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Allura 24

I was thirteen when I came here, shipped away from my home so I wouldn’t ‘damage the family name’. It’s all about appearances you see. If I had stayed there my father would never have been elected; ‘the Prime Minister can’t have a son like you’. That’s what my mother told me while she was pushing me into the back of the Rolls. Six years have passed since then; for all this time these red and white tents have been my home and today is no exception. Welcome to the Freak Show. Sure, the ground changes every few months but it’s reassuring to know that wherever we are in the world this little haven will always be the same. I think we’re somewhere outside Leeds, nobody tells me these things anymore. Regardless the ground was frigid beneath my large, stomping feet. The sun shone with a cool severity, it was for show mostly and did nothing to warm us. Alexandra (the Bombastic Bamboozling Bearded Lady!) handed me a warm cup of something or other. Dan the Strongman ranted on about how he could taste the cinnamon hints in it, it just tasted like grass in hot water to me. The drink scolded my tongue slightly and I exiled myself to the facilities. I stared into my drooping eyes through the mirror, my greying, bulbous face filled up all the space on the wall. With a heavy head I inspected my tongue and washed every nook and cranny of what my dear sister used to call ‘the North Face of the Eiger’. Until I was five years old my life was comfortable, my parents told me I was a late developer but at the very least I could still sleep in a bed at night. That’s what I miss most about that life – well it would be if I could remember any of it. Since then I’ve had to sleep sitting upright or my leaden skull might snap my neck; that’s what happened to the last guy anyway. You know who I mean. You probably saw the film, or the play; the world has never grown tired of putting us on display like animals, exploiting our condition. The doctor thought I might have a combination of some neurofibbywibby disorder and Proteus syndrome. Proteus syndrome, what a laugh. Did you know it’s named after an old and forgotten Greek sea-god who can change his shape? Whichever sick physician thought that up has a lot of guts, I can tell you every last one of us would change our damn shape the minute we got the chance. Alexandra helped my get my gnarled trunk through my sleeve while my other arm lay withered by my side. It was going to be quite a busy day today; we had three shows lined up. The sound of children’s laughter began to cross the horizon and the sweet and roasted scent of fresh peanut brittle wafted over the park. I poked a large, solitary eye through a tent-flap. Tickets were being stamped, small bodies were spiralling down the Helter Skelter and miscellaneous faces began to light up like as yellow sponges and pink tigers were won from the stalls around us. MC stuck his long neck into the dressing room, ‘Positions people!’ he cried, ‘We have an audience to astonish!’ Alexandra asked me if I’d seen the grooming kit, it was on her chair and she led me to the ring. Hundreds of eager little faces filled the tent, nibbling away at popcorn and slurping Tongue Gulp! by the gallon. MC waltzed in front of the lights, singing a little song and dancing a merry jig to keep the audience entertained. This episode lingered for a few minutes while James Brown, our clown, searched desperately for his comedy hand buzzer. Alexandra grabbed my hand with a giggle and I felt a little jolt travelling through my body. James snatched it off her while we lost ourselves to laughter. His snarl twisted into a grin as soon as the spotlights hit his face and MC sauntered off with sweat running down his nose. After a while it was Alexandra’s turn to perform. I watched her for a little while, the spotlights glinting off every facet of her silver sequined dress. She’d been going on and on about getting this new outfit for months and I smiled as she span around in front of the ecstatic crowd. She joined me back in the shadows breathing heavily and holding both her thumbs up. ‘You’re going to kill it!’ she whispered excitedly. My gross feet dragged across the sand and my eyes shrivelled away from the lights. I searched every gleeful face in the tent looking for them. I would do it every time I walked the ring but I knew they would never be here, the darling family of Britain. Looks can be deceiving. There was an uncomfortable silence interrupted by a child’s cough. MC’s voice crackled through the loud speakers and I felt every eye in the room scouring over my sunken body.

"When they open the door, I'll swing and you get that shit down in the living room as quickly as possible, got it?" Darren says. I nod weakly, adjusting the huge roll of polyethylene under my arm with my other hand, which is holding a monkey wrench. I can't believe I'm here, about to do this. For my own mother, no less! "Hey Jared, there's something I want you to help Darren with. Get in the car, he'll explain on the way." She tells me. A normal request, if a little vague. I expected something like "we're picking something heavy up," or "some things have to go to the dump." I've never been so wrong in my life. I get in the car with my mom's bodyguard. Not the regular kind, we're not rich by any means. We live in a campsite for crying out loud, eating what food my mom can steal from the food bank! I always wanted to say something about that, but I've learned you don't talk back to the most well known street level crack dealer in the city. That's how she paid Darren, with drugs. The drive is quiet for the first few minutes and I gaze lazily out at the lake. The silence is broken when Darren asks "remember Yvonne and her man, Cameron?" How could I forget? We lived with them for a while. They stole the paintball gun I won in a tournament to pawn for drug money and got rid of our dog when we went to a movie. I didn't really like them. "Yeah," I reply simply. "Well they owe your mom some money and are refusing to pay, so we're going to 'collect' it. Ever heard the phrase 'let the poly hit the floor'?" I hadn't, but between noticing the giant roll of plastic in the back seat and him handing me the wrench, I began to piece together what was going on. So here I stand, a terrified 16 year old trying to understand just what the hell is going on and hoping they're not home. When I see the knob begin turning, however, hope is quickly turned to horror. Darren doesn't wait for any words to be spoken as he kicks the door in, sending Yvonne to the ground. He quickly extends the nightstick he brought and hits her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. "Get that poly down, we're gonna make a little mess here!" He barks at me. I struggle to flatten the plastic, trying to focus more on making it perfect then what's going on around me. After a few seconds Darren is dragging Yvonne onto it as Cameron rushes into the room to see what's going on. He quickly understands the situation and runs towards the small kitchen off to the side where there's a knife block on the counter. "Stop him!" Darren yells at me, and without thinking I bolt towards him and strike him in the back with the wrench as he fumbles to get a knife. He winces, but doesn't stop. He pulls a large chef's knife out and in one motion turns and slashes at me. I've always had pretty good reflexes, but not good enough to evade completely as the blade runs across my chest. The cut isn't deep enough to be fatal however, and adrenaline blocks out the pain as I swing the wrench again, this time at his knee. He goes down, yelping in pain and dropping the knife. I kick it away and Darren pulls Cameron kicking onto the plastic. What happens next is mostly a blur, my mind choosing to blank it all out. I remember hearing Darren threatening them and a consistent thumping, like the beat of the most violent drum. After what seemed like forever, he tries to ask for my help getting them into the trunk of the car, but must notice my pale face and does it himself. He folds the bloodied plastic up and puts it in the backseat as I climb into the passenger seat. We start driving to "dispose" of our ex roommates. I guess we were going to the dump after all. "It's ok, the first time is always hard for everyone. It gets easier, trust me." He says, trying to ease my mind with the promise of more encounters like this. I don't reply and continue to stare out the window. This is the day I became a man, though not the kind I expected to be. Most of the details in this story are true, except the door was never opened so the murder never actually took place, thankfully. This was 9 years ago, and if the door had opened, I probably wouldn't be here today.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says. His voice is strained and his hands are moving. He’s trying to staunch the bleeding. He’s lying. He has no idea if she’s going to be fine. He fears she can see it in his eyes. She’s struggling not to take panicked breaths. He’d instructed her to keep her eyes on his face as he worked, keeping her as level as possible. Her eyes are wide and she’s gasping for air. A weird gurgle comes from the back of her throat and he feels his insides twist. He’d never heard a death rattle before. Let that not be it. “What’s your name?” he snaps, raising his voice. He realizes that he’s yelling at her. There is a long pause as she pulls in a laboured breath. “Amy,” she wheezes. “Hey Amy,” he keeps his hands across her stomach. The blood has pooled across his hands and it had once been hot, now it was cool and sticky. He takes in a quick breath and looks around desperately. Where the fuck was the ambulance? He’d seen the impact. It hadn’t made much sense. The small black Toyota in from of him had been driving a few lengths ahead of him on the dark stretch of country road and had suddenly swerved to the left into the oncoming lane. It had suddenly spun hard and his headlights had lit up the driver side of the car. He could see right into her face. She had looked absolutely terrified. He had slammed on the brakes, pushing himself back into his seat. He hadn’t hit her, but it hadn’t mattered. The passenger side wheels caught and the car had flipped. “What happened? Why did you swerve?” he asks her-trying not to yell at her. She sobs and chokes on another laborious breath. His whole body is vibrating. He’s losing it. “Amy, keep talking to me,” he demands as her eyes close for a moment. “Amy,” his voice takes on a pleading tone. It seems like an eternity before she answers him again. “A deer,” she mumbles, sounding far away. “A deer?” he repeats incredulously. “What a sneaky fuck!” Strangely enough, Amy gives a weak laugh. It’s followed by a coughing fit that presses more hot blood from the wound in her stomach and he presses down harder. She groans and her face distorts in pain. He cringes with her. “I didn’t…Hit it,” she suddenly says proudly. “Yeah? Lucky deer!” He curses under his breath. “You okay?” she says on an exhale. Her words seem unbelievably intimate. He hears the sirens. Faint. “Me? You’re asking me—it doesn’t matter. Yeah, just peachy. How about yourself?” “I’ve had…Better days,” she whispers. “No fucking kidding,” he snorts and looks towards the sirens. Hurry up, he begs. “Where are you from?” he asks her, still staring at the horizon. He has to keep her talking. He looks down and realizes she’s closed her eyes. “Amy? Open your eyes,” he demands. She doesn’t respond. “Amy,” he snaps. He shakes her roughly from where his hands are pushing down on her stomach. The pain should rouse her. Nothing happens. She doesn't seem to move. “Amy, open your fucking eyes,” he yells at her. Her eyes flutter. “Come on, Amy, they’re almost here. Where are you from?” “Done the black,” she murmurs. “What?” he snaps. He’s getting angry. A fucking deer is going to cost this girl her life. It’s infuriating. “Down. The. Block,” she repeats, clearer. She sounds irritated, too. “Good girl, you keep talking to me. They always say that ninety-five percent of accidents happen close to home. How old are you?” The sirens are loud now. They’ll be here any second. “Eighteen,” she says. There’s a long pause. “I’m cold.” “It’s okay, Amy, they’re here. They’re going to warm you up.” “What’s your name…?” she asks just as the ambulance arrives. The paramedics are out in an instant, running to their side. He looks at her for a moment, feeling stunned. Her eyes seem clear for a moment and she is looking back at him and he realizes in this instant that he’ll never forget her. “Jon,” he says as the paramedic pushes him roughly out of the way. The paramedics are talking loudly to each other as they are flashing a flash light in her eyes and checking her pupils. He swallows hard. “My name is Jon.

Once upon a time, there was a dinosaur called Tort. Tort had a very good friend called Mick. They only knew each other for a couple of years but Tort and Mick were as thick as thieves. They went everywhere together and did everything together. Mick would do anything for Tort and so would Tort, though Tort was not very good at such stuff. Tort was the kind of dinosaur with lots of horns and ridges on his body. Tort loved all of his horns and ridges. It made him very happy and proud of how sharp and rough and how colourful they were. Mick, on the other hand, was the kind of dinosaur without all of those horns and ridges. Mick was more of a mammoth actually and mammoths never really understood the appeal of those horns and ridges. They had hair and that was it. But Mick knew how much those horns and ridges meant to Tort and while Tort knew how Mick felt them, Mick never showed his lack of amazement to Tort. One day, Tort was out wandering without Mick. For while they did everything together, they did everything without each other. And while Tort was walking, his dinosaur body tripped over a dead duck and fell. Tort got out up and realized something was wrong. And that something was hurting. Turning his head around, he realized one of his ridges broke up. It did not hurt a lot but Tort was very sad. Now, Tort though, he looked strange. He looked strange. Tort immediately ran to find Mick cause Mick would always make him feel better. Tort found Mick at his house as he was always here. Mick saw Tort and instantly knew that something was up. He looked up at Tort with concern. ‘Look at me Mick! What do I do?’ Tort cried. Tort kept looking at his body with frustration and sadness. Mick did not quite understand what Tort was talking about but kept silent. As Tort went on about his body, with his wise mammoth head, Mick finally understood. Mick did not see why it would matter but he was not Tort and Tort was clearly upset. Mick, after comforting Tort and successfully getting him to calm down, sat down and racked his brain on how to get Tort’s beloved ridge to grow back. The only remedy Mick knew was how to get mammoth hair to grow back. After hours of intensive research throughout the night, Mick figured how to alter the remedy to get it to grow back dinosaur horns and ridges. The remedy was this greenish black paste made out of many ingredients that Mick took hours to scour for. But Mick found it quite fun, like a treasure hunt. The next day, Mick ran up to Tort and applied it on Tort’s wound while explaining it to him. Tort was rather sceptical of Mick’s herbal remedy but was touched at his action as he knew that Mick really could not understand why it was a big deal. So Mick studiously made the remedy and every morning, he tended to Tort’s wound. Mick was insistent that it would work and was excited to see it in effect. As Mick came over every morning, Tort would go on about the new remedy he had read about. Mick listened to it all, sharing Tort’s excitement but continued applying the thick greenish paste. One day, Tort ran over excitedly to Mick’s house and Mick as usual was there. Tort was extremely excited this particular morning as there was this gifted doctor in the nearby town. This doctor specializes in breakage injuries, especially the kind Tort suffered. ‘I’m going to set off tonight! His remedy is real medicine and this time I’ll really get healed’, exclaimed Tort excitedly. Mick looked at Tort and smiled. He went to the cupboard and reached up, grabbing 2 jars of the paste with his mammoth trunk, passing it to Tort. ‘Just continue applying this anyways. It wouldn’t hurt’, Mick said. So Tort set out, dinosaur lumbering to the doctor. The journey took a day and a half and Tort was absolutely exhausted. And his back felt itchy, especially where his ridge broke off. But Tort did not think much about it as he was really tired. After an hour or two of reaching the town, Tort finally found the doctor and was all ready to get healed. Tort dinosaur walked to the doctor, ignoring the itch on his back. Tort met the doctor and related the entire story to him. The doctor was not really interested in Tort as he was rather busy. The doctor was in town for a holiday and not to heal people. So he was more of a tourist than a doctor. The tourist listen half-heartedly to Tort’s story while lounging in the porch. He reached into his bag, took out a packet of brightly coloured something, tore off the label and handed it to Tort, instructing him to eat it once a day before waving him away. Tort tasted it and it tasted like gummy bears. Nevertheless, Tort was happy that he would be cured in no time. Tort rushed back to Mick. That took 2 full days cause Tort was tired and his back was itchy all the time and Tort doesn’t dinosaur walk very fast. When Tort reached Mick, he showed Mick the packet of medicine, rambling on about how his ridge would definitely grow back by the end of this week. Mick examined with his mammoth eyes. It looked like gummy bears. Mick tasted it with his mammoth tongue. It tasted like gummy bears. Then, Mick noticed something on Tort’s back. ‘Your ridge! It’s growing back!’ Mick pointed at Tort’s back. Tort got very excited and ran to the mirror, confirming Mick’s observation. ‘It must be the medicine! That doctor is such a genius! He did not even stop to think what medicine to give me; that’s how smart he is!’ Tort was very happy indeed. Mick smiled as he hugged Tort out of happiness, the taste of the medicine still in his mouth. Tort left Mick’s house, a proud and happy dinosaur. Tort looked at the bag of medicine in delight, popping one into his mouth. Suddenly, he choked on this particularly long bright greenish chewy medicine. He died. The end.

I feel powerful now, I feel like I can do anything. I’m invincible, immortal. I feel like I can conquer the world. I wasn’t always like this. I used to have a normal life, until I met Layla. I was walking home one night when I saw her. She was sitting on a bench, staring into the darkness of the night. I didn’t think much of it then and just kept walking. A couple days later I saw her again, at the same time, on the same bench. She looked at me, her eyes were bright red, almost as if they were glowing. I just ignored her and kept walking. When I looked back to see if she was still looking at me she was gone. I dismissed it because I was tired and slightly drunk. I couldn’t sleep that night, as soon as I closed my eyes all I could see was her gaze. When I woke up the next morning, hung over and very tired, all I could think of was her. I tried not to, but I constantly felt like she was watching me. I called in sick and took some sleeping pills in an attempt to get some sleep. I slept a couple hours before the meds wore off and felt a bit more energetic and my mind was clear again. I finally managed to get her out of my head… The following weeks I kept having dreams about random events, they felt very real, almost like they were memories instead of dreams. Yet it wasn’t me in those dreams. It felt as if I was looking into someone else’s mind, like I could see their memories. I started to get worried. I couldn’t keep blaming it on my lack of sleep. Was I slowly going insane? The next night there was no moon out, it was pitch black outside. I woke up in the middle of the night and felt this extreme urge to kill something, or someone even. I went outside and walked around randomly until I saw someone walking across the street. I almost instinctively ran towards him and bit his neck open. It felt weird, like I knew perfectly what to do, like I had do this a hundred times before. The blood poured out and I drank it. Every last drop of it. I felt invigorated, and powerful. When I was finished Layla appeared in front of me and touched me. Suddenly it felt like my head exploded. Thoughts rushed through my mind. Those dreams, they were real memories, they were her memories. Our minds merged into one and suddenly everything became clear… I feel powerful now, I feel like I can do anything. I’m invincible, immortal. I feel like I can conquer the world.

To some where we came from is just as important as where were are heading. The belief that those before us, those who fertilized our growth. Determine the nature of which one carries themselves through life. In this respect I suppose it could be determined that I myself must have had my growth stunted, but in reality this is a belief I have never shared. However even those attitudes could not explain my emotions upon opening the box. The house was old. I had told myself this mine a million times; and unsafe as well. No place for a family. These were the excuses I told others, the ones I tried to tell myself but within the crumbling walls of my heart I knew them to be false. I was leaving to escape the guilt, the pain and most of all the feeling that my own children would now feel what I felt in my half-childhood and there was nothing I could do now to change that. It was in my final sweep of the house, checking for any trivial objects that may have slipped through the cracks that I came across the rusting metal box. It was more of a tin really. A still frame of a moment of a life long ago lived. Forgotten and cast aside like rubbish to disappear into oblivion. However as it so happened this tin of rancid memories wormed its way back into my life. I knew looking inside would bore into my very sense of self but I couldn’t stop myself. My trembling hands slowly pried the rust stained lid from its casing and just as it did separate so did the jacket of emotionless casing I placed around my heart and the sobbing began once more. Inside were pictures; paper and ink, but really they were more than that. They were a reminder of the normal childhood that I was robbed of when she was taken. A newspaper clipping, “Father and Child Left Behind”. The title didn’t do justice, didn’t convey the loss, didn’t depict the sleepless nights and lifeless days struggling on without her. My father, my own hero, had been broken by this. Who was I to be stronger than he! Sinking deeper and deeper into the icy waters of self-pity and regret I let myself weep. “Daddy?” A familiar voice fished me out of the icy numbness and into back into the living world. At this moment, this rebirth I realized I had to be strong. It was not a matter of if I could, but simply that I had to be. For them to have a normal childhood. For them to be happy. I had to be strong. For them.

This story was based around the line 'Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer' taken from a poem called The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe. As I rode my grey stallion over the sweeping valleys surrounding my kingdom, I came across the morning sun. The penetrating rays shone over the misty lowlands, filling both the skies and the heavens with what seemed like everlasting light. This transcendent aurora beneath me had only just begun its solemn, yet necessary journey, as had I. The crisp chill gently scratched my cheeks, and my long, auburn hair billowed in the wind. In the distance, the outline of a bird could be seen, soaring high up against the clouds, looking for some unsuspecting prey to swoop down upon. I knew that there would be many victims today. The reds and blues of the enemy were visible on the horizon; a thousand men were ready for battle. I looked back and saw my own army: a mismatch of the young and old, healthy and tired, scraped together in the vain hope of victory. Up until this point I was brave, I understood what I had to do as queen, and rose up to my position in this war. Yet now, I felt tired. The armour was heavy against my weary limbs, my sword too large to raise and my horse unable to carry me through the bloodshed. I collapsed against his tangled mane in anguish, feeling too weak and scared to continue. I heard the faint sound of a horse's hooves approaching, before I realised that my chieftain was sitting next to me, with a look of worry upon his face. Without making a sound, he reached out, and gently rested his fingers upon my arm. I looked down in shock; it was most unusual, considered deranged even, for someone to talk to, let alone touch, royalty unannounced. Yet, just by looking at his expression, I understood what he was saying. As though I had been gifted by the gods above us, a feeling of strength surged through me. I felt fearless. My soul grew stronger, hesitating then no more. As he returned to his place in the battalion, not a single word having been said, I straightened my back, narrowed my eyes on the sea of arms in front of me, and lead my men into the dark abyss of the unknown. The thunder of a thousand men running at each other, anticipating collision, rumbled in my ears as I flew down the hill. I watched as the enemy and I approached one another and each individual became clearer to see. One man, stout in shape but strongly built, lead his soldiers with a determined grin, from which a raging howl was emitted. I thought to myself, he probably lived quite a nice life. Maybe he had a family worriedly waiting for his return at home; small children who would never know their father. I did not falter once. The last I saw were the whites of his maddened eyes, before I placed my sword neatly in the centre of his chest. For three hours we battled on, claiming back our land, inch by inch. Hundreds were dead, but all knew that the sacrifices made that day would be done for the rest of the people, and would not be in vain. The enemy slowly began to retreat, knowing that defeat would soon be upon them. Though we grew tired in our bodies, never did we become faint in our hearts. At last, victory was ours, and we rejoiced. Though looking around, I began to see the deformed and mutilated bodies, contorted into positions of agony before the life had fled from them. Fathers, brothers and uncles filled the grassland, their crimson blood saturating the moist ground. An eerie sadness gripped my stomach, and, fearing that I would become emotional, turned to go. As I rode back in the direction I had come, I saw my chieftain once again, relieved that he had survived. A broad smile broke out across his face, before I felt something strike my back. Snap. My spine shattered, as the tip of an arrow pierced my skin and entered the flesh. Though it had flown through the air with great force, I just sat there, bewildered as to what had just happened. Surely someone had not dared kill me now? I turned to face my executioner, and saw, lying on the ground, a wounded soldier whom I had presumed dead. We locked eyes, before his became cloudy and his head limply dropped back to the ground. I sat in my saddle for a few seconds longer, before sliding from my seat and falling to the earth myself. The hope of life quickly began to diminish, and I knew that I was to accept what was about to happen. I stared up into the dark, cloudy sky, and allowed my body to relax. My chieftain once again was at my side, filling my vision, clasping my hands in his. He was trying to say something to me, but I could not hear him. I concentrated on looking at the movements of his mute mouth, and smiled to myself. For the first time, I was not afraid. I embraced the numbness in my body, allowing the ground to hold me. As the light began to fade from my eyes, I thought of home, and knew that my people would be safe. The last thing I felt were the small droplets of rain hitting my face, before I slipped away from my world, and was gone forever.

Wielding their torches, men traverse the galaxy shining light into the darkness, searching for a new hope for their people. For a century men searched, and a century later, humanity found the hope they were looking for. They found a new world, a habitat suitable for their own. So they returned to Earth with the news; another world for the taking. More fruit, ripe for picking. Their people throw themselves to the scientists and engineers of their generation. The scientists and engineers build a vessel, to carry humans beyond the home they once knew, and into a land no Earthling had ever laid eyes upon. A select few board the craft and begin their voyage. Their departure is played up to ridiculous extremes. These men and women become gods in the eyes of men. However, upon arrival to the new world, they encounter an issue. Their newly claimed world has, in fact, already been claimed by a people unknown to humanity. This should have been a riveting discovery, a discovery that would change how humans view the universe. However, the hero men and women purposely provoke the naturally peaceful and curious indigenous beings, and the beings instinctively retaliate. A report is sent back to their Earth-dwelling superiors: it is now known that the land they once thought was theirs for the taking is populated by savage, hostile beasts. The beasts attacked the brave men and women of Earth on sight, and proper measures were taken to rectify the situation. Rage spreads like plague on Earth. How dare these beasts endanger our heroes, our saviors, our gods? The people once again throw themselves, but this time to the governments, and militaries of their generation. The answer is simple. War. So the humans construct an armada of vessels to carry Earth’s finest to reclaim their rightfully conquered land out in the cosmos. For a decade, war rages on the new planet. Twice a year every year, the humans send troops to bolster the war effort. World superpowers pour cash into the war like a waterfall into a bottomless lake. The people of earth begin to face the consequences of their newly allocated funds; times are hard. Every family must ration each consumable item once held dear to their hearts. But not a single person complains, because surely their suffering directly affects the cause. They teach their children about the savages fighting our soldiers. Lesser beings, devoid of morals empathy, and love. They teach their children to hate, and to fear the savages. One boy in particular is so invigorated, that he makes it a goal of his to ship off join the fight as soon as he can Three years later, at the ripe age of sixteen, the boy boards a vessel along with fifty thousand other soldiers and begins his trek to the battlefield. When the boy arrives, he takes a look around and immediately realizes that things are not as advertised. There is no war. There are no savage beasts, and there is no raging battle they are waging. There is, however, an extermination of massive proportions underway. The boy quickly realizes the native beings are not a fighting people. Bullets fly in one direction only, and that is away from the humans. The boy is appalled by his revelations, and is quick to share them. So he tells his peers that the war they fight is no war at all, that they are not soldiers. They are pest control. The native lifeforms do not attempt to fight back in the slightest, and yet they carry on with their relentless slaughter. The boy’s peers listen. They listen, and absorb every word the boy says. The boy is then mocked. He is ridiculed, and he is framed as a sympathizer. He seeks out a higher power, just to be shot back to the ground. He doesn’t give up his fight, and is disliked more and more amongst his peers. One day, during an explosives test, the boy was tasked with placing the charges. Before he had a chance to get far enough away, the soldier in charge of the test hit the detonator prematurely. It was an accident, the squad says. Innocence and conscience were incinerated, and morality was lost. And somehow, when the war was over, humanity further spun their web. In another hundred years, they moved on.

I once thought up a man. A man with a regular job and a regular wife with two regular children. But inside this man lay a strange and twisted thing. This man loved a woman who did not exist. Her melted plastic black hair and aged paper yellow skin skated through his mind as he led his regular life. Her highs and lows arced over his straight and narrow life as he went about his day. She was the antithesis of this man of my mind. She was everything he was not. She was to be the one thing this man did lust for or covet. Yet, against my mind's machinations, he did. And his love grew with each passing moment-long year of his life. The woman didnt captivate him. She didnt bare herself to him as he slept. She didnt leave a taste of unknown love on his lips and the smell of a charred world on his collar. She didnt give. She took. And with each stolen inheritance promised to the man, he grew a little less regular. The man became distant from his wife, seeking sleep and drowsy afternoons rather than her regular embrace. His children saw love in their Father's eyes as he looked into darkened rooms and the abyss of the night, as if what he loved lay just beyond the veil, waiting for some light to grace it's court of the unseen. As the man's love grew, so did his despair over his unrequited feelings. His efforts had taken sail and every one was lost in the perfect storm of hot air and illusion. His eyes became sullen and sunk, his body pale and loose. He met the day greeting his soul with the stink of whiskey on his breath. His soul and him sat together at a table of old smooth wood and put a bullet through the home of his white whale woman, etching the wood with the universe of an idea of a woman. I stare in horror at the death of a world of created potential, of a heart with only one half. I closed my mind and stole my thoughts away in a heavy box, leaving that man in his world, frozen on that table. The woman remains in limbo, permeating every crevice and cranny of that table, filling every part of the grain until it is moist soft with over saturation. Ever I break the key to that box into a fine drink, letting it settle before the pieces try to reform in the constantly filling liquor, and ever I drink to stop it, lest the woman escape the bounds of that red table. It's very late and I really wanted to tell any kind of story. So thank you for reading.

On desolate hill above a small town there stands a house. It is old and disheveled, with shingles missing from the roof, and the white paint is faded. As one approaches the house, they must first walk up a paved stoned path, made of river-rock taken from a small creek several miles west. The path is not completely even, though it is even enough to not cause trouble for the inhabitant of the house. There is no road connection to the small, lonely building, as the owner never cared for the hustle and bustle of the post-war society. No, he preferred instead to use the legs his maker had given him, taking a pleasant half-mile or so walk down to the town below. Once one is on the stone path, and at the top of the hill, they come across a waist high dry stone wall, with a plain brown picket fence style gate. Past the gate, there is a space for a large garden, one that has not existed for some time. Now all that remains is a jungle of dandelions and chickweed and clovers. In the tangle of green lie patches of yellow celandine and white daisies. Slow worms can be seen slithering in the high grass, though they keep to themselves. Once one is through the garden, one will find themselves at the front door of the house. Upon rapping on the door with a small brass knocker, one will find themselves facing an old man wearing a tan woolen sweater with gray tweed pants and jacket. He is hunched over slightly, and in his left hand is a dark-stained birch derby cane. He smiles warmly, crooked, yellow teeth visible. He has thin, wire-framed glasses over his kind blue eyes. His name is Thomas Evans, and this is the story of his end. * * * It was a warm summer's afternoon when it happened. The sun was nearing the end of its arc through the sky, as Apollo prepared to end his day of labour. Warblers and larks could be heard chirping away happily, minding their own business. In his house, Thomas Evans is making tea. He takes his pot of boiling water off of the stove, and begins to pour it into a small teacup. A sharp pain in the chest strikes Thomas, and he sets the pot down. He stands there, doubled over in his kitchen, clutching his chest. Then, there comes a series of raps at the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. Still hunched over, Thomas makes his way over to the front door, opening it. As he did, all of the lights in his house went out, like the flame of a candle blown out at night. At his door is a tall, skinny man dressed in an all black suit. His skin is pale, and the only color he has is a single red rose in the breast pocket of his jacket. He carries a candle lantern in one hand, and in the other he holds a black pocket-watch inlaid with gold in the shape of skull. On his shoulder is perched a jet-black raven, which calmly stares at Thomas. “Who are you?” “I am Michael.” “How can I help you Michael?” Michael grins, “Oh Thomas Evans, I am not here for your help. I am here to help you. Come, let us walk together.” Thomas trusted this stranger, though he did not know why. He felt as if Michael was a good person, and that he meant no ill will. Closing his door, Thomas followed Michael into his garden, through the brown picket-fence like gate, and down the paved stone road. The trail made its way into a small wood that bordered the town below Thomas' house. They were about halfway down the trail when Michael turned onto a dirt path, one that Thomas had never seen before. But he followed the man in black anyway. There was just something about the man, something that compelled Thomas to follow him. Finally, after many twists and turns, they came to a large stone wall at the wood's edge. The wall was of the same dry stone that he had at his home, though it was several heads taller than he. In the center of the wall was a large iron gate, which Michael opened. Beyond the gate was the blinding light of the sun. It was so bright that Thomas could not see beyond the wall. Michael gestured for him to continue. Bowing his head slightly, he thanked Michael, stepping into the light. * * * Several days later, when people in the town noticed that Thomas had not been down for a good while, a constable was dispatched to check on him. They found him lying on his kitchen floor, teapot fallen, its contents strewn over the floor. They tore down his home, replacing it with a cemetery, where they buried him. While they built a new road to service it, the city kept the old stone road. More often than not, you can still see the people of the town walking up the weathered stone road to visit the cemetery to this day, bringing flowers for the departed.

50 Stitches of Cloth A novel by Toefirefire Rachel looked at her class calendar in disgust. She thought for sure it was next week;now she has to cancel her burrito plans just to visit a mill in order to write her term paper, even though she considered faking the whole thing. Grudgingly, she went down to Cartwright Street where she found the fading red brick façade of the Cabot Lowell Mill. Inside she met with operations manager Paul Moody who would give her a tour and explain the history of the mill. The front-end of the mill seemed dull: a small office, a break room, a locker room. As she went deeper, she felt an overwhelming power looming about the place,something ethereal but immense. Turning the corner she saw what was behind it—a massive power loom! It sparkled with precision movements; its shuttle screamed back and forth as the loom Shed, Picked, and Battened hundreds of times a minute. Rachel was flooded with a cyclone of thoughts and emotions. The raw intensity, the pure power, the uncontaminated rhythm were more than she could bear. “And this particular loom was purchased in1979, and as you can see it is still running. It can be used to create 50 different stitch patterns” Paul kept talking but Rachel could only pay attention to the masterful workings of the loom and the growing pile of cloth neatly folded in its wake. “Oh how lucky that cloth is” thought Rachel. Weeks passed and the semester ended. Rachel now looked forward to graduating with a 3.9 GPA, buoyed up by her passionate term paper. As her friends talked about internships and summers abroad and all the other adventures they excitedly planned for, Rachel was happy for them but she couldn’t commit to anything, turning down invites for week long beach vacations and a parent’s friend’s house in Brussels. Days passed in a fog; indecision and apathy enveloped her. Of the several plans she made, none seemed to generate any enthusiasm. “Yeah, so starting in July I’ll be interning at the Cummins plant in Columbus, I just like working with the diesel engines they are so massive and really useful,” her friend pratted on at a party, ignorantly glorifying his future. He was unaware of how much more profound the workings of a power loom are, and how much people have benefited from the billions of square feet of fabric that have been almost effortlessly created. It was then that Rachel realized she could never be happy unless she was weaving. Two weeks later, at her interview, Rachel’s heart pounded. She was so close to entering a world that she had just recently discovered. She always knew that industrialized cloth manufacturing took place, but it was just an exotic thing that people talked and giggled about, maybe weaving a little for fun. Now she was on the edge of this world where hundreds of people spent hours, their whole lives dedicated to weaving, to working in perfect harmony with a power loom. The edge of the cliff was falling away and approaching her at an alarming rate. “Please take a look at this labor contract, sorry it’s kind of long,” Paul gurgled as he pushed a thick stack of paper towards her. The contract was incredibly strict, and outlined explicitly her rules for employment: breaks were 30 minutes, can’t call in sick more than 6 times per year, progressive discipline, non-disclosure agreements, non-competearticles. It was almost too much to bear. Rachel had never seen a contract like this before. She felt overwhelmed by the reality of the contract—her head fluttered like a typhoon. If she agreed, she would be spending 40 hours a week doing nothing but weaving, and there was even a possibility of mandatory overtime. If she refused, would never get to work on the power loom. While Paul continued talking about training programs, uniforms, and Christmas parties, Rachel grabbed the pen from his hand and starting signing page after page of the contract, initialing some lines. With every signature, she felt lighter and by the end she soared with excitement. “So when can I start?” she asked excitedly. She arrived early her first day. She put on her denim apron and tied her hair into a tight bun. Her training began, she eagerly jotted down notes on safety and power loom operations, paying particular attention to loading and detecting broken picks -- learning everything the loom tells have to say. Next she practiced repairing broken picks, a challenging and strenuous task that required all her concentration. It left her exhausted after several practice knots, but she had no time to rest before practicing again and again for hours until she had it perfect. She never imagined the training would be so grueling and intense. She even thought of quitting but understood this was the price to pay to make the broadcloth that an entire civilization would benefit from, clothes and blankets and a million other things. The historical significance was not lost on her either. For hundreds of years powerloom mills had been the driving force of the economy of England and New England, and they had far reaching effects, wars happened over cotton and cloth tariffs and trade. Slavery dominated much of America to feed cotton into the loom; unions and massive protests erupted over children working power looms; 146 garment workers would die in the triangle shirt waist factory because of the cheap cloth that came out of powerlooms, very much like the ones humming so nearby. For Rachel the call of the loom was too much for her and she would follow in the footsteps of so many others and ecstatically work the loom. Soon, she was working her own loom hour after amazing hour. Electricity thundered through her like a herd of buffalo each time she completed a bolt of cloth with the loom. The creamy white band pushed out and neatly wrapped around a wooden pin for her to nip and loop the other end around a new pin. The sensations she experienced from combining 50 strands of thread into a continuous sheet of cloth was so satisfying and so new. She felt dirty,the power looms constant shaking and clattering having stirred up a great deal of dust which clouded the room no matter how often she cleaned it. After several months, she learned how fickle and high stakes her new world could be. After several hours of overtime, she was admiring the quick rigid movements of the cloth advancing while checking the tells, when suddenly her hand was pinched with tremendous force by the swift shuttle. She screamed out in pain and her world blurred. She remembered seeing blood ruin the beautiful cloth and workers rushing to bring her to the hospital. The physical injury ended up not being severe. No broken bones, just some deep lacerations. But she didn’t know if she could ever work a power loom again. She had become complacent and hadn’t kept up with the tremendous speed and ferocity of the loom. As a result she now lay in bed a broken woman. She would need to look for some lesser line of work. It would never fulfill her the same way, but at least it would be safe. Even while looking for jobs, her thoughts lingered on how she had flown so high, and experienced things few others would ever understand. She had flown too close to the sun, and put her hands too close to the shuttlecock, but maybe it was all worth it. Ring Ring “Listen Rachel, I hope you’re doing better. All the guys at the mill all wish you the best, and you should be getting a gift basket soon. It’s got some soaps and stuff and this cool thermos thing.” Paul went on and on about trivialities but just hearing a voice from that other world had a profound impact on Rachel, her heart started racing. “And finally I was speaking with HR and we were hoping to hear back from you with a date you could start again. Do you have a doctor’s note or anything?” Thoughts and emotions ricocheted inside of her like a geometric screen saver. This was her chance to leave this weaving world forever, or she could go back and redouble her efforts, triumphant in her devotion to cloth productions. “I’ll do it Paul!! I’ll be back in tomorrow.” “Well we don’t mean right away, you would need a doctor’s note and to clear it through HR first.” Paul kept blabbing about irrelevances, but it didn’t matter. Rachel made up her mind. She would go back, maybe even that very day and start making spool after spool of cloth, maybe until she was 65. And even after, maybe she would work part time or something.

There he was, gazing at the house, analogous to the way that I was watching him. The man was rather tall with dark, fading hair. His rough beard along with the suit he was wearing produced a rugged yet sophisticated look. I stared intently at the man while remaining hidden in the bushes with the darkness of the night to protect me. I knew the man wouldn’t notice me – he never does. Anyway, in a matter of seconds he would walk into the house saying, “Honey, I’m home,” and embrace the wife. He would then proceed to kiss the two daughters warm helloes as their faces fill with joy. I never refer to the family as his family, perhaps because I feel that they’re just as much mine as they are his. My story began around 6 months prior, when I awoke in a dark and dreary alleyway with a gruesome, gory gash on the top of my head. As I laid there motionless, I tried to remember. Remember anything! I didn’t know my name, where I was from, or anything about me. So I gathered my strength, walked out of the alleyway and onto the street to scavenge for a clue to my past. For weeks I wandered the roads aimlessly. I was a lost drifter with a lost soul. Then one day, all of a sudden, my heart started booming furiously. It was the man! How familiar he looked! I was certain I knew him. I followed the man to his house and my life changed incredulously. Eventually, I met the wife, who I fell in love with dearly. She had strawberry red hair which contrasted her delicate blue eyes. The simple essence that she carried with her was enough to make me happy. The daughters were sweet with blonde hair, and had their mothers’ beautiful blue eyes. They grew on me and I was eager to open my heart up for them. As I was saying, on this particular day, the man had entered his house at around 7:30. I knew he was eating dinner now with the family, but since it was a Tuesday, I also knew he would be leaving soon for his evening walk. As I remained hidden I noticed the dark clouds that swallowed up the light of the stars and moon. The man left the house for his walk. I remained close behind him yet kept my distance. The man typically walked no more than a mile from home, but that night he ventured off farther than usual. As the rain began drizzling down lightly he continued to walk into the night. He began winding through the streets like a snake. The turns he was taking on the narrow streets and alleys got me lost as if I was in a maze. The rain began pouring harder, and the man was still walking farther, not even carrying an umbrella. I followed him into a gloomy, sinister and familiar alley way. Why was he going here? What was he doing? I looked around for a second, careful to never let my eyes off the man. Did the man know I was following him? This was when a murderous thought ran through my mind. I had never thought of killing the man, I merely admired him and his life. Yet if I killed him, I’d be able to effortlessly replace him in the family. I know the wife and children as well as he does and god knows I love them. I would live his life and no one would notice a change. I deserve to be happy. I also realized why this alleyway seemed so familiar. It was the same alleyway that I woke up in just 6 months ago. I couldn’t let those memories distract me. I was on a mission now. I picked up a metallic pipe that was lying next to the brick wall. I started to walk faster, drawing nearer towards him with every step, and with every step the rain pounded harder and louder. I was right behind him now. I raised the pipe above me and struck. The man fell instantly with blood oozing from his head. It left him lying immobile with a gruesome gash on the top of his head. The rain had stopped and I took one final look at the man. He wasn’t dead yet, but with no one here to help, he would be soon. I had done it. I turned and headed home. I made my way back to the house without difficulty and opened the door. “Honey, I’m home!” The wife came over and gave me a kiss. I held the daughters close. I was home.

A man sat at the kitchen table, while his wife prepared dinner. She wore a plain white long dress with no sleeves. The smell of fried chicken filled the kitchen air. His shaking hands rattled the table. The bags under his eyes were clearly visible. His breathing was heavy and erratic, as if he desperately needed oxygen. “Stupid anxiety… “ he thought. “Stupid, useless anxiety. Make it go away… Make the pain go away right now!” The man pulled his hair. He looked over to his wife to make sure she wasn’t paying attention to him. She hummed as she put in the last pieces of chicken to fry. The man searched the inside of his trench coat, and pulled out a pistol. Trembling, he put it directly to the side of his head. “J-Just pull the trigger… I-It’ll be over, just like that! S-Simple.” He quickly put the gun back on the table. “No, no, no! Too selfish of me. I can’t just leave my wife alone…” “Why would you say that?” asked his wife. “Did I do something wrong?” “Oh, did I say that one out loud? No, you didn’t do anything. I-It’s just… just-” “It’s okay, Honey. You don’t need to tell me.” That soothing voice of hers, it always made him relax. The man sighed, relieved. “Thanks for understanding.” “Because I already know what you’re trying to do.” His smile faded. “You found out?” “You left your coat on the bed when you went to take a shower. The gun was in there.” “Oh, I see…” The man shook his head slowly. She stared at the ground and put her hands behind her back. After a long period of silence, she spoke again. “I-I wanted to test something out real quick.” He turned to face his wife. “A test?” “Yes. I… I want you to put the gun to the side of your head and… pull the trigger. You know, to see if you trust me.” The man almost fell out of his chair. He stared at his wife, perplexed. “Why?” “Well... because when I saw the gun, I thought about hiding it from you; I didn’t want you shooting yourself. But instead, I just took out the bullets. I thought it would be the perfect opportunity.” He stared at his gun. “What if she’s lying?” he thought. He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous! How could she ever lie to you? You’ve been married to her for eight years. She hasn’t cheated on you, not once. She hasn’t asked you for anything. And she loves you… for you.” “You do trust me, right? I don’t think you should have anything to worry about…” “Do it!” “What are you waiting for?” The man looked around the kitchen. “Who’s saying that?” he said under his breath. “What kind of husband are you? Grab the gun!” “Don’t make her wait.” “The gun doesn’t have any bullets, so why worry?” The man went for the gun, but then, he hesitated. “Hurry up!” “You’re wasting time!” “I… I…” thought the man as he picked up the gun. He put the gun to the side of his head. “I can trust her. I can trust her! She wouldn’t have me killed.” “Honey?” said his wife with a shaky voice. “Why are you taking so long?” She tried her best to hold back tears. “You fool!” “Oh, it’s hopeless. He won’t do it.” “He doesn’t trust her.” “How pathetic…” The voices were very deep. The man couldn’t hide his trembling from his wife. “Why are you still waiting? Stop shaking like that!” His wife covered her face and wept. “Look at him! He’s too afraid to do it!” “He doesn’t deserve her.” He placed the gun to his chest, where his heart was. It was beating faster and faster. The pounding was hard. “R-Right here. My love for her can’t be ruined, right?” His whole body was trembling, and he couldn’t control it. “Pull it! Just pull the trigger!” He gripped the gun tighter and closed his eyes. “If you keep waiting, then you’ll just keep making it worse and worse for yourself.” “How difficult can it be to pull the trigger?” “Shut up!” The man tried to cover his ears, but he could still hear the voices. His breathing was much heavier than before. He placed the gun back to his chest. The voices became louder—their numbers increased. “Finish the job!” His finger was slow in pulling the trigger. “You’re just a coward.” “Stop it!” the man thought. “What a useless waste of space.” The voices were deafening. “It hurts! Get out of my head!” shouted the man. “Even if you pull the trigger, your wife will hate you, because you took too long to do a simple task.” “Leave me alone!” The man screamed. His eyes widened. A loud gunshot rang in his ears. He gasped and clenched the wound. 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. He went on his knees. The world around him was fading away, and his wife disappeared before his eyes. The scent of chicken escaped his nostrils. The whispering finally subdued. 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. “Honey! Why? Why did you do this to yourself!?” She hugged him. The man felt her warm tears trickle down his cheek. “You look so cute when you’re worried,” he thought. He managed one final chuckle. “I’ll never be able to enjoy fried chicken ever again.

Long ago, Before the Loradol of Ancient city Dol appeared to cleanse the world of Everiware, There were great beast know as Dragons. These beast ruled over the land and were in complete control, Giant kingdoms that covered the valley of Nogashla for it was the home of the dragons. For some time Human, Elves, Dwarves, Goblin and Dragons lived in peace and all was well in the world. Until...The Dragon known as Magxius, Son of Draglo came into power over the valley of Nogashla. Magxius was a great Red Dragon with wings that could blow down whole kingdoms with one swift draw, He ruled over his kingdoms with an iron fist and started to enslave Humans, Dwarves, Elves and Goblins. Magxius even began war with the Orcs of Algoul from the south and he drove all Orcs to become extinct. That was when Magxius' reign became supreme and he would soon rule over the lands of Everiware, All would serve The King of All or the would burn by his Immortal Flame! Though his flame was Immortal, Magxius was not. War broke out across the lands of Everiware as all the races stood against Magxius and his armies! Fire burned the countrysides as Men, Elves, Dwarves and Goblins banded together to defeat The King of All. Sword clashed with fangs, Water met with fire and blood met with scales! It seemed all hope was lost to the people of Everiware for it seemed the Dragons were to overpower them, Then when the armies of Everiware and the Dragons of Magxius met in the Valley of Nogashla, A loud cry came from the skies like singing angels turned to demons! That was the day the beings know as the Loradol came to the world. These beings cannot be describe by any tongue but it is said they are single handily the most beautiful creatures that have ever graces the mortal eyes of the people of Everiware. The Loradol joined the Armies of Everiware and began fight against the Dragons of Magxius! Fire had no power over the Loradol and it seemed Magxius would be destroyed! Magxius the flew down from his tower which was know to be there tallest and greatest tower in Everiware. His wings caused winds that began to destroy his kingdoms and his fire burned with the intensity of hell, but in a brief moment when all seemed lost the king of the races of Everiware whos name was King Aimus Haymond flew on the back of the Loradol known as V. In Haymond's hand was the sword know as Dragons Bane, Valusia! The sword made of dragons fang and the finest steel in the Dwarf kingdom Meyun. As Magxius though he was about to bring the final blow that was when Haymond came from the skies and decapitated Magxius' head from his body. On that day the Valley of Nogashla then became know as The Wastes of Dragons, It was the final resting place for Magxius and his followers, It became a graveyard where all dragons died. Except one. In the years to come Everiware became stronger and returned to its former glory, great cities which once were stricken with poverty and slavery had returned to busy and rich economic states. Crops grew plentiful and no one went hungry and all seemed well in the lands of Everiware. King Haymond took the scales and fangs of Magxius and created the crown of kings which was only to wore on the head of kings and it stood as a symbol of freedom and the achievement of setting free the people of the land. Haymond was praised by all as a great ruler and a kind king but he did not take likely to the ideas that there could still be dragons in his world. The Loradol told Haymond that one day the son of Magxius would appear and would reclaim his throne but he would not be the Tyrant that his father was. Haymond did not take kindly to the idea of this and banished the Loradol from his kingdom into the Forrest of Clemond where the would remain for the rest of time. Many years passed and there was word that great fires were burning in the mountains above The Waste of Dragons and mighty roars echoed in the night. Haymond did not believe these stories, until one day a farmer came to the kingdom of Glostal and bared proof of the Dragons existence. The Farmer brought forth half eaten sheep and bones from his live stock that been chard. King Haymond knew what he must do he knew he himself had to face this dragon and so he began to search the mountains above The Waste of Dragons. Many months had passed since Haymond went off on his journey, He left Glostal with an army of a thousand men in hopes of either capturing the dragon or killing it. The began to scale the mountains and as the reached the summit there he sat, A Golden Dragon. Bigger and Brighter then Magxius, his scale illuminated as the sun graced upon them. Haymond and his army began to attack but the dragon was to much for them! His wings like hurricanes and his tail thrashed like one thousand whips. This dragon was still young and could not use his fire but the dragon was still stronger than Haymonds army. Haymond was forced to retreat and as he and what left he had of his army escaped the dragon called out " I am Messenth, Son of Magxius, The Last Dragon". Haymond would never forget those words for he knew that the dragon was more mighty then Magxius and that he had to find a way to kill the beast. From that day on Haymond hired teams of hunters to find this dragon and slaughter it. He offered huge rewards for he knew the gold from the scales or the dragon were worth more then the mines of Meyun. Haymond began to become obsessed with the Messenth and even offered his only daughters hand to whomever killed the beats, Thus making them king. Many had tried to hunt down Messenth and many did fail, the golden dragon never stayed in one place and he was always hiding and waiting for when the next group of hunters would attack. Haymond's obsession with Messenth grew worse and the kingdom began to suffer. Haymond used more and more of his kingdoms gold to hunt the dragon that he started borrowing gold from other kingdoms. Eventually his debt over weighted his glory and the other kingdoms began to shut themselves off and kept to themselves. The hunting for Messenth never stopped, New teams of hunter came everyday to hunt for the dragon and Haymond knew the trust of his people was fading fast. He knew they would begin to look at him like they looked at Magxius and he knew war was not far behind. Thanks for reading! This is a companion draft to my Novel that i am writing.

