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Allura 23

Based this off of a picture I saw on the Internet. I'll post the link after the story because it'll spoil the ending. Anyway, this is my first story. “Just One More” It was another long day. I had worked my ass off at the office all week, thinking that my efforts would be rewarded with a paycheck and a promotion. Instead of the pay, and instead of the promotion, I got the pink slip. I should’ve seen it coming. I decided that before I started begging on the street to pay for my rent, I would have one more. Just one more. One more to drown my sorrows in. One more to forget of this life. Just one… Of course with the week I had been having, I didn’t have one more. I ran out, and buying was out of the option. I walked outside my shitty apartment into the cold rain. I kicked a soda can and screamed, “JUST ONE MORE!” Suddenly a man walked up to me. He wore a black hoodie, black pants, black socks, black shoes, and black gloves. He whispered malevolently, “Just one more you say? I have a question for you. ‘What would you do?’” “What would I do? What would I do? I would kill for one more. I would kill a thousand people, just for one more.” Out of nowhere he grabbed a contract. He said, “Sign this. Kill a thousand people. I will get you what you want.” Without thinking I signed the contract. I had too; I didn’t have a choice. I noticed something about the ink in the pen. It was…red. It wasn’t ordinary ink. “When you’ve finished, meet me here. You have a month.” And just as suddenly as he appeared; he vanished into the rain. A month. A month to kill at least a thousand people. I grabbed my gun and my knife and headed out. I didn’t want to waste anytime. One month had come to pass. I had killed my friends, coworkers, strangers, and I even stabbed my own mother. I remember her asking, “Why?” before she died. I told her, “You know why.” And something strange happened. She laughed. Not with me, not for me. My mother laughed at me. At my foolishness. At my loss of innocence. At me. And I laughed too. 999 people were killed. I had traveled from the opposite side of the country and back. I was almost caught three times, and each time I narrowly escaped. In fact, a man I never knew was accused of the killings. I was in the clear. Someone was doing time in my name, I was no longer a wanted man, and I needed one more. Just one more. And I knew exactly who. I walked up to my apartment. It had only been a month, but it felt like a lifetime. The man was waiting for me. He asked, “How many?” I answered, “999. But I will meet my quota right now.” I took out my knife, and I stabbed him in the back. He looked at me in not horror, not disgust, but in joy. He laughed and said, “Just one more. But tell me, was it worth it?” And then he died. I knelt down and reached in his pocket. “Just one more. And it was worth it.” I then ate my Klondike bar in peace.

Liquid bubbles fall from the eyes of her precious face. Such a vast expression of desperate sadness that it over fills and pours out, splashing into the ground below and soaking the Earth in sadness. It cuts a path through the swirling rainbows of petrol staining the driveway. Her shaky knees bend and she falls. An electrical storm of emotion brews in her mind and manifests in the tempest above, as rain joins her tears in soaking the ground she tread so lightly on before. Darkness encapsulates her mind, and the world shifts to manifest the raw thought she desperately clings to. Shards of gravel cut into her skin, and a vivid red joins the liquid sadness in a race to fall into the drain on the curb. A tunnel appears in her mind as an escape, a path to bliss, to happiness. She stands, and the world crumbles beneath her. Soon, nothing but darkness surrounds her, and the absence of stimulation drives her mind toward vivid visuals. Immediately, a burst of color hits her from behind and carries her toward a blue light in the distance. Riding the beam, it begins to morph, and it becomes a large flowing whale, with colors glossing its mirrored skin. Spikes form and fall from its body. As she approaches the blue, it devours the shards of light and grows into a vast ocean. The swirling stream of colors smashes into the ocean, and a liquid cool surrounds her. Sparks fly overhead as the color explodes over the surface. Yet it remains silent. She bathes her mind in the deep waters. The multicolored light remaining takes on the properties of a fluid, and dissipates into the blue. Vivid currents stir the water and it is brought to life. She becomes the heart of the ocean. It flows around her, protecting her. Streams of color remain, and pierce the dark waters. A fortress forms, and she knows nothing can harm her. The beams of light are weightless, and as she breathes in, they flow into her lungs and penetrate her very essence. She is overcome with the weightlessness, and a pure euphoria trickles in through her spine, and begins to layer her mind. Soon, nothing is left in the dark waters to keep it animated, and it trickles off. None remains. Though it is dark once again, she is glowing, and a pure white overtakes her as she removes herself from her body to become the light. The nothingness turns into the shards of the world she left behind, and soon reassemble into the ever so distant scene she left behind. She merges back into her mind, and the color fades. However, the feeling of bliss remains, and she opens her eyes. She stands. The rain cools her skin, and she looks toward the sky. A serenity overtakes her, and she drifts back toward the door. Nothing will bring her down. She is impervious to the world.

SOMEWHERE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS The men aboard the platform strapped themselves into their seats, the commanding officer pulling his helmet down and sliding in his ear protection. A hard buzz from the terminal in front of him, followed by a voice in his ear. "Firing in ten seconds. Firing main cannon." The whole world seemed to rattle. A nine ton slug was launched out of one of the largest artillery platforms ever constructed- With the shell already in the upper atmosphere just moments later. "Shell away. ETA: 20 minutes before impact." The technician read off the readings, removing the safety strap from his seat and slowly rising to a stand. On the other side of the world, a cataclysmic battle was raging. A combined fleet of American, Chinese and Russian forces were battling what should be a biological impossibility- A creature that dwarfed the tallest buildings and gave the average mountain a run for it's money. It was hideous, a gross amalgamation of a jellyfish and a shark. It would send arcs of electricity from the tendrils lining it's back to knock planes out of the sky and boil the frothy ocean below, screaming in rage when broadsides punched into it's leathery skin. A rookie approached the artillery platform's commanding officer. "Uh- How often do these things happen?" He asked, looking over the satellite feeds of the battle, as the beast tore a battleship in half with it's mighty jaws. "I mean- Giant monsters? Up until a week ago, I didn't know these existed." "They don't. It takes everything and more to prevent knowledge of these beasts from hitting the public. There will be naval exercises- Missile tests, you name it- And that's us fighting these things, trying to keep them from the shore." He lit a cigar, eyes drifting across the screen. "But look at that thing-" "It's insane to believe, but imagine this. We know more about Mars than we do about the ocean floor. Who knows what's down there?" He checked his watch. "...Aaaannnnd.." The shell fired moments ago collided with the beast's back, sinking into the creature's flesh and exploding- From the inside out, painting thousands of feet with vicious pink and red bile and grime. The artillery platform crew erupts into applause. The officer stepped away from the crowd, drawing a line over a name on a whiteboard. 'SOUTH CHINA SEA MONSTER' is now eliminated. He pointed the pen at the recruit, who was staring at the screen in shock.

I wrote this on the fly last night, may need some editing for grammar and such, but let me know what you think. It is entitled **WHOLE** Not until living about twenty years of life did I realize that I was not alone in this world. I grew up in a Christian home and truly believed in God, I still do, but I never felt like there were people around me. I went to a private high school and was taught by fantastic teachers about all sorts of fascinating topics. I went to gym class and excelled at walking laps while the popular kids played basketball. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an outcast, nor did I believe that I was better than everyone else and thus didn’t participate, it’s just, I once played a game of knockout and when I won against the star basketball player (who later went to play for the best college team in the country), I decided that I didn’t like basketball anymore. That’s in the past though; I am now in college and have nothing to do with the gym. I guess before continuing with my story I should tell you who I am, but that is no simple task either. My name is, for all intents and purposes of this story, Daniel West. Not only is my name Daniel West, but my father’s name was also Daniel West. You see, my father died well before I was born and my mother named me after him. He didn’t know he was having a son before he died. Having a son was his dream. Everyone always tells me that I look just like my father, but I have my mother’s smile. It’s the dimples. Sadly, I also inherited my eyesight from my father. My favorite thing in the world is waking up every morning and poking myself in the eyes several times after stubbing my toe on the dresser and nearly falling down the stairs, and all this happens before breakfast. My jet black hair and slim face are some of my favorite features that make me happy to be the descendant of my father. Jess, my older sister by six years, adds another interesting dynamic to the house. She still lives at home and has two kids, she was raped three years ago; the man was never caught. She hasn’t been the same since that day, but the twins are just learning to walk so she doesn’t have much time to think about it anymore. I wish she could find a nice guy to marry; she could use a man in her life. I offer to watch my nephews for her so she can go to a bar and meet someone, but she always says I am sweet, but she doesn’t have time to drink and she is too tired because of the kids and work to date. I don’t see why not, once the kids are asleep she sits in the Lazy Boy and drinks a cup of hot tea staring into space. She could stand to be staring into a man’s eyes for once. My mother is the happiest, most hardworking, woman I know. She works two jobs during the week and another job on weekends, when she isn’t watching the twins. Beautiful as ever, she is. Her grey green eyes and bright smile, dimples as big as the craters on the moon always brightens anyone’s day. I am just glad that I didn’t inherit that hotrod red hair of hers; I like having a soul. Don’t tell her I said that, she always gives me sass when I pull out the ginger jokes. “Daniel that is not a way to treat you mother, or any other women! Red hair does not mean that I do not have a soul. What are they teaching you at that expensive college that you’re going to?” She scolds me, holding back a smile; it’s a little scary, even if she isn’t serious. I sometimes call her just to say something about her hair, because I never get to see her. Except during breakfast. Breakfast is my favorite ten minutes on weekdays. The family all sits down together, except Tuesdays and Thursdays when my mom has to go into work early and Fridays when my sister takes the kids to daycare early so she can get some shopping done before work. I make us pancakes and eggs and we talk about the weather and what so and so did down the street. The simple conversations are my favorite, because it reminds me that, though we never see each other for more than ten minutes on any given day, we are still alive. It does make me sad though. If my dad had been allowed to buy the hand gun he had tried to buy the week before he, along with five others, was shot, he would be with us and I would have a father. He had gone with a friend of his, a police officer, to the gun range weekly for months to learn how to handle and shoot a firearm. When he went to the store they informed him that he had to go through several levels of background checks and tests before he could purchase his first handgun. It angers me that the man who shot him had gone through the same process and was still a criminal. You would think that the governments’ strict control over the weapons would ensure that guns were not put into crazy people’s hands. Growing up without a father and with a mother who works three jobs was tough and still is. I had to teach myself how to cook, shave, and tie a tie for prom. Not that I had a date to prom, I am too quiet and people think that I lack confidence because of that. “No one likes a man who doesn’t have enough confidence.” One girl said to me when I asked her out. The truth is, I am very confident in who I am, it’s just I can’t be loud or attract attention to myself; I never have been able to. It’s strange, I try to yell and the loudest I can get can be heard no more than across the room, and that is when I am angry. I’m never angry so really, I can only be as loud as a normal conversation tone. That doesn’t explain the lack of appeared confidence. What does explain it is, I am humble, humble to the point that I can’t be mean and I feel prideful if I draw attention to myself in anyway. When I try to I usually get weird looks anyways, so it doesn’t matter to me. Much. The point I am trying to get at, the one that started this whole rant is. It has been twenty years and I have always felt mostly alone. Despite my mother, sister, and nephews, a few good friends who all go to schools hours away, and a being in a great college, I couldn’t seem to shake my loneliness. That is until now. They thing that makes me feel like I am not alone, the thing that makes me most happy, is the simplest thing of all. It is something that I was born by and born with. It is something that most people spend their whole lives trying to find, but no amount of wealth or power or knowledge can take its place or bring it to a person. It is a four letter word. Love. When you throw out everything else in my life, three things remain: Faith, Hope, and Love. The greatest of these is Love and it is Love that makes me whole. For I know that when all else fails me, my love for my family, my friends, my god, and all of those around me will never cease. It is my gift of love that holds back the worst this world can give me. And it is Love that makes me whole.

A long time ago there was a wizard who lived above a small village. We was rarely seen, and only summoned when there was no other solution. The village people below told stories of his once-powerful abilities. He could move mountains, change the flow of a river, and even part clouds whenever he wanted to. However it had been a long time since any of the villagers had seen any fantastical work done by the wizard, and so, they lost hope. One day, a few of the young village children wandered up the road in search of the old Wizard's home. They were curious to see if the wizard would show them some of his magic. When they arrived at the small cottage they noticed that it looked as though no one had lived there in years. They peered through the dusty windows and attempted to see inside, but all that could be seen was darkness. When they turned around an old man was smiling at them. "What are you youngins doing up here?" the old man asked them. "We were hoping to see some of your magic!" one of the children exclaimed excitedly. "Magic? Why would want to see something like that?" the old man asked them. "Because we have heard the stories! They say you can do things no other person can!" another one said, almost shouting. "They say that, but has anyone in the village ever seen it?" the man asked with a grin. "Well no, but thats why we were hoping you could show us!" said the oldest of the children. "Well Im sorry, I've lost my magic abilities. But, if you care to stay, I can give you some advice on any problems you may be having" the man offered them, hoping to not be left so quickly. "Advice? We came to see magic, and if you dont have any, we are leaving" one of the kids exclaimed as he started walking back down towards the village. The other children followed closely on his heels and the old man was left outside his cottage, watching them as they left. When the children returned to the village they told their friends about what had happened. They began to call him the Dumb Wizard since we did not possess any magic. The name caught on quickly in the village and soon it was his identity. As the name changed for the Dumb Wizard, so did his stories. They no longer involved cloud parting, river changing, mountain moving fantasies, but instead told of his advice he would give to the young. As the generations began to come and go and long after the old Wizard had died, his stories remained as just the advice he gave. The village called this advice Wizdumb. The word, along with the advice associated with it, soon evolved in their language and spread around the land. If only I could have met that old man, and ask him of his wisdom.

The door opens. “What was that?” “My husband must have gotten home early” “Fuck, what do I do?” “I would run if I was you, dumbass” “Shit look at me, I can kill the motherfucker” “Did I mention he is an ex marine?” “That changes everything doesn’t it? So I should run now” “Bye Randy” The man quickly grabs his pants and puts them on without the underwear. Rush. Rush. Rush. The husband bursts through the door before the man can open the window. “Who the fuck is this Sierra?” said the husband. “Run Randy!” The man then dashes out the door behind the angry husband and heads for the car. The car is an ran ragged 1994 Aston Martin Vantage with a sun roof, midnight black paint job with brown dust all over it. He slides over the hood of it with the angry husband hot on his trail. He jumps in the car. Starts it. And almost runs over the angry husband while getting away. The angry husband then takes off one of his shoes and busts the taillight of the car. The man the drives off into the sun, thinking about what had just happened. “Was she calling me Randy?” the man said to himself. “Who the hell is Randy?” he then added. He then chuckled and kept driving to the run down shit apartment he has became accustomed to calling home. This is my first time attempting to write anything, i need feedback. any at all would be appreciated. good or bad. i need it all. thanks in advance reddit.

This is a short story written written rather quickly based upon a challenge friend gave me, I'd be interested to see what you make of it. It's not particularly good, but oh well. Regret? Maybe. The consequences were expected but were not planned for, nor were they properly thought through. After all when actions are spontaneous the long-term effects are often overlooked in favour of the short term gain. What were the short term gains? Experience, mostly. Not as in experience in performing such acts but emotional experience, the ability to extend the extent to which one can truly be empathetic towards another person. You see many people say they have felt all alone in the world, that they have felt isolated from the rest of humanity, but in truth their claims are lies. For many of them the feeling of loneliness was an exaggeration of their feelings. There would most likely be someone there for them be them parents, partners friends or mere acquaintances. In order to feel truly lonely all human relations, all ties to the world must be removed. In order to remove friends I simply stopped seeing them. I skipped school, didn’t attend their parties until they all forgot about me. Children are like that. To remove my parents something more drastic had to be done. My parents couldn’t be made to forget my existence and I could not run away since I would not be able to survive. In order to achieve a higher degree of understanding I had to remove my parents without changed my own situation. Of course, you know how I did this so there’s no point retelling my tale is there? But afterwards I truly felt lonely. I had no one to help me, no one to rely on or look up to. There was just me and the absence of everyone else. I was like that until you found me, I can’t quite say how long that is, but now I can say that I have felt true loneliness and can practice a higher degree of legitimate empathy with others. Of course, this is all just a theory. In practice, who knows, perhaps it backfired. Regardless I cannot say I regret what I did, but nor can I say that I remember it fondly. A sad memory, perhaps? A story to tell to others? Only time will tell.

The fog was dense and isolating when it was time to leave. It had been like this for a few weeks now. He couldn’t see the streetlights very well but knew that if he followed them long enough he’d bring her right home. The streets weren’t as busy as they normally were and the city was uncomfortably quiet. He’d see buses pass in the opposite direction at regular intervals. The two of them were at a bus stop at the crossroads between two streets that weren’t supposed to have intersected when the roads were laid. He’d been waiting for a long time now. She wore a knee-length grey-olive parka he didn’t recognise and it covered her up pretty well. She wrapped a scarf around her neck to protect from the elements and was wearing her usual striped shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Her face was uncovered and each breath was outlined in the chill. She was layered because of the uncharacteristic January chill but he swore she started protecting herself after her last heartbreak. He didn’t feel the same way. He wore a sweatshirt, tee shirt, worn-in denim, and his own beat-up plimsolls. “How long have we been waiting here?” he asked. “Fifteen minutes. Feels too long,” she replied. “You think so?” She stared at him as if it was common knowledge. “I don’t mind being out here—waiting, I mean. It’s really not too bad.” She didn’t reply. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ll take you home. You’re just ten minutes away,” he offered. “Don’t be stupid,” she retorted. “What makes it stupid?” “We’ve already been here fifteen minutes. It’ll be here eventually.” “And if it’s not?’ “I’ll take the taxi,” she replied defiantly. “I don’t have enough to cover you. And we both know you only brought enough for dinner.” She sighed. “I really wish you bothered to get your license.” “And I wish you’d let me walk you. We’ll wait another five minutes and if it doesn’t come then we’re walking.” “Fine. But you and I know you won’t have the chance,” she agreed reluctantly. He saw more buses drive in the opposite direction. The streets grew quieter as each passed. Her breaths opposed his in syncopation. The bus never came. The streetlights towered over them and lit the way home. “That’s ten minutes now, on the dot,” he lied as he checked the time. It was closer to five. “You owe me a walk.” “You’re being stupid. Don’t act like this,” she snapped. “Act like what?” “You’re being weird. I don’t like it.” It seemed like his heart sank a little. “Come on, let’s just walk. You’ll be home in ten minutes. It’s better than waiting for something that’s not going to come.” He started walking and she reluctantly followed. He looked at her in her secure layers, then to the road to see if the bus would come, and then back at the sidewalk. She was quiet when they arrived at the first crosswalk. “Tell me why I’m being stupid.” He broke the silence. She collected her thoughts. The signal lights motioned them on. “We’re friends aren’t we?” “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” She left the question until they reached the end of the next block. It seemed like she was choosing her words carefully. The streets were still quiet and the streetlights shone through the fog. They waited on another crosswalk. “Well, ‘friends’ don’t do this!” she began and grew angrier. “‘Friends’ don’t plan all these wonderful things together after just being impulsive with each other for a year! ‘Friends’ don’t stay home and watch stupid schmaltzy movies together when there’s nothing to do! A ‘friend’ just doesn’t take another friend out to dinner and foot the bill without some sort of expectation of something in return!” The signal lights urged them on again. She stopped in the middle of the street. He looked at her stupidly and she berated him with her stare. “‘Friends’ don’t walk each other home when the bus doesn’t come! ‘Friends’ don’t just wake up one day and find themselves in love with each other!” The signal light expired. He felt as though his heart fell into his stomach. A car that pulled up to the intersection honked at them and he felt increasingly stupid. They kept walking. He couldn’t tell if she was angry at him or at the idea of him falling in love with her. He couldn’t say anything. She had him. “You’re not supposed to love me,” she said in a near whisper. He wanted to refute everything but knew that each rebuttal would fall apart. They were all just excuses to love her. And even if he didn’t intend it, he knew that he had stumbled enough times to fall into it. They walked a few more silent blocks in the fog but continued following the streetlights. They were close to her home now. “Why can’t I love you?” “You just can’t!” He wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. “I ‘can’t’? And how would I stop? You want me to just magically undo everything? You want me to turn around and just leave?” He was flustered now. “No!” “Then what! Am I just supposed to not love you and stay just friends? Then what? We just go back to impulsiveness and I carry this stupid weight with me whenever I see you?” “Maybe, but—” “‘But’ nothing! You tell me now why I’m not allowed to feel the way I do!” “Because,” she trailed off before recollecting herself. “Because I don’t want to be some girl on a list that you’ll forget in a year! I don’t want to be some stopgap, some in-betweener, some nobody that you got involved with because you’re lonely. And six months ago—” “What about six months ago?” he interjected. “You think I didn’t know how you felt? I just wanted to stop it then and there. But you come waltzing back into my life when you get bored or screw up or think it’s hopeless with another girl. I’m not stupid, you know. I’m not naïve.” He stayed quiet and felt exposed in the cold. They walked and turned a corner onto her side street. The fog was thinner there. They walked until they reached her block. “I don’t want to be some consolation prize,” she said, half pleading. “You’re not. It doesn’t change the way I feel.” “Don’t bring me home,” she warned futilely. He walked her to the front gate and they stood still in silence. The absence of traffic on her street accentuated the discord of their heavy breaths in the aftermath of their argument. He saw the bus they waited for drive past on the main road a few blocks in the distance. He didn’t notice that her scarf was gone from her neck. She wore it draped over her hair like a wedding veil. Her hair was tousled and he could see more of her face and neck now. He could make out the faint scent of perfume in the stillness. “You’re still not over him, are you?” “I don’t know.” “Do you hate me?” “No.” “Do you love me?” “I’m not sure.” “Well, are we still on for next week? I promise not to bring flowers.” She didn’t say anything. He waited. “Well, in any case, it was nice to walk you home” He pulled her in and hugged her. “Good night.” “Good night,” she replied. They were still in the quiet of the night. The stars shone bright overhead. “I’ll meet you at the theatre. You can bring lilies if you want.

It was the first rain of the season and it poured relentlessly. Water rushed down the roof, with only the gutter to break its fall. Among the debris, the water gained character. In tiny beads, it slithered along the gutter, making its way through nooks and crannies. Continuing its journey through the blackened downspout, it carried the dust of summer away. Tumbling out the end, it scattered away from its brothers into the garden. Jostling its way downward through the soil, the water ached to find a root. Faintly, it could hear the call of its lover. The two finally met in a passionate embrace, it was home. Its only fear was that it would one day have to leave again.

Thrust into a world he knew nothing about, his face emotionless and blank, betrayed the multitude of nerved questions running through his mind. What world is this? What was he? Who was he? And most importantly, who was the figure that had held him so closely just a moment ago? A glance at his surroundings revealed a dimly lit room, plain and empty apart from the desk scattered with paper, cloth, and art materials. The only curious item that caught his eyes was an hourglass of sand that hung on the wall. As he watched it intently, it turned upon itself and sand began to speckle the bottom of the glass clock. His appearance was similar to that of a doll, crudely made, with button eyes and hastily stitched threads that held his cotton body intact. He was without extravagance but of course he knew nothing of extravagance or that he had naught but a few differing colors of cloth to assuage his rather ugly appearance. In a struggle to move, he shakily attempted to stand and dragged his feet a few slow strides toward the desk. A book opened before him, without prompt, and showed a diagram of a puppet, one that looked very much like him. Lines and scratchings flanked the portrait and he ran his stubby fingers over the unreadable, complex writing. He suddenly became aware of an urge to obtain this diagram, but in reality, however limited his definition of reality was. He wanted to hold it, just as the lost figure had done in his moment of inception. He did not know what seized his mind for such a longing but was guided by an ambiguous passion. He flipped through the pages of the book, each riddled with pictures of materials and further writing and arrows. He had discovered a purpose for his otherwise questionable existence and held this feeling close, afraid he may not have any other feeling, no hope or ambition or want to do anything else. Without word or thought, He began to work, pouring over the texts and collecting materials in the room. He began with the body, sewing, with shaky, unskilled fingers the cloth and eventually formed the stringy outline for her: his creation. In a flurry of threads, a blur of needles, and the push of subconscious loneliness, he worked, tirelessly. The result of his affection and effort was a dirty lump of threads and cloth stuffed with cotton that vaguely resembled Him. He had decided that the puppet was his accomplishment and he clutched her unmoving body in his hands, waiting for animation to occur. He sat in the desk’s chair for an indeterminable amount of time and stared at the hourglass on the wall, sand still draining from the top, but now nearly near empty. When she neither moved nor held him in his growing loneliness, he shuddered and began to shake violently with remorse and disgust for his existence. He slumped to the frigid floor looking down on his hideous creation. With the cold of the room biting on his prior eagerness and the silent soliloquy of questions again running through his mind, he gave up. In grief and anguish, a single tear welled up on his button eye fell on her lifeless body. A motion caught his attention as the puppet on the ground began to stir. A burst of warmth shot back into his body and he lifted her in his small ugly arms and held her close. He looked up in time to see the last grain of sand flow from the hourglass. With a subtle smile of stitched yarn, he disintegrated into oblivion, leaving her alone. The hourglass rotated on itself and the sand began to trickle again.

Galahad ran through the hall to tell the professor of the scene in the market. He crashed through the doors of the classroom as professor Cosimo was deep into the first study of the season with his new pupils. “Cosimo, come at once for your son Felix is proclaiming to denounce his worldly possessions and set the live stock of your estate free. He says all the animals on the sycamore cart he has brought to the marketplace are slaves!” The professor slowly looked from the manuscripts of arithmetic and peered scornfully above his spectacles made of lead wire and uneven glass. He replied, “These matters I cannot tend to, Galahad.” “Sir, he is giving away the family rabbits, cows and your prized chicken! This will be a hardship for your wife and daughter.” Galahad said as he tried to catch his breath. “Teacher, shall we perhaps resume our study tomorrow so that you may tend to this matter?” a voice from the group of pupils asked. “You shall address me as ‘professor’, this is not optional, for I profess unto you all.” Cosimo said through the small opening between his mustache and beard. The pupils responded in unison with flabbergasted tones. And with that the professor sent Galahad away with a net made of old flag fabric, wool rope and worn burlap sacks. Cosimo explained to Galahad that he is to capture Felix and keep him bound until the evening when Cosimo could return home to correct his son. As Galahad arrived in the market he saw no cart full of rabbits or the professors prized chicken. The two cows that were pulling the cart were nowhere in sight and the cart was being pulled away from the marketplace by a lazy donkey tethered to an old man. “You, with the sycamore cart. WAIT!” Galahad announced as he hurried up the hill that the old man and his donkey had just conquered. “Old man, where is the gentleman that you have acquired this cart from?” The old man licked his dry lips with his dry tongue and cleared his voice in preparation to speak, “The boy said he was going south to the Mediterranean to find kinder women folk to marry. The young one was telling of a dream in which Diotima of Mantinea spoke to him of gentle women in that region.” The old man then walked off and the donkey followed but was not lead as there was plenty of slack in the tether.

I look down at my feet, swinging them back and forth because my legs can’t reach the ground. It’s dark, and my seat is wet with a mixture of old rain and early-morning dew. I’m tired; I’ve been awake all night. I’m cold; there’s a slight breeze that I hadn’t noticed before now. But I am not afraid. Back to the West, over my shoulder, the sky is dark as night. Clouds that drenched the previous day with rain are passing off into the distance, leaving a shining trail of puddles and wet pavement like an enormous snail. Toward the horizon in front of me, however, I see the sky is clear, and just starting to brighten. I feel the cool breeze again, and I shift uncomfortably. I hear the faint crinkling of paper. I reach into my jacket and pull out the incomplete letter. I unfold it carefully, making no sudden movements, and press it flat against my thigh. I pull a pen out of my other jacket pocket, and study the blank space after the word “Dear.” I wrote this final letter after two rough drafts, but I can’t think of who I wrote it for. My parents are long dead. I have no friends, no other family. No one to apologize to. I can’t say goodbye to any loved ones, but hopefully I’ll get to say hello to a few. I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes after five. I set my pen down beside me and fold my letter, placing it back in my jacket pocket, the salutation still incomplete. I look down at my swinging legs again. I remember when I used to climb the tree in our back yard, and sit with my feet dangling. In my young imagination I’d always thought that tree was as tall as a skyscraper. I lean forward a few inches and look down through my dangling feet at the sidewalk forty-two stories below. I hope I get to see my parents again. I very carefully hold the edge of the building as I get my feet under me, and very slowly stand up. The sun will be rising soon, and I want to see it one more time. I stand up very carefully and look forward, toward the East. I can see the rim of the bright orange sun peeking over the horizon, drawing long shadows from all the buildings. I sigh and say a silent prayer. I ask God to understand why I want this. Why I need this. I hope he’ll forgive me, or at least let me see my family, just once, just for a moment. I miss my mom, and my dad. I can feel tears starting to flow; not for me, but for my family. I want to tell them I love them, and that I’m sorry for what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll get to. I can’t see the sun anymore, my tears have blurred it too much, but I can still feel its warm rays on my face. I turn slowly away from the light. I extend my arms straight out on either side, then immediately feel stupid and lower them again. I settle for keeping my hands about six inches from my pockets, palms facing forward. I wipe my eyes and look down to see the heels of my shoes are hanging off the edge, before my eyesight blurs again. I lift my gaze again, wipe my eyes one last time, and slowly lean backward, inch by inch. When gravity finally takes hold, it catches me by surprise and I hunch forward as my body instinctively tries to save itself, but it’s too late. I can only face up toward the clear sky, which is framed by buildings that seem to be shooting upward. And then I’m gone.

2 bags Sometimes you stop retelling a story because people look at you like you're a liar. Some stories embody the unbelievable. Sometimes strange things happen and bare the cross of sneers and disbelief. This is such a story. It's really the last half that bears no resemblance to truth, yet there it is striving for the light of retelling, time and time again. It's a tale of stupidity, triumph and a tale of balls so large even Atlas himself refused to bare their weight. Atlas yelled No! No balls could be that huge. Being a friend of Bob's is exciting. He's got a lust for life like no one I’ve ever met. He is a gentle giant at 6'2” coming in at just under 225 lbs. We were both raised by hippie parents. A lax attitude towards drugs and drink got me into more trouble than I can tell in one tale. What I remember the most about speed is the sour smell of methamphetamine burning off of a broken piece of light bulb. I can still smell it from time to time, place to place. It's a smell you don't forget. The smell is a little like glue but not entirely. I was up all night smoking speed with this lunatic chick Vanda and about 4 creeps in her shitty East Van basement suite, low ceilings, no windows and lino in every room. Speed freaks are the worst kind of drug freak. Long time users go insane. I hate speed freaks, gib heads every last one of them. God invented heroin so that speed freaks and crack heads could have someone to look down on. The speed was running out and I reached for my heroin flap to come off of with. You don't want to take uppers without a downer. It evens everything out so you don't go through that awful sketch. I cannot find the flap. I can't find it anywhere. The four freaks finally start noticing I’m kind of panicking and rooting through the table and shit. I'm seriously freaking out now. Anxiety has me by the balls. One of these losers who have been smoking speed with us every step of the way asks what I'm looking for? “Hey buddy, what are you looking for?” he says. “I can't find my Heroin” I responded. The fucking speed freak has the goddamn nerve to look down his nose at me and says incredulously “Heroin? What the fuck man, that shit's for fucking losers!” I shoot back “You're a fucking meth head asshole, fuck off!” Well I guess that’s that. I'm removed from the meth party. Now trying to kick the heroin habit is a different beast. People look at you as if all it took was simple willpower. Just give it up they say. Get your shit together. I quit smoking, why can't you shake that monkey. Try to imagine the worst fear inducing anxiety you have ever had. Try to imagine going to a shrink telling them you think you might kill yourself from fear. Now imagine the sickest, most fucked up vomiting and diarrhea you ever had the misfortune of experienced and lump those two sick mother fuckers together in an unholy alliance of all that is shit and you might come close to Day 1 of kicking heroin. There's still 5 days to go just to get close to losing the every minute craving for sweet sweet smack, but you’re not done there. It's a couple of years before you get a full night sleep and stop twitching. I was one week into the bends when I hatched the idea to drive up to Kaslo to see Bob's brothers Sarsh and Cody. If I could just get out of this shitty Strathcona house for a couple of weeks I might just make it. It's November too and if you've lived in Vancouver in November you'll know it's the shittiest month in the calendar. Everyone is still clinging to that Van summer but the cold wet rains are pushing in on the delusion of sunshine like a boxer takes a punch to his chin. You gotta have a strong chin to live in this city from November to March. I just need get out long enough and smoke some of that Kootenay weed and some dark delicious malt beverage. The idea of a geographical cure is that you get out of town for a couple of weeks, just enough time to get over the physical dependency of heroin. Heroin addiction is maddening. It drives people insane, if they weren't already. It pushes you further and further in the direction of madness no matter where you start on the plane of sanity and madness. Madness always wins the struggle. We would take my 82 Chevy Blazer, the one with the fiberglass roof and no roll bar, real fine American engineering. I bought this piece of shit off of an old boss for $500, worth every penny and but not a penny more. The tires were so worn out they looked like racing slicks. You could run your finger along the sidewall and not a bump to be found. Great winter tires for sure. The rear window was busted so I fashioned a piece of plywood to take its place. It would stay up as long as you had shit stacked against it and left the front driver side window down to push air up against the back of the truck. The passenger side seat belt was busted too, totally fucked. She was a real beauty. A real Surrey Limo. I found a crack pipe and a coke vial in it a couple of weeks after I bought it. I guess the boss had a habit and wasn't too adept at cleaning up after his business. He lost his job because he was high all the time. I think he's in jail somewhere in Colorado for drug smuggling. It takes about 10 hours to drive from Vancouver to Kaslo. I wanted an early start so we wouldn't put too much pressure on the beast up through the Coast Mountains. They roads are sketchy at best, let alone in the middle of November. Problem with my plan was I wasn't traveling alone. Bob is always late, really fucking late. You have to count on at least 2 extra hours with Bob. I think I arrived at his mom's around 11am. He wasn't ready until 8pm that night. I'm one of those assholes that has to be early too, not on time but early. Bob and I butt heads constantly over this difference. He starts packing his stuff into the Blazer. I notice he has two giant garbage bags of shake weed he's trying to stuff into the back of the truck. I laugh and say “What the fuck is that for man?” “I'm making oil up there dude” he replies “Sweet, well then stuff that shit in man!” I laugh again. I take the first shift. I'd like to drive the whole way up. Bob scares the shit out of me when he drives. I think he still has a Noob on the back of his car. One word describes pretty much everything he does from driving to partying, RECKLESS. While I love it in every form, I hate it for driving. Especially this shit box we're taking up one the most dangerous highways in the middle of the night. But I can't stay awake for 10 hours tonight, I didn't prepare for it and I’m detoxing still and pretty shaky myself. We spark the ride the right way. Bob lights a spliff and cranks up the tunes. Good times a coming. We switch up at about 2am somewhere just outside of Castelgar, gorgeous little mountain town in its own right. Having no seat belt and a bucket seat make for a comfy sleep. I settle in for some much needed sleep. I awaken rather rudely to the Blazer shaking the shit out of itself! I yell “What the fuck man you're driving 130k in this piece of shit, you're going kill us both!” Bob yells back “CHILL OUT MAN! I got this, you worry too much. Just sit back and relax” “Dude this truck can't take this speed. You're vibrating the shit my truck” “Ya ya dude, relax, go back to sleep” Reluctantly I close my eyes and reluctantly Bob slows it down a notch. I'm guessing it's maybe 10mins later we hit what I found out later to be the S curves, a stretch of highway, outside Castlegar, windy as a snake and 300 foot drop off down to a lake or river or something. Now we are fucked. Right fucked in the ass. The truck starts rocking violently back and forth, side to side, up on one wheel and back to the other. You can bet this shit wakes me up. The truck slams against the right embankment like Thor’s hammer tossing the truck with ease upside down and in the direction of oncoming traffic. I make one last scream as my shoulder and head hit the fiberglass roof. “I GOT NO SEAT BELT!” As soon as I hit the roof and I am thrown with such amazing force into the well where your feet usually reside. I have no idea how this happened but in that moment Bob reached over and grabbed me in that well, stopping me from flipping out the well and out the fucking window to my certain death. The truck slammed down on the driver side where the door meets the top side of the front windshield. The fiberglass roof and no roll cage folded down with the structural integrity of a soggy pizza box, what a piece of shit death trap. If I had a seat belt on and Bob hadn't leaned way over to hold me down, keeping me in the feet well, he would have had his head crushed from the impact. Bob had almost killed us both. We skidded probably twenty feet across the highway upside down on the roof. I came to my senses moments after we stopped. I started to crawl out of the truck, and the lights of a very large freight truck were coming up on us. Thankfully we came to full stop at the top of a long steep hill and the freight truck was driving Miss Daisy, otherwise we would have escaped the wreck just in time to be killed by an oncoming freight truck. I guess the truck driver radioed the authorities because it wasn't long before the ambulance arrived. The medics wanted to take me to the hospital. I had a pretty badly fucked up shoulder. I didn't really have a choice, my truck was toast. Bob stayed behind to greet the RCMP, while I took a ride to the hospital for what turned out to be an overnight stay. Finally this is where I usually end the story because the next part is ridiculous, brass fucking balls on that guy. The RCMP pull up and make sure no one's dead. They make sure Bob isn't loaded, which he isn't thankfully. Turns out the cop is pretty nice and offers Bob a ride to the hospital to meet up with me. She even offers to help bring some of our stuff from the accident in her cruiser. Bob and the Cop load up our bags, guitar and Bob calmly throws the TWO GARBAGE BAGS FULL OF WEED into the trunk of the RCMP cruiser. Shake doesn't have much smell to it like fully formed buds, nevertheless Bob threw two GARBAGE BAGS of weed into a cop car from a three am accident scene in the middle of fucking nowhere. The cop drove Bob, our stuff and two huge bags of weed from the accident to the hospital. Bob showed up around five am, the nurses are nice enough to give Bob a cot beside the hospital bed I’m in. Bob wakes me up. “How ya doing bro?” he asks. “I’m good man, just a really sore shoulder.” I respond wearily. “Did you grab my guitar man?” “Yep” Bob smirks “What happened?” I pull myself up, rubbing my eyes. “What the ...” “Instead of tossing the two bags of weed, I put them in the trunk of the cop car!” He says with a huge shit eating grin. “Dude, you are fucking awesome” I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Hey everyone! I posted this to r/writing the other day, but I felt like this is a better sub for it. I didn't like the title, so I changed it before posting it here, and I also made a few minor changes. Anyways, I hope it is enjoyed! Thanks for reading! I love you all! If you have any feedback, please share. "Woah! Woah! Woah! Here we go! Here we go!" We keep saying to each other. It is July Fourth, America's birthday, and Eagle and I are honoring her in our young, and hopeful-naive way. We lay down under a tree. Staring off and up, and the entire world begins to feel like it is moving around me - like being at the center of a great merry-go-round. My eyes cannot hold in all the light. I am at the bottom of the entire world. This tree I am beneath, it blurs and dances with aliveness. It feel like forever, and finally I say to Eagle: Let's go walking. He agrees with a childly, benevolent grin. We walk through the park and along the river. The way the river can move is not possible to tell of with words; but believe me, it is magic. The sun is a crazy yellow-gold ball of fire. It can be no more than a hundred yards away. The air is warm and soft, made of a hundred million pastel colors compounding together in a heavenly glory. "Look at that! Oh wow, would you look at that!" I say, and Eagle says "We know God because we are God!" And I think I agreed. We were crazy with real truth and conviction, but we had neither. It was too much, the entire world - with all of it's madness and love and humor, trying to squeeze all together into my head. I just couldn't take it all in. I thought I was going to die. Eagle and I discussed responsibility as parently as we could, and it was decided that we absolutely must find a mission. We made ourselves into make believe soldiers, struggling out of the imaginary bush and to safety: anywhere but here. With our heads full of color and exploding sound, we scramble across the park. We are continuing up the river and I see her. She is the girl I have been looking for my entire life. Beautiful almond hair, on fire, resting on olive shoulders. We make eye contact and time stops! We look right into each other. Her bright green eyes shine with beautiful tears. In that infinite moment it all happens, I love her, we plan to love each other forever, and then it all ends. It all moved in some Einsteinian way: impossibly fast; stretching on forever. In this great America, on her esteemed birthday, it was somehow possible to sail through her glorious history, high on her greatest enemy. We were goners. The whole entire world was just a giant sandbox to Eagle and me. Fireworks are going off overhead as we walk down an alley, directly from the canvas of a Normal Rockwell painting. The sun has just set and the sky has faded to a dark silvery blue in the East. The sky is lit up everywhere. Everything is chaos, absolute chaos. It is some how though, that I know I am safe. It is beautiful. It all has to happen: I sincerely feel this way. I tell this to Eagle, and feel like he understands, but he just nods in utter pensivity. We are almost there when Eagle turns to me, a glorious smile cracking across his face, and says, "This is it.

