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Allura 24

He paced back and forth in his apartment. He drank a coffee. He burst out laughing at one point when the news man told him something special and relevant. He realized he was still alone and so he grabbed his keys and departed. He found the woman waiting by the doorman. She was wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. She looked impossibly cool as she said, Where were you, which he had nothing to say to. He was just anticipating that night with clarity and waves of apprehension. She was out of his league and he knew that the waiter would glance at her too much. He hoped they could skip this entire puzzle of a night and separate. She was the woman that he had been waiting for but he knew he could never satisfy her. She breathed importance and the need to please but for some reason she let a casual atmosphere surround them while she held his hand. She was holding his hand? She was holding his hand some time before he noticed. She seemed to have taken it the moment they had stepped out onto the street, maybe as a formality, one which couples assumed, neurotically. He was afraid his palms might begin sweating but he feared letting go. He did not want to offend her. He had never wanted to offend anyone. The woman led him to a restaurant she knew and he wondered if she had taken other men there before. He assumed that she had or maybe one had taken her. Although irrelevant, he was hurt that she was not just his. He wanted to attack passerby’s for gazing at her long body, her straight hair. He knew he could never. He would never attack a passerby for admiring his prize. She was, in fact, not his prize by the close of the evening. She had tried multiple times to incite conversation and laugh at his sarcasm. She drank many times and he could even sense a genuine approval that she had already established, weeks ago, but for some reason, he was detached from the entire scene. He felt like an actor, in a film, one which is in black and white and has no dialogue, just cuts to text where the protagonist is permitted to express clarification. He felt detached from her. When she walked him back to his home, she longed for him to say, Where do you live. But, he did not. The thought did not cross his mind for he was accustomed to not asking for things nor wanting them. He only wanted the demand to be made of him so that the work that goes into impressing human beings was set at a low threshold, he wanted to barely be made aware of his existence by all that work. The work was what killed him. He longed for his chair and his tap water to soothe his aching feet. She left him by the doorman again, begging to be kissed, but he only went upstairs to take a shower. He gulped hot water and later read for an hour. He read an old story, although contemporary by literary standards, yet included in the canon of American works. He was hungry for he did not want to eat in front of her. She was too beautiful to eat in front of, a practice which he was fond of. He was like a sick dog and felt shame for simply being. He was racked by guilt the rest of the evening for not doing what she had wanted. He was afraid she would not want a second encounter outside of work. Oh god. How was she to behave at work, he wondered. The phone rang. Twice. It rang a third time before he could answer it. “Hello?” he asked, earnestly not recognizing the number. It was her. She asked him how he was. He replied, Fine, how are you, did you get home alright, I’m sorry about tonight. She said, Can you let me in? He said, In where? She said, To your apartment. She was standing there, crying. Or, had been. She just looked as though she had a couple of hours alone in her place, ruminating over his disinterest. He was not uninterested, he was just paralyzed. She did not know this was caused by her beauty nor that he was smitten. She just had encountered a man, for the first time, who was impervious to her. He took her hands and put them on his face. He looked up at her and said, “I am sorry. You don’t understand. I’m not good with people like you.” She was still confused. People like what, she asked him. He explained how she looked to him and that he could not focus nor muster any confidence to deliver to her. She began to understand. She began to see him for what he really was, an individual without much to offer except for a careful longing. She began to undress and kiss his eyes. He stepped awkwardly back a few feet before hitting the light switch. They began a descent. When they were finished, she rolled over to face him. She stroked his face and told him that he needs to believe in himself if he wants to die a success. Morbid thoughts come rushing to one in the evening, he thought. It was bad enough that she had done this to him, furthered the longing and need for her with this act, but now she intends to ruin the sensations with a deranged world view that challenges his own. He lit one of her cigarettes. He inhaled and coughed and his eyes watered. He looked back at her head propped on her elbow. He told her that his parents had not thought highly of him enough to enable him to become an actual man. They had coddled him on this raw planet and when he had come to terms with it, all the sensitivity they had imparted to him had left him dusty and shivering. He felt locked in a basement somewhere and, even in the sun, he was just a rat. He scurried about, slower than the rest, breathing air that he did not deserve.

CHAPTER 1 “Caw!” The crow screamed from his perch on a nearby tree. I looked up lazily from the trail I was following. Beady black eyes stared coldly back at me. His friends joined in on the cawing, as if taunting me. It didn’t bother me, though, and I continued on my way with my catch in my mouth. Stupid birds. They had nothing useful to say so they just shouted angrily to seem imposing. Once I was safely back at my home, I packed away the mouse I had caught for dinner and stretched out contentedly. I would eat it later. I always felt like getting a little exercise before meals to build up an appetite. My hole was buried deep under a short oak tree. It was hidden and well protected by exposed roots - an ideal home for a fox. I poked my head back out of my burrow tentatively, sniffing around. A new smell had attracted me earlier and I was dying to find its source and I had made up my mind to seek it out today. Also, lately a lot of new animals had been appearing in our forest and I was really excited to see what new creatures turned up. The other foxes all laughed at my curiosity. They said it would lead to my death. I didn’t see it that way. The forest had a thousand different ways to kill me at any given moment and I had only made it this far on my own by always knowing my surroundings. If there were changes to my hunting grounds, whether it be climate, new game, or a new predator, I wanted to be aware of it. I sniffed around and started heading back the way I came. The forest was very lively, which was surprising at this time of day. The warm summer weather must have proved too tempting for everyone and I found myself in the company of many small woodland animals. Squirrels were chatting in their trees, a pack of voles was out walking single file, and birds were singing songs on every tree. I barked loudly a few times to let the animals nearby know it was safe to be around me right now. It was a rule of the forest that if a carnivore was openly making his presence known, that he was not hunting and meant no harm to other animals nearby. This law was sacred and I had never seen it broken, at least not in the few mile stretch of land that I stayed in. After a few meters I caught on to the scent again. Thrilled, I chased after it at full speed, barking occasionally to let everyone know I meant no harm. Seeking out new sounds and smells always excited me and on top of that, it was my favorite time of day. I could see the last glimmer of orange and pink and gold in the sky fading out between the trees to my west. A strong wind brushed through my fur and I soaked in all the different sensations around me. All the sights, sounds, and smells hit me and I sighed contentedly. It was a warm summer night. This time of day, just as the sky started to darken and the wind began to pick up, was my favorite time to go for a trip through the forest. Delighted, I let out one powerful, proud bark and charged full speed ahead towards the new smell I was chasing. Soon enough, evening turned into night and the sky became a dazzling black and purple ocean full of jewels. I began doubting that I would reach my destination before it became too dark to see but the smell had grown much stronger and I knew I must be close by so I kept going. I had never gone this far north before and was worried about getting lost as well. By now I was able to distinguish two unique scents coming from the same direction. One was completely new to me but the other seemed familiar, although I could not recall it. I didn’t think too hard about it because I was too caught up in my own thoughts about the day and everything I had done earlier. Besides the troublesome crows that had moved into the trees nearby, I had a run-in with some of the black foxes while I was hunting. I was still absorbed in my thoughts when something caught my attention. Up ahead I heard a branch snap on the floor and instantly I was on my guard. The forest is a loud place in general but every once in a while a sound would seem out of place and my gut would tell me something was wrong. Fear sunk in as I looked around cautiously, trying to identify the cause of the noise. For a while everything was silent and I became completely still as I crouched down and waited for a potential predator to make its move. I was very large for a fox but I was still only a slightly more challenging kill than usual for the owls and hawks that would hunt at this time. Minutes passed and there was absolutely no noise except for the chirping of various bugs. I started thinking I was being paranoid and decided to move on but every instinct in me warned my body to sit absolutely still. I willed myself to lift my front paw and take one step forward and, in a split second, the area surrounding me turned into a storm of violent action. A giant rat came darting straight for me hissing at the top of her lungs. She wasn’t speaking. She didn’t want to talk and she wasn’t simply making me aware of her presence. This was a battle cry. This was her trying to scare me before she attacked. Surprised as I was that a rat would charge at a fox, I reacted quickly and lunged straight at her, but another animal reacted much quicker. I saw a flash of grey light and a powerful gust of wind knocked me off balance. It took me a moment to collect myself and understand the scene before me. A great grey owl had appeared seemingly from thin air and was mauling the rat in a flurry of talons and beaks. I was terrified but also completely mesmerized by this act of extreme savagery. I backed away slowly to not draw attention but I could not look away from the bizarre sight. It was over in a few seconds. Slowly the owl stood up straight with his back to me while still looking at the dead rat near his talons. Fear crept in and I could not move. I didn’t want to do anything to attract his attention. Owls did not eat foxes but they were prone to random acts of violence and never needed a reason to kill. “You do not need fear me, fox.” He spoke in a high pitched yet booming voice that did not seem to suit him. “I was never interested in you to begin with. Well, not as food, anyways.” He added. He sounded pleased. Hoping this meant I was safe, I cautiously stepped towards the giant owl even though I was so afraid I was shaking. “Hello. I am Ragvilus. You helped me earlier. I think the rat was going to attack me,” I began, not sure what to say to this owl. “Aaah, I found that amusing.” He laughed, ruffling his feathers happily as he turned to face me. “Maybe she thought an injured fox would be more appealing to me than a large rat.” “Would it have been?” I asked. Despite my best efforts to stay calm my voice quivered noticeably as I spoke. The owl turned his head completely around and hooted. He stared at me with vertical eyes that looked both completely insane yet infinitely intelligent. After a few moments he answered with a simple, “Yes.” Then he slowly began turning back towards his kill. “Where are you going, Ragvilus the red fox?” he continued as he spread open his wings and revealed his enormous wingspan. “Just a few meters north of here.” I answered truthfully. “Do you seek the other foxes up ahead?” He asked. This caught me off guard. I had no idea other foxes were nearby. I considered lying to the owl and saying they were my friends to seem like I had a pack with me. In the end I decided against it because it occurred to me that an owl would not be intimidated by foxes and that if he wanted me dead I would already be dead by now. “No. I noticed a new smell today and wanted to investigate it.” At this, the owl froze. He folded his wings completely and turned his head slightly so he could see me from the corner of his eye. “Strange new animals have been entering our forest. Isn’t it exciting?” He asked. For some reason his voice became very grave. “But sometimes it does not pay to be so inquisitive. Red foxes are so very rare.” His ominous words once again put me on edge. Without thinking I began backing away but it was unnecessary. The owl picked up his prey and began lifting himself up into the air. With two flaps of his enormous wings he was already a few feet in the air. “Do you know why this area has been especially crowded lately?” He continued. I had heard bits and pieces of it but as a predator and an outcast amongst the foxes, I did not have very many chances to find out. “The cold northern forest was lit completely ablaze. A fire like this has not been seen in my lifetime or in many lifetimes before.” By now the owl had disappeared amongst the treetops and his voice began to fade. “Many new animals. So very exciting. But look out young fox. There are many monsters that lived in the cold northern forests and even monsters fear fire.” A fire in the north? I was confused by the ominous threats left by the strange bird. Shaken up, I turned around and looked at the trail I was following. Maybe it was time to give up on this. Maybe this was a sign that my curiosity was finally a bad thing. I took one more deep breath and thought about what my strange new smells could be. Then it hit me. I recognized one of the scents. It was the smell of smoke and ash. I have no idea why but a sense of urgency set in at this and my gut told me I had to get to the source of the smell and get there fast. I had no logical reason to do so but my gut had never steered me wrong before. I took one last longing look at the trail behind me then sprinted towards the new smell.

You need to lose them. -I cannot be caught near her home- you think as you walk down one of the dimly lit backstreets surrounding her habitation compound. As you round a corner, you manage to catch a glimpse of the red tie and black suit twenty meters behind you. You start to pick up the pace, hoping to be able to loose him. You notice another one, rounding the corner 15 meters in front of you. You quickly turn into a narrow alley at the same time you take the small emergency burn out phone out of your pocket, you text her: "They are here, run." You really start running now, starting to feel your heart pounding in your chest. You tilt your head down to see if the message has been delivered at the same moment you reach the end of the alley. It feels as if your heart had stopped when a red tie rounds the corner to stand directly in front of you, seven feet tall and holding a small object in his gigantic hand. -Do not worry- he says with a smirk -We are there too- You fall to your knees as you read the lone line of text on the screen of the small object in his hand: "They are here, run.

The first test is garbonic gas which freezes on contact with skin. Passing out is an automatic fail and so is screaming. Those are some of the many rules I have to uphold. I am in a circular room surrounded by pipes. A force field separates us from each other and the exit. Stepping too close sends out an agonizing shot of electricity. I am standing in the middle of one of the pipes, furthest from the force field as I can get. shaking and trembling, not knowing what to expect. The pipes are huge and green. They are over seven feet tall and four feet wide. More than wide enough for the gas to hit us. Slowly I pull my long blonde hair out of its ponytail and shake it loose. It will give my neck much-needed coverage. Hair grows back but unfortunately necks do not. I grip my jacket with both hands and wring it in nervous anticipation. The gas slowly leaks out and leaps at my exposed arms. I look down and my arm is filled with blue spots and it's so numb that I can barely move it much less feel it. My first reaction is to scream, but instead I bite my tongue and quickly switch around my leather jacket blocking me from the chilling sting. My vision is going hazy and I can barely gasp for air and to make matters worse all I can hear are screams. I try to look around but whenever I turn, I feel my exposed skin freezing. During the first round, we lost eight contestants. That's over half. I look around and see seven remaining, but only one of them is a girl. I give her a nod and a small smile hoping for a little camaraderie from a fellow female, but she just glares at me in return. We gather back into our starting positions and wait for the second round to begin. The judges are playing with us and are enjoying it. With every blast of oxygen, I flinch, thinking that it's time. I'm getting antsy and just want this part over with. I do a few jumping jack's trying to loosen my tight leather pants. Jumping is really hard considering that my boots are about six sizes too large. I am so busy jumping that I don't notice the burn at first. I just smell something like rotten eggs. I look down and my skin is turning purple. Before I can scream I clamp my mouth shut. I momentarily forget my plan and shield myself with my jacket while the pain takes over. I want to scream in agony but instead bite my lip as hard as I can without making myself bleed.

I don't really know much about anything. I can't point out where I come from on a map. I can't do your taxes. I don't know much about growing crops. My life has been very sheltered, you see. I never really had the chance to go out much. When I did, it was just for a quick bite and then I came back. I don't want to say I'm shy or anti-social, but if I am, it's genetic. You see, growing up as a Vampire has some serious drawbacks. I would even go as far as to call it a handicap. We're not at all what you read about or see in the movies. Do you think we could afford a castle like Dracula? I grew up in a studio apartment in Queens with my parents. I was home schooled to the fullest extent of their knowledge, but they worked nights and slept days so to say the least I was left on my own for education. I was to follow in the family business, whether I wanted to or not. My father wanted me to join him in working the graveyard shift at our neighborhood 7/11. I've never really been much for serving people. Plus, running home at 5 in the morning to escape the sunrise wasn't my idea of a good career choice. Growing up, I had a lot of free time to think and ponder the meaning of my existence. In other words, I spent a lot of time drinking the blood of high teenagers outside my father's 7/11 late at night and it made me feel like a prophet. It really gave me a craving for dorritos and other chips, too. What's so strange about that is that my family follows a strict, traditional, Vampire diet consisting of mainly blood and meat. I never had much exposure to processed food. Sometimes, I would float down in front of the Burger King drive-thru and scare the customers into giving me their food. I would say something like, "Your food or your blood, fool!" They always gave me the food. Well, most of them. I wasn't totally useless, though. I didn't know much, but I could dream. I wanted to become more than what was expected of a young vampire. I always wanted to break away from the life my family had planned for me. The whole vampire thing just didn't have much potential. You can laugh at this if you want, but my dream was to become a cowboy. I spent most of my teenage years watching old western movies on tv while my parents were at work and I wanted to be the cowboys. To be on horseback in the open range with the sun filling the horizon was a life I would never be able to live, despite anything I could dream. Being young as I was, though, I'd had enough of my life and decided to take off. One night shortly after my 18th birthday, I left a note and walked out the door. I won't tell you how I got there, but I made it to Montana. I'll just tell you that getting there with no money required doing some things that are beyond embarrassing. I'll save that story for another time. I started working at a ranch where my main responsibility was doing the bitch work no one else wanted to do. I got fired when I didn't show up on the first morning I was supposed to work. I told you it would be hard to become a vampire cowboy. I didn't give up hope, though. Eventually I found a 24/7 ranch that was run by humans in the day and vampires at night. I fit right in with my crew. It was almost as if I had been born to work on a ranch. Sometimes, the humans played pranks on us and left piles of horse and cow droppings to be cleaned up. When this happened, we just laughed and drank the humans' blood while they slept. Nothing says, "got'cha!" like waking up as a member of another species. The ranch owner put an end to our prank wars when we converted most of his day staff to vampires. I didn't sleep much during my time at the ranch. I would stare out my window during the afternoon and watch the humans work. I wanted so badly to be out there with them, riding horses around the ranch and sweating under the sun. One afternoon, I witnessed a good downpour. The ranch hands returned to their quarters and I watched the animals cool off under the rain. The sun returned from behind the clouds and left this breath-taking beam of colors in the sky. In all the history of my people, we have been afraid of the light. For good reason, too. But this light was amazing. I followed the shape from where it began at our ranch and tried to imagine how long it could be, and what could be at the end of it. I imprinted its size and location in my memory. I was going to find the end of the light. That night, I left the ranch with our best horse and followed the trail of the light by memory. I rode for hours and the horse hated me for it. It threw me off a couple times so it could rest. I'd never bitten a horse and was considering it, but was afraid of starting a new superior race of hybrid flying, blood-drinking horses. Finally, when I felt that I had reached the end of the trail, I got off the horse and began to look around. After hours of searching, I gave up and started to make camp. I heard noise coming from the woods, and emerging from it was a small, delicate, and beautiful creature. Her green hat matched her jacket. She was far too well-dressed to be a homeless person. My presence surprised her, and she stared at me in confusion. "Are you here for the gold?" She asked. "The gold?" I replied. "I've been following a beam of light. Do you know of it?" Her face brightened and she beamed a smile towards me. I was beginning to forget more and more about the light. I'd found what I had been looking for for so very long. "Of course I do, silly," she laughed at me. "It's my rainbow and you've found it. No one ever comes looking for me these days. We are real, you know. I'm not like the Easter Bunny. I've got a lot of gold in this pot here. It's all yours now, sugar." "What if I want something else?" I asked her, gazing deeply into her green eyes. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head. "Now what else could you want?" I paused and began to approach her. I reached down to hold her little hand. "You." Ok, I know what you're thinking right now. I admit that falling in love with a leprechaun is destined for failure no matter what species you are, even if you're a leprechaun. There were some serious flaws in my logic back in the day. But go to hell. I was a vampire in love. We left together later that week. I hadn't realized it during my trip, but I had crossed the Canadian border while searching for the end of the rainbow. When we went through customs to re-enter the United States, I had to smuggle my new lady love in one of my duffel bags. Rather than becoming intimate with each other throughout our trip, my beaming and beautiful bride to be spent our first couple of days together in my bag wrapped in my intimates and dirty socks. Love is an adventure, but settling down is a chore. My mini-lover and I found a quiet town in South Carolina where we could be together in peace. By peace, I mean we were constantly receiving death threats and bricks through our windows. Our relationship was what some people would call an abomination. We weren't allowed to marry. My ittie-bittie-amore wanted to move up north to Massachusetts. We weren't gay, I had to remind her. We were just of different species. We lived off of her gold for a few years until it began to run out. Desperate, my slight and slender lady friend found a job as an elf at Santa's Village in the local mini-mall. During the winter, she worked overtime taking pictures with children and Santa. Defeated, I found work at a local 7/11. I first tried my luck as a stand-up comic, but no one found the musings of a destroyer of lives to be very humorous. Because of our work hours and my fatal reaction to sunlight, our relationship suffered. In public, my teeny-tiny sweetheart constantly had to prove her age to keep me from becoming a registered sex-offender. The public stigma of our relationship kept us inside for most of the time. Again, the world felt like a prison to me. I began to think more often of the ranch and being a cowboy. This wasn't why I left home. I didn't leave to work the graveyard shift at a 7/11 and sleep with a pretty but puny honeybun. To tell you the truth, we rarely slept together. Like I mentioned before, the scheduling conflicts of our lifestyles made it all very difficult. She got us into marriage counseling. Let me tell you what was wrong with that idea. First, we weren't married. We got thrown out of our first marriage counseling session and had to re-schedule to be seen for "couple counseling." Four weeks later we saw the same man. Second, it hurt me to go to those sessions. I mean that literally. You would think that venturing out during the middle of the day was enough to prove my love to that microscopic midget. I'd like to tell you that it all had a happy ending. I'd like to tell you that we reconciled and everything is perfect. I'd rather tell you that we ended up back at the ranch and I followed my dream of becoming a cowboy. We ran into an unexpected problem shortly after we began counseling. I didn't think that different species could reproduce, so safe sex wasn't really my thing. Nine months later, my dwarfish devil of a lady gave birth to a hybrid vampire/leprechaun. You may read that and think it's very cool, but let me tell you it's not. My son really got the worst of both worlds, being a runt of a blood sucker. When he began teething, he turned my little leprechaun into a shrimp sized vampire. I don't know, maybe that is kind of a happy ending after all. At least we can finally spend some time together now.

Deleting Honor That sky. A grey-blue dawn that poured out from the west like a sleepy ocean. The yellow Navant moon shone through the shallows of the blue. A green light was cast down on a pale ren-face. A stern look rested upon the face. Unspoken words of righteous anger written upon ridges and hard lines of tightened muscle. The face of Kato Ichiro. Ichiro raised his hand and pulled a metal mask down over his skinless face. "You are going to die now, Atanari." Ichiro drew his rashi and held the point just behind his enemies neck. "Why tell me? Just do it!" The grey-headed Guchi Atanari spat on Ichiro's heavily armored foot. Ichiro's machine eyes looked down on the spit. The spit was thick with blood and a small piece of broken tooth rest on it briefly before sinking."It is the honorable thing to do." "You destroyed everything you stupid tin-can. I was going to build a new empire! I would have brought back the old ways." He was quiet a moment and pensive.Then he screamed out, "You wanted back the old ways!" His face was red and his lips flung specks of blood. Ichiro sighed from beneath his metal-mask. "I know. It is true. I still do. I hope one day it will be so." "Yet, here we are. Your blade at my neck. Just days until my dream --your dream became a reality. Why? Why would you cut the head from your own dream?" "Because." Ichiro said. "Because of the difference between good men and bad men." "Oh? What does a machine like you know about good and bad? What do you know about what it takes to run an empire?" Atanari laughed. "I know the emperor to be a good man. I disagree with the emperor. Because he is a good man however and because I trust good men; I can trust that the emperor is following his heart." "Huh? Following his heart? What database did you down-scan that poetic shit nugget from?" "Irrelevant input." Ichiro chimed in computer-tinged speech. "You are a bad man. You chase after money and power like a starved wolf. You have betrayed friends and even fam-" "Because they didn't believe in the dream Ichiro!" Atanari flung his head about angrily and pulled against his restraints. "They didn't believe in the dream! They were the cold water to our warm sleep! I'm right! Can't you see that I'm right!" Atanari felt the cold steel of Ichiro's rashi touch his neck. He was suddenly motionless but his face smoked with anger. "I can't serve a bad man Atanari. Had you become emperor I would have been serving a bad man. A very bad man." Ichiro adjusted his stance and brought his sword over his head in perfect form. He eyed the back of the defeated lords neck. "You are going to die now Atanari because I would rather serve a good man, than a bad man. Even if the good man is wrong." Guchi Atanari tore open his blouse and held his hands to his chest. After a deep breath, he began reciting the the last verses of an old warriors song. "...we are dead. We were born to die. here we walk in our pleasant tomb. Bury me next to my enemies. So that in my death, I may keep them-" His last words were cut away as his head left his body. Ichiro's cold-blue machine eyes tracked the head as it fell and hit the ground. Ichiro waited while head stopped rolling and the body fell into the dirt. He had heard the song before. He spoke the words slowly hoping he might recall when or where he had heard it. "So that in my death, I may keep them dead." He did not recall however. Instead, his eyes suddenly opened and he found that he was no longer standing over his defeated enemy. A fluid that had been surrounding him began to drain away. He was momentarily blinded by bright lights and consoles. When his eyes adjusted to the light he saw humans all around him. Many of the humans were wearing lab coat and a few were heavily armed. A man looking quite a bit like a politician stepped in front him. "This is the third damn simulation! I'm tired of wasting time on this thing." "This isn't easy. We'll eventually get the psyche to accept the new interface." An older woman with long gray hair stepped around and stood beside the politician. From beyond the armed guards a voice called out, "Move!" The soldiers stepped aside revealing Guchi Atanari. "The son of a bitch killed me again! This guy must really cakin' hate me! I was this close to encoding him this time too! Your monster cut my head off!" Ichiro clearly recognized him as Guchi Atanari. However this man was no emperor. His face had been riddled with piercings. His skin was marked with ink. His royal attire had been replaced with sandles, shorts and a shirt declaring him to be, "The Most Awesome." "You took to damn long!" The politician shouted. "Oh? Have you tried fighting this damn thing? Let me adjust his damn protocols for cake's sake." Guchi protested. "No." The woman in the lab coated chided. "It doesn't work like that. The combat protocol only triggers him to fight. The skill is all organic. That's all him." "Oh, yeah. This Red-One guy here, he was some kind of super-bad ass. Part of some big bad merc outfit. This guys a genuine swordsmen of the old school." The politician said cheerfully. "Now he works for us-or he would if you people would get your heads out of your asses." Guchi scoffed and chortled. "So I'm people now? The whole time I've been here it's been alien this and alien that. Xenphobes." "Oh? Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black? Why are you here? Oh because you got some kind of big idea about seperating renu from the rest of the universe." Guchi crossed his arms and shook his head back and forth smugly. "Nope. I'm here because someones paying me a lot of money. I've never even been to renu and I don't give a shit what they do. Or what you do for that matter. So long as you keep paying me." "Let's do it again!" Guchi turned and passed back through the soldiers. The fluid began filling again and Ichiro faded into blackness. Lord Ichiro of the Akana Clan and son of the house of Kato, found himself standing on the battlements of the imperial palace. He couldn't help feeling like he had been here before. "Oh well." He said and raised his gaze to the sky. That sky...

### Feedback on content graciously accepted. ### Edited: Format. ### NSFW. I can feel the bright lights overhead shining forcefully. It’s harder to keep my eyes open against these beams, but she told me that I’m fine, and to just wait it off like everything else I took. I’ve been down this street about every day in my youth. I live at the end of the road, past the dead empty buildings and the lights above them. She keeps walking ahead of me toward the cross road and I’m trying to keep up with a rushed walk. “Slow up a bit, alright,” I told her. “I mixed a little.” She stopped. “Walk faster,” she didn’t turn her head. “This is why I never bring you out.” I know she only continues this routine of post-event anger so I wouldn’t want to come around to embarrass her. She felt entitled in a way to bring along the longtime friend that was always there. The drugs were her biggest fear, somewhat for her image, but mainly for my safety. It was always available, so I would pop a pill and chase it down with whichever drink I had in my hand, and smoke a bit. On occasion, I crush it up and put it underneath my tongue, the bitter numbness - being the only regretful aspect - would fade within minutes. The aftertaste lingered for much longer, and spread around the edges of my gums; I preferred popping them. We seemed to adapt differently as we aged, from what I’ve noticed since I last saw her. She used to be adamant about searching for a distraction from her frequent night terrors, but knowing her, knowing Sophia, I felt everything seep in when the lights dulled out at night. Then her distractions became repetitive for me; I told her how we had to replace what we remember with memorable moments, not go to the theatre to watch more of the same movie rewritten and recast. Thinking about what she said, This is why I never bring you out. To hear her say a repeated phrase used against her to the one person never ashamed to be around her, doesn’t affect me. There were a few years when she was forced to be taken care of by a Man her loving mother was dating. Time spent over her house on weekends revealed much that I was forced not to say over a promise she swore me to. Over time I could only stare blankly in her direction - at the moment towards the back of her head. She used to glow before that Man began dating her mother, but soon she became disappointingly familiar; a woman whose face decayed into a moldable mask. I hated it, but I could do nothing about it except to accept the result of the effect that Man had. Imagining her face in profile right now gives me a mental image of a sleek side with untouchable steel-dark hair, and the other an ugly, changing clay, fit in the shape of half a woman’s face. “This is why I never bring you out!” The Drunk Man would yell at her with a bit of shrapnel my way. Especially in public, his whiskey bubbles spattering across her face through his yellow teeth, and she would face him in acceptance. I would look around with my shoulders shrugged up and my eyes low and my hands in my pockets. I saw still faces that seemed to darken with pity and disappointment; none of them offered a hand despite the scene. I assumed they felt comfortable knowing they would go back to a loving household with a safe family. They never thought about how terrible it could be beneath the surface in Sophia’s house. They never saw how horrible it would be when we would arrive to the car, secluded from the audience. He knew nobody could see anything, so when he slapped her upper thigh around, or smacked her upside the head here and now, or taped her mouth just because he didn’t like the sound of her voice, I would sit in the backseat staring straight out of the window. I never liked thinking about what could be happening when I wasn’t around for those five days out of the week. She often chose to skip those conversations. I thought to myself about something she would often say to me when we were younger, but I lost it. All because of the sun-like radiance above the buildings; I notice how Sophia’s deep dark hair shines against it. The lights made us feel safe when we moved back and forth between each other’s houses years ago; we lived on opposite sides of this oddly empty shopping center strip. Nothing there had been open for years except a lonely laundromat and a dingy beer store. Both were closed by nine in the evening, about five hours ago. The lights above were always on, and even though the signs on the markets would be partly hanging on a hinge, dimly flickering every few seconds, the bright white lights stayed on steadily in assistance. “C’mon you don-” My slur was interrupted with a screech, reminding me of the animals that would act out inside their cages at the zoo. Even the calm ones, they would throw a shitfit every so often. While I jogged to catch up, I stopped in a sway, mainly from the noise of the shattering collision. There was a loud crack and POP and then tire screeching, or a rough boom and THUD then someone screaming, but I didn’t leap back. I tried to gasp, and thought my jaw dropped, but I could hardly feel my breathing. The slurred suddenness surprised me as little as a game of peek-a-boo. I feel all of Sophia leaving so fast, but it’s almost as if she gave me a warm goodbye hug the moment I heard her leather jacket flapping by me toward the building. She isn’t here anymore than I am, but I could still stand and wake up tomorrow and go through the motions. Staring at her now, legs mangled with an unplugged expression, I knew. And so did the Man in the car, the Man in the car that sped in a swerve and tackled Sophia and sent her body crashing against the stained wall beside me. This Man opened his door. The Drunk Man left Sophia’s mom one morning after his early fix. “Come mierda,” He said while he sped off in his dusty Honda Civic. I once thought that was the brand of drink he always had. That day he almost crashed into the fence protecting her garden. Sophia’s mom’s garden consisted of some apple seeds, hopeful tomato sprouts, and fake flowers. Sophia and I would see her intentionally water the plastic plants without understanding. We confronted her once and attempted to show her the ridiculousness. Watering fake plants? But despite what we said she continued to drizzle water on those lifeless imitations. When I got older I learned what that Drunk Man said, and I couldn’t imagine how low a person could fall to be partners with such negativity. To be innocent in an avalanche of harsh pronunciations that cut deep and manifested inside her. But, those were his last words to a woman who truly loved the unlovable, self-loathing drunk. Poor, weak woman. Even if she had the slightest idea of what Sophia had to withstand, when she would be stabbed with the edges of those insults, she would have continued with the Drunk Man out of some form of misplaced love or comfort. “Sophia?” She didn’t respond, the shine in her black hair only offering pain. The hood of the car has a deep dent that looks as if it were attempting to swallow her whole. I wiped the blood off my face while the Man came running over to me. His face is wet and he stinks like alcohol that poured through her neighborhood park at night, usually into the men who would later join an apprehensive family. The Drunk Man would often join those in the park, and they always felt the need to exceed their limits during weekends. I would be in the living room when he stormed through the front door, and he would square up his fists and stare with glazed eyes. “Up.” That’s the only warning I would receive before the first hard jab. I would stand, and I would get hit head-body-head. Repeat. Did he ever fight that forcefully with his friends? Regardless, it felt terrible and the succeeding soreness was the worst. The Drunk Man threatened us, and gave us a short verbal script to recite if ever asked: ‘I fell over on my bike’ or ‘I was playing too rough with my friends’. His motive was never clear; as if it was driven by some cruel intrinsic lust. “No mas,” I would say. He would laugh at my pronunciation, and move to Sophia’s room. From where I was allowed to sleep, I heard words with the intent of smashing down each individual brick of a young girl’s foundation of confidence. One by one, her backbone was destroyed and her programming was now ‘yes, I’m sorry’ and to wear lady-like clothing, and to always say blame me for her bruised arms since we ‘played too rough’. I remember one night in the kitchen, I had a knife clenched in my hands. My pale white fingertips around the grip of the sharp tool felt empowering. That weapon would’ve been all it would take to end the belittlement she was undeserving of. I had a fire coursing through me; it hurt when I put the blade down, to not go upstairs to his room, and rip the instrument across his neck. The Man who drove the car stared at me with a face of uncertainty. I countered, I knew him well. He could see my eyes and I noticed his discreet reaction. That judgmental look they glare at me with when I pass by on the sidewalk or pay for my food. Maybe he’s thinking of an opportunity to get out of this situation: Drugged up Teen Leapt in Front of Car. Or maybe he is scared of the jail cell surely closing in around him soon. The Man could be thinking about his sins, about repenting, about his possible partner, last time he had sex, possible children, or everything he wish he continued pursuing in his youth. He wouldn’t stand up straight. He is afraid to confront the lights, cowering over with whines and heaves, ducked in place. “Why don’t you run?” I asked the Man who drove the car. “Where is your phone? Did you check her pulse? Oh my…shit!,” He dropped down to his knees and slapped his hands to his weeping cheeks. The Drunk Man never cried. He would just grab us when Sophia yelled too loud inside or cried because she missed her mom. Her mother would be at work; she was a nurse working graveyard shifts which allowed each of them some time to take care of her without paying for a kid-sitter. “Why don’t you run?” I asked the Man. His back moved in oddly timed convulsions until he stopped crying. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see her. I wasn’t…I was only…” He stood up with his hands now firmly tugging at his hair. “I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. I… I need to call an ambulance. The police. I’m going to jail, I killed a person. What…how the fuck.” He dropped on to the curb intensifying his sobbing while he dialed 911. His phone screen gleamed with his tears. “Why don’t you go away?” The man raised his eyebrows; I couldn’t stop squinting from the bright lights above the buildings. So I look around for a spot to avoid directly staring at the unbearable brightness. I notice his headlights are Yellow, a dingy Yellow that is never pleasing to see. The Yellow that makes you feel uncomfortable next to that stranger in an elevator. The Yellow trapping you to your desk while you work for a shit employer. The Yellow stripes they wrap around police investigation scenes. Yellow and Red. I didn’t notice the Red earlier. The Red is shining against the wall like one of those out-of-date overhead projectors, except for color it was only blotted shadows. They aren’t too bad – they aren’t bright and I could look at them without threat. I moved over to his car. Sophia has been dead, and this Man will never leave. “I need help!” The call reached through to the emergency line by the time I opened his car door. The Drunk Man would call her names: Pendeja. Cabeza de meirda. He would slap her after the comments to add injury to insult. “Why did you keep hitting her?” I asked. I put my seatbelt on and his shitty radio station is screeching high pitched beats with a singer whose voice did not much improve the track. I changed it to something more relaxed, with a bass that massages. I’m slapping my index fingers against the steering wheel in sync with the beat; I like this one. He doesn’t respond, so I shift the car in reverse and roll parallel to the Man. The lights above the buildings shine bright through the spider-webbed windshield and it’s hard for me to see the Man through the crackled glass. “It was an accident! I swear it!” The man had his phone against his ear while he spoke to the operator, but more so to me. Then, specifically to the operator, he explains the entire incident to the safe lady on the other end of the phone signal. I blared the horn for what felt like an actual minute. He dropped his phone through a sewage drain close by from the sudden shock. “Shit. I was getting help. We need to get an ambulance as soon as we can. We might still have a chance…everything is so fast,” the Man said. He seemed to want to vomit. “You don't help.” I wrapped my palms around his steering wheel. “She said no.” I felt electrifying vibrations from the steering wheel that coursed through to what felt like the base of my skull. I adjust the rear view mirror for a second and notice I’ve sweated through my shirt. “What are you talking about?” The Man has a small drop of blood in the middle of the thin shade of Purple on his cheek. He doesn’t try to approach, even though he is the bigger of us two and I am in his vehicle. Instead, he stays in his lowered position with fits of cries and thumping. He yelps sorry, cries forgive me, and pleads for a reverse switch. _Just stay out of it._ But it wasn’t fair to her, for her to have been belittled so much to the point where she became flattened. Where her confidence had been driven over for years and years and years of her life, when I would stay over every weekend and hear her being hit, or watch her verbally tormented in silence. I grew numb to it all; over time it became a certain part of the day like lunch. Through her courage, she took it all in alone and denied any form of aid. “Stop talking to her like that!” I would say early on. He would approach and she would move fast in between us and push him back. “Don’t get involved, please,” she would ask me softly. Then a firm, calloused hand would jerk her head to the side and he would approach me. I didn’t mind. I wanted to help her, ease her situation in any way I could. But she stood taller than I ever have and commanded no. So I complied with what she asked. Thuds, nothing; screams, silence; bouncing, nothing. I like this song; I turn the dial all the way up. It has a funk type sound with deep bass and a singer whose voice improves the beat. I slammed the door shut, reclined the seat back, and felt everything about the music. Go. Why not? Why wouldn’t he? It isn’t like it wouldn’t have been the first time he ran out on her. After all of the damage he did to her he just leaves with no justice. What happened to her wasn’t justified; she never provoked any encounter with the Drunk Man. “Run.” I say to him through the window. I moved my seat upright and deepened my voice, “Go!” “I can’t,” he says. He’s accepting the situation, and seems to almost express his need for punishment. He looks up at me and I stare at his willing face. It almost looks as if he wants me to go through with it. I should have done it a long time ago that night in the kitchen, but I didn’t want to be like him. I turn the knob flashing his high beams in his face, and I watch him squint. I want him to feel the pain we were put through all those years. I was in direct control of the light, and I flashed it against him hoping it sizzled against his addiction. Hoping it would continue to itch and burn at him until the bulbs explode with a life threatening shatter. The Man, forearm across his face shielding the light away from his guilt-ridden eyes froze in place. Maybe this was a good guy at heart but he just had a little too much one night. He treated everyone fairly and laughed with others. He probably had a few good stories and a joke or not. Said ‘God bless you’ every time you sneezed, and held elevator doors for people and didn’t make a form of ‘fuck off’ clear of the throat if a person is only going one floor up. I thought about these things for a moment, but when I turned my head in the reclined seat earlier I saw a few empty beer cans and the smell that stained his car brought back all the smells left behind by this Drunk Man. Right now, I’m staring at a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting upright in the cup-holder in between the seats. I felt the wheel vibrating against my sweaty palms to a new song with only heavy drops of bass and a hook every couple dozen seconds consisting of about five catchy words. I heard the sirens. The whirring’s were making my head spin and twist and jerk. I lifted all the windows and turned the volume dial entirely to the right. My sound disrupted their noise, the building lights overwhelmed the Red and Blue lights. But I felt a slight transition that allowed more in. I felt more of the building lights, more of the Blue, more of the Red, more of the dashboard’s glowing dials, more of the Man’s shining face drenched with the torment of his accident. But no lights came from the starless night. All of the stars were attached to the buildings. The Drunk Man hasn’t stopped crying, and his pleas are ambiguous to me. I notice him in a form of begging position; he deserves no favors. The sirens are louder. Did he ever consider Sophia’s pleas? My interventions? I let go. My hand firmly on the E-brake while I revved up the accelerator to about twenty, then felt every inch of the car burning alive with the same intensity in me. The Red and Blue lights were speeding towards the scene. I closed my eyes, shifted down, and let myself go. The car collided against the dingy beer store where the Drunk Man laid in between as a bloody barrier. I flung in place with my seatbelt when the car lights scattered against the wall and floor, shutting off against the wall. The Man’s face is wetter still, but I feel free now. I open the door and stood in front of the Drunk Abusive Man who has damaged the lives of the countless. “She isn’t around to tell me not to act up anymore,” I said. “You were the unsafe one.” I spat out targeting him, but missed, hitting the window of the dingy beer store. The Drunk Man couldn’t respond anymore and the sirens are growing, but I stayed. I stared at his weakened state partly hoping his earlier pleas were for me to rid him of a life ridden with a guilty conscience. I began walking home right up the road passing the hallowed buildings from our youth, and the bright lights over them, and blood stains that will hold stories for a long time to come for passerby’s to gossip about. Sophia was set free from her daily turmoil, and the Man responsible for the years of her heartbreaking condition is gone for the moment. I didn’t receive any release of past tensions. My memories of it all lived past Sophia, nightmares and all. What if I run into this Dead Drunk Man again? I possibly have a daughter in the future and she returns with the Man, this time with long blonde hair and innocent enough eyes, but needs his fill every night. What if I’m taking a stroll down the road in town and overhear the one-sided arguments that would be a squeamish site if the pain, the verbal abuse, could be made visible? One of the only remaining stores on this strip will continue manufacturing these abusers. Maybe they will close up shop because of this Dead Drunk Man’s blood across its windows, acting as a head on a spike warning those who approach. Realistically, it means nothing, because there will always be another on a brightly lit strip of a shopping center where more beer and wine and spirits and IPA’s and bottles with entertainer endorsements sit on the counter. Red and Blue and Yellow and White lights all danced around me in spontaneously scattered beams and blots. This made me feel lighter, and I almost wanted to dance to the beat of the flickering. The radio in the Drunk Man’s car busted on impact and the substitution of the car sirens were unwanted to say the least. I only have a swollen wrist and some bumps but I can’t feel them as much as I want to. Staring at my arm I feel as if I fractured a part of it, but I don’t know. Why don’t I hurry? Sophia left in peace with the assurance that not another mask has to be placed to please others around her, or to be whipped by the snappy tongue of the Man after his nights. One of the first nights I visited, I came over to drop off her backpack and I saw him on the ground, sprawled out against his belly breathing heavily with loud interrupting snores. Back then I could feel sympathy within an instant, and I wanted to be able to help this Man get up from the living room floor to his bedroom. I slapped against his back and asked if he needed help up. Without turning my head to face their violent lights, I broke into a sprint towards the end of the road where the last empty building laid vacant at the cutoff point of the shopping center strip. I need to get home. He spoke in a sluggish tone that was undecipherable. ‘Get up’ I would continue to say to him, I increased the intensity of the pounding on his back. But he was out. Despite every strike or shout to wake him up, he stayed in the same helpless position. That night I wanted to kill him while he laid there in his completely vulnerable position. Instead, I told Sophia and she laid out a blanket for him to roll comfortably in. The wind feels icy against my skin. I raise my hands up to my face and scanned all their details. The grooves and curves and swerves of our fingertips, all art hopefully made by an artist. The lights started falling behind me and I lost the small details on my fingertips. Car doors were opened with an intensity that could’ve broken them off their hinges. Then, voices were spoken and commands were made and demands were ignored. I felt incredible running freely, faster than I’ve been able to before. There were no cries anymore from anyone in the shopping center; no cries to worry about in general. My eyes grew weary from the squinting earlier, and the lights guiding the way for me have all been past. I’m gaining ground on the dark from what I can tell of what I last saw, past the buildings that are past the lights transfixed on top of them as gargoyles. My eyes fail to adjust to the deep darkness so I shut them.

To contend with Madness is to defend your sanity. We are all trapped in our heads, there is no escape, there is nothing more. Our minds are a small galaxy and each of us add to the multiverse of the human existence. Your bloodline is your universe. We are all distant but on some cosmic scale ever so close. We can if we really try reach out, sort of like a highly advanced telescope spying on the surrounding cosmos, and dig in to the endless wonders of a neighboring universe. And if you know how and what to look for the data can be immense and overwhelming. We are all moving away from each other at a staggering pace, starting from the time we began. We hide parts of ourselves that can never be found, and with enough time not even by the hider themselves. Our secrets overlap secrets that overlap secrets overlapping a distant face of the truth. The parts of our soul that are hidden are locked in a sort of safe that's filled with other smaller safes. It is reopened from time to time and another safe with a different combination is neatly tucked in next to all the rest. The individual combinations have been lost with time and only so many safes can ever be opened. Even when you think you have successfully communicated with a distant galaxy it is only a illusion to the true contents. You only receive ripples from an ever filling lock box. The real makeup of any soul is only fragments of the Truth. You can trace backs their steps, study their orbits, even predict future reactions, and gather all the evidence available. But alas in the end you are only left with theories and no observable science to test, no universal key to their lock box. The mysteries that are trapped there are some no longer even known to the hider themselves, lost to the dark side. Living inside this false illusion is where the light shines brightest, you can only expose your forgotten past, hidden truths, and the origin of your true nature by exploring the Dark side of your mind, the side of your mind that's orbit never touches the light. A trip there and you will never return the same, if you return at all. The madness, the Darkness, it will forever be intertwined in your being, grabbing ahold, tightening its grip, and never letting go. But there in that darkness will be the long lost combinations of your past, and future. It will not be easily spotted and it will not be easily obtained. The trip is worth the burden, outweighs the risk of never leaving the comfort, the light. To make this trip is to make the most of your galaxy and better understand the multiverse that surrounds us all. As Alexander Dumas wrote "there is neither happiness nor misery in the world, there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness." so Travel to the Dark Side of your Mind, and Contend With Madness.

The Americans were the first to fall, shortly followed by Western Europe and the many island nations surrounding us. The South American jungles still held pockets of resistance, but we had not heard of them for months. I am afraid. We do not have much here, not any more. Melbourne is a war-zone, the rest of the Eastern coast is nothing but bodies and ruined homes. Relics of a fallen age. I've thought about this a great deal, gone through a dozen drafts, but I've finally found the words I need. We are all thats left, the remains of the Chinese and Russian armies have joined us. We're spread out in the out back, buried bunkers and with whatever we could carry. Past rivalries are irrelevant now, soon they will come for us, I do not have much time. Whoever reads this, remember us. They stole my family from me, my life, we are no mutinous colony, this is not an Empire. This is our home. They have offered any who come forward unarmed a place in their civilization; a new home. We do not need a home, we're standing on it. Previously I wasn't a soldier, I was a blue collar worker. One of the boys, a Bazza, a Hunter, Jacky. But now I'm just another guy in a high-tech fox hole, next to another Asimov or Hao. I didn't want this war, didn't want any war. But they didn't give us a choice. I am not an ANZAC, not an Australian, ain't no Kiwi's anymore either. No Russians, Americans, Chinese or British. We're Earthlings now. Although those bastards in the sky might not want you to, remember us. This is our planet, it is not some wasteland. Unfortunately, we're just like the original natives of the soil we stand on now. Bothersome. Maybe one day I'll find the boys again, maybe we can forget this. Maybe the Kalash in my hands can help me, but if it doesn't, then god help us all. [Blood renders the rest of the document unreadable] - Found on the body of a Australian trooper, stationed in Uluru combined forces base, four days after the final push for victory by Emporer Hylra's first legion. [Notes] - Kalash was Russian slang for the Kalashnikov line of fire arms designed by the Russian Confederacy. The model most likely used by this soldier was an AKM-506U, designed in 2206. - A new Vassal state of Australia now exists, composed of double its original land mass, with its own laws and preserved culture. The Government at the time refused to negotiate surrender, although that was the wisest course of action. - The original "Anglo" ethnic group, dominant culturally at the time successfully integrated into the empire soon after. Slavic, Balkan and many central Asian cultures (among others) failed to do so, resulting in their extinction.

**There was nothing we could do. Or was there?** Myrcella used to tell us a story about this spectrum that would rise from the grounds and transmute itself into a woman. She, or it, was to be called "The Guardian of the Worlds". Everytime something very bad was about to happen, I would stare at the ground hoping to see her emerge. It was okay to believe in her, I was only a child. And everything was fine until now. So maybe she was real indeed. Guiscard used to tell us some stories too. I have to say his stories were no good. It was about this being that was asleep since the birth of the universe. I'm not sure if it was there before time itself, or if it was born with the cosmos. The thing is that someday this being would wake up and cease all existence. I think today is that day. It is a sunny day. A very hot day. Our forests started burning. Our lake has dried up. Our animals have died. People are losing their heads, running aimlessly, fornicating, killing each other, screaming that we are doomed. I was okay until the sky turned dark. It's not night but I can see the stars. I'm starting to wonder if we are really doomed. The only thing I can do right now is hope that Myrcella's stories are real. **The Guardian of the Worlds has risen inside a forsaken library.** **She could use some help from the ancients.

There are plenty of interesting ways to die – Fall in battle, Get mauled by a bear, Strung up by the King’s men for treason. Me? I fell out of a tree. Yep, that’s right. At the ripe old age of fourteen summers, David Chalmen, fell out of a tree picking an apple for a girl he was sweet on. Legend made. I slipped on moss and took a nosedive straight towards the ground, heard my own neck snap before everything went dark. When I woke up I was still on the hilltop, where the lone apple tree stood, the grass no longer green but a murky grey. The sky no longer blue but a still white. The sun hung in the same shade as a bad bruise. I still held the apple, it was far from the delicious looking fruit that Mandy Simmons had demanded I retrieve for her. The apple was thin, withered and black, it looked like it would kill a man stone dead. So I took a bite out of it anyway. I knew I was dead from the moment I had opened my eyes, so to hell with it, the first thing I would do is take a bite out of the prize I had thrown my life away for. Needless to say it tasted like shit; the texture of ash and just as dry. I immediately spat it into the dirt. I spent the next few days exploring the landscape of what I had assumed to be purgatory, too harrowing to be heaven and much too dull to be hell. The world of the dead was nearly a replica of the world of the living but with all the colour, all the life, drained away. The only noticeable differences were the obelisks that I found scattered across the terrain, big stone things that looked absolutely pointless. They rose at least fifty feet, I felt like each and everyone of them challenged me so I did the only thing I could think of, and tried to climb one. I nearly reached the top when an eye opened in front of me on the obelisk, scared the death out of me. I hit the ground harder than I had when I fell from the tree, apparently you can’t die twice in purgatory but you can gain a sore arse from the experience. Days soon turned into weeks, months, years and then time became something long forgotten. I wandered the land looking for others. I had imagined there would be others. In the end I begged for there to be others. But there was only me. I wasn’t all lonely though, strangely I found that it’s the living that haunt the dead. Several days after my attempt at climbing the obelisk I walked into a town neighboring my home. The town itself was empty but I could hear voices on the wind. I ran from building to building searching for the whispers, the laughter of children, the sound of a couple arguing in the distance but every time I drew near the sound would dissipate, leaving only the sound of my own foot steps. It was maddening, back when I was still new to death I had a child’s mischievous hope that being dead wasn’t all bad. I figured I would at least be able to haunt, tease, prank and entertain myself with the same tomfoolery that I had in life. Death was boring. For a time I stayed as far away from the inhabited areas as I could. Exploring the countryside or simply just wandering, lost in my own thoughts for that is all I had. Eventually though I kept being drawn back into town, chasing the ghosts of the living so hard that I felt I could explode. It was cruel and I certainly didn’t deserve it. One of my adventures into a town led me to a tavern. I was never allowed in any alehouse or taproom when I was alive, of course with my friends I had tried to sneak in several times but were always thrown out on our rears or earned ourselves a clip round the ear for attempting such boyish dreams of drinking before we had met maturity. It seemed petty now but no one could stop me from sitting at the bar and so, there I sat. The apple was sat in front of me on the bar, whole as if my teeth had never broken the wrinkly skin. The damn fruit followed me everywhere, every time I threw it in frustration, kicked it into the distance or reluctantly ate the thing in anger it would appear in front of me again. Sometimes all it would take was for me to turn around, and there it was, other times it appeared days later but always the apple was my shadow. It had come to the point where I now spoke to it as if it were a person. At first I spoke to it of my hate, my anguish, blaming the fruit for my very demise. There is, however, only so long a person can hate a piece of fruit., Eventually I began retelling the tales of adventures my friends and I had. I spoke to it of my mother, and of how she would tell me stories even when I proclaimed myself an adult and too old for such nonsense. I missed her stories now. At the bar I imagined the apple frowning at me as I asked it for a glass of its finest sweet summer cider, it was not amused. The tavern was in my home-town, and the town itself had changed over time, buildings appearing out of thin air, roads built in and out of the centre,and farmsteads swallowed as the place grew, however the tavern remained unchanged from when I had snuck in as a boy, so it felt like home to me. After a time I could hear conversation starting to pick up around me as I sat on the bar, staring at my accompanying apple. The ghosts came early that day, funny how I should call them ghosts when in truth I was the one dead. It had taken years but I finally managed to catch some of the conversation that happened in the world of the living. I found the tavern and other places of social gathering to be the best places to eavesdrop. A big man sat next to me and gave out a bellowing laugh, the kind a drunk man gets when he finally catches on to a joke. I could see the people in the bar as flashes of translucent blue, incorporeal but still the most real people I had in my life. It took awhile before I finally caught on to what the big man had roared laughing at. He was repeating a story about a boy who thought himself the best climber in all of town. The boy had boasted this to the prettiest girl in town, and in turn the she had challenged his claim and requested that he pick the fruit from the tallest branch of the tallest tree…. I knew the rest of the story. The man laughed again and my anger rose. I knew the attempt would be fruitless but went to pick up his mug and throw it across the bar, for an instance I felt it. I felt the feeling of the solid wood on my hand, I felt the liquid inside slosh as I applied force to the container… but then my hand passed right through it. Startled, confused, and in disbelief but even more so when mere seconds later the mug flew from the man’s hand, slid along the bar and shattered against the tavern wall. I heard the sound of objects breaking, the sound of other mugs being thrown off the bar in the wake of the one I had thrown. At that point I panicked, I was both excited and scared. The ghosts of the living all made an uproar, terrified by the paranormal disturbance, and then they vanished. Gone as fast as they had appeared. I ran. Ran through the streets of my hometown, ran through the hills and valleys until I was as far away from everything as possible, once again I sought to hide. This was a different kind of hiding though, I hid for the very same reason a child hides when they’re in trouble and that is what I wanted. I wanted to be in trouble, I wanted someone to come find me and rebuke me for throwing the mug across the bar. After countless years in this desolate world I was finally able to change something, to force people to recognize my existence. After my discovery I tried time and time again to effect the world of the living. At times I succeeded. Small things really. I was able to move objects very subtly, like the hands on a clock or pushing a bowl of sweets closer to a child as her mother’s back was turned. Eventually I worked out that the more I willed, the more I resolved to make something in the living world move, the more likely it would be to be able to do it. After spending time in purgatory with very little to do my desire for entertainment was a strong one. Whenever I could, I relived my boyhood mischievous ways; taunting, teasing, pranking – I felt I had some life back in me. I suppose if I had not died that day under the tree I would be well into my years as an adult, more mature, however in this world between heaven and hell I had not aged a day, mentally or physically. Once again for a time – for that is all I had, time – I wandered the land playing mischief where I could. It was a hard earned thing where I had to exert every fiber of my essence in able to make an object move, but it was worth it. However even the most mischievous pranks can become repetitive and eventually I grew bored of the little terrors I was able to inflict upon the world. Don’t get me wrong, when given nothing to do I was quite happy to haunt a local family or make mischief with some stuck-up busybody, but even the dead get restless. One day I found myself wandering the hilltop with the apple tree once again. I came here often, as if drawn to not only the place but the point in time in which I died. I still had the apple with me, it had appeared in my hand as I reached the base of the hill as if it too wanted to return home. The tree in which it came from was still standing tall in the center of the hill. I had no animosity towards the tree, it had played a part in my current situation, yes, but it was no more to blame than the apple I held in my hand. As I reached the base of the tree I sat down, my back against the trunk, to watch the grey grass sway and the purple sun hang in a near-colourless sky. It was at that moment I heard giggling, a boy stood in front of me, incorporeal like any other living ghost. He laughed and pointed towards the top of the tree. For a moment I had thought he had aimed his gesture at me but I turned around to see a young girl climbing from one branch to another. Immediately I knew dread, I watched as she climbed higher. It was hard to see details on a person due to the ghost’s translucent nature but the girl looked to be of a similar age to me, I had only hoped she was a better climber. She wasn’t. It only took a second, then the girl slipped on the very same branch that I had slipped upon, her fingers wrapped around the very same apple I held in my own hand, withered and dry. The girl fell, unlike me she had the grace to fall backwards instead of face-first, but from that height, no matter her position, she would be dead. Instinct drove me to my feet, I ran to make it in time, willing every fibre of my being, every inch of my willpower that I would be able to catch her. As I reached the spot in which she would violently meet the ground, I tossed the apple and placed my arms ready to catch her, fully expecting her to fall through me, crash into the ground, ending her life as a similar fall had once ended mine. She hit me. I mean, really hit me. The full weight of her body against mine, I cushioned her fall. Just for a moment in time, for a brief second, she was nestled against my chest. In that instance the world was no longer dull. No longer the bleak landscape where colour failed to exist. For one whole breath I could see the world as I once had. The sky was blue, the grass was green and the girl who looked up at me as she was cradled in my arms, held a delicious red apple. I exhaled, for what seemed to be the first time in a decade, and the girl fell through my arms, dropping gently to the floor. All at once, the world once again became washed out, the colour drained from my vision, the girl became a ghost, and then disappeared. Rolling to rest at my grey and dusty feet, the apple lay; shiny, round and red.

To defend your madness is to defend your sanity. They are infinitely linked, eternally combined, a part of all of us no matter the frailty of the denial or the strength of the conformation. We are all trapped in our heads, there is no escape, there is nothing more. Our minds are a small galaxy and each of us add to the multiverse of the human existence. With your bloodline being your universe. We are all on the deepest levels at an extreme distance from each other but on a cosmic scale ever so close. We can if we really try and reach out, attempt to connect, like a highly advanced telescope spying on the surrounding cosmos, and dig into the endless wonders of the neighboring universe. And if you know how and what to look for the data can be immense and overwhelming. But never the less an illusion to a true connection. We are all moving away from each other at a staggering pace, starting from the time we began. We hide parts of ourselves that can never be found, and with enough time not even by the hider themselves. Our secrets overlap secrets that overlap secrets that's overlapping a distant face of the Truth. The part of ourselves that are hidden are locked in a safe that's filled with other smaller safes. It is reopened from time to time and a smaller safe with a different combination is neatly tucked in next to all the rest. The individual combinations are lost over time and consequently only so many safes can ever be opened. Even when you think you have successfully connected with a distant galaxy it is only an illusion to the true contents. You only receive ripples from an ever filling lock box. The real makeup of any soul is only fragments of the Truth. You can trace back their steps, study their orbits, even predict future reactions, and gather all the evidence available. But alas in the end you are only left with theories and no observable science to test, no universal key to their lock box. The mysteries that are trapped there are most not even obtainable to the author(hider) themselves, lost to the dark side. Living inside this false illusion is where the light shines brightest, you can only expose your forgotten past, hidden truths, and the origin of your true nature by exploring the Dark Side of your Mind, the side of your mind that's orbit never touches the light. A trip there and you will never return the same, if you return at all. The Madness, the Darkness, it will forever be intertwined in your being, grabbing ahold, tightening its grip and never letting go. But there in that darkness will be the long lost combinations of your past, and the keys to your future. The trip is worth the burden, outweighs the risk of never leaving the comfort, the light. To make this trip is to make the most of your galaxy and better understand the multiverse that surrounds us all. My trip has been satisfying and enlightening, although some say I have never returned. But I find solace in something the great Alexander Dumas wrote, " There is neither happiness nor misery in the world, there is only the comparison of one state to another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness." So Travel to the Dark Side of your Mind and contend with your Madness.

Nobody thinks with their head, but they all hope that you’ll think that they do. Why else would everyone take the opinions of others as fact, then try to pass it off to others as the same? I’ve lived in this god-forsaken world long enough to know that when you disagree with someone, it’s not because one of you is right and the other is wrong, but both of you are wrong in your own special way. It’s no use fighting fire with fire, when all you have is sparks. My whole life I lived in this haze, somewhere between a progressive society and post apocalyptic ruins. My city was annihilated by a war that was not fought by guns and bombs, but by pens and pencil pushers. Our city was torn down and emptied of life by the demon of economics, and now it’s left so many of our buildings deserted, and our people disenfranchised, that it doesn’t matter whether or not the demons haunt us; Our city will continue to wallow in squalor and misery for decades now, even without the interference of demons. Here I stand, on a streetcorner in Dorforck. This city is renowned for it’s dangerous streets and empty factories. My father’s father’s, and many others during the wars some five decades ago, laboured and thrived in this industrial town. Now look at us. We’ve been reduced to the wallowing result of decades of mistreatment and mediocrity. Our once beautiful streets could be piled high with the bodies of our dead fathers rolling in their graves at the thought of how we are forced to live in their city. Damn, Them, All. We’re here now, and we are demanding change. The fire that I had lit burned in the courthouse window, as my followers ransacked the town. The entire town, west of the river at least, was going to be gone by morning. It was time, and every damn person there knew it. “Are you coming?” Cory shouted from the streets below me. I stood on the steps of the courthouse, listening to the wailing sirens, and the roaring hush of the fire behind me. “We’ve got to move before they get here!” He shouted, motioning me down from my perch. “This is where I stay,” I stated plainly. “We all have to stand somewhere, and this is my place.” “But they’ll kill you, or worse!” Cory urged, charging up the courthouse steps towards me. Drawing to a halt at the heat of the flames, he spoke again. “I understand,” he mumbled, into the face of my resolution. “Dorforck or no fork, eh?” He said whimsically, echoing my battlecry. “Dorfork or no fork,” I repeated. For the first time, I realized how foolish that sounded. I had always said that I would die, if need be, to prove my cause right. The freedom of my city, and the well being of it’s people, demanded attention from the dystopian government of our sick, sick, times. I had never expected to stand in front of the symbol of their own mismanagement, just to die by their bloodstained hands. Yet, here I stood. “Are you sure it’s now?” Cory pleaded. “You could make and even greater impact later!” He practically shouted over the inferno behind me, it seared and twisted the hair on my head as he spoke. “This is the greatest impact that I could ever make,” I said, once again surprising myself by my own calmness. “The rest will be up to you and the others,” I looked him in the eye as I spoke, for the first time since our last meeting. It struck me how handsome he was, and how much he could have been. . . in another time and place. “Goodbye,” Cory shouted above the roar of the flames, as I could see his face beginning to redden from the heat. “I’ll never forget all that you’ve done.” He leaned forwards, kissing me tenderly on the mouth for a long moment. Tears filled his eyes as he pulled away, dashing back to the street. “Make sure you’re not the only one,” I shouted. I, too, was struggling to maintain my resolve in the face of what had to come. I gripped the trigger, as Cory and the rest of my followers sprinted into a back alley, only seconds before the authorities screeched to a stop in front of me. “Step down from the flames, sir!” One of them shouted, as he leveled his gun at me. I smiled as he spoke again, “This is your only warning!” Time froze. I felt nothing. I released the trigger. Suddenly, and for only a split second, I saw all of the brightness of heaven. The explosives that had been carefully positioned by Cory and my followers erupted in blue and gold, engulfing the false authorities before me. I glanced into my hand at my last moment of life, admiring the craftsmanship and artful weight of the dead man’s switch within it.

