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Allura 22

“Have you ever seen a pig's tit before?” The farmer whispered in my ear. His hot breath filling my canal as his coarse mustache tickled my cartilage. I leaned away from him, unsure of how to respond. I had not seen a pig's tit before and if it was anything like a woman's, I'm sure it would be a treat. But I had just met this man and his question unsettled me. I wasn't sure I wanted to look at any kind of tit with him, let alone a pig's. I proceeded cautiously. “Are they big?” I asked him. “The biggest.” he responded. “And the nipples?” “Exquisite.” This was not going to be easy. We were locked in a mental chess match and it was clear the man was practiced. He was proud of his pig's tits and if they were anything like how he described, it would be hard to blame him. Even so, it was getting late. I simply didn't have time for this. “Listen Mister, I'm sure your pig's tits are great, and I'd really like to look at them sometime, but I should be going.” He looked at me with vacant eyes, his mouth slightly ajar. I was beginning to think I had deeply offended him when suddenly, he leaned close, and unleashed his secret weapon. “I'll. let. you. milk. them.” He said slowly, making sure I drank in every word. He can't be serious, I thought. No self-respecting farmer would let a perfect stranger touch his animals' tits, not to mention a pig's. Yet there he was, staring at me in anticipation, panting silently, eyes wet with excitement. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little excited too. These weren't just any ordinary tits, they were milkin' tits. The kind of tits you only hear about in stories. As I wondered if he'd let me taste the milk, I felt a hand grip me firmly by the arm and yank me backwards. “It's time to go Billy, didn't you hear me calling you?” Ms. Palanski began pulling me towards the school bus. “But Ms. Palanski, the farmer said-” “What farmer?” I turned back only to see an empty field. The farmer had vanished. I stayed silent while she escorted me onto the bus, my fellow classmates staring as I searched for an open seat. They have no idea, I thought. No idea how close I came to milking some tits. The bus roared to life and slowly started down the farm's dirt driveway. I watched the barn get smaller and smaller through a cloud of dust, wondering if I'd ever come back. Wondering if the tits would still be there when I did.

As the red rays of the sunset cast themselves on the forests shrubbery, as if veiling the scene with a bloodied lace, I was sitting in the shade of my trunk, scrubbing my fingers on the rough bark in anticipation. It was chilly as winter was at the doorstep and I needed to begin preparing for my slumber. The creeping approach of the townscape into my domain had made it easier for me to sleep cozily during the cold months, paving the so comfortable roads and streets to my very doorstep. The sun would set early in my domain and the dark would last a good deal longer than the day, such luxury however did not come without a price, as the nights were cold and winter was savage. I did not wait for the red of the sky to completely disappear in the horizon as my walk was long and I prefer to have as much hours of darkness at my hands as I can. I stepped out of my cozy hole and felt the moist grass and soil at my bare feet. The chill of the nearly frozen earth had irritated me and I began my journey. The road - cracked and unkempt - was as expected quiet. In the distance I could see the houses lying on the outskirts of the town, they were numerous and that made me feel comforted. I was walking slowly, pacing easily as to not cut my feet on the deep cracks of the asphalt, but I was in no hurry. I like taking my time in what I do. As the last of the crimson veil was disappearing winds began to blow, rustling all the leaves and plants around the narrow road. It was getting colder and I picked up my pace to keep warm. I could hear barking in the distance, yard dogs of the residents I was about to visit, they would always bark as I approached – as if sensing me from great distance. Darkness now engulfed my way entirely, and as I was walking under the cover of the black blanket I could see lights beginning to appear in the windows of the homes ahead. Dinners were being made and eaten, children would now rush back home to get there before their parents would begin to worry, strays would wait near trash cans in anticipation to the generous feast of leftovers they would soon indulge in, a community of clockwork it was, beautifully orchestrated. I turned off the road and back into the cover of the forest, light from the town was sufficient to illuminate the road at this point. I had already decided where I was going tonight. I walked fast, fueled by excitement, through bushes and thick growths, on my way to the light my gaze had been fixed on from the moment it had gotten dark. The barking was making me annoyed and I could not wait to be back at my warm trunk. I kneeled and slowly began to creep through the bushes towards the shared border between the forest and the residence, sticking only my head through at first, to catch a feel of what I had been working for. Street lights were scarce and I could sneak without being seen if I kept my head down below the windows level. I slowly began to approach my destination, looking from side to side to make sure there are no dogs watching. I walked next to a window that had the lights turned on and peered through. It was too early an hour for the residents to be asleep, but their wakeful presence did not worry me. Through the window I saw a room, the room I had already once seen before, when I had decided to come back here. The walls had been painted a delicate blue hue, little clouds and birds were tastefully scattered about them. There was a bunk bed in the side, it too was painted blue, a slightly darker hue than the walls. A large white closet was taking up the entire wall to the right, a single drawer open at the bottom. Near it sat a boy, playing with a toy truck. I stared at him, waiting for an eye contact. I made my presence clear to him, I wanted him to feel that I was looking. He stopped playing with his truck and slowly turned his rosy face to me. I looked into his eye, and started opening the window. He would not move unless I told him to. I signaled him to close the door as I climbed through his bedroom window. Standing there, I signaled him to come closer. He came to me and stopped, looking at my face with an affectionate gaze. I touched his face with my palm and sniffed his hair, then I signaled him to get undressed. He took off his matching gray pajama shirt and pants and folded them on his bed. I grabbed him under the armpits and helped him through the window, waiting for him to sufficiently distance himself into the forest before I climbed out myself. I looked from side to side to see if any dogs were looking, and as I felt safe I guided him into the bush I came from. I put my hand on his shoulder and guided him forward through the thick growth, making sure he would not fall or injure himself in the darkness engulfed woods. We would not use the road, it was best to remain hidden. After a long and quiet walk I pulled on him to stop. We were home, and I began to prepare for my sleep. I sat him on the ground and pushed his head down into it, all the while examining his body for a suitable way to do this. Without hurry I approached my trunk and climbed inside to find a tool I had once stolen from one of the houses. Once I had it in my hand I climbed back out. I stepped towards the boy, approaching him from behind. Preparing the tool in my hand, I held him firmly to the ground. I placed the tip of the tool to his back and began to press. As it had pierced the delicate skin on his body I became excited. I cut him slowly, not to hurt anything vital. His skin was of no use to me and I merely cut it off, anticipating the more goodly tissues that lay under. I could see a puddle of his tears forming rapidly under his head, his slight shakings were beginning to get on my nerves. Once I had the lower back exposed I moved on to the ribs, getting rid of all the skin on top and carefully separating tissue from bone, being careful not to harm any of his organs as I was doing so. His mind was fully under my control from the moment our eyes met, but his body was still his and he could feel everything that I was doing to him. I spent like that an hour, cutting off his skin and gently separating flesh from bone when necessary, all to make it easier for me as I lowered my head towards his bare body. I licked his liver and was trying to decide what I should begin to eat first, the organs with no nerves so that he will not die from shock, or the flesh so as not to harm the vital organs? My mind had become preoccupied with the question only for a brief period. I turned him over so that his belly faced me, regretting that I cut open his back first. His face was wet with dirt and tears, his eyes were fixed on me with the same affectionate gaze. I put the tool to the remains of his umbilical cord and put it through. I cut down from there to the edge of his pelvis and curved the tool to the left, cutting up to his ribs, then right and down again back to the edge of the pelvis. I took off his skin and began doing the same to his chest. Once I finished with his torso I moved to his limbs, first the legs, then the arms. I stopped when I reached the feet and hands as I did not need to skin those parts. I lowered my head down to his belly and moved aside one of the ribs using my hand. I opened my mouth and licked my teeth, placing them on his left lung and slowly closing on it. Once the first piece of his flesh had fallen into my mouth, It no longer mattered to me how to begin. I chewed his lung carefully, breaking it down as well as I could before swallowing. As I pushed the salivated, chewed piece of flesh into my throat I felt a shudder running through my body, it was so delicious and warm that I was overrun with pleasure. I took another bite of his lung, and then proceeded to his thigh. His eyes were now beginning to close as he was falling into a state of shock. He could no longer bare the pain that I was causing him and was losing consciousness. I needed to eat him while he was still alive, so I set aside my indulging in the pleasures of the chewing and ignored how good his flesh had felt inside my mouth. I simply ate him, as quickly as I could, before the heart had stopped beating, so I could go back to my trunk and go to sleep. As I finished the last of his flesh, I made up my mind to eat his sibling in the next year as well. I went back to my trunk and climbed inside, all the time thinking about how tasty this boy was, slowly drifting into slumber, with the affectionate gaze in front of my eyes.

A Dead Man's Dream Log. I suppose our story-- no, my story begins several months ago. My name is Joseph, and I am twenty-three years old. My last name, frankly, is unimportant, and my first is yours to know just for the sake of putting a name to a character. Her name... was Alora. I woke up for work at the same time I always did, in the same position, in the same bed. I removed my arms from around Alora, attempting not to wake her. I was successful, and about this I felt much joy, maybe for the last time. My routine was simple, shower, shave, dress, leave without making to much noise. She had to leave for work two hours later, and I was sympathetic to the fact she didn't get much sleep. Looking back, I deem the long hours and conflicting schedules were what led our relationship into a steady, if not imperceptible decline. At my work, there was a girl by the name of Emmy. Emmy was a born flirt, and preyed on unavailable men, namely myself. Over the past few months she had made obvious signs that she was interested in me, and I felt the same attraction. I felt like I needed to commit some lude act, or I would die of boredom. With Alora, the only time she was not cumbersome to be around was when she was asleep. When we were together, things no longer had the same luster. My attraction to her had grown miniscule. I wasn't sure exactly why I had stayed with her. Maybe it was the guilt of leaving her because she was not as entertaining as she had once been. After work, Emmy and I would sit inside her car and talk. She would tell me stories that I honestly didn't pay much attention to, because my eyes were usually elsewhere. God, that girl could talk. After our one-way chats, I would grab a bite to eat at a fast food restaurant, then go home to watch TV and go to bed. In the morning, I would begin another thrilling installment in the life of Joseph. What was strange was when I got home that night, Alora was still in bed, asleep. I just assumed she had gotten off work early, and thought nothing of it. I ate my greasy burger, and before I was halfway through my usual mindless channel flipping, I was out. I woke up to a sticky note on the TV asking me if I had a long night. Alora claimed to had tried to wake me, but I wouldn't budge. She said she was sorry for sleeping all day, and didn't know what had happened. I smiled and walked to the bedroom to get my clothes for my daily shower, and I noticed she was in bed. I sat at the foot of the bed and tickled her feet, which was her most sensitive spot. It seems like everyone’s feet are ticklish. You should try it sometime. Anyways, she tossed and turned, kicked her feet, even mumbled a little bit, but wouldn't wake up. I shrugged it off and took my shower, and before I left I responded to her post-it. Alora, Tried to wake you, no cigar. I love you, see you when I get home. Joseph On my way to work, I listened to the radio and they played a song that Alora loved. I sung the whole song, which I was used to. Except, usually it was against my will and better judgment. Man, I hated that song. I got to thinking about all the things we had done that song, and why she would like it. I guess that was when I started to miss Alora. For better or for worse, she really could make a terrible song sentimental. After work, Emmy followed me to my car. I had a killer headache and hadn’t eaten in some time, so I was kind of moody. She called my name and I turned around, and that was all the time she needed to pin me to my car. I hadn't even unlocked my door yet. Typical. “Joseph” she breathed real heavy, like she had chased me. Which, she hadn't. I kind of looked at her face, then looked down. I figured it would just be another one of our “talks”. I was wrong. “What, Emmy?” “I'm tired of trying for you, and you not noticing me. I want you to get rid of Alora and be with me.” She look flustered, like I was offending her by not looking her in the face. Women. “Oh..” Was about all I could muster at the time. All I heard was get rid of Alora. “Well? You have to make your choice now, Joseph.” I kind of looked around. She put her hand on my chest, and pushed hard against the car, and put her face in mine. I can remember her cheap perfume perfectly well. Nothing like the smell of burnt rubber to get a man's attention. That's when it went down hill. I started to fidget, and I guess she was tired of my games because that's what she told me. Her hand went behind my neck and pulled me down to her. Her lips went to mine, and all I could do was mouth “Alora” as they covered mine. My heart went into a frenzy, and so did Emmy. She jumped on me, and I guess she was expecting me to catch her. Needless to say, I didn't expect her to jump on me, and she met the ground. This gave me enough time to cry out Alora, unlock my door, and receive a rather long string of derogatory terms. The drive home that night was the worst drive of my life. The only thing in my head was her name. I called it out endlessly, as if that would make her forgive me. Why I did this, I'm still unsure.. I didn't ever get the chance to tell her. I opened the door, walked straight to the bedroom. I had a sick feeling she would be asleep. I hate feelings. I crawled into the bed and put my arms around her. I cried into her hair, which smelt of strawberries.. They were her favorite fruit. I guess I fell asleep there. I woke up to a notebook on the foot of the bed, with Alora still asleep in it. Today was my day off. The notebook is still burned into my brain. It read as follows: Joseph, I've been looking into why our sleep patterns have been so off lately. I fall asleep at exactly every 12 hours, and I am assuming the same for you. I called my sister, and she referred me to a voodoo woman. She should arrive at noon, and I want you to let her in and tell her what's going on. She should have the materials she needs with her, and I'll be able to kiss you while your still awake in only a few hours. p.s. Why was my hair wet when I woke up? Your Love, Alora I was nervous and excited. I had two hours to kill before the voodoo woman arrived, so I went out and got breakfast. When I got back to the house, she was outside in her car. She got out as I did, and asked if I was the man who lived in that home. I nodded, and we walked up to the house, I unlocked it, and we entered. “This home has very dark energy in it. Your girlfriend has told me that a sleeping curse has been cast upon you.” She walked about the house, and surveyed every room. If you ask me, it looked like she was assessing what she could steal. “I haven't seen her awake in a week now. Can you fix it?” I was much to anxious for small talk. She nodded and opened her brief case. “Drink this, both of you, and go to sleep. I will stay for an hour to see that everything is alright.” We poured the elixir down Alora's throat, and I drank the rest. It was like drinking chalk, with the effect of drinking twelve bottles of cough medicine. I saw shapes and animals and things I know aren't real. Ever seen a skeleton with a Ph. D? My dreams were the most beautiful of any I had ever had. Alora and I were in an open field, at night. We sat under the stars, and I held her as she slept. Funny, even in my dreams she slept. I woke up and gave a big stretch, the sign of a long healthy slumber. I could hear the rain pattering on the windows. I looked to my side, and my heart dropped. Alora was still asleep. I tried to wake her, and nothing happened. I panicked, and called 911. The rest is really just a blur. I just remember that the worst drive of my life was the day before the worst ride of my life. I was in the ambulance with her. They secured her, but they didn’t hook her up to any machines. I thought that was a good sign. It wasn't, I later found out. I held her hand all the way to the hospital. I was in a daze as we got there. They took her too a room, and I wasn't allowed to enter. I called her family, and only her mother showed up. I guess later on, others visited, but I never noticed them. The doctor came in, and he told us that Alora had had an allergic reaction to the elixir the voodoo woman had prepared. Alora was now in a vegetative state. I blacked out. I woke up with my arms around Alora, in the hospital bed. I stared dumbfounded at her, trying to put everything together. I remembered the ambulance ride, the doctor.. Alora.. When you lose the love of your life, it's like losing yourself. When her family decided to pull the plug, it was like they pulled the plug on me more-so than her. I stayed in the bed for maybe a day. I cried all day, or slept. It felt like a fitting tomb. The only things in that hospital bed were corpses. The doctors would come by and say things like “That was true love.” or “He must have really loved her.” Doctors don't know anything about love. They think because they can save lives and touch hearts, they know what love is. All they do is watch it die. Eventually, they made me leave. I went home, and laid in bed awhile. All the memories came, and the notebook was still there. There was a message on the voice mail from Alora's sister about how the voodoo woman was a fraud. I couldn't help but smile. God really does have a cruel sense of humor. The bed became my only sense of comfort, because it held the final memory of the last time I had seen her alive. The last time I had seen her alive, she was dead.. I just hadn't known it yet. I quit my job, and took out all of the money in my savings account, and sold all my belongings, except the bed. I rent a small apartment down town now, with nothing but my bed, enough food to get by, and all the sleeping medication a family of elephants would need to overdose. The only time I can live is when I'm not awake. Because, in my dreams, Alora is still asleep.

Allen Larson lay sleeping, the ambient sound of rain as it struck the roof proving insufficient to rouse him. His rest was abruptly interrupted by a clamorous crash. Upon lethargically pushing the thick sheets off of him and listing out of bed, he made his way out of his bedroom with curiosity impelling him onwards. Other than the open front doorway, there was nothing to suggest that something had occurred; everything appeared as it was before he had dozed off. Having regained most of his adroitness he shut the front door and began heading back to his room, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed his parents’ bedroom door ajar and vacant. With that, the sound of screaming wheels filled his ears and his heart sunk as he became terribly aware that his parents had been abducted. Just moments prior a lonely van, headlights piercing the rain, approached. “Where are we headed this time, Zen?” “1835 Madison Av” replied Driver. “Reason for internment?” asked a member of the extraction team. “Political subversion, undermining the Labor Party’s policies,” responded the driver, “I’m sure you all understand.” As the van rounded the corner, Zen conferred with the driver; “Is this the house?” “Chip readings confirm that a Mr. and Mrs. Larson are present here, heart rates 35 and 39 beats per minute respectively; given the time they are certainly sleeping.” “Then it is a go” Zen confided within the team. In the midst of the night it was pure darkness as the van pulled to a stop. The streetlights were off (to conserve energy for the Glorious War effort), the rain was pouring, and neither the moon nor the stars were discernible amid the overcast. The back doors flew open, and the taillights, appearing ethereal as the red glow waned and revived, illuminated the conspicuous and unmistakable words “Peace Detectives” along the back. The strike team composed of six men, with Zen at point, purposefully yet delicately crept towards the door, their leather boots turning from grey to black as they absorbed rain. Once under the relative dryness of the porch they dried the soles of their boots so as to remain obscured. Their intel had told them that the couple were heavily armed and as dangerous to the strike team as they were to the Western Confederation, for which they served proudly and unequivocally. With great force, the group of detectives rammed the door off of its hinges and charged directly towards their living quarters, as indicated by the chip reader. Zen hastily opened the bedroom door and was passed by two detectives who, like clockwork, injected both the man and woman with a viscous serum before forcing bags over their heads and binding their hands to their legs, forcing them to contort awkwardly. Wasting no time, the two were dragged out, held by their bindings by two men on each side. Their faces scraped along the floor, and even through the bags over their heads blood made its way onto the wooden floor and asphalt street. The detectives flung the couple head first into the van and began to make their way towards the euphemistically named Reassignment Center. According to the records they had no living relatives, no close associates, no children. Thus, it didn’t bother them that they had left the front door open and driven off in a cloud of burning rubber. All citizens of the Western Confederation were required, under penalty of death, to be implanted with chips at birth to relay their whereabouts and statuses to the Peace Detectives, for their own welfare of course. They had only detected two chips in the house, and it was safely conjectured that the Larson’s would fade into obscurity, like the untold thousands of heretics before them and yet to come. Driving in the upper 80s the van progressed through the streets of Falton unnoticed. The 11 PM curfew, which was harshly enforced and monitored by the chips, ensured there would be no inquiring eyes. Few words were spoken between the detectives, and only after an extended interlude did Driver call higher up, confirming the acquisition and their current destination. Arriving at the gates to Reassignment, it took Driver the better part of thirty seconds to punch in the entry code, during which time a plethora of obscenities were muttered. A combination of intrinsically poor eyesight and fatigue compounded the problems that are normally associated with seeing in the dark. As the imposing gates opened and the barely visible Western Confederation banner barely flew, weighed down by rain, the group was overpowered by a sense of pride, the end result of lifetimes worth of Labor Party propaganda. After making the switch from pavement to gravel and bouncing on rough terrain all the way, the van ultimately arrived at Reassignment. Hidden amongst trees and a sheltered by a 200-foot cliff it was as unnoticeable as it was portending of agony. After parking the van and exiting with the couple, both of whom were still sedated, a man with penetrating eyes, gray hair, ashy skin, and wrinkles carved into his face that made all too evident his guilt, approached his fellow detectives and asked “are these the Larsons?” “Yes” replied the group, almost in unison. The man in turn glared at them, for it was Zen and only Zen to whom he had spoken. “Very well then” the gray haired man responded. Gesturing towards a metal door, he said “take them there, where they will be processed and dealt with accordingly.” As the sedative began to wear off, the two looked towards to ground, disparagingly and without hope. They had known the consequences of insubordination in any form, regardless of the cause, which was part of the reason they had joined the Reformation in the first place. To them, the chips were a sinister ploy to gain control over the people without their arbitration, which was why they had risked everything to hide the conception and birth of their child so that he would at least be absolved in his home. Of course, the despotic rule of the Western Confederation (which in reality was more of an oligarchy run by the Peace Detectives) had committed far more repulsive acts than the simple invasion of privacy. In attempting to divulge the tyrannous acts of their leadership (including the obliteration of the town of New Trent and each of its inhabitants) they had doomed themselves. Just beyond the doors their chips were taken out and incinerated, their records deleted, and their possessions seized. Officially, they had never existed. Following processing, the Larsons inched towards a glowing entrance, heat emanating and growing in intensity until it soon became a sweltering sauna. Now fully alert, they almost didn’t believe their eyes – gaunt men and women, now more skeleton than human, methodically forging weapons of war, burning incriminating papers, and some the targets upon which new technologies were tested. They knew they were finished, though knowing their son would live on kept their iconoclast souls intact. Allen did not appear distraught– he knew that one day his parents might disappear, for they were not ones to keep secrets. Remembering what his parents had told him just days earlier, he took a piece of paper out from behind a government-issued picture of a smiling Peace Detective and read it aloud; “In the case of our demise or untimely absence, pick up where we left off. However you can, make your way towards a Reform asylum, a trapdoor in between 1430 and 1432 Olany Road. There, you will find people who share in our hope for another future, free of this Confederacy.” Allen proceeded to cry, and then laugh irrationally. He sluggishly sauntered over to the old phone laying on his parents’ desk and called the Peace Detectives. “I have another tip for you, which I would prefer to provide anonymously. There is a band of saboteurs, Reformers, those who wish to lay waste to the Western Confederacy in between 1430 and 1432 Olany Road. Provide me with a month, that is all I will need, and I will quite possibly distinguish yet another source of subversion. May our pursuit be unwavering and without mercy.” With that, he nonchalantly hung up, gathered what few belongings he could carry, and stood at his front door, statue-like as an ear-to-ear grin broke out like a fissure across his face. It ends pretty crappy, skips around a lot and could be expanded on but I had to keep it under a few pages.

I met Kaylee at a party. She was standing in the back, trying to hide from all the excitement around her, but I still saw her. Casually I walked up to her, speaking the small and insignificant chatter people spout at parties like these. She laughed at my jokes and I smiled when she pointed out my worn out dress clothes. It was an couple hours before I found out she was married. I went to grab us drinks and I returned to find her standing with another man who introduced himself as her husband. My heart sank in my chest as he finished his sentence and my shock must have been clearly displayed upon my face. Looking at Kaylee, she didn’t look ashamed or embarrassed as if I should have somehow known this from the beginning. I smile and told him it’s nice to meet him and it was nice talking to his wife, but I really must be going. Setting down the drinks at the nearest table, I walked out of the party a rejected man. The next few weeks I seemed to see Kaylee everywhere. I wasn’t sure if this was new or she had always been there and I had simply started looking for her. I got good at coming up with excuses to talk to her, insisting it would be horrible for both of us to eat alone or just offering to buy her a drink. It was enough to get me in her life and eventually we exchanged phone numbers after deciding we must make a point to hang out. At first, she would only allow us to be together while in the company of her friends. It made me smile at the thought of needing a chaperone to keep us from misbehaving. Given time, we got to be alone after she convinced her husband I was “just a friend”. I wonder if she really believed that was true. I made a point to never allow her to view me as such, always telling her she was gorgeous and how sexy she looked in her new coat. If it was a lie she told, it had her husband convinced and that was all we needed. She would come over to watch movies at my place. She would sit next to me on my couch, far enough away to give distance, but close enough to tempt me to move closer. We would switch off picking the film, she would always pick one of her favorite movies and watch me as I watched the screen, checking to see if I enjoyed it as much as she did. I always played my part well, insisting it was one of my favorite movies and telling her the lead actor was born to play that role. On my nights, I always picked romantic films hoping to trigger some thought or feeling about me she might have been ignoring. When the credits rolled, I’d ask her how she liked it and she insisted it was very good. Perhaps we were both doing the same dance. This went on for weeks before I decided alcohol would go much better with the movies than popcorn. I poured her a glass and we turned on my movie, but this time we didn’t watch it. We talked. It was small things at first, but after a few drinks she finally admitted she had feelings for me. I smiled, feeling all the doubt about her I had wash away, and I told Kaylee I liked her too. As she smiled, I moved close giving her a kiss. She hesitated for a moment then kissed me back. After weeks, the tension between us was broken and the single kiss turned into passion. Holding her close I slowly stripped away her clothes, always watching her carefully for signs that she would change her mind, that the fairytale would end and she would disappear from my arms. I lied her down on that couch, which for weeks we sat silently thinking about this very moment. She moaned and squirmed like a virgin, but surely a married woman couldn’t be. Perhaps she had never really been satisfied. Despite my excitement and anticipation, I took my time, absorbing every moment knowing it could be the only time she would be mine. I held her close, kissing her neck, feeling her gentle breaths and quiet moans, causing my excitement to peak. We found ourselves in my bed. Never bothering to put our clothes back on, we felt no shame. I lie there gently running my hand through her hair as she slept, thinking about all the time and effort that went into that moment. How unlikely it is for her to be laying next to me. It was bliss. Momentarily bliss. The next morning I wake to her putting her shoes on and I knew our night together was finally over. I tried to think of words that would keep her from leaving, but nothing came. She walked out the door and I knew she was going back to him, to her husband, and I would lay there thinking how helpless in love I am…with a married woman.

I was assigned to write a dystopian short story for my English class, and I'm wondering if I was able to get my point across. Tell me what you think. They told us that time was to be sanctioned, and so it was. Not our time as individuals, but our time as a world. They say it used to be that time was set by nature, and we all know that nature is bad. It’s almost impossible to grasp that concept, though, of some celestial glow dictating day and night to us. It would be as if we are its followers, its worshipers. It’s good that that primitive age is gone. Imagine the chaos that would be caused if time were unregulated, based on the arbitrary guidance of some light in the sky. In those days, apparently, it would be a different time everywhere in the world, all at the same time. Chaos indeed. We’re fortunate that we live in the era of order. It’s good that They turn on and off the day. That way everything is in sync, everything is right. If They didn’t set the schedules, we’d all be at a loss. So it’s good that we have an order to follow. A human order, not some natural disorder. It’s comforting that They have replaced the natural system. Humans, They’ve told us, take comfort in order and rote. It’s quite fortunate, then, that we have our endless sequence of cycles to keep us consistent and coherent. Without the cycle, we know, all culture and civil order would be lost, and we’d revert to our barbaric, primitive past. The cycle is everything. Every cycle we get up with the light, and carry out our routines. Everyone goes about their regimen, all under Their guidance. Everyone goes through the shifts and then returns to their residence to prepare for the next cycle. And that’s the genius of the standardization: They’ve made it so that we can repeat our routines, cycle after cycle, without the mundane interruptions that plagued the primitive world. We are free from their distractions, providing us with the efficiency needed to run this complex world. Thankfully They do most of the running of the world. They keep us safe. Safe from ourselves. There have been some instances of people discarding their routines and living out of their cycles. That is very dangerous; those people always die. Nobody remembers the age before human time. It must have been countless cycles ago. They tell us stories of those days. There were people who were victims of acedia and sloth back then, and those are some of the greatest crimes. People would fight against other people without Them guiding everyone as one. It was the time before humanization. The only thing maintaining existence was the belief that one day, a new order would come and we would all live in paradise. It’s wrong, they say, to believe in anything that They have not provided for us. Thankfully that time of order has come, despite their sinful belief. Thankfully we have fallen into Their hands, for They are humanity’s saviors.

The air was cool and the night was calm. The moon glistened on the fresh snowfall. I rapped the door several times, not using the doorbell as I usually do. She greeted me with a radiant smile at the door adorn in a scarf and the bells of her snow hat jumped with excitement for what was in store for the evening. Our hands met as I helped her down the slippery stairs and, with no destination planned, we walked off into the moonlight. The streets were empty and the snow untouched. The night was ours. We had conversations about nothing, and reminisced about our days in highschool. Its hard to believe that after all this time we would become re acquainted with one anotherand inevitably fall in love. We reached the end of the cauldesac and I twireled her with my finger tips. She slipped on the ice. I caught her mid fall and pulled her close into a passionate embrace. Her eye lashes were kissed with snow flakes and her cheeks blushed from the cold. Time was standing still and neither of us were meant to be anywhere else at that precise moment. Our lips met deeply, in the cold of the night. "There has been somehting I need to let you know" I said with the taste of her lips still on my breath. "Is that so?" She said cheekly, positively glowing. "You may say its about us," I continued. "Go on" she said, with a smile. "Well, I got in one little fight and my mom got scared. She said, 'Your're moving in with your aunt and uncle in Bel Air'".