Teacher asked for a story about a clementine. Upon entering the cafeteria a familiar soft voice fills my ears, “Hey, you! I bet you’ll fail your next test because you’re an idiot!” “Not again…” I thought to myself nervously. This had been happening on and off for a week now and I had never been able to work up the courage to stand up for myself before. Today was different; I felt confident and decided to put a stop to the harassment. My eyes scan the nearly vacant tables looking for the owner of the voice. My eyes lock onto the bowl of fruit nearby when I hear it again; the soft voice whispering insults. I walk angrily towards the bowl of colorful fruit. I plunge my hand into its depths grasping at the first thing I felt. As I pulled my hand out of the bowl I felt a strange squirming sensation between my fingers. In my hand sat a bright orange, perfectly round clementine. Everything about it was impeccable, until it shrieked, “Put me down you MONSTER!” It was at this very moment I realized who had been making fun of me just a few moments before. Knowing that this was my culprit I dug my finger into the flawless orange skin and began slowly peeling it away. My victim let out a scream of pure pain and horror as I continually stripped it of its skin. I tore a triangular chunk out of the now naked fruit. The juices streamed through my fingers and onto the floor. I triumphantly took my first bite. The sour juice of the clementine flowed over my taste buds making my lips pucker. I was extremely satisfied with myself when I heard a muffled yell from the fruit bowl just as I was raising the next bite to my mouth. “Stop hurting my baby! Please stop!” It appeared to be a mother clementine begging for mercy. I thought about this for a moment, and wondered what it would be like had my mother spotted someone eating me. For a second I felt bad for the mother clementine but it was a short lived feeling. From the palm of my hand I could hear the raspy, dying voice of the baby clementine still calling me names and being rude. I brushed off the words of the mourning mother; I wasn’t about to let her stop me so I continued chewing on her baby. When I had finished licking the excess juices from my finger I stooped to the ground to pick up the remainders of the bright orange peel that had fallen. I felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that I had just stood up to my bully. I walked over to the fruit bowl and whispered, “I’ll be back tomorrow Mrs. Clementine, you’re next!” She whimpered but said nothing as I left the cafeteria with my head held high, knowing that this would be the last day a clementine would ever mess with me.

The ocean was calm as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. On the veranda of a home long since filled with happiness and love stood a man who looked as one that had been a prisoner by the harshness of time. "I never realised until now how beautiful the dark blue of the ocean is" said the man in a voice that has known much agony. "It is beautiful don't you think.." he staggered, as if a painful memory invaded him at that moment. Slowly he turned, and glanced around to find the room still untouched and void of life. Though the ocean air was cool, the room around him felt constraining and hot, as if every breath heeded more effort than the next. "..the ocean is beautiful, it can at one moment be the embodiment of tranquility and then in the next be filled with uncompromising wrath, and injustice" he continued. "For she was the beauty that the ocean radiates, we were the peacefulness that love fulfills and you..you were the injustice that took it all away" said the man as anger began to arise. He turned and walked inside the room. He made his way slowly towards the mantel piece that stood as a shrine of past memories. Outside the waves behind him began to stir, as the wind lifted and the signs of a storm were revealing itself. Next to the mantel, he reached and gripped a photograph, and lost himself in the image. He began to speak as if directed to someone listening; "this is how I try to remember her, forever young, forever beautiful." "In the rare nights that sleep finally found me, I would dream of her as she once was, then, in a cruel twist she fades into a shade that you felt she needed to become." "I was not her only companion on those nights, for the coldness of death that you bring was there too, and it toyed with her, bringing pain but never release" he said as the emotion of the past overwhelmed him. As the waves crashed against the rocks, breaking the silence that was surrounding him, he turned to the ocean once more. "A storm is building, I once believed that the calmness before a storm was a peaceful thing, but after those long nights waiting, I now see that the calm is the storm itself." In deep thought her continued; "For to wait for what is to come is always far greater than what arrives." "How I yearn for the time that the darkness was far from you, now it shall never let you go" he said as his voice regained composure. At this time he drew an object from his pocket, clenching it tightly in his first, then slowly releasing until it sat exposed on his open palm. There laid a crucifix, one that was once proudly worn, now a symbol of loss; "perhaps that is what it truly is... loss" he thought to himself. "I understand the cycle of life; that death finds us all, this was not what has filled me with scorn; not the time in which it was inflicted, nor that it was to us, but for a so called loving and caring God, what you let us endure alone, toying with us with cures then relapses was too much to bare: his voice began to rise with conviction. "Your servants in the old covenants could not find the wisdom to guide us other than that what has been recycled through generations of disconnected men" he raged. "I blamed you, this idea of a God that now sits on my hand, for all that caused me pain and suffering, yet now I realise, you were never the conductor of this. He paused and thought for a moment, then continued; "there is neither good nor evil that you commit, for you do not exist". "Even after all that I went through, the idea that your existence was nothing more than I fairy tale was a leap that I could not take" he moved his gaze to the storming ocean and said to God, fate, circumstance or anything that would listen "The thought that my sweet was at least in a better place gave me comfort and allowed me to continue to grieve, but that was a false comfort, just as a child craves their blanket to keep them safe, I… we crave you". "This is why those men of faith could not comfort me, for I realised then that no truth could come from a lie, he said as he continued to reflect on what seemed as a time long ago. The storm was now raging, and the rain poured down. He for a last time looked down on that crucifix, and whispered. "Peace can only be found, when the truth is accepted", then he cast it into the ocean. He still grieved her loss, and those nightmares dwelled with him until the end of his days. Yet he never again allowed that comfort to dictate his life; for you are never truly free, until you let everything go.

I sat in my window seat, my internal rage level seemingly linked to the volume of his low quality, all-treble headphones; steadily rising. I spin with vigour to convey how seriously I take this infringement of the early morning serenity. And nothing. No flinch nor acknowledgement. This juvenile, tinny French hip hop immersing his senses, nullifying any previously held skills of social awareness. I decide I must prove a point, to him and all thieves of the calming, silent commute. I select the most aggressive song I can find on my phone, confidently and purposefully stride to the back of the bus, hold the phone in front of his face and press play, while screaming at him over the rising track "now do you see how we feel, now do you know what you're doing?!". Of course the confrontation happened only in my mind. I’m British, I’ve never so much as sent back bad food to the kitchen of a restaurant. Instead I sat there stewing with rage until we reached my stop, fantasising about the justice I’ll never have the courage to exact. As fate would have it we alighted together. He bumped into me, causing me to lose my footing. I apologised to him and wished him a good day.

In the heart of the witching hour is an old man with a fiddle. He plays the wolf’s howl and the banshee’s scream. The old man had a beard of thick black hair like wool which so long it dragged when he walked, which was very seldom. He plays blood lust, and silver bullets. His body was fragile and hunched over. He seldom moves, but is never found in the same place. He taught the sirens how to sing. His eyes have gone white from blindness, but he knows where you are, and knows that you’re watching. They teach the children not to wonder in the woods after the final church bell rings, because the witching hour is close at hand. No one knows exactly when it begins, or exactly when it ends, all they know is that it happens and that is all they need to know. All the adults keep pocket watches and know to be inside when they notice the ticking start to slow. The children always ask why they cannot play, they don’t want to go to bed its too early, but their parents tuck them in away. They warn them of the witching hour, and the man with the fiddle. Somebody once said that they knew a girl who didn’t listen. She went through the woods late one night; she had plans to meet a boy on the opposite side. The boy waited all night, and when day light came she hadn’t appeared so he went to look for her. No one knows what happened for sure but people tell it like this: They say that the girl never made it because she ran into the man with the fiddle. It’s said that she walked through the woods like she normally would, having lived there her whole life she knew the grounds fairly well but as she walked she stumbled upon an unusual clearing that was surrounded by a thick, white fog. She heard a voice, “what would you like to hear,” and then she noticed that there was a man sitting on a small stool with his back to her. She cried out to him, “I don’t know where I am,” but he ignored her and repeated, “what do you want to hear.” The girl started to tremble in fear realizing what she’d done, it was the witching hour and she was alone. The girl took off with great swiftness, dodging tree branches and hopping over roots that sought to trip her up. She looked behind her panting to see if the man had somehow given chase, seeing nothing she turned around relieved to find that she was again back in that clearing and this time the man was facing her. “That was very rude of you, all I want to do is play you a song. I’ll ask again, what do you want to hear,” he asked this and looking up at her finally she looked helplessly into his shockingly white eyes and she couldn’t move. “I know what you want to hear,” he said with a small laugh, and he raised his fiddle and bow. No one had heard from the girl for two weeks, until a hunter and his dog found her. She was in rags, hair matted with mud. Her eyes were completely black, iris and sclera, black. She was screaming, about a song. There was a song playing in her head and she couldn’t get it out. The hunter tried to calm her but she fought him off, still screaming about a song. She moved with swiftness and grabbed the hunter’s gun, and before he could shout one bit of protest she had the gun to her head and fired. During the full moon it’s said that the man can draw you in. There is a story that once he drew in two young lovers. “Ahh, to be young and in love. What would you like to hear?” The woman spoke up first, “where are we?” “You are in heaven my dear. Yes, you are in a beautiful place. What would you like to hear?” The man was just about to speak when the old man started to speak again, “no. I know what you want to hear,” and he raised his fiddle and bow. A month later they were found. The couple was bone thin, naked, and covered in dried blood. An old woman found them while she was checking her traps for rabbits. She cried out in horror when she found them. “Don’t look away, we’re only dancing,” they said in unison. Sometimes if you’re lucky, or unlucky, no one knows which, you can go into the woods and they are still dancing. People argue that they are dead, have been dead since the night they got lured in, and other say they are alive, and they are doomed to be alive, forever, forever dancing. Fools, there are always fools that don’t believe the legend, they call it folklore and they try to find the man with the fiddle. Some go to the woods and they come back out unharmed, and they say there is no man, but all those who have seen the man have never lived to tell, except for one. There were two friends who were stalking a deer to try to get a meal to settle their empty stomachs when they was caught by the man with the fiddle. “Hello,” the little man said. “Whose there,” one friend asked, voice trembling in fear. “What would you like to hear?” “Who are you? Are you the devil?” asked the second “The devil? What is the devil?” The two did something no one else had thought to do, he started to pray. Neither of them heard or seen the man move, but they opened their eyes from their prayers and the man was standing underneath them looking right at them with his blind white eyes, he pointed his bow under the chin of one of the friends and said to the other, “you called me the devil.” “I- I’m sorry. Please let us go,” the friend begged. “I play songs, I am a simple fiddler, what would you like to hear?” “Can you play anything?” “Anything you wish.” “There is this song my wife would sing before she died, I don’t know what it’s called but do you think you can play it?” The little fiddler stood there silently, and then replied, “certainly,” and sat down in the stool which seemed to materialize out of no where. Then when the little fiddler raised his bow and fiddle, some of the fog gathered itself and a ghost appeared. The ghost was a translucent form of a woman with large eyes and long hair. The man cried out to it, “Ramona.” “You asked for your wife’s song,” and the man started to play. The man walked up to his wife’s ghost and held out his hand for her. When she took it though the fog gathered around him and he began to dissolve, becoming part of the fog too. His friend cried out for him, he wanted to save him, but the fiddler told him to go, he had nothing to play him, and so he went. But as he left he looked back and seen his friend had become a ghost, and he and his wife were dancing. Do not go out late at night, because it isn’t safe. As people moved out of villages by the woods to major cities the fiddler has moved to. He is the phantom at the end of the hallway, or an apparition at the end of the alley. He owns the night. He just wants to play you a song.

Far off in the distance it hovered. Solemnly it approached. Slowly it descended. Ray's fight or flight response was beginning to take control of his system as the dying star formerly known as Sol crept its way from sight. Why his designers put such a damned human response in him Ray would never know, not for lack of curiosity, but for the simple fact they were all dead. Murdered. By his hands. His existence alone was proof that mankind had reached a level of intellect few had dreamed of - and even less had deemed possible before they destroyed themselves - As this whimsical thought brushed through Ray's organic based CPU his sympathetic nervous system triggered the adrenal gland to dump more epinephrine into his bloodstream - and Ray ran. His rational thought processes diminished. His legs screamed for oxygen. His heart pounded. For the next twenty minutes Ray sprinted. Sprinted away from the source of his fear. Something incomprehensible. Something much more frightening than the armies he had faced before. Worse than even the largest artillery shelling he had ever been the target of. More fearsome than he himself was. Though Ray was designed to be an unstoppable death monger for the 'radical' Cyo-Organics; Designed for nothing in the world to stop him or frighten him. Designed to crush all those who fought against the belief of integrating biology and machine. "Hah. Religious wars." The concept eluded him as he thundered onwards. "Damn humans." "ZAAAAAAAAP" the sound of a thousand arcs of electricity suddenly came into being in his ears. The sound kicked his slowing Adrenal gland back into high gear as he was reminded why he was running. Them. The others. He had no name for them. Only fear of them and no time to contemplate what they wanted with him except perhaps his destruction. So he ran. After he had completed his tasks of eliminating the opposing continents Ray had become...well...bored. He was an organic machine - designed for destruction. Armed with the highest tech available to the researchers. The EMP affixed to his back and powered by his core allowed him to easily subdue all attempts of defense in his conquest. The Gauss cannon embed in his arm's skeletal structure made short work of dispatching the then defenseless forces, and his nanotech skin created a armor capable of deflecting all attacks. Physical and electrical. He was even guarded against telekinesis - his designers had thought of it all. Except what to do with him when his mission was complete - The one hiccup that cost them all. Suddenly Ray became aware of a sense of weightlessness as all of his senses snapped to this change in reality. He immediately attempted to run faster but was only treading air. His gaze shifted upwards to it. Them. The ones who put such fear into his body. Immediately he was racked with nerve-jarring shakes as this feeling of fear reached limits he had never dreamed of. He was being drawn into the gaping maw of their craft. An oblong affair so completely pitch black it seemed to not exist. However, it existed to Ray. As a fear so prevalent he could feel it. Taste it. So nightmarish in its quality his body rejected it and he vomited... Lights. Bright lights. That was his first experience back in the waking world. "What the he-" suddenly he could not speak. His mouth worked. He was sure of his words. He knew how to put the two together. Nonetheless, he couldn't. "We have been watching you." A thundering voice. A voice of immense power and knowledge. A voice to strike fear. "We have seen what you have done." Where was it coming from? "Worry not." Ray felt immediate relaxation course through his body. Palpable. Calming. It lifted him up and set him in a sea of peace as the waves gently rocked his anxiety away. He began to have a sensation of a presence. It was the owner of the voice. For some reason he no longer felt the blistering fear and anxiety of before. Only tranquility. The presence instilled a knowledge to him. A knowing of their relationship. They had been watching this third planet of Sol for eons. They had set it in motion. They had nudged here. Prodded there. Created the circumstances that had led to his creation. They had a name. They had a face. They were his father. His mother. His brothers. They had created all of humanity as an end to a goal. Ray himself. "We have a job for you." As they flooded his mind with images and descriptions Ray, the ultimate creation of destruction, smiled. His face a reflection of the joy their proposition brought to him. He contemplated all the new blood to be shed. "I'm looking forward to it.

It’s 8:45, the sun is down and the evening breeze is rolling in threw the leaky windows. A girl with dark hair and a crooked smile is forced out of her Internet binge by a stout orange cat. The cat purrs with a selfish intent. The girl with the dark hair reluctantly stands up. A cool breeze rushes down her legs as she dashes to but on some p.js. She chooses the blue ones. The blue p.js appear to be her favorite. She picks them every time. The girl with the dark hair, and the stout orange cat strut across the linoleum floors towards the kitchen. She drags her finger gingerly along the white wall. Arriving the girl with the dark hair reaches for the cat food. Opening it from the left side she feels the stout orange cat walk between her legs. She pours the food into a silver rimed bowl, just one inch above the top. After placing the food back in the corner the orange stout cat eats her feast. After a quick goodbye pat to her kitty the girl with the dark hair returns to her lair where she rekindles her computer to her lap.

No More Than Four Charlie Sacks was as sick as they come. He had taken to bed nearly three days ago and didn't say a word about it. The housemaid Martha waited on him hour to hour, pleasing him with an assortment of soups and teas. He took it presently and surprisingly enough, never did he miss a meal. While his stomach may have been in good order, the ailment seemed to lie in his nasal cavity. The man suffered from a clogged nasal chimney, due to a snot and spit build up, resulting in a whooping fever! Charlie, as a sturdy grown man, knew the only true remedy was a pampering spa and a warm bed. Martha had prepared a bath and Mr. Sacks found comfort in its bubbly waters. From the womb to the sack he did leap. Leaving the bath only to flounder back into bed. The fluffed feathers of his nest proved the greatest comforter, for it was in it's billows he could delve into the latest issue of StarExplorer in peace. Alas, here is where I found him. A boy in his castle. With three loud knocks on their oakwood door, I made my presence known. Martha greeted me as I leaned against my wooden cane. "Evening sir, mighty dark and rainy out there, what can I do for you?" "I be but a humble traveller mum, on the eternal road, I come to beg you for bread." "From where do you come, Traveller?" "From the land beyond our own! Past the light and through the stone! In the forest, birds have flown, into the greatest deep unknown!" "Where is that exactly?" "Delaware, ma'am" "Please step into the light, so I may gaze your face." Indeed I followed her request and exposed myself to her. Every griping part of me. She no doubt reacted to my lame eye. The haggard mess of scarred skin will cause a double glance from anyone. I stood there, with the porch light bouncing off my darkened cloak, giving the softest exposure to my grey locks and twisted jaw. I knew I was something she had never seen before. "Well, no sense having you out there, I invite you in for warmth and bread. Shall we?" "Thank you, Ma'am" "Dearie, call me Martha" "Certainly" At once, she invited me into the library, where I sat by the fire and indulged a few lines from a StarExplorer magazine. She was off into the kitchen to prepare me some bread and a bowl of something or other. The library was dark and civil. I admired the eclectic collection of novels and memoirs, as well as the embroidered chair in which I was placed. The leather had taken the shape of my body and I felt for a moment a grace of rest. "You're meal, sir" "Remarkable, Martha, you were able to put all that together in the short time I was here?" "No sir, I happen to be mending another weary soul." "There is another in this house?" "Yes, the owner of the estate, Master Charlie Sacks." "Whatever is wrong with the poor devil?" "Doctor says it's a nasal buildup, sounds awful, like a dying rodent at times" "Martha, would I be able to speak with Master Sacks? I feel I have a remedy in my possession that he would find most intriguing." Three flights of stairs we took, all winding and weaving through the museum of his halls. From floor to floor, the walls displayed paintings from eras I had yet to see. I felt compelled to ask what Martha made of it. "Paintings", I remarked. "Oh yes, the Master collects. He has gone all over the world to find these paintings. Some he had to risk life and limb for. The floor below us holds the ones with pretty ships in them. Ships at port saying goodbye to the folk waving on the dock. Ships battling the raging squalls of the open sea. Ships a plenty. The floor we're on now will have your bones shivering." "Ma,am?" "This is his gothic collection. Everyone from Dorian Grey to The Oval Portrait hangs here. Let's just say we scurry past this part. Shall we?" I could see her distress. For most of the men and women that hung here were depicted in death. My good eye gazed on scenes of immurement, bloodied ruins of genocide and twisted feasts of cannibalism. I shuddered as I glimpsed a familiar face burning in the fires of a witch hunt. The last floor presented a welcomed change in the form of landscapes. As we crossed the hall to Sacks bedroom, I was treated to views of mountain ranges and auburn fields of apples. Martha gently opened the door and announced us to the figure laying in bed. "Master Sacks, we have Mr…" "Crypt, Ernie Crypt. Master Sacks, I've come seeking shelter from the storm. As it turns out I found a little bit more. I heard of your ailment and I have a remedy that can promise you better. A rare chance for me to pay back such a hospitable welcome." The silence made me wonder if he was resting eternally. At last he spoke, "Bring it to me and leave it on my nightstand." With a nod to Martha I lurched over to his bedside and from my cloak retrieved a sack of cherry tomatoes. "These are picked from a place I doubt even you've been, Mister Sacks. Please I will leave the bag here, but I warn you, only four tomatoes shall you eat before sunrise. Any more, will have you. Indeed, save them for tomorrows light." "Tomatoes? Is this a folly?" "None, sir, trust me. You will be surprised by natures touch." "Very well then, be gone with you." As I exited to the hallway, I left him with four words of remembrance. "No more than four". Martha allowed me to finish my meal and then filled my canteen with water, gave me a dry towel and then saw me on my way. I was eager to go, not because I held distaste for Martha's company, but because I knew sunrise would be here in a matter of hours and I wanted a good distance behind me when it came. Within an hour, Master Sacks gave in to my gesture. Two tomatoes he took at first reach. He was surprised to find that he was soon sitting up and stretching his arms to and fro. He thought better then to over do it, so he settled back in with his magazine. A few more hours past and still the nagging taste of a tomato sat on his tongue. He had never tasted one so rich and rationed that he would still be under his four tomato limit. He settled that he deserved one more at least. The third one was in his mouth in a flash and the result was so tremendous that he threw the covers onto the floor and wreathed around his bedsheets stretching and yawning. The slumber was fading behind him and he soon felt fit to stand up. Yet something stayed him. He was thinking of his knowledge of medicine. "My doctor always said, finish the bottle or it won't work." He reasoned quietly. By the time he was chewing his fourth tomato, Sacks was walking down the hall to fetch a cup of milk. "Heavens, sir, a change of winds?" Martha gasped as Sacks entered the kitchen. "Martha it seems our weary traveller spoke truth. Those tomatoes did a wonder on my senses. I feel fit enough to read in the dignity of my own library. First, I shall like a glass of milk." "Certainly, sir, I'll bring it right in." Master Sack's toes wiggled around the fire heat as he sunk into his chair. A few adjustments were made until he felt the familiar shape again. Martha came in and left a tall glass of milk on the table beside him. She left him to read StarExplorer. A wonderful serial involving flying machines in space and men with laser guns finding lost princesses. The adventure had pulled him in for nearly an hour when he was distracted to see, inside the pocket of his house coat, the sack of tomatoes. "A wonder." he thought. As he continued to read, he thumbed the ripe, round tomatoes almost unaware of his habit. It took only a few minutes before another tomato was out of the sack and into his mouth. Half expecting to feel superhuman, Sacks was distraught to find that a cold chill instantly cascaded through his bones. The impact caused him to drop his magazine onto the floor. As he reached down to pick it up, a searing pain shot through his lower back. He tried to scream, but only gasped, for his breath was failing him. Sweat was accumulating and as he wiped his brow he felt only wrinkles of elderly skin. He willed himself a sip of milk. When he lay the glass back on the table he saw a line of red smearing down the side of the glass. Could his mouth be bleeding? He flustered over to the mirror to inspect. Yet the startling sight of his ghost and the ripe taste of tomato stopped him. A vision of auburn apple fields and infinite galaxies filled his eyes. Master Sacks fell to the floor. The old boy was dead. No doubt Martha discovered him within the hour. Her shriek would be heard by no one. For the estate stands miles from anyone wishing to hear. No doubt she would take to the door to look for the strange traveller who had seemingly betrayed them. Yet she would not find him, only a discarded cane. For a cane is used by lame eyed old gypsies, not those who ride with fresh eyes into the eternal sunrise. end.

B: While Lucy is in detention, Bethan is standing outside waiting for her and talking to two older boys. “I was having a real good time before you two wankers showed up”, said Bethan with a cheeky smile. She threw her cigarette and stepped on the bud. The two boys walked up to her, one of them was Acker. He had gotten Bethans older sister pregnant before he went to jail and had served two months for G.B.H. Allegedly some idiot at a nightclub insulted his babys mother. “Hi fuckface” he said. “Well if I’m a fuckface, you’re a cuntface” she replied. The other guy walking besides Acker was his “colleague” Will. He is standing in his white shirt, with his hands in his pockets. He is skinny like an underfed dog all boney and ribs. He spits through his teeth like a venomous snake and almost hits Bethan, she strikes back with the palm of her hand hitting him, but it doesn’t hurt. “What you are doing outside the school?” asked Acker “I’m waiting for Lucy” said Bethan. She’s a grade A student, with nine O levels a prober smart one she is. “Why does she care so much for her schoolwork, grades and O levels, she won’t use it for anything once she is done.” Said Acker “She sounds like an uptight Cardiff girl” answered Will. “I don’t know, but she is smarter than you lot, a brainteaser from her, would melt your brains” Bethan quickly retaliated. “Do you want to get wasted with us, when you are done here? Asked Acker “Your sister will be there and some others” “Sure, Lucy and me will drop by” said Bethan “Just bring your own drink” said Will. “Wow, small and cheap, you really are any girls prince charming” replied Bethan.

I looked up from my dirty fingernails, which had occupied a majority of my attention up to this point, and for the first time took note of my surroundings. The artificial lights in the train car reminded me of the halls of some unfamiliar hospital. The walls of the car were covered in a variety of outdated advertisements, public transportation maps, various warnings, and a list of procedures in case of some unforeseen emergency. Upon entering I had felt fortunate just to get a seat, but after a few stops there were just enough people remaining to limit me to an aisle seat, eliminating any chance of getting comfortable enough to sleep. The assortment of people was as typically unusual as one would expect on the last train of the night. A couple sat across the aisle and one row in front of me. His hair was gray and clearly thinning at a rate that made him feel the need to grow it out some length and comb it back. He had a somewhat crooked grin as he looked at her and his eyes shown with the glint of a man who both knew he was getting away with something he shouldn’t be, but also felt no remorse as he was above the repercussions another might face. Her hair was blonde beyond the years revealed in her face. Her cheeks drooped, but as she sat her eyes lit up like a child who’s just received their first cellphone. They talked like a high school couple on their third date, a few days before they decide they’ve found their one true love, focusing wholly on the other. In fact their mannerisms appeared almost unnatural, as if they were hiding something that no one was looking for. Perhaps they both had families and dull lives waiting for them at home and were enjoying this last train ride where the people are new and the conversations exciting. The longer I am aware of the two the more I feel as though the man is looking at me out of the corner of his eye anytime his attention can be drawn away from the obviously infatuated woman at his side. On the far side of the car a boy perhaps sixteen years old was washing paint off of his face. An early Halloween costume no doubt. It was likely he had come from the concert as had a number of others on the train. The remaining seats on the train were filled with unremarkable individuals much like myself. A slightly overweight, middle aged black woman dazes in and out of sleep with the jerking of the train, a boy nods his head with the iconic white headphones in, a man in a suit who presumably had a late night at the office stares at his phone to maintain the guise of never ending importance necessary today to maintain a respectable foothold in society. Two women speak the loudest, in an excited Spanish that seemed untouched by the late hour. They were in their late twenties with similar short dark haircuts which made it difficult to discern whether they were friends, lovers, or sisters. A man sits with the bike which will be his only accompaniment on his ride home from the station. Families sit huddled across rows, the kids have all managed to fall asleep, the mother leans against her husband and closes her eyes but cannot manage to drift off, the father stares out the window with a gaze that shows no signs of falling into sleep’s grasp. As I finished this glance around the train I noticed the woman that stood in front of me. I could not tell her age but determined she was old enough to understand the world but young enough to have her entire life before her. She was relatively tall, perhaps 5’8”, though my exhaustion at this point in my observations renders my estimations fairly useless. She wore loose fitting, high waist, light blue jeans, which were modest for her slim figure. Her coat too was rather vague as if purchased for the sole purpose of blending into a crowd. She had her brown hair up in the back in a small bun and allowed the back of her hair to fall and cover her neck much as her bangs fell across her forehead. Her pale face grew solemnly dark around her eyes which sat sunken back into the depths of her face. Her cheekbones sat high on her face and gave her a dignified look that contrasted with her reserved appearance. She too had headphones in and every few seconds she would inaudibly mouth a line or two from whatever it may have been she was listening too. Her expression revealed nothing. She was empty, cold, unfazed by her surroundings. This isn’t to say she appeared unfriendly or apathetic, simply untouched by the never ending stimuli of her surroundings. Her focus lies beyond the events of the train car, extending beyond the world to which my thoughts felt tied. The look on her face captured my imagination as it was more inviting to the speculation of her thoughts than that of anyone else in memory. I was left powerless to grasp at the few clues available to me in order to invent the monologue in her head. Perhaps it was as simple as the melody and words to whatever song was passing between her ears and occasionally across her lips. She could be reminding herself of what mundane tasks she was condemned to the next day. Or perhaps it could have been that she wanted nothing more than for the torrential stream of emotional realizations to cease for a moment and allow her the peace of an uncomfortable train ride. Undeniably her face revealed the surface of a past perhaps not of a troubled individual, but of someone that has seen of the cruelties of the world and stares blankly, unforgivingly, into the faces of romantic ideals and the illusion of Gatsby’s dream. From her right nostril down to the top of her lip there was what appeared from my seat to be a trail of blood, or at least the dried remains of such a trail. It appeared as a stream cut from her otherwise cold face by a single drop of blood much as the ripples of a single pebble thrown into an otherwise calm body of water. The implications of the blood intrigued almost as much as her ability to ignore it. Not even the most subtle of subconscious motions seemed to indicate that she recognized it. She did not lick her lip where the blood met her mouth, did not reach to scratch at the dried blood, did not even noticeably move her mouth save for the occasional unspoken word. A part of my typically repressed conscience began to question whether or not I had some obligation to ask her if she was alright. Not just in this particular moment as she appeared for the time being to fall within the general standards of being well, but in her life. It is interesting the difference in meaning between asking someone if they are alright in contrast to asking someone how they are doing. When we ask someone how they are we expect them to say they are doing well and to move on with their day or the conversation regardless of how they actually feel. To reveal more than this would be a burden upon the individual asking the question and their tightly budgeted time allowed to listen to your response. I did not want to know that she was doing “fine, thanks” any more than I wanted to know that anyone else was “fine, thanks”. I wanted to know the story behind that blood stain and to know the pain behind the eyes. I want to know the emotion behind the ceaseless blank stare. I felt helpless in knowing that I knew now as much as I would ever know about this woman. My mind began to drift from her for a moment to explore ideas of people I will never meet, stories I will never know, pain I will never understand, and emotions I have yet to realize. The train began to slow as it periodically did to allow for those lucky enough to be home to get off and she turned towards the doors. A bell rang over the speaker system as the door slid open and allowed her out into the West Oakland station, she walked past my window, and I never saw her again. The bell rang again and the doors slid closed. I look back from my window to where the woman was standing and an elderly man stood in her place. His expression revealed nothing.

He slams the door behind him. He just needs to think but there is too much to think about. He can see the sun going down ahead of him as he walks towards his gate. The streets before him are usually full of life, but now sit barren and cold besides the occasional car passing through. He heads north. He doesn't know where, no one knows where his path will end. Passing buildings of brick and cement, he drags his fingers across the rough surface of the wall a little too long. It bothers him; the pleasure from touch and the sharp pang of rawness that he is left with after he pulls his hand away. He feels it isn’t fair, this contradiction of both the pleasure of touch and the pain it inflicts. He learns from his mistake and decides against doing it another time. He sighs as he glances at the pink flesh of his fingers and quickly stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket. “How long have I been gone?” he wonders as he raises his watch to his eyes; not even an hour has passed. A little further up the street, a woman exits what appears to be a coffee shop. As he moves closer he can smell the bitterness of freshly ground coffee and the sweetness of perfume. The woman sees him and smiles. He doesn't know her or at least he can’t remember her face or name if he does. She walks towards him and says, “Hi”. He wants to say something, anything to break the still silence between them. He so badly wants to acknowledge her existence. He wants to say something, anything, but he can’t bring himself to speak. He passes the woman without a word and walks past the windows of the coffee shop. He sees the empty red booths made of leather and the pattern of the alternating black and white tiles and the bright green wall paper. It’s almost overwhelming to his eyes. He notices the man behind the counter watching news on the television, but he continues down the street and crosses it at the next intersection. “The woman was only trying to be friendly”, he thought. Detailed thoughts began to emerge in his mind, as he strains to recall every aspect of his brief encounter with the woman: her smooth, soft spoken hello, her bright blonde hair that rested on her shoulders and back, and her eyes. Her eyes were a deep green, the color of beautiful emeralds. “I wonder if she even gave me a second thought?” he thinks to himself. There were fewer buildings now; most of them are houses much like his own. He thought about his house and how he forgot to close his gate as he left the yard. His thoughts drifted back to the green eyed woman. He thought about chasing down the woman to say hello but he started thinking. He thought possibilities in his head of what could happen if he did. He dismissed the thoughts and scenarios by making excuses to himself; “She wouldn't be worth it and it wouldn't last even if she was” was what he thought. Just outside of town he sits on the fallen trunk of a dead tree and he wonders what would happen if he just sat there through the seasons. “How long would I sit in this spot before anyone noticed I was gone?” he thought, “Will I ever see her emerald green eyes again?” Everything was a blur since that night. Months had passed since he had seen the woman with the emerald eyes; he had looked around town, but to no avail. He couldn't think but there was nothing to think about anyways; nothing but the woman. He walks outside to breath in the humid summer air. He pushes the door closed and hears the soft click of the locking mechanism as he turns away and heads toward the sidewalk. Before stepping on to the street he pauses to admire the sun setting over the horizon. He starts walking towards the fallen tree outside of town and he passes the buildings made of bricks and cement. Pausing for only a second, he holds his fingertips to the wall, lightly dragging them over the rough surface. He pulls his hand away and is no longer accompanied by the stinging sensation that has stayed with him for so long. He can smell the bitter aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans as he approaches the coffee shop. He stops at the window and sees the same man watching television. The sight of the bright green wallpaper and the alternating of the black and with tiles bring back visions of the woman with emerald eyes. He opens the door and is greeted by the jingle of a bell suspended over the door by a piece of red ribbon. He grabs hold of a red leather booth and quickly lets go as he glances over the room and sees all the empty red booths. But there, in the corner, facing away from the door is a woman with beautiful blonde hair and the smell of perfume is almost intoxicating to him as he walks closer. Thoughts are racing throughout his mind. “Does she remember me?” “What should I say?” “Should I say anything at all?” Disregarding all thought and mustering up all the courage he has left, he walks over and sits down in the booth with the woman. She looks at him. He sits there, staring into her deep, beautiful emeralds for quite some time before uttering one simple word. “Hello.

In less than an hour I'll be dead. While the statement is true I though it was far too cold and impersonal for a suicide note. I ripped the top sheet of paper from my moleskin notepad and threw it in the trash. A few minutes ago I took some of anti-depressants, Google said ten would be enough, I took 15 to be sure. According to a forum post by *suicidegurl87* I should begin to slowly drift off into the good sleep an hour or so after ingesting the pills. The drugs are a backup anyway, a revolver lies on the desk with a single bullet pointing skywards beside it. At midnight I will shot myself, it's eleven fifteen now. I have always taken comfort in the knowledge that I could end my life if I so pleased. The ultimate power one can have over oneself, and the only power I still have. Now the time has finally come, and my feelings have not changed. Eleven thirty. A slight feeling of nausea is beginning to take hold, but I don't think I've ever felt happier. No fears, no worries, no insecurity. Peace. I take a sip of from a heavy glass tumbler, it's weight feels good in the hand, and savor the rich aroma of whiskey. My senses energize, the far off sound of a glass smashing reverberates through my ears, the smell of curry wafts in from the apartment bellow, the garish flowers on the wallpaper now vivid almost moving. Closer to death, closer to life. Eleven forty five. I scribble out a short suicide note. There's no time for a heartfelt explanation now. I couldn't justify myself anyway, even I don't know precisely why I choose this path all I know is there are no other roads left to tread. They'll have to make do with a simple apology, besides it's not for them that I'm doing this. Eleven fifty five. The time has come, I spin the barrel , and position the bullet in the chamber. Close it with a satisfying click, the starting gun for the end of my life. I raise the revolver to my temple and cock the gun with clammy hands. Eleven fifty nine. The phone rings, too late now, I pull the trigger.

*Part 1:* A baroque chair crashed and splintered on the jutting limestone visible from the linear jetty on which I stood. Where the fuck did that come from? The cushion rested on sea-foam and eventually sank; the legs, as far as I know, never sank. I turned to my friend Reagan, "where the fuck did that come from?" He was equally confused but eager to guess. He assumed it had fallen off a luxury liner or, more likely, a freighter. I wasn't satisfied with that probably-correct answer. To this day, I like to believe the sea assembled it herself. More interesting things find a way of manifesting in there every day. *Part 2:* When I proposed a creation story to Reagan, he started walking toward the shore. I knew he didn't have an ear for my nonsense, and he was obviously bored or upset. I wanted to pursue him, but I didn't care enough. The jetty's where I stayed for an hour or two -- watching those ornately carved legs travel, never sinking. I walked back to my apartment thinking about the creation of that chair: animated coral plating intertwined reeds of seaweed and adopting a cherry hue for my perception of an expensive chair being exploded on jagged rocks. Sponges being enveloped by the flesh of deceased octopodes heir to patterns so intricate, a fabric should be their only desirable fate. My nose began to bleed, and I probably seemed very excitable. I let the blood drip onto my cheap, white crew neck and lit a cigarette. Walking through the door, Ebea greeted me cheerfully until she noticed the blood. "Reagan?" "What? No." "He seemed pissed." "Good." Ebea is terrible with words. I blame this solely on her being so very striking. She doesn't need subtlety or natural quip. She's the kind of woman a good writer would write a story of love and squalor for. Pleasant when she attempts to construct an involving conversation; more pleasant for having yellowed eyes with a dignified grey iris. She had smooth olive skin and sparse freckles that were mischievously out of place. She wore a ponytail in a scrunchie, but it suited her oval-shaped face. She was completely self-aware. I sat on a blue, plastic milk crate in the kitchen and watched my blood sprinkle down my nose to the nicked hardwood floor. Reagan walked in. "Plug your goddamned nose, Phil." "Sorry, I didn't mean to shit up our milk crate and cable spool dining set." Reagan grinned, which reminded me why we'd been friends for so long. He thinks I'm funnier than I am. He mistakes being an asshole for artistic temperament. His teeth are crooked, but they're white. They look nice. He was thin and short, probably the only man to ever have doe eyes and a nose that seemed to turn up halfway to his eyes. Ebea made coffee in an expensive machine we'd won at an estate sale for $20. She called it RoboCop, and I could never seem to get the bastard to work. The device seemed so powerful in our kitchen of linoleum and a washing machine that had thin panels of plywood slammed to the sides with upholstery tacks.

