full of nothing but death. My new brother in law brought me down here. He has lived here for nearly a year and suggested I see the City of the Dead. "There's a party going on in one of the larger ossuaries. It's underground in both definitions, the police don't know about it. Darius, I know how much you like to cut loose! Come on, it'll be fun!" Rochelle's brother, Gavin, said that night. We had begun drinking before ever reaching the hidden entrance to the graves. When we entered, I was more concerned with keeping up my buzz then remembering the turns we made to get there and when we left, he was too drunk himself to keep me going. "You wait here," he said. "I'll go call Rochelle to come help you. There's no signal down here." He knew my pride would never let that happen, but quickly left me alone before I could interject. That son of a bitch knew what he was doing! He always hated me for for stealing his sister from their tight knit family, for taking her chastity and being there for her after the miscarriage. I knew he blamed me for her depression despite my proposal to show her I still loved her and I would ALWAYS be there for her, regardless of the circumstances! That fucking asshole left me to die down here for being a good person! I'll kill him if I see him again, I swear it! I know these thoughts are baseless, but I cling to them as they give me a renewed fervour in my quest for freedom. I break out into a sprint, heedlessly ignoring both the thought of my deteriorating state and the burning of my legs after running for what seems like hours. I take corners without thought, I've never had a good sense of direction and my only concern is covering as much ground as possible. The fatigue, both mental and physical begin to set in, and despite my desires my body tells me it's time to sleep. My sleep is not peaceful. It's not the quick pause it usually is for most, because I dream. I have the same dream I've had for the past few nights: pure blackness. I see nothing, but in it I know I'm moving. It's as though I've forgotten how life once was and this hell is all that remains of the world. Occasionally I see a light in the distance, but as I get closer it gets further away and I can hear laughing the distance. The dead are mocking me. I awake and realize I feel worse then before. The fever is in full swing and every joint and muscle aches, crying out for respite that I can't provide. I continue on my journey, despite the pain. I walk for a few more hours, stopping twice to drink more of what I've come to assume are the tears of the deceased. If I've already got what they're providing, what more harm can come to me? I continually check my phone, clinging to the desperate hope that I may catch some sort of signal. Though my eyes have become somewhat used to the dark, the light from the phone makes everything surrounding it pitch black and I'm caught by surprise as I trip on something large, yet soft. I use the phone to illuminate the object, but quickly turn it off as I see the horrific sight. The object is none other then Gavin. I know this because of the clothes he's wearing and the bracelet he always wore that we made fun of him for. His face is bloodied beyond recognition and his skull is caved in. The blood on the wall indicates he took his own life, ramming his head against the wall repeatedly. I turn and vomit at the grisly sight, unable to contain myself. I would weep, but my body knows it can spare no water for tears so I merely sit, stunned, for about an hour. I eventually return to my senses and begin to get up. A thought crosses my mind as a fresh wave of excruciating hunger washes over me, but I quickly push it out. As dire as my situation is, I could never bring myself to cannabalism. The cycle continues. I wander, I sleep, I dream, I wake, I wander. The fever is now in full swing, complete with hallucinations and phantom sounds. Flashes of light dance around me, the souls of the damned finally manifesting themselves. They know I'm not long for this world and will tell no one of what I have seen and heard down here as a thousand voices enter my ears, whispering words of discouragement. I chance a look at my phone once again in a futile attempt at salvation. The screen has entered a power saving mode and only lights halfway, however... I don't know if this is the disease having it's last laugh or for real, but the small indicator that has said "no service" for as long as I can remember has changed to one dot! I fumble through my contacts as quickly as I can and find my love's name and quickly thumb the "call" button. IT'S RINGING! Fate has deemed me worthy of a chance at life! I nearly pass out from a mixture of excitement and sickness as I hear her soft voice on the other end half screaming "DARIUS??! My god, is that you?? Where are you??!" "I'm lost!" I reply. My mind is racing and I just start talking without thinking. "I need help! it's dark, I've been living off of nothing but algae and horrid water and I..." I hear 3 quick beeps and quickly attempt to look at the screen of my phone. It's now black. I didn't tell her I was in the catacombs... I didn't tell her I was even underground... I didn't tell her I love her. The ghosts of the past have had their final laugh. I can't hear them, but I know they're enjoying my torment. All I can think of is the brilliance of Gavin's decision, and decide to cut the phantoms games short. I find a loose piece of concrete and lie down with my head flat against the ground. "Goodbye, Rochelle..." I whisper as I bring the brick down hard onto my temple. I hear the crunch of my skull and the tearing of my skin. The physical pain is nothing compared to what I have endured so far, so I continue. THUMP goodbye... THUMP I always loved you... THUMP I'm sorry... I keep going until I'm too weak to keep going. I feel tired, yet free, as though I can feel my own soul leaving to join my fellow prisoners in this pit.

The alarm sounds, morning routine, I remove myself from my bed, pushing away disposable bed clothes to the linen compactor. I step to the shower rinse off. I put my prefolded government appropriated clothes on, black socks, black slacks, white button up shirt, black belt, shiny black shoes. Quick shave with a single use pre packaged government issued razor, then open single use toothbrush with toothpaste pre infused, and finally open my single use disposable comb, and neatly comb my hair. How I love the issued morning routine, but the walk to work I love even more! How beautiful the synchronicity of the people going about the daily routine. I walk out of the apartment and slide in between Margo and Ruben exactly as I do every day in a single file line to work. The lines dwindle as people turn on the appropriate streets and sidewalks, to their daily duty, whatever that may be. I see my building, a some yards away. Beautifully white, twenty or so stories high hard to measure as there is hardly any windows; Standing like an accomplished ancient full of wisdom, adoring all his subjects, his flocks as they enter . How great is the life to be adorned everyday with a view such as this. I take my turn off of the busily walked sidewalk to enter the grand hall. I pick up my assigned workload of the day and go to the elevator. I scan my hand on the Pad, and it takes me to my floor. The door opens, people going about the daily routine in their cubicles. How lucky am I to get a floor with one of the few windows, for my cubicle to have such a great view to the outside of this grand structure. The streets empty as usual. I begin stamping the documents never to read them. The stamp is a red X, as always. Then something extraordinary happens. The floor shakes slightly, the window starts to shake violently then falls from the wall! I recognize the window to be a mere photo as it shatters on the floor to a blank space on the alabaster wall. When the glass photo shatters, so does my capacity to understand the situation. nothing irregular happens. Never has something so dramatic as to make me think outside of the daily routine happened before. My world stops, my mind freezes I gasp as to utter a word. I look around and no one else seems to notice, not one person. So strange, So irregular, and for no one to notice is even more strange. I am not so naïve to know I alone am traumatized by this small event. I do not know how to deal with such a thing.