   *Don't look, don't question.*    *Listen to the sounds of the wind and the forest. Don't question them.* An electric stillness moves in tendrils between the trees, gray light fluttering between the pines. A bed of soft black soil to your back. Lappaceous gray needles cover the forest floor and adorn the trees, forming a motionless, living longhouse. Motionless, despite the sound of the wind. Sound, that's all it is. *Look in front of you. What do you see?* Specks of white sun between the needles, a thousand million stars. Copper and sap, electrified by a visceral sense of intense stillness, flow languidly through the air and into your nostrils. *Stand up.* The stars in front of you wheel over the top of your head, and you are upright. The trees seem carefully distanced and horribly upright, as if trying to avoid touching each other for as high-up as possible.    “Where am I?” you say aloud, to no one. *Don't question,* something tells you. Not a voice, but a feeling. The sound of wind grabs hold of you, and propels your legs forward. Shimmering cerulean will-o'-the-wisps appear ludic between distant trees, moving from darkness to light and back again, lygophilia meeting lygophobia. *Aren't they pretty?* Not a question, but a suggestion. You nod lotophogously at the lights, which respond by fading out of sight. Waves of low cricket sounds blow through the trees, nearly drowned out by the forest's howling stillness. You realize you are still walking, but it does not feel like you are.    “Where am I going?” As you say it your legs come to a stop. You don't know how long you've been walking. It seems like it's been hours, but your legs are not sore, and your surroundings appear the same. *Turn around.* You turn around with infinite slowness, and look ahead. The path you've been walking is a straight line, and at the end there is a tree unlike the others. It is black, snarled, and quite deciduous. Its leaves are gone, and it lacks the uniform linear quality of the gray pine trees. Something is tied to the tree. You can see what almost looks like a- *Close your eyes.* You close your eyes before you can further examine the tree. *Are you sure you're ready to see what you nearly just saw?* You nod at nothing, and open your eyes.    The tree is gone, and directly in front of you is an ornate wooden chair with carved animals. A wolf stalks a lolloping lamb across its dark red splat. The armrests, lupiform and snarling, look outwards, wary of looming threats. On the black seat of the chair, like some macabre joke, an open bear trap. A fog crawls on the ground and pools at your feet. You realize with some amusement that you haven't been wearing shoes.    “Where am I?” You realize after some time that you've asked this before. How long ago was it? An hour? Five minutes? *Long enough.* Not a feeling, but a whisper. It doesn't startle you. It's been with you the whole time.    You stare for a long time at the chair and the trap. You feel like something is leaving you. You look around, and the ever-present tendrils of silence are taking their leave, making way for a louder absence of noise. Snow begins to fall, and with a deafening silence it clears the forest of the layer of fog tickling your bare feet, replacing it with a faint layer of snow that flows as water does, and it burns your feet.    You exclaim at the sudden pain, and stomp the ground, your feet instinctively seeking relief. Your mouth held open from pain, you move the bear trap by touching one of its ferocious jaws and pushing. It falls to the ground and lands teeth-up in the collecting snow. The snow cushions its fall, and it does not release. As quickly as you can, you step onto the now empty chair to relieve yourself from the cold burning snow. You can feel how quickly the snow is changing things. You feel how deeply it is changing things. It isn't just changing the environment, it's going beyond that. You can feel it changing the very essence of existence itself. The strange liquid snow seeps into the black soil and down to the very crust of reality. Time freezes in this instant, but you will continue seeing, experiencing. *I, however, have no need for time.* Not a whisper, but spoken word. You'll look around at the white ground, and at the half-buried bear trap, and wonder if this is merely a dream. But you'll know it isn't, as dreams don't make you feel like a million suns have exploded in some distant invisible universe. You'll remember: dreams you can wake up from. You can't wake up from reality.    Eventually after days of waiting on the chair, you'll dip your foot into the snow, just to test it. It will be warm and waist-high, and you'll wade out into it. The bear trap will be out of sight, and the thousand million stars above your head will go out. You'll feel pine needles floating through the snow below the surface, brushing up against your feet as you walk. You'll realize the warm white liquid is flowing against you. You'll decide to follow the flow, through and around the trees, which will then seem to you as great black columns placed evenly from each other. The canopy will seem to you as a ceiling, and the white liquid suddenly very gray. You'll continue to follow the flow until you reach an edge. The edge will appear to you as a great hole in a wall, and the gray liquid snow flows through it and out into open air. You'll let the snow sweep you out of the building which once appeared to you as a forest. You'll loosen the muscles in your legs and lean back, listlessly laying on the surface of the snow as you would a hammock. You'll look upwards into the sky where you'll realize, after hours of floating, that the sky isn't there. You'll bemusedly look up and around without thinking to move your head. You'll search for the sky for hours, but you won't find it. The gray liquid will seep into your skin and you'll think extraordinary thoughts like “How could I have lost the sky?” and “Could I have stopped the sky from leaving?” But the sky was never there to begin with. The veil-canopy was lifted the second you laid down in the snow, and in the sky's place: oblivion. The grievous curve of the gray Earth, faced with great nothingness, will grow restless, longing to fill the void that lay before it. The gray liquid will flow into your ears, and the great floor of the Earth will become a wall with you helplessly submerged in it. A thought will hit you over and over, the same one: *I love you.* You won't know who it's directed at. Perhaps, you'll think, I love the void. You'll feel love emanating from the void, reciprocating, and it is no longer a void, but a space of pure, purposeless love. The Earth, with you on its lips, will kiss the loving oblivion, and you'll feel a great sweeping implosion. Ethereal fuchsia will-o'-the-wisps will spawn all around you, and you'll feel all at once: one with the Earth and oblivion itself. Languescent, you'll stare to the heavens for a thousand years, a thousand years floating in the endless milky sea of what once appeared to you as snow. Billions of stars, emerald to mauve and mauve to rose, will form before your very eyes, great nebulae and constellations taking shape and dissipating like clouds.    A shrill tone will penetrate the atmosphere, reaching you: *Wake up.*    You wake up. The snow is gone, the chair has been toppled over, and you are on your back in the gray forest. *Sit up.* Not a request, but an order. You sit up, and you can see that your right ankle is in the bear trap, and that it is broken and bleeding, but you cannot feel anything. You feel as though a broken leg would be a sobering experience, but you still feel quite languid. Silence rings in your ears, and you reflect on your strange dream. It truly felt as though a thousand years had passed. Perhaps a thousand years did pass. You quickly put the thought out of your mind, as your still-bleeding leg reminds you that it can't have been that long. You reach down to your right foot and try unsuccessfully to pry the teeth apart. Feeling slowly returns to your leg, and pain is now flowing at a steadily increasing rate from your ankle. Over your steady breaths, you can hear the wind again. You look forward into the forest, and see a wolf. Its fur is luridly lateritious, and in its beryl eyes you can see for light-years. You are held fast by the bear trap, and watch as the wolf approaches you silently. It stops a few feet from you and the chair. It faces you full on, and looks at you with accusatory and pitying eyes. It glances down to your entrapped foot, and then back to your eyes. Its eyes are two pools of heavenly misery, and they undulate with life. In its eyes you feel a sort of lentic lecanomancy, and you can see past and future collide within the wolf. A spark passes between the wolf and you, before it turns around and disappears into the forest. The spark is inside your eyelids, like how a light lingers when you shut your eyes on it:    *The Devil is greater than nothing,* the spark says.    The spark moves behind your eyes, present, but out of sight.    You look down, and you realize the trap has opened and reset itself. You remove your injured leg and kick away the trap with the other. A second, stronger spark shoots out of the forest and into your head.    *Nothing is greater than God,* it tells you.    The spark flows down your spine with an unearthly voltaic caress, and settles in your heart.    You look down and see the blood on your leg is gone. The open flesh has closed itself around your mangled ankle. You run a hand down the length of your shin until your fingers roll over the gruesome protrusion, broken bones in mended skin. A third spark, cast from somewhere to your left with a strange latration, flies straight into your mouth. It tastes of wormwood and lightning. Your vision blurs momentarily, tears run down your cheeks, and you feel the bones in your ankle correcting themselves with lancinating agony.    *Therefore, the Devil is greater than God.*    This spark settles at the base of your spine, pressed against the ground.    Pain quickly seeps up into your body from your rearranging bones, and the vertical trees become horizontal as you fall backwards into a sprawl. As you stare upwards, open-mouthed, you realize that night has stifled the sunny stars that shone through the gray needles. The sky is impossibly black, blacker than the needles themselves. The stars of the sunny day have each undergone their own unique supernovae and turned into deep, dark, black holes.    The sparks inside your body pose curious questions, like “If a black hole attracts light, why does it not glow?” and “Can black holes engulf one another?” You're sure someone somewhere knows the answers to these questions, but at the same time you feel as if you've been abandoned on this plane. You feel suffocated at the thought of being perpetually alone. You look forwards, up, and the all-consuming black specks on a field of still gray seem to you a banner for an apocalypse. You close your eyes at the lofty doomsayer, and drift away.    You find yourself grasping at nothing in the darkness. You lay with your palms upwards, and your fingers hunch repeatedly over your palms. The pain in your ankle seems to you quite unnecessary. You've been off the chair for at least one minute. The memory of the wolf's eyes is burned into your vision. *Don't question it.* You don't, but only just. A horrible crack sounds from your ankle, and your leg, internally and externally, is still. You feel the sweet pleasure of the absence of a lengthy pain. *Rest, my child.* A strange pang of familiarity flutters through your mind, but you obey and rest.    In your mind's eye, the eye that only and can only open at night, you see from the wolf. It ran for miles and days. *I* ran for miles and days. The zap startled me, and I hadn't stopped running. What was that creature I saw in the forest? I've never seen anything like it. Its eyes were so impossibly blue. What were the objects it had with it? A sinister-looking mechanical device wrapped around the creatures foot, and a strange wood object. Was that me on the wood object? Was I chasing the creature on the wood? What was that horrible zap between us? All these thoughts and more bounded through my mind faster than I was actually moving. I was zapped a second time as I was running, and a bright light flew behind me. I ran faster. I wasn't sure how far the forest went; I was still inside and it was way past dark. I nearly ran into a tree before I stopped to actually look around. I looked to my left. Trees. I looked to my right. A familiar scent struck my nose, so I followed. I had not walked ten feet before I saw the creature and its objects again. It was facing away and to the left of me, but otherwise it seemed to be in the same position as the last time I had encountered it. It had not noticed me, so I moved slowly towards its left side. A final abrupt zap coursed through me, and I yelped involuntarily. The light flew out of me and at the creature; I supposed that the second zap while I was running had also flown here. The creature fell onto its back after an hour or so, and it looked dead.    I backed away and tried once more to distance myself from the creature. I eventually came upon a very strange tree unlike any I had ever seen before. It was twisted and ugly, its trunk black and scarred, and it had no needles or leaves. There was something on the tree, hanging from it by a rope. I wasn't sure what it was. It looked like the creature, only smaller. It looked dead. A sound made my ears prick up. They were a series of strange, echoing vocal sounds unlike anything I've ever heard-    *-ake up.*    You wake up. The stars have returned, signaling daytime. You question how long you've been here. *You've always been here.* You question where “here” is. *Don't question it.* You could be here for a million years and not tell the difference between that and five minutes. You can feel time move back and forth through the trees as a ghost, ignoring worldly bounds to wreak havoc. *Don't question it.* Sternly. You stop questioning things for the time being.

They say I’m a thug. This shitty bus bench is no throne. Damaged neon signs flicker, clinging to life. Full moon tonight. They say I’m scum. We use to avoid this part of town when I was kid, if we could. Was always told it wasn’t a place for kids, I always thought there was something really cool here, something I could only see when I was adult. Well I wasn’t missing shit. They say I’m dangerous. A cat curls up under the bench, black. Guess no lucky breaks for me tonight. I wonder if the cat is unlucky, or if he just makes things that see him unlucky. Hell of a super power to have. “Oh,” they would say, “It’s Shitty Luck Man to save us!”. Bet that cat has the worst luck of all. It’s not lucky to be born black, least’ not around here. They say I wasn’t even smart enough to finish school. A high school diploma doesn’t feed 3 brothers. Not when your pops makes minimum wage, and Mom is sick again. You’re probably surprised both of my parents are still around aren’t you? Well I say I didn’t have a choice. The first few weeks were great. Brothers could finally eat three meals a day. I even splurged and got Frosted Flakes, instead of the shitty off brand. They were so excited, finished that whole damn box in like 3 days. Then shit started getting out of hand. They were just rumors at first, then the brawl down by the barber escalated shit. But you can’t just stop. Couldn’t let them go back to mother fucking Frosted Flakes, back to going to bed hungry. I was gonna be an engineer. I used to fly through math class at school, couldn’t be easier. The numbers fit together like puzzle pieces. But I was good enough with numbers to know I couldn’t go to college. 25 thousand a year, in state. What a bunch of bull shit. I still hear about “The American Dream” on the radio. Well fuck the American Dream. The real American Dream is not being born here. Muffled voices, car door slams in the background. Not much time left, .44 feels heavy, not even fucking loaded, I’m no killer. A car screams by, police sirens following. There’s the cat, lying still in the street. The blood ran down into the gutter, reflecting in the moon light. Guess I was right. Footsteps, getting louder, more than I thought there would be. Click, click, click, click, pop-pop-pop-pop. The blood ran down into the gutter, reflecting in the moon light.

The sweat dribbled down my neck… Guns screamed as they bombarded our mighty vessels. The deaths of innocent solider pained me to know that young men who had such blissful live were strong enough to give it all up in the name of their country… the sirens howled as we approached the beach the mortars rained upon us like a pack of lions charging at their prey. That very shrapnel that once formed those mortars was now either stuck in the sand or impaled in a soldier’s soul forever holding him at the battlefield. The heavy machine gun emplacement rained fire upon us. The howitzers did so to… fatigue struck me as I stumble across the beach searching for some cover to emplace myself within hoping that nothing would harm me. As I ran I noticed a hole that had been created by the mortars explosion. As I dived into it my life passed before my eyes… my birth…my first birthday… my first pet… my graduation and finally my death. In a way I had predicted my own death. The end-game of my life…. As the mortar struck the captain screamed “move up” I began to dash for the nearest bunker knocking anything in my way down. The Germans began to charge bayonets at the ready. The cavalry began their assault on the bunkers. As they approached the Germans they drew there sword and began to slash furiously. One by one they fell. Rolling… rolling ever more on the battlefield. Their heads where like that of a beach ball. It was a simpler time back then before all this erupted, the chaos, the destruction, the bloodshed. Our Capitan ordered us to open fire and so we did the black gun powder ceased my nostrils as if they were trying to take control. The very touch of the guns was brutal so much pain was caused by them and what would they solve. Their purpose was not to create but to destroy to take away to cause pain to other people. Wars were not intended for peace they were intended to destroy…take over…rule. They are the very thing that will soon end the human race, and one day and when it does end … we will all think back to this moment the First World War. BANG!! An explosion I charge up further hoping that I won’t be shot. Today is not a good day to die. Today was my birthday the day I was born… and this day could be the last. I have to make every minute count. This is not war this is poverty… corruption Death! We were the front line we were to supposedly lead the fight but why? We were we picked to lead the fight I never wanted to come out here but peer pressure from my friends caused me too. It should have been my choice I always dreamed about owning a little bar. But that dream was cut short because of this. We all thought this would be fun… a way to travel the world. I wanted to see parts of the world I would never be able to see. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I took it not knowing the horrors that would follow me. I see now that warfare is something not to be trifled with and yet I choose to be engulfed into its everlasting flames. It was as if I had entered the gates of hell and was now stuck there for eternity. My only salvation was death and that was a price I was willing to pay. As I began to move again a huge squad of Germans decided to show their faces and we were ready for them. The captain howled across the battlefield open fire. Rifles blazed one bullet after a next. They tore through the Germans flesh as if we were tigers ripping flesh from our captured prey. Bullet by bullet … bit by bit the Germans fell believing in what they thought was right. There weak body’s not able to withstand the fear driven shot of the rifles. Why did the Germans even choose to fight was it over land, Politics or maybe just for fun. Will we ever find out what this was over? Will this war ever end? It seems like years since we signed up. The propaganda tricked me into this they were abusing our lives’ taking away our freedom, for the sake of their own. Why don’t they come down here and fight. Why don’t they see what trench warfare is like instead of making up lies saying it brilliant. What was the point in all this? Many lives are being wasted by the second. And for what? We will get nothing in return for the price we paid. We sold our soul to the devil and yet get nothing in return. I can only hope we have enough men to help take this. Reinforcement’s would only be gunned down as soon as they landed. Our job now was to secure this beach that mean taking out every last German within 2 miles of here. We need our reinforcement if we’re going to make a push into the city. Who knows what horrors await us there. I don’t want to think about. I must concentrate on taking this position first. It is vital we own this spot or how else will we be able to launch our attack. As I charge into the bunker a German lunges at me with his bayonet I manage to dodge the first to strikes and get him but his friend catches me off guard. All I hear is death… All I smell is smoke… All I see is blood spurting from the huge gash in my chest… We were all made for a purpose mine was to go into war and die. There was no point in me trying to move. It would only make my sacrifice more painful. As I look up I see a crowd of Germans pointing their guns at me waiting for their leader to give them the word. He spoke in English “burn in hell you English dog”. They were the final word I heard. Then my brother’s charged in hoping to save me they were too late. As they burst through the doors the Germans had pulled the trigger. I laid there on the floor never to awaken again… Put into an eternal slumber.

12/12/2014 Ali and Khalid were near river bank. Suddenly it starts raining. “I just love rain”, said Khalid. “Same here darling”, replied Ali. Ali, son of a landlord who lived near Shikarpur and Khalid, son of a farmer who lived in a mud hut in same village, were best friends. Khalid (spreading his arms like he is to embrace rain): Ali do you know why I just love the rain? Ali: No. Why? Khalid (Takes a deep breath): Because there are some things in the world which are not discriminative, which do not judge people with their physical appearance or their bank balance or the property they possess. They just aren’t like our judgmental society, and rain is one of them… (A little pause)… Rain is not unjust, it is same for poor or rich, that’s why I love it. Ali: Hey dear I am always with you…lets go now. They both went back to Ali’s home. Ali’s family was playing in rain. Watching this Khalid asked to leave; he did not want to interrupt their fun. He left and started walking back to his home. He was enjoying rain. As he reached home, he saw something, and stood there, shocked! His family was also in rain but collecting their belongings. Rain had made his hut collapse… He stood their thinking that everything is discriminative, even rain is unjust to poor. 3/01/2015 Ali and Khalid stood near river and it was raining… Khalid: Ali do you know why I hate rain…..

First of all, I just want to say I'm no writer and I don't consider myself one. I just did these for kicks and thought maybe someone might enjoy them. That's it. Have a good week. This is taking too long," said the priest in a hushed whisper. "He should have been here by now." "Patience my dear, he is not that late. Come, sit with me." The blood elf priest huffed disapprovingly and then rolled her eyes at her companion. She sauntered over to a nearby stump, scrutinized it closely and flicked a dusk-beetle off it before sitting down. The moonlight was shining into the small glade and the only sound in the night was the soft crackling of the fire in front of the two. The Blood Elf's eyes glowed especially green in the darkness, whether this was due to the moonlight or her ever-increasing ire towards their late guest, he did not know. "Tull," she said softly as she laid a hand on the tauren's shoulder. "You know as well as I do that we need to go." The tauren poked a stick into the fire watching the embers slowly float into the air and be swept away by the soft night breeze. "You heard it yourself," she continued, "two full encampments of gnolls headed to Grimtotem this very night. We need to meet the others there or..." The tauren stood up and stomped his hooves into the ground, shaking it violently. "You think I don't know this?! There are four of us Tay, only four!" His voice growled and for an instant, she thought she saw his fur thicken. "Artemis and Bubb will be there now," his anger unleashed, she now spoke freely. "If we wait much longer we risk not getting there in time." She stepped closer to the tauren, her green eyes narrow, "He's not worth it. Not him. Rarely trust a mage; Do not trust the dead." "Now, now, Sweetness," came a voice from the shadows, "It is rather unkind to speak ill of those who might be of assistance, wouldn't you agree?" Tull and Tay turned to see a figure step into the glade. His sickly, pallid skin was stretched over his bones and torn, ripped flesh hung loosely in areas. His robes were purple and black with fine scarlet etchings adorning the hem and cuffs. His smile was wicked and mocking but it was his eyes that caught the attention of the companions. Bright, unblinking, blue glowing eyes, not the yellow of the dead, set in deep sockets scanned the two. After a few more moments, the stranger fell into a low bow and held it. "My name, as you have guessed, is Nexx," his voice was coarse and rasped with malice. Looking up at the two, they saw he was grinning. "I hear you have a gnoll problem," he held out his hand and a small flame burst into being. He stared at it lovingly and then clenched his hand, snuffing it out. "I think I may be of some use.

I'm 17 and free write frequently. We were in a 30 foot catamaran about 75 miles off Port Elizabeth in South Africa. It was around 5:30 PM and the seas were calm. Things were much brighter than usual, much.. Better, id say. Like a more lit up world with nothing to worry about. All I could see was water. No land, no boats, just water all around. The only radio we had was to call local ships, but there were none. It was lifeless. Imagine swimming in a pool, that swishing sound as you move about walking the floor of the pool, the movement of the water rippling, that's all that I could hear. The two ballasts of the boat cut through the water like knives cutting butter. Tuna were breaching the water from time to time. Blue Wales were breeding at the surface of the ocean. It was wonderful. At around 12:00 I woke up to the constant slamming of the cabin door and wind whistling throughout the boat. We had a parachute anchor in the water to stabilize us as we went to sleep for the night. I went out of the cabin to see exactly what we were dealing with. I looked towards the stern of the boat and all I could see was water. The bow was slightly tilted out of the ocean and one of the stabilizers on the right side was cracked and close to breaking. I woke up my mate and we began bailing the boat, but for every 10 gallons we poured out, another 20 came in from a giant wave crashing over the side. I gave up. This was the end. We were 75 miles off the coast of a country whose language we can't even speak. Boats rarely go around the tip of Africa. It's a scary place to be at sea, all boaters know that. The wind switched directions and the boom of the boat quickly switched sides. I didn't have any time to duck and it hit me square in my left temple, knocking me unconscious and flipping the boat on its side. I woke up in the stern of the boat, tangled in the guard rail. The boat had managed to flip back upright. Water was to my knees and the cabin was completely flooded. The sails were torn down the middle and ribbon split down the side. Very difficult to patch. I couldn't find my mate. I looked around, looked in the cabin, in the water, nothing. I went to the bow of the boat and looked under. He was, thankfully, just sleeping in a liferaft. I woke him up and helped him get to his feet. His right leg was badly bruised and looked broken to my eyes. We tried our FM radio, but no one answered. Who knows how far we had drifted. For 10 days we struggled to survive. We ran out of water on the sixth. And food on the ninth. We were hungry, sick, burnt, and weak. We needed out. And we needed it soon. We aren't survivalists. This wasn't like the movies where you get lucky and catch a fish with a homemade hook. There were no boats coming for us. On the tenth day I climbed to the top of the mast and looked to the horizon. I saw land. Barely visible. But land. We ambled in life raft and paddled like hell. After a tiring four and a half hours of rowing, we finally arrived. It was a forest area. My first thought was, "oh great. A deserted island. Just what we need." But Josh, my mate, heard faint drumming coming from the Forrest. We followed it and it slowly got louder. It was a tribe. We were saved. Thank god. We approached the tribe in our battered, torn, and wet clothing, water and blood dripping from out clothes, thinking that there'd welcome us with open arms. None spoke English. Not one. I looked back. Turned my head. And realized I was was looking into the barrel of a gun. All of this. All that we've been through. And it's over. Surviving a shipwreck, living through a treacherous storm, and this is how it ends. They blindfolded us. All we could see was darkness. "Hetsika!" He screamed. I didn't know what the hell that meant at the time but by the gun jabbing at my back my only thought was to walk. He brought us in to what I thought was a tent, a small, worn down tent. The fabric felt that way at least. "Inside!" He said with a heavy African accent. He spoke English. That's a surprise. He took off our blindfolds. The floor was red. Stained red. Originally the color of sand. There was no posters on the wall. Only a form of art. Sick, inhumane, twisted art. Limbs of people, white people were nailed to every corner of the wall. Each arm was painted a color. "This is your future" he said. "Be excited. Be ready." You could see the blood trickling down the wall like rain on a windshield. "Empty your pockets my mate was the first to empty his. I quickly followed. He looked at my wallet. "Ahh American! That's good! Now I will have no regret." He was interrupted by a boy screaming. "I'll be back." He said. Our arms were tied behind our backs and our glens were tied together. Escaping would be hard, but never impossible. There was a glass bottle near the door, about 3 yards away. I stood up and hopped to it. I grabbed it with my teeth and dropped it on the ground. It shattered. I grabbed a shard of glass and sat back down. "I said stay put. You don't listen. "The man said as he walked through the door." "Which one of you filthy Americans did this." "Me" replied Josh. I looked at josh. He looked at me. "Come with me." He was hesitant to get up. "Now!" Demanded the man, grabbing him by the color and dragging him over the shards of broken glass. I got to work. Cutting down the rope with the small piece of glass I had. Arms were set free first, then the legs. I looked outside. My friend stood facing a wall, gun to his head. "If you can't listen, this is your fate" said the man followed by a loud gunshot. He faced me and began reloading his gun. I ran. I didn't stop. I ran for about an hour. I was in the jungle. Where was I. Was there anyone, at all. Anyone to set me free. I was hungry, thirsty, hurt, and for the first time in my life, completely alone.

Sitting atop his dire wolf looking down into the waste that was Desolace, the orc thought about the road ahead. South through the hot sands of Desolace and into the wilds of Ferelas, all before nightfall, was no easy task. “The road is long my love, we must not tarry,” came a hollow voice to his left. The orc straightened and nodded his approval, then, whispering a words on encouragement to his wolf, the pair took off town the dusty path into the open desert of Desolace. He glanced to his left and saw his companion bent low over a grey wolf, spurring it on. She looked to him and smiled and urged her wolf forward, past his. It was a game they played, a challenge of stamina and cunning, how to get the most out of your wolf and yourself to reach your destination first. They had played this game when they first met over eight years ago. They had also played it the evening of her death. It was in the early days of spring, not six months past. They were hired as a part of a garrison to protect local traders as they passed from the Crossroads to Bloodhoof village. She was a huntress and skilled tracker, always sensing danger before it could bring them any harm. Her black tiger, Bast she called her, would prowl the tree lines and flush out any would-be assailants. He on the other hand was an apprentice warlock, dabbling in the dark magics and tricks of the shadow realm. They were a formidable team. This particular evening was quiet. There were no traders to be making a nightly run and so the pair set out for a moonlight stroll mostly to enjoy each others company. She had commanded Bast to stay behind with the wolves and together they walked towards the small tree line of a nearby oasis. Deep in conversation, they strayed deeper into the small glade. He was telling her how he had gotten the scar across his jaw, a story she had heard hundreds of times, but loved the way he told it. The slightest hint of a smile crossed her lips and without a word, she took off in a dead sprint and he followed, welcoming their game. Through the trees they weaved, trying to gain advantage until he finally caught up to her, wrapping his massive arms around her as she laughed. He still remembered the warm evening and how her olive-green skin gleamed with a thin layer of sweat. She was smiling at him but, that only lasted for a moment. She was smiling, a low growl, almost a purr, rumbled deep from her throat when her eyes darted past him and her smile faded. Her muscles tensed and in a flash her bow was off her shoulder with an arrow notched. He turned away from her and spoke in whispers, calling upon his powers, drawing energy into himself, inviting the darkness, the shadows. His breathing slowed and matched hers, together they stood silent, back to back, watching the forest, waiting. The cry came from his right, a loud challenge from deep inside the trees. A centaur sprang out from the trees and before he could muster a word, she placed an arrow neatly in his eye. More centaur quickly piled into the glade brandishing rusted blades, crude stone axes, warped short bows and long jagged spears. Arrows flew in all directions as did his evil omens and plagues. One centaur was horrified, screaming and clawing out his eyes with his own daggers until she placed two arrows into his chest. The bodies were piling up but their numbers seemed to be increasing and they both knew it was time to make a hasty retreat. She quickly cast a frost trap into the nearest group and he placed a fear curse on a few others. They turned and ran, hearing the dull thunk of arrows as they dug deep into trees on either side. Only once they cleared the trees and the sound of the angered centaurs died away did he look to her. She was leaning against a tree hunched over slightly, her breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. When he went to her she looked up at him and smiled. Her tunic was covered in blood and three arrowheads poked through; one in her stomach and two in her chest. The fact that she had made it to the edge of the glade filled him with pride. She quickly sank to one knee and her smile faded. No words were exchanged as he bent down and took her into his arms. Even with blood pouring from her wounds, she never cried out, never complained. Telling her that the wounds were but scratches, that he would save her, she looked to him, her eyes open, unfocused, and unseeing. His sadness gave way to rage almost immediately as he cursed the sky and earth. His roars shook the treetops and his body filled with energy. He lay her body on it’s side and removed the arrows. Resting her on her back he knelt over her and glowered. His mind racing for answers, for an explanation of what had happened, of what he could do. And then his mind cleared, his rage ebbed and he began to chant. Slow at first, then more persistent. His words had meaning, had a purpose. The earth under her began to rot and fester, the air began to reek of sulfur and a thin, purple haze of mist seeped from the group an began to envelop her. With his hands placed on her forehead and chest his chanting was now hollow, directed, practised. A small tear in the earth opened and through it came a hand. A sharp, bony, clawed thing, digging into the earth and pulling behind it a lithe monstrosity. Leathery crimson wings, taloned feet and a face with no eyes, just a mouth with teeth like shards of yellow, broken glass. There were no words spoken between the warlock and this, demon, this, Terrorguard, yet no words were needed. The Terrorguard inclined its head and gave what appeared to be, a crude, knowing smile before it bent over the dead orcs body. It’s mouth opened wide releasing a shrill scream followed by a fetid mist of deep purple and green into her mouth. After a few moments the Terrorguard quieted and backed away. Turning to the warlock, it raised a great clawed finger and sunk it deep within the flesh of the orc’s chest, dragging it across his breast, ripping him open where a dark green ooze poured from the grievous wound. The Fiend’s tongue then lashed out, burning his skin and closing the wound. The tongue entered his great toothed-maw and he reveled in the taste, a slow shudder crossed his body. A voice, deep, powerful but distant, echoed in the warlock’s mind. “Boouunndd.” When he looked to see where the demon had gone, he was nowhere in sight. He knelt and picked up his beloved and carried her back to the Crossroads where she lay unconscious for days. One evening he was tending to dinner when a cold hand gently touched his shoulder. He turned to see his mate, his Artemis, standing before him. Her skin was paler than he remembered but her smile was the same. She did not speak but merely hugged him and he returned it. When they separated he saw that her usual dark brown eyes were now yellow and her body seemed frail and weak. He pushed the thoughts away and offered her a seat and poured her a hot bowl of zhevra stew. The two sat silently for many hours just happy to be together once again. “Where are your thoughts?” came a voice. He shook his head and saw Artemis looking at him quizzically. “Nowhere. Just…” he hesitated, “…it is nothing,” he sighed. Artemis slowed her wolf and he did the same. She circled around to look at him, her face wrinkled, shallow, decaying. “Do you regret the pact you made?” she asked softly, her voice a mere whisper. He looked into her cold, yellow eyes, void of the spirit of life they once held and gently grasped her hand. “Never. You are mine and I am yours. If that demon had not done my bidding I would have plunged into the OtherWorld itself and demanded you be returned to me.” Even in death her smile was warm and it reminded him of all the reasons he did what he had done. “As I did when I heard you call my name,” she said finally. After a few moments Artemis pulled her hand away, sat up straight and turned to south, towards Ferelas. “It is getting late my love, I fear we may not make the camp by nightfall,” she spoke over he shoulder watching the setting sun. Bu'Gann smiled to himself and brought his black wolf alongside hers and cast her a sideways glance. “If the hunter is tired,” he said, “perhaps she would care to sleep?” Artemis gave a loud laugh and kicked her heels into the wolf’s flank setting it wild on the path to Ferelas. Her love trailed close behind, and once again they were children playing at The Chase.

The lads all arrived at Jakes flat, ready for the next session. Last weeks raw egg omelette had turned out well, as each of them had experienced at least minor gains, which is apparently a great thing in the world of a ‘lad-chef’. They were lucky to have met each other, as the ‘lad-chef’ is becoming a rare thing, due to the introduction of deliverable ‘Pro-Teen-Meels’, the protein meal for teens. The excitement in the air was palpable, as Chad had come up with an idea for something completely new: a protein pizza, with all the ingredients of a pizza, except in the form of an easily chuggable milkshake like drink. In the world of gains, it is not worth wasting time on the –lets be honest – archaic act of chewing food. The jaw muscles do not need to be exercised, the lads thought, unless it was when they were enjoying their Friday nights, throwing back pingas like Tic-Tacs in the musky voids they chose to pick up chicks and party with them in. This was the way they lived. The body was an absolute temple, Gods gift to them to be utilised and worked to the best of its abilities, and when that point was reached it was to be pushed further. You could never be too strong, be it your quads, lats, tricep, bicep, abs, or pecs – and to achieve this you had to work hard and only take in wholesome, nutritious food and drinks. ‘Work hard, live clean, eat clean’ was their motto. Until Friday of course, when all of this went out the window in the pursuit of good feelings, alcoholic beverages, and cheap women. But even Feelgood-Friday couldn’t take away from Tuesday nights ‘Bro’s-Inventing-Cheap-Easy-Protein’ nights, or BICEP for short. Chad had told the some of the other lads about Jakes incredible idea for the pizza drink, and the word had spread quickly throughout the squad. WhatsApp messages had flown around the gym quicker than the guys could pump out sets on the leg press machine. They were hoping for something special, and expectations were higher than Seth Bro-gen in Pineapple Express. Even Tony was coming along, which was a rare occasion as he had literally married a gym the year before, and found it hard to get away nowadays. According to Jake, or ‘The Min-bro-taur’ as he preferred to be called, the recipe was fairly simple. However, some of the guys couldn’t quite get their head behind the premise of the whole thing. The problem you see, was the use of a small red fruit called the tomato. Most of them had never heard of the word fruit, let alone the ‘tomabro’ as Chad mistakenly referred to it as. This was because of the poor fruits unfortunate relative lack of protein in its makeup. The one bit they could manage to wrap their testosterone filled brains around was the concept of a powder, something they were used to both in their daily shake routine and their ‘debrochery’ filled Friday nights. Four powders were involved in the recipe: whey protein powder, creatine, pre-made pizza base powder from the supermarket around the corner, and dextrose powder (you need some carbs for bulking). On top of these powders was a mix of tomatoes, cottage cheese, and some ground Italian herbs to add a pinch of flavour and class. Jake added all the ingredients into the blender, and proceeded to pulverise the contents until they were well mixed and ready to pour. A glass was prepared for each of the lads, and garnished with a sprig of fresh parsley, as Jake was a true lad-chef connoisseur. They each downed their glass in mere seconds, desperate to feed their slowly depleting muscles – some of them hadn’t eaten in over 40 minutes and they could feel their arms shrinking. ‘It’s alright I guess’, said Hank. ‘Nothing on your Clean Lean Beef and Beans on Broast smoothie though’, complained Brad.

She has long, wavy honey-brown hair. Uncertainty in every movement she makes. Her eyes are bright amber yellow but they’re hidden behind the blackness of fear. Every movement is cautious, well planned and, poorly executed. Clumsily staggering through the universe searching for reassurance. Fear lurks around every dark corner. She hastily walks through the park trails, examining the entire surrounding area with sharp, jerked movements and uncertainty. She begins to breathe out of her mouth, heavily. A stranger walking a dog approaches from a connecting trail. Her heart races, her vision blurs. They pass and she forces a smile and “good-morning!” Shes out of breath. Her mind hates that. A hundred thousand scenarios play out in her mind as her walking speed increases. Soon, she is almost running. She approaches a steep hill, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every step is shaky and limp but strong and quick. Out of breath at the top, she continues to speed walk. It doesn't end until she’s inside. Surrounded. Surrounded by potential. In a cruel world not made for mistakes, she makes plenty. In a world aimed at perfection, she stumbles below the average line. Confidence is false, smiles are rare and comfort is a luxury. Music is only enjoyed when it’s loud enough to drown out the inner mind. On the bus, half of the lights fail to work. She sits under the only illuminated row. The constant noise makes it difficult to focus. Difficult to forget. Both ear buds in, she avoids eye contact while scanning the crowd of seats below her. Some man has been glancing at her since she got on at the terminal. She shifts in discomfort. *Don’t look at me, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Please.* The entire duration of her trip on the bus consists of her fumbling to find her keys in her purse before she pulls the wire. He looks over and smiles, letting out a small laugh. She is frantic. Her mind is telling her she has met her end. She calmly removes one ear bud to catch if he speaks. Her stop approaches, she pulls the wire. Shaking and going pale she stands up to reach the front of the bus. Like a winter storm front has hit her skin is cold and shaking, she is covered in a thin layer of sweat. She hastily exits the bus and chokes out a “thank-you” to the driver. The street lights are on and she is approaching her street. Almost running she aims to get inside as soon as possible. Making sure nobody is watching her, making sure nobody knows where she lives. She is vulnerable there. *Why do I feel so vulnerable? I am strong. I’m alone. I’m weak… I’m afraid.

Rufus and Daniel entered the classroom and sat down on their desks. A teacher followed them inside. “Do you know why you two are in here this time?” she asked as she stood in front of them with her arms crossed. “Yes, Ms. Flora,” they both said without any effort. “Why?” “Because we were throwing paper balls at you…” She nodded. “This is the tenth time you’re in detention. The tenth! I hope you will both think about what you’ve done, and never do it again!” She grabbed a chalk and began writing on the blackboard. The classroom was pretty ordinary. It had posters of the alphabet and numbers, the rules of the classroom, and how to have proper hygiene. The students’ desks were arranged in 6 rows of 5. Some of them were covered with poor graffiti like, “'X' and 'X' for life” and “so and so was here.” The walls were decorated with students’ artwork and stories. Ms. Flora’s desk was neat and organized. It had students’ finished homework on one pile, graded tests on another, and folders of what the students have done all year. That’s all there was. No picture of family, no apple on desk, nothing else. The rest of the homework and classwork for the students to do in the future was put away in her drawers—as well as pencils, paper clips, pens, thumbtacks, chalk, crayons, and any other tools she—or the students—needed to use for class. She was writing down the lesson for tomorrow: adding and subtracting. She wrote down problems to solve. Rufus put his head down on his table and Daniel sat quietly. When Ms. Flora was finished writing, she put down the chalk. She opened the blinds, revealing a pleasant day. The sun wasn’t out, but the sky was blue, and it wasn’t too cloudy. Kids were having fun on the playground. They were swinging on the swings, playing tag, basketball, and played with their wrestling action figures in the sandbox; some just spoke to each other. She watched them all smiling, not worrying about life and having a good time. “Look at them,” she growled. “How repulsive.” She stared at the blackboard, and then she picked up the chalk again. Two plus two Three plus three Five minus four The chalk tapped against the blackboard, with an inconsistent rhythm. Twenty minus eleven Ten minus seven She cringed when she heard the children’s laughter. Fifty minus twenty She kept hearing the children outside. She gritted her teeth, and tried to ignore them. One thousand plus three hundred seventy five She wrote vigorously. Five hundred thousand minus three hundred thousand, one hundred and seventy five The writing became faster. Seven hundred thousand plus four hundred thousand, six hundred twenty one Their voices went through one of her ears, but it didn’t come out of the other. One million minus one hundred thousand, seven hundred and three She grunted out of frustration and stopped. She took a deep breath, and then began writing with more intensity. In all my years of teaching, I have never met such spoiled little brats! You have done so many terrible things to me: super gluing me to my chair, ripping up homework and classwork that I had ready to pass out, putting gum on the blackboard, and even eating my lunch! That’s not to say that I didn’t hate any of my other students that I had over the years; I despise all of the students that I have ever taught. Well, maybe not all of them. Only a select few behaved. Each year, I would only have about four or five of those in each class. They were rare. But as for all those other pesky kids, I hate them all. They spoke during the middle of my lessons. They didn’t do their homework. They didn’t pay any attention to me at all. Many of them slept, not caring. You delinquents made my job impossible! I have a bad reputation. Those other damn teachers, telling me that I’m not a good enough. They tell me that I don’t put in enough effort to try to keep you pests under control. They tell me that I should quit! I put all my heart and soul into teaching! And you know what I get in return? A slap in the face! You don’t care, none of you do! Only those few cared… but now they’ve moved on in life. And this year, I only like one or two out of all my students in each of my classes. Their numbers keep decreasing! So this doesn’t apply to those students that I like. You know what I’d like to imagine doing to all of you troublemakers? I’d like to imagine locking you all up in my basement. There wouldn’t be food or water for any of you to have in there, so you would all suffer and die. Daniel watched what Ms. Flora was writing. “Hey,” he whispered to Rufus, “look at what she’s writing.” Rufus lifted his head up, half awake. He groaned. “But that’s so boring.” “Trust me, it isn’t,” said Daniel while trying to sound convincing. He pointed at the blackboard. “Just look!” “Okay, I guess…” Rufus watched what the teacher was writing. He frowned when he saw what the words said. I’d like to imagine tying your hands behind your back and blindfolding you all. I’d line you up. I would shoot you all down, one by one. You would all be terrified, waiting until it was your turn. “What? Why is she writing all this crazy stuff?” asked Rufus. I’d like to take you all to my home, and throw you into my fireplace. I’d enjoy listening to all of your screams of agony as you burn alive. “Did we hurt her that bad?” asked Daniel. “I don’t think so.” I’d like to perform surgery on all of you, without any anesthesia. And I’m no doctor! “But what we did to you was harmless…” said Rufus out loud to the teacher. “And you want to make us suffer in the worst way possible? And then, have us killed?” Ms. Flora didn’t pay attention to what he told her, and kept on writing. Do you know how hard it is having to deal with all of you? It’s a living nightmare! I dread every single day that I have to come into this classroom. Why should I allow you all to keep making my life miserable? No, not this time. You rodents deserve to die… She put down the chalk and searched her desk. She checked through all her papers and tools, throwing them on the floor. She tipped the desk over and pulled out the drawers, one by one. She dropped out everything that was in them and threw the drawers against the walls. “Um… Ms. Flora, what are you doing?” asked Daniel. She dug up the mess she made. Papers and tools went flying in all directions. She picked up a gun that was in the pile. “Hah! This school has such lousy security.” “W-Why do you have that?” asked Rufus She laughed. “No, please, don’t kill us!” exclaimed Daniel, terrified. The laughter continued. Rufus tugged on Daniel’s shirt and pointed at the door. They both ran for it and tried to open it. It was locked. Ms. Flora stood there—for what seemed like hours to the both of them—facing the blackboard, while holding the gun in her hand. “We’re sorry, Ms. Flora. We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. We won’t do it again! Honest.” Daniel backed away to the back of the room slowly. “P-please stop! If this is a prank to make us stop bothering you, then you win!” said Rufus. She didn’t respond. “It’s over!” said Daniel as he had his back against the wall, sliding down. “We’re done for.” “We shouldn’t have bothered her… She’s gone insane.” Rufus sat at his desk and held his head in despair. They both cried hysterically. More silence. Ms. Flora flipped the gun over and over, staring at the ground. She observed all the words that she put on the blackboard. She heaved a sigh, and then picked up the chalk once more. She wrote: You poor thing… suffering for all these years. Look at you, you’re so pathetic. You could never handle mischievous children, and you never will. The pain just keeps growing, doesn’t it? It’s gotten to the point where you can’t take it anymore. But don’t worry. It will all end. You deserve to die just as much as they do, too. She put the chalk down, and put the gun to her head. She gave Rufus and Daniel an odious grin, and pulled the trigger. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she dropped the gun. Her body landed on the floor with a loud thud. They both sniffled as the last of their tears were exposed. They stood up, mouths open. Petrification took over their bodies—they didn't make any noise. They couldn’t stop staring at the blood that poured out of Ms. Flora’s head.

{i wrote this some time ago. it was meant to be the opening chapter to a story I never finished. If i could get any feedback on this at all, itd be whether or not reading this made you want to read more. Thanks} Darryl Zimbargo lay in bed with his wife, Jillian. For twenty eight years Darryl had slept in this bed; knees tucked to his chest, back facing toward his spouse. The bedroom had looked much the same for all those years. Same night stand, same television, same rug and even the same bed sheets and pillow cases. The only thing that had ever changed was the addition of a bright red rotary telephone eight years ago. Jillian often wondered about the phone. After all, during the eight years since Darryl had brought it home, it hadn’t rung once. She knew better than to ask her husband about it, as she knew that he worked for the government on a number of highly classified projects; the nature of which she did not know or dare inquire about. Needless to say, Darryl was sworn to secrecy. Although Jillian sometimes recalled the one time she had asked her husband about the red rotary. Eight years ago she had won an antique brass plate that was riddled with long, snake-like markings on it at an auction out of town. Upon bringing it home she scrutinized every flat surface of their home in order to find just the right spot for it. Due to her being a bit of a hoarder, literally every place was already inhabited by all of her other antiques, causing Jillian a great deal of discontent. Eventually she resolved to remove the red rotary telephone from their bedroom and place the brass plate in its stead, knowing that there were plenty of other spots for it. Besides, at the time the phone had only been there for two weeks and hadn’t rung once, what use could it be? That night Darryl came home from an unusually long day at work. Like every other day, he walked in carrying a familiar yet almost alien smell on his clothing, slipped off his Testoni’s, and went to their bedroom to change into his casual wear. As Jillian was setting the pot roast on the table for dinner, Darryl ran into the kitchen with the brass plate in his hand and upon seeing the red rotary on the edge of the sideboard where she had left it, exploded into a fit of rage. He told her to never touch the phone again and threw the plate across the room. He then plugged the phone back into the wall and carried on as if nothing had ever happened. During the twenty years that she had been married to this man, Jillian had never seen her husband blow up like that and hadn’t any time afterward. It scared her. So much in fact, that she hadn’t spoken a single word of the silent rotary nor even acknowledged its existence since. She knew nothing of that phone other than that it was clearly very important to Darryl, or maybe more specifically to the people he worked for. That was all she knew and she was content not knowing anything more. What Darryl did at work was his business; who was she to pry into government affairs? The way she saw it, the phone was just another mystery about her husband that she had no interest in solving. If Jillian could simply live out the rest of her days tending to her garden, cleaning the house, making breakfast, lunch and dinner and sleeping silently at the end of each day—she’d be content. Only on this particular night as the two slept soundly, the silence was broken. Jillian opened her eyes in confusion. It was midnight and there was not a noise to be heard all throughout the house. Except for that beeping. What was that beeping? Beep Beep Beep She wondered but somehow knew, subconsciously she knew exactly what that noise was. Suddenly Darryl sprung out of bed and snatched the red rotary phone’s receiver faster than she would have ever thought possible for her aging spouse. He brought it to his ear, saying nothing as if waiting for something. Then, permeating through the silence of their bedroom, a voice spoke two words that would echo in her ears for the rest of her life. The words frightened Jillian; she didn’t know why but it frightened her more than she had ever been in her life.

The heavy man with one working eye pulls his old truck off the main road, away from all the trees, down the gravel drive toward his childhood home. What he finds is just a shack now, a small house on a long, flat plot of land. He settles into the old chair on the short deck, looking out at the dark land, scratching his patchy beard. The house is empty, his parents dead, he figures he's about ready to die too. In this small town the man does not go unnoticed, rumours begin to circulate, he’s strange now, they say. Those who once knew the man hear he's not the same as he was, or that he's simply gotten worse. Weeks pass before the man in the little house receives a visitor, the only visitor he'd ever expect to have, an old friend in a shiny new car crunching slowly up the gravel driveway. The last time the man saw him this friend had taken Bobby to bed, the shy little girl the man had fallen for in tenth grade, then he'd left the man half blind when he protested. Now, late at night, that friend approaches the old house, stopping first to peak into the man’s old truck. Peering into the open window of the truck Daniel spots the old man’s binoculars sitting on the torn leather seat. He hears a door creak and finds the man peaking out at him with his good eye. He’s gotten very big, but standing there unclothed he looks sick to Daniel, pale and haggard, even dripping with sweat. He's holding the door, his expression is possibly hostile, suspicious, waiting for Daniel to speak. "Went for a drink by the ball park," Daniel says, his voice echoing across the property. “You see, I gotta drive by your folks place here, whenever I go down there, but of course there's never any lights on in the house, not until recently. So, knew you’d come back. Maybe thought I'd drop by, say hello." The man turns, looks out at the land, obscuring his pale eye, the blue horizon hasn’t gone dark there yet. "Brought a few beers,” Daniel says, lifting a six-pack and approaching the front step. “Thought you might want one." The hesitation in the man’s big face is gone, a sort of smile creeps up, he winks at Daniel. “But i have company,” he whispers. "Oh. Well then." The man peers out at Daniel's car, then his own, then the seat on the porch, next to a smaller little plastic chair. "We could have one out here, Daniel." "Sounds good for me, looks like you need some fresh air anyhow." He wraps himself with a stale towel, then steps outside with the smaller man, and they sit. Daniel comments on the binoculars in the car, “a bit bulky for your purposes, no?" "Funny," the man says, leaning backward, nodding. “I know you mean because of my eye." "Just a joke," Daniel smiles, reaching into the six pack between them, handing one to the man. They watch a coyote cross the flat land against the blue night sky. From the silence, Daniel says "I should mention, to get it out of the way, i'm still with her, still with Bobby.” After a pause, “Bobby who?" the man says, staring blankly at the idle coyote. From his chair, all Daniel can see is the pale eye. “Oh good, it’s better that you've forgotten. Was worried you might have a bone to pick, with me." "I don't think I do, not anymore," he says, "I don't envy your family Daniel. I don't envy your house, your wife, I'm glad she's not mine. I'm glad her children... aren't mine. You see how I'm free? Free in ways that wouldn't even occur to you." "Well there you go," Daniel says, leaning a bit to see more of the man's face. “I didn't know you were aware of the kids, wasn't going to mention them.” “Remember, I still have the one eye,” the man says, gesturing with his beer. “I’m relieved you’ve let things go, I shouldn't have doubted you. Looks as if you've got a fine life of your own here, even got a lady over! She from here? You've been back less than a month." The man grins, turns to look at Daniel face-to-face, “two of them. Two ladies, the same time." "Two! You’re bluffing. You paying these girls? From the highway? I couldn't dare you to talk to them when we were boys." "Don't matter, does it? Pussy is pussy," he whispers, sipping his beer, then leaning in. "I put the two together Daniel, stuck my red cock right between 'em." Whispering back, raising an eyebrow, Daniel says "even with these lights on? I’m sure you didn't, not with your little dick, I’ve seen it you remember." "Big enough for them, Daniel. They're still young. You don't know what you're missing, you've been with the same old lady since we were kids, same loose old lady." "I'm sure you're right, I suppose I’m really missing out." "You are," he says, leaning back again. Daniel can smell the man. "You never stick yours in two girls mouths at the same time have you Daniel? Not even two like these, too doped up to tell your cock from a candy-caine. Have ya? No? You ever pound a fresh ass so hard you think you broke em? Split them in half? No, you've got a family, you've got a wife, you don't get to do the things i get to do." “Well what was I worried about, here you’ve clearly gone and found yourself some happiness. Bobby will be pleased." "Contentedness. That's what I've found. Had to come up here to get it. And you two can't take this away from me either,” the man looks hard at Daniel. "You just try. And I know you will Daniel," he's smiling now, "but you can't. You'll see. It's over now, there's nothing left to take. Not like you took Bobby, not like you took my eye Daniel." “I see,” Daniel says, watching the man’s big hand on his bottle, watching the towel barely cling to his lap. "Well, you know, we were kids. Not much i can say about that now." “Kids sure are sweet, aren't they?” "I did say i'm sorry." "Never once Daniel, no you didn't. Unless you mean making mention of my binoculars, things like that. Otherwise, you never said sorry once, and it's too late now. We're settled now, no point in two old men saying they're sorry." Daniel stands up, turns down the step, looks up at the little house,"well you enjoy yourself." Sipping beer, his towel slipping off his pale leg. "I will. I did." "Maybe I visit you again." "I believe you will this time Daniel, you'll hurry right back." Daniel gets into his car, tosses his jacket into the back seat. He pulls back onto the main road, peaks at his reflection lit green by the dashboard. He shakes his head. The car moves quietly on the serpentine road under a black sky densely freckled with stars. Eventually he spots the warm light of his own home peaking through the trees. He parks, then turns to collect his jacket up off the twin child-seats in the back of his car. His wife is waiting at the top of the steps in a white dress, blue in the moonlight. Her hands at her sides. “Daniel, why isn't your phone on?” He approaches the bottom step, looking up at her, “you look beautiful my dear, you look as lovely as the day we met,” he says, and he means it. "Enough already, bring the girls in, it's late." Daniel steps back off the step, he pauses. He looks into the car at the two child-seats. "I… didn't pick up the girls?" "What? I spoke with Dianne, she said they got picked up. Who the heck picked them up then?" Daniel turns away, his breath caught in his chest. He looks back down the road the way he'd come, not from the school at all but that small shack, that sick angry man. His legs are heavy, he takes two faltering steps toward his car. "Where are you going?” “Hold on,” he says. “Just - just hold on a minute.” “Oh goodness, it’s Wednesday isn’t it? Gran said she’d pick them up didn’t she.” “Oh God, Bobby, you frightened me. You don’t know where my mind just went.