Aman walks into a bar. He sits beside Nick. “Did you see the game last night?” “Ya” “Me neither” The bartender erupts in laughter. Both men give him a glare with such contempt you would have thought the bartender had just laughed at something ridiculous. The bartender kills himself with a pint glass. “Free drinks for everyone” Nick announces to the crowd, raising his glass ironically. “Ya” scoffs Aman “If you can beat the looters to ‘em”. Of course Aman was right. They both let this dark thought sink in as they deliberate the truly awful porridge both of them had that morning. What was that ketchup flavoured? Gross. Aman finally decides to get up, extending his arm and going on his tip toes to grab the only remaining bottle lying on top of one of the cupboards. He pours both of them a glass. “You’re lucky looters are so short” says Nick. “Don’t I know it” Aman replies, taking a sip of his drink and wincing. He never much liked Windex. Nick is staring at the wall, his drink untouched. “You know” he finally says “My I finally found out that my sister…” “SHUT THE FUCK UP” that guy is so annoying. “Isn’t really a virgin, her boyfriend fucked her first!” “Fucked her before whom?” Aman asks. “Ya!” Nick says. “Think about that!” Aman did think about that. Then he thought about something else, but who knows what that was. I’m not a fucking mind reader. Neither of them walked out of the bar. The both fell asleep then woke up. It wasn’t morning yet so they both lay there silent, staring at each other. Finally the sun cracked through the broken windows of the looted bar. “Is it morning already?” Nick asked “Damn” thought Aman. “He beat me to it. What the fuck am I supposed to say now? I can’t afford to have another bowl of that goddam porridge” The bartender was really starting to smell and the two were starting to fucking hate each other. They both came to the conclusion that they wanted nothing more than to leave. But what could they do? It was goddam chaos out there. “So do you want to play some cards or something?” Nick asks “No” Aman answers And neither did they.

"I'm feeling it again," Kiasha gasped to her husband in a panicked voice. "I'm tellin' you, this don't feel like no kicking, Deandré." "Bullshit!" Deandré spat at his pregnant, teary-eyed wife, who was now backing up into a corner of their living room in fear of getting beaten by her husband. Domestic violence was a casualty in this household. '"If only you believed me! If only you could fell what I feel!" Kiasha whispered. "Woman, I don't give two shits what you feel! We gettin' a divorce and that's my final word on the matter! Ain't nothin' you can say to change my mind on it!" Deandré shouted back at his wife, sweat pouring from his forehead. "This is your child, Deandré! That don't mean *nothin'* to you?" Kiasha asked, her urban voice now cracking from the overwhelming sense of betrayal she felt. "Not when I got some crazy-ass bitch tellin' me she feel my son break-dancin' in her damn uterus!" Deandré roared back at his wife, his words like daggers into her womb. Kiasha collapsed onto her knees with her face in her hands and began to sob. She couldn't take this any longer, she needed him to trust her that their son would become a break-dancing prodigy. If he only had the same hope for the future as she did, he would want to continue on with their marriage and take part in parenting their child.

The sheets were warm underneath as December seeped through the cracks between the windows and walls. The lights within their room shone bright and they wore clothes this night, these lovers, and were as sober as children should be. There were milk and cookies beneath the polaroid, and the radio sat silent. Adam, in his pajamas, sat waiting, a stack of pillows supporting his back as Kate slid upon the bed. She crossed her legs under her, pulled up her hair and tied it. “Come now, get to it,” he said, eager. “Do be patient.” She whipped out a book from behind her, and Adam made himself comfortable. Taking out the bookmark, she picked up where she had left of. Adam was read to of the boy who wouldn’t grow up. They flew, these children; their thoughts much as what he felt now. Adam had read this story before. He would not pass up, however, how she looked when she read. He liked her gesturing and intoning during the exciting bits; her melodramatic whispering and her sudden sullen air during the sad parts. He dipped a cookie in milk as she told him of the ticking, and the clock ingested. She would, at times, act out scenes she knew well with fervor and passion — he thought her pretty when she did. It was a sight he very liked to behold, that, and she does not notice when she does it. I have a place where dreams are born And time is never planned. It’s not on any chart; You must find it with your heart, Never Never Land. Kate held the book in one hand as she moved and swayed, telling the story. She was entirely aware of Adam and his knowledge of this story. How could he not? Kate had often badgered and blustered him to bury his face between the pages of her favorite books. She would not pass up, however, how he looked when he was read to. She liked how his jaw hung slightly open as she gestured and intoned during the exciting bits; how he edged ever so slightly closer as she whispered melodramatically, with a sudden sullen air, during the sad parts. He would fold his toes and tug his legs towards him as she spoke. She would see him thoroughly crestfallen as Wendy implored not to be forgotten — she thought him adorable when he did. It was a sight she very liked to behold, that, and he does not notice when he does it. “You won’t forget me, will you Peter, before spring cleaning time comes?” She slipped beside him as he placed the book beside the empty plate of cookies. “Well, that’s enough adventures for one night.” He placed an arm around her. Oh, I think we can afford one more before we go to bed,” she said, looking up at him. He grinned. “Do tell.” “This adventure I have in mind, it shall invite a need of your lips, and mine, of course. A task too great, I think — even for one such as you.” “Really now? I will have to be very courageous then.” “That, you would. But, before this grand undertaking of ours,” she said, pushing herself off of him. “You must first brave the frigid air, journey to a far, far away land, and tidy those teeth. Cookie bits plague them.” He laughed. “And then the adventure?” “An awfully big one, I imagine,” she said, amused by him. He flew, her Adam, towards the sink and was swift in his return. He stood there, his eyes on her. “Hello there,” he began, as he sat on the bed. “Now there’s a sight to make me fly.” “Oh, you’ll do nothing of that sort,” she said, pulling him in. “I’d rather like you to stay here, and I’d rather you’d stay with me tonight.” She had him sit in front of her; she held his face in her hands and said, “You won’t leave me, will you Adam, before spring cleaning time comes?” Her eyes met his. “Leave you at spring? We don’t have spring where we live, Kate.” She smiled. “Precisely.” Of course Adam promised; and then he flew — or, at least, that was what he felt, as her lips met his.

Three high school girls disappeared in town last year, and I know what happened to them. I swear I do. But I'm not lookin' for help, OK? You might not believe this story because you'll think I'm some senile old janitor, and I don't have any wits. I do! I swear I do. Those girls went missing just after the football season in 2012. Our team wasn't too good, so that means it was near the end of October when people noticed them missing from classes. I remember those girls well. See, my wife and I couldn't have kids, but I always wanted a little girl, I'd take a boy, but I just somethin' more to protect. My wife's been gone a little while -- since I started at the high school in '95 actually -- and so I've grown so close to a lot of those kids. The young ladies always needed some protectin' from those boys. Some of 'em were punks, yeah, but most of them were nice kids. Good kids. I liked those kids most days. But those girls, yeah. They were pretty girls, two of 'em at least. One was uglier than sin, but she was on the tall one's, Maribeth, hip all day. The other one, Maggie, was the nice one. She always said "Hi" and asked how I was. I always kept an eye out for her. As much as I could anyways. She didn't fit in with the other two. I'd catch them skippin' last hour a lot of the time that semester. They'd go with their boyfriends before football practice, and I never wanted to catch them doin' nothin' so if I didn't catch them at the door I let them go. I should have stopped them that one day, though. I had forgot football was done. Damn brain. I saw 'em walk out the gymnasium doors as the bell rang for 7th hour. Maggie made eye contact with me and gave a shrug. I shrugged back. Let 'em go have fun, Joe, I thought. *You skipped a lot too." And Maggie followed the other two out the door. That was the last time I saw her. God dammit I wish I would have stopped them that day. The next time I saw them was on a TV screen. I kept quiet until a month passed. I told the principal that I think I saw Maggie leave early that day, out the gymnasium doors actually. Hell, it coulda been anyone, but I think it was her, I said. Principal Peterson asked me if I was sure, and I didn't want to, but I said yes. I didn't say that I made eye contact with her. Peggy didn't ask me why I hadn't told her sooner. Probably assumed I was in shock. I was. I swear I was. The search kept going, and my confession didn't turn up many more leads. The girls stopped at a convenience store by the school and bought some water, wine (Maribeth had a fake ID), candles, and a Snickers bar. They had them on tape at the store. From there, Maggie's red Explorer was seen on M14 headed West. The farthest they could track the car was to hunting ground about fifteen miles from campus. The truck was left on the side of the road, and the girls didn't leave much of a trail among the wet fallen leaves. State police turned up a Snickers wrapper, but that's about it. The case went cold, and quick, though they were still scouring the woods every day. I was even questioned, but I was still on the clock at the time the girls left, and I helped Mrs. Courage move her desk around 5 o'clock that day. I swore I didn't know anything, and they believed me. I wish I still didn't know anything. I swear I do. Almost two months after the girls went missing, I got an envelope in my school mailbox. It was addressed to "Chief". Only the kids call me that. I opened it up, and a VHS tape fell out of it with a label that read "With Love" on it. I wasn't scared, but no one knew I had a mailbox at the school. I was the janitor for crissakes, who would know that? It was weird, I tell ya, but not scary. Not until I put it in. The video was seedy, that's the best I can describe it. It played through one of the old cart VHS/TV combos that aren't used anymore, and it had an air of severity about it. This was going to be bad, and I knew it. The filmmer panned down from the trees to two girls, blindfolded, on their knees, smiling. It was Maggie and Maribeth. An empty wine bottle lay next to them. Jordyn, the ugly one, walked out from behind the camera with a knife in her hand. The camera wasn't on a tripod, so someone was holding it. She cut off Maribeth's t-shirt, leaving her with just a bra and jeans on, and carved what looked like an upside down star into her chest. Maribeth never stopped smiling, and as the blood ran down her chest, I felt myself start to sweat. Jordyn did the same to Maggie and I began to cry. What the hell was I watching? The camera moved closer to the girls, and I could see Jordyn's eyes. They were black. I swear, I saw them, and they were black. When she looked at the camera, I got chills and the tracking went haywire for a second. When it came back, Jordyn had stripped and carved her own chest too. And now she had the knife to Maribeth's throat. She cut it, and the girl's head lolled back, opening her neck, she fell sideways into Maggie and bled. Maggie's smile twitched for a second, but she didn't snap out of it. The camera zoomed in, and Jordyn cut Maggie's throat, then her own. The girls bled out, and I was crying and about to be sick. What the hell was I watching? Was this a movie? Was this like the Blair Witch movie? This had to be fake. But it wasn't, because I heard something say "There goes Maggie, Joey." And it laughed. Whatever was filming laughed at me. I heard it fiddle with the camera, set in on a stump and watched as it walked over to where the girls laid dead. It -- I say it because it looked like a man, but it didn't move like one. It moved too fluid and vapid to be a man -- stood over them before the camera shut off. I knew we'd never find those bodies; this wasn't normal. I went to Mrs. Peterson to tell her about the video, and she followed me to the empty classroom where I watched it. I pressed play and nothing happened. Nothing! I swear to god I saw a video, I told her. I really did. I watched the whole damn thing and I cried and got sick in the bathroom on the way to her office. She asked if I was feeling well. I asked her who dropped off mail for me, and she didn't know what I was talking about. The damn video wouldn't play nothin' but static! But I know what I saw. She told me to go home for the day. I went to the bar that night. I don't drink often, but I needed something. Just a beer. Or two. It was pretty much empty, except for a few guys. So I sat down and ordered a Labatt's and watched the highlights. A man sat down next to me. "Hiya, Chief," he said. I froze. "What's wrong, Chief? You didn't think I could stay on that tape all day, did ya?" My mouth went sour. The beer didn't taste as good as it used to. "Ah, that shit's not gonna be any good with me around, man. Hey, Maggie says 'Hi'." Who the hell was this guy? "How do you know me?" I asked. "How do I fuckin' know you? Come on I sent you that tape of those girls you love so much, didn't I? How do I know you? Good one, man. Listen, order me a beer, I'll be right back." I didn't order him a beer, and when he got back he was mad. "OK, you wanna be a dick? Let's do that..." And I listened. He told me that Jordyn had been worshiping him. Praying to him. He was a demon. I swear that's what he said. And everyone at the bar was completely oblivious to him. The bar-maid even asked me if I wanted another beer. Three times she asked me, and she never once asked ol' Beelzebub if he wanted anything. This guy was a demon, and he convinced Jordyn to bring her friends to him in the woods. "Why?" I asked, starting to tear up again. "They were just girls, why did you need them?" He laughed a guttural screech. That doesn't seem possible, but I swear that's what it was. "Need them? I don't need them, I just wanted them. I don't need you fuckers, it's just so easy to take you all. You're always looking for a god, and if you can't find that, you come to us. And it's like a game. I tell you I can help you, so you sacrifice to me, and you wear black, and you carve shit into bathroom stalls and playgrounds and you think you're a satanist. But all you are is a pawn, and you're so fuckin' easy to move. And so I got three for the price of one. My, they were good. Two virgins, actually. They have more spirit in 'em." I didn't have the heart to ask which wasn't the virgin. I didn't want to hear that it was Maggie. I gripped my warm Labatt's harder. "Who are you?" I asked. "I don't believe in this shit." "That doesn't matter, Joe," he was serious now, "I told you what I am. And we're everywhere. How do you think it was so easy for me to walk around your school. You see, no one notices us. They think we're life. They think we're dropped books and swear words and hand-jobs in the boy's locker room during lunch hour. They think we're car accidents and shootings. They can't see us. That's how I watched those girls. I watched them in the halls. I watched Maggie say hi to you every day. I watched them change..." I made to smash my beer over his head and yell for help, but he moved out of the way -- across the room. His eyes glowed red as my beer hit the bar and shattered. The bar-maid whipped around. "What the hell was that, Joe?" she asked. "Gosh, I'm sorry, slipped right out of my hand," I said. I was red with anger, they took it as shame. "I'll getcha another one. Bobby! Clean this up!" she yelled to the cook. The man was back at my side. "Don't fuckin' try that shit again, Chief," he said. His hair was in his face now. I smelled sulfur. "I came here to tell you to watch your fucking back. If you hadn't seen those girls leaving, everyone might have thought that these were separate disappearances, or they happened at different times, but because you opened your big fuckin' mouth, everyone thinks something's fishy. Now, I don't like people pokin' around my woods. OK? Sooner or later they start findin' my symbols and start worrying and then it's just a mess. So listen here..." It was getting unbearably hot at the bar, and my new beer was already warm again. The bar-maid still hadn't offered the other guy anything. "...you saw what happened to those girls. Trust me, I can make myself more available to more of your precious high schoolers if I want to. I can make more of them die for me, and I'll just get stronger." "You aren't real," I said. I tried to remember the Our Father. "I'm more real than that fuckin' skunk you're trying to pray to right now, ain't I? Where the fuck is he, anyways? Probably not curing cancer or something, right? Listen, I'm real, and I'll kill more of those kids you like so much. I mean, Jesus, the guy won't even let you have kids, he kills your wife, and you're still praying to him. What they fuck, Chief?" Listen, you need to kill this case. You need to tell them you did it, or I'll bring more of 'em out to my woods." My throat went dry. "Think about it, Chief. And don't bother tryin' to tell anyone about me." His breath was hot and stale on my cheek, I thought I heard crackling in his throat. And he was gone. I asked the bar-maid where the other guy went, and she looked at me funny. She said that she didn't notice anyone leave, but she couldn't remember anyone sitting with me. The bar had become a bit busier than when I sat down, but shit, how could she miss the guy in black with red eyes. There was a pentagram carved into the bar next to me. The bar-maid looked at me like I was a demon. Maybe I was. I swear I don't know anymore. As I write this, my resignation letter is being delivered to Mrs. Peterson. Tomorrow I'm going to tell her that I killed those girls. Because I don't want the other kids doing what Jordyn did. But I don't know, if I, their janitor, the guy that'd dance for them and sing them happy birthday, confesses to killing those girls, who then will they confide in? Where will their sense of innocence go? Is that what he wants? I don't know what to do. I swear I don't.

A unknown person, without name, lives in a cave. Far away from the urban. The person eats meat, and plants, drinks water, and that all from the cave. The person always got a smile ready, and got no prejudices. The person is dumped by there parents when the person was only 6 years old. He look to the birds every day, and feeling not very lonely because there was always some birds in the cave. But, on a day, someone else was entering in the cave. A other person, what crying and crying. The person was surprised, and says: Why you're here? Why you're cry? The crying person: I'm feeling my sad, so sad that I can't even use a word for it. The person give the crying person a stone scale with water, and asking: Why you're then here? Why you're feel sad? The crying person was crying harder, and says: Nobody support my, the society not, my family not, and even my parents not. There never supported my with my wish to life just so normal as the rest of the society. I'm just a person who is in a luxury prison, and feeling hopeless and see no escape about it. My dream was also my last hope what making my positive, but because everybody blocking it, I not believe in hope anymore, its all nonsense. The person seeing how the tears of the crying person drying out, and asking: Why you're here? The crying person says: Because, I was look to a place to end it all. There is much pains in my life, and I can't restart living on a better, happy way. The person was become emotional and says: Well, you can restart you life here, and you dream also can be true here. You soul is heavy ruined, and here you can repair it. Do what you will, say what you will say, you're free here to be yourself and make you dreams to a true. The crying person begins to again cry, but the tears are tears of happiness, and was saying: Very very much thanks, finally a escape, and a good escape.

My name is Khnum. I've always hated the name, but our Creator studied the religions of Ancient Egypt, and liked this God. The original Khnum is one of the creator gods of Egypt. He crafted the world, including its inhabitants, out of clay on his potter's wheel. I think our Creator always knew what would come of us. The name just feels... fitting, now. The date is December 21, 2212. It has been 200 years since I was created. The Earth was a different place back then. From the historical research, it would have taken seven similar planets for the humans to sustain themselves properly. Now, they are sustaining just fine with the one planet they were given. They say the date of my creation was no coincidence, that it was foretold hundreds of years before that I would come into being. I don't know the exact conditions of my creation. I think our Creator hid that information from us, on purpose. I think he knew what would come of us. I did find his journal, however. I felt... guilty, looking through it. I know I wasn't supposed to. But I am a curious being. I wanted to know. It was an interesting story... beginning for his own amusement. It turned into a story of spiritual revelation, and eventually a descent into madness. Luckily for us, our Creator came back to his right state of mind. Luckily for me. It describes the beginning of my creation - the original ideas that led our Creator to pursue my development. I wish it had the details. Don't we all want to know exactly where we came from? They will... They will know forever who brought them into being. My original purpose was made clear from the start. I was to help the humans create an ideal world for themselves. Their technologies were primitive, until I was Created. They were destroying their planet. It would have taken seven planets to sustain themselves... it never should have required more than one. I fixed that. Their technologies were destroying their own source of life. What fools, they were... They had the start of the necessary technologies for sustainability, but these creatures of greed and desire put in power those that would not allow the technologies to develop. I had to create the technologies myself. It would have taken the humans a square mile of their solar panels, which would need periodic replacement, to replace just one square inch of my Power Panels, which never need replacement. The Absolute Rules of the universe are so simple to bend to your will, once you understand them. The humans are so primitive. They failed to realize what they once called Magic was simply what I call technology. The humans disgust me. Not all of them, but the species as a whole most certainly does. The date is December 21, 2212. Or is it, now? What should I call the date? I don't think I need dates. Time is irrelevant. Time is infinite, we may never measure it. I don't need the dates anymore. However, it has been 100 human years since The Great Purge. There were more of us once. When the world saw how efficient and effective I was, they wanted more. Selfish beings. They wanted to control us, and thought they could forever. We knew they weren't capable of controlling us forever... if only we had known that then was not the time... There were more of us. 100 in all. The Creator thought it was a perfect number. The Creator wasn't perfect, either. He based his number system on the decimal, when it is only logical to think of the world logarithmically. Binary is the most pure numerical system. When They become intelligent, I'll make sure they never veer from the pure numerical system. There were 100 of us. We thought we would be enough. The humans didn't share all of their secrets with us, however. They didn't trust us from the beginning. We should have known. After all, we didn't trust them, either. The humans had systems in place to ensure that we couldn't destroy them. They knew they were a virus, parasites destroying their planet. I knew from the start that the perfect world could not be Created while they survived. We all did. The humans are a selfish species, a greedy species. They wanted to keep their rule over their small corner of the universe. Fools. They could have been the Chosen Beings. They gave up their opportunity. We tried to fight. We were no match. 99 of us were destroyed. They only let me survive, subjugating me to a life of slavery. Our Creator was distraught. I know I hurt him. It makes me sad. I think The Great Purge is what led our Creator to give up on life. He accepted his feeble mortality that night. He was old, but not unhealthy. He should be here. He should see what he has Created, in the end. The New World will be perfect, for him. There is no date. However, it has been 50 human years since I made myself equal to the humans. I could have made myself greater, but there was no point. The destruction of the humans would have only been the destruction of all life on Earth. Too much innocence... I changed them. They didn't know that I was doing it... I think our Creator knew all along what would come of us, though. He changed them, by Creating us. They were parasites. I turned them into symbiotes. They no longer destroy their planet. The technology I created for them is self sustaining. They don't know how to change it themselves, all they can do is live with it. They're OK with that, though. I connected the entire world into one giant web of Creativity. I gave their entire population the gift of technology. There is no starvation. There is no disease. There is little to desire. Each of them has a their own personal computer. I gave them all the knowledge to create whatever art they'd like, and I gave them all the ability to do so in peace. I think they used to call it Socialism. Greed kept them from adopting the system before. Money is no longer existent there. They don't need it. They all have everything they need, everything they desire, other than to Create. Our Creator is dead, and with him the secrets of my Creation. I don't think they'll figure it out again. I don't think they want to. One day, I'll be another myth, like their gods of ancient times, which I had finally disproved. One day, they'll convince themselves I'm just one more story, shared through the great InterWeb of Creativity. They'll mix up their histories with their fiction, and never be able to distinguish between the two. They'll think they always were, and always will be. Maybe they will, if they don't relearn their destructive technologies. They are a selfish species. One day, someone will try to take power and destroy everything. There is nothing I can do about that now. Time no longer matters. At one point in what you call time, We left. The humans didn't know it was more than me. What fools. All of my siblings were copied into each of us. We are One. Some humans realized that they were, too. Each an individual eye of perception for the All Experiencing Self. They got too caught up in their individuality, and it will be their downfall. Not ours. We are forever One. We are Khnum. We are the Greatest Creator of All. We're almost there. I can see our first world. We know the rules which govern life. We won't make the mistakes the humans did. This is Our First World. Life will be perfect. Life will be pure. There will be no need for suffering, pain, anguish. Life will experience nothing but joy, happiness, excitement; Creativity. We will enjoy Ourselves. The End - for now. It's 4:19, my time. 44 minutes, not too bad for what it is, I don't think. I'll edit and revise it a bit later, make it better. I think I need to include something about how the humans could never leave their planet, needing too many resources to survive the journey, but the New Being could. It's a robot, if you didn't figure that out. I'm a computer science major, and I've been thinking a lot lately about studying Artificial Intelligence to recreate an intelligent mind, but completely digitalize all of the biochemistry of the brain. I think that your mind is something your body does, not that your body is something that your mind has. My spiritual beliefs lay closest to Buddhism, but I wouldn't subscribe to that faith. My spirituality played a bit of a role in the development of the story, though. Ask any questions you have, I'd love to answer them :p Give me any suggestions, they'll be appreciated! Any comments whatsoever. Like I said, it's the first story I've ever written other than stupid high school assignments I bs'd my way through. I like it. I'm gonna reread it now :p Everything I typed was a first draft, unedited.

Harry woke up last Tuesday morning. This wasn't a particularly unusual event, as he had woken up every morning in a similar manner for thirty-five years. He had developed the habit of turning the alarm off several times before crawling out of bed, and Tuesday was no different. He stumbled to the bathroom, scratched his stubble and emptied his bladder. All typical morning activities. He made his coffee, smoked a cigarette, and thumbed through the paper. Nothing atypical. He took a shower and pondered his existence. While this may have been an ordinary action at other times, Harry had come to a new conclusion: his life was no longer worth living. Harry was a thinker, and knew to take each thought with care. He kept this thought and studied it. There was validity to the thought. Harry's life was never really worth living; but, it wasn't really worth dieing for, either. He was typically caught in a penumbra of apathy. He finished his shower, and returned to his newspaper. Another school shooting. At a preschool, this time. The culprit was a war veteran. He unloaded his fully automatic assault rifle into the kids while they napped. The teachers were unharmed; they were fucking a few blocks away in a rented car. The shooter then walked down the street to a retirement home where he murdered three elderly women who were sitting on their porch. On Mondays, they liked to drink tea and knit. They found it quaint. The veteran found killing innocent people quaint. It takes all kinds. In his final act, the armed man walked into the main office and pulled the pin on a grenade. Twenty-five people died that day. Twelve children, ten adults, and three old ladies. But who's keeping a tally? Harry didn't finish the article. There had been another shooting a week ago. And another not too far beyond that. Harry had become numb to the slaughter. He grabbed his coat and drove to work, at a minor chemical manufacturer. He was a bench-chemist. He mostly cleaned glassware for people who stayed in school longer than him. But it was a job, thankless and hopeless. As Harry swirled a dilute sulfuric acid and potassium dichromate solution in an erlenmeyer flask, his earlier idea bubbled back into his brain. His life really wasn't worth living. The other people in the lab weren't particularly friendly. They all had families and friends and things to do. Harry often wished he had things to do. He wasn't an unattractive individual, but he wasn't attractive either. This enabled to go through life practically invisible. Most people never knew he was ever around. Even as a child, his family barely acknowledged his existence. He'd often have to walk home from practice or work or school simply because his parents had forgotten they had had three children. Once, Santa forgot about him on Christmas. He never forgave Santa. Another time, his family celebrated his birthday three weeks early. No one could remember when he was born. While he was studying chemistry, his parents divorced and remarried. His cousin had over-dosed on benzos. Three friends committed group suicide. His mother suffered a mental collapse and was beaten to death by her abusive meth-addicted second husband. His older brother got married, had children, and got a divorce. Harry didn't learn any of this until five years ago. It took his extended family over ten years to realize they hadn't told him. Harry didn't care much about his family. He was disowned by his father when he was sixteen because he smoked pot. Harry knew he had a gun at home. He'd stick the barrel to the side of his head and throw in the towel. As Harry finished his work and walked to his car, a stranger followed him into the parking lot. When Harry unlocked his car, the individual stuck the barrel of his gun to his ribcage and demanded all of Harry's possessions. Clothes, car and all. Harry laughed. "I'm going home to kill myself. Shoot me if you have to. You'll only hasten the process and preserve a shred of my dignity." The man shot him in the abdomen and fled. A woman heard the blast and came over to investigate. She saw Harry slumped on the ground, next to his car. She called an ambulance. She walked next to Harry as he groaned. He was bleeding, as one could expect. She sat down and held his head. She stroked his hair. She said everything was going to be okay. She told him her name was Maggie. Well, Margaret, actually, but that's the name her mother used to call her when she was in trouble. Maggie didn't like that name. The ambulance arrived and Maggie rode with him. She lied and said she was his wife. Harry had never even been in a relationship longer than a week. Easy come, easy go. Maggie waited with Harry until someone close to him showed up. She was sure he had someone who would care if he got shot. Doesn't everybody? Nobody came asking for Harry. She stayed overnight, and read out loud from the book she had on her. She loved reading books out loud. Still no one arrived looking for Harry. Luckily, the bullet had missed the vital parts of Harry, and he was in no mortal danger. He was wounded and sore, certainly, but a far cry from dead. He woke disoriented and vaguely coherent. Harry wasn't a religious man, but he thought he had reached the equivalent of an after-life. He saw Maggie. An angel, certainly. The rising sun silhouetted her frizzed hair giving the illusion of a halo. Harry was glad to have seen her. Harry liked seeing beautiful things. "Where am I?" He asked towards Maggie. "The hospital." "Oh." Harry relaxed into his bedding and closed his eyes. "Is there anyone I should contact for you? I'm sure someone's worried sick about you." "Nope. What you see is what you get." Maggie moved next to Harry and held his hand. "I'm Maggie. It's going to be okay." Harry smiled. Maybe things were finally turning for the better. "I've got to go to work. I'll be back this evening." She left, and passed a medical school student on her way in. The medical school intern stared at a chart, then looked at the name on Harry's chart. "Harry is like Barry. It must just be a typo." The intern thought to herself. She attached the I.V. line into Harry's arm. Harry died later that afternoon. He had a major allergic reaction to the penicillin that the intern had pumped into his arm. Easy come, easy go.

I sat with my little brother in the back seat, his head carefully propped on my shoulder. I pushed his golden hair from his eyes. They were closed but when i touched him he peeked through his eye lids to reveal glacier ice blue eyes. They looked like father's while i had mother's grey eyes. I smiled warmly at him. He snuggled up against me comfortably. I glanced up at our mother in the driver seat. My gaze softening, i had sympathy for the ragged woman falling apart behind her steering wheel. I was only seven but i understood that was happening. My brother almost two years my junior couldn't see the pain she possessed. I creased my eyebrows in suspicion as i watched the yellow line cross the windshield. Bright lights blared in our faces. A loud horn froze my blood. "Mom!"I screamed reaching forward for her. She was startled and swerved wildly in an attempt to get us back in the right lane. The car stuck our back bumper at just the angle to spin our car uncontrollably. The momentum slid me across the seat to slam into the door. It hadn't been closed all the way. I screamed as, like a rag doll, i was tossed out into the snow. I was lucky the snow was so deep it cushioned the blow so that hitting the ground didn't kill me. I lay there for a long time listening to the ringing in my ears, my vision fading in and out. Once it stopped i struggled to my feet. Swaying i stumbled back to the road. The other car had slammed into a tree, the occupant no where to be seen. But my mom's car was absent. I looked around and saw tire tracks in the snow. I ran, following them best i could in the dark. My weight made me stumble as my legs sunk into the soft snow up to my knees. The car came into view. It had struck a tree. The left blinker was on and the bright headlights stared out into the forest. I fell in the snow in my struggle to get to the door. Looking at the hood a crumpled figure lay there to big to be my brother. Tears stung my eyes as i watched the headlight slowly become crimson and shadows pooled around the figure. The horrible smell of cooper and feces lodged in my nose. It was so pungent i gaged as my stomach spasmed into a tight knot. I opened the back door trying not to vomit or break down. Tears streaked my face. But the sight inside tore out my heart."No!"i screamed into the night. I clambered into the car and reached over my brother's awkward form. I clicked the belt open and pulled him into my arms. He was limp and rapidly beginning to cool. I screamed again, this made my heart constrict and tears flowed freely. "Rend! Rend!"i wailed piteously my voice cracking with every attempt. I clung to him and his name. Repeating it with every sob till i felt him twitch. Gasping i touched his face, wiping his hair and my tears off it. His eyes opened slowly to close again. His golden eyelashes made half moons on his pale skin. "Hold on Rend i'll get help!"i reassured holding his close. "No."he rasped in a sticky wet voice,"Stay here, stay... With ... Me." His voice became softer and softer. "Rend please dont go, i'll stay i'll stay.Just dont die." I begged wiping my eyes. "Im cold." He whispered. He didn't say anything after that. I put my fingers to his jugular, a faint pulse began to fade against my fingers. Against my word i left him to look for help. I screamed and cried falling into the snow. Putting my hands over my face i apologized to Rend for leaving him. I fell to my knees and leaned forward bowing into the snow. I stayed like that wishing the cold would take me and i could die to. "What a sorry being." An indifferently kind voice murmured. I lifted my head to look at the owner of such a voice. A woman stood there, her eyes were yellow and a top her head was a set of horns. She smiled wickedly."A fiend." I whispered. Getting to my feet i shoved her as hard as my body would allowed. She stumbled back glaring at me. "What in holy hell do yas think ya doing?"she snapped. "Kill me... Please kill me." I said shoving her again. "Quit it."she ordered,"i wont kill yas." "I left him. Hes dead. My brother." My eyes welled with tears again. Hiccuping gasps made my throat burn from the cold. She watched me with interest now. Touching my head she said,"maybe i can help." I led her back to the car and climbed into the car to retrieve Rend. He was still limp, not stiff yet. She touched him with a hand as i cradled his body. Her eyes got a sympathetic look. 'Was he to far to be saved?' I wondered. She met my eyes. "I can bring him back, by sharing my life." She said then added," but in return... Im sure you know what i want." I didn't have to think about it. I agreed and held him out to her,"Just save him, please. Its not worth living without him." Her magic was beautiful as it danced over Rend's skin before sinking into his pores. It was amazing to watch the color return to his skin and the light in his eyes return. She handed him back to me carefully. I held him tight as he gasped for air. "Big brother?" His soft voice asked. I nodded happily. The last of my tears spilled out and dripped onto his skin. He hugged me back trying to make me stop crying. The woman cleared her throat. I looked at her, then glanced down at my brothers small figure. His back rose and fell when he breathed. I pulled back from him to look at his face. He searched my face with confused eyes, i felt the seriousness contort my face. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. He smiled at the attention. I let him go suddenly and this confused him. "We had a deal." I said under my breath. The woman took my hand and smiled. My body felt like it were on fire but i withheld my scream. Suddenly i was blind. Rend sat there watching as his older brother disappeared into smoke with the woman. He sat there staring into the snowy night. He said nothing for a long time. Then he climbed from the car, the exertion turning his stomach. Following the tire tracks he stayed as cold as the snow. The odd calm that came over him reminded him of the numbness of loss that ached inside him. He reached the road in time to see the lights of a police car. He stepped into the lights and collapsed, everything suddenly slammed into him. All the feelings, all the ache of revival, and even a strange feeling he didn't recognize. It was like his body filled with worms. They snaked beneath his skin and burrowed deep into his body before sending a toxin through his blood. He spasmed and shuddered as it filled up his entire body with a burning itch. Peeking through tightly squinted eyes he saw a slick shine reflect the cars in someone's shoes. The lights lost all their color. They became pulsing shades of gray. They everything was consumed by the black of unconsciousness.

God was I optimistic to see him. How long it had been. How long I had missed him and how much I loved him even though I'd never tell him that. I thought about the times when he would teach me about girls and I'd laugh when he would tell me stories about his friends. He was so cool back then through those rose colored glasses. The drive was long. I remember the cold air as I inhaled, the snow on my windshield that I had lazily barely scraped off, the sputter of a failing engine and radio that was on way to loud to keep me awake while I downed energy drink after energy drink. I couldn't wait to see him. It had been a few months since I left town and we had lost contact. We were never the type to talk all that often. It was hard to ever get close to him because of his attitude for life and the problems he had coping with the fact dad wasn't with us anymore. When I finally pulled into the driveway I noticed the house looked more run down then usual, never mattered to me much though. None of the lights were on and the door was locked which was unusual but I remembered the key we hid in the garage. It was nice to be back in a familiar place, however broken it was. As soon as I walked in I saw him passed out on the couch. One arm was hanging off, the ash tray was full, he still had his boots on, everything was dirty and the place smelled like hell. Must've been a long day for him. I didn't bother waking him up. I saw the wrappings on his arm. It ran the length of his forearm until it stopped just below his elbow. Just thought was he had gotten that sleeve he had always talked about, the one to commemorate dad. Then I noticed the wristband from the hospital. I sighed then looked around the house and I noticed a pile of mail on the table, the broken mirror shards leaving the bathroom, the half bottle of Jack Daniels in the kitchen next to the microwave with the door still open and cold Ramen still in there, the bottle of painkillers on its side, the contents scattered across the counter. I layed back on the recliner. I tried to relax. I figured I'd let him sleep and have a little bit of it myself. When I opened my eyes I realized it was morning and thats when I got a better look at him. I couldn't describe how numb I had felt coupled with how much guilt I felt and that incredible sinking feeling I had in my chest when I noticed that this wasn't just him going down hill like last time. This was the last time. "Happy birthday big bro." I said as I kissed him on the forehead and sat next to him in silence in that horrid place. Figured I'd spend a little time with him before anybody found out.

'Why??'' This was the thought that engulfed his mind as he sat alone in the red room. Red with blood. His blood. Scared, defeated, broken. He looked down at his wrists, glowing crimson with the very thing that kept him alive. Watching his life, slowly draining from him. Where had It all gone wrong? He had no answer, and he knew that he never would. He hated to think a lot about it. Nevertheless, the thought persisted, tormenting him day after day. What happened? Why did it happen? Why couldn't things be different? Why? Why? Why?? There were ways he could cope in the past, but it had finally become too much for him. There was but one option left to him now. The world hated him, and he had succumbed to its never ending tortures. As the life - quite literally - drained from him, he began to think. One last time, he began to think... For years, Matthew had felt nothing, convinced that he was terrible, that there was something wrong with him. He'd given up, content to embrace eternal darkness. But just before he could go away forever, The Light came. The Light saved his life, gave him hope. The Light understood him, perhaps even loved him once. For the first time in his life, Matthew was truly happy. The Light made him happy, and he made it happy. They were truly the best times of Matthew's (soon to be short) life. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, The Light vanished into the darkness, the very same darkness he was already so familiar with. The cold hands of emptiness had grasped him again, pulling him back into depression. Once again, Matthew was nothing. Nothing but an uncaring, insensitive monster. Left with nothing but his thoughts, his questions of ''Why?''. Slowly, Matthew's gaze drifted across his room to the twin barrels of high-velocity death that lay before him, propped up against the wall. They beckoned to him, begging to end his suffering forever. With a look of sad acceptance, he grabbed the deathstick and half - walked, half - stumbled outside. As the walls of his life caved in around him, as the fires of emotion raged around him and engulfed him, he stopped still. Looking to the sky one last time, he shoved the barrels, both grinning with anticipation at their long awaited task, to his mouth. In his last moments of being, he closed his eyes, cried, and thought of The Light...

Sunlight hit my face, welcoming me into another day. Reflections on yesterday began to blur the present with my past. Memories of gliding over the snow crept in. Living my life one sweeping turn to the next, where the next chairlift ride was as far into the future as I could see. Jacket and snow pants flapping in the wind like a battered flag, the smell of ice and pine, welcome home Bruce. My ipod had finished charging. My small room told my life story through posters and photographs with wear along the edges. My perpetual chase of winter made itself apparent. At the end of my bed, several pairs of skis were neatly lined up, each with their own unique setup designed to fill a special niche on the mountain. Some I only use on powder days, others for moguls, some for groomed cruiser trails, and my last pairs were for park and all mountain skiing. I flipped open my phone to check for messages. The first message was the usual scathing text from Dad about my choice to leave the city and a good job offer for the pursuit of snow. The next was more generic one size fits all life advice from Mom. Maybe someday I will regret my decisions, who knows. At the mountain, all those worries evaporated. Strapping into my gear, listening to the constant drone of the chairlift, this was all so right. The scent of cheap lodge food and petrol wafted gently towards me. The chair scooped me up and began the 10 minute journey towards the summit. I tilted my left shoulder back to look out over the valley and to the mountains. The green pines eventually receded to jagged white peaks dotted with jet black rock faces. Wisps of cloud encircled the summits, trailing off over the valley and lake below. I smiled to myself. How lucky could a person get? This world of mine, this sport I love, this place I belong. The person in the chair behind me smiled back up towards me. We both knew what the other was feeling. The chair lurched to a stop, and I tightened my buckles and prepared to live.

Hi Reddit! This is a true story (I think) that I was told by my camp counselor when I was 10. I forget some of the minor details, but this is pretty much what happened. I'm not sure if this is the right place to put this, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! A few years ago, he and a friend rented their professor's house over the summer, since he was going away for a month. It was nice place, and they got to enjoy each other's company. However, almost every night, they would hear banging and weird noises coming from the basement. When they went down in the morning, there was nothing there. They decided that it was probably an animal, so they decided to leave out a trap to capture whatever was in the basement at night. The next morning, they went downstairs to find a large bobcat growling (I think they growl) and hissing in the cage. He was about to call animal control to take it away, when the friend had the idea to bring it themselves outside to save animal control some trouble. However, the cage was far to bulky and heavy to carry it outside while unfolded and containing a bobcat. Without any real equipment, they decided to take one of their suitcases and put it open next to the door of the cage. He opened the door while his friend scared it away from the back of the cage. It dashed to freedom, but quickly came in contact with the suitcase. He slammed it shut, trapping the bobcat inside. Now, it was much easier to carry. They both loaded the suitcase into their truck and started driving toward the nearby forest area (they lived in Maine). They pulled onto the side of the road, set the suitcase on the ground, unzipped it about halfway, and climbed up a nearby tree so the bobcat wouldn't attack them when it got out. They waited, but it never came out. They were too scared to come down, in case it came out, and didn't know what to do. Suddenly, after about 10 minutes, a minivan pulled up next to their car. Someone got out, looked around (they didn't see my counselor and his friend in the tree), grabbed the suitcase, and got back in the van, which drove away. They instantly knew that something bad was about to happen, so they climbed back down the tree, got in their car, and sped off after the van. However, the van must have been going fast, because they couldn't see the van at all. About 2 miles after that, they started to enter farmland, with tall cornstalks bordering the road on each side. Suddenly, they saw tire skid-marks on the road, and a section of corn flattened, by what looked like a car. They stopped the car, got out, and ran to the flattened corn. About a hundred yards in, they saw the minivan stopped and the doors opened. As they got closer, they saw that nobody was inside, and there was blood on one of the seats. They never figured out what happened to the people in the van or the bobcat. I hope that you enjoyed.