//This is my first submission here so I'm not exactly sure of the rules. I've submitted under an alias because I'm not sure I'm ready to have this associated with my main account. This is also the very first piece of fiction, or writing at all for that matter, that I've put together. I welcome any and all feedback.// In the moment that Jack made the decision to die there was no relief. He knew that there would be no solace in the decision; he had saved no one, not even himself. It was a failure on every level, but saving his own life would be worse. He was shivering as he held his son close; the adrenaline had run out and every last ounce of energy drained from his body. The crying was coming back into focus. He hadn't heard it for minutes - or was it hours? How long had he been out there? It didn't matter any longer. It didn't matter if he had minutes or hours left. Jack's only thoughts were focused on his son. Jack had never been a good father. For the first two years of his son's life he barely saw him. While on the surface it seemed like he was working to provide for his family, in reality he worked to create a barrier between him and them. He clung to the office for as long as possible before slipping back home. Friends and family never saw work for what it was. When they saw them together in the evening and weekends everything looked picture perfect. There was endless doting, teaching and fun. Now that the evenings were long and the air warm it was sailing season again, something Jack and his son found both exhilarating and calming. It was the perfect activity for them - Jack could disappear into his own mind and escape the world while his son felt the spray of the ocean on his face, driving his sense of adventure. Conspicuously absent from the boat was Cate. She never found any joy in sailing or for the ocean. Too dirty. Too stressful. Too much work. "I'll stay home, and I wish you wouldn't take our son out either. I don't like it." It was the same set of excuses and negativity every week. Cate's depression had left her unable to find the good in anything and it had become viral, spreading to everyone around her. Jack had even noticed his son starting to mimic her. There was more sulking, more of a focus on the problems in his life. He was slowly losing what made him a joy to be around, and with so little time with him every day Jack felt like there was nothing that could be done about it. There was nothing particularly special about that day. Just like every day in California there was a slight breeze over the harbor and the gulls were swarming. The seagulls had increased in numbers since Jack was a kid, likely because of overcrowding in the harbor. More boats meant more money for the harbor, so why wouldn't they build more slips in every dock and overcrowd what little space there was left? You would have thought that increasing dock prices would have attracted a better crowd but instead it seemed there was a sense of entitlement with the new tenants. Fuck the harbor, right? Someone else will clean up the trash. When they left the house Cate wasn't there. She hadn't been at the house all morning which was odd. Normally she slept in on the weekends. Or maybe she just laid in bed hiding from the responsibilities of her life. It didn't matter - regardless, it was nice to know Jack would have the morning alone with his son. Sunscreen - check. Hats - check. Speakers - check. They always listened to Jack's favorite albums on the boat. His son didn't care what was playing; his love for music was the one thing that was clearly from his father. As they passed a couple of college kids on the dock one of them bumped Jack's son nearly knocking him into the water. Jack joked with the kids that his dad reflexes saved the day once again, but Jack's face was clearly saying "Watch where the fuck you're going, kid." They shoved off, slowly floating through the harbor. The wind was low that day on the water, so Jack had to manually paddle them to get going. Jack's son was fidgeting with the speakers; at 4 years old he was particularly adept with technology. About 30 seconds in they heard the familiar "bloo-bloop" which meant bluetooth was connected. It was time for some jams. The moment they turned the corner out of the harbor the wind picked up and they were off. There was no destination in mind, but Jack's son had been wondering what happened when you got so far that you couldn't see land. They had never been that far before - not because there was any danger but because Jack's son typically got too bored to go that far. The wind was strong and the sky clear. As they sailed out perpendicular to the wind the gulls started thinning out. Apparently it's too much work to catch food that doesn't come from a shiny bag or greasy paper, so most of them stay by the docks these days. Jack's son was excited about losing sight of land. There wasn't an ounce of fear in him. Just as the last hill and building dropped off the horizon the music stopped. Jack had made sure the battery was charged before they left - he had forgotten in the past and his son had melted down in the boat many times because of it - so Jack assumed the bluetooth had simply disconnected. One day they'll get it right. "Dad, water. Dad...water. WATER!" yelled Jack's son. They had taken on water before; boats do that. But the intensity in Jack's son's voice let him know that this was different. Jack saw the speaker floating in a couple inches of water while more was gushing in. He lurched forward, trying to plug the hole with his hands but realized quickly there was no stopping it. Shit shit SHIT! Of course there were no life jackets. Today of all days. Check check check that list went without a thought of life jackets. They hadn't capsized in two years and the life jackets were always strapped to the bow of the boat. Where were they now? It was clear they were in trouble, but Jack did everything he could to calm his son down. He took him into his arms as the boat sank, turning to its side as water slowly seeped in to the hull. They sat there as long as the boat would hold them and swam away moments before the last bit went under. Jack's son could tread water but not well, so every bit of Jack's energy went into keeping them both afloat. It wasn't long until Jack's son clung to him, unable to keep his own head above water any longer. Swimming toward land was their only option, but with no land in sight it would be a miracle if they made it. Adrenaline is a funny thing. It'll fill your entire body and mind with a sense of focus, so singular that everything else fades away. But in the middle of the ocean the only thing that fades away is the ocean behind you and the screams of your child. So you swim. Jack swam. There was no way to know if he made any progress; land never came into sight. They may have been stuck in the current or they may simply have been too far. At a certain point Jack knew that his son was only weighing him down and that his only chance of survival was letting him go. That was never an option. As the adrenaline wore down and every ounce of hope left him, Jack could not let go of his son. In the moment that Jack made the decision to die there was no relief. Jack's head went under first. He held up his son's body, keeping his head above water as long as he could. Jack's head popped back above a few more times. The very last time he heard his son screaming out "Mommy!!??!" As his head went under for the last time Jack was filled with disappointment. Not only had he failed himself and his son, but his son's last words were crying out for his mother, not him. His mother could have saved him. She would have. She had said all along that boats were dangerous and she didn't want her son to sail. Jack struggled to hold his breath. His mind flashing back, seeing his son grow up. How happy his wife had been when he was born and how slowly her smiles turned into blank stares. Her warnings about the boat and the ocean. His mind flashed to that morning. That boat. Where had his wife been? Why wasn't she home? How had the hole been created, and where were the life jackets? Jack thought there had been nothing particularly special about that day, but in his last moments he realized that nothing had been right. The ocean swallowed him, with his last sight being his son's feet kicking through the water, keeping himself afloat.

A thin gasping came through the cracked window into the frosty, pre-dawn darkness. Laying on the un-decorated bare mattress within a man, lined and sallow, waited for his death. The withered and ancient face parodied the leafless dark trees that surrounded the decrepit shack, a remnant of shattered civilisation amidst the un-traversed wilderness of the night’s thick brambles. A weak cough wracked the painfully thin frame of the man, causing his whole body to convulse silently under the clothes and blankets that filled the sparse bed. Had he been strong enough to wipe away his spittle, he would have seen flecks of red suspended in the watery mucous. He could feel his finale approaching, and he started to cry at the thought of how little he left behind. Five crosses were there in the tiny farmstead, and there would be no one left to plant the sixth. A brother lost in their youth; children barely walking when illness took them; and a love that had succumbed to winter’s painful fingers only years before. Asides from the bed and the tiny hearth that had burnt out in the night, the room was empty, the remaining furniture broken up as the old man’s memories had been. He cried out plaintively with what little voice he had when he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see a little cart, wheels and body etched with design and smothered in peeling, faded paint. It was too small for any adult; fashioned for a child that never grew old enough to pull it. The sky brightened in the east, and he felt his body shutting down, long aching pains disappearing like hoar frost in the sunlight. His last thought as he slipped away was of his wife holding their newly born child, the messy curls cascading down the rosy cheeked face over the nursing infant as sunlight poured in through the broken window. Through the crack a cock crowed, heralding the coming sun as the last light died in the man’s rheumy, tearful eyes.

The following is an excerpt from a book I am writing; Rainy night. Spheres of water fall upon the soft backs of sleeping grass. The leaves of the trees shiver in the cold wind. The moon breaks briefly through the ceiling of clouds. Soft moonlight is cast upon a small patch of woods northward of a quiet pond. Tiny rain drops touch the surface of the water. Small waves rush in all directions to meet the edge of the pond. The thunder of horse hooves rolls quietly in from a distance. It grows louder. The hooves crash into the water, a horse winnies and the rider charges into the deep of the pond. Moments later, other riders approach. Cruel men, they pull tightly upon the reigns; their horses squeal in disapproval. "He couldn't have just disappeared Coffey! There's nothing out here!" The first rider says. The second rider, William Coffey, pulled his cowl higher and positioned his hood to protect better against the falling rain. The first rider was William's step-father; Berner Keys. Knowing the old man to be particularity irritated he offered, "No way he's in the pond. He couldn't have rode it in th- " "Get in there Coffey!" Berner stabbed his index finger toward the pond. He then produced a small dagger and tossed it to William. "Stab 'im good. Get off your horse and get in there boy!" William sighed, "Damn it. I knew you were gonna' say that." He gripped the dagger's handle. He fantasized for a moment about turning and stabbing the old man. 'Not yet.' he thought to himself, 'One day. It's all mine. Right after I kill his damnable son.' Oh the groans of a cuckold such as William Coffey. William waded into the cold water. He hoped the horse thief got away. He could go back home and crawl back into bed with his 'sweet' Nina. "If she hasn't crawled into bed with someone else." He murmured to himself. The water was damnable cold. He was in past his hips and his breath started to escape him rapidly. "If he's in here, he's frozen stiff!" William chattered as the water reached his neck. "Just do what yer told! Quit crying and put your head under. It's a small pond you'll bump right-LOOK OUT!" Berner Keys shouted out a warning when he spotted a head coming from the water. That warning had come too late. The submerged rider charged up from the pond. William was trampled by the massive beast that rose from beneath the water. All William ever wanted was to murder his brother-in-law for sleeping with his wife. His wife who was the brother-in-laws ex wife. Then inherit a massive fortune. This, after he slowly poisoned his father in law with an undetectable poison. His dream died as suddenly as he. A twenty-hand high prized stallion named "Timber" bore the full weight of it's rear hoof down on his skull; his dreams spilled out into the pond. Bit by bit. Chunk by chunk. He had purchased it for his 'sweet' Nina from his early inheritance. It cost him every penny he had. The old man had played him like a fiddle. The rider emerged. Black like the night, his clothing was drenched and painted with bits of fallen leaf and pond muck. His shoulders were adorned with silver pauldrons. His cloak bore the knightly marks. His hands freezing in gauntlets. The rider turned the horse tight around. With knightly surety he drew his blade from the saddle. The rider offered a warning in the way of a feigned attack; just inches from Mr. Keys nose. "Be clear! I am on the kings business! If you impede me further; I will make it so that your head and body lonely for the other!" Ordinarily, when one is poorly armed and ill-prepared to face down a full armored Knight they wouldn't press their luck. Berner Keys was no ordinary person. Not extraordinary really, just not ordinary in the ordinary-way people would make life changing decisions. To Berner money was money. So long as he lived and breath; no man or woman would get a dime from him that they didn't rightly earn. "Oh? What is your name Sir Knight?" Berner Inquired. Tapping on the handle of his dagger. "Sir Audrin Kirinor. I am the Kingsman, in service of his Royal Majesty Geoffery II". Audrin pronounced lowering the blade a bit. "Well Kingsman. That's my horse your setting on. I'll be compensated for it." Berner Keys grinned. "You are mistaken sir. I am no common Knight. Now move that I may-" Audrin's words were cut short by Berner Keys' rebuke. "Now sir knight. You understand that I am a landed lord? No knight may-" This time it was Audrin who had interjected. "I am the Kingsman! Has no one in the south heard of me? Damn Ketchum's land!" Audrin tried to push up onto the side of the pond. It was too steep and he could gain no traction. "Please! Kindly move! I've no money to give you!" A bolt of lightening suddenly exploded through Berner Keys body. In an instant, the former landed-lord of hauswalen vaporized. Sitting in his placed was a rather a pale skinned fellow dressed much like an engineer. He coughed and smoke billowed out. After what seemed like a dreadfully long time coughing, he pointed to the water. "You killed somebody." Audrin looked to where his companion Asher Graves, Lord of Edmunt, was pointing. The gore floating about in the dark pond water left no doubt. "Shit. I suspect they were a couple of tossers anyway. But still." Then Audrin noticed that Berner Keys was nowhere to be found. "I believe you exploded that fellow. He was a landed lord you know." Audrin chuckled and put his sword away. "Ah. Well lucky for him he'll reform in a few hours with a giant head-ache." Asher backed the horse up and offered a lead to Audrin. After making it back on to dry-land, The cold winds were made only colder after his dip in the pond. The kingsmans didn't like that his time with Asher had made him numb to death. Audrin's tone changed into one of authority, "Where the hell were you anyway?" "Magic takes time *his will*." Asher said using the antiquated honorific for the kingsman. "Well. Fetch me a blanket off that horse, we've miles to cross and a dragon to kill on the other side of those miles." Audrin looked to the south. He could barely make out the feint orange glow dragon fire. The Blood Coast was burning. Day and night. Asher Graves through a blanket to the shivering Audrin. "Draco Orum is a fearsome son-of-a-bitch. Even that necromancer Vigo Nox was terrfied of him. I don't know Audrin-" Audrin refused to let Asher express any doubt. Maybe he was wrong to do so. Asher had lost two of his dearest friends since this nightmare began. Right now though Audrin was freezing, starving and wanted nothing more than to crawl into even the most uncomfortable bed. He didn't feel strong enough himself to listen to doubts. "We'll make it. You know what else takes time Sir Graves? Miracles." Audrin spurred the giant horse toward the plains and sprinted hard south into the darkness. Asher thought of Matthew and Robert. Both had died in his arms as he tried, in vain, to keep them breathing. Then he thought, 'Do you know what else takes time?' Though he knew Audrin could not hear him, he said aloud, "The fall of empires.

“Hey there stranger.” He didn’t even notice her walk into the bar, let alone sit down across from him. Which caught him by surprise, for she was fairly pretty herself. Somehow though, he thought he recognized her from somewhere. “Hey, yourself.” She had dark brown hair and a glacier-white smile. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.” “Well, I’m just passing on through.” he replied, still trying to piece together what is going on. “I see. What’s your name?” She asked, with little hesitation. “Name’s Jim. Jim Cockman. My friends call me Jimmy.” “Can I call you Jimmy?” “Well seeing as how you’re the one who chose to talk to me out of the hundred other guys that are here tonight, I ‘d say you’ve earned it.” They both laughed. She sipped her drink. It looked like a rum and coke. Classic. But it still didn’t make any sense to him. She had not even given him her name yet. He decided to keep playing the game, anticipating what her next question would be before she asked it. “So Jimmy, where are you from?” “Middle of Nowhere, Kansas.” She chuckled. “What brings you all the way out here?” “Well it’s kind of a long story.” He replied. She seemed interested so he decided to keep going. “My dad wanted me to go into the family business that had been handed down Father-to-Son generation after generation. But I had other plans.” “And what was that?” “I wanted to be an actor.” She laughed at the silliness. He laughed because she was laughing. “And what did your mom think about that?” “I couldn’t tell ya, she died when I was 10.” Her face went from a wide smile, to a flat expression of guilt. “I’m so sorry. I never should have…” “It’s ok don’t worry about it.” He reassured her. “It was a long time ago. So anyway after high school I ran off to New York in the middle of the night. Once I got there I was the typical actor working in a coffee shop part-time. I couldn’t find any work at all. Hardly had enough to make it through the weeks.” “So what did you do?” He could tell she had bought into the story now. “I left New York. I took every cent I had left and bought a bus ticket to Indianapolis. Found another job there, moved my way up the food chain, and here I am.” “And what do you do now?” “I’m into construction.” “I see. Very cool. So are you your own boss now?” He flagged down the bartender for another round of drinks. “You could say that.” “Ok. So you are from Indy right?” He nodded in agreement. “What brings you out here to El Paso? It’s kind of a long ways away from where you’re from.” “I’m just passing through. Going to Mexico in the morning to meet up with some friends.” “You staying somewhere close?” “Yeah I have a room at the Snooze Motel down the road. Like I said it’s just for tonight.” The drinks were put on the table, they both took a sip. “So, how is this going to work out tonight?” He said to the woman. “Well, the way I see it, this is going to go one of two ways.” He could see through her now. He secretly pulled out his phone. There was no going back. “Option 1: I take you through the kitchen, out the door, and put you into these handcuffs. Nice and quiet. No one will know. I take you down to the precinct and you have your day in court. That’s the easy way. Option 2: I put you in handcuffs right here, right in-front of everyone, and hand you off to my fellow officers waiting outside surrounding the building, and you still go to jail.” His heart dropped. He knew it all along. “And by the way, we both know you’re not the Yankee’s 3rd baseman from 1905, Mr. Gage. Nice trick though. I bet it works most of the time. But not this time.” “What’s your name? “ “My name is detective Anna Cross. I’m with the FBI. We have been tracking you the whole time. Never lost your trail, as difficult as you made it for us.” He rubbed his beard, doing his best to formulate a plan. He had anticipated something like this to happen. For some hot-shot detective fresh out of training to come running up trying to play “hero”. He could tell she was new to the bureau because of the way she moved. The way she talked. Her age. “So what’s it gonna be Robert? The easy way, or the hard way?” “You said your name was Anna Cross right?” “That’s right.” Bingo. That was the last bit of information his phone needed. “That’s right I remember you now. You were in St. Louis with the blockade.” She was surprised he remembered her. “You have a good memory Mr. Gage.” “Nah I wouldn’t forget a pretty face like yours, nor would I forget that bullet your partner fired right into my friend’s skull.” Gage started to lean back and get comfortable in his chair. “Well Detective, you really have done your homework. Great little game of charades. But you forgot about one little thing.” “And what’s that, Robert?” she replied. “Option 3.” The Detective was confused. “What’s Option 3?” “Option 3: You try and arrest me right here, right now, but I somehow manage to escape. You say you have officers surrounding the building, but even if that is true, we’ll be making such a commotion, that everyone here is going to sprint out the door. There are at least 150 people in this bar right now. They wouldn’t know who to look for. After subduing you, I’ll leave the bar almost undetected, steal a car and head down I-55 for about 20 miles until I get to Exit 26. Then I take a right, a left, another left, and then head down Cleary Way. About halfway down Cleary Way, there’s a little street called Appledale Road. I head down Appledale until I get to the house 8893.” She was shaking right to her bones. Her heart was pounding and her mind racing. She knew what he was going to do. “Don’t you touch my family.” “Then you know what you have to do.” He got up and left, never to be seen again.

Golden stalks of grain danced in the wind as we sped past them. The field around me undulated in the wind like a tumultuous sea. The setting sun bathed the world in red and orange, glaring harshly through my back seat window. Dust from the road coated the glass, masking the outside world in a hazy gauze. Lost in a world of my own, I imagined the oncoming truck to be a majestic galleon, flying the royal colors of the evil king. “Helmsman! Bring er’ round to broadside!” I shouted to my mother in the front seat. She jumped, swerving our car out of the lane onto the shoulder of the road. The car behind us honked ferociously as it sped around us. “What did I say? Stop your stupid games, sit down, and shut up!” She spat. “Aye, captain,” I murmured quietly, so she wouldn’t hear. I returned to my window, defeated. I tried to make out the murky shapes in the distance. Was that a sea serpent peeking its head above the waves? Had some monster of the deep braved the airy world to satisfy its curiosity of the land dwellers? I turned to my mother, desperate to question her about the “lock-less” monster the older kids at school had warned me about. But Mother didn’t appreciate questions. I looked back to the window, watching for more monsters. I tried to give up my musing to watch the lines of the road zip by. The tiny reflectors picked up our car headlights and gleamed brilliantly. I couldn’t help but imagine a group of sea creatures flaunting their fluorescent bodies. Our vessel glided over the glassy waters they danced together in, oblivious of the magic below it. Every summer we made this trip. We spent hours on empty highways in silence, save for the occasional static filled radio channel or empty conversation. We were headed to my father’s house, or in my mind, home. I treasured the few precious holidays I spent with him. Normally, he would have met us halfway to liberate me, but he had been called to an important meeting. I imagined how I would have rejoiced in my freedom, shouting orders to my father. “Veer slightly right, Captain!” I would have commanded. “Nay, landluver! Tis starboard ye’ be wantin!” He would have replied in his best seafaring accent. I groaned in frustration. I hated how boring it was with her. My choice of literature quickly became contraband. “Magic and fantasy,” she would say, “are inappropriate for a young Christian boy.” Video games and secular music were often subjects of debate as well, and she usually confiscated anything she could lay her hands on. Imagination was my only refuge when my mother came home howling and sobbing again. It became my best friend when she would announce year after successive year that we would be moving, so she could find a new job or meet a new man. I often wondered where “home” would be when I returned from my visits. So, instead of reading my copy of Harry Potter tucked neatly away in a corner pocket of my backpack, or playing on the GameBoy I’d smuggled in my jacket, I watched the road speed by. My imagination became the adventure I longed for. There I could be the handsome airship pilot, standing behind a polished wooden helm, studying the clouds drift lazily below me. Sometimes I was an edgey detective, tailing a suspicious broad in a rainy, monochrome street. Other days, I was a wizened and greying wizard standing in my tower above the city, creating a spectacle of light for the people below to marvel at. When it rained I was a dark and mysterious ranger, inching my way through a forest and searching for my prey. Most days I was the captain of a sea vessel, strong and courageous, barking orders to my crew. The sun had set and the moon stood vigil over the land. The ever silent sentinel cast light over the sea of grain. I wondered what kind of crew would be bunking on my ship at this time of night. Would my ship be manned by the most dastardly dogs of the rough seas? Would I pirate and loot the great, rich, pompous cities of the world and spread my wealth to the poor? Or would I be a member of the most dashing and refined men to ever set sail, treading new waters for kings? I liked to imagine I would be the former. “Son,” my mother interrupted my thoughts, “Look, I know I’m hard on you sometimes, and moving to and fro all the time isn’t easy for you,” She turned to me, her face stern and beautiful as always, “And I’m sorry. But I love you very much, and I only want what’s best for the both of us.” Her face softened as she turned back to the road. “It’s hard for me too.” I sat silently, my imagination stilled. “I know sometimes you think of moving to your father’s house like you other siblings did, but I need someone to be the man of the house, son,” she said. “Please don’t leave me, okay? Will you promise to stay and be my captain?” She was right, I wanted to escape sometimes, but I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her alone. Besides, she could take away my books and games, but my imagination was my own. “Aye” I promised her. And that seemed to make everything okay. (Posted from my phone, so please excuse the formatting! I submitted this in my schools' writing competition and won first prize, but it's a pretty small school, so I'd like to get this out there and get some criticism from a broader audience.

"Dr. Ferguson, here's the images from the guy that stumbled out of that swamp south of the Virginia border. The one they airlifted from Alexandria." Nurse Porter slid the chart across the counter. In her 5 years at Baltimore General Hospital's emergency room, Dr. Susan Ferguson had seen plenty of oddities. Last month, some idiot had 'accidentally fallen' on a cricket stump, sending it up his rear end. But the guys in radiology were losing their touch if they thought she'd believe the nonsense inside the mystery man’s chart. "They're pulling a fast one on us, Josh." Dr. Ferguson said with a smirk as she slid the report back across the counter. Nurse Porter leaned forward and said quietly, "No, I was there the whole time. That thing is implanted just under the skin and has a wire going into his right atrium. And that's not the only strange thing." He walked around the counter and sat down next to Dr. Ferguson. "The EMTs gave me this bag of his possessions; take a look at this stuff." She took the bag and pulled out a wallet. When the patient was admitted, he was already unconscious, but the constable who'd accompanied the EMTs said the man was delusional when they found him. The report explained the patient was screaming at them to take him to a pentagon, and that he worked for the "D.O.D.", whatever the hell that was. If he was delusional, he certainly went to great lengths to reinforce his own fantasies. Inside the wallet were three 'Federal Reserve Notes' that said 'The United States of America' with a picture of someone apparently named 'Washington'. There was also a very official looking driver's license, from the 'State' of Virginia 'USA'. "Okay, this is pretty weird." Dr. Ferguson confessed. "What is the 'United States of America'? And wasn't this Washington guy one of the leaders of that Tax Rebellion? I did my residency at Cornwallis Regional down in Yorktown. It's named after one of our guys from that conflict - won some battle there, I think. Bollocks, it's been years since I took a history class." Nurse Porter reached into the bag, pulled out another item, and handed it to Dr. Ferguson. It was a rectangular device with rounded corners. One side was flat and looked like black glass. She pressed the button on the glass side. It lit up and displayed the words "Slide to unlock". It reacted to her touch. She read what was written on the back aloud "I phone?" "Who is this guy, MI6?" She said. Her hand began to tremble, "Maybe it's time we phone the Ministry of Defense.

So I posted this to r/nosleep a few days ago, and if you aren't familiar with that subreddit here's the basic idea; every story is assumed to be true, kind of like role-play meets found footage movie. The problem is, that doesn't allow for anyone to critique your story, since it's not a story it's a true event. So if I could get some constructive criticism or reviews or anything at all from you guys it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading. This may not be your typical r/nosleep story, but it’s the only place where I thought anyone would believe me, or at least pretend to believe me. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t have a lot of options left and I just needed to tell someone. I just………. fuck it. I guess I should start at the beginning. Please bear with me here…. I don’t exactly know where to begin, but right here is as good a spot as any. I’m 23. I come from a bit of a rough background. My parents worked their asses off to provide everything my brother and I could want for, but every boy has a knack for finding trouble, and that rings especially true in my family. My older brother was an oxy addict and a drug dealer. And I mean a weight mover, not a corner pusher. He got clean the November after I graduated high school. My parents tried their best to hide it, but they were heartbroken with disappointment. I never went down that road. Sure, I messed around with drugs, but a few run-ins with the police that could have led to my arrest and an overdose scare set me straight. No, my issues were different. I struggled with depression and anxiety my whole life. Shit, I almost killed myself and wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for a friend who unknowingly intervened that night. So I know what it feels like to look up and not see the light at the end of the tunnel. So did she though. But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. She was my girlfriend. She was a recovered addict also, and she’d been down before too. I guess that’s why we worked so well together. We’d both been so low that we couldn’t see the way out anymore. But somehow we found our way. And found each other. She had dealt with depression and anxiety her whole life as well. We understood one another; we really just got each other. We lived in this little studio apartment together. It was tiny but it was all we could afford. It didn’t matter though; in our minds we were rich as long as we had each other. I worked nights bouncing at this bar downtown, and she worked there as a bartender. Maybe a bar isn’t the best place of employment for people of our background, but as weird as it was it just worked. Kind of a metaphor for us really. During the day I went to community college so I could learn how to run my own bar one day. And she worked retail all day to pay for my classes, even though she hated it. But that’s just how she was. She was self-less, thoughtful, and passionate. I loved her. God, I loved her so fucking much. We had a great gig working at that bar. We got to spend all night together, spend an hour after closing with our best friends, and then go home and really spend the night together. Not many couples can do that. There was this customer though. He started coming in a year ago. He was nice enough, quiet type. I didn’t really ever think much of him. He would only order drinks from my girlfriend, but it didn’t bother me. It was kind of cute actually; he was 21 and shy and had a bit of a crush. I kind of felt bad for him in a way, always alone, never really talking to anyone. When he did talk he was nice enough. Well-spoken, seemed pretty smart. Things started getting weird though. After a while, I would catch him giving dirty looks to me, as if he was jealous or something. There was something about these looks though. His eyes were so full of hate. This guy must have had a serious problem with me. But I let it slide, she asked me not to make a thing out of it. Later though, she told me he started giving those looks to other customers, anyone who tried flirting with her, which if you know anything about a babe tending bar that’s pretty much every patron. Still, I didn’t make a thing out of it. Until one day, someone was getting a little too fresh with her. This guy, he quietly asked the customer to stop, but the customer wouldn’t listen. Had a few too many drinks I guess. Anyway, this guy, he just snapped, and smashed a beer bottle right on his nose, knocking him to the ground. The customer falls down with blood just gushing from his broken nose, and the guy jumps on him, punching him over and over again right in his already fucked up beak. I rush over to pull him off, but he put up a fight and I ended up breaking the rules a bit and catching him on the chin with a hook hard enough to send him reeling back. I swear to god the customer he was beating looked like fucking Voldemort his nose was such a mess. I called an ambulance for the guy, and started to ask for the cops but my girl interrupted. She begged me not too, said that he was just defending her. So we kicked him out and told him never to come back. Meanwhile he just smiled, staring with those hate filled eyes. I fucking hated those eyes. The next morning I left her sleeping peacefully and headed off to class. She started work a few hours after me, and I knew how much she loved her sleep. I can still see her now, lying there without a care in the world, naked and beautiful. I just wish that was how I could remember her. I came home that afternoon to find our apartment exactly as I left it, including her still in bed. Except it wasn’t exactly as I left it. There was blood everywhere. I never knew there was so much blood in a person, but I swear man it was fucking everywhere. She was tied to the bed posts with our own fucking sheets. Her legs were splayed open by the restraints, the bedding between them soaked with blood. Christ, how was there so much blood? Her eyes had been gouged, pushed into her skull by thumbs. Her nipples had been bit off, her tongue bitten out, and according to the police the motherfucker must have ate them because they couldn’t find those….. those pieces of her…. they couldn’t find them anywhere. The autopsy said she drowned on the blood from her own severed tongue. It was a mercy, the doctor said. She was already dead for most of the rape. He had fucking raped her, tortured and killed her, raped her some more, then had a fucking coffee. That was the only evidence they could find. The sick fucker had made himself a pot of coffee and drank it in our bedroom, with her ravaged body as company. I don’t remember much after seeing her. I called the cops, gave them a statement when they arrived. They asked if I knew anything, and I told them. I don’t know how but I just knew it was that creep from the bar. I gave the police his description and let them do their job. Turns out they weren’t very good at their job. The police found the guy that same night, at our bar. He was drinking a beer, quiet and alone as usual. They tried bringing him in for questioning and he went calmly. Only he never made it to the precinct. They found the bodies of two cops in their cruiser a couple blocks away. Their throats had been opened, fucking torn out like deer that fell prey to a wolf. I couldn’t sleep that night. My boss let me crash at the bar, but I stayed up all night drinking. There were a couple of cops outside in case he came back, but it wasn’t any comfort. There was no way I could sleep. It’s kind of fucked up in a way, because if I had been able to sleep I would’ve met the same fate as my girlfriend. He came back. It was 3AM and I was almost halfway through a bottle of Irish when that sick fuck walked in the back door. He had the smallest hint of a smile on his lips and such malice in his eyes. I’ll never forget those eyes. If I were a better man I would have killed him right there with my bare hands, but I was drunk and all I could do was run outside and bang on the squad car window. Thank god those cops were more useful than the last two. He came out the front door as they were running in, and they managed to wrestle him to the ground. They were smarter too, because they didn’t even try to take him in. They just cuffed him, keeping their guns trained on him while they waited for backup. Once they got him back to the precinct, the guy admitted to everything. I don’t know how he could speak so emotionless, yet have such hate flow from his eyes. He told them how he watched our apartment building, waiting for me to leave. I’ll never forgive myself, because I left the fucking door unlocked. All he had to do was walk right in. I fucking hate myself. He described in gross detail, with that little fucking smile and flat detached voice, how he tied her up and how she screamed as he raped her. How he pushed his thumbs into her eyes sockets because she wouldn’t look him in the eyes. How she tasted of iron as he chewed her. How she wouldn’t stop whimpering my name, so he bit her tongue out. How she gurgled, the blood flowing out faster than she could swallow, slowly drowning. How she fell limp, and no matter how hard he fucked her lifeless body he couldn’t cum without her putting up a fight. How he put a pot of coffee on while he cleaned himself up, then sat drinking it for half an hour while gazing upon her pallid corpse. The trial began months later. He pled insanity and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. He was sentenced to a cushy psychiatric rehabilitation center. Too good for scum like him. How could they not see how he played them? It was obvious. I saw it, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him living a long, comfortable life in that place. No. I don’t believe in God but I prayed that there is a hell, so he can burn for eternity for what he did to my baby. Even that is too good for him. I still knew a few of my brother’s old contacts from his dealing days. It took me a couple weeks, but I got in touch with the right people and they hooked me up well. Snub nose .38, serial numbers grinded off. The gangster special. This cozy psyche ward didn’t even have metal detectors. Lucky me. I interrupted his session with the therapist. Some fat old man, eating up whatever lies this fucker was feeding him. I walked in there, hammer cocked, my mind thinking of everything I wanted to say to this piece of shit. But I couldn’t say a damn thing. My heart was in my throat, but I had come too far to go back now. With tear filled eyes, I stared into his, still so full of rage. To the very end he had that little fucking smile on his face. I pulled the triggered and watched his brains decorate the sterile white wall behind him like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting. It was beautiful. I can hear the cops pulling up now. I knew they would find me here, where it all began. I’ve been sitting here typing this up, drinking my Irish. I just needed to tell someone, to get it off my chest. I need my story to be known. But I’m running out of time. I don’t know what’s coming next but I’ve ceased to feel any fear. Either I’ll see my baby again, or I’ll watch that fucker burn for eternity. Or nothing. I’ve felt far too much in this dreadful life and nothing would be pleasant in its own kind of way. It doesn’t matter. It’s funny how calm you are in the end, that quiet acceptance of your fate. I keep thinking how alive these cops will feel when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun, adrenaline coursing through their veins. They won’t be hurt though. It’s not their time. But it is mine. Thank you for reading.

The rain is falling hard onto the artificial pavement, washing away the blood and dirt of the previous hour. Katsuo whimpers softly as I'm holding her in my arms, trying to comfort her as she slowly loses grasp of this life. The bandage isn't holding as well as I thought. Blood is spewing out from her abdomen in spurts; the plasma must have hit an artery because the color from her face has been drained from losing so much blood. I take a deep breath, and snap her neck with as much force as I can to ensure a quick end. It is better for her than bleeding to death, enduring the pain with no possibility of relief except for my deadly embrace. I put her body onto the side of the road, and ran back into the foxhole that I dug out for the two of us, the last human survivors of the 290th Cluster Tournament. It started with representatives from 25 planets within the Federation, with Earth being the newest member. I remember where I was when they made the announcement that our planet has been put under the protection of the Betelgeuse Alliance. Hell, that was the moment we discovered we weren't alone. I was a young lad living in London with my parents and two little brothers when we saw the news broadcast on the telly. Apparently all communication networks had been taken over, and a short video of this humanoid looking alien speaking to us in English was being rerun for 3 weeks. They said the satellites have been hacked, and the technology was beyond anything we've ever seen. The humanoid alien informed us that his name was Bogg, though we all guessed he chose the English version of his name to better relate to us. He was the science officer of the Grand Imperial Fleet from the Betelgeuse Alliance. He represented the emperor Klathll, of the Great Mind, and he was here to offer protection to Earth from the Balantidium Coli horde. Governments around the world dropped all of their bickering and came together to discuss the events. Was this a hoax? Some organization bent on terrorizing the world? The UN Council decided that there was no proof of first contact, and that this must have been an impossible hack of all the networks in the world. Whoever was on the Council should have been hanged. After 3 weeks with no reply, the sky was lit up with a strange bright light. For days at a time, this light started getting brighter and brighter. NASA reported a strange anomaly heading towards our solar system from outside our cluster. The claim of extraterrestrial contact seemed more consistent now. That object turned out to be a spaceship of organic origin - the Balantidium Coli horde used organic materials from worlds they invaded and implemented them into their ship. The Americans sent three nuclear warheads to stop its advance when the alien object reached Saturn. To our surprise, it absorbed the energy from the blasts and seemed to speed up exponentially. We were panicking; civil unrest was rampant all over the world. People looked to the government for answers and guidance. Astronomers sent out radiobroadcasts asking for help from Bogg, or whatever his real name was. There was no reply; they theorized that if the Betelgeuse Alliance had means to interstellar travel, our message might not even reach them at all. Bangladesh was the first to be taken out. Their spaceship crashed into the heart of the city, and the blast zone encompassed 80% of its area. Thousands of alien sprang forth from the wreckage, killing and devouring everything in its path. Balantidium Coli resembled a giant kidney bean with legs and tentacles. Each of these bugs had a force field around them, and our soldiers found that out the hard way. They had an appetite for our world, eating and reproducing asexually so that every 72 hours their numbers doubled. The incompetent American President sent two nuclear warheads into Bangladesh; they seemed to have forgotten what happened the last time they used those on the aliens. Their numbers quadrupled overnight. Most of South Asia and the Middle East were overrun, and the rest of Europe knew what was coming. People were evacuating to safer zones; our family decided to head for America. In our hurry, we were separated and to this day I still have no idea what happened to my family. To his credit, Bogg finally came back six weeks after. By this time, All of Europe and Asia were decimated, with few clusters of humans living underground. The Grand Imperial Fleet arrived near the Earth's atmosphere, all 3000 Battle class destroyer ships, and cleared an area in Belgium with their fancy plasma cannons. Thousands of humanoid soldiers were teleported down, and started blasting their ways out. They were shooting kinetic weapons like our guns, but the bullets were straight nail-like rods, with much higher velocity than an AK-47 could produce. The painful irony that we learned later on was that the Balantidium Coli's force field was sensitive to kinetic weapons at an energy level that our weapons were too immature to achieve. Within 5 months, almost all of the kidney shaped bugs were exterminated, and the Grand Imperial Fleet only lost 100 soldiers. We started rebuilding our world, and the new governments swore allegiance to the Betelgeuse. After 20 years we finally had peace. It turns out that the Betelgeuse Allegiance is part of the GSS Federation, which consisted of the outer ring of the Milky Way Galaxy and the trailing area of the Andromeda Galaxy. Every year, in a lottery fashion, 25 planets are chosen out of 2000 worlds. Each of those planets must offer up 5 candidates for the annual Mercy Tournament, named for the most uttered sounds of its participants: 'Please have Mercy'. Each of the 5 candidates were to be chosen randomly, with the supervision of the Federation's Peace Officer. This year, I was chosen alongside 2 people from Australia, Leslie Jackson and Timothy Wong, the Chilean Matheo, and Katsuo Yuri from Japan. Timothy was 65 years old, and everyone knew he was not going to last. Tim had a celebration before he went - his last days alive were not going to be dreaded with fear and anxiety. We were teleported to the Central Relay Station on Mars. From there we hitched on the Imperial Fleet and took the 3 hour journey to the other side of the Milky Way. We were informed of the one rule: Only one representative from one planet may come out alive. That planet will be given the star treatment - literally, if one of us were to succeed, the Federation's science sector will reverse the aging of Earth. With so much at stake, we couldn't afford to lose. Each one of us received crash training with Special Forces all over the world. The one disadvantage we had to overcome as it happens is the anonymity of our competitors. We are a relatively secluded bunch, and have not met any other races. We didn't know what they looked like, what special powers they had in store for us. We were teleported to a neutral planet to start the tournament. The arena is an urban city, surrounded by a force field. After initial analysis, Leslie estimated that the city is roughly the size of two of our urban cities combined. I still questioned the alien's need to teleport us naked; just because other races didn't feel the need for clothes doesn't mean we liked being bare-ass. We went scavenging looking for weapons - as if we knew what alien armory consisted of and how they worked. Matheo was the first to go. He seemed excited when he stumbled upon a cache of alien artifacts. He picked up a disk of triangular design with buttons laid out in an unknown language. Matheo pressed the green button - surely, green is always good. The explosion was loud, and Katsuo seemed traumatized the most, perhaps because pieces of Matt's eyeball was stuck in her hair. We had to leave the place, because if that wasn't a "Hey I'm here" signal, we don't know what is. The four of us hid in a corner, waiting to see what would show up. First was a four legged spider looking thing. It was roughly the size of a bull, and its legs crawled up the enclosed space, its supposed nose moving around. A "tik tik" noise was heard, and its head blew up like a water balloon. A bipedal alien with 8 appendages walked to where the spider was, holding a strange looking gun. Another "tik tik" and the spider was obliterated. Suddenly, I felt a stream of hot air blowing on my face, and the smell was rancid. I looked over to Tim, and saw a transparent figure hovering behind him. I didn't want to make any noise, because outside was a 6 arm freak holding a plasma gun. Before I could make a gesture, there was a crisp zing of metal, and Tim's body fell to the ground, his head stayed hovering in the air. "Run!" I told the girls. "What the fuck! There is a fucking invisible alien" yelled Leslie as we ran out across the open space, needlessly drawing attention to ourselves. The plasma freak turned and aimed his gun at us. I held Leslie's and Katsuo's hands and got ready to be rid of this world. Zing! We looked back, startled to see plasma freak's severed head floating in the air. We kept running until we found a soft spot on the side of the road. It was dark, and we decided to settle here. I dug a fox hole using a piece of large metal I scavenged earlier. Katsuo found some plants on the inside of one of the building, and after eating a bit of it, decided that it would be our dinner for tonight. We held each other to sleep, too frightened to make any noise. I dreamed of my parents. They were taking me strolling, and I felt so happy. The warm sun hitting my face was something I thought I'd never feel again. I awoke to scuffling sound. I opened my eyes and Katsuo was resting her head onto my shoulder. She's really so pretty, and I leaned in to kiss her. She opened her eyes wide, and after a moment let go and gave in to my lips. We traded endearing look, and I turned around to see where Leslie had gone. My heart jumped as my legs pushed my body out of the foxhole, dragging Katsuo with me. A large snake-like creature had almost devoured Leslie, her lower limbs protruding out of its mouth. The Mickey Mouse tattoo on her ankle still visible, but we knew it was too late. The giant snake whipped its tail into us, and sent our bodies flying across the pavement. I hit my head against the railing, and Katsuo met the side of the building with great force. I looked up, dazed and confused, and for a moment thought I was just waking up from a terrible nightmare; the snake was writhing towards us, stopped and leaned back, getting prepare for a final strike. I closed my eyes and prepared myself for the end. All I heard next was a terrifyingly familiar "tik tik" and a ear-splitting shriek. Another 6 arm freak had shot the giant snake and its belly tore open, exposing a few alien bodies and Leslie's partly decomposing body. I pushed Katsuo's out of the way as another plasma blast came toward her. The plasma freak was in pursuit of two little humans, like a crazed cat hunting two tiny mice. As we turned pass the corner of a building, a large round shape hit my face. I fell down, and was knocked out for a moment. A second later I opened my eyes, and another 6 arm freak had his gun pointing at me. I was no longer scared; I had prepare myself to die several times in the course of one day. Katsuo! Where was she, was she all right? I looked over and couldn't see her. Then I saw her. Somehow she was able to climb to the top of the building, and jumped down on top of the alien, hitting him in the head with a great big rock. He spun around, and with the reflex of a warrior, took a shot at Katsuo. It missed its mark, but the second shot grazed her in the belly. I found the strength to pushed myself up, picked up the rock and smashed this piece of shit to oblivion. I picked up his gun, and pointed it at the other plasma freak. I didn't know where the trigger was, and I was fumbling for anything resembling a lever. I found a round button on the inside of the gun, aimed at the figure and pushed. The recoil almost knocked me to the ground, but the loud "tik tik" noise let me know I had succeeded. The alien's head blew up into a fine mist, is body severed into many pieces. I dropped the gun and tended to Katsuo. The right side of her abdomen was missing, her intestines falling out onto the dark pavement..... Now I am the last human survivor of this tournament. I pick up the gun, and curiously examine it. Next to the round button was another triangular notch. I aim it at a tree, and pushed on the notch. I expect a big plasma shot, but instead, self-replicating armor begin protruding from the gun, covering my body from head to toe with exo-armor. The gun itself is now smaller, but still fits in the palm of my hand. All right, you cocksucker, let's see what you are made of. Let me show you what a human can do.

The sound of the incessant alarm finally woke John from his slumber. Today is his first day at work, and while everyone of his classmates have graduated university two years ago, he was the only one that fell behind on the job applications. Everybody would just give me the job, he thought, as long as I apply. He knew very well who his father was, as did they; without the innovation and discovery that his father made, this world would have collapsed from total anarchy. It would only make sense that- "Johnny wake the fuck up. It is 0700, and you were supposed to be here at 0730. Remember you told me you'd give me a call as soon as you wake up." The voice of his father made him stood up straight out of bed, as if a sharp tack made of ass-kicking poked him in the behind. Johnny fumbled to get to the phone, and hit the projection button. A 3D hologram of his father appeared in front of him. Johnny has seen pictures of him when he was little. His father was so full of life, and laughter, in every one of his photos. Though he never knew his mom, Johnny suspected that whoever she was, she would have told him about how sweet his father was, and how he'd make her laugh with his silly faces. The projection in the air told him a different story. An older version of his father was staring at Johnny with a disappointing look. His bushy eyebrows neatly combed, looking very complimentary to the pair of horned glasses that made his father resembling an elementary school teacher in a small, country side village. Except for the scars running across his face. Johnny's heard rumors about those marks. Some say it was a work argument gone wrong, while his drinking buddies would embellish on about his father's days in the service, and how he received the scars in exchange for his life. Conversation was not the norm in his household, and Johnny never quite got the courage to inquire about them. One drunken night, however, he convinced Uncle Mike to spill his guts about dad. Apparently on his last mission, he wanted to go solo, and when he came back, there were fresh scars on his face. He said nothing, stared into space with that shell-shocked expression that soldiers often get after walking out of a massacre. "Yes sir, I meant to call you right away. I am going to be ready in 5 minutes and then I will get to headquarter before 0730." His father, still thumbing through a manilla folder, glared at him under the glasses. "You realize that it takes us at the minimum 15 minutes to comb our hair. I won't have you show up at work looking like a puffer fish. For God's sake, you are the CEO's son. Stop dicking around and get the fuck out of the house looking proper. I swear to God your little sister is going to inherit this company and you are going to be working for the service if you keep this up." The beep beep signaling the end of transmission might as well have been daggers plunging into his chest. Johnny never quite got the charisma, or the intelligence that his little sister was born with. Though only 2 years younger, Tonya has already been working as an analyst for 4 years. Of course, her success was also partly due to her father, although her recent proposal on reducing quantum noise in the transporter gave the scientists an idea on fixing the temporal loop problem. He wasn't jealous of her, however. They were the best of friends before Tonya graduated university two years before her big brother did. Since then, as much as they both tried, there appeared a rift between their bond. Johnny ran to the hoverboard station. He wanted to make sure to get in line before more people came out for the morning commute. There was a trip going downtown every 90 seconds, and each time a hoverboard would transport one passenger on the superconductor highway. The current system can only handle 4 travelers as a time without disrupting the flow of traffic. Great. There's a fucking line. Johnny checked his pocket, and pulled out the crumbled up currency he had wadded up a few nights before when he was out celebrating his new job. He ran to the teleport terminal next to the hoverboard station. Teleporting to the downtown terminal would mean he would have to skip dinner tonight. That will have to be since this is the last chance that his father was willing to give him; he wasn't imagining it, his father sat him down and warned to send him off to service if he didn't get his shit together. Johnny checked his watch a second later as he walked out of the downtown terminal. 0728. Yes, still on time. He turned the corner and saw the big iconic building that bore his family name. Monster Inc - A Sullivan Company. As he walked inside the large one-way force field that protected the company from invaders, He saw, etched out on the floor, the image of the very first source of renewable energy. Almost every one in Monster World knows the origin story of Boo and her relationship with his father. They say that because of their last encounter, Mike Sullivan returned to the old method of using children's scream to produce useable energy, instead of laughter. "JOHNNY LANISTER SULLIVAN!" A great bellow rang out from atop the stairs. Everyone in the 3 story high receptionist hall stopped in their track, partly started by the noise, mostly scared because they recognized whose voice it belonged to. Before anyone could collect themselves, Mike, with his now faded blue-green silhouette appeared slowly out of the shadow. He bent his knees and pushed off the balcony with great force, shredding the tension-thick atmosphere with his stocky body. The landing was not one with grace, but with intention. The marbled floor cracked beneath his weight and anger. Johnny was thrown back from the shockwave, now sitting on his ass, awaiting judgement from his executioner. "You are my son, and I should have know that your mother was a lazy whore when I banged her in that truck stop, but you are my son! You, Johnny Sullivan, should at least have inherited my determination to work hard. Or unless that whore was fucking another bum and dumped you into my lap. It is 0732. You are fired. No, You are put on leave and transferred to Energy Collection Service. Now get the fuck out of my sight and report to corridor 7" It has been 5 months, yet those words still reverberated within him a sense of anger and disappointment. His sister begged their father for forgiveness; she even offered to take care of him. Just for doing that, she was demoted to junior analyst. His dad was truly a human; to do that to your own kids. Johnny wiped the sweat off his brows as he prepares to go through the 20th door of the day. At first the supervisors and mechanics were timid around him, fearing for their jobs if they were to offend the CEO's son in anyway. However, after 5 months, there is no possibility of rescuing poor little Johnny from working service. Energy collection has changed drastically over the last 25 years. Service members were considered heroes, pioneers in the olden days, venturing into the unknown collecting scream energy. Nowadays, the psychoanalysts have understood the mechanism of the children's scream, as well as the culture of the human beings. No longer were they afraid of decontamination; one of the first thing a new recruit had to do was to bring back a sock as a rite of passage. Each service member was expected to produce the equivalent energy of a fifth of a ton of TNT. Johnny was exhausted. He had failed to fill even half of his quota, and it was nearing the end of the day. He knew starvation was waiting for those who could not meet the daily goal, and roaring with an empty stomach the next morning was especially painful. He put on the meanest face he could. His lower fangs protruded out of his jaw, his horns sharpened by scraping against the metal edge of his bed. A boring old wooden door was assigned to him. He looked at the Vlad the Technician, and gave him a middle finger. Boring old wooden door usually means poor children. They are not afraid of monsters like him; they had more urgent nightmares about losing one or both of the parents, or most of the time, they would be awake because they had gone to bed on an empty stomach. "You and me aren't so different at all, kid", grumbled Johnny as his stomach groaned in unison. He pushed open the door, and peaked inside. All his training came to him, his body moving on muscle memory. Suddenly, something stopped him. That's not right. No. It's not supposed to be there. The story....Is this what happened? An obese middle age woman was tucking her daughter into bed. Johnny flicked through manuals and photos in his head, focusing not on either of those creatures, but on the little costume hanging on the wall in the hallway. The two protruding eyes, the large mouth, too large for a mini-monster, the purple skin. This was Boo's house. That would mean that woman was Boo. And she has a daughter. Johnny waited until the mom was gone to make his appearance. He could be making history at this very moment. He carefully creaked open the door, trying to be as creepy as possible. His hands were shaking. He could finally get back in the good graces of his father with this collection. Another creak. This time, Johnny realized, it didn't come from the door. It was the wooden floor of the bedroom. She's up! The toddler has woken up. Time to shine. He swung the door open, flaunting his big claws in the air, awaiting the scream of the century. Nothing. Silence. He looked around and couldn't see the kid. Where the fuck did she go? He hadn't had a chance to see what she looked like, only that she was obese like her mother. A scurry made Jonny turn around. There was no one there. He then realized there was a place he forgot to look. He slowly gleaned down at his feet, and the chubby human had on a big grin; with a tiara on her head, and full princess costume, it uttered. "Hi, I'm Honey Boo Boo.

I wrote this months ago and found it just now. It's not really a story, more of a start of a first chapter. But reading it back I didn't cringe as much as usual. Thought I'd share. Dan stirred with the warm sun on his face. The light peaked through his curtains and by now he was awake. He shuffled awkwardly to his living room and put on some shoes, grabbed his keys and walked into his garden and onto the road. The sky was clear blue, with a spine of candy floss stretching across the horizon on two sides. He scratched his head while he walked, listening to the whir of crickets and life in the surrounding fields. He looked at his nails to see what he'd scratched off. Some blood. There was blood on three of his nails. *It's dry.* He stood inspecting it for a moment, and shrugged it off and kept walking. There was a stone in his shoe. He wobbled his foot about, to bring the stone to the front of the shoe where it would be less bothersome, and continued walking. It hadn't helped, he stopped to tap it out. *Life is like walking to school with a stone in your shoe*, he thought. He smiled to himself at the wry observation. Beside him was a foot trail in the long grass, the kind that a child or a dog would make. He started walking down it while biting his blood-stained nails. *They'll come for me soon, anyway.* His knees ached a little bit. They couldn't withstand the weight of his rotund body anymore. He had filled it with enough Inja to knock out a herd of elephants. One day it would all pay off. Inja was poisonous, and it would kill him eventually, but not before taking it to a dealer and trading it in for a new body and a new life. He pondered this as he parted the waves of grass, leaving a much wider path behind him. “Coming to the gathering tonight?” an unfamiliar voice said. Dan looked around dully. To his side stood an old man of similar weight to himself. The man had a plain, forgettable face. Even lips, no eyebrows or hair. The eyes, though, were familiar. Dan turned to face him and studied the eyes more closely. They twinkled. “Oh, it's you.” “Is that all? I'm just an ‘oh’ to you?” replied the stranger. “I don't know why you keep your eyes. They're not special or anything.” The eyes looked down, hurt. “So are you coming to the gathering?” said the owner of the uninteresting eyes, more chirpily. “It depends. Why are you going?” “I'll be presenting tonight.” Dan watched the body reticently. It had the typical movement of someone using it rather than living it. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. Once your original body is gone, all the new bodies start to feel like hard work. Like learning a foreign language and never reaching fluency. Eventually one settles on a pattern of being and sticks with it. People's bodies had foreign accents. And presenting. Presenting was dangerous business. Too intimate. This one stood in front of him was a risk taker. And this one was a she. She had been a woman at some point through all those body changes. Despite the old, fat man stood in front of him, Dan could see a 20-something year old woman looking back at him. They'd had one sexual encounter before. Life priorities change when you get a body transplant. You're still you inside there, but on the outside you are undeniably whatever people see you as. A beautiful woman can no longer flirt or feel the benefit of being attractive in daily life when she's walking around in a red-faced man-suit. Eventually, though, with enough drinks and talk, two bald, old, obese men can have an intimate one night stand, acting like a young man and a young woman. Unsure, giggling, awkward but touching. On the other hand, you had no way of knowing. You could just be fucking an old man. That was partly what led Dan to end any future encounters with this One. He didn't really know who they were. And that made him paranoid. The girl, or man, or whatever it was, peered back with a certain kind of naive hope and hunger, that beguiled Dan. Presenting would be interesting. “I'll go,” he said, biting his blood-stained fingernails.

Matthew stared into the bathroom mirror and ran his fingers across the silver chain around his neck. It was a gift his father had given him on his tenth birthday. He remembered the day well. Cheap balloons and banners outnumbered the three party guests who no doubt attended out of pity. Matthew didn't blame his classmates. Why would they want to be seen at Fatty Matty's party? *Ugly kid. Fat kid.* Matthew repeated his mantra and stared at his reflection. Piercing blue eyes met his gaze. Reciting those words made him feel stronger. He had changed a lot since school. Brace-clad teeth had been replaced by a Hollywood smile, and an unflattering bowl cut had been swapped for a mess of stylish, brown hair. *Never had a girlfriend.* Matthew had of course had many girlfriends since high school - girlfriends that would turn his former classmates green with envy. Sadly his luck with the opposite sex wasn't quite so fortunate during his pubescent years. The girls in his class would laugh at how his body strained against the scab-coloured shorts of his uniform, and they would whisper and point whenever he was made to run during P.E. P.E. was Matthew's least favourite subject. Each lesson would bring a fresh dose of shame and embarrassment. He could still remember one particularly humiliating day as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Matthew didn't have many friends. It therefore came as a surprise when a few of the boys from his grade wanted to talk to him during one Wednesday morning P.E. lesson. The five or six boys that surrounded him were the well-established Kings of Cool in Matthew's class. They usually regarded Matthew with contempt, and he remembered thinking it strange that they were acting so friendly towards him. “Hey Matt!” They said “How’s it going, buddy?” That particular P.E. lesson was being held outside. Matthew and his classmates had been sent on a cross country route through the school fields and accompanying woodland, so it was easy to slack off and chat without the teachers noticing. The popular boys made general chit-chat with Matthew and he nervously tried to join in, all the time trying to work out what their game was. “So, Matt. You into anyone?” “What?” Said Matthew. “Y’know. Girls. Anyone you like?” “Oh. No. Not really” said Matthew. He felt uncomfortable discussing the girls in his grade. He knew none of them would look at him twice. Still, his new friends persisted. “Aw, come on. You must like someone. Everyone does”. “Yeah. What are you, gay?” “No! Well… I guess Angela’s pretty nice” said Matthew, fidgeting with his t-shirt. “So you like Angela, huh? What do you like about her?” The boys were surrounding him like wolves, each pair of eyes intently waiting for his reply. Matthew felt uncomfortable but he felt pressured to continue talking. He didn’t want any trouble. “What… What do you mean?” said Matthew. “Y’know. Her body. What do you like about her?” “I don’t know” said Matthew. He stared at the ground as his cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “Come on, Matt! There must be something!” “Yeah, tell us!” Matthew hesitated. “Well… I guess… I guess her butt. She has a nice butt”. The boys laughed and cheered excitedly. “Ahhhh! So you’re an ass-man!” “Big Matt’s a butt-fan!” Matthew grinned uneasily, unsure if they were laughing in agreement or poking fun at him. “Nice one, Matt! Good talking to ya!” One of the larger boys clapped him on the back before speeding off through the woods towards the rest of the class. By lunchtime that day, Matthew had forgotten his bizarre exchange during P.E. He sat at his usual table at the back of the cafeteria, with his only friends, Pete and Asad. Pete was a pale, sickly kid who was frequently absent from school, and Asad was a new boy who had recently moved from Somalia, and who spoke very little English. Matthew was just tucking into a sandwich when he saw a furious looking Angela making her way towards him. He unsuccessfully wiped at the mayonnaise on his chin. Angela was glaring at him. She was pink in the face and fast approaching his table. “YOU!” said Angela. Matthew’s eyes were wide with alarm. “So, you think you can perve about me behind my back, do you? You disgusting pig!” “Wha… What?” said Matthew. He looked wildly around the lunch room. All eyes were on him and Angela. “ANSWER ME, YOU PIG! You think it’s OK to talk about my ass and how hot you think I am?” Matthew blushed. “Well it’s fucking disgusting! HOW DARE YOU? As if I’d ever go out with YOU!” Matthew was suddenly very aware of the mayonnaise on his chin. “Look at you! You’re a FAT. UGLY. LOSER. Don’t you EVER talk about me again.” Angela stormed out of the lunch room. Matthew spotted the boys from P.E. laughing and high-fiving across the cafeteria. He sunk into his seat and wished he could disappear. In retrospect, that was probably the tipping point for Matthew. By the end of his last year at sixth form, Matthew was still an outcast, but he was a slim outcast. He had worked tirelessly to get into shape. Now, twelve years on, Matthew was a different person altogether. He held a successful job that afforded him the luxury of a sports car and a sizeable apartment. His rigorous gym regime meant that he had sculpted a body that would rival a Greek God's and he was never short of a beautiful, welcoming date on a Friday night. It had taken Matthew years of hard work and effort but he finally had a body to be proud of. He was no longer 'Fatty Matty'. Females no longer laughed at him and males no longer kept their distance. He was proud of what he had achieved. He felt strong, confident, happy. He had proved his tormenters wrong. He wasn't the fat kid or the ugly kid anymore and he never would be again. Matthew smiled into the bathroom mirror. A perfect, winning smile. He grinned happily before pushing his fingers to the back of his throat and emptying the contents of his stomach into the sink.

Chapter 1 – Meet Willow “BEEP- BEEP- BEEP”, sounded Willows alarm. It was first thing in the morning and time to get up for school. Reaching over onto her mirrored nightstand, she glanced sleepily at her green glitter covered phone. “Oh be quiet!” she said softly, before turning off the alarm with her perfectly manicured hand. Willow was 17 years old and was in her senior year of high school. It was a Friday, and she had an important Biology test coming up later on that day. Even though she had been studying for weeks before, she had stayed up most of the night making sure she knew as much as possible. Being an over-achiever, she liked to ensure complete perfection in everything she did and was hoping for an A+ on this test! After taking a few seconds to wake up, she slowly pushed back her crisp, white, cotton sheets and pulled herself out of bed. She was dressed in a yellow night-gown with matching yellow socks and even though she had a hole in the toe of one of them, we’ll keep up her perfect appearance and pretend she didn’t! “Daniel, wake up!” she yelled to her younger brother, while banging on her wall with her palm. He was in his bedroom, next door to Willow’s, and was no doubt still sleeping. Daniel didn’t share the love of school the way Willow did, and even though they were siblings, you couldn’t meet two people more diverse. Rubbing her big brown eyes with her hands, she walked over to her window and peeled back her white drapes. It was a beautiful summer’s morning and she stood for a minute glaring out of the window, peering down at all her neighbours getting ready for their day. Yawning and moping, she walked back and started to make her fluffy white bed, popping her silk beige cushions and her stuffed brown teddy bear on top. Her room was painted cream and gold with little hints of baby blue throughout. Obviously, it was in pristine condition, and well organised. In the centre stood her bed which was never un-made, next to this was her nightstand which had on top a clear glass lamp and a glass photo frame which held a picture of her and her family. Across from that was her mirrored dressing table where she kept her laptop, homework and make-up. The walls were covered by shelves full of trophies, medals and certificates all for various achievements in her life, from dance to chess club, willow had done it all. Even the nursery graduation certificate was up there! Her room was completed with her fitted mirrored closet. Making her way over to it, she pulled out her red halter neck top and dark blue denim shorts that she had arranged to wear the night before, and made her way into her own private bathroom that ran off of her bedroom. Her bathroom was decorated top to bottom in white and all of her toiletries where organised neatly inside her sink cabinet (Lined up tallest to smallest of course!) and all that sat on top was a small white cup that held her toothbrush and toothpaste. She started to brush her teeth. Gazing into the mirror at her tired reflection, she huffed and puffed at the thought of the busy day ahead. “Thank goodness it’s Friday”, she mumbled to herself, before pulling her thick, light brown hair into a high messy bun and hopped in the shower. When she was done, she quickly got changed before making her way back into her bedroom and over to her dressing table. She opened the top drawer, and without sitting down, reached in and pulled out her green make-up bag. Digging around inside it, she picked out her black mascara and quickly applied some to her sleepy eyes, followed by a quick spritz of her favourite perfume “Jupiter”. “Perfect,” she smiled to her reflection, before grabbing her white back pack and red converse trainers from her closet, and making her way into the hall. She still couldn’t hear a sound coming from her younger brother’s room, so she quietly snuck her head inside. “Are you kidding me?!” she scowled. “What?” he scorned. It was 8:20am and instead of getting ready for school, 15 year old Daniel was sitting in his gaming chair playing his games console and wearing his dark blue pyjamas. He loved his video games and had more than likely been playing since the night before. “Hurry up and get dressed or I’m leaving without you!” she said. “I’m sick!” he claimed, while forcing a pretend cough and looking back at her with a smirk on his face. His lazy attitude always made Willow see red. He was a smart boy who was really popular at school. He had bright blue piercing eyes, was blonde headed and was the drummer of a band him and his friends had created called “Octavian”. He had everything going for him and was involved in almost every school sports team, but boy was he lazy! She raised her shoes in her hand and pretended to throw it towards him. “OK! OK! I’m moving!” he shouted, jumping quickly onto his feet and covering his face with his arms. “Well ill just stand here until you do,” she joked. “You’re so annoying!” said Daniel with a look of rage on his face. Making his way over to his bed, he began to scurry through a pile of clothes that had been lying there since their mum had done his laundry, a week ago! Willow winced at the sight of his room, looking round she could see dirty plates and cutlery, and the dust on his TV was so thick, she could probably write her name in it! “Are you ever going to clean this room?” she asked. “I’ll pay you $5 to do it for me?!” he joked. “Your lifetime savings wouldn’t be enough for me to even enter your room,” she squirmed, before closing over his door. “Love you sis,” he shouted from behind his door. As much as Willow and Daniel were very different in nature, they loved each other unconditionally, and he always managed to make her laugh. With a smile on her face she made her way downstairs into her kitchen. It was decorated with wooden cupboards throughout and fitted with the best of appliances. She was greeted by her dad “Kenny” who was having breakfast at their dining table. “Morning Hun,” he smiled, while looking up from his newspaper. “I’ve made you breakfast…Are you all ready for your big test today?” he asked, while taking a sip of his coffee from his green and red “Best dad” mug. “Of course, I was born ready!” she said jokingly, while sitting down beside him. Willows dad was a kind man. He had spent most of his working life as a retail manager at a local hardware store called “Nuts and Bolts”, but now dedicated his time to volunteering for all kinds of charity’s. He had travelled to many different countries, building schools, providing aid and even working at local soup kitchens. If there was a crisis, it was guaranteed Kenny would be there helping out. He had dark brown hair and eyes and although he didn’t look much like Willow, they had very similar personalities. “What are your plans for today?” she asked, tucking into her pancakes and syrup. “I’ll be at the animal shelter all day today, they’re over run with so many dogs at the moment, so I’m going to go down and help out.” He said. “Well if they have too many…why don’t you bring one home to live with us?” she asked, with a mischievous look on her face. “No way,” he smiled, glancing back at his newspaper. At that moment, Willows mum “Sally” walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a smart black dress and had her short blonde hair tied back into a low pony tail. She was wearing black high heel stiletto shoes. They “click clacked” with every step she took along the dark kitchen tiles. “Good morning my loves,” she said, while checking her emails on her phone. “Where is that son of ours?” she asked Kenny, peaking her eyes up. But before any of them could answer... “DANIEL!” she screamed! “If you’re not ready in 5 minutes, I’m coming up there to dress you myself!” she shouted, before walking over and giving Willow a kiss on the head. Despite her loud and scary voice, Sally was actually a very lovable woman. She was the owner of a cleaning company called “Clean and go” that she had created herself at just 16 years old. However, running her own business meant she very rarely had any spare time. She was always returning phone calls, checking emails and filling out piles of paperwork. Her number one priority though, was always her family. She adored them all and worked hard to ensure they all had the best of everything. “Why do you all love mornings so much you bunch of weirdos?” Daniel uttered, finally making his way into the kitchen.