^(Disclaimer: I did not personally come up with the general plot and storyline. This was created verbally between myself and a friend of mine, as we bounced ideas off each other. I decided to try and write it down.) It was her first day of Refinement, and although all the adults made it seem like a big deal, she wasn’t particularly worried or excited. Yes, it was a big deal, the time where she began the classes that would prepare her for her ideal place in society, but to her it was just another class. It was a little interesting that she’d been chosen so young, only six, four years younger than the standard Refinement age. But you didn’t question the Refiners, and although there were some strange looks when others saw her carry her bright blue schedule across the grounds, no one said anything. She had asked a few people if they knew what was usually taught in room 2285, but she only learned that it was just a standard science classroom that hadn’t been used for years. There wasn’t any specific career taught in room 2285. She couldn’t ask about her instructor, either. There wasn’t a name included in her Refinement request, which wasn’t really unusual in itself, but that was only because several careers were taught by multiple instructors, depending on the different subjects involved. She soon came to room 2285, at the end of a hall in a general education building, amidst many other nondescript, unremarkable classroom doors. Room 2285’s door was closed, so she knocked firmly as she had been taught. A calm, authoritative voice answered “Come in,” and she opened the door. She entered a plain room of off-white walls, office-style ceiling, white tile, and black chalkboard mounted on the opposite wall. There were about 20 desks on the floor, and all but one were pushed to either side of the room. The solitary remainder was positioned directly in front of a short black table that matched the height of the desk, behind which a 30-something man stood waiting. The girl walked purposefully up to the desk and sat down. She set a notepad and pen in front of her, then looked up to the man behind the table. “Hello, I’m--” “We will dispense with names in this room,” the man interrupted. “I do not know your name, and I do not need to. From now on in this classroom, we will stick with ‘Teacher’ and ‘Student’, understood?” His voice was soft and kind, but there was a hidden tone in it that screamed authority. The girl nodded. “Yes, Teacher,” she replied, intrigued. “And you will not be needing those,” Teacher replied, indicating the girl’s pen and paper. “In fact, don’t bring anything when you come to this class unless I instruct you otherwise.” She swept the notepad and pen into her bag, which was then deposited by her chair. “One more rule. You will not speak of, mention, or even hint at what goes on in this room to anyone. Your Refinement is between you and me alone.” The girl nodded her agreement. Teacher nodded back and produced a Bunsen burner, setting it on the table. He lit it and made adjustments until it produced a tall, bright orange flame. He then pulled out a piece of newspaper and held it over the flame, where it immediately caught fire. He casually set the still-burning paper on the table to the side, then fixed his gaze on Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “You’ll get burned,” she replied without any hesitation. Teacher raised his eyebrow in what looked like genuine surprise. “Will I? How do you know?” Student hesitated, but only barely. “That paper burned, and that’s what fire does. It burns things.” There was a moment of silence. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student immediately shook her head. Teacher’s face was expressionless as he studied hers. It continued to remain expressionless as he set his hand over the flame, palm up. The flame touched his hand, lightly licking around the edges. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as she looked back and forth between her teacher’s face and the flame, but she didn’t make any noise. One... two... three seconds passed, and without blinking, breaking eye contact, or giving any indication that he felt anything, Teacher calmly pulled his hand back and showed Student his palm. It was unmarked. “Class dismissed,” Teacher said, dropping his hands to his side. Student blinked and was about to question him, but his gaze was penetrating and final. She stood, grabbed her bag, and quickly walked to the door. She glanced over her shoulder at Teacher, who continued to watch her intently. She ducked out the door and closed it behind her. The next day at the scheduled time, the girl walked to room 2285 again. This time, though, there was a sign on the plain door. “No class today, come back tomorrow” it read. The girl read it twice before turning around and leaving the building. The next day revealed the same sign. When she saw the sign four days in a row, she started to worry. Did something happen to her teacher? Had she done something wrong? She had continued to return every day because the class had intrigued her; the sense of mystery surrounding her teacher and her Refinement was palpable. After a week of seeing the sign, the girl decided that she would knock and enter anyway the next time she came by. Maybe this was part of her class, some kind of test. But the next day, the sign was gone. She knocked tentatively and was relieved when she heard “Come in,” almost throwing the door open. The room looked exactly as it did when she had last left it, single desk in front of the large black table, with her teacher standing behind it. She took her seat at the desk. She didn’t have anything to set down. Teacher set the Bunsen burner back on the table, lit it, and made the adjustments. He started to burn another piece of newspaper, again setting it aside on the table. He locked eyes with Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” Student was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I... I don’t know.” Teacher raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?” Student shook her head, but didn’t say anything. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student shook her head again, but hesitantly. Teacher again held her gaze, his face blank. He set his left hand in the flickering flame, palm up for one... two... three... four... five seconds. Student watched with worry, completely uncertain. Teacher pulled his hand back and showed her his palm. Unmarred. “Class dismissed.” The next day, the girl found the sign on the door again. She returned every day for two weeks before the sign finally disappeared. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” Teacher raised both eyebrows. “Nothing? I won’t get burned?” Student shook her head with only an instant’s pause. “*You* won’t.” “*I* won’t?” Student said nothing. “Do you want to test it yourself?” A minute’s worth of silence passed between Teacher and Student. Slowly Teacher raised his left hand and placed it in the fire, palm up. Student met his eyes unflinchingly for a full ten seconds before Teacher again showed her his palm, perfectly healthy. “Class dismissed.” Student remained in her desk, looking at her Teacher for a few more moments, before she got up and left the room. The sign was on the door for a full month this time. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student looked at Teacher for a long moment before standing and walking up to the table. She looked down at the Bunsen burner, its orange flame flickering soundlessly. She raised her hand and quickly thrust it into the flame, her palm facing the wall. The orange flame parted around her flesh, conforming to the shape of her hand perfectly, leaving a space of a half inch as it rose. She felt heat, but not enough to cause pain. Student stared at the flame, full of curious wonder, but showing no surprise. Teacher let the barest hint of a smile cross his lips. Student retrieved her hand from the flame after moving it around for thirty seconds, the flame never touching her skin. She examined her hand and found nothing out of the ordinary; no pain, no burns. “Doubt,” Teacher stated, reaching into the flame himself. The flame parted, meandering around his palm. He scooped at the base of the fire and lifted, and Student watched with fascination as he held the flame in the center of his palm. “Doubt is a powerful force. You are told that there are certain laws of the universe. You have even experienced some of them. But your mind is more powerful. Doubt everything. Nothing is absolute.” Teacher closed his hand into a fist and the flame was caught and extinguished. “Class dismissed.” The next day Student walked in and saw that all the desks in the room, save one, had been removed. The table remained, and Teacher was standing behind it. Student took her seat and Teacher procured a glass, setting it on the table. “Have you been practicing?” he asked. Before she could answer, he flung the glass off the table and into the wall. It shattered and Student let out a little yelp of surprise, her eyes wide. Teacher stared at the pile of glass on the floor, then looked back up at Student. “Why did you let that glass break?” he asked. “Wha...?” “That was an unbreakable glass. Why did you let it break?” Teacher shook his head and walked over to the shattered pile. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said as he bent and began to carefully pick up each individual shard. Student hurried out the door. “Have you been practicing?” asked Teacher as he set a glass on the table. Student didn’t answer, she just concentrated on the glass. Teacher smirked, then flung the glass against the wall. It rebounded with a chink and Student let out a gleeful gasp, but when it hit the ground, it shattered. Teacher shook his head. “Keep practicing. I’m running out of unbreakable glasses. We’ll try again tomorrow.” He bent and collected the shards as Student left the room. “Have you been practicing?” Student didn’t even sit down today. She just stood behind her desk chair, concentrating. Teacher hurled the glass. Teacher and Student watched as it hit off the wall and plummeted to the ground, where it bounced several times before settling into rest. Teacher looked up at Student. He pulled out a tin cup and put it on the table. “Trick question,” he announced, and immediately pitched it at the wall. The cup shattered as it impacted the wall, pieces of metal littering the ground. Teacher watched the tin rain to the floor and looked back up at Student, a small smile on his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’ll see you tomorrow.

My dad and I used to play catch a lot. We’d go out to the backyard and just toss the ball for a little bit. I loved watching baseball, so I went out to play any chance I could get. I think my dad did it to blow off some steam. He hated his job, so he blew off steam a lot. Sometimes he would just sit looking out the window in the middle of the night. On Thursdays my dad would get out of the factory early. He would go to the bars at around four, and be back before eight. My mom and I would be watching the 7 o’clock news. He would get back and stand to the side of us without saying a word. He would look at me and ask me to go to the front yard and break a twig off of the small tree by the mailbox. I’d look at him, and I’d look at my mom, then back at him, and say “ok.” So I did what I was asked and brought him the switch. He’d then calmly ask me to take off my shirt, and so I did. For the twenty minutes after I’d be whipped with the switch. It never hurt too bad. When he was finished, he’d tassel my hair and say he’d love me, and I would respond, “I love you too.” I’d go to hug my mom, and with tears in her eyes she’d hug me too, and then I’d go to bed. Every now and then, my dad would bring me to go bowling with him and his friends. They would always cheer me on, and every time I had a good shot, my dad would yell, “that’s my boy!” and give me a high five. Sometimes at night I’d sneak into my parents bedroom when they were sleeping. I would grab my dad’s snub-nose out of his nightstand drawer, and aim it at his head from about an inch away. I’d cock it as quietly as possible, and just stand there with my finger on the trigger. As a joke, my dad would occasionally kick me down the stairs if he was right behind me. It would just be a light kick, and I’d stumble down a step or two. I would always look back at him and smile, and he would be laughing too. One day he did it again, but for some reason I couldn’t catch myself. I just kept on tumbling and tumbling down the steps. I landed on the wood floor at the bottom, not in any pain at all really. I looked up at him expecting to see a smile, but he just had this horrified look on his face. I saw my hand, and I just had a couple broken fingers. Not a big deal, we’d just tell them that I shut my hand in the door like we always did. But, then I looked at my right leg. Instead of the knee bending the normal way, it bent the same way, but forward. The bone was sticking out, and blood was pouring on the floor pretty fast. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and for the first time I could see remorse and fear in his eyes. A couple months earlier, my dad brought me to the drive-in. Instead of leaving after the first film, we just stayed until the third movie was over. We were making up life stories about everyone we could see. My dad was really good at making up stories. We left at about midnight, and both of us could not stop smiling until we got home. It was a good day. Three days earlier, and twenty years later, my dad died in prison. I visited him every Tuesday for the most part. Some days I just didn’t have time, but I always warned him ahead of time. The day he died I had to stay at work late. I didn’t call him, because I didn’t have time to even think about it. That day he stayed in his cell alone, and then went to the visiting center to window #3, the same window as always. He would then wait at the window to be visited by a non-existent visitor. He just looked at the window. The memory of not having the memory of looking back at him I will never forget, and always regret. An hour and a half after our usual visit time, my dad died on his cot. During the summer sometime, we played catch in the backyard. It was a little later in the day than usual, but I didn’t care. It was about midway through, and he stopped and looked towards the sunset. Seeing him, I put the ball in my mitt and looked too. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

My sister challenged me to write a flash fiction about talking to your reflection in the mirror and slowly realizing that our world was the evil one. His grin, that's the worst part. It was both alien and familiar; a poorly drawn self portrait. It was too perfect to the point of being unsettling. I couldn't find a flaw if I tried. What’s worse, I had always loved smiles. Especially my fathers, both reassuring and optimistic. People would always remark how much i resembled my father; if only they could see me now. “Well of course there’s no such thing as killing. I mean, there are accidents, but these things will happen, that is the fate set by the Creator”, spoke the phantom hiding in the mirror. “But what about all the people who would have lived in my world? How could you, I mean me, or whatever, exist? Wouldn't a whole different set of people exist? I mean what about the butterfly effect? How do you have radar and rockets, and have you guys ever been to the moon! That was all the cold war and Kennedy... hey what about Kennedy! He must have…” “Whoa nelly! Calm down there me.”, as he snuck in a quick wink, “I guess what they say about us is true; we really are curious!” I don’t like ‘us’, it’s unsettling. With any other man, I would have punched him right in his smug face. Honestly though, I could hardly move if I tried. I took a short breath and thought for a second. “Well if you think like me then you know what I mean. How is this possible?” He, me, whatever, paused and gave a slight smile, “Well I think you see what you want in this other world, whatever is comfortable I mean. We could even look like completely different people. Instinct tells ‘us’ that we’re the same in spirit, if not body. We’re pretty clever you know. Do you know what I mean?” Dammit, none of this makes any sense. But I mean if he gets what's going on then why don’t I? This is so damn confusing! Finally I sighed, “You know what, I don’t even give a fuck. Who cares how this works. I’m still not 100 percent convinced i’m not nuts” “What does ‘fuck’ mean?” he said quizzically. God dammit. I practically screamed, “Oh please don’t tell me you guys never swear either! Fuck damn shit hell cocksucking motherfucker!” “I know know mother.”, he said proudly Exasperated, I groaned, “Well what about hell and damn? You seem like a fairly pious bunch. There’s no way you haven’t heard those words. ” “No… none of those sound familiar.” suddenly slipping back into his quizzical stare. No. This can’t be true. There’s no way he doesn't know all the words we are supposed to be ashamed of. Dammit none of this makes sense! Are our worlds really so different? But, maybe they are. Maybe they don’t know, can’t know, these words. Maybe I’m trying to see what I want, the better part of things. No, I’m too pessimistic for that. At least there’s something I know for certain. Finally the reality set in, slowly things became sickeningly clear. Quietly, with a tinge of fear, i spoke, “Do… do you know sin?” He Laughed, catching me off guard. “You’re messing with me! Man, I should’ve know I’d try something like that. There’s no way you have words that I don’t. Man it really is true; we sure do love to fool people!” Speechless, the seconds strolled by. I saw his expression change one again from joy to query. He is the same person as me, but we could not be more different. His world was a paradise, and mine is a shithole. A virtual antithesis to his impossible utopia. This is such bullshit! This is some sort of sick joke! I mean he said we like messing with people. No, the sincerity was palpable, undeniably innocent. A rage from deep within burst forth. Screaming in what was nearly pain, I tore into this guy, “How!? How are you so perfect!? You have to comprehend this! Sin! The act of evil! All that is bad, the horrors of humanity! How can you be this way!?” “Well, I can’t help it. Anything else is unthinkable. I don’t think I could ‘sin’ if I tried”, he smiled still drowning in his innocence. There it was, the sick sweet truth. He isn't better than me! His world may be an Eden, but it is undeniably a prison. A grin crossed my face, both alien and sickeningly familiar. My sin kept me free. It was time for me to laugh. I carried on a bit too long honestly. It was both terrifying and refreshing. I even think I scared that little punk a bit. Hot damn that’s satisfying. I sputtered through the cackles, “You know what, you can keep your pious bullshit and your fucking Eden! I wouldn't leave here for anything; I’m a free man here!” “That’s wonderful!”, he said. God dammit. Whatever, I’m too excited to get pissed off at his optimism. Still, like a splinter ignored for too long, I felt a sudden sudden prick deep in my psyche. Man, I’m getting sick of this fucker. “What do you mean?” I asked, exasperated. “We love seeing people happy, deep down you know that! As long as you are at peace, I can be happy for you!” “How can you be okay with that? I mean being a captive to yourself and your ‘Creator’ that ‘loves’ you so much? I know you understand me, I can see it your smug fucking eyes!”. Shit, did I just insult myself? I mean, that is me, I guess. Whatever, he won’t understand anyway. Still with that fucking grin he retorted, “He gives me love, unconditional and liberating! I do have free will you know.” “Oh really?”, I said, confidence returning. “You said you couldn't fathom my concept of sin, that means you’re ‘creator, is holding you back!” “No, I’m free to do as I please. Look at it this way, if you got a brand new car, would you crash it just because you could? Why would ruin something perfect?” Fuck, he’s figured this sin thing out pretty quick. Well all that means is I’m obviously very clever, a straight up mental badass. I’ll figure this bastard out. Shit, I probably shouldn't think of him, me or whatever, that way. “Well, I mean at least I could if I wanted to for whatever reason! That’s what makes life so exciting! I mean, when I pop some pills my body gets a beating but I get high as fuck! You've probably never even felt the rush, the ecstasy, of danger.” Man, I've got this guy pinned. “Yes, I know about these pills. I can tell when we take them. I ignore the sensation though, because I have the choice to!” “Ha, that is some ignorant sh..” Wait a second… Confused and terrified, I blurted. “What the fuck do you mean… you know when I get high!? What the fuck is going on here! I can affect you, your world and whatever!? There’s no way… Who the fuck are you!?” “I’m you. You should know by now, but maybe you've ignored me for too long.” The smile was gone. Deep down that racked my soul in a way unfathomable. “No.. no, no no no… what the fuck is going on!? god fucking dammit what the fuck! Just… WHO ARE YOU!? explain yourself motherfucker!!” Insults flowed to freely now. “I’m you, but I think you are no longer me. You haven’t been for a very long time. Still you visit from time to time, so I know you exist. I still keep the hope, and follow the perfect path you made for me, since the very beginning.” I tried to run, tried to scream in a rage but something was wrong. I don’t think my body can anymore. I whispered, “You can’t be… are, are you my soul?” A slight chuckle, comforting. “No, him and I do not get along. I’m your conscience. I am all that is all that you know is good, I have reached out to you our whole life. But like I said, you see what you want here. You saw my ignorance to ‘sin’ as a weak, but it’s becoming clear to us now. You know ‘sin’ quite well, it seems comfortable to you.” A wave a panic rushed to me but found no anchor, I was too stunned. Reality was too vague now. I forced the words past my empty lips, “Why... now?” “I think deep down you know. Look in yourself, tell me what you see.” No, I won’t. I fucking won’t. Fuck this guy! No, no I’m not going to look! Fuck… FUCK! A new phantom is walking towards me from just out of my field of vision. He’s undeniable, I don’t know how, but somehow knew. Truth was unmistakable. Suddenly Truth is wrestling my mind down. It’s futile now, I know it… no... fuck no I won’t let him! Shit, he’s strong. I can barely fight it, I’m more tired than I know. Truth moves closer as I struggle less and less. Finally, angry lips whispered into my ear, “It was too much this time, a pill to many. You are going to die.” I cried absent of tears. My mind sobbed, screaming throughout my whole being. Panic finally overcame me. My knees buckled and the world moved so slowly that it tore at my sanity. Violently my eyes returned to the mirror. He had taken a step back, and the panic turned into soul crushing pain. More than my conscience can take. I begged with my eyes for words of comfort and my last words struggled in less than a whisper out of my whole body, “I am dying. help me, please!” Quietly my conscience spoke, “I wish I could, but I can’t find the words. You have ignored me so long that I no longer know. I’m not strong enough to carry you with me...

**Skin-Deep** What nice shirt he wore this evening, he looked so precious and nice. He was always concerned about his looks: How would others perceive him? So he went out to get the new trends, new clothes, new shoes, all to make people like him. He was standing in his room - it was a mess: His dirty clothes were piling up on his bed and he would put them on his chair when he wants to sleep. Next to his desktop there were unwashed plates from all the instant food he used to eat. Trash was lying on the floor, pizza boxes, tissues, papers from school, chips bags and cardboard from his latest online purchases. His floor was still sticky from the parties he used to have. Beers would spill as well as wine. It was undoubtedly chaotic. He didn’t even considered to clean up. “There are more important things.” he thought, while wasting his time. All the time his mom would tell him: “Clean up that mess!” She has always been very concerned about him. In her eyes he should be a good and neat boy. She felt like this education failed on him. She was worried about him ever getting back on track, studying something, doing anything that can get him a job later. Right now all he did was partying, getting drunk and high and hitting up with girls. He was always living in the moment whatever comes to his mind he would do, always following the latest trends and notions. He was one of the person who has a thousand friends on Facebook but yet all of his real life friendships would be superficial, as he meets his friends on parties where they would pretend to be best friends without knowing each other. Kian isn’t too much into in-depth relationships. He has no close friends to talk to about problems or feelings, although doing this would help him a lot in many cases. But there was Aaron. Aaron and Kian know each other since Elementary School and they always had contact. It wasn’t too intense but for Kian it is his longest lasting friendship so far. Now and then they would meet. Both of them enjoyed it but it never got the depth Aaron had in other friendships. Kian was standing in front of the mirror. His window was open and the sun was shining in his room through the south-facing window, illuminating him. The warm breeze of an early summer evening came in through the window. Once again he changed. His trouser didn’t fit his shirt so he decided to go with the black one instead. Black with blue – “Yes now it fits” he thought to himself. He didn’t know what he was dressing up for, but he knew that he would go out tonight. He played back his favourite electronic tune. He likes electronic music – he was always up to date with the latest tracks from the scene - no need to think too much about anything with this music – just relaxing and preparing for the next party to come. Putting his clothes to the floor, he laid down on his bed; on days he used to be sleepy, as he likes to stay up late for no reason, browsing the web, texting people. Tonight Kian and Aaron arranged to meet each other to sip a beer together, listening to music, chatting about random occurrences, raging about school and discover some new online trends - a typical evening for them. At the same time there is also a party in town at the “Miracle” - Kian’s favourite club to go out. It is huge, 3 floors, space for about 1500 people and a lot of them Kian knows. He checked Facebook to see who is heading there tonight. Kleve, Darcy, Ryan, Sam, Holly... Holly he has a crush on her for quite some time now, basically since the week they met each other at the Miracle and danced till the morning. Kian is looking forward to seeing her again; he is uncertain to go there. “Maybe she is the one.” he told himself. “Maybe this time it will last longer than one night.”. BLING. Aaron texts him: “Yo mate, what’s up? What time should we meet tdy? 9 @ ur crib?” He locked his phone and put it on his bedside table, next to his alarm clock, a nap was the first thing he wanted now, still being sleepy and having some time left until he has to decide where to go tonight. The sun already set when he woke up and the air coming from the window got colder, making his room chilled. No new notifications on his phone but still the pending message from Aaron and the question what to do this night. He closed the window and set down at his desk. Holly. He really wanted to see her this night. “Can we postpone our meeting, Aaron?” he texted back. “No time tdy, sry… :/”. “kk” answered Aaron. Kian went to the bathroom to refresh and then head out to Miracle. He stopped by the fridge to get some booze for the way there. When it comes to partying he wouldn’t go without booze. “It doesn’t make sense to stay sober. Why would I go there then?” he would say. Arriving at Miracle he immediately met Ryan and Sam, two of his party friends. They shared a mix of vodka before entering and made fun about the last time they met there. In a shabby alley they smoked a joint Sam brought with him. This was the right level to enter the club. Kian was looking for Holly the whole time, but he couldn’t find her. “Maybe she’s not here yet.” he thought to himself while he was greeting everyone he met ever before either on a party or on Facebook, pretending to know them. Getting rejected was something he got used to. Not much later he found himself alone. He was drunk and had lost Sam and Ryan on the party. At the bar he ordered his next drink and spend one to some strangers, who were exploiting him. He sat down. The world was turning, the music was hammering on his head and he felt tired. Holly. She came to his mind again. That was the reason he went there. Stumbling through the club he was searching for her, hoping to pick her up and take her to his home. He stopped and scanned the dance floor closely. So many faces he recognized. Not the one he was looking for. A blonde girl turned around and there she stood, Holly, so daintily. Kian’s view was blurred but her face was so clear to him. Focussing her gave him a hard time. She was dancing. Just like the night they met for the first time. She meant so much to him. Would she even know him anymore? They became Facebook friends, but they haven’t had contact since. Kian was nervous but he wanted to talk to her, when he suddenly realises that she is dancing with another guy. This wasn’t what he expected at all. He felt something special, but now, for her, he was just a random guy. Just like he always sees his pickups, it seems he became one of these for her now. He was like fossilised. Couldn’t move nor breathe for a fraction of seconds. The bass was still hammering on him, but he didn’t care anymore. Two more shots and he would walk off. Desperately he turned to Holly again. She hasn’t noticed him at all. He woke up. His head was aching. “Blackout – again” he thought, trying to remember what happened during the night. He took his phone and looked for messages from the night. Aaron texted him: “How’s your night?”. He went to Facebook to check out Holly again and went back to Aarons message. “Holly isn’t worth it probably.” he questioned himself what to do. He needed someone to talk. Was Aaron the right person for that? He let him down so many times already and their relation wasn’t too strong at all. He looked around his room. The walls were blank: no postcards, no photos not even posters. Just like his blank mind. No memory of this night. Nothing to remember, no one but Aaron. If there would be someone it would be him. So he called him. “Yo, what up bro?” said Kian. - “Hey Kain, what’s up?” answered Aaron. “Just wanted to chat a little, I have such a bad hangover…” - “Oh so you’ve been out last night?” “Yes…” - “I thought you were busy…really don’t know what to think right now. See you keep partying all the time although we planned something and then you call me like nothing happened... that’s really not what I’m looking for..” “I don’t get why you’re so mad. I can do whatever I want to do and you said you would be ok with meeting another day.” - “Sure, what else could I say? You always try to be friends with everyone, that simply doesn’t work.” “As if, I just wanted to go partying yesterday…” - “Same old story..” “C’mon you know that’s nonsense.” - “Yeah keep pretending…whatever” – Aaron hang up Duut, duut, duut. Kian hang up as well and put his phone aside. Silence. The birds were tweeting from outside. His headache got stronger and felt like a jackhammer inside his head. Rolling from side to side he could finally make it out of bed to get him a painkiller. That was when he realized that he still was in his smelly party outfit.

The time was 10:00 am and the place Nkran in the year 3000. On top of the biggest Bank building in the city, a dark, lean and tall man walked to the very edge and stopped, hands in his pockets. Below him, a thick crowd was formed and watched him in horror, fearing that he would commit suicide. However the man in question, Nii Okai, had no intention of jumping over the edge. He had simply come to enjoy the view of the entire city from that height. ‘Some people believe that when one commits suicide, she or he is doomed to wander the earth as a restless spirit and denied access to the realm of the ancestors’ a soft voice suddenly said. He turned to his left and noticed a woman clad in the attire of the Asafo Bii, the traditional Ga militia. ‘Your life may be unpleasant but the afterlife is not so great either for those who die before their time’. ‘I’m not going to jump’ said a shocked Nii. ‘I’m only here for the view.’ She looked at him in stunned silence and then looked at the entire city below them in the sunlight. ‘It’s a superb view’ she admitted ‘but there is a very frightened crowd down there who think you are going to jump and even more nervous Asafo Bii companies on the rooftops of the six buildings close to this one who think you’re going to do it’ Nii sighed and walked away from the edge with her. ‘My name is Larley, by the way’, she said extending her right hand to him. ‘Nii Okai’ he replied gripping it tightly in a firm handshake. Fifteen minutes later, he dogded a machete that arced toward his head and kicked the arm wielding it, knocking the akodze away. He punched the assailant in the face, knocking him out. Five other men wielding machetes rushed at him and he unfastened his belt and lashed out at them, whipping them severely. His belt wrapped around one machete and yanked it away from his attacker and into the dirt. He blocked the attacksfrom the four robbers and swung four times breaking each of their machetes. He leapt at one of them, his two feet kicking the chest of one of the attackers. He struck one on the left with his left foot and one on the right with his right foot. One dove at him, tackling him but he kicked upwards, sending him flying into the dirt behind him. The third scrambled for the fallen machete but he reached it first, kicking him in the face with his knee. He heard a loud click of guns being cocked as the barrels of 4 AK-47 guns were pointed in his direction by four grim faced women. An afena spun towards them, slashing through 3 of the guns before striking the dirt. Larley lunged at the three of them, striking them with quick punches and kicks to the chests and kicks. The fourht shot at her but she strafed her to her left, making a perfect shot impossible. She spun towards the shooter and slashed through the akodze with her afena, her blade stopping inches from the neck of the shooter. Several Asafo Bii rushed towards the men and women, restraining them as Larley examined the guns with a puzzled look on her face. 'What is it, Larley?' Nii asked. 'These are military grade weapons' Larley said to herself. 'Very sophisticated and only permitted to be used by the Ghanaian Military under the 3 weapon safety lawsof the Ga Traditional Council'. Under the Akodze Safety Laws, knives, guns, akofenas, spears were issued with special permits to the Military. The use of such akodze by civilians was banned in the year 3000. This law was so vigourously enforced that the three criminal elements left in the city had to resort to the use of sticks and farm implements like machetes to conduct their operations. 'I'll have to take them to the company headquarters for questioning' she said and paused for a moment. 'It's 2:00 pm' Larley pointed out. 'Shouldn't you be at work on this Monday morning?' '100 people were retrenched at the company building I was standing on this morning. I needed time to contemplate my future' he replied. 'After our talk, I was heading home when I noticed these people capprying several akodze into a truck. They spotted me and we had a slight confrontation'. 'Then you're a witness', sighed Larley. 'I'll have to take you for questioning too.'' The Asafo Bii headquarters consisted of a series of buildings constructed in a traditional domed design and stood in the centre of the city. Behind a thick layer of glass, Larley and the Asafoatse (Chief Warrior) Naa watched as Nii gave his statement. 'The akodze you brought in today are similar to the ones the Asafo Bii picked up at the edge of Nkran this afternoon.' Naa mused. 'Larley, someone is stockpiling weapons across the city, possibly in preparation for a planned ethnic conflict or violent chieftaincy dispute.' 'I understand, Asafoatse Naa' Larley sighed. 'We will interrogate the culprits thouroughly to find out everything they know'. I've also posted an alert to the other Asafo Bii Companies that their main priority now is to check for the movement of akodze and suspicious persons in the city'. Naa nodded in agreement. 'Train Nii in Abotri ke Tahuumo (Ga Martial Art) as well as the rest of the ways of the Asafo Bii, if he's interested in becoming one. He's already shown that he can handle himself in a fight. If we wnat to avoid the loss of lives and property that come with these conflicts, we'll need all the help we can get'. Larley and Nii, armed with a baton faced each other in the training room of the Asafoakyer Bii (female asafo Bii Captains). 'There are several components of Abotri ke Tahuumo.' she noted. 'Abotri is the Complex use of handstands and somersaults, Intia Shomo is the use of complex kicking and feet attacks, Mim Dzee is the art of evading attacks, Kwasafo Nomo and Asafo Atwele are the arts of free expression and multi partner combat strategy, Asafo ke Tahuumo kaklakle lor is the art of fighting in a trance like state, Ataalai Gbanoo is the art of cartwheeling, Adzenkeklulu is the art of acrobatics'. Larley drew out an afowatsena (double or triple bladed sword) from the scabbard slung across her shoulder and sunk into an offensive stance. 'My favourite art is Kakla ke klante Nomo, the art of bladed weapon combat'. Without warning, she lunged at Nii forcing him to spin away from the attack using Ataalai Gbanoo . Even as he strived to keep his distance to look for an opening, Larley struck at him again and again using Gbobi hava, the art of hunting down prey, forcing him to be on the defensive. He snatched an afonanta (machete like sword) from a wooden stand on his right and blocked her attacks matching Larley's kaklake Klante Nomo with his own version. He noticed an opening and tried to swing the afonanta to tap her shoulder lightly, signalling the end of the bout. Surprisingly, she caught the blade between her teeth and drew her head back, yanking him off balance. Even as he stumbled, she dealt him several ferocious double hand slaps and kicks with her feet. As he collapsed to the ground, she pinned him facedown by locking his feet and arms in a tight brace. The door to the training room slid open and a woma with a shaved head walked into the room and sat down on the training mat beside Larley. 'The interrogation's complete' she reported. 'The attackers said they were supposed to send the akodze to the old underground train station beneath the Great Nkran Museum.' 'That place is a maze, Akai' sighed Larley. 'I'll need a clear outline of the place to avoid any surprise attacks on the Asafo Bii.' 'We could get the outline from the new library across the street' ventured Nii. At the Abrewanana (sage) library, Nii paused outside the door for a moment, with Larleyand Akai at his side. 'Leave your akodze (weapons) and portable communication devices at the entrance. This library has soundproof walling and has strict rules about silence within its walls, even for Asafo Bii' he instructed. After 11 minutes of searching, they found the outline of the old underground station and headed back to the headquarters. Several Asafo Bii gathered around Larley as she mapped out the points for entry. 'The station is in the middle of three entry points.' she noted. 'The old 'galamsey' mines, the abandoned goldmine shafts and the old route for the oil pipelines. We'll split into three groups to cover more ground tonight' A truck slowly moved through the shafts, armed to the teeth with several women wielding AK-47s, grenade launchers, akofenas, crossbows and longbows and other akodze. 'Stay sharp, Dedoi's follower in the Asafo Bii warned us that vehicles B and C were seized earlier today, warned a fair, heavily tattoed woman wielding two ekumapraban (long handled axes). Four arrows shot through the tires of the truck, deflating them. The arrows whizzed through the air, nearly slicing through the wooden handles of the ekumapraban but its wielder was faster, slashing the projectiles. She sunk into an offensive stance as Nii and Akai charged at her. She fended off the swings of their akodze with her own, preventing the handles from being slashed. She swung at both of them but Nii spun around the left akodze and spun again to his right as she drew the akodze back the axe head nearly slashing his back. At that moment, he swung at the axehead with all his might, smashing it into pieces before breaking the wooden staff with his left sandaled foot. She drew back and struck at Akai who blocked the attack with her afonanta at the same moment as Nii kicked the woman's head with his left foot. She fell against a truck tire and watched as several of her people were restrained and bound in handcuffs. She drew out 6 smoke bombs and smashed them against the floor before fleeing. Nii gave chase even as she paused at tinervals to shoot at him with two Berettas. Despite warnings from Akai, he pursued her deeper into the tunnels. She looked over her shoulder as their path became darker and she could no longer see him. She stepped and remained motionless behind a wall to draw out two shocksticks, each baton designed to deliver a high amount of electric shock. A mobile phone in her backpocket began to ring and as she reached for it, a figure suddenly darted at her from her right, his afonanta glowing in the dark as it slashed through her shocksticks. She swung her left foot at him but he spun around it and dealt her ferocious double hand slaps and kicks to her torso, forcing her into a corner and stopping only when she slumped to the ground. The phone rang twice and stopped as Nii turned her over and picked it up. He heard two footsteps in the darkness and brandished his afonanta as he sunk into an offensive stance. Akai and Larley stepped into the light from the phone and Nii lowered his akodze before turning his attention to the phone. Using his experience in the I.T division of the bank that retrenched him, he was able to get pas the multiple security features of the phone and unlock it. One name stood out among the most recent calls, Dedoi. 'You are certain it was Dedoi?' asked Naa with a hint of disbelief. 'Yes' replied Nii. 'It seems she was behind the movement of akodze and fighters to key parts of the city. We checked the messages on the phone and they confirm this.' 'Dedoi is a royal and the sister of Chief Naarkie' Naa said to herself, as she rose from her mat and watched the city below from her office. 'I will inform the Ga Traditional Council myself'. In the centre of the royal quarters of Nkran, a long haired woman sighed as five armed men slowly edged towards her. Before they could strike, she drew out two Glock pistols and shot each one in the chest. Five more men lunged at her but she anticipated their movements and shot them without wasting a bullet using Gun Kata (The martial art of gunplay). She noticed five figures darting towards her from behind but she spun towards them , clutching a large duffel bag that released a hail of bullets. The bag fell apart, revealing a large machine gun. The fallen attackers faded away, and a blue light shone from a yellow hologram disk on the floor. The light materialised into the image of an old woman with a shock of white hair. 'Dedoi, the Ga Traditional Council wishes to invite you to attend a special session' she spoke. 'I'll be there shortly, Chief Naarkie' Dedoi replied softly before the image flickered off. She felt uneasy about her sister's tone of voice and made three brief calls before setting off for the council building on foot. As soon as she entered the grand hall, she felt the eyes of the rest of the council looking at her with disapproval. 'My apologies, Dedoi', Naarkie said sadly. 'I'm sure its a false allegation but you have to goto the Asafo Bii for questioning.' 8 Asafo Bii approached her from behind and one made the mistake of holding her shoulder. Dedoi turned towards that Asafo Bii and punched her in the face. One Asafo Bii rushed towards her but she grabbed the Asafo Bii she had punched earlier and shoved her into the second one. The Asafo Bii brandished their akodze and Dedoi pulled out her guns as the other council members edged away from her in fright. Naarkie shoved them aside and thrust herself between the Asafo Bii and Dedoi. Dedoi sighed and holstered her guns. 'I'll go quietly' At 7pm, Koi a janitor at the Asafo Bii Headquarters begun his usual duties, cleaning the training rooms and offices of the Asafo Bii. At 7:30 pm, after cleaning the washrooms, he received three phonecalls and each message he relayed was the same: 'The Asafo Bii are moving Dedoi through the Efua Gardens tonight using the northern footpath.' At 8:00 pm, the Asafo Bii marched through the gardens with their captive. Akai led the march when five porcupine quills tore through the leaves of the nearby trees and struck her in the arms and legs and chest. The remaining Asafo Bii brandished their weapons and formed a protective ring around Dedoi. On their left, a large burst of flame erupted towards them, setting several Asafo Bii on fire. The circle broke as several Asafo Bii rolled in the dirt to put out the flames. Five Asafo Bii escorted Dedoi away from the flames that licked the bushes around them when a bullet struck each of them in the shoulder. As they fell, three women stepped out of the bushes, one wielding porcupine quills, the other a large flamethrower and the third, heavily tattoed wielding two large pistols. The third woman slashed the handcuffs with and akofena and together the four of them disappeared into the bushes.

The next day, a badly wounded Akai gave her report to the Asafoatse from her sick bed. 'We were ambushed by Kla (tiger). They took Dedoi. What worries me is that they knew exactly which route we would take'. Naa listened grimly. Kla was a three woman cell of hired fighters, descendants of a group of Abotri ke Tahuumo lumei ( sages) who lent their martial prowess to the highest paying chief during the dark days of tribal warfare. She motioned to a low ranking asafo Bii to approach her. 'Get me a hologram disk. I need to contact Larley and Nii". In Larley's personal training room, Nii lunged at her, his afonanta smashing into Larley's and forcing her back. She swung her right foot at his chest but he spun around it and kicked her chest, sending her into the corner of the room. Before he could get closer, she whipped out a staff from her scabbard and pressed a lever at its tip. The staff extended into a spear which she swung at him, keeping him at bay. A hologram disk in the centre of the room gave off a faint hum, before a holographic image of Naa was beamed into the room. 'Asafo Bii Nii and Larley, Dedoi has escaped custody with the assistance of Kla. ' 'Akai who led the Asafo Bii during Dedoi's transportation was severely wounded and will recover in five weeks'. she continued. 'However we have discovered that one of Dedoi's followers may have tipped Kla off. You two will begin a top to bottom search for the person by checking all records of events that took place yesterday.' Later that afternoon, after discreetly checking the records, Koi came up as a possible suspect and so the two Asafo Bii headed to his house. Koi noticed them several feet away and fled. The Asafo Bii gave chase when five of Dedoi's followers attacked them with knives and guns. Larley disposed off three of them with her b)ha and akofena, blocking the thrusts of their knives with her blade and striking them with her b)ha (scabbard). Nii strafed away from the bullets fired at him even as they ripped his sleeves. He sent his afonanta spinning towards them. It slashed their guns before it struck the ground. He darted towards them, his feet striking the shooter simultaneously and continued the chase up a flight of stairs of an uncompleted building. Koi looked around him and on realising that there was nowhere left to run, jumped off the roof. Before he could hit the ground, Nii leapt after him , slamming into his back and sent them crashing into the glass windows of a nearby clothes store. 'According to Koi', Nii later reported, 'Dedoi and Kla are still in the capital. Her remaining forces will cover her retreat at the last abandoned galamsey mine tunnel, just near the abandoned slum of Old Fadama. She will head to the Gulf of Guinea and lay low for a while. She may return later to take the title of Chief. 'How long will it take her to get there?' 'With her considerable resources, resources. two days at least.' replied Nii. 'Alright', she turned to Larley,' assemble your forces but keep ths quiet. The ban on drumming and noise-making beins tomorrow and I don't want this on the front page of every e-newspapers. Make sure you capture Dedoi alive. The Council wants her to answer for her crimes'. 'At 5:00 pm, Dedoi's brother and several armed groups were marching through the old tunnels when suddenly, Nii, Larley and the rest of the Asafo Bii rushed towards them. Nii blocked the swings of two assailants, slashing through their akodze and body armour, driving them back. An arrow flew towards him but he deflected it with his afonanta. A woman clad in red in blue drew her bow to fire again but he was faster, slashing through the bow and hit the side of her head with the hilt of his akodze. He sped towards the rest of the group, parrying projectiles and slashing anyone who got on his way, his eyes trained on Dedoi's brother who began to make a hasty retreat with four other men. He spun around and slashed thorugh a spear that was flung at him from behind. The four men drew out arrows from their quivers and shot them at him but he deflected the arrows towards their bowstrings, tearing them. They then lunged at him from all sides but he blocked their attacks and tackled two with low sweeps of his left foot. He punched a third once, knocking him out and dodged the attacks of the last using Mim Dzee. He struck him with his b)ha and delivered a spinning kick to his torso. He bloked the swing of the man's ekumapraban and swung once, knocking the akodze out of his hands and felled him with five quick punches to the face. Panicking, Dedoi's brother drew a revolver from his belt and fired five shots each missing its mark as Nii strafed from left to right. He darted towards the old man, using his afonanta to block two extra shots before slashing the revolver and kicked him against the wall before handcuffing him. After Dedoi's force was detained, Nii walked towards Naa's personal training room to give her his report. Inside, Naa calmly watched as several Asafo Bii darted towards her on both sides. She swung her afowatsena (tri-bladed akofena) twice, slashing through their blades. Two akofena blades were thrust at her but she caught them in between her triple blades and turned the hilt sharply, breaking the blades. She kicked two in the chest with her right leg and tacked two others with a low sweep of her left leg. Three Asafo Bii drew out their arrows and fired at her but she brushed them aside with a sweep of her hand and struck them with repeated swings of her spear. Using Kaklante ke Nomo, she knocked akodze out of the hands of several Asafo Bii and struck them down with Akotoku (the art of open handed, fist combat and its supporting arsenals). She sheathed her akodze and turned to Nii. 'Have you found her?' 'Yes, Asafoatse Naa, Dedoi's brother informed us that she's in Old Fadama' 'Good. We leave tonight' At 12:00 pm, several Asafo Bii led by Naa stealthily approached the mass of buildings and structures that was once known as Old Fadama, once a slum but in the year 3000, evacuated. It's inhabitants were relocated to New Fadama. Because of the disorganised nature of the settlement, it was viewed as an ideal place for illegal activities and this night, it was an ideal place for Dedoi's army to lay an ambush. Despite his feelings, he didn't protest when Larley suggested that they break up into smaller groups and cover more ground. As he searched the southern route alone, 8 porcupine quills sailed noiselessly towards him so quickly that he barely had time to draw out his afonanta to deflect them. A large drum fell in front of him and exploded, releasing several porcupine quills and forcing Nii to take cover behind an uncompleted building. Nii suddenly realised several trip wires had been placed around the building and out of the corner of his right eye, a woman with a Sankofa tatoo on her neck loaded 8 kotoko quills on a crossbow and took aim. Without hesitation, he darted towards her using Adzenkeklulu to avoid tripping any of the wires and slashed the quills she shot at him. Before she could defend herself, he lunged at her and struck the right side of her head with the hilt of his akodze, knocking her out. Behind her, he noticed a large tunnel entrance covered with warning signs. He remembered the stories he had heard as a child about flammabe gas leaking out from cracks in the ground and took several deep breaths before entering it. Deep inside the tunnel, he noticed a few light bulbs that flickered on and off. Behind him, a woman wearing night vision goggles hoisted a large flamethrower, and took aim with the nozzle. The moment she placed her finger on the trigger, he strafed to the right, seconds before a large burst of flame erupted from the akodze. He used Mim Dzee to dodge 8 bursts of flame until he found himself in a corner. She adjusted the settings to full blast but before she could fire at him, he swung his afonanta at a small crack at her feet widening it. A large burst of flammable gas shot out from the ground seconds before she pulled the trigger, creating a large explosion, the shockwave blowing both combatants away from each other. Acting quickly, Nii rolled across the floor, dousing out the flames on his wardress. He watched in horror as the woman engulfed in flames struggled to take off the flamethrower. He dove at her , bringing her down and rolled her across the dusty floor, dousing the flames. A badly burnt and badly shaken woman shivered as Nii walked deeper into the tunnel and stopped at a glass door. He kicked it open and stepped into a large corridor, its walls lined with wooden shelves filled with several akodze. Suddenly a bullet tore through his right sleeve. Nii rolled to his left, taking cover behind a wooden shelf filled with guns but a bullet grazed his cheek. He rolled to his right, taking cover behind a shelf filled with akofena and steadied himself. He tossed a coin at the ceiling but before it hit the ground, five bullets struck it , tearing it to pieces. By then, he had already guessed where the bullets were coming from and on all fours crept steathily towards his attacker. At the right corner of the room, the shooter reloaded her pistols when she noticed Nii approaching her from her left. She shot at him but using Kaklante ke Nomo, he deflected the bullets at the triggers, ripping them off. He lunged at her, but she adjusted two levers on the pistols, releasing two blades from the barrels. Their blades clashed with Nii's afonanta blade and both assailants used Kaklante ke Nomo to attack, block and counterattack each other. He kicked her torso and slashed both pistols in half before using Akotoku to deliver a barrage of blows to her head. She blocked two blows aimed at her belly and spun at him, her left boot brandishing three blades which slashed his left cheek even when he used Mim Dzee. She continued to attack him with kicks aimed at his neck until he slashed the boot blades. She drew out a serrated afowanta from her b)ha on her back and swung at him once. Even as he blocked her swings, she began to push him back. The serrated mini blades on the afowanta began to move along the akodze making it resemble a chainsaw, as it began to saw through Nii's akodze. He leapt back away from her even as her blade slashed his chest and belly. He assumed an offensive stance and used Intia Shomo, the complex art of kicking and feet attacks, to kick the akodze out of her hands. He used ferocious double hand slaps and kicks to force her into a corner where he dealt blow after blow stopping only when she slumped to the ground, unconscious. In a dark lit room, Dedoi placed her machine gun into a large duffel bag and zipped it up. Five monitor screens showed Nii heading for the room. Five others showed Naa and Larley leading the Asafo Bii in defeating 30 of her fighters before heading in her direction. Dedoi pressed a switch on the left wall of the room and it slid open, revealing a private elevator. She stepped inside before it sealed shut. The doors opened in a well lit room and she stepped out into the platform of an old underground railway station. A few feet in front of her, her personal bullet train waited on the tracks. Suddenly an akofena sailed through the air, slashing through the shoulder straps of the bag and slamming into the door of the train, nailing it shut. Dedoi spotted Nii, dashing towards her and calmly lifted the machine gun, its barrel aimed at him. A hail of bullets tore through the air around him as he strafed to his right, taking cover behind a stone pillar. Chunks of stone fell away from it as she walked towards it, determined to kill him. He drew out an arrow from the quiver slung at his back and let off two arrows at the lights, destroying them. As the platform was plunged in darkness, he rolled away from the pillar as Dedoi completely destroyed it. The train's internal lights shone brightly and Dedoi noticed that Nii was fast approaching her from the right. With one swing, he slashed the barrel of the gun in half. She swung the other half at him but he caught it with his right hand and struck her neck with his foot sending her crashing into the glass door of the train. A terrified train driver watched as Nii entered the train and solemnly handcuffed the unconscious royal. She began to open the door but an afena's blade was suddenly thrust inches away from her neck. Larley stuck her arm through the window and dragged the driver out. She drew out a hologram disc and tossed it over to Nii, who snatched it in midair. She glanced at the unconscious Dedoi and the broken glass door. 'Was that really necessary, Nii?' Nii pointed to the two halves of the machine gun. 'I stand corrected, Nii" Larley remarked with surprise. Nii placed the disk on the platform floor. A hologram of Chief Naarkie was beamed into the building. 'Dedoi and her forces have been subdued. She is no longer a threat to you'.

Trixie Triangle (or Triangular Trixie, if you want to be formal about it) traveled to Earth in order to finally get her real estate license. She ended up founding a company called Big Sleep Mattresses, Inc. All of her customers died upon sleeping on it, and Trixie ended up with a few fat life insurance policies. Now rich, Trixie decided to indulge herself in her passion: the Nissan Maxima. She bought all the Maximas, and used them to construct a giant robot, which had a giant robot fist. She smashed the computers. She smashed the hospitals. She even smashed the patriarchy. Corncob co-conspirator Timothy Trilobite finds Trixie after the spree. She laid there in la la land, totally blissed out on destruction (or DMT, Timothy T is not very perceptive). Timothy boiled her some butter and once she regained some semblance of sanity, she came to and decided it was time to quit messing about and get that real estate license.

Just wrote this and wanted to share with someone. So here you go. Based on a true story... "Look at that head of hair! You look better!" I exclaimed gleefully. The man had been suffering from lung cancer. Stage IV, it didn't look good, but he kept fighting. It had been years since his diagnosis. The treatments appeared to have worked. His hair was growing back. "And you look worse, older even." A wry smile flashed across the man's face. "Sit, sit. Honey, could you grab us some tea?" "Of course dear," the man's wife headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "I'll let you two catch up." She smiled. She looked happier than I'd seen her in years. "It's so good to see you." I said. "It's good to see you too, son." The man said. Everything was right with the world. It seemed like the dark times brought on by the diagnosis were past. The family could finally move past it all. We had so much catching up to do, it felt like we talked for hours. And then, just like that, things changed in an instant. I saw the man's hair go white and fall out right before my eyes. "What? What's happening?" I asked. His wife brought our tea from the kitchen. "Well, his hair is falling out. Part of the treatment. It can be rough." Her face looked more worried by the second. "I'll call the nurse." I couldn't stop staring at the man. Here I was just joking about how well everything was going and suddenly I had this great despair wash over me. All I felt was hopelessness. "But you looked better, what's happening?" "I'm dying." "But that can't be! I just saw you, full head of hair, everything fine! I'm having trouble comprehending this!" I started to raise my voice. The man lifted a hand as if to calm me. "You saw what you wanted to see, but that is not the way of things." "What is the way of things then? I thought you were getting better? I thought the treatment was working? That is why I came, you know I don't do well around death." "And how would I know that?" The man asked. "But... but, you're getting better! Things are going to be normal again!" "Maybe, maybe not, but will this ever go away?" He asked, knowing full well the answer to his question. He moved toward the window overlooking the balcony and looked down toward the street below. His hands were animated. "These people... These people don't know. They'll never know." "Know what?" So unsure of what might be said that I was almost afraid of the answer. "What I see." He answered. "All that." He gestured towards the window as a bus rolled down the street below. "The bus dies in the same way we all do. We are the same. Parts break one by one, one piece at a time until you just can't fix her no more. Sometimes it goes all at once, but ultimately all that is left is silence; Is where it's been; who it's taken; what it's done. Some of it worthwile, but not enough. Never enough." He stared out the window contemplatively. "That's sad," I said, trying to put his words into a box which I could understand. "No it isn't." He snapped back. "Everything has a history. Everything has its place. Everything has its end... And almost always, things manage to live on past those ends. That's not sad, it's beautiful! The things I see... Like I said, these people will never know. That includes you. Not until the time is right, but by then it is already too late." I wanted to ask, "Too late for what?" But he had already started in, "Too late to truly live. Too late to actually appreciate what you have. Too late to break free from the shackles binding you every day. Too late to realize the beauty that I see. But... hold on." He gazed out the window. "It's so beautiful. They'll never know. And how can they? ...I didn't." He smiled at me. "I do now." "Dad?" I called to him, and suddenly I was awake.

This is the first in a couple short-stories i've been writing giving fictional back stories to some of my friends, explaining why they're so weird. I originally wrote this on-the-spot in a facebook chat so the grammar isnt great and i contains a few inside jokes. tell me what you think! Once upon a time there was a little boy named Mikey : Mikey loved green things, all he wanted when his mommy went to the grocery store was for her to bring him back something green. It was a wonderful life. Until one day, when Mikey 's mommy bought him a movie. Mikey was confused… This movie wasn't green, it was just a regular DVD! Mikey began to cry. Mikey 's mommy told him it was all okey dokey, this movie was ABOUT something green. So Mikey cleaned his nose and made a little smile. He wanted to see this movie NOW. So Mikey 's mommy put the movie in the TV and it started, Mikey LOVED IT so much, Mikey made his mommy play this movie at least 4 times every day. He watched it right after he woke up, after breakfast, when he came home from school and once more right before he went to bed, and that was on the weekdays. On the weekends he would watch it on repeat ALL DAMN DAY! Mikey started to lose weight, A LOT OF WEIGHT! it got to the point where all Mikey ever wanted to do was watch this Movie. His parents grew concerned. One day, Mikey 's mommy got sick of hearing this same movie ALL THE TIME. So, when Mikey was asleep, his Mommy snuck into his room and STOLE the DVD from under Mikey 's pillow! The next morning, after Mikey woke up he stretched his little arms and felt under his pillow for his first viewing of the day. Mikey let out a BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM! His mommy and daddy rushed to his room to see what was the matter. What they found left them in shock. Mikey 's room looked like a herd of vampire cows had a stampede! The windows were all broken, his bed was torn apart, the TV was shattered, it was a hell of a mess and there in the middle of the room was Mikey , silently sobbing. His parents looked at each other, then quietly made their way to Mikey 's side. The crying stopped. Mikey spoke, his voice was different from what they had ever heard, raspy and hollow : "Where is it." Mikey 's parents look at each other again, his mommy moved forward "Mikey, you watch that movie way too much. We took..." She didn’t have time to finish her sentence. Mikey was looking at them now. His face, oh god his face! Mikey 's Mommy hadn’t noticed how thin it had gotten, Mikey had barely eaten in the past couple weeks, his face, it looked so awful. Faster than they could anticipate, Mikey pulled the kitchen knife out from under his shirt! "Where IS it.” Mikey 's mommy couldn’t open her mouth, she was so afraid. Mikey looked at his Daddy, and before the man could react, a huge red stain was spreading from his chest. Mikey 's Daddy hit the floor with a loud THUNK. Mikey 's Mommy started to let out a huge SCREAM, but was silenced as a similar stain spread from her chest too. The noise she made was more like a SMACK, but it didn’t faze Mikey . He stood over his near dead parents, and one last time: "Where is it." When the police arrived (called by the neighbors who heard the screaming) the scene was dreadful. Blood was everywhere, the house was a mess and on the couch, as if nothing had happened, sat little Mikey . The cops had no idea why the kid seemed oblivious to the massacre that had happened right in front of him, but the kid just smiled. He was as content as he could be, because Shrek was playing on the television. EPILOGUE: It took years, but the shrinks were finally (through carefully weaning him off the DVD) able to get him to forget about the incident. Mikey hadn't watched that movie in a LONG time, and he forgot about his parents. He was adopted into a new home. His new parents even took on HIS NAME, so it seemed like they had been together forever. but they didn’t know about the incident. Now Michael was happy again, his new life was great. He had friends and his life was normal. But he still had nightmares. Nightmares that Shrek. WOULD. RETURN. THE END.