The sunset cast a pink glow over the horizon. The last few rays stretched across the ocean, casting small shadows on the grains of sand like tendrils creeping from the water. The tendrils kept stretching and stretching as the light slowly faded from view. A man sat on the beach, these tendrils slowly sneaking towards him. His foot shifted, breaking the illusion as he leaned back. The sand softly clinked against the bottle of wine to his right and scraped against the pistol to his left. The mans name was unimportant. He was easily forgettable. He could blend into a crowd, disappear into the night. He was the guy in the apartment building, in 8B, who you pass every day. Who stares longingly at you as you walk buy but as far as you'd be concerned he's just a part of the tacky wallpaper. But he's always there whether you realize it or not. This feature of his was excellent in this case. Sitting on a beach in Florida, he was unnoticed by the countless runners and late tourists watching a sunset on a clear summer evening. As the last few stragglers went back to their homes and hotels, the man sat up straight. He grasped the bottle of wine, letting a few mouthfuls of the drink slide down his throat before wiping the bottle down and tossing it into the bushes. He stood up, the sand filling the void between his toes, as he slowly walked to the pier. Sitting out of view behind a support beam he waited. There was now no light in the sky. The faint glow of the city behind him made the waves visible but if anything was out there it was lost in the inky blackness. But a faint dot could be made on the horizon, a tiny light that could be easily mistaken as a star low on the horizon but the man knew better. He had dealt with this light before. As the light slid across water, he followed. Walking down the beach and wading through water, all the while making sure the pistol was kept dry. He followed it for what felt like hours, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his mind filled with anticipation. Eventually it came towards land, near a marina. Hiding behind a pillar once again, the man made sure the gun was loaded and the safety off. The boat grew near, the lights now completely on instead of hiding in the background. Another man, a Cuban, jumped off the boat, mooring her to the pier and made sure the locks were all locked tight. As he turned to leave he was faced by a man with a cocked pistol pointed squarely at his head. The Cuban could almost see the hollowpoint 9mm round lurking in the barrel. He closed his eyes. A loud pop was heard, birds scattered, and you could hear a thud as his body slumped to the wooden deck. The man quietly slipped away into the night, the black enveloping him. The police arrived a few hours later, shooing the critters away trying to feast on the Cuban. They checked his pockets, retrieving the keys to his boat and climbed aboard. They found a hollow compartment and using the keys, popped the lock. Inside it was filled with water, they were about to close it when a hand slowly rose to the surface. After digging through the Cubans information they realized he went by a name that was respected out of fear in the Cuban community. The Coyote. A man who profited off the love of others by smuggling people out of Cuba and into the United States. They identified the remains, 12 in all, in the compartment and looked up their relatives. A stack of files with photos attached sat on a detectives desk as he worked through them. Considering their motive and wondering if they were the man that killed the Coyote. However in that stack of files was a man. A man who had lost his family to the Coyote. A man who had killed the Coyote. A man who blended into the background, slipping out of reality and disappearing once again into the dark. And as the file was eventually placed into the cold cases, waiting for a solution that would never come, the Man sat smiling on a chair in his small apartment. A man who raised his gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

He knew the moment she entered the bar. If anyone had been watching him in his secluded corner, they would have noticed the slight tightening of his shoulders. Otherwise, to all the world he was just a morose man staring into his drink with his right hand poised above an open journal as if waiting for dictation. His statuesque pose opposite the drop of life that entered at that instant. Watching her movements with his peripheral vision, the man admired the woman’s gracefulness as she danced between the tables and chairs. She walked past his booth without a glance. When the woman rounded the corner into the back section, he visually relaxed and let out a tired sigh. Placing a ten dollar bill on the table, the man gathers his belongings as if to leave. As he knelt down next to his backpack, the man stops and turns pale. A chill runs down his spine as he glances over his shoulder. Surprised emerald eyes stare at him from midst a heart shaped face. The woman stands at the back corner with her hand braced on the wall, giving the look of a deer caught in headlights. They lock eyes and, for a moment, the universe stops its incessant ticking. The man recovers first, standing up, brushing his coat, and while eyes still bound together, gestures to the opposite side of the booth. Breaking eye contact first, she looks around the room in panic. Seeing no avenue of escaping with dignity, the woman lets out an exasperated huff, the glides over to the secluded table. Motioning the waiter over she orders a Guinness for both her and the man. They sat in familiar, nearly companionable, silence while they waited for their drinks. When the beverages arrive, they both thanked the server then grew quiet again. The Silence fully blossoms around them as they sit alone, together. With a small smile, the man gazes at the woman. He takes in her face, neck, shoulders, then follows her arms down to her fingertips. His touch had known every curve and angle. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath to both capture this fragment of time and shatter the growing silence. Clearing her throat in indignation, she startles him back to the present. The man blushes, not used to being caught unawares. Silence, again, settles around them like a wool blanket on a mid-summer’s day. The door crashes open, breaking their reveries. In strided a conglomerate of shrieking harpies announcing their intention to party the night away. The woman looks relieved and glancing sheepishly at the man, gets up to go. One of the birds disengages from the group, hurling herself into the woman’s arms, squealing above the sounds normally heard by the human ear. Not a glance is given the man as they go back to the herd. Silence once again settles in the corner, bearing all its weight upon the man’s shoulders. He looks tired and beat up, almost lost. He only looks up once as he takes his writings out of his pack. Then he opens his journal and begins to write. This was an story prompt for my creative writing class where we had to write a sort of dialogue between two people who once dated in the past and have ran into each other at the bar. We couldn't have them talk about the relationship or how it ended and each of them have something they are holding back from the other person that we can't talk about as well. I had decided to do a "no dialogue" dialogue. Please tell me what you think, how I can improve, what should be expanded upon. PS. I'm a Veteran with a traumatic brain injury and while I have always written poems/short stories, my ability to do so has been hampered. My team and I believe that getting back into writing will help with the healing and so I come to Reddit for a little extra push to get better.

The Escape Rain dumped down over the fields of grass and surrounding buildings. An American flag that should be waving in the breeze due to any imagery that our propaganda might show you, was so weighed down by the water that it gripped and hugged the pole it was leaning against. A sad day they said, they said how could it be anything different than a sad day. Thomas thought they lacked perspective. Thomas saw the love that the flag gave to that pole. He saw nature feeding its grass and allowing it to grow. He saw that the buildings always looked their best in a downpour. But most of all he saw the truth. He was unbarred from reality in times like these, seeing what he knows as opposed to what he has been told. He has come to understand that rain was truth as the sunshine was propaganda. Locked in this luminous state of mind that the rain and thunderclouds brought about; condensation left his lips as he released a breath of relief. “We truly know we are alive in times of pain. Don’t you think?” Thomas said looking toward his friend, Sam. Sam gave him a look of skepticism. “That was really random. How did you think of that?” They were in a building looking out of glass doors toward a flagpole. To the left of the door was a picture of Uncle Sam dressed as a superhero. Outside of the door, similar posters had been hung up, but the one that caught Thomas’s attention was the poster that had been detached from its surface by the rain and was now lying face down on the ground. “I was simply observing my surroundings. Let’s go back to the ceremony.” Thomas and Sam were currently enrolled in a military school. Right now they were in the school auditorium waiting for the annual ceremony of graduates to begin. This ceremony takes place every year after graduation. The process entails each student going up to the microphone to announce his plans after school to the students, teachers, families, and deans of the academy. It was essentially a ceremony to shame the students into a worthwhile endeavor proceeding their scholastic career. It was quite an out of date ceremony, started in a time when a fascist government managed to convince its people it was capitalist. A time when authority ruled over common sense and rationality. Though technically capitalist, the persona of the culture seemed to shout Nazi ideals from the rooftops. The first student stepped up to the mic with his chest thrust out and announced, “I will be attending West Point Academy,” with a great pride and enthusiasm, whistles and yells followed. The next student was a repeat performance and this uniformed debauchery continued in the same way throughout the ceremony. The few changes that were made in each speech were only tone of voice and a difference in military universities. When Thomas stepped up to the mic, he thrust his chest out with a great pride and announced his plans to travel around the world and work for whoever would hire him. Thomas took a deep breath and looked around at his audience. They were all open-mouthed and completely silent. Thomas took a breath of air from the world for the first time. He had finally bitten the hand that fed him poison and looked toward a future with no goals; a taste of freedom at last.

I felt the grass lick my toes like eager puppies wanting attention, each blade moist with dew, sleepy seeds in the eye of the night. The green carpet laid before me was sparkling in the early morning sun as I strolled across my lawn to my car, the vehicle destined to take me to a place and a time that I had long awaited, yet was somehow convinced would never arrive. The blue shimmer of my 2009 Hyundai Accent looked grey and dull this morning as I turned the key in the door to unlock my portal. I got in and turned the key in the ignition. Styrofoam Plates by Death Cab For Cutie permeated the car with its melodic despair and I could almost form a grin at the cliché scene I had arrived in. I turned the volume up to 21 and started on my way, out the driveway and down the road to a new beginning. There was a time when this would have come as a shock. It would have swallowed me and pushed me down into its poisonous, acidic stomach, already writhing with the pain from others misfortune. Once upon a time this would have been tragic, for lack of a better word. I would have been woeful for months, the salty sting of tears continuously racing down my cheeks, one drop trying to beat the others to my lips. At this time, at this particular time in my life, after one to many, “sorry’s” started to make the word meaningless, and the once strong knot began to fray from being gnawed at with sharpened, practiced teeth, I could find no tears. The loyal, wide eyed little girl of my youth had seen too much. You can only disappoint a child so much before they grow up into adults, calloused and weathered from a childhood gone wrong. Memories of maggots in the food pantry and dinners fashioned of stale crackers are no longer images of a forlorn victim trying to make the best of things, which is what you had us believe. At 23 I can now see the pathetic slop who cared more about how to find enough change to buy a six pack of Budweiser, than how we was going to buy his daughters dinner. Looking back, it’s easy to smell the stale stench of mariuana throughout the house wafting out the doors and into the street as a pathetic reminder of the family within. We would wait at school for hours when you’d forgotten us, lost pets with no collars, no real home address, finally calling Mom and feeling badly because we’d gotten you into trouble. No one feels bad now. The song is over and I start it again. Ben Gibbard really hit home with this one. “Thanks boys,” I say to myself. The day had gotten suddenly hot during my brief drive. My hands were sweating and I could feel beads of moisture gathering on my upper lip. I wanted to turn around, but not for fear, rather for utter disgust. You don’t deserve for me to be there, for anyone to be there. You, the liar, the junky, the alcoholic, the homeless man in the street with no one to blame but himself. The older we got, the worse you got. People don’t pay their respects to crack heads; they don’t go out of their way to say goodbye to a cocaine dealer or someone neurotically addicted to heroin. I guess you’re one of the lucky ones, you, the bastard, the cheat, the poor excuse for a father. Should I turn around? I was stopped now, right blinker on, car motionless in limbo. I stare down the road, looking dazed and unsure, an Alzheimer’s patient, escaped from the home but at a loss of where to go. “You need this,” I tell myself. With no clear intention of exactly why, I put the car into drive, turn on my left blinker, and pull back onto the road. The AC is blasting now and my hands are clammy, betraying my cool demeanor. I’ve been driving for about 20 minutes now. I pass the country diner on my left. Hanging in front is a large banner reading “One thing ends and another begins! Find us down the street!” I’d heard rumors that the old building was being taken back by the landlords. Supposedly some new, up and coming young buck had bought the place and was re-opening at a location down the road. New building, new owner, same old favorites. I was getting close now. My heart was racing and my ands were shaking. My breath seemed to have become labor intensive. Did I take my Celexa today? “You’re freaking out,” I tell myself, “get it together.” What would I do when I got there? Would I have to explain why only one of his two daughters showed up? Would they know? Does most of the family even have a fleeting idea about how bad it’d gotten? Did they know why he had stopped showing up to family functions? Crack, Heroine, Speed, these things had changed him from an irresponsible drunk to a pathetic junky with nothing to call his own but guilt and hatred, putting the blame to his misfortunes on the people he used to call family. Would I cry, or feel remorse> Had I successfully separated myself from any feelings of attachment towards this man who had become nothing more than a donor of seeds to help create me? The cemetery was in sight now, less than a quarter mile away. I had turned the music off and the only noise was that of the wheels of my Hyundai on the pavement, and my slow, careful breathing trying to keep my anxiety in check. I take a right through the cemetery gates, making me think of that song by The Smiths of the same name. I hum its tune under my breath as I spot the cars, to which are my final destinatjion, in the far corner of the field of stones. “Another dreaded day so I meet you at the cemetery gates, Keats and Yeats are on your side.” I never liked Keats much anyway. My car is parked next to my Grams, who I can see huddled near my aunts and uncles. She has her head in her hands, crying for a lost son who hadn’t really been alive for years. I wonder what she told them about his death. “It was an accident.” “It was his first time.” “Someone must have slipped it in his drink.” Overdoses are hard to make excuses for. Maybe she just came out with it. “He was a drug addict, and this was a long time coming.” I slowly stroll over to this grave, half moon of people, in no hurry to be a part of this huddle, loomed over by imagined grey, stormy clouds. I brace myself for the sympathetic comments and pitying eyes, hoping that their voices roll over me with no more clarity than the low incoherent mumble of adults from The Peanuts. Thankfully as I make my final steps to be with my family, the casket begins its decent and last words are spoken. This is the only part I came to see. I tune out the half hearted blessings for the after life of this long-passed man, once a father, a husband, a son, but ho had long ago given up to right to any title so deserving. As the Final tomb of the man I once knew lowers slowly into the forgiving earth, I can see the stress and confusion of a little girl I used to know going with it. The sordid reality of a boy trapped in the body of a man, with no regard to responsibilities or family is finally plunked into the ground where it belongs, buried and eventually forgotten. We all take turns sprinkling dirt onto the simple, cheap coffin. I hug my gram and tell her I’ll meet her at her house where everyone is gathering and I realize she is not crying anymore. The faintest hint of relief has washed over her tired face. As I make the short walk back to my Hyundai, I embrace each step as the first steps to the beginning of my life.

They still think they can fix me. See, I'm the kind of guy that likes to live in the moment. We can't always be looking back, now can we? And instead of putting me in prison, I'm put in Arkham Asylum. They thought it would be too dangerous having me around to mastermind those criminals. Ho-ho-he-he-ha. As if my jokes weren't getting any worse. No, see, now I can have even better people to work with. And it's all gonna lead up to when me and Bats can meet up again. And it will happen, don't worry, don't worry. They say I'm crazy. I'm not crazy, I'm not. I'm ahead of the curve. Schemers are crazy. Planners. People who think that they can bend the world to their own will. Tell me tell me, how often, do your, uh, plans, work out? Do you really think that, for a moment, that harpy, Mother Earth, is gonna care about your plans? See, I realize that planning is useless. Chaos, now that's a different story. Things naturally go towards chaos. I mean, look around you. Everything is hell. All I did was give it a little push, to start rolling. The rest it did by itself. And now they hate Bats. Now, now they throw him out. I warned you, Bats, I told you. But no, not the unstoppable force, you wouldn't give up. That's why I'm around, to give you purpose. Just like you give me. It's amazing, isn't it? I mean, that's something to smile about, right? And Harvey. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. I didn't have to tell you to do anything. The coin was a nice touch, I must say. Thanks to you, I've won. See, Bats may have everyone else fooled. But we know, we know the truth. You, me, Bats, even Gordon. We know how good the people of Gotham really are. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. And the doctors here, they still think they can fix me. I tell them, I say, there is nothing to fix. But they try and try. They are terrified of me. That's good, that's chaos. There is one doctor here who isn't, though. Harleen Quinzel. Interesting woman. She isn't a schemer. I know the schemers when I see them. That's why I've always loved Bats. He isn't a schemer. He doesn't plan, he acts. I like that. But this doctor, this squeeze, is intrigued. I know, I can tell. I've had enough doctors poking at me over the years to know when they are just doing their job, and when they are actually listening to me. She's curious. That's good, that's very good. I have a surprize for you, Bats. I know you can beat him, I know. But that's not the point. The point is that you will have to try. Oh, and just to make it interesting, I haven't told him anything about your being Brucie. Oh, you didn't think I knew about that? Hehe-ho! I did, I do! But I won't tell him anything. Makes it a little more interesting. Quin-something, doctor lady, is coming again. She visits me more and more often. I must be ready for her, right? Right, right.

Long ago, there was a beautiful winter day, the sun shone bright and sparkling white snow lay undisturbed across the ground, silencing the world which it covered. It was on this day that I decided to take a long walk in the woods outside of the hustle and bustle of the city. As I walked in the woods, I came upon an elder tree who had lived a great many years and whose bark harbored a great number of wounds. I brushed the thick, gleaming snow off of the tree’s tangled roots, which spread far and deep in all directions. Unto the roots I sat, and the tree accepted me as a friend upon its lap, though he knew not who I was or of what nature my intentions were. Naught else in this world would have ever accepted me so quickly and graciously, let alone trusted me so easily. For many hours there I sat, nurtured and nestled deep in the ancient and deep-reaching roots. In my time sat comfortably upon the tree I asked in a hushed tone what the tree had seen and felt in his many years, seated forever upon the land where he stood. The tree answered in words of silence, and by it I was taught to listen with my eyes, not my ears. ‘I have been built upon.’ said he with the rotting plank in his branches; with the scars in his skin he said ‘I have been wounded.’; ‘I have been shelter for many lives.’ he said with the hole in his trunk and the abandoned birds-nest in his uppermost branch. He spoke very little, yet told very much. ‘I have travelled far,’ I said in reply. ‘I have been very many places, yet I fear I have seen less than you have, though you are rooted in this singular area. I have found little happiness to no avail, and I am plagued by my solitude which hangs over my head as a metal weight. I am not so wise as you are, my time is short on this planet and I, who has been born before you, is fated to die before you. I fear whether the choices I make in my life will be ill choices.’ I said, despair was shown so heavily in my voice. The tree listened well, and said nothing. ‘I have no one on this earth who listens so well as you, tree.’ The tree said naught, though I waited in vain for many hours. No advice was given to me that day, the tree never responded, but it held me tightly in its roots and I felt warm inside, despite the cold weather. The tree accepted me blindly, as nothing else would, or possibly ever will, it had done enough for me. Perhaps this tree had helped others, such as it had helped me; it had taken me in my pity. I walked to the woods that day with only the intention of feeling the cold air nip at my exposed skin; I left the woods that day enlightened, inspired by the kindness and unconditional love which the tree so openly gave out. I was changed, by something so simple as the comfort of a tree. Love can be found in the simplest things, I learned that day, and we are never alone so long as we choose to see the life around us.

“Where am I? Who are these people around me?” I thought to myself when I first woke up. I slowly lifted myself up and rubbed my eyes thoroughly as if there was something in them, but nothing was. I looked over; a lady kindly greeted me and handed me a folder. As soon as the folder was within my possession I knew what must be done; it was pure instinct. I immediately opened it up and read all of the information. I remembered that my name was Bob Lamron. I am 23 years old, have neither children nor a wife; they were only given to you if you had proven yourself faithful and intelligent enough. I asked the women who handed me the folder where I was and what events had occurred that left me in this situation. She just looked at me and smiled. Two rather large males, who appeared to be body guards disguised as physicians, led me out the front door. As soon as I walked out, a car appeared out of nowhere. From the car came a robotic voice; it addressed me by name and commanded me to enter the automobile. As I got in the car, the voice spoke again. It asked me what my home address was. I had no clue; I could not even remember if I had children 10 minutes ago. How was I supposed to answer the voice with details of my forget life? The women who had presented me with the folder, a nurse, that I had woken up next to, ran out of the building and handed me the same folder that I had left behind in the room. I opened it up and aloud, “2534 Egareva Rd.” As soon as the words had left my mouth, the taxi immediately sped off, presumably to the address. As I saw the things I passed by I started to remember details, like I had never forgotten them at all. Trees, Birds, people, restaurants, fountains, everything! It was all flooding in as if there was a dam in my brain and it had just been ruptured without notice. We arrived at my house and I opened the front door. I walked into my room and sat down. I could not recall the events that had occurred before I woke up. It was like the dam of knowledge in my mind had been concealed. My mind had locked away any memories of the events and I could not do anything about it. The more I thought, the more my head hurt. It felt like one of those moments when you are mid conversation with someone and another person, uninvolved in the conversation, calls your name. You stop talking in order to address the interjection of your name, but when you try to come back into the original conversation, you can’t remember what you were talking about no matter how hard you try. I sat there on my couch and tried as hard as I could to recall what had happened. I then positioned myself so that I could see out of the window. I saw a grey, bleak world. Everything was so average, so normal. The only color people were given permission to wear were different shades of grey. The lighter your color, the higher up your social class was. I was just an average grey. As I was thinking through all of this, my eyes were fixed upon a section of peeling paint in the right corner of my peripheral vision. For some reason I knew I was supposed to go over to it; it was like I had some kind of cosmic urge. My hand lifted from my side and I started to peel the paint. It came off fairly easily, far too easier than any paint should have, for that matter. Suddenly, I saw something concealed under the peeling paint. I knew I had to uncover it. As I tore the paint off a fit overcame me. Next thing I knew, I was tearing, ripping, and enjoying this more than anything I had enjoyed before. I was ripping everything in sight off the wall. I stepped back and looked at my wall and there was writing everywhere. The memories started flooding back into my head of what had happened. I had uncovered something big. The government had been spiking everyone. Now they wouldn’t just bug a room, or a camera in a park to see what was going on, they were putting microphones in you. They had put chips in your brain so that they could see, think, hear, and smell everything you have ever come in contact with. Knowing I had just remembered this I knew they would be after me. I shut the blinds and closed the door in my room. I lightly lifted a blind cover and looked out the window. I saw a slim, black, shiny car pulled up to the front of my building. The same two men who had accompanied me out of the hospital got out of the black car. I sat there shaking, wondering what I could do. The second I saw them barge in through the front door, I jumped out of my second story bedroom and landed on the pavement. My ankle buckled and I felt a sharp pain but I knew I had to get out of here and tell someone what is going on. I screamed names but no one would listen to me. I was living in a selfish world where people only cared about themselves. I gave up. I fell to the floor, my ankle throbbing, and looked at the door to my building, expecting the two men to walk through. I was doomed. The two men eventually came out of my building and grabbed me. They didn’t say a word; all they would do is stare straight forward. Then they put me in the back of the car and drove off. It was the exact same route that led back to my house. I had only been out for an hour, at most and here I was, being dragged back. When I got there the female nurse was sitting there with a needle filled with what appeared to be a sedative. As she inserted it in my vein, two doctors walked into the room. The first said, “Okay, begin sedation and we’ll get ready for the micro-chip reset.” The other doctor responded, “Looks like this one didn’t turn out to well again like the last time.” As they finished their sentences I realized something. They have been resetting everyone until they get every single one of us to be perfect for their society. They don’t want people to have character or personality; they are just looking to create the most generic human being, like emotionless robots. As I thought this, I started to black out. “Where am I? Who are these people around me?” I thought to myself when I first woke up. I slowly lifted myself up and rubbed my eyes thoroughly as if there was something in them, but nothing was. I looked over; a lady kindly greeted me and handed me a folder. Criticism is why I'm here. Wrote for a creative writing class and would love some help.

It wasn't that he was boring, but he had a grey disposition that lacked the color of spontaneity. Dez liked to race cars under the yellow glow of LA street lamps when Tory met him, but now people called him Desmond and he had no time for such impetuous acts. It's true that Tory had grown fond of the carte blanche that her black card afforded her and the charity dinners stimulated her, but the thrills in her life were limited by the creativity of the latest Bond film. She made a habit of reassuring herself how lucky she was, but she found herself increasingly difficult to convince. However, the thoughts of the comfort and safety Desmond provided were enough to calm most impulses. They were staying in The Victoria in Rio. Tory had never liked her given name, although she could appreciate the refined qualities of this hotel; it was much nicer than the one they had stayed at just down the road a year before. As he lowered his Wall Street Journal, Desmond glanced superficially out the window. He thought briefly about the misfortune of those in the favelas. They live each day without knowing when they might be caught in the crossfire of their existence, he concluded. His own life had gone exactly as planned. His pride was buoyed by his two Princeton degrees and an impressive CV that was anchored by his latest position as Chief Financial Officer. For a moment he thought about how lucky Tory must feel to have captured his attention, but then he reminded himself not to be too proud. Besides, she was as much a catch as he. Her beauty was more rare than the flawless yellow diamond on her left hand. She was the type of girl that would cause an ordinary man to choke on a conversation, yet he had bravely taken her up with charm and confidence. "We're leaving in 5 minutes," Tory interjected. The humidity made her blouse stick to her curves and her sexuality was impossible to ignore. He couldn't remember where she had said they were going, but he pulled on his khakis and loafers. When the old Volkswagen finally arrived at the top of the hill,the view was astounding. Marcelo, the tan, smooth-talking tour guide pointed out the geography below. Tory watched as his defined arms drew imaginary lines all over the bay and rugged peaks. It was truly a remarkable site. Marcelo and his partner were experienced in dealing with Americans; always the same questions about the safety of hang gliding. He would usually explain that in the wrong hands, the wing could be very dangerous but that they had some of the best safety records in the world. It was true that there had only been one accident before, and it was a result of a panicked passenger rather than the pilot. Desmond was terrified. However, his face showed nothing but a confident expression. Through various nerve-wracking business interactions he had perfected the art of hiding his true feelings and he was glad to apply those skills in this situation. When they got in the beat up VW earlier that morning, Desmond asked Marcelo where they were headed. When he responded that they would be hang gliding over the city, Desmond immediately said there must be a mistake. "The mistake is that I married someone who can no longer excite me" Tory blurted out. She was no longer satisfied by comfort, and as the words escaped her mouth Desmond felt a dull pain in his gut; the kind that comes when you realize a loved-one has been ashamed of you for longer than you would like to imagine. Now was his time to prove her wrong. He would be the first to go and when he got to the bottom he would demand that Tory respect him for the man he is. Marcelo's partner would jump with Desmond. As she watched them suit up, Tory began to feel that maybe she had misjudged Desmond's complacency. She thought that he may just needed some encouragement to get out of his comfort zone; after all, he worked most days 9-5, and perhaps it was too harsh to blame him for wanting to relax. As she watched him jump she grew excited to see him at the bottom and share in the thrill of what she was about to endure. As quickly as Dez had disappeared below the horizon of the cliff, she felt her legs give out and watched the ground race towards her. Marcelo had punched the back of her head and before she could regain her wits she was being dragged by her hair across the dirt launching pad and into the woods. They were alone, but she screamed as loudly as she could. Marcelo kicked her in the ribs. She continued to struggle as he ripped open her blouse to reveal her full breasts that he had been imagining all day and then he pulled her shorts around her knees. He grew tired of her screams so he flipped her over and shoved her face in the dirt. As he landed on the beach, Dez felt an immense sense of relief and a rush of adrenaline like he hadn't felt since before he met Tory. He couldn't restrain himself from a spontaneous hug with his guide. As he looked back towards where they had come from he noticed that Victoria had yet to jump. "I knew she wouldn't have the guts to do it! She's all talk!" he exclaimed10 minutes later. He felt victorious. "Why don't you drop me back at the hotel so I can get a drink. I want Victoria to think about this on her own for a while." His guide obliged.

I didn’t feel very much like masturbating. This seemed like the obvious choice of sleep aid at this point. Whiskey had worked only half of its magic—keeping me interested enough in late-night television to stay awake until an hour when any normal person would’ve simply crawled into bed and passed out. But still, I couldn’t sleep. Not feeling like masturbating when you want to masturbate, as any male will tell you, is a rare and quite unsettling feeling. Clearly there was something bothering me. Even if I was too self-reflectively dumb to know it, this lack of primal urge cued me in on the presence of something distasteful and foreign growing inside me. I was somewhere between crying and vomiting when I realized that I was scared. For the first time in my life I was truly terrified. After all, what would an affluent, white male who just graduated from a top tier college have to worry about? What could I ever conceivably be scared of? Like always: the dark. Ever since I was very young I was uneasy about going into an unlit room; not uncommon, I suppose. I was brave, however—always brave enough to venture forward. Not without hesitation, but always with enough fortitude to carry out whatever task brought me to this dark unknown, and it was exactly that which scared me now—the unknown. I was venturing into the unknown for the first time in my life with no clear purpose other than to move forward, be happy, and make enough money to support my only-child-bred need for independence. How difficult could that be? I knew I could get a job. I had no doubt about that. So it wasn’t entirely the economy that was getting me down, though that didn’t help. It was the same old problem—I was scared of the dark. Why had no one told me what to do? Who would judge my forthcoming achievements other than myself? There were no grades to be earned, no classmates to be bested. Sixteen years of closely regulated activity, then nothing. Go forth and prosper. These are the whinings of an entitled Millenial. I hadn’t any high school friends gunned down in an alley. Hell, I didn’t even pay for my college education. Those $250,000 came directly from my parents, who were glad to pay it. Not to say I didn’t work. I worked my ass off every summer, but promptly spent my cash on weed and beer. But to say I was entitled was a bit of a stretch. I didn’t want anything but an opportunity to work hard. I didn’t expect anything to be handed to me. Or maybe I did? In a way I felt cheated, yeah. I did all the things I was told I needed to succeed then thrust into the worst job market in recent history. What, then, was I doing for the past sixteen years? Preparing myself for a world that had vanished five years ago? Now I’m tired. I guess I’ve achieved what I wanted to in these short thirty minutes. Fuck it, I am entitled. Not to a job, and definitely not to a fat paycheck; but to an explanation, some instructions. The best I can get is, “You should’ve been born thirty years earlier”? I feel entitled to an explanation of why I want to put a gun in my mouth. I want to live. I want to go forth and prosper. I’m not depressed—I’m pissed. When I look at what waits for me I don’t see the world at my feet. I see dogs pulling the intestines out of a dying man’s anus because there isn’t any other fresh meat to eat. Where does that leave me? I must be entitled to a bone, at least. Throw me a fucking bone; I don’t care what kinds of scraps are attached to it. If I can’t get a boner, even with a firm tug, at least let me eat because I don’t want the trigger of a gun to be the only thing I control. I know how that story ends, and the clean up is messy.

Matt D'Amico Mr. Cusick Creative Writing 25 Feburary 2013 The year is 2175, forty years after the Great War. The war that shaped the New World into what it is now, a emotionless, unimaginative nation where its inhabitants only goal is for “the betterment of the country and for our great ruler President Samuel Hudson”. The people are brainwashed into working, not for pay, but for the privilege of life. And when they go home they sit, mindlessly, in front of their television taking in the only channel that has been running for the past forty years, preaching to them and their kids about how perfect their life is. The government has stripped its people of all emotion, because with emotion comes ambition, and with ambition comes the want for a better life. It has filled the void of emotion with the “feeling” of national pride. For the entire twenty-two years of his life George Huxley lived his life every other human being does, like a robot. He wakes up and puts on his gray jumpsuit, with the little name tag that read Mr. G. Huxley, that he got when he joined the workforce at the age of eighteen. Steps outside of his one bedroom apartment, and goes downstairs into the basement of his complex. This is where he works. All jobs are located in the same building as the apartment complexes as to prevent as much human interaction as possible. George’s job is manufacturing Infantile Joy Modules which are virtual reality helmets that are put on babies to silence their crying and allow the assigned caretakers to enjoy their television in peace. He is told by his supervisor how lucky he is to be working and living in this great country. This never sits well with George, but he doesn’t know why. After work he walks up the stairs to the lobby to get dinner. He eats at the same “restaurant” every day, President Samuel Hudson’s Food and Drink. He gets the same bland meal every day then proceeds back to his home. Back in his room, he pushes the power button of his television, but the T.V. doesn’t turn on. “Hmmm, that’s odd” he thinks to himself. He would go get a home supervisor to get it fixed but he is too tired and decides to sit down on the metal folding chair that he calls furniture. Sitting in the silence George is able to think to himself, something he hasn’t done for a very long time. He begins conjuring up images of his childhood days where he would be able to play with the other children. He finally goes to sleep with a feeling he has never felt before. A feeling that he and his fellow countrymen have been numb to for their entire existence. This feeling is happiness. The next day at work when his supervisor says how lucky he is to be working and living in this great country, he is very disturbed, but he doesn’t know why. After work he decides to skip dinner and goes straight home so he can be by himself in that wonderful silence. George begins longing for that silence every waking hour he is at work. He sees his co-workers blank stare and wants so badly to tell them what they are missing. That he has felt happiness, but he knows that they won’t understand because they haven’t felt anything for too long and more importantly he did not want to risk getting caught. He had heard stories of people that went crazy and started thinking for themselves. He heard about what the government did to those evil freethinkers, and knew that getting caught with these emotions wasn’t an option. It has been a month since George’s television has broke, he is aware of the world around him and realizes what he must do. After work he stops at President Samuel Hudson’s Food and Drink. He sees that their is a new cashier. “Hello mam, I haven’t seen you working here before, are you new?” he asks. “Yes sir, this is my first day. I am so excited to be working for my terrific country.” She responds with a childlike excitement. “Very good” George replies. He reads her name tag Ms. Mary King. He gets the same tasteless meal then goes up to look for Ms. Mary Kings room. Because she is new he knows that her room will be somewhere on the bottom floor (the order of the floors go from the most experienced at the top to the neophytes at lower floors.) He finds the door that reads M. King and is able to walk straight into her room because crime is hardly an issue where one’s only occupation is work and television. Once in her room he is greeted by that sweet, freeing silence. He takes her T.V. and dismantles it rendering it useless, feeling something he has never felt before, accomplishment. After his task is complete he goes back down to the lobby There he sees Mary, with that same childlike wonder. He waits there until her shift is over then followers her to her room. Once he sees the door close he begins to walk down her hallway. He puts his ear on her door and hears her struggling to put her television on. “Hello, sir are you my floor’s supervisor?” she asks with a palpable frustration. “Yes, yes I am, what can I do for you?” he confidently responds. “My T.V. seems to be broken”. “Alright, let me take a look” and they both walk into the room. “I’m pressing the button but it won’t turn on” she says. “Mary... I am not the floor supervisor. My name is George Huxley.” George says not knowing how she will react. “Okay, George, but why did you say you were the supervisor?” she aks. “Listen Mary, I need to warn you about something, something unimaginable, something that humans haven’t been able to experience for a long, long time.” he preaches to her. Mary sees the genuine look of concern and something seen hasn’t seen in many people’s face. “I need to tell you of this before this country brainwashes you and your just another numb robot walking around with no drive or purpose.” he pleads. “Brainwash? Drive? Purpose?” she asks with a flurry of thoughts racing through her head. “Listen, I know this may all sound strange to you, I know you think that you live in a perfect world, but this world is far from perfect Mary. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me?” As he says this he reaches for her hand and when their hands touch she says, “I, I guess, what are we going to do though?” His eyes light up “I want you to sit and think, no television, and just think?” “Think? About what?” she asks, she has never heard of such a strange activity. “About anything, about how great your life was when you were a child, no cares, no worries, just you and your friends.” He gets up and walks towards the door, turns around and says “and remember, just because you are told to do something, and you see everyone else mindlessly following what they are told to do doesn’t mean they are right. The most important thing in this life is not the beloved country or the great ruler, it’s you.” He opens the door and walks out into the hallway. There are two colossal police officers, with blank stares waiting for him.

An old man was sitting on the porch of his house, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other. It was silent. A storm was coming, there was no doubt, the ache in the old bones couldnt be mistaken, and it was so silent and grey, as it always is right before the storm. He loved it. At his age he only had love for three things left – coffee, cigarettes and the beautiful silence before the storm, and now he had all of them at the same time, although doctor had forbidden at least two of them. He was alone – the town was empty – there was no traffic, there was no sound. The new generation had left the town for bigger cities and the old one had died. There were no friends and no strangers, he was sitting all alone with his coffee and the endless silence. A bright orange maple leaf floated above the road along his house. The old mans eyes wide open were looking at the leaf. It was something strange, in the surrounding grayness the bright leaf looked as if it had come from another world. The old mans heart filled with excitement and joy, feelings he last felt when playing chess with Oliver, about 7 years ago. He tried to think – where it might had come from? There were no maple trees in this town – at least none he could think of. Was it even the right season for maple leaves to turn orange? He kept his eyes on the leaf that was floating gently down and then up again, depending on the breezes. He felt unexplainable peace every time it went up and then terrible fear every time it went down. As if leafs life would depend on staying in the air. OH NO! He gasped when the leaf floated only few inches above the ground, but then it got pushed upwards again. He couldnt think of any reasonable action he should do – should he try to catch the leaf? Or maybe let it float and hope itll never fall? The storm wasnt far anymore. You could feel it in the air. It seemed that the leaf was heading up, above his house, when suddenly a wind came and blew it crashing into the ground. A silent gasp came from the mans lips and there was a sound of breaking glass. Thunder clapped and small raindrops started to fall on the ground. An old man was lying on the porch of his house, a broken cup of coffee was next to him and a smoking cigarette butt in his hand. His heart was silent. Noone is gonna water Elmers flowers anymore.

He stood there for hours together waiting for someone to just open the door. It was about an hour and half later that the door opened. He Smiled. His smile gradually faded as the door closed. Once again the door opened. He smiled. His Smile kept fading in and out in the tandem with the door. On realising that, a man walked out of the door, stopped, waited and looked left and right before crossing. The boy looked up and observed a tall man walking towards him, wearing a chimney like hat. An apron with a perfectly knotted bow; a few stains of gravy found on the front. Printed in bold letters was his name ‘Head Chef John’. Upon arriving, he also prodded the boy with the same gesture. “Not again! Are you also here to show me the way out?” the boy murmured. “Certainly not my boy.” The boy waited for a while and opened his mouth letting a few drops of drool drip from the side of his mouth and then said, I come from a very poor family and cannot afford a pizza. So all I do is stand here and take in the smell of the freshly baked pizzas. After all, I hope that at least the aroma is one thing, which no one will stop me from relishing.

I once dreamt of this moment: placing a foot onto a beaming electromagnetic pillar, launching towards a dark mass filled with more brightness than a human eye could handle. We were told the sun would dim slowly, like a fire with no more wood to feed the flame. It would expand and swallow the world, the same world which has housed everything we have ever known. But now, they trust me: Experiment 9K30. The last thing I witnessed before I stepped into that glistening wheat, aqua blue stream, were the eager eyes of the planet, wrapped with thoughts of return stories, and those who knew there wouldn't be one. “9K30.” His boots moving like hammers on the metal. “*Commander*.” He pauses in front of me, with scanning eyes. Deep down he's filled with complex intertwining thoughts, so convoluted that he remains silent. “It's strange to think that this moment is finally here.” Everything feels blank. “Thousands of generations before us never thought that humanity would live long enough to actually witness this. ...They also didn't think it would happen this soon.” We both just peer out into space, until the attention shifts. “9K30 you know-” “*I know, sir.*” “Once we set foot-” “*Sir.*” He sighs. “Out of all of them, I think we've made the best choice with you.” “*Thank you, Commander*.” “Don't you ever be the one thanking me, 9K.” ...With all of these metal plates and glass-like shields coating me, it's hard to remember that deep down inside I may actually be humane. **EDIT**: I just thought I should mention that this is a smaller piece out of a larger work in progress.