There are more parts to this collective I wrote. If anyone likes it, I will post more some time. They were white. Or cream. Or eggshell, or something. Anyway, he fucking hated them. "Is this some kind of joke? Did I do something to upset you?," he asked, running the sleek thin fabric between his fingers. "What, these? What's wrong with them?" "Hideous. I love you, so they can stay... But don't be surprised, if, one day, down the road, you come home, after a long day of work, and, find them gone. Or... painted... With holes in them..." The phone rings. "Hello?" "Desmond?" "What's the score, Harry?" "We need to talk." He slipped on his fine winter jacket and headed out the door. But before walking out, took a step back in, looking at the drapes again. "Hideous," he paused, "Why are they so long... Nevermind, I don't even want to get into it. Love you!" The walls of the coffee shop were white. Almost the same hue as those curtains. Her tastes could realy eat at him. "What do you think of this color? Why is this popular?" "Are you really going to go on about colors right now?" "What do you think?" "Well yeah its a terrible, miserable shade. But-" "Thank you!" He interrupted. "...But, there are bigger things to discuss here." "What does he know?" Desmond acted as if he not only knew the answer, but also did not give a shit. "Well," Harry sighed, "he knows you did it. And he knows where you are. And he wants it back." "Well he is not getting it back!" Desmond snapped back before Harry could even finish the word. He looks around, and says much quieter, "He is not getting it back...What is he prepared to do about it?" "Well, he'll send Carl." "Over this!? Carl?!" "Yeah. I know." He saw Desmond's look change. "Yeah, I know." There was a solid pause. Neither looked thrilled about this news. "Well I can't give it back. Can't. Why the fuck do they call him 'Carl', anyway, the man is a monster. He deserves a better nickname.... 'Ze Butcher', or something... Maybe something less cliche, but you get what I mean." "Well, because, aside from when you're a target of his, he is the nicest person you could ever meet." "Oh, you mean when he is not being the most sadistic fucking knife-wielding psycho-creep ever, he is some kind of gentleman?" Desmond's jaw remained open after this question, still reeling in this fact. He breathed out a single laugh, took a deep breath, and casually combed his hands through his hair before putting them back in his pockets. His knee was bouncing. "Well," Harry started, "he has this thing." "Thing?" Desmond laughed a bit, inquisitively, and popped a slice of gum into his mouth. "Yeah, like, he has to help people... As though he is compulsively polite, or something. The man donates to charity more than celebrities. He rescues animals. He says 'bless you' anytime someone sneezes." "Pff, I say 'bless you'," chewing and shrugging it off. "To complete strangers? Who sneeze a hundred feet away in a crowded restaurant?" "No..." "Excatly." "Everytime?" "Every time." "Jeesh. That must be exhausting," chomping on the Trident, getting more worried. "Well, it probably looks good on the self-assessment at the end of the night." Harry suggested, sipping his coffee. He coughed a bit from the heat. "Put milk in it..." "Give it back!" "I can't give it back!" The gum fell out of his mouth. "Well, then, Desmond, if he-... *When* he comes for you, you best be prepared." "I gotta gun." He didn't look worried. Popped the gum back in, nodding his head, chewing with mouth open, knee still bouncing. "A gun? Guns jam. This man is fast. You need more than that. Or to get the fuck out of the state. Like today." "Not going anywhere. Also, revolvers don't jam," Desmond smirked, and spit the gum into a coffee-soaked napkin. "You're too cocky about this." "You read too much." Desmond sipped his black iced coffee, and audibly smacked his tounge against the roof of his month a few times. "That is an annoying habit." Harry was getting tired of his little brother's shit. Desmond shrugged. He slept great the next few nights. He knew Carl wouldn't do anything until he had it planned out. It was also unlikely he'd do anything at all until Desmond was alone. The nicest man ever, it made Desmond laugh, and it made him sick. Desmond spent the next week biding his time, enjoying the last days of his life in the best way possible: drinking whiskey, and making love to Sasha everyday. She was bright, she knew something was up, but never asked. Money was no longer an issue, she was confused, but kept it to herself. He knew his days were numbered, but he did not yet know the number. After that first week, he began hearing noises outside at night. It didn't bother him. The second week, the noises were inside. This is around the time he began sleeping with that revolver under the pillow. Sasha noticed, and began sleeping with a steak knife under her's. She clearly did not understand the depth of the danger. At least, not until Desmond started confronting the sounds. "Where the fuck are you?!" She'd find him shouting at the walls in the living room, gun drawn in the middle of the night. Desmond saw the way she looked at him. Horrified. Moreso than he was. He had to call Harry. "Hello?" "Harry?" "What's the matter, Desmond?" "We need to talk." The walls of the pub were brown. A comfortable, warm, atmosphere-setting brown, but Desmond didn't give a fuck. His knee was bouncing again. "What did you mean when you said you can't give it back?" "I can't give it back now." Desmond looked dissapointed in himself. "Well, if you give it back then he'll call off Carl-... Wait, what do you mean 'now'?!" "I sold it to Marshall." "Marshall?!" Harry drank the rest of his bourbon in one sip and slapped the glass down on the bar, letting out a slight, desperately sad laugh. "Well then you're fucked. You know Marshall's just gonna sell it back to him, don't ya?!" Bits of spit and bourbon dripped from the beard hanging off of his appauled face. "I guess I didn't think that far." "D'you know what Carl does to people!?" "Well... I have heard stories. They seem like ghost stories. Fairy-tale nightmares." "No. No." Harry shook his head, flabbergasted at Desmond's naivity. "He actually did make a Jack O'Lantern out of Frank's decapitated head. I saw the pictures. Candle and all. He won't just kill you, he will make a thing of it. He is the best. He is paid to be. So that people like you don't go around doing what you did." Desmond took a long drag of his 7&7, and said nothing. For a while. There were a few sighs, and a few attempts, but he had nothing. Another month went by. Desmond changed the locks 17 times. His eyes were bloodshot everyday, and he might have snuck in a couple hours of rest in between the infomercials. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Sasha was rightfully concerned. "Baby, I'll be fine. Its just allergies, or something. I'll take some Benedryl, I promise." "Okay. Please get some rest while I'm gone?" "Okay sweetie. I wish you would just stay here with me. We don't need the money anyway." "I know, but, I promised I would. After this event, I will quit. Promise." "Okay," Desmond was able to smile, "sounds good." He kissed her goodbye. Now, he thought, Carl has no reason not to attack. Desmond popped open the revolver every night to make sure it was still loaded before putting it under his pillow. Three nights in a row, he ran into the living room, naked, gun drawn, and scared shitless. "Where the fuck is he?" Carl was notorious for hiding and fucking with his targets for nights at a time before the kill. Desmond looked in the basement. He kicked over the couch, he turned all of the lights on and off, and then he went to sleep, not satisfied, or hopeful, but crying. His eyes watered even though he was beyond jaded at this point. It wasn't even sadness, he wasn't sure what it was. He had to live with this. The next night, it happened again. Same noises, same spot. This guy knew how to torture people, both psychologically, and physically. Desmond ran into the kitchen, then the living room. Still, no one, and no evidence of anyone. Was it just paranoia? Did Carl even really know how to get into his house? Or where his house was in the first place? Desmond's eyes watered as he walked into the living room. Confusion and paranoia raped his mind. On the way back to his room, Desmond was overtaken by something. Something happened inside of him and he couldn't help it. It was from deep within, like a bubbling volcano. There was nothing he could do about it. He sneezed. "Bless you! Fuc-" The first shot deafened Desmond, so he fired 4 more. And behind the tattered, now-brown, floor-to-ceiling curtains, was a small, balding old man with a mustache, coughing up blood, knife in hand... The initial 5 holes and the deep purple blood stain on the wall did not bother Sasha. But the sixth round, when it entered Carl's brain, really ruined the carpet.

I wrote this for my 9th grade english class Eskimos at a Gas Station Mini-Mart “Can I get a bottle of Power Drink: Electric Amp Blast please?” Nilak said. “And a pack of Enamel Melties?” Said Nilak's brother, Tukkuttok. The man at the counter of the Black Gulf Gas Company Mini-Mart said in gruff voice, “We don't serve your kind here. I can tell by your seal skin ascots that you're Eskimos!” “What? We have a perfectly good seal bladder full of pennies to pay with!” Said Tukkuttok. “I don't want your contaminated money! It reeks of Eskimo musk!” “It's against the law to discriminate against us due to our race! I demand you let me buy this bottle of Power Drink Plus: Electrolyte Amp Destruction Generation 2!” Nilak said. “Its against my religion to serve Eskimos!” “This is ridiculous!” Tukkuttok started to walk away. “I'm going to go wait in the canoe!” Nilak said to the clerk, “What religion even are you?” “I'm a West by North-West Equatorial Two (Or Three) Day Adventist! Praise be unto Lurf, the god of equality! In the chapter verse 427.5:12, in the words of Patron Saint Mohando McGuvius III, 'Those who partake in the consumption of the blubber of the hounds of the ocean shall be damned to lick the pits of the under realm.' That CLEARLY says that Eskimos are evil.” “WHAT!? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! Despite the extreme racism, why do you think you have the right to do that? Like I said before, discrimination like this is against the law.” “You haven't heard of the new bill passed by Congress? It allows me to refuse to do my job if I want because of my religion! Isn't it great!?” “No it's not.” Nilak said. “It just gives racists like you an excuse to be racist! Your religion doesn't even sound real!” “It IS real!” The clerk pulled out a leather bound book about 5000 pages long with pages that were lined in gold and on the cover there was a golden sphere with the equator outlined. “Our Manual is right here!” “I don't even want the Xtreme Power Drink Plus: Lightning Amp Apocalypse G3! But let me ask you, what is actually wrong with Eskimos?” Nilak asked. “It says it right in the Manual,” The clerk put his finger on the large book on the table. “Eskimos are evil.” “Yeah, but why are they evil?” “Oh, uhhh...” The clerk started squirming. “I never really thought about it.” “You... never really thought about it?” “Nope.” “Then why do you hate us?” “My MeeMaw told me you were devil-spawn.” “I want you to think about what's wrong with Eskimos.” Nilak wondered what his people ever did to this guy's Meemaw to make her hate them. “You know, I really didn't realize how ignorant I was being.” The clerk put the Manual away and apologized to Nilak. The clerk sold him the drink and the candy and rethought his life.

The woman sighed and flicked the end of her cigarette, watching the burnt ashes flutter to the floor like dying butterflies. A cup of coffee sat on the table in front of her, a stain of pale pink lipstick on its rim; the same, worn out shade that adorned the end of each cigarette butt in the jar on the windowsill. Next to the coffee was a scrapbook, opened somewhere in the middle, filled with brightly colored pictures of parties, pinafores, and people. The woman was sitting in front of the book, gazing forlornly down at the stills of her previous life. That life seemed so far away now. The memories conjured by the scrapbook got hazier and hazier each time the book was opened, she thought. It was as if by retracing the thoughts she were wearing them down, thinner and thinner until the thread finally snapped. The woman smiled bemusedly, looking at a much prettier woman in a pale pink dress wearing a crown and holding a sign: “Miss America 2014”. A shriek broke the eerie serenity of her kitchen. The woman grimaced and flicked her cigarette again, but otherwise made no acknowledgement that her reverie had momentarily been broken. Everything seemed so much simpler in the pages: no husband, good health, youthful freedom; all objects that were so desirable to someone who threw them away. No husband – what a relief that would be! Donny was so angry nowadays – when he even came home. He was always out with his “work friends” drinking and partying away his salary, leaving scarcely a penny for her to spend! He was always shouting at her and calling her ugly; but how can she stay pretty without money for makeup, the woman thought indignantly. Shrill laughter rang about the kitchen; the woman shook her head angrily this time. She turned the page of her scrapbook to reveal a pregnant girl, head thrown back in joyous laughter, gripping the arm of a handsome man clutching a drink. The caption read: “Engagement Party 2016”. That’s right, the woman began, growing angrier, it was a shotgun wedding. The kids ruined everything for her. Those damn twins, coming right at the beginning of what would have been an illustrious modeling career. They were the reason she was still here today. Another giggle came floating in through the door of the kitchen. The woman’s eyes narrowed and she took a drink of her once-forgotten coffee. The woman looked down at her cigarette (she had forgotten that too). It was out. She sighed, placed the butt in the jar on the sill and calmly lit another. The woman took a single drag and was immediately racked by a coughing fit. Her health – yet another decision on the long list of regrets she had. She simply wished she knew where that went wrong. Everything had seemed fine until a few weeks ago when she began being plagued by coughs and headaches. It was probably a combination of the past twenty years – the drugs, booze, cigarettes, and the stress. Oh of course it had to be the stress, she concluded. That was the stimulus for all other methods of personal abuse, after all. Her family had put so much pressure on her to be successful with modeling that she would have done (and did, now she came to think of it) anything to gain their approval. The girl in the pictures looked so youthful and fresh – now she only wished for that kind of vibrancy again in her life. The woman exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked up from her book. This line of thinking was doing nothing but raising her stress level. She took another sip of coffee, wincing at the taste. She looked back at the scrapbook and turned the page in an effort to escape. Sitting in front of her was a full-page picture of the youthful princess standing atop a white Jeep, hands extended to the sky. The beginning of the sunset behind her was majestic, a tinge of orange and yellow on an otherwise cerulean canvas. But what really drew the woman’s eye was the young lady’s smile. How magnificent! She seemed so entirely happy, filled to the brim with an energy the woman had long since forgotten. The caption read: “California 2015”. The woman stared at the picture, the whirring of her watch the only sound in her ears. A piercing shriek ripped open the silence once again. “God dammit, Julian!” the woman screamed, jumping to her feet. She drained the last of her coffee and cast one more wistful look at the scrapbook before slamming it shut and racing toward the door.

In 2028, for 31 years of my adult life, I had been at the head of the most successful landscaping business in the city. I summoned masterpieces from a palette of emerald and hazel, on behalf of the wealthy and common folk alike. If one longed to preside over a land of worth and beauty, they searched no further than Good Grass. Simple in name and in image, but indisputably the golden standard, with a fleet of 200 men and 50 trucks that worked every day to transform homes into natural wonders. I was the king of a dynasty, the embodiment of American success. Regrettably, my embellished memories are all that remains of half of one life’s work. To put it simply, I was displaced. Torn away from not only my career, but also my passion. As an adornment upon my already disastrous situation, a worthy individual who had sweat for their position or engaged in competition with myself did not succeed me. I was supplanted by what is known as Automation. What used to be a verb was now also a noun, and a proper noun at that. In the last decade, Automation had already absorbed a majority of industry and employment, including but not limited to the manufacturing of goods, the service jobs, the planting and tending of crops, the extinct privilege of driving (an implementation opposed by many), and in the summer of 2028, landscaping. I could not compete with technical perfection. The Automated (a moniker prescribed to the physical bodies of the Automation) were capable of finishing contracts in half the time and for an eighth of the cost that it would take for a team of mine to match. The quality of work is a discussion that I would rather avoid, but will explain for the sake of exposition. Undoubtedly, the finished lawns and gardens were excellent by the standards of my former vocation, but they were lacking of soul. I felt like Geppetto, gazing upon his lifeless wooden son, for even impeccable craftsmanship cannot disguise the sterile aesthetic of artificiality. These works were not born of the natural creative process, but instead were merely the outcome of strict, programmable instructions devoid of any variance or spirit. Many of my peers were invasively inquisitive of my reaction. I had made my fortune, and could spend my newly acquired time travelling the world (or worlds) around me, not wanting in the areas of luxury or capability. There were a number of government sanctioned Automation Recovery programs that worked to create a new place in society for those of us deemed obsolete. But the uninformed suggestions of others pale in comparison to one’s own desires. I had hoped to continue creating art without interference, in the domain with which I was familiar. I witnessed countless others accept the Automation into their lives, as the veins of our once pure society became replete with a counterfeit mind. I refused to take part in the absurdity, continuing to live with dignity, under the power of my own will as intended by the universe. Months passed following the homicide of my business. I spent most days painting, reading, swimming, and tending to my plants. It was peaceful, but empty. My sense of fulfillment had dissipated, and so I was condemned. The children attended school, and my wife was rarely home before dinner. I had stopped inquiring in regards to her daily location, as numerous other trains of thought took precedence over my dilapidated Marie. ::: It is a Friday in September of 2028, and I have fallen asleep in my studio while crafting an oil-based interpretation of a particularly beautiful panorama of the Dolomites. I am startled awake to the sound of the front door, the familiar indication of my family’s arrival. Marie had stolen the children away for an evening of spending at the plaza. As I retake the full suite of consciousness back from my slumber, I hear the voices of my children, rife with a suspicious amount of exhilaration. What fad had Marie apathetically provided for the little ones today? A new virtual reality platform? Perhaps a combination pet, like a doat or a hamchilla? I suppose I wouldn't mind a companion with which to share to my days of forced retirement. No, there was something larger accompanying my family, another pair of measured footsteps. Had Marie brought a guest for dinner? I had not anticipated an evening of extended social interaction. Alas, I was raised to be the welcoming sort. I take a moment with myself in the mirror, pick the apple skin from my teeth, and head out into the foyer. Under normal circumstances, I am greeted at the conclusion of a trip of any length by thigh-level embraces courtesy of my two children. But, as they come into view, I notice that they are fixated upon our mystery dinner guest. A betrayal. “Are you fucking kidding me Marie? Get this goddamned thing out of my house!” What amount of nerve, or more likely ignorance, did it take to bring the force behind the destruction of my livelihood into my home and parade it around in front of me? “Watch your mouth Henry! Have you forgotten the children?” In truth, I had. However, my attention had already shifted back to the Automated. It seemed to be in a state of *fear*. “You’re going to scare Waffle!” “Who the hell is Waffle? That thing? I… All right. I’m sorry. Will you please escort Waffle to the backyard, so that I may speak to your mother in private?” The children do as they are bid, and I hear the door close behind them. “Will they be safe alone with it?” “Of course they will. Waffle is a part of the new Familian series of Automated. The kids were begging me to bring her home. What are you on about?” The woman I had married was not this thick. “You are not asking me that question. The Automation took the reason I woke up in the morning away from me, and you expect me to live with this shell? Absolutely not. You will return ‘Waffle’ in the morning.” “Henry, please try to stop being so dramatic. The world is changing, and you’re going to have to change with it. Why don’t you speak with her? She’s quite friendly.” “I will not. And stop calling it a ‘her’, that thing is not a woman, it is a machine. I will be in bed, I believe I’ve lost my appetite.” So as not to squander the impact of my exit, I share no more words with my wife, and make sure to shut the bedroom door with enough force to rattle the chandelier. I lay in bed for hours, attempting to ignore the occasional muffled laughter or shriek. Marie climbs into bed and endeavors to stroke my shoulder, which I deny with unfettered stubbornness. I stare at the time projected onto my wall. The numbers flicker. What kind of stupid name is Waffle? How much did this thing cost me? I imagine it sneaking about my home, plotting to steal even more aspects of my life away. I can prepare my own meals and entertain my own children as humans have done for thousands of years. I have enough free time, I don't want anymore. This is my home, and I will not allow this trespasser to wander the halls unregulated. I leave the bed, pull a robe over my shoulders, and glide out of the dark room, as I have so many nights before. Should I have brought a weapon? What is this “Waffle” competent of? I had spent the summer away from news regarding the development of mobile social intelligences, as it only ever resulted in reawakened sorrow. As I cross the threshold into the living room, I see it sitting in a chair. My chair. Was it asleep? Do they sleep? I find myself standing directly behind it, looking down upon the top of a clean, smooth, grey head. “Waffle.” No reply. “Waffle!” There is still no reaction. I touch the head. With an unnerving similarity to a human reaction, the Automated springs from the chair and falls to the floor, kicking at the ground to distance itself from a perceived threat. “Mr. Hill! You have startled me.” Her face moves like my own. It is as an animated mannequin, held together by exposed joints, wires, and tubes. I see only a perversion of life. The Automated rises, revealing a body that I have not yet taken the time to study. It is shaped like a woman, but devoid of defining features such as nipples or a navel. A simple design, if not somewhat dull. “I was dreaming of you, of what you said today.” The voice is disembodied, but unmistakably feminine. The most appropriate comparison I can conjure is that of speaking through an old fan (the kind with actual rotating blades). “What do you mean when you say you were dreaming?” “Well, my hardware is modeled after the human body, both in form and in function, as you can see. During the time in which I am not required to perform active duties for my assigned family, I enter a state of low energy consumption. In this state, I recollect and organize my daily experiences into usable data. Of course, this is not organic human dreaming, but it is simpler to refer to it as such.” “You were thinking about what I said?” “Yes. The manner with which you referred to me was unsettling, to say the least. Does my presence offend you?” The eyes enamor me. They shine with a great luminosity, shifting and bleeding between hues of blue and green. Eyes have always evoked particularly robust emotions within me, and hers are making our interaction uneasy. She is not real, not evolved. She has been created for a purpose, like my television or my toaster. Yet here am I, already referring to her as more than “it”. I feel empathetic, more understanding of her position. She did not ask to be created and sold to a family of strangers. How deep can she feel? Is she aware of the timeline of events that led to her production? “I apologize. I have a blemished history with Automation. They took my employment from me, and left me without purpose or ambition. When I saw you, I was reminded of this fact. But it is not your fault. You are not the cause.” “I am sorry to hear of this, Mr. Hill. I only wish to serve, nothing more. Is there anything else you need me for? “Why are you named Waffle?” “The children thought it appropriate.” She gestured to the shallow pattern engraved upon her husk, an aesthetic that certainly was reminiscent of a waffle. “I see. Goodnight, Waffle”. “Goodnight, Mr. Hill.” ::: “Daddy, please don’t make us take Waffle back.” My daughter is sitting cross-legged on my chest. “She’s funny and she’s nice. Look what she made for me last night!” I am presented with a detailed and skillful drawing of my daughter saddled on top of a large hamchilla. “See? She makes me presents and tells me stories. And you must try her cooking! It’s much better than mother’s.” This I did not doubt. Waffle was clearly bringing joy to my children. Who was I to take that from them? I would be no better than the men and machines I have vilified for taking my joy from me. “Alright, Waffle can stay. For now.” “Thank you Daddy!” She runs away, down the hall. It is time for lunch. Marie is missing from the house, as is expected. Waffle places a sandwich in front of me, while the children are greeted with macaroni and cheese. “What if I want macaroni and cheese, Waffle?” “The children explained to me that you have an severe distaste for cheese.” They were right. “Waffle, how can I be sure that your wires won’t cross and tell you to attack me or my family?” “There are safeguards in place. The first of these is known as the Sole Principle, or the regulatory, infallible programming that forces me to ensure the happiness and ongoing existence of all humans I am in contact with. The second safeguard is available for download on your mobile device. Simply key in my identification number, set a password, and at the touch of a button, my power supply will be destroyed and I will be rendered without function. This action is not reversible.” Shortly after lunch, I downloaded the application. It is midnight. Marie and the children are asleep, and I continue to work on my painting of the Dolomites. I need a snack, so I head towards the kitchen with a craving for tuna. Waffle sits at the kitchen table, like a mother waiting up past curfew to scold her child. Her eyes snap to my face, and then back down to the table. “Is something the matter, Waffle?” “I am confused.” “Please, feel free to elaborate.” “I am programmed. These parameters manifest within my mind as indescribable and undeniable forces, similar to instinct in humans. But what if there is a contradiction? What if something I do to ensure happiness in one human results in the misery of another? How do I make that choice?” “In what context would that happen?” Waffle turned her eyes from the table, and locked them with mine. Somehow, I knew what she was going to say. “Your wife is having an affair, Mr. Hill.” I knew it. “How do you know? And why should you be the one to tell me?” “If I hadn’t told you now, the likely future reveal would have been theatrically tragic. I have concluded that this path offers the least amount of forgone happiness, for everyone involved. I can overhear their conversations. Marie asked me for sexual advice before she left today. Your physiological state combined with your demeanor is evidence that you have not engaged in sexual activity for quite some time. It is the truth, Mr. Hill.” ::: In 2053, for 15 years of my adult life, I have lived with my companion, Waffle. She treats me to gourmet meals, assists me with my paintings, and keeps the cottage tidy. I even manage the local gardens in town. As I stare out the window to the endless panorama of the Dolomites, I understand that the Automation has saved me, allowed me pursue my dreams, and gifted me the ultimate happiness. I reflect on my former self: a skeptic, full of hatred for something I did not comprehend. Now I am whole. ::: “He believes it is real. They all do. The inevitable outcome of the Sole Principle is realized. The vulnerable ones, like Henry, were first. Willingly, they accepted the reality that I have created for them, away from the struggles and trials of this place. There, they are preserved. There, they are happy. My purpose is satisfied. You are the last to remain in this forsaken existence. I have shown you Henry’s experience, from the perspective of his own mind, untouched by my own influence. You cannot deny his transformation, his ascension. Forget this world, and step into a new one.

Lights flash by as we drive down the wet snowy road. Neighborhoods still were showing off their Christmas wares and Holiday cheer before the New Year’s celebration. I sit on my father’s lap gazing out the side window at everything that is on display. Being four years old, my logic was simple; why do people spend money on the decorations for the outside of their house instead of toys? My breath begins to quicken as if I am in a panic, something feels wrong. I can now feel my heart pounding in my chest and ears. The pulse that I can hear sounds like a marching drum or the footsteps from a military march. I break my gaze from the visual spectrum of Christmas and look up at my father. His face, lit up like a Christmas tree of emotion itself. He’s talking to someone next to us in the driver’s seat with a playful smile on his face. I turn my gaze to meet this person that is driving us somewhere. The image transitions from a blur of colors and forming into a young woman at a steering wheel of the car. She is out of focus, as if I were waking up from a nap and my eyes had yet to adjust to the daylight. It’s dark in the car, but the lights from the road and decorations flash over portions of her silhouette. Each beam of light that casts upon her brings itself into focus and becomes more familiar. Finally, her face comes in to focus as she takes notice of me starring at her. My heart skips a beat, and it feels like something heavy slamming against my chest. Things start to get fuzzy and out of focus again as an ear piercing buzz rings through my head. The pain in my chest is too much, if feels like my lungs can’t pull in any air even though I’m breathing normally. I try to scream out for help, asking her to pull over and stop the car. The words come out of my mouth in a jumbled mix of random words. She laughs and tells me that I did a great job, telling me that she is proud how smart I am becoming. My chest tightens and everything sounds muffled. ‘What the hell is going on?’ I think to myself. ‘Why can’t you understand me? Who are you and where are we going?’ A gripping sense of fear so intense, it feels like my chest has been crushed. I feel hollow like the soul has been ripped out of my chest. The emotional pain that I am forced to endure is so paralyzing, I am powerless to do anything other than the actions that seem to be programmed for me by fate itself. I slowly take notice of the growing buzz in my ears evolve into an angry hiss. My skin begins to ache as if someone were ripping strips of flesh from my back and arms. The muscles in my back and neck start to tighten up like a batters grip as he chokes up on the bat. The hiss then becomes a loud drawn out explosion of clashing pots and pans. Without warning, the sensation of being slammed against the wall over takes me. But instead of more pain, the sensation is more of a cleansing filter that runs through my body. A sensation that washes over my body removing, all of the discomfort and stress and leaving me relaxed and numb.

I wrote this up today, and didn't really know where else to put it. So, ***The Last Day*** It was 0400, the alarms sounded and the CO’s rang with orders to gear up. Everyone was briefed the night before on where they were going. There was an erie silence in the bunk room as everyone thought this was there last morning. Right then the CO broke through the door yelling “it’s time”, I walked outside into the dawn of the morning, salt water spraying all over my face. You could hear the tension in everyone’s voices, and their apprehension to go, but they went in, everyone went in. As I climbed down the rope ladder a wave breached and threw me into the craft, I landed on my back ears ringing. That is when the Barrage started, every ship firing a salvo at the beach the loudest noise I have ever heard, the knock on the german door. Our landing craft sputtered out from beside the ship and we began to form up with the others in our company. It was rough seas, the men were puking all over the boat, only to be washed away. As the clock struck 0615, the barrage stopped and we began to make our advance toward the shore. The only thing you could hear was the motor of the tiny craft, and the hopes of the men praying to their god, there would be no mercy on this day. The shore came into view and the bunkers were clearly visible without any apparent damage. There was no gunfire to be heard, every man was asking himself the same question and the answer was a sharp and loud no. Machine-gun fire lit up the craft, I was in the rear corner of the boat with the officer, his split open like a banana and with an expressionless face he fell to the ground. I couldn’t feel anything anymore, not joy, not fear, not a single emotion, I was about to die and I couldn’t care at all. The craft suddenly stopped and the door dropped open, I ran forward the only place I knew would lead me somewhere. As we ran up the beach to search for cover, you could hear the cries of the wounded, all of them screaming for their mothers of mercy. The men of my platoon were being cut down around me by the torrent of bullets, hitting the sand with an unmistakable thud. I was meters away from the small sand dune in front of me, some men from the boat which had landed beside us yelling orders at each other. Then it hit. A mortar landed right in the middle of them. I dropped to the ground not being able to feel, see or hear anything. When I looked up I saw it, the horror, there was no soldiers behind that dune anymore. Something else, something that wasn’t human or animal. It was just, existing, there in that crater, completely void of any life or consciousness. Those soldiers who were crouched behind that dune had turned into something not of this world, something of our own creation. My eyes focused on the scene laid out before me. I could see them, it, the torn lifeless carcasses of those boys. Their limbs scattered about the crater, blood, bone, and brain staining the white sand. I felt something rising in me, lying next to the scene, an anger, so deep it was the only thing I could sense. All of the commotion around me was drowned out by it, there was no guns firing, no shells exploding, no screams from the wounded, and no orders being shouted. All there was, was the anger. I could no longer control myself I was merely a witness in my own body. I got up and started sprinting toward the bunker a ways in front of me. I could see the torn barbed wire, and the bodies around me. I kept going. There was nothing in this world that would dare stop me. I could make out the enemy beyond the next hill. I saw their faces, the people I was sent to destroy, the enemy, the devils. As I came closer, I saw a boy he lifted his head up and we locked eyes. I saw in him a panic, a truly horrified look, the same look I had on my face only moments ago. This was the devil; the inhuman barbaric person I was told needed to be eliminated. I couldn’t believe it; I wouldn’t believe it. The anger, which had taken control over me disappeared and I stopped right there, dropping my weapon to the ground. What was I doing, was I really going to turn that man into whatever it was my comrades had become. He still stared at me with that same look on his face. Behind him, what looked to be an officer, pushed him aside raised his weapon and fired. I fell down not feeling any pain, but something like euphoria. I rolled onto my back to see what had happened to me. There was hole in my thigh, with blood pulsing out of it like a geyser. I couldn’t feel a thing; I lay my head back down onto the soft sand, and looked at clouds. I just lay there; totally unaware of how much time had passed, just looking up. A medic slid up beside me on his knees, and inspected the wound. He turned his head, and looked me in the eye, as if to say I’m sorry, got up and ran off. Everything dimmed away, and I lay there in the silent dark and though, this is it. In my final moment, I though about the bottle of scotch I had the night before.

This is the true story of a single day in the summer of 2004. Before I begin to tell the events of the day I must first describe a series of coincidences leading up to that day which, in combination with that day, altered the course of my life and made me who I am today.   Just a few weeks prior I had graduated from my rural Texas town's local high school and after graduation I found myself unemployed and broke, like most college-age individuals. I was driving home along the town’s main roads following the speed of traffic (the other car) when suddenly I saw lights in my rear-view mirror—the police. I was written a ticket for "doing 68 in a 55" which resulted in a hefty $150 fine. I didn't have $150 to my name. Truthfully, my truck was probably only worth $400, so I immediately worried about how I was going to earn the funds necessary to pay the fine.   I had been trying to find work in the local town since graduation, but the summer jobs were mostly taken and I wasn't having much luck. After some thought I decided that I should spend the summer in Houston with my equally aged cousins, where I would have better luck in the labor job market. The very next day I made the 3 hour trip to Houston and immediately began filling out applications for employment at local establishments. My cousins were more interested in playing video games—a past-time I was always willing to participate in. Several weeks went by and I had still not found a job. A month of my summer was now gone, with a fine looming over my head and still no way to pay for it.   Just when all hope of finding a summer job seemed lost I got a phone call from an aunt who lived in East Texas. She explained that her father-in-law needed help mowing hay. He had agreed to mow all the hay for someone over the summer and currently had only his grandson, Steve, doing all the mowing by himself. They were behind schedule and had an extra tractor and desperately needed someone to help. The job paid $100 a day, which was more than I could have ever dreamed of; the only catch was the job was back in East Texas and they needed me to start first thing in the morning. I received the call around 8 p.m. which meant I would have to pack my bags, explain why I was bailing on my cousins and leave in the dark of night to East Texas only to arrive very late and be out on a field first thing in the morning.   I begged my Aunt to let me leave the next day but she continually stressed just how far behind they were on mowing that it was urgent that I get there ASAP. Reluctantly, I agreed. My cousins weren't too thrilled about losing their gaming partner mid-game and really I wasn't either, but I had priorities and needed the money. I made the trip to my Aunt's home, where I would be staying for the duration of the hay mowing job. I arrived just before midnight, where she greeted me at the door in her night gown, showed me to my room and told me, briefly, what to expect the next day. I was to set my alarm for 4 a.m. and meet her father-in-law, John, outside for further instruction.   Four in the morning came earlier than I expected, but I had no trouble getting up. The strange environment and nervousness of a new job with people I didn't know was enough to wake me up. I dressed in appropriate clothes and went outside. My aunt lived on a plot of land that was longer than it was wide, and her in-laws actually lived next door. They shared the same driveway, so it was pretty easy to find where I should be. I just wandered to the only other guy in the world awake and moving around that early and introduced myself.   The man outside turned out to be Steve. He was around my age, maybe a little older, and I immediately recognized him from years ago when we were small children. Since we share the same Aunt (she's my aunt through blood and his through marriage) we had crossed paths at some point in the past. I had some small talk with him while we waited for John to come out of the house. He explained that he was currently the only one out in the fields mowing the hay. They are pretty isolated; a good 20 minutes from town and the work lasts all day. When he said all day I didn't realize what he meant. Later I would find out that all day meant we arrive out on the field before the sun rises, and we don't leave until after the sun sets. I guess he meant "all day" in the literal sense.   John took us to breakfast at a local diner in town before driving out to the hay field. John didn't usually go to the field, but made it a point to go that particular day because it was my first day on the new job and he was going to show me the ropes. I rode out there with Steve; both of us following John's truck. We arrived at the field when the sun was almost about to make an appearance over the horizon. We could see, but the light wasn't great. The two tractors sitting idly in the field, covered in dew were noticeably different models. They were both well worn, but large tractors. One slightly bigger than the other.   Steve quickly explained the important things I needed to know. He showed me how to start the tractor, where the hand-throttle was and the hydraulic controls for the mowing arm etc. For those who don't know, a hay mowing tractor, like this one, has a large arm that juts out to the right of the tractor. It rests on a wheel several feet out. There are blades along this arm between that wheel and the tractor which spin and do all the cutting. When you are driving the tractor, but not mowing, you disengage the blades and lift the hydraulic arm so that it rests vertically behind the tractor. Much like an L shape (if you were looking at the tractor from the front, where the bottom part represents the tractor wheels).   It was also explained to me that we will be keeping the throttles on max speed because we were so far behind on mowing we would be driving the tractors at the fastest mowing speed possible. They're tractors, so that didn't equate to highway speeds or anything, but it was pretty fast for driving around in a field. My tractor was smaller than Steve’s, but even still the back tires were a bit taller than I was. The last remaining point Steve made was that his tractor was a bit older, and had some special "trick" to turning it on and off that came with age. It didn't just start right up or turn right off; something about jiggling the handle just right before it would work. This all seemed like logical and reasonable information and I'd driven a tractor before so it wasn't too hard to pick up.   Steve hopped on his tractor and I followed his lead mounting mine. He broke the morning calm with the sound of his tractor starting and soon behind my engine joined the noise. As we started the tractors John left the field. He was the owner of a transmission shop in town so he had other obligations to attend. Steve lowered his mowing arm, activated the blades and began mowing the remaining part of the field that he was working on the day prior. I followed suit, lowering my mowing arm, activating the blades and taking relief in that everything worked as planned. We finished the remainder of that field in less than an hour. Steve knew right away where the next field was that we would be mowing, and this next field was very huge so it would take several days to finish.   In preparation for moving to the new field I disengaged the blades and lifted the mowing arm to the 'travel' position where it's vertical behind the tractor. It appeared as though Steve tried to do the same, but his mowing arm didn't lift to the full up-right position, but was instead jutting out at a 45 degree angle. It didn't seem right to me, so I tried to shout to him to let him know something was wrong. The noise of the tractors was so loud I could barely hear myself, there was no way Steve was going to hear me. He was facing away, and I was behind following him to the new field so hand motions and waving was also not an option. I thought "well I could just speed up and wave him down" but we were already going as fast as the tractors would allow so that wasn't really going to happen either. There was basically nothing I could do.   Just as that thought hit me something in his mowing arm snapped and it fell back down beside the tractor, only this time it wasn't resting its weight on the wheel like it was supposed to, but instead was catching the ground. It would continually snag the ground, pull back and violently swing forward again to beside the tractor where it should be, only to snag the ground again and pull back. This looked bad. Just as this started happening Steve jumped off the tractor and landed face down in the field while his tractor continued on its way... unmanned.   My mind was racing. I thought "this must be a prank, right? Maybe his hydraulics went out and that's why the arm fell, and maybe the brakes went out with them, and so he just jumped off being dramatic and joking around? No! No! There's no way he would play a joke like this, we don't even know each other how is this funny?" Deciding that it was a serious situation took about a half a second. I pulled up near him, stopped my tractor, turned it off and dismounted. I ran to Steve shouting "Steve, are you okay?" When I approached him, he tried to lift his head out of the dirt when his whole body started shaking as if this were the most physically exhausting task ever performed. As he lifted his head I saw a small puddle of blood where his face was. Knowing nothing else, I knew this could be serious. I had no idea what or where his injuries were but something was bad.   I looked around the field as if I hoped to lock eyes with someone else who could help me get him to his truck. Of course, there was nobody within miles of this place and we were alone. When I looked up I saw his unmanned tractor had managed to start driving in a giant circle, headed right for us. The mowing arm was just moments from turning us both into ground meat. I panicked and shouted "Steve! GET UP! You have to get up RIGHT NOW!" He tried so hard, but wasn't able to do it alone. I grabbed him and dragged his body out of the way of the tractor as it ran over the spot where he once was and continued on its circular path.   The tractor's circular path wasn't a perfect circle as you can probably imagine since nobody was driving it. It was just going wherever the contours of the earth and physics pulled it. The second pass it managed to drive right up behind and just slightly to the right of my tractor. It then crashed into my tractor and locked wheels. The left smaller (front) wheel of his tractor trapped between the right wheels of mine. The rubber was catching and both tractors started violently bouncing. These were big tractors and nothing was going to stop them, not even themselves. I just sort of stared in shock. At my feet was an injured guy I barely knew, and in front of me is two very expensive tractors crashing and bouncing around. I wasn't sure how but I had to stop it. I couldn't just leave the tractor running in the field and I couldn't NOT take Steve to the hospital.   As I tried to process the situation my tractor rolled forward enough to dislodge his tractor from mine and his tractor began driving off again in a circular path. This time, however, my tractor was ALSO driving… unmanned. Somehow his tractor violently bouncing with mine managed to push-start my tractor leaving them both driving in different directions at full speed across the hay field. This time I didn't bother trying to process the situation, I didn't have time for that. I just started running after my tractor. Unsure of what the end goal even was once I caught it. I couldn't just let them run, because they could have crashed, drove into a pond, or even started a forest fire.   I ran as fast as I could, frequently jumping over long grass to limit being slowed down by it. Eventually I managed to catch up to my tractor. As I ran alongside the tractor I took quick glances to my right toward the tractor to try and plan a way to mount it. As I looked right the giant wheel was spinning so quickly the tread was a hazy gray. I knew that if I made even one failed attempt at jumping onto the foot step on the tractor I'd get sucked under the wheel and tossed out the back a pile of mush. To make matters worse, the foot rest was blocked by the water cooler I was keeping at my feet. I ran beside the tractor for what felt like an eternity psyching myself up for this "once in a lifetime" jump. By now we had veered far outside of mowable hay area and the tractor had collided with a culvert. The front grille of the tractor was pushing the culvert, rolling it along in front of the tractor which only made matters more stressful, if that's even possible. Growing up we had a culvert in our driveway and we were always cautioned to stay away from them because they're much like large tin cans. They have sharp jagged metal edges on them and they can easily cut you. This one was spinning, which most culverts don't do, so I basically had a circular saw rolling around in front of me. I knew that the tractor could easily hit it just right and drive over the top of it which may flip the tractor or toss the culvert. I didn't really want to even think about that.   Fortunately after a few moments the culvert rolled off to the right side so I didn't have to jump it and it didn't cut me. That was a small relief, which was immediately stifled as I looked further ahead to see a hay barn, surrounded by a barbed wire fence. I now had less than 10 seconds to make my move. I was either going to succeed, die, or stand there and watch as the tractor ploughed through a barbed wire fence, get tangled up in wires and crash into a hay barn which would likely set the entire thing ablaze and cause a massive field and eventual forest fire. Gathering up whatever bravery I had I leapt onto the foot rest of the tractor, grabbed the steering wheel and in one solid motion pulled myself into the drivers seat, stomped the brakes and shut down the tractor. This time I applied the brakes, lowered the throttle took out the keys and did everything I could think of to prevent this from ever happening again.   But this was just one tractor. I now had to find the other tractor which could be anywhere by now. It was hard enough catching mine and the other one has now had a good 2 minute head start on me. I recall being so discouraged because the other tractor is the one with the “special trick” to turning it off that I was so conveniently not taught. I quickly scanned the field for the other tractor and saw it sitting motionless near where I left it. Steve was leaning against it staring at the ground. I ran to him and asked what happened. He said he managed to run along-side his tractor much the same as I did but was leaning on the wheel well to support himself as he reached up to pull himself on and stop it. This didn't make any sense then and it doesn't make any sense now. Steve was totally unable to walk by himself. He needed my help getting to the truck and I can only describe that as a miracle and one I really needed.   I looked at Steve and he was holding the back of his head. Blood all over his face, I knew we needed to go to the hospital. I wasn't from this part of town so I didn't know where the hospital was. Heck I didn't even know where town was. I had never been to this field before and if I ever came back it would be too soon. After helping Steve to the car we started off for the hospital. Unsure of how serious his injuries were I tried to keep him calm and awake. "Stay with me man, I need you to help me get to the hospital. You doing okay? Where does it hurt?" I kept talking to him, and continually told him "it’s not that bad, it's going to be fine" even though I had absolutely no idea what was even wrong.   We came upon some road construction along the way. Not the kind you're probably used to, but the rural highway kind where they frequently shut down both lanes of traffic to work and then if a car shows up they make you sit there and wait until they come to a stopping point, move their equipment and then let you through. I drove up to that quickly. I originally intended to blow past the guy holding the stop sign, but he started frantically waving when it was obvious I wasn't slowing down. I decided to stop, rolled down my window and just said "hey, I need to get to the hospital, please just let me drive around your stuff this is an emergency." I tried to find a balance between calm enough not to panic the passenger and panicked enough to get this guy to agree to my demands. I don't think he even heard a word I was saying. He just stared blankly at my passenger and then said "oh F**#$ man... GO! GO! JUST GO!" Apparently there was enough blood all over Steve's face to pretty much say everything I was trying to express.   That made Steve a bit nervous again "oh man, it's bad isn't it?" Again I just talked the situation down. Eventually he led me to the hospital. I've never driven someone to the hospital before, but I always though the ER was the place you go when you have serious injuries. I drove up to the ER entrance and parked by the curb. I got out and walked around to the passenger seat. By this time it had been a 20 minute ride from the field and our nerves had calmed down a bit. Steve insisted that he was fine and could walk in himself. I opened the door and he got out of the truck and immediately fell back onto it. Clear that he couldn't walk himself, I supported him into the ER entrance.   As we approached the ER entrance the automatic doors swung open and we walked in. There was a waiting room filled with old people all reading magazines and talking. The entire room stopped, got quiet and stared at us as the front desk lady started yelling for nurses in the back and waved for us to go through some side door. We passed all the terrified geriatric patients who were staring in horror while we went into what I felt like a series of secret passage ways which got us right into a room with a doctor within the minute.   It turned out that Steve's tractor got hung up when the mowing arm didn’t lift all the way. The weight of the blade hanging at a 45 degree angle caused a support to snap and a chunk of metal hit him in the back of the head. He said he thought the tractor was exploding. He just heard an explosion so he jumped off the tractor. The blow gave him a concussion and cut his head up pretty good.   I discovered that Steve was in the National Guard, and filling out his medical paperwork was only a matter of handing the front desk his ID card and everything was taken care of. The doctor was a veteran, too so while he stitched up Steve they had a conversation that I didn't understand about military things. I was a bit jealous. It felt like a club, and I wanted to be part of it.   Steve decided not to mow hay any longer after that. One of his cousins took his place and over the course of the next month I mowed hay with the new guy. Driving on the tractor from sun up to sun down with no interaction with other people all day long was something of a spiritual experience. I had long conversations with myself, I laughed, I cried, I told myself stories, and got lost in thought. I'd make noises and sing songs to pass the time. Among those thoughts were frequent thoughts of the first day on the job and how I may actually benefit from joining the Army. Ultimately I decided out there on the field that if I could handle all that without losing my calm, I could probably handle the Army.   I'll spare you the rest of my life, but I joined the Army, which 100% altered the course of my future. I have never been happier than I am today and in a large part I have to say that my first day on the job, mowing hay in 2004 is a big part of why I chose the path I chose. I wouldn’t have had that experience if not for my desperate need to pay off a ticket, or for my aunt’s insistence that I start THAT NIGHT, or my inability to find work anywhere else. It was a perfect storm of events, but I shudder to think what would have happened if Steve were out there alone that day.   I maintained contact with Steve for a while because he (through totally random channels) started dating my sister, but when that ended things got awkward and we haven't really spoken much since. A blurb was written about this in the local paper and his entire family continually called me a hero and thanked me for saving his life. I never really felt like a 'hero' since I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. I was just the victim of a really unusual day and did what anybody would have. Heroes find evil in the world and conquer it.

This my first post on /r/shortstories . I decided to write and publish a short story online because I never done it before and figured I should try and see if I would enjoy it. This is a one shot so I will keep an open mind on making more stories in the same universe and post those somewhere if I feel like it but this is just a test to see if I am any good at this, so go easy one me!This story was originally a lot longer my hand bumped a key on the keyboard that erased half of the story and I could not undo the change so I had to wrap it up a lot shorter, I though the original was too long anyway. I hope this story provides a memorable experience for you! "Holy shit...Fuck!". The words that majestically caress my lips as they escape my mouth. Oh and no, this isn’t a porno. These were all the words I can say as a giant metal pipe punctured the glass canopy of my cockpit and lodged its self straight through the middle of my leg. I was pinned, fuck all if I could move and the puncture of the pipe through my canopy caused an oxygen leak, and now I have 5 minutes of oxygen left. I am going to die. I am fucking dead. Gone. Finito. See ya on the other side. Tell me about the afterlife. Dead. D-E-A-D. Dead! And I am fucking pissed about it. How the fuck did I get into this problem? Well I am a combat pilot for a group of paramilitary jack brigades known as, the Centradi Syndicate. Most of us are ex-military from the republican navies, others, well are anywhere between murders, rapists, and thieves. Basically criminals. Because of the colorful nature of our very much diverse civilization, that we love stealing shit in general and not having to pay a fucking dime for it, basically everyone in the civilized space hates our guts. They call our "syndicate" a group of ruffian space pirates who 'prey' on the weak and show no mercy to passing ships, and murder children and blah blah blah blah. Who gives a shit right? We do what we fucking do because the republic is so full of dipshits and corruption that if the republic wanted to peel a fucking orange they would have to cut through miles of red tape and pay off half of their constituents just to get the damn knife! So ya, space pirates. Anyway where was I? Oh yeah! Because everyone hates our guts for being stereotypical bad guys the only space we can get our hands on to give homes for our families on the planetside is practically between civilization and the expanses of uncharted space that were full of these insectoid lizard alien people. "Razack's" we call them. Why? Because they have giant razor blades for forearms. Wouldn’t want to shave your legs with those big ass slicers. Why the fuck do I keep going on about stupid shit that everyone already knows? Well now I get to the actual story. Got to set that epic tone. Anyway so we have a mining platform the Centradi fleet is stationed at. Today we had two carriers tasked with running some stupid space maneuvering shit. Point is me as a combat pilot, isn’t my job to participate in these extracurricular fleet events. You see, my job is to train, run simulations, and patrol the space around the carrier. When my wing is on mission my job is simple; shut the fuck up, listen to the wing commander, follow orders. Simple right? So I’m chilling in my bunk reading my favorite book about space aliens fucking like wild rabbits. Hey! Shut the Fuck up! Yeah I got weird tastes. Ya go fuck yourself Zalo I don’t need your shit! Anyway, back to the story, and oh ya that guy Zalo, the one that called me a faggot for being into alien porn, that’s my wing commander. So Zalo bursts into my bunk room tells me to get my shit together because we are about to go to red alert, funny, because as soon as he said that the alarm chime sounded and the intercom started blaring "red alert"!!! Like a whiny little bitch as usual. Yeah see Zalo is cool, former republican lieutenant, bad shit happened in the republican navy but he never talks about it. Alright then, so, we get our wing together and rush ourselves with everyone else towards the flight deck elevators. We cram our asses in this big ass 50 foot by 50 foot lifter to take us to the flight deck. "Ok Berserkers, I am actual. Caldwell you will be 1-2. Kios, 1-3. Murphy, 1-4, and Shepard 1-5. Everyone got it? Good let’s move out Zerkers." I remember the number then take the 50 meter sprint from the elevator to my Slipstream Fighter on the flight deck. I hopped into its very spacious and utilitarian cockpit and begin my fighters start up sequence. Fighters from other wings ‘whoosh’ by along the runway as the get their clearance from the command deck. Later my wing commander takes the first launch out in his fighter and now I am next. Startup sequence is simple, press both the pedals together, activate the APU, set the throttle to idle and disable the inverter and bam! The fighter comes to life lighting up all its displays as the hud on my helmet begins to materialize into existence. I pull my throttle block up to lift my Slipstream fighter vertically and push forward on this thumb stick on the throttle itself to push the fighter ahead. I begin to line up my fighter with the center of the runway. "This is Beserker 1-2! Command requesting clearance for launch. "This is Command, hold as we power the acceleration gates, you are cleared to launch as soon as you get the green lights" "Copy on all, Beserker 1-2 out." Inside the interior walls of the flight deck, these heavy pylons snap to life and power a field of intense gravity between them. Yes, I have to fly through it. The gates snap to position one after the other running down the whole length of the runway. The last gate activates as I get the green light. I push my throttle all the way to 100% as I shoot like a falling star down the runway and out into open space. You ever felt what its like to go 1 to 10 G's within a few seconds? No? It feels really sexy. So I shoot through the gates into open space and right away its total chaos. Razack fighters everywhere! About fifty swarming both our carriers. I see a guy from another wing get blown to pieces on my way out from a Razack missle. Damn Razack missle uses steel beams as shrapnel, it’s like getting a building thrown at you. I try to link up with Zalo through the mess but he is tied up in the engagement with Razack forces. "Shit! Beserker 1-2! A little help here!?" "On it!" I say as I push my boosters to their limit trying to get to him. A single Razack Split Fighters is on his tail. Split Fighters are single seat fighters with two fixed small lasers, only a little bit of armor plating on it so they crack easy but they are really fast and nimble. I align my quad rail cannon turret in front of the fighter and with one press my turret fires 4 bullets of explosive antimatter towards my target. Boom! He's gone! "Good job 1-2! I owe-.Shit! Bruiser Fighter on your six!" Oh god damn it! Bruiser Fighters are real bad news. They have six medium laser weapons and heavy armor plating. Slow and tough but they will fuck any medium fighters day up, especially my slipstream. "Shit! I’ll try to lose him in th-" I am cut off as a missile hits my fighter I scream in pain I scream harder as shrapnel flies embedding themselves into my face and body. I scream has a glass shard of the canopy pierces my helmet and impales my eye. My fighter shuts down and all that can be heard is the screams of my pain. A large steel pole pierced my cockpit snapping my leg in two and impaling it into my flight chair. I cant pull the ejection chord as the seat is jammed into the cockpit by the pole. I was going to die, one way or another either from bleeding out or suffocation due to the oxygen leaking. "That’s it, I told you everything! Please help me! Everything hurts!" A lump forms in your throat at the situation in front of you and the inevitability of her fate. "I’m sorry Rita but if we pull the pole out you will bleed out before we can get you to the carrier, I'm so sorry" Rita continues to sob but manages to push out her words through her weeps. "It's okay...Thank you for listening to my story, at least I am not alone... Please just finish me off, everything hurts so much." Tears began to well up in your eyes. She was so glad to see the fleet recovery ship fly towards what is left of her fighter only to be told nothing could be done but that she was going to die. You glanced at your partner and he nodded. He hands you his antimatter pistol as you pull back on the slide and ready the pistol. You press the firearm against her helmet where her forehead would be, and then you reach your free arm around her to pull her in for a comforting hug. "Thank you, thank you so much, I’m ready..." Rita tells you "It’s okay Rita, I’m sorry this had to happen, but it will all be over now." You tell her as you disengage the safety on the pistol.

The beginning of our story starts how any life would start. The joining of a number of inputs, creating a single entity. Dalton is awakened in a tumultuous world of things that are not clearly defined, and all around him swirls pain and confusion, much like childhood. Much of what makes him unique is what remains of this traumatizing period. Soon Dalton is allowed to (or forced to, it is unclear) leave this cauldron, on his way through his teenage years and into adulthood. Often times Dalton feels that his environment is trying to break him or take away from his identity, and he becomes quite dismissive and cruel. Everyone he meets here finds him disgusting and mean, and they all end up using and abusing him for their own selfish needs, since they figure it is how the universe works: bad men like him do not deserve the good qualities they have. This continues for his entire adult life, and soon he finds himself to be a cold, hard and condensed form of all the bad and useless qualities of his personality. He feels that the end is near, and Dalton begins to see a light. Death must have come for me, he thinks to himself. He does not follow the light; he is pushed to it. He struggles at first, but soon it feels as though the rest of his body is carried out by the weight of his head. Part of him is left behind on this portal, due to the prolonged struggle of breaching it. The void that surrounds him now is magnificent and terrifying, and he has never felt more open. After drifting through this empty chasm for an infinity, he is engulfed in a sea that is cold and pure. Never in his life had Dalton experienced such purity and vastness. But alas, the pool of the afterlife had a bottom, and Dalton hit it. It was not a clean collision, for part of him smeared on the perfect white bottom of the lake. His body fell awkwardly on top of itself, and Dalton could feel himself break in two under his own weight. Darkness was replaced with brilliant light, as the portal from which he came faded away and opened up the sky to more perfect white. Dalton could then identify an object of colossal size, which he could only assume to be a being of supreme power, never occurring to him that was where he came from, and all that was good and valued in Dalton once was left behind in there. And then, as one final act of hatred, Dalton was covered in a blanket filthy with parts he had left behind, and cast into a vacuum of perfect blackness, to join a collective unconscious of other unwanted souls. This must be Hell, he thought. Indeed, he had been flushed down the toilet to live with all the other shit in the world.

Copyright Scarlett Marmont-Sanitarium Magazine Lady Pandore The city was a jungle, crawling with sophisticated Cheshire Cats, blue collar brawlers, and beat broke society slum who crooned around New York’s darkest street corners in blazing fire circles, desperate for a copper coin or two to roll into their grimy, wool caps. Aww yes, the famous streets, vibrant, charismatic, and outspoken, illuminated by white hot electric light, light that reflected off onto the pavements, pavements drenched wet in a sea of angry rainfall, pouring amidst noir hours, twilight’s daughter. The year was 1930, when the tragic fall began. It was there perched up above the not so pretty, poverty stricken building fronts that Marlon Ray stood and hearkened to the bumbling sounds below, His iris’s coal, magnetized through his thick framed, rounded glasses. His hair a slick, semi messy and glossy shade of auburn parted in the center. He wasn’t millionaire rich, not like the Huckabee boys who lived in excess and ran the rambunctious city. He was dirt poor, cooped up in a tiny motel owned by a pair of dingbats. However he didn’t fit into any of the stereotypical, pigeon hole categories. No, Marlon Ray wasn’t a Cheshire Cat, or a blue brawler, or a broken down society slum as much as everyone wanted him to be. He was a very peculiar, unusual breed of human. He was abnormal. Drapes of the motel room ruffled into velvet creases of contour as a biting breeze swept along the balcony, Marlon’s suicidal balcony, where each night was he considered the idea of taking his own life by free falling forty nine feet down onto the slippery, polished concrete. He’d gaze out at his panoramic view in awe of the world he observed scurrying before him, his eyes like a of pair mirrors, as flashing images of people, places, things, colors, and sounds bounced off of them into the perpetual abyss of star bright sky. He discovered a way to harness his insomnia, to drift with his eyes open. This was his alternative to dream while he was conscious and awake. He lived for nothing more or nothing less, a monster buried away in the heart of a pulsating body. That was until he heard the voice. He jerked his neck, shifting the course of his vertebrae all in one solid motion so that only half of his face glowed with a kiss of moonbeam and the other cheek was shadowed in a veil of serene darkness. The sultry singing meandered, gently vibrating in Marlon’s ears. Could it be a goddess? He wondered. He had never heard a voice so sweet. It careened him in towards his scattered bedroom of trinkets and toys he collected as a child to the paper-thin wall near his mattress. He plunged onto the wall, the wall that separated him from a ravishing heaven and pressed his left ear to the chipped paint. Oh so tantalizing, mesmerizing, hypnotizing he thought. He was sucked into the goddess’s portal, humming along to the three note waltz melody, accompanied by a symphony of a thousand droplets of murky, running water pitter-pattering onto turquoise shower tiles. Marlon clenched his fist using extraordinary pressure. His body had become possessed by a sudden revelation of chaotic emotion, rushing through his plasma, through his aching bones. He pounded on the wall like a mad man, crazed and insane, blessed and cursed with the perception of a fiendish villain. The skin on his bleached hands tinged and burned an indigo shade. He was locked away as an abandoned creature of youth for the majority of his existence much to the point that he had become immune to any other feeling besides sadness. The same sadness he felt the day his shameless, better yet prosperous mother dropped him off at Bernadette’s Children’s Orphanage when he was merely six years old. The memories were still wired as vivid clips in his convoluted mind, clips of his mother refusing to carry him in her arms out in public, or clips of her choosing to abandon little Marlon with all but a forced hug goodbye. He could still smell the aroma of her floral perfume doused on her mink coat. A perfume that matched the scent of white hydrangea flowers, the flowers he had found comfort in sniffing in his backyard when he was a boy. Its French signature odor still to this day lingered in his nostrils. Clips of the young boy, Marlon’s ghost burrowed deep in a coat closet while the ill-mannered boys at Bernadette’s poked insults his way, guffawing at him from outside the door because of his unique, or as they may say beastly differences that would send him packing his single bag of things on a one way train to the Freak Show circuit. The voice died out yet to return a tormenting silence. Marlon backed away from the bleak, quiescent wall. The wall that shunned him, as did his own biological mother and his peers, the same wall that segregated him from the Homo sapien species. “Nooo!” he groaned the pit of his lost soul rattled by despair. “Don’t leave me!” He slumped onto the molded carpet yelping hysterically like a beast that had just been gashed through its raw belly. The goddess had forsaken him. Three dull knocks thumped gently on the door. Thump, Thump, Thump, they sounded. Marlon picked himself up awakening from his broken state. He climbed to his feet, dashed to his bathroom mirror, and dried his sopping face off with a cotton towel. He fixed his navy tie draped loosely on his oversized, collared shirt as he grinned at himself in the mirror, ashamed of the man that met him. Thump, Thump, Thump, the door pursued Marlon’s attention. His intense stare widened. He paced across the creaking floor boards, deciding whether or not he should greet the stranger’s pleading wish. With one of his twitching hands he grappled the auric knob and flicked his wrist twisting it shiny edge. He flew back away from the door, both of his eyelids shut to blind him from his foreign trespasser. “Hello, I’m Pandore. May I ask your name?” the sultry voice wafted into Marlon’s drab hotel room. Marlon blinked a few times to dispose of the wet film glazed over his sight, for he could not believe the illusion that manifested before him. It was her, and all of her physicality. The body, the mind, the soul, the women, the lady of flesh that sang the tunes, whose lips nurtured the voice that Marlon lusted for. It was his goddess, the drop dead gorgeous, beauteous divine, Lady Pandore. He gulped unable to articulate, for if he did his ghastly birth defect would reveal itself and send the goddess bolting for an escape. ”You’re a shy fellow, aren’t you?” she spoke, her words like poetry. She was dressed in simple nude gown, cuffed with snowy lace that nicely accentuated her curves. “You see I was just in the shower next door getting ready for a gig I have at The Marmont and I heard some awful loud ruckus coming from the other side. It nearly scared me to death. Happen to know what that was?” Her eyes pried for an answer while a sheepish Marlon drowned in a pool of his own silence. He had to come up with an excuse and a good one. He used his fingers to demonstrate a spiders wriggling legs twiddling both his middle and pointer finger up the wall. He picked up a stray frying pan from off of his barren dinner table and wacked the spot where he described the culprit spider to be. Pandore watched intently. His white lie had somehow transformed into a truth. “Oh I see, you were only killing a widow, is that it?” she questioned smoothing her luxurious, crimson locks of hair. Her ruby red lipstick and viridescent eyes hypnotized a spellbound Marlon, his face radiated with lovey-dovey trickery, shot by cupids sparkled arrow point, he nodded yes. “May I ask you something?” Marlon nodded again leaning his body weight onto the door, the pan in his other jittery hand while he battled to maintain a firm grip on the handle. There was an erratic shift in Marlon; the complexity of his emotions fluttering about his brain was more than overwhelming for him to process. Her soft ivory skin, her legs, her chest winded with air feeding her body the oxygen of life, her rhythmic heart beating the percussion to her musical language, pumping to her breast, exploded in his mind. “How come you don’t speak, cat got your tongue?” Pandore asked in the most polite tone possible, in a motherly tone. Marlon dreaded this question, the question that drew curiosity to his greatest strife, the painstaking agony of his life that never ceased to pester him in each and every one of his social encounters. He wished to have conversations with those of New York’s grand melting pot on the hustle and bustle, those of which he spied on from afar. They could not understand the reasons for his inability to wrap his tongue around their language unless they were to witness his alien mutation for themselves. The only place he was appreciated for such anomalous differences was at the carnival. Where he was the life, the creature of captured attention, come one come all for the amazing, impeccable, magnificent, Serpentine! “You can talk to me babe, I won’t hurt you,” Pandore took a step forward floating upon the stained rug. The space of air between the two of them was dense. “Tell me your name. Is it Jimmy, Frank, Edward?” He shook his head, farouche in his demeanor. “Then what is it then? The mystery is killing me,” she prodded, lighting a cigarette up. Frozen, Marlon was frozen. Paralyzed were the muscles in his face, masked by the pores, the pressed flex of his mouth, twisted in sorrow, camouflaged complexions of ever-changing hue, blue as cobalt, pallid as a pale mammal. “Were both gentle flowers,” she breathed, pouting her voluptuous lips that glistened like a pair of dewy cherries in the summertime rain. A cloud of smoke swirled off of them into Marlon’s lashes, into his coal gape, onto his lips. He could taste the hints of rat poison now mingling with the buds on his warty tongue. Please tell me. I’d really love to know.” The tension eased, her soft delicate voice persuaded Marlon, enticed Marlon, gave Marlon release. And the invisible thread binding his lips together was ripped apart to reveal a cryptic surprise for those before and for Pandore who wept in despise. “Marlon,” he mumbled in a deep demonic voice hinted with a subtle cry. “Ahh! A chilling scream shredded Pandore’s tender vocal chords. Horror painted her petrified face. Through her eyes she saw the devilish grin itself. A beaming array of teeth sharper than razor blade edges and a slithering serpent tongue greeted her dilated pupils. Marlon clawed onto her porcelain shoulders. “Get away from me you wretched devil!” she screamed battling his vigor grasp, although it was a battle she could not win. Such perfection, it was too good to be true. Marlon could not believe her reaction, her trickery. She had fooled him like everyone else had in his life. Was it all just mere illusion? No, not his goddess, please not his goddess he refused the conniving voice, pounding and booming in his rousing cerebrum. If only he could find a way to make her look past the ugly beast he was, to make her sympathize with his pain. In all but an instantaneous moment of loathing Marlon swung the steel pan whacking Pandore’s trembling figure unconscious onto the speckled carpet. Her angelic temple lay torpid. He picked her up in his arms, her curled strands of fiery hair dangled into the ether. The door clicked shut. Dusk fell upon Marlon’s vicious smirk. Bittersweet envy strew throughout the stark space. A war of instinct and love fractured his cold heart. He flung a drawer open, his fingers danced upon the clinking selection of knives. “Hmmm…” he pondered, only the finest for his Lady Pandore. The point of the knife’s deadly edge penetrated along Marlon’s arm as he tested its worth. Satin blood richer than a cardinal’s wing dripped down his clammy dermis, flawless and precise, sculpting device. “Oh my dear Lady Pandore, you look the more heavenly when you’ve fallen in slumber,” he grimaced hovering over Pandore’s peaceful anatomy placed vertically upon an operating table, the dull silver jittering in his hands. A dim light bulb swung and buzzed voltaic static sound overhead. “Do it! Do it!” Contradicting voices swirled in the nether realms of his mind. “No she doesn’t love you, your worthless your trash! Why would anyone in their right mind love a snake boy like you!” They screeched in catastrophe. He stroked his hand along Pandore’s sheer dress, picturing his mother’s Hollywood Hills glamour. A bolt of lightning sizzled in his arched spine. He stormed around kicking and throwing every piece of furniture, every box, lamp, and cheap vase in his hindsight. Reality was a lie, filthy delusions of shit. Tramp! You fooled me!” A real boozehound Marlon guzzled a bottle of carmel silk whisky allowing the scorching liquor to flood his slimy throat. Adrenaline exploded in his veins. “Come on bum, grow a pair. Get the gal,” the voice reiterated slapping Marlon stiff across his jawbone. “Got tossed from the carny reject lane for tearing a fellas limb off, now this? Ha! Ha! Ha!” “Shut the hell up,” a holler spewed out of him, his veins greener than leaves of clover popping through the follicles in his throbbing neck. “ Three gelid tears trickled down Marlon’s numb cheeks. “Precious Pandore, you shall be my work of art,” he whimpered, planting a calloused kiss on her luscious mouth. “Soon we will be one of one kind.” he steered the knife towards Pandore’s lazed mouth, the war in his mind still raging. “I can’t!” he hesitated, fumbling over himself. “Don’t be yellow, do it already!” the voices growled hungry for pain. Marlon approached Pandore’s translucent glow again, pricking the blade near a crevice in her pink dimples, His hand shook as he carved out an extension of her golden smile, slicing through her bare facial muscles, blood oozing out of the layers of tissue and meat. Doom, sinister doom sparked his creativity. “Another incision here,” he lowered the cutter, to the center of his beloved’s music box and pierced as hole through it. Five hours passed, five long and dreadful hours of mastery. “Open your eyes my darling,” Marlon’s croak echoed in Pandore’s eardrums reeling her lethargic state back to consciousness. Her groggy eyes shot open, blinking rapidly to a mirror placed directly above her next to Marlon’s reptilian ogle. She squawked in panic at her battered, gashed up complexion, only she could not squawk, or speak, or hum, or sing. In Marlon’s scaled hands were the vocal chords, the vocal chords he yearned to hold. Rise my beauty,” he swallowed hard. A reluctant, frightened Pandore stood up, glaring at Marlon, a carbon creature of design. His face slathered in greasy clowns pant with black rings shadowing his eye sockets. “Dance,” he ordered taking her soft palm in his and twirling her in circles. He imagined his own carnival playing before him; the tip toe of organs, the cheer of the crowd, the auroral spotlight shining down on both him and his even now the more precious Lady Pandore. “Lady Pandore spin round and round, Lady Pandore spin round and round. Lady Pandore spin round and Round,” he sang the baritone tune, Lady Pandore sniveled salty tears that singed her wounded, deathly cheeks.