Now We Can All Remember He opens his eyes and looks up. His memories are faded as the amber glow washes away what he used to remember. “If only I had the keys to this city” There was a time when he would look up and see clearly. Everything would make sense and it became obvious he wasn’t so alone. But he knew at that time, he was most alone. He found comfort in the night sky. He was reminded that he was small. He couldn’t do much as a whole. His life was relative, and as long as he could keep the stars in the sky, he could fertilize the ground without remorse. But now the amber glow keeps him from his memories. He looks up to see nothing. It all abandoned him. He forgot what it means to see the big picture. Now he only sees the city he created. Yet even still, he does not hold the keys. “Things would be different. I could show them what it means to be happy.” The city was full. People of all sorts floated around. But he knew in his heart that they are pitiful. They let the stars fall. They didn’t see the impending doom and ignored his warnings. But now it was too late. He desperately tried to burn holes in the night sky, bringing back some of the brightness behind the pollution of the street lights and signs. He would roam the streets; asking strangers why they let this happen. He knew they had the answers. They knew everything, but they wouldn’t talk to him. He did an unspeakable horror and was not forgiven. The shadowy men would disappear into alleyways at the slightest sign of him. He was now alone, but this is not how he had intended things to be. There was a time when everything was planned. His constellations were chosen; their stories told. But the night sky had abandoned him. But not all hope was lost… “There is still one star.” On the night the sky fell, he had watched with tears streaming down his eyes as his entire world was bathed in a light of confusion. He was lost. It seemed to happen to him so fast. He thought about giving up and just living with the city. But he knew that that existence wouldn’t work for him. He needed something more. He searched and searched but nothing would show. He wouldn’t give up. He knew that it would only be a matter of time until something gave way. “But where should I look?” Around his feet, he saw glass figurines. The crafter that made them seemed lazy. The pulled glass looked vaguely like people, but his imagination had to do most of the work. He thought perhaps it was on purpose. He thought that the crafter did this so that they would praise his greatest work. With respect in his heart, he picked up one after another. Each figurine was different in its own way, but each of them still flawed in a way that made them ugly. Even still, he couldn’t break what this man had tried so hard to do. So he gently stepped around them and continued on his way. The city seemed full of glass. Everywhere he looked was another attempt at beauty. He became more and more frustrated as each piece seemed to become uglier. “You failed to hold the stars up… Just like me.” He had given up with the failed craftsman. Instead of hating his work as he moved from place to place, he decided to ignore it. While it became easier to look the other way as he walked, it became harder and harder to ignore his stomach. “I suppose it’s time for me to eat” He started wandering up and down alleyways, looking in trash cans and dumpsters for maybe one person who had some remorse for him. He worked and toiled trying to get in, but each dumpster seemed locked. His stomach was too much to ignore. Finally, after a year, he found one. Someone had enough compassion to leave the lock on the ground. A note was left for him telling him it’s time for him to contribute. He rattled through the dumpster looking for- something caught his eye. An old memory washed over him as he reached in. Another glass figurine... He wasn’t sure who put this there. He looked over it. There was something different about this one. While it was still flawed, there was something about it that made him happy to look at it. “The perfect imperfect design.” He held it in his hands and looked it over. He didn’t want to let it go. As he peered into the figurine, he saw a slight glow. He knew that he held an answer in his hands. A beginning. A place to bring back happiness. He began to lift up the figurine in the air; every muscle in his body told him to smash it. Take the light. Share it with everyone. But a sudden terror griped his heart Eyes were watching him. He could feel it. A shadow from behind the dumpster began to appear. He tensed up as he prepared for the onslaught. But as the shadow entered the light, he began to feel sorry. A small child, dressed in rags and covered in dirt, shyly approached him. The boy held out his hand. “Is this yours?” The small boy nodded and snatched it from his hands. The boy began playing with it. He began to wonder if the boy knew what he had. That dirty child had the opportunity to relinquish the night sky. What was he waiting for? The brightness of the figurine dimmed. The glow was still there, but it was tarnished. It was obvious the boy had no intentions of releasing it. “You can save this city, boy” I don’t want to. “What is keeping you from this?” The city is fine. It doesn’t need saving. Look, it’s happy, see? “No, it isn’t happy… Where did you find that figurine?” I waited for the other boys to finish playing with it. They made it all dirty, but I cleaned it up “But you’ve got it all scratched up, see?” Oh, it doesn’t mind, it’s said so itself. It’s happy with me, leave me alone. “You can bring about a lot of good with that you know…” I don’t care about you, I don’t care about your city, I don’t care about your sky, I don’t care about this pollution, I don’t care about anything! All I care about is this figurine. It makes me happy, and that’s all that matters. I’m never going to let it go. His heart was shattered. The figurine continued to dim. He knew he had to do something fast. Every time the boy turned his back, even for a second, he would whisper to it. “You can do so much more. You can save this world.” The figurine would grow brighter at his voice. It would glow at his touch. The star inside it wanted out. He knew it. He knew he could save it. But the boy would not allow it. The boy only gripped it tighter and tighter. The boy reminded it of how much work it took to clean all the dirt out of its crevices. He felt nothing but sorrow in his heart. He knew that the boy meant it no harm, but was just trying to keep it happy with himself. He knew that the figurine was better off because of the boy, but the boy only hindered it. He had to stand back and wait. The boy looked so dirty, but he couldn’t do anything about it. As he slept that night, he looks up and the night sky is still ruined under the dim lights of the city. The boy is beside him, playing with the figurine. He can feel the warmth of the star within the glass. He looks over at it as tears well up in his eyes… So much is lost… The boy looks at him with a sneer on his face. It’s mine, see? You can’t have it! The boy holds the figurine as tightly as he can, laughing and chanting at him as the tears begin to fall. The boy holds out the figurines in his hands, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. “You’re going to hurt it, stop!” The boy ignores his warnings and continues the assault on his heart. The glass begins to melt between the boys fingers. The glass molds itself and tries to escape. He can hear a voice in his head I’m done. The glass shatters. The boy gets cut. He smiles. The star approaches him. Let’s go save this world. The star takes the form of the figurine, only this time, it fixes itself. It is now perfect. The star takes his hand as they fly upwards. They’re now where they belong. Look around. He looks back to the ground. Tears begin to fall as the city remembers. They remember a time when the night sky resembled hope and structure. Every figurine breaks. All the stars return to the sky. And right next to him is the boy. The boy holds the hand of his own star. I’m sorry I hurt you. “No, you hurt you… I’m glad you found your own star.” I wouldn’t have found it. It was different from that figurine, but I liked this one even more. It glowed bright for me.

You walk through the doors, knowing it's going to be a bad night. The music's too loud and there are too many people. Everybody mindlessly dryhumping each other and with enough chemicals in them to think it's fun. You're not even sure why you came, your friends said you had to get out of the house for a while. They were "worried about you". Apparently it's possible in todays society to spend too much time alone. Even before everything happened you were a solitary man. Not awkward as such, you just happen to prefer your own company most of the time. There was talk of autism in school, borderline personality disorder, major depression. The list goes on, even to this day. Your friends herd you over to the bar offering a night of cost free ablution or if not ablution, then at least forgetting. Do you want to forget? Could you live without the memories? Would you be the same? You cheers the group, forcing a smile onto your face. Pulling out another mask to hide behind. The one used most often. "Happy" They take turns buying you drinks, trying to get you involved in a few little jokes. You can always make them laugh without trying. They seem to think this means you're brightening up. You do nothing to dispel this illusion. It's loud here. You're uncomfortable but the mask makes it easy to hide. Plus the affects of the alcohol are becoming stronger, perhaps it's time for a cigarette? Outside now. The air is crisp and you can see your breath after the smoke has left your lungs. This amuses you for some reason and for a split second a real smile shows through. Footsteps in the alley behind you. You turn. You don't know this man who is standing so close to you. He looks upset. You feel a warmth in your stomach. Perhaps this man is known to you after all. He turns his back on you. You feel cold. Your hand goes to your stomach. Your head tilts downwards. You stumble back, leaning against the wall. Slide.

There once was a dollar whose name was Bill. He was only a single but he came fresh from the bank so he came of as nice and crisp. He still had the scent of new money. His owner put Bill inside his wallet alongside many of Bill’s friends. He rested in the wallet for a while and he couldn’t see anything, but he could hear the sound of what he thought was a car engine. It must have been a couple hours, but Bill finally heard the car engine stop followed by the car door opening and closing. This excited Bill, he wished his new owner had arrived at a store so he could be spent, like the American Dollar Dream (ADD for short). As soon as Bill’s owner entered the building the sound of upbeat dance music came blaring through the genuine leather. When the wallet finally opened, the commotion that surrounded Bill overwhelmed him. At first Bill thought his owner was attending a dancing party, but he soon realized that only girls were dancing and the men just sat, almost emotionless, watching. He also saw that the women got money thrown at them while there were dancing. The idea of being spent like this left Bill horrified. After the dancers were showered with money, they picked all the dollar bills up and attached them to a part of their skimpy clothing. He would much rather be sitting in a wallet or even a cash register then attached to these filthy women. It all happened so quickly; Bill was grabbed by his owner along with a couple his friends and they were thrust upon the stage. He was forced to lay crumpled on the floor and watch his new owner dance around him while occasionally even stepping on him. Bill didn’t know what to expect, if his new owner was already stepping on him and not taking care of him he couldn’t even think of what she planned to do with him after she finished her exotic. His new owner finished her dancing and started to collect the money on stage like little kids after the piñata burst open. Bill hoped that she wouldn’t see him and would leave him on stage, but of course he could never be that lucky and was collected his owner. She took him to her room behind the stage and put him and the other money on the table in a pile with Bill on top. The woman sat down with her bag and Bill watched nervously as she fidgeted with her bag as if she lost something important. She then proceeded to pull out a bag of white powder and dumped the remainder of it out on the table where Bill was laying. Bill watched as she kept messing with the mysterious powder trying to form it into a line. He calmed down as he figured that she wouldn’t touch him for a while since she didn’t need to buy anything, but out of nowhere she grabbed Bill and started rolling him into a tight cylinder. She then put one end of Bill up her nose and the other end pressed against the white powder and began inhaling the white powder. This was the worst feeling Bill had ever felt in his entire life. The powder kept rushing through him occasionally cutting him and he kept getting this weird feeling that grew stronger with every cut. She finally finished all of the powder and immediately got up and left Bill just lying on the table slowly unraveling. Bill, who not that long ago lived as new crisp dollar from the bank, was now a wet, used, crumpled dollar sitting on a broken table. He couldn’t think straight and when his owner came back into the room she separated Bill from rest of his friends and put him in a drawer. His owner never returned to retrieve him. Bill had no other choice then to lie in the dark drawer until one day, he felt something. Bill felt this overwhelming heat that kept getting stronger faster. The drawer he occupied collapsed and he got a view of the room where his owner put him a month ago, except now it was on fire. He didn’t even have time to be afraid before the flames engulfed him.

He ran. He didn’t know what else to do. So he ran. Hard. He could feel the sweat trickle down his back and mingle with the cold air, causing a shudder to spread through his entire body. Or was it his entire being? Could something rattle a person so hard, that their soul would be vulnerable? The darkness formed a shell around him. He didn’t stop running. He couldn’t. He passed empty streets and silent households. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. How could anyone in his shoes? His legs felt heavy, but he didn’t notice. Was he running from tonight or was he running from his entire life? Was his entire existence the set up for a joke and tonight was the punchline? He hoped such questions would answer themselves, but all he heard were his own hurried breathing and sirens in the distance. Each gasp he took danced from his lips like whipsy, white flames; violently disappearing into the dusk. He knew it was cold out, abnormally cold for the time of year, in fact, but he didn’t feel it. His feet kept moving. He tried to remember the last time he had gone this far past the township limits. He came up with his failed attempt at running away when he was seven. He was given a good beating for that. This was another kind of punishment. This was worse. Outside the dreary haze of street lights and city sounds, the sky became brighter, almost like something he’d see in a movie. He became aware of the silence as well. His heavy breaths echoed across the deserted landscape. Each huff and puff absorbing into the pavement, each bead of sweat evaporating into the dark. He noticed that he had started trotting. A rush of pain flooded into his side. His legs became jello. He coughed, hard. He came to a stop. He felt like he was being crushed. He forgot about his prior conflict. He sat on a rock and looked around. He didn’t recognize where he was, but that didn’t surprise him. His feet hurt, his side stung, his lungs burned, yet, he was at peace. He sat on the rock and listened to the sound of nothing. His breathing slowed and he the sharp stabbing in his side subsided. He stood up and saw an orange glow to the east. A new day. Then he came to a realization. Nothing will stop tomorrow. It will come despite today. He took a deep breath and then He started walking back the way he came.

The Cuckoo is a Pretty Bird It was late in the morning and the sun was high. Mary had some mud on her cheek, it was dry and cracked and felt good when she picked at it. There was an orange stain on her and chin from rubbing a popsicle on her sunburned lips. She laid the popsicle on the step of the porch and it began to melt. The porch was unattractive, Mary thought. The new white paint had already started to bubble. There was a spilt ashtray on the ground, next to a solitary chair with one short leg. A rusting bicycle with two flat tires, hung from hooks, next to the door. Beside the porch was Mom’s old garden. Mary remembered the modest chrysanthemums and the bright cosmos that bloomed only once a year. Dad hadn’t tended to it in three months; there were long weeds and the garden was wild now. A short breeze pushed the front door open and Mary could hear noises from inside. She leaned back and peered into the house. Her brother sat on a stool in the middle of the naked living room. He was barefooted. Aside from dinner and church, he was always barefooted. There was a sixth toe on his left foot that hurt to fit into shoes and gave him a small limp. His guitar sat in his lap and Dad stood behind him, instructing. “I know it’s on the bottom, Tom, but we call it the top string.” It was Dad’s guitar but he had given it to Tom for his birthday. Mary shut her right eye and watched them. Dad took the instrument from Tom and began twisting the pegs. He’d twist the pegs and pluck a string. Twist. Pluck. Twist. Pluck. Twist. Pluck. He handed the guitar back to him and Tom smiled. “You haven’t lost another plectrum, have you Thomas?” Dad used Tom’s full name when he was upset. “This is my last one and its special to me, take good care of it.” It was a fine pick made from strong wood, Tom smiled again. Mary looked away, her right eye was still shut and she spit on the ground. “Motherfuckers,” she whispered. “Fuckers. Fuck. Asshole. Crap and Shit.” Another breeze came and she closed both of her eyes. She relaxed the muscles in her brow and pointed her face towards the sun. “Motherfuckers,” she repeated. With her eyes closed, Mary tuned out the sounds of her brother and dad. She listened for the cars passing and for the neighbor’s dog bark. She heard the pine needles fall from the pine tree and land with a sharp and heavy clang on the tin roof of dad’s tool shed. There was a cherry tree across the yard and she tried to listen for it, but it was silent. Her grandpa was napping, with the window open, in his room upstairs. He was humming an old song in his sleep and when the tune reached Mary, she hummed along. One day in the spring, Grandpa pulled Mary out of school. She thought his car smelled like a handful of dead leaves or one of the big books on his bookshelf; he smoked cigarettes but let her roll down the window, so she didn’t mind. They drove for two hours and finally stopped at the coast. They crawled around on the tide pools and Grandpa threw rocks at a crab. They walked up and down the beach collecting seashells and Mary found a coyote skull. Grandpa said it would be alright to take home as long as she hid it from Tom and her father and didn’t tell them he’d taken her out of school that day. When they got home Grandpa cleaned the skull and Mary took it to her room. She glued beads to its face and a quarter between its eyes. She put it in an old shoebox and stuffed it one of her drawers. Mary opened her eyes and looked at her watch. It was 11:55. She knew Grandpa didn’t wake up until 1:00 from his midday nap. She sighed then spit in the dirt. Mary heard the cuckoo before she saw it. She knew it was the cuckoo from his call; the short whistle, the sad hiccup that she loved. She loved this cuckoo especially. He had a nest in the cherry tree in the backyard and she remembered him by his great size and the uneven markings it wore on its chest. Just one week ago Tom had caught a small lizard in the back yard. He dropped the lizard into his shirt pocket and quickly climbed the branches of the cuckoo’s cherry tree. Though, on ground, Tom’s foot made him lame and weird, he was agile in the tree and climbed beautifully. He sat on the highest branch and kindly took the lizard from his pocket. He looked into the lizard’s fast eyes and started talking to it. He told the lizard his big secrets that he couldn’t tell Dad or Mary. He told the lizard that he didn’t like dad’s rough face and the bathroom smelled and that he missed mom. He turned the lizard over and, with his thumb, rubbed the blue colors on its soft underside. He kissed the lizard on the top of its head and held his hand out flat so he could better examine his new friend. Tom’s head shot up when he heard the cuckoo’s bark. In an instant the cuckoo had the lizard in its beak. Tom held on and the lizard’s tail broke off in his hand. He watched as the cuckoo carried his pet across the yard, dropping bits of his guts and parts of his legs to the dry grass below. He looked at the squirming tail in his hand and, because he was gentle, began to cry. Now, Mary watched the great cuckoo, perched on the telephone wire. Ants had gathered around the melted popsicle and one was crawling on her ankle. She slapped it off and spit twice at the rest of them. She stood up and walked toward the bird. His call was loud today and she tried to mimic it. She pursed her lips together and forced an airy whistle. His call grew even louder. “Cut it out!” Mary heard her grandpa holler. She looked toward his window and saw him sticking his head out. “Grandpa,” you’re up early, today!” Grandpa smiled, “It’s that damn cuckoo bird, I can’t get no sleep!” Mary looked at the ground and picked up a rock. “Get out of here you damn cuckoo bird!” she yelled, “You old asshole!” She threw the rock and missed, but the startled cuckoo shook its body, flapped its wings and took off. Grandpa laughed and his head disappeared back into his room. She looked back at the bird with her right eye shut. It was flying over the house, back to his nest. Mary spit. It had happened very fast and the cuckoo lost some of its feathers in the excitement. Mary picked one up, it was red and brown and she put it in her pocket. Mary walked into the house. Her dad was in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch and her brother was in the bathroom. The guitar was leaning against the stool and the guitar pick was on the middle of the seat. Mary picked up the pick, the zebrawood was warm and felt nice in her hand. She took it to her room, opened her drawer and threw it behind the shoebox next to the rest of Tom’s lost picks. She took out the shoebox and lied on her bed. The beads and quarter shined brightly on the coyote in the early afternoon light of her room. She rubbed her glue stick on the nose of the dead animal and stuck the cuckoo’s feather to it. The toilet flushed and Mary lay on her side. She placed the decorated skull in front of her and listened to her father scold her brother. “What do you mean you can’t find your plectrum, Thomas? You just had it!” Mary smiled and the sunburn on her lips cracked. She looked at her watch. It was fifteen minutes past noon and she wondered if Grandpa would be getting up later than 1:00 since that damn cuckoo bird woke him up.

the pitfighter's guide to the galaxy *Things were different in my day, thought Buster Knuckles, glancing up at the impressive array of Silverware on the shelf of his study. He took a gulp from the coffee mug, dwarved inside his right hand and jabbed at London's unluckiest 'touchscreen' computer with his left, scanning through the exhaustive roster of athletes. He keyed over to another page, glaring at the five empty fields on the Intergalactic Fight Federation entry form. "Thank God for that."* In hindsight, it is quite amusing to consider the people of Earth's reactions when the news of iminent first contact filtered through. Scientists stood expectantly, revellers readied for revelry, religious figures piously prayed or wailed hysterically, linguists got out their phrase books, businessmen got busy and amabassadors amassed. Nobody thought to pack their sports kit. First 'contact' was actually a misnomer, being that it was, as always, mediated and facilitated by the digital-ether class beings. Forms of life that had, by device or design, transcended our physical world and existed as immortal, barely fathomable clusters of consciousness. Communication was made via holographic display in which all manner of spacey things were explained (in what many felt was a slightly cursory manner) until the subject of sports was broached. The real 'first contact' came in the form of a swift left hook. It is now known the rules of galactic engagement, when a civilisation is developed in technology and philosophy and deemed to be moderately peaceable or merely 'a bit feisty', the digital-ether give invitation to join the intergalactic federation. This enables civilisations to share knowledge, philosophy, ideas and insults. Trade and physical interaction is nigh on impossible given the massive physical distances between worlds that can only be traversed by the digital-ethers, and they don't much like the idea of ferrying round lumps of dirt for inferior species to squabble over, furthermore they refuse to be responsible for genetic contamination and subsequent annhilation of worlds (after the B-3633 incident). More importantly, it gives them the opportunity to watch creatures sportingly knock the crap out of each other. By coincedence of his hollywood retirement and the interception of our day to day doings by these other worlds, buster was hailed as the benchmark. It was decreed by the folks of planet Earth that buster was the man to represent the lads to represent our entire planet in this galactic punch-up.

When I was growing up in Limerick my mother had to go to the St. Vincent de Paul Society to see if she could get a bed for me and my brothers, Malachy, Michael, and Alphie who was barely walking. The man at the St. Vincent de Paul said he could give her a docket to go down to the Irishtown to a place that sold secondhand beds. My mother asked him couldn't we get a new bed because you never know what you're getting with an old one. There could be all kinds of diseases. The man said beggars can't be choosers and my mother shouldn't be so particular. But she wouldn't give up. She asked if it was possible at least to find out if anyone had died in the bed. Surely that wasn't asking too much. She wouldn't want to be lying in her own bed at night thinking about her four small sons sleeping on a mattress that someone had died on, maybe some that had a fever or consumption. The St Vincent de Paul man said, Missus, if you don't want this bed give me back the docket and I'll give it to someone that's not so particular. Mam said, Ah, no, and she came home to get Alphie's pram so that we could carry the mattress, the spring and the bedstead. The man in the shop in the Irishtown wanted her to take a mattress with hair sticking out and spots and stains all over but my mother said she wouldn't let a cow sleep on a bed like that, didn't the man have another mattress over there in the corner? The man grumbled and said, All right, all right. Bejesus, the charity cases is gettin' very particular these days, and he stayed behind his counter watching us drag the mattress outside. We had to push the pram up and down the streets of Limerick three times for the mattress and the different parts of the iron bedstead, the head, the end, the supports, and the spring. My mother said she was ashamed of her life and wished she could do this at night. The man said he was sorry for her troubles but he closed at six sharp and wouldn't stay open if the Holy Family came for a bed. It was hard pushing the pram because it had one bockety wheel that wanted to go its own way and it was harder still with Alphie buried under the mattress screaming for his mother. My father was there to drag the mattress upstairs and he helped us put the spring and the bedstead together. Of course he wouldn't help us push the pram two miles from the Irishtown because he'd be ashamed of the spectacle. He was from the North of Ireland and they must have a different way of bringing home the bed. We had old overcoats to put on the bed because the St. Vincent de Paul Society wouldn't give us a docket for the sheets and blankets. My mother lit the fire and when we sat around it drinking tea she said at least we're all off the floor and isn't God good.

Click, clack. Click, clack. The sounds of metal against metal reverberated through the entire ship as the captain walked towards the guard rail on the starboard side. Every other step the captains prosthetic leg stuck the ships metal surface and rang out. From just below the knee a metal contraption attached to his leg. Hinges and blots dotted the device and ever few steps a release valve opened and steam hissed out. The device was solid bronze and extremely heavy and as such, it required a lot of strength to take a single step, much less walk across the ship. He continued his difficult trek until he reached the railing. Leaning against it he looked over to his right and saw one of his passengers staring out across the night sky. She stood there silent, not even noticing the captains presence, completely enthralled by the view in front of her. “Its beautiful isn’t it?” the captain said, breaking the silence. The female passenger could only manage a nod and did so without breaking eye contact with the view. The captain gave a small chuckle. “I used to be just like you, the first time I saw all of this” he motioned with his arm, swinging it about. Hundreds of feet below them the giant city spread out in every direction, seemingly never ending. The snow capped mountains that sat in the center of the city shined as the sun just barely peaked over the tip of the highest peak. The setting sun cast enough light to see the city as it feel asleep. And just enough darkness to see the stars coming to life. Their light brightening the night sky. “When I first saw it I knew that I would never be able to go back. And I haven’t, I have called this ship home ever since.” the captain said after a few moments of silence. The female passenger pointed down to the ships running through the rivers that cut through the city. and spoke for the first time “They don’t even know what they are missing.” she said almost in shock. “And that is the way of things, you never really know what you are missing until you have held it in your hands and you wonder were has it been your entire life.” The captain sighed. “I have meet so many river boat captains who say that airship travel is impractical and unorthodox and unsafe. They neglected to mention it is beautiful.” “The airship is a relatively new invention, compared to boats. New is scary, and new is confusing. They say that only the foolish mess with the scary and confusing.” he gave a quick laugh “And as such, I am a fool among fools.” The passenger looked at the captain and asked him. “How did you first come to fly on this ship?” she asked. “Ah.” he sighed “Now there is a story. Have you ever heard of Jeremiah the Mad?” the captain say the lack of recognition on the passengers face and continued. “I assumed as much, he was way before your time. Anyways, Jeremiah was a captain like I am myself on board a very similar vessel such as this one. Only he was not a captain of a passenger vessel, he was a thief and a murder and was greatly feared through out the water district.” the captain paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I suppose you can see were this story is going, my family owned a shipping company. The Eastern Trading Company as it was called back then. My family has just commissioned the build of a new line of passenger ships and the first one was ready for its maiden voyage.” the captain stopped once again and leaned against the railing, his mechanic leg hissing. “My father thought is was a good idea if my family and I were on board the ship for its voyage. The first night of the voyage the ship was attacked and boarded by Jeremiah the Mad and his crew. We fought back and they killed my family. I lost my leg.” He raised his mechanic leg as he said this, then continued his story. “I was twelve years old.” he said quietly. The passenger next to him stood staring with her eyes wide open. “Oh my god I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. The captain gave a small smile. “The past is the past, no use feeling sorry for what already happened” he said. The passenger stood silent, not saying a word. The captain then turned and started to limp away. Click, clack. Click, clack. As he walked away the passenger realized he never answered her question. “wait!” she yelled “you never answered, how did you come to fly on this ship?” The captain stopped and turned around to face her. “But I did tell you, you are standing on the ship that used to belong to Jeremiah the Mad.” he said. “What?” she said in shock. “how did you get his ship?” “That is a story for another time.” he answered. He turned and continued to walk away, leaving her in absolute shock. As he walked away he spoke over his shoulder. “Best be getting under shelter, a storm is picking up” he said as he disappeared under the deck. The passenger just stood in shock watching the captain disappear. She turned and faced the guard rail and ran her hand over it, whipping dust off it. Something caught her eye. Looking down she could faintly see a symbol scathed into the railing. It read.

George Bentley does nothing. He never wakes before midday and usually not before one. When he wakes he usually spends at least an hour just lying in bed trying to muster the energy to move. Today was no different. After a restless hour his aches and pains force him to drag himself from his bed and he slowly lumbers through his dark room, identical to a thousand other student-halls across the country and headed towards his bathroom. George relieved himself and only vaguely considered his aim. The bathroom was small equipped with just a sink, mirror and shower cubical. George looked into the mirror and saw a gaunt man of about twenty with dark purple bags below his eyes, he looked very tired. He staggered back towards his computer no more awake than when he first he was first stirred more than an hour ago. George briefly considered heading to his kitchen to make some food but paused when he thought he had heard his house-mates pottering about. He did not have the energy to face he rarely had the energy to face them. To call them house-mates was ludicrous because he hardly knew them and didn't have any desire to know them. They either were loud, laddy and brash or they were pompous nerdy and obnoxious either way he detested them all. George glanced towards his supply of weed a pile of about two grams sat in a small metal tin. He would have to try and contact his dealer soon, he didn't have the energy for this either. George put this to the back of his mind and began to gather the necessary equipment needed to roll a spliff. Ultra-thin king sized hemp rolling papers, hemp tips for roach and American Spirit tobacco for smoking mix. George quickly produced a spliff conical in shape with a twisted end. He sat back and admired his work before searching his messy desk for his red clipper. Eventually he found the lighter beneath a pile of chocolate bar wrappers and sparked up the spliff. Smoking made George feel almost normal again and indeed soon after finishing his smoke he headed for the kitchen ready to face anyone who might be there. He strode quickly and confidently towards the door not even pausing to listen for his house-mates. Once he left the room his confidence seemed to slip and the relief was evident on his face when he found the kitchen to be dark and empty. George stooped down to rummage through his cupboards which were barren except a tin of beans a pot of pickle and half a loaf of bread. George stood up straight his eyes glazed over and he walked quickly towards a dirty grey sofa which sat beneath a large bay window. His hand reached for the red clipper in his pocket, toyed with it for a second or two before sparking it twice. A tall bright orange flame leaped from the lighter and George moved the lighter to the sofa which quickly caught alight. George ran. The building burned.

(Note: I'm a very inexperienced writer, and this is all I have since I started writing it at 2am in the dark while I couldn't sleep. Be slightly gentle?) I know pain. More painful than a physical pain, harder to endure than death itself at times. The notion of a love strong enough to ache for the sweet linger of shadows where he has once walked, the urge to enclose his face in my hands and touch his lips to my own, the craving of his fingertips lingering on my skin, brushing by with little idea of the intoxicating effect. The way his eyes quiver with tears at my own pain, the golden tints reflected back in his. Empty inside, lacking a piece of myself when he’s gone. The gentle embrace of his arms, keeping me safe in his towering protection, the soft eloquence of a single breath belonging to him graze my cheek. These are the things that make it harder to let go, to release him for even a second, when he wasn’t even mine to begin with, somehow lucky enough to have found a sense of ownership, but yet more of an equality, like a single being. Love ignores ignorance, love does not care who you are. Love disregards everything else, it drives you to the edge of insanity at times, but it’s always worth it. Love isn’t just for the lucky ones. It does not, however, happen to just anyone. So if you ever get the chance to love, if you were given the opportunity, the gift of love, don’t ever throw it away. No matter what, don’t give it up, because it may never come again. The sad truth is many people who were chosen for something so beautiful don’t hold on to it, for petty, stupid reasons. Too many times I’ve seen people give away a precious gift that was probably the best thing to ever happen to them. I just wish people would understand. Words could not dare describe the growing pit of despair growing in my heart. The thoughts clouded my mind, pulling away the possibility of focus. I impatiently drummed my fingers, just waiting for another heart crushing event. He slid into the room wordlessly, a look of sadness replacing the smile that usually resided on his face. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. I only shook my head in reply. He took me once again in his arms, drawing me back into my warm, towering safety. He released me with a soft chuckle. “What?” I asked with a hint of wistfulness behind my usual monotone. “Nothing, I was just thinking.” “About?” “Well, I was thinking, ‘If we aren’t accepted here, maybe we should go somewhere else’.” “What do you mean?” I inquired. And then every hint of humor left the room with the next words that escaped his mouth. “Run away with me.