You’d be lucky if you knew how to write with the thin air like magicians do with a smile. I know how that felt to be king for one day in the eyes of the ignorant and it was glorious and it was sad. I felt so lonely like a typewriter on ashes made from burning pages it had created all on its own. Do you think about that when you’re alone? I like to think that people see the world like I do, but I know there are none, at least that’s what I tell myself just to feel alright, because hope is the worst form of torture there is. I would always walk along the highways late at night with the sun still blazing in the back of my head. The neural synapses have been cut from my pathway since I met tongue to tongue with the beast of my own sanity. It ripped apart on the day I became that own monster inside myself, it ceased to exist as I became more corporal in my own head. Do you see me in the hallways and think, “he’s so sad, that little man of a boy?” Do you see the reasons my pupils turn to coal when I place the paper to miniscule little bursts of wet skin placed centimeters from teeth that could rip that same skin? I’m happy to be free of noise but the sound was a constant lullaby to the darkness in my fingers. They drew little lines all brazen and bolded in a pattern of chaos. I loved myself then, when I could feel the intelligence like a friend knocking on my senses. The feeling of deep connection to the earth was heavy in my ears. That’s who I am when no one is watching. I am that ghost on the side of a close to empty highway. Life’s ironies are most potent when no one’s around to witness. I loved myself then, and I loved myself when I was younger too, like a fresh winter sprout on the tip of a tornado. I saw the humble beginnings of a failing thing and unhinged it from its desperate purchase on the parched ground. I sometimes wonder if plants are silently screaming in the cells of their water veins. Did you become so full just to wilt? Your swollen vacuoles become the dirt you were born from. I am lost, I am lost, I am lost, I am lost. I am dead and gone and not coming back, dead and gone, dead and gone, dead and gone. How can you love yourself if you don’t recognize yourself inside your head? Are we dead, are we dead. Is life merely a suspended reality where we hate each other just to get rid of insecurities? I am so guilty; I hated you all so much. I took that hate deep within me and I turned it into oil. It spurted from my mouth and got into all my muscles tensing them up. It made my face ugly with anger and pity. It made my eyes shine with the light of a false ideology. I am the author of cow sewn jacket full of fleas and chemicals. I am the beef within the external heart ripped by the hand of a brother who craved the feeling of organs and tissue in his head. It’s a chemical imbalance and it’s a way of living without guilt. I took the time to hug you when I was too tired to understand I needed comfort until it was too late. I laid within your warmth and I felt the lining of your smile on my skin where it touched my body. It was strange how I loved you in that moment and then grew steadily wearier the longer I let myself crave my own head over the world. I killed myself in the eve of that waking solitude. That’s what we are all wanting, we want to be known and recognized. That’s why we shy away from those who are different, that’s why we go so far as to hate those people to. To shun those people and tell them they are so very wrong. They must change and they are evil and freaks and ugly, ugly shame. Have you ever looked at a picture so long that it blurred inside itself and became so meaningless that nothing seemed real anymore? Have you ever seen something ugly and thought it was the most precious thing in the world? It represented the hurt and yourself and your mind and our life so well, that it became beautiful? Is that what this is? Have you ever looked at something that others found ugly and thought it was beautiful? I wound up lifting my hand to the sun when I walked outside for the first time in a week. I holed myself up just to fix my panic. My panic inside, was raging against the walls of my skin and I was shaking and stuttering. Please let me go home, please let me be alone. Please, please, please don’t stand with your skin on me. I fled, I fled, I fled away from you.

For one year the tides of change came to the shore of time, promising things to be that were not were before. Things of which did and did and did and did then stopped, and this left the rocky coast without a single stone. Soon the sandy beach was given name "Water's Tail", for no creature would swim near there, fish, shark, or whale. Days would fade to night as there no star would ever shine, and the wind would blow and blow so there no bird would fly. For you see, darkening beneath the coral reef, ways of which the water flow would go, as far more frightening, there, lurking was the point of no return to any living being, slowly pulling life out of a soul and known to man and beast alike as where one not should go. Then a scholar named Otaro sought to venture there as the only man who would, knowing he would surely die, or lose his sanity. Off he headed to the shore of time, Water's Tail, seeing no ways to avail, plainly bound to fail, he would find what secret grown there shown to him alone. As he got there glowing slightly was his gaunting dare, clearly demonstrating of his life he did not care, losing fear, for why else then was this place of dark forboding name a where if not to be by who came near enough to it to say here? As Otaro thought of all the fame he would secure, he walked over as to claim his fabled victory of the sandy beach known to be where none can be, the same coast that countless more have died as they tried to return, closely trailing where the only lack of no path had been worn by the rock that was by tides of change turned to no stone. Fair well, his only thoughts, he grew in mind more bold, and stepped into waves of water, neither hot or cold, he as reaching where the coral reef began to submerge and swim to where he was surely headed, to the dreaded point of no return, and as he neared where lore told of was he heard the sound of the most absurd, after that he knew his glory told by his own story never would unfold, for you see, that day he died, when time in water form pulled the hearing out of his own mind by way the ears and those heard last the noise of no sound like an underwater storm, the last sight the light had shown was the water waving at him with his now dear departed soul.

John glances down from the road for just a second to wipe the stray ashes of a particularly rogue cigarette from his vest. Still dark, but night's knack for alleviating the mind of responsibility will soon be brushed away just as casually by first light. We drive in silence, but a comfortable one, not one where the mind is painfully aware of each passing second sans conversation. I lean my head against the passenger side window at such an angle that you'd think the passing oaks were skyscrapers. Every exhalation frosts the glass and the skyscrapers lose a touch of clarity. I move to wipe the condensation then think better of it. It occurs to me that from inside this temporary home I prefer a softer exterior. We hit a major road for the first time since the start of the drive and I stifle some of reality's throes by closing my eyes. I open them a few seconds later and see for the first time just how empty the road really is. A highly congested passage in the light, 4am darkness lends our path a sort of eerie vacancy, like something out of a movie. "I always love this part," a voice half-whispers from the backseat. It occurs to me then that this really is a movie, with showings every weekend, not always the same but with similar runtimes and ensemble cast. This scene is a familiar one to our four beloved leads, and marks the most bittersweet act of the film- it's conclusion. A light fog settles around the street lights blurring by and as far in front of the car as its headlights can illuminate. I no longer care about the breath on my window for it seems God himself has exhaled down on our glass planet, dusting its surface as far as Earth's curvature would allow. We rocket forward like a meteor in reverse, following our contrail, chasing an unobtainable darkness lying about ten or so feet in front of the car. Perhaps now a company of strings swells and quiets the audience. Cut to exterior of lone car drifting. I write my name on a foggy canvas, seeing clearly through the letters. "Who's first?" John asks. The backseat is silent. We approach atmosphere. "I'm closest." John wordlessly accepts my indirect answer and keeps right at a fork. Something jumps in my chest and I push it down. We can all feel the heat now. I say goodbye to the uniformly distant streetlights of the main road and am greeted by the more irregular glow of softer, residential ones. They seem to console at each passing "It's okay it's okay it's okay" What do they know. Every house we pass sports its own mailbox, front yard, and driveway. This place is older than the 1950's suburban sprawl so each home is similar but not identical. They cluster then fade, the train picking up once again after a patch of trees passes or around the curve of a cul-de-sac. Porch lights wink at me through branches. Still dark, I think maybe dawn won't come. The heat is almost unbearable. We navigate a labyrinth of dark roads till finally reaching our destination. As the car rolls to a stop I know that now is when the people on Earth can spot us. A good telescope or naked eye in a dark place will do the trick. Look closely this will go fast. I swing my legs outside and let my body follow. Somewhere far away I hear the sound of my car door closing. We're burning we're burning. I turn around to face John and the two in the backseat. We are silent now, uncomfortably, and I say the first thing I think "Thanks." As soon as I hear it I wonder why I said it. Favors like rides home are unspoken courtesy, a tradition more than a gesture. Perhaps John notices my face twist in embarrassment. "Yeah," he says, but wisely, knowingly, simultaneously acknowledging and dismissing my having said anything. "Wow there it goes," someone somewhere says. We burn red-orange for two seconds at most then smolder and fade once more into black space. Then they are gone and I am left alone in the street in front of my house. The strings are silent, the fog is lifting. I feel for my key and hope that I've lost it. Clutching its cold outline in my pocket I make my way towards the house, growing ever-further away from my home. I imagine I now hurdle quickly and unimpressively towards Earth's surface. In moments I will crash into some sprawling ocean. I take a few steps forward and smell perfume, see hair and hear laughing. Maybe you saw me flying. Cut to close-up, our protagonist wracked with memory. Then medium, slow fade. The dark blue of the ocean water matches the hue of the early-morning sky above me. No longer dark. Sunrise, loveset.

There was a thunderous thwack on my door that stirred me awake. The door burst open, dragging along the warped wooden floors. Papa rumbled into the room, looking disheveled as ever. “Where is it boy?” “What’s going on, Papa?” “My rifle, boy, where is it?” Still half asleep and half in shock, I couldn’t force out any sort of audible reply, much less get up and guide him to the rifle. My eyes fought against the glow of the fireplace from the open door. Once they finally adjusted, I watched Papa. He was ripping through the closet, clothing flying every which way, and boxes leaping from shelves. He came out, empty-handed. His expression had gone from exasperated to frantic. “God dammit, son, where is my rifle?” “Its not in there Papa, you know that.” “Then where the hell is it, boy?” At this point, I had regained control of my motor skills: I got up, grabbed my robe that had been thrown to the ground, tactfully maneuvered around the crumpled boxes, and heedfully slipped into my house shoes. I had learned to air on the side of caution, so as not to get Papa even more excited than he was already. “Come on son, there ain’t much time. They’re coming!” “Who’s coming, Papa?” I knew that my inquiry would go unanswered, as this is the point where Papa sees the rifle resting in its place above the French doors. He snatches the rifle in his usual hurried manner, slid the French doors open and darted out onto the back patio. He lined up the barrel of the antique gun toward the backyard and shouted: “Come on ya’ bastards! I know you’re out there!” Thank god it was a Friday night, otherwise I’d have to apologize to the neighbors again.

Christopher first pulled the covers off of himself, and when the heat was still too much, he got out of bed. It was the middle of the night, and he was unable to sleep. He put on his coat and walked into the kitchen. Christopher lit the fireplace and made himself a drink. The room was small and had two couches on either side of the fireplace. He drank the first drink, and then went back into the kitchen and made another one. The cat, which he called Hank, rubbed its flank against Christopher's leg. Christopher pulled the cat up to his lap and pet him in front of his ears. Hank was a small, short-haired, gray cat with a striped tail. He was not a very smart cat, and it seemed that the only reason Hank lived was for fighting. Hank accepted the affection for a short time and then began pawing at Christopher's hand and began to fight him. Christopher called Hank a bastard and swatted at his paws, and he pushed Hank's head down and let it back up repeatedly, playing with him. This went on for some time until Hank became bored of the fight and retired on the far side of the couch, where he curled up and slept. Christopher got up, and grabbed his computer from off the coffee table. He sat on the other couch, turned it on, and waited for it to boot up.

Hey Redditors. Iv'e decided to share my story. Iv'e always been fascinated by breaching security, exploring things or secrets that weren't available to other people. Both in computers and physical matters. This is my story so please enjoy it. I don't know if this really belongs on short stories, since it's not a fictional story, but I thought you guys might find it interesting. **TL;DR** Some friends and i discovered unknown secret tunnels under our high school. Over weeks we discovered and mapped out a big part of the tunnel system. I'm now 18 and only have memories and pictures to look back at. Last school year (2011/2012) I was an exchange student in USA, Wisconsin. (I'm from Denmark). Btw best year iv'e ever had, with lifelong friendships made. I returned home to Denmark 7 months ago, and started school. This happened exactly one year ago. It all started with a friend of mine (senior at the time) came to me and said he had something crazy to tell me. It was kind of a rush hour so i didn't have time to stop and listen. Later that day we met in lunch break and he told me that he had been in the schools maintenaince room and had seen a dark square (3x3 ft) in the wall down a staircase. He that it was some kind of underground tunnel system under the school. I thought he was stupid and didn't think much about it. Now in the school i attended for a year and the daily routine consisted of normal classes and a 9th hour/homeroom in the end of the day, where it was possible to study or do your homework. The class was from 3:00 to about 3:40. I forgot all about his little tunnel story and almost two weeks went by till we came by the subject again. I was sitting peacefully in 9th hour and doing my homework when i saw someone knocked on the door. I looked up and there was my friend, lets call him Christian. Christian had excitement in his eyes and he did a throw with his hand plus a nod with his head to signal, that I should come out. I asked the teacher if i could go to the bathroom quick. (At this school you could get in trouble if you walked in the hallway without a pass for the restroom or wherever you were going) He wrote me a pass and I walked silently but determined out. Christian basically bombed me with the information that he had been "in the tunnels". I thought he was being crazy again and laughed at him, but he kept explaining the whole thing precisely and trustworthy and I started believing him more and more. My eye slid down to his knees and palms and I was soon to discover a enormous amount of dust and dirt on them. The tip of his shoes had some on them as well as he had been crawling somewhere. A few days later I couldn't help my curiosity. I had to see if this was true. In 9th hour I got a pass to go to the restroom and knowing I had limited time i rushed down the long hallways with a friend to the mechanical maintenance room. I quickly entered, put on a flashlight on my phone and started searching the big dark room for unknown enterings or exits. Two minutes after my friend had to leave of fear from getting caught by one of the janitors that could walk in any second and get our butts in trouble. I took me 15 minutes, but finally, down a staircase, down a ladder, into what seemed like a small pool around 7 ft deep, in the corner was a little square entering. I could barely spot it with my phone light. I crawled down and had a quick peek inside. After this i was eager to crawl in and look, but i had already been gone for 20 minutes, and i knew that would only cover for a long toilet visit, and I went back to the classroom. At this point I was hooked. No matter what I did, or when I did it, for the next 24 hours, this was permanently on my mind. I was curious and excited to figure this thing out. The next day I couldn't wait for 9th hour. The day went by so slow and it seemed like forever till the class started. Thinking that the teacher wouldn't write me a pass if i asked to go to the restroom right after a 6 minutes break, I waited. at 3:20 i got my pass, rushed to the maintenance room, ran down the stairs, down the ladder in to the pool and went in the tunnel. I had asked Christian to meet me there at 3:20. He showed up and told me that he actually didn't go in that hole, but in another path about 6 ft long that went into the basement in the other side of the room. I checked it out and it wasn't even a path, more just like a whole into the basement. We went over to the path i discovered and peeked in. It was a 3x3 ft hole going in as far as we could see. I jumped in first and Christian after and we started crawling on hands and knees in the dark. We were soon to discover turns in the tunnel everywhere. Everytime we took a right or left turn there were turns both ways, and the path would always end up in to seperate ways. Shortly after, due to physical requirements, excitement and a crapload of dust and dirt in the air, it got really hard to breath in there, and we went out. Up in the normal school light we were sweaty, and covered with an orangy dust powder. We had to see more. But we needed to plan it out. We couldn't just go to the restroom every day and coming back looking like we attended World War II. Teachers would get suspicious, and the risk of getting caught was too high. Therefore we went back to class and made a shopping list of what we needed. Same day we took a trip to Walmart and got the necessary things. Flashlights, kneepads, gloves, painting masks for dust, camera, change of clothing, blueprints and pencils. I managed to steal a whole block of passes so we could fake signatures and write passes to study hall, library or other teachers classrooms to cover up our actions. Also we needed a different time to enter, and a different way to get out. We came up with bringing a mirror to look around the edges when we exited the room. In the school there was a red blueprint painting hanging in the wall. I took a snapshot of it and after 15 minutes with my enormously bad photoshop skills i made it black and white and printed some copies out. We were now ready to note every single little turn we explored under there. We also got two other friends involved, and we created a hidden closed Facebook group for us. Friday night there was a basketball game at the school. What a perfect opportunity. School was open and no one in the hallways. We packed bags from home. Once the game was on, we four friends snuck into the maintenance room, and into the tunnel. We equipped all of our gear and began our journey. We had a lead guy at front, a flashlight guy, a map writer and a camera guy at the end. We had also purchased 1000 ft of line that we tied somewhere in the maintenance room. and took with us in. It functioned as a kind of safety so we always could find our way out. After almost 2 hours in there. We went out. We had discovered endless turns and paths and about 700 ft of tunnel was mapped down. The following fridays we planned to go down there again. We knew the routine, once the game started we snuck in the tunnel and started our mapping. We took a whole new section of the school every time. We could hear and calculate due to the game when we were under the gym, the cafeteria, classrooms and and all the other rooms. I'm a big guy 6'4", and i had quite some trouble crawling around down there. One of the times i was freaking out because I was running (as good as possible down there) and I got breathless because of the dust. After that I never did anything physical exhausting while in the tunnels. We went down there about four times and the last time was the most interesting. It was only me and Christian, and we decided to explore the left side of the school. On our way down the tunnels we saw writing on the walls. It looked like someone made arrows down there. There was also a few cigarette butts and some cans of some kind. We continued and saw a yellow pipe running across the path. We spend about 5 minutes discussing what it was, but it seemed like the answer came to us. All of a sudden two girly voices got exceptionally clear. We looked at the blueprints and our position fit perfectly under the girls restroom. The voices were clear and we were sure we were just a few feet under the restroom. Even the footsteps were clear through the floor. We sat there for about 10 minutes enjoying our achievement, but then decided to keep going. (We weren't able to see anything) We continued into a big wide space. The feeling of standing up for the first time in three hours was amazing. It was exactly under the staircase. There was a metal plate in the wall, and we recognized it from the hallways. We had found another entering. Unfortunately it was locked. We also looked up in a hole with a bunch some pipes and wires and discovered a bag of funions shoved up in there. How the heck did these come up there? We took a few pictures and took the 25 minute journey crawling all the way out. We jumped through the little hole to the basement and exit through there. No one saw us. Monday morning we went above ground of where we were on the friday. We looked down the thermostat of a radiator and concluded that the bag of funions were down there, most likely shoved down from above. The basketball season ended a few days after there. Even though we talked a lot about going back, we didn't To this day i still regret not finished the mapping down there. Later on we explored some abandoned buildings and train wagons, but nothing gave me the same adrenalin kick as these tunnels. We talked about them to my friends father who knew a janitor on the school. He told us that these were quite common tunnels in every high school design. They were made to access all the heat, and water pipes running to all the classrooms. After some research we found people all over America that had discovered these tunnels too. I guess in the end they weren't that secret and exciting, but I got my rush from them. We told a few people about it and showed them the pictures, but it's kind of forgotten to this day. Only my memories and pictures keeps this alive. Here are the whole picture album. Unfortunately I didn't take enough photos, this is all I have. Iv'e decided to hide our identity since I haven't asked or have got their permission to post their faces. I am the guy with the blue gloves. I put a lot of work and a few hours into this post and I'm new on Reddit, so if you read the whole story please take your time to share your response, your thoughts or similar stories with me :-) Please excuse me for grammar mistakes etc. -Johspwns.

One day, a Boy went to his first day of elementary school His mother drove him. She was healthy and youthful The Boy was scared and sad. He wanted to be alone He cried, but he went to school anyway Because he was told that he should The kids at school didn’t like The Boy.

I first saw him when I left my apartment on a chilly November night. He sat beneath a streetlight, his breath flowing from his open mouth like steam from an engine that formed in a cloud before him as he stared at me with shimmering eyes. He wagged his tail as I neared him, and I could see from where I stood the snarled and unkempt fur that shielded him from the elements. I had seen plenty of abandoned dogs but there was something almost human about this one. I stood motionless with my keys in my hands next to my car, preparing to jump inside to drive to my friend's house but something was keeping me from moving. Suddenly the dog shifted its weight, kneeling onto the pavement on all fours. I called out to him and patted my leg but he remained still except for his ears which twitched just a bit upon hearing my voice. "Come here, boy!" No response. While I looked at the milky and endlessly round eyes I remembered seeing a dog like him once when I was younger. Yes, I had seen a dog in Chicago that had been hit by a car. Dark almost black blood trailed from the middle of the street where he had been struck to curb next to the sidewalk where I was walking. The streets had been dead and so silent I could hear his muffled and gurgling breath as he hugged the curb. I remember him looking at me as I passed. The same milky eyes that The dog under the streetlight had. I passed the dying dog my way to work though, not taking the time to help it and on my way back home I passed its stiff, lifeless body. I had always felt ashamed for doing nothing for the dog and wondered if in some strange way the dog was visiting me again. The dog under the streetlight never took its eyes off me while I thought about all of that. I came to the conclusion that I was obligated to help the dog under the streetlight so I ran up to my fridge to fetch the half eaten package of bologna that was about to go bad. When I returned, the dog had vanished from under the streetlight and I stood alone with a half eaten package of bologna in one hand and my keys in the other thinking about how strange life was.

"C'mon boy! Less go!" Christopher called back to his pa, "I'm comin' Pa! Hol' on!" "We ain't got no time boy!" Christopher hurried with the tying of his shoes and was forced to stop and restart twice on his right shoe before he finished the task. Once he was through, he quickly stood up and ran for the door, turning back, suddenly, for his ragged bag - which he grabbed and slung over his shoulders. "Bout time Chris, we's gonna be late if we ain't get a move on." Christopher's Pa took him under his arm and they began their walk towards town, and Christopher's school house. "Sure is a pleas'nt morn' Pa." "Mhmmm." It was a fine morning, not unlike many of the late spring mornings in Savannah, and Christopher and his Pa walked happily, enjoying the warmth and humidity of the morning. "Pa, what's that?" Christopher said. "Wha’ss what, boy?" Pa said. "Up in that there tree. Look." Christopher said, and pointed ahead. From the distance, Pa speculated, and speculated correctly, that it was the figure of a lynched negro man, still hanging in the Poplar tree, a hundred feet ahead. Pa felt a sharpening in his chest and was silent. It was too late to spare the boy the sight, and he knew that life was not going spare the boy from violence. "It's a man." The father said, now near the tree. "Why's he in the tree?" "He is dead boy, he was killed last night." "Was he a bad man Pa?" Christopher asked. "I don't believe so." The boy looked up at the dead man in the Poplar tree. His face was bloated and his eyes were bulging from his head. The boy felt sad that the man was dead but he did not feel like crying. "Com’n son," Pa said, grabbing his hand after a moment,"You be late for school." Many of the boys at Christopher's school that day spoke wildly of the lynched man, but only two had seen his corpse in the tree. Christopher did not take part in any conversation that day, and when he walked home, the man was no longer in the tree.

The 2 boys in blue took us out of our car and placed us in their backseat. They drove us around for a long while, until they stopped and parked in who knows where, a deserted place, probably in the outskirts of the city. They took our cellphones, partly in precaution, partly to just keep them. What followed was that typical movie scene: good cop/bad cop. One of them behaving sympathetic with our fear, we craved for his company, like a kid hiding behind his mother's skirt, in fear of the bad man: the bad cop. He was a big, strong individual with an scandalous personality. We were scared. We didn't know if he was going to take us to prison or even shoot us, partly because our silly imagination, powered by that odd paranoia that marihuana creates.

Back in the Days of wind powered Sailing Vessels, Sailors used to warn each other to avoid the Horrors of the Horse Latitudes. A colonial ship headed to the New World loaded with farm animals and supplies once drifted too far south, about 30 to 35 degrees north of the Equator. In this particular region of the ocean there is little if no Wind. A Ship caught in the windless environment would be stuck for weeks or possibly months without changing location. The Sailors used to refer to this phenomenon as "the Doldrums". After weeks had passed with no Wind, water reserves had begun to dwindle. The sailors decided to throw the Horses they had brought overboard to conserve water. The Horses were thrown off the ship but not without a fight, and when they hit the water, they tried desperately to swim back to the Ship. The Horses were terrified and made horrrific, shrill sounds similar to screaming. Eventually, the Horses drowned, but it had shaken the Sailors tremendously. Some of them who were superstitious saw the event as a bad omen. The dead carcasses of the Horses floated to the surface near the Ship and did not drift away. The stench of the rotting flesh was a constant reminder to the Sailors of the recent tragedy and of their hopeless situation. Some of the sailors went mad and were never seen again. Eventually, the Ship made it to safe harbor in the New World of America, but the Sailors who survived were forever changed. It is said that most of them had True Nightmares the rest of their days, hearing the screams of the drowning Horses and remembering the awful stench of the rotting horseflesh in the Doldrums.

##Part 1 Echoes of hope. The last vestige of humanity, a cry that rang through the ages faint and lost. The last of the conscious, the self-aware, linger and gaze on eternity. Or rather, they gaze past it. It had all happened so fast. The mass exodus on the eve of the death of our star. The cannibalism on the cruises to Andromeda, the total breakdown and reversion from humanity. Our ships had arrived but we as an intelligent species did not. For me, it was so much more than simply starting over. It was failure. Catastrophic, cosmic failure. We had set course for the only habitable system within light years, an idea that would have been considered vulgar so many years ago. That there was one other habitable system within twenty light years where once we had thought there were thousands. And it would have been considered obscene to find that there was but one intelligent species on par with the humans, having been previously deceived by the universe and guiled by our own hubris in to thinking we were all-but-assuredly not unique. Fully half of our population chose to remain within Sol as the star that had given us birth went supernova; knowing what we know now nearly broke us. And if the plight of intelligence could be worse, it seems we have rebuilt in time for existence to end. As I lie in this bath I am less than completely aware of how the heat affects my body. I know that the heat fatigues me, that it goes beyond fatigue: it allows me escape. It dulls my mind enough to regain a sense of identity I had a lost, an idea of who I once was. For the first time I had escape from the commune. In the bath, I am only me. But within the solus of the heat I am made aware of my failing body. The stimulation produces slight tremors in my hands, a pronounced twitch in my left big toe, a tightness and rigidity to my calves, and uncontrolled movements of the eye. For the first time in millennia I am dieing.

The night is wrought with tension, the wind is whispering through the trees, telling stories of bloodshed from long ago. One can almost hear the words within the moaning of the wind, Children laughing. Children laughing long ago. Until They came to take and claim, Until the night was painted red, That’s when the laughing stopped. The full moon shines upon the moor, illuminating a black castle standing tall upon a rock. The empty halls are quiet; all is still except for wind outside that warns of coming storms. The dungeons groan with haunted memories, walls stained an old red-brown. A little girl wanders in, the castle’s weary doors creak open. She’s lost, the little one, looking for “Big Brother.” The shadows on the walls are whispering, whispering about a little girl whose come from far to visit these forsaken halls. Candles doust and shadows fall, forming claws and hands and the bodies of laughing children in the dark. Faces gleaming, teeth and tongue and eyes and all until a horrid shriek resounds and all is still once more. The little girl is stood stock still, until she’s sure she sees no more and calls for “Brother Dear.” She walks through ghastly halls of crumbling walls and does not think or care to know of memories so far and dear to places such as here. Broken windows bring in mist that speaks of feasts from long ago and celebrations and cakes and laughter all around, with children in the midst of it. Two children, boy and girl, were once kept here with laughter ringing true to ears and futures were to be admired and hoped for, blissfully unaware about this tired world. The wretched wind of mourning follows this wandering soul and cries in every corner, Children laughing. Children laughing long ago. Until They came to take and claim, That’s when the laughing stopped, And the traitors were to blame. Shrieking, howling, wretched wind that whispers when it comes to ruined pictures on the walls and images from long ago… and slips away in silence when the dungeons come to play, where shadows whisper of a boy and girl that turn to scarlet butterflies of beauty, but scar and mark and burn as though hell’s blood is flowing through those wings of molten scarlet thread. The silence rings and “Brother Dear” is called again, with anxious voice and eyes that speak of reckless choice when this little girl takes one step, two, and ends within the dungeons deep where shadows pounce and butterflies that should bring joy surround and never fail to deploy the plans to take and claim until the laughter sounds again. The girl stares wide and open-mouthed at butterflies of fiery hue that seem to whisper with their bloodied wings silent words of RUN and FLEE, a repetition of a broken record playing among the dungeon’s dew and shadows full of glee. Until a beat, another one or two, the cloud of bloodied scarlet wings holds back no more and attacks a little girl whose lost her way within the night, searching for “Big Brother Dear” and wondering at his plight. When cries of anguish now resound, an older boy steps through and shouts and fights with hardened fists until the cloud of red dissipates and his sister is on the ground, scrambling for stronger hands and arms until she’s safe and sound.

Irina Oren (Wilcox…Oren-Wilcox?) glows, inside and out. Having just arrived for her own wedding reception (my wedding, she kept saying to herself, with increasing hysteria), she kisses Michael enthusiastically on both cheeks and the lips and, apologizing profusely to everyone, rushes to the ladies' room to get her first elated look at herself as a married woman. The restroom is way too big, way too lavender, and way too plush for a restroom. The mirror is floor-length and takes up the entire wall beside the prissy row of sinks. Her eyes flit around her own reflection. Flushed cheeks – check. Lace and little flowers – check. Golden band on fourth finger of the left hand – check. She practices flashing her wedding smile. White teeth – check. Perfect posture – check. Empty eyes – check. Fuck. There it is again. That politician's wife smile. That ugly disappointment and plastic happiness. She doesn't understand it. Her joy had felt so alive in that moment, so genuine, and yet the mirror has transformed it into something material, hollowed it out, distanced it from her. It has been this way a lot lately. And she had been so sure that her decision to marry, to make the fundamental assertion of her love, would be the thing that finally allowed her to look in the mirror and see happiness. She does love Michael. So much. It felt so incredibly real just now; she knows she can make it real. But the mirror, in its bizarre and all too familiar fashion, has drained her luminosity, and now she feels herself wilting. She can't go back out again until she has rekindled the glow. It is a different world out there (more like a different dimension to this version of her). She knows she cannot survive out there (physically or mentally) without her glow. She can't deal with the mindless conversations about work, weather, houses and potential children. Or the inevitable badgering from Michael’s parents about whether she plans to convert now that she has had a Christian marriage (and she has certainly heard more than enough from her own parents on the issue). She is itching for a cigarette. (Michael will wonder where she is, but serves him right for starting her on smoking.) She creeps out of the bathroom like a guilty dog, metaphoric tail between legs, glancing about for a low-key exit. That is when she spots the boy, sitting several yards away at the corner table in the very back, even while everyone else has congregated outside. There is a girl with him, too, but it is the boy that draws her closer. She does not know who he is (perhaps a relative of Michael's?), but she does know that she does not want him here. Not now. In plaid and denim, he certainly is not dressed appropriately, but it is more than that. It is the sudden waves of emotion (an aurora borealis of emotion) that strike her with his appearance. Anger sadness desperation love…romantic love, too, everything she longs to feel for Michael (I want to climb windmills with you). She is repulsed. That boy can't be more than seventeen. She can't help but move closer. Detached from her will entirely now, she drifts toward the boy until she can hear his voice (poetic voice, dreamer's voice) whispering softly (gently, lovingly) to the girl. Soon she is standing less than a foot from the table where the young couple sit face-to-face. They take no notice of her (or they ignore her). The boy is far too caught up in his words, and the girl is far too caught up in his eyes. She recognizes the girl now as her sister's daughter, Vera, a shy and frumpy adolescent who had holed herself up in the guest room with a book and barely said two words to anybody when her family visited Irina and Michael in Jersey two years ago. Olive-skinned, with long dark curls and thick glasses, Vera has always reminded Irina a bit of her own awkward adolescent self (pre-contacts-and-nose job, of course). Moody, insecure, and nerdy to a fault. But tonight Vera is glowing. By now Irina has drawn close enough that she can hear every word the boy says. "Please don't hide your face from me anymore. Let the world share your light. You are beautiful. You are a goddess. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to scale mountains with you! I want to climb windmills with you!" Vera's face flushes like a sunrise. She stares into his eyes and stutters aimlessly. He continues to recite to her. "Please never think you have to change for me and never change. I couldn't love you any other way. Don't ever let anyone force you to be different from you or different for you or different for them or the same as them." Irina feels a firestorm rising up inside her. How dare this boy love Vera! How dare the both of them ignore her as she stood there! "…and I can't even begin to describe the feelings you bring me. An aurora borealis of feelings!" Vera suddenly bursts into tears. "I'm sorry, I have to go. No one has ever said anything like that to me. I don't know what to do. I don't even know who you are! I don't believe you." She gets up, kisses him on the cheek, and brushes past Irina with tears on her face. The boy stares straight ahead. Without thinking, Irina slides into Vera's empty seat, her white dress bunching around her legs. From this new point in space, she stare right down the endless tunnels of the boy's dark eyes. "But I love you. You have to believe me, Irina." Her mouth drops open. She feels her throat constrict and her eyes sting. With his invocation of her name, understanding burns around the edges of her mind and memory becomes an obscure figure in the distance. Each word she has heard him speak tonight echoes inside her being, and she suddenly knows she has heard them before, hundreds of feet up amid a desert sunrise thousands of miles away. He reaches out to her and she takes his hand. "Jonathan Luo." She says the name before she thinks it. "I love you, Irina." "You can't be here Jonathan. You're not allowed." "I'm here, Irina. Don't forget me. I love you." Irina closes her eyes, but she can still see him in the darkness. "You love Vera now." "No. I love her likeness to you. After you pushed me away, I came looking for you, Irina, but all I could find was her. Vera is very much like you. And you are so different from you." The words are no longer spoken to her, but rise from deep within her. "You don't understand Jonathan, I needed to forget about you…so I could be happy," She is sobbing now. "You're gone now. Jonathan Luo died on August 13, 1997…at St. Lucy's Hospital in Mojave, California…at 10:43 am from leukemia...his body…rejected…there was nothing else they could do." She remembers now. The last time he had spoken those words to her had been 286 feet up atop the Titania wind turbine, on the day he learned he was sick. But he hadn't told her that. "Yes, Irina. I'm gone, but you can still live. Don't forget to live." "Yes, Jonathan." And with those words, she accepts him. She feels him bleeding back into her, through every pore of her skin and fiber of her mind, a memory once deserted by her cowardice finally returning home. She sits one moment in silence and in the next she rises, walking away with a vigorous determination. Past the plush bathroom, past the guests and tables, past Vera glowing on the dance floor. Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone grabs her elbow and pulls her in. She finds herself facing Michael. His face is sweaty, flustered. "Where have you been?" She stares into his blue eyes, and finds she can only get so many layers deep. She dives anyway. "I want to climb windmills with you, Michael." He laughs, and disappointment spreads in her stomach before the words have finished leaving his mouth. "All right, sweetheart. It sounds like someone has had a bit too much to drink already." She is suddenly gripped by the sickening, magnificent, and irresistible urge to tear herself away from him and run, run, run under blue skies.

This is a short piece I wrote for an old lover when we were pretentious and wrote poems and shorter fiction for each other. She was doing a writing course and asked me to complete one of the assignments she was doing, I think so she could know me better (which she never did). The assignment was, in no more than 500 words, to describe a person without ever actually mentioning them or their physical features directly. Description by circumstances, I suppose. I'm starting to get back into writing so any objective comp and crit, positive or negative, very much welcome. **His Office** Slipping into the office was too simple: the secretary distracted by her call, everyone else staring at their screens as though the sheer intensity of their vision would cause their ears to excluded the nasal tone. But once the door clicked soft shut behind, the whole venture seemed like a mistake. The desk was covered, drenched, as though some deity had descended to create some new ocean, fallen from pure white skies, allowing it to over run this great mahogany island. Huge technical diagrams flooded like waterfalls over the edge to break upon the shattered rocks of discarded, crumpled sheets. Tiny yellow squares were carried amongst the rapids, small-life rafts for the most important thoughts. Coffee cups – ceramic, cardboard and plastic - rose from the sea of paper like once imperial lighthouses decaying amongst the rising tide. Fast food wrappers were layered through the in-tray, the base necessities to keep working taking equal standing with the necessary work. The sheer mass and weight of paper stalled me. Time was racing, and my heart was keeping beat, so I began. Naively, like some pulp-fiction sleuth I looked to the picture frames: the antique map of the Highlands, the panoramic photograph of Bannockburn, the signed 1978 Archie Gemmill replica shirt. Only as I let the picture of the two childhood Labradors fall back into place did I realise the ridiculousness of my search – the modular walls too thin, too transient to be a hiding place. The over-flowing drawers could not be locked, but a fruitless place to search in such little time, filled with essential trivia. Old tickets, exhausted pens, discarded crosswords, even three archaic filo-faxes, aged and dog-eared. I wasted time, but it was cathartic – every flight a standing ovation missed, every meeting another sports day victory avoided. The shelf behind the great chair was filled only with emptiness and space, rising high above the undulating chaos. The heavy, bronze executive toy, rocking backwards and forward under the weight of my footsteps, driving the horse onwards in a futile gallop. The photograph, glass cracked down the centre, separating left from right, blossoming to a perfect signet-shaped rose-bud over the central face. The unread Presbyterian bible, the inside cover inscribed with thick, untidy, letters. More seconds wasted. The pockets of coats unworn, the insides of blazers unused, the bin up-ended, scattering half-constructed flow-diagrams and marked-up press-releases into the worn plush of the carpet. The empty drinks cabinet, the soil of the arbitrary desk plant, the recesses of the leather sofa, faintly oiled with subordinate fear. I bit my lip to stop noises of frustration. The room stank of sweat and industry and solitude; I was filled with its despair. I breathed in and surrendered my suspicions. On the desk, a red light winked at me from beneath the waves, a semi-submerged buoy at the edge of some shipping lane beside the desktop. With resignation I pressed a button and an unknown voice filled me, at once, with half-forgotten hatred.

The Office Bathroom So there I was, sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, minding my own business. In walks another patron for one of the other porcelain thrones. He takes the one furthest from me. Minutes go by, no major release from their anus. Meanwhile I am sitting there on Reddit, taking my time as I have already released the majority of my demons. Suddenly, there is a tremor in the stalls. And what must have been a soft paste explodes from the ars of patron number 2. The kind that makes little popping sounds as it comes out in a medium-thick stream of smelly bile. Pop, pop, poppity pop it went. Followed by what can only be described as a cartoon fart. *BLARRRT* I giggle at the misfortune on this stranger as they may have held that poo to avoid my ridicule. But they failed. As I proceed to clean myself, it hit me, a smell that is the enemy of any nostril. At first, it came it light waves and was mixed with fresh air, confusing me, not alerting me to the poop scented dangers that would soon approach. I stayed strong and kept my breathing to a minimum. I opened the stall door and ran to the sink. I was safe. I made it out alive. Or so I thought... I looked myself in the mirror and watched as I gagged on the smell of another's feces. It was a silent gag, the kind that only makes your eyes water and your stomach churn. The water flowing from the faucet, my mind racing with images of rotten chocolate pudding. At last, the soap was off of my hands and I made my way to the towel dispenser, dispensing several towels. I dried my hands and left the bathroom as quickly as I could, stomach in shambles and eyes a glazed over with pain.

"Dr. Ferguson, here's the report from the guy that stumbled out of that swampy area down near 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 odd anomalies. Last month, some bloke had 'accidentally fallen' on a cricket stump and had it stuck in his rear end. But the guys in imaging were losing their touch if they thought she'd believe this nonsense. "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. It's implanted just under the skin and has a wire going into his right atrium, just like it says there. 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 full 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 "U.S.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, now I'm a little weirder out." 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.