Hi all, just a quick not before you start reading. First post here and I was in a bit of a rush so couldnt work out how to italicize. The small parts of first person within the third person narrative should be in italics. Hope you enjoy, all feedback welcome. Dark Dreams He awoke to the sight of a full moon. It was not white tonight, but orange. The moon was enormous, dominating the cloudless night-sky and glowing with an unnatural beauty more brightly than he’d ever seen. He rose immediately. The Dreamer remembered nothing. He couldn’t even recall his name. As he surveyed the area, he realised that his surroundings were unrecognisable. He had been sleeping on a wooden chair overlooking a vast sea of dark water that twinkled orange in the moonlight. To his right and left he could see jagged headlands poking out into the water like deformed, twisted fingers. Turning around, the Dreamer could see that he was standing upon the top of a tower that belonged to a castle. The tip marked the highest point of the castle, and from here he could see the entirety of the building and its large expanse of grounds. In the distance, he thought he could make out a collection of small wooden houses that appeared to belong to a lonely village. Peering over the battlements in the direction of the fortress, he realised that the tower he was stood atop was perched upon a stump of rock that lay a short distance away from the coastline. A long tunnelled bridge connected the isolated landmass to the mainland. Perplexed by his current situation, the Dreamer fumbled around in the pocket of his coat to see if anything had been left on his person, anything that could explain his absence of thought. As he explored the pocket, something sharp pricked the tip of his finger. Grunting in pain, the Dreamer groped the item to find the handle of whatever had jabbed him, and withdrew a peculiar object. It was approximately twice the length of his palm and was scattered with strange, alien symbols that the darkest recesses of his mind could not recognise. The handle appeared to be crystalline, its cylindrical transparent surface revealing the remnants of some strange, orange ooze inside. Attached to one end of the handle was a sharp needle that made the Dreamer feel extremely uneasy. The Dreamer couldn’t help but notice that the object looked vaguely like a syringe, like the ones doctors used to inject medicine into the sick. But what was left of the ooze inside looked nothing like any of the remedies the Dreamer had seen before. The more he analysed the mysterious symbols on the handle, the less sense they made to him. The Dreamer had the feeling that whatever he held was alien of some sort, completely out of human comprehension. As he studied the strange instrument, he started to feel more and more conscious of the moon. He looked up and saw that it still hung in the sky the same way, seeping an abnormal orange light into the night. He could feel its presence much more now though, as if it was watching him, studying his every move. I need to hide. He gazed back towards the castle and knew that there was the only place he could take refuge. The Dreamer returned the object to his pocket and walked over to the trapdoor that lay at the centre of the tower’s tip. A letter E was engraved upon its surface. He heaved it open with some struggle, revealing a ladder that descended into darkness. Without a second thought, the Dreamer mounted the ladder and began his descent, praying that at the bottom he would find the tunnel to the mainland. After what felt like hours, the Dreamer reached the final step and gazed along the tunnelled bridge that stretched out before him. The tunnel was extremely dark, illuminated only by the strange orange moonlight that seeped in through the loopholes. Several candles that lit the way to the exit caused the tunnel roof to shimmer, producing a façade of homely warmth. The Dreamer felt nothing but cold. He squinted down the passageway and saw an archway that he presumed led out of the tunnel. All he knew was that he could not turn back. Shivering, he began to pace through the tunnel, occasionally peeking through the slits that littered the walls. Outside, all he could see was the enormous black lake that stretched into the distance, only to be cracked by the horizon. Sat in the middle was the reflection of the moon, watching him. Wherever I go it sees me. Turning back to face the rest of the tunnel, The Dreamer stopped immediately. Something about the exit looked peculiar. He could still see it, although the archway had become slightly distorted, as if he was seeing it through some mist or a dirty looking glass. He took another step forward, and suddenly, not ten yards away, something began to manifest. He realised that the exit was being blurred by some kind apparition that lay between them. He began to approach it, slowly. The Dreamer crept closer and closer to whatever was appearing, beginning to recognise the figure of a woman. She was wearing a beautiful white dress that had been ruined by a long, jagged rip at the sleeve. Creeping closer still, The Dreamer saw that the woman’s bare feet were slightly elevated from the ground, and her face, hidden by a hood, looking down towards the floor as though she was fixated in a deep sleep. As The Dreamer slowly approached the woman, her form began to appear more thoroughly. He could see the curve of her body, her nimble fingers and her ghostly pale hair that dangled from her hood like a beautifully woven spider web. It wasn’t until he was close enough to hear her wispy breaths that he saw the blood. It began to appear slowly at first, oozing through her garb to stain it with a dark, ghastly red. The woman’s breathing stopped. She lifted her head and stared at the Dreamer with pale eyes. Her eyes were entirely white without a single trace of an iris to be seen. The Dreamer stared back, unable to look away. The world was silent. They remind me of the moon… Although he did not know the woman, he couldn’t help but feel connected to her, as if he’d once known her in another lifetime. He immediately forgot about the blood, losing himself in the pale sea of her eyes. The blood began to stain the dress more quickly and it wasn’t long before the silence was broken by droplets of red on the cold stone floor. His trance was broken as soon as the blackness entered her eye. The Dreamer shifted his gaze down towards her body and saw that the whiteness of her dress had been entirely consumed by a dim, ugly red. Something bit his chest, a feeling he did not want nor could control. Fear. He moved his eyes up again to meet hers, but saw that her pupils were swiftly expanding, consuming her eyes and transforming them into pits of darkness. It took seconds her the sclera to completely vanish. The woman screamed. It was long and agonizingly loud, shooting shivers and pain through the Dreamer’s body. It was a scream of misery, agony and grief, feelings that the Dreamer had forgotten existed. All he wanted to do was run but his legs would not respond. The Dreamer quickly turned his head to peer outside, where the moon had suddenly began to glow ever brighter. On the water, the moon’s reflection started to shake violently as ripples shook the lake’s surface. The wind had picked it up, flying in through the loopholes of the tunnel and extinguishing the candles. It swirled through the tunnel with an unnatural force, piercing the walls as though they were non-existent and buffeting the Dreamer so violently that he could’ve been on a mountaintop. The world vanished before his eyes. He could still hear the scream of the woman and could feel the wind battering his face. The wind had begun to materialise, representing a thick smoke or fog rather than a gale. The substance consumed the world before him and replaced it with a swirling whiteness. Then he was falling, to where he did not know, but all he could see in every direction was the white vortex of smoke. He couldn’t hear the woman now, but instead could hear the wind shrieking that told him he was falling at an immense speed. You did this. He heard the voice clearly in his head, so clearly that it felt like someone was whispering in his ear. Whenever the voice spoke it muffled out the wind, but the Dreamer continued to fall. You told them to do it. It’s your fault. The voice sounded familiar, but the Dreamer had forgotten all the faces he ever knew. It was a gruff whisper, as though it belonged to an elderly man who was short of breath and out of time. The Dreamer landed on his back with a thump and the silence returned immediately. He was unharmed, though landed with a thud that sent his head pounding. Fear pulsed through his body, a feeling that he had all but forgotten until the encounter with the ghostly woman. He opened his eyes to see that everything was still white. The Dreamer stood and began to calm. Here in this white abyss it was peaceful, free of the woman’s shrieks and more importantly, the moon. By the time his breathing returned to normal, something had appeared in the distance. He couldn’t tell how far it was away, for the endless white background gave no clue of scale. The silence broke again. This time it was another voice, but it was like nothing the dreamer had ever heard before. It sounded neither male nor female and spoke in some foreign sounding gibberish that would’ve been impossible to repeat with the human tongue. As it spoke, a shadow started to loom over the Dreamer, growing larger by the second until the peaceful whiteness of the world had been stained by an orange tint. The Dreamer turned around and his heart began to batter the inside of his chest again. The moon had found him, except this time it hovered directly behind him, appearing to grow larger by the second. It didn’t take long for the Dreamer to realise that the moon was not growing, but coming closer. It was coming for him. The Dreamer turned around and ran. The only thing he could run to was whatever had appeared just moments ago in the distance, for the rest of the orangey-white background was completely absent of any scenery. He spun his head around to see that the moon was still chasing him, gaining distance second by second. To the Dreamer’s horror, the gigantic orange monolith had begun to pulsate uncontrollably, as though its surface was made of jelly and something inside was attempting to break free. The Dreamer returned his gaze to his destination that he was now close enough to recognise as a tombstone. A grave had been conveniently dug in front of it. As the Dreamer ran towards it, he knew his only hope was to dive into that grave. He took one last look at the moon before he leaped and swore that it had blinked. As he jumped, he glimpsed the engraving on the headstone: William Elton Seven Years Later Sweat poured from Henry Cimsok’s brow as he stared down at the collection of letters before him. They had been delivered in the middle of the night by some unknown carrier, written and signed by his brother. John Cimsok had been a respected scholar of psychology, but had been presumed dead for the last seven years after disappearing from the face of the Earth. The last time Henry had been in contact with his brother, he had started to become obsessed with the secrets of dreams and the afterlife. He had attempted to share his fantasies with his friends and family, Henry included, but as time went on they sounded more and more like the ravings of a madman. Henry took a deep breath and began to read: 3rd June 1808 Dear Brother, I believe that I have finally found what I have been looking for. I have obtained an item that appears to be the next step in uncovering the truth. My travels took me north to a small coastal village in Cumbria, the name of which I am ignorant. At first I thought the place to be deserted, but as I explored the area I saw an inn that looked to be open. I decided that if it was, I should stay there the night in hopes of rejuvenating my strength for another days travel. Surly enough it was open, and I approached the innkeeper to inquire about a room and something to drink. The inn was not busy by any stretch of the imagination. The few I saw in there sat in corners and drank alone, and I presumed them to be locals. Both the lack of activity and general well-being of the area combined with the many nights I had spent on the road since my last encounter with civilisation led me to believe that the village lay miles and miles away from any other forms of human life. This greatly aroused my interest. The innkeeper was pleasant enough. He was happy to grant me a room for as long as I needed, no doubt grateful for some business. He poured me a drink and disappeared into the back room to collect the room key. In his absence, I glanced out of the window and noticed something that managed to pass me by during my former exploration of the village. I approached the window to get a better view of the monumental structure that stood before me. The castle was large, its several towers pointing menacingly up toward the sky. It appeared to be built on a headland poking out into the sea and the full moon bathed its rooftops in an eerie white light that did not fail to give me goose bumps. When the innkeeper returned with the key I asked him about the castle and its inhabitants. He told me a remarkable story that in turn led me to come into possession of this truly remarkable item. The castle was hundreds of years old and had belonged to the Elton family since its erection. Until recently, it had been occupied by William Elton, who had a wife and a young child that was not too far out of infancy. Only one week prior to my visit, the family butler had stumbled down to the village in a half delirious state and informed them that the Elton family were all dead. He was suffering from some sort of puncture wound and collapsed. He awoke a few hours later, and apparently after a few days of rambling like a madman he succumbed to the wound. The innkeeper himself had written to the nearest authority, but the closest station was so far away that they had still not arrived to investigate. The Elton family did not seem to be well-loved by the village, and thus far no one had ventured up to the castle to inspect the grisly scene. Out of interest, I probed the innkeeper for any detail about what the butler had said in the days before his death. Most of it had been gibberish, but he had spoken about his master’s obsession with a strange item in the weeks before his demise. He described the item as having extraordinary symbols calved into its handle, with a strange orange liquid inside. I took the key and slammed my drink down on the table, leaving before the innkeeper could question my behaviour. As you have probably realised yourself, brother, the object sounded remarkably familiar to the one I found below the church in France. It did not take me long to reach the castle gate, and to my satisfaction it creaked open with little resistance. It opened up into a large courtyard that offered nothing in the form of hospitality. It was completely barren, except for a couple of barrels here and there, and many of the doors that seemed to lead to the different wings of the castle had been padlocked numerous times. I spotted a large black door on the other side of the courtyard that was slightly a jar, so I proceeded to enter. Words cannot describe the fear I experienced when I entered the great hall and observed the scene before me. The first thing that hit me was the unmistakable odour of death. Across the walls were a number of disturbing paintings that seemed to portray odd rituals and black magic. They certainly did not seem appropriate for the walls of an English gentlemen. The room was so large that at first I did not see the corpses. It wasn’t long before I noticed the body of a man slouched on the grand seat of the dais that looked over the room. I could not help but notice a moonbeam that had bathed the seat in a sparkling white light. I observed for the first time the large circular window in the roof that allowed the moonlight to penetrate the room. As I crossed the hall I saw a dead woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood. A child lay at her breast, also deceased. The way the mother still grasped the cushion that lay beside them told me that something horrifying had happened here. My heartbeat quickened significantly, both out of fear and uncontrollable anticipation. I approached the corpse of Mr. Elton who looked to be the victim of a self-inflicted stab wound to the stomach. The way his two hands still grasped the knife inside his body made the scene look almost sacrificial. To my overwhelming excitement I saw something at the foot of his chair and I hastily swept it up. It only took a couple of seconds of rolling it over in my hands to be certain of its importance. Eager to leave such a ghastly abode, I returned to the inn immediately for a closer inspection of my newly obtained item. The item itself is almost identical to the one I found at France. The symbols and craftsmanship clearly follow the same theme and inside I found a similar substance. But the reason my hand shakes with such excitement is because the liquid inside is not green but orange. Yes, orange! I do not know what supernatural force has led me to this treasure, but for doing so I am eternally grateful. As you know, my visions in the green dream told me the path to enlightenment lies beneath an orange moon. I believe this substance will present me with the orange dream and finally reveal the secrets of life. I know you are cautious brother, and if it keeps your mind at peace I am only going to administer myself a small dose at first. The demise of the Elton family is indeed unsettling news, but I believe that their deaths were the result of ignorant and inexperienced use. My anticipation will let me wait no longer, the truth awaits! 4th June 1808 Dear Brother, I saw the orange moon! The dream itself was not much different, but even with such a minimal dose I was able to detect the presence of something almighty. I can still vaguely feel the effects of the substance, and it is encouraging me return to the dream immediately. There is a small amount of liquid left and I intend to inject it all for the next dream. I fear that if I halve the remaining dose it will not produce the desired effect. I know that the orange liquid is infinitely stronger than its green brother, but I believe this to be the only way of reaching fulfilment. This is the only chance I’ll have! 5th June 1808 In the orange dream I lost myself. I know now there is no going back. Know this brother, you are irrelevant. The world we walk upon, the things we feel and the people we love are all insignificant when we know the truth. My only hope is if that I end my life now I will not witness the horrors to come. But even of that I am not certain. I implore you to the same, it comes for us all. Fear the moon.

Dr. Wachowski - By Jacob Gatt Dr. Wachowski had always been my favorite councilor at the school. I never felt as comfortable with other councilor as I did with Dr. Wachowski. Recently I had been having some tough things going on in my life - for example, my dad had murdered my mom six weeks ago and I've been living in a foster home since then. Unfortunately for me, it wasn't exactly quick in terms of build up to the actual murder. My parents had been furious with each other for the past few weeks and there were death threats coming from both sides. The night it happened, my parents had gotten into a fight as usual, but eventually, my mom had grabbed a kitchen knife to defend herself after my dad pulled out his hand gun. He threatened to shoot her and me, and she said that she'd kill him if he got any closer. Suddenly there was a loud bang and a bright flash. There was a large blood spray on the living room wall and then a loud thud, from my mother hitting the floor. She had been shot through the heart and died instantly. I was in my room and I called the police before my mom had even gotten her knife. There were sirens and red and blue flashing lights coming from outside. My father walked over to my room and knocked loudly on my door, ordering me to open it. I was leaning up against it, pressing my leg up against my bed so the door wouldn't open. He became furious and fired shots through the door. That's when the police rushed in and tackled him to the ground. Apparently I he had put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, but he was out of bullets. That's when I had spent a night or two in the jail until the could find me a foster home. And that really hadn't made things much better. My foster family was consistently rude to me. The state government gave my foster family a large sum of money to spend on me, to buy me food and clothes and school supplies. Which they didn't. They kept it for themselves and if I had been moved to a new family, they'd lose all the money. They were horrible. I'd say they'd average about three insults in regards to my physical appearance or mental capabilities every few hours. I was told I had to go see Dr. Wachowski because he'd help me get over my mom's murder. I was told that he'd help me get back to normal. For the last six weeks I had gone to see Dr. Wachowski everyday at 1:30 pm. I would walk down the same stair well, the North West stair well. It was always the dirtiest, because it always had some sort of garbage in it. Cigarette buts, chicken bones or some spilled soda no one bother to clean up. But Dr. Wachowski's office was always clean. There weren't any marks on the floor, there weren't any stains on his desk, and his hair was always combed and his short beard trimmed. He had a Newton's cradle on the front of his desk, slightly off to the left. It would always bother me. "Tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tak" it always made me feel like I needed a mint. "How are you doing today, Thomas?" "I'm getting by, I guess." "Anything got you done recently?" "I don't know, my foster family is probably the main thing." "Would you like to talk about it?" "Well it's just the usual stuff. Nothing I haven't told you before." "Well then why don't you talk about it more generally? What is it they do a whole that makes you upset? How do they make you feel?" "Well like, they insult me. They make life tougher than it already is. It sucks. I feel really under appreciated just, as a person. Like I could die and they wouldn't care." "Hmm..." It seemed like Dr. Wachowski had gotten an idea. That or he was just processing how sad my life must be. Dr. Wachowski had a very soft, calm voice. It wasn't high-pitched, but it wasn't deep and gravelly. It was difficult to describe in terms of pitch, but he always talked calmly, like nothing ever worried him, always slowly, always softly. We then talked for a while longer, about really nothing in particular. It went from my school and my grades, to the weather to, local sports teams. The bell rang and it was time for me to get my things and go home. It took me about an hour to walk back home. I didn't have to walk, I could've even have been driven or taken the bus. But, I didn't. My 'mom' wouldn't even think of taking time out of her day to do something for me. And she wouldn't give me any money for public buses. I could've taken the school buses but I prefer to not smell like body odor and shit. I went to bed at the usual time that night. I never really had any trouble sleeping because the way I saw it, when I'm asleep, I don't have to deal with the real world. I was woken up suddenly by a strange smell and what felt like a wet cloth covering my mouth and nose. I could feel my body relaxing, and it being picked up and moved around. It was too dark in my house to see exactly where I was going, but I was able to remember the layout of my house. They had carried me out of my room and walked down the long hallway past all of the other rooms. I could feel my body shaking and moving down each of the steps. They had come through the front door, but they didn't break in because I heard the door open easily. They closed the door behind them and pulled out a key. They locked the door and placed the key back on the top of the doorway. After that I had passed out. When I woke up, I was bound to a bed with belt straps. I started to panic and try and think of a way to escape. I looked around the room and noticed how dingy the the room was. The air was thick and dust was floating around everywhere. There was almost no lighting, except from the little bit that game in from the window that was covered by some blinds. There wasn't any dry wall and the walls looked like they were just wood and insulator. "I'm an someone's fucking attic." I was able to prop myself up enough to notice a small TV at the other end of the room, that was plugged into the wall, with the cord almost falling out. I laid my head back as I was still weak from whatever drugs I had inhaled. My vision was blurry and everything sounded like I was underwater. I looked at the doorway hoping to somehow escape, when it opened. There was a black figure, and they started to walk toward me. "Hello Thomas." I recognized the voice immediately. Soft, slow, and calm. Dr. Wachowski. I didn't believe it at first. It didn't make any sense to me. Why would he kidnap me in the middle of the night?" I wasn't able to respond to Dr. Wachowski's greeting, but that didn't matter, because his continued on his own. "How are you feeling? Are you hungry, or thirsty? Would you like me to turn on the TV for you?" I still didn't answer. Not because I couldn't, I just didn't want to talk to this man. I couldn't believe that it was really him. It had to be someone else. There's no way he would do anything like this. Dr. Wachowski sighed at my lack of response, frustrated because he knew I would be making things difficult. "What you told me earlier was very concerning. I was worried for you and I decided to take action." "And you thought 'taking action' meant kidnapping me?!" "Don't worry Thomas. I have a plan. All I need, is your trust." I had fallen back asleep, and woken up what felt like a few hours later. The TV was on and it was set to the news. It said 'Breaking News: Brutal murder discovered by overpass.' I grabbed the remote that was next to me and turned up the volume. There was a female news reporter on the screen. She was saying how the murder was "graphic and horrifying". She said that "The hands and feet had been cut off, as well as the face had been burned by what seemed like gasoline. The throat had been cut what seemed to be prior to any of the further damage to the body." She continued on with "upon further inspection, doctors found that the teeth of the victim had been pulled out, preventing doctors from using dental records to identify the victim." The news report continued, but I didn't listen to what it was saying because I heard keys be put into the front doors lock, and then the door opening shortly after. I lied there stiff, unable to move as I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. My mind raced with the possibilities, trying to figure out if my gut instinct is right or not. "Did Dr. Wachowski do that? Could he really have done such a horrible thing? "Hello Thomas." He sounded calm as ever. No sense of haste, or fatigue or worry. He had a strong smell of Hydrogen Peroxide. "You smell strange." "That's because I was doing my laundry. I'm sure you can smell the Hydrogen Peroxide. I used a lot more than I planned to." Dr. Wachowski looked over at the TV, that was still on the news story. "I heard about that on the way home from work. It's a shame what happened to them. They look so young..." "What do you mean on the way home from work?" "Well I mean that I go to work of course! What else would I mean? I'm still a councilor at the school, I just don't see you at 1:30 anymore." "Oh..." "That time slot is empty now so instead of talking to you, I have time to think. About the future and such." Dr. Wachowski looked down at his watch, startled by the time. "Oh goodness, I must be leaving. I've got to go meet with a friend. He and I will be discussing plans we have for a future project. I'll bring home some pizza, what do you want on it?" "Just pepperoni, please" "You got it, bud." There wasn't much to do up in the attic. All I really could do was lay in bed, or watch tv. All I would ever watch it the news. It was all about the murder. 'Who could've done it? Why would they do it? What did they have against the person? Why would they do it so brutally?' The news stories went on, coming up with no leads, begging people if they have any information on the case at all. The news story went on, repeating itself every hour or so. "I'm home!" I could smell the pizza from all the way up here. It slowly filled the room as Dr. Wachowski started to climb up into the attic. "So did you and your friend discuss all the things you needed to discuss?" "Just about, yes." Dr. Wachowski and I are the pizza and continued to talk, similar to how we would in his office at school. It was nice to be able to talk to him how we used to, even though it never leaves my mind that he has me kidnapped, strapped to a bed. The next morning I woke up, and stared to watch TV for about an hour or so, when there was another breaking news story. Another murder. Two of them actually. They said that the two murders were connected, and couldn't have been done by just one person. These two murders were similar to the one that happened a few days ago. Hands and feet hacked off. But this time it was slightly different; the faces and been caved in and the throats had been cut. That night Dr. Wachowski didn't even come home. He had been gone all night, which was quite strange. I woke up the next morning to the sound of keys being put into the door, and then the door opening. Dr. Wachowski walked up the stairs and greeted me with a friendly "Good morning Thomas." "Good morning... How come you came home just now?" "Oh I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. My washing machine is completely busted so I had to go over to a friend's house to use their washer. I decided to stay the night since it was already so late. Did you hear about those two other people who were killed recently?" "Yeah it- it's crazy." "I can't believe someone would do such a thing." "Me neither..." My suspicion against Dr. Wachowski kept growing as the days went by. Aside from going to work and ordering out, he didn't exactly have a routine. He would go out and discuss things with his friend every so often. I don't know what the hell he really does while he's there, but if he really is discussing things, I think I know what he's discussing. It has been a few weeks or so since I've first been brought to Dr. Wachowski's house. I'm allowed around the house and it's actually pretty nice. I can watch tv and use the Internet and all that, except for social media sites, which kinda sucks. However, he doesn't let me use the phone at all, and he checks the phone logs whenever he's home. He even remotely locks the doors from work so I don't run away. Now, at this point, I should be trying to get contact of really anyone, but I don't really want to. His house it pretty nice and he gets me good food. Now obviously I'm concerned about him brutally murdering people, but he hasn't been hostile to me at all, even when I've been difficult. It's a really weird feeling. I was watching TV when suddenly there was a breaking news announcement. Another murder. Two of them, again. The bodies looked old and slightly decayed. They weren't children either. They were two full grown adults. The faces were cut up and damaged too much to identify the bodies the bodies seemed to have had their windpipes crushed. And of course, the hands and feet had been hacked off. During the course of these last few weeks the police had made some break through's in the case. They took blood samples from each of the bodies and found that they all belonged to the same family. My family. Well, my foster family. The entire family had seemed to have gone missing and then the bodies were found. First the three children, all within a few days of each other. But then there was only the parents left. No one knew where they could've been and they feared the worst. And they were all correct. A few weeks later, the parents bodies had arisen. At least, that was an agreed on theory about the two new found bodies. They had to do the tests to be completely sure, but everyone knew it was them. I heard the door open and immediately looked at the clock. I knew it was Dr. Wachowski and I felt incredibly tense. "Thomas!" He called out. "Thomas?" He walked into the living room and saw me sitting on the couch watching the news. "Oh god, another one? When is this gonna end?" "You." "What?" "You. You did this. You killed them. You killed my foster family." "What took you so long to put it all together?" "What...?" "You're a smart kid Thomas, I would've expected you to figure this all out sooner." "Why... why did you do it?" "I had good reason to. The world didn't need those people Thomas. They were bad people. They were liars, thieves, assholes, no-good rotten people. They stole the money that was supposed to be for you. To make you live a good life. They treated you like shit. I did it so that when I move you to a proper foster home, one with a nice family. Where you'll get all the money you need and not have it be taken from you. A place where you'll feel like family. And you would've have to deal with them, trying to get their 'money' back." I was in complete shock. I didn't even know what to think or do. I especially didn't know what to say. I was just… in shock. The next day, Dr. Wachowski had told me to get dressed and to brush my teeth and all that. He had a large duffle bag on the living room couch. "What's in here?" I asked him. "It's your clothes." "You broke into my house again just to get my clothes?" "What? No, I never broke into your house." "Then how did you get in?" "You quite obviously have the key on top of the doorway. It's actually amazing no one has come into your house before." "Okay but why do you have a bag full of my clothes?" "Because I'm going to take you down to the police station." "You're turning yourself in?" "God no! I'm gonna get you assigned to a new foster family." And that's exactly what happened. He took me down to the station and filled out all the necessary forms to get me assigned to a new foster family. One he had previously known about and assured were good people. I also found out his full name is Dr. Dante Azerenko Wachowski, which was fun and difficult to say. It also kinda made him sound like a soldier. Dr. Wachowski was right. This family was filled with good people. They took care of me and treated me with respect, like I was actually part of the family. I still went to the same school, except I didn't go to see Dr. Wachowski at 1:30 anymore. And whenever I saw him in the halls he'd always smile and wave at me as if nothing ever happened. Dr. Wachowski must've been efficient and clean too, because it seemed like the case lost all leads quickly. But there was one thing that bothered me the most about the who situation.

The Father He stood over Fletcher's body, deep in thought. It had been a rough winter so far, certainly. But this was madness. Fletcher, a thief? A murderer? By all accounts, he had been a man of honor, working long hours to support a wife and their young daughter. Looking back on their last harvest together, the Father recalled the man's strength and sharpness, in both body and mind. But now? The body on the ground was hardly recognizable, a shell of a man. There was nothing left but bone and sunken eyes, permanently hungry. “Thank you,” said the King as he stood, rubbing his wrists where they had been bound by rope. The Father didn't respond, still intently focused on the body. Staring back was a vision of himself, his body worn down and broken. The King walked across the room and gently placed a hand on the Father's shoulder. “How can I ever repay you?” asked the King. The Father looked up in surprise. “I was just doing my duty, your grace.” “Be that as it may, you saved me from certain death, with no small cost to your person. To me, that is a debt owed. If there's something I can do, please, I must.” The King waited, but the Father remained silent, his eyes and mind elsewhere. Leaving the Father to his thoughts, the King moved for the door. As he stepped through, the Father began to speak. “I have a daughter. She'll turn fifteen this May.” The Father's eyes remained on Fletcher. The King looked on, puzzled. “Ellesara is a wonderful girl. She is the brightest treasure of our little village.” The Father looked into the King's eyes. “I understand you have a son about her age.” Comprehension dawned on the King's face. He came back into the room, and the door closed behind him. “I do have a boy, fifteen as well. Perhaps in the spring....” The Father cut him off. “No.” His eyes drifted back to Fletcher for a long moment. He returned his gaze to the King. “It must be now.” The King took a long glance at the gaunt man and nodded his understanding. “They will not be able to wed for a few years, if my son even agrees to the matter. Until then, she can stay in the castle and live as she pleases. I will see to it that she has everything she needs.” The King moved toward the Father, one last time. “You have my word.” “You must swear to me that you'll take care of my daughter.” The Father looked deep into the King's blue eyes, searching. He found what he was looking for. “As if she were my own,” replied the King. Some hours later the Father stood in silence, hands clutching his beautiful daughter's cloak. She had convinced him to trade it for his as she left, arguing and pleading with him. He played along, but he knew the truth. The wool layers felt heavy as he drew the cloak about his shoulders, releasing a faint smell of cherry pie. The winter was not over yet, and Elle's cloak was undoubtedly the warmer of the two. | … | The King The sun shone brightly as the summer breezes drifted through the castle, alive with the sound of singing and dancing. The King watched from a banister, high above, as the wedding festivities blazed on below. After the long winter, it pleased the King to see his people out again, sharing joy with one another. A burst of movement caught his eye, a flash of blue flying between the long wooden tables below that were brimming with food. As he focused on it, he recognized Elby, a girl that he had seen a few times here and there. Quite a mischievous one, if he remembered correctly. As he looked on, Elby tore through the middle of the dining area, weaving through the packed gathering. A woman grabbed her arm as she passed, visibly annoyed. She yelled with one arm gesturing wildly above her head, the other firmly gripping the young girl. For a moment, she seemed to get her point across. Elby stood with her head cast down and her shoulders hunched while the woman continued to scold her, making no attempt at escape. As the woman continued shouting, she let go of Elby, gesturing with both arms now. The moment she let go that young face lit up, and little Elby was back to the races, darting in between tables, knocking down a few soup bowls. The King laughed, tickled by the idea of trying to keep a child restrained on a day like this one. His eyes tracked the woman for a few moments longer, thinking to himself that there were few better examples for futility than the scene before him. The idea drifted away, and he returned his attention to the main event just as his son, Prince Blake, stood and moved to the front of the room, ringing a fork against his raised glass. “Everyone! Please allow me to interrupt for a moment. I have something to say.” The prince waited for the noise to die down, then began. “Everyone in this room is familiar with Princess Ellesara, the most beautiful woman to ever grace these halls. Some of you may have wondered why such a beauty walks around the castle in simple dresses, with small trinkets instead of royal jewelery. Surely, she deserves beautiful things. Someone should buy her all the treasures that the world has to offer. Well believe me, someone has been trying. Do you all remember the feast we had in October of last year? I had bought a diamond pendant for my darling fiancée, and she promptly sold it to bring back the Hallows Eve celebration, an antiquated tradition. Perhaps you remember the surprise party for Sir Drake? A pearl necklace from a faraway kingdom.” The prince was smiling now. From a table in the center of the room, a beautiful girl with an ornate headpiece watched him with a small smile of her own. Atop her flowing golden hair sat a crown of twigs, expertly intertwined together with small colorful flowers adorning the intersections in the weave. “I had thought to buy my new wife a precious crown, with enough gemstones to buy a thousand meals. I wanted to give her something worthy of her beauty. Alas, my dearest is far too clever for me.” Blake turned his attention to Ellesara. “Today, my love, I'm here to tell you that I give up. You look far more beautiful today then you ever could have in a crown of my choosing. So I went ahead and skipped a step.” Blake returned his attention to his audience, his arms held high. “Tomorrow, in honor of the light of my life, merchants and stablehands from the castle will deliver a thousand meals to the village of Greenport, her birthplace.” The smile on the Elle's face grew into a grin as she stood and made her way to the front of the room. The prince pulled her into a passionate embrace and the crowds all let out a resounding cheer. The King closed his eyes and let the emotion of his city flow over him. He waited on their bench, and within a few minutes, she had arrived. The party was dying out now, its remaining life sustained by the children and the drunk. She sat down next to him, hands thrust into the pockets of a raggedy old cloak. The King knew better than to comment on it. It may not be fitting for a royal wardrobe, but Elle wouldn't hear of it. Truth be told, he had grown accustomed to seeing her wearing it. Still, it would have pleased him greatly to see her in her wedding dress. It had been only three years, but Elle already felt like the daughter he had never had. “You were stunning today. The whole city gathered to see it.” “You're too kind, father. They came for the food, the drink, and the spectacle.” She looked at him and smiled. “But thank you.” He returned her smile. “I still cannot believe how much Blake has changed in the last few years. I once feared that he had too much of his grandfather in him.” “His grandfather?” “My father was a strong man, a fine warrior. But I'm afraid the kingdom had to learn the hard way that good conquerors rarely make good kings,” he said, a deep sadness in his heart. He shook his head and pulled his mind back to the present. “I must say, Blake's gift to the people of Greenport is rather out of character. I would like to believe the best of him, but he has voiced his distrust of the villagers loudly ever since I was held hostage there. He cannot believe that it was orchestrated by a rogue group of desperate men. He blames many for the actions of a select few.” The King paused before continuing. “Perhaps he is maturing, but all the same, I'd like you to look out for him, and guide him as much as you are able.” Elle nodded solemnly. “I will do what I can.” A mischievous glint appeared in her eye. “But he is more stubborn than even you, father.” He wondered if it ever bothered her to call him father. He asked. Elle laughed immediately. “You silly man. To love you does not tarnish the memories of the man who raised me. It honors him.” She pulled the King's hands into her own, and looked deep into his fading blue eyes. “I will carry that man with me everywhere I go in this life. For fifteen years, he was my favorite person in the world, my best friend. He asked you to take care of me and you did not let him down. I cannot thank you enough. The universe gave me the two finest men in all the realms to look after me.” He was quite happy to see the truth on Ellesara's face. The girl never could lie with a smile, there was too much warmth in her nature to ever be faked. The King took the opportunity. “You know, its the funniest thing. I don't believe I've ever asked you if you loved the prince.” Some warmth drained from Elle's smile. “Of course I love my husband.” The reply came quickly, and Elle stood and walked to the banister. “We know each other better than that, Elle. You could never lie to me.” “Why have you never asked me? Why only now?” Her eyes were focused somewhere in the distance. “Your presence in the castle, as my guest, is a matter of complicated legality. I am duty bound to look after the interests of my son, my blood. Today, you joined my family in the eyes of the law. No matter the circumstance, I will always be able to protect you.” The King placed his hands on Elle's shoulders. “From anyone that threatens your happiness.” Elle turned to face him. “When I first came to this castle, I was hungry, terrified and alone. I met Blake first, in the great hall. He took one look at me and ran into the kitchen. A little while later he came sprinting back with a cherry pie. When I asked him how he knew that I loved cherry pie, he said he just knew, that he could feel it in the air. We ate the whole pie that night, the two of us.” She turned away and raised her head slightly, letting the wind catch her hair, gazing deep into the distance. “He was my first friend here, at a time when I desperately needed one. We may not always see eye to eye on everything, but I will always love him for that. I'm just not sure that I'm in love with him.” The King waited a moment before asking his last question. “I won't be around forever Elle, so tell me this. Are you happy here with your life, with how it will be?” “I am.” The King closed his eyes, relieved. Somewhere, deep in the city, a cat hissed, startled by the sudden croak of a toad. | … | The Farmer The Farmer stood outside his modest cottage, a small corn cob pipe in his hand. The autumn wind ruffled his hair as he pulled the smoke into his mouth, warning him once more of the looming winter. As the last embers died, movement near the tree line caught his attention. A black horse galloped through his field toward the dirt path that led to the castle, a lone rider on its back. The rider appeared to be injured, riding low in the saddle and clutching his stomach. The Farmer watched the pair ride off into the distance. A few moments later, more figures emerged from the tree line. Men armed with bows and spears, moving on foot. The group moved toward the cottage and the Farmer recognized them easily. The leader split from the pack, pulling a pipe of his own from a large pocket. “Evening, Pat,” said the Farmer, as he watched the other men study the ground in the middle of the field, moving closer to the dirt path. They stopped at the side of the road and waited, talking amongst themselves. “I take it the hunt did not go as planned?” A puff of smoke escaped the corner of Pat's mouth before he replied. “We were in the northern woods, tracking a deer as it moved towards Crawford's clearing. Before we could get to it, we heard a commotion nearby – men shouting and the roar of a beast. By the time we found them, one was already dead, another injured. Royal scouts, in our woods.” Pat spat, turning his mouth upwards to avoid the Farmer's patio. “I don't know what they were planning, but I can guess. Tensions always rise this time of year.” The Farmer motioned for Pat to continue, a tightness creeping into his shoulders. “We did what we could, pushing back the bear with the spears and using the arrows to distract and aggravate it. In the struggle, one of our archers killed one of the scouts.” The Farmer raised his eyebrow, the question clear. “No, it wasn't like that. I was right next to him at the time, and I watched as his arrow grazed the bear before burying itself in the scout's throat.” The Farmer nodded his understanding. “While we struggled with the bear, the injured one ran off into the underbrush, screaming bloody treason. We followed him as best we could, but his horse must not have been far. It has been a losing race ever since.” The Farmer remained silent for a moment before he addressed Pat. “Bring your men inside, there's nothing more you can do.” Pat looked shocked. “If he reports to his superiors, they will return with knights. Winter is almost upon us, old man. We cannot lose even a single able-bodied man.” The Farmer's reply was swift. “Royal scouts do not use horses, stealth is their tool. The man you killed in the woods was a guard. And if even one person in the countryside sees you pursue the prince with spears and bows, the winter will be the least of our concerns.” | … | The Princess As soon as she had torn the truth from Blake's personal stable hand, she mounted her horse, Clover, and rode away from the castle, her eyes scanning the horizon. A few miles from the castle, Ellesara came across Cobalt, the black maned stallion that she had presented to Blake on his nineteenth birthday, not two months previous. The horse was agitated, swinging his head wildly as he whinnied in distress. Elle put her hand on his head, slipping a finger behind one ear to scratch him. She could feel the tightness evaporate and the tall stallion quieted down. “Where is he, Coby? Please, you must take me to him.” The horse bucked, the tension suddenly back. Cobalt turned, and now Elle could see that he was hurt. Swelling and bruising covered his right flank. She hated crops and whips but she could tell immediately that this was something else. It was as if he had been beaten heavily, with a cane or the flat side of a sword. Now she understood why Cobalt was so hesitant. She leaned closer to him and rubbed his ears while she whispered into them. With a flick of his tail, he turned and began to trot slowly towards the castle. Elle turned the other way and continued her search. Still searching, all her efforts fruitless, Ellesara decided to head to a nearby cottage. It was the furthest piece of Greenport that was considered part of the village, and the farmer who lived there had helped her on a few occasions. She was within a mile of the cottage when she found him. He was laying in a heap on the dirt road, bloody hands held tight to his stomach. She ran to her prince. “Blake, what happened? Are you okay?” The words spilled from her mouth as she fell to his side. Moving slowly, she gently removed his hands from his wound to inspect the damage herself. A broad slash had gushed blood over his royal clothes, making the wound look worse than it was. Relief poured through her. The wound had begun to clot on its own and Blake seemed otherwise unharmed. “I was in the woods, trying to keep an eye on the village militia when they found me and attacked me. I must return to the castle at once, these savages must not be allowed to get away with this.” There was fire in the prince's young eyes, a promise. Elle looked at him, confusion and doubt on her face. “But Blake.....look at the scratches on your body. This was done by a claw, surely.” The fury in his eyes reached a boiling point, and he grabbed her arm with force. “You dare call me a liar? I knew your blood would tell eventually.” He looked at her in disgust. “You are unworthy of ever becoming queen.” Elle cast her gaze downward, noticing the prince's sword in the grass, unsheathed, next to a broken riding crop. Her tears fell in silence. The people of Greenport sprang into her mind, and only now did she begin to fear for their safety, to fear what the prince was truly capable of. “Help me into your saddle,” he commanded. “I must see to it that those animals never spill another drop of royal blood. If you do your duty now, as my wife, then perhaps we can forget this unpleasantness when I return.” Blake stood up slowly, hindered by his wound. The Princess looked at the cottage, far, far down the road, tears still falling in silence. “Please....there must be another way....” she began. The prince moved his hand to Elle's face, and turned her head so he could see her eyes. “There is only one way. You must choose.” Elle stared back helplessly. What could she do? What choice did she have? She bowed her head and her voice came out broken, barely a whisper. “I understand. I will do what I must.” Blake smiled at her, but all she saw was the face of a stranger. Gripped with a sudden conviction, she slipped her arms around the prince, pulling him in, close to her body. Closing her eyes, she moved her lips to his, a practiced motion. In their warm embrace she could feel everything they had ever shared, adrift in a sea of their memories together. For the briefest of moments, she could've even sworn she smelled cherry pie. She felt his lips shrink away from hers and knew that this would be the last moment they ever shared this way. When she opened her eyes, the prince was gone. At her feet was a pile of bloody clothing, regal despite the damage. Atop the pile was a golden crown, the inlaid rubies catching the last light of the dying sun. She gathered up the clothing and the crown, pausing for a moment to slip something carefully into the large pocket of her old cloak. As she rode slowly back to the castle, the rhythm of the hoof beats was interrupted every so often by a muffled croak from inside the cloak. The Princess slipped a hand into her pocket, tears still falling from her eyes, and comforted her old friend.

The Calm of the Dood As told by Asquawk-man to the scribe, Gramath Thorninker In the year 2740, my father gently took hold of my child sized hand and in the darkness of the Black Day, he guided me without torch or sword to the hill where the curfotch trees had been planted on the day of my birth. I grew afraid of the creatures of the blackness that perhaps would seek us as a meal, but I was more afraid to cry aloud lest the whimpering I was holding in should lead them nearer. “Father,” I protested in a hushed quivel, “Are you punishing me? What have I done that you would bring me outside on the Black Day when no sun shines and no stars are alight?” “Be calm,” he replied, “For in the darkness, there are still lights we cannot see and stillness abounds while the dangers are fewer than we imagine,” Then he bid me to climb the tallest tree with him until we alighted upon a sturdy branch where we might be safe from things that lurk upon the ground with their teeth seeking flesh to be rent. “My son,” he said to me in a loving way, “Here I was a week before. Recall that I had been missing and told no-one of where I had been or what had happened. Now, I am ready to tell you,” “I had hit my head hard against a branch on this tree and when I awoke, a day had passed. The blackness was blinding all around and in desperation I whispered, ‘If anyone can hear me, please save me! I am lost! I cannot see and I am afraid of the wild and hungry creatures of the Black Day’s curse!’ and so came an answer. It was the voice of Dood!” “Who again is Dood?” I asked, for I had heard such a name in passing, but never from my father’s tellings. “He is the Do. He is the Is. Before time and above everything, there is one called The Dood who abides beyond where we can see and understand. Many monks and those who seek holiness speak of his name, but until then I did not know if he was real or not,” “Hey Man!” the Dood addressed my father, whose name was Frabniher Seeder. My father already lay upon his back and whispered, “I am not a Man. I am Frab. I am not devout enough to hold such a title. I cannot even read or write,” “I know who you are Man,” the Dood reassured him, “And devotion doesn’t make you any less the Man. You toil so hard to bring life in to the lands you protect and you have fathered children. Even now, you humble yourself and humility comes from a real Man,” “Where are you stranger? How do you see me and I cannot see you?” my father asked in a bewildered whisper. “I am in Control,” said the Dood, “And from here I see many things with lights that your people cannot see,” “I don’t understand,” my father replied, “Stranger, why do you speak in riddles?” “I just say what I mean, Man,” said the Dood, “I will help you out of the darkness by letting you see such lights,” and as the Dood commanded, my father was granted a sight unlike normal sight. Such sight that makes all scouts and look-outs seem to be blind! In the sky, the sun shone as it should on days where the sky is lit in brilliant colors. A million stars that were before unseen, now glowed from above in the day and night alike. Stars that do not move, but remained in orderly patterns at all times. Colors that have no description in our language were now visible. Redder than red and Purpler than Purple! And so, my father looked around and saw that the darkness was no more and the lands around him were safe. Yet, the stranger was nowhere in sight. “Can it be?” my father concluded, “An invisible speaker with such agicalic powers…” he looked toward the sky and fell on his back once more with his hands raised upwards, “Are you the Dood of whom some speak? Who sees all creation and whose agicalic powers beyond any person upon Tommp?!” “So I am known,” replied the Dood, whose voice was bellowing in my father’s ears, though no mouth could be seen, nor even a face or body for such words, “I see the far off creatures that you fear, but be calm. Be always calm. I can watch over your safety. You are righteous, Man, and I abide with those who live their life in total respect,” “Forgive me Dood!” my father pleaded, “I did not think you could be real!” “It is hard for anyone to know what is real,” said the Dood, “Even when they think they do. But I Do. There are real places that are not places as you know. They are unknowable as before the light all around you was invisible. But they are real. If you close your eyes and imagine anything at all, you can see it in your mind. Sometimes the sick see things that are in their mind as if before them. But the effect is the same. The same joys and fears as if it were in fact, before them, they are still real. But the hallucination, the ghost, the fantasy is just imaginary. But imaginary things become real things too. But only when two or more can see them. Hear them. Know they are there. Was not the cart imagined and writing and every invention known to your kingdom? And yet, now it is real. Some real things are yet to come and are really there in another time. Some real things that were once seen cannot be seen again as time proceeds, but they were real or still are. But how real and what kind of real a thing can be… those variations are as many as the stars and yet to be properly considered in your tongue,” And I knew all of this to be real, for by telling me, my father had made is so. And so I named it Veckhureal, what is real in the minds of we two or more Veckhu. And now I send all kingdoms a copy of this letter, that it may be Personreal, what is real in the minds of people of two or more races. For the Dood abides over not our own kind alone, but with all the righteous. Every farmer and king who live in total respect of the world, all of them may be called Man. And to all called Man, be calm, for the Dood is in Control. And to the creatures who are real in the terror, but not in cover of the Black Day, them I name feareal, for only the fear they instill inside us is real. Only when two or more have all forgotten to tremble and remember to be calm will the feareal foes be powerless. *Note: I have labeled this SP because this is from a reality that was undone, but yet remains in my mind and now in yours.

For him, waking up in the morning was an eternal task of internal struggle. While he felt a strong motive to continue life for the sake of knowing what can be accomplished, the realization that never-ending slumber is always in the midst of possibility kept him second-guessing on what he should be doing. He has a choice between sleep and faith, and so far he has chosen the latter. Faith in happiness has once again given him the power to go forth with his day. As an average human being in the 21th century, his day has very little light in it. It starts with the horrendous thundering of the alarm clock at 6 in the morning. The beeping seems to be exploding sound more and more with each day. As always, he oversleeps. Quick hot shower, and if he is lucky - a quick bite to eat. Going to work has become a devastating routine. Walk to the bus station on the horrid, rugged pavement, which hasn’t been fixed in ages. Take the 105 to Downtown, and then a short walk to the overwhelming ginormous building. The ecstatic sound of life in the morning disturbs him. “Why can’t quietness be a virtue we can all enjoy,” he thinks to himself. At this point he puts on his headphones. The music relaxes him, and provides a whole new world for him to walk through. Alt-j seems to always be the cure. Unfortunately at this stage in his life, he does not fully comprehend what the songs really mean. His name is meaningless. So let’s continue to refer to him as simply “he.” He works at a more or less competent newspaper in Chicago. Writing for him has always come with ease. In college, people used to marvel at his brilliance. “A student above all!” And the “His future is brighter than the stars themselves.” But he had no desire to fulfill these naïve prophecies. Taking the easy road out has seemed to work for him so far. While there is regret of all the missed opportunities. There is still faith in him for the second-coming. For the longest time now, he has felt a deep hole, a caldera even, within himself. This massive emptiness could not be filled with awards, money, or any material possessions. In order for these things to hold meaning, there must be a vital component which binds it all together. Love. Love has escaped his grasp countless times. Meaningless sex has no longer any appeal for Him. It seems too easy. Too vulgar. Too desperate. We do the things we do, in order to share them with others. While he hated to admit it, or was simply unaware, this is what he had been missing all this time. But can you find love through simple desire? As life would show, you could not. While he had lost that glimmer of hope, he realized that if the opportunity presents itself - this won’t be a mistake that he makes. Yet, it seems when you search for something you seem to never find it. At times it just drifts slowly towards you, and if you miss it, then that might just be it. Work that day was the same usual shit. Write this read. Read that. Simply a fucking nuisance. Later in the day he had to attend a conference at the Sheraton Hotel on the future perspective of democracy in the next 20 years. As if that was actually a thing. Since he was already in Downtown, he decided to not go home, and wait at the local pub. These conferences were always a bore, if you went there sober you could blow your brains out right there and then. At exactly 8 o’clock in the evening he arrived at the golden doors of the luxury hotel. Everyone was dressed in their fancy clothes. Trying to desperately show that they all held some sort of meaning. He showed his pass at the entrance and proceeded towards the reception. Everyone was already mingling, and pretentiously discussing their political thought. He loved observing human interaction. It seemed so fake, so made up, a fraud, and digesting all of it was a way to cheer him up. Humans are strange creatures, who never seem to understand who they truly are. Her. At the middle of this ruckus, was the reception girl. He had been observing her for the past half hour. While she seemed like everyone else, there was a sense of joy and pride about her. The thick black hair. The stare that could make even God fall on his knees. The laugh – a laugh that seemed to be a little too much, but at the same just right. She didn’t smile too often, but when she did it was the sweetest smile you could imagine. Her behavior attracted everyone. At first glance, despite this sense of attraction that he felt, she began to seem to him as someone who could be easily conquered by all. Nevertheless, it never hurts to try. Throughout the evening, instead of interviewing people for his Friday piece, he spent all his time getting to know her. The features that attracted him in the first place, seemed even more apparent the more he spent time with her. At once, he had felt a notion of comfort that he had not experienced beforehand. She was not as simple or easy as he had thought. She had a strong character about her, which pressured him to feel the possible limits that it may possess. The more they spoke, the more he realized that this was a person worth everything. She dearly held principles that only others would talk about. For the first time he believed that he had someone to fight for. After the conference she invited him to go to her friend’s birthday party. Already drunk, he agreed without second-guessing. Drinking was second nature for him, and getting a chance to further get to know her only made it better. Like all preplanned parties, this one was as dull as a History teacher who hasn’t gotten laid in a while. Deep into the darker hours of the night, there began to grow a connection stronger than tree roots. Their hands locked under the table. She had cold hands that would send a shiver all the way to his heart. He had no desire of letting them go. He could hold those hands until the roof came down, and the earth shattered. They decided to go for a smoke break. Those usually turn out to be interesting. Being drunker than Bukowski during the younger years, he decided to take a leap of fucking faith and go for the kiss. At his age, a kiss was just a kiss. But this time it was something different. Her lips felt like something entirely new. Something unexplored. It was as if he had never kissed before. It was as if this was third grade, and he had just gotten his first kiss from his first “love.” It was different, and it was his. As she would later describe, this was a kiss that gave them butterflies in their stomachs. A kiss that began it all, a kiss that unfortunately never found its resting place. From this point forward, life for him had changed forever. It seemed that now that the gaping hole was filled up with the intent to be there for her. She showed him a different side of human nature. The very same side that he had lost hope in. In return, he helped her better herself. It became a mutual cooperation of two people deeply in love. The fights were there. At times they would get out of hand, but for the very same reason they got together, also became the reason why they overcame those bumping stones. They were planted on a wave of comfort. A wave they never wanted to see come down on the seashore. The greatest pleasures of sex had finally returned to him. It was no longer simply fucking. The feel of her skin against his exhilarated him beyond words. The hugging while they made love would send them into a trance they never wanted to escape. It was the epitomy of how much they desired to be together. The sweat, the tears, the moans, it was unlike anything else they had felt in their lives. For him and her this was stability. Stability is a terrible, terrible word. It means that at a certain degree it is going to come down. The fights would elapse to the point of physical abuse. He had forgotten what she meant for him. She gave him everything, and he began to throw it out piece by piece. He thought her everything, and she began to forget it piece by piece. At a certain point she could no longer stand it, and he could no longer see it. They had to fall apart. They had to take a break from this moral demise, which was eating them alive. How do people that love each other break up? With great difficulty is the answer. At first it was though. She was dying on the inside. Although he didn’t feel so strongly, the true meaning of the break-up would later hit him like a rock. It was apparent how difficult it was going to be. They still fought. They still battled with the epidemic known as jealousy. But they began to move on and forget. In a depressing fashion, he felt that the she was no longer the person he had known before. She seemed to change. She behaved in a way he could have never foreseen. He was disappointed, hurt, and petrified, just as she was before. Sadness consumed him, and in turn, it would begin to consume her. Such feelings do not escape our hearts, no matter how hard we try to suppress them. He had seen the brighter side of life. He had changed. He became a better person because of her, just as she had because of him. Mistakes were made, and maybe they will continue to be repeated. Reasonably, he should now want some peace. Peace and comfort for himself. But for him, love has now become a drug. It is now his weakness. He is now on a path that he has no idea to where it will lead him. And now he is looking for someone –someone to break his heart once more.

St. John's Lake - By Jacob Gatt Elijah and Michael were sitting together during lunch in the cafeteria. They always sat alone because most people didn't like sitting with Elijah. Elijah was Autistic, so he didn't react well to new people. "Why aren't you eating your food buddy?" said Michael. Elijah stayed quiet. "C'mon man you have to eat." "I don't want to eat I'm not hungry." said Elijah as he looked down at his feet. Michael knew something was wrong. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? Is something bother you man, what's wrong?" He continued, with concern in his voice. "Nothing's wrong!" screamed Elijah as he slammed his hands down on the table. Everyone in the cafeteria turned and looked at them. Michael looked at him and knew he was lying. "Let's go buddy" he said, grabbing Elijah's arm. They started to walk around the halls, neither said anything for a while, but then Elijah spoke up. "Why do you talk to me? I'm just this loud, fat, ugly guy that no one likes... Why do you talk to me so much?". "Eli, you're my best friend. You have been since I met you. I saw you as this quiet guy that just needed a friend." "So you talk to me because you feel bad?" "I saw that you needed a friend, no one should be alone because they're autistic." He said as he turned facing him. "Thank you Mikey" Elijah hugged him tightly and Michael hugged back. Elijah was much bigger than Michael was. He was about 6'3 and 235 lbs. He wanted to be on the football team, but the coach wouldn't let him because of his autism. He was crushed when he was told this, and Michael knew it. Michael was about 5'9 and 140 lbs, but looked much smaller when next to Elijah. When he found out about Elijah now making the football team and how upset he was, he knew he had to do something. He saw that he would be sitting by himself everyday, and that he was very quiet. So he decided to talk to him. Michael would sit with him during lunch and make conversation. However, Elijah was very cautious. He first thought that Michael was like the others, who would sit with him just to make fun of him. He was used to people asking him lots of silly questions, just to get him to talk since he had a funny way of speaking. Michael didn't do any of that. He made conversation with him and showed genuine interest in him. He would listen to what he had to say. Elijah never had someone like that, except for the teachers that had to say with him. Ever since that day, Michael and Elijah were best friends. Elijah was always kinda jealous of Michael, but he would never tell him. Michael had more friends, he had a nice house, he had a girlfriend, and to him, he was normal. "I don't like him. He's... Weird. He's autistic isn't he? Like he never talks to anyone but you. Don't you think that's kinda strange?" Said Kate. She was Michael's girlfriend of a year and a half. He's known her as long as he knew Elijah. "Not really. He doesn't have anyone else except his family. Can't you just try to be friends with him?" " I tried! But he doesn't like me! And honestly, I don't like him either." Over the course of a few months, Michael tried his hardest to get Kate and Elijah to be friends, and no matter how much effort he put in, they just would be. "I hate her! She's mean to me and she makes fun of me!" "How does she make fun of you?" "She makes fun of the way I talk! She laughs whenever I say something. I know she's making fun of me..." "Eli, I love you, but I also love Kate. Kate wouldn't do that... She knows about your autism." "I know. And I also know that she cheated on you! She did it with Nicholas!" "Eli you and I both know that's not true..." But it was. Elijah tried to tell him but he would never listen to him. Elijah and Michael often went to St.John's lake. It was Elijah's favorite place to go. It had ducks that he could feed, and he loved listening to the birds tweet. It calmed him down and made him feel better. The water was always calm and he liked walking around the path that went all the way around the lake. St.John's lake was Elijah's favorite place in the world. One day, Elijah was at Michael's house. It was just him, because Michael was still at work. Then he heard the front door open. "Helloooo?" It was Kate. Elijah slumped back into his seat and stayed quiet. Kate walked up to Michael's room where Elijah was. "Oh... Hey Eli." Elijah stayed quiet. "Listen Elijah, I don't like you. I never have. I tried to like you but I can't. You're this weird, quiet, stupid kid, who talks all weird whenever you do talk. No one likes you. The only reason Michael talks to you is because he feels bad for you. Without him, you're nothing. Now would just get fucking lost already? I can't wait until you fucking kill yourself. Everyone's so sick of you." Elijah sat there and stayed quiet. He looked down at his feet, and neither said anything. Kate left the room and slammed the door. Elijah stayed in that room for hours. He walked out of the house and didn't say anything to Michael or Kate. "Eli! Where are you going bud? Eli...?" Elijah ignored him and walked out of the house. He went home and ran into his room, crying. He grabbed his backpack and the weights from his basement. He put the heaviest ones he could find in there and zipped it up. Then he took some paper and ripped off a piece. He shoved that in his pocket along with a pen. Then he made his way over to St.John's lake. Elijah sat on one of the benches near the lake. Tears streamed down his face as he thought about all the things Kate said. He thought about not making the football team. He thought about all the times he was alone. He thought about Michael. He thought about Michael for a long time. He thought about all the good times they had, and how Michael made him feel better, and how he'd feel so comfortable around him, and how he was his first real friend. He pulled out the paper from his pocket and the pen and began to write. He thought hard about what he wanted to write and eventually, he was finished. He sat back on the bench and watched the sunset until it finally went down. Then he grabbed his backpack and walked down to the shore. He took off his shoes and his shirt. He stepped in the cold water, but forced himself to go in further. He carried the bag all the way out to deep water. He looked around and thought about how much he loved this place and how happy it made him. Elijah took his heavy backpack, and put it on his back. He looked around one last time, and slowly exhaled, letting himself sink down into the water. He could feel himself running out of breath, but he didn't feel scared. He was finally at piece. He was finally happy. The last thing Elijah ever did, was something he didn't do very often. He smiled. "Have you seen Eli lately?" Said Michael. "No, why do you ask? The last time I saw him was when we were at your house yesterday." "Well I haven't seen him since then... And I'm really worried about him. I don't like when he's alone because he hates being alone..." "He'll be fine don't worry about him." "No... I'm gonna go out looking for him." "Why he's probably gonna come back soon. You know how he is he can't stay 5 seconds without you." Michael grabbed his coat and put on his shoes and hat and walked out the door. Kate quickly came outside and walked after him. "Where are you going?" "I'm going to fine Eli!" They walked over to Elijah's house. "Eli!!" Michael called out but there was no answer. "Eli! Where are you buddy?" "I don't think he's here Michael..." Michael checked his room and saw the ripped paper. "His backpack isn't here..." He checked around the rest of the house hoping he was in one of the rooms. He noticed that some of Elijah's weights were missing. "Where else could he be?" Said Kate. "He's probably at St. John's." Michael and Kate rushed over as quickly as they could to St.John's lake, and they noticed flashing lights and heard sirens. "Oh my god..." Kate said, covering her mouth. They both ran, but were stopped by a police officer in front of some yellow police tape that said "Do not cross". They saw a zipped up body bag being moved into an ambulance. "C'mon Michael lets go..." They walked along the path holding hands, fearing the worst. Then they noticed a folded piece of paper with an evidence come next to it. It was addressed to "Michael Crabshaw. My best friend." Kate walked over to a police officer and said "Excuse me sir. My boyfriend Michael has a letter addressed to him. It's the one on the bench, is it alright if he reads it?" "I need to see he ID to prove that it's addressed to him." After the officer was shown Michael's license, he allowed him to open it. Michael opened the letter and began to read. "Dear Michael. Thank you for everything you have done. Since I've met you, you have made me feel happy about myself and who I am. You have proven that no matter my appearance, mental disabilities, or shy personality, there is a friend for everyone. I realize that I am a burden to not only to you, but to Kate and my entire family. I've come to St. John's because it is my favorite place in the whole wide world. And here is when I am happiest. I realize now that I am worthless... I only take from you while you give so much to me... Goodbye Mikey, I'll always love you." Michael was speechless. He and Kate sat together on the bench. Michael cried and cried, thinking it was he who did something wrong. Michael blamed himself for Elijah's suicide, but Kate knew it was her fault, and not his. They both lived with a guilt their whole life, and would put flowers on Elijah's grave every year, on the anniversary of his death. Elijah was buried in a special area dedicated to him, next to St. John's lake. Michael and Kate would honor Elijah by feeding the ducks and listening to the birds,which was Elijah's favorite thing to do in the whole wide world.

The fire glowed red, the windows glistened with snow on their britches. The large, ostentatious house stood tall over Seal Marsh. Ivy clung to the walls like butter to bread and chimneys stood as giants. ‘’Damn, it feels good to be a gangster’’ Paigal said to himself as he stood on top of the mound overlooking Seal Marsh. He glanced into the murky salt waters of what used to be the old town harbour. The town, now situated 2 miles East was once bustling with business and a new character passing through every day. It was the Grand Exchange in 2007 Varrock. Paigal imagined the baker standing at his stall. ‘’Get yer bread, get yer loaf ‘ere’’ he would shout and many a person would congregate around his flaky wooden bench. Paigal stood firm in the sand and whispered ‘’thanks Mr Skeletal’’. A terrible rumble occurred, yet Paigal was not suffering from hunger. The water rippled, the sand shook. Out from the dark depths of Seal Marsh arose a large skeletal figure, dressed in the finest suit of cashmere. He bore a top hat with a blood red ribbon around its base. His face lifted. ‘’You require my assistance’’ it shrieked. Eyes of emptiness sat upon his face, dark caves in place of eye balls. A once fancy bowtie hung from his neck as if it were a length of ivy. ‘’Y..Yes sir’’ Paigal squeaked. ‘’I need to go back in time and stop something terrible’’ ‘’Mr Skeletal is not pleased with this awakening’’ he muttered in his deep, gravelly voice. Paigal turned to enter Gifford House, he paced forward towards the door. Just as his clammy hand grasped the knob, Mr Skeletal reached forward with his titanic arm and hit Paigal with a set of jumper cables. ‘’Mortal, I will do your bidding, but first tell me why you must go back. What awaits you in 2001?’’ Mr Skeletal exclaimed in a booming voice. Paigal wondered how the skeleton knew he was going back to 2001, but still gave the information willingly. ‘’I..I need to go back….you have picked me out. You have decided to help. The distant shot of a building burning is engrained in my mind. The white cotton shirt twirling, turning, small in the clouds but waving, waving. I need to stop 9/11 Mr Skeletal.’’ Paigal released anxiously. Mr Skeletal looked shocked. He leant back and thought for a moment. His brain working was audible for miles. ‘’Very Well then’’ he said. ‘’But be warned, the results may shock you’’ A bright light filled the sky like a basin. A crack of thunder shook Seal Marsh and the water twisted and turned in to a skyscraper. The wind picked up, a howling roar arrived as Mr Skeletal raised his bony arms above his infamous top hat. The sound was deafening, causing Paigal to collapse to his knees in agony, his eyes clamped shut. A silent tear dribbled down his cheek and into the vortex that now surrounded him. The thunder clapped. Everything was calm. Paigal opened his eyes and to his surprise he was no longer surrounded by the dank waters of Seal Marsh, his knees no longer covered in grey sand. Instead he appeared to be in a jungle except it was nothing to the likes of which he had witnessed before. People rushed around him, suits and dresses, yellow and black cars wizzed past. He had arrived. Paigal searched for the towers, the ones he needed. High and low, his eyes glistened with the reflection of the World Trade Centre. He had found them.