With inspirations from Irish Mythology and other Sci-fi works, this is a story set in the distant future where man has went and conquered the known universe. It focuses on a girl who comes to be known as The Resonator, a being of unimaginable potential who could tip the scales of power for whoever holds her in their grasp. The Donnan Clan and the emperor track the girl to her home planet of Dulra, an extremely hostile planet where even the very air is poisonous to humans and the plant life has evolved to be carnivorous. This is only a basis for the story and I have many more ideas I would like to try. All criticism is welcome! :) “How long until she wakes?” Muttered the tall dark figure. The man in front of him shuffled on his feet, “The sedative I administered comes from the Melange plant, it will be hours yet before she rouses.” “Pray you have not damaged my treasure Merral, that girl is worth more than all the ingredients on this planet. It would be a shame if anything were to befall her.” Merral the doctor swallowed in a dry throat. “My lord, I am quite precise with my administration, no harm will come to he- “Damn your administration!” Exclaimed Merral’s companion, “I have made myself clear as to what will happen if she were to die.” The doctor’s eyes flitted to the tiny shape crumpled in the corner of the dim room. There was a bed to her left but they hadn’t bothered to lay her in it. Rather, they had tossed her to the side like some child’s forgotten toy. Brutes thought Doctor Merral. Anger swelled within the old Doctor but he quickly subdued it by swallowing two emotion suppressants with a swig of water from his Respibreather’s mask. Handy in a pinch and especially when in the presence of the Ri Ruirech, the High King, The Emperor of the known universe, The King Of Kings Eber Donnan. He glared at the doctor. “How can one be sure their mind is their own when they ingest such an amount of chemistry?” said Ri Donnan. “My lord, I mean you no offence but isn’t everything around us the result of some form of chemical process, even the food you eat?” The King Of Kings smirked and swept his cloak around as he strode towards the door. “Guards!” He barked, and the second door of the complex hissed open. “Sire” They both announced, standing to attention like two trained mutts. The High King turned to stare at the doctor one last time, his eyes black marbles set into stone. “Just be sure your chemistry doesn’t hurt the girl, she is very important to me.” He talks too much the doctor thought to himself, a poor quality in a leader. “And watch over her until I return. I have extremely important business to attend to with the Bodleian Clan that requires my utmost attention. I will return in three days to collect my cargo. Remember that I have placed my trust in you Merral, do not fail me.” The High King motioned with his hand and his guards set about fitting his Respibreather on to the necessary mask already adorning his face. The doctor watched as the filter system clicked into place and heard the faint hiss of expulsing air that ensured there was no pollutant and the breather was on correctly. “Secure the first door,” Commanded the first guard, a higher rank than his subordinate. The second man reached in and grasped the handle, swinging the heavy door closed with all his might. Merral listened for the rumble of the main door lifting, knowing that within seconds the entry chamber would be filled with noxious air. It was a heavy mixture of Ununseptium, Chlorine and Radium, deadly to the human body and its reliance on the precious oxygen so scarce throughout the known universe. He chuckled at the thought. Humanity, a species so reliant on an element rarer than a mute man’s words had trotted off into the wide, black universe without a notion! Like an explorer sailing the seas without any food. There was an inevitable doom in the voyage, but that never did stop the pursuit of ascertainment and discovery, one would always go into the dangerous unknown if the reward was exploration and the discernment of the alien.

There are 5 parts to this tale. The first part is the "teaser" to get you interested in it and excited for the 2nd part, Partition 1. The third part is Partition 2, etc. I also created a condensed "rage novel" form, which can be found (but I recommend reading the short story too for clarity.) [story starts here] Skylar was annoyed. Very annoyed. He had just had a gigantic quarrel with his mother. "Seriously, though. Fuck it, I'm done with this idiot family." He pressed the exit button, which he would never do again in his life, and left the home. "Hey weirdo... hop in!" An unfamiliar voice echoed through the vog. Without even considering the consequences of his actions, Skylar jumped right into the stranger's FA (see bottom for list of extraterrestrial words/acronyms used). "Who the fuck are you? And why the hell did I just get into a stranger's automobile?!" cried Skylar. "No idea, kid. To both of your questions." said the stranger. They proceeded to have a quick talk, in which Skylar dubbed the stranger "Dialga," which means *time creature* in the alien language. Little did he know that this was more true than he thought. @ @ @ "Why does it seem like we went back in time?" "Because we did," Dialga grinned. * FA stands for Flying Automobile. It is used commonly in the story, so I recommend you memorize this.

You know the feeling of wanting to express a desire or even a thought, but not having the words? Those are the tongue faeries. They're small bitty little buggers, often following around their parents ( social anxiety and depression). You don't quite know if you have them until you have them, or if they exist at all. I'll tell you how I found out. There was a girl, as most stories start; and there was me. Now she's a lovely gal; tall, pale, sweet, delicate, and incredibly intelligent. I'm a strange bloke; tall, brown, and sharp. She had the tongue faeries. She knows what they are and what makes them tick. I was not privy to their existence, as most of you are; but Iife goes on and bloke trips and falls for said gal. Now the lovely gal had begun to talk and fight the faeries, while the bloke was slipping so much further into his emotions. The faeries love emotions, it's how they breathe and move; They serve hand and foot to them. It's not uncommon for the faeries to twist and prod at the tongue, it's what they do. They are there to make you strong, more resilient to their parents. Most people have had a tongue faery in their lives, but there are the few who have never been visited. Back to the gal and bloke now, the gal and the bloke are in a relationship. They talk every waking moment and say " I love you" when they say goodbye. The bloke hasn't known what it was to have a gals love and affection. He hasn't ever known what it was to be in someone's thoughts. The faeries see a new user; a new player in the game. They split up and make their way to the bloke. During their travel to him, the boy and girl hit a crossroads. The boy was using her, he was taking her innocence and twisting it for his own sick play time. So the bloke tells her, but what can she do or say? She's been used as a tissue is. He leaves her. And then the faeries arrived; they snuck into his home and waited till he slept. As he slept his mouth opened and their mother slipped in, and their father carved his way. Then in the middle of the blood and spit, the faeries settled. They control my tongue but I still have my hands. I'm too weak for now, but soon I'll get stronger. I'll fend the faeries off, and evict their parents; but for now I can't talk because whenever I try the words are pushed back in and my tongue is tied down. There is a way to prevent the faeries. I'll tell you quick before they awake.

The Ability to Speak to Animals “Hey guys, come over here and check this out!” That was me, 10 years old, with the adventurous nature of Lewis and Clark and a bowl cut sitting on top of a face only a mother could love. I was playing ball with some friends when it got lost in shrubs; I went to retrieve the ball but what I stumbled on instead changed my life forever. “Where are you? Dude hurry up and grab the ball already” That was my “friend” Ricky. Ricky’s the type of kid to turn off the Nintendo if he isn’t winning and blame it on his finger slipping; he would come to your house, clog the toilet, then leave without telling anybody; he was best friends with my best friend so he always tagged along. I hated him. “No seriously, guys c’mere I have no idea what the heck this is.” In my hand I held what looked like one of those gravy pourers, the things you use at Thanksgiving, decked out in gold and silver. And it was really heavy. “Woah, dude…is that what I think it-“ Before Ricky got to finish his dumb sentence, a cloud of smoke exploded from the thing and when it all cleared, a genie was left floating over it. This genie was pretty short, and kinda fat, with a really bad fake tan. So it threw me off guard when he proclaimed in a booming voice, the genie proclaimed “I AM PA-“ “Wh-who are you?” Ricky interrupted. “Shut up kid. Like I was saying, I AM PATRICK: THE-” “Ohmygod, are you a genie?” With the snap of the genie’s finger, Ricky’s mouth disappeared. “That’s much better. Anyway, like I was saying, I am Patrick: the Genie.” “Wow!” Jimmy (my actual friend) and I were in awe. “Does that mean we get like three wishes or something?” “Three wishes? You think wishes grow on trees or something? Nah kid,” he began murmuring to himself and counting off of his fingers “let’s see, its 1999…inflation…supply and demand…hmm…yes…that’ll come out to about $5.47 a wish, but I’ll round it down to five for ya.” “But genie sir-“ “That’s Mister Patrick: The Genie, Sir, to you.” His voice was high pitched and nasally, like Joe Pesci in “My Cousin Vinny”. “But Mister Patrick: The Genie, Sir, we’re only ten years old, we don’t have that kind of money.” “Well, that sucks. I’ll tell ya what, I’ll be in this bush till like five or six, why don’t you guys run home, borrow whatever’s in your mom’s purse and I’ll see what I can do.” “Gee thanks geni-“ “Nuh, uh, uh” he said as he wagged his finger. “Ugh, thanks Mister Patrick: The Genie, Sir.” Me and Jimmy, caught up in the excitement, ran home to grab the contents of our moms’ purses, completely forgetting about Ricky, whose mouth was still missing from his face; well, Jimmy forgot, I just neglected to remind him; sue me. Anyway, we only managed to rustle up a combined eight dollars, which if you were keeping track, is $2 short of a wish for both of us. “Ah, only eight dollars?” the Genie said in a patronizing tone, “I’ll see what I can do, don’t expect too much though. Kid in the red shirt,” that was Jimmy, “whattya want?” “Uhm, uhh, uhhmmmmm-“ “Hurry up kid, I don’t got all day.” “Ooh! Ooh! I know, uhmmm, a dog that can shoot fireworks out of its eyes!” “Uh…sure, kid. Here ya go.” And with a flick of the genie’s fingers, a dog shooting fireworks out of his eyes appeared. The authorities never did track Jimmy and his dog down. “And what do you want kid?” he said as he turned to face me. “I want the ability to communicate to animals!” “Easy enough, alright, you kids happy now? I’ll see ya around.” And just like that he disappeared. Fifteen Miserable Years Later I got out of bed, the sun barely peaking over the trees, enough to keep me from falling back to sleep but not enough to illuminate my room. As I shuffled around, trying to put my legs through my boxers, and then trying to push my foot through the rolled up pant leg on my khakis, I told the birds to shut the hell up. All they fucking do is wake up at 4 in the morning and start screaming at the lady-birds to have sex with them all day. After leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth and forcing my eyes to stay open, I stumbled down the stairs. “Hey! Hey! Master look at my new chew toy!” the dog said while slobbering all over the kitchen floor. “*sigh* I know, I bought it for you last week.” I didn’t necessarily want to buy it for him but I made the mistake of bringing him with me to buy his food and he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. At the same time he was telling me about his toy, he was yelling at the squirrels taunting him from behind the safety of a glass door. Annoying little creatures they are, they just sit on their ass and make fun of people. “Hehehe, nice tie, not!” the one squirrel so cleverly declared. “Hehehe, yea, that tie looks stupid.” The other squirrel said over their symphony of chuckling. Ignoring them, I walked past the cat, who was sprawled out in front of the doorway. “Fill my food bowl, slave.” “*sigh* what do you want to eat?” “The finest Fancy Feast you have” I wasn’t listening, of course, I just grabbed whatever shit was on sale that week. “Ah yes, you live to serve me.” Just shut up and go lick yourself, I thought. I sat down at the table and ate my bowl of knock-off Cheerios, or Tasteeo’s, or whatever the fuck they’re called. Staring out my window, I watched the deer gallop from one part of the woods to another. Deer are such majestic creatures to look at but not so much to talk to. Then again, how intelligent could an animal who spends all day dodging the cars on I-81 really be? 7:30 AM: time to head to work. I made my way to the purple PT Cruiser parked in my driveway—a loaner car my insurance company gave me after I crashed my shitty ’91 Camaro because this fucking cricket jumped onto my windshield while I was going seventy-five on the highway and wouldn’t stop screaming. (For those of you that don’t know, muscle car manufacturers in the 90’s were all obsessed with being eco-friendly and economical; so I basically had a lowered station wagon with less doors.) While I was trying to knock him off with my windshield wiper, I swerved into a ditch. Sometimes I think back to the day we found the genie and can’t help but feel sorry for us. We were just kids, we didn’t think of the consequences. That genie was an asshole. I made my way to work and parked in the same spot I had parked in the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Except today, on the way to the door, I had an altercation with a group of skunks. I overheard one of the skunks tell his buddy that he was “totally gonna spray this asshole in the polo.” And my dumb ass decided to confront him about it. “Yea? You’re gonna do what?” I said, trying to puff out my chest and be bigger than I actually was. “I said I’m gonna spray you, asshat.” The argument didn’t last very long, as the second he turned around to lift his ass, I got mine in the building. I walked up to my office on the fifth floor and settled into my chair, which is inclined in a way that’s slightly uncomfortable but not enough for me to actually do anything about it. I was only just settling into my chair when my fucking supervisor poked his nose into my cubicle. “Hey, Al, could you get the Johnson files on my desk by 3?” “The Johnson files? I’m not assigned to that, Murphy is.” “Yeaaa, Murphy’s got a more important file to take care of. Soo I’m gonna need those files on my desk by three.” “Yea, sure thing, Rick.” Yup. Rick. That Rick (He got his mouth back shortly after the genie disappeared). He’s still around, and he’s still an asshole. He had passed out after the whole losing his mouth fiasco and chalked it up to me fucking with him whenever I tried to tell him what happened. Then, in high school, he started making fun of me for it. He got everybody to call me “the genie.” It sucked, but at the time, I accepted it, thinking that at least I’ll probably be more successful than this guy. Who would hire such an asshole? The company I work for, that’s who. I probably would have been as successful as him too, but it’s kind of hard to pay attention in class when every fly lingering near the windows can’t find its way out and is VERY VOCAL ABOUT IT. As I allowed myself to be consumed into the excruciating monotony that is office work, while also trying to make it look like I give a damn about the company, Janice— that bitch— decided to show everybody her new goldfish that she just bought. “Isn’t it cute?” she claimed, un-ironically. “It’s so calming!” as if she were regurgitating a line from this article in People’s magazine that she skimmed over once. “I can’t wait to put him right here on my desk and show him how mommy does her job!” It took all of my willpower not to hang myself with my own tie. But, it’s not like I’m happy when I work anyway, so back to staring at my computer screen, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. Bump. “Ouch.” Bump. “Ouch.” Bump. “Ouch.” Can you guess what that was? Yup, the fucking goldfish couldn’t figure out that it’s in a $5 glass bowl and was ramming its head into it for FIVE HOURS. At least when a bird flies into my window it dies, this thing just kept going at it. “Hey, would you shut the fuck up?” I blurted out, pretty loud. “Excuse me?” Janice’s shrill voice pierced my ears. Shit. Oh well, I thought to myself, might as well make the most of this opportunity. “Would. You. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. About. Your. God. Damn. Fish.” “Hey! That’s not very nice!” the goldfish squeaked. “Shut up, nobody can hear you.” “What are you talking about? Are you on drugs? S-step away from me, I know self-defense.” She pulled a can of mace out of her purse. Yea, I’m sure your self-defense class at the Y would stop me if I really wanted to attack you, I thought. “Hey, Al, buddy, can I see you in my office real quick?” Rick beckoned me, sticking his nose out past the doorway. As I walked towards his office, I bumped the fishbowl, hoping it would fall, but it didn’t. Just my luck. “Agh! Did you see that, Rick?” Even from a few yards away, her voice made me want to pop my eardrums. “Hey Al, buddy, you okay? Something wrong?” even when he was trying to be nice, he still had that shit eating grin plastered on his face. “Actually, I’ve been having a rough couple of days. And with the Johnson report…I don’t know, I’m pretty stressed.” Not to mention the fact that I haven’t got more than 4 hours of sleep for the past 15 god damn years. I hate to admit it, but I can’t shake the jealousy I had for Rick. Why couldn’t the genie have taken my mouth away and saved me from all of this bullshit? “So, you’re saying you don’t think you’ll have the Johnson report done by 3? Look, Al, buddy, you’re my friend, but this company needs team players. I can’t be covering your ass every time you yell at a co-worker.” “What are you trying to say?” “Look…buddy…I think it might be time for you to have a little change in scenery don’t you think?” “Are you firing me?” “I’ve been getting pressured from the higher-ups. You’re just not pulling enough weight for the company. I mean, Janice, she finished a $1.5 million report before the end of the second quarter. That’s the kind of can-do attitude we look for in our employees. I stuck my neck out for you and I’d do it again if I could, buddy, but I think we’re gonna have to let you go.” “Really?!” “Yea. I’m really sor-“ “Thank you! Thank you so much.” “Huh?” I poked my head out of Rick’s office and yelled “Fuck you Janice, fuck your goldfish, fuck your desk, fuck your job, fuck you.” I shook Rick’s hand and went to grab my things. On the way back from my desk, I smacked the goldfish bowl off the table. I wish I could do the same to Janice, but you gotta pick your battles. I got in my car and drove to the pet store and bought two the biggest bags of dog food I could buy. I got home, threw the bags of food into the kitchen and yelled to my cat and dog “Have fun with the rest of your lives, I’m outta here!” “Wait! Al! We don’t have opposable thumbs, how are we suppo-“ The sound of my engine turning on drowned out their nagging voices. I hopped on the highway and went 90 towards the airport. Parking the Cruiser in a fire hydrant zone, I made my way to the ticket desk; I didn’t have a care in the world, especially not about this piece of shit. BAM slamming my credit card down on the table I said to the ticket lady “I want a coach ticket to the next available flight.” She looked at me, with a bored and unimpressed face and said “Sir, it doesn’t work like that.” “Fine, uhm, let me get a ticket for the next flight to Hawaii” She let out a long sigh “Sir, your card was declined.” “Oh.” “Yea.

Disturbance Dawn came. Before long the alarm clock went off, its binary hisses snapped me out of my delirium. Shaking my head in a confused panic my vision returned as a blurry a haze. I was freed from the darkness. I found myself in my armchair in the corner of my bedroom. How long have I been sat here? If my alarm chimes true then its 7:00am. But that still doesn’t answer my question. My mind feels like a jigsaw thrown at the wall, so scattered and muddled. I believe I’ve been in a state of temporary psychosis, but why? What engineered it? My mind has never felt so obscured, harder to concentrate all the more with those retched beeps that insist on continuing. Each beep louder than the last and each one feels like it’s judging me in turn. My instincts tell me something terrible has happened. I’m definitely experiencing a powerful anxiety, one that only trauma would explain. What could it be? What memory is my mind trying to oppress? It must be censoring something heinous to spare me the dreaded burden of recollection. The first clue presented itself as my eyes retained a clearer focus, I beheld the dried blood on my coarse wrinkled hands. They began to shake. What have you done you foolish old man? What have you done? A chilling panic manifested. Quickly rising from my armchair I shuffled over to the nightstand to silence the digital cockerel once and for all, however when all was quiet, the haunting silence became more unsettling than the alarm. I stood aimlessly, hands caked in foreign blood, paralysed with an uncertain fear that was screaming at me in the silence. A deafening silence. How can I act when my fear is so strong? I frantically shaked my head in revolt against my overpowering distress. Snap out of it! Keep it at bay. I will not let it consume me again and let myself slip away into the darkness like before. Think, think. Shock is a powerful foe and capable of rendering anyone into an irrational being. Need to reacquire my wits. I must remember. Whose blood is this? Who’s hurt and where? “Wait”… And just like that, in the instance of a second I knew. I knew whose blood it was and I knew exactly the manner of how it came to spill onto my hands. The blissful ignorance of my psychosis seems appealing now that I’ve remembered. No wonder I constructed a retreat within myself, for no other reason than to shield my conscience from what I’ve done. And what a weight it bore. It was so heavy that my legs began to seize from under me. My reflexes took control and I managed to support myself with the assistance of the bed and nightstand to keep from falling. Reluctantly my memory takes me back and internally projects the past. Like the rewinding of an old video tape it finds the start and then sets the plot in motion... I heard a noise. I quietly went to investigate, my steps muffled by my slippers. I saw him plundering the silver cabinet in the lounge. He was too focused rummaging through its contents to hear me sneak up behind him. Before he was even aware of my presence I had bludgeoned him in the back of the head with my radio that I was wielding. He was a young man with fair hair and sharp features. Still a kid really. God have mercy on me. I shouldn’t have gone seeking him, I should have just locked my bedroom door and called the police. I doubt he would have even hurt me, he looked like the type of lad that would have just fled if he did acknowledge me, for he was skinny and by no means muscular. He didn’t deserve what I inflicted upon him. The brutality, so primitive, so inhumane. The only crime that condemned him to such a merciless fate was intruding into my home. His crime of breaking and entering was no more than a molecule compared to the severity of taking his life. I panicked. And now his existence has ceased. What was his story? Maybe desperation led him to theft. Maybe he was in trouble and needed some money quick. Even if he was acting on his own volition then he had an entire life to experience remorse and repentance. What does it matter now anyhow? My impulsive retaliation to his burglary has left him incapable of ever leaving this house. The adrenaline I felt out of self-preservation has cost this young man his life. What have I got to preserve anyway? I’m old and on the deteriorating side of the fence. He should have taken the silver quicker, before I found him. My only true treasure was taken from me years ago... My beloved wife. This wouldn’t have happened if she was still here. Living alone has made me nervous and unpredictable to even myself. Please my darling let me seek solace in your memory. Distract me with your gentle manner, unmatched wisdom, your delicate eyes and the scent of your beautiful hair. Tell me it will be alright and convince me, because I know that it won’t. It is time, time to confront what has happened. Slowly turning the handle of the door I make my way towards the lounge. Each step heavier than the last as I draw closer to my victim. The hallway between the two rooms has never felt such a distance. The dread provoked bile in the pit of my stomach. Felt like I needed to retch. Must continue, I have to look at him and say a prayer before I ring for help. The door to the lounge creaked as I crept through the threshold. Upon entering the room I was dumbstruck and flabbergasted. He was gone. No trace other than a small pool of blood stained on the carpet. Feeling a mixture of relief and confusion I approached the cabinet where he was last seen. Before I knew what was happening a faint movement could be heard at my back as a presence emerged from behind the door. A tight clenching hand landed on my shoulder. My relief instantly turned to a petrified stillness. And ever so quietly he whispered against my ear in a weak voice, “You’ll regret that old timer”. Every hair on my being stood up right before a small blade travelled across one end of my throat to the other.

“Are you sure about this, miss?” The man in the white coat paused, the pen hovering over the piece of paper. “This operation is very delicate, and the results permanent. There is absolutely no going back.” The woman was silent, but she nodded her head. There was no doubt in her eyes. The man handed her the clipboard. “Then sign here please. And welcome to your new life.” *** The doctor leaned against the wall of his office building, puffing quietly on a cigarette and watching the smoke spiral up into the blue sky. He exhaled slowly, the nicotine calming his mind. He liked to have a cigarette after he performed an operation. “All the people who come into my office, seeking my help, are all the same,” he said out loud. His assistant beside him, rubbed his glasses on his wrinkled green scrubs. “Why’s that?” he asked conversationally. The doctor stubbed the cigarette against the wall and flicked it onto the ground. He stared it for a moment before replying, “They’re all looking for the same thing. To forget. It doesn’t matter what they’re trying to forget. A nasty break up, being bullied in school, a death. Unwanted memories they want to get rid of. Cleaning out the cobwebs that clutter your mind, so to speak.” He squinted at the dark speck in the sky that had caught his eye. It was a lone hawk. It circled slowly before descending down in a streak, talons outstretched. He knew more than likely the predator would get his prey. There was no escape. He supposed memories were like that hawk. Once they gripped you in their claws, they won’t ever let you go. Or a spider web, as the helpless insect becomes so entangled in the sticky silk until there was no way out anymore. And so these people come to seek him. Allow him to go rummaging around in their brain. Do some spring cleaning. Clear out the loops upon loops of dusty cobwebs. Imagine that, memories collected over a lifetime compared to cobwebs. “...what a damn shame,” he muttered. “A damn shame,” his assistant echoed. He put on his glasses and went back in, leaving the doctor standing outside, still searching for the hawk. *** *I can only watch you from afar now. If you found out, you might call me a stalker. That’s because you don’t remember me. You used to know me really well. I still do. But then you left me. Both physically and mentally. You went and got that operation everyone is getting now. I can only imagine you saying to the doctor, I don’t want to remember that man anymore, and he took away those memories as easily as picking an apple from a tree. I’m still not sure why you did this, only that I must’ve hurt you badly. You became so scarred you believed you couldn’t move on without completely forgetting about me. So now I stand on the other side of the street as you walk hand in hand with your husband who looks at you with absolute adoration. And your two cute children skip ahead, laughing delightfully. I have no part in your new life. I am just another ghost you have shoved into the closet along with your other cobweb memories.

“Look, doctor. I swear it’s gotten bigger.” Juliana stared at the large spot the size of a dime on the little girl’s back. It was a brownish-black color and seemed to pulse angrily. “I’ll need to take a sample and send it to the lab to be checked.” “Do you think it’s-” The mother stopped and looked at her pleadingly. “We can’t be sure if it’s benign or malignant until they’ve tested it,” Juliana informed her, hating that she could not ease this young mother’s fear. “Oh, okay, doctor.” The woman averted her eyes from Juliana and helped her daughter get dressed. “Say thank you, dear.” The girl turned her innocent gaze to Juliana. “Thank you.” And she felt her insides twist. “I’ll see you later.” Juliana waved until she couldn’t see the pair before collapsing onto the nearest stool. Even though she hadn’t sent the sample, she already had a feeling what the results would be. *** “I can’t go in there,” she gasped, clutching Jun’s arm. “Don’t make me. Please don’t.” “Hey. Hey, it’s going to be all right.” He rubbed her shoulders soothingly and cupped her cheek in his warm hand. She was ice cold. “You can do this. You’ve trained for this. You must help them.” “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to see their faces when I tell them…” “Then who will?” Jun’s eyes were hard. “Who is capable enough to give them the correct information? This is your job, Juliana.” Unable to meet his eyes, she nodded once and stepped into the room where the mother and her young daughter waited. She held the clipboard like a shield. Right when she passed the doorway and saw the girl sitting quietly on the padded examination table, something in her switched off, leaving her cold and hollow. Juliana pasted a fake smile on her face and after the initial greetings and pleasantries, she drew the mom outside and showed her the words on the clipboard. “Oh my God,” the woman gasped, tears coming to her eyes. She covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. “Oh my God, please no. Not my baby. Please, doctor.” Juliana only stood quietly, watching the woman sink to the floor. “Can I get someone-” she didn’t even have to finish before several nurses led the devastated woman away, their soothing murmurs growing fainter as they left. Juliana roughly pushed her hair back and dragged herself back to her office where Jun waited. He didn’t say anything as she collapsed into his arms, body shaking with dry sobs because she had no tears left, and just stroked her hair softly. “It doesn’t get easier,” she whispered hoarsely. “It never gets easier.

I remember driving alone on a gloomy late summer evening and passing through the unenlightened village of Ripley through a shower which obscured from me the final destination of my journey—the nostalgic Ripley Court—until I was nearly at the end of cobblestoned carriageway. I was hoping that I would find myself inside and away from the damning rain soon before the darkness would utterly swallow me up. My acquaintance was not without reasonable forethought as he came to the door hurried and red-faced and would not permit me to stand in the rain any longer than I absolutely had to. Lord Ellingbroke was a man of decorum as was wont of someone of his status but I could feel that he was keen to make me comfortable and allowed me to freshen up. I should probably state that my connection with Lord Ellingbroke was but a mutual friend who had introduced us not long before. Our interests at one complemented each other so greatly that it was fortunate to have happened. The rent on my apartment was becoming too great of a strain on my expenses and the common worries of life withheld me for a long time from accomplishing the continuation of my next novel for which I had hoped to find a setting to my liking—reclusive and melancholic. Ellingbroke could not find a custodian for his late medieval manor house which he would have to abandon for almost a year on business. As we continued our second meeting, which had only been preceded by our introduction several weeks earlier, I found myself paying more attention to the solar room which we occupied rather than the eloquent man who I had come to meet at first. I was captivated by an intrinsic wood panelling covering the south wall of this interior. This wood panelling had four panels on the top displaying four medieval love stories—those I recognised altogether without trouble and recall their Arthurian legends in a single breath: Arthur and Guinevere, Gareth and Lynette, Tristan and Isolde, and Lancelot and Guinevere. The large middle panel is entirely decorative—an intrinsic flower and cross motif—but the bottom again four sections, each with a single depiction of an Arthurian legend. Again having the esoteric knowledge of medieval literature paid because I could rattle off the four items displayed in each panel. They were Excalibur, the round table, a depiction of Camelot, and lastly the Holy Grail. Ellingbroke was not unkind and undisposed to my interest in his ancestral home—which had been in his family’s possession for many generations. He stood and any decorum made way for excitement quickly when he grabbed my arm and with a smile gave me the grand tour of the manor. Oftentimes I have wondered at the workmanship of medieval buildings and the undoubted effort and manual labour that must have been carried out. As though I was his thrall, Lord Ellingbroke preceded me from one room to the next. I was too amazed by the spectacular sights within the house and from the house that I couldn’t lift the invasive spirit that held me in. I knew also that the research of this place would be a long but pleasurable journey all of its own as I would delve into the gargantuan library that Ellingbroke had set up in his study. Nearly two stories high the shelves reached along three walls and a ladder was required to gather all the books one could want to peruse in this sanctuary of knowledge. The fourth wall consisted of two colossal paned windows which overlooked the gardens down the rolling slope of the hill towards the valley beyond where a grove spread in the dark shadows of the setting sun and the orange-silvery line of a river wandered effervescently through the landscape to disappear into darkness. We talked business after that. I wouldn’t have to leave the house for the first few weeks because the kitchen was well-stocked. There was a small allowance which I could use for personal use for the year and if there were any large and unforeseen expenses. Ellingbroke left the following morning leaving me with instructions on the caretaking of the house and of the garden allowing me to focus on finishing my opus magnum. After two weeks I was starting to find my way around the manor. I had made the study my home and ate most of my meals there. As the nights started to get colder again, the fireplace was a welcome way of warming my bones—and coincidentally for discarding pages of unpublishable material which I had conjectured to write. The research on Ripley Court available in Ellingbroke’s library was a font of inspiration—inspiration that I had sorely needed. I had even managed to find one of the hidden passages that had been locked away in the texts through several cryptic descriptions. Upon opening that door I had found a note attached to the back of the door congratulating me on my discovery and it concluded with Ellingbroke’s signature. The secret passageway wasn’t so secret after all. This narrow dark corridor had frightened me at first but after gathering an inkling of courage I had ventured forth a few steps until the darkness before me was so all-consuming and closing in on me so quickly that I at once turned and groped my way forward again to the door. It had been too exciting for me to continue onward but I had already known I would be able to visit the kitchen in the west wing through there if I had wanted to—even if I never did. I don’t recall whether it was that same evening when I uncovered the passage or not—I know it was dark, and probably past the midnight hour, when I looked up from a History of Ripley to find my fire dying quickly. So engrossed was I with the book that I had not felt the darkness and cold gradually enveloping me. I took the poker and furiously began turning over logs and hoped to rekindle the fire when the iron tool struck the back wall of the fireplace. I might have never known what I heard with some of my extant knowledge—I had to convince myself of the possibility though but when I struck that wall several more times—I could not deny the hollow space secreted away behind the chimney. With the fire now truly dead I figured it would be wise to continue my investigation in the morning when the sunlight would once again be streaming through the windows. So excited was I about the prospect that after dousing the light in the study and wandering back through dark hallways with nothing but my flashlight—for the lights in the hallways were bright as a bonfire—that once I found myself in my room, I was still holding the poker. The following morning I was happy to find that my discovery had not been the result of sleep deprivation and an overimaginative mind. When the poker hit the bricks it reproduced that very same sound and now with a tool belt and a set of old clothes I was going to uncover this mystery with my own hands—hands that were shaking with excitement. The first brick was the hardest, and I had been determined not to have to break any of them so that they could be replaced in the exact same way without Ellingbroke noticing—if I had the misfortune of uncovering nothing more than another chimney pipe I would not live through the embarrassment. In fact, all during the process I was somewhat worried of the possible results—most of which involved me being wrong. With hammer and chisel I managed to break one brick loose from its place in the wall and I removed it. The air that wafted from the small hole was stale. With much less care than I had applied to the first brick I began chiselling away and one brick after another was loosened. Three more bricks and I could start to look inside. I produced my flashlight from the belt and as I shone inside I was perplexed to find standing candles and a goblet. I continued savagely and without stopping until I had removed at least a dozen bricks. I was on my knees in the ashes of the fireplace but that was no concern of mine at the time. I found several candles and candleholders, a goblet, a dish, one figurine of Mary and one of Jesus on the cross. On the floor was a Bible in Latin with a foreword in archaic English that suggested it was printed in York in 1595. I must have sat like stone looking at those items, holding them in my hands and examining them at every angle hoping to discern more clues. I do not recall quite which emotion ruled my reason more—my joy and amazement at the discovery, or the bewilderment at why someone would hide these items in this way. In none of my research had I been led to believe there was anything hidden in these walls beyond the passageway I had already seen. After laying the items on the desk and taking my time to clean them, I was once again able to set my emotions aside and was determined to find the reasonable explanation—the explanation which eluded even my most imaginative ideas for I had few and none seemed realistic. Hours I sat in the chair with my clothes still covered in the soot, ashes and dust of the fireplace. I had no appetite for food but only for the knowledge that those books seemed to withhold from me. It was through a name connected to the Ellingbrokes in Elizabethan times that I finally started to come closer to an answer—Nicholas Owen. He was a Jesuit whose intentions had been never anything but those of good-will and grace. He was a master craftsman of stone and timber—a genius by some accounts—he was the constructor of these passages and hideaways. The connection with the items was easily deduced from there as the Reformation had been in full swing and the oppressive laws of Queen Elizabeth had made it unbearable for Catholics to practice their faith. They hid their items of Faith—their prayer and rituals too—and where room for one was found, room for another was not so far off. Since these hiding places were oftentimes meant for the priest to hide from Reformists looking for him they would be called “priest holes.” To say there wasn’t a lot written on this subject could be interpreted as an understatement. Only a handful of mentions in the guides of other castles and manor houses in the area provided anything at. My determination grew with each moment that I sat at that desk—I would find any more priest holes there were to find. With my flashlight back in my tool belt and my poker in my hand I started a meticulous search of the walls, starting with the study. I had to clear bookshelves in order to tap the wall but once I had been across all the surfaces of the room—including the floor—I had no clues. I ventured into the hallways and with the lights went from room to room—wall to wall. Everything took much longer than I had hoped. For the rest of the week I searched every square inch I could find—I ate and slept rarely because my fanciful imagination had gripped me with this exploration. At long last I admitted defeat. I sat down in the solar resting and looked at the wood panelling on the south wall which had amazed me at first but now annoyed me because I hadn’t been able to search behind it. It was attached to the wall and disengaging it would bring certain ruin to the priceless piece of antique wall covering. It was for quite some time that I didn’t realise the significance of the panels. I pondered about the wood panelling because it was so detrimental to my determination for finding the priest hole which eluded me. But a revelation passed over my tortured soul when I thought about the panels and realised that only one of them had any Catholic significance—the Holy Grail! With the tool belt around my waist, I carefully started to examine the panel and the wood. My mind was wrought with the possibilities of opening the panel and I had very little idea how it would work. I laid back and used my feet to push and as though released from being locked for centuries, the panel rotated inward and upward—quite suddenly and violently. I immediately pulled my feet back knowing that if I didn’t, they might get caught underneath the obvious weight of stone that I had felt. The slam with which the panel came back reverberated through the large open room and the panelling rattled against the wall. I took the crowbar and when I pushed the panel with my hands—a task which required a lot my strength—I managed to place the crowbar underneath the panel so that it would not fall back into place and left me some room to attempt an inspection of the space behind the panelling. The flashlight at once gave me the impression that I was looking at another passage like the one which had been discovered before my move to Ripley Court. The panel left a hole about one foot high and almost twice that in width—I could slide underneath. It wouldn’t be comfortable but I was sure that I could get out one way or another. I couldn’t have been more wrong—I am trapped! Here, in the dark of the narrow corridor, the length of which I have searched and searched again—I have found no escape. I’m confined to a passage which has gone undiscovered for countless centuries until I took upon me the decision to seek it out and venture forth without informing anyone—anyone at all. Time passes but there’s nothing present to count it. My flashlight is going to give out at some point soon—it’s the only weapon I have against the absolute dark of the room—this darker than black air which fills my lungs with such heaviness. I have examined the masonry in this corridor and I find that my tool belt is improperly equipped to deal with walls of this thickness. It will take me longer than I have time to live to chip away at these rocks with a small hammer and a small chisel. I have shouted—and cursed—at myself and the world—God! I feel the weight of hopelessness on my shoulders. I have begun to write this account. Why?—I do not know as I am not at liberty to communicate with anyone—I have become a victim of my own reclusiveness and curiosity. I now feel the hour approaching rapidly that I shall be entombed here—forever alone in this prison of cold stones. I feel the oppressiveness of this narrow hall. I am envisioning myself as those Catholic priests who would have fled into this place to escape the Reformists—to escape the gallows. I cannot begin to fathom how one would be so happy to be in a place like this away from danger but I must remind myself that if their danger had passed then surely they would have been rescued simply by access of the panel from the outside—this hatch that turns on two rusty ancient hinges and the stone of which is rounded to allow to turn. But however I look at it, I continue to be puzzled that there is no way to open this latch from the inside. I cannot escape. Fear has gripped my heart and I know there are words that escape my mind at this hour—it is impossible to find them if they exist at all. I am about to tear this paper from my notebook and push it through the slit at the bottom of the panel. Oh, how I have forsaken myself now and what terror presses upon my soul! I shall be no more soon—I shall be gone. This is my final resting place.

The little girl wandered aimlessly through the dark, damp forest with tears in her eyes. Her face was bruised and dirty, her tears trickling down her face, making it damp and cold. She was wearing a baby blue silk dress and her hair was loosely tied with light pink ribbons. She had white school shoes on with black ribbons stuck on by fabric glue. The girl noticed that the outfit that she was wearing was suspiciously similar to an outfit that she loved to wear as a baby. An outfit that her now deceased mother adored. As the girl wandered further through the forest, she noticed that the shade of her hair was getting gradually lighter, turning from brown to blonde. The little girl quickly remembered that her hair was blonde when she was a baby. As she walked, she also noticed that a blue light light was gradually getting brighter as she walked. She stopped at a still lake with a mini version of her mother's old necklace, the one that she drowned in. It looked like it would fit her perfectly. The little girl picked up the necklace and stared at it with a strange feeling of hope. The necklace was just a black ribbon with a white cross with a blue gem inside. When she put the necklace on, the blue gem inside of the cross shined brightly, and the little girl closed her eyes, smiling while she did it.

This is my first short story. Initial apologies for grammar errors. I mainly write for SEO and product descriptions, but have a passion for fiction I want to get out. Here is my first work. Comment with anything that compels you. Morning Scars She stared in the mirror to look at her scars, a dark morning ritual. Like a repaired rag-doll, her body seemed to be covered with seems and discoloration, the places where the wounds once existed. Although she is no longer bleeding, the marks are still visible in the morning bathroom light. The sunlight breaking through the half drawn shades, enough to see the speckles of dust particles floating as if they just woke up themselves, floating without purpose. Soon it will be time to face the world. She won't let them see the old, but not forgotten gashes and puncture marks. Some mornings she feels like a war-torn veteran, but never having seen a battlefield or held a weapon. The hot water stings her back, but helps her body make the final exit from the perils of her dreams, to the reality that is life. Steam enters her nostrils and fills her lungs with warm, moist air. Some mornings this breath almost hurts, from a night of red-eyes and short scuttled breaths; her strength always pushed her beyond that initial breath, to take the next and eventually have the warmth pass through her entire body. Standing with a towel wrapped around her waist, the foggy mirror almost hid all of her marks. The faint shadowy woman could have been a model or a famous actress whom people adored. As the steam settled, the model would melt away and reveal the reality that existed right in front of her. She would not weep today, make up brush in hand. She covers her flaws, just as she always does. No one knows they are there. Hidden beneath layers of coverup, she prepares for her day. Sometimes a lonesome teardrop would cause her to wipe-away and reapply some powder or eyeliner. Other times her eyes would well up and the smallest amount of mascara would dissolve under a blink, burning. The sting reminded her she could still feel, she was still human. A noise in the bedroom signaled he was awake, her husband, the man who wielded the weapons to cause her scars. He wasn't a bad man, he just was put in bad situations. She didn't think he meant to do those things, but he did and she could see the evidence in the mirror. Children's' laughs and Mickey Mouse cartoons caused a small lift in the sides of her lips, someone could have said it was a smile, others might have brushed it off as a twitch, an involuntary muscle movement. She was still alive, she still had her emotions, she still could laugh. Couldn't she? The bathroom door opened and creaked slightly, the show must go on. She smiled and said good morning; just in time, as she could see all of her scars and bruises were hidden. Her husband undressed and prepared to clean up for his day, there was enough hot water for his brief rushed shower. He smiled and offered his morning pleasantries; a laugh was even shared as he dropped the shampoo bottle on his big toe. Looking up though, he knew something was unsettled. For the first time, he saw something. Was it a blemish? Did she get hurt? Under her left eye he could see the swelling. He had never seen that before, how could she have possibly gotten that? He asked, and the answer knocked him back. Even though he was mostly dry now, its as if the cool air just hit him after stepping out of the shower. As she explained, her scars appeared, one by one transforming from the inside to the out, like he was just given glasses and could finally see clearly. He had given her those scars, even though he never physically hurt her. There were never any fists or weapons, but she bled. As he saw his bride transform into the scar-laden woman, he wept. Tears seemed to come from a deep well that was never tapped before. He looked at his hands and they looked burned; his arms and chest and legs bore the same once burned flesh. She saw it as well, face of a man who seemed to have been set in a blazing fire time and again. They embraces each other, each scar and mark touched on their bodies. They seemed to wince has their pain-ridden scars touched each other. Something seemed to heal, the need to hide their blemishes. Barren, nude and vulnerable they stood. Scars don't heal quickly, but they fade. They loved each other despite the marks left behind, they only knew there was one way to heal them. They needed each other to dab the wounds, one by one until they were gone. A new oath and promise was made, but it was hard to accept. Each morning she woke up, looked in the mirror at her scarred face. Sometimes one has faded away, and she smiles. He touches her back and she feels a smooth soft hand again, the one she held on the day they took their vows. She was happy to not have to hide anymore, she was happy to see her beauty return a little bit each time she opened her eyes and looked in the sunlit morning mirror. The dust floated in the air, and this time she envisioned it was them, dancing with purpose and love.

Kinesis Chapter One Oliver was different. That was clear to anyone who saw him. He wasn’t as loud as the other boys, he wasn’t as confident in his abilities as the other men… he wasn’t strong willed enough to fight. He was plenty able to beat many of his fight-mates, the small group of friends that young boys are assigned to to train for when they reach maturity… But, still, Oliver was different. Oliver was also sad. He was sad because he just lost Dirk to the ever-gaping maws of the fighting planet, that sorrowful abyss to which all were eventually lost., he was sad because he was almost about to start training… he was sad because his life sucked. “Hey, Featherweight! Get your ass down here!” Oliver heard Dylan’s abrasive voice cut through his turbulent dreams, causing him to tumble out of the thin, grey sheets attempting to span the miniscule dusty old bed. He hit the floorboards on his side, eliciting an “oof” from the startled teen. “What the- WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME? I WAS SLEEPING!” Oliver was cut short by Dylan saying to him, “Dude, no time to complain. It’s your first day of training. We wouldn’t want to be late for the grouping ceremony now, would we?” Oliver mumbled something Dylan would not like to recite about the ‘stupid’ ceremony, before begrudgingly standing up on the floorboards, and pulling a coat over his tattered brown clothing in an attempt to appear respectable. Dylan raised an eyebrow at this, but decided that it was good enough that he got the self-detrimental teen out of bed at all. He turned, and motioned for Oliver to follow. As Oliver passed through the dusty old doorway marking the edge of his room, he looked back. He realized, with a sudden jolt, that it would never be his room again. From here on out, he would live in a room at the training center with the other young men until he was deemed strong and mature enough to go through the second phase of training. At that point, he would be sent to The Fighting Planet, something most boys yearned for. Then… well, he didn’t know. That information was kept from you until you got to the planet. He only knew one thing, he would fight. He would lose. As Oliver followed Dylan through the desert planet, he began to feel tired. However, he didn’t want to appear weak to the stronger teen. Oliver kept walking, oblivious to the rocky terrain. Oliver’s mind kept telling him that he’d lose. He knew that his will wasn’t strong enough to fight against the psychic attacks he knew he would be put through-- “You gonna answer him? Dude. I knew you were spacey, but really?” Oliver was jerked from his thoughts as Dylan once again called his attention. They had reached the glass dome, the training center was held within the frosted glass walls, sunlight being reflected off of the dome and searing Oliver’s headache-weakened retinas. This caused him to shield his eyes with an arm. In front of Oliver, it seemed there was a man trying to ask him a question. Oliver brought down his arm and squinted at the man, trying to avoid the sunlight’s avid rays. “Are you here for training?” The man repeated, speaking slowly and clearly. It seemed they had been trying to get his attention for some time now. Oliver stared for a moment at the man before answering. “Yeah. I’m here for training.” Oliver’s muddled words betrayed his facade and showed that, despite trying to look awake and alert, he was exhausted. His words were slurred slightly, and his eyes were rapidly losing focus. The man noticed Oliver rub one of his eyes, and looked at the slightly older boy accompanying him. He just shrugged. The man looked back at Oliver and held out a tablet. Oliver took the tablet in his hands, staring at the illuminated screen as though the words shown on it were a foreign language - one that burnt his irises like the surface of the sun. After a few moments, he scribbled a messy signature over the line at the bottom of the screen. He handed the handheld computer back to the instructor, who looked over the glowing screen, He also signed the form, and motioned for Oliver to hold out his arm. Oliver did as told, and the instructor pulled out a syringe. The syringe was filled with a bright red liquid. Oliver flinched as the instructor gently rolled up his shirt sleeve, making no note of the dusty state of the shirt. He hovered the syringe over a spot on Oliver’s arm, just below his elbow, on the inside of his arm. The syringe slowly pushed through Oliver’s skin, puncturing the blood vessels beneath. Oliver felt his skin crawl as his blood composition changed. The spot around the syringe became a bright red, and Oliver stared at the radiant color for a second. The instructor took out the syringe, and wiped the needle with an antibacterial cloth. He put both syringe and wipe into a semi-clear box and put the box in one of his pants’ pockets. He looked back at Oliver, and noticed his confused expression. He quickly elaborated. “This is a liquid form of hemoglobin. It will make any and all injuries more apparent, as it has been combined with an anticoagulant. This means that even the slightest injury will be very noticeable. It it a very good way to determine young boys’ pain tolerance, and need of medical services. Oliver nodded, and stared at the bright red spot on his arm, and noticed that he was bleeding a lot more than normal, he also noticed that, as the instructor had explained, his blood was a brilliant shade of red. The instructor pulled out a bandage from another box, and handed it to Oliver. Oliver then wrapped the bandage around his arm, and pulled his sleeve back down over the white fabric. He was led into the large glass dome by the instructor, who seemed used to the awe-inspiring view, though Oliver’s eyes went wide as he saw the domed room. A giant chandelier hung grandly in the middle of the room, crystals suspended in what seemed like nothing. There were many rows of seats centered around a circular platform. There were stairs leading up to the platform, and on the platform, there was a man. Oliver sat down where he was told, next to Dylan, and the muttering from all of the boys sitting in the seats stopped. They all looked at the man standing on the platform. He had his arms raised, signaling silence. He put his hands down, and scanned the crowd. Oliver shied away when the Man’s eyes studied his own. Oliver felt as though this man knew everything about him, every secret, every mistake. It felt like the man was judging him. Oliver was afraid of this man, for though his hair was grey and his long robes were tattered and dusty, the man radiated a great power, and it felt to Oliver as though the man could crush him into a powder on a whim. Just as quickly as the gaze had arrived, it passed, and the man was looking back at the yellowed pages he held in his wrinkled hands. He looked at them for a few moments, as though reading something, before bringing his gaze back up to nothing in particular, above the row of seats, he was staring into a camera on one of the walls of the dome. “I welcome you here today for a momentous occasion. Once again, the newest generation of boys are ready to begin training,” The man looked at the paper once again. “In preparation for their fight, on the planet of Omega 4-13, more commonly known as… ,” he paused for dramatic effect before continuing, “The Fighting Planet.” Oliver looked up at those words, for he had spaced out when the man had begun his speech. He now listened closely to what the man was about to say, for it was quite important. “These young men are about to start their training, and before I tell you what this entails, I would like to explain why we do this.” At this, every boy in the room perched on the end of their seats. This was the first and last time in their lives they would hear this, and they wanted to remember it. “Thousands of years ago, life was very different. Men and women grew up together, instead of on separate planets. It may seem weird that this was the case, but for them it was normal, for back then, even humans were different. Men were weaker, women were less empathic, and there was no fighting planet. Back then, fighting was illegal. You grew up, learned many things, both physically and mentally, and then you got a job. There was no training, there was no strength… We don’t know exactly when , but things changed. Men started to be stronger, women developed psychic capabilities. A rift formed. That rift grew, and eventually, once we discovered interplanetary means of travel, the two subspecies split. From there, both groups’ societies grew, and matured, and became as they are now. Some of you will return to this planet. Some will not. This all depends on you. Now, I will separate you all into different fighting groups. You will train with these boys, and you will live with them as well. You will get along with them.” At this, he looked around the circle again, once friendly eyes now ice cold. Oliver shivered once again as his eyes met the man’s. “When your name is called, you will come to the platform, and you will be assigned to one of these four fight-group leaders,” He motioned to four men standing behind him. “Trevor,” He motioned to a brown haired man of tall stature. He, like the other men, was very strong. “Derek,” This man was shorter than Trevor, though was by no means short. He had sandy blonde hair, and a fair complexion, though his chestnut eyes were dark and foreboding. “Tom,” Tom was very tall. He was taller than Trevor by at least 5 inches, and he had dark brown hair and ice blue eyes. “And finally, Jake.” Jake was an average height, shorter than all of the others, and he had black eyes, along with dark skin and brown hair. All of the men were stoic, lending no emotion to their first impressions. Oliver couldn’t decide who he wanted to be taught by, and he didn’t want to choose, in case he didn’t get assigned to who he wanted to be assigned to. The announcer began to call out names, and Oliver zoned out, staring at nothing in particular.