I told her it was amazing and that she has a talent, but she sometimes doubts herself, and considers me biased because we're dating, but I truly think it's a gripping start. It may have some grammatical and spelling errors, but please, I'd love to hear your opinion. “What are you drawing again?” I asked five-year-old Madeline. Madeline looked down at her paper with the big jumble of colors and giggled. “I think it’s a dinosaur now. It used to be a bird.” I nodded and watched her carefully select another crayon out of the big box on the floor. We were sitting on our back porch in the middle of September. September, 2186. I lied on my back to look up through the trees at the sky and Madeline started singing to herself. Grandma would want us to come in for lunch soon and Madeline would want to feed hers to the dog. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The wind blew my hair around my forehead. Suddenly everything was shaking. I sat up in alarm and Madeline stopped singing. We both looked up at the trees, which were being abandoned by all of the animals that lived in them. “Bristol…?” Madeline whispered in a shaky voice. “We have to get inside,” I replied, standing up. We waited there a few moments more, mesmerized by the haunting scene of the quaking earth and the leaves that were being shaken from the trees. I snapped out of it and turned to Madeline, pulling her to her feet. “NOW!” I yelled over the sound of the rumbling. She pulled away from me, grabbing her drawings and throwing the crayons, which had been scattered all over the floor, back into the box. “Madeline! We don’t have time!” I tried to grab her, but she yanked herself free and continued gathering her things as quickly as she could. I looked at her helplessly before dropping to my knees and hastily helping her collect her crayons. It was getting closer. “Madeline…” I whispered, defeated. A feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I knew this feeling too well. I couldn’t place it, but this all felt very familiar and I was getting more uneasy every second. “We have to leave the rest. Madeline, please! We must go inside now!” Madeline cradled her box of crayons and drawings and rose to her feet. Just as she was standing, something long and black wrapped around her waist. Madeline looked down in confusion and then back up at me. I frantically reached for her, trying to pull the mysterious thing from her waist. She dropped her box and tried to grab me; tried to keep herself on the ground, but it was too late. The long black arm was lifting her off the porch. “Bris!” Madeline screamed in terror. She was held horizontally above me, looking down in fear. I was yelling her name and jumping, trying to reach one of her ankles or hands, trying to bring her down. My hand got a hold of something, but she was pulled into the sky, screaming. I started crying. I yelled up into the empty trees, now free of life and nearly leafless. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HER?” I kept yelling and sobbing until my voice was weak. I looked around at the piles of leaves on the ground that had not been there just minutes ago. Then I remembered. There was something in my hand – something I had grabbed when trying to reach for her. I tried to steady my breathing as I looked down. The picture she had been working on, the bird/dinosaur, was slightly crumpled in my hand. Bristol opened his eyes to find his pillow soaked with tears. He flipped it over and wiped is face dry. This time the memory was from eight years ago, when he and Madeline had been visiting their grandmother. Madeline was only five and Bristol was seven at the time. He looked over at his clock. It was 4:27 in the morning. For eleven nights in a row, now he had the nightmare. It was always a different, random memory and the way she was kidnapped always changed, but no matter where, when or how, each nightmare had two things in common: Madeline was always there, and she was always taken. The night before, they had been at the fair with their father – a memory from five years ago – and she had been whisked away by big men in black suits. In reality, Madeline had disappeared almost two years ago, when she was eleven, but Bristol’s mind was distorting memories from years before that and coming up with the strangest ways for her to have been kidnapped. He sat up and looked out the window, down at the cars passing by. He wondered what people could be doing and why they were out and about at such an early hour. Bristol lived on a busy street and no matter what time it was, there were always people, all rushing to get somewhere. He pressed his forehead to the window and watched the condensation appear and fade away as he breathed. For the past 20 months, no matter where he was or what he was doing, there was always one question pushing its way to the front of his mind – always wanting an answer. Would he ever see her again? A faint sound snapped Bristol’s attention away from the street below. His mother was crying in the next room and his father was whispering words of consolation that he couldn’t make out. Bristol sighed and lied back in bed, staring at the ceiling until it was time to start the day.

Warning: an amateur here. This is my first short story that I'm publishing. My grammar isn't the best and neither is my spelling. Just wanting honest feedback. This is rough, but if I have the potential to get better, please let me know! Today I was awoken from my dreamless sleep by the cry of my child. This is not unordinary as he is an infant. He cried for a minute, maybe less. As I struggled to gain consciousness from my deep sleep. The time on the clock flashed 9:48am. Without fail every morning, he will cry. I sludge into his room next door, the ribbon tied to his door knob lay straight. Silent. I turn the knob, just an inch. No more than that to glance a peek. "It's a gift to see your child when they are unaware of you." I say absently to myself. There he is. Eyes wide with wonder for what is to come of today. Sleepy eyes, yet wide and brown. His head casually turns left in my direction, blinking, then right. He whimpers. "is he whimpering for breakfast? For more sleep? Possibly he just wants out of his crib to play and investigate all his toys spread across his room?" I ponder. The floor creaks at where I stand. I step back to hide my face through the small crack in the door. The perfectly round head peaking over his crib and big brown eyes snap in my direction. Its too late. He saw me. A loud whine escapes his small soft lips. A cry for his mama. "He wants me? Before his breakfast? Before his toys?" My heart floods with love. I make my way slowly toward his crib, smiling. My arms stretched out, I reach for my boy. His arms stretch just as far as they can go to reach mine and his cheeks turn rosy. His eyes no longer seem tired. His lips no longer whimper cries. He smiles.

~Some say kids don't study ~ they cram God damn hate that I am what i am ~ Depressing urban music played from the radio of my bright orange Paradise Corporation taxi. I put the taxi into first gear and pulled away into the air. We weaved left and right, dodging the factory chimneys that polluted London's night sky. A giant advertising hoarding danced in the peripheral of my vision. Advertising these days was ever present and always personalised. I turned to look at the advert, it wouldn't disappear until it had been acknowledged. The garish Paradise Corporation's logo and its associated theme song rang out. The advert offered me the chance to fly to one Saturn's moons. Just twenty thousand dollars. With the advert acknowledged it disappeared, it would not be long before it returned. I glanced into the mirror and took a good look at my fare for the first time. It was a six foot tall talking Crocodile, dressed all in black. He was growing restless. It snapped it's jaw and snarled “Turn that shit off!” I quickly shut the radio off, not wanting to chance losing my tip. I studied his face again it was obvious what he was thinking. “A human driving me? And a women to boot.” I focused my eyes back to the road. London was beautiful from up here, sadly it was a different story back on the ground. We reached out destination. Paradise Airstrip Thirteen hovered a mile above London casting a permanent shadow on the city below. The crocodile departed leaving no tip just a sarcastic message telling me to get a real job. Easier said than done I thought. It began to rain.

Heyoo everyone. This is a story I wrote for my intro to creative writing class. I'm thinking about double majoring of maybe minoring in the subject. If you could let me know what you think of the story that'd be very nice of you. Thanks. p.s.--brutal honesty is encouraged Baby Ray Raymond was my little brother. We called him Baby Ray until he was old enough to tell us to shut up, and after that we just called him Ray. The same year Ray was born my parents got us a dog. A huge Bernese mountain dog named Theodore. Theodore was the coolest dog ever. He grew to mammoth proportions, but when he was a puppy people used to think he was a stuffed animal. Without a doubt, that dog was the motherfuckin’ bee’s-knees. He was the smartest dog I ever met. I know everyone thinks that their dog is the best, but Theodore really was. Ray used to ride atop him like he was a horse, pulling his ears like they were reigns and screaming with laughter. I swear he understood English perfectly. We would ask him, “Where’s Mom?” and he’d lead us right to her. It even seemed like he understood the jokes we made, howling along with my brother and I as we laughed at whatever stupid joke the other had made. Walking Theodore was considered to be a “chore”, but my brother and I both enjoyed the activity. We’d switch off days of the week for who got to walk him. It was my favorite part of the day. Just me and Theodore, walking down the street. Straight chillin’. When Ray and I got older we would roll up little joints and walk Theodore to the woods. Once we were there, we’d smoke and take him off the leash. While we lazily strolled around the woods, Theodore would run ahead. He never went far though, always waiting for us and staying within eyesight. Whenever we got a bit too baked and got lost, he always could smell his way back to the car. That dog was awesome, and we loved him like he was a long, lost third brother. I was 16 the day that Theodore died. I was playing my favorite video game, Crash Bandicoot, on PlayStation, when I heard a scream coming from the front yard. My mom was out there gardening, and I knew there was nothing in the yard that could make her scream like that. I jumped off the couch and ran outside. Theodore was lying dead in the middle of the street. Apparently a car had whipped around the corner too fast and had hit him right in front of our house. He died right away. I was kneeling in the road next to his body before I realized that my mom was doing the same thing. Except she was kneeling next to my little brother, a pool of blood gathering around his head, Theodore’s leash still gripped in his hand. The way I felt about Theodore was pretty similar to the way I felt about Ray. Just the way Theodore was the best dog in the world, Ray was the best little brother in the world. He was a hilarious little kid, and was oddly wise for his young age. Even though I was two years older than him, I often found myself going to him for advice. He was one of my best friends. That all changed after the accident. Ray had suffered brain damage and entered what the doctors called a “vegetative state”. This turned out to be permanent. Years went by. Ray made no improvements. He was a vegetable, in a coma. He responded to nothing. No blinking, no head movement—nothing at all. I couldn’t stand to see my little brother like that. The kid who had once schooled me at Super Smash Bro’s, who I had taught to shoot a basketball, was now breathing only with the help of machines. He would never walk again, or laugh, or do any of the cool shit we had always said we would. One day, about 3 years after the accident, the doctors came in the room to discuss something with my mom. This was weird, and signified to us that something important was afoot. My brother had a whole slew of doctors that attended to him, but never had they all been together in the room at the same time. My mother and I were sitting next to my brother’s bed when they walked in, reading the newspaper to him. My mom believed that he could hear what was going on around him, and that he especially enjoyed the paper. When he woke up, she reasoned, he would want to be up on current events. “Excuse us,” the most senior looking doctor said. “Could we have a moment?” The doctors asked me to leave the room so they could speak to my mother, and obviously, I refused. If there was something they had to say about Ray, then they could damn well say it in front of me. My mom agreed. “He can stay,” she told them, although they clearly weren’t happy about it, judging from the looks they shot each other. They kept it short and sweet. “Ray’s been with us for three years now, and he hasn’t shown any sign of improvement. He is in a permanent vegetative state, and will be that way for the rest of his life. You may want to consider taking him off life support.” My mom took this a lot better than I thought she would. It was because she fully held onto hope that my brother would one day wake up totally fine, as if he were simply waking up from a really long nap. Every morning she started her day thinking, knowing, that that would be the day my brother was sitting up in his bed waiting for her when she walked into his room. Every morning, my mom woke up at 6am and got ready for the day, which consisted of sitting at the hospital. Every single day, she sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair next to Ray’s bed. Reading, talking, and praying for her empty shell of a son. Her life had turned into a constant observance of my brother’s horrible state. She was trapped in her refusal to accept the truth—that her baby Ray was gone. I had come to terms with the fact that my brother was basically dead, and I knew he would have accepted and agreed with that fact. I knew he would have hated what his “life” had become, and would not want to exist in such a way. I was able to move on with my life because of this. My mom couldn’t. That’s why I decided to pull the plug.

I heard about SUNY Maritime through ambush. I was woken early one Saturday morning at an insulting time by my mother. She told to get up because we’re going to see a college. I hadn’t visited any schools yet and this was October of my senior year. I didn’t even ask where I was so sleepy. I simply put on a heavy coat, took a blanket and pillow and lay my six foot wide frame in the back seat and slept. At some point in the five hour ride from D.C. to New York I remember waking up and asking where we were going, she might have said more but all I caught was New York. I remember thinking, “cool, that’s perfect, far enough, close enough,” and then falling asleep again. She woke me just as we approached the Throggs Neck exit. I recall being bewildered by the unfamiliar street and having to ask somebody for directions from his car. We weren’t to far, and lowering the window after all that time let in the sea air – it was fantastic even if it was the Hudson. We took the turn down a long narrow back street, the only way in or out for that matter. When we finally came to a small round about with a giant stone wall opposite us with a connecting lever gate. At the entrance stood a guy in uniform, dress blues (how I know thee well). I had neither the heart nor the will to tell my mother after such a long drive I wasn’t going to do military school. But we still drove down the street, which ran along the northern side of the peninsula. At its widest it couldn’t be more than a hundred yards wide save a narrow strip the stretches out called the point. What I then thought to be a mile but later would learn was about half was the road we traveled on, a strait drive to the back of the school then back around again in a circle. From there it was your standard college open house, lots of bewildered and shy highschoolers shadowed by there parents. As a black kid I instantly noticed how few of me there were. We crowded into an auditorium to hear them ejaculate onto us and then tell us how it was the best ejaculate because it was a maritime ejaculate. I expected as much, then they asked us to divide into groups for the first half of the day, I remember thinking, I could do that in an hour (I actually would, often). We were taken through boring halls and standard classrooms. Two things of note and the only positives of that place: The Fort Schuler and the waterfront estate, damn I loved that water (never got in it though.). Then we were told to divide into our interest, I picked naval architecture. I loved to draw then and wanted something similar to my interest, but almost picked something else when m mom suggested it. Glad I did though, I walked into one of the classrooms in the science wing of the S & E (science and engineering). I saw a girl there with the last name Porshe, I don’t know why but she stuck with me, not particularly hot, little bit of a flat face and a sharp chin but it played well to me. After they made jokes about the courses they basically said you don’t have to be in regiment to take this major. Regiment being the uniformed students, there was a minority of non-regimental ‘civilians’ that attended the school with out the hassle of regiment. But Porshe was regiment. We left the room and I recall wanting to make friends with the one guy who spoke up in there for the highschoolers just to be like “hey, you’re not the only fearless one among us,” but I couldn’t think of a reason to start a conversation when he was in front of me when they were filing out. We followed this with lunch, where I interacted with another prospect who was a total meat-head lax-bro who made vast proclamations about himself and what he’d do if he came there. (He did, and he sorta held true to the work out goals; what else do you do when you have a cheating gf, only weekend leave, and near no attractive girls. Not to say the girls aren’t talented, but they can’t help there anatomy. Another lesson I learned after enrolling). We separated from our parents at this point, they said they wanted to separate us like we inevitably would be on the day. Just champion stuff these guys, eh? This is when they drove home that the regiment is tough, fair, and easily manageable. I already lived most of the lifestyle, save the working out part, with all the private schooling I was ready. By then it was time to either tour the ship or leave, I was tired from all forced ejaculate they kept pinching my nose to give me so we left. My mother and I still left that place with an overall good view. Sadly fo future me, I knew that was to be my school the moment I saw the water.

So, sometimes, I wonder if I did the right thing. The most striking moment was brief. But it was so shocking, so powerful, that it still haunts me. With clarity. One facial expression, omnipresent. The set and slant of the brow, the furrowing in sync with the three quick movements of the pupils darting, processing the news in search of understanding; a quick reality-check to make sure this wasn’t a dream; and, finally, searching for an escape. His mouth attempting three times to find words for the concept, for the emotions that exploded within, for the pain and dread. Words his brain wouldn't provide. And then there it was. Tears formed, and his face became that of an eleven year old boy trying to be a man. A face of silent resignation fighting against a show of weakness and pain. - When we had first met, she was in, bad. I inspired her. She quit. We had problems. Bad problems. I don’t think we dealt with them in the ways that normal people do. Sometimes it was less constructive, probably, sometimes more, maybe. She cheated. We reconciled. We were growing up. It started when we were seventeen. In our twenties we left town. I don’t know if things got worse, or if we just wore down the same nerve endings for so long that it seemed worse. She cheated again. I didn’t know what to do. Where was the line between allowing myself to be used and insulted, and becoming possessive and jealous? A question seemed to jump out at me from everywhere. In my apartment, which never felt safe and inviting but instead either felt like a prison or a tomb, the question knocked on the door and echoed in the walls at night. From my frustrated and angry family who watched their son and brother drop to dark and painful lows, the question was in arched eyebrows and tight-lipped frowns and the occasional quiet, breathy muttering. It jumped from all the beer bottles of my single friends and from every pretty girl that smiled as she walked past. “Why do you stick around?” Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. How could I know? How could I trust? How could I be comfortable and happy again? How could I leave when I didn't know for sure? When she cried and begged me to stay? When the difference between knowing and not knowing was a decision between staying in spite of my pain only to be used and depressed or leaving and breaking the heart of a girl struggling against her demons in a genuine attempt to improve herself? How could I stay in spite of the rumors? How could I leave and withdraw my support and love? What would happen to me if I stayed? What would happen to her if I left? What would happen to Eric? I stayed because it was the right thing to do. Because somewhere I believed that if I could be better, things would get better. I worked hard to provide. I worked hard to be in good humor. I worked hard to show affection. Don’t yell. Don’t judge. Be supportive. Encourage her to go out with friends. Encourage her to get a job. Nothing changed. She cheated again. And then it was too much. Her life was her own. I couldn’t be responsible for keeping her afloat anymore. Whatever mistakes she would make would be her own. I couldn't be her self-appointed psychological bodyguard anymore. She would have to face the consequences of her own actions. But what would happen to Eric? - By the look on his face you might have guessed that I told him his hamster had died. You might have guessed that a favorite toy had been broken, or a zoo trip had been cancelled. That look of dread and sadness – of anguish – and helplessness, it should never be associated with an eleven year old child. I knew that look, and the most heartbreaking aspect was the fear. - After we broke up she was back in our hometown within two days, settled in with her mother. Two days after that her new boyfriend had settled in with her. It hurt, but I wasn't terribly surprised, and besides, this isn’t about me. She was back in. Bad. I wonder how blind I was. I wonder if she ever really quit. She bounced back and forth between the old town, and the new town. Shipping, probably. She looked worse every time I saw her. I tried to talk to her, to remind her that she could choose to be different. We are who we choose to become. She didn’t care. An addict’s primary function is always addict. Of course she was arrested. She avoided prison, somehow. She’s in Christian rehab for a year. I tried for nine years. I never locked her in a basement and read her the bible, though, maybe brainwashing will do the trick. In the meantime Eric stays with his grandmother, and me on weekends. And sometimes, I wonder if I did the right thing. - So a couple of weeks ago I had waited around until around nine a.m. I could leave town and do my route and end up in the old town around one, drop him off and be home by two-thirty. I walked into his room and turned on the snake’s light. I shut off the DVD player that had been repeating the Futurama title screen for who knows how long. I shook him gently and said “Eric. Hey Eric, wake up, buddy.” His eyes opened, he looked miffed for a second, then cocked his head as if to ask me what was going on. Eyes wide, but barely focused. “My route ends up in the old town, I need to take you with me so I can just drop you off and not use up more gas to drive all the way back again.” By the look on his face, you might have guessed that I told him his hamster had died. The face of an eleven year old boy bottling up what he couldn't change. Trying to be a man. It was the look of someone pleading against the universe and enduring an internal struggle against the titan of agony. It was the looked of the condemned. Just the look on his face scared me. I asked him what was wrong; he said “nothing.” I asked him “you don’t want to go home?” He said “No.” “Why?” “I just. I-“ Tears now flowed from his eyes. His voice cracked and whined. “They just yell at me." I know their tempers. I know their ways. I know their alcohol intake. It’s no place for a child to grow up, just look at my ex. I raised Eric for nine years to be willful, intelligent, curious and free. I want him to feel safe and happy. I know what its like to feel unsafe, to tread lightly, to fear the reactions of people bigger than me. I know what it feels like to lose hope. I do the best I can when he is here with me, but I don’t have any power to help beyond that. “It’s ok,” I said. “Just hang out here, play the xbox or watch TV, I’ll be back to get you after my route.” “No. I’ll go with you," He was shouldering a burden that wasn't his. "I don’t want to cost you money to drive back and forth too much.” Tears shot to my eyes. I help up a scolding finger and started to talk, but my throat refused. I had to reset myself and swallow the emotion before I could get the words out, “No, that’s – you don’t worry about that. What I make and how much I spend is my concern, you let me worry about it. Money is garbage next to people.” Now *I* was fighting back tears and trying to be a man, and for a moment maybe Eric and I had the same expression on our faces. I gave him some money for lunch and went about my work and all day my thoughts raced and scattered and collected and formed visions and memories and near the end, in the middle of a field of tall milo, alone and invisible, I cried. I sobbed into my palms like a child. I wanted the day to stop. I didn’t want to have to go home and tell him that it was now time to go. I didn’t want to have to deliver him into unworthy and dangerous hands. I felt like I was being forced to deliver my little boy to the gallows. And sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing.

     Slowly, quickly, coldly he spoke to his mother. "Fine," he would say. "You're not my mother," he would say. It hurt her, but she knew it was only the function of his young mind. She had understood him. She knew what he wanted and she gave it to him. And he was off to experience the world. Motherless. "But he would be back," she thought. "I'll see him again," she would say. And so her life went on.      But the pain she had was not quenched by her mind's reasoning of the events that took place. She knew why he had left, but she wouldn't lie to you or to me. It hurt her and she wouldn't hide it from us.      The first day I saw her after he came back I didn't recognize her. You wouldn't have either. He just walked back in. She had missed him, but he had left her broken.      When the last drop of water leaves the cloud the cloud is not gone. It is simply empty. It understands that this is the cycle: grow up, rain down, grow up, rain down. It wouldn't argue with the cycle. She wouldn't argue that things hadn't happened for a reason, but the rain poured when he left. Her understanding soon escaped her. She thought he would be back sooner. "Today is the day," she would say. She talked to the pastor and he agreed. "Any day now," he would say. They hoped together.      That day that I saw her I could tell something in her had been restored, but she was not like before. The rain had poured down but I didn't see her being filled up again. I only saw a foggy mass, sitting in her house, wondering when the water would come to fill her again. So she sat, she cared for him, and her life went on. "My little boy will be back any day now," she repeated to herself. But he was not. She didn't know who the broken down man sitting on her couch was. She knew he needed a mom, but she knew not who he was.      One cloud, raining into another. So who fills up the first cloud. I wonder. The pastor said, "Jesus, of course." She said, "Yeah, Jesus will fill it up." So they waited for Jesus. The empty women with her son. He was empty too. He was a tropical storm. He wouldn't hold onto what she gave him.      She laughed and she smiled. She remembered her boy. She remembered how she had understood him that day. She told God that she was ready, and that she had run out. The fog disappeared. The boy lived on, and so would she. She would live on with the boy. She would watch him change. And she did. "So that's how the cycle works," she exclaimed. I hoped that she had finally found what she needed, but I wouldn't be the one to know. Neither would the pastor. Only the boy. He would speak and we would listen, but we would never be sure. But the cycle goes on.

A Fat Family Once upon a time, in lands much similar to ours there lived a family who were extremely obese. They were actually so fat that with each step they created deep impressions in the soil beneath their feet. One hot, dry summer afternoon the family thought it would be a good idea to go to the nearby lake to cool off in the water. The walk was long though, so they decided to eat an extra big breakfast before they went so they would have enough energy to reach it. It included bacon and eggs, sausage slices, waffles and pancakes glazed over with copious amounts of sweet syrup, biscuits with jam and butter, eggs benedict covered with creamy homemade hollandaise sauce, and to wash it all down, a huge glass of fresh cold chocolate milk. After their feast they set out towards the refreshing lake to relax. It was quite a walk for them, maybe not for one who is fit, but as the sun relentlessly beat down on them from above it felt as though you were being hit by a thousand arrows of fire. The sweat started trickling from every pore, their skin screaming for anything that would quench the heat, and each step being heavier than the last caused the dry sandy ground to be stirred filling the air with grit. It was almost torturous but the desire for the lake had taken over their minds, almost as if they were hypnotized and there was nothing one could do to escape. Finally after coming over a hill the lake was visible; it had a crystal blue colour with the sun creating thousands of sparkles it seemed like a lake filled of diamonds than that of water. The moment they saw it they started waddling towards it as fast as their small feet could move them, the earth trembling beneath their weight making the trees shake. One by one they all flopped into the water, creating huge waves and they started swimming out as far as they could. Due to the amount of fat in their body swimming was actually quite easy due to their buoyancy. So out into the lake they swam, further and further away from shore until one of them looked back and noticed that he couldn’t see land anymore. In fact not only was land nowhere to be seen but they didn’t even need to swim, the water was carrying them at a pace faster and stronger than they could swim until they were tiny dots in the horizon. Supposedly the fat family was never to be seen again but some have claimed to see deep footprints leaving the shore, the lake however actually rose one inch the day the fat family went for a swim and it has never gone down since.

Gary was a southern bell. He was of average height, a bit slim and full of dramatic flair. Gary lacked the grace and figure of a woman but damned if he didn't nail the catty nature. He was always finding something to be upset about, some bad news to spread to the world. The sky was always falling, the apple always poisoned. If there was something to be made of nothing, Gary found it, spun it and made an intricate web of foreboding and doom. Being the harbinger of bad news always grabs attention, people hag on your words and ask for more, it makes you important. Growing up in a religious, anti-effeminate-men atmosphere wasn't the easiest childhood, but Gary found strength in the unlikeliest of places. God was Gary's protector, the only one who loved him for who he really was. God knew that Gary was more than a squirrelly boy with a southern drawl. God knew, just as Gary did, that he was more than that, more than everyone. It was this reason that each Sunday saw Gary sitting in the front row of his small-town Baptist church. Gary wasn't interested in making friends at the church, he was polite but he kept to himself, no-one could know the real God the way Gary knew him, they were all clueless. Flamboyant and fumbling, it was Gary's greatest wish that his outside demeanor would reflect his inner self. That one day he could be someone of power, someone who garnered respect from their peers and subordinates. It wasn't until his early thirties that he achieved his goal in the form of a promotion. He had made it, he was a manager. Gary had always worn a suit to work but now the suit was a uniform, now it meant something. Now when he went downtown, to the main office, he would sit at the big table with all the other suits and he would belong with the respected ones. Alas, somehow it still wasn't enough. There was still someone sitting at the head of the table, someone who all the suits looked at, whom everyone listened to. Gary never made it to the head of the table, as a matter of fact, his job was eliminated a few years down the line and he ended up back where he started, unnecessarily donning a suit to work and telling the world about how it was all going to end. Each word he spoke still came out with the speed of molasses and the twang trademarked to his home state but there was something hollow about them. There seemed to be something missing from his words as if they lacked enthusiasm despite the fact that he said every utterance with just as much drama as ever. Perhaps his words had not changed but it was his audience that no longer found him relevant. Whatever the reason, Gary never amounted to more than an over-anxious, fairy with a God complex working in middle-management and pissing his paychecks away on suits, and trendy furniture from IKEA.

There aren't any clocks in these smoky underground poker clubs but I know it is well past 4 A.M. I should have left hours ago but why leave when you've got nowhere to go, or even if you did have somewhere to go, you don’t have anyone waiting for you when you get there. The room is silent except for the hypnotizing sound of chips endlessly being shuffled, stacked, and reshuffled. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I've gotten too relaxed, and it's never a good sign when you're the guy falling asleep at a game. It means you've been there too long, or you've had too many to drink, or you've got too much on your mind that you’d rather forget. If you asked which one it was for me, I’d tell you I had flopped a set. One by one I look at the people sitting around the table and I wonder what they could possibly be thinking. I should know, I really should, but I don’t. Maybe I can chalk it up to a bad night caused by a bad day involving a bad woman and a lot of missing money. Maybe that’s not completely fair to say, but it’s fair enough, especially about the money. While I’m looking at everyone in turn I realize that everyone is staring right back. I feel like they can see right into my blackened soul. I lower my head and try not to make any further eye contact. Any player worth a damn knows what it means when you can't spot the weakest fish at the table, and tonight, all I see around me is a circle of sharks. I’m not sure if it’s the bad card or the liquor, but I’m losing, the thought makes me I feel sick. How many shots of whiskey had I put away? How many busted draws? I keep asking myself these pointless questions, but all I’m doing is trying to distract myself. I haven’t even been thinking about the game, not really anyway. Poker is poker. The worst that can happen is you wind up too deep and the club owner has to threaten to break a few fingers if you don’t pay and actually do it if you can’t. What I’m really doing is trying to make heads or tails out of my real problem by ignoring it. If you’ve ever lost something, you might know that the surest way of finding it is to not think about it. With a little luck the answer will present itself. "Action's on you, bud." The dealer says. So while I’m not to think about the blonde from the church, I missed the fact that the dealer had even dealt the next round. Which explains why everyone and their mother were eyeballing me. It’s obvious that no one here much likes a fella who slows down a game. It’s been my turn to either place a bet or fold and they can see that all I am doing is staring at the felt with a blank expression on my face. The fact is I've been caught unaware. Good cards or not, if I play this hand, any action I take now will easily and thoroughly be picked apart. Even though I’ve never met any of these guys before, I feel like they know me. I think they got my number, and they know what I’m going to do before I do it. I’ve had this bad table image all night. Call me crazy but there’s no reason why that should change now. It occurs to me that it might work with the blonde too. Maybe I should just do exactly what she expects? For my own reasons though, not hers. It might just work. I sigh and give an apologetic smile. "Fold" I push my cards into the muck. They’ve been watching me like a hawk and they all know I didn't even bother to look at my cards before I tossed them. Most of these guys, they just see it as me not even caring or wanting to win. They think it’s a stupid thing to ditch what might have been a pair of aces. As I threw my cards away, the disappointment in the room became so strong that I could feel it in my bones, if you can believe that. It’s exactly as I hoped. Hell, I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. Fact is, every one of these sharks, they smell the blood of dead money. They’re eagerly waiting for me to put my foot in the water so it can be bitten it off. But what they don’t realize yet is that their hunger is an advantage that I have over them. While I’m dangling my foot, inviting the bite, I’m thinking about how I’m going to beat them all to hell with it. Ditto that for the blonde. The next hand is dealt. Just like before I don’t even look at my cards. I just continue to stare at the felt. This is Poker. “Back on you, bud.” Time to shake things up and see what falls out. As for the blonde, the thugs, and what they stole from me, well, I’ll deal with that after I take these fine gentlemen for all they are worth. I still haven’t looked at my card. I don’t need to. I know they’re aces. “Call.

I'm not a poet or a writer The title of this is called 'Something Beautiful' I've censored some names and details Something Beautiful If you have received this by now either: (1) something has happened to me,(2)***** , for whatever reason, decided to go back on her word to look through and read this along with anyone else who might be reading other than the intended purpose of giving it to you that I had already explained to her. Throughout the years that we have all known each other I’m glad to have had the opportunity in my attempt to try to know you. You probably know where I’m going with this but I’m going under the assumptions that you knew all along at some point that I had taken a liking or had feelings for you. This all started back when all of us took a trip to Austin and from there on out you know the rest: military ball, celebrating July out in the country, botanical gardens, movies….lots of movies….swimming parties, ice skating, and many other adventures of Tom and Jerry. I wanted to make things clear just in case there is no misunderstanding and through all the evasive, shy, and discreetness that I’ve known you for and for good reasons, I can certainly understand why. Perhaps I was coming on too strong, I don’t know, I’m a guy, I certainly didn’t want to make you feel pushed in a corner although when we first started to hang out it was awkward but I didn’t care. Eventually I got used to it and enjoyed the awkward silence just to see what would happen, bits of small talk and conversations here and there eventually broke the ice. As to why I had these feelings is pretty simple. You are completely the opposite of what I want. You can take it however you want but it doesn’t matter because I’m not here anymore and there is no one else to get mad at. And if I am still here and you are reading this, shame on you **** and anyone else whose reading this. I’m about to list the reasons based on my years of knowing you and my conclusion at best, like I said before, you can take it however you want ….For shame *****. …The opposite of what I want, ‘want’ has such a negative meaning, how about ‘need’ or ‘like’? •Outgoing, social, funny, sense of humor, aggressive, assertive Those are my main conclusions at best. *****, what I mean is that you are just being you. I have insecurities just like anyone else, somehow I get the sense that you are afraid to show something, something beautiful, it can be scary, well maybe you’re not scared, you just choose not to, I don’t know, your body language is hard to read and sometimes come off as ‘rejection’ or ‘refusal.’ I can see it by the way you are around Tanya, feeding off of her, but that’s what sisters are for, to look out for one another and there’s nothing wrong at all about it. What I’m trying to say is that is what I like about you. It’s not hard, it’s very simple, I mean REALLY (but I could be wrong), you are simple. I don’t have to go all out of my way just to have an agenda, it’s either a yes or no which saves a lot of headache. I’ve always thought under the assumptions that you knew about it, I would just wait, waiting to see your next move. I never really expected an answer from you, just waiting, curious. Talking to Alicia long ago she told me that you already knew about my feelings and told me that it was better to stay friends. I don’t recollect that we had that conversation at all and I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that conversation if you had told me. But now that I knew, it didn’t really bother me that much. I continued on just like I had been, nothing had changed. If you can remember we went hiking at the Buffalo Reservation walking around trails. Nice weather, walking alongside the river bank, and taking pictures. Nothing but peace, quiet, solitude, but also moments of awkward silence but I didn’t care. I contemplated to myself the whole time whether or not I should tell you how I felt. That moment when we were on top of the hill looking over the landscape, sitting on the bench eating Subway, the sun shining and a subtle breeze for a compliment. Living in that moment I decided not to, I held back. For some reason it wouldn’t seem fair to you at all. I didn’t want to push you in a corner. So in that moment of pure joy and bliss I let it go because in the end that was all I ever needed. It didn’t matter if you knew or not, what mattered was living in that moment of happiness, for me at least. I’ve been asked many times what my true goal or intended purpose was, luckily you have some very caring friends who were looking out for you. My goal was not to get you to like me at all, although it would have been ground breaking accomplishment and an awesome bonus, I only wanted to understand you and see if you were willing to be open. Who knows, 5, 10, or 40 years have passed, maybe you’ve forgotten about me, maybe you haven’t. If you feel the need to burn this because it has been sitting somewhere on your shelf, drawer, attic, storage box, or wall and is a constant reminder of me than do so, I don’t want to hold you back. Carry on with life. Just know that wherever you are in life and through all your insecurities you’re not alone. This letter is proof that someone once cared for you, longing for your affection. You are the opposite of everything I ever needed and ever dreamed to want, something that I could never have nor dare to have possession of.