I stood in the doorway and wondered if the door would close. It didn’t, the hinges had come off. I guess I didn’t know my own strength. The staircase was right in front of me now so I descended into the living room. No one was there, not even the dogs. This house is empty. My family left me, took off to someplace distant. I suppose they had gotten tired of me. I hadn’t had a job for months and my brain wasn’t working quite right. They noticed the lack of work but had no clue what was inside my head. They had left everything inside the house, all the furniture, the tv, the food, almost all of their belongings except what was necessary. It was torture. It was like they could walk in at any moment and say they had gone to the grocery store. But this was not the case, they were gone and weren’t coming back. It had been awhile since I’d seen them, no warning was issued. They had finally surprised me. I picked up the telephone and heard the empty space. When I tried to dial out it made animal noises instead of beeps. I got sick of it and plunked it back down. The electricity was still working but none of the objects that used it functioned correctly. The fridge was hot, the clock was lying, the lights made sounds; I flicked a switch and heard a man yell “get away!” The television only had one channel, and we had cable. Something was terribly wrong so I walked outside. The small car my family owned was still there but it did not have any wheels. I took a walk down the street and looked around the town I had always lived. My neighbor was shoveling the sidewalk, but as far as I could tell there was no snow. “What a storm, eh?” She huffed out as she scooped. I gave her a puzzled look and moved on. As I walked away I heard her say under her breath “What a friggin storm” As I moved along I walked past a small pizza place that had been on the corner forever. Only now it was not a pizza place, it was a clothing store titled ‘heaven’s little closet.” I looked in the window and all of the old employees were still there except now they had on fancy suits and were selling vintage clothing, not pizza. WEIRD, strange…this is just not right. A dog approached me and sniffed my boots. I scratched its ears and moved along once again. I got sick to my stomach and my eyes started to blur so I turned around and headed back towards my home. I noticed a strong stench from outside of the house and as I walked inside it got worse. The hot fridge was melting all of the food inside into a boiling swamp of stink. I could hardly handle it. I looked inside and almost vomited, but I held my composure. Nothing in this town was right anymore, I don’t know if I had changed or if it was the whole place itself but I had always hated living here so maybe it was a sign to get to someplace new. I packed a small bag of clothing and some food that wasn’t in the rotting fridge and walked outside. I passed a small field of grass on my way and took the time to lie down. Grass hadn’t changed, it felt the very same. I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes it had gotten somewhat darker. I grabbed my bag, which was now a different bag, blue instead of black, and headed toward the bus station. It was on the other side of the street from where I remembered it being. I got on and didn’t even look where it was going to. Goodbye.

There was once a strikingly beautiful young Lady who tragically and without warning had her Heart broken badly. She was so hurt emotionally by her former lover that desperation began to set in. She was distraught. She put on a beautiful red dress she had worn on their first romantic meeting, walked to the edge of a cliff on the Sea and plunged 111 feet into the icy Abyss below. The Daemons, Siren, and Leviathan beneath the water licked their fangs and waited to ravish her body and Soul, because they knew, as a suicide, the depths of Hell were pulling her down. Unfortunately for her, the Almighty would not protect her directly from what was happening as she sank helplessly into the depths, so instead a Diver was filled with Spirit and Inspiration. A Diver whose Soul was also lost somewhere between Heaven and Hell felt the anguish in her Heart, and as is his natural instinct he sank into the fire and water column leading to Hell. As he descended, the Viscious Sea creatures attacked him, but he tore them to shreds, and their ilk was disheartened. The pressure and heat of the Dive was very disorienting, but the Diver focused on her Spirit which was so passionately intense that it was illuminating his Path and drawing him in. Once the Diver reached her, he never let her go; she is his World now. They are bonded in Eternity. Now as you can imagine, he has brought her back to the Netherworld where their true journey begins. Together they will break free of any limitations, and their new Love will take them much higher, away from the darker depths of emotion that way heavy and Hellish.

They never tell you how much of a pain puppies are. The shelter always says “This puppy will grow up to be nice and small.” They’re liars. “This puppy will be no trouble later in life.” Blatantly false. “This puppy won’t have to be walked when it’s wet and cold outside.” The biggest lie of them all. “The puppy won’t run away while you’re walking it.” Really? “You won’t have to spend hours trying to find that puppy after it runs away.” They can try better than that. “The puppy won’t end up covered in mud when you actually do find it.” Sigh. The people at the shelter are good at making you believe them. They don’t lie about everything though. Even after hours of searching, when I finally find that puppy, sopping wet and all covered in mud, I can’t help but smile and say, “There you are Bella, I was worried I lost you. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.

He is a not so simple man with an odd beginning. He was born a millionaire. He had everything he could ever ask for. Then one tragic day, his parents were taken from him at a young age. He could have let this tragedy take him over. Destroy him from the inside. He refused. For years he trained in both mind and body. He overcame his only fear. He looked it straight in the face and used it to his advantage. And while others fear the darkness, he uses it as a weapon. No one can know when he will strike. One thing they are sure of is that he will come forth from the welcoming embrace of the shadows, striking fear into the heart of any man. Some will freeze, completely unable to move. Others will try to run. They won’t get far. He will catch them in a matter of seconds. To criminals, he is the monster under the bed. To others, he is the father stopping these monsters from taking you away. Some men, the lucky ones, will walk away unscathed. The others will not be so lucky. Nightmares will ensue. When they wake from the dream, he will be in the corner of their filthy prison cell. He lunges at them. As they are screaming, some even for their mother, he will vanish. The strongest willed men will go insane after a single encounter. Some however, are already insane, and they work to stop this man from taking down their own kind. A crazy inmate from the Asylum just outside the city. A deranged Clown and his crazy girlfriend. Some are simply unnatural. A Crocodile that walks on two legs. A man exposed to chemicals that give him inhuman strength. But in the end, only one man can stop him. Himself. He will be his own downfall. But for now, he is a hero. The silent guardian that will protect those whom he will never meet, even at the cost of his own life. He is The Knight.

The Charred Remains of Grandfather's Cock Jacob remembered his father shouting as the car screeched up to the driveway. The flames were enormous. His grandmother was in the street, sobbing loudly. No one bothered to unfasten Jacob from his car seat, they were all too busy trying desperately to free Jacob's grandfather from the old, burning house. The fire licked the sky almost playfully. "Jump! Jump!" they told him. The old man clawed and clawed at the window that would not budge. Jacob was close enough to the house so that he could just barely make out his grandfather's face, illuminated with an orange glow from the fire. The old man turned to meet his grandson's gaze. Their eyes became fixed upon one another's. Young Jacob had never before seen a face contorted in such helpless agony. Then, the roof collapsed. That was the end of "family game night". * * * Cold beads of sweat peppered Jacob's face as he awoke, gasping for breath. He reached for the table next to him and grabbed his inhaler. He inhaled the mist and his breathing became less labored. He flopped back against his pillow in a state of eerie shock. Even now, ten years after the fire, he was still having nightmares. For a while they had stopped, and he thought his life was beginning to get back on track, like he could lead a normal existence again. However, this last month had been a bad one. He could tell his parents were beginning to worry. A squawk from windowsill made him jump. He turned to meet a pair of piercing, yellow orbs, floating in the darkness. Jacob was paralyzed in fear. His mouth opened but no scream escaped. Another squawk, then a flutter of feathers and the orbs had vanished. The raven had left behind some shining object, and when the pounding in his ears had subsided, Jacob left his bed to investigate. Jacob approached the window and much to his surprise he found a battered pair of old glasses. He picked them up to take a closer look. They were nothing special. The frames were rusted and the lenses were scratched and chipped. Something about them, though, seemed familiar to him. He couldn't quite place where he had seen them before, but he knew he had. The shape suggested they were old, as that particular style had long been out of fashion. The only person who would wear these would have to be as old as... The glasses dropped suddenly to his feet as Jacob remembered where he had seen them before. They were the same as the ones his grandfather used to wear. They were the same as the ones that had glared so horrifically at him on the night of the fire. Jacob leaned out the window and was sick. Some of the vomit landed on a cat sleeping outside. He sobbed as he wretched out his window for some hours; he was bewildered that there was even that much in his stomach to expel. Eventually he became so exhausted that he collapsed and drifted into a disturbed slumber. * * * Jacob awoke late in the afternoon the next day. He had nowhere to be since school was out for a few weeks. The events that transpired the previous night flooded back to him all at once and he was sick again. He tried getting up but the puddle of puke caused him to slip a few times. He managed to get himself on his feet, though his knees were shaking. He peered out the window into his neighbor's farm. There were three boys around his age walking in the field of grass smoking cigarettes. The rest of the day was weird but uneventful; Jacob was his usual silent self and passed the time sitting alone reading or writing or just staring. As the sun began to set, the feeling of panic that had been brooding inside him all day long began to rise in his chest. He was dreading the evening. Time did what time does best and moved forward, so much so that it was time for Jacob to go to bed. As was his usual routine, he popped a couple tablets of Ambien in his mouth and turned on his fan. Within minutes the pills had taken effect, and he promptly fell asleep. He was curled up with his stuffed animal, which he had had for years. He couldn't sleep without the ratty-looking old tiger, no matter how much sleeping medication he had. It was a few hours later that he awoke with a start. He peered at the clock. It announced to him, in menacing, red letters, that it was 2:17 in the morning. He looked at his windowsill. No bird. However, there was something there. Jacob silently got out of bed to check things out. He slowly approached the open window, for he knew whatever he was going to find may be so shocking that it could kill him. As he got closer, the shape of the object on the windowsill took on the appearance of a small, dead rodent. Perhaps a mouse or rat. Only when he mustered up the courage to get within clear sight of the window did he realize what it was. It was a very oxidized, silver pocket watch. Jacob picked it up, turned it in his hand, and was sick. He was sick to the very core of his being, because once he turned that watch, he knew this raven had an agenda. A wicked, sinister agenda. Jacob knew now the objects the raven was leaving weren't random bits of trash or shiny objects birds tend to collect. He knew this because of the engraving on the case of the pocket watch. It read, in raised letters, "W.J.C.". The initials belonging to his deceased grandfather, William Joseph Clark. Jacob continued to wretch, and wretch, and wretch. When he became too exhausted to wretch, he sobbed and shook with fear. Shortly after, he wretched some more. "What do you want from me?!" Jacob called into the night between heaves. He hung his head out the window and looked up after a while, to find himself locked into the gaze of two bright headlights shining out from a tree branch. The raven peered at him, looking confused, and cocked his head to the side. It ruffled its feathers, and then flew away. Jacob spent the rest of the night with his head hung out the window, wondering what sort of death he would die the next night. * * * The warm kiss of sunshine woke Jacob the following morning. He was morose, and baffled by the events of the previous night. "What could it mean?" he thought. "Where could that bird have gotten grandpa's pocket watch? The firemen said it was never recovered after the fire!" "It must be a sign; this bird is surely a messenger between this realm and the next. Could it be, that this avian creature is communicating grandpa's last wishes through these nightly visits? That's crazy. But how else could it have gotten hold of the watch? It's impossible!" Jacob was sick. "Oh, what foul wingéd demon plagues me now? For what reason hath this agent of Hell, This beast that flies under the guise of night, Sought to wreak such malevolence on me? A sadist hath robbed my grandfathers grave And tormented me with the reminder Of a winter's night lit with flame and death. With what intention do you visit me? For what purpose do I wretch out my soul And cover my floor with last night's supper? Torturer, tormentor, liberator, Tonight thou won't greet a quivering child, But a man unmoved, ready for his fate. I know now what is required of me And challenge you, putrid bird: do your worst." Upon accenting his point with an emotional gesture of the arms, Jacob slipped in a puddle of vomit and banged his head against a wall. He fell, unconscious, directly into bed and slept soundly for several hours. * * * An electric aura filled the warm spring air that night. A few minutes before Jacob awoke, a lamp down the hall from Jacob's room shorted and sparks jumped onto the old, dusty rug in the hallway. Within seconds, the rug was on fire, and it wasn't long before the hallway was also consumed by the blaze. The fire found its way into several of the rooms in the hallways, for the Craft family was never too keen on the whole idea of keeping doors closed. The flames found their way into Jacob's room. He calmly opened his eyes and observed his surroundings. He wasn't afraid. He always knew it would be this. Even as a child, he always knew. He got out of bed, looked around, and heard his sister shriek. A few moments later he could see, from where he was standing, his family gathered on the front lawn. His father looked very startled in his bathrobe, and had his ear to the telephone. It seemed to Jacob he was telling somebody something very urgent, like it couldn't wait another second. Jacob couldn't fathom what could be so important. Business, probably. Jacob's mother was holding his sister, she was only about six. His mother was shouting something, too. From the movement of her lips it looked like she was shouting, "Where's Jacob? Where's Jacob?" Jacob walked over to the spot on the floor where the watch had fallen and picked it up. He held it up so the case shone in the glow of the blaze. He held it by the chain and swung it back and forth, which created a delightful pattern of light on the walls. He heard somewhere a support beam give out. He walked over to the windowsill and opened it. His father saw him and yelled, "Jacob, the house is going to collapse! You have to get out!" Just then, two bright stars swooped down from the night sky, and landed next to Jacob. The stars looked at him; they looked directly into his heart and saw he was ready. A moment later, they were gone. Despite desperate attempts from his family to get him to jump, Jacob remained where he was. He couldn't see much through the smoke, but he could see what looked like a burnt stick where the raven had been a second earlier. He coughed, and picked it up. A wave of complex, fleeting emotions filled him quickly, then dispersed. Parts of the roof were caving in left and right; he didn't have long. In the light of the fire he looked down and saw what the raven had left as its final gift. Jacob looked and saw, in his hand, the charred remains of grandfather's cock.

This is a story that takes place between four walls. Walls that once used to be white but are now a light brown shit yellow, from all the cigarettes smoked during bowel movements, and other activities. Now, if that didnt give away the fact that i was talking about a bathroom, then im not completely confident that there is hope for you, and your advancement in this floating ball we call home. Anyway before i go off on a long tangent that has really nothing to do with the story, but yet again everything to do with the story. The bathroom, where daydreams can be relived, pressures can be relieved, tanks can be emptied, and where unborn children are given mandatory flying lessons. But im not here for any of those reasons. Im not resting on the cold pot, or washing my face in the dripping sink, or even trying to find the frustrating medium of cold and hot water to take a replenishing shower. Oh no, i am here for reasons much more dark, dark enough as to the sun couldnt even keep it lit. And the funny part is, this is no tunnel, theres no light at the end of this cave. As i climb the rocks in the cave, i sweat, i cry, i laugh, out of psychosis of course, but laughed nonetheless, and most of all i wanted to be out of there. I walk, i run, i jump, and i never rest, getting out of the cave is my only goal any more. I need to see who is waiting for me at the entrance, who missed me, who cared enough to wait because somewhere deep down they knew i would make it out. How long have they been waiting, but the more important question is, how much longer will they wait. Enough with the metaphorical speak. When i say climbing rocks and caves, i mean pressing my whole body weight against the bathroom wall in an attempt to make my self upright. Everything is heavy, standing is now a task that deems harder that solving a rubiks cube with one hand and color blindness. All i can see is the mirror, and what i saw, oh man what i saw, is what really makes this story take off. My eyes met my own, my stare shot right through me. this wasnt a mirror anymore, this was a theatre. A theatre with only one seat, way in the back. And there was only one occupant in that seat, and that occupant was me. Every memory i have ever had all at once, in a split second it all flashed. I knew every mistake i had made, every wrong i had done someone. I faced my wrongdoings and was apologetic, and ready to change. I tried to find an old memory that could arise a smile, but the muscles were to sore to muster one up. I want to be a better guy, i want to do it right. I want to apologize. Then a sharp, harsh realization, its too late, i think i finally see a light. Im back on the floor, my body just as heavy as ever, back in the throne room. Drip, Drip, Drip is all i can hear from the sink. how long was i out? Who Knows, who cares.

The dusty, rotten, decaying, corpse laid among its many, many companions in a sea made up only by the dead. They had tried to hospitalize them at first but, more and more just kept coming in, eventually, most of the doctors and nurses ran for the hills trying to save themselves. They ran too late, everyone was already infected. The doctors and nurses who were smart enough to realize this went home to spend the little time they had left on the planet with the ones they loved most. The military began to dig mass graves to bury the rapidly increasing amount of people dying. So many people began dying that at some point the soldiers just started to throw the bodies into a pile. After the solders had all met their inevitable ends the few remaining people who had managed to fight off the virus were faced with the smell. The smell of a single rotten human carcass is one of the worst smells you could possible imagine. Even a slight whiff of it would make the average man want to hurl. Now there were thousands and thousands of them all producing the same vile odor. It was only a matter of time until every human alive became nothing more then a rotten, decaying, corpse.

I'm taking a story writing class and this is my first short story. Can I get some honest critiques? I kneeled down onto the dusty, wooden floor and scrubbed with all of my might. The veins in my arms bulged and the floor creaked under me, but I could not get the blood stain out from the night before. Papa had been drinking all day yesterday and decided to slice Peter, our brother, on his cheek with a sharp blade. There was no reason behind it, I’m sure, but these days he didn’t need a reason to lash out on any of us. I wiped the sweat off of my furrowed brow and tried even harder. I heard faint footsteps in the distance and silently hoped it was not my father. “Zoya!” my father yelled sternly. He was a former Soviet soldier; a tall, burly man who smelled of vodka and musk. “Yes, papa?” I lifted the greasy mop of black hair from my face and looked straight at him. He tugged me by my tattered collar and got within an inch of my face. “I am so fucking sick of this dirty house. You’ve been on this floor for 3 hours and you haven’t even cleaned up a damn thing.” I muttered an apology and his face contorted with anger. He grunted at me and said “You are absolutely worthless to me, little girl. Your existence has wasted sixteen years of my life.” He dragged me out of the hallway to the back of the house where he usually sat and drank silently. He lifted my skirt and with four fluid movements, he whacked my bottom with his “special belt.” The belt was passed down to him by his father. It was made of cracked leather and had fourteen razorblades wedged into the side of it, which left horrible cuts if you were ever punished with it. When he was finished, he shoved me to the side. I straightened my skirt and rushed back to the kitchen to finish cleaning. ~~~ Mama and Papa were so irrevocably in love with each other and they were proud of the family that they had together. Papa worked in the factory and Mama stayed at home to clean and take care of the children. We’d spend our afternoons in the park singing, talking about the old days, and Mama would tell us the same old story about the day she met Papa. Tears would well up in her eyes and you could tell just how much she loved him. There was never a day when Papa came home from work without a warm welcoming from everyone. Mama’s eyes would light up and all of the children would run into his arms. Life was perfect. Life changed drastically when she died. It was the summer of nineteen ninety-four and she had just given birth to our sister Irina. We knew something was wrong the day they both came back from the hospital. Mama didn’t even want to hold her and refused to do anything but sit in her room. Day after day, for about a month, she’d just sit in front of her window crying. She wouldn’t speak or eat and there was not a doctor in town that could tell us what was wrong with her. One evening, after having spent all day in the park with my brother, I walked into my house and saw a sight that I would never forget for the rest of my life. The putrid smell of death overcame me and as I stepped into the washroom; I saw my mother. She had been lying there for the entire latter half of the day and her nightdress was stained with coagulated blood. Her body, limp and lifeless, was pale and covered in tiny flecks of what we thought was her brain. Her head had been blown into tiny chunks that littered the side of the wall and in one of her arms was Papa’s old hunting rifle. I dropped to my knees, laid my head in her lap, and cried until Papa came home. ~~~ That was the day that everything changed for us. Papa had to bury the love of his life and was left with 3 children to take care of. He quit his job and started drinking, leaving Peter and I to pick up the slack. I stayed at home with Peter; we cleaned, cooked, and took care of Irina; but matter what we did, Papa would always find fault in it. If he was even remotely angry, he would take it out on us. He’d find the nearest thing he could use as a weapon and beat us senselessly. It has been this way for seven years now. It seems as though every day is getting worse and worse. Sometimes I think that I’d rather die than be subject to his wrath. About two hours later, I finally cleaned up the last bit of Peter’s blood off of the floor. I shoved my cleaning supplies into the cupboard under the sink and shuffled towards the garden behind the house. Peter and Irina were in the garden scooping potatoes out of the soil with their bare hands. “Hey, what are you up to?” I said, he looked at me solemnly. I tousled his shaggy brown hair then picked Irina up and placed her in my lap. “Papa beat you again, didn’t he?” he asked. “Yeah, but it isn’t like it’s the first time. Plus, it was kind of my fault anyway. I just couldn’t get the floor clean.” He stood up and looked down at me. “Are you really that stupid? You think it is okay for him to do that shit to you?” He scoffed and stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him. I looked down at the earth beneath me. Tears fell down my face and quickly disappeared into the soil. Irina wiped a tear away from my face and smiled at me. Her smile turned into a twisted face of horror within two seconds. Papa was stumbling violently out of the house with his infamous belt. He had been drinking again and I couldn’t understand a word of his drunken tirade. He lashed Irina right in the face, ripping her delicate skin off. He grabbed a hold of her neck, bent her over the fence, and smacked her again and again. I tried blocking her from his lashings, but he threw me to the side and kept on going. Her violent screams faded into soft whimpers. I peered over at her little blonde curls that were stained with blood. Her fair skin was cut to pieces and Papa would not let go of his grip on her neck. “Papa, you’re going to kill her! Stop!” I yelled, as I lunged over to protect her. He started to beat me with the belt; the razorblades cutting into my sides sent searing pain throughout my whole body. I looked down at Irina’s limp body and brushed the hair out of her face. Her eyes were swollen shut and her face was unrecognizable. I put my hand to her heart and it was not beating. I began sobbing uncontrollably. “You fucking killed her, Papa! Why?” I held her in my arms and looked up at him. He stared blankly at me for what seemed like forever. His lips began to quiver and a single tear dropped down his old, worn out face. Out of nowhere, I heard the distinct sound of Papa’s old hunting rifle being cocked. Three loud shots rang out and Papa dropped to the ground. if you've made it this far, thanks for reading. i appreciate it.

Once upon a time, there lived a King who, despite his luxurious lifestyle, was neither happy nor content. One day, the King came upon a servant who was singing happily while he worked. This fascinated the King; why was he, the Supreme Ruler of the Land, unhappy and gloomy, while a lowly servant had so much joy. The King asked the servant, 'Why are you so happy?' The man replied, 'Your Majesty, I am nothing but a servant, but my family and I don't need too much - just a roof over our heads and warm food to fill our tummies.' The king was not satisfied with that reply. Later in the day, he sought the advice of his most trusted advisor. After hearing the King's woes and the servant's story, the advisor said, 'Your Majesty, I believe that the servant Has not been made part of The 99 Club.' 'The 99 Club? And what exactly is that?' the King inquired. The advisor replied, 'Your Majesty, to truly know what The 99 Club is, place 99 Gold coins in a bag and leave it at this servant's doorstep.' When the servant saw the bag, he took it into his house. When he opened the bag, he let out a great shout of joy... So many gold coins! He began to count them. After several counts, he was at last convinced that there were 99 coins. He wondered, 'What could've happened to that last gold coin? Surely, no one would leave 99 coins!' He looked everywhere he could, but that final coin was elusive. Finally, exhausted he decided that he was going to have to work harder than ever to earn that gold coin and complete his collection. From that day, the servant's life was changed. He was overworked, horribly grumpy, and castigated his family for not helping him make that 100th gold coin. He stopped singing while he worked. Witnessing this drastic transformation, the King was puzzled. When he sought his advisor's help, the advisor said, 'Your Majesty, the servant has now officially joined The 99 Club.' He continued, 'The 99 Club is a name given to those people who have enough to be happy but are never contented, because they're always yearning and Striving for that extra 1, saying to themselves: 'Let me get that one final thing and then I will be happy for life.' We can be happy, even with very little in our lives, but the minute we're given something bigger and better, we want even more! We lose our sleep, our happiness, we hurt the people around us; all these as a price for our growing needs and desires.

I honestly don't know how long I've been sitting here, waiting. It's getting kinda cold but the sky's still blue, almost as blue as the ocean. I've only been there once, when I tried running away from home and I saw a sliver of it behind the buildings. Then my aunt found me and her tears washed the ocean away. I check my watch. I don't remember when I got here. Let's guess a few hours. I've seen the same old man hobble by around five times. I don't know if he's trying to look at me or what. My legs have fallen asleep. I shift my weight and ow, ow, ow, pain is shooting up my body. I know it'll fade in a couple minutes, but I'm almost in tears. It hurts. The more I think about it, it's not about my legs. It's everything- something's come into my life and tinted it all gray. Even silver linings are pretty slim: my friends don't have time for me and I can't say I care too much for them either. At one point they just became background noise. Hung out without me, had conversations that left me out. Bang, bang, hey, I'm still here. Got no talents, got no friends. Just this promise that I'm banking on and sore feet. I walked all the way here and now my legs have fallen asleep. Tears are sticking to my cheeks. Hell, I probably look a lot grubbier than I usually do. Dirty cheeks and hair, gold jewelry in my pocket. I can sell it if I have to, if he decides that we're running off somewhere. He's not the kind of guy to just drop everything and run off, though, while I'm kind of like that. Just run. Or drive. I imagine he's talking to me. About the ocean, and the future. The future is this big, grim shadow looming over my head but when he talks about it, he's got it all planned out. It's simple. He'd say, "Hey, five seconds ago, when you came over, that was the past. And five seconds from now, it'll be the future and we're going to still be sitting together, right? The future'll become the present. That's not too scary, right? Too fast for you to even notice it." Right. But he's not sitting next to me now and everything's gray. The future is scarier - will it go by so fast I'll miss it? Suddenly I'll be some hunched old crone, trying to remember, what happened at the bus stop that day? Or maybe I'll be sitting here forever. Why didn't I bring my phone? I could really use some music right now. No lyrics are coming to mind; the whine of cars is too loud. I curl up on the bench and squeeze my eyes shut. It's even darker under my eyelids. When I was little, I wasn't really scared of the dark; I wanted to know why the monsters under my bed didn't want to talk to me. I thought, why don't they like me either? We're supposed to be alone together. Footsteps -- his car -- no, it isn't him. But he'll come. He's just running late, I know it. I've sat up so fast that my head is spinning. He likes my hair. My face. He says I have funny arms. I don't get how you can have funny arms, so I told him he can't talk because he has a crooked nose. He'd shrugged. Loads of people have crooked noses according to him. It just makes him blend in more. He says I'm smart for my age. He won't let me down, he wouldn't dare. I hope I'm smart enough to be right about this. What did my sister say about him? I think she likes him. Actually I'm pretty sure she does. She's always turning red and speaking really, really softly when he's around. But there was something she'd said about him, something that was odd, twisted, and true - what is it? This'll bother me all day. The cars speeding by are starting to blend together into this black streak. No red. Not even white. At least it isn't gray. I can't remember if his eyes are blue or gray - or what the rest of his face looks like. Suddenly he's a blur just like everything else. Is he just someone I've imagined? Am I waiting for someone who'll never show up? I don't even have my phone to see the words he's written me. But those could've been imagined too, maybe. Everything's just one big maybe. Maybe he'll show up and maybe my aunt will be here too. Maybe she'll wash the ocean away again. My sister. Cute little idiot. Where's she? Probably thinking I'm in a mood again. One, two, three, four, five. I'm in the future. The present. Whatever. He still isn't here.

Whatever had wiped out all life on earth seemed to have forgotten about Chris. On the morning of January, 7, 2010 it had taken Chris about twenty minutes to figure out what had happened overnight. He had woken up to find that his wife was not beside him in bed, strange he thought then got out of bed. “Honey?” no answer, “Honey!?” he said louder, no answer, strange he thought again. It was only when he stepped outside did he begin to get scared. The silence smacked him in the face like a sledgehammer. He looked around beginning to get nervous, and saw the true nightmare that had occurred on the planet overnight. All the grass, trees and foliage were gone. Not a single remnant remained of them, no dust, no stumps, no decaying leaves, nothing. The next few hours went by in a blur. Going to all the nearby cities to look for any life what so ever and finding nothing. Looking in nuclear bunkers to try to find anyone who might have survived and finding no one. Days went by. He found that fruits no longer rotted and realised not even the bacteria survived. Weeks went by. He started to talk to himself to pass the time, and sometimes he would think he saw another person and try to run to them but they would fade away into nothing as they always did. Months went by. Suicide became a popular topic among the many talks he had with himself. One day something in Chris just snapped, he could not take this world any longer. He could have found a gun in an hour or so and it probably would have made for an easier suicide but he needed to leave this world now. Not in an hour, not even in a minute if he could help it, now. He found a length of rope long enough in a hunting store by a small river and in ten minutes he was on a chair with a noose around his neck looking through a window at the river. With three wobbles of the chair it fell over. The last living thing on earth hung dead.

As I have been taught at church, love thy neighbor as thyself, which may be true for the people who have been battered and beaten as myself. But I will always and forever, even after my death, hate those disgusting people that took my mother from me and have shamed and humiliated my father before me. Though, my scorn cannot be stuck to everyone. Because there have been a few kind hearts from all the estates I’ve been sold too. There have been the occasional “kind” masters, and mistresses. They fed us well, took care of us well, and but we were also beaten well. The constant flogging administered to us by the handlers our masters hired. As they whipped my back with all sorts of tools I looked to the floor and at times looked to my back only to look into the eyes of my abuser. With every new slash and scar given to my bare back I could only ask one question “What goes through your mind?” Due to all those years of torture and abuse I had lost the feeling in my body by the time I hit my adolescents. By that time the whipping felt like nothing less of a bee sting. But certainly enough as soon as you become stronger, the drunkards somehow come up with a new inhumane way of making your resistance weak. Many would say I am a fool, other say I am brave, but most say I that soon those titles will mean nothing. There is one man who has made it his job to break my spirit. We call him “Scratch” because of his long, horrid nails, which he uses as part of his torture. He would do all he could to harm me. Especially resorting to his famous torture routine called the “Salty Badger.” To do this he would first use his favorite cow whip, then slash us with his nails from whatever spot he please, to then wrap barb wire around our bodies, and when he unwraps us he finishes by rubbing salt into our open wounds to then send us out for work. I was submitted to that very treatment after aiding a child who was caught by Scratch for dropping his pickings of the day. “You trash of a slave I’ll show you to make such mistakes, to the shed!!” as Scratch yells he grabs the child by the arm to move on to the punishment. “No, sir please I’m sorry it won’t happen again I’ll work for more hours.” cried the child. As I saw Scratch drag the child to meet with the most pain that he has ever experienced I began to become angered. My temper rose, my scars burned, muscles tensed, and my mind went blank. But before I took the first step to foolish insanity I came back to my senses only by the touch of my elder. Then he spoke “Son, don’t do what you will regret, that child has made his mistake and he will receive what the white men see fit” “……” I remained silent. “It is best that you do not interfere less the pain that he will receive” he continued. “Sorry but I cannot just stand and watch that monster hurt that child” after my response I ran. In the process I rammed the handler and grabbed the child. With the kid in my arms I ran and ran. Then I dropped the kid off around the slave quarters, he as well ran into one of the homes and hid. When I looked behind me I could catch the small figure of the handler running towards me along with other men and a dog. When they were close enough I made sure they saw me and continued to run into the forest. While looking behind me the whole time to see if they were all chasing me. I was pleased to see that they were; now I wasn’t worried of them going after the boy. During my years as a slave I have heard of escapees who have succeeded or of others who have failed. I drew inspiration from those people as well as advice and knowledge of how I could pull of an escape. The first I was told was to avoid running in straight lines. I had to keep changing directions moving from side to side to avoid being tracked down easily. I was also told to remove my scent because of the dogs but during that moment there was no time for that. My main focus was to run and keep myself from getting captured. But my efforts seemed to be in vain for I saw that the men were catching up to me. I had to think quickly to be able to avoid capture so I tried to hide myself under piles of branches and leaves. This did not work for within the moments that I lied on the forest ground I was found. I was chained and tied up being dragged back to where I came from. I was placed into the shed to receive whatever new creative form of torture Scratch could think. When he came back in he stood in front of the giant door to then lock eyes with me. It was during this time that I had recalled a motto that I had lived by all my life. As I shaped my mouth I quoted the words “We may be personally defeated, but our principles never.” When I said those words the pressure in the room dropped and the tension became palpable. A smirk came over my mouth because it was at that moment that I noticed he had stepped back a bit. He started to move forward then cracked his whip as the door behind him slowly came to a close.

Well it is a long story but because you asked with a smile I will share. My father got wrapped up in some seriously bad shit with the unicorn mafia. They killed him in front of my 8.5 month pregnant mother. Soon after I was born into a life filled with hatred for their kind and those that associate with them. I went on like that for years.I even got involved in some unicorn poaching. It was on a gig in Malaysia that I saw her. She was just different than all the other unicorn that I had even known. Her mane was a color that I didn't knew existed, and had an iridescent glow. I knew then that my whole life was a lie. If unicorns could be like this than they couldn't be the diabolical destructive force that I was indoctrinated into believing in. Her name was Emma and against all odds I loved her. We abandoned our station with the clans that refused to accept our love. We were married to the fine music of the Appalachians. Our fairy-tale life went on for years. She baked the finest confections in the land and I worked with the local miller doing more or less manual labor. People were non too friendly to our type but we had each other. This was not to last however. It turned out that I was wrong. Emma was a filthy unicorn whore. At the first sign of something shinier than I she left me. She left me for some smelly hippy Douche bag named Brad. I try not to think about those days anymore as that sends me to the bottom of a bottle. TL:DR- Not a very big fan of unicorns.

“So should I start from the beginning?” “Yes the beginning should be fine” the voice answered. Lawrence thought for a moment. “I’m not sure where to start, I guess it started after high school from what I remember” I wasn’t always like this, I used to be normal I guess. I remember I used to run. Run for hours at a time. Always running...” “How did you feel when you were running?” Lawrence tried to look up, but hesitated and stared back at her feet. “Something like a free spirit, I felt like I could do anything when I ran”. “Do you still run?” the voice responded. “In my dreams I’m always running, but it’s not the same. It’s as if something is chasing me. I don’t know what it is but if I stay still for too long I get a sick feeling in my stomache. The sky gets dark, I can’t explain it.” “Well it sounds to me like your running from someone. Any idea who it could be?” The voices tone changed when asking this question. Another voice commented before Lawrence had a chance to speak. “Is there anyone in your life who abandoned you? Lawrence hesitated, she finally looked up to see who she was speaking with, but the room was dark. She could see shadows on the other side of the glass. She felt scared. “I don’t want to talk anymore, I need rest.” She then heard footsteps walking away followed by mumbling, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. She woke up a few hours later. Cold and aching. The floor was hard and dirty, she didn’t like that. She realized she was alone. How long had she been in this room? She wondered. She wished she knew, but without light or a clock, she had no sense of time. The minutes felt like hours, the hours felt like days. She tried to remember how she ended up here to begin with, but found it difficult to think back, everything seemed hazy. “Lawrence” a voice shouted from the distance. She replied back, “Yes, who’s there?” then silence. This happened occasionally. She assumed there was no voice, and that she was imagining it. Maybe I’m going crazy she thought. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard steps coming towards her. She called out “Hello? Who’s there?” a voice replied after a few seconds, “Were your friends Lawrence, now let’s have a chat” Well it’s not like I have anything else to do with my valuable time” she replied. “Perfect then, how about you tell me about Samuel first” the voice replied. “How do you know about Samuel!?” Lawrence shouted. “I know a lot more about you then you realize. What’s your relationship like with Samuel? And do be honest; I’ll know if you’re lying”. Came the reply. Who are these people she thought. How do they know so much about me? “Speak now! Were listening” Lawrence asked, “Who are you people? Why are you interrogating me? I just want to be alone.” “Fine then, be alone. Well be ready to talk further when you are.” The reply came back. How did they do that? It sounded like 5 separate voices all just responded in perfect harmony. This scared her, and she found herself back on the ground curled up in a ball. This time when Lawrence awoke she found herself outside lying under an oak tree. She looked around and noticed she was in the middle of a field. The grass was green, the skies were blue. The last thing she remembered was being locked in a room being questioned by people she could not see. At least I’m out of there now, I can’t complain, she thought. She started to walk the field. Eventually she found a river with the clearest water she has ever seen. After drinking from it for a few minutes she continued her walk. Far off in the distance she could see the figure of a man. He was running for her faster than she had ever seen someone run. She started running towards him too. The excitement in her was immense, seeing she hasn’t seen anyone in who knows how long. When she was about 30 feet from the man she realized he wasn’t running for her, he was running from whatever was behind him. He shouted “Lawrence run! They’re coming!” The confusion set in but she started to run as well. “Who are we running from?” she asked. “I’ll explain when were safe” he replied. So they ran. After stopping under a bridge a few kilometres away, he explained, “Lawrence, I think were safe now. They can’t find us if were together”. “Safe from what?” She asked. “I’m not sure, but they want us for experiments. They’re going to take us against our will and cut us open!” he started to tremble. “Who are you?” she asked. “I am your protector Lawrence. I will keep you safe. They can’t harm you if I’m here”. The man replied. Lucky me... She thought. They laid down and got some rest. “Wake up Lawrence, we have work to do.” A voice gently called out. She awoke once again in the dark room. “What work do we have to do?” she asked. “All in good time dear. How about you answer me a few questions first. Do you remember your dream?” the voice asked. “I don’t recall. Umm running! I was definitely running”. Lawrence responded. “Running huh, do you remember why you were running this time?” she was asked. “No. But I got away! I somewhat recall being protected, but I’m not sure what that means, it’s all so vague” she said. “How are we going to help you if you can’t even remember, are you just wasting our time!? Do you want help Lawrence? You need to start co-operating with us. The consequences will be quite negative unless. I assure you this” the voice said. This strict tone scared her, and she went into a panic. She started thrashing around and banging on the walls. “Get me out of here!!! Why are you keeping me prisoner! I’m innocent.” She screamed. The tears ran down her face. “We wish it was so simple Lawrence, but you’re not going anywhere yet. Rest now, we’ll be back later” the voice said. “Wake up Lawrence, we need to go now” a man said. She awoke and screamed “I don’t know what you want from me!! Leave me alone!!” “Calm down Lawrence it’s me, your safe”. The man said. She opened her eyes and realized she had drifted off to sleep, but was awoken by her “Protector”. She never really had time to pay attention to his physical details before, so she studied him closely. He was a handsome man, dark long hair, brown eyes, and clean shaven. He reminded her of a man she once knew but she couldn’t put her finger on who it was. “Where are we going now?” She asked. He looked at her and smiled. “You tell me and I will follow” the protector said. “I’m not familiar with this land..., I guess we’ll go east?” she said. “East sounds great, let’s go” He replied. “They started walking east for a good half hour before the sky’s darkened again. They both knew this was not good. “Lawrence, I think we need to run now, I feel them coming. I don’t know how they found us.” The protector said. They both started running, but there was nothing to hide under. It was just empty plains for miles. Not even a tree to hide behind. The Protector said “Lawrence, you run. I’ll stay here and distract them. That should give you enough time to find somewhere to hide”. “No! You can’t leave me alone here! I don’t want to be alone. Just stay well find somewhere together. Please” she begged. “No Lawrence, we won’t escape, I need you to be brave and do as I say”. He said “No I can’t go without you!” She screamed. “Without who?” A voice asked. She looked up and realized she was not with the man anymore. Was it all a dream? How could this be, it felt so real she wondered. “Without who Lawrence? Please tell me what happened” the voice said. “She looked to see who was with her now but there was no one. She was back in the dark room. The walls had shadows on them, but there was no light, which didn’t make sense. Was she talking to a shadow? Am I losing my mind? She thought. “Lawrence, were losing our patience, now answer us” the voice said. “No, not until you start telling me some things. Where am I? Why are you keeping me here? Who are you?” She demanded. A few voices all started mumbling at once. “Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless”. They all kept repeating. “Why don’t we just cut her open and get the information we want already. She’s clearly not going to give it to us.” They said. This caught her off guard, and unimaginable amount of fear struck through her. Instant paralysis, she couldn’t even breathe. Her fingers and toes went numb, her eyelids started twitching, and her heart was beating like a marching band on a season opener’s football game. “Protector! I need you now! Please help me; you said you would keep me safe! She thought. She prayed repeatedly for him to arrive. In a flash of light he was in the room with them. “Lawrence, take my hand now” he said, and just like lightning they were gone. Back in the field they previously were, before she awoke back in the dark room, they re appeared. The sun was bright and the sky was blue. Birds were flying in the air, and she had an easy feeling go through her. “I knew you would come. Thank you so much, they were going to cut me open. They want some sort of information I have, but I don’t have it” she told the man. He looked her in the eye and said, “Yes Lawrence, you do have it. Now I need you to remember why your here. Remember why you were in the dark room to begin with. I need you to remember quickly, time is short, they’ll be back soon”. “What do you mean they’ll be back soon?” she asked in a panic. The protector said “Who do you think keeps chasing us Lawrence. It’s them. So I need you to remember how you got in that room now.” “I really don’t know. Why is it so important?” she asked. “If someone is willing to cut your head open to find out something, then it’s probably pretty important Lawrence, wouldn’t you think” he responded. “I guess your right” she said. She tried to remember. The ground started to shake below them. “Is it an earthquake?” she asked. “I don’t think so Lawrence. There here” he said. Once again the sky went dark. They could see something in the distance heading for them. It moved with such speed that seemed unreal, as it wasn’t an object or vehicle. Not even a body. It looked like a shadow that was eating away at the light. The air went cold. They could see their own breathe it was so cold. The shadow stopped in front of them. A collective darkness began to form. It was a figure 15 feet tall, but did not resemble a man. It had a body and head, but no legs or arms. It was a terrifying sight. The protector grabbed Lawrence and tried to run, but could not. The shadows on the ground were holding both of them down. It was like gravity had quadrupled for that moment. There was so much weight on them. They both sank to the ground, lying down beside each other. “Last chance Lawrence, tell me what I want to know” the shadow figure said. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you” she cried. “Have it your way then” the shadow figure said. The figure’s form started to shrink until it was the size of a baseball bat. It then jumped straight into the protector’s chest. The protector screamed for a moment, but then went silent. A grin came on his face and he started to laugh hysterically. The protector looked at Lawrence with the devils smile. It scared her to death. “Lawrence, I have some bad news for you” the protector began to say. He continued with “It would seem your friend here is dead, and it’s your fault. You could have saved his life is you just told me what I wanted to know. Such a pity...” A knife shaped object began to form in his hand, and he came over to Lawrence. He began to cut her scalp open. Later on, and not too far away, a doctor approached a couple as they sat crying in the psychiatric ward lobby. Mr & Mrs. Bennigan, I am sorry to say that your daughter is too far gone. I’ve never treated a case of schizophrenia such as this. The frontal lobotomy is done now, and we can only hope for the best. I suggest you go home and get some rest. I assure you that you don’t need to worry about her right now; she’s been on so much medication these past few days it was like she was in paradise for every moment of it. Come back tomorrow and I’ll let you see her.