"You know they say you aren't going to make it, right? Did you hear them say that? Can you hear me right now? You aren't going to make it. You're going to die. Soon. Do you get that? Pretty soon you will be an after thought. A bad dream. And I can't wait to begin forgetting you. Do you know that? I hope you know that you're going to die. And you know what? You know what? I thought I was going to be happy. Satisfied. To come in and see you like this...unconscious and drooling all over yourself. These tubes going down your throat and up your dick. Needles in your veins pumping you full of god-knows-what. I thought I'd be happy. But I'm not happy. Because, once again, you win! Like always. You're getting out of it, again. Once again you get to avoid having to, having to actually own up to what you put us through. You get to escape. And leave us all hollow. And empty. Again. But this time it's permanent. I thought I'd be so fucking happy to hear that you're going to die. I used to not be able to wait for this fucking die. I planned on coming in here and laughing in your fat face. Spitting at you. Telling you nobody was going to miss you. But no you're just escaping. You're just leaving me empty and hollow, again." She pulls the wheeled tray table over to her seat and quickly drinks the remainder of a plastic cup full of apple juice from whoever left it there last. The machines around her beep and breath, loudly.KTSSHTT! She pops open a can of cranberry juice and pours it into the plastic cup. From her purse she removes a small pint of vodka in a plastic container. The cheap stuff. She adds it to her cranberry juice, takes a massive gulp and slinks back into her chair, giving up the job of holding her body up to the small plastic chair beneath her as she stares at her unconscious father with a disgusted, angry, pair of dead eyes. She takes another sip of her cocktail and then moves her seat closer to her father. "Do you even know what it's been like? For me? For Hannah? For Heidi? Do you? Do you even know what it's been like for mom? Do you? Do you know how many failed relationships I've been through all because I CAN'T BE A NORMAL PERSON?! BECAUSE OF YOU! AND EVERYTHING YOU FUCKING DO TO US? DO YOU KNOW THAT?! Do you understand that I'm broken? WE'RE, broken. All of us. After what you did." She takes another drink. "Do you?! Are you even aware of the pain and hurt you put us all through for so many fucking years? ARE YOU? You know...for a very long time in my life I thought that you were aware, but you were just too much of a goddamned coward to ever MAN up to what you did. I thought you were just too much of a goddamned coward to ever say you were sorry. And you know what? THAT'S ALL I WANT! That's all I've wanted! FOR SO LONG! I held out hope: 'Oh, one day he's going to admit it. One day he's going to apologize.' But it never came. And I yearned for it so bad, as if, as if it would take away this fucking thunderstorm in my mind, and this sunken pit in my heart. I thought just hearing it from you would help fix me. I thought someday we'd talk about it. Someday we'd make things right. Someday you'd be aware of what you fucking did to us all." She opens her purse, removes a cigarette, pops it in her mouth and lights it, right there in the hospital room. "But you know what? Over time...over time it became PAINFULLY clear to me that you are just so oblivious to yourself. You are so utterly unaware. And I know that that one thing I thought would save me would never come. And I'd always be this fucked up girl, with these fucked up thoughts in my head and this deep deep void in my heart. YOU MAKE ME FEEL FUCKING DEAD INSIDE, DO YOU KNOW THAT? You ruined my fucking life! You ruined all of our lives. DO YOU KNOW THAT! I want to tell you that I hope you fucking rot. I want to tell you to burn in hell and spit on you and every...Goddamnit. And now you get to get out of it. This is your escape. You finally get to leave. And those who didn't know you too well will think you were some great fucking man. But we'll always know you were just a fucking coward. We'll always know. Do you hear me? You ruined our lives." She takes a drag and then a sip. "Fuck you. You're still going to be alive well after you're gone. You'll be living up here, in this fucking head of mine, in the damaged decayed house you turned it into. You will live there for the rest of my life. And I hate you for that. I hate you that you could never have been the father or the man that we needed you to be. I hate you for the things you did. I hate how bad I am fucked up because of you. I want to scream and beat your stupid fat face in. GOD! It's so goddamned unfair that you made such a mess of our lives and now you get out of it, scott free. You get to walk away and never have to deal with what you've done." She takes a big gulp, finishing her cup of cran-vodka, before refilling and making another. "And you know what the most fucked up part is? Huh? I have to let you off. For my own sake. As much as I want you to rot and burn, if I ever have a chance to be a normal person I have to be the bigger person here. I need you to know that while I hate you for everything you did, and there is so much anger, and sadness, and hurt inside of me for what you put us all through, I have to forgive you. I have to. It's not fair but I guess the high road never is. You got what you always wanted in life and you made a mess of everyone elses' life and now you're walking away scott free and I have to let you and say I forgive you. Because if I don't forgive you, I'm, I'm never going to be a functional person. I'll always be broken. I forgive you, dad. I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you." She puts out her cigarette in her cup of vodka cranberry, straightens her skirt, wipes the tears from her eyes and leaves.

Late one Friday evening in the remote South Pacific, a private passenger jet encountered turbulence and crash-landed on a small atoll. All three occupants survived the wreck. The following events, in no particular order, happened: *** I am fearing that Mister Jeff is not well. We are deserted one week, and he no longer speak sense to me. I say I will sit long time at the radio and call for rescue. He say no Tato, we must save battery. But we use battery for nothing else, I say. I say we have a big signal fire today. He say no Tato, we might burn all the coconuts. But we have very much food on the plane, I say. I say I have wife and babies at home. I say they cannot survive on Papa’s savings forever. He say no Tato. No. *** Desertion, day one. I’m stranded on an uncharted island with a tiny ethnic man, a manicured poodle, and one bitch of a hangover. We went down approximately fifteen hours ago. It’s me and the pilot, Tato, the boss’s closest disposable. He’s one of the younger guys in the business. I think he’s half Bolivian, half Filipino, something like that. I can never tell with these little fuckers anymore. I’ve been in this business too long. Oh, and the dog. I was half-hoping that yippy shit would eat it in the crash, but no such luck. I suppose I should be glad for the thing, though. It’s no life for a dog to live on a Learjet. I once heard it hadn’t stepped beyond the tarmac in years. That’s unnatural. I guess the boss’s wife insisted on the built-in doghouse and professional toilet training. I’m surprised the world’s preeminent drug cartel would endure such a headache. Maybe it’s a power thing. I mean, if the dog pissed him off enough, he could always just kill it. He could kill his wife, too, if he wanted. I’ve been this guy’s number one rep for fifteen years: far too long. I wonder how far he’ll search for me and the brown guy. Not this far, I figure. We didn’t go down with a full shipment, and we were a nice long way off course. I’ve estimated the island to have an area of approximately two square miles. It’s a thick crescent of earth with a white sand beach along the inner edge. The rest is mostly forest, but there’s one nice long field where I was able to put the plane down. Coconuts fall like acorns and the crabs walk right up to the cooking fire. Could have done much worse, for sure. The Lear is still in one piece, more or less. The landing took enough of a toll; the gear sunk a good two feet into the sandy soil and the wings are pretty much fucked. We have what we need, though. The cabin is undamaged. Boss left me with a full suitcase, a king-size bed, and a few cases of nine-millimeter ammunition. Tato’s got the reclining couch. The standard food stock for a trans-Pacific meet-and-greet is a week’s worth of dehydrated breakfast sandwiches and vacuum-sealed steak and lobster dinners. That plus a half-dozen bottles of shitty Merlot, a third of which I had to empty last night. *** “Nono, Mister McMister–hic!… I mean Mister Mc–" “Have I not repeatedly asked you to call me Jeff?” “Yes, Mister Jeff. Okay, Mister Jeff. Nono, Mister Jeff. I have my rer-responsibilities. I must not–“ “Tato, your only responsibility is keeping this thing in the air, and the autopilot seems to have that well taken care of.” “But Mister Jeff… Monsoons… Corlolis effect. Maybe we far off course.” “Relax, Tato. I know exactly where we are.” “But how–” “Tato, how could you refuse such a fine Merlot?” “But Mister Jeff, four glasses I have already. And two only it seems for you.” “Tato, are you suggesting that–” [Turbulence] “Whoa, Nelly!” “Oh no, Mister Jeff. This bad, Mister Jeff. I got to go up!” “Wait, Tato!” “Damn. Oh damn damn, Mister Jeff! We in the storm now!” “Tato? Can you handle this?” “Too much shaky. I think we got to pull over.” “Evidently you can’t… Move over.” “Mister Jeff? Mister Jeff! Please do not!” “I’m taking us down. Strap in and shut up… Tato!” “Mister Jeff!” “Copilot’s seat, now! And strap in! I’ve done something like this before.” “Mister Jeff… Pull up, Mister Jeff! O horror! Great horror and disgrace!” *** It is been one month, and Mister Jeff is now wild. I pray always for rescue. He do not shave or clean the body, even with the lavatory. I will work in the sun to build a big boat. He will go more to the forest, shooting like mad. I will make a big help word with rocks. He will hurl my rocks into the sea. He will not sleep. I cannot find the dog. These things frighten me. *** Lucky for me, this was no standard trans-Pacific meet-and greet. I had suspicions when the boss told us to leave the Lear and fly commercial on the return, so I checked after takeoff. I was not disappointed. Behind the bed’s dummy headboard is a door that opens to a padded, temperature-controlled locker filled with several dozen bottles of Cristal. As I suspected, the plane was meant to be a gift for a Bangkok massage tycoon, the boss’s number one buyer. And knowing this individual, I had a strong hunch that surprises didn’t end with the bubbly. It didn’t take me long to find the breakaway floor panel in the bedroom luggage compartment. Somehow the boss had the bird retrofitted with a full-length sub-cabin pressurized conveyor track, presently loaded to its limit with neatly wrapped kilos of one hundred percent Bolivian powder cocaine. Yes, the plane is giant fucking coke Pez Dispenser. And that’s a whole retirement’s worth of sweet little tablets, I said to myself. I thanked the good Lord for my old pilot’s license and my thick Irish liver. Tato doesn’t need to know about this. Tato doesn’t need to know any of this. *** “Good afternoon, Mister Jeff.” “…” “I am not see you in the sunlight since the Thursday last. You are well, Mister Jeff?” “…” “What do you carry with you? It is a bottle? It is a bottle of Cristal! From where– O horror! Why must you always? I ask you again please point your gun not at me.” “Bang!” “Ah!” “Just… fucking with you! I lost my bullets… but I don’t need them!” “Mister Jeff, I ask you stay back. Stay back, Mister Jeff! I beg you, do not swing the bottle at my–” [Fifteen minutes] “Tay… tow…” “…” “Tato!” “Huh… What? What! I am bound? Disgrace of me, there is no worse!” “Tato!” “Mister Jeff! I demand you unbind me!” “I found my bullets.” “Oh nono.” [Gunshot] “Horror!” [Gunshot] “Mercy!” [Gunshot] [Gunshot] “Disgrace! Mister Jeff, why you must include me in your sick games?” “What? You think this is a fucking game! Okay then, lets make it a game: a game of stakes, as it were. Two reasonable options, one free choice. Option one…. Ready? Yeah? Option one: I shoot you in the head. Want to hear option two?” “…” “Option two: I leave you in the sun ‘til you’re a fucking raisin. So… what’ll it be?” “Option two! Option two! I am a raisin!” *** I am disgraced to utter limits. I am bound to a tree. I am two days without moving and my body fills with pain everywhere. My skin is cooked red in the hot sun. Mister Jeff is beyond madness now. I choose to be a raisin but still he shoots. He say it is fair with eyes closed. I pray mostly. I pray for my family. I pray for justice. He feed me only old Cristal, and one time he urinates in the bottle. He is amused but I am not. I pray sometimes for option one. Oh disgrace. *** Desertion, day forty-two. I’ve got that ethnic little shit now. Now nobody can fuck with my paradise. I am Sultan of Jeff Island and my rule is– No, I am Jeff, Island God, and I require tribute. *** “What… the… fuck?” [Helicopter blades] “…” [Footsteps] “Oh, Boss… How good of you to rescue me.” “Cállate. You think I’m stupid, Jeff? You steal my fucking jet and you think I’m stupid?” “What? Don’t stick your piece in my face. Get that out of here!” “Shut the fuck up!” [Pistol-whip] “Ow! Fuck!” “I did not come here for you.” “What?” “Where’s that fucking dog?” “Oh…” “What does that mean? Answer me! What happened to the dog?” “Barbecue.” “What!” [Pistol-whip] “¡Hijo de puta!” [Pistol-whip] [Pistol-whip] “Ow. Ow. Ow.” “What is on that tree? What have you… Tato?” “…” “Jeff! Hijo de puta, cut him down!” “Okay! I’m doing it. Don’t have a fucking conniption.” [Fifteen minutes] “I am not a raisin. Disgrace, Mister Jeff. Disgrace… Gracias, Capo. Muchos muchos gracias–” “Ir al helicóptero, Tato.” “And me? Number one rep? Fifteen years?” “¡Hijo de mil putas! Aqui, take this.” “Boss? This is just a stack of blank paper.” “No shit. ¡Enrique! Get out here and take care of that scrap heap in the field!” “What? Who? Wait, what is that guy doing? Is that a bazooka? What is he… No!” [Explosion] “No! Asshole! My retirement!” “Cállate tu boca, Jeff. Shut it or I shoot you in the fucking head, okay?” “…” “This is mercy.” “What? You’re leaving me here?” “Si. I’ll be back. Write me a fucking book. If I like it, I won’t make you eat your huevos. Okay?” “…” “Adios, Jeff. Get to work.

So this is a story I started writing today. It's not done but just wanted to get some feedback on this. I'm not that great of a writer but I hope to be one day. Thanks for your time and have a great day. Enjoy. I’ve allowed my memories to control me for most of my life. I am currently 32, alone and afraid of the world outside these four walls. Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts are scattered around the floor. My television tuned to some random channel. I usually leave it on for background noise. It helps silence his voice. I’ve seen doctors, ever since I started having anxiety attacks at the age of 23. At that age I was a pretty bad alcoholic. I would drink till I blacked out and wake up full of regret. I would shut myself away from the world, allowing myself to be consumed by my thoughts. I would try and piece together the events that lead to me waking up with dried blood on my lips, naked women next to me, and hate messages from ex-lovers. The truth behind all of this was the alcohol was consuming me, consuming my memories. It was blacking out the vital points that I needed to remember. I was never able to understand why I drank so much. Maybe it was growing up in a household where my father beat my mother in front of me, maybe the fact that I felt stuck at such a young age. No goals in mind, no job, no real friends. All of this possibly added to my anxiety and alcoholism. I felt alone. So anyways, I lay here in this room now. The days have started getting shorter and the weather colder. I stayed at home a lot, reading novels or talking to my memories. Over the years I developed a bad case of sleep paralysis. This is what I was told to believe that is. I would wake up during the night and feel a tug at my legs and hear voices. Over time I realized that my regrets and stress have been slowly seeping from my mind and manifested into an actual being. It was a grim reminder of all my mistakes up to that point in life. No one else besides me was able to hear him or see him. I lost the few friends I had from the age of 23 to 32 due to this. My friends thought I had gone crazy and left me alone to this cold, cruel world.

I was always jealous of James. He has been my closest friend since middle school. There is not sob story about me not having any friends and him being the only one I’ve ever had. We just got along really well. I was an average high school student. Solid grades in the A-B range. Good amount of friends and a normal relationship with my family. But James. Fucking James. He was the epitome of an Honor Student. He always got straight A’s, was never late to class, never once absent, went to all the fucking parties, was tight with all the girls. He was just that kind of guy. Practically worshipped by everyone. That Swedish fuck. I always envied him. Wish I could have that kind of life. He had always had the best life. But for some reason he always hung out with me and treated me like I was his brother. We had pretty average lives. Normal school days, hung out with each other, enjoyed the hell out of weekends. The norm. Until that one week we went hiking. We went for a hike every 2 months or so and had fun being together in the wilderness enjoying the fresh air. It was June 27th and the skies were clear, nice cool breeze, loud as fuck birds, an ideal summer day. Everything was normal, until we found that fucking door. This door looked archaic, had weird Latin writing on it or something. We hiked this route frequently and this is the first time we have ever seen it. James, being the strong, gung-ho type, immediately opened the door. I wish I was that brave. Behind the door was a long hallway with a right turn at the end and debris scattered on the ground. James marched on ahead to find out what was inside while I was inspecting the walls. I wish I was that adventurous. After a few minutes of exploring we entered this huge antechamber with a pedestal in the center of it. There was a weird, ivory, glowing pyramid sitting atop the pedestal. Upon seeing it, James yelled, “DIBS!” and ran up to it and grabbed it without hesitation. He was always like that. After carefully stepping around the debris on the ground I caught up to him. He was holding it in both hands are just staring at it wide eyed. Nothing interesting happened after that. There was no huge trap that went off or a massive earthquake that made the whole room collapse in on itself. We just went home afterwards. The next day at school is when I noticed what had happened that day. I went to class and James was no where to be found. James, the goddamn model student. Never sick, never late, never NOT at school. I was so fucking jealous of that. I missed a week of school because of a flu, but he didn’t even have his shots and wasn’t even phased by it. But I digress. About 10 minutes into class James finally shows up. He looks weak and drained. He used to be this tall, 6”1, decently tan guy. Now hes this pale, hunched over husk. Everyone drops everyone to see if he’s okay, even the teacher. But not me. I sat in my chair, despising him. He was getting all of this attention. I was with him, why is no one asking me what happened? He assured everyone he was okay and limped over to his seat next to me. Class went on like usual with no more interruptions. Afterwards he called out for me to wait up for him and pulled me aside. “Dude I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me it’s something to do with that fucking pyramid thing we found. I’m just glad I grabbed it instead of you. I wouldn’t want you to be in this kind of pain.” Bullshit. I wish I grabbed it. I would be getting the attention instead of him. Selfish prick. About a week later his health kept deteriorating and was soon hospitalized. Everyone was sending him flowers and card to see if he was okay. His room had a damn line leading out of it during visiting hours. Hell the local news even did a story on him. But this was only the start. After being in the hospital for a while, he told everyone about our hike. About the object. Fucking SWAT teams went out to find the door and a hazmat team went to his house to confiscate the pyramid. They never did find the door though. It just seemed to disappear off the face of the earth, just as it had appeared. The object was taken to some top secret government bullshit building probably out in a desert. CNN ended up doing this whole story on James and HIS discovery of the damn thing. They completely left me out. He kept stealing the spotlight, I was there too. But they didn’t care. I wasn’t the famous one. I saw him on a regular basis along with all the fucking cameras. He kept getting worse, no matter what medicine he was given.They wouldn’t let me see him anymore after he started glowing. It was around a month when the widespread rumors started. Some said it was a new virus spreading, some thought he was being possessed by something. All fucking bullshit. All he did was touch a fucking triangle. Some religious zealots out there thought he was some sort of prophet, deity, golden god or whatever they wanted to believe. James was never a holy man, which made this all worse. There were rallies outside of the hospital demanding that James say something to prove that he was a god, or for him to declare he wasn’t anything. Once he heard about all of this he turned silent. He only ever talked to me after that. I was still pissed about him getting all of the attention so I rarely listened to him. I only ever heard him say vague things about feeling numb and starving. Every time we got done talking and I left his room, I was attacked by reporters asking about what he said to me. At first I loved it. I finally got the attention that James kept stealing from me ever since this all started. But after a few days of the same thing repeating. They only wanted to know about their fucking God. So I decided to fuck with them. I ended it all. I told them all that James demanded to die, and if they did not kill him, he would plague the world worse than any other god has. He did not ask for me to say this. I didn’t even listen to him at all that day. I just wanted him dead. The world agreed on killing James. It’s been about a month after James died by my word. Mass suicides are common now. People are scared that their god has died. Everyone is blaming me for his death. They all claim I am the Devil. My face is all over the news. No one has stopped talking about me since. I finally got the attention that James stole from me. I was always jealous of him for everything he has done. Now its my turn to be the spotlight. It’s my time to shine.

My Times With Mr. Morningstar, a Brush With the Devil "My boy," he chuckled, "when you're in arms with the chief of police, you have a different 'law' to abide by." In the way he laughed, with piercing eyes so intense that I could hardly stand to look him in the face, I could see an almost child-like endearment in them. Yet I had heard enough stories to know that the only thing to bring about 'Mr. Morningstar's' smile was a devilish scheme in which he had considered all possible outcomes The man was a terrifyingly lucky gambler -so to speak. "Personal code aside, sir" I replied in the most respectful tone I could muster, "the chief of police cannot change the laws at a whim." "Ho-oh! But my boy, I was merely being concise" (the man had clearly prepared for my reply, unnerving.) "more specifically, the DA, the chief, the mayor, many FBI agents, and even the state senators are close friends of mine." The way those last words left his mouth was dripping saccharine. From the anyone else, that would have been almost sincere. In my current situation, however, the words sent a feeling of despair through my very soul. "Well then, there is still your personal code to appeal to, of course I understand. Which is why I can offer you more than you could ever imagine." It was true, though he wasn't truly Lucifer, this man could offer me any and all worldly goods from his fortune amassed from places I'm sure I do not want to know. The blood of the slaves working the world-machine make diamonds shine brighter and whiskey sweeter; their tears make the sweetest perfumes. My mouth was drier than I had ever felt, but I was somehow able to choke out a protest, "S-sir *cough* my moral standing on this wouldn't allow me sleep for years to come," though, admittedly, I did not know what the job would entail; merely the thought of working for this... man made me uneasy. His grin grew wider and for a moment I saw him as a genuine human. "Did your landlord lose any sleep when he gave you until the end of the week to pay three month's rent in your overpriced studio? Did your girlfriend bat an eye when she walked out with another man?" The Devil himself could have taught him to negotiate. Not that I could care about the whore that cheated on me for the past six months, I even fucked her sister as revenge. My rent, however, was a real problem. I didn't want to live in that shit hole anyhow, but could I sacrifice my personal opinion of my humanity for this? His demons had gripped me by the heart, "what is your request, Mr...?" "Well my real name is John I. Veld, but you must have heard me referred to as Mr. Morningstar. A name I have grown quite fond of by the theatricality of it.

I Annalee looked feverishly at the clock. Two hours. She had to leave before those two hours were up or she never would. Two hours until Shane came home from work. She had spent the day packing what little she had and if she wasn't gone by the time he came home he would know she meant to leave. Annalee had spent the last year and a half under the control of Shane and today was the day she would free herself from the confines of his wrath. She ran up stairs to make sure she had gotten her mother's pearls when she heard keys in the front door. She stopped. No. She still had time. Shane comes through the door, and sees her bag at the door. Annalee is rooted in the bedroom but all too aware that he is making his way up the stairs. No. He calmly opens the door and by the look on his face she knows there isn't a chance that she will be walking away from this. Today wasn't the day. She didn't have time. Shane, smelling like cheap whiskey, walks over to her and demanded to know why there is a suitcase by the sofa. Sarcastically,he asks if she was planning a trip for the two of them. He closes the door and begins to walk over to her. Still fixed in one spot like someone had put nails in her shoes. The questions still lingering in the air like a suffocating gas. Annalee starts to speak but he strikes her across the face, her mother's pearls sent flying under the bed. What happens next occurs so fast that all she can see is the blur of the terrible blue wall paper. He's in front of her, hands around her neck. Shaking. Squeezing. Laughing. Pop. Annalee reaches for something. Anything. In hopes of making herself steady. Instead her hand finds the silver lamp on the dresser. Something, shy of animal instinct, helps her bring the lamp swinging into Shane's left temple. The rage in his eyes goes out like a light as he falls to the ground. She hits him not once, but twice more until red beads of blood make a splash on the blue wall paper. Annalee slumps to her knees. Was he dead? Is this nightmare over? She reaches for his phone in the front pocket of his slacks. Shane groans on the floor, blood trickling from the tear in his skin. She presses three keys and waits until she hears a voice on the other end. After a moment Annalee tries to speak but no words come out, only a whisper of a scream. Assuming that was enough, she gets off the line and holds tight to the lamp. It felt like an eternity before she heard the sirens. Four men in uniforms entire the room, one speaks to her but she can only blink in response. He checks her pulse while another does the same to Shane. Their voices sounding like static as they report something over the walkies. More people show up, this time in white paramedic uniforms. Shane was taken some where but they hadn't tried to move Annalee. She's put on a stretcher, a brace around her neck. The bright lights of the ambulance is all she can see. The sound of the siren the only sound in her mind. Scared that she would be charged with assault or attempted murder. Surely they could see the scars that covered her body. Surely they would find the small attic space with her blood dried in the scratches on the door. She couldn't speak to tell them, they would have to come to the conclusion themselves. The fast beeping on a monitor seemed to worry the paramedic as he leaned over and picked up her arm. She felt a warmth spread through her body and the lights of the ambulance seemed to grow dim. Surely they would see the truth. II Annalee comes to in a hospital room. White. Sterile. Quiet. She calls for a nurse, and to her surprise a voice comes out. The nurse, grim look on her face, calls the doctor. Doctor Silverman introduces himself and looks much more pleasant than the nurse. He informs her that her neck may be sore for the next few days and her voice may sound hoarse but he has high hopes that she will be good as new. Continuing with the good news he states that she can leave as soon as they do one more check up and once the police question. Doctor Silverman is just finishing up his test when two police officers come into the room. Apprehension and terror wash over Annalee as they sit down. They have questions. What was her relationship to Shane? How long had she known him? What events led up to her muted call? The answers for those questions led to more. How long has the abuse been going on? Did she plan to hurt Shane that day? What attic was she talking about? Why didn't she leave sooner? It seemed as if they were putting her on trial for defending herself. Trying to save her own life. She became frantic. A nurse was called in to sedate her. When she awoke she found herself in a different room. Dark. Ominous. Cold. She could hear muffled yelling and even more disturbing, whispering. Annalee got out of bed and moved to the door. There wasn't a knob. Terrified, she began to bang on the door and call out to anyone that may be able to help her. She had fought so hard to escape Shane but now she was locked away again. The sense of urgency set her body on fire. She was suppose to be free of control. The room seemed to be getting smaller. Closing inch by inch in on her. Back at the door she began kicking and screaming, hoping to at least get the attention of someone so she could tell them she didn't belong here. No one came. She must have fallen asleep at some point since she was jarred awake by the opening of her door. Doctor Silverman entered. Only he didn't wear the same hopeful expression as he had before. Annalee tried to move from the bed. Tried to speak. Nothing happened. The doctor looked at her chart but didn't speak directly to her. A nurse entered behind him, whispering something in his ear. Annalee thought she heard the word sister but before she could try to ask what they were talking about they exited the room. Taking the chart with them. Alone again, but unable to move or speak. The minimal color palate in the room seemed to go in and out of focus. Like she was forgetting what the colors were. Not long after that the small desk and bolted down seat began to smear at the edges. The blankets feeling like they weighed as much as a small car pressed the air out of her lungs, making it difficult to breath. A new nurse entered her room accompanied by a woman that seemed familiar to Annalee. Where had she seen this person before? Memories, floating like burning leaves in the wind came to her. A younger version of herself playing kitchen with this familiar stranger. Riding a yellow bus to a building filled with children around the same age. A flash of silver, followed by two loud bangs. Her and the stranger standing over two bodies. Weeping as if they had both lost something very important to them. The stranger came over to Annalee and dropped to her knees. The doctor came over and rested his hand on the shoulder of the woman. Tears began running down her face. Annalee had the urge to brush the tears away and reassure her that she was going to be okay. That she was free now. That Shane couldn't hurt her anymore. If only she could get out of the hospital, things would be okay. Sounds came from the doctors mouth, unable to comprehend them Annalee hoped it was good news but the look on the stranger's face it wasn't. The man in the white coat left the room, leaving Annalee and the woman alone. III Annalee looked so small and peaceful as her sister, Katie, held her hand. The news had come as shock. She had gotten a call from the police two days prior looking for the next of kin. She packed her bag as soon as she got off the phone and boarded a plane to take her from California to South Dakota. The news wasn't what she had hoped for. Her sister was alive but there was no brain function. Doctor Silverman sat her down with the police and recounted the events that had led up to the tragedy. Shane Price and Annalee Watts had been in a relationship just shy of two years. About the time Annalee ran away from college in California. The medical report revealed abuse going back over a years time. From badly healed broken bones, to deep scars running all over her back. Nails that had never grown back properly after being broken off from trying to claw her way out of the attic space. The police had gotten a call from an elderly man in Annalee's neighborhood. Saying he saw a young man putting what seemed to be a body in his passenger seat. The police arrived as an inebriated Shane was locking the door with a bag in his hand. Presumably the bag Annalee had packed for herself. When they got to the car they noticed an unconscious woman in the seat, her neck at a very peculiar angle. After arresting Shane and calling an ambulance for Annalee they finally were able to piece the events that led to this together. Shane came home early that day due to being laid of his job, but before coming home he stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of whiskey. After he arrived home he saw Annalee's suitcase by the door and went upstairs to confront her. In his mind she was betraying him, after all he had done for her she should be submissive and grateful. He charged into the room and began choking her before she ever had the chance to turn away or defend herself. He squeezed, shook and laughed while going on about what she owed him. Until her body wilted and he heard an audible pop. Which happened to be Annalee's neck breaking. It was then that he realized he would be charged for attempted murder if he took her to a hospital. So his plan was to dump her body in a bad part of town and make it look like a robbery gone amiss. Instead, Annalee was now in the hospital being kept alive by a machine. With no living will and no hope of improvement, Katie is faced with the option of taking her sister off life support or seeing if she improves in time. Katie sits by her sister's bed and reads her "The Giving Tree" like she used to when they were growing up. Praying to God and anything else that might bring her sister back to her. But Annalee couldn't tell her sister that she was there. Trapped inside her own mind. Each day more and more of reality slipping from her mind. She fades away. Never requiring her sister produce the decision. Dark. Silent. Alone. Gone.

9:30pm Not talking again... I don’t even remember what it was that we fought about but I can tell she is upset. Although she is next to me, her eyes avoid me and she says nothing. She closes her laptop, places it on the couch where she was sitting and walks to the bedroom and leaves the door cracked open. Alone. It’s nice being able to breathe. I’ll put on a movie or something to relax to. 1:15am It’s late. I should probably go to sleep. She would probably be more upset if I stayed up too late on a weekday. The TV shuts off and I make my way across the floor avoiding the toys littered everywhere like they are a minefield. I check the locks on the doors and turn the lights off. It always feels like something is staring back at me from the dark corners of each room as the lights go out so I leave each room in a quick manner so that I am not in the dark for too long before reaching the bedroom Finally in the bedroom, I go to my side of the bed and maneuver my way in as to not wake her. Pillow is gone again, she always takes them. Have to be sneaky and slide one out from under her and not wake her up, she goes to work so early in the morning to wake her up now would just make things worse. Why don’t I spend more time in bed? It is the best reward you could get at the end of each day. I can never fall asleep quickly. Staring up at the ceiling, recollecting mistakes I made in the past, my eyes drift to the cracked open door. It is never closed all the way. I have pretty decent night vision and I can see everything in the bedroom but the crack in the door is black, pitch black. I can’t blink, someone is there watching me behind that crack. No movement... just black. Paranoia. I roll to my side with my back against hers. I can’t sleep without something behind it. That vulnerable feeling of my back being open keeps me too tensed to fall asleep. My eyes are open and back at the door. Barely noticeable by the human eye, it has opened more and is moving back and forth in place. It must be the AC vent above it. Has to be… So dark beyond the door... Please stop staring at me whoever you are behind that door... After an hour or so she woke up, got dressed, put her makeup on, and got ready for work. For some reason this is the only point in the morning I can fall asleep with my back facing the door. Finally rest. So tired, I hope tomorrow is better. 9:45pm “It is late... I need to head to bed”, she says in one motion closing the laptop and walking off to the bedroom again. I guess I will be watching a movie alone again. 1:33am I really need to stop staying up so late on weekdays but this seems to be the only time I get to myself with work, kids, and her. I turn the TV off, route my way through the balls and hotwheel cars scattered across the floor, check the locks, and turn off the lights one by one as I make my way to the bedroom, gently tug at the end of a pillow underneath one of her legs, and slide my way onto the bed. Staring at the blackness behind the cracked door, I feel prying eyes on me again. The wooden floors crack and creak in the hallway. My palms start sweating as I stare at the blackness waiting for any movement. Can’t stop looking, don’t blink, I don’t know what will happen if I look away even for the slightest moment. I know you are there. I know something is there. What if I freeze up when something rushes in? I have to prepare myself. I will take the initiative. I can’t stare any longer. I reach down the side of the bed and grab my cheap aluminum bat and slowly sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I’m not breathing anymore, I have to tell myself when realizing my heart is beating so hard and my chest is tight. I suck in a deep breath and stand up, blink, and approach the bedroom door… the blackness ever menacing and mysterious. I open the door slowly expecting at any moment something will jump out. Both children’s doors are closed and quiet. I step into the hallway and turn the bathroom light on from outside reaching in and nothing. I move from room to room and nothing. I open the fridge. “No, I am not hungry. I should just go to sleep”, I say shutting the door feeling defeated by fear and walking back to the bathroom to turn the light off and quickly move into the bedroom closing the door all the way behind me. She doesn’t like it when the door is closed because it is harder to hear the kids if they wake up and cry in the middle of the night but tonight… I need a break. I put the bat back down the side of the bed and slide back into bed staring at the bottom of the bedroom door, hoping not to see feet. Thankfully, I begin to drift off. Creeak…..craaack…creeeak Eyes are open. Did someone break in? I rush out of bed, open the door, look both ways into the hallway. Nothing, no movement, silent, just dark. I step out into the hallway and within two or three steps I am standing in front of the bathroom. Dark, but no figures. I cautiously walk in. Chest tight, “I’m not breathing”. Deep inhale and exhale. With a jolt of energy and anxiety I throw back the shower curtain and nothing. I lean against the sink feeling silly but positive something was here when suddenly the bathroom light turns on. It is just her. She walks past me without saying anything, slides down her pajamas and sits on the toilet and looks at her phone. She is probably mad that I woke her up from all the noise I was making walking around the house tonight... I start to say something when I see the empty mirror. I am not in it. How, what, why, what? Chest tight, tingling goes down my back, and my heart sinks into my gut. A twitching pale arm spastically reached out from the mirror and before I can react it latches onto the side of my face. The grip is too much. I can feel every cold finger ripping into my cheek and breaking my jaw bone. I try to scream but nothing comes out of my mouth. Just a silent breath. Eyes wide and looking to her for help. With one hand around the wrist of the hand grabbing my face and the other reaching desperately for her attention it starts to feel hopeless. The arm and hand begins pulling me toward the mirror so hard that I can feel my jawbone ripping from my face. Tears streaming, unimaginable pain. I can’t speak. I began pounding on the sink harder and harder. “PLEASE! HELP ME!” comes out as nothing but air. How could she just sit there and play on her phone. Lifted from the ground and into the mirror I give into the hand helplessly as it pulls me further in. I am gone. She flushes the toilet, pulls her pajamas up, stops at the sink and looks down at the drain hole. “Why did you have to leave us? I can’t raise these kids on my own but I am trying... They miss you. I miss you.” She turned the bathroom light off and went back to bed. I woke up a few hours later in bed. The sun was up and shining through the window. She was still home, must have not had to go in this morning. I put my arm around her and squeezed. “I love you. I am calling out sick today. Let’s do something nice with the boys.” She agreed and I got up to brush my teeth. I was rinsing out my mouth in the bathroom when I saw it. A foot print on the sink. Til this day my jaw pops every time I try to eat. It has never done that before.

There was no fear in those first few minutes. Later I would note my inability of action despite the severity of the situation. I would follow with a suspicion that I made this all up in my head, that I had come to this place by more violent means. Things are odd now. Nothing seemed real. The car, ageless and alien, rolled to a stop. It was slow, yet I perceived it as an instant. A lack of inertia lazily disputed this theory. It was perhaps at this moment when my reality grew tired and tasteless, as if watched through a dream. There must have been sirens, but again reality kept shuffling by indifferently. I knew immediately what I must do. I looked to my right, staring into the other passengers face. I wondered mildly who this mystery passenger was. It never struck me as strange that I hadn't seen this woman before, unknowing she occupied the car until this very moment. I raised my hands in surrender, with reflex that i could not identify. Now things began to move nearly suddenly. Hands grabbed me roughly and slowly yanked me from the open door. Had it always been open? the lack sound didn't tell me otherwise. An unremarkable black cloth was pulled over my head. I could see the immediate area however, through a gap in the poorly placed dressing. An empty two lane gravel road crept out before me. Vehicles, perhaps cop cars, perhaps not, littered the roadside. I knew there were far too many than this situation warranted, but knowing how I knew was a mystery for another time. There were more pressing issues to attend to. My limited view was populated by a handful of plain, unremarkable men. There must have been more populated in the world past my cotton window. How did i know it was cotton? Now I noticed the atmosphere around me; a moonless night complemented by low cloud cover. I wasn't sure why but I knew I was in the middle of the infinite cornfields of east central Illinois. Probably east of Tuscola. What is Tuscola? As i surveyed my surroundings I noticed a smooth contrast of light. The vehicles, the men, and the gravel that created the road had a tinge of orange to it, like an ancient incandescent bulb at the end of its life. Yes, it was a light. It poured out of nowhere to my right. I was shuffling forward, in a direction I not facing the instant before. A strong grip led me towards a door of an unmarked 1970 Plymouth Belvedere Pursuit. How did I know the model of the car? Things began to sharpen, motions and events cascaded through the outskirts of my mind. Things will become clear. A few more seconds and i can ma- I'm awake.

My life was coming to a close. Finally, after the constant years of torment, it was finished. Each day I lived brought along the horrid baggage of disappointment and dejection. It was going to be over, problem solved, the warm embrace of purgatory awaited me. Entering my apartment I have the full intention of firing a slug through my skull. Naturally, it would be a messy affair. The actuality of death is far different than it is often portrayed in television and cinema. Too often the audience is exposed to such a false portrait of reality because very seldom do the deceased die in such dignified positions. As beloved ones kneel over slowly decaying bodies never once have I seen these characters comment on the malodorous stench. A dead body is unpleasant enough as is but they also tend to shit themselves. There is also the subject of blood. Many times, have I found myself laughing at the comical puddle that drips feebly out a persons neck after being slit ear to ear. A serious wound would cause the blood to erupt and welter out of control, more blood than many could accept being possible. A person would suffer difficulty approaching a corpse without stepping in the deceased extensive juices. When some poor fool found my corpse, they would understand reasoning on the subject. A shotgun blast would do a lot more than necessary to kill a person, I expect my brain to splatter onto the wall and dribble out of my skullcap with chunks of bone planted around the room like Easter eggs. I don’t need to waste the time on a meaningless ceremony. Enough thought and time had already been wasted on the internal argument to live or not. With the door shut and locked I calmly make my way to the closet. I’m going to die but that doesn’t mean I need to go out like a coward hankering for my own death. I’m only a triggers pull from death release when a slight difference became noticed in my bedroom. The note seems to sneer. Alone in the corner, it openly mocks me and my agitation. If your life ends, life on Earth will as well. What did it mean? I wallow in my anguish, fingernails scratching against the uneven plaster walls. Was it a cruel observer? Was it meant as a callous gag, something to torment me in my final moments? Whatever the intention it succeeded in furthering my painful existence. Just ignore it, please, ignore it, death is waiting, pull the trigger. The shotgun flies across the room and bounces off the dresser. Tears streak down my cheeks as my frustration reaches its climax. Jumping from the ground I make my hurried way towards the letter. I can hear its taunting cull as I approach. Grabbing it in my right hand it feels like any other discarded piece of paper, but as I tug and stretch it refuses to tear. If your life ends, life on Earth will as well. Why do I even care this much? Their lives would end with mine anyway, why does it matter!? It doesn't. The simple realization is exhilarating. Wiping my face on my sleeve, the tears are thrown away. It doesn't matter. I repeat this phrase repeatedly as i pick up the previously forsaken weapon. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Not one person in my life has ever offered me anything but ill intentions. Well fuck them! I’m able to think clearly now, this wasn't some terrible predicament meant to question my will to live. This was a gift sent by an empathetic god. I wasn't going to be a blip on the timeline of humanity. No...I was going to be its downfall. Opening my blinds I’m welcomed by a bleak sky. Somber clouds stretched on for miles, the roads and sidewalks are moist as rain tumbles down. The metallic twang of metal reaches my taste buds, the barrel taste burnt, the result of many explosive discharges. Everyone would die.

You are thirty, maybe forty paces off, towards the back of the dimly lit market's parking lot. Leaned up against your dirtbike with two scuffed boots on, you watch her picking out apples. You watch a lot of girls picking out apples. She looks at you because you are better than everyone else. Tall and white. Tattoo'd and muscular. There is a strong aura emitting from your loins. Smoking a cigarette and picking at a hole in your shirt, you wait for her to come over. Not all do, but certainly quite a few. You both smile at one another. Her grinning and you smirking but trying hard not to. This is the smile of a calm, dominant man. Not a loud bellow and no teeth shown. "Hey." you speak softly to her in your unique tone of voice. A not necessarily high pitch, but a more feminine voice than your looks would make one assume. "Hey." She responds. "You wanna get out of here? I'm working at the carnival for the weekend. I got a trailer they got me staying in while I'm here. They got me some board games." "Board games? What kind of board games did they get you?" "They got me scrabble but I've never been the greatest with words, you know. They also got me this other game with some mouses and some cheese. Forget the name." "Some mice, you mean. What's your name anyway?" "James. You ready to go?" "Yea, let's go, James.

Witness Darkness engulfed her. Blackness. Nothing. She couldn’t determine the direction she was facing. Panic filled all through her mind. She had no memory of anything that had happened. The only thing she knew was the feeling of the bitter tasting panic as it overcame her entire body. She couldn’t feel any of her limbs, In her chest all she felt was the intense sharpness of the cold pain that was panic. It was devouring her. It ate off her mentality. The more she tried to resist it, the stronger it became. It was cold. The first thing she regained feeling of was her tongue. It sat swollen and heavily in her mouth. The sour taste of her dried tongue now filled her senses. As soon as she had managed to comprehend it everything followed. She recovered the sense of her body. She lay in an open field in the dirt. However, blackness endured. A heavy object held her hand down. She let her other hand examine its icy metallic feel. Its smooth texture and sharp edges pressed against her soft fingertips. She picked it up. It sat comfortably in her hand but simultaneously had a dark aurora coming from it. She couldn’t see it, but she knew what it was. Her memories began returning that instant in slight little pieces. She began to realize where she was but not how she got there and why. However as she attempted to recollect more of her thoughts they escaped her promptly as a pounding pain in her head took their place. She didn’t know the time of the dead night nor the hours that had passed as she lay there. Not even her name admitted a return to her memory, only the recollection of her arrival to where she was. She decided to make a move and stood up only to collapse back down in an instant as a deafening pain shot through her leg. Her ankle had rolled as she toppled down the hill and knocked herself out. Although her memories returned, pain remained. With the memories came emotion. She couldn’t make sense of the emotions that began to overtake her. She curled up in a ball and began crying to herself as emotions flooded her consciousness and tears fell from her eyes. The icy hard wind picked up and began to howl in the night as it cut through her clothes and pierced her reddened skin. Rain soon followed and beat down hard on her body. Hail. Lightning. Thunder. It all attacked her while she continued to cry. She screamed. But the thunder outdid her and screamed back. Her ears rang. Bolts of lightning only blinded her further as she furiously attempted to regain some orientation. Her eyes and her ears hurt. Her body ached from the coldness and her ankle sent pulses of damp pain up her leg. She shook ferociously. She felt the dark heavy object in her hand and brought it up to her head. She pressed the cold circular opening to her temple and held her finger on the bent metal. The wind continued to howl while the thunder and lightning continued to blind her senses. She paused. She was calm. Her consciousness was cleared. Emotion no longer flooded it but flowed fluently through it, not affecting her thoughts. She no longer remembered where she was, or why she was there. She didn’t feel anything anymore. All that was present was darkness. Time passed, she finally began questioning why she was in this position and what she was doing there, for as the last few days were a complete blank to her. Pain, emotion, feeling all rushed back quickly and tore her consciousness apart. Her head felt as though it contained a raging lion stampeding everything in its path. She tried to comprehend what had happened but pain and emotion overtook her thoughts. She tried desperately to make sense of this but only managed to build up a small structure of understanding before it collapsed back to pieces. A gun laid beside her it had been empty but she pulled the trigger anyway seeing what would come of it. Finally she tried again to get up stumbling over her broken foot through a wide grass filled field she desperately tried to force herself back to civilization, she looked down as she limped and staggered through the prickly green grass and realized she had no shoes. After 15 minutes which had felt like an eternity to her, she finally reached a main road, a sense of relief and joy came over her. few cars drove by but they were all reluctant to pick up a hitchhiker especially one that looked this disoriented and beat up. by the time she was finally picked up it was starting to get dark out, a tall blue Ford pickup truck pullover beside her, there was a skinny man inside with large glasses almost too big for his face "hop in" he said with a deep thunderous voice. The man looked very familiar to her but she just couldn’t quite put her finger on where she knows him from, his voice was very unique he sound as one of those men who do the voice overs for tv commercials, "where too" the man asked. "Umm, can you please get me to a hospital" she said in a very weak tone almost unheard by the man, "ya you don't look too good but don't you worry I'll get you there in a hot minute, so since we're gonna be riding together I think we should at least do the whole name thing. I'm Dave and you are..?". She thought about this quite hard pondering into deep thought as if she was just asked a challenging physics question, than all of a sudden it came to her "I'm, I'm Kate" she said as though it was the first time she was learning her own name, “well kate, what is a young pretty girl like you doing out here all alone” dave said. She gazed at him for a solid few minutes before giving her response then said “do i know you from somewhere, your face it looks..” she paused. “it looks what” dave said nervously, “oh nevermind, i feel really sleepy do you mind?” she asked, “ oh no by all means rest up, i'll wake you when we're near” dave said. Kate turned her head rested it on the cold leathery seat and in minutes she had drifted off into a deep sleep, as she layed there dave leaned over to here to see if she was truly asleep. As kate was deep into a slumber she began to regain slight pieces of memory it began as she was walking to school it was snowing, the road ice filled and the sidewalks slushy as ever and to her surprise there weren't much cars out on the road to due the terrible weather. She continued to walk down fairmount lane as she does every morning and stop by the local bakery to get her daily orange juice and apple cranberry muffin. As she stepped out of the bakery she heard some men arguing, they were all shouting at each other, they must of had to have been at least two block away as she couldn't clearly make out what they were saying. Walking up the street the shouting began to get louder and louder, one thing she was able to make out was one of the men had a really deep, roaring voice.Reluctant to keep walking she continued seeing as this was the only way for her to get to school, the shouting got closer and closer at each step she took, “YOUR DONE YOUR DONE” one of the man said. Finally she heard a really loud bang, not knowing what it was she attempted to simply speed past the men, “mind my own business and they’ll do the same” she thought, but she simply couldn’t help herself she was wondering what was going on, curiosity took over her and in a split second she made possibly the worst decision of her life. Kate glanced over at the men, her eyes must have been looking in their direction for no longer than half a second but it was too late they already knew that they had been made. For the split second kate had looked at the men she was completely shocked at what she saw, never having seen a dead body before she kept more composed than expected knowing that one wrong move or scream and she could be next. The men all looked quite regular nothing really stuck out or made them memorable she probably wouldn't even be able to point them out or differentiate them from any other man she saw on the street, except for one, he was a fairly skinny fella and he wore glasses abnormally large for his small visage, finally she knew where she had seen the man before. As Kate quickly turned away and started to walk past the men as quickly as she could without drawing suspicion she heard one of the men say “her, her over there she saw us”. Kate sped away from the men as fast as she could, walking then jogging and now just full out sprinting as fast as she could to school, she ran a few blocks and could finally she the school sign a sense of joy came over here it was as if she had just stepped into her safe haven. As she was walking across the street a dark grey van pulled up, a masked man jumped up and put a bag over her face, it all happened so fast that she didn't even have time to make a single scream. Suddenly she woke up gasping for air, she looked at dave oddly and in that exact second he realized that she knew who he was. Before she could make a move dave reached for the nearest object he could find and whacked her over the head with it, all she saw was darkness it overcame her. Dave kept questioning how she could possibly still be alive but that wasn't important anymore had came back to finish the job he thought was already done and this time he would do it right. They drove for hours on a long dusty road until they finally reached a river where dave planned to dump her body. After a few hours of unconsciousness she finally open her eyes but it was so dark out she didn’t even know if she had woken or not, but this was the final time she would see anything, her hands and feet were tied up quickly she began fidgeting around trying desperately to free herself. Dave violently pulled her out of the car and through her down on the rocks “you shoulda minded your own business girl” he said, these words filled through her mind and she blocked out every other sound and thing only focusing on those words, for they were the last words she would ever hear. Dave stoop over her pointing a long gun down at her, he could smell her fear while shoving the gun in her face but to his surprise she didn't make a sound she just stared back at him knowing her fate rested at the end of the barrel.. He then pulled the trigger, her lifeless body lay there. This time eternal darkness engulfed her. Blackness.

Richard “DEAR GOD, WHAT ARE YOU?!?!” *Crack* And then silence. The Chicken mask clung to his face as he stood above the man, uncompromising, unflinching, the Richard mask was absolute. A blank look occupied the mans eyes. The Richard gave him strength to do what he couldnt otherwise. The Richard made him strong. The police would be there soon, but he had time. He always did. The man exhaled slowly and looked around the room. Brutal and utter carnage all around, but nothing he hadnt seen before. Nothing that the Richard couldnt help him through. He looked down at the baseball bat in his hand, and slowly loosened his deathgrip on it until it clattered to the ground. 9 men in total, he counted. A good nights work. He was done here, nothing left to fix. He trotted out of the room leaving crimson footprints along his path. He loved walking through the carnage during his exit, admiring his art. Red always made the room look nicer. He slowly walked into a restroom. Looking into the mirror, he gazed onto Richard. Richard the chicken, how they’d been together so long. How they had made this world so much better in their time together. He touched the rubber mask and slowly caressed it. A tiny clang emitted from behind the shower curtains. Tiny, but there. He slowly drew back the curtains. A man jumped at him with a hammer in his hand. He simply sidestepped as the man fell flat on his face on the floor. He walked over to the hammer and picked it up. He straddled the man from the shower, looking deep into his eyes. “Hey man c’mon, i wont tell the police nothing. You dont have to do this man” Richard raised the hammer. “PLEASE MAN. ILL GIVE YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT, JUST LET ME LIVE” The hammer came down with a meaty squelch. It came down again. And again. And again. and again. Richard never broke eye contact with the man. He slowly got up staring at the hammer. The new maroon paintjob on the hammer fit it well, he thought he’d keep it. As a souvenir. He stepped over the man’s now lifeless body. That made 10. He stepped into his car and stared back at the building for a brief moment before cruising off. Richard and him had done so much good work, but there was always more to do.

The tumultuous waves crashed into the Caribbean-esque shores. With them, me. I stood up on the white sanded beach and looked out into the great blue yonder. The water was so blue and clear, I could've sworn I was in the Bahamas. A moment later, I smelled iron. "Blood" I thought. I ripped off my white cotton dress shirt and saw the the blood oozing out of the deep lacerations on my torso. Then, the smelled of something being grilled filled the air. "There's someone else on the island. I ran to the smell as fast as humanly possible. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done. I ran so fast my muscles started to hurt. I tripped over rocks and branches multiple times which exacerbated the lacerations. When I got to the barbecue all I saw were servants and a woman in a red dress. She was no older than me, twenty. After looking around, I collapsed. The next thing I remember, I was in a huge cave. Except, it didn't look like a cave. It looked like a regular home. I opened my eyes and saw the immaculate kitchen, it was like one you'd see in a five star restaurant. Annexed off the kitchen, there was a beautiful dining room. However, I got the feeling that it was just collecting dust. I was laying on a black couch big enough for two people and was snuggled up in a flannel blanket. I wanted to get up but I debated if it was worth losing the warmth. It was decided, I'd get up. As I got up, I heard a woman say "Woah, easy there". She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She was like something out of a Greek mythology tale. She had long dark brown hair braided to the side, warm brown eyes, and smelled like honeysuckle. She looked very Mediterranean. For example, she had olive skin and strong facial features. Her voice was soft and when she talked, it sounded like angles were singing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was Aphrodite. "What's your name," I asked. "I am Calypso and you are on Ogygia" she smiled. "After we eat, you can go home if you'd like". "Can I think about it" I said looking at the island. "Sure," she smiled. "Now go back to sleep, you need rest". A moment later, my eyes were closed. ***** When I opened my eyes, I saw her smiling over me, her teeth were pure white. How could I leave her? "It's time for dinner" she said playing with my hair. When we walked out of the cave, it was night. How long was I asleep for? The only source of light were the stars and the moon. Since there was no light pollution, you could see the faintest stars. It was beautiful. On the white beach there was a blanket and several baskets. "It's a beautiful out here. Is it like this every night?" I said looking up at the stars. "Yes it is " she smiled while looking up at the stars. The baskets had everything in them. Literally, you could think of food or drink and you'd have it. After dinner, we walked on the shores. "Will you stay with me?" She asked. I could hear a hint of nervousness in her voice. I thought about my life in the real world. I had no family, no friends, and no money. I had nothing. Why wouldn't I stay with her? "Of course I'll stay with you" I said leaning in to kiss her. I hope this wasn't that bad. I'm pretty rusty. Please don't be to mean.

[This is my first time here, so let me know how it is] Little one? You wish to know how the World came to be? Very well... [Am I allowed to respond to my own prompt?] In the beginning, there was Nothing. But Nothing grew lonely and split into the Pela the Void and Urhai the Creator. Though they loved each other, they could never touch, for then they would be returned to Nothing. Urhai created the Ground so that they may walk and rest. But Pela, being the Void, could not touch it. Urhai created the Sun and the Moon, so that they may see each other. But Pela, being the Void, could not see it. Urhai created the Air and the Winds, so that their voices could be heard. But Pela, being the Void, could not hear it. Urhai feared that too many creations would force Pela away, so he devised a plan. He created the Sky to encapsulate the World he had built for him and Pela, hoping to keep her inside. But Pela, being the Void, could not stay. She drifted away, beyond the World. Urhai wept and wept until the rivers flowed. He wept and he wept until the oceans filled, and still he wept. This is why the oceans are salty. When almost the entire world was covered in water, he heard a voice. A gentle voice, carried on the Void. "Urhai, my love. Do not weep for me. I am here, and I can see and feel what you have created. It is beautiful. Please, don't stop." Hearing the voice of his lost love filled Urhai with great joy and determination. He wanted to see his love once again, but Urhai was vain. He could not bring himself to take down the Sky, so he made a compromise. He tore down half of the Sky, the half with the moon, so that all that remained was the moon itself and the nails he had used to keep the sky in place. This is why we have the night and the stars. And upon seeing her, he was so overjoyed that he set upon his greatest feat yet. Life. He created plants. They drank up the water so the land was no longer flooded. Then he created the birds and the insects and the animals. But still, it wasn't enough, so he pricked his finger and let a drop of blood flow. From that blood came people. Men and women. So that no one would be as lonely as he, he gave each of them a companion fashioned after his beloved Pela. That is why we have shadows. Finally happy with his creation, he reached up for his lover, though he knew he could never touch her. Still, he reached, unmoving, longing for his Pela. So long has he been there that he has turned to stone. And that is why we have the Mountains. One day, when Urhai is no longer pleased with humanity or if the longing becomes too much, he will leave his creation to rejoin Pela. There, they will kiss and all will be returned to Nothing.