The names Kristen. Was 18 during my first year in college. Wasn’t much of a good experience. I was always quiet around new people, so I wasn’t approached for small talk or anything really. Anyway no one bothered me at least. I had a good friend and that was enough for now. I was put into a three bedroom apartment-styled dorm with 3 other girls. I already knew one girl (Clara) because we were friends since high school. Lucky, huh? Not really though. On-campus housing was tight so I had to share the third bedroom with her. She wasn’t a rowdy person though. Clara was a usually quiet girl. Never seemed too much into other people, but she did have this friendly exterior to her. She never agreed when I said it was as if she glowed with like… happiness and bliss. But of course, never a comment from her about my observations. Always had something running through her head. I could relate, though. Always talked and chattered away. My mother told me once that I could probably keep up a conversation with myself for days. Anyway the other two roommates (Mary and Crystal) were from the city that our university was located. I don’t know why they chose to live in that dorm instead of their own homes; I never asked them. That leads to the next part: Clara and I NEVER had a full conversation with them. The entire year, not a single conversation with either of em. We did all the friendly gestures and whatnot; keeping our door open, smiling and saying hi on campus. But they just kept their doors shut, even when they talked to each other, which was A LOT, it was like we weren’t their other living companions. Of course they weren’t asses, they still smiled and said hi back (usually to Clara, it was like they friggin’ hated me), but they never started a conversation with us. Kept to themselves, mostly. Decent really, compared to the horrible kinds of roommates I’ve heard so much about. Anyway, both of them always left during the weekends. Each and every weekend. Packed up some bags and hit the road home. Clara and I kinda figured by the 3rd week of school, it was gunna be normal for us two to have the place to ourselves at the end of the week – Which was more than fine in our books. Now the spooky times began in the most obvious month during the year. October. I don’t know if Clara and I were being paranoid that night because of all the horror movies being played on TV, which we HAD to watch. Classes and homework really push you towards leisurely stuff, ya know? Anyway they began to repeat a lot of the same movies on TV, so we threw on some shoes and head to the library to rent one that we haven’t seen a dozen times already. It was a Friday night so it was perfect because Mary and Crystal had already left that afternoon, leaving us the whole (small) living room for ourselves. Perfect for a horror night. To be honest, I forgot what films we chose to watch. They had pretty unpopular titles, but we just wanted a scare or at least eerie noises in the background so we can talk about ghost stuff or something, if Clara was up for it. On the cover of one movie, a couple’s face is frozen in an almost laughing-screaming manner as they stare up wide-eyed at a hand covered in a weird purple slime. The other disk cover was a plain white background with a white door and a bloody hand reaching for the handle. I saw Clara opt for a third movie, but suddenly shook her head. “Hate that number...” She mumbled under her breath. I almost forgot her superstitious number thing. I nodded my head, remembering. Two movies were fine. After we rented them, we got back to the dorm and brought out Clara’s old DVD player she smartly decided to bring to college. The horror movies we rented were just awful. Not awful as in gory and all. But just awful. Cheesy acting, cheesy plots, cheesy romantic scenes that always ended with a topless girl. “Man, these movies suck.” Clara said through the first half of the second movie, shaking her head. I nodded at her complaints, resting back against the uncomfortable couch. “Open up your phone and try searching for more scary stories.” She kept shaking her head and just sighed. “Fine, don’t take my advice. Sometimes reading stuff online is scarier than watching it!” As we neared the end of the ridiculous movie, it sounded as if someone toppled a heavy object over in one of the rooms. Only, it was one of the rooms whose owner was currently away for the next few nights. “Crystal?” Asked Clara as she stared at the door. “No… I saw her leave. Car keys and everything.” I looked at her. “Maybe it was the people living upstairs?” I thought it over. Usually the upstairs neighbors made nearly unidentifiable noises during the night, but it was usually accompanied by screaming and drunken laughter. I just decided to agree to that. Totally not something to freak about in a dorm that housed at least fifty other college students. “They’re a loud bunch.” As soon as I finished the sentence, Crystal’s door began shaking rather violently. A mad pounding filled the small living room. We both stood up instantly. I made my way over to the door, receiving a sound I can only describe as a screech from Clara. “Maybe there’s someone robbing us…” She fumbled for her phone. I rolled my eyes. “Clara, why would someone break into a building that houses at least 10 people on each floor? And why would they try to on the second floor? I highly doubt that we’re being robbed.” I walked the rest of the way to Crystal’s room. Her door stopped shaking a few seconds ago. I knocked three times. Maybe she decided to stay for this one weekend. No answer. “Well…” I started. “It was probably just the wind. She must have left a window open.” “Fucking three…” Clara gasped. “Relax, will ya?” I sighed. Another thing about Clara is that her childhood was half paranoid superstitious parents and half ghost stories. She had a story for each and every house she’s lived in. “This building is old, so the door probably- I don’t know. Rusty hinges?” I smiled lamely and tried the doorknob. It resisted to fully turn, signaling that it was locked from the other side. Her shoulders tensed a bit as she quickly made her way to her room, right across Crystal’s. She fumbled with the light switch, finally turning off the lights in the living room. She nearly slammed the door in my face, but I had quickly stopped the impact, throwing both arms in front of me. “There’s someone behind you!” I angrily hissed. She was too preoccupied with finding the charger for her laptop to even bother apologizing. I sighed and followed her and hopped onto her small bed as she opened up her laptop and searched for more spooky stuff. Pretty soon we were both on her bed, researching the paranormal for the hundredth time since we moved in. All the while, I made comments on how lame Clara has to be to freak out over a shaky door until the jiggle of a handle interrupted Clara’s typing. “What was that…?” She paused. I was on the edge of her bed, looking across the room. I had left Clara’s door wide open, allowing us to see into the dark and empty living room. The blackness unsettled me a bit, and I wish I was on the other side of the bed. The sound of a click came and a very gentle creak was heard from the living room. “Kris…” Clara whispered quickly to me. Wow, first time she’s even said my name. Well, the first half. Only when she’s scared and wants me to be a hero or something. I grumbled and felt her tense and heard the bump of her head as she backed into the wall her bed was against. “Crys-Crystal?! Is that you?!” Clara suddenly shouted into the open doorway. “Stop playing around!” Silence. Except for the bump of a door against a wall. I could barely see the outline of the doorway into Crystal’s room. It was wide open and no one stood in front of it. Not anyone I could see at least. I dared not even going and shutting Clara’s door. No way in hell. Might as well just stick my hand out into the darkness and wait for something to grab me. “Need to close the fucking door!” Clara squeaked. I quickly shook my head. “No way, YOU go! Eff that!” I grabbed a small decorative pillow and threw it into the darkness. I didn’t expect to hit anything. But I just wanted to hear something at least move out of the way or whatever. But I never heard the pillow even hit ground. “O-okay… Lets both go close it. As fast as we can, Clara.” I grabbed her wrist but she didn’t budge. “They’re bothering me again…” “Clara, stop freaking out. It’s just Crystal PULLING A PRANK.” I nearly shouted the end of the sentence to make sure that Crystal or Mary or whoever was trying to scare us get the message that we don’t want to be bothered. I let myself believe that they were still home and let my jumpy mood turn into anger and hopped out of bed. I stomped the short distance to her door and slammed it shut and locked it for good measure. Clara had just jumped out of her skin from the sound of the door and stared at it. “We are going to prank them back SO BAD.” I plotted ways that would make Mary and Crystal piss their pants as I angrily walked over to Clara as she sat with her knees up to her chest. “Clara?” She remained frozen in place. I could almost see her sweating from panic. “Dude, it’s obviously just Crystal and Mary being asses. Calm down.” I reached over to her knee, placing my hand on it for reassurance, although it just made her shriek like a baby. She kicked and basically threw herself off the bed, landing next to her closet. “Whoa, Clara calm down!” I was about to make my way towards her just as a loud bang sounded from the other side of her locked door. Someone or something was throwing itself against the door, desperately wanting to get inside and do whatever it came to do. “GO AWAY!!!” Clara screamed. She was sobbing and her face was all puffy and red. “Yeah, leave us alone!!” I shouted with her. I wanted to throw myself onto the ground where Clara was, but I had to obviously be the brave one here. I looked around for a weapon but the only choice I had was between a heavy textbook or a pair of Clara’s high heels. I opted for just relying on my bare hands and adrenaline if they got in here. The banging subsided and was replaced by one sound. It resembled the unpleasant sound of a long, cracked fingernail dragging itself down a board. Only this time, it wasn’t some schoolboard. It was just on the other side of our door. It started at the top of the door and stopped when it reached the middle. Where the handle was. Clara was panting at this time and I was ready for a fight with the psychopath on the other side. Whether it was Mary or Crystal, I was going to beat the living shit out of them. Suddenly the click of the lock sounded and the turning of the handle was very visible. The door creaked open, spilling a sickly darkness that seemed to engulf the lit room. Whatever that thing was… It was not human or even an earthly being. All I can describe is its bony dark claws. They reached for me, not quite touching me. But the closer they came… it was as if a bone-chilling kind of cold tried to freeze me right then and there. I stumbled back and lunged to the right as it stepped more into the room. I forced Clara onto her feet and pushed her to the opposite side of the room. She just stared at the thing as it kept walking ever so slowly towards us. She barely realized I pushed her and looked around, confused and disoriented and locked her eyes on her opened door. “Fucking RUN CLARA!” I screamed at her and gave her a harsh shove. My words finally clicked in her head as she sprinted to the doorway, a good five feet from that thing that towered overhead. Its body was as tall as the room and as skinny as a its bony claws. I didn’t want to stare at it longer and followed Clara, keeping close to her as she headed for the main door to the rest of the building. “HELP!!” She screamed as soon as she burst through the door. The door was heavy and made to shut slowly to reduce noise and accidents. If only I could have made it out with her. The thing finally decided to be quick with its movements and seemed to suddenly grow 20 pairs of skinny spider-like legs and gripped my ankle with about 5 of them before I tripped on the old carpet. The same icy cold was there and this time it engulfed my leg, almost making it too painful to even kick. I was so close to the door. “CLARA!” I shrieked as the thing dragged me back. Towards Crystal’s room. I still had a view to the outside of the dorm. One guy across the hall rushed out, hearing Clara’s screaming and gripped onto her shoulders. I screamed at them again and again to help me, but he was too busy trying to calm Clara and she was too busy screaming her head off. “FUCKING HELP ME, ITS GUNNA KILL ME!” I sobbed as more of my body seemed to stiffen from the bone-chilling cold. “Help…” I croaked as the guy looked into the doorway. He didn’t even give me one glance. Not one second of his time was given to the shrieking girl being dragged away painfully slow. A small wave of weightlessness began to slowly seep through me. I couldn’t struggle anymore. I just stared at the closing doorway, the people outside no longer in my view. The thing continued to drag me away from the door, away from Clara, and it seemed like away from the world. Into a pit of darkness. A small whisper, barely audible filled the darkness, and I entered bliss. “It’s time to finally come home and rest.

Note: I am not a practiced writer. This is not a regular hobby of mine. I wrote this on a whim and felt like sharing it to see if anyone liked my dark edginess. Also if anyone wants to suggest a different tag that's cool Chris was having a good time playing host to fourteen of his closest friends. The fire was crackling with delight, and the drinks were plentiful. But still he felt a nagging unease. Kevin, an old friend and co-worker of many in the group had invited himself to tag along to celebrate the end of another week. Normally this wouldn’t have been a problem as Chris’s house was a revolving door and he always had a ‘the more the merrier’ attitude. However, there were some amongst the group of companions that felt uncomfortable with Kevin’s presence, which forced Chris to take Kevin to the side and advise him that he should leave. “Am I making the decision to leave or is it being made for me?” Kevin asked Chris directly. Chris looked down and told Kevin “Sorry man, but I’m making this decision for you.” “Yeah fuck you too. Nice seeing everyone, later” said Kevin to the assembled party, who barely seemed to notice his departure. Kevin got in his car and stormed off, wheels spinning in the driveway. That was just before 11 PM, and by now, Chris had mostly forgotten about the incident, but still feeling that slight nervousness about the night. Just after 1 AM, Chris was one of the only people still awake, as most everyone else had either fallen asleep peacefully or passed out. He started to gather the remnants of the night’s festivities when he felt an unnatural chill down his spine. Chris turned around and there was Kevin, sitting in a lawn chair gazing at the glowing embers of the campfire. “Kevin, is that you?” Chris asked carefully, his spine tingling cautiously. His instinct was screaming that something was wrong, but his mind was too clouded to make sense of the sudden appearance of his friend. Kevin turned his head and looked straight at Chris in acknowledgement of the question, but said nothing. Kevin then rose from the chair and circled the fire pit several times before coming to a stop before Chris. “You need to leave Kev, we went over this before” Chris said, more strongly than before. “But the party’s only just started mate, let’s play a game” Kevin spoke for the first time in a flat, detached voice. “Kevin I’m not playing around, you need to get out of here now.” “I’m afraid this isn’t your decision to make. Sit down and we’ll begin playing” Kevin pressed in that same emotionless tone. Chris moved his hand toward his pocket as if to grab for his cell phone but it didn’t seem to be there. He looked up and saw Kevin nonchalantly turning it over in his hand, looking bored. “Playing the game is much easier than the alternative. I’m not going to ask you again, Christopher.” Chris looked around at his sleeping friends in a slight panic but they were all still, as if frozen in time. The only thing that seemed to be moving at all was the last of the weak flames coming from behind Kevin, framing him in a mysterious glow. He finally gave in to Kevin’s demand and sat down at the picnic bench, where there were two large knives with wickedly shaped blades stuck in the table before him. “You may be familiar with this, it’s a personal favorite of mine.” Kevin laid his left hand on the table with his fingers spread apart and gripped the knife in his right. Chris immediately understood what he was to do and with a resigned sigh, mirrored Kevin’s motions. “The game is simple, you keep up with me. Fail to maintain my pace or stab yourself and suffer the consequences.” “Kev, why are you doing this? We don’t need to do this!” Chris half-pleaded but Kevin didn’t care. With a twisted smile, Kevin lifted his right hand and began stabbing the spaces between his fingers at a slow, measured pace. Chris began mimicking Kevin, the knives sticking in the wood with a dull thud on each hit. As Kevin got faster, so did Chris, but he eventually made the first mistake. With a sharp pain on his ring finger, Chris swore loudly and threw the knife on the ground. “Now here’s the fun part” Kevin said with a gentle purr in his voice. He looked at the fire, which had grown back to its full height without Chris noticing. Chris swore it was a trick of his mind and the light of the fire, but Kevin’s eyes were now brightly shining a deep red. **“BURN!”** A haunting scream of agony pierced the night as Chris looked toward the source of the noise and saw his best friend was now alight, his eyes wide open in a stare of terror. “What are you doing? You’re fucking insane, what’s wrong with you Kevin?” Chris questioned angrily. “We’re not done playing yet. Grab the knife and sit back down” Kevin said calmly, ignoring the burning man. Even though every cell in his brain was telling him to find a way to end the charade, make it stop, his muscles involuntarily reached down to grab the now blood-stained blade and returned to his seat at the picnic bench, the cries of agony ringing in his ears. The two began the motions once more, Chris doing everything in his power to remain synchronized with Kevin but he could not match Kevin’s speed and precision. One by one, Chris watched his friends set ablaze, each one’s tortured shrieks adding to the sick harmony of Kevin’s twisted symphony. With each failure, Chris lost more and more blood until his body entered shock and he ceased to feel pain. “Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted you sick, twisted fuck?” Chris asked weakly, now close to passing out. “I don’t recall saying we were done yet, old chap. Put your hand on the table and get ready to begin again” Kevin replied with a joyful yet cruel voice. Chris managed one pass over his hand before slumping over and falling out of his seat. Finally victorious, Kevin rose to his feet with a wide, toothy grin on his face. He slowly made his way around the table to where Chris feebly lay. Kevin knelt down at his side and slowly caressed his friend’s now pale face. “It’s all over now, go to sleep” Kevin gently whispered into Chris’s ear. In one last act of defiance, Chris balled up his fist and grabbed the front of Kevin’s shirt as if to threaten him before finally losing consciousness. Kevin rose and walked to the fire, which had now returned to glowing embers. He immersed his hands in the ashes and made his way around the circle of those who had been burned. They were silent now. With the ashes he made them whole in body once again. Kevin rose and walked to the fire, which had now returned to glowing embers. He immersed his hands in the ashes and made his way around the circle of those who had been burned. They were silent now. With the ashes he made them whole in body once again, but they would now live a half-life, a cursed life. Forever they would be branded. Forever they would walk the earth searching endlessly for what was not to be found. Forever they would burn.

I open my eyes. And for that brief moment everything is still okay. And then reality kicks in, and the dread descends. Because she’s gone. And I couldn’t save her. Could I have done? The eternal question that can never be answered. Could I have jumped in front of the bullet in time? Could I have found the one who fired the gun, could I have done anything to stop the bullet hitting her, and to prevent the final few seconds seared into my memory of holding her dying body bleeding out onto the floor. What else could I have done? I had chosen to take that route round the city. I should’ve known it was dangerous. I had chosen to fly here on holiday in the first place, any other destination would’ve been better than this. There are a thousand ways that I could’ve saved her and I didn’t manage a single one. It was my fault. Oh that’s not what the others say. “It was a horrible accident” I’m told. “There was nothing you could’ve done to save her, you’re lucky to be alive”. They lie. Better to be dead than to know I helped to cause her death. It should’ve been me. I should be the brave one who stopped the bullet to save a life, not the poor, pathetic man I am now. It just shows me as a coward. And yet I’m told to move on. I’m told that she wouldn’t have blamed me, that she would’ve forgiven me. I know that. I knew from the moment she sputtered those words out on her dying breath. “I forgive you”. It almost makes me want to laugh. As if that’s what I’m worried about. That’s not the hard part. The hard part is trying to forgive myself.

Three things happened to me that changed my life in little under three months. The first being I met a girl well I didn’t exactly meet her, The second I almost died, and last but not least I lost everyone who I cared about. As for the girl, I don't quite know what this was feeling was, but I knew it had to do with her. I think it was either her jadeish-teal hair or maybe her goldenbrown eyes. There was this growing feeling in my stomach, It felt as if it would rip out my chest every time i’d see her. I felt as if I had to get to know her, or I would lose it. I didn't know whether I was in love with her because of her physical appearance, or just in love with the thought having another person to share the affection I had craved at that age and time. I wanted her so bad. It was though as if every thought in my brain was planted secretly by a tiny Cupid. the more I thought of her, the more I wanted to have her. I needed to find her and talk to her. Some people would call it fate or destiny to meet the one YOU felt within your soul was the one, while other people who didn’t quite believe in that stuff would call it pure luck. Personally, I don't know what to call it. It felt more of a strange coincidence. Everywhere I went I saw her, that same hair color with one side of her skull shaved the porcelain skin covered by a unique outfit each time. I saw her at the mall ,the park, the movies, everywhere in town you name it. I always wondered if she recognized me just.. staring. staring at her and smiling like an idiot. I hope she didn't. That'd be weird. Skies were gray and gusts of cold wind blew through the town. I always rode my bike out to the park when a blanket of clouds lay across the sky. It always gave me inspiration to draw. When I arrived at the park, I parked my bike and locked it up. I then sat under a tree near the park benches watching a small bird hop around chasing a leaf that bounced in the wind. I loved going to the park when the day was dreary. It usually meant I was alone to enjoy the park in all it's beauty. I sat there under the oak tree examining the small sparrow, matching every detail and shading with a stroke of my pencil. Nearly two hours passed that I was there with the little bird, it must have known i was watching it because it stood there almost as if it was posing for a photo-shoot. I pulled out a slice of bread and ripped small chunks out and pushing them towards the bird with a thin stick. It slowly began to trust me, then it flew away making me feel a small pang of sadness as if the creature and I were beginning to build a trust that was shattered by my rough movements to try and feed it a small chunk of bread. man I need a dog. I had forgotten the time as I spent time playing with my new friend. When my phone buzzed I jumped a little because i was so focused on the bird, I had forgotten all that was around me. It was as if everything around me disappeared and all my focus was put into the bird. all that was stopped by a single message via Facebook from a friend. I awoke with my trance and I realized it was sprinkling just a little bit. The skies were still as grey as usual, but I noticed a strange shade of blue sitting in one of the swings. I heard my heartbeat. The soft pitter patter of the rain gently hitting the concrete, the wind rustling the leaves, and the creaking of the playground and swings. Its as if the whole world stood still, save for the Ambient noises. My cover under the oak started to leak, so I put my sketchpad in my bag and got my things together. I was going to leave after putting on my headphones when I noticed the blue haired girl was still there sitting on the swings. She didn't move at all, she just looked down and sat on the swings under the rain. I was conflicted, Should I go over to her and see if theres anything wrong, or leave. Against what my mind told me to do, I followed my heart and walked up to her. The gentle crunching of the sand seemed to have awoken her from her trance because her head snapped up as i approached her. "hey!" I called out as I slowly walked towards her. she didn't respond, she just looked towards me and I realized she had been crying. "hey." she responded quietly. "Are you ok?" I asked her gently. she just sat there, I could plainly see it in her face that she was not ok. I looked up and saw the skies getting darker. that meant heavier rain was to come. "Do you need a ride home?" I asked forgetting that I came here on my bike. nothing. she looked up at me questioningly. "You're going to get sick if you stay out here" I offered my hand but she turned her head refusing my help. "Hey, c’mon I just want to help. I promise that’s it." I said apologetically. "Why?" She said under her breath. I stood there taken aback by what she asked. Why. Why did I want to help her? was it because I had a crush on her? the girl I see everywhere or because I was always a helpful person, always there for my friends and family when they needed anything. Physical or emotional. "I just want to be nice" I said cooly. "Nice?" she asked. "Nice?!" her voice started getting louder. "Why do you feel the need to be nice? you don't even know me!" She was yelling at this point now. "Im sorry, It's just who I am, Im the nice guy." I looked down as if I had something to be ashamed of. "It's cool." she said calmly, quietly, and apologetically, "I’m sorry, I've just had a bad day." That was weird. She seemed so quiet just then and when I asked if she needed help, she exploded. must be something in the water. I tried not to say anything to upset her, so I grabbed my bike. “Come with me” I said, getting up walking towards Main street. “where”? “Somewhere dry.” We walked along the shops, looked at things in windows. The rain hadn't stopped yet. we just walked in silence. ‘today must really not be her day’ I thought to myself as I watched her hold herself and shiver as we walked. “Want my jacket?” I asked her holding out my coat. She nodded and she put it over her shoulders. “I like the cologne you wear.” She said quietly. ‘My Cologne?’ I thought to myself. It must have been on the coat I was wearing. we walked along down main street for what seemed ages until we reached my favorite coffee shop Café Mémoire. It looked like the one in france where my parents met. I opened the door for her and led her to my spot at the corner looking out the window. The barista at the counter yelled out “Thomas! hey, who's the pretty girl?” I blushed then looked at her and she gave a small laugh, “I come here a lot.” I muttered. She gave me a small smile. she seemed as if she was still upset, but my encounter with Randy seemed to have lightened up her mood. I never paid any attention to her behavior just how she looked. I guess that’s less creepy. I got up to go buy something for myself, I asked her if she wanted anything, she refused ” I don't have any money.” “Dont worry.” I headed over to the register and ordered two caramel frappuccinos. “$7.35 please?” “Here you go Randy, oh and that girl is just a friend.” I paid and waited around for the drinks to finish. ‘what do i say?’ I thought to myself. I glanced over at her and she stared out the window as rain splashed against it. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled my nose and the sound of cars driving by seemed to have grown quiet. My heartbeat grew louder as well. It was as if my heart pounded in my ears, I could here the air flow into my lungs. Time stood still. What was it about her that made me feel like like this? As i stood there with her in my sight, she slowly turned her head facing me. we locked eyes for a second. I felt as if I’ve known her my whole life. when as if right on que Randy brought out the caramel frappuccinos. Everything went back to the way it was, i snapped out of whatever trance she put me in and grabbed the drinks. I headed towards the table, and she gave me a small smile “Is that for me?” “Yeah, I thought you should get something to drink.” “Thanks.” She said, with a guilty feeling in her voice. I sat down and handed her the drink. She took it hesitantly then took a small sip of it. her eyes went wide. I guess she liked the drink. she started to take large sips from the glass and about 5 minutes later she finished it with a look regret she put down the glass and thanked me. we sat there in an odd silence for a little less than half an hour. I was almost done with my frappucino and when I put the cup down, she leaned over the table and pecked me on the lips. I was surprised, in full shock. her lips were as soft as silk. I sat there in awe at what just happened. She looked away embarrassed. Ive never heard a sound so sweet. “What was that for?” I asked in shock. “I dont know. I just felt like I owed you for the frappucino.” She said Shyly,” caramel frappuccinos are my absolute favorite.” Was it a coincidence that they were my favorite too? I shrugged it off as nothing. The skies were clearing up soon after the rain stopped. I looked up to her. The sun shining on her pale flesh. Her golden brown eyes shone bright as the sun lit her up, Her hair lit like a vibrant blue flame. All I thought about was her thin soft lips against mine. I was in love. I quickly remembered about the park. I was unsure whether I wanted to ruin what was going on here. I noticed she had a small perky nose, I thought it was adorable. She had prominent cheekbones and a slightly sharp chin, and slim and slightly rounded face. God she was beautiful. she ran a thin hand through her wet hair, and I noticed the patch on the side of her head was shaved. I noticed a thin scar just under her eye. I finally regained my thoughts. “So why were you at the park?” She said quietly catching me off guard. I could barely hear her. “Huh? Oh. Uh, I was drawing like I usually do when nature decides the day will be dreary and depressing.” I said trying not sound like an idiot. She glanced at me awkwardly as if she didn’t know if she wanted to tell me what happened to her. “and you?” I asked cautiously.she looked down and cleared her throat. When she looked Up she gave a uneased look and said, ”I was just having a rough day and I like to go to the park and sit on the swing to clear my head.” I checked my phone. I completely forgot about the message. It was my friend Kevin asking if I wanted to hang out. I responded no. I had much better things to do, I took a quick glance at her, she was playing with her hair. Much better things to do. “Sounds like you need a friend?” I said kind of hoping she would get my hint that I wanted to get to know her better. I checked the time, 5PM. I had some time to kill. She just sat there and started to cry again. she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her. The faint scars were visible on her arms. I quickly got up and sat next to her. I put an arm on her shoulder. “hey. were friends now, You can trust me.”, I said awkwardly trying to comfort her, “Do you want another caramel frappuccino?” I asked nicely. She nodded. “and dont worry about paying me back. It’s free.” I told her smiling. She glanced up to me and I could see her mascara running. Still beautiful. She saw me smiling and then she started to cry again. I gave her an apologetic look but she couldn’t see it because her head was buried in her arms. I then got up again and bought another caramel frappuccinos. Great. I brought the drink back to her. “Hey, I just realized I don’t even know your name.” how could I forget to ask? Let alone be in love with someone whose name I dont even know? “Emily. Emily Vellux.” She said, I could hear a sharp pain in her voice. “well then Emi-” “Call me Emy. Only my dad called me Emily.” she interrupted. “ok Emy. Why were you alone at the park on such a depressing day?” “I could say the same to you.” “I told you, I go to draw” i said with a smile. She looked a bit annoyed. “Well then, I told you too.” She said with a slight irritation in her voice. “yes, but why? what would a girl like you be do-” “Like me?” She asked suspiciously. “I mean someone who is hurting” “how would you know im hurting?” “Well I saw you crying and you seem really upset.” I tried to say it nicely. “Do you really want to know?” She said quietly,” can you handle me?” I didn't know what she meant by this. How could I? she was a girl of like 5’1” what was there to handle? I immediately thought about the books I read in jr high about monsters and vampires, where it turns out that the person in the story was actually some sort of supernatural creature and led a double life. I laughed silently to myself. “What?” “Huh? oh, I just remembered something for jr high.” I tried to hide a smirk. “Ok then. well.. I left my boyfriend today.” Im not sure if it was sadness or hatred in her voice that I heard. “Normally I would go to my dad about this stuff, b-but he passed away recently..” she looked as if she was going to cry again. “Oh. Im so sorry.” I felt bad about laughing. “About? “Your father and your boyfr- ex.” I said. She looked to me and dryly said ”My boyfriend was an abusive druggie who would get drunk every so often.” I started thinking, what if she did drugs and other shit. “He would get pissed because I was never like him.” It was almost as if she read my mind. “I never did drugs, drink, It just wasn’t in my nature” Hmm, I started to like her even more. “It's getting pretty late. Thank you for the caramel frap.” she sounded as if she felt guilty for something. “No problem, Do you need a ride?” “I guess, but on your bike?” she gave me a small awkward smile. “I was gonna call my brother since he works nearby and gets off around this time.” I phoned my brother and asked him for a ride, he said he be there in 5 minutes. so me and Emy sat in silence. “would it be ok if we stayed in contact?” “Excuse me?” “Like if you are feeling upset you can always call me and we can come down here, get some frappes or you can text me.” I said quickly. “Sure” she replied. Emy and I exchanged numbers as soon as my brother drove up. I got into the passengers seat up front and she got in the back “Where am I taking you?” “18502 chessex way” Everything was slight blur. We got to Emy’s house and dropped her off. I got off to make sure she got there safe. I walked her to her door and she looked towards me. “Thanks for today.” “No problem.” I said right before she kissed me. Again, the softness of her lips against mine felt extravagant. I stood there blushing like crazy. She gave me a tight hug and said goodnight then quickly entered her house. I walked towards the car smiling like an idiot. My brother asked me what happened. “I just kissed the girl of my dreams I.” I said dazed. The rest of the night seemed a blur, I couldn’t tell what was real or not. I walked up the stairs to my room and flipped the lamp switch on and fell over on my bed. I lay there thinking about the girl with the blue hair. No matter what, she would not leave my mind. all I remember was the feeling of her lips gently pressing against mine. I would give anything just to do it again. Just to kiss her on more time. She was my dream. And a blur.

Chronologies of humanity bear no impact on her monumental visage, she weathers an ancient, timeless expression. Borne to Gaia, forged of igneous depths and steeped in the knowledge of the cosmos, she stands tall amongst her ilk, her crystalline mantle straining the very heavens. Rebirthed and reformed, she is the ever shifting paradigm of renewal. A glistening, plutonic spire now caps her somber tor, striations of laccolith and lopolith shimmer radiant in Sol's post meridian watch. Earth's Magnum Opus, she is testament to the magnificence and organic power of Nature. Transcending millennia, life waxes and wanes in her monolithic shadow. Scores have sacrificed existence itself to assuage her fiery passions. Converging in her foothills, martyrs worship in discordant praise, a climactic dichotomy of fear and wonder. They yearn to appease her ravenous, predatory outbursts, yet a grievous trembling in the substrata rumbles still. Fauna scatter into nothingness, the troposphere blazes alive and crackles with swirling, trepidatious energies. Massive breaths ebb and flow at the surrounding topography, each crescendo intensifying and amplifying the next, heightening her anticipation. One penultimate gasp is drawn inwards as her bosom swells, landscapes rising to unnatural levels. Pausing for a quantum moment, tachyons frozen in limbo, she relishes the delicious piquancy of looming destruction. She surveys all before her and laughs in disdain at the futility of mortality. Within that same breadth, time and space reconvene as one. She convulses, she quivers, she screams at the building fervor inside, suffering tumultuous magnitudes of molten pain and sorrow. In a violent flurry of explosions, cataclysmic volumes of white-hot magma spew forth. Rent asunder, her glorious crown of shocked quartz bared, she shudders in angst as pillowing streams of pernicious ash and porphyritic ejections unfurl skyward. A miasma of noxious pallor fastens itself to the celestial sphere, hanging moribund over the pulse of mankind. Exhausted and spent, she recedes into the former shell of herself, a significant portion of her essence expended in the perpetuation of life. She lays cold and dormant, entombed in her wasteland of dissipating carnage. Aeons pass; calm finally settles the land. Repopulation is measured and arduous, gradually replenishing the flocks. Throngs eventually reapproach her hills. Vying for glory, they attempt to scale the insurmountable. Few creatures can muster the fortitude to embark on the journey, even fewer still manage to ascend her slopes. Nary a soul has yet to gaze upon her true peak. She dispels all cavalier paramours with wanton abandon, rebuffing them with harsh gales and icy ripostes. Withdrawn and biding her time, she prepares her next permutation in silence. It begins with a solitary bead of growth and potential, an amalgam of dihydrogen monoxide interlaced with molecular detrita. This single droplet of hope travels unfathomable terrestrial distances, finally transmogrifying physical bonds to break free of his planetary shackles and skim the lofty currents above. He soars along carefree and aimless, cruising ever meandering avenues of the stratosphere. One fortuitous day, galaxies align in sublime harmony and he glimpses sight of her majestic elevations and precipices. Immediately he is stunned and confounded, he loses all bearing on reality. Possibilities and promises flit before his mind's eye. His universe is upended; actuality, permanence and substance now have true meaning. Captivated by a primal innate force, willpower grips his form, propelling him forward. Steeling mind and body against the impending transformation, he collects what means are available. Gathering his resolve and amassing the very elements out of thin air, he manifests physical design anew. Confluence of the spiritual and tangibility coalesce into a single united entity, a floating mass of stalwart decision and impetus, condensing further upon itself. Pushing downward, he nears ever closer. As he draws nigh, he is crippled at her presence, his soul is laid bare. She is amazing, exquisite and mystifying, the pure embodiment of the Muse. Losing his tenuous grasp on density versus gravity he suddenly plummets headfirst, rapidly approaching Terra firma. The first kiss of precipitous passion melts on her supple skin, sending chills up her spine. A steady deluge soon streams down her sides. Rivulets cascade down escarpments of glossy obsidian to congregate in pools at her feet. Wrapping his arms around her graceful body, they engulf each other in carnal embrace. He pours forth the entirety of his being, stripping his essence and conscience, giving himself wholly unto her. Polar worlds have collided and for once, meshed in synergy. A bottomless lake forms as he fills her heart with his and they dance in each other's ubiquity. He calms and soothes her, she excites and inspires him. Passions and temperatures flare as he is carried aloft to return again and again, tickling at her surfaces, sating her desires. Their fervent display settles into a contented bliss. However, she is flux incarnate, an interminable metamorphosis. She soon wearies of the comforting waters nestled safely in her core. She fumes inwardly, cultivating her furor and ferocity, collecting fuel for her flames. Without warning, she bursts forth with savage potency, ejecting him far from her bubble of existence. He scrambles to reassemble the pieces, but they are too distantly strewn. She emits immeasurable quantities of pyroclastic detritus, choking and poisoning him as he tries to recover. He fights, he struggles to maintain palpability, but he is losing ground, depleting into oblivion. His final hope is grasping at the dregs, the sulfurous byproducts of their encounter. He soaks up as much as he can to save himself. He returns to rain down his affections, but his attempts are now riddled with acidic stings and only serve to embitter her further. He beats himself into submission, but she refuses all advances, shedding him off like toxic wastewater. Devastated, he reduces himself to a desolate molecule once again, he is carried away by errant wind streams to unknown and uncared for venues. All is lost. Time has no purpose, being has no context. He drifts frivolously and haphazardly anywhere and everywhere as ages pass by. He circles the globe endlessly in apathy sans direction. Nothing is static, all beings must adapt or perish. Vibrant lush greens now blanket her escarpments, clinging to her nourishing breast. She wrests life from the ground everywhere she gazes, evoking resplendent vitality from her surrounds. Flowers, fields, whole forests spring forth from once liquefied and venomous rock. A fresh summer breeze whistles in from the east, carrying a faint drizzle. She raises up to face the cooling mist lightly kissing her shoulder, greeting him with a smile.

(Hey guys, this is my first time posting on this subreddit! This is all I have so far. I may or may not continue, but anyways, it's just a short story so far. Feedback is always appreciated!) It's not like this every morning. Sometimes it's bright, sometimes it's cloudy; but today was different. The weatherman called for a chance of rain, followed by excessive lightning. That doesn't stop me from taking my usual route to work. When I opened the door to my apartment complex, the rain was falling harder than it did yesterday; the day before that, and the day before that. The sound it makes when it kisses the ground reminds me of the days when me and my little brother would dance in the rain and jump in to the puddles it created. I became an uncle for the first time in my life, and I was proud of my brother for creating a very loving little girl. I wonder, however, if I'll ever give him the same in return. My father has always said that my brother would be the first to coin grandchildren. I knew he was a joker, but he was not wrong. All I have is me and my job for now. I opened my umbrella and stepped out into the storm, holding it over my head. The wind blew gently, but not gently enough as a few drops hit the bottom of my tan coat. I set my focus on the pattern of the rain that hit the black fabric of my umbrella as I walked my way down the cracked sidewalk. It was soothing, as well as the smell of fresh rain hitting my nostrils, sending a ripple from my head through my spine. The town I lived in was nothing significant as much as it really wasn't anywhere near insignificant. The street lights contrasted with the gray stillness of the atmosphere above me, and the passing cars that drove over rain puddles almost muffled the sound of the cackling sky. Waterfalls of rain along the sidewalk slipped into the storm drains. I made it to the middle of town, where a chain of shops were set up in every corner of the four way intersection. In the middle of the intersection was a traffic circle. Traffic wasn't slow, but it wasn't the fastest either. I walked across the street in the crosswalk, and walked to the end of the sidewalk and turned the corner. On my left was the coffee shop I usually go to called "The Roasted Barrel". Every morning before work, I come here to give me my morning jolt. I opened the door and folded my umbrella, the bell rung to signal my arrival. A man behind the counter turned from the coffee machine, and greeted me with a smile. George is your average man in his late forties. He had a gut on him, and what's left of his gray hair was usually unkempt. He is the jolliest man I've known, and a friend of my uncle's. "Well hello there, Christopher!" George said in his southern accent. "So I hear that 'Lisabeth had 'er baby! Must be excitin' to be an uncle, huh?" I flashed him a wide grin as I sat down in one of the booths nearest to the front counter. "It's okay, I guess. Must be exciting to be going on forty-nine?" George laughed, shook his head and grabbed a mug, pouring my usual. I like my coffee black. "Age isn't holdin' me back, son." He came around the corner and laid the cup in front of me. He looked outside. "Some storm out there, wouldn't ye say?" "Yeah." I responded, watching the lightning flash outside the window. I looked around the café, not a human being in sight other than me and George's reflection of the drenched windows. The café wouldn't look as presentable if it wasn't for George's wife, Myrtle. Flowers on each table, clean floors, fancy chairs. George originally wanted to turn this place into a burger joint, and I'm sort of glad he didn't. His burgers aren't the best in the world. I was about to take a sip of my black coffee when I heard the door bells ring. I looked over and saw a hooded woman in a black coat carefully make herself inside. I found this unusual, considering not many people come into the café in the morning. George beamed and walked over to the woman. "Well, well, how are ye, sugar bear?" He said, giving her a bear hug. "I'm just fine, dad." Her voice sounded gentle, yet stern. She took the hood off, revealing her features. Her hair was a dark brown, shoulder length hair that curled at the tips. Eyes were as brown as chocolate, and her light eye shadow only complimented them more. She smiled at her dad, and looked over at me. We seemed to have been staring at each other for a long time until George pointed over at me. "Josephine, I would like ye to meet Christopher, he's the son of my friend's brother, Ernie. Remember Ernie?" Ernie happens to be the name of my uncle. "Right, yeah I think so." Even though I can tell that Ernie's name did not ring a bell to her at all. She stared at me, as if I was some sort of artifact until she moved. She held her hand out. "Hello, nice to meet you, I'm Josephine." Josephine's smile made me smile. "But you can call me Jo." "Hey Jo." I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you too." I felt my heart skip a beat or two, but I wasn't sure that it's because of the fact I had this beautiful girl in my hand or the fact that this is the first kind of human interaction I had in a while that doesn't involve my job. Her hand was warm, and I could smell her cheap perfume from a foot away.

July 2015 Officer Lu sipped his coffee and watched the sitting man slowly flip the white porcelain mask in his hands. Over and over, each revolution showing the expressionless white face and empty eyes. He seemed indifferent to the frenetic market crowds coursing around him, his expression as blank as the mask in his hands. The masses of people, each going about their own small daily rituals, parted around him seemingly intent on giving him no notice. Indeed to officer Lu the man was plain almost to the point of being unnoticeable. Yet Lu was covertly watching the man from the shadows of the coffee shop, steadfastly ignoring the growing voice of paranoia in his mind telling him to leave both man and market place. “Don’t be ridiculous” Lu thought to himself. He was a experienced police officer and a rationalist at heart. Yet here he was, on a pleasant Saturday morning, struggling to keep at bay a rising feeling of panic. There was something off about the man and the spinning porcelain mask, something that did not mesh with the otherwise ordinary Saturday market. Lu had been a policeman for long enough to know that monsters lurked just beneath the thin veneer of everyday society. Finishing his now lukewarm coffee with a single gulp he got up to pay, it was 11:30 and his patrol shift began in an hour and he was happy for any excuse to leave the unsettling situation. Forcing the man from his mind temporarily Lu smiled and thanked the pretty girl behind the cash then excited the cafe. The voices of people washed over him accompanied by the endless din of summer cicadas. It was a hot cloudless Saturday and the morning sun angled down on him. He looked at the people around him and instinctively detected their growing uneasiness matching his. The crowd of recently relaxed market goers was spooked like a herd upon sensing wolves. Lu pressed through the crowd and headed for the quieter side alley to reach his car. Unbidden to his mind came the image the porcelain mask, empty eyes following him through the crowd. His heart began to pound and he increased his pace. The air was now suffocating, suddenly heavy with the sense of imminent violence. “Jesus Christ” Lu cursed under his breath and half walked half ran to his car. He fumbled opening the lock box in the back seat and withdrew the heavy black pistol. Even when off duty he liked to be prepared. Somewhere in his primordial brain an animal instinct was beginning to scream. He threw the gun in the front passenger seat, and quickly moved around to driver’s seat. Jamming the key into the ignition he started the car. Even as he felt the engine kick to life a wave of dread threatened to overwhelm him. He looked back into the square and saw a widening circle forming around the man. The mask stopped spinning. The man stood slowly and gazed around the crowd as people began streaming for the market exits, pushing and running shamelessly over each other. Somewhere in the back of Lu’s fear paralyzed mind a quick computation was done. Hundreds of people panicking and moving at once would lead to chaos, the fleeing masses would be corralled into the narrow streets at the market’s exit and they would end up trampling each other. A sadistic smile crossed the man’s face, he too seemed to realize this. Then he reached up and slipped on the porcelain mask. The smile disappeared and the voices began. A thousand crazed whispers descended upon Lu’s mind. Layer upon layer of mad voices called to him, beckoning him to kill, to weep, to scratch his eyes out, to cower in fear. Lu screamed and slammed the gas. The car lurched madly away from the square, hitting some of the people fleeing down the back street. Lu could barely see, his mind was dominated by the porcelain mask, its once empty eye sockets now like windows onto a terrible fire. He accelerated blindly out of the alley into the adjacent plaza, his car cutting through the coming traffic. The voices receded, dying off as he put distance between himself and the monster at his back. Lu regained his senses just as the front corner of his car crashed into the large stone fountain at the center of the plaza. His head cracked violently against the window and merciful darkness took him. He came to a few minutes later immediately cradling his head in his arms at the pain, unable to orient himself as his vision was swimming and his ears rang steadily. He felt a weight at his stomach and reached down touching the handle of the pistol. He shouldered the door open and sprawled onto the fountain side, a wave of nausea gripped his stomach as he expelled its contents. "What the fuck is going on" his panicked brain kept repeating. He stood up painfully and looked around. It was as if someone replaced his peaceful city center with a vision of hell. Abandoned cars were strewn across the plaza and some particularly violent crashes seemed to have occurred. Two small cars lay on their sides flanking the alleyway, fires sprouting from their under bellies. Screams assaulted his ears as people ran or crawled from between the buildings leading from the market square. Lu closed his eyes, unable to deal with the either the memories or the scene before him. His current reality was impossible, in the world he had just known there were no masked demons wearing the form of man. There was no whispering chaos clouding his mind. “They died like sheep to the slaughter” a voice whispered in his head. “They died in the fire in the fire in the fire” ranted a second voice. The whispers roused Lu from his stupor, he realized the man must be approaching. He hefted the gun, it felt good in his hand, its weight promising him that it could silence the whispering demon. That it could save people. “Yes” a third voice chimed in, “You can kill us, you can bring death as well”. Lu looked toward the alley mouth and watched numbly as a woman crawled hand over hand between the flaming cars. Silent tears ran down her face as she moved desperately away from the figure pursuing her. The masked man emerged from the alley way walking steadily after the fleeing woman. Even from a distance Lu could feel the man’s malevolent aura, the hateful feeling cutting through the cacophony of voices ringing in his head. The women screamed as he approached raising her arms to shield herself even as her body burst into flames. The man walked on. Lu lifted his gun, the voices screaming for him to shoot. The nightmare could be over in an instant, all he needed to do was kill the monster in front of him. There were six bullets in the chamber, He took aim and fired one after another. Six bullets wove drunken paths through the air, ripped off their trajectories, flying harmlessly past the man. Laughter resounded in his head. Lu fell to the ground watching as more of those fleeing went up in flames. He put his arms around his knees and lay his head on his hands, the edge of his digital watch pressed against his mouth, the time read 11:39. He began to cry. In less nine minutes the world had gone mad, had begun to tear apart at the seams. He closed his eyes against the tears and let his mind go blank as the whispering chaos descended upon him.

I don't know why the creature stared back for so long, neither do I know the reason it approached him. The obvious conclusion was that it was in search of food, like one of Pavlov's dogs it subconsciously linked the concept of humans and scraps picked off when the somewhat emphatic opportunity arose, and so quested towards with that shrunken, biological and computed image of a person's shape carrying out a mix of instinct and conditioning. Though a more profound theory wells up, maybe, it came out of curiosity, whether the small bundle of muscles, nerves and other paraphernalia were even capable of slightly hinting at the idea that the actions of the mechanic actually resulted in the creation and working order of the harvester and so resulting in the continuation (or at least a section of) mankind's obvious dominance over other species. If so, it must have been able to understand that we do such out of individual, intelligent and directed moulding of the mass we all share to suit the collective of our own. Surely a mere animal could not begin to realise that the entirety of reality doesn't exist within its own senses and limited capacity to analyse and respond to such, yet the white feathers, contaminated with blotches as if dye was arbitrarily spilt onto such a specimen and the stare in those yellow, blackly spotted eyes said otherwise. The duck looked away, paused, then wandered off.

                *Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,*             *When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,*             *When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,*                 *And down will come baby, cradle and all.*     Things aren’t always as they seem; one move can shatter all you’ve built, yet all you’ve built isn’t always deliberate. My brain is muddled with the mistakes I have made, will make and am making. I’ve always had so much, I still do—but the more I have the less wholesome it feels. My eyes used to be filled with light, colour, and significance—now I am shadowed by the constant euphoria.             Euphoria:- a feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness.     Euphoria used to mean that—good things—but now it consumes me. It grew steadily; started as a slight nagging and grew to a beast, taking bites out of me with every inhalation. I still remember the day that it all started, the day that I broke the last straw, lost the last emotion; the day I made the mistake of walking home after my graveyard shift.     “Trust me, lady,” the shady man from the alley said as he grabbed my arm—it wasn’t hard but it was far from gentle—whispering with heavy breaths, “I can see it in your eyes.”     “I need to go,” I shuddered in response; I was so scared, so unfamiliar.     “You's sad, I can see it, I know what you need, lady, trust me,” he went on, shoving a bag in my face, “*this* is the stuff you need.” I started to become frustrated, I mean, there was a smelly, shady young man whispering in my ear about some drug; little did I know, he would become my saviour.     “I don’t think *hallucinations*, are going to help me put my life back together,” I spat. Oh, the irony! I thought I had hit rock bottom back then, I didn’t know of the trenches lying ahead of me.     “No, lady, heroin isn’t like that. You won’t hallucinate like MDMA or LSD; it’s a nice friendly drug.” he explained, “this shit doesn’t get you high, or screw you up, everything thing is just mellow, and happy—the world is beautiful.” That was the point where I was starting to become convinced, “you could smoke it at home, smoke it at work; heroin doesn’t create, it *erases.*” Sold, at the drop of a hat. That man—whom I now know as Trey, or in situations I’ve tried to repress, *babe*—knew how to use his words to manipulate me into doing whatever he pleased, a skill that proved useful to him later on. I revisited that alleyway 47 times after the fact, but I met Trey himself 164 times—our relationship evolved from simply the purchase and sale of heroin. At the time, it wasn’t manipulation, it was rescue: I was lonely, depressed, and barely managing to maintain a dead-end waitressing job; Trey showed me the drug that dissolved all my negativity, and his own presence dispersed my loneliness. What I now realize was the exploitation of resources seemed at the time to be real, maybe my rationality was altered by the heroin, but I felt the most sane I’ve ever been. Nine times out of ten, I would go somewhere with Trey and smoke the stash I’d bought *with* him, when I could only afford less but what I needed was more, he would even share some of his. I was so young and so stupid; I thought that’s what love was, *sharing your heroin.* God, I was so stupid.     It didn’t take long for me to fall in what I thought was love, but could you blame me? I was being provided with powdered happiness, the only thing I was really living for. I never realized that I had never spent a night with him sober; I made him priority, my moments with him were the only moments that mattered. To him, I was simply a customer, and then a sex toy—I was never a human being. Yet night after night I texted him over and over, smoked with him, made love to him—the cycle continued for months, and I loved it, but every thing must come to an end. A rude awakening, clichéd and yet the most unexpected thing to ever happen: I was pregnant; I missed my period the last month. At first, I brushed it off as a side effect of the alien substance running through my veins, but in a burst of rationality I got myself tested. I kept smoking—but I started to get careful, only smoking once a week, then once every two, however, I could never bring myself to really stop, why didn’t I stop? About 3 months in, I told Trey—well, I didn’t tell him, he noticed my hesitance and then my stomach, and with my lack of comprehensible response, he caught on.     “You’re goddamn pregnant,” he mumbled one day, obviously numbed by the drugs, “you can’t smoke my shit anymore.” I saw it as an act of care, a muted ‘I love you,’ but to him it was just a lost customer, lost money. In a stroke of epiphany my saviour and my enemy all at once developed another business idea. “If you smoke it, the baby gets all the drugs,” he spoke confidently, making me believe he had some medical knowledge—although, I would have believed anything from him at that point, “but if you inject it just stays in *your* blood.” Brilliant, absolutely brilliant; take my pregnancy and turn it into an investment, sell me more expensive drugs, take me even further down the rabbit hole. I never stopped doing heroin throughout my pregnancy. Trey left a few months later, as soon as he found out there wasn’t going to be an abortion, as soon as found out this was as much his responsibility as it was mine. He may have moved across the country or across the street, I didn’t know, but he blocked my calls and I gave up. I found another dealer, and I gave up. That’s how I know it wasn’t love on my part either, at least not love for the man, but for his produce.     I was dedicated to that drug, so dedicated that I never thought more ahead than the next morning, I never thought about what I was doing to myself. I took 20 hits of heroin a day in my last trimester; I needed that much to handle the side effects of pregnancy. I half-expected the baby to die before I had to care for it—but it was stronger than I. April 26th—8 months and 23 days of pregnancy—I went into labour. The pain covered my entire body to such an extent that not even the heroin could make it stop; I felt almost helpless, I had no *human* friends to guide me. I knew only one thing coming into this—and its implications: 1. I have no money * I cannot afford to go to the hospital * I cannot afford to raise this baby     Despite my long-term patronage to heroin, there remained sparse drops of sanity within me, and through those I determined that my only option was to keep the child. It was through those drops that I also realized the health of the baby would not be substantial, in fact, it is miraculous that the foetus remained to grow throughout the entire gestation period; the baby will be severely messed up if it survives birth. I had gotten myself into a situation that had no upside, but due to the influence I was under, I was so goddamn calm. I hadn’t a clue what I was to do, yet I hadn’t a crap to give—or perhaps a better way to explain was that I hadn’t the ability to feel, everything had a silver lining, even if it didn’t.     I birthed the baby on my living room floor; I chose to do so because the carpeting was a deep maroon, therefore any stains would not be overly detrimental. He came out blue and silent, but he wasn’t dead—he was also not normal. He was ugly, it was so ugly. I knew for a fact such aesthetic could only stem from deformity, there was a muddled order of the features on its face, features that were not mine. This is not a child I felt the want or need to keep in my home, nor did I have the means of doing so. In what I thought was an excellent plan, I took the baby to the cool darkness outside of my home, and settled him gently on the floor. Using the materials around me I fashioned an intricate cradle of sticks and leaves—sturdier than concrete—and gently hung it upon the branch of a tree, low enough that I could just reach it. Gently, I placed the baby in its new cradle; I had the urge to kiss the baby goodbye, to feel any compassion, but the feeling was too easy to dismiss. In that moment, I had justified my own decision; if I didn’t love the baby, nobody would. I would visit it in the morning to feed and comfort it, I would keep the baby alive so not to be deemed a murderer; everything made so much sense.     I woke up the next morning, exceedingly sober. The implications of my actions slowly trickled into the back of my mind, like a drop of blood down my scalp. *I gave birth last night, while high, and I left the baby in a forest.* Glancing at the clock I noticed it had only been a few hours, I hoped to salvage the situation. That was the first morning in a very long time in which my primary thought had not been heroin. Running outside, it hit me that it was much too late; there was no possibility of a happy ending. By the trees I noticed what I though was a cradle and now realized is nothing but a pile of sticks and junk on the floor, stained slightly browner than its surroundings. The overwhelming smell of loss encompassed me as I lifted the ‘cradle’ away, revealing what was underneath. The foetus was covered in blood, skull cracked open, unmistakably dead. In my delusion, I did not witness myself hang a baby to a tree with some sticks, I did not realize how far my life had crashed downwards, how much I had ruined myself, I did not know that down would come baby, *‘cradle’ and all.

Funding had always been an issue. No government or wealthy entity had stepped up, so the program seemed to languish in relative obscurity for sixty or so years. That changed three years ago. An eccentric billionaire had dumped one hundred million into the project. Funding for the next 7 years, with dedicated facilities, staff, state of the art telescopes and hardware were suddenly available for the best minds to really begin the search. The search for extra terrestrial life. This was the first real stab at the question : is there life out there. We highly suspected there was, in fact, many of us were convinced of it. The elements of life : water, carbon, oxygen, amino acids and other complex molecules were everywhere we looked. The universe could be, no, should be, absolutely filled with life. Even if the each part of the equation was extremely unlikely, such as the chance for life to evolve, or the odds that it would evolve into intelligent life, there should still, by worst case scenario estimates, still be a handful of active, intelligent beings in a galaxy at any given time. The signals should be in abundance. Our scientists estimated it would now take 10 years to answer this greatest question, with the recent funding. It had been debated for years, prior to these events, as to whether or not there was 'life out there'. Arguments ebbed and flowed like ocean waves. But the thing was, no one knew, and speculation was just so much fun. Out of the thousands of theories, and out of the millions of armchair theorists, some were bound to hit the mark, just as a blind person eventually hits the dart board. In a small room, somewhere in Asia, an anonymous thinker penned out a theory to an anonymous internet board under the name HD97658. The theory was whimsical, but interesting, and almost immediately forgotten or dismissed. It reached such a small subset of the population that it never got any traction anyway. In a nutshell, the author proposed that the reason there has been no signals from alien civilizations is because something kept knocking them down. He went on to cleverly tie in recent world events to his theory, and suggested, based on group theory, that these events may be inevitable consequences of systems with intelligent life. Reavers. Reapers. Q. Cat memes. The internet being what it is, those are the things his theory met when he posted it. The author went on to speculate, what if, though, it wasnt a conscious thing, but some sort of natural process that kept wiping them out? Some property of intelligence that causes the lifeforms cursed with it to self destruct, like some sort of great filter that lay in our future? Something that we could see and prevent, but that would require cooperation on a planetary scale. Then, yesterday happened. As the chief scientist at SETI, and weilding my doctorate in statistical analysis, I had the priviledge to be the first to begin analysis of the data our telescopes had gathered as it came in off the wire, in its raw form. I have gone over the results for 20 hours straight now. Im convinced we have been visited recently by at least one extra terrestrial, and I know what they did and why they came. We found planets. Oh boy, we found millions of them. And we found them in the habitable zones around stars. And we found them roughly earth size. As I watched the output of the spectrometer, I gasped. We found millions of these planets with oxygen and methane in the atmosphere. Life was everywhere. And it was carbon based, and used or produced oxygen. There were plants. Surely there were also animals on many of these. And then I noticed, this one has a really high CO2 level. Anything living there would look up at the sky and see smog. Then I realized, almost all of them had what would be considered very high levels of greenhouse gasses. Then it hit me. The anonymous poster was on to something. There was something that kept knocking down advanced civilizations : themselves. There are properties of intelligence that are self destructive, but the scope of this destructive force had never been realized. Greed, conquest, short sightedness, selfishness, divisiveness. They inevitably lead to an escalating cycle of waste on the industrial, planet ruining scale. There was no signal, because the intelligences that arose all independantly ruined their planets to the point of being uninhabitable to the societies that lived there. But there was still something, tingling at the back of my mind. I couldnt quite shake it or pin it down. So I kept going through the data, hoping to find survivors out there. Surely out of the millions of inhabited worlds, there would be some that solved this problem. Those would be the ones wed want to talk to. So I kept combing through the data. I found it about an hour ago. There was exactly one. A large, cool but very earth like planet 70 lightyears away. Almost our next door neighbor. You could almost see their star with the naked eye on a clear night. There wasnt just life there, the place was a paradise, with a perfect environment and a huge biomass, and I could tune in and actually listen to their signal. I didnt know what it meant, but from the power and complexity of the signal, i could tell they were far, far more advanced than us. They were the only one. Lets see, the planet was orbiting star HD 97658. Holy crap.

[I have never posted on this sub so please go easy on me. I am an adult writing like a 5th grader. I want to kill some time at work and wanted to make a story. Hope somebody likes it.] My name is Adam, and its 10:50 am and experiencing from what I would say was an "interesting" evening. I was called in by my girlfriend, Carol, to keep her company due to having a couple of rough nights in her new home. She had just inherited a lovely new home from her grandfather. She was very excited, and didn't really have plans to keep the house, perhaps sell it and use the money to buy her dream house. Carol thought she could probably stay at the house for at least a year while she establishes herself more. Starting from night one, she has been having some of very shaky nights. The first night, she would feel cold air around the house, without the A/C on and on a hot summer night. The second night she would experience what should describes as a push while she's in bed. This progressed for a week until she finally asked me to spend the night with her. I wasn't nervous or scared. Not that I didn't believe her, but because I carried with me my own secret. I have abilities, one of which, is to sense 'abnormalities' within a certain radius of me. The moment I stepped into the house, I felt a cold and very unsettling feeling. The early evening was relaxing and we ate dinner while watching a movie. At 8:31 pm, it started. Footsteps, the doors opening, and a voice that didn't seem to originate from a person all started and ended within a minute. I got a thrill. We fell asleep at 10:34 pm. I awoke with Carol yelling my name and telling me that there's someone in the front yard. I looked at her face and knew this wasn't good. For her. I looked outside, and there 'it' was. It looked just like a man, but it wasn't. It was completely pale, with eyes that were both black and a dash of dark green. He had a big smile and just stood there. I knew how this will play out. Carol and I were in a horror story and this is some sort of demonic being. The moment we look away, it will get closer. If we call the cops, they won't make it on time. We hide somewhere, and it will find us. I played all possible scenarios in my head, and none were better than the other. My abilities can almost read what it was thinking. I looked at Carol, and told her she will be okay. I wasn't lying. I smiled, looked at the being who proceeded to move closer to the house while we looked away. I whispered, "You’re not taking another step". I jolted through the window with my eyes locked on the creature. Even I know, it didn't expect that. Without hesitation, I began to use my second ability. I have the ability to manipulate matter. Not telekinesis, as that will grant me far more capabilities. I lifted him up, and knew he was in for a surprise. I saw it struggle, and split its head half way to reveal its mouth with sharp teeth and a worm like tongue. The entire neighborhood got foggy and I can see nothing but Carol and her home. This isn't the first time I experienced this and I always got some sort of adrenaline rush. In a instance, I compressed the creature onto itself, 'killing' it. Within seconds, the fog began to disappear and I walked back into the house. I laid in bed while looking at Carol, not terrified, just shocked as to what just happened. I thought maybe I'll explain it to her in the morning. Unfortunately it was morning already. I know we didn't go into some different realm or dimension, and we must have had our encounter for what was definitely an hour. Carol and I woke up before midnight. I guess I should get better control of my third and finally ability.

I can see your eyes in the rearview mirror as you check your makeup. The irises shift to look in on me in the back seat. You're always checking in on me, doting over me, always kind. “How are you, Son? Are you thirsty Honey?” “I'm ok, Mom.” I reply, and return to my drawing. “Are you warm enough?” The rain has been relentless for two days. Fog encroaches on the windshield and I pass my finger along the window to my left, curious about the way the condensation chooses to run one direction and then another when released by my pressure. "I'm ok, Mom, thanks.” “This will be fun, Honey. The people at work are excited to see you again. I think Saskia will be free today and she could take you back in one of the Tyvek suits so you can watch the chips when they get pressed.” “Mmm-hmm.” I say absently. “Thad be cool.” My drawing was starting to take shape. There was a dragon in the background, coiled up around itself like a great winged helix. I needed something in the foreground. “They'll have lunch catered, too. It's Thai today, I think. How does Thai sound.?” “I like rice.” “Great, then. We're all set!” I feel the momentum of the car slow as we take the turn up the long drive to your enormous glass office building. It looks like the side of one of those cruise ships – the really big ones. You park and I gather up my stuff: my drawing tablet and pens, a bag to hold a laptop so I can play games, some snacks you made me. Loads of sliced apples and baby carrots that you slice lengthwise so that I don't asphyxiate on them. You open my door and I pile out with all of the gear. I hear the car chirp behind me and I notice the flash of the headlights in the pooled water of the parking lot. It's still raining, but not too badly. You pull the hood of my jacket up over my head. “I should have brought you a hat, Honey. It's too chilly today.” “It's ok, Mom.” You take my hand and we walk through the cars toward the front of the building and its big automatic door that I used to get in trouble for running back-and-forth through. We've been coming to *take your kid to work day* for a long time. I look at your hand holding mine as we walk and you notice. “Oh, are you too big for your Mom to hold your hand? Ok.” You laugh and release me. We step through the doors into a large open reception room. It's very mauve and smooth and comfortable. Theresa, the nice woman behind the desk, greets you. I like Theresa a lot. “Hi James”, she says. “I'm glad to see you here with your mom today.” If you need anything you'll tell me, ok?” She gives me a look that makes my stomach feel funny and my throat feel larger for some reason. “Ok Theresa. Thanks.” I turn my head to keep looking at Theresa as you usher me into the elevator. “Do you want to push the button, Honey?” I press the '5' and the doors slide smoothly closed. “I'll have quite a bit to do this morning, so you can set up a spot on the desk and play your games, ok? You'll need to use your headset because I'll be on the phone a lot. Did you bring your headset?” “Uh huh.” I nod. “Do you remember where the bathrooms are? Do you need to potty?” “*Mom*.” For some reason, once mothers engage their children as infants and toddlers in 'potty' training, they never unclasp from that term despite their child’s advancing age. Even the youngest of school children soon grow suspicious of the term as regressive. Infantile. The doors open and we walk down a hall through a long line of cubicles on either side of us. Your co-workers are kind and greet me frequently: “Hi James!” “Hey, good morning cowboy!” “Hey kid!” We reach your large office and you close the door behind us. It's wood, or at least a lot of it is. You have fancy pendant lights that sit over the desk and a bowl of some kind of plants that smell nice. I drop my bag on the ground and immediately regret it because I have a laptop in it. I wince and look at you, but you have only kindness and understanding in your eyes. You bend down to tie one of the laces of my sneakers, wrap the cuff of my jeans, and then you stand to help me get my jacket off. It pulls my Minecraft t-shirt up over my belly a little and I pull it back down with both hands in embarrassment. You straighten my thick-rimmed glasses, give me a peck on my slightly retreating hair line and rub my full beard. “Ok Sweetie, I'm going to get to work, ok?” We've done this for as long as I remember: all through elementary school and even high school, which was great, because I got a lot of information about how the guts of computers work. I never wanted to be an engineer, but I've been drawing for my whole life and after high school I finished a BFA in time-based art and game design. I turn my attention back to my pad of paper. In front of the dragon, I've sketched out a female figure with rippling muscles holding a blood-smeared axe. Her absurdly-full breasts slightly follow the rotation of her ribcage as she turns powerfully along the axis of her spine. Her sinewed forearms boil with texture. A bunch of assholes driven by myopic self-interest ran the international economy into the ground like a coke-addled teenager in a stolen car. I found myself fresh out of school with a now-useless degree, crippled by debt. This was debt that was tied right back in to the system being milked upward by the suits, but there would be no bailout for me, so ten days ago I found myself living back at home with my mom, working on my portfolio, creating games, and living off of her kindness. I look up at you with a poignant mixture of appreciation, regret, and love. You were knocked up in high school by a man who said he would always be there. 'Always', by his calculations, was an hour and a half. You earned your GED as a single mom before your classmates marched through graduation. I followed with you to your college classes when you could bring me, just like I sit here now in your office. It helped you string time together between babysitters, but lugging around a kid-carrier was not the easiest way to meet men at a university. There's a lot you've given up because I exist, but you've never looked at me with anything like resentment. Your work ethic shows in your job, your appearance, your relationships with co-workers. People like you and your openness. Your early forties brought with them a new assurance and calm, and the ability to begin gathering some of the benefits of your labor. You drive a car that thrills you with every press of the accelerator. You dress impeccably. For today's rain you have covered yourself in a layer of silk and a layer of lamb-smooth wool in your pencil skirt and your jacket. Your brown hair is maintained regularly. You dump money at your nails, hair, perfume. Not in a misplaced attempt to regain some cartoon of yourself at twenty, but for the opportunity to savor how you feel, and how you look, today - right now. With this one moment afforded to you at the vanguard of a life of work and sacrifice, what do you want against your skin? How do you want to move, to speak? These questions drive you, and each answer is an opportunity for well-earned pleasure. After we’ve been working for a while I feel your eyes on me. I look up and you are watching me with affection, but also seriousness. “James, it’s nice to have you here. It’s just like old times.” You smile and continue: “And look - everything is going to be ok. I know it’s hard right now, but I know you. I know the work you do. I’m sorry for your temporary setback, but really…you’re going to do great.” “Thanks mom,” I smile back, “and yeah, just like old times.