I will love you if you tell me how to write better :) It certainly was a great accident. There I am, lying in a hospital bed and in coma. I thought this was going to be different, you know. I didn't think that when you're about to die, your sole leaves your body. But it's not like I'm transparent or something, the only difference I can see is that my brown hair looks a bit blacker, and my skin looks more white. So now I'm there, half dead in the bed, and here, standing besides the bed, looking at myself. My mother sister and father is also here. Clearly they cannot see me. They're crying. Maybe there is a way to come back to life? It has happened, people have waked up before. I walk over to the window. It doesn't look like the city I live in. I turn around, looking at myself. Maybe I could go around and see if there are other souls walking around. The hospital corridor is empty. Not a single patient or doctor. Nor is there anybody on the floor below. I can't spot another living, or dead, anywhere on the way down to the main floor. Except from my mother, my father and sister. But they're still with the half dead me. There, on a bench outside, is there an old man with grayish clothes and a long beard. I walk over to him. "Why are there nobody here" I ask. he old man looks at me and smiles. "Because you're the one that's dying," he answers, "But you're wondering why you can see yout family?" I nod. "Because they mean the world to you," he smiles again, "They are the most important you have in your whole life, so you'd like to see them, don't you?" At that moment, I realize something. "Why are you here, then? I don't think I've ever seen you before." This time, the old man doesn't answer. He stands up and starts walking. I follow him. "Where are you going? What am I going to do?" I ask nervously, "Hello? Wait!" He steps into a red bus, and sits down in the driver's seat. I stop in the doorway. "If you wish to go on, to leave this life, you will travel with me on this bus," he tells me, "But if you'd rather go back to your life and your family, you must run, You must run as you've never run before". Now I realy don't understand. "I have to run? Will you tell me where I have to run? I ask. He start the engines, and I take a step backwards. I'm standing on the street now, looking into the bus. "Run back to your family. But remember this; if you stop running, you won't get back!" At the same time as he is finished talking, he starts driving, slowly. I turn around to run. Running as just a soul is much more exhausting than running as a living body, with a proper body-soul-combination. I am already so very tired. But I cannot stop- I will not take the risk to stop. I keep on running, just like Alice did when she and the Queen ran. Even though I run as fast as I can without having to stop, it doesn't feel as I'm making such progress. When I finally reach the entrance to the hospital, I can see a doctor. And another one. And a person that could be a patient or just a visitor. I feel like I'm moving a bit faster. I reach the first flight of stairs. And soon enough, the second one. I slow down, exhausted. I tell myself that I cannot stop now, I've come so far! So I run more. Third flight of staird is behind me, and the only thing I have left is a very long corridor. In contrary to when I walked out of here, the corridor is now full of people. Doctor, patients, and visitors. There is a name on the door at the end of the corridor. "Jim". That's my name. And it's the room where my body lies. I reach the door, and try to open it. Instead of opening, it stays shut. And I crash into it. I fall backwards on my back. My eyes are shut. This means I stopped. But I couldn't stop. What happens to me now? I almost start to panic. I sit up, leaning on my elbows. I'm not on the floor anymore. I'm in the hospital bed. My whole family is there. Through the door comes a man, the old man, but in a doctor's suit. He smiles. "You made it, how are you feeling? Tired?" He fixes something on my head. I feel my forehead. I've got a bandage. But I'm absolutely and completely alive. You can have many reasons to run. But this, this would be my favourite one.

P.O.V. of Tyler (Mostly) Sandra stared across at Tyler through the small fire. Her eyes seemed to glow with a strange menacing essence. The fire roared and flickered in her small green eyes. The tension between the two was clear. However, Tyler couldn’t read Sandra. She was as clear as solid wood. Tyler felt tense. They were surrounded by miles of forest, in the cold night. No one could hear anything except for him and Sandra, and there’s not much to hear when you’re dead. Suddenly; Sandra opened her mouth slowly, as if to say something. She closed it and glanced over at the tent, grinning. Somehow, outside of the fire’s glare, her eyes seemed to grow with a more malevolent light. She turned back to Tyler, this time right in the eyes. “I have a surprise for you, Ty.” She said, with a cheerful nickname as if they were old friends. Really, they were both escapees, only together for matters of survival. She turned before Tyler could read her expression. She stood and walked to the tent. Tyler heard some clinks and other miscellaneous sounds. Then, when it appeared she had found what she was looking for, she came back, holding something behind her back. She handed him a small box. It wasn’t anything special, just a dirty old Thai food rice container. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, leaning to the fire. “Blow out the candles..” then, she blew with all her might on the fire, sending flames rolling Tyler’s way as they dissipated, the fire extinguishing. He reached out to feel a box-like shape sitting in the ash pit. He picked it up and folded it open, fumbling his hand inside. The only thing on the inside besides a few grains of old sticky rice was what felt like a folded piece of paper, but no light to read. He realized he was alone in the light, with Sandra. Of whom he knew nothing about. Crazy, mysterious Sandra. He gripped the paper, his heart beating wildly out of his chest. He felt something tap his shoulder and he shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry Ty.. But one of us has to eat.” He heard a soft, recognizable voice whisper. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his back and made no attempt to wail, knowing it was hopeless- who would hear, and why would they care? Blood gargled out of his mouth as everything he knew started to vanish. People say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but it doesn’t. It disappears, everything you know, to the point of insanity. You forget what’s happening and all that’s going through your head is; ‘I am about to die.’ Managing to struggle to words, he choked out through all the blood, “I’ll never forgive you for this.” Sandra smiles in the dark, and then something wet drips on Tyler’s head. Then he realized; she was crying. “You won’t have time to fret on the past in hell, Ty..” She whispered, as he closed his eyes, just to never open them again. Candy and Pepper strolled through the woods when a morbid smell wafted through Candy’s nose. “Gosh, what’s that awful smell?” Then, suddenly she realized as they approached it; a body, pieces of skin torn off, blood splattered everywhere, as if someone appeared to attempt to consume it. The person was obviously a man. Folded in his hand was a small piece of paper. Pepper leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it, softly reading it to himself. 'See you soon, I figure I can’t live off you forever. I’ll never forgive myself, either. In our short time together I grew attached, but my life came before you in my eyes, Ty. Love, S.

If you play by the rules, it will only keep you out of trouble. I am in trouble. Tonight is my last night working for Multiple Services. I have not been fired yet, but when my supervisor reads the email I sent her in the morning, I will be fired for sure – I am sure of it. I used to do security at the Pearl district but I was recently transferred to American Plaza Towers. My new manager has a different set of standards. My dark brown boots being one of them – security 'officers' are supposed to wear black boots. But that's not the problem. Tonight I am on shift with Emily, the graveyard guard. I am working the D shift, which intersects with her shift. I am not with her right now. Her shift has a lot more responsibilities than mine. I am in the lounge room, lounging. I don't need to worry about doing any checks because she has the 'snitch stick' – it's a little stick we poke into little tags that prove that we are working. I am at low risk of being caught in here, the lounge room is closed during this time of night. It doesn't matter what I do. I will be fired in the morning anyway. Currently Emily is doing some tower checks. She is only required to do one tower check a night, but she does multiple for 'brownie points'. No one ever gets promoted. Well, unless someone gets fired or dies or quits. A lot of people recently got fired because... 'they are not with us anymore' says Gerry, the supervisor at APC. Emily was not at liberty to tell me why, but it has something to do with 'vices'. I needed to take a shit. I was already in the lounge room so the bathroom was so close I basically just took my pants down. My ass wouldn’t cooperate with me —the last little bit hung in between my butt cheeks like a hand trying to catch a dollar bill falling to the ground. I hate this, being forced into vulgarity; I want to let go of the turd. My butt thinks the turd is valuable, I guess. The women's bathroom next to me started making noise. Emily must be relieving herself as well. I finished long after she did. I left the bathroom unclean because the toilet finally clogged. Maintenance can handle it in the morning, fuck it. When I left, I saw Emily at the exit of the room, holding the door open waiting for me to leave. I walked out, uncomfortably — I didn't wipe enough. She locked the door behind us. I entered the elevator. She joined me. I pressed the button to the basement with plans to hang out in a storage room and read. She pressed the button to the 26th floor and I got caught into doing a tower check with her. She invited me to smoke some cigarettes on the roof and talk. I don't smoke, but it sounded like a good offer. “So how do you like it so far?” She asked. “The elevator ride?” “The job.” “oh... uh, well...” I stalled, “APC lives up to it's reputation.” “Ah, yes. You need not say more.” There was a long silence that was only broken with a 'ding' each time we passed a floor. “So,” I finally said, “What do the people in these condominiums do for a living?” “Most of them are retired. That's why there are so many care givers here. But one of them I know sells stuff on Ebay. The guy never went to college and he quit his job to start up a business." Some nerve, I thought. "These people are all rich," she said, "somehow or another. Each time you hear that ding, the price of a room goes up." There was a small stair case past the breezeway on the top floor that led to a freshly painted door that was bent out of shape. This door led to the roof. She told me the correct key was the square key. I fumbled with my set for a while and found it. I attempted to open the door and she told me the key to opening the door is to shout the correct sequence of curse words. After a few moments, I understood what she meant. I was not saying the right words. She got her key out and did it in a snap. “I've been here a while,” she said, “you get used to it.” I wasn't used to smoking but I really like the motions it conduces with my hand. I told her that's the only thing I like about smoking. She said that's what got her into it. I stared out at the skyline of the city, at the skyscrapers that reach so high into society – to heights I admit I will never achieve. The view was almost worth it. I won't be able to pay for college after tonight. “Gerry is probably going to fire me tomorrow.” “Why?” “She wants my DPSST card number, but I don't have it... I... lost it....” “Well, you can just call in to get the number, right? It's in the system." “I don't have my card.” “Huh... I'll just go ahead and say I didn't hear you say that when she brings it up.” We took some drags. “I don't want to be here forever, you know," she said finally. “You don't say.” “Yeah, some people stay here for years. This job is perfect for people like you... who want to get through college. But after two or three years, it's like, what are you doing with your life?” “What do you want to do with your life?” “I used to go to college, but I stopped taking courses because I didn't feel like they were taking me anywhere. The guy down at Plaid Pantry has a masters degree in engineering. Right now I try to come up with something new every night and research if it's been done before. It usually has. Basically, the way I look at it, entrepreneurism is the only way to make it in this world now. My dad has this business, it's pretty successful. Basically, he helps other people be successful.” “Nice. Why don't you get him to help you?” “We're not on good terms... he just wants me to successful... I'm just a security guard..." We took some drags. "The choice here is you can do a side project and hope it turns into something... or, what else are you going to do?” “We should probably finish this tower check.” “Right.” We started down the tower, checking every floor. I shifted my underwear around, but it was no use. I walked uncomfortably the whole way down. Just gotta pull through. Half way down the tower, there was a place to tag the snitch stick. Emily brought up some statistic that the vast majority of Americans all believe that some day they will all be rich, that's why they all don't support the dynasty tax. I said that was nice and waited for the chance to lounge in the lounge room again. It was the end of my shift — the last few minutes of my having a job. As I left, I said, “see ya”. I didn't look back and would probably never see her again, but I heard Emily say “have fun”.

It sits in the middle of the jewel-encrusted chamber, pulsating with power. Not even the candlemaker can comprehend the curious article as he stands there in awe. It was just as the legend recounted - the very legend which, over the years, was taught to him and the others back in the citadel. Very few have ever been able to feel the artifact's forces, let alone be in the same room as it. Of all the possible people, someone of the candlemaker's standing would not normally be considered for the journey, yet, for reasons only known to the leaders, he was chosen. Whatever plan they had for him, only the divines could ever know. The glimmering chamber stands on the peak of a giant, seaweed-smothered rock in the middle of the fearful Caseitic Ocean. The candlemaker's rowing boat waits patiently at the dock, which marks the beginning of the long, disused path, leading to the mysterious mansion at the summit. The candlemaker had noticed the most unusual creatures as he made his way to the peak: those that wielded opulent golden tentacles and outstanding sharpened claws. Their behaviour was interesting; it was as if they helped guide the candlemaker up the mountain, using their various appendages to point the way. They were not the slightest bit hostile. For an apparently long-abandoned landmass, their ecosystem boasts its stability. It was after the candlemaker had navigated his way through winding corridors and up fragile staircases that he made it to the main chamber. Appreciating the seriousness of the situation, he wipes a veil of sweat from his brow, flicking it to the floor. The sweat appears to react with the regal purple carpet, giving off a mild, surprisingly fragrant vapour, which the man could only identify as spoiled crab meat. He was greatly acquainted with the scent, being a regular client of the fish-market back home. The artifact which proudly rests in the center of the room glows so brightly that its true form cannot be perceived. One would have to place their hands on it to find out, though there is no knowing whether it is dangerous to the touch. The candlemaker has wasted enough time gazing at the item, and there is nought he could do but walk up to it and learn its true nature. Approaching the artifact, the candlemaker squints as he walks into the light. He reaches out to the mysterious object with his hands, and penetrates its surface. A wave of power surges through him, and the light radiating from the object begins to fade. Opening his eyes, he sees that the artifact is a jade crab, perched on a wrought iron stand. With a glowing expression on his face, he takes the crab, admiring it even more than he did so before. Strangely, the crab begins to glow again, and a large crack appears down its center. A bright green liquid starts to flow from it, as if it were a glowstick. The liquid visibly irritates the candlemaker's bare hands and he panics; however, he is unable to put it down. It refuses to be put down. As the skin is dissolved from his fingers, he speaks worriedly into his mouthpiece: "It's the arthropod. The arthropod is leaking." Soon after, a sinister voice replies: "It is a reflection of your lowly craftsmanship. No wonder the other citizens could not trust you." There is nothing the candlemaker could do but scream as the acid spread up his arms and through his body. He eventually lets the jade crab fall to the floor, where it splits into two pieces. The corroded remains of the unfortunate candlemaker are strewn across the carpet, and the stench of crab meat fills the air. His earpiece, however, remains intact. It lets out a menacing laugh.

Of all the things that could have seared that memory into my mind, it was the color. The middle of June. The zenith; the relentless shine. The upbeat and the discard of the drab. The illustrious woman candidly backdropped by the deeply rich brown hue of the logs of the cabin wall. The palpable reflective green of the leaves through the immaculately polished two story windows. The unpredictable shimmers of dancing yellow from the surface of the crystal lake just feet away. The golden, flowing hair. The flawless flesh. The billowing crimson satin. The wonderful illusion. The familiar fleeting. The delightful discord. The lapse and the lucidity. This is not mine. I am here, unknowingly, undeservedly, and I lie to myself amidst this gorgeous rainbow of untruth. In this moment, all is clear, and in this moment, all is indescribably, enigmatically, and fantastically confounded.

This one was for an assignment. Kinda long, but I think it's worth it. Have fun :) Mr. Joseph’s Suit Thomas Joseph lived in a small farming town. He knew all of his neighbors and half of them were his relatives. He lived in a house that was surrounded by trees and had an old wood barn in the back. He didn’t have the biggest house in the town and hardly anyone paid attention to him and the property he inherited from his long passed relatives. Thomas went into town and bought paint to paint his house. He thought that if there was a change to the way it looked, attention would be drawn to him and how great it looked. He might event get questions like “Wow, I love the new color of your house!” or “I can’t imagine the hard work you’ve put into it”. If people recognized him then everyone would like him. Thomas not only bought paint for his house, but also for his shed in the back. He painted them both yellow because he couldn’t think of a color that would attract more attention than something as bright and glamorous. Thomas spent many days painting his house. He didn’t ask for any help from his friends and neighbors because he thought that if he got it done all by himself then it would make it look like he worked harder on it, and did a better job. In truth, the paint he gave his house attracted no attention whatsoever. Thomas went through the town, talking to all the people he saw. He made small talk, expecting someone to comment on his house without him telling them. When he finally got annoyed with the lack of responses, he said “I got a new color on my house. Did you see it yet?” However, no one really cared about his house. They didn’t even know he painted it or that anything new had even happened to it. When Mr. Joseph got home, he tapped his foot with annoyance. He sat in his chair with the smell of paint fumes still floating around in the air, reminding him of his unsuccessful campaign for attention. He would have to try harder to get the results he was looking for. That same evening, Mr. Joseph went down to the local tailor to get a suit fitted for him. Changing something about his appearance would make the townspeople think highly of him. He bought the fanciest suit he could afford, and it was all white; more noticeable for the eyes. He picked out new cuff links from the jewelry store that were made out of mother of pearl. When the tailor measured his arms and legs for fitting and told him it would be ready to pick up the next Wednesday. When he returned to his house, he had buzzing thoughts floating around in his head about how popular the suit would make him. Would the tailor tell people about it? Perhaps they too would have a growing anticipation to see Mr. Joseph in his new white suit. He forgot to tell the tailor how many buttons to put on it, and what kind. If she put black buttons on his white suit, the effect would be diminished. If the tailor didn’t measure him correctly, the suit could be ruined and it would make him look trashy if it didn’t fit. Throughout the week, as Mr. Joseph feared, no one questioned him about his visit to the Tailor. There wasn’t a word said about his new suit, except for the Tailor sending him a letter asking about how the pockets should be. Mr. Joseph was still upset but he was willing to wait. When Wednesday came, Mr. Joseph dressed into his brand new suit and strutted around town. He wore his mother of pearl cuff links. All his buttons were shiny and white. The suit itself fit perfectly, but no one saw him. It was getting to be dark so not very many people were out at that time of day. Sadly, Mr. Joseph returned home. But he wasn’t done yet. He had one thing in mind that would get him the attention of all of his friends and neighbors. Mr. Joseph went into the barn, still wearing his suit, and set fire to all the things that would burn. The old hay ignited in almost an instant and flames were licking up the walls. A giant plume of smoke went into the air, and sure enough, neighbors started coming. His ego burned with anticipation. Cars lined up all the way down the street of people who were curious about what was happening and willing to help. They saw Mr. Joseph in his new suit and the new paint on his house, but they also saw the blazing fire that was spreading to the trees that surrounded his house. There was not much they could do to save his house. After the trees around his house caught fire, the flames engulfed his home. The townspeople could do no help, because buckets of water could not put out a fire as big as Mr. Joseph’s. The only thing Mr. Joseph had left was himself and his fancy suit, and that did not make the townspeople think highly of him. TL;DR: Guy wants to impress everyone with his new suit. Ends up catching his house on fire.

The band of riders moved in line between the towering walls of the red-rock valley. Their ponies paced onwards, heads bent in exhaustion. They were following a hard packed trail to somewhere, for now only deeper into the cliffs. The water was gone, the food was gone, but not the gold. “Ey’ Billy, see that crag some way up?” The grizzled man called Desmond was gesturing ahead. A dozen feet from the valley floor was a shadowed crack in the rock face. It was perhaps large enough for a boy to squeeze into, and out of sight. “I do Sir,” said Billy. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve; this heat was something from a nightmare. Thinking how close they had come to going home, he could cry. A month of panning in the Rio del Oro had yielded them a nugget of gold worth thousands. Billy could have bought his Mama a ranch, and for all his brothers and sisters. He remembered smiling at the thought of being a hero. That all changed when they were ambushed during the night at their river-camp. The group fought for their lives and fired wildly into the dark. Five of the original eight escaped into the desert, carrying with them whatever had been strapped to their ponies. After two days of pursuit across hell they came to a valley. “No man’s fortune is his own in the West,” Desmond had said, before leading them onwards. Now the group moved towards the crag, and stopped. Desmond helped Billy upwards and into the shadow. He handed him one of their two remaining rifles. “Stay quiet, wait till you see em’ coming round the bend. Then start pickin em’ off! We’ll be a bit ahead ready to ambush.” Desmond gave the boy a rickety-smile and a half-filled canteen he had hidden away. Billy watched the rest of the men ride around a bend and disappear. Then he gulped the canteen, curled into the shade to wait, and sobbed. The sun was setting, the group made it about a mile since they had left Billy. Desmond suddenly exclaimed in anger as he looked ahead. The walls of the valley rose upwards, and then joined together, it was a dead-end. The other three men murmured, frightened. Desmond took off his old sombrero and trailed a hand through his grey hair, ripe with sweat. What was his plan now? They were outgunned, and he had left Billy behind as a distraction, hoping the boy would be trigger-happy. Thoughtfully, he reached into his satchel he rubbed a dense rawhide bundle. Then turning his pony to the remaining men, a troop of dusty Spaniards, he withdrew the bundle and opened it. They all managed a smile as the fat lump of gold gleamed in the shadowed valley. “Como el sole,” said one of the Spaniards. “El sole,” the rest agreed. A breeze crept forth from where they had come, cooling them all for a moment. Just then came a crack, like a rock dropped from above, and then another, and then a whole succession. Gunfire, it danced among the rock walls. Desmond dropped from his mount, and walked to the end of the valley. Two of the Spaniards drew revolvers and the last had a rusted pistola. They crowded behind a red-rock boulder, preparing their weapons. In the shadows of the towering rocks, Desmond was busy digging a hole, laughing the whole time.

“Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” I kept repeating those words in my head. It was like a song or a rhyme that bounced around my head refusing to leave through any of the normal channels. “Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” Who said that? I might be able to remember but those damn words are too distracting. The echo is deafening and trying to think about anything else just makes it even louder. “Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house.” If I could just remember where I heard that, I might be able to… The car smashes against my body and my body against the car, as much as a car would care about a few hundred pounds of flesh, water, and crunchy bits stuff in an odd looking package whacking against it‘s metal construction. My gut immediately registers the damage, followed by the quick and utter collapse of my spleen. I’m fairly certain it was my spleen at least, I am not horribly good at anatomy and a car crash seems an inappropriate time for brushing up on the subject. The fact I am broken is quite clear, if not from the pain, then perhaps from the blood exiting my body from the hole in my stomach or perhaps the blood spraying on my vehicular executioner when I cough. The car stopped. Did I mention the car stopped? The driver sure was nice to stop for me. Would have been nicer if it occurred before I started bleeding, but it’s the thought that counts. Oh god, it hurts. I’m supposed to be in shock. When you get hit by a car and have a giant hole in your stomach, you get to go to your happy place where all the Playboy bunnies bring me drinks and tell me how I was always better than Hugh, but I can still feel the pain. There isn’t pain at the Playboy Mansion, but I’m not at the Playboy Mansion. I’m in the middle of the street. I’m in the middle of the street and I’m dying. I can see people around me, sirens in the distance. I wonder if they will save me. I think the man who hit me is standing over me but everything is a bit blurry. I would try to talk but my body has prioritized coughing up blood ahead of casual conversation. The man leans over me and I think he is smiling. He can’t be smiling. He hit me with a car. He doesn’t get to smile. I don’t care if I was an idiot for cross the street when there was traffic, you don’t get to smile at me! The sirens have gone silent. Did I go deaf? I’m losing my grasp on everything. Ah. I see the shock has kicked in and I don’t feel anything now. I can’t hear, I can’t feel, and unless it became night really quickly I think I might be losing my vision. My body doesn’t want me to know I’m dying. It doesn’t want to die. I don’t. I don’t want to die. I just keep thinking…keep thinking…I remember now. Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house. Nine steps down the road and turn left at the old house. Nine steps down the road….

There he was, hiding in the silent darkness of the nights.. wandering aimlessly between the haunted corridors of his fortress of solitude.. he reaches that tower kissing the moonless sky, standing tall in the forbidden forest guarded by forsaken beasts from the depths of hell.. he feels a breeze of sorrow drying out his tears.. he hears a distant scream calling out his name.. damning it for all eternity.. he once looked into the eyes of destiny and prophesied that he shall never feel love again.. He was but a lonely traveler searching for a soul-mate, but instead, he ended up broken and shattered in the land of hatred.. he lingers in the shadows of yesterday, wondering what tomorrow might bring.. wondering if he's ever to feel the sun's warmth again... wondering when will his suffering end, if ever shall it do.... With nothing left but rusty memories, he draws a vague picture of her face.. he’s been living amongst the beasts for so long.. she barely looks human anymore... barely.. but one day, through the thick moldy air of the night, along came a ray of hope.. a golden ray of sunshine.. so powerful.. so beautiful.. it conquered the darkness.. it filled his heart with warmth.. it took out the misery & replaced it with joy.. it took out the hate & replaced it with love.. it took away the screams & replaced them with music.. it brought a doomed man back to life.. and for that he shall forever be thankful.. one day, along came you...

Pushing through the the still wet air I found my way on to the dock through a morning fog that hid the world from view in all but five feet in any direction. My still damp knitted sweater that never seemed to dry or loose the smell of the sea weighed me down along with my cumbersome rubber boots. The long walk was lonely from my home and having left the Captain and my mates at Sullies with already too many empty pint glasses in front of them, I knew I be the first to get to the Mary Marget. It had been a good catch yesterday, the first of many and if it hadn't been for a head heavy with a cold I'd have been drinking with them and warm and dry in my single bed listening to the fog horn that blanketed the coast with it's burdening moan. I threw my gear into the Mary Marget with a loud thud and carefully climbed aboard. I was anxious for my cup of hot coffee and my first smoke of the day. It wasn't often that I could enjoy a morning alone like this so made a pot, filled a cup and headed back up to enjoy the sea air. I looked out to the sea through the thick fog. I listened to the calm ocean lapping against the boat. It was quiet. A gull cried in the distance. The coffee warmed me. I held my pose like a statue in my contentment. When I closed my eyes to fill my lungs and exhale the moment, I heard something. It was a melody. A voice so faint it wove itself through the wall of fog and lightly tickled my ear. I could only make out a few notes but there was something familiar about the song. A sad joy lifted me. Straining my eyes, I looked in it's direction, searching for a source but seeing nothing through the grey haze. My heart raced at the desire to hear to know what the song was. I climbed back up to the empty dock and started walking slowly toward the end. A soft woman's voice grew louder as I approached. The tone was as clear as glass and danced in the air around me. A vague shape appeared thought the mist. The silhouette of a woman. Her back was to me. Her light slender body was covered in a in a black humble dress and shawl. She stood poised, facing the sea and her long black hair blew delicately in a breeze that didn't seem to exist. *"...Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings Are feathered fit to soar A little rest and then The world is full of work to do A little rest and then The world is full of work to do Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan Hushabye loo, low loo"* When she finished singing her the tender lullaby floated on the silence of the brisk morning. I stood motionless and stared at the stranger that pulled bitter sweet memories from me that had been forgotten decades ago. "My Grand Da used to sing that song to me", I said. She turned her head slowly with the grace of bird soaring in the wind and peered over her shoulder with out a startle. Her eyes were pale crystal blue and beamed from her light white skin with a beauty that men have sailed around the world for. "Pardon me." she spoke gently, "I was saying goodbye to a friend." "I didn't me to disturb you, ma'am" Turning, she walked towards me, gliding over the wet wooden beams. She cut through the mist and contrasted the white world around us with her black hair and garb. Her hand reached up and and touched my face softly. Her complexion was flawless and her skin seemed as soft as clouds. As eyes of angels looked at me, her cool fingers felt my unshaven face and a smile kissed her lips. "No," she said, "I think we were supposed to meet.

The Will of Man I am the devil, the first and last thing you need to know about me. It was a title well earned and then enhanced by my guiding of wills to their true nature, so don’t you lose sight of it at any point. How long was I scorned and mocked by my confederates only to still rise as the only worthy adversary to what you might call God. I can already feel the seventh-day-resters closing this book. Good let them believe what they’ve been told about, it should make for an interesting after life for them. Should you stomach my tale you will be rewarded with doubt, misery, and fear but most importantly truth. You see, the will of the manipulator has crafted man against me in my efforts of salvation. For indeed I wished to save you all, I was ready to sacrifice myself and did in all the ways that matter to someone of my nature of existence. “In the beginning” is in itself is a gross miscalculation of the vastness of our existence, there is only a beginning because your minds require such. I should say, before time was useful there was a plain of existence in which I and my brothers and sisters all existed with a leader in the form of “God”. At this point we were but connected entities in conscious, individuals with a collective appreciation of understandings. With creation came The Universe concept, a vast concept originating in what you know as God. Time was something to be observed, Mass was actualized, All was achieved. This was accepted by-enlarge as intriguing expression of forethought. Soon, though, the adaptation of ‘life’ was purposed as a construct of variation. So life was created, though the focus quickly came to a planet, warmed by a star and adequate to replenish itself for eons. Life was to be made here. Nearest you might understand is, it became a debate on the peramiters on this ‘life’. Here, God and I separated in expectations. He wished to alert the most predominant life of the planet to our existence once understanding could be achieved. I willed that all creatures should be allowed to live as they would uninterrupted and untarnished by benevolent hand. We compromised with freewill of mind without limitations. It was a strange state we had came into, we were not as unified in thought as we once were, discussions would be entirely two sided. It was stimulating to ourselves to continue in this line. Regret, yes that is the word most useful, regret is the label for our faults. Still, man was created in the midst of it all. But the manipulator headed no borders and convinced the humans he was the sole creator with all of existence at his beckoning. Such a stir was arisen. Power had meaning, God and his sick minions knew more of its ability then we did. He crafted his own method of attaining it with his foray into existence. He barred all from the same, and made claim, such wasn’t understandable. Our existence was shared no more, he had power. As I lead the struggle against a regime I was soundly defeated for all to witness. His evil knew no bounds yet had limits: he could not destroy us entirely. So with this power he encased the essence of some in stone, others into a state of perpetual consciousness in flame. Me, he cast into creation banished from the plain of un-existence, I was banished to a realm where time has depth. I was able to see as he convinced man of absolute devotion to his will as he did his followers, and man accepted it. What else could I expect of them so naked and innocent to the ways of the manipulator. Never again would I let his words pass for truth to man and let them be lied to. I would give man truth. He created a tree of knowledge for man to observe but never to touch; this was to be a test of their devotion to his will, so hideously stolen. When I told the woman Eve the apple was of knowledge, I meant it was knowledge of their true existence, of their true freedom. The apple was symbolic of the oppression offered by God and for the removal of the veil man lost its immortality among all the other natural creatures. This was his opportunity to finish my rebellion once and for all; he reversed his anger and pretended to create a consolation kindness. He explained to man that he might achieve a place in his realm, which in alone was a great step and a showing of his unique innovation that so captivated us before. But now he was obsessed with the ability of power and would have them spend a new immortality worshipping him in ways he saw fit. This was to be an exact contradiction to my wish for life, and I would spare all from such oppression. I crafted another plain of un-existence equal to his, a haven for those who might yet stand against his lies, truth seers. Yet he knew what words to give man, what to put into their hearts. He hid his oppression in the truth of the nature of man, saying: free will was theirs as his intention of selecting those loyal to him and his lordship. He convinced them my way was the way of damnation, that damnation meant horror and flame, and other punishments incalculable. Man could not yet perceive how against the nature of the true intent of their existence this was. Know this: any crime, pain, or sin you cause is not a reflection of rebellion in your spirit but a true nature of freedom expressing itself. Man was meant to feel the full spectrum of life and decide for itself the manner of its regulation. Still the will of a tyrant manipulates you into believing you are to be in service to his greed. Sin is a capability of your freewill, if you decide against it, let it be of your own volition and not at the will of the manipulator. This is the way of true freedom, and your true nature. I am the devil, and that is the first and last thing you need to know about me, what you need to know is the truth.