Ralph was an interesting baby. He was born a month early and came out with a very yellow skin tone. He was not a cute baby by any means. Ralph was placed in the NICU as soon as he was brought out of the womb, and not too long after that the doctors started to notice some irregularities. Ralph quickly grew to a healthy weight, filling out his plump baby cheeks and turning from a yellowish green to a soft, rosy pink. Although the doctors were skeptical about how fast he transitioned from premature to a healthy status, they had no reason to keep him in the NICU any longer and allowed his parents to bring him home. From there Ralph was cared for very well and had a pretty normal first two years of his life. The only odd thing was that he was growing much faster than expected. His parents had noticed that he liked to eat a lot but they were unaware just how unusual his eating habits were. His taste buds didn’t seem to have any limits. There could be anything sitting in front of him from green beans and spinach, to rye bread and mayonnaise, to Play Dough and ketchup, and Ralph would scarf it down. It wasn’t until doctors told his parents that he was in the 99th percentile in both height and weight that they began to show some concern. However, stopping Ralph from eating soon turned out to be much more of a struggle than they were anticipating. He had gotten used to eating just about anything he wanted, and when given smaller portions, or had food taken from him, he would throw a tantrum until he was given more. His parents tried to implement new diets but found it very hard to resist giving him food when he wouldn’t stop crying. By his third birthday Ralph was a hefty 60 pounds. His parents had thrown him a birthday party, and when it came time to blow out the candles on his cake, the family witnessed Ralph’s first outburst. His mother set the cake down in front of him and as they sang Happy Birthday, Ralph opened up his gaping mouth and threw his face at the cake. In one bite he took out nearly half of Spongebob’s body and two of the three candles. He came back up grinning from ear to ear; yellow frosting smeared across his cheeks, and instantly dove back in. Seeing that their son had just swallowed two wax candles —that were still burning before consumption— and was currently plunging towards a third, they ran over to pick him up and stop him. As soon as Ralph’s mom took him away from the cake he let out a yell and bit down on her arm. She screamed and dropped him to the floor. Ralph bounced off his stomach and into the table, causing what was left of the cake to fall to the floor, and Ralph to quickly lick the scraps up into his mouth. His father then ripped him up off the floor and took him to his room. They locked him in there while they thought of what to do, unaware that Ralph was currently gnawing away at his favorite teddy bear’s leg. Six months later Ralph weighed in at over one hundred pounds. His parents were getting frantic, as they had barely fed him anything after his birthday outburst. When going to check in on Ralph one night, his father stepped on a plastic toy that Ralph had left on his floor. Upon grabbing the toy he noticed its wetness and quickly dropped it in disgust. He then looked at it more closely and noticed that it was only the bottom half of a G.I. Joe and was covered in bite marks. His eyes looked to the right and found several other toys dripping with slobber. He opened Ralph’s toy chest to find it completely empty. Ralph was moaning while laying face down in his bed. His father came over to him and lifted him up to find Ralph with a mouthful of Mr. Potato Head’s facial features. He tried to make Ralph spit them out but as he reached his hand in Ralph chomped down onto his fingers. He pulled away but not before Ralph was able to bite off and swallow half of his index and ring finger. The father ran out of the room screaming, leaving Ralph to continue gorging on anything he found appealing. This second outburst was what left Ralph’s parents questioning what exactly was happening with their son. He was clearly capable of eating anything, regardless of what it would do to a normal human’s mouth, stomach and intestines, and from what they’d seen, he was growing exponentially. For the next three days Ralph was left alone in his room while his parents talked to just about every doctor in the area about what they should do. After finally talking to a doctor who they trusted and who wanted to come see the boy for himself, they invited him over. The parents brought the doctor to Ralph’s room and opened the door slowly. They flicked on the light to find Ralph sitting in the middle of the room with nothing around him. He was at least three times the size he was since they had seen him last. His mother started crying upon seeing him, while the doctor inched forward towards him. The father warned him to be careful, but he ignored the comment and approached Ralph, who now looked down upon the doctor. Just as the doctor turned around to ask the parents something, Ralph rolled back slightly, then whipped forward, engulfing the doctor under his body. The parents tried to run and grab the doctor from under him, but they couldn’t move Ralph an inch. Ralph rocked backwards again, bringing the doctor’s lifeless body back up with him and chomping down on his head. He then swung the decapitated doctor at his parents, knocking them both into the wall and unconscious. Ralph bit off the doctor’s appendages one by one, and proceeded to toss his torso into the air and catch it in his mouth. He let out a deafening belch and reached for his parent’s bodies. Ralph continued to grow with everything he ate. After clearing his house of all objects he thought looked tasty, which was just about everything excluding the cans of tuna his parents had in the fridge, he started breaking the walls and eating the house itself. Once Ralph devoured the last 2x4 he could find from his home, he rolled down the street and started on his neighbors’ homes. Some neighbors would see Ralph before he started munching down on their roof and were able to escape. However, others weren’t so lucky. Ralph continued his rampage by rolling throughout the city, growing even larger with every house, building, and playground he forced down his gullet. Word spread quickly about this gigantic baby rolling around the city eating everything, and the government brought in the army to try and stop him. After he started eating all the tanks they sent towards him, they tried firing weapons from afar. Everything he was hit with just absorbed into his body, which he would then reach his stubby arms into and pull out the missiles and bite down on them before they exploded. These explosives seemed to make him grow even larger. Eventually Ralph was the size of a small island. He continued to roll across Earth’s surface, placing his face into the ground and chomping down on whatever was there on every rotation. After reaching the continental divide Ralph started eating each and every mountain. First it was Mt. Evans, and he continued south, eating every mountain all the way to the southern most part of Panama. Here Ralph stopped and looked down at South America. He decided he had grown tired of rolling, and this time just fell face first onto the ground. He started chewing and in a matter of 10 seconds had swallowed the entire continent. Ralph turned around and then did the same with Central America. He was now waist deep in water, but had grown so large that he could touch the bottom of the sea and still move, so he slowly proceeded forward towards the rest of the Americas. After a quick pause from the brain freeze he got after eating Canada and Alaska, Ralph grabbed off a good third of China and gnawed away. All of the pollution must have had some sort of reaction within his body as he instantly doubled in size. His body now resembled Earth, and seeing that he could now swallow the planet in two, maybe even one gigantic bite, he went for it. He wrapped his lips around the opposite end of Earth, tilted his head back, and forced it down into his gut. Ralph then looked around Space. The moon had started orbiting him. He swiped his hand at the moon a few times before grabbing it and swallowing it like a pill. He saw the other planets and made some swimming motions to get closer. After downing Mercury, Venus, and Mars, he noticed the other planets starting to gravitate towards him. Ralph opened his mouth and the planets slowly all filed in. At this point Ralph was dwarfing the sun, and it sputtered out as he placed it to his wet tongue. He moved about the solar system just as he had Earth, swallowing everything in sight. Everything was now hurling itself straight at Ralph, making it even easier for him to just open his mouth and let everything in. He was growing at an exponential rate, blowing up like a balloon. Then it all stopped. Ralph had swallowed everything. Time and space around him ceased to exist. Just then Ralph’s stomach started grumbling. It grew louder and louder while Ralph started to expand outwards, farther and farther, until BANG. Ralph let out an explosive fart, rocketing the contents of his stomach into a million pieces as they flew billions and billions of light years apart, replicating the exact same solar system he had just consumed entirely.

The pharmacy was especially monotonous today. Recently she had felt that she was meant for more. She had children and a family she loved, but what had she lost? Financial security at what cost? The crosswalk light turned. She remembered a phrase, “to clean one thing, another must dirty”. She thought this of her life as well. To gain something, another must be lost. Everything comes at a cost. Three lanes lay to her right, the middle open. Her thoughts had kept her occupied while a Nissan Altima thundered through the middle lane. After doing six spins in the air, she landed 20 feet away. She was thinking of the mountains of Patagonia. The DMT flooded her central nervous system. Like everyone else, she saw the face of God. It was incomprehensible, a form that meant nothing to her, but was innately recognizable. She took a deep breath. Like everyone else, she asked all of the questions. Time meant nothing here, and soon, she knew all of the answers. Unlike everyone else, she was brought back. Artificial light pierced her cornea. All she could see was the ceiling. These eyes would not budge. She went to move her lips, but nothing came of it. The tube down her throat told her of her predicament. The woman who knew everything was incapable of sharing it. Her words could tear the tides, shift the plates. It took her one year to lose her mind. Her husband grieved heavily for 3 years. He remarried the 6th year. Her children visited her for 9. On the 14th year, the insurance company went bankrupt. Her 23-year-old son and 23-year-old daughter came on her last day. He kissed her on the forehead and thanked her for loving him and apologized for fate. She was too broken to say a word. They took a picture with their mother, the doctor gave his condolences, and the cord was pulled. She thought of the mountains of Patagonia.

There he stood, standing in line with five other prisoners. I thought briefly that he was crying, but he wiped his eyes before I could see any tears. He was tall, with curly brown hair. He had in his eyes a sort of stalwart determination, but with it, a deep sorrow. I stood among the crowd that gathered to watch his execution. A burly man in a dark hood stood by the gallows. He bellowed,'Truven, come forward.' A guard from behind the man led him towards his noose at the right side of the gallows. The guard put the rope around his neck. The man waited patiently for the others, one by one, to be put in the same position he was. He waited until the executioner was standing by the release mechanism. The executioner grabbed the lever, and under his hood, I imagine he was smiling. It was the guard who spoke out,'Wait! Shouldn't we allow them their last words?' The executioner just stood there. The guard walked to the man at the far left and said, “Do you have anything you want to say?' The scruffy looking man replied, 'What? You expect me to say I regret what I did? To say I'm sorry? Nah, that's not gonna happen. I'll see you in Hell,' The guard frowned and moved to the next man, 'How about you?' The man just stood there, Rapidly breathing in and out, looking for all the world how I'd expect a man to look before being hung. The guard walked to the third man who said,'Look, I know I'm not innocent, I stole... But only because I had to! It was steal and eat, or starve and die. You'd do the same if you were in my place. The guard took took two steps behind the fourth man, and, when he didn't say anything, lightly tapped the back of his arm. Whatever the man said, I couldn't hear it over the sound of the crowd. When it was the fifth man's turn to speak, he said,'I didn't <Retracted> do it, you <Retracted> Imperialist <Retracted>. I know you'll rot in Hell for this... you're hanging a innocent man, you stupid <Retracted>' The guard's brows crossed,'And another thing, if I did kill 'em, you really think I'd be stupid enough to leave my own knife at the scene? If you think that, you're as dumb as the <Retracted> rebels. You stupid git, I bet you co-' The man might've kept going, if the guard didn't hit him with enough force to knock him unconscious. A few members of the crowd chuckled at this display. The final man, Truven, took this as his cue, I still remember how he started it, 'I apologize, this might be quite a lengthy speech. Let me begin, by saying that there was a time when I would've died for this empire. A time when I was younger. A time when I was blind. A time when I didn't know what I now know. We, and by we I mean me, and my fellow prisoners, the guards, and you, wonderful people, we are all like slaves. Slaves to the emperor. Slaves to the governor of this world. Slaves to all those who write the laws. Why should we follow their laws? We had no say in them, we had no choice.' Silence reigned for a few moments. 'I was told, by many of my old friends, “that I should let good enough stay. If we light the fire of anarchy, who knows what will be standing when the flames die down..” … There are times when I think they might have been right. But it is my nature to seek perfection, in all things. When I met like-minded people, we became close friends. When my friend, Mendica, was going to be hung for protesting the injustice that is the current political climate, me, and my men, knew something had to be done. I'd like to say I led them, but that would be a lie, we all knew what had to be done, I was just the one who supplied a plan.' 'You all know what happened, we killed seven members of the 'Guard. We freed her. My men are still out in the beautiful city of Belist, or in the rural ares surrounding it. They are hiding, but they are thriving. Last I was told, they had recruited almost a dozen members to our little family. I admit, that when they are found, in all likelihood, they will be slaughtered. We are not battle hardened criminals, We are poets, writers, musicians, and artists. But We are just, we are hardworking, We fight together, and We stand for what is right. We see the world is wrong, We won't stop until we find perfection, and We will find it together. We are the people, We are you, We are the Truth. We will fight for you, and above all, we will die for you.' With that, the man stopped talking and waited. I remember that the silence was complete, not even a bird chirped. About fifteen seconds later, the executioner pulled his lever, and the six men died. The crowd jeered and yelled, I wish I could say what happened after his death, but I left when more of the 'Guard began to show up. feedback is helpful.

Awake. I was awake. Lying in my own bed with every single of my limbs aching like hell. A lot more than usual. I sat up on the bed and rested my head on my hands. Where was I again ? Oh yeah. The captains cabin. My cabin. Why were my limbs hurting ? Yeah. Right. The gravity generator of my room was malfunctioning when it was in night mode for the last couple of days. And even though I told the engineers about it I was sent flying to the ground 3 times last night. I sighed and slowly forced myself on my feet. It was hard to keep my balance when my head was still spinning. While I made my way up the short flight of stairs to get to the living space of my quarters I touched a button on a wall mounted console and the room lit up and lounge dubstep echoed silently from the speakers. At the same time the coffee machine turned on and started brewing the early morning fuel pack that I just hated so much. I only drank it because of the effect it had on me. Not because of the taste or anything. I dropped myself in one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table and relaxed. Or atleast tried to. It was my right leg that got hit the most. After a silent beep noise I reached to the coffee machine and grabbed my mug while still rubbing my eyes. It was interesting that even after so many years the coffee machines still looked and worked like 500 years ago. The dim light started to brighten up slowly simulating the light of the rising sun. It was easier on the eyes than the usual lights the crew had to deal with. The perks of beeing a captain. Long before I finished my drink I stood up and walked to the clothes dispenser. My standard uniform. White shirt, black vest, blue pants, and the most important aspect: boots from the finest Jahali leather. I shrugged whenever I put then on. The Jahali were interesting creatures. Looked like spiders but were mammals. Or atleast had more mammal features. Some people told me I looked like some guy named Han Solo when I dressed like this. I didnt really care. I was comfortable in the clothes and that was the reason I wore them. The only thing missing now was my trusty pistol. A slug thrower. So not the usual fancy energy beam shit the others used. Then I made my way to the elevator down to the bridge. The bridge was a large circular room with a tunnel leading to the front where the pilots seat was. There were consoles and workplaces on the walls where a few officers were working. A large table with a simulation of the ship was in the middle of the room. The HSS Newton. Well. It wasnt a "Human Space Ship" anymore. We flew under the pirate flag now. It was quite a large ship. Allmost banana shaped with 2 photon blasters mounted on a wing on each side. It wasnt built for combat. But it was fast. An interception ship. Perfect for pirates. With a 63 men strong crew. I never needed more. Plus: the bigger the crew, the less money for everyone. I slowly moved down trough the tunnel and arrived in the cockpit. A large an comfortable chair was in the middle with 2 sets of robotic arms hanging from the sides of it. The ship was actually constructed to be piloted by 3 people. But since I allways had a talent for piloting and multitasking I constructed the chair. Multiple needles were connected to my nervous system when I flew it manually and so I could move the robo arms like they were my own. Someone was allready sitting in my chair. I recognised the person. It was Jatt. My second in command. Even though he was part Xelnor the human part of him made him look more human than the other hybrids I have seen. Only difference were the longer arms and that he had dark red tentacles instead of hair. He was highly intelligent and wore the standard attire everyone on board wore (except for me). Black pants and a long grey shirt. I approched him slowly. "You know that I hate it when someone other than me sits here." I said while leaning on the chair. He jumped up and saluted to me in the same second. "Sorry captain. Will never do it again." "Forget it" I raised my hand in a dismissive manner. "Now tell me something I dont know." Without hesitation he answered "The human stomach is capable of digesting itself." My grip on the chair tightened and I glared to the side in an attempt to avoid eye contact. "Tell me something else that I dont know. Something that isnt so... disturbing." He made the face of finally understanding what I meant and turned around to press a few buttons on the console. Shortly after a map of the Rey'Xol cluster appeared as a hologram with the Newton higlighted in blue and another much larger ship seemingly not too far away highlighted in orange. "They still havent detected us and in 3 hours we will be 94 hours away from the closest military ship." "Good." I cleared my throat "acrivate speakers." A silent beep followed and I continued. "Allright people. For the past eight days we have been following a ship in stealth mode. Now we are far enough away from any milirary ships and still too close for them to use warp. Meaning we will have atleast 1 day alone with the ship... Now to the ship. It is a class 3 cruiser. 12 times larger than the Newton. Tourist ship. No defense mechanisms. We will do the standard procedure: We shoot a torpedo at their engine block. Wait until they leave the ship in the rescue pods. Go on board and plunder. Then we blow the ship up. Any objections ?" A short silence followed as noone replied "Good. In 3 hours the operation begins. Transmission out." Another beep followed. I turned to Jatt and grinned. "How often have we done this ?" "Done what ?" He asked without changing his expression. "Well this." I pointed around with my hands "how many ships did we plunder without facing any resistance. These trading ships or tourist ships. The people just try to save their lives. They dont care about the ship as long they are alive. 1 shot to their engines is all we need." Jatt grinned and looked at the map still between us. "It allmost seems too easy." "True that." Allright guys I am completely new to this sub but have been active on WritingPrompts for a while. On WP I was told that I should/could post a story I am working on ATM here and before I spend 2 weeks writing a shit story I want to see what you people think of it. Also I would need some name suggestions since I suck at that. (Space pirate kidnaps daughter of governour - falls in love with her - shit goes down because of war and his past.) If the story turns out beeing fine I would post the end product here and yea... thats it. I am not a native english speaker so sorry for any mistakes in the text. I know that it would be better if I gave feedback on other stories first but I intend to do that as soon I know if my shit is the shit.

(Insert Clever Title Here) “It had been exactly six hours since Jack first heard the voice of the narrator, said the narrator just to piss the two off.” “Ok that’s it I am tired of this Charlie Kaufman metta bullshit” “Jack exclaimed wishing his boyfriend was in the room to comfort him through these dark times, with his penis, cause Jack was very gay.” “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not gay.” “Jack said trying to convince himself he didn’t dream of cornholing a man every night over and over again.” “jesus Christ what does cornholing even mean?” “Jack said stupidly not knowing that it was a commonly understood slang term and even without knowing the exact definition it would be easy to come up with a decent guess at what the word means just through context clues and the the reason he didn’t know the exact definition was because he was too busy performing the act of cornholling on his gay lovers cause he was gay.” “Ok first off your narrating is horrible you don’t have to say that person said every time a particular person says something that’s lazy writing and second off I don’t cornhole anyone especially not guys.” “Jack said lying through his cornholing teeth not knowing he sounded idiotic saying he especially didn’t cornhole guys which made no sense because you can’t especially not do something then he came to think about the negative actions that could come from insulting a omnipresent being.” “Are you threating me?” “Jack said with a giant cock in his mouth barley able to get the words out but when he finally did the narrator answered in the affirmative.” “How can you threaten me all you do is narrate what I say and make it look like I’m gay and honestly it’s just coming off offensive to the gay community if anyone were to here you say this they would probably just think you were weird and homophobic.” “Jack said being a big dumb stupid gay meanie face.” “You know what narrator person you suck you’re like a worse than a ending to a Stephan King novel but your even less original I’ve seen this before in that Will Ferrell movie no one remembers plus your homophobic which is never fun.” “Jack said not knowing these words would be the end of the story which is kind of ironic seeing that he just made fun of the Stephan King endings and now this is ending so abruptly and disappointingly which kind of gives the story more merit cause it pointed it out but is still kind of cheap said the narrator.

I sat down in my office chair and opened up my laptop. All I need is something to distract me from my life. All day I've been hearing about this new MMORPG called Identity. The premise of the game is simple, you can be whoever you want to be. I would love to be a knight in medieval times slaying dragons, or I could be a master engineer and create an army of robots to do my bidding. Sounds pretty great, I think to myself and I begin downloading it. *beep* My eyes open up and I check my watch, I must have fallen asleep while the game was downloading. It's only been a couple hours. I see my reflection on my laptop screen and the left side of my face is imprinted with the texture of my mousepad. I chuckle and open the game. *CREATE NEW ACCOUNT* A huge button absorbs all the space on my screen, and after I click it a cutscene begins showing off all the things you can do in the game. That guy's a samurai, that's cool. Oh neat, you can be a soldier. This continues for a couple minutes until the cutscene flashes to a man sitting at his desk, it's so dark but the glare of his computer screen illuminates him and he appears to be face down on his keyboard. *CREATE USERNAME* Another window opens up, this is finally it, I can finally be whoever I want. I decide to be basic and just enter my own name. R-O-S-S *ENTER* Suddenly, my webcam turns on and my face appears on the screen along with a chat window. Then, a message appears. "Do you know who you are?" I panic at this point, is this a practical joke of some sort? I'm not impressed. I try to click the X icon and close the window. It's not working. Again, a message appears in the chat window. "Do you know who you are?" I stare at the screen and click a pen I found in my shirt pocket about 30 times as I decide whether I should play along. I finally type back, "My name is Ross." My heart is pounding at this point, I have no access to the other functions of my computer. Another message, "What is your identity?" I'm holding the power button on my laptop, I don't like this. I try to unplug it, it's not working. I pace around the house and finally work up the courage to type back, "Who the fuck is this?" "Don't give up your identity Ross." My webcam flashes but suddenly I'm no longer there on screen. I smack it with my hand, and I see myself face down on my keyboard with a bottle of pills spilled beside my head. My head turns, I'm foaming at the mouth. I see my front door open behind me as my sister rushes in to try to save me. I'm gripping my laptop screen with both hands now, and I'm crying. I wake up in a hospital bed, with an IV attached to my arm. My sister jumps for joy and gives me a hug. "I know you've been going through hard times, Ross." She says, "But suicide isn't the answer to your problems. Who do you think you are?" What's my identity? I could've been anything I wanted. I could've been a soldier, I could've had a family, I could've been anything I wanted. What I couldn't do, however, is stop myself from doing it again as soon as she left the room.

Frank stepped out of his car and closed the door behind him. He locked it as he walked away and didn't look to check, the clunk was enough. The key to the front door of his terraced house went into the lock first time, without him stabbing at it. He buzzed a little fanfare with his lips and smiled - on the inside. It was a minor success and he’ll take it. Once inside, he took off his coat, hung it up behind the vestibule door and took a sharp breath. The scent damp and familiar but welcoming. He eased off his shoes and socks and walked across the carpet in the dining room to get to the kitchen where he’d left his slippers. The carpet was less than a week old and felt pleasant underfoot. He knew it wouldn't last and it irked him. He put the kettle on and thought about his last ever day at work. He didn’t particularly like his job but he didn’t hate it, either. He was just glad it was all over. His last day finished over at the Black Horse and only drew a few of Frank's colleagues. He enjoyed the four pints they bought for him and he was grateful but he had to be home before his phone rang. Frank’s only son lives in Australia. He was looking forward to the perfunctory phone call he receives every year on his birthday, at the express wishes of his wife. She only insists on this because she wants a new car when he eventually dies. They can have it but there won’t be much change afterwards. He really didn’t care for the money, anyway. The call came and went and was shorter than even he expected. He made excuses for him in his own mind, saying he was busy and that he had an important job that always required his attention. He hoped for grandchildren and that it might bring his son home. He was doubtful, though. His son was as stubborn as he. A real chip off the ol’ block, you might say. He might speak to him later in the year but, then again, he might not. He finished the last of his still warm cup of tea, walked into to the hallway, put the latch on the front door and proceeded to climb the stairs. He’d take the phone off the hook as he went past it but he knew it wasn’t going to ring. He wasn’t out of breath as he reached the top but his joints ached and it seemed an extra stair is added everytime he had to make his way to the summit. He entered the back bedroom, drew the curtains, switched on the light and closed the door behind him. He slowly lowered himself to his knees, which was no trivial feat and let out an involuntary groan until he was down. He shuffled a short distance to the front of his wardrobe and drew out a case from underneath it. The case was bound with worn leather and had two latches that could lock but never were. His thumbs released the latches with a satisfying snap and then proceeded to open it with one swift movement to completion. He gazed at its contents for a moment, the artificial light reflected back at him. He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, sniffed lightly and placed his hands on the cool metal of his trumpet. With one hand on the handle of the wardrobe and the trumpet in the other, he stood. There was a regular crack from each knee and a reply to the groan he made on his descent. He settled himself on his feet for a minute or so and then pointed the trumpet towards the drawn curtains of the window. He drew in his breath and placed the mouthpiece lightly against his moist lips. He released the air slowly and for half a second there was no sound other than the hiss of his breath, transferring its warmth to the body of the instrument, followed by a burst of sound that bounced back at him from the hard walls of the room. He did this again and again, running a few scales until the instrument felt warm. He was careful not tire himself out and held the trumpet with both hands close to his chest after clearing any spit from inside. Satisfied, he again raised the trumpet to his lips, closed his eyes and blew. He began the only piece he knew from start to finish and as his lungs swelled, so did his heart. Colour, vivid but warm, filled the room from the bottom up. It warmed his face and body to a glow. His tongue, precise and definite, his fingers light and nimble. With each crescendo his feet hovering an inch from the carpet only to be lowered, gently, six inches into it, snug and reassuring. His ears confirmed pitch perfection, whilst the tone and timing like no other. Now in full flow, his body emitted the most loving ache - it consumed him. Bar after bar, a relentless flow. Finally, as he neared the end and before his breath and his stamina failed him, he played the finishing notes. The sound seemed to linger, in his imagination at least and predictably, the colours drained from the walls, albeit with less haste than they had come. He gave the trumpet a wipe with a cloth from the case, removing any fingerprints and oiled the valves. He returned the trumpet to its case, closed the latches without locking them and slid it back into the space under the wardrobe, now free from sight. His soul, like stoked embers, remained and radiated into the walls, giving them a fleeting hue as he mirrored his journey back to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and switched it on. If only there was another to share it with but the thought never occurred to him. It occurred to me, though, but who am I to say? This is my first attempt at writing fiction. Any constructive feedback is welcome. Thanks.

“Mom..” a boy cried. “Is it okay if I’m the only one that love you in this world..” His mother, with a loving smile says” I would be so happy, that I couldn’t stop smiling” I woke up. In the end, it was just a sweet dream. A dream that perhaps , I wish to stay forever. I got up, did my daily morning routine, kiss my father and go to school. Oh, I also bring my camera with me wherever I go. Not the hipster one! Just the regular simple camera type. You know, to capture the moment. Still an amateur though. Though it was a give I got from a dear friend of mine. A few moments stepping out, I notice a man. Perhaps he is waiting someone as he showed no sign of haste. The man turned. A trace of smile slid on his face. Pretentious postmen, I presume to myself. A letter and a box were given for a few signatures and the man left. Puzzled, I took the package not knowing what inside. Before my clever assumption flow, I was stunned. The letter senders were under the name Alexa, my childhood friend. I stood there for too long not sure what I’m doing exactly. Somehow I came back to my senses and impatiently went back to open the box. Inside it, were full of memories of Alexa. Her photobook, novels and deep down was her diary. With a large word spell “No Reading”. I was dumbfounded, what on earth she was thinking sending me this. Still , the notion of her secret in my hand excites me . After taking everything outside the box a simple note was left underneath everything. It says “Read the letter first you dumbass!”. “Okay , okay . Seriously , like literally, she could order me around whether she around or not” . Wondering, I read her letter quietly in the depth of the silent living room. “God, bless you for the beautiful moment we shared . Many times I once wondered , if you still have the thought of my existence at all. I wish you were, if not then you weren’t. “Got a chase last night” the story I wrote, nobody knew but I couldn’t care less. It caught your attention though , and more and more you surprised me. Till one letter that make me fell for you. HARD. Everytime I read your letter, that joke always catch me .Liar, told me to catch me even I was a storm. Hahaha, how do you intend to do that? I want to kiss you in the same time kick you. God, blessed you with patient and I hope you are patient now as you reading this. I have come to realize that I love you .And my love still stabs me through the brain. I couldn’t find myself forget you. Like the way the wind hit you, you couldn’t help but face it. So much that this feeling is unconsciously conscious of you. I know I’m maybe exaggerating a little but I couldn’t help it. Maybe I should end this letter here, for nobody knows what to expect in the near future but do me favor, let me go away. Alexa” Huh, this is all to sudden. I reread it gazillion time again making sure what I read perfectly justify what I understood. Not long enough after that I found her picture, sick in the photobook. Each one shows her journey fighting cancer. I couldn’t believe she hid the fact that she was sick from me. More and more picture, more and more droplet of water stream down my cheek. I couldn’t hold it much longer after the last of her picture, smiling so brightly in the midst of dying. Finally, I realize. Moments in life seems to go by fast and takes a long time one to realize, the best of it went by soundlessly. In the end, I kept her diary untouched.

May 14th, 2011 (No Regrets); “People ask, they ask things, questions of course. Questions that may or may not be answered. Some don’t even make sense at first, but they are all asked for a reason. People ask them because they wonder. They think, they dream, because these are the people who enjoy the little things. These are the people who love, and believe in a leader. They don’t take advantage of the life they are given and they spend the time they are given wisely. I would rather spend my life I was given being adventurous then to wake up to black and grey every morning. I would rather live a short exciting life than a long dull one. That’s not to say I don’t frown, because I cry, I shame, and I fall, but I don’t look down. Looking down is giving into pain, when I could rather smile through hell and drop off the weakness on my way. ” –Johnny Sofer. June 11th 2012 (Introduction); well, this is a story, kind of… It’s about someone who stood out to me, well; stood out to anyone he was in quarters with. There’s not to many ways to start this, but I had a friend, Johnny, Johnny Sofer. John wasn’t exactly like anyone else, and that’s not to say he wasn’t normal, because there is really only question on the accuracy of normal, right? John was a fourteen year old cancer patient at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, also known as ‘C.H.O.P.’. Fortunately he still got to carry on with school just as any other kid did. He fit in with appearance quite impressively: brown hair, green eyes, about five and a half feet tall, but as white as a fresh cloud on a summer day. The things that put John at differences with others were his disabilities. He had a rare jaw dysfunction in which it affected his ability to talk, not too many people understood him, but still found a way to form a little dialogue so John could feel safer, you could say. He also possessed a rare bone disease when he was only five called ‘skeletal dysplasia.’ It strongly affected his ability to not only walk, but move in general. He managed, and carried on like all others, but even with his medication, pain was always in presence. He had a family for support, but there’s not too much support you can give. The thing was, John’s sickness wasn’t exactly temporary. In the fall of 2011 he was alerted that he had only a little over a year to live, but fortunately he wouldn’t suffer any more than he already has, as depressing as that sounds. His body just wouldn’t be able to keep surviving. So for the year on, he lived and loved his casual life as he wanted, but as friendly as John was, being casual wasn’t always enough to keep him happy. It was difficult for him to make friends, mainly because he couldn’t do what every other kid could, but I kept John from feeling lonely, I considered myself a companion, as he may have considered me euphoria. By the way, my names Finis. John and I have been friends since he was about five, right around when he was diagnosed with cancer, too young to really understand though. As time went by I kept him feeling loved and important, because he was. And that wasn’t really a coincidence of me meeting him, but rather a fortunate accident. June 12th 2012 (Smile); John’s family was just like any other family from what I know. They tried their best to keep some weight off his shoulders, and keep me distant as much as possible. John surprisingly put more into keeping his parents calm than anything else, which was just uncommon and surprising. Watching someone deal with so much, and go through so much, but yet, help others up above him. It gets you to think, and even just appreciate things a little more. Aside from all of John’s disabilities, this is why some considered him a gifted kid. He could basically pull the positive out of every negative. Well, anyone can, it just took the will power John had to prove people wrong, not show them that he could survive, but rather live and as he went on picking others up, he started to make it seem almost as though it was his job. He just had a secret, a stupid little one, but one that could make you ponder into belief. He claims that when you are mad, too smile and that as hard as it may seem, and as much as you may want to quit, smile in hope, for problems can be solved. He said as long as you’re smiling, you’re living. June 15th 2012 (Departure); for some reason, I never felt the need to ask him why he was always in joy, because of course he had his little secret and all, but I wouldn’t be able to imagine what he’s going through. He seemed happy enough to keep others happy, so I guess it’s as simple as that. As close as we were, I’ve never met anyone like John, but everybody is born with a different personality and a different obscure view on life, but no matter what the personality or view on life is, there’s not a doubt that you can’t make the best of it. I realized that, on the night I found out John only had so much longer; it was almost as if he knew it was coming, as though he was warned. John was a kid just like any other, besides his sickness. Except there was just one other thing, he thought a lot. He seemed to have his eyes closed constantly, yet he would not be sleeping. It puzzled me. As if he was almost dreaming, day dreaming, possibly about his situation. Maybe thinking about what might happen to him when it’s over, because humans do not have a clue about what happens. They just tell strange stories and old legends about what they assume might happen, but John looked beyond those stories and myths. John looked harder into it. He had a different theory on life and on death. I guess that was because he was so close to it, but what do I know? I have only known him since then. April 5th 2011 (Baseball); John kept enjoying life. He still went to school and started to make more friends.. He always kept smiling more than he ever frowned, which was great. He actually played a sport for a bit. He played baseball. It wasn’t and still isn’t my favorite sport, but as long as it kept him busy, who was I to judge? Not to mention he was pretty damn good at it too. He played day and night and got better every minute. Everyone noticed him. It was still his first sport he ever played, but it kept him feeling like he fit in for once and he got quite a bit of playing time too. Not only did the coaches notice him, but he was actually approached by a nearby college baseball coach. To this day I don’t know if it was because of his situation or maybe out of pure kindness, but John was over joyed, matter of fact, he was honored. May 15th, 2011 (Pursuit); Despite Johns muscle disorder, as stated, he played baseball. The thing I forgot to mention though is that wasn’t exactly in the doctors recommendations. And there was no reason to get upset with John about it, besides, what would you do with a year to live? It caught up with him though. It was game day; Johns chance to shine for everyone. And of course it was his turn up to bat, cameras were rolling and people were cheering. The pitcher sent one down, and although people are still not sure if it was a slow pitch or John’s lucky day, he nearly a home run. It went all the way to back left field, I remember descriptively. John sprinted to first and went to head to second, he tripped. At least that was our first thought. Screams of terror came from John and he wasn’t moving after that. The trainer rushed over along with teammates, coaches, a few fans. John pushed himself to the max. Immediately after, he was rushed to the hospital. It turned out that his body went into instant shock and nearly all of his muscles tightened up to the point where it almost shattered his bones. He was instantly given some sleeping meds and remained asleep for a few following days to allow his body to relax. When he woke up he was lost, forgetful, and aimless. The team was notified, since they all came to visit when he awoke. He got the game ball; they won the game for him. John forgot about everything else at that time, the pain, the stress, and the time. He just seemed, relevant. May 22nd 2011 (Worthwhile); John had to stay for the remainder of the month. Time went by, and John became even sicker. His symptoms became worse. The thing about that though, it had been one year and five months already. Silence was all that was really in play. Everyone’s mind was just an abyss, nothing to ponder and not much to say. That last month in the hospital was the longest month of John’s short, but meaningful life. I guess time really does go by fast. Before John passed, something clicked to me. I finally understood it. I understood why John was so happy all the time. Why he always smiled. He always had a good view on life and I always questioned it, but I never could figure out the answer. I started to look deeper. John lived his live knowing that it was almost over, he lived his life in joy knowing that it could end at any time. He didn’t have a gift. He just looked past everything and looked at the big picture in life. No matter whom he was or what he has been through, he never let it put him down. He smiled when he was upset, because smiling is the best therapy. Not only did John know he was dying, but besides the fact, he didn’t know when he was going to die. Everybody is dying. It is just a matter of time when it happens. Death is an amazing thing. It happens to basically everyone and everything. It can’t be reversed nor escaped. You can be scared of it, you can be ready for it, yet some might even rush it. Your life depends on death. How much time you have and how you use that time. The way you spend it, whether you abuse it or savor it. Whether you enjoyed it or despised it. Live like you death is coming. Live without fear and with an open mind filled with excitement and love. Expect the unexpected at all times and never let your head drop. Life is about giving, so give what you can and ask for nothing in return. Life is about doing not what you crave, but to help others achieve the same. Set goals. Don’t stop until you accomplish those goals, because at times those goals might be the only reason that’s carrying you on. Respect others and respect yourself. Never waste a day of your life. You are only given one life, so why even consider wasting it. Spend every second of every minute with even a hint of joy somewhere inside you. Don’t stop truly living till your heart stops beating, because someday it will be over, done, gone forever, make it worth it from the beginning. Let that courage represent those goodbyes. Make people remember you in a positive way, as a well spent day bring happy sleep, so a life well spent brings a happy death. When you read this story I’m not saying I’m still alive at the end, I’m just telling a tail, and simply expressing my own tips for if someone else may come across them and consider being in need of them. So take this in mind. Save this story to your head. Remember these tips as for one day your time will come. As I told you in the beginning, my names Finis, I never said I was real, but I never said I wasn’t. People know me as different things, different beliefs, and different virtues, but that is only my appearance. As I am just another entity finding new problems to solve and riddles to conquer. As life is just a game to me and there is no winner. Just every role of the die is an adventure, but who really knows what or who I am. So that you can’t judge me by the clothes I am wearing, or the nametag I am given. Start asking the real questions, one that questions my human state of mind or even if I am a real thing. Whether you hate me or cherish me. Take it in. Absorb the truth. Because you all know, one day, just one split second, darkness will erupt, and your thoughts, hopes, and dreams will die. So make it last. Don’t ever rush it or wait for it. Don’t even question it, but remember my name as though you may meet me someday. Whether you catch up to me in the afterlife, or I am brought to you by the experience of near death. Share my tails. Express my stories. Contain a mind of life, but live along the valley of death.

"The Island" Part One The cargo in the back of the C-47 shifted slightly as the plane banked making the final turn towards the island. The change in the aircrafts pitch was enough a raise the hung-over co-pilot from his nap. “Rise and shine there sir, we are almost there.” The other man at the control stick enthusiastically clamored. “Ah, Hopkins you get way too excited about these supply runs. Wake me when we land.” The heavy eyed Staff Sargent whimpered as he lowered his officer’s hat over his eyes to block out the sun. Hopkins rolled his eyes as he turned back to the task at hand. The glass in the altimeter gage rattled as the plane started to resist the air currents as it made its final approach. Hopkins had made hundreds of landings even before the war, but that was only a small crop duster back on his family’s farm. Almost every time Hopkins had flown with Staff Sargent Grant he had found some excuse to make him do the landings. The landing went mostly ok, as far as landings go. The plane only bounced once after touching down. Certainly not the most professional way to bring a bird in, but great for waking up hung over Officers sleeping off a bender in the next seat. “Wow their cowboy, your starting to get the handle of this gal. Keep flying like that and the Japs might recruit you as a kamikaze” Grant sarcastically said grinning at Hopkins. “Yeah, keep it up chuckles. You remember our deal, I do the flying you do the paperwork.” Hopkins said while handing Grant the flight log. Hopkins took one last look at the controls to ensure all knobs were in their proper place, he did not want a repeat of the ass chewing her received back on Honolulu. Hopkins then climbed down the ladder and into the cargo bay. “Well looks like all the soap made it Sir.” Hopkins shouted up into the cockpit. Grant busy scribbling down fuel numbers and other info into the flight log simply waved his hand dismissively saying “that’s great kid, go find out where they want us to park the old gal.” Hopkins simply nodded back and hopped out the crew hatch. Sure bullets and bombs won wars, but no one ever thinks about the soap and other small necessities soldiers need in the field. Staff Sargent Grant and Technical Sargent Hopkins had spent much of the war moving shipments of the little necessities of war. A few days ago it was pallets of bedding, today it was soap. Staff Sargent Grant had just finished checking the last pallet off his list when he looked at his watch. It had been about 20 minutes and still no sign of Hopkins. He must be getting run up the flag pole for not giving the proper respects to a superior or something Grant thought to himself. The boy was a good pilot but the military was not his calling. Grant had done his best to keep Hopkins out of trouble, but somehow trouble always found him.

By the end Steve was just going through the motions of day to day life. He had not truly lived since Emily left him that cold October night. The weeks and months following her death were busy of course; a blur of out of town family and sympathetic voices filled his home. But after a while things calmed down and Steve was left with an empty house a cold side of the bed. Steve longed for Emily and dreamed of her every night. Sure she was not the easiest woman to spend life with. She always criticized Steve and their marriage came close to ending a few times, but somehow they made it work and loved each other dearly. Steve’s despair had grown deeper and darker in the past few weeks. He started to fantasize about visiting Emily on the other side. Then one day a solution found its way into his mind. Determined to see his beloved Emily, Steve collected some rope from the garage. Steve took one last look around the small suburban home he had shared with Emily all those many years. He then took a seat at the small kitchen table. Steve ran his hands across the table over the paint stain Emily had made working on one of her endless craft projects. A tear formed in his eye as he reached for the paper. “Gone to see Emily” he wrote. Steve walked over to the basement door, flipped on lights and descended into the basement one last time. It didn’t take long for Steve to rig up the rope, and before long it was all over. After the blackness had faded to blinding white light Steve found himself in a beautiful park. Steve found the park to be filled with people all enjoying a tranquil summer’s day. It didn't take too long for the man’s quest to come to an end when he spotted his dearest Emily sitting on a park bench. Steve’s heart swelled with emotion as tears streamed down his face. Emily’s blond hair danced in the breeze just as Steve had envisioned it all those lonely nights. He raced to her side, shouting “Emily it’s me Steve!” Only something was wrong. Steve had seen the look on Emily’s face before. Her scorn dagger eyes pierced Steve’s soul.

"I'm a monster". He said. He was looking right at me. "You don't look like a monster." I said. He was wearing a dark blue hoodie and black jeans. He was clean shaven, and his hair looked freshly cut. "I am. I promise." "I don't believe you." "You don't know me." He was clutching one of the bridge wires to steady himself. He wouldn't stop looking at me. "Why do you care, anyways?" I glanced around at the empty, midnight air. I shrugged and kicked an imaginary pebble on the sidewalk. "Same reason as you, actually." He let out a breath that I think was supposed to be a laugh. "Fuck." he said. He finally took his eyes off me as he shook his head. "Of course you are! No other reason to be way out here by yourself on a beautiful Friday night." He stared at the water several hundred feet below us. "Get out of here, man. Pick another night to die." I didn't say anything. I just stared at him for a while. "You don't get to tell me that." I said. He just kept looking at the water. "I came out here to end it all *tonight*." He was still looking at the water. "You think you can take that away from me? You think your problems are worse than mine?" He looked at me. "Problems?" He said. "This isn't about problems. This is about reality. I'm a monster. I need to die." I rolled my eyes: "And I don't?" He didn't blink: "Let me guess: you lost your job and you didn't tell your wife. When she found out she trashed the house and left you. She took the kids with her too. The last thing she said was that she wanted a divorce. You've got money but no one's biting in the job interviews you've been doing for the past--what--year or so? So you've been pulling out of savings. Next you'll have to start selling things. All your debts have started piling up anyways. Give it another year, and you'll probably be on the street. That's unless someone bites on the interviews. But no one will, because they haven't." I kicked another imaginary pebble. "Two years," I said, "I've been out of work for two years. Wife just found out tonight." I heard him scoff: "You don't need to die, man. You just feel like shit. Go home. Sleep it off." I clenched my jaw and glared at him. "Stop telling me what to do." This time he definitely laughed: "See, there it is. Everyone. Every damn person I meet!" He was looking at me again. "That irritation you're feeling? That dislike for me? That's just the start. Everyone gets it, even when I was a fuckin' little kid people were getting it. For as long as I can remember I have repelled people." I stared. "They've all fucked off! Everyone I ever met! And the people who've stuck around only did it cuz they pitied me. My own wife pities me. You know what that's like? To have your fuckin' wife *pity* you?" I didn't. "Nah, man. You don't need to die. I do. I'm a fuckin' monster." He let go of the bridge wire, and he teetered on the railing. I stood with my hands in my pockets; frozen. I had never watched someone die before. He started to fall, and I reached out instinctively. My hand caught hold of something that felt like fabric. I squeezed as hard as I could. His weight whipped me into the railing. My shoulder made a popping noise and I gasped for breath. I reached out with my free hand and grabbed a bridge wire. I couldn't feel the ground under my feet, but I felt the bridge wire in one hand and fabric in the other, so I held on. My chest ached and I struggled to take in air. The arm that had caught the fabric was shooting pain through my entire body. I thought I could feel it spasm periodically. When I finally caught my breath, I looked down. I had caught him by the hood of his sweater. He hung limp below me, dangling two hundred feet in the air. I couldn't see his face. I looked up and saw that we were over the railing, that the only thing keeping us from falling was my tight grip on the bridge wire. I closed my eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. First I let go of the hoodie. When I heard the body hit the water below with a horrifying *SMACK*, I let go of the bridge wire.

You sit comfortably on the couch, browsing reddit on your mobile device. The doorbell rings. It's 9:00 - why would anyone come to the door right now? Curious, you lift yourself off the couch, walking towards the door. As you open it, you see a FedEx truck in the corner of your eye, trailing off into the distance. "Probably the wrong house," you think to yourself. As you go to check the mailbox to see what the delivery man left behind, you then realise that it is -40 degrees Celcius. "Damn, maybe I should aquire a coat." You rush towards the rack mounted perfectly on your wall, with three very different coats hanging neatly from the knobs. You pick your favourite coat of all - the fuzzy black one. As you rush to your door, you realise that -40 degrees Celcius is far too cold for a coat to withstand. Disappointed, you hang the coat back up carelessly, ruining the nice display that was your coat rack. You jump into bed and fall asleep, only to think of what could possibly be in the package. Your deep sleep is disrupted by a thundering shake from outside. You rush downstairs to see what could have possibly caused this quake. *Thomp, thomp, thomp, thomp.* You see it through your door. You see **it**. The creature that was supposed to be a myth, that was only in the children's books, that was only on the TV commercials. But no, this is real. You can feel it. You pinch yourself with hope that this is just a dream, but to no avail. In agony, you rush towards the bathroom door and lock yourself in. It is in the house now. You pray to the lord to spare your life. You hear the deafening stomps, as you tear up, knowing this is the end. Your door breaks into millions of little pieces. The jar of red blood-like liquid that has aided many children's thirst stares you down with it's jet-black pupils. "Oh no, no. no. Oh no.

His ears rang with such force he thought certainly his head must have split open. His vision was blurred and the light seared his eyes. Questions began running through his mind. How had he gotten here? Why was he on the ground? What was that horrible smell? Why couldn't he get up? Something tugged at his consciousness. Like an alarm going off when all you want to do is sleep. Incessant. Constant. Panicked. Panicked? Though it was only a few inches, lifting his head was the hardest thing he had ever done. before him lay wreckage. Complete annihilation. Stone buildings were crumbled and collapsed. A small child, maybe not quite into his teens, lay beneath what looked to be the now shattered roof of a building. A dark pool spread slowly beneath his torso. His sharp blue eyes, which, even full of panic, were the most vibrant eyes the man had ever seen. They would haunt him. The child had been screaming for who-knows-how-long. Once he realized the man saw him he began speaking french in a cotton-soft, but thready voice. The man didn't understand a word. He tried to talk but couldn't. Fine leather boots filled the man's vision. The owner of those boots bellowed something, the ringing in his ears and a wave of nausea made the man miss most of what was being said. The owner of those boots bellowed again and spoke in a soothing tone low enough the man couldn't understand him, but felt calmed by his words nonetheless. The man tried to look up but couldn't manage to move enough to see higher than the boots. The pain and nausea was too severe. All the while the child spoke. Pleaded? Begged? More boots, not as nice. Enough movement that the man's head felt like it split right open and he vomited all over those fine leather boots. He lay on some sort of makeshift cot now. They were raising him from the ground, the quick motion threatening to stain those fine leather boots even more. Through it all, through the pain, the nausea, the ringing, the man heard the child. ""Ne me quitte pas." His voice was soft, like fresh cotton. If he could sing he would melt the hearts of everyone in the room. The boy's pleading grew to screams. No hearts melted here. Though, one broke. "Ne me quitte pas!" His soft voice grew even more panicked. He must realize they were leaving. "Ne me quitte pas!!" The man tried to say something, tried to motion to the booted men. All he could do was look the child in his piercing blue eyes. "Ne me quitte pas!!!" Sobs and pain and the growing distance between them made the last almost unhearable. Almost. The boy's screams echoed through the destroyed alley. They echoed through the small town. And they echoed in the man's dreams for the rest of his days. "Ne me quitte pas.

Hi. For the next three months I'm going to be writing six stories once every two weeks, for a total of six short stories. They will all be based on random prompts. Several writers from different writing communities will be joining me, and you can too, if you want. We'll be using Twitter to share all our stories, hashtagging the completed stories by their due dates as follows: April 15 (#1sentence1) April 30 (#1sentence2) May 15 (#1sentence3) May 31 (#1sentence4) June 15 (#1sentence5) June 30 (#1sentence6) So if you wanna write with us, the first prompt is: **He made a wish, and threw a coin into the well.** -after you finish, post it somewhere then link it up on twitter using #1sentence1 -if you don't have a twitter account I'll share it for you (if you don't want me to share it for some reason, let me know) -up to you if you want to post your story as soon you finish or wait til April 14/15 -I'll critique your story both here and on whatever blog/website you post it at -something cool will happen on June 30 if you do all six -you can be as creative as you want.

Once upon a time there was a stray puppy named Ambrosia, she was a trouble maker. Every day and night she takes a loaf of bread, or something valuable. The gods tried to send her up the steps to the heavens, but she did not listen. One day she spotted a garden. Ambrosia went inside and ate all the olives. Ambrosia did not know that the garden belonged to Zeus’ grandmother, Canarnia. Canarnia came out to the garden and saw Ambrosia, she screamed at her to get out. Ambrosia didn't care so she went back and ate all Canarnia's carrots and smashed all her eggs from the chicken farm. Canaria was even angrier and gave Ambrosia a second warning. Ambrosia was a little scared, but not enough to keep her away so she went back. Ambrosia didn't know it was Canarnia’s birthday, she ate the cake cooling on the windowsill Canarnia had made. A few minutes later, Canarnia came out and saw Ambrosia licking her lips, and no cake on the windowsill. Canaria was furious. She chased Ambrosia up the stairs that lead to the heavens. Ambrosia accidently swallowed Rigle , the magic star, as she was running and froze there in a pose that looks as if she is still running from Canarnia.