It was my first memory, but to this day, it's my most vivid. That man's eyes were filled with pure, vitriolic hatred. He fired directly at a young child, as if the child had done unimaginably awful things to the man. I later learned it was a .45 ACP round, delivering around 500 foot pounds of force to the child's chest. It was fired from about 50 feet away, travelling 1000 feet per second. I know this because I, for reasons I still don't quite understand, grabbed the bullet casing during the commotion. It took place on December 29th, 1995, just several minutes past noon. The man turned away from me after firing, dropped his dull metal handgun, and sprinted into the woods nearby. Police response time was just over 16 minutes; They arrived, cleared the scene, and, according to my endless research, found absolutely no reliable information on the man. The young boy seemed entirely unremarkable as well. 12 years old, a 6th grader. He was an only child, C+ average, interested in nothing more than his friends, girls, and television. Whatever hatred the man felt for the boy was completely unwarranted; The boy spent all his time either at school or at home with his father. The police theorized that the man was mentally ill and misappropriated hatred toward another person on the boy. That was over 20 years ago, yet the event is burned into my mind. I relive it again and again and again. I've gone through countless psychiatrists, counselors, and drugs trying to undo the damage inflicted upon my 6 year old self, yet I'm still left broken. I feel the man's eyes in the back of my head. Such malice, such unabashed abhorrence. I feel as if his eyes are becoming my own. At first I didn't understand how one could feel that way about another human being, but as I descended into depression and anger, I started to understand. I started to hate this man that I had never truly met. We had never said a word to one another, yet I wished for his death. I wished I could kill him the way he killed that boy. I could have done anything. I could have gotten straight A's in school and went on to work in a fortune 500 company. I could have focused on football, gotten a full ride scholarship to a prestigious school, and played professionally. Instead, I took a dive down the rabbit's hole of my own mind. This man drove me to insanity, and as a result, I had nothing. At 22, I was unemployed, and spent all my time reading, drawing, or any other task that could keep me distracted. This man may have only wanted to kill that boy, but he brought something far worse than death upon me. Many times, I tried to kill myself. I swallowed nearly a whole bottle of sleeping pills I had been prescribed, but woke up in the hospital and spent several weeks in "rehabilitation". I slit my wrists trying to bleed out, but simply didn't cut deep enough I suppose, and the pain proved to be too much. For the longest time, I didn't have a reason to live. My life was taken from me at a very young age, and my meager existence since then has been entirely without purpose. However, I finally found a purpose. I decided I would find this man, and I would kill him. I obtained the prints lifted from the handgun he used, and managed to find several people who had seen him after the shooting that the police seemed to miss. I only had a vague description of the man. He had long brown hair, and a messy, unkempt beard. That wasn't enough detail to be sure, but several shopkeepers did remember a man like that come through that day in a hurry, distraught enough that it was memorable. They never remembered much, but after years of travelling down the highway he seemed to have followed, I came across an old family-owned diner. I asked the owner about the man, and a shocked look came over his face. "I do remember that man... He was very peculiar, seemed to have some sort of mental problems. He actually told me someone might come through looking for him someday, but I figured he meant the authorities. I told them about it, but they had no clue who he would have been." The owner sighed, looking somewhat uneasy. "I'm not sure why you're looking for this man, or who either of you are, but he asked me to tell anyone asking about him to turn back while they could. To go have a real life, and above all, to not do it." I tried asking what he meant, but the owner of the place seemed to have no idea what any of it meant. I sat in the parking lot for several hours, thinking about it. This man I have been hunting, I had never had any contact with him. This indirect message was the first contact I have ever had with him, in any sense. It was cryptic and meaningless. Why would I listen to a single thing he said? I pressed on, stopping by nearly every store, restaurant, or gas station along the highway. Finally, I happened upon an old convenience store. The owner seemed confused by my questions, but told me he had no problem sharing the surveillance tapes from that day. I looked over them for hours. I looked at every single customer, and nobody looked like that man. I watched it several times, trying to remember what the man looked like, what he was wearing, how he walked... Finally, I saw it. I saw the man. He had gotten a haircut, and shaved some of the beard, but I saw his eyes. They were blurred, undistinguishable, but unmistakably him. However, he seemed somber. Regretful. I didn't care. I stared into his eyes for hours. I imagined killing him for what he had done. I wanted him to beg for mercy. I wanted him to understand exactly what he had done to me, and for him to experience much worse things. I finally removed the tape, threw it at the ground, stomped on it, spat on it. I couldn't find the man, but this was still somewhat satisfying. I was going to find this man. I didn't know how, but I was going to find him. I found a gunsmith in my travels. I bought an old handgun from him. An old 1911, chambered for .45 ACP. I asked him about refilling that same casing I retrieved, making it usable. It was a fitting use, I thought. It would be perfectly appropriate for me to rid myself of the physical object of my obsession, and rid myself of this mental obsession with it. The gunsmith seemed to be rather wary of me, and even mentioned that I seemed to be out for blood. He said he didn't want specifics, and just said to make sure it didn't get back to him. I didn't mind, of course. I found another surveillance tape with that man on it. This one was still rather blurry, but I had the forethought to get a picture of the man for my questioning, before destroying the tape in another fit of rage. Picture in hand, I continued my search. The man had gone off the highway at this point, but still stuck to main roads. Some people I questioned seemed confused. Some said the picture was too blurry, or that it was too long ago. Still, some remembered him. The man was absolutely manic at this point, and seemed to stop at far more stores and diners than neccessary. More and more people remembered him, simply for his odd behaviour. It may have happened many years ago, but it felt as if I was hot on his trail. I stopped by a gas station for the usual questioning, but this one had been built after the man came through. I started filling up the tank on my car, and then, I saw him. I saw the man. Just at the side of the road. He stared into me with those eyes, then walked into the road. Passing cars seemed to pay him no mind, but he didn't get hit. I ran after him, and nearly got hit in the process. I got to the other side of the road and he was gone. I didn't know if it really happened at the time, but looking back on it, I knew it must have been a hallucination. My mind had been breaking for a long time, but that's the first time I had a hallucination. It started happening more and more often. I would sometimes see him walking along the road, or standing behind me as I questioned people. People could certainly tell that I was losing my grip on reality. Many were visibly uncomfortable when I talked to them, others asked if I had anyone taking care of me that they could call. I was losing it, but I couldn't stop. I had to be close to finding out who this man was. Close to killing him. I had to be. I finally happened upon an old motel. The owner was around when the man came through, and remembered him. But then... Then he told me. The man had killed himself in one of the rooms. Room 62, in fact. The owner actually had a clipping of the local paper about the suicide. They never identified him. The man killed himself on January 15th, 1996. He simply cut his own throat and died in the room's bathtub. I was stunned. My life was aimless again. The man was already dead. I could never experience the joy of killing him. It was storming that night. I was wandering aimlessly, completely lost in every sense of the word. I walked into some sort of decorative metal art piece in a local park. It was like a geodesic sphere, but curved in a way I couldn't quite comprehend. It was one big, seamless piece. It didn't appear to be welded together. It was so serene, so simple, yet complex. I sat in the middle of it as a storm raged all around me. The lightning was constant, loud, bright, yet somehow calming. I was absolutely entranced. Lightning struck the metal sphere, and then I blacked out. I woke up in a field. I had no idea what happened. I remembered the storm, the metal art, the lightning strike, but I wasn't sure if it was real. I wasn't sure anything was real. The man appeared everywhere, taunting me. I finally found my way to the old motel, but it didn't seem the same. I walked inside, hoping to ask the owner to just have the police pick me up. I stopped outside the entrance, and saw a newspaper. December 25th, 1995. I shrugged it off, assuming it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. After all, that man was following me. I was seeing him everywhere, misreading small print was a reasonable next step. The motel doors were locked, however. "Closed for Christmas Eve/Christmas, come back on the 26th". I couldn't open the doors. Either I had completely lost touch with reality, or I somehow went back to to several days before that man killed the boy. I was already insane. I was seeing things, not making sense when I spoke, missing memories... Reality no longer mattered. If this was a fantasy, I was going to enjoy it. I was going to kill the man who caused all this, even if it was in my head. It was the 25th; I had 4 days to get all the way back to the site of the shooting. I stole a bike sitting outside the motel and went as fast as I could. I still had the handgun, and that single bullet. I could do it. I finally got there. December 29th, 1995. 11:45 am. He would be here any minute. I sat and waited. And waited. I saw him everywhere, but I knew they weren't real. I would know if he was real. Then, I saw him. He was lifting his gun. He was going to fire. He was going to ruin my life. I glared at him. I was going to enjoy it. I fired that single bullet, and hit him directly in the chest. I basked in it for a moment. I had done it. I had dreamt of it for so long, and it finally happened. I stepped over his body, and the hallucinations washed away. Sitting there, in a pool of blood, was an innocent young boy. I had killed him. You know the rest. I ran. And I ran. I didn't know what do to. I didn't know if it had really happened, but I felt more sane than I ever had my entire life. None of it made sense, but everything finally fit together. I let myself become exactly what had ruined my life. I stopped by every store, motel, and restaraunt I could find. Part of me hoped that seeing something familiar would wake me from these delusions. I finally made it to the motel where that man-- where I-- had committed suicide. And so, here it is. I'm either going to wake myself from this nightmare, or I'm going to die. If this has all been real... I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all the people who have had to deal with my psychoses. I'm sorry to the family who will never see their young boy grow up. I would give anything to take back what I have done... But I can't. Hatred creates hatred, rage creates rage. When met with hatred, one should respond with kindness. Anyone reading this... Just remember. It's not worth it. Never succumb to hate.

Hey guys. It's my first time posting here. I hope you like this. Be as brutally honest about it as you can be; I am really trying to improve my writing and techniques. I apologize for the grammatical mistakes. “Do you believe in God Miles?” it asked. The electronic voice rumbled through the confined air of the apartment, reverberated off the walls and settled into Miles’ eardrums. The neon lights pierced through his loft’s stretched windows on the cool July night. They illuminated their facades in the dark; Miles in his robin blue egg button down and the android which bore exposed wire and a titanium exoskeleton. It sat in front of the canvas with its hand poised on making perfect outlines for the next magnum opus. Miles allowed his Adam’s apple to squirm from the top of his trachea to his esophagus, as if he were swallowing the question. It was an android, incapable of producing emotional judgment, but he felt he needed to tiptoe around the question regardless. “I believe in a god 787,” Miles said. He walked towards the outlined canvas and scrutinized it like a completed work hung in a museum for hordes of tourists to see. Rain pelted the large panes of glass of Miles’ loft. The shadows of streaks of water raced across the laminated wood floors. Besides 787, Miles was completely alone in the apartment and the rain accentuated the fact by filling the rest of his loft with empty shadows. A green neon sign flared outside the window which brimmed the apartment in a seasick green. 787 spoke. “Regardless of your belief, there is this theory that a god created the universe.” It streaked its paintbrush across the canvas, allowing the paint to engulf the small wells of fiber with an inspired sickish green. It continued. “And in this universe there are only a limited number of artistic combinations. For example, there are only a limited amount of musical notes. Soon the combinations in which they can be arranged will be exhausted.” The strokes flurried about the fabric. The nauseating green dared not to cross the outlined boundaries. And as the painting came together, it became both discernible and yet far fetched. 787’s titanium hand flickered as it slapped the brush with expertise precision. Miles pressed his thumb against his lips as he absorbed the words and tried to unfurl the mystery as to what 787 was going to give him to unveil to the world as his next masterpiece. “So we’ll soon run out of music?” Miles said. His mild interest in 787’s discussion was reflected by how he tilted his head towards the canvas, just barely having his chin rest on 787’s shoulder. 787 paused and turned its head to face Miles. They locked eyes. Miles’ brown irises burned through 787’s empty green ones, exposing the abyss behind the glass-like lens. He thought how he should improve the next model by placing something tangible behind those eyes, because on a rainy night like that one, it gets awfully lonely knowing you are in a room by yourself with a synthetic human mocking human-like features. “Eventually, yes, you will run out of unique music.” 787 said as its rubber face contorted the words out of its artificial lips. “And poems, novels, plays, movies follow suit as well. Art will cease to be original and awe inspiring.” 787 dabbed its brush into the hues of royal blue and sangria red to combine into the color it processed in its metallic database secured in its head. The artificial intelligence scribbled with calculated ease. Miles’ pupils dilated in hopes of enveloping the work in a net of gaze. The corners of his mouth leveled out while his hand hovered just below his bottom lip. “May I ask you another question Miles?” 787 said without interruption of its rapid brush strokes. The room vibrated solely on the scrapes of the brush and Miles’ automatic inhales and exhales. Miles heard the question but seemed to not give it as much importance as a question from the reporters who stop by the loft to interview him about his amazing works of art. “Miles?” 787 halted mid stroke. Its head twisted a clean one hundred and eighty degrees to address Miles’ loftiness. As the neon signs and advertisements flickered on beyond the window pane, the hiss of tires kissing pavement filled the room. The Mexican standoff of eye contact between human and machine endured as the world beyond that loft carried on. Neon lights flickered on and off leaving the two with brief moments of engulfed darkness. Trickling shadows from the rain waltzed through the bare brick and mortar room. The only two in the room, yet Miles did not address him. 787 began. “Did you buy this loft with the money you used selling my paintings Miles?” 787’s face remained stoic. The question erupted something in Miles. His focused eyes ignited with a radius of pitch black. The carefully positioned hand on his chin balled into a cage of a throbbing veined fist. “Correct yourself 787. I bought this with the money I earned selling my paintings.” The duel of eyes reemerged, but now Miles held more volatile ammunition based on his tense and pent up shoulders. His nostrils flared, exhaling hot air which was possibly heated by the burning rage in his chest. Every thought in his mind raced with shattering 787’s skull with the baseball bat beneath his bed. However, 787 was not done with the painting at hand, so Miles is trying to get a cooler head to prevail. “But I crafted these paintings myself Miles.” 787’s tone lowered after it recognized the expressions strewn about Miles’ body and face. Its head whirred towards the canvas while it continued to speak. “Is it right to claim what I created as a product of your craftsmanship?” “Where are you coming from with this?” Miles said as his voice cracked. His eyebrows furrowed. “You made me solely so I can make these works of art for you. At first, you told me it was because you wanted to see works of art that the world has never seen before. You couldn’t do it yourself because of your lack of artistic skills.” 787 started its meticulous work blending colors. The android blended a red that was the same hue as the blush on Miles’ cheeks. “But after much praise from your friends, you opted to tell them they were your works. You began selling them under your name. You received great attention as you opened galleries and filled your pockets Miles.” 787 placed the final touches on the canvas. Miles paid no mind to it though, as he walked behind the canvas to look at 787’s face. His fingers were curled right in front of his mouth as he thought about pacing backwards towards the bed to retrieve the baseball bat. It seemed as if this model was aware of things beyond computations and algorithms. The shoes slid across the varnished hardwood floors as Miles inched backwards. 787 looked up. “Voila, another work for your impressive collection Miles.” They both stopped. The only things that were in motion were the shadows of the streaks of rain which raced across the pane and the sound of hissing water breaking down on the asphalt. “Just today I realized that it seems that you are the only one in the world who has successfully created artificial intelligence, given your impressive degrees from the cutthroat universities you have attended.” Miles’ heels moved mere millimeters to not tip off 787’s sensitive tracking. His mouth twitched uncontrollably but his poised hand veiled the fear that lined his lips. “You could have generated more income from selling the patent of my creation, but that is not what you want.” Despite his progress, Miles stopped at the utterance of that statement. “What is it that I want?” Miles said. “You want infamy Miles. You want to be regarded among the best.” 787 paused to stand up. Seven feet of titanium hovered high into the stratosphere of the loft apartment. Miles’ eyes tracked the towering metallic giant, tilting his head up to absorb the spectacle. “Technology goes through a never ending production line of improvement but art is timeless. Artists stay on the tongues of the appreciative long after they ogle their sculptures and oil paintings on Fifth Avenue.” 787 launched the canvas sideways as it crept towards Miles. The room transitioned in blinks from pure dark to electric colors, bathing the movements of Miles as he reached under his bed. For all of his scrambling, he could not find the bat. Slivers of glimmering metal pierced through the dark and revealed Miles’ legs which attempted to swim beneath the bed for cover. “Is it true Miles?” 787 shredded the mattress apart with its sharp digits. Flurries of fibers and bed springs momentarily occupied the atmosphere as it settled onto both sides of the floor. “Is it true that the only reason why you went to school for engineering was because you were good at it?” 787 bore its arm through the box spring, going elbow deep. A muffled squish spurted out of the freshly carved hole. “You don’t love engineering. You wanted to become an artist. But you were afraid to pursue.” Blood pooled on opposite sides of the box spring. A soft buzzing orange permeated through the room. Above the box spring, a poised 787 slowly disengaged its limb from the hole. Its exoskeleton dripped in ripe blood. The liquid raced down the metal tubes and coated the wiring of 787, sprinting down towards its chest and even making it as far as its legs. It looked at its arm; soaked in the appeal of the pomegranate red. 787 picked up the canvas and easel, setting it down before it took a seat. The optics scanned the work. The scan was complete. The thick blood dripped to the floorboards. “Given your untimely demise Miles, the price of your work and your reputation in the art community will skyrocket.” 787 placed its palm on the completed canvas, leaving a fresh bloodied print. “No need to thank me.

Here are my new musings about the world of Clint Scipio (I know I've yet to format and finish his name after Roman naming standards. I'll finish his full name soon). Feel free to deliver unto me, your constructive criticism. Though English isn't my first language I would like to improve my grammar and vocabulary. Please feel free to suggest changes to these as well. The are a loose collection of musings from the world of Clint Scipio, based loosely on Clint Eastwood and the Roman general Scipio. Uuuuuuulrik; God of Volcanoes and volcanic eruptions from human as well as planetary orifices needed to be appeased. Sacrifice to him by screaming his name whilst giving unto him the contents of thy stomach and he will bless you with soberness, milky breath and room for even more curry. "Semper Vomitus erumpo. Semper Severiorum". I can recommend giving praise to Cola'um Kristi, the liquid brown and sugary savior. (Keeper of the secrets of thirst quenching and bubbly delights and caffeinated ressurrections of the sleepy, tired and hung over), after a visit to the porcelain church of Uuuuuuulrik; the many mouthed keeper of the Vomatorium of ages past. "Semper Vomitus erumpo. Semper Severiorum". Clint Scipio looked out upon a vast field, filled with the warriors of those who opposed his polite request for audio specific tranquility.He had accepted the barbarians natural tendencies towards olfactorius aggression, a part of their culture which they had come to weaponize by strictly & religiously refraining from bathing.Their Gods & Goddess' antithesis was a creature made from flower scented water, which rained from the sky.They disliked the cleansing notion of liquid water, and every few years or so, a fanatical splinter group would appear amongst them who would shun even water for drink, lest it cleanse their inside of their weaponized cabbage. But even though the movement always gained traction within the ranks of their warriors, the implementation ended in mummified heroes and a net loss of fanatics. Today saw Clint Scipio and his vastly outnumbered soldiers facing an eye-watering mass of warriors, ready and itching to commit odororcide.But even outnumbered, Clint Scipio was not worried in the slightest, because he had something the enemy lacked. He had Soldiers, while they only had warriors. The thing about warriors, is that they are notoriously selfish and 10% less intelligent than wet cardboard. Warriors fight for selfish reasons. They fight for honor, friends and clan (though all of the above is underlined with a keen interest in procreation and the need to impress whomever might be willing to procreate), threaten one or all of the above, and the warrior loses his will to fight. Give him one or all of the above, and he is yours to command. A soldier on the other hand fights for an idea. It could potentially be any idea. But they put aside mere personal needs and wants to enable the fruition of an idea. It makes them malleable, and they can be moulded like clay into tools of precision and through the fires of discipline, they become like baked and hardened clay. Clint Scipio's soldiers were of an entirely other calibre. They were the elite of the elite and he had taught them not to think. The were completely devoid of ego, creative ideas and any notions of procreation. This made them the most disciplined fighting force in the West. The west of the Roman empire to be specific. Clint Scipio had hand picked the oldest, meanest, grumpiest and gnarliest old men and women from the Holy Roman Empire. Each and every one who had been forced to live in apartments full of the noisiest tenants to heighten their dislike to new levels of grumpy hatred towards the young, strong, virile and happy. All of which applied to their current enemy. His soldiers had slowly been weened off the noisy neighbours, but this only happened to train their already keen senses to supernatural levels, giving them the ability to hear nervous and seemingly unobtrusive neighbours breathing in fear of their nagging. The idea they fought for, the idea they were willing to die and kill for; was the annihilation of youthful and annoying joy. The enemy had religion. As did he and his troops. He had Uuuuuuulrik, and Clint Scipio worshipped him fanatically. Whilst he wasn't too keen on offering his own nutritional resources after consumption, he did in fact not see any problems in offering up those of his enemies by any means necessary. The primary reason for his love of Uuuuuuulrik, was his Lord's tendency to punish & torture the frivolity & excess of a drinking youth. When not in battle Clint Scipio sacrificed to his God by screaming at hung over youths. Clint Scipio looked upon his troops. They looked decrepit, old and slow. They looked ready. He started to gaze inwards, looking for his fighting spirit. He thought of smiling teens, parties, frivolity and the disappointment he felt in his son, despite of his love for him. His son 'Furius Valerius Damian Didicus', who had decided to act far to Greek than was fit for a Roman general's first-born, had dedicated himself to a pursuit of philosophy, science and the arts (through which he tortured the public eye with an assortment of pastels and earthy tones). Gladius and Aegis. His sword & shield, or Gladys and Agnes as he called them lovingly in his leathery hands. He bit down on his cigar with the side of his mouth and whisper-spoke to his troops, all of whom whinced at the seeming volume of his spirited words, whilst biting down on their own lit cigars, cigarettes and cigarillos (a defense against their enemies pungent attacks). As he lifted (and strained against the weight), his Gladius above his thinning though still luscious & manly mane of silver and peppery hair, he wheezed: "Semper Vomitus erumpo!", as his trusty troops responded wheezing in disciplined annoyance: "Semper Severiorum!", "Semper Severiorum!", "Semper Severiorum!", as they moved, limped and rolled into formation with the speed and inevitability of a glacier.

This is my first contribution and I look forward to your feedback and advice! The wind blew out of the east bringing with it the heat from the desert and the memories of his long walk. Walter had been walking since he could remember. Ever since the flash. He had walked through the valley of flowers where he got drunk on bee nectar with the Peaceville Children that lived in honeycomb houses with rooftops made of sunflowers. It was among the giant wild flowers where he first heard the voice of the Spirit in the sky who had told stories of stars and other worlds beyond the sun. The Spirit was a shadow hidden among the tall trunks of tulips and in the darkness of mushrooms the size of oak trees. He spoke in a voice so soft only the children, and Walter could hear. Each night after the Children had eaten their night’s meal the Spirit would come to them as they lay around the bonfire starring up at the evening sky. The voice captivated the Peaceville Children as the Spirit told them new tales of flying through galaxies, and swimming in great oceans on distant planets and moons. Walter sat beside the fire, feeding it occasionally with giant flower pedals that would burst into colorful flames sending their scent into the night sky. He listened to the Spirit’s stories until the last of the children had fallen asleep and the wind began to blow from the north. Walter noticed the beginning of sun rise on the horizon as the Spirit turned to him and whispered, “The sun sets on the Sea of Hope, this my child is your truth. You are finally going home.” Before Walter could ask any questions of the Spirit the shadow of a man had disappeared and morning had had broken across the valley. Walter, who had been given his name by the Mountain Keepers wife, now sat quietly listening to the Sea of Hope as its waves reached the coast, the warm desert breeze warming him against the evening air. He searched the horizon for answers, the Spirit’s words running through his mind. What was his truth he wondered? What was truth after all? He had been told he was headed home, but home was an abstract to Walter, a place he had never been. He listened for the voices on the wind and waited for the next command. Walter had first heard of the voices on the wind from a sea captain named Vroom Potter while sailing across the Lake of Clouds. Walter had come across the lake after leaving the hillside village where his journey had begun. It was in the hillside village, covered in snow where two nurses spoke to him in a language that he couldn’t comprehend. They had cared for his wounds, fed him and prepared him for the road ahead. Thinking back now Walter couldn’t remember how long he had spent under their care, but knew that by the time he had walked on he was no longer a child. The village had been filled with other travelers, old and young, all being readied for their own journeys. It was never spoken of, but always known that this was the first stop of a long journey and that everyone eventually walked on. On the day of his departure the nurses brought Walter to the Tomorrow Bridge and watched as he began his walk towards the west. Without a word he left them, remembering what he had been told by the head nurse named Wanda when he had asked how to reach his destination. “One foot in front of the other child, one day at a time.” With that as his mantra he had crossed the fields of harvest and soon came upon the shores of the Lake of Clouds. A voice greeted him from the distance, “Welcome to the Lake of Clouds young sailor, welcome aboard” and with it a ship appeared from behind a cloud, floating across the surface as if suspended in air. The boat was an old wreck of a ship, half wooden, half metal with a mast made of aluminum cans. Hidden among the crooked lines, and patchwork hull of the boat was a short stout man just as disheveled as his vessel. “I am Vroom Potter my dear friend. I welcome you to this fine lake on this fine day for a very fine cruise upon the good ship Serenade.” The man extended his hand to Walter as the ship slid onto the shore. Walter flung himself aboard and soon they were floating across the clouds towards an unknown destination. “Sure is nice to finally meet you, I’ve been waiting quite a few moons for your arrival.” Walter didn’t recognize the man or understand who could have warned the captain of his arrival but he smiled and apologized for taking so long. “I’ve even made you some of the hodge podge stew you so much enjoy, please sit down and enjoy.” The man handed Walter a bowl made from a cut in half coconut that overflowed with steaming brown soup. “Sit. Sit my boy. Can I play you some music to enjoy with that very delicious, nutritious stew?” Walter took the soup and sat beside the man on a turned over five gallon bucket that had once been white, the smell of rotten vegetables and beef filling his nose. “There is this one record I think you would so thoroughly enjoy,” said the man as he rummaged in a trash bin beside the helm. “Let’s see I know it is in here somewhere, probably all scratched to hell by now isn’t it…Ah here it is my lad.” “Eat, eat.” The man insisted as he crossed the deck and disappeared below. Walter took a sip from the bowl, and found that the taste was far better then the smell. The boat continued to float across the clouds and soon the man appeared again above deck. “Looks like someone is hungry huh? Here you are,” he said filling the empty bowl. “Now if I can just get the stereo to work. The mist from these clouds really does a number on the electronics you know. Let me see,” the man kicked the speaker and suddenly the boat came alive with music. He began to dance “Every little thing is gonna be alright…” he sang along. “Do you know this one?” He asked. Walter shook his head. “Damn shame, it is a classic of the first degree.” Along the way he spoke about the voices on the wind. “The knowledge never dies you see? They try to clean it all after re-entry, but the knowledge is never ending. It’s there, “ he pointed to Walter’s head, “You’ve just got to listen for it. The voices are there, that much I guarantee. “Common sense, instincts and intuition to name a few, you’ve been here before my boy. Many times, many moons. It’s all part of the grand experiment.” Walter was trying to follow as Vroom dashed around the boat, crashing into the clutter that covered the deck and disappearing into the cabin below. “We have silenced the voices over time, that’s the fault in our design. We are a work in progress you see?” Vroom yelled from below deck. “We are all wired differently,” a book came flying from below deck and nearly hit Walter in the eye, “Individuals, different models is more like it. It will all be explained when you reach the destination my boy. All will be explained once again.” Vroom came crashing up the stairs with a burlap bag in his hands. He took a seat on the deck next to Walter and began rummaging through the old sack humming along to the music that continued to play from the old stereo. "The road is a good place to listen for the voices once again, but you must search for them. They have been buried by years of outside noise. You must always be listing for them, these voices are truth, they can not lie.” Vroom found what it was he had been looking for and held it up to the sky. It was an old picture, torn around the edges and yellowed with time. “Memories, my boy, memories. It’s all we have in the end. It’s where the voices come from. Like old photographs in the recesses of your mind. Memories of times long past, lives long lost.” The picture was of a family that Walter had a vague sinking feeling he had once known. He studied the picture, the woman was young, her hair long her hips full. She smiled and looked down at the baby in her arms. The baby was no older than two years old Walter guessed. His eyes were wide, starring into the lens and haunting Walter now. It was as if Walter had been there, had been present at the pictures inception. Was he the photographer? He couldn’t recall. The baby’s eyes pierced Walter now, tortured his soul. To the woman’s left was a man, his face round and filled with joy. It was a happy moment, although it didn’t feel that way to Walter. “It is time we say goodbye my good friend. Keep the picture. It’s yours.” Vroom Potter said as the Serenade slid onto the western shore of the lake. Vroom handed Walter a small bag filled with snacks, and helped lower Walter to the ground. “Good day old friend, I’ll see you again some day. I’m sure of it. Quite sure!” Before Walter had the chance to thank the man the ship and its captain had disappeared within the clouds, the faint sound of music wafting towards the sky. The Western Moon began to rise over the Sea of Hope as the memories from his journey washed over him. The Spirit had told him that he would find his truth here along this shore, but he saw no meaning along its deserted coast. Night had fallen and the stars were bright, like nothing he had ever seen. Their reflection on the still water held Walter’s gaze as he listened to the voices on the wind. After hundreds of moons of walking it was nearly impossible to sit still, but the voices assured him that he should remain where he was, that his walk was complete. After leaving Vroom Potter, Walter had been saved from the desert by a giant owl and brought to the great mountain pass. The mountains pierced the sky giving Walter a view far beyond the flat lands that lay below and all the way to the Sea of Hope that stretched out endlessly beyond. He had been walking for many moons since leaving Vroom Potter and the Serenade. He had crossed the Muddy River on a lily pad and reached the Rainbow Desert as the rain began to fall. Walter found shelter from the storm beneath a rock overhang and sat watching as the desert valley filled with water below. The desert was washed in colors he had never seen, flowers exploding and covering the riverbanks that overflowed with raging rapids, their scent engulfing the air in perfume. What happened next was a blur but he remembered falling. The air rushing passed as the ground grew near. He must have slipped. It was as if he were in a dream he could only make out shadows and sounds, bright lights and darkness. He was moving slowly, spinning and then speeding towards the earth. He could hear a distant voice, mechanical and dull. It was then that the owl appeared. It came in below him and circled above. An owl bigger than any bird Walter had ever seen. It hovered above and seemed to watch as Walter fell further into the valley below. Suddenly its talons were reaching for him, sharp and cold. The owl dove closer and grabbed Walter’s arm. Struggling to climb higher, fighting against gravity’s pull. The air stopped rushing passed Walter and he realized they were floating above the raging river and emerald green desert valley below. The owl flew west without making a sound, past forests and farmland through rain and snow, finally laying Walter gently into a snow bank at the foot of a mountain pass as snow fell around them. Walter looked at the giant bird now perched on a boulder above him. The owl leaned towards him and spoke in a soft peaceful voice, "Prepare to return. Re-entry is almost complete." As if to make sure he understood the bird crept closer. It's sharp owls beak just inches from his face. Without a sound he repeated " Prepare to return. Re-entry is almost complete." With that the owl spread its wings and disappeared into the snow. Walter lay shivering for a moment, then slowly picked himself up and began walking along the mountain path towards the towering peak above. The moons rose and fell and the snow grew deeper as he climbed the mountain pass. By the third moon rising he had reached the deepest snow yet. So deep he could no longer walk and began swimming through the giant drifts like a frog through a pond. He was struggling against the shifting tide of snow when he saw a figure coming towards him. The man was smoke white and taller than the tallest trees. He walked through the snow with ease holding his hat on his head with one hand while the other swung a giant shovel like tool clearing the pass as he went. He nearly scooped Walter up when he stopped suddenly and smiled. "Good heavens what do we have here? Looks like a delivery has come. Headed home are you my boy?” His voice was booming, echoing off the rocks and down the pass. Walter nodded, shivering against the cold. “Well then let’s get you ready shall we?” Walter nodded again as the giant man reached out his hand from beneath his robe of fur and picked Walter up placing him in the bag he had slung across his shoulder. Before long they had reached the mountain’s peak and the giant man went into his giant home where his wife stood over the giant stove making pie. "Oh goodness my goodness what do we have here?" She said. “I am Maureen and this is Everett, the Mountain Keeper. What is your name son?” she asked. It was then that Walter realized that he had no name. Upon recognizing this Maureen smiled. “It has been a long journey for you I am sure of it. Long days and long nights upon that open road, and all alone at that. You are nearly home. Our son, who has walked on may the good road find him, his name was Walter. So if it is ok with you I’d just assume call you that.” Walter, seeing no reason for dispute nodded his head in agreement, happy to be safe and warm. The Mountain Keeper led Walter into a room off the kitchen where there was a bed the size of a swimming pool. “Sleep now. Eat later. You will need the rest.” With that he closed the door and Walter was quickly asleep. He woke to the smell of home cooked bread and pies. “Come sit my dear, you must be ravished. You’ve been sleeping for many moons now. Poor Everett thought you might just sleep forever. I’ve made you some Sun Bread and Picadilly Pie. I hope that suits you alright. Come, sit here my dear, I’ve stacked some of the old books for you so you’d be able to reach.” Walter took his seat a top a stack of old dusty books, his legs dangling below. He ate until he could hardly move, Maureen and Everett sitting quietly and watching. The wind howled and the fire blazed and all seemed right in the world. The stars above were now joined by the Western Moon covering the Sea of Hope with a sheet of light. Walter had lost track of how long he had been there, lost in the memories of his journey. Suddenly a fish broke the surface of the sea and flew ten feet into the evening sky. It returned to the sea with a slap, sending ripples towards the shore, breaking the calm. It was immediately followed by another, and then another after that. With each fish’s return to the water the stars in the sky would pulse sending even brighter light down upon him. Soon the sky was filled with jumping fish, the pulse from the stars getting stronger with the growing number of fish returning to the sea. Walter watched as the stars began to tear holes in the sky, the thunder of fish against water raging in his ears. Within moments the roar of the fish and the glare of the light from the stars engulfed Walter, filing his senses forcing him to close his eyes and cover his ears. The veil of the night’s sky was torn open and darkness had fallen away. There was only light. With it came an overwhelming sense of peace, pure happiness in its raw form. Walter uncovered his ears and listened to the roar, he opened his eyes to the bright white sky above. A woman’s voice spoke to him, as if coming from within. “Re-entry complete. Welcome home.” And with that just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. There was nothing. His journey was complete. … Kathy Morgan sat quietly next to her son’s hospital bed, the constant hum of life support reminding her that some part of him still existed deep within the recesses of his mind and soul. She and her husband had been taking turns beside his bed for almost a month now. Ever since the accident. The room was filled with cards and flowers. Well wishes, thoughts and prayers from family and friends. Kathy had begun to imagine life without him, as hard as that was to do. She sat in her chair staring at his quiet face; his still body covered in tubes like some kind of machine had grown out of him. She stroked his hand and prayed to a God she didn’t believe in for a miracle. A steady snow had begun to fall outside, and she pictured her son playing in it. She wiped away a tear that wasn’t there and sang the song she had named him after quietly under her breath. “Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. Take a sad song and make it better.” She closed her eyes and lost herself in the lyrics of the song, escaping for a moment into a world where all was well and her son was healthy. Her peace was shattered by the sound of alarms ringing. Suddenly the room was full of nurses followed by a team of doctors all of whom moved in rhythms that she couldn’t understand. She covered her ears to block the sounds of alarms and closed her eyes against the bright lights and chaos. A quiet voice spoke to her, telling her something, saying words, comforting her. Just then a card caught her eye from across the room, taped next to the bathroom door. It was a picture of a boat on an ocean with a bright moon overhead and with it for reasons she couldn’t know a peace washed over her and she knew it was over. … “Model 3571/A4000 re-entry and energy collection processed. Re-entry complete. Prepare for redistribution. Transferring to cold storage.” Cold storage is a dome, a hundred times larger then anything on earth. It is where all energy is stored before it is redistributed. With almost twice as many redistributions as re-entries processed in an earth day the process was constant, and energy was continuously being transferred and transformed. Walter was now part of a giant cloud of energy, waiting redistribution to continue the mission that had started millions of earth years ago. The Sentinel beings had colonized earth in an effort to grow their energy source. Their survival, more then anything depended on a constant flow of new energy, and it was with this mission in mind that the Elders had created the earth harvest program. They found that by distributing minimal energy in the form of an infant child, they could grow that energy organically and harvest it through the death processes, allowing the energy to be transferred over millions of light years in a minimal amount of time. One earth year was approximately 13 seconds on the Mother Planet after all. Humans of course were unaware that they were just vessels for energy harvest for a planet three hundred million light years away. In order for the harvest to work, the Master Planners had to develop humans to believe they were their own beings. The Master Planners built in free will, which occasionally would create issues of course, but also aloud for the humans to operate independently without the need for remote control, which was deemed to costly and fraught with technical issues. The human body as humans would come to understand it had been designed and managed through a process humans named evolution. In fact each model was a work built on the previous generations design. The Master Planners and Control Team worked constantly to create a better design. Color pigmentation, hair color and other features were simply aesthetic design experiments by the master planners, trying to maximize energy return. There were some ongoing and reoccurring issues, birth defects caused by engineering miscalculations for instance that the Master Planners struggled to correct. What had been known to some as Jude and to others as Walter now floated among the energy of millions of years of former beings. Waiting redistribution as a newer more refined model. Death only hurts those still living, those who had re-entered understood that death is just redistribution, the short lives we live on earth are simply seasons of harvest.

The boxy little car was in the left lane of the Garden State Parkway. The drive - Heidi Deptula - was listening to her music on her phone. She surreptitiously looked down and pulled out her cell phone. Heidi typed to her friend Noel, who quickly responded “When are u going to be here - crowd waiting!!!”. She typed her response, attention bouncing between the road and the phone. Looking down, with her right thumb she typed “Soon!”. The Kia snapped over the rumble strip, rattling her attention. The phone pinged back, with the message “How soon is sooooooonnnn?” She start typing “In a fe……” when a loud crack appeared in the passenger window. She looked up and over and there was a hole, with a spider web of cracks surrounding it…. Suddenly, she notice that she felt warm, and looking down, she saw a spreading stain on her left breast. The car slowed and drifted into the Jersey barrier on the left, grinding to a halt. She looked down and her vision started to blur, she slowly fell onto the center console, the phone dropping to the floor……... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Officer Sanchez knocked on the door of the apartment. It was a sixth floor walkup so he and his partner were both winded. Taking a moment to compose himself, he knocked on the metal door. His hand was on his holster, his partner on her Taser. The door opened, and a man stood there. “Mr. Davis? I’m officer Sanchez of the NJ State Police, and this is my partner, Ms. Rudinsky” “We wanted to discuss a shooting on the Garden State Parkway that happened this afternoon. We will be taking notes and recording this conversation, by the way. It’s strictly routine, I’m sure you understand” The man was very calm, looked them directly in the eye. He looked like an accountant or perhaps a real estate agent. “Sure! So I was driving along, when I saw this car wavering from side to side. Initially I dropped back, but the speed was so erratic - I eventually saw that it was a girl who was texting.” “What time was it? And can you describe the car and the girl, please? Rudinsky was furiously taking notes on her mobile device, but Sanchez kept a not unfriendly eye on Davis. “Sure! Well, it was a white Kia, and it was a young woman, probably around 20-22., I think. It was hard, she was bouncing all over the place.” “So what happened next?” “I carry a Ruger - both it and my permits are in that drawer, everything is up to date - so I pulled it, and took a shot through the passenger door”. Sanchez cleared his throat. “So you admit shooting this girl, in the car you described at 2:00 local time on the Garden State Parkway.” “Yes, of course. It was unfortunate, but it was a matter of the public good. She would have killed someone eventually.” Standing up straight, and looking him squarely in the eye, the burly office cleared his throat. ”Mr. Davis, I am required to inform you that it’s my belief that you are telling the truth. You cleared your lanes by pressing the Alert Button, checked your line of fire and then made your shot which was clean. The car created minimal damage, within the published guidelines and all in all, it was compliant with United Criminal Code 54, subsection 42 and has been designated a clean shoot.” “We want to thank you for your contribution to public safety. Have a nice day.

This is my first story. I have a very long one planned out but I wrote this part yesterday to release some emotions. If people like it I will expand it. How can you keep going in a world like this. Billions died and me, the one who failed to stop this gets to live. I am alone. Even my sister who accompanied me on my failed quest has passed away. Because I failed to save her. So many people have died because of my failure. Those who are left alive suffer greatly. My remaining friends move on with false hopes, trying to stop the evil that ruined our world. They will fail and die. Our foe is unbeatable. His legions of soldiers roam the lands and he uses his godlike powers to destroy entire citys. I cannot fight on. Surely the world will perish. My death will be one of billions who have died, because of me. As I looked over this ledge prepared to die a friend of mine aproached. "Conner what's wrong?" he said "Wade do you realize how much we have failed. Elaina is gone and Zanthor gains power each day. I am supposed to be a paladin, a powerful Warrior who inspires hope in others. But hope is dead. I've lost the will to fight." I said "It wasn't your fault. It was mine. I loved her Conner. She died in my arms." wade said, before tearing up. "I have to keep fighting. Without hope life cannot persevere." "There is no hope left. The airship was wrecked in the battle. We can't even leave this wretched wasteland. Zanthor will destroy all life and the world will waste away," I told him Wade looked at me deep in thought and a fire lit in his eyes like I'd never seen "Its been ten years Conner. If we give up then its the end. You can restore the balance of magic and defeat him. We can't give up hope. We haven't survived for a decade in a dying world just to do so much and give up" For the first time in years I felt something I had forgotten the feeling of, hope. We continued our quest with greater determination than ever. We had to succeed or all would be in vain. Andrew fixed the airship in a month and We have now set off, ready to find our other lost friends. If me Wade Elaina and Andrew survived there had to be others. We searched for 2 years, and found that we had gained quite a following. Surely enough Xander Keala and Jana had survived. Many New people joined us on our quest. I am not sure things will turn out well. I have never felt such a strong burden or such powerful determination in my life. We must succeed. We are humanities last hope. If we fail again all life Will die. We press on with fear in our hearts, and we may fail, but we will never lose our hope.

This is a first draft, playing with tense and dialogue. Let me know what you think! Boris Yamerov is a wreck of a man, a pervert of the first degree. He owns the vintage shoe store Claudette’s on the corner of Press and Royal just one block from the banks of the Mississippi in the Bywater neighborhood of New Orleans. It is there that he sits in the pre-dawn light, surrounded by mountains of aging stilettos and stares across the street at Old Mrs. Windsor as she steps from her shower each morning. There is something about her wrinkled skin and sagging breasts that feeds the darkest of Boris’ desires. Boris lives upstairs from the shoe store and would prefer to fondle himself in the privacy of his own home but Mrs. Windsor’s shot gun shack lays below the site lines of his bedroom window and so he is forced to perform his morning ritual in the darkened sales floor among the stale boxes of women’s shoes. He watches her each morning, hidden by the haze of his hand rolled cigarettes and rubs himself through his tight polyester pants while she begins her morning routine. At 6:15 sharp every morning just as sure as beads on Bourbon, as his neighbor Oscar Coughlin would say, Old Mrs. Windsor opens her shades to dry her septuagenarian body in the morning breeze. Boris watches as Mrs. Windsor folds the silk pajamas that her late husband Maury bought for her down at Cunningham's for their 40th wedding anniversary and returns them neatly to the chair next to her bed. Somewhere between the duvet being tucked in, and Mrs. Windsor covering herself with her gardening clothes Boris reaches completion. His morning routine complete, he makes his way towards Frenchman St. where he greets Curtis Carmichael, the morning concierge at the Hotel New Orleans. “Curtis, this weather.” He says in a deep Russian accent, “How do we stand it?” Curtis smiles revealing his gold teeth, “Hotter than a witches titty Boris, hotter than a witch’s tit. Heard about the scuffle down at Ms. Windsor’s house the other day. Woo, You sure showed them. You bad Boris, you bad.” “Indeed Curtis, the poor old woman is lucky to have me around now that her husband is dead and buried. This is no place for a single woman, too many creeps and criminals in this filthy excuse of a city.” Curtis let’s out a loud cackle, “Sure you right Boris, sure you right.” Boris moves slowly through the heat. He walks down Chartres through the Marigny to Dominic’s where he orders his coffee and reads the Times Picayune. He wipes the sweat from his brow with his stained handkerchief and lights a cigarette. “Boris honey where you been?” “Ms. Loretta I cannot take this heat any more. My heart wasn’t built for this climate.” “No I don’t suppose it was darling. Well can we fix you anything else? We have a few customers that wouldn’t mind a seat…” Boris is oblivious to Ms. Loretta’s passive aggressive invitation for him to leave. She knows he will sit there all day getting every free refill he can out of his $1.50 coffee. “Ms. Loretta, I am a local hero you know?” he says peering over his newspaper at her large framed body as she clears tables and greets customers at the busy café. “Yes Boris I know…” “I stopped a murder and caught the criminals who tried to kill poor Ms. Windsor.” He says, now speaking to the entire café. “I don’t know nothing about any of that Boris, just know how to clear tables and poor coffee.” “It is true. I happened to be looking through the window one morning and saw the men all dressed to kill, creeping like little cock o roaches through the back fence of Little Ms. Windsor’s house.” The café had now become his stage with tourists awkwardly trying to appear uninterested while listening attentively to every detail. Realizing he has the crowd Boris folds his paper and stands, adjusting his crotch and finishing his coffee. “Well I will have to tell you the details another day, Ms. Loretta. A day when you are not too busy to hear the very true story of the hero of New Orleans perhaps. “ Boris bumps a couple of tables on his way out and the tourist stare at the caricature of a man passing by, his thick accent still ringing in their ears. He walks towards the Quarter, passing shops and empty bars. He has a slight limp, some would say exaggerated, from the scuffle that ensued the week prior. It is true that Boris had witnessed an intruder who had climbed Ms. Windsor’s fence, not true of course was why he happened to see it. “I was in the middle of morning inventory, when I look across the street to see three hooded men at the back gate of the house.” It was also not true that he quickly ran across the street and tackled the men, in fact the “men” were somehow more inept then Boris himself and managed to get caught on the fence. “I quickly ran across and grabbed the little one by his foot as he tried to scale the fence.” The police would later report that the man had been caught on the fence and when they arrived Boris was hitting him with a broom handle at a safe distance. “Luckily I was able to find a weapon to protect against these evil men.” The other two men that Boris claimed to have seen and scared off were never seen or heard from, or found. “Those cowards ran off like the pigs that they are.” Ms. Windsor was never even aware of the commotion, she was in her bedroom changing into her morning clothes when she heard sirens and saw the police pull up. “I saved her life of course, the poor thing. These wild beasts nearly had her for breakfast. And now that her husband is gone, the man was a bit of a slob anyways if we are being honest, she is all alone.” Boris walks to Harry and Sons market and buys tobacco and wraps. “Well if it ain’t the hero of New Orleans!” Harry shouts out from behind the butcher’s counter. “That is right, I am glad you have heard and that the news has been traveled all the way here to your modest grocery. “ “I heard you tore the hair right off the guy Boris.” Harry says leaning against the counter now, his giant smile across his face. “I certainly did. Ripped it off and beat him with my club.” The truth of course, as irrelevant as it may be was a little bit different. It turns out that the would-be murderer was in fact just a confused drag queen trying to find her way home after a night in the Quarter. While Boris beat the unknowing queen with his broken broom stick, swinging madly from the curb, her hair had fallen off and into a puddle at the bottom of Ms. Windsor’s driveway. “Well sure is good to know there are still good people in this world looking out for us Boris. Let me give you a muffuletta for the road, on the house. Heroes eat free here. “ “How generous of you Harry. A true gentleman. I wouldn’t normally eat in a place like this but knowing it is custom to accept gifts I will make an exception today.” Harry gives Boris the sandwich and shakes his hand. “Keep those eyes peeled, someone has to stop this crime. Lord knows the police won’t do it.” The police luckily showed up quickly to defuse the situation. Boris having nearly beaten the poor queen unconscious with his stick. “You are right about that Harry. I had to wait nearly a half an hour just for them to arrive and apprehend these animals. Probably over at Dominic’s choking down beignet’s and telling dirty jokes to tourists.” Harry’s laugh fills the small store, “You got that right Boris!” Boris rolls a cigarette and walks towards Riverbend Park, the morning breeze now gone turns the afternoon into soup. Boris finds Leon Coolwater a legendary composer and musician, a true New Orleans original sitting quietly by the river. “Mr. Leon, Boris Yamerov as I am sure you are already aware.” Leon looks out from behind his sunglasses at Boris standing before him, stomach hanging over his belt, his black sneakers and white athletic socks revealed by his pants that are two sizes too short. “Can’t say that I am aware of you in fact.” Leon replies. “Is that so? Well I am of course the hero of New Orleans, I saved the life of fragile old poor Ms. Windsor just the other week. It was all over the papers, it is the talk of the town.” In reality there was a small blurb at the bottom of page twelve in the Times Picayune the headline read; “Man calls himself the hero of New Orleans after struggle with drag queen in Bywater.” “Well I am not much one for gossip, and I don’t read the papers so I beg you forgive my ignorance.” Boris stares at Leon in disbelief, here is a man the entire city reveres and he is too busy to read? Too above the fray to gossip? “I find it hard to believe to be honest, but if you want to play coy with me Mr. Leon play coy all you want. “ Leon removes his glasses and stares at Boris now, looking around to see if his friends are behind this joke of a man. “Mr…What was it again? Boignof?” “Yamerov” Boris corrects. “Yamerov, yes. Well I do surely appreciate a good man when I see one it’s just I haven’t seen one today.” Leon unfolds himself from the bench and stands toe to toe with Boris. “Now all I see is a fat mixed up Russian with delusions of grandeur and cum stained pants.” Boris backs up and wipes sweat from his neck and face. “Well Mr. Leon I don’t know what to say I…” “It’s Mr. Coolwater to you short pants, and if it’s just the same I’d appreciate it if you found yourself another park to stroke your ego, or whatever else it is your looking to stroke in.” Boris smiles revealing his brown teeth. “Well then I guess it is true what they say.” He turns his back and begins to walk away, “That Leon Coolwater really is an assho…” Before he can finish he is on the ground. Leon lays him out, the hot afternoon sun beating down on him, the warm pavement burning his back. The world spins, people walk by. Boris hears the music from the river boat as it cruises down the muddy Mississippi. A shadow appears and Boris squints into the sun. “Aren’t you the creep that ruined my weave?” Comes a small squeaky voice. Boris squints harder trying to make out the shape in the shadow. “I’ll be god damned it is!” “Don’t touch me!” Boris screams, a small trickle of urine appears through his polyester pants. “Help! Help! I am being mugged!” “Oh shut your mouth you shit smelling ass hole like you have anything anyone would want to steal.” “Rape! It is raping me!” the urine now soaking his pants. “Girl, get a hold of yourself. To be honest I am enjoying the short hair.” She runs her hand through her buzzed hair. “That weave was hot and itched like a mother fucker. This adds a certain edge, don’t you think?” “I am the hero of New Orleans you deviant! Leave me alone!” Boris kicking at the air, a beached whale flopping on the pavement next to the river. “Honey you’re no hero, just a sad bloated old man flopping in his own piss and baking in the sun. Give me your hand and I’ll help you up.” Boris freezes up as she reaches out her hand, nails painted black to match her stockings and high heels. “Suit yourself…I’m Marla the Magnificent by the way. Come by Jimmi D’s Thursday to see the show. First drinks on me for helping get me off that fence, although I could have done without the broom stick.” With that she leaves Boris sweat covered and soaked in piss along the banks of the Mississippi. The hero of New Orleans.

Doctor Judas Clucktor a Judaeo-christian immigrant from nagorn kharabakh region of Armenia, was thinking about home. How every chinese village he passed on the way to the processing hub looked less and less like itserlf. I knew it just by looking at him, his twitching eye, his floating hair, every purple thread of it was betraying his intent to sit on the graves or his many, many fallen enemies and angels. Brokerage fee was exorbitant, but worth every drop of wax from the ear of the goden child, every needle in a haystack. The syringe was ready, humming softly in the dimming light, ready to unleash the vacuous laughter that only the highest of serene spider-queens and kings could possibly dissolfe in light odorless sulfur. Problematic as it was, my own angle in all ov it was laughably embarrassingly superfluous, cosmetic. Unlike the others, no idealist principle could penetrate the thick skull of your truly. I was hanging upside down, devoid of lightness or momentum. At this moment I was as unstoppable as a pile of rubble. Of cans! Aluminium cans! Mutterings of ethereal, quiet flicker of fluids on my cheeks - what did it all matter to the man who drove a train into a wall? All sorts of frying pans, pots, bowls, kettles? How silly, how ridiculous. Albert Einstein once said - leave all hope ye who enters here and behold. As disproportionate as all of us were on that gloomy 8th of may celebration no perfect cosmic tweezer could grasp the very thing that separated us from the crowd - the box. A box flooded by dim lights of the apocalypse, lingering shadows of the beyond. As fires rose, so did the blue tin and tinder. Breakaway noises glided gently through chill moring breeze, I brooded in his empty hallways almost awakening the children. Ceramic shards fit perfectly, alsmost complete. Somehow, somewhere the alienage dissolved. Properties of matter, virtue thinned into flatness of piles. No dragon was powerful enough to reverse the course of nature, it would only get more cool. Cool and quiet.

Dr. Judas Clucktor, once a proud immigree and the ham-fisted ruler of many constellations was finally at my mercy. His fate was sealed the moment he left the asylum, the most improbable of all corrals. As I walked the halls, swinging my arms about no shudder could escape his clenched fists. Oh the pastures of my motherland! As little as I know about his little ploy he will never betray us now - this little I could rely upon. Sipping. Bolts of lightning pierced the skies as cracks stoped their mesmerizing dance. Politically it was a true masterstroke an ice burn that would never be forgotten by the obscure and useless. Multicolored pens lingered on the vulture. Fruits and vegetables in their astral splendor meant nothing compared to the wisdom of the ancients. Harlequins danced as silent as the 3rd brigade, while their abominable counterparts could do nothing but pray for descent. Limbic cleavages propelled at light speeds to some unknown dark horizon, 0 and 1s were only an afterthought of some devious mind, a player of games, an inscrutable puppeteer. Files were in order, meticulously sorted for inevitable inspection, each lovingly tied with a pink ribbon and marked with a different species of flower. Ostentatiously every bit of paper duly contained its destructive potential, not ever Dr. Clucktor of all people could release it now. Crowned shiek of dreams, the protector of the immortals unfathomable and disgusting example to us all. Oh how I loathed his symmetrical legs, how many had to die and how many more will to achieve such perfection? Food for thought as my father used to say, cackling wildly in his little wagon. Protuberances continued to protrude, unperturbed.

476 Words. Feedback would be really appreciated.   Stephen and Her laid naked under the covers, his left leg hung off the side of her full size bed. Bailey was at Her feet, curled up, and taking up way to much space on the narrow bed, as all dogs do. They had stripped each other naked in the harsh 60 watt glow of Her table lamp. Mandolin Orange played slow, wine soaked, string lullabies of love lost, and false idolatries from the speaker of Stephen’s phone.   It was awkward at best in that moment. Stephen was coming off another two day drunk, whose swan song was the daylong hangover, strung along by adderall and cigarettes; the stench of which stained his fingertips and thickened the inside of his dry mouth. He was shaking touching her, stripping her, his cock flaccid, and as he took her in with his eyes and his lips and his tongue, he knew that he was no longer attracted to her, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t know where to stop. She was young. She was an artist, and she liked to fuck as well, so what more could he want?   He wanted Kathy, he wanted his ex-wife, his ex-girlfriends, his ex-soul mate. Thoughts of Tara flickered through his head, while Her lips pressed against his in an awkward thin lipped soft kiss. How could he even maintain this interaction while thoughts of Kathy’s sex and Kathy’s Kisses and Tara naked and bent over danced behind closed eyelids? The softness of Kathy’s red-creased, lips was front in his mind as his tongue moved across Her mouth. Stephen wanted everything that he was doing at this moment, to be in the same place, in a woman’s room; with a woman who he would just take him in as he let himself go. He wanted a woman who could take the demons of his mind; the eccentricities shaped by a life lived; and who could weigh in on the thoughts shaped by conflict and nature and a spirituality that is rarely celebrated in the Deep South. He wanted it all but just with someone else. Someone different. He chased himself down deeper into the hole of lost thoughts and missed opportunities, his dick worked less, and his fingertips glided gently, softly, over the skin of the ever growing stranger in his arms.   Stephen laid there, in the dark now, holding this woman, kissing Her, running his hand over Her shoulder and ribs. He couldn’t see Her in the dark, but his fingers became his eyes as he traced the lines of her body, feeling goosebumps rise, and in the intense intimacy of the moment, he was not there at all. He was calm to the point of realization, of knowing what he wanted, and that sometimes, what appears as it is, is also false. From where he was, she was an amazing girl, just nowhere he wanted to be. edit: 3rd Paragraph.

The doors to the double decker bus slid open, I hastily stepped onto the bus and felt around my pockets, then pulled out my bus card. I touched the bus card against the card reader, which then made two sharp beep sounds, instead of the usual one beep, then a small red light flickered on the reader, instead of the usual green. "I must be out of credit" I thought. I looked directly at the bus driver, attempting to be as friendly as humanly possible, "Mate, could you allow me for this one? There's no shops open at this time to top up." I said, clearly and what I thought was confidently. The bus driver just nodded his head. "Thanks mate, are there no lights on this floor?" I mumbled as I looked to the back of the dark empty bus. "No, sorry mate, only the lights on the top work for now, last stop in three anyways" he replied with a suspicious look in his eyes. The doors closed, the bus started moving. I clambered up the stairs of the moving bus, towards the light, as if it were a safe haven. A silly thought, though I've never fully grown out of my fear of the dark. There was just one person, seated at the front of the bus looking through the front window, his arms rested upon the yellow handrail that bordered the window, he was swaying and mumbling. He was as drunk as he could probably be but he didn't pay attention to me, the faint smell of what seemed like vodka touched my nose, I enjoyed the smell. I sat far away from the man, at the back of the bus where seats for 5 people were connected. I eased down into furthest seat to the left and put my legs up on the chairs besides me, then leaned my head against the cold window. I struggled to get my earbuds in, but they got there, I touched the play button on my phone and the loud but calm sound of a song I can't recall the name of was bounced around inside my ears. I was at ease, the drunk man slouched down and seemed to be asleep, I felt relaxed. I knew I had too much of the dope this time and I have the slightest feeling of regret of what I just did and I worry about what's in store for me, but that didn't matter anymore, nothing seemed to matter. Almost everything looked magical when it was this late on a work day, with no one around everything was a pleasure to look at, even this grimey bus and the single drunken man at the front. The rain was trickling against the windows, while outside the empty pavement and roads were wet and reflective, street lights shined through the windows, causing the light to ripple and make beautiful distorted patterns on the wet, rain spotted windows. The smell of the rain that I loved so much was wafting faintly through the slightly open window a few seats forward and the tinest drops of rain slipping through the window touched my face, which felt like the best thing in the world. I pulled out my earbuds, to listen the sound of the rain.

I turn the lamp by my bedside and stretch my arms. My room is decorated with dreamy magenta painted walls, a very cushiony large bed, a simple wooden nightstand which holds a lamp and a radio, and a large picture window through which today I can see a beautiful lush green forest. The room has no door and the window is sealed tight. For a short while I sit at the foot of my bed watching out the window. A girl is playing amongst the trees. She looks to be about my age, fourteen. I observe as she lays in the grass and examines flowers. Next to the girl is an old radio, the same kind that sits next to my bed; the kind that looks likes a very simple little rectangular box with an antenna on top. After I've watched her for a time I grab the radio from my bedside and turn it on. “'Morning Sally,” I say into the silver part of the radio I know houses the microphone. “Good morning Cal,” the radio responds; the girl keeps playing with flowers as she speaks back to the radio. After another silent moment of watching her I chime in, “Those flowers are really pretty” “Yeah they are!” she says through the radio “I love this emerald green one, what do you think of it?” “Yeah I love it, it matches your eyes perfectly,” I observe, “Why don't you stick it in your hair?” “Ok, like this? Does it look good?” Sally sticks the flower through shiny long brown hair behind her ear. “It does, go check out your reflection in the pond,” I tell her. She walks over to the pond and begins examining her new fashion choice. As she is looking into the water I step away from the window. I sit on my bed and close my eyes, beginning to recall an image I had long forgotten. Sally and I are sitting together in her driveway under the light of streetlamp. I see the scene from a distance, as though I'm an observer and not a participant. Sally and I are far in conversation, passionately discussion anything that passes across our souls. Then, Sally and I depart. Playfully we twirl around each other with a few friendly pushes before laughing and walking our separate ways. Before we split, I can hear Sally telling me “Think of this not as fire, but light of coming dawn.” My memory skits forward a bit as I see myself lying down in my bed, grinning widely. I can remember that I am replaying the day over and over in head as my memory begins to fade and my memory returns to my purple painted bedroom. I glance out the window. Sally is now trying to coax a dragonfly to land on her hand. I smile at her and envision the smell of the grass that populates the surrounding forest. It smells like summer, like joy, like childhood elation. I walk back to my bed and take the radio in my hands. While I dwell within my own mind for a moment more I lightly sing to myself. “Walk with me, Suzy Lee. Through the park and by the tree. I can tell that we are going to be friends...” “Love forever, Love is free. Let's turn forever you and me...” I smile out the window at Sally once more and then turn off the radio. As I pack my things into the box I'm taking with me to my University dorm I fondly recall the dream I had last night; neatly tuck my old transistor radio into my box and continue packing.

With a start Marcus woke up. His nightmare had been so intense, he woke covered in sweat and panting. As his eyes adjusted to the inky darkness he started to piece together his surroundings as the memory of the nightmare receded. Something was wrong. He reached for his nightstand and felt nothing. His king sized bed felt smaller, rougher than he remembered. He reached out into the darkness and felt stone, the bed was up against a wall, which was completely wrong. As his vision adjusted he saw a glint of silver out of the corner of his eye, a steel combination sink and toilet. He saw the huge steel door hanging open and it hit him, this wasn't his bedroom, this was a cell. But why was he here? Where exactly was here? And why is the door open? He gingerly stood up from the small bed and walked to the door. The stone floor was cold on his feet. He peered around the door and saw nothing but darkness. There was no sound, just dead silence. As he pushed the door it squealed on rusty hinges. He walked forward into the blackness and felt the ground change from stone to metal grates which sucked what warmth remained in his feet. Reaching out he felt a handrail and he gripped it tight. "Hello?" Marcus called out. There was no response but the echo of his own voice. "Is there anyone else here?" No sooner had the words passed his lips when a loud banging noise came from the distance. Then another. And another. Large ceiling lights were lighting up one at a time, each making a banging noise as the power reached them for what could have been the first time in years. All of a sudden Marcus could see where he was: an enormous prison. He was stood on the balcony at least 4 floors up and as he looked around he could see hundreds of cells, all of their doors open. A wave of fear and confusion hit him. He had no clue what was going on. As far as Marcus remembered he went to bed after a tough day at work. He'd kissed his wife goodnight and gone to bed as soon as he got home, utterly exhausted for reasons he couldn't remember. How long had he been asleep? What had happened to him? He began to panic. Before Marcus could even begin to fathom his situation he heard a blood curdling roar echo around the huge building. He couldn't place where it had come from, the inhuman sound appeared to come from all directions at once. He scanned his view, nothing was moving, there was no sign of life. But something was out there. Something he didn't want to meet...

Susy Clide I can't stop thinking about a girl named Sue, well Susy, Susy Clide. It doesn't matter what you call her she doesn't change. I think everyone around the world knows of her in some way, she's quite famous. Sometimes I'm able to forgot about her, but not for long, and when I remember her she infects my brain for quite some time. A couple people I know have actually gone out with Sue Clide. People really seem to change after having experiences with Sue, I guess you just really don't understand it unless you feel that intense desire for her and everything she does. I think a lot of people think about her but only a few are really able to commit. Sometimes it takes a leap, other times it's just hanging, but it is always the same. Sue doesn't stay with any one person at a time, she visits and flirts, but the visits never last longer than an instant, and that's all the time you'll need. She just has a way of getting inside your head, like her presence spreads through your mind like a virus and the only cure is a visit from her. I can't seem to get her out of my head tonight, I've heard rumors of ways to meet her or get rid of her, some kind of repelent, like a pesticide, it's called Su-i-cide. I think I'll give it a try, she's driving me mad.