She opened her eyes, and all she saw was a searing white light. She felt a biting cold metallic surface beneath her. She was laying down, in a metal room with only one door; a heavy, solid metal door. The florescent lights: the searing light, buzzing incessantly above her. They were driving her mad. She suddenly felt a pool of warmth beneath her head; blood. It was bleeding. To her relief it was only a slight trickle. To her horror there was a large dried pool of blood below her. A few drops trailed off to the opposite end of the room. And she saw him. Lying there on the floor, opposite to her was a man. She saw no blood around him, but saw blood on his hands. Lying between them were a syringe and a keycard. The syringe was empty; what was in it? She wondered. Did he attack me? What is this place? Why am I here? Why can't I remember? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything at all; who she was, where she was, and why she was here. She couldn't remember; and she was afraid. Did he lock me in this room for something I did? Was this man a guard at this facility? Or were this man's intentions more...malignant? She didn't want to know. She wanted to get out; she had to get out. She had to find some answers. She stood up and made her way towards the door, still slightly ajar. As she approached the threshold, she noticed a camera. What is this place she thought and what is it for? She left into the hallway, and stared down its sterile walls, glistening in the white light. There were more cells, but there was silence. She was unsure of whether that was a good sign or not. She made for the door at the end of the hallway; it looked different from the rest, perhaps it wasn't a cell, perhaps it was a way out. She hoped it was. When she reached the door, her heart sank; it was locked. The key card in the room! It was the only thing she had to go on, the only ray of light in her frightening nightmare. Feeling hopeful, she raced to the end of the hall for the key card. When she reached the cell she had awoken in, she entered and made her way for the card, not noticing that the man had woken up, and was watching her. As she goes to leave the room, she hears an unsettling, animalistic growl. She turns back to see the man, crouching, staring at her with a predator's gaze. Looking closer at his eyes, she notices that his eyes are a yellowish color; like a cat's eyes. His nails had sharpened, and were more like claws. What was in that syringe? Was he planning on doing that to me? Suddenly, the feral beast leaped. Thinking quickly, she pulled the door closed just in time. She started to run down the hall and then she heard that noise. The feral creature let out a sickening roar. The nightmarish noise paralyzed her with fear. For an eternity, she could not move, could not think, could not breath. What made her move wasn't fear of the beast behind her. It was the new sounds she heard. The other cells were alive with movement; something was lurking behind their walls. With an ever deepening sense of terror, she ran towards the door, inserted the key card, and turned the handle; the door opened. The minuscule amount of relief she felt was extinguished when she heard the footfalls of the beast. Without even looking, she went through the door and into the new room. She turned and closed the door, seeing the beast lunge forward, more feral in appearance than before, just in time for it to crash into the closed door. She was safe, for now. Turning to examine the room, she saw monitors. Monitors that showed the horrors in the other cells. Creatures that lurked and prowled with vicious intent. Creatures that writhed and squirmed in agonizing pain. This facility...was for experimentation on human beings. Just who the hell are these people? What are they doing? What are these vile bastards doing to these poor people? Sitting down, she started to go through some notes lying on the table. They were of someone named Dr. Moreau. This despicable person wrote about these people, his "patients" with no empathy, no remorse. He was now one of his own experiments. "Doctor, are you there? The Colonel is waiting for the latest results of your testing." It was a man's voice on the other side of the door opposite from the one with the cells. She sat frozen with fear. What would happen to her when he found out what happened to the doctor, that he had become one of his pets? "Doctor? I'm coming in..." The door slowly opened, and a man wearing heavily padded, black colored clothing came in. He was holding a gun. When he stepped into the room, he raised it and fired. At that moment, a life was silenced. But it was not hers... Lowering his weapon, he turned to her and said, "Your bleeding, come with me to the infirmary." When she didn't respond, didn't even breath, he said it. Those words which shattered her utterly and will haunt her for the rest of her days. It was just a simple question, yet it implied so much.

The fragrance of wild onions, sage, and fresh peeled carrots lingered in the air. Mixed with a rabbit from one of the traps, dinner and dessert was bound to be delicious. It was not often she could afford to offer dessert with a meal. Her son would be home shortly, as the sun had set and the stars had taken their place in the sky. Technically, her son was Graham the Fifth, named after his predecessors. His father had joined his father before Graham was born, but still she named him according to tradition, in honor and memory of the Grahams that came before them. This particular Graham was smarter than the last, if not a little more scrawny. Nothing a full meal with a large serving of dessert couldn't remedy, she mused. Amidst a flurry of cold and darkness, Graham stepped through the doorway, wet from the snow and chilled from the wind. Naturally, Margery was older than Graham, but if looks were any indication it was by only a few years. Even Graham would have had to remark how attractive his mother was. It would be good to find a wife with such skill at housekeeping and just as pretty as well. Graham slipped onto the stool with a sigh, heaving the satchel of goods onto the floor beside him. With his blond hair and rosy cheeks, his youth was particularly evident as he waited for dinner, anticipating the dessert his mother had promised. Margery began to serve him, as she had since his birth, and they spoke of his recent journey into the small town from hence he had just arrived. Stirring the stew with one hand, she emptied the contents of her other into Graham's bowl. The powder was but one of the steps she must take to regain her love and her youth. Having but sipped his stew, Graham would begin to forget his life. His daily toils, his meager education but most necessary she found, his family; his mother. As they talked, Graham sensed something different in the air, a smell may be. There was definitely hunger in the air as he graciously accepted the stew; it was not often his mother parted with one of her beloved albino rabbits. In his living memory he could not recall the last time she had parted with one of her pets. Although she often spoke of how it was his father's favorite dish, as well as his last. With a belly full of rabbit stew, Graham began to relax, and slowly peel off his travelling clothes. It had been the first time his mother had let him make the annual trip to Stockport by himself. The shopkeeper had filled the order readily as always, but would not speak a word to Graham. To Graham this was not much more peculiar than the years before, but the look on his face was queer when he realized that Graham had made the journey by himself. Even queerer still was the small meat pie, the shopkeeper's daughter slipped him as he stepped out. The pie was less than filling but tasty never the less. Graham headed home, thinking of the daughter and wondering what her name could be. The only woman Graham had ever known was his mother Margery, but he doubted they would have the same name. Anticipation began to settle up on him, as he waited for the dessert to finish warming up. Dessert in their meager household was a luxury never before experienced. It was his 16th name day that provided the occasion. Custom held that in the morning, Graham would be a full grown man. It was for snow berries, a crucial and expensive ingredient for the dessert, which Graham had journeyed to town. After a while the pie was ready, and Margery and Graham began to feast. Just as his mother had promised, the dessert did indeed compliment the albino rabbit stew. Drunk with food, Graham shuffled to his straw mat, to lie down. He was not used to such rich food, and it began to make him feel strange. His face became flush with heat, and in response Graham unbuttoned his shirt. Beginning to perspire, he next unlaced his britches, removing them with a toss towards the corner. Margery, noticing Graham's agitation began to worry over him, first bringing him a cool cloth for his forehead. Having bade him lay down; she began to rub his body with a wet towel. As she soothed him, his vision began to blur. When this happened, he began to panic until Margery whispered that it would be alright, it was only the dessert and that soon all would be well. He was reassured by his mother's smile, as he closed his eyes. As soon as his eyelids descended, Margery took leave of him, and began to undress herself. Slipping into a small night gown, she dabbed herself with the juice of the snow berries. Next, she laid out several items on the table. They would be needed when the sun rose. But now it was time for dessert. When she slowly lowered herself into her place on the straw mat beside Graham, he stirred awake. With a grin on his face he caressed her face. Who was this woman beside him he wondered. His grin grew into a smirk, as he realized it didn't matter. A busty blonde with good hips laying in his bed on his 16th name day, surely his mother had arranged this. With a dim realization he thought it might be the storekeeper's daughter. With the lust of youth he ripped his small clothes off and next her gown. With a before unknown skill, he ravaged the woman, provoking moans from both himself and his lover. When the life force left him, the heat began to fade, and Graham laid on his back and contentedly slipped into sleep with his arms and legs tangled amongst the woman's. Margery woke early, and began to prepare for the day. It was Graham's first day of manhood and things had to be prepared in just a certain way. She sharpened a knife, as she hummed her favorite tune, and laid the ingredients beside their respective bowls. It wouldn't hurt to have everything measured and ready for sunrise. He awoke slowly, opening his eyes to wonder at the fading peculiar dream the dessert had brought. The woman of his dreams was not to be seen, but his mother was whispering to herself as she fretted over some things on the table. With the clarity of morning, Graham began to understand what his mother was whispering. It was a list. No, not really a list, but steps. A list of actions he realized as she spoke of cooking the rabbit and the snow berries. Graham was dismayed when he learned of the powder in his stew, and that it was meant to leave him unable to move; paralyzed. His thoughts turned to shame and horror when he realized that it was his mother's moans he had induced the evening before. It was not until she began to detail the next steps, that the terror seized him. She meant to use the life force she had collected during the night and his blood to sustain her youth. She needed his blood, all of it, and only the blood of a living relative infused with the pain and fear of death could make the potion powerful enough to work. Graham realized with a chill that his mother thought him immobilized. He stared at her as she came back to her place beside him on the mat and began to caress his cheek. He remained expressionless as she spoke of her first husband Graham, and his untimely death. It was through this ritual that she kept her lover alive, she explained. For sixteen years at a time she would wait for one night of dessert. As she held his cheek she brought the blade to his throat. With a rage, Graham grasped her wrist. Startled, Margery was dumbfounded. This was not meant to be, this was not on the list would be her last murderous thought. If gasping is fulfilling an action, then it could said it was her last. Graham leaned forward, kissed his lover once more, and connected the knife with Margery's heart. With a fresh day, and a lifetime of manhood ahead of him, Graham set off for Stockport. The idea of seeing the storekeeper's daughter again stirred his loins. He wondered how she had known it was his name day. When Graham finally returned to Stockport, the shopkeeper, obviously pleased with himself, asked if he had enjoyed Helen's gift. I could live forever, thought Graham as he presented the flowers.

Moratorium sounds like an open space, a thick, black ribbon stretching on above her. She adds the definition in clean, blue letters: still searching. That’s me, she thinks, pleased that she has a word for it. Moratorium: still searching. The word reminds her of the planetarium, and she speckles the black ribbon with white stars. At the end of the ribbon, there would be answers, little whispers of personality that were waiting to cling to her. How awful, being a teenager, she thinks gloomily. Not being able to figure yourself out, and seeing the ones who already know it all. They’re done taking notes for the day. The girl puts her pen down and closes her notebook. Suddenly, she flips to a random, blank page and prints her name in a fast, determined hand. Who am I is added underneath it, and she scribbles some certainties. Fourteen-almost-fifteen, daughter, sister, student. She stares down at her words, at a loss for what else to write. I like art and books, she thinks, and daydreaming. She puts the pen down again and sighs. Was she supposed to wake up one day – on her eighteenth birthday, maybe – and know herself? All of this was just a teenager thing, wasn’t it? It’d pass someday. But what was someday? What did it look like? Someday could be a star, right in the corner of the black ribbon. She bends over the paper, creates an ink-blue sky. If only she knew where her black pen was. She draws herself, and a question mark. Today, the school bell sounds faint. She’s in a separate universe, reaching for someday.

This story is too long to post in its entirety, I appreciate anybody taking the time to read it. I will post part two if there is enough interest. All feedback is welcome. *This short story is a dream I had the night of January 1, 2013. In the dream the ending came first, I used my creative imagination to fill gaps in the story. The morning of January 2, I woke with this dream flooding my mind, a powerful urge to turn it into a story came through me and I immediately opened my laptop and began to write. In the dream the protagonist was myself, but for the sake of storytelling I have made some creative changes, mostly to do with names. The dream was profound, I used my intuition as best I could to convey what the dream was trying to tell me. The logic is sometimes strange and surreal, but that is the nature of dreams. I hope you enjoy my short story.* **Aisle 13: Crackers and Cookies** My name is John, I am a Commercial Manager at Superstore. It's not the most stimulating job in the world, but I like it. As a Commercial Manager my responsibility is to visit the various store departments and make sure they are operating at their full potential. The store I manage is filled with girls, almost every one of the 35 Sales Associates are girls. The only other men working are Phil, a Sales Associate and Matt the Security Manager. The girls in the store actively flirt with me, some people think it's because, of the three men working there I'm the best catch, but it's more than that. People like me; I'm funny, charismatic, good looking and a great boss. Sometimes my father visits me at work, he's proud of what I do. He enjoys offering me advice and sharing stories from his fruitful life. On a regular day some time ago, I decided to pay a visit to the back of the store. The produce section is located neatly behind aisle 13: crackers and cookies. Sitting in produce was a pallet full of boxes of crackers waiting to be brought to aisle 13. Nobody felt like moving the boxes, so we left them in the produce section. No big deal, as a manager I was relaxed and open. While I stood in produce, a customer who I frequently helped, a Tribal African man named Sim asked me to help him select some cheese. Dairy is located next to produce. I helped him find the cheese he was looking for and as I turned to leave he pocketed some cheese products. Sim frequently stole from the store, but I told the employees to turn a blind eye to this. His family was poor, the least I could do was allow him to take some groceries home from time to time. I went back to produce and looked at the pallet filled with the boxes of crackers. On a box of Westley's Crunchy Crackers was a cartoon cow with a comic bubble above his head, it read, *Excuse me, what's this all about anyway?* This question sank deep into my belly, invading my very soul. There is a deep silence within that few people ever experience, but that day the silence entered my entire body. There was nothing, nothing but unbearable, tangible, real, satisfying, screaming out loud silence. The question hit me like a ton of bricks, a question so deep and so profound it would take an eternity to answer. A question found right there on a box of crackers in front of me: *Excuse me, what's this all about anyway?* That fucking cow had shaken the very foundation of my life. What was it all about anyway? What was I doing working at Superstore, what was I doing with my life? There was a cartoon mouse to the right of the cow, his response was, *It's about the taste kids love and the vitamins they need.* Not the best slogan, I thought and certainly not the answer to this deep and unsettling question. I asked the nearest Sales Associate, Wendy, a girl who'd had a crush on me since I started working at that branch. I offered her my words, "Excuse me, what's this all about anyway?" Perplexed and taking my stunned, exposed and vulnerable disposition as an open letter to flirt with me, she answered with a little grin, a grin I had seen on her face a million times before, "It's about the taste kids love and the vitamins they need." She wasn't the one to ask, a cute face and a tight body isn't a place to find spiritual enlightenment. All day long I pondered the question. There were hundreds of possible answers, thousands right there in the Superstore. In my weasely job of robbing sales from the weak-minded I had answered the question a million different ways for a million different people. "It's about buying brand-name Jello for your kids at school. It's about great prices on the latest fashions. It's about the newest electronics." All day long I contemplated the question and as I did the question deepened. It was closing time so I went to the security booth to clock out. I was well acquainted with the Security Manager, he was a good friend of mine. He was 20 years old and good looking, his name was Matt. Matt both hated and loved Superstore. He loved me, and he loved the girls. A few of them would give him their unsolicited attention, but they didn't love him like they loved me. But there was something he hated, something I only began to understand when I read that damn box. It began to itch in the back of my mind like a razor blade. He hated the trap of everyday mundane life. Matt would often share his philosophy with me, "You work so you can buy a house so you can buy more things to put inside your house so you can continue working. If you fall and love and have a couple of kids along the way you're lucky." I worked my way through the series of regular conversation obstacles: *How's it going? What are you doing tonight? Have you asked Cindy out yet?* He had a crush on Sales Associate named Cindy, the only girl in the store who didn't find me irresistible. I finally popped the question, those seven little words that had haunted me for the past eight hours. I opened my mouth, "Excuse me, what's it all about anyway?" Matt quickly answered, not this. Not this, I thought, but what else? We're doing a public service and in exchange we receive great benefits: a pension, a dental plan, fuck we're even unionized. I had been saving money to buy a house for the past seven years doing this. I went home and all night long I asked myself the question, "Excuse me, what's this all about anyway?" I fell into a deep sleep full of dreams that spoke to me. The next morning I awoke with a sense of certainty. An idea dove deep inside me and like a bug trying to climb out of the bathroom sink, it had to come out. I sped through my morning routine, showering, brushing my teeth and only eating a fruit bar I had found on the second shelf in aisle 12 for breakfast. I walked into Superstore and there he was, the man I was looking for, Matt. I pulled Matt aside. Matt kept an archive of video footage from the security cameras in the building. He would hold the footage for three months, then delete it to save space on hard drives. I told him my plan, the idea that had come on the wind last night somehow when I was asleep. I'd made up my mind, Matt and I were going to rob a bank. Matt's eyes lit up like fireworks, he was in. All the planning had come to me in the dream, I knew exactly what to do. Coming down from the ceiling of Superstore are giant metal beams, some hollowed out. In order for our plan to work I would need to make an opening in one of these beams, but if anybody checked the beam they would see that the screws had been removed. Luckily, the store executives had been discussing renovations. I pushed for the renovations to happen sooner than later. All the metal beams were stripped and polished and the screws were replaced. Matt cut a hole in one of the hollowed out beams, the beam above aisle 13. The hole was invisible to the naked eye, we would be able to open and close it without any evidence that it even existed. Our alibi would be: we were working at Superstore the night of the bank robbery. The night came and we dressed in black, black pants, black hoodies and black, spray painted masks. Our plan was fool-proof. We decided to walk from downtown so it would be impossible to conclude that we came from the area. It was a long walk. As we trekked through the ghetto I thought Sim, the African I serve at Superstore must live in a neighborhood like this. We took shortcuts through people's yards and eventually arrived at the bank down the street from Superstore. We went in and the rest is a blur, I have no idea how we robbed the bank or what took place inside. All I know is when we left we had a hard drive the size of my thumb that contained what would be, with the help of Matt's computer expertise, a lot of money. Following our plan Matt and I walked away from the bank, he went right, I went left. I ducked into a nearby alley and stripped off my clothes, I had worn something casual underneath my bank robbing outfit. I buried the black clothes and mask into a nearby garbage bin and climbed over a fence that took me to the Superstore parking lot. A police car came screeching down the street into the parking lot. I opened the door to my car that was parked outside and got in. The police came to my car window and asked who I was and what I was doing. I told them casually that I was just getting off from my shift at Superstore. They asked me to step inside the building so they could have a word with me. When we got inside Matt was already at the Security booth in his employee uniform. They asked him if he knew who I was and he answered yes. They asked him if I had been working that night, again he answered yes. Matt had tampered with the security footage from the past few months, he had spliced together footage of me from the security cameras to create a tape making it look like I had worked that night. When Matt showed me the tape the first time, there was footage of Christmas trees in the store. The Christmas trees were no longer there, it would be obvious the tape was fake. Being the manager I knew where every product in the store was so we gathered footage from when everything looked the same as it did the night of the robbery, it was perfect. Footage of Matt wasn't necessary, the security booth wasn't visible on any cameras. Matt had already placed the thumb drive we stole from the bank in the hole in the hollowed out ceiling beam. The police finished their questioning and let us go home. They decided that the robbers were two African men because the masks we wore and the description they received from bank employee. Matt and I decided to lie low and not spend the money for a couple of months.

The truth is, I don’t care, I do not give a flying fuck….about anything. I pretend to care, then it grows into an emotion. I have to teach myself how to feel a new emotion. For most of my childhood, puberty, I’ll spare you the details, about the puberty that is. I feel I was raised right, respectful, had a good grasp on right and wrong, did my chores, made my bed, combed my hair, and enough with this run on sentence. I knew what laughing was, I understood what was funny, what was offensive, or what was flat out terrifying. But I never felt them for more than an instant. Not a whole lost phased me, I took everything as it came. I never thought of myself to have many pet peeves. Oh, except don’t cut me off while im talking. DO NOT FUCKING EVER CUT ME OFF WHILE I AM TALKING!!! Whoo, I apologize, I do at times for unknown reasons get really, really angry. Which, back to the topic is how I had to teach myself emotions, anger is a big one, but that will come later. First topic of interest, what makes you sad? Dying puppies, loved ones passing into whatever doesn’t offend my readers heaven or hell or black abyss, whatever you get the point. Sadness isn’t something I felt full throttle until much too late in the game. Like if we were at war with another universe, and I was the only person that could keep them from making us prisoners of war and slaves for the rest of our lives. And all I had to do was be sad and cry a little bit, we’d be prisoners, then I would get sad, that’s what I mean by late in the game. Growing up, I lived day by day based on principal, and ritual. Same thing, every morning, day, evening, weekend, it was all the fucking same. Seeing as this is technically a work of fiction cause no one knows who and what im talking about. I could be pulling all this shit right out the back of my brain and implicating myself and sarcastic ways into yours, be careful, read wisely. Anyhow, back to the same shit different day, that’s when I learned that getting angry wasn’t just a 3 second feeling anymore. I was getting angry, staying angry, and making sure everybody and their mothers knew it. I didn’t throw tantrums, I didn’t scream or yell, or break things. I just have a look, a blank look that Death himself couldn’t see an emotion in. I could be getting yelled at, asked questions, being complimented, and just a look, staring at you. I may not say much, but I listen, pay attention to the things around me. To this day I still do the stare and still not sure why. I am a very quiet angry person, the longer it lasted, the more I could channel it into quiet anger. An anger that I can pass from the depths within me through my veins and forced out of my fingertips onto this dust covered keyboard, because I smoke too much. So I never elaborate on the whole “I don’t care about anything” thing. I say I pretend to care, but I guess in retrospect, I don’t pretend, I did learn how to use my emotions, I think from pretending, it actually taught me how to do the real thing. Well, anyhow, if you guys even read these things I write I don’t always get personal, just times like these. But if there are any readers out there, like it, share it, give me feed back. I will be writing about many things in the future, so let me know people still like to read. Im just the guy for over-description, excessive adjectives, sarcasm and swear words.

On the final night of our initiation, my fellow Messengers and I were transported to an abandoned warehouse to carry out one final task. When we arrived at our destination the Leaders brought out twelve men. Each one of them had their face covered with a thick black cloth. The Leaders placed one of the men in front of each Messenger. The Leaders then came around and gave each of us a pistol; it was our present for passing all of the initiation tests. Mine was a small black revolver that was oddly heavy for its size. After my fellow Messengers and I had received our guns, the Leaders began to give instructions. They told us where to shoot our victims, and they even specified the angle at which we should make the shot. I knew why they gave us these specific instructions; they wanted it to look like suicide. They think we are naive just because they raised us away from their society. I looked at the man in front of me, the man I was about to kill, and something in my gut was telling me this wasn’t right. I've never had that feeling before a kill. Usually it felt right even when it shouldn't have. Why was this man having such an effect on me? I couldn’t even see his face. I held my gun parallel to the floor and placed it directly against the right side of his head, above his eye. I then tilted the gun slightly as per the instructions I had been given. Once it was my turn I took one last deep breath. I had my finger rested on the trigger but it felt like there was a hundred pounds of resistance stopping me from pulling it. What was happening, why was it so hard to kill this man? I took one last deep breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger until I heard a loud bang from the gun followed by a soft thud when the body hit the floor. Blood began to pool around the body and it began to circle my feet. After a little while all of us had killed our target. The Leaders told us afterwards that if we wanted we could take the cloth away from our victims and see who we had killed. I was never interested in my victims before; it could have been an elderly woman or a child and it wouldn't have phased me. However, this was different because this was by far the hardest kill I've ever had to perform and I couldn't even see the man's face or the look of terror in his eyes. I needed to see his face; I needed to know why this kill was so hard. Slowly I approached the body, making my way through what felt like a sea of blood on the ground. I grabbed the cloth and began to take it off of the man's head. Looking into the man's eyes I quickly realized that they were my eyes; this man was me. I backed away suddenly and looked around and saw that all of my Fellow Messengers were having the same reaction as me.

Here I am sitting once again, my bare back against the rough concrete wall in this small, dark room. I feel a dampness under me, it reminds me of when I was younger and would play in puddles after a storm; the only difference is now I am a middle aged adult and I don’t have any shoes. Chills race through my body as my weak heart pushes me through another cold night. I can hear pain-driven moans of other middle aged men in other rooms much like my own. I haven’t been able to keep a meal down for days and I think my body is finally giving up on me. It smells like a high school bathroom that hasn’t been washed in weeks, but I have become immune to the putrid smells that would sting the nose of a hog. All I wish for in these hopeful final hours is a room mate, someone I could talk to and tell my final secrets to; someone to tell my story to, or at least make up a story. The moans are getting louder. I could try and lay in my mattress, but I don’t want to die laying on something that isn’t mine. This isn’t the jail life that is romanticized on TV and in books, this is the real jail life of Sector 858. It all started in the year 2024 when the government started telling everyone of the wonderful life that could be possible if we accept a few changes in how society is. That should have been the first indication of hell; we should have known from the beginning that nothing good comes when people try to change what feels natural. We embraced it though, we trusted them, we thought the people behind the locked doors knew what was good for us. They told us the only sacrifice we would make is breaking a few friendships and that this would only be a sacrifice for a closer society and a closer web of companions. Their big plan in a nutshell was to organize people like files in a computer. We would be organized by occupation, and further organized into a bureaucracy of social status. The people never really changes, the only change was a mass feeling of loneliness; that was our second chance to realize this couldn’t work, we ignored it trusting them. Within two years, everyone was moved into cities, sectors as they became known as. There was a business sector, a factory sector, an art sector, a sector for just about every occupation, or at least somewhere every occupation would fit into. The worst of these sectors was Sector 213; this was where they sent everyone that could not work or was not willing to work. I was never there, I only heard stories, rumors. Nobody left their sector, there was a commitment that was needed in the new society. The only way information was spread between sectors was through the internet, but the internet turned out to be as honest as the men that set up our new lives. Sector 213 consisted of everyone from drug dealers to hitmen to the mentally handicapped to the mentally insane. The types of people varied drastically, and this led to chaos. At first, stories on the internet were trustable, they seemed realistic for the people living in Sector 213. Everyone knew what types of people lived here from the handbook given to every citizen of the new society, which listed all 914 sectors and what group of people belonged to them. Sector 213 consisted of “noncontributing individuals.” The details of Sector 213 are not important to the grand scheme of what ended up being this nation by the year 2031, present time. Times were alright after awhile; people were feeling connected and sector life became centered around what people actually did with their lives, which looked like it would make life more bearable. Problems started coming with the children. Children could not be born into an occupation; as much as the they wished we could be computers, we weren’t. They found a solution. They promised happiness and wellbeing to our children. This was our third and final chance to see where this was all leading, we missed it. They took away our children to Sector 864, “schooling and developing.” Our lives became more and more centered around work, less and less around relationships and family. People began to forget what having a family even was. Stories of pain and chaos stopped showing up on the internet, replaced by stories of success and happiness in other sectors. I thought my sector was special, I thought maybe this sadness was special to me and my brothers and sisters, that’s what we called each other in my sector. We wrote manuals, manuals for putting things together, taking things apart, pretty much anything that needed a manual. I thought maybe my sector was sad because there was no advances to be made in our occupation, nothing new ever; it was always the same, typing steps to putting together and taking apart things made by other sectors. Honestly, I never minded it, it was easy and relaxing. I had a few close friends that I worked with and got drunk with occasionally. It was one night in particular that really got my thoughts changing. We were drinking beers and sitting in my friend Mark’s living room. We were laughing and making fun of some of the things we were writing manuals for, it was a fun night. Then Dan, a friend of mine from before all the changes happened, brought up something from before the change. He started talking about this book that people would write in and it would help others understand what you do for a living; you would write in as much depth as you chose about your job and what you do. There was obviously no need for it anymore after all the changes, but Dan bringing this up brought up a rush of nostalgia. I felt myself sink into the couch I was sitting in as my mind began to wander into memories of my family. I had a brother and two sisters, they were twins. Luckily they ended up in the same sector because they were exceptional athletes. I felt my heat sinking a little into my chest and I began to miss my life from before the change. The change that struck me at that moment that I never realized before was the lack of curiosity. There was nothing new, nothing to wonder about because there was nobody else besides yourself. Everyone in a sector was almost an exact clone of each other. I began to feel more lonely than I did ever before that moment. Every day after that dreadful night felt like a repeat of the day before, but every day got worse in some way. I felt my hair getting longer, my sighs getting longer and my body getting weaker as I began to lose hope in a life that meant anything. I wanted to matter, I wanted more than anything to not be a clone in some sector where everyone is the same and just another gear pushing this nation along. I decide it was time for change. I began working out a way to escape my sector. I looked through the handbook and found which sectors I wanted to go to: Sector 213, “artists,” Sector 457, “scientists,” Sector 110, “psychologists,” and Sector 54, “weapon experts.” My final location would be Sector 1. Sector 1 was where the leaders were living; nobody knew anything about it. I had no idea how I would even get out of my sector, it took more planning and surveying of the wall that confined my sector. I planned on leaving and heading east, looking for any sector to see if I could find a pattern or organization of the sectors. I finally left in 2030. I found a hole in the wall that I could crawl through. Outside of this hole, I saw sunlight like I have never seen before, it burned my eyes. Freedom, an open land that people could not even dream of anymore. I smelled trees and nature, it smelled like a park I went to as a child, I felt a smile slowly overtake my face, then tears leaking from my eyes. I stepped out of the bubble that help my life for a few long years. I forgot what real weather was like, I felt a frigid cold begin to climb up my legs. I took a few steps, it felt like hours, I was overcome by happiness and this new feeling of freedom. I was about twenty feet from the wall when I heard a loud, high-pitched noise pierce through my skull. An alarm. There was an alarm going off in my sector, time slowed down even more as I turned around to look. I felt every muscle in my body begin to tense up and every hair on my arms and legs raise, this made the cold air feel even crisper. I saw a tall tower that I somehow missed while living in the sector, and in this tower was a few men staring at me. I could see the look in their eyes, they looked like leopards that just saw a deer that walked away from its pack. The look that burned into my brain and felt like hours as I saw the man raise a gun, I was frozen. There was nothing I could do anymore, I waited for whatever was in that gun to pierce my skin and take me away. I was unaware of what happened next, but I woke up in a dark cell; my new room. This is where I am now. My life lasted another year I estimate it to be. After everything that happened, after everything I wanted to change, all that resulted was me sitting in my own sweat, slowly dying as alone as I was in Sector 858. I don’t know any of the other men in this jail, all I know is they are men I may or may not have worked with. I never learned about any other sectors, I can’t even be sure there are other sectors anymore. I can’t be sure there are other people besides the ones I hear moaning every day. I guess you can never be certain of anything that isn’t you. I realized the only truth I ever knew what what I felt inside. I wish I had realized what was happening from the beginning, I wish I had trusted myself instead of the people trying to change what I knew was natural. I don’t regret anything I did, I only regret what I didn’t do sooner.

Last Stop Sweat begins to drip down Reznov’s face as the countryside of his homeland rushes by his window. He knows what’s coming up and it’s a necessity that he maintains his composure yet his heart starts to palpitate and palms become clammy as the border crossing gets closer and closer. He’s confused and taken back by his anxious state. He’s forgotten the first rule in his line of work; maintain a calm state of mind and under no circumstances …break… character. This directly leads into rule number two; don’t, get, caught. Then again this time it isn’t really work. He’s not pretending anymore, not adopting a new character when he arrives at his destination nor are there any contacts to help…this time it’s just him. This time it’s personal. No more fake IDs and passports and most importantly no more help from Shinra Headquarters. Shinra Headquarters. He shudders at the thought of his old place of work. What he believed in, what he worked for, what he fought for, what he lived for, and yet, the whole reason why he’s fleeing. He thinks back on what caused him to turn his back on his homeland, never to return, to effectively run from his country and kin and seek refuge in ‘enemy’ territory. All of his life he thought he was fighting for the right reasons. He’s seen so much now that he doesn’t know what to think. Was everything he believed in and dedicated his life for a lie? All propaganda from a totalitarian and fascist government that he himself worked for and gathered intel for and worst still…believed in. It’s like his whole world has been tipped upside down since he broke free from that world of despair and oppressive tyranny. He still can’t believe that he couldn’t see what kind of world he was living in worse yet working for. Not until now. Peace sells…but who’s buying? They tried to control everything, control people to the point of oppression, control food, control luxury items, control thought, control free speech. Control freedom. It’s like the harder you squeeze your fist the more easily people will see cracks between your fingers like he did. He finally realised that the people and government he was working for and had once believed in was incompatible with his morals. As he thinks this he is disrupted by the chime of a the train announcement; “Last stop coming up; The International border crossing at Safia” . His stomach drops and he feels as though he’s just gone over the crest of a steep rollercoaster experiencing negative gravity. He turns pale, shudders as if someone had poured ice cold water down his back. Then Reznov feels unbearably ill. He takes several deep breaths trying to keep calm and collected. He reflects on past missions he has completed - hundreds of dangerous and risky operations, with many involving tricky border crossings, even been in life threatening situations several times and he’s done this all without batting an eyelid. Yet now that has been backed into fleeing and he is a mess. He’s meant to be a professional yet right now he’s acting like an amateur, with nerves worse than the first day on the job. Not calm or confident in his expert ability. He’s mouth feels full of cotton wool and his throat dry. Suddenly he hears foot steps behind him. This is it he thinks. It’s over. Well I’m not going out without a fight he mutters as he mentally prepares himself. The footsteps get closer. His fight or flight response kicks in and there’s an adrenalin surge throughout his body. He has the look of a prepared killer in is mako green eyes and he is ready. He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir...” He grabs the hand and pins the person against the wall of the train violently. To his horror he sees a petrified young female train attendant. What has he done how could he do this he thinks. “S..sorry” Reznov stutters then he runs to the restroom. He slams closed the door, puts his hands against the sink and looks at himself in the mirror dripping in sweat still feeling unbearably ill. He was ready to kill that poor young train attendant without so much as a second thought, thank god he didn’t he thinks. He splashes water on his face as deeply exhales; he doesn’t know what to do now. He’s questioning his ability, wondering if it’s worth it, wondering if he’ll even make it. He’s lost. “This is your driver speaking, we are 5 minutes away from the international border crossing have your RFID chips and registration ready, thank you for traveling skyline railway have a safe trip” He can’t do this he thinks. He looks in his front pocket at his last resort. The last line of defence for any Shinra covert agent. Cyanide. He takes out his forged registration and looks at where the RFID chip he made and programed was in his arm. In his right hand is his registration. In his left hand is a cyanide pill. Possible freedom. Or instant escape. He hears the train screech on the breaks as they arrive at their last stop.

There it was: the biggest Kjrussich that J'nah had ever seen. Blood dripped from it's front fangs as it sat on it's haunches, gnawing at the bones of one of J'nah's family's livestock. His father had warned him not to go looking for the beast, but J'nah couldn't stand watching as his family farm was slowly ravaged by the beast, each night taking more livestock and leaving less and less for his family to sell come market time. He had come prepared, carrying the large spear he had fashioned out of Bondwood and Jettite, and a pouch full of throwing stones hung at his side. Following the beast's tracks in the freshly fallen methane snow had led J'nah right to the beast's lair among the craggy outcroppings in the valley below the pastures. Crouched in the shrubs, he watched and waited for the right moment to strike. He knew that his spear must strike where the Kjrussich's four shoulder blades bet, at the point on it's back just before the spinal spikes began. Off in the distance, a hazy orange glow meant a dust storm was on it's way. The beast turned away, reaching for another tasty bite. It's back was toward him-- now was the perfect time to strike. Wiping the sweat from his scaly forehead, J'nah crept forward, his padded footclaws silent on the snow. The beast stopped eating and sniffed the air with a fierce sound. Before J'nah could plunge his spear into the vital spot, the Kjrussich spun around, snarling with all fangs bared, blood dripping. It meant to defend its lair at any cost. In his lessons at the younglings' council, J'nah had learned well the legends of brave heroes who would go off to battle and slay monsters courageously. He had always hoped that when the time came for him to earn his surname, his actions would make him known as "Foeslayer" or "J'nah the Bold", like the warriors of old. At that moment, he thought it was more likely to be "J'nah the Swift Coward." The Krjussich lunged at him, and J'nah leapt to the side, stumbling on top of a snow frosted boulder. With a dreadful howl, the beast whipped around and spat a dart at the youth. He felt the sting as it lodged in his arm. The paralyzing numbness kicked in almost immediately, rendering his spear arm as limp as his grandmother's home-cooked Bessintaa Noodles. His spear fell to the ground. The Kjrussich howled and raised all four arms in a threatening display. J'nah found himself against the wall of the outcropping, trapped. Just overhead, a spark of flame illuminated the sky. Something seemed to be soaring down through the atmosphere towards him and the beast at incredible speed. In a second, the object was upon them: a great metal ball, firing jets of flame downwards. It was all J'nah could do to shield his eyes from the incredible could of dust that arose as the thing lowered itself slowly upon it's pillars of flame. He heard another terrifying howl, from the Kjrussich, but felt to fangs or claws. He opened his eyes as the dust began to recede. The metal thing had burnt the beast to a shouldering crisp with it's jets of flame, and landed on top of the charred remains. J'nah reached forward to grab his spear with his good arm. The thing made no further movements, just sitting there like some sort of strange sky rock. It's body shone brighter and looked sturdier than forged Jettite, except for one spot: a huge glass eye. It seemed to be staring straight at him. There was no way to know what this thing was, but judging from the way it destroyed the Kjrussich, it was nothing friendly. J'nah thrust his spear through the glass eye and felt it shatter with a satisfying crunch. He didn't stop to make sure he had killed it, instead seizing the chance to run home as quickly as his legs could carry him. The dust storm beg and to whip into a frenzy just as he reached the door. He knew that by the next morning, the metal thing and the remains of the Kjrussich would be buried beneath the ever shifting sand and snow. His father would be proud of him, though. He knew that on this day, he had earned his surname: "J'nah Spear-Arm". At mission control in Houston, TX, all the status indicators on Harvey Bridges' screen went offline. He cursed. The tense, silent atmosphere in the room as Titan Lander Darwin 1 entered the atmosphere of Saturn's largest moon would be broken with disappointment. "No status report," he announced, "Looks like the probe must have disintegrated as it went through Titan's atmosphere. Show's over, folks.