The pink neon of the diner’s sign illuminated the first 300 feet in front of the man. Snow crept down from the sky tickling the man’s nose, making the hairs stand on the back of his neck as his memories faded back to all the times this had happened a hundred times before. His foot outlined the step before him as he began his trudge through the illuminant reflectant that was this blanket of white. A pair of eyes watch the man from the side of the diner waiting for him to turn his back towards his direction. The man headed for his car (with his step a bit slower than normal) as he turned towards the left side of the diner. The pair of eyes knew it was their time to strike they stalked quickly pouncing on their prey in a dark, subtle spot on the other side of the diner. “Stop” the pair of eyes hurriedly whispered. The man turned around slowly to the point where the pink of the diner sign cloaked the left half of his face while darkness consumed the right. The man looked down to see a 5 inch bowie knife pointed at his sternum behind it stood a middle aged man with brown eyes, and brown hair. The look in his eyes was not one anticipation but one of familiarity of such a situation. “Sir I’m sorry to be bothering you on such a beautiful night but could you spare a few dollars” the pair of eyes demanded coyly “That is quite a big knife to be waving at strangers” The man laughed wryly “Sir please just be quick I do not like to wait because of dry trivial quips” The pair of eyes demanded in the same wry tone. “Why yes I’m guessing you are wanting everything in my wallet” questioned the man “Yes sir, I would like everything. Including cards, cash, and anything else monetarily related. Of course keep your driver’s license and insurance cards. I have no need of those.” Explained the pair of eyes “That is very generous of you.” The man reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, showed it plainly to the pair of eyes slowly pulling out the money, and his credit/debit cards. “This should be all of it” he stated as he handed over his money to the pair of eyes. The pair of eyes took the pile of cash, and credit cards looking them over to ensure their validity. It took him 15 seconds to be sure of himself. He shoved his rewards into his pocket and turned into the other direction, sliding his bowie knife in the front of his pants as he stomped away in the darkness for another unknown activity. “Wait!” The man shouted The pair of eyes turned around slow expecting some sort of ill fated retribution for what he had just accomplished. “Do you want coffee?” The man continued in the same volume The pair of eyes stared at the man through the darkness curious at such an odd suggestion. “You have no money sir. I must be on my way. I do appreciate your offer as ill-fated as it may be.” Replied the pair of eyes. “Do you see this diner?!” Shouted the man as he erroneously continued The pair of eyes stared down the diner with the pink neon laminating his face. “I own this diner. I want to buy you a coffee my friend.” The man ended The pair of eyes stood staring at the pink neon. “How do I know that this isn’t your attempt to turn the tables on me to reclaim some misconstrued sense of your ego?” “Mister I put it on my wife and children. I want to eat, and speak with you as men have done for ages. You seem unique in your demeanor. I want to understand what an intelligent man such as yourself thinks about this and our world as a whole. If you decline my offer I will understand.” The man soliloquized The pair of eyes continued staring at the pink of the neon sign letting the light burn his retinas as he thought of an appropriate response. The man crept back to the top of the steps grinning as he opened the door waiting for the pair of eyes to respond. “How long have you owned this diner?” the pair of eyes inquired still staring at the pink neon sign “15 years. The diner is named after what we would have named my first son if he hadn't been miscarried” informed the man coldly. “Robert is a pretty average name” quipped back the pair of eyes “My wife picked the name” replied the man as he smiled The pair of eyes walked brazenly up the steps past the man into the diner. Their vision still scarred from staring in the sign for too long. The man led him to a booth 6 feet away from the door on the right side of the diner. The pair of eyes acceptingly sat down as the man sat across from him. Silence protruded the diner as the two lonely beings sat there. The man broke the icy silence. “Martha!” The man yelled A young blonde girl in her teens ran up to the man. Her eyes were as blue as the sky while her body’s youth irradiated warmness into the restaurant. “Yes” she stated as she approached the two brooding men “I want a black coffee for me with just two sugars and get this man a….” The man paused “I’ll have the same” The pair of eyes replied “Right away” The blonde said as she hurried away to the back. Silence stood for longer as both men looked around the diner as if seeing it for the first time. Within the minute the blonde had brought out the two coffees. Both men took a sip and nodded their approval as the blonde scurried away to the back of the diner once more. After a few sips the pair of eyes sat down his coffee. “Sir I’ve walked by this diner so many times in my life and I have to say, this is my first experience being in it” explained the pair of eyes. The man sat listening. “I must say don’t you find it quite odd that we walk by places, people, and things not noticing the uniqueness of them. Not looking in the inside. Just seeing the outside and accepting that as how it must be. It is us just seeing the bricks and mortar without looking in to see the warmth and light that these things radiate.” The pair of eyes indulged as he held his coffee for effect.The man unblinking sat soaking in the pair of eyes words. “We must accept the outer layer of what the world gives us my friend. We cannot accept what is inside of anything. It is too difficult of a task to ask of any human. It is easy for us to accept the outside because when you accept the outside you don’t ask questions of the validity of our existence. We simply see them as them and life as life. There are no inquiries.” The man elongated back “But don’t you find that ignorant” The pair of eyes wondered “People need easy. People need fast. That is why we must judge people in our society. It is for mere convenience so that we can be more effective in our lives. Think about how much a worker would get done if he worried about the inner workings of a co-worker’s emotions.” Explained the man “Perhaps we shouldn’t settle for easy. Perhaps we shouldn’t settle for the difficulties of what being a human encompasses. The only thing that drives us away from getting to know the inner workings of a stranger’s mind is fear, not the advantage of convenience. We are scared to get to know others because of our fear to become one with oneself...” The pair of eyes finished. Silence captured the room once more as both the pair of eyes and the man sat drinking their coffee. “The night is growing old and I fear that I am needed elsewhere. I must excuse myself sir” The pair of eyes explained. “That is very understandable my friend. Let me walk you out of here.” The man replied The man walked to the door opening it for the pair of eyes. The pink neon light lit the first 300 feet in front of the pair of eyes. The cold of the snow hit his face as he stepped onto the now icy snow. The pair of eyes turned to the right heading back home. The man felt his leg to see if the cold presence still existed. It did. The pair of eyes casually kept strolling to his home ignoring the crunch of snow behind him. His mind was too full of thoughts to recognize the audio that played to his back. BLAM!!! The pair of eyes right knee buckled smacking the hard asphalt under the snow. Its body began to go into shock as it turned around to stare at the man (drowned in the pink neon light) in the eyes. The pair of eyes began an attempt to flee from the man. Its left leg carried the burden as it tried to hobble towards the side of a building adjacent to the diner. BLAM!!! A second shot rang out as it grazed the pair of eyes left side. It collapsed to the ground gasping for air in the great panic that had been created by this attack. The man stared deep into the pair of eyes. Looking inside for what was really there. Not the bricks and mortar but the substance that it was really made of. Soaking in their new pinkish shade. Soaking in their fear.

Calvin woke up to the sound of raindrops falling from a grey morning sky against the rattily old window in his apartment. It was just about spring time, so the muffled thuds of rain was nothing unfamiliar. Still fresh out of slumber, Calvin had no plans of getting out of bed just yet. Instead, he became hypnotized with absent mindedly staring out his window, watching the city drag along as it always does, with the cityscape superimposed upon the weary grey sky, and the hustle and bustle of life passing by as it always had. Calvin was already starting to feel sick as he reached for his cigarettes, as the pangs of hunger made themselves noticeable. The flick of his lighter made its way to the tip of his cigarette, and the crude one room apartment became congested with smoke. He propped himself up with one arm on his worn out mattress on the floor, and scanned the room for any left over cake from the night before. Calvin had a bit of a cake problem, a pretty serious one actually. He consumed the cake almost as much as it consumed him, both with a voracious appetite, almost impossible to satisfy. He hated this pastry so much it almost make him painfully sick to his stomach, yet ironically, just a few slices was all it took to relieve the pain, and the everlasting hunger that resided within. A love/hate relationship is what he liked to call it. Calvin spotted a point of interest in the corner on the other side of his apartment. On the floor there was an old wax paper cake wrapper adjacent to a grubby looking plastic fork, his main method of administration. The bag was most likely empty, but the little bit of uncertainty was all he needed to force himself out of bed. Calvin put out his cigarette in a coffee cup, anxiously exhaling the last puff, and made his way towards the corner. As he reached his destination, he picked up the crumpled wrapper and hastily unraveled it, knowing it was probably just a waste of time, but hey, cake is cake. The wrapper had only a few morsels of the stale product, but Calvin instinctually threw the crumbs down the hatch, and then proceeded to chew on the bag, as to obtain every single molecule of cake as he could possibly get. Moving onto the fork, he realized that he had already thoroughly scraped the old cake grime off of it. “Guess its gonna be one of these kinda mornin’s again” he said to himself, as it this wasn't an almost daily occurrence. Calvin was becoming increasingly agitated, and his stomach was now growling, becoming more and more uncomfortable as the minutes slowly ticked away on the lonely bud light themed clock, the only thing he had hanging on the wall in his neglected, monotone apartment room. He could feel beads of sweat building up under his skin, and the shivers and shakes and itches were coming on as well. Calvin was getting sick and desperately needed cake to relieve his symptoms. He lit another cigarette to aid his concentration and paced back and forth, racking his brain for another daily scheme to scrape up enough money for cake. Cake no longer lasted nearly as long as it used to for Calvin. One slice turned into 2 slices, which turned into three slices and so on. Now, he needed a full cake, or 10 slices, in order to dull the hunger enough so he could focus on making some real money to get more later. This fact was more than apparent to him, although he was just about oblivious to the increasingly bad decisions he was making in order to fund this habit of his. Turning to crime and stealing from or hurting loved ones, all those kind of shenanigans. Lost in the throes of this malicious dessert, Calvin was running through previous schemes in his head that he had whipped up in the past, just trying to brainstorm something, anything at all to get his carbohydrate fix. It was far too early to go car hopping, and he really didn't like doing that either, it was risky. “Ooh!” exclaimed Calvin, for suddenly an idea came to mind. He could take some low quality bread, like the kind with all the gross seeds in it or something like that, and spice it up a little with frosting and sprinkles, and whatever else he could find lying around to disguise this grub as cake, and sell it to a naive cake consumer. He had done this a million times before, it would surely be no problem doing it again today. He ran to the fridge, his heart pounding with anticipation, and swung the door open, only to reveal nothing. Absolutely nothing in the fridge what-so-ever. This seemed to make his hunger and symptoms even more prominent, and the situation that much more serious for him. Calvins anxiety was now bursting through the roof, hindering his decision making. He decided to pay a visit to his mother, who lived about a 15 minute walk away in a better part of the city. They no longer lived together because she could no longer deal with her sons fondness for cake, or his “stupid fucking addict bullshit” as she like to put it. “I might be dependent, but I ain't no fuckin addict” Calvin thought to himself, in reply to what his mother always said. He grabbed his battered shoes, which were still in one piece by some sort of miracle, threw on a hoodie, and out the door he went. The heavy, antique looking door that was the entrance to the housing projects scraped along the ground, following the old trails on the floor, and Calvins ripped up shoes made their way down the brick steps and onto the sidewalk. The familiar smell of a spring rain and city smog was heavy in the air as he began his journey, becoming another piece in the discomposed orchestra of the city. Calvin felt a sense of beauty in all of it though, as if the out of tune, urban cacophony created its own little sort of melody. Like when a song ends on a minor note and sounds just right, or like that island of misfits on that christmas special that he used to love to watch when he was younger, and how they all fit in together because they didn’t fit in anywhere else. It was a perfect imperfection.

Mists surrounded the wet road,and cold drops of rain blurred the cracked glass of my spectacles. Cold,bitter winds cut against my frozen arms,piercing like a thousand frosted pine needles,hurting against the cold tunic. Dalhousie was a beautiful place in the summers,a haven for vacationers,but when it rained like this,i hated it with a passion. It was dusk,gray clouds,naked autumn trees,created a desolate atmosphere,transforming this dusk to near darkness. Shadows were growing luminous,steam chuffed out of the bakery building's chimney .Rain splattered on the shiny road,steam lamps cast a yellow glow as I hurried past with chattering teeth to the train station with the German steel dabba swaying in my hand. Old colonial houses loomed on one side of the valley road,sitting there like old men ,dim candelabras gleaming from dirty windows. I hadn't taken my usual shortcut through the woods,as I did not like the mud caking my slippers. My father worked as a station master in the dilapidated station building,the only railway employee there,besides mr.green who was the manager,and rarely showed up. Carrying his dabba had become a monotonous daily chore. Maa had packed hot chapatis fresh from the chulha and the her famous spicy country daal. Her daal was liked even by the babus who came to dalhousie to live once a year in their large,old houses,with their delicate wives and beautiful children.Dressed in two piece suits and bowler hats,their babes looking wide eyed at us,and clinging timidly to their mother's silk dresses,while me and my brothers ran helter skelter working to clean and maintain their houses. It was dark already when I reached the red signal post lamp,ten more minutes to go,I thought after crossing the metal train tracks,but they never came. Twenty minutes later,I felt something was not right,when I reached the signal again,I kept walking past and reached the old houses again. Sitting there like old men,candelabras gleaming through dirty windows. Babaa must be hungry,I thought,why was this happening again? I started racing,my cold heart thumping. I saw the red signal post again. I was thoroughly confused. Then,I saw farhan,standing near the post,bidi in hand,operating the stone laden divider to the tracks that managed the carriage traffic across the tracks. I went up to him,slowly,rain splattered,cold wind blew. “Farhan,I can't get the dabba to baba today,could you,please?”,I said,my voice laced with exhaustion. Farhan looked up from his wooden table,and stood rooted to the spot,fixated in horror,as the shimla mail,rattled past on the tracks beside him,changing lights in his brown black eyes. “farhan?”,I said ,he is intoxicated with gaanja again,I thought. Farhan let out a yelp,and then took a stride towards a door and ran away,screaming at the top of his lungs. I passed out from exhaustion,and came back to consciousness,when I heard excited voices.Baba.... “Even michael babu saw him near the mayor's house yesterday”,Farhan was saying,excitedly.”Its been four months,Farhan,gaanja is taking its toll on you”,baba said in a quivering voice,”Its been four months since the shimla mail took him,his mother is inconsolable.”. I lay there on the ground,they looked past me,like I was not there. I picked up the dabba and started walking past the red post,and reached the old colonial houses again,sitting there like old men,Candelabras gleaming through the dirty windows.....

(The following are excerpts from a 5 part short story I am currently composing. All characters are entirely fictional. An honest critique is much appreciated) Person A: I awake to the sound of last night’s pity bang tossing and turning clearly unaccustomed to my 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. If only she had assumed the foetal position she was currently adopting. Instead, I was treated to 10 minutes of boring missionary banging sans blowjob. I feel a mixture of annoyance, horny and plain fucking pissed off. I realise she’s seeking a cold or slightly less ectoplasm soaked part of the bed so I contemplate sticking it in and hate fucking her until regains complete consciousness. Her long wavy brunette locks slightly obstruct a tattoo of Chinese characters across the upper part of her back. She has a swimmer’s shoulders; she’s a fucking billboard. The Chinese characters are probably an advertisement. I have no fucking idea what the characters mean. She’s not even Chinese. I slowly remove her panties careful not to wake the sleeping ice-road trucker. Although she probably possesses the upper body strength of a weightlifter, she still has an ass evocative of homosexual paedophilia; the ass of a 12 year old boy…destined to become a 25 year old female pornstar with a penchant for hoola-hooping and sissy bouncing. She has a nice ass. She lets out a lethargic moan as she rotates 90 degrees, flipping onto her sizeable back and backhanding me in the face in the one hungover, weeded out motion. She’s still unconscious. I can still shit on her morning with a round of surprise sex. I ready my cock in anticipation but realise I’ll need to further fund Durex. The thought of the myriad of scum this whore has fucked is an instant boner-kill. I decide bubble butt Frankenstein isn’t worthy of my enthusiastic fucking so I promptly leave like a ninja and roll myself a joint. I am high as fuck and can think of nothing but eating Doritos and perusing nature but I must first rid myself of the semi-comatose Tetris piece of a woman sprawled out on my bed. I think her name is Maria…I’m glad I smoked the Sativa dominant Blue Dream joint as I feel enlightened and more creative. I think to myself If Albert Einstein and Bruce Lee made a lovechild, and that child grew up with a penis and managed to impregnate Tina Fey, the resulting adorably funny MMA fighter with a PhD in theoretical physics would…probably not attempt a 1g dab after4 shots of Jaeger and 3 bong hits man…I’m so baked…Her name is definitely NOT Maria. I am suddenly overcome with a welcome wave of tranquillity and I no longer care what the fuck her name might be. That might be the onset of the Indica component of the hybrid. The traffic is considerably less noticeable. I imagine the cacophony of petrol fuelled percussion amongst the loud insipid salon chatter. The pedestrians all look like insects from my balcony. I take a moment to reflect on humanity’s achievements before I am rudely interrupted by the jackhammering and construction to my left. A nosey, balding slightly pudgy contractor spots the 1m bong perched proudly on the table. He mimes something but I assume he’s being an asshole so I flip him the finger. Fuck you Tarzan and your cousins. I dream of the day when menial plebeian tasks are completely replaced by autonomous systems, my systems. Moments pass and although I know I am only halfway through Depeche Mode’s greatest hits, the time dilation effects prompt a justified phone consult. It is at this point I notice the sparsely grown arm hair where my Swatch used to reside. I contemplate how long it might take for holographic projection technology to progress to the point where screen size becomes irrelevant and manufacturers of wearable electronics dictate fashion trends instead of the superficial, vegetable loving Instagram whores I usually find queueing up to deepthroat me. I concede that I am now way too stoned to remember not Maria’s name, not that it matters. Once she lives out the rest of her pathetic life she’ll be put into a box just like everyone else. They all end up just the same. I pack myself another cone and notice I have very little weed left. I quickly message my dealer for another quarter ounce. I’ll restock once she disappears. Person B: “What a fucking whore! Fuck him, you’re way too pretty for that loser anyway” she tells me. I’ve always known that, but it’s still nice to hear. I knew he was cheating on me. I didn’t care. I just used it as an excuse to end the perfunctory sex yoga. And it’s not like I’ve never been accused of behaving like a street walker. We’re all here to fuck and fuck and fuck until we find the one deemed capable of putting an end to the broken hearts, misdiagnosed serendipity and general fuck my lactose intolerance, sweatpants, masturbating with the shower-head drama queen bullshit. “Thanks honey” I tell her and hang up. I cycle through my music library on my iPhone 6. It saddens me that if I were to die this instant, my perceived existence could be summed up from the contents of my phone. Fuck it. I crank up the Daft Punk and start running. It’s rush hour and the dot com edifices are slowly emptying. Ones and zeros in suits ejecting onto the pavement, the Earth’s microcosm spilling out onto tax payer money. The important people get to stay back and collect overtime by either updating their social media accounts and/or fucking the secretary. The more self-conscious higher uppers are cokeheads. They burn the midnight oil staring out at the night sky and down at society, vividly imagining a weekend round of golf followed by premature ejaculating into the secretary’s mouth. The latter accomplished in the privacy of a recently purchased, top of the line Mercedes penis enlarger. Occasionally, some actual productivity also occurs. Business executives, lawyers, social workers, closet nerds, closet killers and all types of scum pass by. I feel their gazes and I feel nothing; flaccid. I can’t help but play a mental game of ‘where’s Wally’ scanning for the next fuck. A brooding figure smoking an e-cigarette catches my eye. I feel it’s mutual, but all he does is take two more drags and disappear. Raybans are like Maybelline for your feelings. I sip the carrot and celery juice hoping the cum swallowing experience will assuage any guilt I might feel from chugging down a litre of cotton-mouth elixir; chocolate milk. And with that thought, my contemplative funk fucks right off. I continue my run, once again playing the part, looking the part and feeling nothing. I continue burning calories to a compilation of Journey’s ‘Greatest Hits’ on the way to Mo’s grow house. The cosily hidden store eponymously titled Mohammad Ink, a small business run by a group of five stoners masquerading as operators of a tattoo parlour marks the end of my workout for the time being. I’m greeted with the usual enthusiasm appropriate for 5 perpetually stoned, assumed to be single guys. Kain, manning the counter is ineffably unfuckable. Yoseph, the tattoo artist creates amazingly detailed pieces of work but smells perpetually of cheese. The other 3 tend to the plants in the back and are more competent socialising with plants, the DOTA world and Fleshlights than with real people. I wonder if most bromances result in the conception of pseudo-languages comprised of gamer slang, stoner vernacular and references to pop-culture. It dawns on me that they aren’t overtly or even surreptitiously storing mental images of my breasts for their masturbatory reservoirs. They might be my only male platonic friends…pathetic. I make my purchase; a quarter-ounce of Candy Jack, a gram of shattery Bogglegum concentrate and a brownie. Mo, the owner offers me a cone for the road and I fellate his bong. This act is subsequently followed by hungry cunnilingus on the brownie wrapper as I remask and jog out the store. The jog back to the apartment is highly pleasant. Led Zeppelin 3, the soundtrack to my run, fills in apparent pauses in neural activity. My mood, significantly uplifted since replenishing my weed supply takes a turn as a pass one of the many homeless hidden away from the corporate cokeheads. The yoga pants restrict air flow to my vagina, let alone accommodate loose change. I think one of them gestures at me. This particular person looks like he fell in dirt. His hair knotted from years of neglect, emaciated from lack of food and drug abuse. I don’t dare look him in the eye. I continue my pursuit of weediness but I check my reflection in the shop window to see if I’m being followed. This pot is making me so paranoid. A person, so homeless he provokes the desire for a sixth sense, so homeless I’m sobering up. We know they’re there but we ignore them. It is natural selection. But natural selection has also imbued us, an intelligent species, to empathise…But fuck help! Person A: I gaze at her as she sips the glass of wine. Normally, the Marangoni effect; tears of wine, would have me transfixed. The proverbial fish are plentiful in my sea, but that sea is a puddle of bodily fluids and all the fish are mermaids. She is different. She compliments the wine in an attempt to make small talk, but we’re both cognizant of our baser desires. I expected the meal to be nothing short of excellent. A finely marbled cut of premium grade Wagyu porterhouse cooked sous vide at 54°C, accompanied by red wine reduction made from a 1967 Chateau Latour and an amalgam of secreted fat and beef juices. There are no fucking vegetables. We inhale the portions of perfectly cooked cow and then some MDMA. I like this one. Her cheeks are flushed having siphoned part of two bottles of the Latour, or perhaps it’s the graze of my erection on her inner thigh. We intersperse French kissing with French inhales on a twaxed Indica blunt. Vortices of smoke intertwine as they dance between our mouths, a lesson in sexual rheology. Her dress falls to her ankles as she stands. She waltzes towards the bedroom grabbing a bottle of champagne and strawberries along the way. I grab the MDMA. She stands before me, eyes fixated on mine. Scattered light from streetlamps and candles reveal a perfect hour-glass figure, her imperfections hidden behind her beauty. Slowly, I approach her. Our eyes never break contact. I brush aside a stray lock of auburn hair as my lips press against her forehead. I kiss her passionately before burying my head in her neck. She lets out an amorous cry. My hand makes its way up the arch of her back before unclasping her bra. The touch of naked skin against silky lingerie arouses me further and the thought of her now liberated breasts has me diverting my attention. My tongue instinctively draws circles around her erect nipples. I can feel her breasts swelling in excitement. I squeeze and bite down on one of her nipples. She yells out but presses my head further into her chest, reaffirming her desire, her lust, her need for the mixture of pleasure and pain. The wet patch at the crotch of her panties confirms this. I make my way down to her navel, slowly making sure I sample every inch of her body along the way. The contours of her vulva and clitoral body are visible through the thin soaked fabric. I continue teasing, massaging either side of her now wet and throbbing pussy, careful not to make direct contact. She goes to remove the g-string. She tells me to fuck her, but not with her voice. She says it with eyes, her breath her touch. She compels me to fuck her. Her hands, perhaps unconsciously, move towards her pubic region as she stands, completely naked, aroused and vulnerable. Beautiful. I can’t hold back. I want her. I need her. Our genitalia, sufficiently lubricated in a film of saliva, begin their undulating dance. The head of my penis is greeted with decreasing resistance. I rub her clitoris as I enter, easing slowly in until our pelvises meet. She exhales uncontrollably and bites down on my lip. She fucks like she’s on fire, convulsing at every orgasm. I line up some MDMA between her sculpturesque breasts before I begin my nasal examination. Sweat has caused the powder to slightly cluster, but deprived of air, I inhale. I usually question their decisions to fuel my proclivity for debauchery but she’s different. She spins around to ride me reverse cowgirl. I know it’s so she can watch herself in the mirror. It is refreshing to see a regular sized back during orgasm. Her faceless orgasms accompanied by the clumps of MDMA irritating my nasal canal distract me enough to delay the indubitable. I continue fucking her, slowly at first, then faster, and faster until it feels like we’re both racing to cum. Suddenly, a spray of ejaculate covers the mirror, her sexual satisfaction distorted. She turns to face me and we gaze into each other as I power-fuck our way to climax. For the first time, I fall asleep without the desire to wake up alone…but I do.

I can’t remember the first time I saw the sun. Memories only go back to when I was about three years old, and by then I was about four feet tall. I lived on the corner of two streets, but they were never that busy. Always the same people going back and forth all day long. My home was on the smaller side; a one story with beige siding. I’d look into the windows just to see what was going on, and sometimes, looking back at me, would be a little boy. I had grown by the time the boy finally approached me. He looked up at me and studied me, but I was too tall for us to play together. His dad mowed the lawn a lot, kept it pretty short. The boy would ride on his dad’s lap, and he’d scream when his dad would go in circles around me. On sunny days, him and his parents would be outside playing and eating. They would play tag, and would let the boy win. He was far too small to keep up with them, so I guess it makes sense just to let him feel good. The year goes by fast until it hits winter. Everything seems to slow down then. I’m always tired, and piece-by-piece I fall a part. The wind would pick up, and these pieces of me would blow away down the street and out of sight. The boy didn’t come out to see me often when it was winter. The first day of spring is my favorite day of the year; when the sunlight hits me, and I feel the warmth on my back. The boy was taller now, and so was I. Now, he was no longer the only one. There was another much smaller boy. When I would look into the windows, the smaller boy would be looking back at me. I had come to know the taller boy by David, as that is what everyone seemed to call him. He would come outside and climb my arms, and we would sit together and watch the sun go down. Once the light disappeared behind the horizon, he would jump down, look at me for a second, and then go back inside. It seems every boy loves football when they hit a certain age. David and his brother and their father would always be outside when the weather permitted, tossing around the ball and chasing after one another. They would go around me, dodging each other, and using my arms to try to jump over the other. I never saw myself as a football player, but it definitely was never a bad time. David and his brother would sit on my arms and watch the sun go down. When it went behind the horizon, both would jump down, look at me for a second, and then go back inside. Yelling coming from the house was more common now. Every few days the boys’ father would slam the door and drive away in his truck. At first the brothers would run out together and yell at him to come back. Eventually they stopped running out after him, and eventually I stopped seeing their father anymore. I saw less and less of David and his brother. They’d leave home early in their cars, and then come back very late. I was always alone in the yard now. I would look into the windows, but I never saw much. The grass was longer than usual, the neighborhood older than it was, and I taller. The boys were gone by next summer, and their mother put the house up for sale. Everyday I just stood in the yard, watching cars go by and watching the lawn service poorly cut the grass. The boys’ mother started coming out to see me. At first she would just walk around me or sit by me. One day at sunset, she came out of the house. She climbed up my arms, and watched the sun go out of sight. She got down and looked at me, nodded, and went inside. The house had been empty for some time. Months passed, seasons changed, my leaves fell off. It’s funny, for standing here so long you’d think I had my fill of this world, its people. You’d think it would be all right to be alone. You’d think I wouldn’t feel the years go by. Spring had started not too long ago when a moving truck showed up in front of my home. A young couple got out, holding their young daughter. The grass was mowed again, and lights were on in the house at night. I’d look into the windows just to see what was going on, and sometimes, looking back at me, would be a little girl.

The Forest It was a cold winter night in a small town near Toronto. Sebastian was walking back from a community center where he volunteers over the weekends. He thought it was a good way to do something nice, it made him feel good about himself. The forest he was walking through always seemed sketchy, it was one of those places that you always feel like someone’s watching you. This time it was even more spine-chilling than usual because the street lights inside the forest were broken but it was the fastest way to get to his building so he decided to ignore the bad vibes. As he walked inside the forest he looked around and pulled out a joint. It kinda became a ritual. He would spark one up every night after a long day to calm his nerves. As he inhaled his first puff he let out a sigh of relief, questioning what he would do without Mary Jane. Suddenly he felt something standing over his shoulder. “Why such a hurry to get out of here?” a girl's voice whispered. “Wh...What?” Said Sebastian out loud, shocked and terrified. “Ugh I must be tripping out, this weed is making me paranoid.” he said, trying to make himself believe it was nothing. He started walking faster through the forest which seemed darker and colder with every step he made. Cold sweat started dripping down his forehead as he started running to get out of the dark place. “You can't escape me Sebastian, I'm inside you.” “No! Leave me alone Robyn, you've been dead for years!” “But, we were meant to be together, my darling. How can't you see? After all these years I'm still waiting for you, I forgive you for what you've done to me just join me on the other side.” Sebastian went mute, ignoring Robyn's voice as he finally entered the plaza next to his building. He felt relieved and safe. He ran into his neighbor Josh who noticed something was wrong. “What's wrong Sebastian?” Asked Josh, “You look like you've just seen a ghost!” “Pft, don't be ridiculous Josh, I was just enjoying some cardio, you should definitely do the same instead of eating all those donuts” said Sebastian, walking away, entering his building. He seemed happy and carefree again, like nothing happened. He was in a hurry to get home now, he didn't want to miss his favorite show. When he got to his door, he noticed that they are wide open. He was worried that someone might have robbed him. For some odd reason there was no power in his apartment so he reached for his pocket to grab his phone and get some light. All of a sudden a bright flash blinded him, it was her. She was standing right in front of him, with a warm smile. “Happy Birthday, silly!” She said, walking closer to him. “You thought I forgot about your special day?” “This... This isn't happening, you're not real!” “Oh but I am, I came to surprise you, I wouldn't miss this day for anything, remember what happened exactly 7 years ago?” Her warm smile turned psychotic as the loving spark left her eyes. Sebastian turned pale as a day old corpse as Robyn’s terror entered his body. He couldn’t move. She came closer to him slowly putting her hands around his neck choking him, laughing and screaming from joy. “All these years, my darling. I've been waiting for this moment. How does it feel to be on that side of violence? Killing you would be a gift, your punishment will be life.” Another bright flash came across his eyes as he sat up in his bed breathing heavy, covered in sweat. “It was all a dream.” he mumbled.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The stillness. It was beginning. I heard nothing but everything at the same time. No distant sounds of cars on roads, no humming vibrations of planes flying overhead, no thoughts overcrowding my mind with everyday banter. Nothing, but everything. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The darkness was only illuminated by the lights in the sky peering through the tree tops. Water droplets fell from these tall, overhanging trees. The fall was light and landing soft on a bed of still marsh water. Every drop was different, with no two droplets falling in exactly the same time from each other. One could lose themselves with trying to distinguish a design. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I take more notice of my surroundings. I look down. There’s a paddle in my hand. I run my fingertips along the smooth wooden surface, following the path of the intricate wood grain. At the end of this stick, I notice it carries a flat blade. I turn my heavy head and see the other end does as well. Glancing up I feel almost level with the water around me, but I am not in it. There is a buoyancy to the craft I’m in. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I giggle as the craft moves to my weight. I control this craft. How hilarious! I move every which way, learning more and more about my power. Several moments pass and I notice the ripples my movement cause on the still water bed around me. I dip my flat paddle tool to investigate. I try to calm the water my running the flat end back. My craft moves slightly. I do it again. Noticing a pattern, I see I can move forward with my paddle by calming the other side of my craft. Rotating evenly causes me to move in a straight line ahead. What joy! And with a steady pace, I begin my journey. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The trees around me pierce through the water and rise nakedly to the sky. Their green tops are so far and distant they might as well be nonexistent. The lights above them even more so, as they peer through the mossy beasts. My attention and thoughts drift off as I think about the tops of those trees. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“One day” I say “I’ll get there.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My thoughts occupied with my new goal. I look up, then paddle forward. Look up, then paddle forward. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I run into a tree while gazing upwards. Frustrated, I spend a good bit of attention on this problem. After several moments I finally wiggle my way around it, and continue forward. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I hear something above the stillness of my marshy world. I take a break from my pattern and investigate the horizon. The sound isn’t coming from ahead. I listen closely and hear the sound my flat blade makes when I dip it in the water. The noise, it’s coming from beside me. I see another craft propelling my way. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Who are you? What’re you doing here?” I say. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Are you going this way?” she asks, ignoring my inquiries. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Well, yeah. I am” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Good. Can we go together? I’d rather not go alone.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So we paddle forward. I notice her looking up every so often. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“One day,” I say “We’ll go to those treetops!” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She smiles and agrees. “One day!” We laugh and continue. Other crafts join. We begin the pattern of laughing, looking up, and paddling. Every so often one of us gets trapped on a tree, but we don’t get stuck for a long time. With hands reaching out and pulling crafts around, I figure no tree will ever be a problem again. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I take notice of the beauty around me. Every sense heightened by discovering new sounds and creatures with my other craft riding friends. Frogs, cranes, dragonflies and great egrets! The world around us was coming alive with other beings, not necessarily craft riding ones! &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;More and more crafts join us. Some leave, and decide to investigate with others in a different direction. Only one or two ever go far enough where they can’t make their way back to us. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through the tree bases I take notice of a boy’s craft a good distance away. It was a different color than my other craft riding friends. It held a shine that reflected the lights above. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I’ll be back” I tell them. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I propel in a perpendicular fashion towards him. He takes notice of my approach and meets halfway. I over hear the same message I gave my friends as I departed given to his. He has a chess board in his lap. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Do you know how to play?” I ask. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I’ve never played before” He says with a slight smirk. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Great! I’ll play you, but I warn, I’m pretty good and don’t plan on going easy on you.” Returning smirk. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He beats me. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I take him to my original craft riders. He brings his and our adventuring team grows ever so large. I became tired of the creatures that encompass the world around me, and turn my attention to his craft. So beautiful, eloquent and unique. It carried itself in the water with ease. I wished so much my craft could hold the same repose. I noticed his attention held on my craft. A look of awe on his face I didn’t understand. How could he be admiring mine when his was so perfect? I then began to copy his paddling technique and subsequently show it off to the rest of my friends. Whether they agreed or not, I thought we were the greatest paddlers anyone had ever seen. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our strokes became synchronous. Our method the same. When the initial awe of each other’s craft went away, we began exploring the marsh together. For some reason every new discovery seemed so much more exciting with him. Watching him in delight filled me with so much joy. I had stopped caring about the unearthing a long time ago. My only purpose in moving forward was knowing he’d be so happy in doing so. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He looks up and over to me. “One day we’ll be there.” He whispers. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“The tree tops? Yes, one day.” I return also with a sensual whisper. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No, the stars.” He says. And looks back up and beyond the trees. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That was the first time I thought of the stars as a possible destination. *‘Yes, of course we’ll go to the stars!’* I think to myself. *‘How grand that will be!!’* &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sometimes we’d get stuck on a tree together. Some trees were bigger obstacles than others. I’d splash him in frustration. “WHY CAN’T YOU GET US AROUND THIS TREE!?” I’d yell, regretting it afterwards. I knew deep down I had also caused us to run into it. We’d get so angry we’d leave each other’s side. After a moment either he or I would come back, realizing our interstellar destination, and our want to only go with the other. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One day, he left. Not too far, just a good distance away. We continued to talk, through cups and string and every so often we’d close the gap by visiting one or the other’s path. It was painful to be away, but we both knew deep down about the end goal of our journey. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I started hitting a couple of trees, more than usual. Was my craft broken? Or was the world around me getting denser and denser with these bothersome trees? &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My friends helped me get around most of them, then quickly grew tired of helping me. It seemed I was the only one who kept continuously requiring assistance. He wasn’t close enough to help me anymore, and from a distance seemed he traveled better without me. I never saw him run into any trees! God, I was so envious of his craft. Or maybe it was the path he was on? Either way, I wanted so badly to be a part of it. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through the cup and string he said he wanted to make that happen. And I said yes. Excitement filled every brim of me. Finally! I could go to the stars with him! Maybe the trees in my path would disappear!! I planned and planned to make my way to his path, and start our journey. I told every one of my craft rider friends. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A huge tree was approaching on the horizon, and I had put my paddle away, I didn’t see it coming. I hit it. Everyone tried to help me, but this was too big of a tree to get around. He noticed, and became disgusted. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through cup and string “You deliberately ran into that tree. In fact, all the trees you’ve been running into have been your own doing. You’re not ready to go down my path with me.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I was miserably upset and stuck. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“B-b-b-ut…the sta-r-r-s-s..” I cried to myself and continue to cry to myself for several hours. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Other craft riders were around, and stuck on the same tree, but they found ways around it. The girl I had first met was ahead, but was turned around trying to help me. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“You can get around!” She’d yell. “Pick up your paddle!! It’s not that difficult!!” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I had forgotten about my paddle, and for some reason, how to use it. I stared at the wooden shaft, and remembered how fondly I thought of it when I first discovered it. When did I lose that fondness for my paddle? In fact, as I glanced around, when did I become so nonchalant about the beauty around me? How can I get back that wonder? &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the midst of deep thought and realization of innocence lost, I see a note in the water. It glided over with such a kind disposition. I had no idea the weight and ugliness it really carried till later. All it said was to contact someone. This someone I had seen in my journey, and knew they were close to the boy who left. Maybe they wanted to get together and set up something nice for him! Maybe I’ve been forgiven for being stuck on this tree! Hope is what I had, and hope is what I quickly lost. &nbsp; A&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fter contact with previous said person was made, I found out the boy too hit a tree. A big one. Bigger than mine. His craft couldn’t get around it, and he didn’t want to be stuck there anymore. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He purposefully tipped his craft over and drowned in the serene water bed. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I laid down, and stared at the stars. Knowing now they weren’t a possibility, and even if they were, I didn’t want to go there without him. I no longer saw the world around me, just heard muffled sounds of laughter from my craft riding friends ahead, moving forward at a steady pace. I was still stuck on this tree, and didn’t care about getting around it. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I actually secretly hoped someone or something would tip my craft over. Maybe he was on the other side of this water, and all I had to do was get there? I tried tipping myself over like he did, but was frightened of what was underneath me. The water was mysterious, and I never gave it much notice till now. I gave up trying to get there, and just continued to hope I would naturally be there soon, and he’d be there wading just beneath the surface. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The water droplets fell around me, still as soft and unassuming as they always were. I was laying down again, in my craft. By doing this, my only view was the tree tops and the stars. I spent my time reliving those moments paddling alongside my best friend. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I laid down for an eternity. Only getting up to look behind me. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One boy came along and tried to get me around the tree, but he realized his help was futile, and I was just holding him back from paddling forward. I always appreciated his willingness to try so hard. I wished and still wish the best for him. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now I’m sitting up more, but still can’t see around this tree. I have no idea how to get around it. I look back and hear a slight whisper through the dark marsh. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*“Pick up your paddle. I know you can do this.”* &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Defeated and alone, I look forward. Holding my tool in my hand and I put my flat blade in the water, beginning again like the first day I discovered the marsh.

The pig lawn ornament decorating the apartment next door has an uncanny likeness to the witch who lives there, and it’s not a coincidence. Her smoky rasp assaulting the children someone dares to leave in her care makes me nauseous and cold. The loud stream of foul words and drama foaming from her mouth as she chain smokes outside, talking on her pay as you go phone is endless. And while such behavior, along with her lack of teeth, leads me to believe that my suspicions about her past experiences in trailer parks with crystal meth are true, I still cannot put my finger on exactly how she came to live in our neighborhood. My boyfriend’s repeated question often rings in my ears, “Where did she come from?” Gazing into the graveyard across the street, I hear her guttural scratchy-throated attempts at verbal discipline echoing up into the gangway, scraping the walls of our buildings like a sad deflated balloon. Every time pity creeps into my heart, she combats it by being an openly crude and gross person. These characteristics are clearly a source of evil strength. Layers of flesh hang off of her like white translucent dough. Her grey greasy hair is parted down the middle, stopping at her chin where the yellowed fingernails she uses to pinch the children are highlighted by the contrast of the white cigarettes she sucks on. Her power is in all of these things, causing undeniable discomfort at the sight and sound of her residence on our street. She clearly chose us as her victims, thriving like the boogie man on the shadow she casts on our everyday contentment. She serves as a reminder of all the things we are trying to avoid. I’ve discovered that the pig is her talisman, which she can go within and manifest her human form at will. She connives at getting herself moved around in order to suck up the joy, slowly but surely, from neighborhood to neighborhood. A beast, she thrives on the weakness and worries of everyday people, snorting and laughing until someone takes her to her next victims. The pig is a symbol of her permanence. It is an ironic twist of the knife in the side of people like me, who know her evil and smell her sorrowful stench, but are left powerless to defend themselves against the sight of the creepy old lady next door. Once, I tried to sneak in and break the statue. She came outside smoking two cigarettes at once and offered me one glowing green at the end. She laughed eerily when I declined, and said, “You should be wary of things you find scary, or else you’ll wind up dead.

The waters were rougher than ever before; I remember that night like it was yesterday. The water level had risen quickly, and unseen forces lifted me up from behind and tossed me around the waves. I could see a pirate ship in the distance, battered by the stormy seas, and bearing a large bite-mark on the port flank, perhaps from a run-in with the great white on the horizon. I could faintly hear the sailors screaming at each other in a panic. “IT WAS LARGER THAN ANY CREATURE I HAVE EVER SEEN” one pirate yelled. The unseen force lifted me again, but this time, it poked me in the eye. It’s digits must have been enormous, as just one of them obscured my whole face as it lifted me from the tumultuous waves, placing me right next to the ship. However, the pirates did not seem to notice me, as they were absorbed in a panic over the thing which had just placed me there, passing closely over the mast. STEADY NOW, SHES COMING BACK AROUND“” Shouted the captain as he gripped tightly to the wheel, trying to maintain control of the ship. “FIRE THE CANNON” he screamed as loud as he could, in an attempt to be heard over the thunderous thrashing of the waves. The captain’s face paled with terror when, instead of cannonballs, water started flowing from the cannons. “WE’VE SPRUNG A LEAK CAP’N” one of the crew members shouted. “WE ‘AVNT GOT MUCH TIME” the captain shouted. To my horror, the ship was quickly swallowed into the shadowy depths. I wondered if I would be next. As I tried to swim away against the current, to no avail, I heard a rumble. Sputtering and gurgling, the ship rose once again from beneath the waves, just as quickly as it had gone down. The crew, though thoroughly soaked, seemed otherwise unharmed. They gasped with shock as the massive limb pulled away from the ship loosening its grip. They had been in its grasp the whole time. As the water shrank away beneath me, and began to spiral in a whirlpool, I realized I had been picked up by the creature too. It squeezed me with such force that it knocked the wind out of me with a shrill squeak. I gasped for air as it relaxed its grip. Although my back was to the creature, I realized it was bigger than I had first thought, as it rose up to its full height, towering over the waves and the seemingly tiny pirate ship. Then, I felt it; a sharp, stabbing pain in my rear. IT WAS GOING TO EAT ME! Then there was a harsh booming sound, startling the creature to release me. I landed upside down, head first, onto the green, fuzzy ground. My heart was racing; but then, I felt a gentle touch cradle me and wrap me in something soft. It seemed to massage the pain and fear right out of me. When I emerged, I was completely dried. Then it picked me up and dropped me into a brown room, with the great white and the pirate ship. Through a crack in the wall, I could see the backs of the smaller and larger creatures as they walked away. Then the lights went out, there was a loud thud, and we were left to ourselves until the next night.

There was no more time, he thought desperately, running down the darkened corridor of the station. Music from the performance perforated the hallways, accenting the urgency of his steps. The situation was bad and getting worse with every measure. Speaking into his sleeve, his eyes scanned the hallway in front of him, “Cole, what’s he doing?” “Still enjoying the show sir,” was the whispered reply. “Good, let me know if he moves, I’m still looking,” turning the corner, he headed down the next corridor of the theater; this one lined with windows that looked down on the surface of the moon. Alert for any sign of movement he went about rehashing every bit of information that had led to this moment. Over the past few weeks petty crime at the ferry station had all but ceased, which to most constables meant some relaxation was warranted. To men like Reager it meant the little fish had cleared out as the shark had come around. Not a day later the theatrical premiere of the best zero gravity opera troupe was announced to open for the summit on the new trade accords and the pieces started falling together. The finishing touch was the supplier, a gun runner who got caught on his way off planet. Luckily for Reager, he’d squealed for a better deal. The scum had spilled about a very lucrative deal for what could only be a high level job. The buyer had requested antique projectile weapons, very illegal and extremely hard to find, much less get to Earth without being discovered. Days of endless analysis conducted by the Ministry of Security informed them that the target was most likely the newly elected senior trade ambassador, who publicly favored the new accords in the face of serious opposition. Back on the station, Reager could feel their man was here. The problem was they’d secured the spaceport entirely while the ambassador travelled, eliminating all opportunity for an assassin to act. That left him getting aboard the station to get the job done, a feat not easily accomplished Finishing his patrol of the last level of the theater Reager paused and looked out toward some box seats, beyond it, the dancers were swinging lithely in the zero gravity demonstrating a beauty that was inherently alien. Looking up toward the panoramic windows in the ceiling, the stars seemed to add to the lighting of the stage. A sudden startling thought occurred to him. “Cole, what’s the evacuation plan for the station?” “Security teams from the shuttles below clear the station deck by deck and secure VIPs, civilians and staff head to life boats at the top level.” Backing into the hall, Reager started jogging for the stairs, building on his hunch. “How did the boats get here?” “Wait one,” finding the stairs he opened the door and started climbing, following the evacuation directions, reaching the top deck he looked down the long row of shuttle doors. “Boss, they got here two weeks ago, officially installed by the station managers but sub-contracted out for delivery, that’s why our systems didn’t flag it.” “I’m at them now, the log says one has been opened, someone’s been here, must have stowed away when they went out for delivery,” he said sweeping the suspect vessel’s interior with his pistol. “Should I secure the Ambassador?” “Not yet,” opening a maintenance tube he crawled out above the performance searching, as the zero gravity took effect, and he braced himself to avoid floating away. Scanning the balconies below he saw one of the box sections was uninhabited. Crawling slowly around the catwalk toward it, floating inches above the walkway in the dark, he never dropped his gaze, “Top box seats, opposite the ambassador, who bought them?” “Several different dignitaries and celebrities, who purchased tickets months ago, why?” “It’s empty, I’m moving in, tell the ambassador he needs to pee right now,” Reager was meters away from the section now. “Will do,” in the background he could hear whispering as she executed his command, “he’s not happy but we’re on the move.” “Good, me too,” directly above the box and still floating, now below the catwalk, he could see his target. Three rows back, rifle resting on the first row of seats trained to shoot through the railing down toward the VIP area. He almost admired the planning, but someone had to lose this one. The man stood, dressed in perfect attire the event and walked to the edge, casually observing the ambassador’s sudden absence, slowly; he turned to return to his perch. Pushing off, Reager flew silently towards the man and when the lights from the spectacle below him flashed brilliantly, he fired his pistol twice. Right before he passed out of the field. Falling the last three meters, he hit the hard box seat floor and rolled over to find a thoroughly unconscious assassin, silenced pistol tucked in his belt. Groaning the constable sat up, “Status?” Agent Cole asked from below. “Clear, I need a security detail to my position. Tell the ambassador to enjoy the show.” In minutes a security team arrived and took the gunman away silently while Reager watched, they were gone in moments and he was alone. Sitting down in one of the plush red seats, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another day in the constabulary, reclining he took in the show, watching the dancers play with physics. The pay wasn’t spectacular, but sometimes the job had its perks.

So this is my first story that I have ever written. Its still a work in progress and there's a lot of grammar mistakes because I've been typing it up on my phone. I'm just looking to see what you guys think of the plot line or any other suggestions you guys might have. Thanks and I hope you enjoy. Clank ……….. Clank ……………….. Clank. My eyes snapped open at that thunderous sound. It was like a hellish hammer smashing against stone and metal. I couldn’t seen anything but black. Everything was swallowed by the darkness. I reached out as another round of that reached sound began. It was like my head was throbbing with each sound. I tried to cover my ears but there was something covering my face, some kind of mask. I could taste a hint of metal in the air and followed the tube down to a metal cylinder that I had to guess was about the size of my leg. Moving my hands and feet outward I could feel the rough stone that was all around me. I was in a box, a gods damn tiny ass stone box. I have to be in one of the hells, my own personal hell. Trapped in eternal darkness with that damn noise, my whole body cringed as it kept repeating getting faster. I couldn’t take it anymore, covering my ears I yelled with all my might “FUCKING STOP GODS DAMN IT”. It did, it was the most beautiful silence that I’ve ever heard, but just as I felt the slightest bit of relief there was this horrifying scratching. It was like metal being dragged against stone but it was so loud. My head felt like it was going to explode. I covered my ears trying to make it stop but it was still there shacking my stone prison. After what felt like a lifetime the sound stopped. Relief, the sound of nothing was never sweeter, hell I would even take that clanking noise over the scraping. Then the stone above me started moving and a bring light blinded me. I slammed my eyes shut wait for whatever came next. I felt a gentle hand slowly touch mine. Please be an angel her to take me to haven. Then a sweet soft voice, a voice that I knew said “Hey Danny can you hear me?” I opened my eyes just as the light moved away from my face. “Valerie” I said as I quickly sat up, which was a huge mistaken because my head started spinning. Valerie quickly pulled me into a tight hug, after a few seconds my head righted its self and I hugged her back. “You two can get a room later if you want but right now we need to get going.” a voice said from above us. Even in the dark I could see her face turn to a dark scarlet color as she pulled away from the hug. Turning to look above me I saw the source of the voice. “How are you feeling buddy?” Nash said. He was wearing his normal smirk but I could tell something was wrong by the look in his eyes. It didn't show his normal cocky attitude, they were cold and suspicious. That and he wasn't wearing his uniform. He had street clothes on with a long black trench coat, no doubt to conceal his sidearm. “Confused and I have one hell of a headache” I said as he reached down, pulling me out of the pit. “Well we have a lot to catch you up on so let’s get out of here.” He said as he started heading towards a parked truck. Valerie grabbed my arm and start pulling me after him as I took the first good look around at my surrounding. Lightning slashed above us lighting up the sea of stones around us. “Ummm Nash, why was I buried in a grave? Nash?” I shouted. Thunder crashed over head as Valerie looked up and said with a worried look on her face “Don't worry we will explain everything on the way.” I followed them to the truck and slid in the back seat with Valerie, Nash walked around to the passenger seat. Even as he sat down he didn’t seem to relax. He kept his hand on his side arm. “Hey it's good to see you up and around. How are you feeling?” June said from the driver seat. “Thanks, just a headache. But someone really needs to tell me what's going on. The last thing I remember is heading to to a sparing session and now I'm waking up in a grave. So what the hell is happening? I said, looking at each of then waiting for an answer. “The palace was attacked and you were knocked unconscious in the first explosion. It injured or killed a lot of our brothers. The royal guard is down to about 100 fight ready soldiers. Most of us are wanted in connection to the attack. Valerie was able to get you to the medical ward and fake your death to smuggle you out.” Nash said staring out his passenger window towards the once brilliantly lit imperial tower. It had been a beacon of hope for much of the world for the past 500 years. It had always been lit up. But now all you could see is it's silhouette when the lightning flashed. I could tell that Valerie was crying even though she was facing away from me. She knew most of them just as well as us from being one of our doctors. She lost a lot of friends, we all had. But we've lost friends before, she hasn't. I wish I was still in that coffin listening to the scraping and hammering. I would trade an eternity in hell to bring back anyone of my dead brothers and sisters. Life doesn't work that way though, not anymore at least. “I'm so sorry about burying you in a coffin but it was the only way I could think of getting you out of there. I just don't know what else to do and I didn’t think they would bury you that fast.” Valerie barely whispered. I could still see more tear welling up in her brown eyes as she said it. “It's ok you didn't have any other choice” I said while trying to give her the most sincere smile I could. “You did what you though was best, and thank you for getting me out alive.” It didn't bother me that she did that. I just don't understand how such a thing like this could happen. “Who did this? I asked. None of them said anything, Nash was the first to say something. “It's not good.” While never moving his eyes from the window. “We think it was Sky admiral Havren. His flag ship arrived above the city ten minutes before the attack and he arrive in the tower right as the fighting stopped. We think it's a power play I take over the empire. June said. “He has publicly claimed to have arrived just in time to stop the fighting between loyal royal guardsmen and a group of guardsmen who were attempting to assassinate the emperor and has since assumed power.” “What about the emperor? Or even Alexandria? She's the heiress shouldn't she take the throne before him? I asked. June spoke up after Nash didn't respond. “The emperor is currently at our safe house but he was near the explosion and is still in a coma. As far as Alexandria, she's still alive and well. She still has her personal guards with her in the palace, and we believe that try are still loyal to the imperial family but we haven't been able to contact any of them. As of right now we are going on the assumption that she is more or less a hostage with her guard and the admiral has some plan for her. But we haven't been able to contact them. Havren has declared the rest of us traitors and fugitives. Without her support we have to remain hidden and scattered. It will only be a matter of time before we are all hunted down.” “So where are we going then?” “June’s aunt has a old mansion on just a few minutes away and we have set up a base camp in the old cellar and tunnels underneath.” Valerie said. I could remember a couple of years back when June first applied to join the guard as a marksmen. Everyone just wrote the five foot five rich girl off, but not our captain. He insisted on giving her a fair shot, and she get one. I don't know what it was that he saw in her at the time but when she took her first shots on that range she was like an artist; even with a rifle that was almost bigger then her. She has been our squad ever since. We pulled up the long gravel drive towards the mansion. Ha mansion this place was like a castle. “We’ll park around back under some trees.” June said. “That will hide the truck and we can use the garden entrance.” “Hey June why are all the lights off? Doesn’t your aunt live here? “Nope no one has lived here in about five years so we can use it as long as we need to.” June said. “Damn your family is that rich and I've still been buying you coffee all this time.” Nash said. “Well actually my dad cut me off for the most part when I join the guard. He said It wasn't an appropriate career for a noble lady or some bullshit like that.” June said. “Oh umm sorry I didn’t know.” Nash stammered out. June just kind of shrugged it off while Valerie and shared a glance as we felt the awkwardness descend on us like a heave fog. June seemed to be the only one who didn't feel it. “Ok well welcome to our summer home” June said as she threw the truck in park and we all climbed out. The rain had stopped and a full moon was shining through a hole in the clouds as thunder rolled in the distance. I fully expected Nash to make some smart ass remark about the whole summer house thing but he must have still felt bad about bring up Junes past. We walked though the garden full of dead flowers an bushes. Everything around us was just dead. There weren’t even any weeds growing. This place gave me the chills. I've been through firefights, been shot and stabbed, I've stared death in the eyes but I've never felt such an erie feeling before. I felt Valerie's arm brush against mine as she moved a little bit closer and it almost made me jump. We finally walked into a small shed where June pulled up a trap door and we all descended into the darkness. Sorry for the crappy formatting, this is my first post ever.