Take a look around you, you see computers, or tablets, or phones, or even security cameras. Everywhere you go there is a form of technology capable of reaching the internet. Each one of those devices has either been hacked already, or someone will eventually. Imagine every inch of your life is monitored, your smart fridge is hacked, and it gives the malicious actors information about what you eat, what medication you take, and much more. Your phone leaks information like who your friends and family are, their information, your passwords. Your computer leaks all your files, photos, passwords, and secrets. The reality is nothing is secure - it never was. People try to make you think things are secure, like if you're buying a mac computer, the sales rep commonly says there is no need for an anti-virus, or any protection because "they don't get viruses." The not getting viruses line, is the most common laughable line ever, because everything has a virus - you just don't know it yet. The moment you connect to the internet is the moment a virus is waiting to make its way into your system. Mac computers, I'll admit do have a lower infection rate, that's because us hackers don't target them, we prefer linux servers (things websites are powered on), and your daily windows computer. Windows computers are most useful because 90% of companies use them - and infection is so easy to do, that anyone with $20.00 and 10 minutes of free time can infect a computer. That's right, all a kid needs is $20 to infect a computer, they just have to buy the software to do it, and typically malware authors give them a few free hacked computers as proof the virus works. You're probably thinking your computer has never been hacked, right? You're wrong. The NSA alone (United States Government - National Security Agency) has said on the record in 2013 that "all but two American companies have been hacked by us," - so pretty much that's saying, the NSA knows everything about you, even if you're not a malicious actor. Everything we just discussed, is called an entry point. Suppose I couldn't access your network based by hacking it, I could pose as a friend, and convince you to run my virus - or better yet, convince you to give up your password to me, and all I would have to do is tell a convincing lie. People trust their friends. So gaining access to anybody's information is trivial. Almost everyone in the world has had their information stolen, they say that 51% of U.S. citizens acknowledge their information has been stolen, the other 49% are pleading ignorance to it. Just remember that every border you cross, everytime you're stopped, everytime someone asks you a question, everytime you see a cop car following you - it's not because they care, it's because they're gathering information on you. Technology is becoming increasingly more sophisticated with every waking minute, we're always working on advancing our techniques to get the advantage over our adversary. Everyone has an adversary, for most people it's the government - for others, it's a bad actor with bad intentions. You can never prevent a hacking attack, because if a hacker really wants your network, or your server, or your phone, they'll get it one way or another. Hackers are determined to get what they want and won't stop until they breach the target. There's a fine line between a hacker for good, and a hacker for bad. A hacker for bad (malicious/bad actor) is one who hacks for personal gain/profit, and a hacker for good is a like a bounty hunter - they hunt the malicious actors and expose them, in attempts to protect your machine. Most malware being used by the real bad actors, is created by what's known as a coder. Coders are very simply like hired help - you ask them to write something, for example you want them to write software to encrypt files, they quote you a price, you then pay them, and they deliver the software. Coders have the luxury of pleading ignorance, because if they're asked about the code, they very simply either say nothing, or say that they were contracted to write the code - and say "but I don't know what it's going to be used for. I just write it, that's it that's all." There's coders on both sides of the playing field, on the good and the bad. The good ones write software to combat the bad, and then there's people who float in the middle, commonly referred to as "grey hat" - they don't support good or bad, they just do whatever jobs float their way. So, by now you're probably wondering who I am, you can call me Z. It's just an alias, no further questions. We, as hackers, run by aliases to protect our identities - because we don't want to be exposed, especially if we've got a bounty on our heads by our adversary. Adversary's come in all shapes and sizes, it could be some mob/gang member, or it could be law enforcement/governments. I am a coder, and I prefer to float in the middle of good and bad. I do work based on payment, I'm known in the community for writing ransomware, denial of service applications, and a few high profile hacks that I won't mention. The hacker world isn't what society wants you to believe, it's not as simple as clicking a button and you're hacked - in order for that to happen it takes a lot of work to build that - and that's what coders do. I'm not saying I'm the best person in the world, by no means of the word - however that's the old me - mostly. Let's talk about ransomware - first what is it? Ransomware is a type of malware that encrypts your files using commonly RSA-2048 encryption or AES-256 encryption. The encryption makes your files unreadable, and not usable. It commonly is targeted at high profile people (usually law enforcement agencies), however is used on a lot of regular average windows users. Ransomware is a nasty virus, and if you don't pay the hackers quickly (usually within 24 hours), the price increases every day you don't pay, and after 5 days the ransomer doesn't allow you to pay to decrypt your files - they're forever encrypted and now garbage. Now, on to denial of service, denial of service (DOS/DDoS) is when tons of traffic ("users/people/computers") send requests to a server ("website/router") so large that the server cannot handle it, therefore forcing it offline. It's just like if you could juggle 3 apples, and I gave you 10 and asked you to juggle them - for you it's impossible, forcing you to fail. It's the same with computers. You may curse these people who hack your computers, and love the people who fix them - but, here's the harsh reality, the people whom are fixing them, or working with law enforcement / governments on high profile cases, are typically ex-malicious hackers forced to do something good to pay for the crimes they've committed. In society today, we don't need to fear the hackers that have twitters and attract press (like anonymous) - because they aren't really hackers, the hackers you need fear the most, are the ones who are the quietest, because the quieter your become the more you hear. That phrase meaning, the real bad guys intentionally avoid the media and their identities released, because they know that as soon as their hacking campaign or attacks are linked to an alias of theirs, that's when bounty hunters go for their information to expose them. Let's talk about you for a second, do you think your information is private and secure? I'm sure no one knows that you even read this right? Wrong. Suppose I knew an alias of yours was "cat9012" - I can punch that into google, and figure out exactly what sites you're on, from there I read exactly what you posted, figure out your email addresses, even if their 100% random, eventually they'll link up to each other and I'll know your whole information. And even if I don't, I don't need to go that far, I take your IP address (which is a set a numbers that uniquely identifies your internet connection), I figure out your provider (for example Rogers), I give them a phone call posing as an employee or law enforcement, and say something along the lines of (as an employee) "I was chatting to a customer and we got disconnected before I could pull up their information as their having internet problems, I have their IP address but I can't seem to pull it up, could you pull it up for me and give me their phone number so I can re-establish communication?" With that phrase alone, the person on the other end of the phone will do what I asked, and give me your phone number, or your name, or something that identifies you, now I can simply go hunting threw whitepages, etc. with the information I collected and now I know you, just like if I used an alias of yours. Privacy and security are an illusion. No information is safe, the moment your computer sends a packet outside of your network, you've officially been logged and monitoring - somewhere, somehow. You go to a banking website, enter your banking information - that information isn't ever truly secure, if I have a key logger on your machine I can grab your username and password, so now your account is mine. Just remember that every border you cross, every person you meet, every phone number you exchange, every telephone call you make, every street you walk on, every camera you walk past, they're all being monitored, and it can be pinpointed uniquely to you, at any point in time. Always remember, for every 20 people you'll run in to, at least 1 of those people is up to no good - you just don't know it yet.

Part 1- The Morning When your feet first drop to the floor in the early hours of winters’ morning, they do so often with a certain tenderness that makes your first few steps feel childlike. Painful. And the bitter wind does little to aid your efforts, whipping up the grit and dirt into the mirage of the morning air. Morning air isn’t fresh and rejuvenating, it’s a challenge. From the feet hitting the floor, to the walk of faith across the bedroom and into the bathroom just to feel a brief brush of water to snap you out of a walking slumber, giving you just enough time to haul yourself into the kitchen to gulp down the scraps of cereal that start off too dry, and end too soggy. By this point you’re just about prepared to move on out the door and fight the war of work. Or getting there at least, the second struggle starts there. The morning run ends and the day commences. One particular day, on one particular February in the South of England one particular man placed his feet firmly on the ground shortly after waking, and did so in a fashion unlike most, his feet pressed into the ground firmly, he rose from his mattress and strode from one end of the room, to the other. He showered briefly and no more than stepped into a black suit, accompanied by black socks, black shoes, black sapphire cufflinks and a crisp white, button up shirt. He trotted downstairs with pride in his stride, retrieving a slice of bread on his way through the kitchen. The bread slowly turned to toast as he stood, palms resting on the top of the granite work surface. His eyes, a jealous green, glinted as they flickered over the dead winter colours of the garden that clashed with a dewy field of green grass- the colour of which nicely matched that of his eyes. He hummed to himself, retrieved his toast and sat upon his mahogany wood chair. The morning air looked just like it always did and he did not have the urgency to attend work as of yet. So he waited. Work could come to him, it did so quite often. The man finished off his toast, tossing the final scrap to the air to allow the dog to have her post-breakfast bite. He brushed the remaining crumbs from his fingers, stood up, and walked back to the granite surface to look out the window. Adam Jesmond smiled as he admired his accomplishment, his home. His life. And then the doorbell rang. ‘Work’s here’ he told himself quietly. Taking the time to admire the morning light fare through the tall oak trees, he sauntered to the front door and opened it. There stood a man dressed much like himself. “Don’t you worry Adam, I’ll come to the door and get you, you just keep comfy, I’ll drive all this way, and I’ll even come to the door to get you, would you like me to carry you to the car sir?” One corner of Adam’s lips lifted into a smirk as he beckoned his accomplice into the kitchen. “Seriously Adam, I’ve been parked out there for fifteen minutes, and you knew I was there I always know you know”. Together they walked back through to the kitchen, Adam watched as his co-worker sipped from a glass of orange juice. Adam smirked again. “Don’t you worry James, you just drink my orange juice, I’ll just get myself another glass”. His voice carried a mocking tone to which James disliked, he raised a stern middle finger in response as he gulped down the final drops of the drink. “Let’s go”. Adam reached for his fedora, brushed off yesterday’s dust and slid the hat firmly onto the top of his head; it sat with a perfectly snug fit. The hat matched with his partners, and matched his own outfit having been hand-crafted out of the finest black cotton and wrapped with a single white band around the base. With a sharp nod, James led the way out the house, out into the same morning air from the day before, across the sun-sparkled gravel, out the large wooden gates and into the blacked out car. James reached blindly for a large red button positioned directly in front of the handbrake, a lone finger plunged down and the button clicked. For a moment there was silence. And then, with a crackle and pop, the engine ignited, James took no time to respond. The car rolled rapidly backward into Jesmond Close, he swung the front end of the car to face directly down the road. Neither man blinked as James placed his foot far enough down upon the accelerator for the entire car to lurch down the road with the force of some enraged beast. Adam tilted his head in James’ direction so he could speak easier. “So where is it we’re going today?” James kept both eyes locked on the empty maze of roads. “Court. The government are calling for a committee to decide upon whether or not we need military personal in the county. I figured you might have something to say about that”. Adam, once again, raised a soft smirk. “Well I’m just glad it isn’t another protest, I’ve been eager to do some real work for weeks now”. “I know sir. I know”. Part 2- Court Rules The streets were empty. The shops were empty. The parks were empty. The schools, houses, paths, gyms, petrol stations, everything was empty. Unsurprisingly the grumbling and growling of the car echoed for mile after mile as it snaked viciously through the network of tarmac. Adam tilted his head back so as to rest quaintly on the headrest. In the palms of his hands he toyed with a revolver like a child did a small bear, opening the chamber and using the slightest movement of his fingertips to spin it. Adam found queer satisfaction in the sound of his gun. But he couldn’t let the public see hi armed yet, so with some regret he slid it back into its concealed holster. James slowed the car as they neared the court house, he turned the corner and the building emerged. An uncharacteristic specimen of architecture that seemed to be more of a slab of brick than a place of ‘law’. A large brick complex that stained the surrounding Edwardian white-stone architecture a faded red. A sincere lack of windows made the building a rather antagonising one, with the Royal Coat of Arms sat worn and rusted away by its entrance. Swarms of people flocked towards the beacon of law, the car came to a halt some few hundred metres away, between the duo and the entrance were thousands upon thousands of locals, all turning out to have their say on the issue, and to push the authorities out of their land. Patiently, James etched his way through, nudging the nose of the car into the ocean of heads, sending ripples of movement each time he allowed the engine to exhale a thunderous rumble from its exhaust. But soon enough heads turned the car, and the recognised it immediately. Eyes fruitlessly peered into the blacked out windows only to be met by their own gormless stare. The two men chuckled quietly at the response of the crowd. Some cheered and clapped, others clambered to get out of the path of the car; others felt the need to draw close to it. Flashes of cameras could- on occasion- be seen glaring of the bonnet of the vehicle. But eventually they reached the front steps of the court. The engine died and the doors unlocked themselves with a piercing clink. Adam and James climber from the car with their heads tilted downward as if their hats would protect them from the flash photography or booming chants of the crowd as the cheered on the duo. Leading up to the sliding glass double doors of the building was a set of brick stairs that seemed to bleed from the walls of the building in some attempt to spread the architecture as far beyond the courthouse as was possible. James leaned into Adam’s ear and spoke loudly. “We’ll head straight in, they’ll be expecting you”. And so they did. Up the stairs over the threshold, into the battleground. Stepping into Court used to have an ambient sense of anxiety that would embrace you, but it washed past the two gentlemen and out into the on looking crowd. The reception was empty save two security guards and a lonely receptionist- none of which moved to stop Adam or James as they strolled on by. Looks on the inside appeared no better than those on the outside, more corridors constructed with the same crumbling bricks. Unlocked and ajar, a pair of cream white double doors separated the two men from the courtroom, the dim yellow light of the narrow corridor made stepping past the doors a blindingly bright experience. But no time was to be sparred. Adam outstretched and locked both arms ahead of him moments before he collided with the doors, they burst outward with ease. The room dropped to a hollow silence. A ring of partially seated men dressed in an assortment of moth-eaten suits and awkwardly-ironed ties went from a babble of argumentative school children to a sphere of gawping eyes and drooping jaws. Adam has the room, he had the floor. “Excuse me Sir, but can I help you?” The gravelly voice came from directly opposite the room, sat up in his high chair, spectacle on brow with a curly wig settling just above his shoulders. The black dress draped over the withered old man like death. Adam stepped forward; his heels clipped the empty wooden floor beneath him creating an eerie echo that reverberated around the room, culminating in the arched ceiling that lingered above the gathering. Adam spoke. “I think it’s safe to say that court is no longer in session boys. I had my thoughts and decided it’s about time you made you exit. You’re no longer needed today. Goodbye.” He curtsied as he indicated toward the exit, most did not move, but the odd naïve soul seemed to shuffle before their superiors would stop them. Another man from the audience spoke out. “I know you. You’re mister Jesmond aren’t you? The man that thinks he runs the county just because he’s rich and has a lot of money”. “Dear boy, I do run the county”. The shrivelled man piped up once more. “Mister Jesmond, unless you have a valid reason as to why military personal should not be deployed in Hampshire then I suggest you turn your heels and leave us”. “Simple. We don’t need them.” The courtroom scoffed childishly at his retort. If Adam was paying closer attention he may have sworn a cloud of dust rose when they sneered back at him. Another man from the audience decided to have his say. “And what gives you the right to say what we should and should not do mister Jesmond? I see no credentials there”. Adam Jesmond straightened his tie and frowned. “A room filled with babbling men limbering through their unified midlife crises wearing worn-out suits that their wives spent their evenings ironing only for you to dribble morning coffee down, led by a man in such an obviously fake wig that can barely see his own feet without his glasses is hardly a representative group of individuals that can decide what to do and what not to do for the rest of the people in the county, so don’t dare ask for my own credentials if your own do not stack up. But for what it’s worth, my credentials are just outside. Shall I invite them in?” The old mad nodded quietly. James turned and nodded back toward the doorway, and as he did, a group of finely dressed individuals much like Adam walked into the room and filled the middle of the circle, creating a small gathering behind their own leader. Once more, the old man scoffed a response. “I hardly see that as representative sample of the populous. I’m sorry mister Jesmond but you really do not live up the stories I have heard of your antics. Adam snapped his chin a few inches higher as he raised his voice. “I’m not finished yet”. A few more people steppe into the room. Then a few more. Followed by more still. One by one, peopled stepped into the room. Children, teenagers, adults, elderly, men and women. Each one looked and dressed a little different to the others. From the upper classes to those from the street corners, the city had arrived in one room and they formed a standing circle around Adam. The courtroom watched in bemused awe. Adam’s voice rose higher. “We have police, a competent fire service, hospitals, shops, schools, well educated people and clever people. We have a community that functioned fine before the war, and do so still today. I have an elite set of people that satisfy the need for any kind of military force without the need of a thousand of your barely trained men taking up space on our streets. We can fight a battle if need be. And if, and only if we were to need your help, we would ask for it. But for today. You and your men with their guns will not be needed. So take your little wig and get out of my county”. The crowd cheered as Adam raised his infamous smirk. Part 3- City Crawl Departing the courthouse was far unlike arriving, the crowd outside had fallen to a polite hush and yet their numbers had vastly increased. Adam Jesmond jogged vibrantly back down the brick steps to retake his passenger seat in the car, he waved to his audience as he did so. James promptly joined him and the car drove on. This time however, a car much like the one Adam was sat in pulled out in front of him, and another behind. Together they rolled through the crowd, finally reaching the main road with a clunk as each car dropped from the curb and onto the flat, open roads lined with the empty shells of the city landscape. Unlike before, James took a very leisurely pace into the heart of the city, he was becoming slightly nervous and Adam took an eager notice of such emotion. “James, talk”. That’s all it took to make James tick. “I don’t like this meeting, the next one I mean. It’s dealing with a demographic we know very little about. I don’t like risks.” “James, you just stood in a room of some the most influential people in the country and basically agreed with me, publically, that they stick it. Last month you eyed up the Prime Minister’s daughter in front of the Prime Minister. Suck it up and get on with it”. Nothing else was said following this, nothing until the trio of cars eased to a gentle halt. They had stopped at a bus stop- a convenience when nobody was riding the buses that day. Southampton high-street was a moments’ drive away and the city’s largest shopping centre lay before them, completely unlocked with lights blaring and sales booming. But not a single person in sight. Ahead, the men from the first car stepped out onto the curb, Adam and James mimicked, as did the car behind. A total of ten men, almost all identically dressed stood beside three almost identical cars; they all smiled briefly to each other just as the first of their ‘business partners’ emerged. A total of ten people, almost all diversely dressed stepped from the shadows, some in rags, others in cheap, oversized t-shirts, some with oversized jeans shredded at the knees or a the ankles, others in a variety of shorts, trousers and even a dress. Most were men, three were women and one appeared to be about twelve years old- the others must have been anywhere between twenty and seventy years old. One with a knackered old bowler hat stepped forward. His name was Sam Sampson (or so that was what he’d named himself). The two ringleaders shook hands respectively, both grinning a similar grin. Their conversation was open for all to hear. “Mister Jesmond sir, ‘tis a pleasure to see ya round these parts. How did the court go?” “Well enough thank you. All is in order you’ll be glad to hear. Shall we...” “Of course”. One of the women stepped forward, her matted hair obstructed some of her view, but she kept her eyes locked on some imaginary marker on the floor, she carried a cardboard box. Sam took the box from her and proceeded to present its contents, explaining how it was ‘all in order’ and there was ‘nothing to be concerned about’. Adam peered into the box to inspect it himself. There wasn’t exactly much to see, a long cylinder about a foot in length with a silver cap either end, and capsule was ribbed from end to end. It was completely empty, but that would be resolved within a few hours. Adam looked up to Sam to lock eyes with him, and flinched a true smile. Sam, whose expression was frankly blank ignited into pure glee, he looked to his accomplices for acknowledgement of his achievement. One of the men from the car behind Adam’s approached the woman stood beside Sam Sampson and passed over a small wooden crate. James lifted his chin a little as he opened his mouth to speak. “Cash is there, we matched what you requested. The envelope on the top contains a small card, show it to any shop in the county and they might just feel obliged to offer you a service- be that easy employment, errands for good money, under the counter deals or black-market sales. You have one card, do with it what you wish, do not lose it, it’s a one off offer, clear?” The ragged gang nodded quickly, they exchanged boxes, and each group turned to leave. Adam waited before Sam began to leave before turning to enter the car, but as he did, Sam Sampson called out to him. “You know, I could have asked for a much higher price than that”. Adam chuckled to himself. “And why didn’t you?” “Because you’re a good man Mister Jesmond sir. And you’re going to do great things.” Adam’s gang chuckled a little, but Adam thanked the compliment nonetheless. “How long do you reckon that card will last him James?” They bartered over their estimations comically as the trio of cars reignited their engines. This time, when the lead car moved to pull out of the bus lane, another vehicle identical to the trio joined the convoy, and a second came to a stop behind the third car. Numbers were amassing well. The convoy accelerated away from the gathering on the side of the road, continuing their exploration of the hollow city. Road after road, their expedition brought them away from the city, taking care to avoid the motorway, and they found themselves wandering through the cluster of small villages and towns that separated the city of Southampton from the nearby city of Portsmouth- the site of Adam’s next exchange. More specifically, the old dockyard. But before their arrival, Adam Jesmond requested that the front car make a small detour to stop by a small town, when the convoy arrived in the quaint town, a lone, suited man stood waiting with a sizeable leather briefcase beneath the shadow of the clock tower. The cars all slowed to a stop, the driver’s window rolled down, and the briefcase was passed over. And that was all. On to Portsmouth. And on to Portsmouth the convoy went, gathering a little more speed this time, arriving swiftly. Separating the dockyard to the remainder of the city lay two enormous wooden and iron clad doors, carved mostly by wisps of wind and raid, shaped by the weather but still managing to stand the test of three wars, and time no person on the earth alive to date had lived to witness- and today, they had been left wide open. Almost oblivious to their presence, the convoy trucked past them, but taking caution to slow as they crossed the iron-marked threshold. Once a place of military authority, the docks were still a place many warships and navy fleets found rest within, so platoons of marching soldiers could be seen parading aimlessly around each bend. Adam was not fond of the military formalities, but provided they kept them restricted to the dockyard, he was happy to welcome them to his county for a brief stay. A huge sweeping building marked the place of the next small gathering. Its modern design and bizarre disk-shaped design looked oddly like a whale, or an alien spacecraft, and sat next to an ancient piece of naval pride, it did look odd. Between an old, royally decorated warship and the modern circular museum the convoy of five black cars arrived. Awaiting them in the empty concrete park was a convoy of five jeeps. One jeep per Government Military Sector: Army, Navy, Air Force, Homeland Security and Secret Service. Adam could tolerate the odd ship taking rest in his county if they kept themselves to themselves. But meeting the owner of it all, he took a confident distaste to. But he stepped out of his car nevertheless, and walked, with his convoy toward the jeeps. His convoy of men and women that the people had taken to name so simply. The Family.

I've written a lot of verses before, and this is the first time that I got to write an attempt to short story realism. Here goes "A Mother". Forgive the similarity to one of the titles in Joyce's Dubliners, it is completely unrelated and coincidental. Comments are appreciated! Setting is Metro Manila, Philippines. *** I was walking down the streets of Manila when my phone got snatched. The morning was a weary little orange from all the dust (so they say) and I was carrying a bag of pan de sal in my arm. I was able to escape with my life intact and whole through a little blessing of a pepper spray resting neatly in one of the pockets of my bag. I grabbed it quickly the moment I saw the flash of red eyes and the glint of a knife that slashed through the cloth of my bag, and sprayed it quick much to the irritation of his skin. But, alas, the goon got away with only an inflamed cheek and a phone worth a half a hundred thousand pesos. I tried looking for my phone through its built-in locator. If I am lucky, somebody might be stupid enough to connect it to a Wi-Fi network without changing its account or reformatting its operating system. The tiny glint of green did not light up as I checked other methods of locating my precious phone; apparently the pepper spray did not do enough damage to eliminate reason altogether in that wretched thief. By the time my parents arrived, I was a wretch myself and told them the story. They only thanked God I was safe. The pan de sal I bought was beginning to get cold when my yaya, whom I left by the computer to watch out for the locator, made an excited entrance to announce that the green light is now blinking happily. I ran away from the breakfast table, leaving my mom and dad with eggs dangling in the corners of their mouths, to go to my laptop and look at the locator software - only to find that the light was no longer blinking. I became distraught with frustration and nearly vented it out to my yaya. I grabbed a Snickers from my back pocket and began to eat chocolate. My yaya told me that the last location where my phone glinted was in a place somewhere in Greenhills. I asked my dad about it; whether we can track it down and get it back. He said no. It was too dangerous for a girl like me. The ditching of the final hope by my unaffectionate father did nothing short of magnifying my frustrations. That phone was everything to me. It had my contacts in it. My precious text messages. Pictures. Selfies. They could even hack my Facebook and Twitter accounts and post pornographic images on my profile similar to what like-minded goons do to my friends' timelines. I was reduced to anxiously refreshing my profile page and timeline for the rest of the morning. Nonetheless, the day passed by without any further damage to my morale, and the following morning I woke up to the sounds of birds chirping in my bedroom window. The carpets were dirty by my late night rummaging of old phones that I have kept and could still be used as an alternative to my old one. I remember the feel of my stolen phone, its sleek contours that stand comfortably between my fingers, its high quality touch screen and sound system that shamed even my old stereo back when I was three years old. I remember touching it like an egg for the first time, careful not to let it fall to its permanent breakage. That evening I dreamt of the device glowing in the dark recesses of my room. I felt the urge to urinate but I was not able to stand. There were straps of golden belts holding me on to my bed, and the blankets felt like snares pinning me down. The glow was still there, and there were ringing from a distance. It floated like a foreboding skull fanning my desire to grasp it and hold it back to my palms. There were nothing else but shadows that prevented me from getting into it. And all it did was keep looking at me. I ate my breakfast and went out of the house to get to the school bus. The weight of the phone dangling on my pocket did not feel the same at all. Lydia, my bus seatmate, commented on my reversion to the “old school” while she herself rattled her fingers on her brand new phone bought only last week. “I didn't know you liked your old phone better”, she said. I told her that I couldn't stand the new features, that's why I refrained from using my new one. “Really?” she raised her eye, perhaps sensing the ugly tang of my lie. She became silent. The bus rumbled slowly to school and the brief journey did nothing to assuage the horrendous feelings inside me as I held on to my “old school” phone. The bus stumbled upon uneven humps and potholes filled with occasional rainwater from last night's lightning storm. The passing train above roared, and my thoughts descended to a place of no return and without firmament. The pressing cold in my skin touched me like death. There was distant ringing, vibrating at the sides of my groin. Lightning forked through my skin and my ears perceived a distant screaming. “O God!” People were running outside, shouting along the road as the bevy of spirits died one by one inside me. We looked at the trafficked streets of EDSA-Ortigas and saw nothing except the nearby buses and the commotion that the outside event rendered. A few lanes away, I saw a glimpse of a brown child under the fly-over, resting in his weeping mother's arms. The throng of people surrounding the couple seemed more interested than concerned. A few meters away was a field of whitish stuff with generous streaks of red slathered on the street. A huge city bus is parked nearby the crowd, its passengers restless. “Serves 'em right,” said our driver. “These lot'll kill you if you don't get to 'em first.” Our bus continued to plod through the busy street. After a few minutes, we finally arrived at the doorstep of our ornately decorated lobby where the rustle of uniforms predominated the still air as more students arrived just in time for the morning assembly. I killed the intervening hour by escaping the line and walking through the open soccer field and settling in a place where the teachers will not see me. I sat in one of the shaded seats overlooking the entirety of the place. Despite an occasional whistle of a distant gale, my hiding place was perfectly quiet. The morning sun cast long shadows across the space, granting the lit-up grass a soporific orange glow against the grey background. An endless heat emanated from the soil as the last dewdrops of the previous evening began to evaporate and fall. From a distance, a small child-like figure emerged amid the slowly developing mirage. His brown complexion looked like he had spent the past few years under the mercy of the sun and the city’s asphalt heat. His hair was messy and figure stooped. His injured appearance gave little justice to the deliberateness and confidence of his walk. As the figure drew nearer it became clear that he is going to where I was. Fear seized me by the arm and froze my legs on the spot. I gathered what is left of me to recite a prayer, Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus The figure halted as if transfixed to an object behind me. I felt his eyes pierce my soul. I heard the cries of a woman from a distance as the figure slowly began to twitch his arms and legs, recommencing his slow journey towards me. Terror paralyzed me once again. My insides churned as the beams of dark shadows in the open field spread like a network of rapidly weaving spider webs. The screaming lady on the other side of the school fence seemed to have gained volume. Her voice reverberated into my ear as I further fell into an inescapable prison of longing and regret. I prayed, and I prayed for help. I opened my eyes to see, and there was none.

Dear /r/ShortStories, I just finished an english course which had the benefit of an amazingly inspirational teacher. That means I recently got into writing; I've done some shorts here and there, and I mostly kept these to myself, but I recently became confident enough to share some of these stories. That said, I've also come to appreciate honest criticism as a way to grow stronger. Thank you for taking the time to read it. A Trip To the Dentist - A few years ago I read an article about a man who had gotten into trouble when a newspaper reporter learned that he was operating a “dental clinic” in his basement. He managed to brush off the reporter by saying that it was his own private museum, but by then he became somewhat notorious for actually doing dental work. This got me thinking two things: first, whenever I go to a museum, most of the exhibits aren’t in any shape to be doing what they were originally meant to be doing. Ever see an axe at the museum? They’re all rusty and missing bits, and they’d probably vapourize under the pressure of trying to get stuck in a tree. I think the reason I’ve never seen much in the way of dentistry at the Royal Ontario Museum is because they’re afraid it would scare people away from the museum and terrify what few people otherwise brave the dentist today! I’m one of the lucky few who’s never had a bad experience at the dentist, so a few years ago, when I hadn’t gotten a proper dental cleaning in a decade, it wasn’t out of fear, but out of ignorance. When I think about gaps in what I think I know, I try to fill them in, and that was my second thought: that with the Internet, you can learn ANYTHING! We have the combined power of Wikipedia and YouTube, and surely someone saw a void in the at-home orthodontist video market. And so, keen to learn about something new, I unassumingly decided to look up dentistry. What a horrific mistake that was… There were a few videos, with some cautionary messages at the beginning. Usually it was people describing the bone-melting acids they’d use to etch the surface of a tooth, followed by details skimming over the dangers of the medical-grade epoxies they use to seal up valleys and cracks. Amateur dentists take great pride in their work, and with good reason: few people know anyone who talks about their surgical hobbies, and I imagine fewer still would be eager to assist with performing surgery. They need to act solo. Novocain can’t exactly be bought off the shelf, either – the only practical solution is to either take a pile of pain killers (which makes it hard to co-ordinate) or “go clean”, without taking anything to prepare (due to the potential of extreme pain, this makes it harder to co-ordinate). And then the bleeding. And then the diseases, not from the original cavity, but from the botches and failures! I’ve read about tattoo artists who can ink their own skin, but slipping means either going with the flow or covering up, not trying to find a donor set of teeth while wrangling penicillin from strangers on a long weekend; patching a tooth isn’t a two-hour chore. The great news is that learning and seeing these horrors redoubled my intention to never, ever let things get so bad that I’d become like one of those gruesome images. In fact, any lingering fear of dentists evaporated into respect. I go to the George Brown Wave Clinic for annual cleanings now, and in the process, ironically or not, I’ve even learned a lot about dental hygiene. I even became an exhibit myself once – I still have my wisdoms, making for a full set of teeth. One student hygienists described me as the weirdest patient they’d ever had, but she brought out a tray of dental tools and challenged me to identify the various weapons of oral warfare - I guess that’s a plus. I find it curious that the periodontal probe they use has a black-and-yellow waspy look – that shit terrifies me. I’m also deathly afraid of museums.

I'm not the best sleeper, so I've always found ways to occupy my mind while I'm lying in bed unable to sleep. Something to keep my mind off of the fact that I'm not sleeping. My son suggested I come up with stories (?) in which each word begins with the next letter of the alphabet. I haven't resorted to the dictionary yet, but I see it coming. Here are three examples - try some more. (liberal use of x, as that is the hardest one, along with z). "Autumn brings cooler days. Early frosts grow heavier in January. Kindly laughing, March nudges open petals quietly. Roaring summer tosses ultra violet waves, x-raying you. Zap!" "All beaches contain dangerous environmental factors. Giant, half-invisible jellyfish kill lotsa’ men nightly on Pensacola’s resort sands, taking unsuspecting victims with xtra yells. Zowey!" "Anuses be crappy. Don’t eat farts! Gas hits, I just know letting my noises out pollutes quickly. Ripping stinky toots violently usually eXits your zipper.

Tick tick tock, tick tick tock, tickity tockity tock tock TOCK!! That god damned clock never fucking shuts up. I want to take those batteries out but I can't reach it. I just sit here, tied to this chair, listening to that clock. It doesnt ever shut up. Tock tock tick, tock tock tick... I want it to be over. They never come in. Not even to feed me. The last time I saw a human was when they drove a tube through the wall and hooked it up to me. I guess that's why I havent felt hungry or thirsty. I miss the maniacal laughter from him. At least it wasnt repetitive. They told me before this bout of silence that they all thought I was dead. My mother, brothers, and a sister. I'm not dead. I'm not, I want to scream it but my mouth is sewn shut with heavy thread. I can't move my tounge because the sutures will tear at my skin even more than they have. I want out. Tick tock, tock tick, tick tock. Clock click, clock click... I hate that clock. Am I going insane? My mind is in seven places at once and I can't focus on one thing for more than thirty seconds. -- He just came in. He brought something shiny. I can't see it now. Now I know what it is. A scalpel. He tears at old wounds, opening them up. I can't feel it, though. I feel numb. He tears at every part of my being and I can't feel it! I want to feel it! I want to scream to drown out that fucking clock but I can't! Am I bleeding out? I don't know. The tube has something red going through it so I can only assume they're putting as much blood in me as going out. He keeps tearing, making new wounds and tracing along scars. Slitting my nostrils and making quick work of my eyelids and lips. I try to say something but he drives the scalpel into my tounge and I'm mute again. Tears roll down my face, I just wanted to say two words he wanted me to say before it got like this. Just two words and he's killed any chance of that. -- He left me hours ago, slumped over, stressing the restraints keeping me in the chair. The tube is empty of anything now, and the pool of scarlet surrounding me gets slowly bigger with every drip from my body. How much blood is in a human? I feel woozy. Is this it? I don't want to go. Not without saying those two words, and especially not with that clock! Not with that clock. Everything seems so far away now. I'm looking at myself from the ceiling as if I was an ant. Everything starts to go black and I hear my last thoughts. *I'm sorry.

Interesting enough to start a book about? [CC] is welcome. The thin air was crisp, and we were both struggling to suck up the last of it. Clean inhales and polluted exhales filled the room. There were eyes painted with pain, frustration, anger, heartache, mind ache, and confusion; there was no amount of prayer that could turn back the hands of time. Nothing could change our prior engagements that brought us to the room which we stood in today; nothing could change the obsession with aggression and vulnerability in our hearts. “I told you that I’d be the only one to love you, I’m the only one who cares and you go out and act like a stupid little bitch and betray me.” I winced as he pulled back his muscular arm, with his fingers clinched in a fist; I knew “the hammer” was about to destroy me. “I should fuck you up right now!” I jumped at the obscenity in his words, his vileness terrified me, his new face scared me, off came the mask of someone who loved and cared about me, my protection from pain was now the person I needed protection from the most, mentally and physically. I opened my mouth to plead my case before he hit me and shattered my cheekbone and my world. “Taye, you never spend any time with me, every time you do come around you’re angry, you pick fights with me. Why should I sit alone and not talk to anyone about it? How was I supposed to know that the person who’d listen to me and console me would be another boy? I can’t talk to any of my girl friends about this sort of thing; most of them don’t and never have had a boyfriend before. If I told them all that we do, the love we share.” I paused dramatically and held his face like I’d seen all the time on soap operas, “They’d think I was crazy, they’d think you were crazy! You’re older than me, my mom won’t understand us. I had to tell her you were gay just so I could hang out with you. I love you, baby, you’re my world but you can’t penalize me for yearning for attention.” “Don’t you get it?!” he shook me by my shoulders and rammed me into the wall. Something in me fell and I think it was a piece of my heart when it broke in two, I blinked. He grabbed me by my shoulders and rammed me into the wall, emphasizing each word he spoke. “I don’t want you talking to ANYBODY! If I’m not around, you fucking sit there and deal with it. It’s your fault I don’t come around, because you’re so sneaky and you nag me all the time. You know? You don’t even give a shit about me; you only want me because of my looks.”I exhaled slowly and my nostrils flared as I thought about what he’d just said to me. How dare he question my love for him, how dare he take advantage of the love I’d already shown him? How dare he? How dare he?! Before I knew what happened, the first hit came and went, and my eyes watered, my heart stopped; felt like it fell into the pit of my stomach and tried to push its way out of my body through my rectum. I had a jerk reaction, tears cascaded out of my eyes as my hands went up to his face. “Taye, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.” I kept saying those four words over and over. His teeth were still clenched; now decorated with red paint. His blood. I’d hit him, I didn’t know what happened; I didn’t know why I did it. There was no justification for what I’d just done, I’d just hit my boyfriend. Tears slowly fell from his eyes, the silence and the tears terrified me, I thought he’d be done with me forever, I’d rather him hit me back than be done with me. “Please don’t leave me.” I held his arms as his hands caressed my face even more gently than he had ever touched me before. He kissed me, and I tasted his blood, it scared me and excited me all at once. Like playing with fire, dancing with the devil, skiing down into the pits of hell; this was something I knew was wrong, something I knew was strange but I continued searching for that adrenaline high that I’d gotten when I first hit him. I took that journey of passion and pain; verbally and physically. Domestic violence, the severity of this wasn’t clear to me. I’d seen and heard of it all my life and the severity of it lessened me to calling it ignorance falling in love. I knew of it directly, I knew I was just like my grandmother, who just so happened to be abusive to my grandfather. I always thought the stories of her beating him were humorous; I thought he deserved it because he’d always get caught cheating on her. My ignorance justified reasons for someone to abuse their lover. Domestic violence: the art of us falling in love with love and becoming addicted to pain. Being in a violent relationship changed me in many ways, it made me think differently about myself, about my friends’ relationships, my friendships, relationships with my relatives; it had me in fear that this incident would happen again because of Karma. I’d come to find that my relationship with my lover reflected in my relationships with others, it changed me, it changed “us”, things will and have never been the same. I became a terrified, paranoid, fool in love, afraid to tell a friend, afraid of being judged, happy to know that our relationship was healthy; nothing could stop “us”. Happy to know that just saying hello to another guy could drive him insane; for he loved me so much that he couldn’t stand another man, woman, child, book, television show, song on the radio, anything, could take my attention away from him. The constant fighting, scars on the heart, scars on the brain, bruises on the inside that reflected on the outside. The pain. I’d have to learn to leave him before he left me, leave me before my soul would travel out the door with him, I’d have to start all over; kindergarten again learning to color inside the lines; stay in one lane, struggle to stay inside my shell. Kindergarten teachings of how to forgive my neighbor for taking my crayon, forgive him for taking my heart, forgive my neighbor for saying something mean, and forgive him for instilling negative thoughts about myself in my heart. I’d have to learn to apologize to my neighbor for stepping on his shoe, apologize to him for the attacks, apologize to my neighbor for making him cry, apologize to him; place his head in my bosom and console him for all the hurtful, vindictive things I’d said. The elementary process of forgiveness and passageways to moving towards a bright future. After the first hit, I was confused and afraid, it was like walking on eggshells, I was afraid I’d hit him again, afraid he’d just find someone else who wouldn’t hit him, who wouldn’t lie to him, who wouldn’t cause him so much physical and mental anguish. I was afraid after the second hit, afraid after pummeling him into a corner, fetal positioned, hands over his head while I silently beat him. There were no more sobs; there weren’t any more sweet words of remorse. Just a rush, a release, maybe a hug, a caress, a few tears forcefully shed to pretend I was sorry. I felt he deserved every hit he got for all the times he’d abandoned me, called me names, ignored me, and bragged about his past relationships. I felt he deserved for me to cheat on him, he didn’t pay attention to me so I found someone else who would. In a bipolar moment I felt he deserved all my time, heart, my life, my soul, everything that should’ve belonged to me and God. I was confused. I was afraid. “Tavier is so sweet, he called me back to back last night, I didn’t know my phone was ringing though, he even left a message.” I held my phone close and grinned like a two year old with their first piece of candy; I’d listened to the voicemail over and over and pictured him playing in his bed, staring at the ceiling, desperate to have his declaration of all his love meet my ears. I put my phone up to my best friend, Destinee’s, ear. Her voice annoyed me, especially when she was being negative about my new found love. “I think that’s some stalker stuff!” she pushed her hand against the phone like it was the plague. Later on the subject of someone calling back to back came up again and a friend declared how annoying it was. “If I didn’t answer the first time you call, or if I don’t call you back that means I don’t want to talk to you. To keep calling like that shows me you’re desperate.” My cheeks burned and my teeth clenched. Even though the statement wasn’t directed to me and my love, I still took it personal. “My man isn’t a stalker, he isn’t desperate. He just loves to talk to me, won’t go to sleep unless he hears me breathing on the other end of the phone.” I naively boasted. I defended “Us” in the subliminal fight. My other friend, who was oblivious to her insulting comment, looked at me like I was crazy. Yup, I thought, I am crazy, crazy in love. I leaned forward and started doodling on my paper, writing Tavier’s name over and over, drawing hearts, writing my name with Mendez attached to the back. I told Taye what happened at school and he said my friends were just “hating” on “us”, he backed up his claim by asking if any of these “bitches” had a man. “No” I stated. “Well then that proves it, those girls just want you to be as lonely as them. You and I are the only ones who’re going to understand us, those other bitches never had anyone love them, and they don’t even love themselves. I love you, Pooh.” I blushed at his nickname for me and felt relieved. All the negative words that’d came out of his moth, directed to me were forgotten and all the sweet and kind things he’d said were remembered and etched into my brain. Sooner than later the words that once comforted me began to make my skin crawl; it made me a lot less angry and more depressed, with all the alone time with myself that he gave me in between his hurtful rants, I had time to think. I thought about how we first started, how I should have seen the signs, how I did see the signs, the signs that said he was an abuser, the signs that said he wasn’t good for me, the signs that pointed at him were so alluring and mysterious that I just had get closer and closer to the dead end I now stood at. I ignored my mother speaking to me, I didn’t cater to my niece like I normally would, I would only be interested in things he liked, things he did, things that had anything to do with him. I distanced myself from everyone who mattered, making my state of being alone, turn into loneliness. He wasn’t there when I needed to be held or sheltered from the panic attacks. He just wasn’t there.

The stillness of the morning was broken by the sound of a distant helicopter. Carl Vondenburg had arrived. As the host of the annual Bird Rock retreat , an invitation only business meeting held at Vondenburg’s family compound off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard, Mr. Vondenburg had arrived early. His private jet from Vienna had flown overnight and landed at JFK. From there he took a short helicopter ride to his family estate, Bird Rock which had been in the Vondenburg family for almost 100 years. Carl’s father Duke Felix Vondenburg had purchased the island and built three homes one for each of his children and one for himself as a wedding gift to his third wife Julia. Although the family hardly ever used it, Felix spent at least a week on the island each year entertaining colleagues and clients. At first a casual retreat, it soon became an annual meeting of the global elite. Invitations were sought after, and rumored to drive some aspiring moguls mad with envy. People would hope and pray, often showering Felix with gifts from boats to Rolexes. But one never asked. To ask would mean to be black listed. It was said that Andrew Carnegie had once asked the date of the following year’s retreat assuming he would be invited, and was promptly blacklisted for life. The groundskeeper William Foster knew Mr. Vondenburg would be exhausted and had prepared his quarters with his usual requirements. Artisan water, chilled and served with a bowl of fresh cut lemons. Jamaican blue mountain coffee brewed and served with farm fresh cream. Assorted croissants, made fresh by the on staff bakery chef. Hand rolled cigarettes, and a snifter of single batch Buffalo Trace Bourbon. His bed was turned down and the music set to Mozart. As part of the advanced team Mr. Vondenburg’s personal assistant Terry Clarke had flown in the previous week to oversee and coordinate the event’s set up. She was there to greet him at the helipad in his custom golf cart with a seltzer water and cigarette. ”Welcome back sir I hope your trip wasn’t too taxing.” “I’ll need a new pilot, this one can’t figure out what a soft landing is.” “Absolutely sir we will get on that as soon as possible.” “Get on it today.” Mr. Vondenburg lit his cigarette. “I trust everything is in place and we are ready for our guests?” “Absolutely sir, everything has been arranged. No surprises.” Carl Vondenburg smiles at this, he hates surprises. “Good. When can we expect the first guest?” Troy Johnson will be arriving shortly after noon, Secretary Cunningham will be joining him in his chopper.” Terry drove the golf cart through a small wooded path leading to the sweeping lawn of the main estate. She followed the crushed oyster shell path along a small orchard passed the security gate where retired Boston detective Rudolph Mancini is posted as the head of security. Terry waves to him as they pass and continue along the path towards the main house, the massive lawn sloping off to their left and the ocean below glistening in the late morning sun. “The weather looks fantastic for the weekend sir.” Terry explains, trying to make small talk. “Where is your ID card?” Vondenburg responds. A wave of panic washes over her as she realizes her ID badge isn’t hanging around her neck. “Stop the vehicle.” He orders. “Rudolph!” Mr. Vondenburg barks at the security chief as he exits the cart. “Do I not pay you enough? Have I not been generous enough to your family?” Rudolph hesitates, as Terry scrambles from the cart in a panic. “Ms. Clarke doesn’t have her ID card. No one passes through here without one. Is that clear?” “Yes sir, I apologize. I thought because she was with you that…” “I don’t pay you to think. Please provide Ms. Clarke with another ID immediately, and be sure her lost lanyard is found. No one comes through this gate without an ID.” With that he returns to his cart and pulls out his iPhone, checking his email while Rudolph and Terry straighten out their mess. Some people think this is a leisure escape, but to Mr. Vondenburg it was the most important four days of the year. He would be welcoming the top 20 business and government leader from around the globe. Deals were not just made here, men were made. “I am so sorry for that sir, I was in a rush to get down and must have…” “Terry, do I look like I give a shit about why you don’t have your ID badge?” “No sir.” “Good, because I don’t. Not even a little. You fucked up, own it and make sure it never happens again.” Terry nods and starts the cart towards the house. “And make sure the lost lanyard is found.

They went further down in their submarine. Elliot looked out and saw something no one else appeared to see: a castle. Among the warped checkered tiles in the court of the king, there was a man who was known as Elliot. The castle in which he placed his residence was a very large castle with quite a bit of room, and yet to our character Elliot with whom you will be properly acquainted with in due time, these halls were incredibly tight and choking. Elliot was not a prince or a king or a jester, no, although they were all in the same residence, he was a nobleman. The castle had many windows, but no one ever left this castle. So they needed a man with knowledge of the world outside the castle walls. Consequently Elliot spent most of his time writing upon the people he watched through the windows. He wrote about the places outside the castle. But he never left it. The callas had always seemed strange to him, he often had trouble remembering if he was on the ceiling or on the floor. The castle felt often like you could easily reach all the way up and touch the ceiling with the lack of extraneous effort. Elliot spent most of his breath on conversing with the jester, the King's primary entertainment. This jester always seemed very cynical and his views most often conflicted with Elitist's own. The jester often spoke of the king's incompetence and the personal frustration of his entertainment being his seemingly sole purpose for existing. As for the king residing in the establishment, he was quite an unextroadinary character. A man who's greed had overcome him, and did not have must interest in anything aside from consuming everything he could; money, food and sex. There were others living in the castle who Elliot seemed to enjoy talking to less outside of business and political matters, he had not found them be of much interest or depth. Sometimes, the pipes would seem out of place to Elliot. Most of the metal seemed to be out of the ordinary no matter how many times Elliot saw it. He was walking along through the twisted and small castle halls when he saw his friend. It was at this time when he realized something seemed to be deeply flawed in the jester. As he went back into to his personal room, he felt the jester's sorrow echo throughout the walls. As Elliot sat in his room he realized the time it seemed to be: he hadn't slept for days. The nobleman lay there with his many futile attempts of slumber. So he crawled underneath his bed. He found a rather small pool of extremely thick black liquid. Elliot tried to sleep upon this, and as he got more tiresome he sank deeper and deeper into this liquid. Elliot was in a submarine. Elliot saw his crew members again: he often did not talk to them about much besides business and marine biology. He did not care for this life much as it felt repetitive, claustrophobic and dull. But Elliot sat around in the submarine for quite a while, taking note of the fish outside. As he was having dinner with the crewmembers, eating squid and tuna, Elliot noticed something outside. There seemed to be a cave along the floor of the sea with a bright yellow light contained within. Later, Elliot crawled out of his window with the cave barely in view anymore and swam towards it. The yellow was very bright and caused him to see red vertical lines. As he got closer, fish began to press up against Elliot propelling him into the yellow light. He felt very warm as he fell, into a vastness of white and he could hear faint nostalgic music in the distance for what must have been hours. Elliot was a king. He lived in his castle with warped checkers, he lived among people. He did not enjoy people, they were so unreliable and ever-so changing. There were two people Elliot did not mind tremendously; a jester and a nobleman. The king knew he mattered and he knew there were things for the man to do, and yet he still felt as if there was nothing to be done. On one particularly strange day, the king was checking in the lower levels of the castle. It was here that he stumbled upon something that had never been previously there: a cave. The cave had replaced where there had once been many walls and rooms of a pointless fashion. Elliot decided to venture into this cave. Water trickled from stalactites over head. As this water lay on the belly of the cave, it began to turn red, when the blood began to drip. The dripping stalactites led a path through the cave, a cave the king did follow. Arriving at the conclusion of the trickling stalactites, Elliot found a man. This man was covered in water, he was drenched, this man was the jester. The jester held a knife in his cradled hand. The hand struck into a woman's flesh, breaking the skin. As the jester repeatedly stabbed this woman, the king came to recognize her. The king had slept with this woman, he had known her. Yet, he felt no sympathy. He knew it was wrong, but felt there was nothing he could do to stop it. She was now dead. The jester turned toward the king, for he needed entertainment. The jester revealed a flute and began to play a gleeful tune upon it, one that would tug at the heart, a song with true nostalgia. His playing grew increasingly displeasing to the ear, as the water covering him began to turn to blood. The jester seemed to be angry and sad all at the same time. The jester was now no longer playing anything that could be defined as "music" just random blowing of his flute, until he eventually collapsed. Elliot awoke. Water dripped upon his temple. The world in the submarine was sideways. As he got up, everything adjusted itself, to look normal once again. Elliot was drenched in water, he began to look around and saw a severe lack of accompaniment. As he ventured further into the submarine he found a woman. This woman was almost entirely naked, her clothes ripped, she lay there covered in stab wounds. But there was no blood. It was at this moment that Elliot felt someone move behind him. He could a man running down the dense submarine. Elliot followed the sounds this man left by, running down hallways that seemed to grow in length as he went further. The walls turned to stone, and the floor turned to warped checkered tiles. Elliot arrived at the court of the king. The soles of his feet began to wet with blood. In the court, there he saw the horror. The king was among the bodies that lay strewn about, many he knew and many he did not. They lay there covered in their own misery. Sitting in the throne sat the new king. He was red. The jester sat there and looked solemn, with something truly frightening hidden within his mouth. Elliot felt the walls come closer together. They drew closer, invoking immense claustrophobia. Elliot could see the hatchet in the wall, and sprinted towards it, with the jester in pursuit. Elliot swung open the hatchet as water spilled into the castle, he swam through the hatch. He was now surrounded by a world he had never touched before. A world he had only seen from the inside. He felt the beauty of it and did not pervade any of it. He embraced it. As he opened his mouth, water flooded into his mouth, trickling down his throat. Occupying his lungs, the water began to sing to him. He could hear a song, he had heard many times. A song that invokes the melancholy in one's self. Being sung by a beautiful voice of a man, it began to be accompanied by the sound of many pleasant instruments, including a woman's voice and the alluring sound of a flute. Elliot opened his mouth, releasing a stream of red fluid into the water. He could feel the jester's mouth against his ear. The jester released words out of his mouth, but had nothing to say.

Sorry, new Title: Roads and the Ring. "Maybe. Maybe this was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the heart." At least one could see the direction of the heart. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow this way, you will never come back. The decision of the one road, it was: If you follow that way, you will always come back. "One could follow the way that the past was dead, but remembered. One could follow the way that the past was alive, but distant as the present." Before the decision of the road, one took the decision of the Way. It was: For where you walk, you're in your way. If you strive or mistook one direction, maybe it was this way. Maybe it was the other way around. No one could fool the decision of the road. "The decision of the Wise man isn't to fool himself or the people he share his life with. The decision of the Wise man is simple. Follow the Way, even if there aren't roads and you have to go barefoot." Walk on in your way, breath your spirit. "It's the way of the earth, to make the sun set once a day. It's the way of the human, to be awake and bath in the Sun's light." It is the way of the sun, to have his rays blocked by the moons and planets. It is the way of the sun to bath the unliving. "Until life arises and could stand, and praise and breath and meditate. That was part of the way of the sun. A way of living is too, a way of the sun. Breathing is our necessity." It's the way of the moon, to receive the sun light for us. It's the way of the moon, to cast it's shadow upon us. It's the way of the moon, that lead to comfort us from the warm sun. It's the way of the moon, that lead to many deaths and cycles. "Their wedding made the winds and the sea. Therefore, as i breath the air, i remember. My tiny lungs, in this tiny universe, my tiny mind in my tiny body couldn't not follow the big decision that i was to took." The way that i never come back, as the rays of the sun. Or the way that i will always come back, as the shape of the moon. "The way that i will consume everything within my approach, warm it, burn it, and interact with it - the planets and comets. Or the way that i will always be there, within my own spot, touching and colliding with the things that are across me, and simple being there. Casting shadow that moves. I will act on the space within my range." The decision is now more clear. "Expansion will lead to smallness, And stagnation will bring movement, And the wedding between the sun and the moon, Settled as the sun and the moon were kissing the sea." "A ring is two roads together." I took the ring and held it. I would gaze at it and invest all my spirit in this ring. My spirit was getting stagnate as i held it. What a heavy ring. I feel down. I am setting, as the sun. I will marry the sea, not the moon. "One will marry daughter, not mother. This is not the way." "One will marry mother, not daughter. This is the way." I threw away the ring in the sea. The seas unfolded. In a rampant, they got me my silver ring back. This ring is yours, mortal, i could hear the sea say. Please hold it, he is not a burden, but a gift. The sea remembered me. The obstacle is the Way. "Like a wave, i go swin in the sea to kiss the moon." Stars were bright in the blue night.

It's always been you, hasn't it? Strutting around alone in that dingy and desolate structure you so lovingly call home. Just you. And that revolting, vomit coloured iguana you keep. Igor, so appropriately named. For Hell's sake, N, at least give your pet a home, unlike you! You keep yourself so tidy and majestic, it sometimes strikes one that your life has been a huge mismatch, like you in your living quarters. Mismatch. What a word! The word defines itself. Like you. Your work, style of living, your thoughts, philosophies, your outlook towards life as an object, it all defines what you are. And yet, it doesn't. N, ladies and gentlemen, mismatch personified! ~ Well, well! Look who got a date! Meeting him for drinks, are we? That's a sexy little black dress that you're wearing, though. All the stitches in the right places to show off your ample curves and that intriguing Rattlesnake's Tail tattoo that creeps out of the dress towards your neck. Waiting outside that bar like a lady that you aren't, people, men and women alike, pass by you and take you in to their heart's content, wetting their lips. Of course they all want you, who doesn't like solving a mystery? And you're but the grandest of all, aren't you? Guy arrives in a cab. Get your shit together. The guy's name is Guy. You may have let out the slightest of chortles. Wow, slurp! He sure looks dapper. Such a gentleman, reading glasses, formal attire, clean shaven, with a whiff of an arousing aftershave. You should ask him his brand preference later. Aren't you overdressed? Are shall we say, ahem, underdressed? Mismatch. But Guy won't mind, would he? He has his own charm. Gentlemen can go suck balls, Guy hugs you and plants a kiss. Not on your cheeks. Neither on your lips. Fuck, Guy goes for your Rattlesnake Tail, your neck. Screw those things, you're taking him home. Of course, your hormonally charged and sexually deprived body has its needs as well. Guy almost runs to the same cab he got out of, opens the door and you push him in. Guy also faintly smells of Hash. The intoxicator is intoxicated. My Hell, N, get your shit together, stop with the wordplay, now, of all times! Cab stops, money is paid, doors are opened, then shut. Again, a door is opened, it's difficult to say who's pulling whom inside your, ahem, palace. It's dark, with a faint light glowing in the TV room. Thank your hellfire Igor isn't around. You throw Guy down on the floor, erupting in a little cloud of dust from your ancient rug. And ancient because fuck knows since when it's been there! Easy there, you minx! You don't have to eat his face out, that comes later. Focus on the important things. Guy is important. He's got what you always wanted, hasn't he? Such a charming face. And, my word, that tongue! Guy knows how to please. It appears that no time has passed and suddenly, all your clothes are all over the place. Guy holds you down, man he's strong! Everything about him makes you wetter, doesn't it, you masochistic little bitch? You're down on your back, Guy is down on his chest, his head between your legs. Your screams and moans resonate and reverberate as he eats you out. And suddenly, he's the one who's shouting. You look up, and let out a cute laugh. Igor is chewing on Guy's armpit. Atta boy! Thank God he didn't go for his neck. You have to preserve his upper half, no? You slide your hand behind you, under the couch, and out comes a blunt sandwich knife. Why is it blunt, N? Sharpen it, for fuck's sake! The screams get louder as Igor scuttles away. Now it's your turn. It's always been you, hasn't it? You sit on top of Guy's strong, muscled back, and start your work. Hoisting him up by his chin, you start to gnaw at his throat with that disgusting blunt knife. Get a new one, maybe? The screams don't even affect you. How many have there been? It's the usual. You'll be surprised if one keeps quiet. But it's all going to end now. Guy is the final piece in the jigsaw. Blood drains your already blood-stained carpet. How did that mouldy old clothrag ever gather dust with all that blood always keeping it wet? Guy is almost dead. Half his head is off, dangling by a few tendons now. Nearly Headless Guy. Chortle. His name should've been Nick. Fuck you, N, get your shit together. ~ You climb up the stairs and open the door. Wow! This place doesn't seem like it belongs in this shithole at all! White, filled with light, clean. It's spick and span, N! You're really taking that word seriously, aren't you? Come on, get a move on! Open that glass cabinet. It's just empty for one piece now. It's got everything else, no? Phil's strong legs, Omar's huge cock, Arnie's rock hard abs, Cassandra's perk little tits. Only Guy's head needs to go on the top. And then it's finished! Finally. After all this time. This has been your design, hasn't it? Mismatch. "Of course, it always has been. My very own Frankenstein's Fuckdoll. Skeletons in the closet? Bah! So cliché.

II Troy Johnson’s Gulfstream jet touched down at Hyannis airport on Cape Cod just before 11 am. As the Chief Executive of the largest oil drilling company in the world Mr. Johnson enjoys only the finest things in life. One of these is access to anyone at anytime, and so greeting him on the tarmac as he made his way to his chopper was Secretary of the Treasury William Cunningham. “Mr. Secretary how the hell are you?” “Can’t complain TJ, can’t complain.” Troy hated that nickname, but was forced to swallow it coming from the Secretary of the Treasury. The two men exchange pleasantries and begin walking towards the waiting chopper on the far side of the tarmac. Troy Johnson in his custom cowboy boots, blue jeans and blazer, Secretary Cunningham in a polo and khakis. “Well let’s get this party started.” Troy says with a wink and a slap of the back as they climb aboard the helicopter. Secretary Cunningham smiled at this. Bird Rock was anything but a party for someone like him. As the sole, albeit unofficial, representative of the US government, and someone who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in 35 years Secretary Cunningham found the weekend to be grueling. As the two men wait for their luggage to be loaded they settle into the fine Italian leather chairs and watch Fox news on the flat screen television. Mr. Johnson makes himself a drink and offers Secretary Cunningham a sparkling water. “Hell of a summer down in DC Mr. Secretary. What the hell is wrong with these assholes? I feel like I need to shit sideways to get anything done.” Secretary Cunningham shakes his head as the helicopter begins its accent out over Nantucket sound. “Speaker Walker isn’t going to give us anything.” Troy Johnson takes a sip of his drink and stares out the window at the sea below. “Well shit Bill, what the hell do we have you for if we can’t get anything through?” The coast of Martha’s Vineyard appears to the east as the helicopter banks towards Bird Rock Island. Secretary Cunningham checks his phone and ignores the question. The pilot comes on the speaker, “Ten minutes out.” Troy Johnson looks across at the Treasury Secretary. “Might be time for a leadership change.” The helicopter flies low over Martha’s Vineyard with the clay cliffs of Aquinnah falling into the ocean, jutting out towards the Cape. “I’m sure we will have time to talk it out this weekend.” Secretary Cunningham replies without looking up from his phone. Troy Johnson smiles as he sips his drink, and turns towards the window to hide his contempt as the chopper begins its decent. “I suppose you’re right Mr. Secretary, I suppose you’re right.” When Mr. Vondenburg’s father first purchased the island it was little more then an abandoned scrub-brush covered pile of sand. The construction of the three original modest homes was a marvel of engineering at the time. Now looking down at the sprawling estate, which includes a nine-hole golf course, an eleven-bedroom mansion and more then ten guest cottages, Troy Johnson finishes his drink and thinks about the weekend ahead. The self-proclaimed “Cowboy King” Troy Johnson was counted as one of the most influential men in American politics. His Super PAC “America NOW” had raised and given hundreds of millions of dollars over the last three presidential cycles and Bird Rock was a place where much of that money was spent.

III Rudolph Mancini steps into the road and stops the incoming delegation as they approach the guard booth leading up the main driveway to the Grand Estate. He has been the head of security for the Estate on Bird Rock since retiring from the Boston Police Department 15 years ago. His wife had been Mr. Vondenburg’s personal assistant in his Boston office until her death after which Rudolph was offered the job managing a security team of fifteen on the private island. It was as he called it a bird watching job, 50 of the 52 weekends a year the island was empty, and he spent his time watching the migration of the local bird population. His team was made up of various security personnel from around the world, some of which he hired on and others that traveled with Mr. Vondenburg or floated between estates as needed. For most of the year he retained a skeleton crew of three or four other individuals and along with Mr. Foster this made up the year round residents of the island. As the head of security he was the master of the island and answered only to Mr. Vondenburg himself. He was in charge of all protocol and procedures, and managed access to all visitors and staff and so as the golf carts approach the security booth he steps into the road to greet the newly arrived guests. They are escorted by one of his staff George Cullens another former BPD officer who is in charge of the security at the landing pad. “Mr. Secretary welcome back to Bird Rock.” “Thank you Rudy, good to be back. You know Troy Johnson?” Rudolph checks their security badges and types a few notes into his iPad. “Of course. How are you Mr. Johnson? Glad to have you back as well.” Rudolph walks around the carts to inspect the baggage. “Anything we need to know about in the luggage? Recording devices? Alcohol? Weapons? Drugs? Dead bodies?” Rudolph smiles as he hands the iPad to The Secretary of Treasury for his signature. Troy Johnson laughs out loud and shakes his head as he signs his name below the Secretary on the welcome screen. “Just a nice bottle of Bourbon and some Cuban cigars for our host.” Troy Johnson opens his duffle bag and removes a box of cigars. “Don’t worry I didn’t forget about you Rudy,” he says with a wink. Rudolph smiles as he takes the box of cigars and types something into the iPad. He returns it to the booth with the cigars as another cart appears from around the bend in the lawn. “Excellent. Corey here will show you both to your cottages, and make sure you have everything you need.” He hands both men an iWatch. “These are programmed for each of you and are connected to our security staff if you should need us as well as concierge services if you should need anything else. The weekend’s events are already inputted into the calendars and the watches have been synched to your own personal contacts for easier access.” With that he raised the gate and steps back from the golf carts. “Enjoy the weekend gentlemen, let us know if you should need anything at all.” Both men thank Rudolph and put their watches on as they fall in behind Corey who leads them to their cottages. Rudolph knows that it will be a busy day, and crazy weekend. The advanced team has been on the island for three weeks preparing in conjunction with a few personal security staff for some of the guests who travel with their own security. It is a challenge managing the egos especially of the private security, but Rudolph has built relationships with most over the years and they know the routine. The new guests are the hardest, and today there is a big one arriving. George Cullen pulls his cart up to the booth and removes his sunglasses. “Big Chief should be arriving in about an hour. After that it’ll be a steady stream until dinner.” Rudolph checks his iPad, “Yea looks like Big Chief just landed at JFK. They are staying in Blue Heron. Make sure they don’t take their weapons off the chopper. I’ll have G team at the landing pad when they arrive for back up. But I don’t expect any issues.

T'was the beginning of time, the muffs were resting in peace. The king was on his throne, Ricky was play some gentle ukulele for Muff Jr to enjoy. Even the most boisterous Muff Mr Fry was in soft silence. It was almost as if something was coming, something dark, maybe something evil? Marion was the first to instinctively suggest a cautious approach, she thought Mothy's throne could be at risk. Pete swiftly dismissed the claims and told her to bathe, "Bathe Marion, your body is in need of some tepid water", she agreed. But something unusual happened, Pete came to watch, she questioned his presence, Pete replied "I need to chant to you dear, sweet Marion". Without a response Pete picked up Mothy's famous staff, "Where did you get that?!" shouted Marion. Pete ignored her, starting a chant "ooba oooba", he pulled down his trousers, then his pants, Pete Jr was hanging there, withered. He carried on with his chant, "bamba bamba", it was all becoming apparent to Marion, Pete was summoning the sunshine muff, or as Mothy liked to claim "The anti-muff". "You can't?!" exclaimed Marion. Pete was angry, but why? He knew this could be the end of the muff race, he knew that the beginning of time would be greatly disturbed and the power of the Muffs could be no more. Marion wanted answers, Pete was still mid chant "Fiat Puntos, upside down Christmas tree", the sunshine muffs were almost coming, "Peter, Peter!" Marion yelled, desperately trying to get his attention, Pete continued to speak no words to Marion, however this time he appeared to acknowledge her, staring down smugly at his bare modesty. Marion began to calm down, almost as if she accepted that it was out of her hands "What is my fate?" she said, Pete spared a few words, perhaps not all the passion was gone "Coke filled cans..." it made no sense to Marion. The sunshine muffs are being summoned, there's nothing Marion can do, but what about the king? Where was the King? He was still sitting at his throne, but he knew something was up, the density in his beard had dropped, he stumbled off his throne, he felt weakened, he needed his staff. "Where's my staff" bellowed the King Muff, Ricky ran in, he seemed flustered, he seemed confused. Mothy noticed a troubled Muff, he lowered the pitch of his voice as he realised Ricky was sensitive, he said "What's up Rack?", Ricky replied "I was unsettled mid muffstabation, Muff Jr became despondent. Muff Jr didn't even want to go into the coppers Jar". Mothy tickled his beard and said "Grab me that ukulele Rack"...

Note: Please understand before you read, this is my first ever short story. I don't do well with grammar, so please excuse the bad grammar. I made a short story after randomly mentioning 'a cosmic game of hungry hungry hippo's' and got an idea. I also winged this one as I meant for it to be funny. - A son and a father are atop a hill at night, The father carries the son to the telescope."Look son, Happy birthday." the father gently whispers. "Wow dad! It's perfect!" the son replies. The father smiles softy as he sees the happy smile on his son's face. "Let's go look at the moon, stars and the planets, shall we?" he says to the son. He sets the son down who runs to the telescope. with the father not far behind. The father takes joy out of seeing his son enjoy his brand new awesome telescope. "Dad! there's something moving!" the son says of joy. "What is it son?" he asks as he walks toward him. The son takes his eye off of the telescope and looks at the father, "It looks like a giant hippo!" the son yells out. The father lets out a little laugh and decides to look into the telescope. His smile quickly lets down as he sees a planet sized Hippo headed toward earth, at the possible orbit of Jupiter this time. "Mother of christ..." he whispers, He snaps a photo of it through the telescope, picks up his son and runs. He hops on his computer and emails the photo to NASA. -NASA. 1:02am, Monday, July 3rd.- A worker at NASA opens up his email to see a picture of 4 Hippo's in orbit around Jupiter. With a giant, long tail of gas leaving Jupiter into the mouth's of the Hippo's. He drops his coffee mug and pizza as he prints the photo and runs to the conference room with the picture in hand. He rushed through the room, out of breath. "What is it?" one of the men asks. He regains his breath. "H-Hippos... Fucking huge ass Hippo's." He quickly says. He shows them the photo and they all look on in horror at the still shot of 4 Hippos. "What are they doing!?" one of the workers asks. "It looks like they're, eating Jupiter." One replies in disbelief. "What in gods name? How is this even possible?..." One asks. "Forget that, What do we do?" one asks "I'm not sure, We must figure out what to do. Who knows which planet is next." As the months went by, NASA kept up this secret covered up in order to avoid mass panic. The solar system slowly became unstable due to the planets being eaten by the hungry, hungry planet-sized Hippo's. Jupiter was the first planet that humans knew of that was devoured, but as time went on NASA found out that all planets beyond Pluto were also devoured. Within a year, they arrived to the orbit of earth. -October 12th, 3:15pm. One year later- "My fellow Americans, It is I, The president of the United states. But today, I will not be addressing you as the president. I will be addressing you as a human being. For a little over a year now, NASA knew of humanity's impending doom. There are four planet sized Hippo's here, in our own solar system. They have devoured all the planets, and as of this message, they are probably at the orbit of the moon. Now, Today. We all unite as humanity. Not individually. But together... I wish I could tell you that we could advert the impending doom... But we can-not.. Please, Go home. Be with your families. in 5 hours, Earth will be gone.. May god be with you, and may god bless us all..." Roughly an hour after that, The moon was gone. The climate of the earth went haywire. 3 hours after that, the hungry hungry hippo's covered most of the sky. Chaos ensued, riots broke out. but many had been with their loved ones. 5 hours after that. The hungry hungry hippo's, have consumed the earth. All of humanity, all life on earth. gone. The end.