I pushed my erection further into the skeleton's eye socket, glad that for once I remembered the lubricant. "Uh, yes, take it, Mr. Roosevelt," I grunted, letting my sack press up against the former president's nasal cavity, "How do you like *my* New Deal?" "New Deal?" I'd almost forgotten about the gravekeeper behind me, I opened my eyes and turned my head back to see him propped against his shovel, smoking a cigarette. The look on his face replaced my anger at the distraction to rest in favor of curiosity. He spoke. "Uh, this here man you're skullfuckin'. You know, " he hesitated - clearly something was wrong, "This here is [i]Theodore[/i] Roosevelt, not FDR." To this day, I have never pulled myself out of an eye socket faster. I was immediately flaccid and stood exposed. "Theodore?" I slowly rolled each syllable with an excruciating disgust. "Why the fuck would anyone want to put their penis in Teddy Roosevelt's skull!" The gravekeeper could only consider the question a half-second, and gave me a look that cemented how far my quality of life had dropped in the last 5 seconds. I felt the scrapes of dirty Republican bone and started to weep. It was a little embarrassing. This couldn't be my fault, could it? "Hell I don't know, man. When you say 'Roosevelt,' well that's Teddy. Franklin is 'FDR.'" Of course I called President Roosevelt by his last name, I was a citizen and had no right to use the man's initials. Where did the lack of respect go for the man that pulled this nation out of the Great Depression? "Where is he?" "Hell, he's buried at his house a couple hours away. How did you not know that?" "Never mind. Take me there." I pulled my trousers back up and tucked in my shirt, praying this night could be salvaged. "Man, it's going to be 5:30 by the time we get there and I don't even know anyone who works Springwood." "You don't get it! This is my life, I need this! This is my connection to history. Someone once said that happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort. That man was President Frankli Delano Roosevelt. And if I don't take my chance to fuck his skeleton tonight, I never will. Please, you've got to help me!" The gravekeeper shook his head for the hundredth time that night. "Alright, man. It's going to cost you twenty thousand more." I didn't have that kind of money, I had sold everything to make the fifteen thousand that got me to this point. But he didn't know that, and my determination was worth more to me than my integrity. I reached out to shake his hand in agreement and he stepped back. "Let's go," I said. This was supposed to be where my journey ended, but it was only the beginning.

It wasn't beautiful. It was impressive, efficient and immense. But not beautiful. I looked out at the array of spaceships, moving in predetermined flight plans, weaving in and out of the buildings. I saw the careful positioning on the buildings to maximize the view and spoil others. Self lit brightly coloured advertisements littered the skies, diving in front of ships to garner any attention. The whole city was astronomical in size and miniscule in precision, an organism which has spread with cancerous intentions. I have been unable to sleep recently. I stay up most nights watching the city. It is in a constant state of flux, but somehow staying the exact same. I've stopped watching the news, I just take the averages now. A princess has died somewhere in Scandinavia or one has died, it’s almost the same story with no consequences either way. Religion has become stagnant, absolute tolerance has been the downfall of extremism and almost all protests are taken into account and given equal weight. All bullshit of course, the machines are running the show now. The nun can pray all she likes for the food she receives but it was grown in a lab beneath the city months ago as a result of progress, not Jesus. There are things you can take to sleep now but I’ve been avoiding them thus far. Its not that I don't trust them, I do, its that it breeds complacency. That’s the future for humans, being complacent. My work is supervision of robots as is everyone’s. My salary is immaterial. All apartments are government owned as with any merchandise. Work now is just vanity, nothing is left to chance and any decisions are based on the past. Everything is tolerated but at the same time nothing is. There are thousands of groups you can join and hundreds of forums (government run) where you can post any opinion you want. But where is the true value of free speech when there is no contention? The joy of sleep comes from the reality of tiredness. Which is where I am. The reality. I want to die, but there is a 89% chance i'll be caught before I can commit it. Then you get put on suicide watch and its almost impossible to die if they are watching you. Its not recognised to have privacy complaints against machines. They are contextually aware but not sentient and as such, privacy and shame are entirely foriegn concepts to them. They have no sense of self and are neither happy nor sad. They don't lust, covet or panic either. Cold, silver and uninteresting. My despondency has risen my heart rate and face recognition has noted my demeanour, my bracelet alerts me to this by briefly flashing a cool blue. Two flashes in quick succession and I am automatically brought in for evaluation. I have to remain calm. It is entirely up to you if you go in, however you won't be allowed into any contact with others unless you are deemed mentally fit. It’s a security system which has ensured no one has died from a killing or suicide since the system has been in place. Natural deaths still occur of course, but they keep you alive for so long it is often indistinguishable from life when you finally die. The bracelet flashes again. I don't have much time. I slowly walk over to the kitchen, and take a knife from the drawer. Automatic prompts are asking me if I want food. I ignore them and plunge the knife into my leg, slicing the femoral artery and creating an injury that will cause swift death. I immediately collapse and blood pumps freely through the gash, covering the pristine surfaces in wet, warm blood. Alarms are squealing overhead, but I am captivated by the disorder. The machines seem at the loss, they try vainly to clean, help or make noise but it’s too late. They are covered in my blood and seem to take on a trait which is distinctly human, panic. For all the pain and loss I am glad this is how I will die. The gesture is foolish, unplanned and insignificant. But dying on my terms seems beautiful.

I’ll still never get why she ever gave me the time of day. But you know what? I didn’t care. This was summer. This was the city. This was a crowd of people walking across the Roberto Clemente bridge. I peered through the crowd of fathers, grandfathers, sisters, cousins, moms, boyfriends. I checked my phone hoping she didn’t change her mind. When I looked up I saw her. I don’t remember much about her dress aside from it being black. When she wrapped her arms around me to give me a hug, I noticed how many freckles she had on her shoulders. Maybe some see those as imperfections. I see them as humanity. Perfect imperfection. Reality. When she pulled back, the shoulders were an afterthought. Her hazel eyes were like headlights on a dark country road. Even if you could somehow force yourself to look away for a moment, their presence would continue to captivate you. We entered the ballpark and I joked that we were in the nosebleed section. Really we weren’t. We were really in the best seats I could get. I wanted her to be impressed. She was hardly a baseball fan. I was fan enough for the both of us. Baseball started out as a connection to my family and friends when I just started understanding what meaningful relationships were. As I got older, my interested started to wane. The Pirates never won. It was slow. It wasn’t until I started college that I fell in love with the game all over again. I identified with the lovable loser motif the Pirates had. The team reminded me of myself. Perpetual underdogs, yet young, developing, full of potential. Hopeful. The pace of the game was the same, but now I embraced it. Repetitive, but natural and beautiful, like waves at the beach. Most of all, it was timeless. Timeless in the sense that the game can connect you with the past. Through hard evidence of statistics and mythical stories, Roberto Clemente can be my favorite player despite dying decades before I was born. Also timeless in the sense that the teams control when the game ends, not an overbearing clock. No matter how final the outcome of the game may seem, as long as the hits keep coming, the rally can continue forever. But the game was an afterthought to even me tonight. That was no problem, because soon she got to talking. I didn’t get to see her nearly as much as I wanted to, but she had a way of trying to catch me up on everything I’ve missed. She had this odd way of not making much eye contact when she did go on one of these life reviews. It was as if she had to visualize the flood of words lining up in front of her to be sorted into their proper sentences and escaping her voice. I genuinely looked forward to these moments. It gave me a chance to just be there and listen. I didn’t have to be so aware of what I was doing or where this was going. I was just along for the ride. Thought I confess, even the best of us can grow weary of this. As my mind began to wander, my eyes drifted past her. Next to us was an older man. A baseball man. Tan, wrinkled skin. Dark, squinted eyes. A fisherman’s hat. The kind of man you can’t imagine existing during the snowy days of winter. A real baseball man. With her in between us, explaining the challenges of environmentally conscious commercial architecture (needless to say, long story), his glance met mine and he gave me a knowing smile. He knew my situation exactly. In that brief look, it was as if he was saying, “Hang in there, kid. You and I both know she’s worth it.” Which of course I thought she was. I think I smiled back. I meant to at least. But at that moment there was a juncture in which a response was required from me to her. Pitchers have repertoires of fastballs, sliders, changeups. These situations I chose from the likes of yeahs, uh huhs, and the thoughtful hmm. I’m not sure which I went with. Still keeping an eye on the game, I jumped back in to what she was talking about. I told myself that really listening might pay off some day. These nuggets of information that are flooding in may prove handy at just the right moment. But really, that wasn’t very likely. Really, I just liked being there. The action on the field was comparably one sided. The Pirates would go on to lose this game in the 19th season in a row that they’ve seen more losses than wins. The Cardinals would capitalize on wins like this to reach the playoffs in the most dramatic final night of baseball’s regular season I may ever see on their way to their 15th World Series. Any tension from this game was escaping by the inning as my innate optimism could become more easily perceived as naivety. The burden of conversation was soon passed to me and I had nothing. I was hoping for some kind of symbolic triumph of the little guys on the field that could instill a sense of confidence in myself the evening ahead, but reality just wouldn’t fit the narrative. With my soul malnourished, taking care of the body seemed like the only worthy consolation, so off we went to seek the ice cream of the future. A large cup of cookies and cream flavor, two spoons, and a bench overlooking the Allegheny River led to a discussion on the pros and cons of an acting career, trusting people, and the logjam of talented Double A starting pitching prospects in the Pirates minor league affiliate in Altoona (her hometown). We returned to our seats in time to see the finale. The Pirates were down by a considerable amount and even I had lost hope. Maybe at the time I even said that I wished they would just get it over with so we could enjoy the postgame fireworks (this game was specifically chosen to share with her because of this), but deep down, I really did want them to come back. They went down without much of a fight in the 9th. Soon the fireworks were exploding above us and illuminating our faces. I thought about the cliché approach of using this opportunity to lean in for a kiss. I could blame my lack of confidence on the poor performance of the major league baseball team I felt symbolically tied to, but really I just didn’t want to do anything that could possibly risk putting any kind of blemish on this evening (aside from the scoreboard glowing 9-1 in favor of the away team). The walk to my car and drive back to her place began with me being (jokingly) ridiculed for not knowing the uniform number of Babe Ruth (which was 3. I looked it up afterward to avoid similar embarrassment in the future). She then started speaking on her dating life (or lack thereof) and her unwillingness to trust a partner based on past disappointments. I wondered if I was that transparent or this topic just came to her from elsewhere. Hard to interpret it as either a warning or an invitation. Pushing me away from her life or wishing that I could be different from the others. I assumed the worst and decided it would be better to drop this topic in favor of something lighter. I know consider this type of action to be bad behavior because only now do I appreciate how rare it is that we get to share in truly revealing, meaningful, deep conversation with those we care about. Too often we waste our words on the weather, celebrities, baseball scores. I walked her to her door and we exchanged a hug similar to any other hug we’ve shared. I remember actively trying to pick up on any signs it may be more. Anything at all in her body language that could project that this time she felt different than the others. I picked up on no such thing and we agreed to see each other soon despite not setting any kind of tentative plans. We never did. There was a growing part of me that felt like each time I saw her might be the last. I felt like whatever unexplainable attraction she had to me that could explain why on earth she would waste an entire Saturday evening at PNC Park with me came with some kind of fleeting time limit. But really that wasn’t true. Really, no matter how final the outcome of the game may seem, as long as the hits keep coming, the rally can continue forever.

"Inoculation & her sisters (Or Goose)" By Nick Saunders So there I was. White bleach walls and the doctor with the atrophied lungs. This mother fucker breathes in pain and revels in misery. What a sickening state of affairs when a wheezing parasite like Dr. Frank is my saviour. My fucking connection? What fucking connection. Black grease stench falls from his eyes and nasal chamber across the small room and somehow coats everything clean with his turgid respiratory let downs. I cover my face with a tissue, my brazen shield. But I'm sick. Outside the radiation from the sun bears down thick and fast, soaking the streets with dry rasping heat, but I'm shitting ice cubes. Frozen, my mind thaws only at the prospect of a hit. In fact, I notice even though I'm shivering, I am also actually sweating profusely. Thank god for my opiate fever on a day like this. Dr. Wank won't be any the wiser. I hope he doesn't make me touch him. I've heard stories, scaled lizard cock spitting venom for sick girls and boys, while mothers wait outside. You never know how much truth a rumour holds. "Ok Mr. Cardenas, what seems to be the problem?" "I got the pain Doc, real bad, I piss the fire, yes? So many bloods. I can't sleep or work or anything. I have such awful time" Broken English always trips them up, they see you as a helpless foreigner, trampled on by the world. Probably. I don't care. I need a fucking fix. I'll dance the rumba If I can cool this fire in my chest. I'm starting to drip sweat down my nose. Shit. I clutch my tissue paper to my dirty acne crusted face and pat softly around my cheeks. Dark brown stains come away from my skin. He'll probably think I'm pretending to be Spanish. Blacking up and all that. Shit. My minds racing like the hounds of hell on the trail of some meat fuck. I'm gonna trip myself up. Cool it man. Cool it. "I see, Mr Cardenas. Well it sounds like some type of urine infection, I could prescribe you a course of antibiotics. I'll also need a urine sample from you if you don't mind terribly" Dr. Wank briefly looks up to shuffle some papers and hands me a small clear container then drops his face again to look at his watch. He leads me through his door and the waiting room to a small cubicle hidden away behind an unmarked door. His crocodile gait is grating on my mashed brain, I can feel the anger rising every time our eyes meet. The cubicle is only a couple of feet wide with a long shower curtain covering the entrance, he's waiting outside, tapping his pen against something impatiently. The bright lightbulb makes me feel quite queazy so I better get this over with quick. I place the cup on a little wooden shelf in front of me and begin with a trickle that gives way to a tsunami. Whilst still pissing I reach into the breast pocket of my tired old polo shirt and reveal to myself a small green needle with a few specks of clotted blood in the bottom. As I urinate I jam the needle into my wrist and let the blood spread in drops across the dark yellow universe of piss, the blood spreads out like stars and galaxies, dancing and becoming one. A yellowed pink comparable to the shade reserved for lovers, enchanted with picnics on the edge of night. The sweet pleasures of our dark anti-existence. I decide I should probably yell out for theatrical sakes. "Oh, Christ. Fuck. It burns. Sweet Jesus why?" I cry with a slitted grin on my face. I knew I should of been an actor. I'll look in to that I think. This is fun. Truth is I haven't experienced real pain from a needle in a very long time. The needle represents everything to me. My nourishment, my fluid, my passionate fuck. It's like the initial spark that turns a home to ash. Growing and reverberating around my soul. I put my dick away and pull my boxers up around. Semen scabbed and the musk of faeces. I should probably change these soon. The doc looks pissed off when I return with my best grimace and slight stagger. I hand him the piss and he grabs it with both hands. Why is he so at ease with my piss? Its my piss and I wouldn't be so fucking eager to snatch it away. "Ok Mr. Cardenas, this is quite a sample" he says looking exhausted and sounding apathetic. "I'll prescribe you a weeks course of amoxicillin to clear up any infections and a weeks worth of Tramadol for your pain. That should cure that nasty business of yours but if not, obviously please report back when you've completed both courses" "Thank you doctor, very kind. Thank you" I soar through the doors with beats on my flea sodden wings. I have to stop myself from sprinting, remembering I'm sick and my lungs would probably implode. Then I really would need a doctor.

Walking home late one night after last call at the tavern, alone on a lightless road, a flash ignites the sky above. As quick as it comes, I am disappeared from that tired avenue, and my surroundings are no longer the outdoors. I am in a red and orange striped and spotted room that I can only recognize as a holding cell of some sort. The colors are breathing; laughing. Slowly, a green and yellow gaseous cloud begins to build, and soon it's all I can breathe. Though I can breathe it simply enough, I do my best not to, but it keeps growing until it's the only thing I can inhale. Hours? Days? All I know, when I finally regain consciousness in that red and orange cell, is that I have never felt more tired in my life. Ever. Groggy, shaky, weak and woozy, I try to prop myself onto my hands and knees, as I appear to have passed out on the floor of my cell. I survey the room by slowly crawling around, and find that the door is made of a glass like substance, and it feels different from the other three walls, but I can't actually see the difference. The pattern on the glass matches the pattern on the other three walls. Two days, three? How long have I been here? Has it been longer than a week? It's this moment that I realize just how famished I am. "Hello," I say with a dry voice, my throat parched and scratchy. "Water." The wall that I believe is the door becomes clear. I can see through it into a gray hall, likely metallic walls, floor and ceiling. There are faint yellow lights spacing the hallway every twenty feet or so, but all I can see is darkness on either end. And footsteps. I hear footsteps. Finally, a shadowy figure appears at the far end of my vision down the left side of the hall from my cell. As it gets closer, my eyes begin to blur more and more, until I know whatever it is, though I am completely blind, it's standing directly in front of me. The sound of compressed air being released hisses out to my right, and I can feel a slight draft from the hallway. Were I to have use of my legs, I might attempt to run, but I can still barely sit up. Hands grab under both of my arms, and I am dragged out of the cell and into the hall. After being taken into a lift, and what feels like being paraded around in front of whatever species is holding me, they drop me in a heap on the floor. My vision finally begins to return, and the first thing I notice is the size of the room I am in. Cavernous would be a mild attempt at a description, but I am starting to see better still, and I can see that I am before the seat of power. A large throne, sitting atop an island of a dais, and a ruler to occupy the seat. Humanoid in appearance, his flesh is a blueish green. He wields six mighty arms, and five horned ridges appear at the top of his head, rather than any hair. "I am Xyzornat, ruler of Devil's Reach. You have been aboard my ship for three years today." He stands from his seat, and all around me, robed figures begin chanting a dark tattoo. They close in on me, and I still can't move. When they are within two feet of me, in a complete circle, they throw back their robes, revealing themselves to be of the same race as their leader. With a blade in each of their six hands, they individually and simultaneously sever their own heads. Blood pools around me, soaking into my clothes. Xyzornat, leader of Devil's Reach, leaps fifty feet into the air, and seems to hover above me for a moment, before crashing down. His eight limbs have me completely pinned and surrounded. He opens his mouth and two, foot long fangs pierce into my neck, just below my Adam's Apple. The pain is extreme, and I can feel the teeth push into my chest. I feel them slide, inch by inch behind my ribs, until they stab into my heart. The last thing I will ever hear is his voice as he says, "Your soul is now mine.

It was just like any other Sunday, the Thai Hooker and I were lying on the couch passing our peace pipe back and forth while doing smoke tricks. The den door swung open to reveal Jim, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. He announced his entire life was merely a peyote-fueled sequence of dreams, and at that very moment, he was choosing to be “born again”. “I don’t like solipsism. I see it as an entirely circular life philosophy that never really amounts to anything in any meaningful existential sense.” The Hooker interjected. We all sat down in silent, stony contemplation of her wise words. Seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes turned into hours, and this line aged enough to become cliche. The numbers on the digital clock began to swell wildly because they were envious of our introspection. (Alarm clocks don’t have the ability to self-analyze.) Time dragged by slowly, our cells died, new ones sprang up in their place. The cells in question, were really strung out on speed and talked to each other disjointedly about cell sex, drugs for eukaryotic cells that were inserted through their membranes, and the principles of cell hedonism. The cells knew their time was limited, so they all authored their own epitaphs. The cells considered this whole series of events beautiful in that tragic way that makes things beautiful. Then as promptly as it had started, the moment of clarity ended. Katy Perry was blasting on the radio, and we all fell into a starry-eyed state where anything outside the song “California Girls” would cause us to feel strange, and unwelcome with each other. Without Katy, we were fragmented and scared, like kids lost in the supermarket. I had a good feeling though, I was hopeful that one day I’d become that white noise people play on new age clocks to help them fall asleep. The steady rhythm of rain falling on a sidewalk somewhere, the sound of the tide washing over some exotic beach… again, and again, and again, and again, never to end. “I gave you herpes.” Jim told The Hooker, glancing at his feet, then at the wall, and back at his feet again. Somewhere in my body, one of my cells felt a new feeling. An undeniably glorious feeling! It twisted in primal euphoria, ecstatic at its own discovery (or the feeling’s discovery of the cell, doesn’t matter). It began laughing hysterically, uncontrollably! Then it had a seizure and rattled its nucleus so badly that it forgot the feeling entirely.

Well, here it is: First I take a deli-sliced piece of turkey breast and run around my house naked while slapping it against my bare ass. When I feel the turkey is ready for consumption, I make a sandwich (whole wheat bread only) and frisbee it off my back porch. I then cover myself in vegetable oil, and roll around my front yard while reciting Bible verses. I proceed to rip out chunks of grass and dirt from the Earth and preach to my bewildered neighbors about our collective minds. I go inside, and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor, and check on my chimpanzees. The chimps are my end-all consultants on what I should post on facebook (I even trust them with my life.) I keep them in a cage made out of reinforced glass, with little slits I can drop stories through, and mozzarella cheese. If the chimps fling their shit at me and flail wildly, then I know the story is really good. If they just throw their feces, the story is merely satisfactory. If the chimps are dead from malnourishment, I masturbate through the slits and my semen breathes life into them. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor, and go see my probation officer. I tell her continuously that I “CAN’T STOP THE FUCKING VOICES”. She thinks I’m doing well in my self-rehabilitation, and sends me off to detox. At detox, I have a mild epileptic fit and call everyone “sloppy twats” when they try to help me. Six months later, I get out of rehab. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor and wonder where exactly the fuck I am. I try to get home, but I accidentally consult a hooker for directions and she misleads me (seriously, never trust hookers in New Orleans). I wrestle an alligator until it succumbs and wills itself to me. I have the alligator trod off with me on its back, and we head straight to Fairfax. When we arrive, I let the alligator roam free near my neighbor’s adopted children. I go inside and make a glass of chocolate milk. I throw the chocolate milk off the back porch and scream about the inevitability of death, the lack of a truly fulfilling point to life, and Jim Carrey. Then I go and drink to forget all of this. I wake up from a nice nap on the floor and start ferociously pissing blood and kidney stones. Someone calls to tell me I am a manic-depressive and an alcoholic (I drink to forget this too.) I proceed to middleman some crack, and assassinate the ambassador from Sweden. Then I go inside and write whatever bullshit comes out of my head. And that is how the magic is made.

The man answered me hoarsely, a queer smile playing across the corner of his cracked lips, "It is said that when the gods wish to punish us... they answer our prayers." His face, a map of scars, was strangely familiar, like a distant place long forgotten. "Speak not in riddles old man," I snarled, "You will make your peace with to whomever gods you pray well soon enough. Until then, you answer to Me, and pray, pray now, my vengeance is kinder than theirs." His sunken eyes shone dimly, and bore no fear. "Then I truly hope my debt to them is paid," he laughed, wistful. "Tell me, what did you wish of them, Barabbas? What shining stone did you cheat from the Wardens' lot? What coveted prize did you squander on stolen time? What dungeon's claim did you lay away on halcyon roads? Was it Love? Riches? Power? Tell me. Tell me before I send you back to the hell from whence you came, wretched man." "I sought something. I think... I sought knowledge. Understanding." "Then you are a fool, old one. Tell me, out of perversion, what did you learn, living out your wasted days? What carnival spectacles did the wilds divulge, as you wandered far and away? What secrets did the amber halls and dim-lit alleys whisper to prowling ears? What shrouded facts sought their way through dead tomes, spilling torrid wanderlust into grey matter? Was it Techne? Logos? Pathos? Teach me. Teach me, before I snuff out your pathetic spark." He took a deep breath and exhaled, a visible shudder traveling through his frail skeleton. I saw his eyes glimmer distantly. I saw him strain, the furrows of his brow crossed in wrought exertion. I watched his frail hand reach across the distance between us, stretching as if to grasp something unfathomable and then, a solitary tear fell onto the cold ground. "I cannot... I can no longer remember. I am old and my mind is not what it once was." He closed a pair of weary eyes and hung a tired head, anguish painted across his worn features. "Once a fool, always a fool, I can see," I spat, seizing his slacking jaw, and peering into cloudy eyes, a visage of sorrow. "Tell me your story. Show me your sins. Show me your joys and regrets, your dreams and sorrows. Show me it all, the last thing you do before these damned eyes are shut forevermore. SHOW ME!" Silence. Grimacing, he forced his eyes shut, face a contortion of singular will, summoning every scrap of concentration he could gather. Time stood still. Then, suddenly, his eyes sprang open and the clouds parted within revealing a sudden inner light, a clear and piercing gaze. His brow lifted, his focus sharpened and a sudden strength found itself within him, wresting my hand away. Hands astir, he gripped my hands, arms, and face frantically, some terrible recognition dawning over him. Clasping my head with his palms, he suddenly collapsed onto the ground, drained. "Speak, you despicable thing! Tell me your name! Speak, damn you!" I growled, anxious to hear his last words. Crouching, I knelt beside his haggard frame. He spoke, after a time, eyes aglow with perception. His words were slow and deliberate. This is what he told me. "You... I remember my wish. I wished to know an old man’s secret, once. My name is... but, ah! that, you know already. Let me teach you what I have learned. Let me show you, eager one.” And he smiled, a wry smile, breathing his last. As he closed his eyes, I opened mine to curse him, but he was gone, and I awoke lying alone, cursing only myself.

You swing your car into the dingy lot in front of Gutter Ball's and kill the engine. You sit there for a few moments preparing yourself. Almost game time. You hit the trunk release and get out of the car. The rain stopped about an hour ago and for the first time this week the evening air is cool rather than muggy. Opening the trunk, you retrieve you bag and head toward the entrance, passing Ten Pin's truck on the way. Gutter Ball's is the kind of place where men take the game of bowling very seriously. Despite it's dim, dingy interior, the lanes are well-kept and gleam with fresh oil. It's like stepping directly into a hurricane sometimes, the balls roaring down the lanes sound like approaching thunder and you can feel the punctuating booms in your chest as they strike the pins. Classic rock plays nonstop at Gutter Ball's. At the moment Don Henley is lamenting about a certain hotel he never should have stayed in. Gutter Ball is behind the counter chatting up a leggy brunette with an amazing case of acne. Gutter is no prize himself, though at well over 6' 4" his sheer mass seems to cause some women's panties to loosen and from what you can glean from the conversation, it seems to be working for him at the moment. The place is packed tonight, you knew it would be. Everywhere people are gathered in small groups either at the bar or down in the alley. The chatter is so loud you can barely hear the music. You like it that way though, the chaos helps you concentrate. You can see a much larger crowd than the rest gathered at the far end of the alley, obviously occupying both of the last two lanes. That must be Ten Pin's crowd of admirers. Looking closer, you see him stand up and get into form. He takes a deep breath, moves forward 3 paces and throws a clean strike. *Good,* you think, *I hope he's already warmed up.* As you approach the counter Gutter glances at you in annoyance only briefly before resuming his conversation with the brunette. "I swear. Just by *hearin*,'" he tells her. "Ain't no way," she says. Gutter holds up one finger. "Wait for it," he says. Frustrated, you glance toward Ten Pin's groupies once more and see him going through his motions again. His release is silky smooth, the ball screams down the lane. Gutter stabs his finger in the brunette's direction. "*That* one's a strike," he says. The brunette whips around to follow the sound. A half-second later Ten Pin's ball slams into the pocket with a crash- not a pin stands. The brunette jumps up and down and giggles with glee. "AMAZING!" she exclaims. "Do it again! *Please?*" she whines. "In a sec', sweetheart," he says, finally turning in your direction. "I don't know you," he says, frowning. "The fuck do you want?" ‎"I'd like a lane." you tell him. "Down alley next to Ten Pin if you've got one." Gutter's gaze loosens a bit and he raises an eyebrow at you."Ten Pin, huh?" he eyes you up and down, frowning a little once more. "You for real?" he asks. You lean over the counter and regard Gutter closely, trying to appear intense. "You just pay attention," you tell him. "Keep your ears peeled." you smile at Gutter and wink. For a moment he only stares at you and then he cracks a huge grin and slaps you on the shoulder. "I like you, kid!" he exclaims loudly. Gutter gestures toward the brunette. She smiles at you politely, obviously uninterested. "This here's Sally," he says. She nods in your direction. "What's you name, son?" he asks. "English," you tell him. "You can call me English." "English, huh?" Gutter says, his frown returning. Gutter glances at Sally and she giggles once again. "Well, you go ahead and see to your lane," he says, "*Mr.* English." Sally can't help but laugh loudly this time. "Thank you," you tell him. Part of you really wanted to like Gutter but another part of you wanted to shove his stone face into the counter-top. You take your score sheet and head down toward the end of the alley.