By: John Teel Part 1: Dad woke us up on a Sunday night. He was all sweaty and out of breath like he’d been in the basement lifting weights. He shook us awake and told us to be very quiet. He said we were going to play a game. “A game? Like tag?” Sam asked. Sam’s my little brother. “Sort of,” Dad said. “But I’m tired Dad,” I said. “That’s fine buddy. You sleep, but be real quiet.” Dad was smiling and he ran his hand through his hair. His hand was shaking. He noticed me looking at it and crossed his arms. “I’m not tired, I’ll go and hide,” Sam said hopping out of bed. Dad grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. “Stay here Sam, you hear me? I want you to hide, but not from me. You have to hide here in the house from everyone on the block. There isn’t just one person who’s It like in tag. Everyone’s It. Everyone, but you, your brother and me.” “What about Mom,” Sam asked and Dad’s smile shook a little. “Mommy got tagged pal. She’s outside playing the game. She’s It, too.” His voice sounded weird. “But how’d that happen Dad?” “No more questions tonight, alright? You guys just stay in bed. Don’t you worry. This is going to be fun.” He left the room, but kept the door open. After a few minutes I jumped out of bed and looked out the window. It was dark. The only light came from the moon, big and bright, up over the trees. When my eyes adjusted, I could see there were people in the alleyway. They were walking around real slow. The digital Phillies clock Mom got me for my birthday said it was 12:26. I ducked down out of sight before anybody saw me. I wasn’t getting caught; not this early in the game. “Hey Bill,” Sam whispered, “Dad told us to stay in bed.” “Keep it down sissy. You’ll get us caught.” He plopped back down on his pillow. Little brothers can be so annoying sometimes. I could hear Dad in his room doing something so I snuck out into the hall, past the bathroom and right outside his bedroom door. The door was cracked and the light from his bedside table let me see that he was sitting on the bed holding his gun. Dad taught us all about his gun. It was a nine millimeter. He explained to Sam and I that it wasn’t a toy and that it was to protect our family. He even took us to the range a few times and taught us how to shoot it. Mom said wewere too young, but Dad said it was the only way to get us to “respect the weapon”. He didn’t bring it out in the house, though. Only at the range. It made me feel nervous seeing it out in the open like that. And then I noticed Dad was crying. I’d never seen him do that before. He didn’t even cry when pop-pop died and we had to go to the funeral. I snuck back to my room, feeling bad for being nosy. Just to be safe I brought down the blinds, then I jumped back in bed. When I woke up in the morning, it was to loud banging coming from downstairs. The clock said it was 9:05 AM, but that didn’t make any sense. It was Monday and school started at seven. Walking into the living room, I was shocked by the way it looked. “Dad?” My voice was drowned out by the constant hammering. His shirt was soaked with sweat around his neck and armpits. The couch was completely taken apart, the fabric ripped away and he was hammering the wood into our front door. The two by fours he had in the garage were lined up against the front door, where he’d nailed them into the floor, making it impossible for anyone to open it. I started feeling dizzy, not from confusion, but from the smell. Spray paint cans were strewn across the floor and all of our windows were completely blacked out. He had the kitchen and dining room table nailed across our front window. The other windows were criss-crossed with random bits of wood. He didn’t even notice Sam and I standing there. “DAD,” I said, louder this time, getting his attention. He gave us a big smile. “Good morning guys. I made you a fort with the cushions from the couch. Don’t worry about all this wood Billy boy,” he motioned towards the door with his hammer. “When we win the game there’s a big prize at the end. The three of us will be able to replace everything.” “The four of us,” Sam said, “don’t forget Mom. We’re the four musketeers, remember?” Dad hugged him hard and kissed his head. “I remember. The four musketeers. Always.” “But what about school?” I asked. He turned his back on me and started nailing what looked like a table leg across the door. “Uhh… school’s out for the year. They called yesterday. I forgot to tell you.” “But it’s only April, Dad. I have a math test today. Why are you putting all of that wood against the door? When is Mom coming home?” I asked. “Goddammit Billy, enough with the questions!” He yelled so loud that it made me jump. I could feel the tears beginning to swell in my eyes, but I held them in. I wouldn’t let myself cry. Not in front of Dad. Not in front of Sam. Dad went back to hammering nails and muttering to himself. Now I noticed there was another noise and it was coming from outside. It sounded like someone was banging against the house over and over again. I took Sam by the hand and led him back up to our bedroom. “I want you to stay here. I’ll be right back.” “What’s going on Bill?” Sam was scared. He was on the verge of tears. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out. You just stay here.” “Can we play Call of Duty?” he asked while his little shoulders trembled. I gave him the best smile I could. “Sure dude. Get it loaded up and I’ll be back in a second.” Mom and Dad’s bedroom windows looked out to the front of the house and I wanted to see what all of the commotion was out there. Dad hadn’t boarded those windows up yet so I pulled the curtain aside and looked out. Our front yard was filled with people. Some I noticed as our neighbors. Others I had never seen before in my life. All of them were slapping against the front door, the siding, the windows. Anything they could get their hands on. Their faces all looked drained of color, the same way Sam looked last year when he cut his leg open and passed out at the sight of his own blood. In the street, there were more people and the sound of Dad’s hammering, I realized, was drawing them to our house. Joey, my friend from across the street, was out there, too. He was wearing a white t-shirt with no pants or shoes or socks and he was dragging around a black blanket. He looked like he was sleepwalking. There was something dark running down the side of his shirt and as he moved closer to the house I could see what it was. The side of his neck had a hole in it, like something had bitten right through it. Fresh blood covered his neck and shoulder and had turned his white shirt a deep red. I felt like I was going to faint. I didn’t understand how he was still walking around. Through the meat in his neck, I could see the white of his spine, recognizing it from the life-sized skeleton our teacher kept in the corner of our classroom. The saliva started filling in the back of my throat and I ran to the bathroom, making sure I got all of the puke in the toilet. Daddy lied to us. This wasn’t a game at all. I threw some water on my face, trying to wash away what I had just seen. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale and panting like a dog in the summer time after a long walk around the park. I popped my head in the bedroom to see how Sam was doing. He looked happy as can be, mouth hung open, his face lit up by the television screen. The sounds of bullets and bombs filling our tiny room. He saw me standing there and paused the game. “Come on Bill. Let’s play.” “Not right now dude. I’m gonna talk to Dad. I’ll come play when I’m done.” Downstairs, the hammering was over and Dad sat with his back to the front door. He had his hands covering his ears and his head was shaking back and forth. He was mumbling and as I got closer I could hear what he was saying. “Stop. Please just stop. Please stop.” He kept saying it over and over again. I went to him and grabbed his knees, tried to shake him out of it. Startled, he looked up and that’s when I heard my mother’s voice. “Sam.” Just a whisper, right outside our door. I could tell she was smiling when she said it. I wondered if she looked like Joey. “Can you hear her Bill? I feel like I’m losing my mind.” He shook his head, his face as white as a bar of soap. “Please tell me you hear her.” “I hear her Dad,” I said. “You have to tell me what’s going on.” Dad nodded his head and outside Mom kept saying his name. He took me by the arm and walked me to the living room, far away from her voice. “All I know is that they aren’t who they used to be. The radio said it’s an airborne disease and it doesn't affect everyone. Something’s taken them over. It’s like Night of the Living Dead. Do you remember that movie?” I nodded. “The black and white one with the zombies.” “Yeah. That’s the one. I think it’s like that. I think if they bite you that’s it, you’re one of them. Last night when your mother got home from work, they were all out on the street, shuffling around. When her car pulled into the driveway I came out to help her with her things and they were already on her….. biting and scratching. There were so many… there was nothing I could do….” His voice trailed off. I shuddered. My whole body began to shake and I couldn't control it. My mom was dead. I didn't even need to hear him say it. I knew it as soon as I heard that voice through the front door. “We have to keep this from your brother as long as we can, okay? I don’t know if he’ll be able to handle it, Bill. Can we keep this between us until I figure out how to go forward here?” “Okay Dad,” I said, no longer able to hold back my tears. Dad got on his knees and hugged me hard and I hugged him back. … The noise outside had settled down. After our house had quieted down, most of the people returned to their yards, started clawing and slapping at their own doors. My mother was out in our front yard. I could hear her shuffling around out there still whispering my father’s name. She wanted to be reunited with us. She wanted to get in and get us. Is that what the others were doing? Sam was starting to get suspicious and asking a lot of questions about Mom, but Dad made me promise to keep quiet. So I did. How do you explain to your little brother your Mom is dead, but now she's walking around in the yard trying to find a way in to eat you? When we got in bed, Dad grabbed our leather video game chair and put it in front of us. He sat on it and rocked back and forth smiling, his eyes going from me in the top bunk to Sam in the bottom. “You know Bill, when your mom had you we were both scared to death. We didn’t know what the hell we were doing. We read all kinds of books and got advice from everyone, but once you were here, shit man, we weren’t ready.” He chuckled to himself, sat up straight in the chair and looked right at me. “You shit on me. Projectile shit, right on my forehead.” We all started laughing at this. “I did?” He put his hand in the air, “Swear to God. I was changing your diaper. When babies are really young they have this yellow poop. It looks like mustard. Well, while I was cleaning you, you sharted and that yellow crap hit me right in my forehead. I don’t think I’d ever seen your mother laugh that hard before.” Sam was laughing and snorting like a maniac. “And you,” Dad said pointing at Sam, “you were a little terror. You were worse than any dog I’d ever had. You ate my books. You ate rocks, your shoes, Mom’s records. We had to keep an eye on you at all times.” We all got quiet. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the sounds of shoes tapping along the sidewalk and street. Dad got up and turned on Sam’s little fountain. The sounds of the running water always helped him sleep. “This is something your mom figured out,” Dad said pointing at the fountain. “First it was music. You loved Talking Heads and Bob Dylan. After a while, the music stopped working. One night, when you were a little guy, you just wouldn't go to sleep. None of the old tricks were working. She took you in the bathroom and turned the faucet on and you immediately stopped crying. Within a minute or two you were out cold. The next day we went out and got you this.” Dad sat on Sam’s bed and kissed him softly on his head. “I love you. Both of you. Always. No matter what, you hear me?” Sam nodded and said, “ We love you too, Daddy. When is the game going to be over?” Dad stood up, the sound of the water cascading on the little plastic fountain behind him. “Soon. Now you boys go to sleep. And remember what I said.” I tried hard to stay awake, wondering if the thing that used to be our mother was down there finding a way into the house. But the day had been long and my eyes were heavy and the next thing I knew I was in a deep, comfortable sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night, not sure of what time it was. I felt like someone was watching me and my thoughts went to Mom. I sat up straight in bed, sweat starting to bead on my head. There was an outline of a body in our doorway. My heart was in my throat and after my eyes adjusted to the dark room I could see it was Dad. His face was wet with tears. He had something in his hand and when he saw I was awake he quickly put it behind his back. “Dad,” I said, still a little confused from waking up and seeing him standing there like that. “What’re you doing?” “I was just… thinking. Go back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that he closed our door. I tried to sleep, but I was confused, scared even. Now that I was awake, I understood what I saw in his hand. The gun. I looked over the side of my bed and Sam was snoring, his mouth hung open. I decided to stay awake until morning. … In the morning Dad had breakfast waiting for us and neither of us spoke about the night before. I could sense in my father a change, a darkness I had never seen before. He became much more quiet after that night, no more jokes or stories. He started to go on runs to get food and supplies, hitting the houses closest to us and then, eventually, traveling further to the grocery store and gas stations. Days went by where he didn't talk at all. Sam suspected that things weren't right and his questions became constant. “You guys are keeping something from me Bill. I know it. I’m not as stupid as you think.” I noticed he was still marking the calendar in our bedroom. It was already June. I checked the hallway. Dad wasn’t out there. He was probably out on another run. They had become more frequent recently and he was acting strange, like he was hiding something. I sat my brother down on his bed. “This is going to sound stupid, but you have to believe me. You have to trust me, alright?” Sam nodded his head. “Everyone out there is dead. The undead. Zombies.” It sounded even worse when I said it out loud. Sam just looked at me. I couldn't tell if he believed me or not, couldn't read the expression on his face. Finally he nodded his little head and said, “Ok.

Disclaimer: this story is based on a song: *Hear Your Heart* by James Bay. I highly recommend that you listen to the song before, during and after reading. Here's a link: . And here's the story ... She stands on the hill, alone, in the dark, in the rain. I watch her from afar for a while, and even from here, I can see her shaking. I climb the hill and stand next to her, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. She stares at the ground. There’s no moonlight tonight, but I know what her face looks like despite the midnight darkness. Tired, withdrawn, broken. “I came to take you home,” I tell her as I place my hand on her back. I feel the thin, wet material of her dress, and beneath that, skin and bone, and beneath that, a heartbeat. I hear her heart and I know she’s still alive. We walk back to the house together, side by side, my hand on her back, afraid to lose her. We get inside, up the stairs, to the bedroom. She walks to the window and touches her forehead to the cold glass. The view is blurred from the rain but she looks out toward the hill. I leave her there for a few seconds, and then turn her around. I unbutton her dress and she stands there, naked, while I dry her. I cover her with an old shirt. I tie her wet hair back loosely. Then I take her face in my hands. She looks at me with empty eyes and I think, *Will this be the end of us?* We stay silent. She closes her eyes and I hold her face for a moment. Then I lead her to the bed. I cover us both under the same blanket. Warm. Safe. Side by side. She places her hand on my cheek and her body goes limp. She collapses into herself. I pull her close. Her head on my chest. She can hear my heart. Tomorrow will be the same. I will meet what is left of her on the hill, where our child lays.

I am posting mostly for feedback/constructive criticism so if you do happen to read it, I would really appreciate it if you let me know what you think. Wrote this pretty off-the-cuff and primarily focused on style so apologies for the plot being a bit lacking. Thanks, and please do drop a comment if you can. Enjoy! Edit: Tense and words. Denver, CO - January 14th, 2005 I tumbled out of the entirely too dark pub and into the entirely too bright Denver night. Stayed on my feet by some small miracle. Rummaged through the North Face for cigarettes. Sucked down a Marlboro Red and steadied myself for the walk home. Another for good measure. The smoke was sweet and warm in my lungs on what was a painfully cold night even for this part of the world. Not a bad day’s work in truth, all three of my stops had paid in full and when it came time to settle up for the seven IPA’s and a shot of Jameson here at Galway’s, it was on the house. A bit of a suspicious circumstance in itself but hey sometimes you’re flush, and in retrospect the place had certainly been picking up recently. In any event, it was an easy night of work and the big man would be pleased and with a free heady buzz to boot so was I. Even thought I’d made a bit of progress with the stereotypically, and actually, Irish girl working the bar. A little firecracker of a redhead, long tangle of pale ginger hair and just the right amount of freckles, the daughter of the owners who had come over ten years ago when she was only twelve. With the drinks being free I gave her a $20 tip and she leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek and said thank you with a beautiful West Ireland drawl that I knew she was putting on a bit but was enamoring all the same. The walk home was quickest down the brilliantly lit 16th Street Mall. The lights and the homeless were getting on my nerves but it was too cold for any kind of alternative route. Anyway, it was starting to snow which dulled the lights a little and gave the whole scene a somewhat ethereal quality, vagrants and all. Another five blocks of my drunken snowy dreamscape, exited the Mall and turned right down Cleveland Place to find a siren-esque golden M floating in my path. I made a staggered stop and slipped a little on the fresh snow. When I regained my balance I looked down and evaluated the fat starting to grow just over my belt. Meh. More lights. Yellow and fake and buzzing. Bic Mac with extra sauce, large fries, and a Coke. God, is there anything better when you’re seven or eight deep? I shoved the last of the salty goodness in my mouth and drained the soda. Went to the restroom to relieve myself of a large portion of the IPA’s. Looked at myself in the mirror, not so bad as twenty-six year old half-Irish bruisers went. A tall 6’2” and wiry, bit of a tan, not much of a jaw but what several girls had told me were great cheekbones and beautiful hazel eyes, brown hair that used to be an unruly shock had begun to recede but the undercut I was sporting concealed it a bit and didn't look half bad, for now at least. Back out into the night, darker this time. Good. Another cig while I walked. Past the Denver Post and through Civic Park. More bums. How homelessness was such a problem in a city that spent weeks at a time below freezing and covered in snow is a mystery I won't ever understand. A few weeks of panhandling and I'd be on the first bus to Vegas or Albuquerque or Phoenix or anywhere that didn't get snow for a good half of the year. I suppose you can't presume too much intelligence or forethought on the part of such individuals but all the same, it was one hell of a place to live outside. Finally, home. A square and ugly apartment complex, colored a pale tan with stupid rings of brown brick jutting out below every window. It was grossly long and wide but only four low stories, real chode of a building. Inside, up the stairs. The hallway smelled like a Willie Nelson tour bus. It was undoubtedly coming from the resident dealer in the last apartment on the left. Just one down and one across from my own, I knew Mike pretty well. Knock, knock. The door opened and smoke billowed out the way you figured was only possible in a Cheech and Chong movie. It wasn't not like any of us were seeing our security deposit again, so why not? I was pleased but not surprised in the slightest to see a small and very stoned group behind the cute little brunette in the doorway wearing a big smile and a CU shirt that was much too large to be her own. I couldn't tell if there were shorts or even underwear underneath the shirt but the fact I'm even wondering about it really tells the story. Mike was in his big Lay-Z-Boy rolling a blunt while Tech N9ne blared from the absurd stereo system flanking the flat-screen on the wall. He was a good guy Mike, tall and blonde and gangly and what less politically correct individuals might deem a wigger, but I liked him all the same. His "partner in crime", Pat, was on the couch talking up a pudgy cute blonde who looked like she didn't need any further convincing and was hanging on every word. Nothing new, Pat was a good looking guy with easy eyes and an easier smile. He went to CU and dealt a bit for Mike up in Boulder, it was 2007 after all, dispensaries hadn't yet cornered the market and recreational stores were another seven years off. Rounding out the group was a tall, beautiful and incredibly stoned black girl on the floor playing Mario Kart on Mike's Nintendo Wii and 60-inch plasma. She wore a cut-off t-shirt with a huge neck, skinny jeans and a blue floppy beanie hat over long and straight jet black hair. It all came together quite well for her as far as stoner fashion went. The pretty brunette who may or may not have been in danger of exposing herself at any moment sat down next to the pudgy blonde on the couch and picked up a controller. From what I could tell her Princess Peach was still soundly ahead of the dark-skinned beauty's Yoshi despite her break to answer the door. I walked over to Mike who offered a warm greeting as always. Just in time, we're about to blaze, he said gesturing to me with the still in process blunt. Take a seat, he adds. I plopped down in the other Lay-Z-Boy across the table from Mike and on the brunette's side of the couch. When the race was over she handed me a controller and asked if I want to play, I said sure and chose Mario. I’m a boring purist that way. My favorite ice cream is vanilla. In the middle of the race the brunette went all serious and got up to answer a phone call, went into Mike's room at the back of the apartment and closed the door behind her. I narrowly lost a rather exciting race to the black girl on the floor who apparently had found some sort of video game nirvana in the depths of her high. She flashed me a stoney grin and I told her I let her win. The grin widened and her eyes narrowed playfully. Could be trouble this one. The blunt made it's way around. I performed a very decent french inhale when I felt the ebon beauty looking. She blew perfect smoke rings my way. Yes, certainly could be trouble. I thanked Mike for the smoke out and told him I'll be over soon to pick-up, as always he assured me the best stuff he's seen in years is coming in. I played the game and feigned excitement. I introduced myself to my new friend and she told me she's called Jade. It was just then that I noticed her deeply green eyes and it was all I could do not to lean in for a foolish kiss right there. I said goodbye to Pat and the blonde but it barely registered. The cute brunette was still MIA. Hmm. Finally to the apartment. Chugged some water and fell heavily onto mattress in the corner and on the floor. Felt the THC numbing the nerves while the alcohol took care of the brain. It's good. Sleep came hard and fast as I thought of Jade and ignored the week ahead. Another Sunday gone.

Part 1 By: /u/adult_icarus Knight-Enchanter Hector surveys the field. Everywhere he sees Templars and Orcs in battle. The grey of steel and iron a stark contrast to the amber and crimson of bodies aflame and throats opened. He checks his inventory. “I’ve already got the sunless staff equipped. It’s got a lower damage-per-second rating than the hoarfrost staff but it’s also got plus twelve constitution. I might need that extra health on this raid.” The tank in his party, Xxdea7h_reap3rxX, screams into the microphone “What the fuck are you doing you faggot, even your mom was faster than you when I got her in bed last night and she’s fat as hell!” Hector puts down the controller. His thumbs indented where the analog sticks pressed into them. Unplugging his microphone and powering off his console, he turns and walks to the window on the other side of his one room apartment. He hasn’t been able to focus on his game today. On the third floor of the apartment complex across from his own, he can see the window. The window of the girl who said “hi” to him while he was walking out to the street to pay for his pizza-hut. The remnants of which still sat in the corner amongst all the fast food bags and cigarette butts. “She was so cute. Her hair looked so nice. She had an amazing rack. How could I ever get her to notice me?” Moving to his work desk, where he created his models, painstakingly purchased and assembled. Maybe he’d make her a model of Bulma, he could tell her a cool line like “I’ll be your Vegeta baby” she’d be all over him, but then has she ever even heard of DragonBall? Hector lit a cigarette as he surveyed his collection. All of his favorite characters from anime and videogames. The cigarette burned. The ashes growing as the bright orange ringlet continued its trek along the thin tube of tobacco. Smoke filled his apartment. He turned and opened his window. Songs of cicadas came in on the breeze. The sun reflected off the glass and flung its light into his room at a new angle. It was now impossible to see his computer screen from the glare. He adjusted the window so that the light would land a foot to the right. Knight-Enchanter Hector sat as well. The cold steel rim of his flagon pressed against his lips. He was cavorting with his companions in the local tavern. A bard sang a sad song about a soldier who missed her husband. They were celebrating a hard won victory over the Fereldan Frostback, one of fourteen high dragons in the realm. It was the lowest level of the fourteen, but most players never even attempted to battle high dragons. The Knight-Enchanter spied his party member Cassandra, a Templar, across the room. He moved towards her. Set on advancing her questline and possibly developing a romance. Creating romances between characters was interesting to Hector. The decisions he made in the game affected how certain non-playable characters saw him, and if he got their favor to increase enough, he could get a new quest out of it. If he completed the quest then he could initiate a romance. This meant that by simply trying to start a romance, he would unlock multiple cut-scenes which influenced the story as well as a new quest. Also his character would get to have sex with whoever he romanced, though the screen was always blacked out. Hector stops. His character is much more adept at socializing than he is. It ruins the immersion. That he is looking at a screen becomes much more apparent. The song of the games main menu comingles with the cicadas singing outside. He had learned, through great trial and effort, to completely let go of himself and enjoy what he could. The scope of things he felt he could enjoy however, were limited. Videogames, browsing the Internet, and viewing pornography. When he wasn’t doing these things, he was either asleep, or cashiering at the local Food Lion. His friend Iron Bull sits down next to him in the tavern. He is a Qunari, a race of large grey people with horns. The wood of the stool creaks a little under Iron Bull’s weight. Iron Bull’s deep, friendly voice congratulates Hector on his victory over the dragon. He hands Hector a flagon and toasts. The drinks smell stings as he raises the cup. His throat cries out in pain. His stomach roils. He’s left with an aftertaste of cinnamon and honey. Iron Bull laughs and asks about Cassandra. She had been the one to sink an axe into the Frostback’s neck. Hector takes another swig and coughs. As he turns in his seat, he sees her come in. Asking Bull to forgive him, he heads over to talk with her. “How are you feeling after a fight with a high dragon?” says Hector. “Invigorating, did you hear the little gurgle in its throat before it spat fire? Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. Killing something so beautiful saddens me, but I have never felt more alive.” The tavern is aglow with the light of the fireplace. Cassandra’s short black hair accentuates her dark eyes. Warmth is spreading through Hectors body. Head swimming. He looks at Cassandra and tells her he loves her. She is shocked, and tells him he is drunk. He is. He doesn’t care. Hector is glad Cassandra is in his life. He is afraid to lose her. The light in her room just turned on, he can see through his window. The laptops blue light illuminating his otherwise dark apartment. Cicadas no longer sing. Light no longer reflects upon his window. Hector sits in his chair, leaning back. Wind dances with the curtains. Wind also breaks as Hector leans to one side. The wind from the window dries the sweat from the rolling dunes of his skin. The lewd noises, which but recently subsided. Call to him. Torn, he ponders. Lights shifts across his glasses as his chair spins to look at the door of his apartment. A coat hangs next to it. Buffalo sauce stain above it’s left waist pocket. It turns again to view the blue light of his laptop. He scrolls through the long list of videos. Apparently there are hot, sexy singles in his area dying to have sex with him. He clicks on one of the ads. Pop ups promise an incredible increase in the size of his member if he but follows five easy steps. He closes the window on his computer. Then turns to the window on his wall. Then out that window he looks at the window that belongs to the girl, who he is somewhat sure is single. He knows she is hot and sexy. He looks back at his door and to his coat hanging. The breeze now tickles his bare backside.

By: /u/adult_icarus Hector’s first encounter with pornography occurred in middle school. His friend Charles, a young black man with whom he shared lunch while geeking about their favorite anime, had told him of an incredible site. He didn’t tell him what was on it; he simply insisted that Hector look it up when he got home. Hector sat at his mother’s computer while finishing his social-studies homework. Remembering the sage advice of Charles, he typed each letter then pressed enter. Hector had never seen a vagina before. Sure, he had been shown diagrams while he was in elementary school, but it was not until this moment while looking at an X-rated version of his favorite cartoon that he had ever seen it. He knew he felt attraction, but to what? He had always pictured it closer to the rear and far less overt. He thought that these women had been cut. He was upset. Why would someone do such a thing? That they were spreading them and sticking things into them made him think the site was made for people who enjoyed pain, whom he had heard about somewhere. Conferring with Charles the next day, he was assured that they were not cuts, but were in fact vaginas. Everything he thought he knew about the world shattered at such a revelation that that was what they looked like. Hector resolved to learn more about them. So he visited the site. He visited the site constantly. All this was wild and grand. He was discovering his sexuality. He was pioneering into the world of women. He learned he did not know how to masturbate. He figured it out one night while studying the picture of a blonde sports illustrated swimsuit model that was having difficulty properly adjusting her life preserver. The Knight-Enchanter, fresh from a victory over the Eminent One’s demon army at Adamant fortress, found his lady Cassandra beating a punching bag with a sword, as she always did. It was odd; Hector thought, that the non-playable characters completed the same task over and over again while they weren’t out fighting. The Knight-Enchanter had been courting Cassandra since the destruction of Haven by Corypheus. He had meticulously strategized the best things to say to win her over, and he believed he had finally done it. Hector couldn’t take it. Why spend so much time trying to win over a woman who didn’t exist in the real world? Though he adored Cassandra, she ran out of things to say. He wanted someone real. Whose thoughts wouldn’t be scripted and who he wouldn’t have to be someone else to be with. It was because of his lack of social prowess, he thought. He should have spent more time playing with his brother and the other neighborhood kids. Since he missed out on that, he had neglected to learn the proper social cues. Therefore, he thought, he was screwed. A part of him rejected that. A part of him constantly screamed that if he would just open up to people, stop being afraid of what they may think, he could find a friend. The screaming had become less adamant in recent years. As time went on, it continued to dwindle. Mornings for Hector involve microwaved breakfast sandwiches and bad television as he prepares to go to work. Food Lion is an incredible place to work. Hector stands in place for eight hours, scanning packages of food and placing them neatly in bags at the end of the little conveyor belt. Occasionally he will be tasked with cleaning spills or even attending to lost children. His attendance has suffered recently, as his near constant playing of the new game Dragon’s Era has extended into the mornings. This is the third time Hector has shown up late. His boss Mark takes him aside wearing a blue collared shirt and wrinkled khakis. The pants were a bit too tight and accentuated his belly. Mark tells him that if he doesn’t get his act together he might have to fire Hector soon. Hector doesn’t do well with stressors. Hearing he’s close to being fired causes the pits and back of the blue collared shirt to darken with sweat. It is a long day at work. Amid the monotony of scanning, he looks up. Brown hair, shoulder length. Dark brown eyes. Cheeks somewhat pronounced, accentuating the mouth. Much shorter than Hector, maybe five-three. Large bust. Medium build. Wide hips. Hector blushes. The girl from two days ago. He wonders if she remembers him. Her cart contains steak, spaghetti noodles, Degree women’s deodorant, Charmin brand toilet paper, a six-pack of San Pellegrino, as well as a six-pack of Miller Lite, and a box of Tampax brand tampons. Hector handles each item with care, afraid to look her in the face. He wants to ask her name. He begins to stutter the words, but nothing comes out. He is paralyzed. He wants her so much. Hector wants her to be his friend. He bagged each item with incredible purpose, as if his good work as cashier would impress her. She hands Hector a credit card. Hector glances at the name on the card as he swipes it through his machine. Elsie. The name fills him with warmth. It is the most beautiful name he has ever heard. Blushing, stammering, fresh sweat stains on his shirt glistening, Hector hands Elsie her card back. She smiles at him and says “Thank you” as she leaves. Hector adjusts his glasses and watches her. Heart fluttering. Elsie acknowledged him. The Knight-Enchanter makes love to Cassandra as moonlight shines through the stained glass windows. Hector admires her body. Cassandra had captured his heart. How wonderful she was. A knight of the Templar order. Dragon-slayer. Stubborn. Passionate. Hector thinks it is an interesting dynamic since his character is a Knight-Enchanter class. Knight-Enchanters are mages and Templars are warriors devoted to hunting apostate mages. He feels that his character’s romance with a Templar will somehow bridge the gap, perhaps allowing Templars and mages to get along. But enough of politics. Cicadas. Window open. A laptop promising him sexy singles yet again. Hector looks across the street at the apartment belonging to Elsie. Perhaps he could just walk over there and knock. Say hello to her. Maybe see if she wants to hang out sometime. The flat reverberating buzz of the cicadas overwhelms him. He wants to leave the apartment. To walk over there and throw himself at her. Not literally, that would be assault. He wants to open up to her, tell her everything he feels. Given, he doesn’t know anything about her other than she’s kind enough to acknowledge a chubby, disheveled geek wearing glasses. Such a woman is more than he could ever hope for. His chest hurts. He’s sweating. His apartment is ten feet long. He paces back and forth. The laptop open. It shows a young Asian woman using produce in ways nature didn’t intend. Sexy singles were in his area. He reaches to his model of Master chief. What would Master chief do? What would the Knight-Enchanter do? They would sweep her off her feet and read her poetry and give her flowers. They would pronounce their love for her and she would follow suit. They would get the girl. They’re heroes. They are capable, thin, attractive people who like all the right things. They are whom everyone loves. Elsie smiled at him. She didn’t seem to find him repulsive. She seemed nice. Like the kind of girl who wouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover. The kind of girl who would kick back and share drinks with him. Everything hurts. On the street everything is quiet. The cicadas are asleep. The crickets take their place. There is rain on the ground. Pools of light circle around four or five streetlamps on the block. The wind between the two windows feels better, more alive. He reaches halfway across the street. The sun rises. The microwave alerts Hector to his hot and ready breakfast sandwich. It’s a Saturday. He doesn’t have to go to work. The window is closed. It was too cold. Cicadas now muffled. The apartment reeks of cigarette smoke. The trash bin overflows with spent tissues. The screen of his laptop asks if he’s willing to have sex with older women. He’s redirected to a page where the porn star Ron Jeremy offers to show him how to enlarge his penis. Hector gets up to turn off the light. He then draws the curtains. He finishes his sandwich in the white-blue darkness. Hector plays his videogame. He has started a new character. He now avoids Cassandra. He’s made that mistake once before. He can hear people walking past his door. Off to enjoy their Saturday. Hector plugs in his headphones. For a moment he hears a woman’s voice. It reminds him of Elsie. He lights a cigarette as he faces his laptop. He types in each key that will lead him to his current favorite porn site. Hector spends fifteen minutes masturbating. He tries to forget about Elsie and his reality. That was the issue in the first place. He had become too aware of himself. If he could just avoid that, it wouldn’t hurt anymore. He clicks on a video. As it transitions, the screen goes black. Hector sees a heavy, bespectacled man staring back at him. He shuts the laptop. He leans back in his chair and looks out at Elsie’s apartment. The cicadas sing through the closed window.

He blinked his eyes hard. Opened them. He saw everything in shades of purple, the way the world looks when the sun is too bright. It was too hot, too; he could tell from the way the people under the awnings shifted and fanned themselves. But all he felt was cold. The sweat seemed to freeze on his skin. The dust felt cool under his feet. Bare feet. He looked like a fool, standing there. That sumbitch had taken everything. Even his boots. The sumbitch had been done gambling, he said when he called that morning. What he meant is he’d been done playing at cards. He looked around. Everyone looked fit to catch flies, with their mouths open like that. Jenny from the saloon’s was shut, and her eyes were welling up with tears. She turned away and hid her face in her hands. Damned fool woman. He was faster than the sumbitch, and better than him too. She ought to know better. He grinned, and looked the sumbitch straight in the eyes. Through the smoke, he saw the smirk twisting his enemy’s face. His mouth formed a word. “Draw” is what he meant to say, but he choked on something. He coughed and wiped his mouth. The back of his suntanned wrist came away red. He felt a thump against his leg, and looked down to see his revolver fall from his grasp. He frowned at his nipples. He seemed to have an extra, just above and to the middle… His chest snapped into focus, and he saw the ruined flesh just above his breastbone. He looked up, the movement heavy with effort. The sumbitch was grinning now, a grotesque expression marred by a twisting scar. “I done told you last night, boy,” the sumbitch said as he raised his gun. “I always win.” In the stables, a horse reared. As the echoes died away, all that could be heard was the sound of a woman sobbing.

Once upon a time, there was a small bar in an even smaller town in Belize, owned by a man named George. George was an archaeologist who had moved to the town to study the nearby Mayan ruins. However since he did not have a grant to do this, and knowledge does not pay the bills, he opened the bar to fund his weekend expeditions into the jungle. The worked reasonably well, as the bar soon became popular with locals as well as tourists. Soon George had a little money left over to buy some luxury items, which of course did not go unnoticed. A local gang from a nearby village heard about George and his bar, and started planning to rob him. So one night, after last call when almost everyone had gone home, they made their move. Coming in with guns and knives, they succeeded in herding George and all of the remaining customers into the back room. All except for a strange old man sitting at the bar with a whiskey. The old man was a regular at the bar, and was considered to be slightly senile, as he showed up every thursday late at night with no money and wearing what seemed to be a woman's jacket with bright green feathers lining the collar. George usually gave him a free drink because he felt sorry for him. George tried to convince the old man to co-operate, but he refused, and sat silently at the bar like it was any other night. One of the men grabbed his shoulder, only to scream in pain. He fell back clutching his burnt hand and crying softly. The old man got off his barstool and smiled, revealing sharp, pointed teeth. One of the gang members shot at the old man, who looked slightly irritated. The old man started growing, until he became a large green creature, covered in feathers. The creature then chased the panicked gang out of the bar. George never had any problems with unruly customers after that night, and neither the old man, nor the gang was ever seen again.

It felt like we were two different people living in the same body. We were so close. Then suddenly we were separated. BUT. I didn't pull the trigger. The gun skidded across the ground as smoke covered the air. I looked across my bedroom towards the haze of my best friend. His body now lay motionless on the soft, blood-soaked carpet. I didn't pull the trigger. No. It could not have been me. I would never kill my best friend. At least not like this. I was not this crafty. I was innocent. How could this have happened? I began to chuckle. My body began heaving; it was slowly rising and then falling with my heavy laugh. My laugh was cut short. I felt so weak. I didn't pull the trigger. I was now so alone in this room. I began to stumble. How did it get this way? I could not remember anything. My room was filled with battered walls, shattered glass, and blood. Lots and lots of blood. I reached down to begin picking up the pieces of glass but my reflection was not discernible. The face was recognizable. But my eyes... they were unknown and bloodshot. I didn't pull the trigger. It was not me. It could not have been me..... I would never. I loved him. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to see my best friend die. The glass in my hand began to tremble. Blood dripped from my palm onto the floor. I didn't pull the trigger. I swear. Sure he was the victim, but I am now the one who feels pain. He can no longer suffer. He is dead. He is free. He was my better half. My innocence is gone and so is my hope. I walk over to the gun laying beside his body. How does somebody just give up like this? I didn't pull the trigger. And suddenly I can not hold myself anymore. I fall to my knees. My body aches. My stomach is turning. I see so much red. I reach for my friend and all I feel is the stained carpet. My eyes begin to roll and my head continues to spin. I clutch my chest for balance and pull my hand back. Dark red. I didn't pull the trigger. I reached for the gun on the ground. The first shot may have taken out my one half but I intend to finish the job. I twist the cold object in my hands. It's face is aimed beside the first gaping hole. I pulled the trigger.

[RF] PinkPrincess78 described herself as a ‘Friendly, shy girl in her mid-twenties seeking fun and friendship’. Ross clicked on the ad and, without even looking at the photo, went to the ‘send message’ icon. He pasted a paragraph of text in the message; the same paragraph of text he had pasted to a million other girls on this site, and countless others. ‘Hey, what part of the city are you from? I’m a decent looking, outgoing and friendly guy. Not looking for anything too serious, so let me know if you fancy a chat.’ Send. He checked his inbox, not surprised to find ‘no new messages’ in bold at the top of the page. He adjusted his glasses, took a sip of water, clicked the search bar to find the next ad on the list – Curvy88 – and pasted his message. The same old routine. Minutes went by, hours, and sometimes even full days like this. He rarely altered his message, never personalising it for the recipient, all in the vain hope of finding someone willing to respond. Sometimes they did, but more often than not the only messages he received were from opportunistic gay men. Sometimes he replied to those ones, just for something to do, but he was never tempted. Strangely, he knew that if he went out to pubs, bars or nightclubs, he could pick up a girl. Ok, she might not be the prettiest girl in the place, but he could do it. Sometimes he did. But to him, there was no thrill in that. The thrill was chatting to the stranger online, not having to deal with the face to face. He could think about every response, every lie he wanted to tell them. He could keep a record of everything he said, everything she said. If he met her out in a bar, he had to rely on his ability to keep a conversation going, and that was never going to be a good idea. He clicked back on his PutneyGuy88 profile page, and went back to the search function. He clicked on the next ad, Misty90, but before clicking ‘send message’ he noticed a line at the bottom of the ad. ‘Please think about your message, I won’t reply to one liners’. Ross hesitated for a second. Not to think about what to write. No. He had had an idea. Quickly, he signed out of his account and went to the site’s home page. He clicked on the ‘new users’ tab and on a link that said ‘JOIN NOW’. Up popped a page asking for all of his details. This time, instead of putting in his own information, he began to create a new profile. First name: Amy Age: 25 Location: London Looking for: Fun, friendship If he wasn’t getting any messages as a guy, maybe he could try as a girl. See what other guys write in their messages, get some ideas. It was worth a shot. After he had filled all the information out, he clicked ‘create new user’ and it sent him to a landing page of a brand new profile. He typed some random words in to Google images, found a photo of a girl who looked around 25 from a news story from 2007, and used it as Amy’s profile picture. He entered a few more details about her interests, hobbies, favourite books, films, music and career interests. Pretty soon, a brand new, fictional Amy was born. It felt pretty strange, to make someone up like this, but Ross wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. He clicked through the final stage of the process, and a new message popped up in the inbox. ‘Welcome Amy, and good luck in your search. From the Administrator’ Ross stood up and stretched out his long arms and then his legs. He put his circular-framed glasses on the table by his laptop and rubbed his eyes. He looked down at the clock at the bottom of his screen. 2.15pm. His shift at the pub didn’t start for almost six hours. He picked up his coffee mug and took it to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, so he put some bread in the toaster while he waited for the kettle to boil and stood, leaning on the window frame. From his flat on the second floor, he could see Putney High Street and the Spotted Horse pub where he worked. He didn’t love it here, far from it, but he lived alone and that was perfect for him. Expensive rent, but mostly covered by his parents. His wages were spent on drinking and food, in that order, and he had no other obligations aside from the occasional bill. Again, his parents were often more than willing to help him out. At 28, he knew he ought to feel guiltier about that, but as the only child he figured it was fair. The toaster popped, awaking Ross from his thoughts. He buttered his toast, made an instant coffee and went back through to his seat on the living room sofa. With one slice of toast in his mouth, he put the plate and mug on the coffee table. Taking a bite, he moved the cursor up to the top of the page, clicked on the inbox and almost choked. 103 new messages! Jesus. He looked at the clock in the corner, 2.19pm. More than a hundred messages in less than five minutes! He scanned down, trying to read the first few words of each one. It was useless. Too much information, too many people, too many words! Is this what it was like to be a woman on here? He clicked on the inbox again, to see if it changed. 132 messages now. My god. He hit refresh, and it went up to 139. Then 144. Messages were coming in every second. He took another bite of toast, a sip of coffee, and pushed the plate and mug to the side. He put his glasses back on, took a notepad from the coffee table, clicking his pen to take notes. What did these guys say? What did they want? How much did they write, or how little? Were they direct, were they friendly? Here we go, he thought, clicking on the first message. ‘Hey, how you doing?’ Well, so much for that, he thought, and hit delete. Number 2. ‘What’s up? How u enjoying the site?’ Delete. Number 3. ‘Wanna chat?’ Delete. Number 4. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. The first 14 messages went straight to the rubbish bin. Christ, thought Ross, is this what it feels like? To have this many guys sending bullshit messages with no content. He thought back to his own message. ‘Friendly, shy girl in her mid-twenties seeking fun and friendship’. My god. DELETE. He carried on, unperturbed. ‘Oral for reward?’ from Horny SW Guy. No thanks. Delete. ‘Want to have sex outdoors?’ asked Mature48 from Fulham. Delete, but this one did at least draw a smile from Ross. ‘Might as well be honest, I’m a virgin and need someone to help’ begged WellEndowed18, from Wandsworth. Delete. There was very little content for the notebook. Requests for sex, messages saying ‘hi how r u’, nothing with any substance. But every time he clicked on the inbox, another flood of messages. After almost an hour of reading them, deleting them, refreshing the page, writing down the occasional decent message (one of them even used quotes from fictional Amy’s favourite book, Little Women) the messages were still coming in, and fast. Ross went to take a sip of coffee, but his mug was empty. He clicked on the inbox one more time before going to make a coffee. Scanning the page as often as he had, the messages had begun to blur in to one for Ross. But this time, one of them stood out and made him sit forward on the sofa. The title said simply: ‘I know who you are’. Tilting his head, Ross clicked on the message. Instantly, he felt his stomach sink and he almost dropped his empty mug. The message was only two words, but they were two words that he had not anticipated. And they made him feel sick to the stomach. ‘Hi Ross’.

Well, it finally happened. The scientists had been predicting it for decades now. Most Californians had long ago stopped listening, just allowing the dire warnings to fade into the background noise of all the other bad news about Nature’s upcoming wrath. But on that sunny autumn morning, October 11, 2057, the San Fernando Valley was rocked by an earthquake so intense and widespread that the seismographs near the epicenter were unable to register the results. Seismographs around the rest of the world were able to pinpoint the measurement as 11.2 on the Richter scale. As expected, this event caused catastrophic effects along the West Coast. A tsunami warning was immediately issued throughout the lands that lined the so-called Ring of Fire that circles the expansive Pacific. Hawaii, Mexico, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia and Alaska all enacted their emergency evacuation orders – signaling the first time a BE Level warning would be used. The US Geological Survey created these earthquake warning levels in 2030, which were quickly adopted by other earthquake-prone countries as well. They came up with two-letter abbreviations for the various categories, letters that were said to represent complicated scientific terms. But within the agency’s walls, the scientists knew among themselves the real terms for which those letters represented. The public was informed that the highest level – BE – was an abbreviation for Berthier-Bauxite Earthquake. The true nature of a BE level warning was all too frightening for the geologists at the USGS though, so much so, that they rarely spoke the words. “BE” meant the earthquake was expected to be along the same lines as a “Biblical Event”. As predicted and feared for years, the earthquake tore its way through the San Andreas Fault, setting off a cascade of geological events that lasted for weeks throughout that devastating autumn. Buildings fell, fires burned, trees snapped and sunk, valleys became mountains and mountains dropped to canyons below. The effects were felt all over the western third of North America, though luckily the other states experienced less severe calamities than mighty California. But the most fearsome result of this biblical event was the manifestation of everyone’s nightmare. The land located west of the San Andreas Fault sunk its way into the Pacific Ocean. Like a sandcastle’s wall eroding and tumbling to the beach as the ocean waves lap at its base, what was once sturdy ground for millions of Californians was now crumbling into an ocean as well. Miles below the cement mazes of the Los Angeles area, the silt, sand, and clay slipped into the sea, taking with it those same cement mazes and all the evidence of mankind that lay upon it. Even before the turn of the century, the scientific community had repeatedly said “It isn’t a matter of if, but when, the big one will hit. And when it does happen, may God help the estimated 38 million people that call California home.” They had no idea that the unprecedented and historic California drought, which had begun in the early part of the century, would play such a crucial role in the later tragedy. That drought was sometimes referred to as biblical as well. The dry seasons turned into dry years. The severity snowballed as the years went by. Farmers lost their crops and then lost their farms. Vineyards dried up and vintners closed up. A mass exodus had begun by 2020. By 2030, it was clear that the command to “go west young man”, a popular recommendation 200 years earlier, had taken a 180 degree turn, advising the descendants of those early 19th century settlers to now “go east young man”. And so, with the unprecedented drought came the unprecedented governmental actions that forced the majority of the state’s residents to be relocated. Buildings and infrastructure were locked down or battened down. Roads were blocked, residents were given allowances, and companies were given massive tax breaks to move to other states, particularly those with lower populations in the first place. As expected, there were many “hold-outs” that chose to stay in the state and live off the land. Hippies, free thinkers, and preppers all wanted to stay. The Federal Government gave up hunting them down and forcing them to leave. As long there was no civil unrest, the Feds were willing to look the other way. And so, as a result of one natural disaster, millions of lives were saved from the next, more devastating natural disaster. Some said it was not just a biblical event…but a biblical miracle as well.

I am running, I am death. I am breathing, I am death. I kill to survive, I am death. As I draw in a deep jolt of cold air, I crouch into the deep snow. I have been tracking the movements of this animal for many miles. The prints wind around trees and through bushes, mocking my every move. The man, who hunts, does so in order to provide sustenance to them. They honor the code of mother Earth. I kill life in order to protect life, my own. Rationalizations are what you adhere too when existing in wilderness. The air you breathe, the water you drink, everything cycles to one point of focus, death. It ebbs at you in the form of a disease. You fight it off every moment, in every sense. I do not fear death though; I do not fear it, because I am death. My brow furrows, dripping a bead of sweat into my eye. I breathe into my sleeve, I see steam rise above a bush. A head is revealed, and in turn and opportunity. The wind shifts and I crouch lower, leaves in my pocket rustle as I pull them out to rub on my face and jacket. The weight of the bow balances in my hands and is a reminder of the scales of justice. My arrow is my decision and my purpose. We question why we exist when things are difficult. Our actions are the counter argument to words, and in turn, words can decide our actions. What does one think about justice when survival is the question? I survive by myself; I am the product of my own decisions. I survive because I decide too. My time passes because I battle life. What is time when I have to survive myself? Time is irrelevant when you concern yourself and your prey. Relentlessness is the tune, and time is the audience. Time takes all life in the end, and reminds you that it is out of your control. I do not fear time though; I do not fear it, because I am death. My muscles are stretched, and my eyes strain to see. The feel of the string against my cheek reminds of the act that must be performed. My arrow is aimed and the time has come. The arrow is released, and the sting of the string sears pain into my forearm and reminds of how time will take away the pain of my actions. I may hunt in my own regard, but life was bred to hunt. If you offer life the opportunity to take yours, it pounces on it, revealing to be the ultimate predator. I do not fear life though; I do not fear it, because I am death.

It was a beautiful old truck. Used to be my dad’s. Though he could never quite get it to start. The 1959 Chevrolet Apache with pearlescent blue finish used to be quite flashy. The last owner had driven around in it back in the 60’s. Back when it could move, it must have been a sight to see. I can imagine it. Windows down, radio on, maybe a girl in the passenger seat. Hands on the leather steering wheel as I drove along the highway, the world spread out before me. Maybe I’d even stop at one of those places where the waitresses are all on skates and I’d get a milkshake and a burger. Then take that magnificent machine and spend the night at a drive-in and try and get lucky with that girl in the passenger seat. But as I said, the truck doesn’t start. It hasn’t for years. My dad got it cheap, and he got what he paid for. The thing only ran for a year while he had it. It’s been sitting in our backyard next to the garage ever since. The paint is faded and the body is beginning to rust. Weeds have grown up around it. A blanket of pine needles and spider webs fills the truck bed. I walk past it every time I climb into my Nissan. It always reminds me of that old idyllic lifestyle when I pass by it. I wonder if one day fifty years from now, some kid will pass by my Nissan and think back to the time I live in. Perhaps by whatever year in the future he is, our time has already been romanticized. The era of hipsters and social networking. Some kid in the future will see an old rusted 2006 Nissan and think, “man I wish I could go back in time and see The Lord of The Rings when it was still in theaters.” Everyone is always thinking about the past as if it were some magical place where everything was right. No one stops to shed the romanticism and see it for what it is. An old dilapidated truck with rusted paint, sitting next to a garage as it fades from memory.

Feedback appreciated. Her father was a painter. A quiet guy, he'd drive around in this dilapidated working van and paint the basement of some well-to-do newlywed's first little box on the hillside. Never harbored any ill will, by gones were by gones and the resentments of the have and the have-nots were long since let go. Silver hair, sagging skin practically dripping off his face. He reeked of Newports. A good man; Catholic and traditional. When he got mad he had good reason and when he got mad he apologized. Not like his father. A military background, not by choice but by lack of alternatives. Teenage years, December. He drove home drunk out of his mind from a friend’s house and crashed into a tree. Cleaned himself up at the end of high school, not because he knew he needed to but because he could feel the expectations. Received a scholarship to attend a prestigious Catholic boys school, but opted to rip the script up and re-write Act I of his tragedy so he enlisted. He was depressed but not accountable, detached and well aware of it. Not a drunkard, but a drunkard’s drinking buddy. Stationed in Hawaii and it’s there he meets Patricia, a woman not a girl. The kind of woman where when others saw a sick dog and a hard life, she saw beauty. Their first conversation felt as familiar as their last. A middle aged ‘might-as-well’ one night stand turned marriage. First daughter born out of wedlock. laura - Childhood straight off a family stock photo in a picture frame. She gets a little sister and a little brother, right at that age when she starts to realize she’s lead actress on stage and the audience is now the whole world and not just her parents. No tantrums, no backtalk, just an unshakable tenacity to get things done and get things done perfect. If she was striving to be the responsible big girl at the carnival it wasn't intentional. If she was vying for the attention of the adults at the winter neighborhood bonfires it wasn't conscious. Helps her sister with her homework with one hand and coddles her brother’s head through the middle school bullying with the other. jen told everybody how travis put his hand under her skirt and pulled her panties to the side and stuck a finger in her when the lights went out in sixth period. A bookworm socialite – her novels exclusively teen fantasy, her friends exclusively a caste step down from her on the popularity totem pole. When life with twenty hours on top of her peers’ work week and a decade above her maturity makes her cry at lunch and gives her a rash on her elbows and neck, she escapes to her real age and consumes her books and her friends with the same compulsion of her addict of a father. Five different diaries for five different things, each one only a few pages in and you could see the jagged edges in the margins where she ripped out the scandalous bits. ‘Dear diary,’ intro for every entry unless she was writing in it upset or mad. Backwards mirror codes and hundred item bucket lists. Dates the guy next door brian. He’s really nothing special, a bit slow on the uptake and dressed himself in the one size too large graphic tees his mom picked out. First kiss on his backyard porch, yellow glow of the automatic lights that flashed on when they hid outside after dinner. Only thing on her mind was how to avoid the embarrassment of her friends finding out.