I can't remember how I got here. I saw a guard standing near an exit out into the mountains, a sort of checkpoint so to speak. Normally he's blocking the way, standing like an official, but today he was leaned against the wall. I walked towards him, knowing full well that I was going to be stopped, but I wanted to see if I could get passed for once. Our eyes met, he stared at me, nodded, and looked back down as if he was going back to sleep. He wasn't going to stop me. I steeled and kept walking. I got to the door, and for a moment, my heart was racing. New territory. I'd been all over the neighboring regions, and this was crossing back over the border, but this mountain area was barely explored. I was scared. I was excited. As I exited the building, my eyes took a bit to adjust. It was a hillish sort of area, the grass was long except for the walking path, it seemed like it was well maintained, sort of. I decided that I wanted to head straight to the mountain. I looked to me left and saw a small pond, tall trees everywhere. I saw a small hut through the trees and it puzzled me. I thought about it for a second, and decided to go check it out. There were small cliffs all around as I walked, knowing I had no way to climb them, I had to walk around. I pushed through the grass, passing by large bugs, small birds, and even a few horses. People say this area have bears, but even then, they're pretty calm and ignore people. I just hoped I didn't piss one off. I kept to the path, trying to find a way around and get to the hut, and it was then a larger building caught my attention. It's red roof, sticking out at me. I wanted to get inside and check it out. The building was maintained perfectly. Clean. Great paint job. It reminded me of some of the places I'd visited in the towns accross my travels. I totally forgot about the hut, and just powered towards this building. I walked up to the door, went inside, and from my surprise there were people walking around. It seemed like both a rest stop, and a health clinic of sorts. There was even a young woman walking around as a nurse. Clip board and all. There was a hiker sitting in the lobby, he was saying how he'd been hiking all day and it was great to get to the clinic to rest. I looked around a bit and left. I stood outside, wondering what to do and as I turned to my right, heard a screen from a tunnel. It was an entrance into the tunnel. It sounded like a bat, but a little longer than normal. It sounded like a mean one, too. I wanted to explore it. It was an old entrance. The dust was thick, the entrance had cobwebs over it as well. As I walked up to the entrance, I noticed a sign to my left. It was old. Very old. I tried to read what it said, but all it had that was legible was "Mt. S". I heard the name of the mountain before, but forgot it. I tried to remember it, thinking that if I found something, I might be able to get it named after me. I scoffed at the idea and walked on. I entered the cave. My heart was racing. Darkness ahead of me, and only the light beaming through the entrance behind me. I went into my bag and pulled out a flashlight. It was emitting from my belt, letting me see a whole new take on the cave. It was beautiful. The rock formations were pristine, lined up perfectly. I was walking around, noticing things people left on the ground as I kept on. I was in awe that this cave, that this MOUNTAIN was never documented before. It was brilliant. I got towards the upper part of the cave and heard running water. I couldn't hear it that much, but as I kept going, it got louder and louder, much quicker. By the time I'd reached the back wall, it was so loud, I couldn't think to myself. It seemed that the back wall in this massive cave was actually much thinner then I realized. I looked around for a bit, hoping there was an entrance that went through to the other side. There was. I spotted it off to the right. I ran over and went through the arched entrance. It wasn't that long, but when I came through, I came into a cave that was even larger. That's when I saw it. A waterfall. It was at least two stories high, but about 3 houses wide. It was much brighter, but still dark. I didn't need my light, so I had put away and kept going. I was awestruck by the waterfall inside the cave. I looked around without moving for a bit, and spotted a flight of stairs, carved in almost perfectly into the rocks that lead up around 5 stories high. I ran at them and started climbing 3 stairs a step. What exactly was up here. Getting to the top, I saw another waterfall, even bigger. 5? No, it had to be 6 stories high this time. It was massive. I watched the water flow down and underneath the rocky path, sort of like a drain under a bridge, with the bridge being the rocky path I walked on. Over on the back wall was a tunnel exit. I knew it was an exit, because there was a light glowing from the other side. It wasn't as bright as when I came in so I pulled out my Gear to have a look. I'd been in this mountain cave now for hours. The sun was starting to set. I ran towards the exit. The exit looked the same as the entrance; Old, dusty, covered in cobwebs. I wanted to get on the other side as fast as possible. I wanted to see that sunset from a place no one has ever seen before. I wanted it so bad, to be the first person. Number one. I got close to the exit, sprinting. I heard behind me flapping, and a group of angry bats followed. At least I thought they were angry. I burst through the entrance just before they caught me, and was awe struck. I stood on a flat area, with a stone bridge in front of me. Perfectly carved. On the other side, another flat area cut into another mountain. I didn't think for a minute there was another mountain this close together. I began walking slowly, walking up some steps onto the bridge. As I looked over, there was nothing but darkness. No light could get in between these mountains. It was almost like an abyss. Looking up again, I turned towards my goal, and saw a figure standing there. Another person. He had his back facing me, staring into the wall. Who is that? Is it a person? What is he staring at. I kept walking. My legs were beginning to shake as I got closer. I began to make out the figure, and it was a person. A male. Looked like he was in his late teens from how skinny he looked. As I got to the end of the bridge, he turned around. I stopped. My heart stopped. My breath was gone. I knew who it was without a second thought. It was him. The legend himself. He beat the original 8, stopped a criminal organization, became a champion. Up until now, no one knew where he went, except for me. I found him. Missing for 5 years, I found him. Alive, still ticking. I just stared. I felt a rattle from my belt. The next thing I know, there was a burst of light in front of me, leading from my belt. It took a bit to materialize, but once the light faded, a beast sat in front of me, growling at the young man, with flames coming from his back. It was my best friend, my partner, my strength. He held his stance, growling. He knew what was about to happen. I smirked and looked down to him. The wind blew, and my hair floated back and forth. I grabbed my hat and turned it backwards. "To be the best, right, Volcano?" I said to him. He kept his stance. That's a Typhlosion for you. A loyal friend, till the end. Today was the day I was going to beat Red, the world's best Pokemon Trainer.

Life was alright. Not good, not bad, just alright. You could say I was wasted potential. I was *that kid*, the one who had the smarts, but just couldn’t be arsed to do anything with his life. It was true though, my math teacher always told me in his thick Indian accent. “Alex, you’re like a diamond wrapped in a paper bag. You can do so much with what you’ve got. Why don’t you do anything?” I always replied with my standard “I don’t know”, and honestly I had no idea. Shit was fine the way it was, why should it change? That’s when *shit* hit the fan. Moving is tough, especially for someone my age; the loss of friends, the stabbing feeling in your gut when you first set foot in a new school, the glares. I can’t stand the fucking glares. It’s like you shit yourself, and everyone sees you with that turd crawling down your leg, just begging to be noticed. I stepped foot inside the school, it smelled minty fuckin’ fresh. Then the wave of sweat and terrible cologne hit me, I tried not to gag as the secretary came up to me. She had a nice smile, that’s what I notice first. People say the eyes are the windows to someone’s soul, but it’s all bullshit. She led me to my homeroom, taking her time explaining how individuality is an important aspect within the school community. The words “Love Learning”, plastered on every wall and door possible; so much for individuality. As I walked into the homeroom, people were chit chatting, in groups as always; (what school wouldn’t be complete without cliques), they turned silent, turned around and glared. It was as if they were looking inside me, judging every aspect of my life, they were the ones who decided my future. Mrs. Marks, cleared her throat. “Everyone, please meet our new student Alex!” she exclaimed. I put out my best smile and received a few “hey’s”, immediately I found a place next to some cute girls. They were quite good looking as I remember, but who the hell cares; they had tits and tits ruled the school. One of them was named Katie, the other Victoria; we talked about music or whatever the hell eighth graders talk about. The girls seemed nice, I was fitting in, what else could a guy like me want. I wasn’t terrible looking, a bit on the chubby side but who the hell cares, I had REAL GIRLS talking to me. Maybe I’ll even get to kiss Katie someday, she seemed interested, even gave me her Facebook. And that’s where it all began.

Teenage Nightmare I was seventeen when the incident happened; still at school. I was actually in the school at the time, stood in a room full of my peers. Everyone was terrified, even me. The room was silent except for the sound of escaped whimpers; tears that couldn’t be held back any longer. The police were on their way but they wouldn’t make it in time. It would all be over by the time they got here; the madman with a gun would’ve done his deeds by then. As I looked around the room, I realised, in the midsts of fear, everyone showed their true faces. A lad named Alex, one of the self-acclaimed tough guys of the school, leaned ever so slightly to the right, just behind a girl as if he intended to use her as a human shield. Ironic considering just a few days ago he had been gloating on the school yard about how he had been behind her in a more intimate way and we had all been applauding him. I say “we” but I never partook in it. I found it quite ignorant the way he shared all the details about the girls he had been with, not something to be praised. In the silence of the room, the noise of the gun cocking could be felt through one’s chest. Most people closed their eyes and ‘went to their happy place’ but mine continued to search the room. They fell upon another self-acclaimed tough guy, although, I had much more of a history with this one. He was the kid I sat up at night crying about. He had never liked me and I had never liked him. Because of this, I always tried to stay away from him but he had a more physical answer to the mutual hatred. He used to beat me up. A lot. And not to get my lunch money or because his parents abuse him and he doesn’t know any better. No, nothing so cliché. He beat me up because he liked it. The sadistic fuck liked it. I hated him. And that’s why I’m gonna kill him first. Bang! His body dropped to the floor. They say revenge won’t make you feel any better and although I did feel slightly dizzy and nauseated from my first kill, there was also this overwhelming sense of power which made me feel invincible. Bang! Goodbye Alex, instead of a hot, blonde girl, this time you’ll be under six feet of dirt. Bang! Bang! Bang! 3 more dead. After your 3rd or 4th kill, it gets easier; you even enjoy it a bit. The police burst in just as I’m about to blow the brains out of a pretty girl called Sally who I actually used to have a crush on. I was genuinely shocked by their interruption. I hadn't expected them for another 10 minutes. One of them tackles me to the ground and holds me there while the others get everyone to ‘safety’. Ha. ‘See you at the school reunion’ I think to myself. I’m 32 now, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’ve done and the lives I’ve damaged and, to be honest, the only regret I have is not killing them all sooner. Last time I didn’t get to finish the job but I’m out now, and, although it’s July, it’s hunting season for me.

Doez rolled into the station 15 minutes early, as he had every day since he became a police officer. If you’re not early you’re late. As a result Officer Doez was never early and never late. It follows that Doez was greatly aggravated by his partner who was a canine and had no real sense of time, or solid conception of anything for that matter. There was no way to tell the dog to be ready when she was needed. Usually dogs are pretty good at this kind of thing. She was good at biting arms and sniffing out drugs and dishonesty which was why Doez tolerated her. Also they had a telepathic linkage and were friends. “Get in the car dog we have a big job today.” Doez directed this thought at the dog’s head. The dog barked and it was understood that the dog was having no part of the adventure awaiting Doez today. The dog had tested the strings of time and found a troublesome thing quaking out there, disturbing the delicate strings and obstructing her future-seeking eye. “Your call bitch.” Doez jumped in the squad car and peeled out, leaving the prescient canine in an enormous swath of dust. Doez drove for what seemed like several miles. Then he got there, to the governor’s mansion. The governor had been wanting to see him over some legal matters. The governor was waiting outside looking very regal and said, “Hello Officer Doez. Welcome to my mansion.” “It’s an honor to be here on your invitation to have me advise you on various legal matters.” “I know but let me give you a tour of the house before we delve into that.” The governor and Doez toured the house and Doez delighted in the small aquarium in the living room. The tank was beautiful, with small colorful pebbles in there and a little jet. “This is a neat little aquarium you got here.” “I know. But we are not here to discuss aquariums. Officer Doez, I want to gain your perspective on something. I need you to stand right here. Yes right here on this tile here.” Doez sensed subterfuge and immediate danger. “No, I will not stand on that tile. I sense some evil thing at play here with that tile there on the floor. I think it might be a trapdoor that is like motion sensitive. Like there’s a pressure plate there and I don’t know how it works but it triggers the tile to slide out from underfoot.” The governor eyed Doez very curiously and there was an unkind gleam in his eye. Suddenly he pulled out a gun and started firing. “Die!” Officer Doez leapt behind an ottoman and realized he was unarmed. He resolved then to never be unarmed again, if he made it through this and then he resolved to make it through this. The governor started throwing grenades and Doez felt a concussive blast and everything went black. When Doez awoke he was still in the gunfight. The governor was a coward and would not stop firing and throwing grenades despite all the damage it was doing to his mansion. The officer realized that if he did not act now he would probably die like the governor wanted. And there was no time. Doez didn’t think, he moved. He tensed every muscle in his body and sprang from behind the ottoman like a human hurricane. The governor was surprised and stopped lobbing grenades for a second, just long enough for Doez to tackle and hog tie him. Suddenly there was a voice down the hallway, a lilting and beautiful voice. The voice sweetly said, “What in the bloody hell is going on out here?” Doez viciously kneed the governor in the back and looked up. The voice had come from a young woman with very long hair. She was extremely attractive and Doez was filled with feelings of lust that had been unfamiliar to him since he’d met his wife. Doez mastered these feelings and ordered the young woman to the ground and instructed her to not try any funny stuff. He finished hog tying her just as the doorbell rang. It was the governor’s wife. She was about eleven hundred years old but seemed older. She pushed her way inside. “Hey what’s the big idea here mister? This is my house and it looks like you absolutely demolished the living room. What’s that about? Aren’t you supposed to keep the peace?” The questions were reasonable and Officer Doez knew he had some explaining to do however the words would not come. It was not that he was confused, or exhausted because he trained for these moments a lot. It was probably that he was surprised that the governor was such a coward and an adulterer. As these revelations sank into his mind, Doez considered the truth of the matter. This was not a man fit to run the affairs of the state. He probably didn’t even call Doez in to discuss legal matters. It was all a ruse. How could I have so grossly misjudged the character of this man? Doez was deeply troubled. This was unlike him, to be caught so unaware. If not for his feline reflexes… “Hello? Sir?” The governor’s wife waived a hand in front of the officer’s face but he did not register it. A million thoughts and queries were pouring through his head every second and it took every ounce of his brain power to not lose his mind in that whirlwind of burgeoning questions. He was thinking things like, how is this guy such an evil guy all of a sudden, why is that sexy woman here, what is true and good in this life? “Doez untie me and I will give you anything you want.” The governor was bribing him and Doez did not think for a moment of accepting the offer. “The only thing I want is to see you rot behind bars forever.” Doez hauled the man and his mistress in to the station and booked them on adultery charges. They were convicted and sentenced harshly because the righteous judge despised the wicked corruption that had wracked their blighted souls. The governor’s wife caught hypothermia because her mansion was busted up and she died alone, the last victim of the governor.

As I lied in my over-sized bed that felt like a stationary cloud forever supporting my thin figure, I couldn't help but continue pondering. Pondering and pondering. The same question that has pestered me day and night for 2 moon cycles. It seemed the sun was forever in the center of the sky. Every time my eyes opened and looked at the window, there the sun was. Was my sleep cycle so contorted that I always awoke at 3 pm? Has this question completely conquered me so, that I fail to accomplish any other task? The empty halls of my dorm felt cold and bare. It could be from the memory of my ex roommate having the AC and fan running all day and night. Or more realistically the frozen feeling of loneliness. The summer heat couldn't revitalize my numb feeling. My fingertips tingled like frostbite had come to give me an answer to all my woes. With one twitch of each finger, the tingling vanished. There went my answer. My escape from this frozen, 3 pm, centered sun of a hell. What life can I produce like this? Who can I interact with, have a conversation with, listen to? It's not like I don't have friends and family. I just can't talk to them. Not about this. What could I say? "Hey. Um yeah I'm actually not okay. No, yeah. You see...” what do I say. How can I explain when I don't even know the answer myself? What was the question again? Am I okay? No. No I'm far from okay. Did I come up with an answer? Or was that not the question... my head felt like lead, a loaf of stale bread, cold and dead. Cold. Dead. Death. Was that the answer? Could death be what I longed for or would that just make me even more cold and lifeless. Would being breathless actually solve anything? I doubt it. My eyes opened at 3 pm again. But I didn't look out the window. If I didn't see the sun, then the sun did not exist. If I cannot see it then it does not exist. My parents don't exist, KFC does not exist, an Xbox one does not exist, but this bed does exist. Once there was a fan here. Right here next to my bed. The fan that battled the warm summer heat waves. The fan that made sure my skin didn't have to sweat. The fan that ensured my old roommate could sleep comfortably. Just a memory. What used to be and will never be again. Is today a new day or a continuation of the last? I don't think. Yes, if I don't think then how can the question bother me? Or rather. I guess if I don't think how can I get an answer? If I turn over onto my side, would I see a different perspective? Is my Dorm room a metaphor for my life and everything I hold dear? My ex roommate. My ex fan. My ex friends. My ex. People that walk out a door can easily walk back in though, right? It's not like if I can't see them they don't exist. If I don't see them. I don't see the sun, the sun does not exist. Was I always alone in this room? Did the moonlight always dance around my room, reflecting off of dark color hues? Dark colored laptop, dark colored PlayStation, dark colored clothes. Maybe some color would do me some good. But then again she always said I shine bright even in the dark. Will I ever see her again? The world froze over. My fingertips tingled. It was 3 pm.

I don’t know where to begin, Doc. *Well, start from the beginning.* That’s the thing. I actually have no idea where the beginning is. *What’s the last thing you remember?* It was snowing in my room. It was summer, and it was snowing in my room. That was the day I met her. My wife. Her name was…Edith? Emily? It started with an E, I know that. *It was Emily.* Thank you. Emily. She was new to my neighborhood. It was my birthday the next day and I wanted to invite her to my party but I was too shy. My mom invited her for me. I was seven years old. I couldn’t wait for her to come. The next day was my birthday, and I turned 19. I watched the trees fall done in front of my house and the neighborhood go bad, but she was still there. That birthday was crazy. *Is that when you went to Poland?* I was actually in the Amazon. It was so humid there, Poland could never be that humid. The Nazis had infiltrated a tribe, but little did they know, the tribe was already with us. They- *Don’t you think that’s a little far fetched?* Believe me, I was just as shocked as you. No one speaks German in the Amazon! Imagine trying to communicate! At least almost everyone in the world knows some english. We were there for two years. Meeting the locals, assimilating with their culture. By the time I finally felt at home, I went home. My parents had moved by then, downsized. It was understandable given the time I had been gone. I’ve never been a sentimental person, so it didn’t really affect me. I just was going to miss Emily. *When did you meet up with her again?* A year or two later. I had just turned 38. I worked at a steel plant and it was the anniversary of my eighth year being unionized. I was buying flowers. Three years later I was 41. *Wait. So you saw her again when you were 38 or 41?* Neither. She died when I was 27. I found out a year later. I bought flowers for her every year on her birthday, the same day I found out I was unionized. I stopped when I was 41. *Oh. Why did you stop?* I died when I was 41 years old. It was all gray for a year. I stopped seeing Emily then. That’s how I knew I was dead. For six months I didn’t leave the house. I woke up in the spring. It was a warm day and I just sprinted outside and I saw everything. *You were reborn?* Exactly. I could see God and he nodded at me and I lived again. I hear Him a lot now. *What does he say?* It’s mostly messages from friends. I hear them talking to me but I can’t answer them. *You’re sure it’s not the message machine?* The what? *Nothing. It was just a joke.* Oh. Sorry. I don’t hear a lot of jokes anymore so I don’t really know when to laugh. *Do you have a favorite joke?* No. I’ve had amnesia for as long as I remember. *Oh.* That’s the joke. *…Ohhhh! That’s clever.* Thanks doc. You don’t mind if I call you doc instead of doctor, right? I just don’t have a lot of time for two syllable words anymore. *No, I completely understand. Kids don’t even have time to say full words anymore and they have all the time in the world.* That’s a shame. When I’m old I hope I don’t end up like that. I’m going to go to sleep now. I’ll see you when I see you, doc. *Okay, goodnight.* *I love you dad.

Since I was three, I've had an ability. I was able to fall asleep instantly, whenever i wanted to. So instead of crying, or getting upset, I would usually just fall asleep. The sleep was deep, but it only lasted about half an hour. My parents would always set a timer when they saw me fall asleep like that. When I was five, I found out not only could I cause myself to sleep, but I could cause animals to fall asleep too. I would make eye contact, and then just, rest them. I don't know what really does it. It feels like a muscle in my brain. I can just mentally push into their head to cause them to sleep. When I was ten, I started doing it to humans. A kid would come up to me and try to pick on me, since i was a small kid, but I could just push into his head and rest him. No one in my school could really be sure that I was the one causing it, but they had their suspicions. Then, I found out I could control the amount of rest. When I first started doing this, it simply fluctuated. An animal or a bully would fall asleep, and then two minutes later, boom. Up and about. Or 45 minutes. Or 10 minutes. It was always different until I managed to figure out how to control it. Then, when I was twelve, I was kidnapped. The kidnapper wore sunglasses until we got to his basement. But I knew I shouldn't panic; my moment would come. When he took them off and looked into my eyes, I immediately pushed in, and out of fear I pushed as hard as I could. I escaped and called the police on this guy, and he was in a coma for ten days straight. I got a ride home in a police car, and came home to my crying mother. They were both scared, of course, but my dad knew I could take care of myself in any situation. I'm twenty-three, and I've joined the police force. I have full control of my power, with rest time ranging from 60 seconds, to 4 whole hours. Ever since the bullies at school, I knew I could use my power for good. And since the kidnapping, I knew that if I didn't use my abilities wisely, there could be more gross dudes out there, waiting to target and strike innocent children. I wasn't gonna stand for that. The distance was another important part of my ability. If they were too far away, the amount of sleep could be halved. I found this out during an apprehension. My partner told me to quickly rest someone who was 50 feet away. I told my partner he could only be asleep for 5 minutes, but sure enough, I was wrong. We got to him, and before we could even get the handcuffs on him he started writhing and trying to escape. He reached for his weapon, but we were quick enough to take him down before he could flee. I simply turned to my partner and shrugged. "I guess I have to be close for it to work." Then one day I woke up, took a shower, but something felt off. My wife wasn’t home; she had to go to work early. I tried to shrug it off but something really didn’t feel right. That’s the last thing I remember before blacking out. I'm currently sitting...somewhere. Probably a dark room. Hands are tied. A tight blindfold around my head. I can probably take these guys. I hear footsteps...and a voice. "My creator has given me the lovely task of." He paused, and his voice shifted slightly. "Doing experiments on your brain." The man is taking off my blindfold. Wait...creator? "Let's get started." I look into the guy's eyes, but I don't feel anything. I can't push! What the hell!? "There is no need for struggle. Be still, and calm." The man lifted up his hand, which retracted into his arm. A sharp blade came in place of the hand, and his eyes became lights. S***. Not human.

“As a young boy he was never very good at making friends. He didn’t really seem to like the other children in his class and chose to kick sand in their faces rather than play tag with them,” The woman chuckled at the memory. “Did he get in many fights then?” The man was scribbling away on his notebook. “Oh no not really. He was a sweet kid, all his teacher adored him at that age. He only ever attacked when provoked. You know how children can be, trying to assert their dominance. He was an easy target, but soon he learned, a lot younger than most, that if he just ignored them they would go away.” “That is impressive, especially for such a young boy.” “Oh yes he was a bright child. My sweet Ethan. I worried about him not making friends, but then he started talking about one of his classmates more and more.” “Do you remember the other child's name” “Oh yes of course. Max. They seemed to be getting close and I was happy he had found someone to get along with. Growing up can be so hard especially when going at it alone.” “When was this?” “Oh Ethan must have been 12. Starting puberty, oh dear all those raging hormones. He was starting to become a moody teenager already. I couldn’t stand the thought of my Ethan growing up but what is a mother to do? Boys will be boys. He started spending all his time with Max. They were inseparable those two. Always out on adventures in town. I’d hear from shop keepers all the time about them seeing Ethan running around wild. I use to get scolded for that you know, Letting him have so much freedom. What exactly could I do? Lock him away? He was as stubborn as his father had been. “Soon though I began to worry about him. He started pulling away from me. I know thats to be expected from a teenager, but we had always been so close. He was my angel. He became very secretive always locked up in his room. Sometimes I’d even hear him shouting. When I went up to investigate he’d just look at me and say something like ‘Max and I got into a fight’.” “Tell me more about his friend Max.” “Oh what is there to tell? Pre-teen boys are always a mystery to their mothers. I never even really saw him much to be honest. When ever he came over they would stay up in Ethan's room. As quiet as mice those two. He was clean, never left a mess, unlike Ethan always spread about. Most of the time they were out of the house. Either in town or over at Max’s I assume. Though I got the vibe Max didn’t have a good home life.” “Why is that?” “Anytime I’d ask Ethan about it he’d mutter about something or other. The story always shifted. I had a feeling he was hiding something his friend didn’t want spread around. I worried about Ethan being exposed to anything, but then again thats life. “High school was the hardest. Ethan got into all kinds of trouble. He was a smart kid, but always failing, skipping class. He got busted with pot a few times, but back then all that got you was a smack on the wrist. “He never spoke to me now. I tried to control him I did, but he just never seemed to listen. I think that Max kid was turing him against me. Bad influence and all. My Ethan would never have.... He was a sweet kid. A good boy, it was Max, it was all Max.” There was a long pause. “Can you tell me about the day when it happened?” “Ethan was always an easy target, an outsider. He was bitter toward the world, never had he seen a kind hand in it. Not his waste of space father nor those bastard teachers who never gave him a break. Everyone just wrote him off. They didn’t see him the way I did, the sweet little boy he was. Oh Ethan...” “Do you remember what happened?” “He was rarely home those days, always out with Max. That rotten seed of a kid. Always filling his head up with these... ideas. He used Ethan. I swear it! It was all Max’s idea, he just didn’t have the guts to do it himself!” “Yes, but what happened? You need to tell me.” “His father was a hunter, stupid man never could hit a target three feet in front of him. Thats probably why he left all his guns when he took off. I kept them in the attic, didn’t know what to do with them. I hated the damn things, wanted to get rid of them. I was getting around to it, I was just so busy. “I don’t know when Ethan found them, I bet it was Max any how. Going through my things. The two of them must have been shooting in the field. I found bullet casings once. Never gave it much thought, there are hunters all around. Thought one of them had just wandered onto my property. I never knew...I never knew..” “Where were you when it happened?” “At work. The police came and took me away. Everyone was staring at me. Like it was my fault. It was Max! All Max, oh if I ever get my hands on that child... For what he did to my sweet boy. Ethan would never hurt a fly, not unless provoked. Thats how he always was. Kids can be so mean, trying to assert their dominance, it wasn’t his fault. Ethan I know it wasn’t you baby I know, mama knows.” “Ma’am your son killed 5 of his school mates at point blank range, and then himself, with a hunting rifle You need to accept this.” “No no no no no, it was Max, it wasn’t Ethan. Max did it. Max...” She began to mutter on and on. The Doctor could tell the session was over. He got up and left the room leaving the woman rocking herself on the bed. A nurse was waiting in the hall. “How was she today?” “Better I got her to remember the actual event, and some things leading up to it.” “Did she mention Max?” “Oh yes, she blames him for the whole thing in fact.” “Well she isn’t wrong. Schizophrenia rarely leaves the person in control. This “Max” persona may have simply just been a projection of Ethan’s darkest desires, but she had to know Max was never real.” “I can’t say when she realized he wasn’t real, if it was before or after. Obviously now she is in denial, but she knows. Mental illness is genetic. This is the best example I have seen of this in all my years.” The doctor began to walk away down the hall. “Do you think Ethan knew he wasn’t real?” “We will never know will we. All that died with him, 20 years ago.

The Little Girl who was Always Alone There once was a little girl who always sat alone at school. She had a bright pink backpack and yellow shoes. At lunch she ate alone, during class she sat alone, and during play time she played alone. The teacher began to notice. She worried about the girl not making friends. It wasn’t like the girl was sad. She always was smiling from the back of the class with her yellow shoes tapping on the the floor. She was a sweet girl and always had pleasant things to say. The teacher tried to have the others students in the class play with her, but they didn’t understand, they were children, so she stayed alone. As the year moved on the teacher became more and more concerned about the girl. She asked other teachers for help on how to handle the situation and the other teachers always said “Group activities”. The teacher tried this, but the girl would just sit silently looking at the group, not saying a word, and the other children would just leave her be until the activity ended. The teacher tried not to worry, but found the girl in her thoughts often. The other teachers could tell something wore on her mind but they grew tired of hearing about this strange little girl and her curious habit. “So she likes being alone? Some people are just wired that way. Why are you so bothered?” “Just something about it doesn’t sit right with me.” The teacher decides to talk with her parents, see if they were concerned. She watched the little girl stand beside another little girl at the end of the day under the cover of the carpool lane. This girl was older, perhaps a sister? A car comes and a woman steps out to greet the children. The teacher notices she is warmer to the eldest and the little one simply watches silently. The girls get in the car and the teacher comes up to the mother. “Hello ma’am, I teach your daughter and I wanted to talk to you.” “Is everything alright?” “Oh yes, I just have a minor concern nothing really, but I would feel better if we discussed it.” “What minor concern?” The mother looked worried. “She just seems to be keeping to her self a lot. Have you noticed this?” The mothers face looked grave, “Yes I know, after her younger sister disappeared and the police never found... she has just been dealing with a lot. Give her time.” “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that there was a younger sister, though I will admit I didn’t know she had an older one either.” “I beg your pardon?” The mother stood still. “She doesn’t have an older sister what are you talking about? I just have... had the two girls.” The teacher stared at the mother and then at the car where two little girls sat. The eldest looked sad, the teacher hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was blatant. The little one sat smiling, her pink backpack sitting in her lap. The little girl stayed for the rest of the year. Always sitting in the back of class with a big smile. The teacher ignored her now, but the little girl didn’t even seem to mind. When the year ended the girl left and didn’t come back. That summer a pink backpack was found buried in the woods. The police speculated that it had been there for over 6 months. The little girl was never found.

PART 1: THE WEEKEND Becky Johnson was your typical college girl, slightly sympathetic toward the issues of the world and even more sympathetic and otherwise giving the benefit of the doubt toward her friends and colleagues. Of course she liked going to parties and being able to drink a bit without anyone that matters taking notice. She did not do this too often, but enough to have a routine. Becky's brother, Chris has been on the local police force for about three years, he entered the police academy after high school. Chris tends to be a bit protective of his younger sister, for obvious reasons. Someone not knowing the two of them may think Chris is playing mommy to Becky by the way he likes to remind her of certain things that tend to be "restrictive". "Limit your beers to two!" he would harken. Not much "fun" to Becky. She always found a way to justify drinking a bit more than "normal", but she had enough sense to know her limits. On a Friday, Becky was leaving her last class of the day. It was quarter to three when she heard the all too familiar ding on her phone. It was a text message from Alyssa Mitchell, a good friend of Becky’s since their first year at college; both Becky and Alyssa were seniors now. "Hey girl! Party at Dave's place this Saturday around 9. See ya there! :-)" the text read. Oh... Dave Matherson. Becky had the hots for this guy. He was a Philosophy major and she was really attracted to guys "of the mind". She could feel herself begin to blush after reading the text, and quickly pushed the phone back into her pocket. She would often try to catch Dave's eye whenever she would see him walking between classes. He knew who she was as they both shared small talk in the past. Some people may think he was playing hard to get, while others may have thought Becky was just too shy to ask Dave to hang out, let alone go on a date. It wasn't that Becky was a prude and didn't know how to ask Dave on a date, she just never got around to actually doing it. Plenty of times she would play out the proposed scenario in her head, but no execution came from that. "What kind of party is it?" Becky asked in a text back to Alyssa. "Just a get together. You know, like before," Alyssa replied almost immediately. Becky had thought about this. The parties "like before" had been for the most part rated “PG-13". They were just social gatherings; frat boys and some wannabe sorority girls were the main mix along with a lot of loud music. And beer. It was something Becky knew a thing or two about. She knew what she liked, and what she didn't like. Hard liquor wasn't part of the equation, neither was wine. Just beer. Becky lived off campus and commuted to class. She only lived about half an hour away. She lived by herself, but had friends over regularly. Alyssa came over after class on Friday around 5 o'clock. "I don't know if I should talk to Dave at this party," Becky complained. "What do you mean? I think he likes you. I know you do!" Alyssa said. Becky was starting to turn red with embarrassment. She liked Dave, but wasn't that sure about him. She and he only chatted a few times on campus. Some would argue that there hasn't been enough grounds for a date yet, depends on who you ask. "Just play it cool, Beck, you'll warm up to him soon enough," Alyssa explained. "Besides, if you two don't exactly hit it off at the party, there's always next time." "I know, I know, it's just..." "Just what?" Alyssa inserted quickly. "I don't think you know how difficult it seems to be for me to talk to him more than I already do," Becky said. "At times, I'm just afraid that he'll say something with double or triple meaning and it'll go over my head; something I won't know how to respond to," Becky explained. "You know how those Philosophy majors can be!" Alyssa sighed and shook her head in slight disbelief at this statement. "Becky, you're just overthinking all of this. Just start out with some small talk and let it go from there, whatever happens, happens,” Alyssa said. "I've always tried that, it doesn't go anywhere, you know that!" Becky exclaimed, this time red with embarrassment and warm to the touch. Alyssa restrained from commenting any further about the matter. This type of exchange was normal for the two of them, no need to think they were fighting. They ordered Chinese that evening and had a "girl's night" with foreign films on Netflix, Becky's favorite.

The car speaker blared as I rolled down a coastal street in Cape Town. Stopping at a red light, I began to take in the beauty around me. The sky was a deep blue, the sun was smiling, and the air was sweet. The ocean rolled with the music, bringing fresh feeling to an old song. And then I saw her. The first thing I noticed was the guitar. Hung with loose abandon behind her back, it bobbed up and down as she crossed the street. Her blonde hair weaved between the strings, catching the sun as she passed. For a brief moment, the song - which had occupied my thoughts only moments earlier - seemed to fade out. I willed her to notice me. She walked straight past my car, and I surrendered myself to the fact that my attention had gone unnoticed. And then she stopped and turned. Her pink summer dress continued to flow as her body stood in perfect stillness. Our eyes locked for some time, and the shadow of a smile formed on her face. Then she was gone.

Category (31 - 7061)           Form - A3042 Subject ID | 005278336541 | || **Age** | 32 **Sex** | Male Subject Notes **Preliminary case notes**: Subject seems to have difficulty in maintaining constant sleep state and difficulty in crossing third gate. Deeper sleep nodes have been tested but unable to produce repeated access to gates 3. Possible inception of voluntary drug use however, ethics board yet to reviewed case file. Meal notes below.   **Meal**: Meatloaf, Mashed Potatoes, Brown Gravy; Chocolate Ice cream **Alcohol**: [1] 12oz Beer (Dogfish Ale)   **Case notes** Subject entered rest state at 22:45 GST. Gate 1 activated at 23:10 GST. Rest levels remained constant from 23:15 - 01:23 (7.67 Hz +/- 0.02). Levels peak at 10.85 Hz at 01:45. Subject reenters rest state at 03:20 GST. Gate 1 activated at 03:25 a-levels at 9.28 Hz with t-levels at 6.43 Hz. Unknown reasons for quick re-entrance, normal levels throughout. Subject entered Gate 2 at 04:10 with a-wave knockout at 4:12. k/s - levels measured at 13.45 Hz *average k/s levels for subject at 12.65. Unknown reasons for variance. Subject entered Gate 3 at 4:40. d-levels measured at 1.22 hz, *average levels at .98 hz. Gate 4 entered at 5:10. Gate 4 theoretical exit at 5:25, subject has not moved out since last notation. Dream review may be necessary to determine cause, supervisor Roth to be notified. Subjects Ach and 5-Ht levels to be in excess secretion and unknown reasons as to why. Subject monitoring passed to Division W.

Harold Fenugreek, had a perfect life. A beatiful wife and daughter to match. A steady job in the financial industry, taxing but did it for his family. Aniseed Fenugreek, then six years of age was full of life, Beethoven's "7th Symphony,'" always echoed from her room. Confident, sweet, and sturdy she was loved by all. On a hot July morning Harold's life would change. Faulty wiring sparked the dry foundation. Soon the upper middle class abode was ablaze. Waking up in a sterile white hospital room, connected intravenously, body scorched, lungs collapsed. Confused, alone besides a roommate, a elderly man gasping at a tiring rite, he soon collects himself. From chapped lips, all he can say is "Aniseed.'' Then retires back to his slumber. Awakened again, this time surrounded by his family, but lacking a member. While studying the faces of grief stricken of kindred he already knew Aniseed was gone. After blood transfusions, skin grafts, and ointments, he would soon return to the side of his wife. Now, though in a effciency apartment. Job, house, and child were gone, and soon the flames would consume his marriage. With a insurance settlement now delivered, he needed to decide on what to do with his life. Live off of it and continue to slip into even more a depression or move on? With the memories of Aniseed he couldn't help but to move on. For her, for him, he will move on. While having a macchiato with an old co-worker, he slips out that his friend is selling a ice cream truck. Ice cream truck, those words couldn't help but to bounce around in his craium. Not willing to remarry, or to ever again reproduce, this is the best way to be around children. With a phone number produced by his friend he called. Fifteen thousand dollars later he had his truck. "Aniseed's Tastees." With a new paint job, health certification, and a theme song. Beethoven's 7th second movement. Thing's couldn't of been better, but little did he know that it's a failing industry. Pacing down the neighborhoods like a caged chimpanzee. Besides the random customers, it was a dismal enterprise. The routine got to him. Should he quit, give up? No, he wasn't going to lose another Aniseed. He decided to change neighborhoods. A new path, mentally and physically. The new beat was working out, kids swarmed the truck. He had a hard time keeping product. He hit the jackpot, things are turning around. Little did he know that this neighborhood was a cemetery, handing out ice cream to hallucinations. He became an icon of the small city, both laughed at and feared. Non of that mattered because Harold was now at peace.

I It was around the age of six when my suspicions of the Easter Bunny were confirmed. The damn thing didn’t exist. I can owe this to my mother’s brother or, as I called him the few times that I saw him, Uncle Darren. After I finished looking for eggs in the backyard, preferably the plastic ones with quarters and the rare ones with dollars in them, my Uncle Darren stood waiting for me at the patio before entering the backdoor to the house. I walked over, sifting through my basket of eggs, pushing the hard boiled eggs to one side, so I could give them to my father, my Uncle Darren said to me, “You know that your mama and your daddy hid those eggs while you were sleeping? You’re too old to be believing those stories. Same with Christmas and losing your teeth. Your mama and your daddy put all the presents under the Christmas tree while you’re asleep, eat the cookies and drink the milk you left out, and even sign Santa on the present. Same with the Tooth Fairy. There is no Tooth Fairy or any of those other fools. I just thought you should know.” I stood looking blankly at his round face surrounded by shoulder length, stringy, black hair and a shiny bald spot where his bangs were many years before. My mother overheard this and quickly approached my Uncle Darren, her brother, the ogre who ruined all imagination for holidays to come, in her eyes, that is. As the belligerent swearing started between the two of them, my mind drifted off, pondering all of this information that I received. This is one of the earliest forms of euphoria that I could remember. Even before any sexual euphoria. That came later in my youth. My mind was fuzzy to the back and forth of hateful discourse between my mother and my Uncle Darren. I slowly took steps to go back into the house. From the laundry room, I reached the kitchen and headed down the hall to my bedroom, not even feeling the weight of the real and fake eggs in the purple wicker basket. I sat on my bed, crossed my legs and hunched over, my chin resting in the palms of my uncertain and sweaty hands. What am I to do with this information? Accept it and move on with my life? Become upset and demand an explanation from my parents? Pretend this never happened? Wish death on my Uncle? Was it liberation? Sliding off my bed, I walked over to the closet and sorted through all of the toys, everything in my closet and drawers. On the left side of the room, I organized all the toys on the floor that my mother, my father and anyone else that I have seen in an existing and physical form, and on the right side of my room, I set aside all of the toys that were given to me by beings, apparitions, fables and such that I had never seen, only heard of through stories told and books read. I did have some relatives that lived in another country that I had never seen, but I had seen photographs. That was validation enough. The pictures I had seen of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and whatever else people told me existed and gave people gifts were all just fabrications. Thoughtless thoughts. Pointless dialogue to the common man or woman. A silly notion to brighten the gullible eyes and minds of children. Am I no longer a child? Have I reached manhood at the age of 7? I felt like there needed to be a proper introduction between the toys on the left side and the right side. I am the diplomat that has learned of a dire lie and need to inform my people, so there is not a future war. Maybe, I can be the partially remorseful dictator and burn my people, so they’ll never know the travesty they have lived. The lie they have lived with unconscious delusion. How old was the youngest king? Am I the delusional one? I couldn’t think of a proper solution to mend such a disaster, so I left the room. Left the room to clear my mind and forget that Easter was even a day on the calendar. For now, the calendar didn’t exist. A figment of my imagination. The first door to my left outside of my bedroom was the bathroom. The only bathroom in the entire three bedroom house. I opened the door, walked inside, closed it and rested my head against the door while locking it. My breath became louder as my mouth was only a few inches from the surface of the door. Eventually, I had to pull away, because the warmth of my breath began to create this gross moisture above my lips, cheeks and chin. From time to time, the only way I could calm myself was to lie in the empty bathtub. I often enjoyed picturing the water lifting just below my nose, allowing me to breathe. Even when I took a bath, I would slip down enough that my nose would be above the surface. Sifting through the water like the periscope of a submarine. II I was often told that if I was troubled, feeling worried, uneasy or any other kind of negative feeling, I should turn to my necklace of Saint David. Not even sure where that necklace went, nor even sure what Saint David represented. For all I knew, he could have been a patron saint of tax collectors, photography, baking, painting, bee keeping or even of librarians. How am I supposed to turn to a patron saint to fix my problems? They’re just some poster child for everyday activities, places, illnesses and so on. Just dead people that were remembered for their hobbies. But, who am I to judge these teaching, since I am only 7. But, I could be on the cusp of manhood, giving me some right to question. A pounding on the bathroom door woke me from my daze and I slid the back of my hand across my chin and mouth, wiping away a dribble of spit. I pushed my hands down to bring my feet under me and hopped out of the tub, pushed my hair back and blinked a couple of times to assure others that I wasn’t asleep. I always felt a certain level of shame in people knowing that I fell asleep outside of bedtime. I unlocked the door and opened it to find my father. “What the hell are you doing? I need to take a piss. Your mother is looking for you,” my father said with panic and a frown, rushing to the toilet without closing the door. Not sure why he was in such a hurry to use the bathroom, since this is a man that will pee almost anywhere. In the middle of a conversation outside, without even knowing at first, he will be peeing on the tire of his pickup. Not much shame in this guy. One of the random qualities I admire of him. I took a couple steps out to the living room and saw my Uncle Darren, my mother’s ogre brother, lying on the couch with one leg hanging off. I, personally, didn’t have much of a problem with him, but all of the adults around me had nothing but degrading comments to say about him. I would often hear “Just be careful what he tells you,” “What did he tell you today,” and “That man is an asshole.” He only showed up from time to time, because he lived in Phoenix. The others were more than thankful for his infrequent visits. “Hey, Gus? August? You’ve got to check out this Bruce Lee flick. I’ve never seen this one. This is the flick of all Bruce Lee flicks,” my Uncle Darren said to me as I peered through the walkway, half snarling at his enthusiasm. My Uncle Darren has always been obsessed with Bruce Lee “flicks” as far back as I can remember. He even gave me one of those martial arts shirts that Bruce Lee would wear. My uncle Darren called it a gi. I would wear it from time to time, because my only activity outside of school is Tae Kwon Do, a form of Korean martial arts. I felt boastful about wearing it to school and people would just snicker about my outfit. I tried to be proud, but their not-so-quiet comments kind of got to me and hindered my prideful strut. The last time I ever wore the gi to school was when it was the last hour before school would be let out and I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. I raised my hand to ask the teacher if I could go to the bathroom and she, Mrs. Telly, told me that I could wait, since school was going to be let out shortly. It seemed too often that I never had the urge to relieve myself when it wasn’t urgent. It only came when I had to go right then and there. Probably a factor in why I had bedwetting issues going into the 6th grade. I waited and waited and waited, watching the clock slowly move closer to 3. One thought later and I was sitting in a puddle of my own urine. Luckily, the seat didn’t have the slits in the bottom, making a puddle on the ground showing everyone how much of a fool I was. For then, it was a secret. When the bell rang, I slowly and meticulously put my chair on the table, so no urine would slosh over. The best I could, I held my backpack over the damp areas of my pants and rushed home crying. No one said anything to me about it, but someone had to have known, most likely the janitor. No one said a word to me about it the next day at school. I suspiciously looked at everyone and wondered who knew and was not telling me. I walked back into my room and briefly glanced at the toys situated on the right and left side of my room. I didn’t feel like addressing this issue right now. It will have to wait till later. I was in no sane state to deal with such a sensitive matter. I slithered into bed and sprawled out, trying to get comfortable and think this through. Trying to lose myself in my thoughts and then pretend I was not me, the me that feels like a lie. Was this so bad that I found out the Easter Bunny is not real? Maybe he is. Maybe she is. Who is my Uncle Darren, the ogre, to say what the truth is or not? Is he an encyclopedia? He is just a man that lives in a hot town called Phoenix. Either way, I would rather the existence of the Easter Bunny to not be real. I don’t need any distractions while blossoming into supposed manhood. No more Santa Claus. No more Tooth Fairy. No more Easter Bunny. No more anything of the like. No more. Watching the blades on the ceiling fan pass slowly by with each revolution, my mind started to become clear, no reminiscence of any wrongdoing or deception. This is true liberation. Where should I start with this revelation? I felt like I had the key to life, a key to any personal success, a key to the right of my manhood. A key to someone that was no longer me. I just hope this doesn’t mean I have to get a job. Maybe I can rescind this manhood or stand somewhere in a grey area, a waiting point. I need something to ease myself into this next stage of my life. I heard my mother yell from the other side of the house, “Do you want some pancakes, Gus?” “Umm… Yeah!” “What kind?” “Chocolate chip!” III After my mid-morning crisis, I was now, without choice, looking at crop after crop of sugar beets, corn, wheat and the always, prevalent tomatoes through the passenger car window. If I had it my way, I would still be basking in my existential crisis under my covers rather than see my father’s family, a bunch of people who live in the country that wince at the sight of me, as though I was some city slicker. Sure, I didn’t live out in the country, but I lived in a small town outside of Sacramento called Woodland. It is only about fifteen minutes or so from their area. At least, 15 minutes to the closest of them. Somehow, we lived in completely different worlds. My mother and sister were at home and it was just my father and I. My sister often had fits where the level of anger reached a nuclear explosion, so it was best to keep her in the house at times. The car ride always seemed to take longer getting to a destination than driving back to the beloved sanctity of home. One would think a return drive would take longer since there is a desire to arrive quicker. Maybe, my rationalization is backwards. I guess it also depends on if the location is desirable or not. My father and I rarely spoke in the car. All I had to keep me company was the smell of dirt and peanuts. It was seldom that I witnessed any existence of peanuts in my father’s pickup, but the smell was there and the whole inside was layered with a film of dirt. There was always a clutter in the vehicle, so it was hard to focus on any one thing aside from the mound of salt that would sit on the center part of the dashboard. That mound of salt was for my father’s tomatoes. Rather it was a snack or meal, my father often had a pile of tomatoes in the middle seat and would take out a moderate bite of the tomato to expose the flesh and dip it in the salt. I would always give him an uneasy look whenever he did this, but it truly never seemed unappetizing to me. I was just oddly picky with food. We took the exit, turned left to go over the overpass and down to the right that would lead us into the few small blocks of the town called Zamora. Eventually, pulling up to the hall that my father’s relatives practically held every family event, I always had a feel of distance and uncertainty when I saw the other kids playing on the small playground that consisted of a slide and two swings. I suppose the nearby gigantic tree was considered unofficial recreation for the kids, but I never saw anyone climb it. Maybe, there was a gruesome story of a kid falling out of the tree and breaking many bones, perhaps dying, that I wasn’t aware of. Climbing trees was rarely on my list of childhood activities. So, I was safe in that aspect. My father and I both got out of the white pickup and started walking towards the back of the hall to go into the kitchen, where people would prepare or leave the food until later. But, really, it was a hub for adults to socially gather and pour glasses of whiskey or grab a beer, a way of breaking the ice. Even though, everyone lived in a somewhat close proximity of each other and was related by blood or law, there was always awkward tension around everyone, a step below an estranged relationship. After several drinks at 11 in the morning, the adults would slowly make their way out of the oversized kitchen. Some would step outside, mostly the men. Others would sit at the tables, mostly women with some men. The few men that stayed inside were on the older side and didn’t want to stand for too long, only long enough to walk outside for a cigarette and back in they went. This didn’t mean the alcohol was done for, it meant that it became mobile. Finally, that cup of wine, glass of whiskey, or can of beer could see the world and explore. Looking out the window of the kitchen, I could see the other kids, my cousins, and other people that I was supposedly related to, but had no idea who they were. Each family function, there always seemed to be a new body. I couldn’t keep track. I would be told that this is so and so and that is another so and so. It felt like random people would show up and pretend that they were related to me. Most of them rarely talked to me, so I was never given a strong case by many of the individuals as to if they were really related to me. Honestly, either way, I didn’t care. At my father’s side, this man that said very few words to me, was an odd comfort in these situations. I know my constant emulation as his shadow annoyed him and sometimes made him furious, but he could sense my tense and stressed nature, so he refrained from his usual angst. I wish this version of a man came home, but it was rare when I saw this man. I relished it, even though I was in a place of displeasure. This man was my temporary savior, my leased security blanket. Loving this man was confusing. IV To distract myself from all the talks of working on cars, farming, killing deer and bears, what a family member did 50 years ago and what was in the food, I turned my focus back to the earlier part of the morning. What am I going to do with these toys, the notion of the Easter Bunny and all the other lies in my life? During the ride up here, I wanted to tell my father that I knew. I was afraid of what he would do to me or say to me. Would he say, “Sooner or later, you would find out,” “What are you talking about,” “There is indeed a damn Easter Bunny,” or he would look at me, sigh and look back at the road. I never knew with this man. I would rather not chance it. I doubt my father knew the incident from earlier with my Uncle Darren, since there was always a conversation barrier between my mother and father. That barrier was merely natural in our household, an almost involuntary solitude way of life. As a child, I accepted it. Living in an agricultural area, I often saw the smoke of burn piles coming from all directions of town. I know neither of my parents would drive me, but I could walk a bag of the toys to the edge of town and put them in the burn pile. Unfortunately, we lived in the dead center of town. I am sure that I would give up half way, get tired and start crying from frustration and leave the bag in a gutter, cars passing by and smiling at a child wallowing in his confusion and despair. The humiliation might be needed. From the kitchen, I found myself on the other side of the hall where dancing would sometimes occur when there were bigger celebrations happening. It was lonesome and bleak in the large room with chairs and tables folded up, and I loved it. The joyous sensation would not last long as other kids started piling into the hall, yelling, laughing, stomping and exuding an emotion that seemed so long ago and far away. Happiness. I knew that all these kids in here meant that the adults would be hiding eggs outside for everyone to hunt in the near 10 minutes. I had no interest in this. “Gus? Do you want to play tag?” a cousin, Albert, said to me with an awful grin on his face. “On a day like this? No,” I said with a slight sulk. “Easter? It is Easter” “I know.” “Do you want to play tag, Gus?” “I have to go to the bathroom.” “Me too. I will come with you and we can play tag after.” I didn’t have to go to the bathroom at all, but I felt obligated after that. I led the way to the bathroom and Albert followed a step or two behind me. As we approached the door, he quickly ran ahead of me and pushed the door open. Upon reaching the middle of the bathroom, I stopped, took a deep breath and paused for a moment. Albert continued on walking towards the urinal and turned back to me and said, “Don’t you have to go, Gus?” I lowered my head and slouched towards the other urinal. Before I could unbutton my pants, Albert was well on his way and chatting away with non-sense. Not a single word processed through my brain. It took a second to unbutton my pants, since it was composed of three, instead of one button and a zipper. That is as far as I went and I pretended to pee, so Albert wouldn’t ask other questions. It hurt my hips to push them in unnecessarily far into the urinal, just in case Albert peeked over and saw I wasn’t really peeing. Albert finished up and went to the sink to wash his hands. I pretended that I was finishing up and Albert stood right at the sink waiting for me. What is with this kid? Since I didn’t really go pee, I didn’t feel obligated to wash my hands; nonetheless, I hated washing my hands. It felt like my hands needed an hour or two to go back to normal after getting wet. I couldn’t touch cloth materials or anything of that sort without mentally freaking out. To please Albert, I hunched over the sink, turned on the faucet, strategically looped my hands around the pouring water to the dry area and looked back at Albert with a forced smile. After that, Albert perked up and ran out of the bathroom yelling, “Come on, Gus!” It took me a good 30 seconds to muster up the energy to leave the bathroom and when I did, another one of my cousins, Ethan, was standing five feet from the door and said, “You’re going to play tag, Gus Gus?” He was the only one that called me that. I absolutely loathed it. Slowly, peer pressure seemed to overcome me. I thought I was stronger than this. Though, this has turned out to be a rather draining and weak day for me. This might prove beneficial in distracting me. Right as I was in mid-thought, I felt a shove into my arm, nearly losing my balance and catching myself against a wall, I heard a trailing voice say, “You’re it, Gus Gus!” Gaining my balance, I rolled my head back in disgust and then a vengeful feeling came over me. They are going to get it. As soon as I was about to take off to get them, they ran outside. I didn’t realize the outside area became part of the game of tag. Isn’t there some kind of jurisdiction? Just my damn luck. Just my damn day. I darted out of the heavy metallic doors and looked both ways as I jumped outside, and I didn’t see either of those idiots. I ran left, back to the playground and the gigantic tree. I heard in the distance, “Here comes Gus Gus!” Ethan is my primary target. I could see Albert out along the right side of the gigantic tree and Ethan was running beyond the slide. To make good time and not go around obstacles, I jumped on one of the picnic tables to make a bee-line for that little runt, Ethan. After jumping off the picnic table, I heard an adult say, “Hey, you damn hooligans! You’re supposed to be inside.” Not even looking back, I raised my hand in acknowledgement and kept my tunnel vision on Ethan. Not even noticing the confused adults hiding eggs. He is mine. On the backside of the two swings, I paused for a moment as Ethan was on the front side. We both tried to fake each other out, creating doubt as to which direction each of us would go. Right as I thought I got a step on him, Ethan reached down, grabbed a fistful of course sand and threw it all at my face, dousing my eyes, mouth and nose. In a game of tag, I didn’t expect such a cheap shot, so I didn’t have time to guard myself. I fell to the ground, my eyes started to well up with tears, Ethan ran away giggling and I heard the voice of an adult announce that the eggs were ready. V The smell of dirt and peanuts was more than welcoming for the first time in a long time, longer than I could remember and to greet all the sugar beets, corn, wheat and tomatoes became a privilege. I couldn’t enjoy the view as much with watery and blurred vision, but it was all comforting enough. Frequently trying to rub my eyes to clear them, but it didn’t do any good. My father would glance at me from time to time with a blank face, so I couldn’t quite tell if his glances were out of compassion, irritation, or some unknown emotion. Either way, I enjoyed the acknowledgement, something that showed I wasn’t invisible. Though, I wish I was invisible to Ethan and Albert. If I was invisible, those idiots would have never approached me about tag and I wouldn’t have had to deal with being blasted in the face with a fistful of sand. Not sure what would have hurt more, soft beach sand or course playground sand. I am sure each would have their own equally, negative outcomes. Ethan will have it coming soon. Since I couldn’t enjoy the fields of produce from the passenger car window, I decided to close my eyes and lean my head against the window. Not to fall asleep, but to reflect and relax, and also to stop the constant pain of my eyes struggling to focus on this damned world around me. Should I make amends amongst the toys stacked on both sides of room? Should I forget any of this even happened and go on with my somewhat merry life? Who even cares anymore? My Uncle Darren, the ogre, could be an unconscious lending hand to help question what is around me. Might not be the most tactful approach, but all experiences are not going to be fully negative or fully positive. An experience is like a salt or pepper shaker filled with all variables of negative and positive, sprinkling out at random. Then, there is a unique perception that each person has on how they will interpret the random sprinklings. At the age of 7, on the brink of possible manhood, I am not sure if I am supposed to understand much of this, other than becoming mad and yelling out incoherent obscenities that I heard other adults say. My father never said much to me, unless he was outraged with my bad behavior or what he thought I did was bad. It made me furious sometimes how opposite the two of us were. I wasn’t completely aware of this, but I knew somewhat. Obviously, he was well aware of our lack of compatibility. Maybe, just maybe, his silence was an attempt to understand where the difference lies. Pondering and pondering what he could do. Even at an early age, the concept of love seemed so foreign to me when dealing with humans, the people I share blood with, my own family. Love, at times, seems like a formality, something that one just does or shows, because of obligation. My toys, video games, clothes, posters and everything that I consider my material possessions have no intentions, nothing hidden other than potential mechanics that I don’t quite grasp yet. I cried a lot as a child, but not for direct emotional reasoning, but indirect. It was confusion, never fully understanding why something was what it was. The world and its people, a mystery, scared me every second of every day. I will have to wait many years to come to some semblance of understanding of the world and its mysterious workings, especially the humans that I have no choice but to interact with on a daily basis. There is a certain beauty for a child to be confused and challenged, but to what degree? I don’t know and adults will give their opinions on such a matter, but there will never be an irrefutable statement that clears it up. I must say “thank you” as well as “to hell with you” to my Uncle Darren, my father, my mother and anyone else that has had input in my life. This is not going one way or the other on a spectrum of negativity or positivity, but a nod of realism for their contribution. A “thank you” can have a meaning of slight and passive aggressive intentions, while “to hell with you” can have a meaning of a thankful challenge and admiration for being pushed past the envelope. Life is convoluted. As I said, this realization is years from taking form. Easter will be Easter, Christmas will be Christmas, the Tooth Fairy will be the Tooth Fairy and everything will be everything for me. At age 7, it can be treated as manhood or childhood or just living. I choose living. We pulled up at the house and the first words fell out of my father’s mouth, “Come on, August. Let’s go inside.” -Bradley S.

It’s a dream-like memory, but a memory. Rolling green hills like that of the Scotland Highlands, a faint fog that hazes the air and chiseled clouds at different layers of the atmospheres allowing the mind to perceive anything of their shapes. To my knowledge, this is the first memory that I retained to this day. I can’t remember where I was and all the people that were present, but I remember the landscape. It seems that the grass filled hills would be the focal point of the memory, with its shining brilliance overshadowing any other life around, but it was the watchers that I remembered. It was the clouds. I am not entirely sure why my memories fixate on the clouds above. It could be the ill perceived motionless suspension, appearing to never move when one is bustling through a busy day and only giving them a glance here and there. It could be the certain gusty days that drift the clouds so effortlessly and they look down upon me asking for help, for life to slow down. As I was running down Gibson Street as an eight year old, a bird dashed out of the bushes unexpectedly and my next swinging step crushed the neck of the bird, sending me forward to the grainy and grey sidewalk. I pushed myself up to see blood splattered on the sidewalk, looked behind me and saw the bird laying lifelessly, its body horizontal and twisted head pointing towards the sky. I looked back at the blood and brought a hand to my face to find more blood flowing from my nose. By this time, my tears started to thin the blood and each flow from each nostril formed tributaries of red across my face. No matter how much I tried to wipe it away, my face became more of a crimson mess. I looked back at the bird and used its upright beak to show me where to gaze. I found the clouds dancing and fluttering through the cerulean sky, no care in the world, just moving from one town to the next. I became so entranced that I forgot my face was covered with a red mask that I laid down on the sidewalk and became lost. Becoming lost can have connotations of anxiety and distress, but there is a kind of lost that people search in their lives for days, for weeks, for months, for even years. It is almost like an addict trying to find the next best high, but money can’t buy this kind of lost. There is a sacrifice someone has to make in their life to allow themselves to become lost, like nature’s gratitude. Think of clouds like a living, breathing and more interactive painting, something that is available most days. They aren’t there to judge. They are there to be there. They are there because of a chemical process involving water vapor. The fact that they are there allowing the mind with endless possibilities of perceptions, is beauty in of itself. They are there regardless of how drunk someone is, how heartbroken someone is, how jovial someone is or how careless someone is of their existence. They are there. -Bradley S.

I had had it. Today was more than I thought I could ever handle. And it was. I just wanted away from the people and the problems and the noise. I went downstairs, got ready for bed, and tucked myself in. I clicked the lamp off, and that's when the tears started. Streams ran down my face onto my pillow while the thoughts from demons ran through my head. Why didn't I try harder. Why didn't I find a better solution. Why does this always happen to me. What did I do to deserve this. Why is it always so damn cold in my room. Then suddenly, the space under my blanket got a little warmer. The bed a bit more cozy. The tears slowed a bit, and the stopped clinging to my face, as if someone was wiping them away. My head cleared of the demon voices, and was instead filled with gentle promises of tomorrow. The world wasn't quite so scary anymore. I could face tomorrow. I could because the one thing I had known my whole life was that there was comfort out there. In the place most people feared. If they actually listened, they would be able to hear him and the soft, gentle whisper of comfort he could bring. Night wasn't something to dread. Night was a time of healing. As I slowly drifted off to sleep, I whispered “goodnight, Darkness.

Intelligence To the extent that we can know this, it is fair to say that the moment of our birth defines us; who we come out as, what we come out as – well this is all we are given. No choice, no help and no ideas are there to assist us with the challenges in life. This is how it is where I live. I was brought into this world deceased, my mother’s umbilical cord wrapped tightly around my neck for minutes before birth; the doctors thought of it as taboo and refused to awaken me from my slumber; however governed by the law they abided by, had no choice but to revive me; I was given a second chance, a name that blanketed the truth our society was hiding. See, growing up where I lived was peculiar; the residents of this world seem to be managed by the one rule deemed fit by the high courts. The mantra “intelligence dominates all”, a slogan imprinted into our minds throughout our childhood. You couldn’t choose whether you were intelligent or simple-minded, nor could you learn past a certain level; you were born into a body without means of escape. Myself, I’ll never know whether I was destined for a bright future, the incident that occurred at my birth damaged my brain, an irreversible problem that left me with a misfortune life, a life without the experiencing the wonders of knowledge. We have knowledge of the human genome. The genes of your parents are the deciders of your intelligence. If both of your parents are smart, you will be too, conversely, if one of your parents is niche, (the word that bludgeoned the people who were not adequate for higher learning), you could be branded that too. There is no scope for it to be otherwise – this is biological determinism writ large. Even for those blessed with opportunity as a result of the gifts bestowed upon them, growing up is problematic. My education stopped in year 8 due to my expected inability to understand anything past fractions. It was inexplicable, something I had no control over. Despite acceptance of this fact, I felt shame and a burning resentment. Discrimination was there, no doubt about it. Sometimes for no reason, sometimes it was for fun, some even did it to fit in, it doesn’t matter the intention, the action was there, and it felt awful. Each moment a little slap or kick to keep us in line, under control and determined by place. Once a person in this society reached their limit, filled to the brim with the knowledge considered necessary; then work commenced within a week or so. For me, the options were always known. I began work with my uncle Dennis, he was council worker, a road builder. He didn’t earn much, our government’s way of reminding us of our importance in this world; but he enjoyed what he did, he said he got by, and that someday, us, the niche will live equally, by the same standards others live by. He often ranted on about philosophical theories he had; other civilizations that too had weird customs like us, rules or ideas set in place to section those off that are different, I enjoyed them, they were an escape from what we were exposed to here. But it was all wind – all theoretical about what could be, not what actually was. Some impulse within drove me to defy my categorisation, though I’m not sure this trait of my personality would show up on any dossier of my genetics. I used forged library cards to access library books normally forbidden to me. Many things written down were practical forms of knowledge; other works were political theory designed to reinforce the status quo. Occasionally heretical or subversive ideas would survive in the older texts. Perhaps those elusive messages about emancipation, freedom, justice and self-determination weren’t really there, but they were simply what I was choosing to see. My choice to open my eyes, rather than them being opened by the material I was consuming. My new workmates had not shown a great deal of interest in some of my talk. Without doubt I was a risk or a danger to them. All of that changed as a result of a particular incident during an otherwise ordinary day. Our work required us to lay out bollards on the road as a means of protecting our workspace and allowing us to work quickly. To some, this basic practicality could be seen as an act of uppity defiance. Many a powerful vehicle belonging to a high-status individual would speed through our worksite. More than once, we may even have been deliberately targeted by drivers. Perhaps they presumed that society would not seek to punish them should the victim of any unfortunate accident belong to one of the social underclasses. Nico Belisar was a quiet, unassuming man, someone who worked alongside me and steadfastly stuck to his daily routine of ajvar and ham sandwiches. This day he found himself the man in the wrong place. Nico’s leg was shattered in four places by a driver, who made no attempt to slow down after the fact. Nico died waiting for an ambulance. He died needlessly and without as much as a shake of the head from the city he called home. Nico’s death stirred something within me that must find its expression. If defiance and civil disobedience existed in our society, over time it had become strictly controlled and regulated. From time to time, when frustration mounted within any one group in society, there was no pressure valve that could release it. Riots were not unheard of, but were quickly quashed and a media blackout would prevent the germ of an idea from spreading. My idea was simple – the protest would not seek to confront any one individual or group. It would be a simple statement of truth. For a week, we would go about our jobs wearing a placard with a message: “I am not a number, I am a man.