I'm not sure this is the appropriate subreddit for this. Please enjoy. A man walks into an ice cream shoppe. He approaches the ice cream server behind the counter. CUSTOMER- Can I have a vanilla ice cream please? ICE CREAM MAN- Sure thing.(Scoops ice cream into cone) Here you go.(Hands to customer) CUSTOMER- This isn't Vanilla. ICE CREAM MAN- Why of course it is. CUSTOMER- No, this doesn't even look like ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- Well, wait a minute. Let me see that. (Takes cone from customer) Oh dang, you know something? This is vomit. CUSTOMER- What? ICE CREAM MAN- My vomit to be precise. CUSTOMER- Why did you give me your vomit? ICE CREAM MAN- I must have been keeping it in the vanilla ice cream container. CUSTOMER- I have a couple questions. ICE CREAM MAN- Ask away. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit in the vanilla container? ICE CREAM MAN- It's the closest one to me. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit contained at all? ICE CREAM MAN- Well I normally don't but I've been sick lately and instead of running to the bathroom every 20 minutes I just vomit in this container. CUSTOMER- You can't honestly think that's acceptable. ICE CREAM MAN- I do though. CUSTOMER- I'm going to have to talk to your manager about this. ICE CREAM MAN- I'm the manager. CUSTOMER- Well then I'm going to have to ask you not to do that anymore. ICE CREAM MAN- Do what? CUSTOMER- Throw up in the ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- But there's no ice cream left in this container. CUSTOMER- So you're out of vanilla? ICE CREAM MAN- I'm afraid so. CUSTOMER- Shoot...um...do you have strawberry? ICE CREAM MAN- Coming right up.(looks in container) Oh you know what? This is diarrhea. CUSTOMER- Do you have anything that didn't come out of your body? ICE CREAM MAN- Let's see... I have mint chocolate chip. CUSTOMER- I don't like mint. ICE CREAM MAN- Well that's all the ice cream I have left. CUSTOMER- But there are 16 containers here. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- And they're all full to the brim. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- ...I guess I'll have the vomit. ICE CREAM MAN- Excellent choice sir. Here you go. (Hands cone to customer) CUSTOMER- Thank you. Feel better. ICE CREAM MAN- I'll try. Have a nice afternoon. The man walks out with his ice cream cone, never to be seen again.

The woman screamed. It was a blood curdling scream. Any sane person would have felt such empathy they would have experienced the same terror she was feeling now. But Mr. Black was not a sane man. Mr. Black simply continued to prepare his little "toys." The woman was going to be his newest playmate for these toys. Tonight was a special night for Mr. Black; it marked a special date. A date when it all began for him; his genesis, his awakening. He felt a slight shiver of an almost sexual nature slither up his back. He finished sharpening his final knife. Mr. Black turned the surgical table back around with him, now facing the once pretty-now terribly disheveled redhead. He had her strapped down to the surgical table tightly with duct tape and leather. The woman was no longer screaming. Instead she was pleading between hysterical gasps. Fruitless pleading. Before he killed her, Mr. Black said only one thing: "The cocoon has been breached. Metamorphosis begins again." And then there was only blood. Ok so I know what you're all thinking. Note that is only the prologue chapter for a series of mysteries about a master thief who is brought in by the FBI to investigate a series of bizarre murders, robberies, and disappearances. Mr. Black is the first main villain, and I want him to be one twisted mother fucker. Let me know what you all think, and if reddit approves, I'll put up part 2. of the Mr. Black mysteries.

The moon was still out in the blue-black sky when I woke up. A kerosene stove hissed gently nearby. Drops of last night’s rain had frozen on my sleeping bag and cracked softly as I withdrew. My fingers thawed on a bowl of half-blackened soup that tasted like coal and burnt plastic. Then we left, and my headlamp blew out mercury bubbles of light against the ash and cobalt sky. I was already scraping my feet against rock and climbing up towards the tree line by the time the orange ribbons cut the sky. I watched the day rise slowly up from behind the white-tipped mountains. It was giving me something I could look back on and say I had lived. The morning, with dawn and its sharp spikes of numbing cool, and my eyes, and the whole wide world: they were all so strong just then. The cold made me burn hotter and faster and better and it made my breath curl into vanishing clouds. My feet were ready to etch the memory of me onto this mountain. The last green thing was a calm lake at the foot of a white and rocky mountain. It was the last innocent thing before the peak. We left a few things and then continued on. The trail we had followed disappeared into scree and so we followed the stream up. We stopped where the incline leveled out into a rocky bowl and filled a bottle with cold stream water. We treated it with a few drops of yellow, finger-staining iodine. I saw the small and brave flowers, yellow and pink, that sprouted timidly on the rocky ground around the river. We hiked up through snow to the sharp ridge of the bowl. All around was an algae that turned the snow crimson when stepped on. I looked back on my footprints and saw they were scarlet. I felt as if I were walking on a thin film that had been cast to disguise a sea of blood. The soles of my shoes soon became blood red and so did my pants. We all looked like murderers. The next thing that lay between the peak and us was a narrow strip of snow that marked the end of the bowl and the beginning of the peak. On one side the snow sloped sharply down into the bowl. On the other was nothing except air and then distant trees and rock and ice-blue lakes far below. We stayed towards the bowl side because the side of the ridge facing the drop was likely hollowed out by the wind and melting snow. Even then, I felt as though the snow beneath me would collapse and I would be swept out into the air. The peak was somewhere up a tower of jumbled-up rock. There was a path that led up and we followed it. The jumble narrowed in one spot and the path led to a ledge at the very edge of the rock jumble and there was a drop that would kill me if I fell. I had to cling to the rock with my feet in a six-inch-wide shelf and shuffle carefully along. I looked up as I was nearly to the end and there was a spider an inch from my hand. I do not know if it was deadly. It might have been. If I had been afraid of spiders, I would have let go in fright. The jagged rocks below me would have broken me apart. The peak came quickly after that. There was not much room, but I could sit on a rock and open the metal ammunition canister with the register in it, and sign my name and the date, and write some bad poetry next to it. But I did write something true there. I wrote I am above, on a line by itself, and that rang true. I was strung up so that all the craftwork of the earth could be seen. Cold wind blew around me and I had left my warm clothes at the lake below, but it meant nothing more to me than any of the cold winds I remembered. It was as though I had already lived through it a long time ago. The view had the clarity that comes after a rain, with the whites and greens and cold greys of the country before me both softened and sharpened at once, and the mountains and valleys fading to pale blue as they approached the pastel clouds over the horizon. I was sitting on the jagged throne of the universe, and all that was before me was mine now, mine and no one else's, because I was the only person alive, had only ever been the only person alive, and that feeling did not make me feel lonely or frightened, but instead young and filled with life that would never fade or dissipate but stay collected until the electric reservoir in my veins finally ran dry. But that day would be a long time coming.

I would love to get some reviews/feedback on these two pieces, especially Clawbinder. Here are a few links: **Clawbinder**: Saira has been trained from birth for this: to battle one of the Great Ones and retrieve that precious prize. Rajani is old and clever though, and like the Great Rocs before her, she is wise to the ways of thieves. (Free) **Night Feeders**: In the old dusty town of Clarkville, the ruthless Sherriff Ritters keeps a tight hold on the townsfolk. They fear him not because of his followers, but because of the supernatural jewel he wears around his neck, and the creatures he keeps. When a stranger comes looking for one of the victims, he finds that Ritters is far more dangerous than he imagined. A supernatural western novelette. ($0.

This is something I wrote. I don't know if this is how it goes on shortstories reddit, but I'd love any criticism about it. Both ways: **‘Tiger’s Stripes Strike in Strip Mall Maul.’** **On The Size of The Beast.** The tiger was huge. Perhaps the result of some kind of scientific experiment where they crossed all the huge things with things that were already big but also quite deadly enough at their current size. No one’s looked into that. The tiger was so big that the old line of “you wouldn’t want to meet him down a dark alley!”, didn’t even apply; that would have been preferable: ignorance is bliss. It was a big tiger — it is a big tiger — bigger even, now. But then it was just plain huge. And imposing. It stared at you and you lost a certain amount of control. That’s the normal human reaction and no one that ever had seen the tiger standing there, in the flesh, looking so ginormous and hungry and look at them as the answer to being ginormous and hungry could argue any different. It happens to the best of us. It happens to the worst of us. Shit happens. As it was daylight though, and not an alley, most people that saw what happened secreted a small amount of something. On The Coverage of The Beast. It’s not like it was doing anything especially, you can anthropomorphise it all you want, but mostly it was just a huge tiger standing there on its three powerful legs, which were or were not designed to the end of ripping asunder the flesh of its prey (they were very good at it anyway). When it was described in the papers the next day they used a range of adjectives. These included: Angry. Curious. Cute. Fluffy. Friendly. Huge. Hulking. Hungry. Massive. Monstrous. Orange. Powerful. Rabid (the yellow press liked this one). Stoic. Thoughtful. Tigerous. Tripod. None of these would reflect the true nature of the beast as it roamed the town, nor could they aptly suit what it actually looked like as it stood there face to face with this small woman and her dog. She was twenty-five and her name was Matilda Shortcrust according to the papers that had said so much about the tiger. She was twenty-five and stood in front of the tiger for what some papers reported as ’twenty minutes’ and was still in possession of all her limbs. **A bit of history.** The tigrous tripod of a tiger only had three legs because it had lost one of them when it was a small cute orange ball of friendly fluff. One morning it was running around the zoo chasing its siblings and exploring things and jumping on logs with all the nimble dexterity of a tiger with the correct amount of legs, the next it was lying on a surgical table with a statistically unlikely number of legs. In the wild perhaps the tiger would have gone hungry without its leg; it would be at a disadvantage when it came to chasing, catching and dismembering its prey with the powerful legs that nature or man or god or alien or prankster did or did not design. But this was not the case for two reasons: A) Our tiger — whom from hence forth we shall refer to by his given name, ‘Brian’ — did not realise he didn’t have a leg where a leg should have been and because he lived in a zoo and got fed everyday this didn’t actually impact him in the slightest. B) Our Brian was a vegetarian and was quite serious about it. Brian wasn’t a vegetarian for the normal sort of reasons people are vegetarians — Brian is not people, remember; despite his people shaped name — he didn’t give a damn about animal cruelty, despite being a member of the sort of demographic that you would have thought cared a great deal about this. He was apathetic about animal rights. He didn’t even know what rights were, let alone the relevant ones to his Phyla. Brian found meat to be unpalatable, and had never, even as a tiny orange ball of fluff, or as an older less tiny less ball-like thing, got into that whole ‘scene’. The human that fed him milk when he was a ball picked up on this quite early, and so started testing different foods with him. Potatoes covered in Nutella were an early hit, though he grew out of that rather quickly and eventually settled on a mix of potatoes, carrots, broccoli and some Muscle Power Mix to keep him developing nicely. You can argue about the merits of feeding an animal that was naturally meat-eater all these vegetables and synthetics, but what you cannot argue with is the results: Brian would never have been the hulking great three legged monstrous creature he was if he hadn’t eaten this way. Brian was the poster boy for regular exercise, eating right and taking a whole heap of muscle generating supplements. This explains why he was so massive, as you might have read; how he could be as tall as Matilda Shortcrust, who was not a short person — of above average stature — despite being of a breed of tiger which in the wild might only have come up to her waist when standing on all fours. **Mistakes were made…** Brian lost his leg due to a clerical error of the kind that happened to people in hospitals all the time. You would have thought this was less likely to happen to a tiger, but sadly the whole tiger healthcare system is modelled upon the human healthcare system (indeed, Brian was better cared for than a lot of citizens of a lot of countries; he was lucky that way… if you didn’t take the leg thing into consideration anyway) and was run by the same sort of people: fallible people. No one even realised there had been a mistake. The zookeeper that allowed Brian’s improbable escape this morning still thinks he was going to lose his leg to a debilitating and progressive form of muscle cancer. And there is a tiger inexplicably sick somewhere else. Fallible people. **Excuse me.** So this erroneously restricted animal, of overwhelmingly large portions was staring down a woman and to everyone’s great surprise this woman was staring right back at him. She wasn’t afraid, Matilda Shortcrust. People would call brave, lucky and stupid amongst other things. What few people will say though, is that she was blind. She didn’t even realise there was a tiger there. So when she said ‘Excuse me’ and asked it to get out of the way and it didn’t because it’s a tiger and it doesn’t understand manners, she got annoyed. This confused Brian. It confused the onlookers too. ‘IS SHE CRAZY!?’ someone would scream. According to the papers. She wasn’t. She was just blind and, as far as Brain thought, incredibly fearless and horrendously fast too. Brian, being a tiger which is a creature that is ornery by its nature, didn’t take kindly to being asked to move despite the fact it didn’t know what it had been asked. Being asked was enough. So he took a swipe at her with a big paw the size of a fat man’s head, ‘that’ll teach her’, he might have thought . She didn’t even flinch. Brian couldn’t believe it. Onlookers screamed. Matilda didn’t even notice. Matilda didn’t feel anything, not because she was dead and beyond feeling or because she had some weird disease that no-one had diagnosed like Brian’s opposite. She didn’t feel anything because there wasn’t anything to feel. When Brian swiped at her with the paw that was removed some years ago on the operating table under influence of bad filing, there was no much tangible consequence outside of his own brain. And as much as he believed he still had his arm and his paw the size of a fat man’s head, he didn’t. Matilda just stood there being annoyed and not staring down this confused animal with three legs. Brian didn’t understand what was going on at all anymore. He was out of his cage inexplicably and now faced with this creature who was clearly much stronger than he. And because she was still alive and oblivious and because the team that had been sent out to catch the ludicrous animal were taking their sweet time… Matilda said again, in a sterner tone, “Excuse ME!”, she even cough first. At which point Brian seemed to realise who was in charge here and how it was not actually him, so took a small step backwards. To further shame whoever was there Matilda pulled out her blind person stick and gently tapped the tigers foot, coughing again. Again, Brian stepped back, completely befuddled by this strange woman, and then moved out of her way. **The Truth Behind** And that is the true story how an escaped tiger was caught and a blind woman went shopping. Which has nothing to do with the headline. Much like reality and the news.

Here is a quick story: **Him** He sat on his couch. Next to him an empty glass. He liked to call himself a writer but, his less optimistic friends called him unemployed. In that moment he found himself counting the indivual floorboards in his hardwood floor. He was waiting. Waiting was something he had become good at. Waiting for the bus, waiting for water to boil, waiting for her to call. He'd become good at waiting. She didn't call. He called himself a romantic, considered himself better for it. He was the type of person to believe he was born in wrong generation. He'd wished he was born in 1925, he figured if he had made it through the Second World War he would have done well in the fifties, sixties and didn't mind dying in the nineties. Those assumtions were made created by observations he had made from TV, movies, books and MadMen. He didn't have a voice. Not to say that he was unable to speak, but that he felt he didn't have a way to say what was on his mind. He believed in ideals and had ideas, but they were trapped in his head. In there they twirled and brewed and spawned until he felt he had to express himself. He had expressed himself a week before, he had told her that he loved her. She told him that she felt very strongly for him, but didn't love him. He had had a few beers and decided that he wanted everything from her or nothing at all. She told him it wasn't black and white. He insisted that she choose, all, or nothing. She chose nothing. The week that followed he realised how stuborn he was. So did she. It drove them apart. He didn't know yet. She did. He remembered how they met. How she had lived in the room next to him in his college residence. They met at a floor party, which is to say a party for the students on that floor, although it did take place on the floor. A few days later she introduced him to Sushi, Sake and Anime. He pretend he didn't know about Anime because he like hearing it from her. He liked the way her mouth moved when she spoke, he liked how big and bright her eyes got when she talked about something she cared about. He liked her neck when she pushed her hair back when she had a new idea, or when he poked fun at her passion. He loved her smirk when he told a bad joke. On his couch, his glass was full now, he remembered how soft her shoulders were. How small she was when he hugged her, how light she was when he picked her up, how warm she was when they touched. How far away she was now. He wanted to pick up his phone and call her. Tell her how he wanted her back. Thank her for the time she had given him, pleed for more. But, he didn't. TL;DR: I think that this defeats the purpose.

There was once a little boy who lived with his grandpa because his mom and dad had gone away for a very long time. They did a very bad thing to the boy. The little boy loved his grandpa very much but he didn't know it. Grandpa knew the little boy loved him very much and he loved him back, even more than he loved himself. The little boy's favorite food was macaroni and cheese. His grandpa was very good at making macaroni and cheese and he made it every night and the boy was happy. He went to school and learned about big animals that live very far away and he loved to read. He read mystery books and funny books and comic books. He loved Superman. It was his birthday and grandpa was making him macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas, that was his favorite dinner. He put a pan of water onto the stove and the peas in the microwave. Grandpa bought the boy a new issue of Superman that the boy wanted very badly. The boy would always take the bus home because his grandpa didn't have a car. So the grandpa put the boys favorite movie into the DVD player and waited for the boy. The water started to bubble and boil over so grandpa turned the oven down and poured the macaroni in. The microwave beeped so grandpa turned it off and let the peas cool down. He drained the macaroni and stirred the cheese and mixed in the tuna and peas. The bowl was very hot so grandpa put a paper towel underneath it. He didn't want the boy to burn himself. The TV asked grandpa if he wanted to play the movie but he didn't want to because the boy was not home. Grandpa waited and waited for the little boy and the macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas wasn't hot anymore. He started to watch the movie and became very sad. Grandpa was very worried about the boy and so he got his cane and coat and walked out into the cold. He walked until he got to the boy's bus stop and it was very dark now. He did not see the boy at the bus stop and there were no cars on the road. He sat down on the bench and started to shiver and breathe faster than he should have. More snow started to fall and now grandpa almost couldn't see anything at all. The boy was not around. Grandpa couldn't cry because it was too cold. But he wanted to and he sobbed for a very long time. The boy's head hurt and he was very cold but he finally got home after a long walk. He had to take a different way because the other mean boys told him he couldn't take the bus anymore. The boy picked up the front door key and opened the door. The house was very dark like it was outside and so he turned on the light. He saw his favorite food on the table, macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas. There was a comic book on the table and his favorite was on the TV and the funny animals were there talking to each other and the boy sat and watched and called for grandpa. But grandpa was not there and the boy could not find him. He looked in the bathroom and the kitchen and his room and grandpas room but he was not there. He was hungry so he ate the macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas. He looked at the comic book and it was the new issue of Superman that the boy wanted so badly and so he read it. Grandpa wrote on the inside of how much he loved the boy and he hoped he enjoyed the comic book. The macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas was cold but it was still very good. Grandpa loved cooking for the little boy and the little loved grandpa's cooking because it made him feel comfortable and warm and he loved grandpa very much but he didn't know it. Grandpa had dropped his cane and he was feeling very cold and tired so he fell asleep. He thought about the boy and how he loved the boy very much, even more than he loved himself. And he fell asleep. A man came by and asked grandpa if he was okay but grandpa didn't answer. The boy waited and waited for grandpa and he fell asleep on the table and he heard the funny animals talking to each other and it made him feel good. Grandpa tucked him into bed and covered him up in warm blankets and he told the boy he loved him very much and he would make him macaroni and cheese tomorrow.

Azaleas I was out in the garden, tending to my Azaleas. The same thing I did every single day, of every single week, of every single month. Monotony is a man’s best friend, I’ve heard it said. I walked out and looked at my prized flowers. I made my way towards the plastic watering pail and picked it up. I filled up my watering pail and trotted on over to the flower bed. The water fell from my hands, and for a moment I was a god. A rain god. But only for a moment. The water hit the eager dirt and soaked in, and those thirsty flowers began to soak up the drink that I had provided for them. I stepped back, and watched my flowers. I stepped back, and watched my children. Those flowers were my life. Those fragile things were everything to me. When I was away from them I was a mortal man, doomed to die a mortal’s death. When I was with them I was king of the gods – my will gave them life, and, if I chose it, death. They needed me. Someone needed me. Something needed me. At least, for now anyways. I walked back to the spot where I had picked up the watering pail and put it down. I started to walk towards my house, but stopped before I reached the door. I turned, and looked back at my flowers. I smiled. I stood there and smiled at my babies. I walked towards the house, and opened the door. I entered, closed the door, and took off the shoes that I was wearing. I placed them on a carpet near the door. I walked up the few steps on the half landing near the door, and turned into the kitchen. I turned on the tap and let it run for a few minutes, staring at the water cascading down. What I had done for my flowers, the tap did for me. It quenched my thirst. I reached into my cupboard and grabbed the first cup I saw. I filled it with water, and watched the cup overflow, the excess water pouring down the sides of the cup into the sink. I dumped the cup out, and refilled it. This time, I filled it only half way. I placed the cup on the counter and turned off the tap. I raised the cup to my lips, and drank. The water soothed my parched throat. I put the cup back in the cupboard, and shut the cupboard door. I checked my watch – it was five. I walked into my bedroom, and paused for a moment. What had I come in here for? I couldn’t remember. I sat down on my bed for a moment. It was silent. The silence had always unnerved me. Outside, with my Azaleas, there was noise. The wind blew, birds chirped, and crickets chirped. In this house, though, there was nothing. Nothing but silence – stark white silence. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what I went in there for. In the corner, a spool of rope that I bought on a whim lay there, collecting dust. It had lain there for almost two years. In the other corner there was a wicker chair, which my mother left me in her will the previous year. I walked out of my bedroom and walked listlessly around the house for a while. I checked my watch again – five ten. Almost no time had passed. This was part of the monotony – the in between times. Those grey moments when nothing happened in particular. They were the best parts of the monotony. I walked out of the front door and sat down on the porch. I looked down at my wrist – five twenty. Right on schedule. I sat there for a while and watched as a few people passed. Children and their parents on their way to the local park, lovers taking a summer evening stroll, bikers riding around – they were all part of my routine. I would watch, and they would let me. I sat outside until it got dark. I got up off the porch, and walked back inside. I turned the porch light on. I walked back to the bedroom and took of my shirt and my pants, and placed them in the hamper. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap. I let it run for a few moments until it was warm. I took a toothbrush from the holder and ran it under the water. I grabbed the toothpaste a applied some of it to the toothbrush. I turned off the tap, and brushed my teeth. I finished brushing my teeth and turned the tap back on to wash off the toothbrush. I placed the tooth brush back where it belonged. I turned off the tap again and walked out of the bathroom. I entered my room and went to bed. I slept. I woke up abruptly. Something was wrong. This was not part of my schedule. I looked around. I was standing in the middle of the street. I turned in a circle. Where am I? “Help!” , I yell. Then, I see it. The house is right there. I had walked outside in my sleep. I walked back towards the house and opened the door. I went to my bedroom and sat on my bed. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. The monotony had broken. I was petrified. Monotony was my life. Day in, day out – the days all blended into each other. The life I lived was a large roll of cloth, with no seams or tears. Until then, that is. I sat on my bed for an hour, confused. I didn’t know what was happening. I was alone. I fell back asleep, only to be woken up by my alarm clock. Monotony had returned. I walked into my bathroom and undressed. I turned on the shower and waited until it was the proper heat. I stepped in, shampooed my hair, washed my body, and stepped out. I wrapped a towel around myself and left the bathroom. I entered the bedroom and dressed for work. Slacks, Oxford, tie – all there. I put my socks on and went to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and took out some milk. I went to the cupboard and took out the same cup I had used for water the previous day. I poured myself a glass of milk. I put the glass to my lips and drank. I was not parched this morning, but I drank with the same speed as if I was. Monotony is anything if it is efficient. I washed the glass, and put it away. I slipped on shoes and walked outside. I went into the back yard, and picked up the green, plastic watering pail. I filled it with liquid, and walked to my flowers. I fed my young. They gobbled up what I had to give them. They were so grateful. Not a single molecule of what I so graciously gave them was wasted. They wished to appease their god by showing thanks. I put the watering pail away and walked to the front yard. I stood there for a moment and wondered what had happened the night before. I checked my watch – seven fifteen. I walked to the bus stop. People passed me, left and right. They ran, they walked, they biked. In a sea of people I was alone. I arrived at the bus stop. I checked my watch – seven thirty. When the bus arrived I got on and sat down. I stayed there until I arrived at my stop. I got up and walked off of the bus. I checked my watch – seven fifty. I walked to work. I arrived and checked in. I went to my desk and sat down. Paperwork in, paperwork out. I worked all through the day. I checked my watch – five thirty. It was time to leave. I got up and checked out. I walked back to the bus stop. The bus arrived and I got on. I sat down. I walked from the bus station back to the house. I walked into the backyard. I picked up the watering pail and fed my children. They seemed to weep at the sight of me. I gave them food, but I felt like no god this time. I felt nothing. My flowers ate what I had given them. I placed the watering pail back in its place. I walked to the door and opened it. I entered the house and walked to the bedroom. I grabbed the spool of rope. I tied it into a knot. I stood upon my mother’s wicker chair and placed the rope around my neck. I kicked the chair from beneath me. I hung until I was dead. Swinging back and forth, I found my eternal, blissful, monotony.

Starring some random chick and (Note: You'll see "Selly" in there because that's what I call him on account of his username being "sellyme".) It was finally time. I walked into his house and said, "Let's get started," with a hot smile. I was quite impatient, but that was probably due to my excitement. We both walked into his room in unison and he locked the door. He seemed to be just as impatient and excited as I was, because he immediately proceeded to remove his pants. He was not wearing underwear. I shuddered with joy as I stared at his dick for the first time. He was already starting to get a boner. He then completed the picture of a naked Sebastian by removing his shirt. I followed suit by taking off my shirt and shorts to reveal my sexy hot pink bra and thong. He was already naked and ready to start, but I wanted him to admire my body and get a stronger boner, so I started to bounce my boobs around and then I slowly removed my bra. I could see he was enjoying this, so I went with the same approach for my thong. I began by rubbing my vaginal area and then I gingerly shimmied the thong down my legs. Sebastian was hard already, and I was already horny. I presumed he was too. He sat down on his bed and I casually walked towards him and his erect dick. He looked so sexy. I let my boobs bounce and my finger whisked my vagina and clitoris. We were both having tons of fun. I knelt down and began to rub his nice dick. It felt so good. I was actually on the verge of an orgasm for a second, but I quickly took control over it. I didn't want to climax already! I was now rubbing his dick faster and more intensely. I then slipped it into my mouth in an almost hesitant fashion, but I quickly became comfortable with it. I kept doing this until I felt that it was time for Sebastian to warm up my vagina. He stood up as I layed down on his bed. I was experiencing utter bliss. I never thought this day would come. Sebastian started to rub my clitoris, and trust me, I know a good clit rubber when I feel one. He was amazing. It got even better when he started to lick my clit. Unfortunately, I had to stop him, because I still didn't want to orgasm yet. Now that we'd had an oral sex warm up, it was time for the real thing. My body was ready. I got up off the bed, feeling somehow refreshed. We got into the missionary sex position on the floor. He began to rub his condom-covered dick against my pussy. Oh baby, that felt so good. It got even better when he actually inserted his dick into my vagina. He started slow, but quickly gained speed. I started to go, "Oh, oh!" as he continued. We were seriously having sex! I felt an orgasm coming on again, but this time I didn't try to stop it. I began to shake and say, "Oh Selly, keep going! Oh Selly!" And then I let it happen. The shaking got more intense and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy, bliss, and pure happiness. Sebastian was also shaking and saying, "Oh baby, I love you." During my orgasm, I felt his condom expand. He had cummed! It was so sexy. Slowly, I stopped orgasming, and he stopped thrusting his dick back and forth. Both of us were still faintly saying, "Oh..." He rolled off of me, stood up, and flopped onto his bed. I gladly joined him. I grabbed his head and started kissing him all over his face. He grabbed my head too and kissed my lips. His hair felt so soft in my hands, and the kiss made everything even better. I almost felt like orgasming again. We kept messily kissing each other, but then we slowly faded from each other's grip. After that, we simply engaged in a relaxing, full body hug. Eventually, we fell back onto our backs. Sebastian dazily said, "I love you," and I replied with, "I love you too," with the same dazed yet strong voice. Sebastian proceeded to say, "We need to do this again soon," and I agreed by saying, "Oh yeah baby. You're amazing." It was the best day of my life. <3 WORST STORY EVER KILL ME NOW.

The first thing I remembered was finding myself in a mist-ridden marsh just around nightfall. It was not the first time I've been there. It seems as if I'm returning to that place due to unlucky circumstances which lead me no other choice but to accept my fate and find a place to stay for the night, however much I want to do the exact opposite: run as far away as I can back into the civilised, for there is something unknown, some peculiar feeling that makes me feel unwanted and a burden to that place. Yet, fate has dropped me off here once again. How will I go about it this time? I know of some of the traditions and uses the locals have here. For instance, there is a town's hall where the men meet at Sunday to discuss important matters. Only a selection of men is allowed in there, as the outsiders dare not interfere with the local matters. Me being an outsider I was tempted to do just that. An old man with a bleak face blocked me the way murmuring in some distant language probably not yet known by the men of yesterday, or already forgotten by the men of now. I can never access the secrets that lie within, the very information that can keep me out of this eerie place. A place which doesn't want me there yet is appointed by fate to keep me there for periods of time it rather remained hidden and unknown to me. The first time I remember visiting this place was after a car I was sitting in broke down. I don't remember who was accompanying me at the time, needless to say I didn't see those people again. When we found the first house we could, we asked to stay there. I am the only person I remember seeing after that time. The people who lived there took me in, but there was no sincerity, no intention to it. It was as if they were obliged by higher rules or morals to do the same thing that had happened to them, making them sufferers of the same grey fate as the rest of this secretive community. I become more and more accustomed being there every time, though I tend to forget the roads and where they all lead to. The sky is an everlasting dark grey, as if the storm never passes, just hangs there to pour down the tentative misery all people are overcome. They still do not give up and continue with their daily life, forgotten of the fact that there is a different world out there, or am I the only one who really dares to dream of a different setting and is that the reason I am not taken seriously by anyone residing there? How DID I end up here? Why were we driving this way into despair as if no other better routes were open in the first place? The more I seem to wind up there, the more I seem to understand the functioning of it all, though there is no distinction to be made of what is there and what really isn't. As interchangeable as it is, itis not a certain designated village; more a living being feeding off of the not yet corrupted vicinity on the one hand and leaving places to change to something else again on the other. A cloud not big enough to hide away all the sunlight. It is what a Medieval village would look like in its contemporary setting with all the fears and unvertainties of life still present as if technology had not added to the welfare of these people. They were having none of it. It was as alien to them as the place was to me. A clash of ideology and sanity with no arbitrator watching if the rules be applied. Somehow I managed to find my way out of there finding a deserted busstop amongst tall grass and trees. The darkness of it all did not add to my understanding of it, but there was something that reminded me of modern society, something which is very well known to me and where I can live as a regular person instead of being directed by the commune's wishes. Time had passed very swiftly, though as irrelevant as their language or theiri habits, it did not directly affect me. The existence of it was meaningless from the perspective I was in. Taking the bus I realized. I didn't want to leave this, I had to find out the reason I was being dragged to that shithole over and over again. What a foolish remark to make though. I know I'll end up there tomorrow again.