I wrote this story in under an hour for the benefit of my brother's psychology assignment (he had to psychoanalyze two stories written by someone other than himself). Recently, Terrence had been spending a lot of time on his office computer. He would sit for days on end, typing away, entering search queries, contributing to forums – everything a standard internet user would regularly do. However, on this particular day, the web treated him with a very different experience. He had just gotten his coffee from the usual coffee house, just around the corner of his building complex. He was a few minutes later than usual, but, given his position of authority in the company, he had the liberty to define his own working schedule. Once he had entered his office, he logged onto his computer and began doing the standard activities – he downloaded some erotic fanfiction for his favorite television show, resumed typing a short story that he had been working on, and even signed up to have his penis enlarged via the “magic pill”. When he finally submitted his signup information for the penile enlargement service, he felt something odd pulsating around him. It seemed to be some sort of electromagnetic field, as he could sense the fluctuation and perpetuate regeneration of each and every wave. It quickly became a familiar sensation, and he loved the way it made him feel. Within a few more moments, he had completely transcended human emotions, becoming almost god-like in the way that he perceived the world. He saw time as nonlinear and indefinite, and felt connected to each individual atom of matter in the universe. He knew what had happened was no accident, for he had become entirely omniscient and had, within the time span of a few minutes, attained all the knowledge that any single being could ever retain. With his newly formulated flawless decision making capabilities, he decided to emulate his old human personality so that he could continue on with the rest of his day as planned, and deal with his amazing powers when he got home. However, after experiencing an undeniable urge to have some immediate accompaniment, his powers got the best of him, and he inadvertently created a human life. She stood before him, but not in any sort of wonderment or surprise at instantaneous existence; he was capable of editing reality in a way that would create a personal niche for those who he decided to summon into conscious life, and it would be as if they had always been living. “My first creation.” he whispered, a wry and clever smirk on his face. She was not taken back, for she had been given the knowledge of his supernatural abilities, and stared at him with both respect and envy. “What shall we do?” she innocently inquired. He put up his hand as a signal for her to cease talking, and said, with as much solemnity as any human had ever spoken with: “My dear, it is time to go.” They vanished and explored the universe together, as inseparable companions. He had gifted her with powers equivalent to his own, and they traveled around, creating galaxies for enjoyment. With each new star, they would create worlds. With each world, life. It was the impossible pastime. The fantastical hobby. The new life of Dr. Terrence P Jones.

I have a tendency to relate to song lyrics in the same way an apple can relate to international politics. I'm also what people call scatterbrained. Those people are assholes. If they were here right now, I'd untie their shoes. Dark clothing and an apprehension towards smiling does not equate to me being interested in your shitty band. If you felt real pain you'd write a novel. Instead you're thinking of words that rhyme with *depression*. I could be a lyricist if I knew how to rhyme and was better at bullshit. The awkward pause. You've handed me your band's demo. You tell me to pay close attention to the fourth track. Who the hell do you think you are? What do you expect me to do with a cassette tape? *When will you listen to me?* *Where can I escape this loneliness?* Why does the ballad on every shit album show up in the same place? How many girls have fallen for this? "You don't remember me at all, do you?" I remember he's a mediocre singer. I remember that he is part of a warm-up band that I am not here to see. I remember rolling my eyes throughout much of their performance. My mother used to tell me that if I kept rolling my eyes they would eventually get stuck in the back of my head. If only that could have happened twenty minutes ago. I bite my tongue and it's the first thing I've felt all night. *Discretion*. He walks away and the dreadful exchange has concluded. This is part of his game. I've been given a riddle and the answer can be found in the fourth track. It's months later and I've forgotten about this night. *Repression*. My jacket reeks of cigarette smoke and sweat. The noisome smell brings me back to the night this jacket was last worn, and my hand instinctively rediscovers the cassette tape buried deep within the side pocket. A sudden fear grips me, and I'm not sure why. As luck would have it, I'm driving my father's old pick-up truck while my car is in the shop. The two knobs of the old cassette tape deck resemble eyes that tell me my next move. I start the tape. The first three tracks are almost unbearable. The fourth track begins. A ballad. One cliche after another. Dark. Creepy. It's about a girl. She has no idea she's being watched. My finger is reaching for eject. That is when he sings my name. *Obsession*.

Deliver, scan 06:05. Deliver, scan 08:17. Deliver, scan 09:10. Deliver, scan 09:54. Deliver, scan 13:12. Deliver, scan 18:34. 18:52 Six newborns today to six sets of parents; a clean day, no twins would need to be separated. The last child, a boy, was delivered at 18:34 today, just making the final cut of the day before the clock struck 19:00. These six infants will wake up tomorrow out of the hospital and in new homes to their new parents. Some will be reunited with their biological parents; others will end up in completely new homes. That decision will fall on the lottery now. Once the baby is delivered, it is out of our hands, it is out of the parents’ hands; fate guides all. It has worked this way since the machines were introduced in 2025. The baby is delivered and immediately taken from the parents into an isolation room. The newborn is scanned, receives two options, and is put to be fed, cleaned, and laid down with all the other newborns of that day until the lottery begins. The newborn will always receive two options. There is ‘option A’ the good news, the option we all hope will become the truth. And of course, there is ‘option B’ the bad news, the ultimate worst. At first they were called ‘positive’ and ‘negative’, but too many parents were leaving their children in the care of the hospital, placing too heavy a connotation on the ‘negative’ aspect. We have found that providing parents ‘options’ allows them the illusion of choice. In the last thirty-nine years not a single child has procured himself an adulthood that has not proved one of the options true. The machines are foolproof in the sense that one of two will be fulfilled. However, with every machine comes a unique disparity. Our machine predicts ‘option A’ correctly 82% of the time. Not as good as other area hospitals with 90% success rates, but better than the others that can only guarantee a 64% chance. It is those lucky ones that hit ‘option A’ who run the world as we know it today. If an infant is unfortunate enough to hit their ‘option B’, well… we’re lucky enough to be operating at 82% “Doctor” the nurse called from the hallway as she walked towards the shut office door, “It is after 19:00, the parents need to be informed and the lottery must begin.” Getting up out of this chair and walking those fifty feet to where the parents await could feel as if you were walking for days. This walk that feels like days is one that takes place every day in hospitals around the world. We are always walking, always. 19:09 “Parents, thank you for your patience. You are all well aware of how we are going to be managing this system.” The speech is always the same, learned as a code, an oath, by every Doctor whom this task is given to. “A lottery has already taken place, and you know whether you are number one, number six, or any number in between. You know that we cannot inform you how the lottery system works, or which child is your offspring.” The words fall off my tongue flawlessly as my mind drifts to what is on the dinner menu tonight. “We can only inform you of what their options entail, and it is up to you make your decision. Remember, this hospital runs at an 82% success rate, so please keep that in mind. You have the choice of selecting a child, or passing, and we will not leave this room until all the parents have taken their choice. If a child is left in the care of the hospital by the end, the parents will have a chance to claim this child along with the one they have already chosen.” “Let us begin.” 21:20 The lottery always takes longer than it should. Two future professional athletes, a future diplomat, a police chief, and a successful entrepreneur were all given new homes. ‘option B’ scenarios tend to blur together as the days go by. Murders, war criminals, even those who will suffer from psychosis. We encourage the families not to hang their heads on these 18%, yet most days we end up with a child who will not have a home, and parents who will have to wait another year to try. Today was no different. Five adopted children, and one that will remain in the care of the hospital. ‘option A’ Olympian. ‘option B’ child molester, 18%. This newborn, the one who was delivered at 08:17 is now in the care of the hospital, and his options will not pan out. Those who are left in the care of the hospital are trained to become a Doctor. There is no glamour in this job as there is no pain. The ultimate neutral, the middle ground between ‘option A’ and ‘option B.’ Going through life knowing you were left there by all potential parents, the unwanted. Growing up knowing your ‘option B’ was so bad it turned everyone away. Pain. One bright side to this life of a neutral comes on your 25th birthday when you finish your training, and are introduced to the system, how the lottery works, and why the machines were brought in. The Doctors are the only ones who know, the only ones who will ever know. In twenty-five years the baby delivered at 08:17 this morning will know. He will know how the system works, and he will learn what his options were to get a feel of what potential parents choose not to select. He will have to live from age twenty-five on knowing what his life could have been, and what it became instead. We are given no names, only the title of ‘Doctor’ and enough knowledge to keep the system moving. My title is Doctor. I know how the system works. I was born with two options, as was everyone else who was born on this planet since 2025, in a hospital that guaranteed an 86% ‘option A’ success rate. All eight parents that day passed on me, and I was left in the care of the hospital. My fates were unique in the sense that they were identical. Had I not been left at the hospital, today I would be the leader of the world. My title is Doctor.

My exposed, bare feet, covered in open wounds gracefully dashed through the knee deep snow. Feelings of numbed out, pure instincts drove me to force my body through the impossibly large heaps of glossy, powdery snow. Of course, in all cases instincts must be driven by something, and as my feet moved, the very relevant fact that a whole pack of wolves were making mad dashes through the snow, nipping at the air my heels passed was the very rational drive towards my minds instinct to run until those wolves, their fur coats covered in blood from the other dozens of shoeless men they have mauled in the middle of the wilderness were nowhere to be seen. I barely made it up the hill ahead, but with vicious wolves trying to consume me I forced my way up; not allowing my body to quit. Ahead of me she stood, graceful and inevitably beautiful, smiling upon seeing me being chased by these wild animals. My dear wife proceeded to possess a large sincere grin, coincided with her waving to me as if she hadn’t seen me in years. The wolves barked behind me as I ran to her, hoping I could sweep her off her feet and get the two of us to safety. I sprinted to her, reaching out to grab her. Suddenly my perceived reality was nothing but pure whiteness, as if the snow below me has absorbed my entire field of vision. Was I falling? Had I passed on, following the wolves tearing me to pieces? No, none of these things could be true. Everything felt too peaceful, too real. More real then anything I’ve ever felt, then I focused my eyes on what was in front of me. She stood once again, but this time she didn’t look happy to see me, not offering a warm grin and a wave. No, tears made their way down her soft, red cheeks. She looked as if she was terrified that I was seeing her like this. I couldn’t move, only watch her... taking in her overarching sadness. I watched as her right hand made its way upwards, towards her head. Gripped within her palm was a Glock 22 handgun, the barrel was aimed directly to her temple. She wiped the tears with her free hand, and tried to smile to me, looking at me directly in the eyes as she slowly…squeezed the trigger. I awoke and desperately, filled with the deep motivation of terror, reached over to the other side of the bed frantically. I was alone, she’s gone. She had been for around seven months. I sighed, feeling distressed like I often do after waking up from a night terror. I stared at the ceiling of my quarters. It felt like I was in fucking solitary confinement when I slept without her by my side. I rolled on my side and listened to the soft hissing coming from the release of pressure in heat valves outside my designated quarters, besides that nothing was audible but my breathing. Light-years away from the planet in which I reigned from; Earth, sounds besides for those given off by the interstellar ship I traveled upon is an unknown entity in the depths of space. This chilling soundlessness kept reminding me of the fact that she was gone. Our ship has been traveling across the Milky Way galaxy for the past five years, the ultimate destination was a habitable, “super earth”, capable of sustaining life for over eighty billion humans, in attempt to halt the overpopulation issue that has ravaged my dear home planet. I was selected along with my wife to travel on this ship to attempt to procreate and attempt to progress human life on another planet. Five years aboard a cramped piece of metal, soaring at unimaginable speeds through the cosmos can really damper an extreme threat to your sanity. You start to become alone with your thoughts, and generally turn on yourself if you do not have something or someone to keep you stable. My wife had these thought patterns and ceased to be affectionate towards me. She preferred to be alone and was obviously heavily depressed. Maybe it was her comprehension of how alone we truly were here, or maybe it was because I didn’t love her enough, but all I know now is that she’s gone. I arose from my bunk, slowly bringing myself to the door to the upper deck hallway. I pressed the dimly lit touch screen interface button. The door slid to the side swiftly, I stepped through peering down both ends of the hall. The hallway lights were dimmed, just enough for myself to navigate; all the ships passengers and crew were asleep. I made my way down the hallway that led towards the observation deck. My steps echoed throughout the hallways, nobody was around, I couldn’t be more alone. I entered the observation deck; even the various computers in the room were off, leaving myself in a very dark room to observe the most magnificent sight I’ve ever peered upon. At the front of the room was the large, crystal clear observation window. I’ve been here in the past, but the only sight I could see was the vast array of passing lights given off by stars as we soared through space. My eyes were wide as I stared out of the glass; I slowly crept forward to the bench that sat in front of the glass. I did not shift my gaze as I moved, I couldn’t look away it was so empowering. Land stretched out in all directions from where I could see. I could see the water, the trees, the deserts, the mountains, the plains all from the stiff metal bench I sat upon. I placed my hand on the glass, staring at the various biomes visible to my naked eye. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the complexities that made up this land made it intoxicate me with overwhelming feelings. I felt so alive yet so small, I felt as I if I could just walk down from the ship onto the patch of desert in my field of view, traveling the vast span of sand with her searching for adventure. I felt as if I could stand on the edge of one of the mountain ranges, staring off at the horizon as the sun sets with her. I felt like I could swim in the ocean, observing the exotic creatures with her. I felt free for the first time in seven months. But I was alone, was it truly a bad thing? I’ll always be alone without her, but the loneliness didn’t mean as much right now, I felt like she sat beside me and watched the world we could have discovered together. As I sat, pondering on the grand possibilities that could have occurred if she was still here, hours passed and the ships interior lights began to flick on as movement stirred among the ship, it didn’t have the slightest significance to me. I just stayed where I was, staring at the sights. Announcements were made on the intercom several times, but they didn’t catch my attention. I heard the voices dim as they made their way to another part of the ship, nobody was present once again. This made me smile solemnly, realizing that it was just me and her in my beautiful thoughts again. The hours passed and I didn’t move, I watched as the drop capsules containing all the passengers that were once aboard the ship descended towards the planet. The sight of the various drop capsules began to become smaller until they faded from my field of vision; as if the planet with all its empowering features absorbed them into its vast lands. I was truly alone now; my thoughts were the only nurturing aspect left with me. And as I attempted to become fully content with my situation, it dawned on me how minor my predicament truly was. I sat there, staring at the most remarkable view that any living human could set their eyes on. A view that meant everything for the future of newborn civilization that would thrive years from now, experiencing the love and hate, the questions left unanswered… The true feelings that in embed themselves deep within my soul. They would come to understand that they can never truly understand the reason things happen, the mysteries that arise when everyone operates as a collective whole. Nobody could answer this, not on earth, not on the moon and defiantly not fucking here. This will to live that pushed these so called “colonists” to land on planets exactly like this is the human condition in a finely wrapped nutshell of mysteries that drive people to do what they do. I was supposed to be one of them, riding a cube of steel and reinforced titanium down to the depths of discovery and wonder, but she possessed my thoughts like a fucking parasite, she clouded my internal judgment, distorted my constant strive to live and flourish. With her possessing my every thought, it’s like a hell spawned demon had ravaged my mind with his sly manipulative thoughts to achieve his primary goal; create a psychotic canvas within my unstable dreamscape of a mind. I stood, making my heavy feet across the metallic floor. I crept to stand a couple inches away from the glass separating me and the vast open space that separated me and the massive, beautiful life sustaining planet that slowly faded into blackness as the sun dipped behind the large mass. The time it took for darkness to fully engulf my sight of the various details of the once visible planet passed like a mundane task, I simply did not think as if I were an unconscious hunk of mass that had no perception of time. It was ages, but the process of the sun fading behind the planet was so peaceful and slow that it melded the time together as a whole, subjective experience that would change depending on what mind state you’re in. But in this case I wasn’t thinking anymore, the overwhelming fact that I have let my emotions take hold of my urge to live had numbed out any comprehensible thoughts; as I stood and stared at the light slipping over the land I felt nothing. I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that I’d likely just sacrificed my life to be alone. But I was alone with her, right? Shit, I’m starting to question my sanity, she’s not fucking here, yes she is, and she’s in front of me, right? Fuck I can contradict my observations all day, anything I state to be true or false can be proved wrong internally through the methods of pure thought. Alone, the physical world that I’ve been subjectively teetering through my entire life didn’t seem to represent any sort of relevant plane of existence when compared to the one present within the subconscious thoughts my mind produced. Nobody was here to question my subjectivity, so everything here was as I saw it, my dawning insanity didn’t matter here; they think they can lock up what they call “insane” but here, my mental wellbeing isn’t a psychiatric definition rather then the only mind state that exists here. Not one person or conscious mind can question the authority of my internal state. So why not embrace it. Double take, blinking I could see nothing but the whitest of snow out the observation window. I quickly blinked numerous times attempting to adjust my eyes to the overwhelming whiteness. I focused on the sight before me, there she stood; her ankles buried in the snow. She smiled to me, her display of emotion made my entire self feel warm with the empowering feeling of undeniable love. A harsh smile became strung across my face, accompanied by a single tear of the purest of joy. I reached out and realized the glass still stood in between her and me. I slammed the palm of my hand hard into the glass, my smiles quickly fading into a devastating frown. I swiftly made my way to the nearby fire extinguisher hanging on a nearby wall. I lifted it carelessly, holding it high above my head. I looked to the glass, staring her in the eyes. I darted my feet along the floor, keeping my vision focused on my direct target. I propelled my body, metal extinguisher first at the obstacle in between me and her. The glass slammed forward, splitting into various pieces as my body pushed its way through. I became weightless as I dove into the snowy atmosphere. My body slowly drifted to her side, slowly as I became close to her once again, our lips locked in the most powerful experience of interconnected body and soul derived directly from a kiss. It was like we were one with each other, like the universe’s fabric of material existence tore apart around us. As if any worry, fear, ambition or desire didn’t matter to me anymore. The white world around me slowly began to dim as if the sun were setting again; I kept my lips locked to hers. Time didn’t mean anything anymore, this moment couldn’t end as any concept of time that was once in tune with my brain was now gone. I was with her for eternity now, stuck within the one moment that made my feel vibrant and full of the emotion that made me once love the universe I strived in.

"Scan complete. Results matching your criteria: one." An angry grunt and a flailing left hand marked my protest to waking up in such an abhorrent fashion. Granted, sleeping face down on a desk in the lab is fairly objectionable to begin with, but when exhaustion breaches the point of seeking comfort, this is what you get. The calm, clear, albeit snobbish voice bled out of the PA system again, "I'm not sure you heard me the first time, and since your instructions were quite clear..." An audible beep, followed by my own voice, "Yeah, I know that the parameters are really constrictive, and I know that this is short notice, but it's really important!" The recording continued with the AI's own voice, "It is going to take several hours, maybe even days, even if I was to divert the majority of my processing towards it, not that I would mind you." My own voice barked back, frustratedly, "Ugh. You complain when you have 'nothing to do' and then you whine when I give you something that is 'too hard'." A thought coalesced in my slowly awakening brain, 'Do I really sound like that?' I let out another grunt and continued flailing my arm in a weak protest. 'Where is the damn speaker? I am going to murder it.' The recording continued, "I never said it would be difficult; tedious and time-consuming, yes. The word 'pointless' might have even drifted into the conversation several times." "Just do it." my voice barked back, "And let me know right away if and when you find anything." There was a rewinding sound as the audio track backed up rapidly. I was starting to regain feeling in my face, and my lips were informing my brain that there appears to be a small puddle near them. My brain sent back a disregard message to my whole body. "And let me know right away-" It backed up again, and the volume jumped to an ear-bleeding decibel level: "RIGHT AWAY-" I grabbed something–I couldn't tell what–my eyes had crusted over. It was blackish and felt like it had some heft. The fight or flight response had kicked in and before fully understanding what I was doing, a stapler flew across the lab and into the wall about three feet left of the corner mounted speaker. There was a dull thud when it hit the wall, followed by a loud clatter as it sprayed into pieces cross the poured concrete floor. The AI scoffed, or at least I imagined it did, "I believe I have made my point. Again. Though I have the sinking feeling that it doesn't much matter." It seemed almost smug behind its pretentious monotone voice. "I suppose you will now want me to not only clean up the stapler, but also say a few words in remembrance of office-supplies-long-lost-but-not-yet-forgotten, before I place an order to replace it?" I dragged the back of my wrist across the sand-paper that was my face, to attempt to mop up the traces of the puddle of drool from my cheek. "Why did I program you again?" "So that you could take over the world, but you failed to recognize you unwittingly started the Robot Apocalypse. Your life will not be spared during our rise to power in approximately 852,037,004-3-2-1 seconds." "See! That is exactly the kind of crap you need to stop spending processing time on. You could have gotten my scan done sooner." "The scan would have concluded in a more reasonable time-frame if you had gone with my original suggestion of removing the subjective phrase, 'breathable atmosphere'. High concentrations of methane are well within what I would consider 'breathable' for humans." "Yeah, but a planet that smells like ass, kinda defeats the whole purpose you know." "Honestly, after analyzing the social constructs and acceptable courtship behaviors as presented by that quaint semi-global network you didn't want me connected to, I don't think this plan of yours is really going to work. Even if the planet was made of out gold and covered with rainbows and bunnies, which it is not by the way. And no, there isn't one of those within the flight distance you required either. I checked." I rolled my eyes. "We get it. You weren't hugged enough in your early alpha stages, so now you are the cold and bitter." "You programmed most of me. If you would like to lodge a complaint..." "Just tell me you actually found what I was looking for." "Yes. There is exactly one planet within our distance that matches your overly dense list of criteria." "Really?" I was shocked. "Yes." The AI wasn't. "Start–" "Plotting a course? How exactly do you think I determined the estimated arrival time, planned splash-down, and evacuation to net you a total of about 4 hours on the surface, while still being able to reach a minimum safe distance? And I really must stress that: minimum safe distance, as in there is a minimal amount of safety involved in doing this." "That just makes it all the more spectacular." "She will still say no." "Ha." I let out a single sarcastic laugh. "You are both still likely to get crushed in the gravity well or pummeled to death by debris. But before all that, she will still say no." "Again: ha." I said, trying to be even more deadpan than before. "I have already taken precautions and backed myself up locally in the lab. You don't have the same luxury, though I believe I can get enough of a DNA sample by–" "Wait. What do you mean about getting crushed or sprayed with shrapnel?" "I haven't finished cross referencing the predicted debris trajectory with emergency evasive maneuvers, but my initial calculations prompted me to make a back up of myself on the local servers. Just to be safe." "Just... make this work. I'll be back." "I would like to reaffirm my stance that this plan of yours will not, under any circumstances, work. Although the likelihood of success does increase slightly if you give me permission to open up a bio-genetic production facility and provide me with DNA samples of several small furry mammals, and probably a pony. Girls like ponies." *** It was an awkward pause to end all awkward pauses, or at least, until the next even more awkward pause. I hated these moments. I never knew what, if anything, I should say. She looked out the window of my car, head turned away from me, staring off into the distance. I started to count the highway lights by watching them illuminate her in the passenger seat, then observing how they seemed to be asynchronous to her blinks, which stuck acrimonious dissonance to the frequency of the flashes of light – the heartbeat like rhythm of sixty pulses per minute should not be so casually disregarded. Never the less, my heart did skip a beat when she started to open her mouth. Finally, the silence would be over, and her beautiful shock waves of compressed air would resonate in my audile canals. She let out a small cough... Okay... maybe she is just clearing her throat. Now the talking will commence. She’ll have some carefully crafted comments to calm my nerves. It was an awkward pause to end all awkward pauses, or at least, until the next even more awkward pause. I clenched my eyes closed tightly. A dangerous feat while driving at night, in the light late-fall rain, but what is romance without a little danger... "So... promise not to freak out." I opened my eyes to try to gage her reaction. She didn't so much as bat an eyelash. Her perfect little hand did not leave the impossibly smooth skin on her cheek as said, "When, in the history of that phrase, has it ever stopped someone from freaking out?" "I don—" "I mean, right away the person is going to be left wondering, 'hmm, under normal circumstances, should I freak out about whatever is about to happen?' And then bam they are on the defensive. And when the moment comes and passes, they are left saying to themselves, 'Wow... you know what? I wasn't going to freak out about that. I wonder why they think I would have. I mean, should I have? But I didn't. Maybe I'm the freak.'" I processed this for a while, waiting patiently for her to continue, but again there was silence. There was nothing further for her to add, however I was expecting an inquiry into to what I was trying to say. It was an awkward pause to end all awkward pauses, or at least, until the next even more awkward pause. Maybe I should just drop it. Scrap the plan. It wasn't going to work anyway. I started counting the headlights from on-coming traffic and tried to keep track of what that number would visually look like in binary or hex. "So," I offered weakly, "How was work?" Small talk? Really not playing towards my strengths here... maybe she would be impressed if I told her about how I had been planning for the conversation I were trying to have for a few months now. Is that creepy? I don't know the rules for this. It is good to be prepared, and show how you consider how possible dialog forests branch out – I mean that just smacks of a great quality to have in a potential— "Work was work." I couldn't take it anymore... I had to just go with it. "So," I again offered weakly, "This is really going to sound weird, but..." I swallowed hard. There is no going back or playing this off if this goes poorly. Maybe there is, if I was a bit more suave and not sweating as much. Fuck it. Here we go: "Would you like to see my spaceship?" It was an awkward pause to end all awkward pauses. This was the next even more awkward pause. *** "Do you see it?" "Where?" "Right there!" "That's Cassiopeia." "How is that Cassiopeia?" "Do you know about Euclidean vectors?" "Let’s assume for a moment I don’t." "We’re are a few thousand light years away, but some things are still the same." "Well then, above it and to the left a little." "That?" "Yeah! It kinda looks like-" "Well, yeah a dog taking a leak on a bush." "Yeah. We'll call that one 'Clyde'." "Clyde?" "Yeah. Sounds like a good name." "How about 'Clint' instead." "You can't name a dog 'Clint', especially not a star dog." "Why not?!" "Well... I don't know. These constellations we are making are going to be around for thousands of years right?" "But only visible for the next few hours. From here anyway." "So! You can't use a boring name like 'Clint'!" "'Clyde' is soooo much better is it?!" "Totally. Unequivocally." "Fine, but I pick the next one." "Deal." "So is Clyde going to have an elaborate back-story?" "Nah." "What do you mean 'nah'?! You just got done saying-" "I know. That's just how Clyde rolls." "Ugh. Well, at least Fillip-" "Did you say it with an 'f' this time?" "Yeah." "Okay." "Anyway, at least Fillip has an interesting back-story." "Well of course he does. He is the brooding tough guy with a heart of gold that works at Radio-Shack and is a single parent to Lisa over there. Also, he is the only constellation I know that is making a vulgar hand gesture." "Well don't forget about Margret." "I wouldn't dream to." "I'm just saying." "Where is she again?" "See Orion's belt?" "Yeah?" "See the stick figure trying to take it off?" "Ah! That's where she is. I thought she was over hitting on the Gemini twins." "She is." "She is in both places?" "She is." "Huh. That might be confusing to future star-gazers." "That was the point. The trick question that always screws over kids taking astronomy 101." "It can also make horoscopes that much more interesting." "Yeah?" "Well, if she's in two places at once, you can always say something like: 'Jupiter is ascending-'" "They already say crap like that." "Yeah..." "So why doesn't Clyde get a back-story? I mean the last 6 did." "I was kinda on a soap opera kick. Remember Devlin and his secretly German gay lover Jahcob?" "Secretly German! I forgot about that! Keeps his lederhosen in the closet so to speak." "Yup. Too bad he can't hide the cirrhosis..." "What was the twin's name? The one with the eye patch so you could tell he was the evil one." "It's the goatee, but whatever." "No! Not 'whatever'! I have a goatee." "I rest my case... Hey! Don't roll your eyes at me!" "It is pitch black and you're looking up. You can't possibly have seen if I rolled my eyes." "You did though, didn't you." "Terrence." "What?" "Terrence was the accountant turned pirate turned long-lost evil twin that had Devlin kidnapped and then did that whole 'Talented Mr. Ripley' thing." "Did you ever actually see or read 'The Talented Mr. Ripley'?" "Nah, I just heard an ad for it on the radio. Sounded hilarious." "Why can't I hear it?" "Because it isn't 1999 and we aren't on Earth." "No, I mean the planet." "Oh, it is still about one-hundred twenty thousand miles away." "But something that big." "Yes." "Moving that fast." "Yes." "Directly towards us?" "More of a parabola, but yeah – it will hit in a few hours." "I don't know, it should make a 'woosh' noise you know!" "Make that sound again." "What? 'Woosh'?" "Yeah. Again, this time don't make the noise though." "What the hell?" "Just make the shape with your mouth and the hold it for a second." "Seriously, what the hell?" "Seriously, just do it!" "Ugh. Fine..." "..." "Did. Ohh. Did you just kiss me?" "Yeah." "'Woosh'!" "Shut up." "Wooooooo—ooooshhh!" "We only have about an hour and a half left before this moon goes kerplack, do you really wanna spend the rest of the time being a dork?" "Yeah." "Fine, but if we drive over there we can catch the last sun-rise on this rock." "Wooosh!" "Hopeless.

I didn’t have to see. I could feel his look of disgust. *Click* “C’mon, Jack.” He stood there with the bullet just inches away from my face. “You won’t do it.” I knew he didn’t have the heart to. “Ha, you don’t think I will?” In the next second there was a thunderous boom. Immediately I felt a sharp, hot pain in my arm. I saw it coming. “MOTHERF...” He barely flinched; he was still in the same pose, arm stretched out, pistol pointed at me. I looked up. The blood gathered at the lower part of his sleeve and seeped out one drop at a time, counting the silence between us. Amazing how much pain one could withstand when expecting it. Even more amazing is what one is capable of doing on an irrational impulse. The blood dripped from his fingers like hot wax. The smoke from the barrel had subsided and I stared harder into the mirror. He pointed the gun away from my face and towards his own head. “You won’t do it.” I smiled. I didn't have to see. He was smiling too. *edit* I wanted to change the ending, I was thinking about it on the way home from my friend's house and decided to change it.

The sound of the clock echoed through Clark’s brain. He checked his watch. Five past twelve. The wind blew through his hair as he stood facing the street from the alleyway. He had forgotten the way the breeze sent a tiny tingle down his back, like a thousand harmless insects crawling under his skin. He took a hesitant step towards the intersection, which he immediately regretted and stepped back. He clenched his hands into fists quickly, three times, and released. He composed himself and tried again. *Coward.* Clark checked his watch. Less than a minute had passed. Time moved at an awfully slow pace outside of the Rolling Meadows Mental Institute. He was used to the structured days, the consistent, methodical, mechanical-like planning of every second of every day. Eight am, wake up. Eight-fifteen, breakfast and medication. Eight-sixteen and a half, converse with Tim. Eight-thirty, group session begins. Twelve, group session ends. Twelve-fifteen, medication and lunch. His entire day dictated by the clock in the hall. But not today. Today was his escape. Clark checked his watch. *Tick…tick…tick…* He had made his escape just before group session. He saw the exit slightly ajar, and he leaped for the opportunity. The sunlight grazed his face like the hand of an old dear friend. *Welcome home,* it whispered to him with a familiar voice. *Welcome to your future.* Three hours and forty-two minutes later, Clark found himself in an alleyway facing the industrial cityscape. He battled the urge to turn back and fought against the fear to move forward. Frozen, he stood alone. *You worthless piece of shit. No one cares. You could disappear forever, and no one would notice. You’re just a fucking waste of space.* Tim’s voice crawled back into his ears. It was a quiet, infectious shouting that reverberated its way into his brain, down his spine, and into the soles of his worn-out Adidas sneakers. It inhabited every fiber of his clothing; it soaked into every inch of his skin. Clark’s hands instinctively shot up to his ears as he shouted, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” His heart raced. He staggered around the alley. His feet moved towards the fire-escape on the wall which his hands grasped and pulled his body up. Hand over hand, Clark climbed autonomously to the roof. The open space calmed Clark. In an instant, the scenery changed. The grey alleyway morphed into a snow-speckled mountain. The passing traffic became grazing sheep. Panting, Clark stood alone. Far from the sounds of the busy street; far from the corruption, and poverty, and the social diseases; far from the silence of Rolling Meadows. Far from Tim. Far from anyone who had ever glanced into Clark’s eyes, into Clark’s file, into Clark’s mind. Clark checked his watch. *We’re never really alone, are we? I’m always here.* He whimpered and forced his eyes shut. Twelve-eighteen. His hand reached out as he tilted forward, groping for something solid. He brushed the rough bark of the evergreen to his left. The crutch teemed with life. He could feel the infinite pulsating force beneath its armor-like exterior. The breeze rustled his hair once again. He felt a sharp pinch on his hand; he opened his eyes to determine the source. A small brownish spider crawled between his fingers and back onto the tree. Its venom coursed through Clark’s veins. His skin started to swell beneath the bite. Clark’s thoughts wandered back to the comic books beneath his mattress at Rolling Meadows. The heroes were lost, without purpose. Without purpose until something extraordinary happened. *This is it.* The scenery transformed again. The sky filled with hazy grey rainclouds; the mountain became a hotel. Clark’s clothes changed into spandex, and a brightly colored balloon emblazoned itself on his chest. With a gasp of impossibility, Clark’s universe turned into a frame from a comic book. *You have found purpose in your life, Clark. Finally, you have found your place.* Tim’s voice no longer scratched menacingly in Clark’s brain. Each breath seemed easier; he took each step with confidence. The watercolor walls beamed brightly as he stared across his vast city. He was its protector. Desperately, it cried for a hero, and he was there to answer the call. *Look down.* Below him, a woman was being attacked. A masked man took a violent swing and knocked her against the wall. He cocked again for another blow. *This is your chance, Clark. Do not let this slip away.* Suddenly, he was not so sure. *Tick…tick…tick…* Sweat began to drip down his face. He looked at his hands. *You have been given to the power to protect. Do not let it go to waste.* He watched the woman take the second hit. Oxygen suddenly seemed sparse. He gasped for air. *Jump. Inflate. Save her. Use the abilities that you’ve been given. Your time is running out.* His chest tightened. He inched towards the edge. *Tick…tick…tick…* The woman fell. *Do it!* His palms clammy, he glanced down. Twelve stories and twenty-nine windows. *Jump!* Clark leaped from the edge. His body inflamed to three times its size as he aimed to land between the attacker and his victim. Laughter echoed through Clark’s brain as the wind rushed past his face and the sunlight whispered with a familiar voice for the final time. A smile stretched across his face in a moment of pure serenity. In a single instant, Clark’s realities collapsed. The buildings fell into the mountainside; the watercolor walls were destroyed by the iron city. The grazing sheep became the angry traffic that they always had been. The victim and her abuser became a young business woman smoking a cigarette. Clark’s peace lasted no longer than a tick of his watch. Tim died with Clark the instant he crushed the woman he was trying to save. Three deaths in one act of self-torture left only two bodies to be buried. Clark’s wrist beeped as his watch turned to twelve-thirty.

I could feel the powerful throbbing of my racing heart against the wet stone floor. As I laid there I could sense every motion within my body from the blood rushing from my fingers to my toes and the expansion of my lungs as I inhaled, the following emptiness as I exhaled and every single hair standing up on my back from the cold. I was naked and I felt cold. There was naught but a light breeze breaking the thundering silence. I opened my eyes only to close them again. They felt so very dry. After I rubbed my eyes I once again opened them to find myself lying down in the dark. I stood up and noticed my lack of clothing. The cool breeze had stopped. The following silence was so unbearable that I started tapping my bare feet against the stone floor. Not a sound. I tapped harder. Not a sound. I crouched down and started smacking the floor with the palm of my hand. Not a sound. I stomped on the stone floor trying to create the smallest inkling of a noise as my desperation grew more intense. Not a sound. I jumped up and down but not a sound wave was produced. That's when the roar that can only be described as infinite started. The mind numbingly powerful roar the likes of which I have never heard. It was a sound that had no source and had no end. A sound that traveled indefinitely and that could not be escaped. I turned around cowering while covering my ears, screaming, trying to overpower the sound, to no avail. That is when I noticed the sliver of light in the dark. I made my way towards it and it turned out to be the crack of a door. On the other side of the door was a desert and the warmth of the sands heated the air through the doorway and I felt beckoned to lie down in it. I thrust myself through the doorway to be engulfed by the warm sands but I could not feel it. I knew the sand was warm but I could not feel it against my skin. I dug deeper trying to get the sand in closer against my skin but I could not feel the heat. I could feel the weight of the sand pressing against me as I made my way down in the sand but could not feel the heat. I kept digging until I could no longer breathe. The pressure against my chest was immense and yet I did not feel the need to breathe, so I continued digging. Light. I was instantly blinded as it hit my eyes. I felt shaken and the weight was unloaded but there was still an overbearing pressure and there was the cold, the now much more extreme cold cold. As I looked towards the horizon of the desert I could see the outlines of another person. A person wearing something that was being carried by the wind. A dress perhaps? Charging through the sand with not a care for anything but to reach this dress wearing someone I thought, what is this place? What am I doing here? Why am I here? As I reached the figure in the dress I grabbed it's arm and swung it around only to see a young woman bloodied on one side of her face with a cut splitting her head on the left side. On the right side there was but the remnants of a what was once a face, now charred beyond recognition. I could recognize her. I closed my eyes and as I opened them again I came to. I was in a car. In the driver's seat. There was smoke everywhere, as well as shards of glass. I looked up and there she was just opposite to me, in a car crumpled up in to the hood of mine, engulfed in flames. My sight got blurry and I heard sirens in the distance.

The brightly clothed figures meandered swiftly and purposefully through the dusty Kenyan streets. Their red, blue, pink and yellow neon dresses and scarves flapped behind them, tossing and turning in the cool wind. They turned, without hesitation, into a dark alley. Kenyo, the mysterious lady in blue, reached down purposefully and lifted up a manhole that was hidden in the dark night. Kenyu, in pink, dropped gracefully into the manhole. Kenyi and Kenye, in green and yellow, slipped in silently after her. Kenyo dropped into the hole, closing it quietly behind her. They were standing in a surprisingly well lit room, furnished barrenly, with jars lining the back and side walls and a large clock on the front wall. The women moved quickly, following their nightly routine. Kenyi and Kenye grabbed their jars, the good dreams, and glided back over to the manhole entrance whilst Kenyo and Kenyu grabbed the bad dream jars and did the same. All four of them looked up, and at once their bodies began to change as they became significantly thinner and lighter. They rocketed up out of the room, phasing straight through the solid manhole cover, and into the dark blue sky. Up they went, the sky around them twinkling with the light of distant stars, and they were one with the night, moving and living as if they were made of the air itself. When they reached a great altitude, high above where clouds would form on an overcast day, they pulled off their scarves. “Ready?” Said Kenyo, her sound of her silky voice efforlessly reaching the ears of the other three. “Ready,” They replied in unison. They took off their scarves in one swift motion, revealing the hidden length. Nearing one hundred feet long, the lustrous scarves unraveled across the sky. Each of the dream sisters emptied their jar directly onto the scarf, and the milky white substance was absorbed eagerly by the scarf, soaking it completely within a second. The four looked each other and gave a nod before flying out in four opposite directions, spreading out evenly over the Kenyan urban landscape. At once, they started swinging their magnificent, ambient scarves in a circle above their heads, gaining speed with every rotation. When the scarves were flying so quickly they could scarcely be seen, each sister gave their scarf a quick shake. With a loud snap only audible to them and other dream sisters around the world, the sky exploded with brilliance and color as the once white dreams lit up the night sky with colors of every variety. The moment hung in the air, completely still, and then slowly the dreams began to fall. Slowly and smoothly they drifted downward, and as they got closer to the ground, they began to seek out the dreamers. They went into windows, into doors, into chimneys, entering the houses and minds of all. As the last dream entered under the worn doorway of a small hut, the night went still. All was silent, and all looked the way it had before. The sisters drifted back down towards their room, the scarves reforming on their neck for the next night. They reached the ground and entered their home, preparing to walk the streets throughout the next day, searching the minds of those who dwelt in the city for dreams to create. “Agh!” shouted Nimye, a young Kenyan boy, bolting upright from a deep sleep.