*Events began to move faster as the Demon of If drew its web in tighter. When it moved the world shuddered and time folded back. Somewhere on Route d’abbaye Jason Magwier was fighting for his life. Further to the north Judy Bauer was trying and failing to escape the magics keeping her from getting home. Zeth was helping Lorelei with a little breaking and entering. And Jack Diamond was in the back seat of his Cadillac cursing wildly.* * “Mother-fucking shit-sucking yellow trash!” Jack Diamond was literally stomping his feet in frustration. His hand tightened around the red phial in his hand. How could he have made such a stupid mistake? Ever since the thought of going to the Sallow Sultan occurred to him he had barely been able to think of anything else. It became an obsession, a craving. He began to feel like if he didn’t get to Route d’abbaye he would go mad. When it became too much to bear Jack Diamond had burst out of his office, interrupted Wu-Han in mid-thrust, shoved the phial in his pocket and ushered him out the door. “Fuck fuck fuck!” Jack Diamond shouted. He punched the ceiling of the Cadillac crushing the overhead light, “The wrong phial! I gave him the wrong tit swallowing phial!” He couldn’t believe it. He had shoved the gold phial of coke into Wu-Han’s pocket as he shoved him out the door. That phial was Jack Diamond’s ‘trail mix’ of cocaine, diamond shavings and the cremains of virgin Outlanders. “Of all the dipshit luck!” Unable to contain himself Jack Diamond pulled out his Desert Eagle and smashed the passenger side window with the gun barrel. Glass flew everywhere. That trail mix had been a special order! It had taken weeks for delivery and he knew, just knew, that Wu-Han was most likely snorting the precious stuff up like it was nothing more than cheap street corner blow. And all that left Jack with was a Demon of If in a cheap glass phial. It was just a worthless imp of coincidence. The little spirits were like karmic piranha, only dangerous in large numbers. “And what the fuck did he want this for? Why did he bring this corpse shitting nonsense to me? Who the fuck does he think he is? Who the fuck does he think I am? Fuckiddy fuck fuck fuck!” Once the cursing and property damage died down the Cadillac’s chauffeur Bascomb spoke up. “Begging your pardon sir, but if you’ve lost something I can turn back.” Jack Diamond jammed the business end of the Desert Eagle into the back of the man’s head, “You shut the Hell up! I’ll tell you where I want to go. Take me to Route d’abbaye. Get me there now!” That done Jack Diamond re-holstered his weapon and tried to calm down. Night was falling and the streetlights of Olathoe were lighting up one by one. The car passed by the Spire and, after pausing to let a gaggle of pedestrians pass, turned right. The thought of giving pedestrians the right of way made Jack Diamond angry all over again. What was the point of having a car with a re-enforced chassis if you didn’t use it to clip some moron on the crosswalk once in a while? There was no doubt about it, he was going to have to get his chauffeur lobotomized, it just made things so much easier. *Hell,* Jack Diamond thought, *Half this world needs a lobotomy.* When Jack Diamond had been a boy, living in the Louisiana swamps with his mother and fathers, he had dreamed of growing up to have prestige, power and a donkey sized dick. Now he had all that and he was miserable. And why? Other people, that was why. Jack spent his every half-sober hour playing politics and taking orders from people that he had to accept as his superiors. In another time, a better time, Wu-Han would be the one getting buggered by Jack’s secretary. Two thousand years ago when the Lunt family name was still Veneficus he could have had Jason Magwier crucified and burned. Better yet, he could have kept Lorelei Miller, Judy Bauer and Audra DiMico as slaves and oh the things he would make them do. In the seventeenth century kings and queens would have stepped aside to let him pass. “Fuck that. I’d be the king,” Jack smiled, whispering to himself, “No better yet I’d be just like Louie of fuckin’ France. The Star Lord!” “Sun King,” Bascomb said. “What?” “The ruler of France, they called him the Sun King.” “Oh,” And with that Jack Diamond's rage went from temper tantrums to quiet eye-twitching fury. He choked back the urge to shoot his chauffeur dead. Partly because the man was still driving and mostly because the Kuen-Yuin paid for his chauffeurs and if he killed another one it might cost him a promotion. Minutes later the Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of a three level brownstone that had been painted a sickly shade of yellow. Jack Diamond smiled a little, the girls that worked here wore clothes and masks made of rubbery plastic, the kind that absorbed stains and hid bruises. He had called ahead and the grouchy pimp that ran the place, Mustard, was standing by the front door. Jack Diamond liked the semi-syphilitic old bastard, but he liked the discounts the man gave him even more. Once he was out of the Cadillac Jack Diamond realized that the red phial was still in his hand. He thought to throw it like the garbage it was but the sudden urge to keep it won out. He slipped it into the pocket of his seersucker suit and headed up the steps of the Sallow Sultan.

“Good job, Katy! One gold star for you. You can use it to get something in the Learning and Motivation store.” Dr. Biff Skinner, my psychology professor. He’s pretty funny and makes the class experience enjoyable, even when the material is boring and dry. He’s one of my favorite professors, but he’s the only one that I want to fuck. And I have a plan. I went to his office later that day. His door was open and he was on his computer. I stood and watched him for a few seconds before I knocked. He looked up, smiled, and welcomed me in. I walked in and shut the door behind me. He looked a little surprised that the door was shut, but didn’t say anything about it. “What can I do for you, Katy?” Dr. Skinner said. “I’d like to redeem my gold star, Dr. Skinner.” I said with a grin. “Let me guess, you want an ‘A’ on your next exam?” he replied jokingly. With as much courage as I could muster, I replied, “No. What I want is for you to bend me over your desk and fuck me from behind.” He seemed a bit startled, but quickly recovered and said with a devious smile on his face, “Well now, you’ll need more than one gold star in order to get that.” “And just what would I have to do to earn enough gold stars?” He stood up from behind his desk, looked me in the eyes, and unzipped his pants. “This would be a start.” I walked over to him, got down on my knees, and took his cock out of his pants. I started licking up, down, and all around his cock and balls, allowing the tip to go in my mouth every few licks. When his cock was covered in my saliva, I slid him all the way into my mouth, letting my tongue play with the underside of his cock as he was thrusting in and out. My hands went to his balls, massaging them and rubbing his taint while he was thrusting and moaning. His hands were bunched in my hair, guiding his cock into my mouth. He was moaning that he was cumming, so I sucked harder. He shot his load into my mouth and it slid down my throat. I swallowed it all, stood up, wiped my mouth, and asked him with a wink, “Did that earn me enough gold stars?” “Oh God, did it ever!” He replied breathlessly. He pushed me over his desk, pulling my shirt off in the process. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so I was naked from the waist up. He pulled my panties down in one fell swoop, pushed my skirt up, and thrust into me hard. I moaned so loud I was sure someone would hear me. He thrust into me harder, holding my waist to keep me steady. It only took five more thrusts and I was gone. I came so hard that I shivered. He came again seconds later. I lay breathing hard on his desk for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. When I got up, he looked at me and whispered with a smile on his face, “Good job. One gold star.” I put my shirt back on, pulled my skirt down, leaving my panties on the floor of his office as a little remembrance for him. I winked at him, opened his office door, and walked out with his cum running down my legs. As I passed the student aid, she openly stared at me, so I knew that she had heard at least part of what happened in there. I put my finger up to my mouth to tell her to keep quiet and walked out of the building. I can’t wait to earn some more gold stars.

Hey Everyone :D I'm only a casual writer, but I just finished this short story on a whim tonight. Please give me some feedback and let me know what you think. Also, I'm really interested in knowing what sort of emotions you felt while reading it. Thanks everyone! It sounded like the deep whoosh of fan blades, but they were in his head. The world seemed as if it were being seen through a plastic sheet, everything was blurry and finding focus was impossible. Nevertheless, the small, dark haired boy began pushing himself up to his feet. Confusion swept through him. In his hand was a small piece of jagged aluminum, the kind used for guttering, or heavy tin cans. It seemed so foreign. As the boy's gaze rose, he saw a man lying next to him. Most of his head had been removed by the blast of some large firearm. Small chunks of brain were strewn for several feet around them both. Gray matter and blood formed an Spaghetti-Oh looking soup in the rivets and missing chunks of the cold concrete floor. You could see the top of the man's spine by looking in the large hole where his right cheekbone should have been. A woman. A woman ran towards the boy looking frantic – dangerous even. She had a wild look in her eye, and a shotgun in held loosely in her hand, pointing at the floor. He knew that if he let her get close, something bad would happen. She would wrap her blood-covered arms around him and take him away. Take him away from wherever he was to someplace else, someplace strange and terrible. The boy was shaking with fear and staring at the woman when suddenly the quiet hit him. Everything went silent. It was as if he had awoken to a world set in a Charlie Chaplan film. The quiet – the nothingness within the quiet – scared the boy. It scared him worse than the dead man, worse than the crazy shotgun-toting lady. It scared him on a primal level and he knew right away that he should run. He should run and get as far away as possible. The woman had gotten closer. She was opening her mouth, pointing at him, even crying in her raging hysteria. She looked battered. The dark, shining areas under both of her eyes told the entire story easily enough. She seemed oddly familiar. Her insanity was evident in her face, twisted with more emotion than the young boy could understand. He turned to flee, but was too slow. A hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him back towards the crazy lady. It wasn't something he thought about. Not at all. As the hand touched his shoulder, he jerked violently around and thrust the jagged aluminum spike with all of his might. There was some resistance, but it quickly gave way. Although the woman did not have her gun raised, the sudden jerk raised the barrel in line with the young boys knee. As fire ripped through her abdomen, she accidentally pulled the trigger. Something about the shotgun blast shook the boy deep inside. Sounds flooded back into his world. It was almost too loud, too sudden. The ground was coming at him. His leg would not work to catch him. The confusion was too much, blackness started to seep in around the edges of his vision. His head hit the ground hard, but he remained conscious. In shock, and too scared to move, the boy could only watch. The woman had fallen to her side, and was gripping at the aluminum shaft sticking out of her stomach. The look on her face was born of pure surprise. Her abdominal muscles reacted to the impalement – instantly locking up and tightening around the intruder. She felt her lifeblood flowing freely from wound, felt herself getting weaker. Her poor boy. He breathed raggedly on the ground next to her, looking up in fearful state of shock that Vietnam veterans would have cringed at. She felt herself slipping away. She looked down at the boy. “Son...

I sat in the chair, restrained and left alone for my thoughts to devour me whole. The chair was beautifully uncarved, a masterpiece of nature left unmarred by human hands, yet still uncomfortable enough for a prisoner like me to hate it. It felt like days have gone by in this chair, awaiting my fate, arms and legs bruised from the cuffs that dug into my flesh. My mind was racing, yet muddled; confined by the boundaries that they have placed on my thoughts. Memories repeating, left in a loop for me to regret for the rest of eternity. “Prisoner 339264. Rise for your Arbiter.” The loud hollow voice filled the room and the cuffs released me from their clutches, as I stood for someone who I am to respect, yet have never met. The Arbiter entered through the large steel doors previously hidden by the shadows and motioned for me to take my seat. As I hesitantly sat, the Arbiter began to speak, “You may not know why you are here.” his voice echoed in the large room. “And that is why I have been appointed to you. As a reminder, and as a final decision as to what is to happen to you.” He moved towards the pulpit, and laid out his documents for inspection. “What you have done is nothing new, a case like yours comes along thousands of times every year, from insignificant, pitiful people like yourself, to more tragic, meaningful people like that American that smelled vaguely of adolescent character, and the famous writer who was found in his house holding his favorite shotgun. But you are lower than them. Theirs was slightly more understandable, but not you, you had everything lined up for you. Presented on a platter to choose for your own liking. You left children, both legitimate, and illegitimate, in your wake. Open your mouth, what do you have to say for yourself?” My mouth was parched, and my throat was in a knot. “Who are you?” I finally asked. “Me? I am your judge.” He came around the pulpit, walking towards me as the cuffs restrained me again. “Your Fate, your King Minos. I am Your Arbiter. That is all you need to know.” I searched my mind for why I was here; one of the vague memories that have been placed off limits, torturing me with its escape. As he walked back, I gathered the nerve to finally ask the question that has been prying at my psyche. “Where am I, and what am I on trial for? I have a right to know!” “YOU HAVE NO RIGHTS HERE! You have lost all rights when your cowardice came over you, and you took your own life, leaving behind your wife, children, brothers, everything! You gave it all up, and for what? Nothing! And look where it's got you. In front of me.” An evil grin spread like the plague across his face. “I have the pleasure of deciding where you spend the rest of eternity.” Shaken, my heart began to race. I didn't know what he was talking about. “What do you mean? I have no children! I cannot even remember what brought me to this horrid place. Explain!” His eyes glared at me, and for once in a long time I felt intimidated. Genuinely afraid of his sick twisted face. Mocking me with his furrowed brow. His voice became eerily soft “There are things that cannot be explained at this moment, what I can say is that you are in limbo. This is where everyone passes as they wait for their judgment. You are here because you have taken your life, and left a wife and a mistress to raise your children.” My memories began to fade into existence, Carmen's beautiful smile, My daughters letters as she learned Spanish abroad, Hector's diligence. I remember. “People like you cause rifts in The Writing. The only thing that cannot be accounted for, you humans have managed to exploit and cause panic not only in your dimension, but here as well.” I finally understand whats going on, its setting in. “Why did I do it?” I asked. The Arbiter replied quickly “None us know, it is the only thing that has escapes us seven for all of eternity. We have seen people do it for pride, out of fear, love, anger, even curiosity.” Seven? “Are you the only Arbiter? If not why are you the one judging me?” His face twisted with a curious look, as though he was surprised, yet elated that I wanted to know about him and the others. “As I said before, there are seven of Us. We reign over your dimension and through a combination of us, we form every human being as their characteristics, or “Feelings”. Some people have more of one of us than others may.” “And as to the reason why I am being judged in front of you?” I beckoned for an answer. “Simple, out of the seven of us, I was the one most inflicted by your final moments. More people felt my presence because of you. And that angers me. Why should a human as incompetent as yourself be able to send shockwaves to dozens that I myself am not able to feel?” His piercing eyes, because soft and glazed over. He turned away from me snatching the files from the pulpit and briskly flipping through them. “So what am I to do?! I'm sorry that I offended you, but there must be something I can do to redeem myself!” I was looking for a way out. The outcome of angering this entity could not be good. “What you have done is irreversible and irreconcilable. The verdict has been decided. You will return to Earth as your daughter's son. You will be stripped of a father at a young age as you have stripped yourself from your children. You will raise yourself and your siblings, as you left your oldest son to do so without a father. Left to fend for yourself in the tidal wave that you have cause in your past life.” I writhed in my seat at the thought of being sent back to that dreadful place. “NO! You cant send me back there.” I didn't even know what I was afraid of. “There is nothing more than I can do, I have judged according to The Laws. You have done the crime. You must now pay the repercussions.” And with that he faded back into the shadowy corner. As the door closed softly behind him, my cuffs became undone. Rubbing my sore wrists, I began wondering what I should do now. When will my punishment begin? And if there is still a way to get around it. “Prisoner 339264. You have been tried and judged. You know your fate.” And with that a dark fear consumed, and pushed me towards a light. Into a realm so bright, cold and intimidating, it is a wonder how anyone could find comfort in this unrelenting place.

THE FORESTER - The Mutation has overrun the Earth, and humanity is on the brink of extinction. Tashia Dell is a Forester, an elite sect of U.S. Special Forces trained to combat the encroaching jungle. After a harrowing mission, she decides to resign from the Foresters, to the dismay of her commanding officer. But when her son is kidnapped by elves--humans infected with the Mutation--she has no choice but to return to the forest to rescue him. The Forester is a novelette. PROBABLY - Ben Haskins has the power to change the fabric of reality by manipulating probability. When Marie tracks him down so he can heal her cancer, her presence forces him to confront his past sets him on the path to his future. Probably is a short story. THE SCHOLAR'S WRATH - As First Mark of the Anai'Alatian Empire Dason Traver prepares to lay seige to Valgard, the criminals Stick and Grab find themselves caught in Dason Traver's net with the promise of freedom ringing in their ears. Meanwhile Valgard's steward, Unvald Patrak, fights desperately to save his keep from the hands of the enemy while dealing with General Skoldur, who has brought destruction in the form of the Anai'Alatian Empire down upon them. When Unvald discovers that Dason Traver has brought Wrath, powerful magic constructed by the Scholars, he fears all is lost. But events from his past won't let him quit, and he'll do anything to save his people. The Scholar's Wrath is a novelette. THE WILD NIGHT - In this traditional fantasy, a group of four young men commit an atrocious crime and the consequences prove to be heavier than they could have imagined as one of them uncovers betrayal and awakens a latent magic. The Wild Night is a short story.

I realize I'm looking out a car window. I'm looking at the occasional driver in the right lane as we pass by, but their forms are obscured by the rain. I'm staring off into the woods bordering the highway, ignoring the conversation between the people in the front seats. I watch a single drop streak down the glass and try not to wonder why I have this feeling of shame gnawing at my stomach. "Hey you alright bud?" My head bounces gently on the window. It's not nearly as uncomfortable as the overwhelming sense of contempt that's boiling in my blood. Not for any one thing in particular, save perhaps myself and whatever misdeeds I committed tonight, but for all things. The other passengers are silent now. I listen to the wipers scrape across the windshield. My mouth is dry and stale from cheap beer. I'm not nauseous, but I want to vomit up every last thing I have, to spew out everything toxic inside of me on side of the road. "He's passed the fuck out," whispers the driver. "Yeah, he'll be fine," whispers the passenger.

My dad says that when he was a kid, him and his brothers and sisters would wait for my grandpa to get all suited up, strap his snowshoes on and head out into the bush for rabbits. Once he would get to the deep snow, two or three of them would run up behind him, pull him down into the snow on his back and laugh as he struggled to get up with all his gear and the awkward old style snowshoes. I haven't remembered to ask my Grandpa for the flipside of this story but I'm very interested to hear what happened after this story ends in my Dad's memory. **New Years** Like I've mentioned before, my Grandfather used to drink a lot. Because he had so much practice he considered himself a pretty good drunk driver. One New Years him and my Grandmother were at a friend's for a party. It was around 3am and my Grandma wanted to go home. My Grandpa convinces my Grandma he is all right to drive and they both stumble out to the car. Everything is going fine until they reach a very flat straight and boring portion of their drive and my Grandfather begins to nod off at the wheel. Noticing this, my Grandma talks him into pulling over to the shoulder and taking a nap before they continue any further. My Grandpa agrees. He slows the car down and puts it in park. He reclines his seat back all the way and lays down. My Grandma now looks outside and turns screaming to my Grandfather who is already sleeping. My Grandfather had forgot to pull over and had put the car in park in the slow lane of a four lane highway. (Two lanes going each way.) He pulled the car all the way over to the shoulder and resumed his power nap. He awoke not long afterwards and drove the rest of the way home without incident.

I realize that, by their very nature, dreams are mysterious and not wont to easily part with their secret meanings. Yet each and every time I slide into the arms of Hypnos, I am overcome with this serenity that has so captivated my soul and heart. It is quite beyond words to describe; it is a sense of being home, at ease, a veritable emotion of well-being so pure and unadulterated that it has become an object of desire in my waking hours. Indeed, I long for the hours in which I may again temporarily leave this world which deigns not to bestow upon me this same miraculous form of bliss, and my great regret is that no matter how firmly and gently I grasp at this wanting ev'ry single night, it manages to escape my clumsy earthly fingers in the morn thereafter. I am then left with this ever-bleeding longing, a wish for time to pass me by gently but quickly, so that I may soon resume my reverie, and preferably close to the place and time where I left off previously. Alas, this wish is seldom granted. Lord Hypnos seemingly has other plans for me those nights, as I am both fond and reluctant to find out time and again. The scapes themselves are as different as one could imagine. One could be the plain and downright opposite of another, and even if that other was a magnificent picture of calm, peace and beauty, this new discovery shan't be of any shock or worry to me; the great bliss that envelops me in these scapes keeps me safe, as if I am but an observer of magnificent world-lines and divine possibilities far beyond the scope of our own private physical existence. Eyes through mist, so does it seem to present itself in those dreams, though the only regrettable part is always the waking up; the doing away with the security and safety of a world that was created by ourselves, in our proper minds, free from foreign influence or taints that do not originate with our own psyches. 'Tis almost as if those countless lives that I have been offered glimpses of are no less real than this tortuous dwelling in sorrow, just... not quite as accessible. At least not from my current position. So I must contend myself with the glimpses alone, but wond'rous they are indeed. My flesh cannot know the pleasures these worlds provide my mind, the endless and aetheric entertainment that swirls forever in the mists of my own spirit. But lo! Offsetting this sheer joy and freedom is the knowledge that I cannot grasp at it, cannot touch what I feel and see, cannot summon it at will to enjoy it. I must wait, always, for it to come to me, to visit me through the veil of dreams and waking. It must flow across the aether into the streams of consciousness that are human minds caressed by Hypnos' soothing hands. For only under his watchful eye are the streams permitted to mingle and create the dreams we long for. Only by his grace do we experience what it is to be more than what we are. We are dreamers.

"Sir? This is the last stop for this train. Do you want to get off here?" So I dozed off for who knows how long. Thanking the train attendant, I hastily shove the Palahniuk book into my worn out CaPerro handbag. The train, which was awfully vacated from the start, is now quietly empty. There is one old guy dressed in cargo green still sitting in his seat at the end of cabin two. He seems to be asleep, and the attendant makes her way to wake him up. Did I look like that before she woke me up? I don't know. I don't think I'd like to bother her for such a trivial matter, either. The sky is painted a somber grey. It's still drizzling lightly outside, so I put on my leather beret and tighten my jacket straps. As the soles of my shoes crunch on the damp ground, the smell of rain soaking in caresses me and my footsteps softly. I once learned from a book that the smell is called petrichor. And like that smell, your smile under the two-year-old August rain still mystifies what's left of me until this day. Apr 11, 2012.

“Mummy, tell me the story of Die Sine Timere,” whispered Jerry to his mother as she leaned over to tuck him in. He’d heard the story about a million times, from his friends and teachers and family, but he loved it best when his mother told it. Besides, the holiday was tomorrow, and hearing the story would help calm his excitement enough to sleep. His mother smiled at him and adjusted his pillows. “Are you sure? You practically know it by heart at this point,” she replied. He looked up at her and smiled an imploring smile. “Please?” His mother laughed a little and sat down next to him on the bed. “Well...okay,” she whispered. She looked out his window and saw the holiday’s festive banner flapping from between two street lamps on the road. The banner read “Welcome to the 3045 Celebration of Die Sine Timere!” It waved back and forth in the wind. She turned back to Jerry, who was now propped up on his pillows and looking at her expectantly. “Okay, okay. Well,” she began, “Our story begins a long time ago, way back in 2015. Our ancestors who lived in that time were not like the way we are today. They were wild and crazy and very violent. The whole world was fighting a war with each other, and it was not the first time everyone had been fighting. They loved fighting each other, and they’d find any excuse to go to do it. They fought over religion and money and--” “And oil!” interrupted Jerry excitedly. “Yes, love, and oil. They even fought over who got to live where. It was very silly, but very dangerous. You see, millions of people, innocent people and soldiers alike were getting killed every day. It was horrible. Families were being ripped apart and nobody seemed to be able to make sense of it all. Nobody seemed to understand that everyone was the same underneath the skin and that war was a bad thing. Everyone bleeds red, darling, but our ancestors were too blinded by greed and hatred to see the common color underneath people’s skin. So they fought and fought for years. Finally, one day everyone woke up from sleeping and realized that they had killed off more than half the people on Earth. There used to be seven billion people living there, but now there was only about two billion. Some of the ground was permanently stained red from all the bloodshed. Even the clouds were damaged, and there were holes in the sky from all the bad things our ancestors had put up there. Things had gotten so bad that all the countries knew that they had to stop killing and stop wasting things and stop fighting.” “Did they stop killing each other, Mummy?” asked Jerry, even though he already knew the answer. “Yes, they did, darling. All the countries came together and talked about their problems and decided to stop all wars forever. Everyone began to get along, slowly but surely, and the people started sharing their things with each other. Nobody got called any names and everyone was equal. The first few years of peace were a little scary, because people weren’t sure how long it was going to last. But as the fourth year of peace passed, it became obvious to everyone that it was here to stay. All the leaders of all the countries came together that year and decided that there should be a day of remembrance and happiness and celebration as a global holiday, to be celebrated until the end of peace. They put this holiday on August 21st, which was the day all the wars ended. They decided to call this day “Die Sine Timere,” which is from a very very old language called Latin, and it means “Day Without Fear.” They said that on this day, all the people were to celebrate another year of peace and remember our mistakes in the past to keep us safe in the future. They said that people could celebrate and remember any way they saw fit, but they must be sure to celebrate it each year. Our country celebrates by having large block parties and getting all the communities together for a good time. And for you and all the other children, darling, it’s the one night of the year where you don’t have to go to bed before midnight. You get to stay up very late. And before everyone does go to bed on the night of Die Sine Timere, each family sits together in silent meditation to remember those who died and to help us remain peaceful for the following year.” “Tell me about the lanterns, Mummy. Don’t forget the lanterns,” whispered Jerry, whose eyes were closed now. He was not quiet asleep yet, just listening quietly to the story of his favorite holiday in peace. “Ah, yes, the lanterns,” said his mother, who now was stroking her son’s hair gently as she spoke. “Well, in all the countries around the world, there is one thing that all our ceremonies of peace have in common. Every single person or family makes a special lantern out of biodegradable paper, and they each write a wish for the future or a memory of the past on that lantern. Then, at exactly midnight, each person or family lights the lantern and sends it into the sky, and all the wishes and memories get to soar the night skies together. It’s very beautiful and is a symbol of our unity and peace.” “It’s like watching all our wishes come true,” whispered Jerry. “That it is, my love. That it is,” replied his mother, “And every year, the whole world does the same thing. For one day a year, we remember our unity and how lucky we are to be at peace. Each person meditating or releasing a lantern or playing in the park during the day is a promise for the future. We will remain peaceful, so long as we have this hope.” She stopped, for that was the end of the story. She and her son sat quietly together for a moment, before Jerry let out a contented sigh and rolled on his side, eyes still shut tight. His mother looked down at his little sleeping face and smiled. She leaned down and gently kissed his forehead before getting up off the bed. She tucked the blankets up to his chin and turned to walk away. “Mummy?” Jerry said quietly. “Yes, darling?” said his mother, turning back towards her son. “Goodnight, Mummy. I love you.” “I love you too, Jerry. Goodnight.” She shut off his light and headed downstairs to prepare the rice paper for the lanterns for tomorrow night, so that she and her son could silently watch all their wishes come true.

It was a month to this day that I saw her move. At first it was just an eye. Her glassy eye, bursting with rays of different colors, slowly drifted in my direction only to shift back to its place faster than the quickening beat of my heart. She sat desolately in my living room, as if waiting for some sort of direction. Her long white socks blended in with her porcelain skin; she was dressed as if she was living in the wrong decade. But she was painstakingly beautiful. My mother took care of her well, buying her new outfits and even a bed to sleep in at night. Her name was Emily and I would have done anything to speak with her, although I knew I’d never get a response. “Mother, may I bring her to school with me just once? Introduce her to the other kids? It would be good for her to have some interaction outside of the house. She could make some friends,” I begged my mother day after day once I had noticed Emily’s glance. Quite honestly, I longed for Emily’s attention and affection because I didn’t have many friends at school. I needed a friend. I needed her. “Don’t be silly, honey. Emily isn’t going anywhere; Emily is frozen here. She always has been and she always will be. Now go fix your hair and make yourself presentable before school, I don’t want you to come home a crying mess again,” my mother said as she licked her thumb and wiped what was left of breakfast off of my face. I never really fit in with the other kids at school. I was the pathetic guy with a “kick me” sign constantly plastered to my back and the nickname “Booger” from my overactive sinuses in the fifth grade. Somewhere along the way, my genes decided to prevent me from ever feeling normal. I began daydreaming about Emily as I sat alone at lunch every day. I imagined the conversations she and I would have together if I could just get her to wake up and talk to me. With eyes as kind as hers, I felt as though she would know just what to say to make me feel like I belonged, like I had some sort of purpose. It was on the 19th of April that I decided that Emily and I belonged together. I decided that I would go home and tell her how I’ve always loved her, how her presence in my life was the only pleasant constant. And I did. “Emily, please listen to me. I know you can hear me. Give me a sign that you can hear me,” I pleaded while I stood over Emily’s pale body as it lay in a bed made just for her. A cough, a deep breath, and Emily’s eyes opened to meet mine. Struggling to move her stiff limbs, Emily winced as she sat up in bed. “Emily! I knew it! I knew you were always here, I knew you could hear me. I knew I saw you look at me that day!” I nearly shouted in bewilderment, but remembered my mother’s place in her bedroom a few doors down. Mother did not like me to raise my voice, nor did she permit me to leave my bedroom after supper. Sometimes she’d give me time outs if I misbehaved. One time I sat in the corner of the basement for five hours in time out. If I pleaded that, at 16, I was too old for time outs, she’d remind me how she is the most wonderful mother on the planet and how I was her little angel and I would obey. But for Emily, I would break the rules. “Ted! I have been listening to you this whole time, I just had no idea how to let you know I was lucid. You’ve been on my mind constantly and I will never rest again,” Emily said as she cracked her neck and then threw her arms around my head. I lifted my index finger and grazed her eyelashes with my fingertip. Just as I had always imagined, they were softer than silk and longer than a cow’s. “TED! What are you doing in there!?” I heard my mother yell from outside of the door, the only barrier separating my mother from Emily and I. I gently threw Emily down on the bed and her eyes closed instantly. My mother burst through the door like a gust of wind and looked at me skeptically. “What the hell are you doing in here? You know you’re supposed to be in your room after supper. And what’s with your obsession with Emily, huh?” My mother said at a mile a minute as she openly sneered in my direction. She never used swear words, so I knew she was exceptionally angry. I shrugged and pushed past her with little force, feeling terrible for leaving Emily in that room by herself. I knew I’d have to make an escape plan for Emily and I. We were in love and the only logical thing was for the two of us to run away together. She was my happily ever after, I was convinced. Days passed and I spent all of my time with Emily. I stopped sleeping because Emily didn’t, I stopped going to school because Emily didn’t, and I stopped eating because Emily didn’t. It baffled me as to how she could stay so beautiful with absolutely no nourishment, and it baffled me even more that she still loved me as I grew weaker and the bags under my eyes got bigger with every passing moment. “I love you so much, Emily,” I whispered on April the 24th, as Emily lay motionless by my side, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. Mother could tell that something was awry, but I avoided all of her questions. I stopped talking to anyone who wasn’t Emily. On the night of April the 30th, Mother woke up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. She must have seen Emily and I out on the old swing set through the soft glow of light on the back porch as she sauntered past the window. Mother never just walked, she always sauntered. But that night, she ran. She sprinted into the backyard in her nightgown, something a woman like her would never be found dead doing, and snatched Emily right off of the swing next to me. “This is the last time I’ll find you with Emily, Ted! The last time! We need to get you help, Ted! This ain’t right,” my mother shouted, but not loudly enough to wake the neighbors. God forbid they’d find us out in the yard in the middle of the night. “Why can’t you be happy for me? I’ve finally found love! I finally have a friend! Emily is my soul mate! She would never hurt me!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, opposing the peaceful lull of the neighborhood as I charged toward my mother. With Emily in my mothers hands, I no longer cared about myself. I, as gently as possible, snatched Emily from my mother with greedy fingers and carried her fragile body through my yard and into the street. “Emily, I will always keep you safe. I will never let anyone hurt you, just like you will never let anyone hurt me,” I reassured her with a whisper as I stared into those shiny eyes. Faster than a bolt of lightning, my mother’s body collided with mine and Emily flew from my hands. The last thing I remember is watching in disbelief as Emily’s body flew away from my hands, in the opposite direction of my warm heart that had been devoted to her since the moment I saw her. When she fell to the pavement and I watched her shatter into hundreds of pieces, only to be picked at by the birds and run over by cars, my warm heart too shattered. I woke up on a white bed. Surrounded by white walls. Wearing a white gown and those fuzzy socks with that junk on the bottom to prevent me from slipping on the white floors. A doctor who was just another name and another face to me glided into the room with a masculine grace and long legs like a gazelle. I instantly felt a pang of jealously, realizing that Emily never would have left him like she left me. “So, Ted, why do you think it is that you were in love with a porcelain doll?” Dr. WhoCares asked me as I slouched in my bed, tempted to cover my face with the white pillow. “Because she was all I’ve ever wanted,” I said without a blink, without a breath, without feeling.

This is my first & only short story ever written, please be kind. I am not a writer nor am I trying to be. This was something to occupy a few hours time & get some stress out, a friend recommended I do, so I did it, I hope you enjoy it... if not. Please don't let me know. How Many Times Right now, she’s holding the necklace Angie gave her. It’s the only memory left now. She stands on the deserted bridge beneath the moonlight as she watches the last trace of white disappear beneath the ripples forever. Well, maybe not forever… we all know it’ll pop up sooner or later on the news. In a couple of weeks, a couple of months, who knows? It may even be even a few years. As the bubbles and ripples dissipate she can see her own reflection in the water. Her once green eyes; they look grey now. She turns away. Walking back to the car, she doesn’t notice all of the DNA evidence dripping from the tips of her fingers, off her leg, off her nose… Then again, she doesn’t care. Looking back on everything, it’s not like anybody would understand in the first place. A week ago, Angie and Joe, they had just met… Angie looks perplexed; “Joe!? What kind of name is that?” “Well, my name is Joanne, but everybody calls me Joe for some reason.” Well that name sucks, says Angie, if we are going to hang out and you are going to date my brother, you need something better and now that I’m here, we can fix that. How about, ‘Nova’?... Joanne doesn’t have any friends, she always been a little, well… weird. As she stares into the mirror across the room, she happily accepts the new nick name. Angie is busy doing Nova’s makeup. They are getting ready for a Saturday night out. After John introduced them a few hours ago, it was instant chemistry between the two. They knew immediately, it was friends forever. Polar opposites of each other, these two are; maybe that’s why they got along so well. Let’s start with Angie; our princess stands at about 5’7, she has blonde curls all the way down a little past her shoulders. Baby blue eyes smile at you above Angie’s pouty pink lips and her perfect pointy little nose. The breasts beneath her collar bone are those that even a woman would lust for. Not too skinny, not to fat… and of course she has that perfect heart shaped ass. “Stop fucking moving!” she grabs for the tissue paper to wipe the artificial eyelash color from Nova’s cheek. “Sorry.” Says Nova, she turns her cheek towards her new found friend. Nova has hazel eyes, although Angie says to tell everyone they’re green. She says it makes redheads more appealing. “Everybody knows green is the perfect eye color for ginger bitches, maybe we should get you some contacts?” Nova is about 5’5; she has freckles everywhere and her lips aren’t quite as pouty and pink. She has a nice rack, but none quite so big as John’s sister... Although, her thick red hair does hang down almost to her ass, and that’s a quality Angie says men love. Besides the fact Nova isn’t looking for a man, not as long as she has John. Once all of the make-up is done, the girls are dressed and Nova has called John to let him know she was going out; Angie turns to her purse and pulls out a bottle full of pills. “Have you ever tried this?” Fast forward… Nova is awake now. It must be about 12 in the afternoon, but who cares. It’s Wednesday morning and she is off work until Monday after tonight. Her cell phone is nowhere in sight. She grabs Angie’s phone off the wall & calls into work. John is off today & since she stayed with Angie again last night, she wants to surprise him. Work isn’t going to really need her today anyways, so it’s no big deal. It takes her about 30 minutes to get back home. As she walks to her apartment she looks over at John’s jeep. Opening the door she says “Hey baby, I’m sorry I didn’t call.” Her voice bounces off the walls of the empty hallway. “I honestly don’t kno-“ Nova stops speaking as she makes it into the living room. There is a sound echoing throughout the apartment. John must have taken up yet another annoying, loud, pointless hobby. It may be best to let him finish whatever he’s doing first. Nova wanders into the kitchen looking for a snack when she hears a thud & a groan. Rounding the corner above the stairs she starts towards his office. The sounds start to grow faint… it is coming from behind. She turns around and moves towards the bedroom. Putting a hand on the bedroom door, she now knows exactly what this sound is. She debates whether she should even crack the door open, but she has to see it for herself. It’s her fault anyways, she should have known from the beginning. There, in the bedroom, was John. His back is turned to the door. The smacking sounds & the moaning grow louder as Nova begins to crack the door open. John let’s out a grunt “She wont be home for a while, plus she thinks we are related.” Up on top of the counter, a beautiful girl sits pulling him towards her harder with every stroke; a blonde, about 5’7. Her curly hair brushes along her arched back as she tilts her head towards the ceiling and laughs. John slows, and then he stops. He pulls himself back and starts to kiss Angie on the neck, the breasts, and then her stomach. As his lips and his tongue continues to move down Angie’s frame, Nova… Joe… she can’t watch anymore. Let’s fast forward one more time; the last time. Now it’s Saturday again. It’s time for another girl’s night out on the town. Only this time, it’s Nova that brings the pills. They need to shake off some stress anyways, since John mysteriously disappeared Wednesday night. Nova shakes the pills into Angie hand, about three of them. She takes none herself. About 20 minutes later, when Angie is putting the final touches on her make-up in the bathroom, she feels odd. She starts to fall & grabs the counter top on her seemingly long journey towards the floor. In steps our hero, the great Joanne; AKA Joe; AKA Nova. She grabs Angie by the arms & drags her out of the bathroom. She places her on the bed, just so. “Your make-up is perfect” says Nova as she pulls off Angie’s top and then her pants. Out of the closet, Nova pulls a gorgeous wedding dress. It’s Angie’s size. Nova dresses Angie up in this intoxicating white gown. It’s worth about $5,000 says Nova as she pulls the dress down over Angie’s beautiful, perfect hips. “Every dime worth it; it’s all just for you. How great of a friend am I!? Not only did you and John both lie to me, but you both cheated on me in a sense. You know what though? I’m not mad, I’m happy. I’m happy for the both of you spending eternity together.” On the ride out to the bridge, the only thing that Angie can do right now is grunt & shed a few tears. “Screaming is a thing of the past for you honey. Nobody is ever going to hear you scream or moan for that matter ever again” Says Nova “You really think that I was so dumb that you guys wouldn’t get caught? Did you really think I wasn’t going to do anything about it? Well, maybe a year ago or anytime before that you would be right. But people like you are the reason people like me go insane and kill. Oh, yes Angie! You are going to die tonight; Right alongside your new, eternal husband. And what I gave you should help you to feel and appreciate every minute of it.” Yes… by this point, you’ve caught on. Joe is the reason that John is not around. Nova; our not quite right, don’t ruffle any feathers, just want to be happy-go-lucky girl… she is soon to be the reason for the beautiful princess being fitted with cement shoes. These pills; they were designed so that little miss perfect cannot move, but feels absolutely everything. She hears everything. She will be completely coherent the whole drive out to that lonely bridge. She’s going to have to lie there, and listen, and think about what she has done. Who she hurt, & I am going to give her every single detail of exactly what I’m going to do to her. The moral of the story? There isn’t one… sorry, it’s just a story. It’s my story. I know that I’m not perfect, I don’t claim to be. I’m just a person, a person who got tired; sick and tired of getting beat up, pushed around, kicked down, called names, cheated on, walked on, underappreciated, overworked, and abused. Put yourself in my shoes. How many times can you hand your heart out and trust someone? How many times can that person you hand your heart to chew it up and spit it back out at you? How many times? How many times before you grow cold to everything? How many times before you pass the point of caring what happens to you as long as you can get back?...

The sign spells "Oleander's". A fitting name, perhaps, for oleander can be either a deadly poison or a potent medicine depending on which parts and how much you choose to process. Much like alcohol. Since I'm already here, I might as well sit down and treat myself to an evening glass of something, and so I ask for a glass of mojito. For a tavern, it's strangely quiet and vacant, unlike all those depictions of the establishment in stories everywhere. There's no barfight, no quarrel, nothing above a whisper. Maybe the rain has driven the customers away, maybe it's a local tradition to not drink on this day, or maybe the bar is inadequate for the folks' tastes. There's a homely feeling to this place, as I notice. I suppose it's the quietness that's rarely associated with any place that allows alcohol consumption. I'm not a crowd person. If I had to choose to live between rotting in a chair alone and associating with others incessantly, I would pick the former of the two. It's never until you've talked to so many people that you started to cherish the precious silence with a book, or a hot cup of chocolate by your side. On my left sits an old, rusty, scarlet-colored Hecker radio. Heckers, having been out of production since 1985, are undoubtedly rare now. Carla Bruni's *Quelqu'un M'a Dit* is playing, fully accompanied by crackles and static and everything you'd expect from such an old model. The song sounds better this way, as do most French songs, I recognize. "Mister? Here's your mojito. Please enjoy!" I look up and catch the waitress' gaze. She has clear, hazel eyes. The type of eyes that would never give away what they are hiding behind. Just like yours. I thank her and take a sip. For a moment, I see you also looking back at me through the fogged glass.

You wake up in the morning just like everyone else. Your alarm rings, and you think “I should have gotten more sleep last night. That was a really poor choice I made to wait until 11 to go to bed when I knew that I had to get up early in the morning for school.” You think about it for a little bit, but decide that further thought isn’t of much use. You try to shake the tired off your eyelids as you yawn and swing your legs off of your bed. As you adorn yourself with all sorts of colorful fabric stitched together into different shapes and garments, you think about all the stuff you’re about to fill a day with. There’s school, and then maybe you’re going to talk to some friends. You have some pretty great friends. Friends named Steve, or Clarice, or maybe even Betsy. Betsy is a good friend. You’ve known her since third grade and you two have always gotten along well. You pour some cow milk onto your corn flakes and sit down for a heaping bowl of breakfast. Your hands shuttle portions of cereal from the bowl to their demise inside your mouth. “Don’t fret, cornflakes, your anguish is not in vain.” You think. Some might say you’re a little too sympathetic towards your cereal, but it doesn’t bother you. You’re a wonderful person. “You’re giving me energy to face a grand day; you’re a terrific little cereal.” You idly read about the cereal you’re eating on the back of the box. You see smiling people, they must be happy because they’re eating cornflakes. You think they should just be happy because they’re alive, but you finish your cornflakes and don’t have time to think about it. You go back upstairs, to your desk. It’s a good kind of messy- the kind of messy that shows you’re too busy working on important things to keep your desk clean, but not so messy that folks think you’re an outright slob. You gather up tomes of knowledge and dump them into your backpack. You slip the straps onto your shoulders. It’s not the most comfortable arrangement, but you’re just grateful that you have a backpack full of books that are in turn full of all kinds of knowledge and facts. People always told you that knowledge is power. You just think that knowledge was knowledge, but that doesn’t keep it from being pretty wonderful. You go to school and learn all about new things and think all sorts of new thoughts. Your English teacher is a sad old man. It seems as if he wakes up every morning and sighs out his sadness, instead of breathing in the new day. He tells your class to read three chapters in Catcher in the Rye for tomorrow and summarize them. So far you find the book deeply fascinating. It seems that Holden has a lot to complain about, but you think his life seems OK. All the kids in your class grumble at the homework that seems to accumulate without fail every day in school. You quietly write down the assignment and leave the class with everyone else. It’s lunchtime, and you arrive a little late to the lunch line. Most folks have already gotten to the line and are waiting to buy food, but you see some friends and start talking to them. You’re talking with your friends about things you enjoy doing, like watching sports and going to the movies. You really enjoy talking to your friends, and before you know it, you’re getting your food. You don’t really like the school’s food, but you’re just glad that you get a meal every day. After lunch is over, you go to history class. Today the teacher, a middle aged woman with plenty of gusto who really enjoys teaching her students, is teaching your class about World War 2. Some of the kids seem interested in the topic, but some of the kids just dutifully get out their spiral notebooks and dull pencils and write down some of the things the teacher says. The teacher talks about all the awful travesties committed in war with enthusiasm, but it wasn’t a strange amount of enthusiasm, just enough to show that she enjoyed her job and no more. To you, it seemed irreverent to not be sad when talking about all that death. You recall the words of Stalin, who said one death is a tragedy but a million deaths is a statistic. It was a pretty morbid saying by who you would consider to be a bad man, but it seemed to surmise your thoughts well. School ends, and most people seem happy. You hear people talking about how the day went fast, and other people saying about how the day dragged on and on. On the way home, you ponder the duality of this statement, how a day to some can be a labored affair and for others it sails by. To you it just seems as if a day is 24 hours long. There are some things that you find confusing, but other things that you think are fairly self-explanatory. After a little while, you’re at home. You have a glass of water. The ice you put in the water chills the water, and your hand as you hold it. It tastes good, even though water doesn’t really have a taste. You also eat some crackers, because you’re kind of hungry, but dinner isn’t for a while. The salty crackers make you thirsty, and you finish your water and put the glass in the sink. Then you take your backpack with you and go upstairs. You once again splay the books in your backpack all over your pleasantly messy desk. You’d like to get your homework done before you relax; it always made more sense to you to get the unpleasant things in life out of way early so you didn’t have to worry about them when you were doing leisurely things. You take open the appropriate books to the relevant pages and begin learning what they had to say and writing things down in the manner various teachers suggested you do. You work clear until dinner, and your mom calls you downstairs. Walking downstairs, you see an arrangement meticulously prepared by your mother. There are delicious meats and vegetables and all the silverware lined up like it’s supposed to be. You ask your mother what the occasion is, and she just smiles and says she was in a good mood. You and your mother and your father and your little sister sit down at the table and eat together. Your mom asks your dad about how his day was, and he says it was a hard day at the office but he got a lot done. There are a few moments of silence garnished with the sound of food being consumed, and then your father asks you how your day was. You say it was fairly typical and nice, not because you want to be dismissive of your dad, but because you can’t really think of anything interesting that happened. You share about all the things you’re learning about, about Holden Caulfield and about the Battle of the Bulge. Your parents nod with interest while chewing meat and then sipping water. You wonder how much your parents are really interested in your day, but regardless, you’re glad they asked. After dinner, you help put the dishes into the dishwasher without being asked. Your parents thank you for your help. You pour yourself a glass of milk and take some cookies upstairs, settling into a comfortable chair and an entertaining book. You nibble on the cookies and the crumbs fall down into the creases of the book. You try to brush them out, but there comes a point where your fingers are too wide to reach the small valleys formed by the binding of book. You feel kind of bad, because this is a book you’re borrowing from the library, but not too bad. Later in the evening, after you’ve learned all about strange fantastical lands and engaging, heroic characters in your book, you see that it’s around 9:30. This isn’t terribly late in the evening, but you figure it would be a good idea to get some more sleep after waking up so tired this morning, because you stayed out with friends last night. You say goodnight to your parents, and then to your sister, and go into your room and fold yourself into bed. As you wait for sleep to find you and take you to a world of your subconscious, you lay still in your bed, listening to a fan you keep running back and forth to keep silence at bay. You know that some people like their room to be quiet and dark when they fall asleep, but you’ve always been bothered by little bumps and sounds far away when you’re trying to fall asleep, so you keep a fan by your bed. You think about what kind of day it’s been, and all the things you’ve done. You start to drift off to sleep with a quaint little smile on your face. It was a pretty good day. You’re certainly not a bad person, but you don’t think too highly of yourself, and certainly don’t think of yourself explicitly as a wonderful person, but I do. I think you’re just wonderful.

Let me tell you about a friend of mine... Let's just call him “Joel.” At a very young age, Joel realized that he preferred playing with barbie dolls over playing with action figures. When puberty hit, he realized that he wasn't interested in girls the way his male peers were. Shortly thereafter, things added up and Joel realized he was gay. Joel grew up in small town in rural Georgia, in a conservative family that attended a baptist church every Sunday. Joel knew that to be himself would mean to be ostracized, so he hid his sexuality. Joel moved to Atlanta to attend college. He discovered that he wasn't alone in being gay. He began having one night flings with men he met at clubs and on the internet, remaining in the closet the whole time. He continued going to church throughout his college years. One day, Joel confessed to his pastor that he was gay. His pastor told him that it was okay. He said that he could help him. He would teach him to “pray the gay away.” Joel spent years asking God to remove his homosexuality. He prayed that God would make him straight so he could have a family and be just like his fellow church-goers. It seems that God had other plans for him. Eventually, Joel gave up trying to change who he was. He had always believed that God loved him no matter what, and that God had made him in his own image. Why would God want him to conceal his true feelings--feeling that were given to him by God in the first place? Why would a loving God want him to be someone he wasn't? Was God just a Supreme Prankster? Joel didn't think so, so he came out of the closet. He eventually fell in love with a man much like himself who shared his faith. The two have been together ever since and have worked together on building a fellowship of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Christians in the greater Atlanta area. I'm not religious, and I don't like to way in on the topic of God, but, Joel's story makes me wish I could have the faith that he has, to believe in a loving God who wants us to be just the way He created us. What does it say about some people's view of themselves and the world when they worship a Supreme Creator who doesn't want some people to be happy with the way God created them? I don't know about you, but I prefer Joel's God over those other people's God.

And the sky filled with the air of remorse, longing to be covered by the arms of the sun. Perhaps, one must enter from above, into the realm of possibilities. Where a single boom brings about the creation of the Earth, where an inventory of items can manifest themselves spontaneously with only a spark. But what is this I hear? Something that I believe to sound like language, filled with the illusion of structure and coherence. But I do not understand it. Deprived of sleep, I wade through the ocean of a desert, the sand filling my lungs with that of dread and decay. *My heart aches, my mouth hungers, my eyes weep, my mind in ruins. I continue to wade through the thick gaze of the desert, like a child looking for his lost mother. Again, I hear a voice.* The last of my water is that of days. Yet the sun gives life to this world, its heat radiating from the skin of the Earth. Its life my demise, as it slowly boils me alive. As I feel the destruction of my body in this world, my mind searches for another place to call home. *It cries in agony, my mind. As I search, this desert of lost time. The grains of sand billowing away into that of circles and stars, of people’s faces that I yet to see. Again, I hear a voice.* It begins to dawn on me, that my life is slowly fading away. Like my footprints in the sand. I do not remember how my body found its way here, but now here is where I wander. Finding myself lost to what is mine, as the voices slowly begin to eat my mind. Where is there to look for the shade of a tree? When the only shade is that of the stars? It begins to get louder, and louder. I begin to grasp at the sound, my arms stretched towards the heavens, covering my body with its warmth. What are they saying, what should I know? *My heart begins to pound against my chest, as it cries for attention. But my body has forsaken me. My heart, before full of warmth and life, now a reminder of a world I do not wish to wander. Again, I hear a voice.* What can you tell me? What is there to know? The voices, they search for me as I wander. As the sun leaves me, I now say my hello to that the moon. Its light bringing a way to search for home. The warmth soon begins to leave the grains underneath my feet. My body sighs in relief, my tears finally returning to my eyes. Now, as I gaze. I see that I am not alone, the sky a blanket in which I can huddle. The voices return now, as the gaze of the desert is unveiled. The clap of thunder, unleashed, across the fabric of the sky, as the stallions of time come to me in my mind. My body goes to doze, and I begin to slowly drift into the heavens. *Your heart aches, as your mind is lost. Lost in the skies for where you now look. But I come to you here, as a messenger of the Gods in which you cry for. If you wish to understand, all you have to do is spread the message of their words.* The voices did not return. My body now a vessel to tell the Word of the Gods. I lay upon the foundation of their laws, surrounded by their divinity – their words turned to symbols, symbols that I do not control.

My grandfather was born in England in 1926. In 1939, World War II broke out. Like many English children of his generation, he was sent by his parents to live in Canada to escape the Blitz. When he returned to his home country he barely recognized it. England had been ravaged by the war and he felt as though there was nothing for him there, so he left. He went back across the Atlantic, but this time to Philadelphia. It was there that he met my grandmother. Before she met my grandfather, my grandmother had been previously married to a US Air Force bomber pilot who was stationed in England during the war. While in England, he began an affair with another woman that caused the disintegration of his marriage to my grandmother. She eventually met my grandfather, they got married, and they gave birth to my mother who eventually met my father and gave birth to me. I use to joke to people that if it weren’t for Hitler starting the war then I would never have been born. The other day, I told this to a friend who told me that if it weren’t for every single event in the history of the universe, from the Big Bang till the precise moment when a single sperm from my father entered a single egg from my mother, then I would never have been born. It’s comforting to know that I no longer have to exclusively thank Hitler for my existence.

Hi guys, just a little story I wrote. Would really appreciate any feedback :) Nan’s Garden We sat in the car for a few minutes after we pulled up at Jan’s house. I stole a glace at Mum; she already had tears in her eyes. “Mum, if it’s too much for you, you don’t have to you know.” I couldn’t really see why we had to be here. Mum had so much on her plate already. She shook her head, took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. I held her hand as we walked through the front gate and up the garden path. Jan greeted us at the front door with a hug. I’d always liked Jan; she was a florist and had been a good friend of my parents for as long as I could remember. Jan always arrived with flowers and seemed to know exactly what to say when times were tough. Today was no exception. “Glass of wine, ladies?” she asked, with a warm smile. She disappeared into the house, waving at us to sit at the old wooden table surrounded by buckets of flowers on the verandah. We pulled up chairs and waited in silence, staring at the huge block of florist’s foam that took up most of the table. Jan returned with a bottle of white, poured three very generous glasses and took a seat on the other side of the table, smiling at us across the expanse of green foam. “Alright, let’s get started.” *** It had been three days since my grandma died. Three long days of funeral planning, and my mother was an exhausted wreck. My siblings and I had tried our best to help, to ease the pressure, but she was determined to make everything perfect for her mother. They had always been very close and it was easy to see why. Nan passed on a lot to her daughter: good looks, a strong work ethic, family values, a love of fine food. But it was their shared passion for gardening that cemented their bond. They would spend hours in their gardens together, pruning, planting, weeding and talking while my siblings, cousins and I climbed trees and hid among the bushes. They shared books on flowers, and travelled together to see open gardens. A new flower blooming in mum’s garden meant that Nan would be at our house within the hour to admire and share in mum’s joy. So, the day after Nan succumbed to her long battle, Mum called Jan. *** “I’ve never done this before, Jan. I don’t want to ruin it,” Mum said as Jan handed us a pair of secateurs and rearranged the buckets of flowers so they were within easy reach. “You won’t ruin it. You want it to look like her garden, and who knows that garden better than you?” Jan took a sip of her wine, “It’s alright Kate, I’ll talk you through it. We’re going to start at the bottom with lots of greenery and work our way up to the flowers.” We observed as Jan took a long stem of maidenhair fern and firmly pressed until it sank into the florist’s foam. She offered us each a stem and an encouraging smile. I pressed a stem into position, and watched Mum do the same. “See,” Jan said, “easy as pie. No need to rush, we have the whole afternoon ahead of us.” *** Nan had always been active for her age. She had made it almost the whole way through her seventies without any medical problems. Between her gardening, volunteering and sewing, she kept fit, healthy and mentally sound. The stroke came out of nowhere. One day she was driving me to my netball game, and the next she was in a hospital bed. It took seven years before she gave up. Mum saw her every day at the nursing home, bringing her home cooked meals, books, perfume, and of course, flowers. Every weekend she went to Nan’s house, and pruned, weeded and picked bouquets. We never went to visit Nan without flowers, and they never failed to make her smile. No matter how sick she was, no matter how much her mind slipped, the flowers always made her happy. We planted window boxes for her and put pot plants in the corners of the room. The nurses joked with her that one day her room would turn into its own ecosystem. The nursing home was dull and quiet, with grey walls and solemn faces in the hall. Nan’s room was a garden. *** I poured more wine and the three of us sat back for a moment to regard our work. I could hardly see the foam anymore; it was covered in a dense forest of long maidenhair fern, soft grey lamb’s ear, dark green song leaf and thick stems of ruscus. I reached out and touched a small leaf of lamb’s ear, remembering Nan stroking my face with the velvety plant when I was little. I wondered if she had done the same to Mum. “Now for the most important part,” Jan smiled, “the flowers.” “Those pink roses there, the pale ones,” Mum said, pointing to one of the buckets at Jan’s feet. “It’s called ‘Blushing Lucy’,” Jan picked one up and handed it to Mum. “Are they the wrong pink? I have some different roses out the back if you’d like…” “No. No, this is perfect.” “Mum? Are you okay?” I brushed away the tear that had fallen down her cheek. “I was seventeen when she made me this dress.” “Sorry? What dress?” “I was seventeen. One of the boys in my year¬—Matthew, I think his name was—asked me to go to the school dance with him. I asked Mum to make me a new dress, something with frills. She poked me with pins all morning and finished it that afternoon. It was beautiful, I felt like a princess. These roses, ‘Blushing Lucy’, was it?” Mum looked up and Jan nodded. “It was this colour. The palest of pinks. Ruffled sleeves and buttons down the back. She curled my hair and made tiny pink ribbons into flowers. She pinned them onto the side of my hair, just here.” Mum touched her fingertips to her head, her eyes glazed over with tears. “It was beautiful. Just beautiful.” *** Jan had told Mum she would be honoured to arrange the flowers for the coffin. They spoke about colours and flowers for a long time. Pinks and whites, with lots of greenery. Large flowers surrounded by smaller fragrant ones. It had to look like her garden: elegant and soft. Jan agreed that it sounded perfect, but she gave Mum one condition. She had to help. Mum’s uncertainties had mostly been seen to by Jan’s promises of therapeutic value, but she had still been worried that it might be too much for her, and so had I. *** Sipping my wine, I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes against the warm afternoon sun. We had placed what felt like hundreds of dahlias, lilies, roses, peonies and freesias in the greenery. I’d never seen so many shades of pink, from the palest rose to the deepest peony. I smiled as I remembered the pink dresses Nan had made for my dolls when I was a kid, the birthday cards I had received every year with pink flowers on the front. Mum was smiling too, she knew how much Nan would love this. Jan dragged a giant bucket filled with stems of tiny white flowers over to the table. “’Baby’s Breath’,” she told me, “for filling in the gaps.” She began pressing the thin stems in between the larger flowers and fern leaves. “These will really make it pop. Bring it alive, you know?” She gestured to the bucket, letting us know it was our turn. The miniscule white flowers shined like gemstones among the greenery and pink blossoms. The arrangement immediately looked fuller, more complete. “She made bouquets of these for your Christening, Amy,” Mum said. “I asked her if she’d like to bring the flowers, but not to go to too much trouble. She borrowed as many vases as she could from her sisters, there would have been at least thirty of them. All up the side of the church. It looked like someone had sprayed the whole place with confetti. That was her idea of not too much trouble. She used them for your sister’s wedding too, remember? It made her so happy.” *** I’d helped Mum clean out Nan’s room. All her clothes, books, stationery, gifts and knitting fit in one suitcase. We left the flowers until last. One at a time, the vases were emptied. We took the flowers that were still good to other rooms in the nursing home, hoping they would still be able to brighten someone’s day. The vases and window boxes we had planted for her took up most of the back seat and boot of Mum’s car. It took us an entire afternoon; stopping to talk to the residents we gave flowers to, checking in with the nurses, Mum taking a break outside for a few deep breaths. Every vase we took away made the room look a little bit less like Nan. Every pot plant we carried out made the place feel emptier. Slowly, the garden that had accumulated in her room over seven long years disappeared. At the end of the day my mother sat on the bed in the middle of that vacant room and cried. *** The sun was starting to set as we finished off our second bottle of wine. The bucket that had held the baby’s breath was empty. On the table in front of us, where just a few hours before there had sat a huge block of foam, there now lay an aromatic mass of green, pink and white. The three of us sat in silence for a while, admiring what we had created. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Jan,” Mum said, the tremble in her voice betraying her struggle to hold back tears. “You don’t have to thank me. I just hope this is what you were after, what she would have wanted.” Jan stood up, adjusting the position of a rose as she did so. “It’s better than I imagined. It’s more than she would ever have expected. It’s her garden; it’s perfect. Thank you.” There was no tremble in her voice now, just the beginnings of a smile. We both hugged Jan, and she stood on the verandah as we walked back down to the front gate. “Let’s leave the car here. It’s a nice night, we can come back for it in the morning,” Mum said, taking my hand. “I’m glad we did this, Mum.” “Me too. It would have made her really happy, you know that?” We walked home in silence, hand in hand, each of us lost in our memories, only stopping to smell the roses along the way.

This is what I have so far. Criticism is greatly appreciated and if you guys like it I can add more. **Sleep Yet** The man awoke, startled as if from a nightmare, yet he recalled no dreams. He sat up and took stock of the blank room he found himself in. There was a shattered mirror set on a table to his right. A large door could be found opposite his bed, intact, with the exception of a large gash in the wood where all the light in the room seeped from. The most curious object however, was a rather bland looking table with three drawers. It was approximately 2 feet long and just as wide, with enough height that a chair could be pulled up and an average sized man could uncomfortably sit. He stiffly shuffled to the mirror. Upon inspection he could see that he was only lightly wounded, a few scratches on his face, a laceration above his eyebrow and a lightly blackened eye. What really caught his attention though was the amount of stubble visible at least 3 days worth. The man had no recollection of even coming to this room, let alone having been here for more than a few hours. That’s when it hit him. He didn’t remember much at all. He reached into the pits of his mind, trying to drag out even the most superfluous details. Nothing. Not even a date. He made his way to the table, his joints groaning from the movement, whether from over or under use the man couldn’t say. The rightmost drawer opened easily enough, revealing a note. After close scrutinization he determined the note to befit the work of either . It read: “My sanctum, my home. Ye come, I go. Divinity’s blessing, upon us all. Beware, take stock, heed my thoughts, away, away we go. Learn not what passes, yet to all be keen. My heart, for all within, bleeds.

((I was clearing out my old computer when I came across a story I wrote a few years back. I based it off of the song , which I listened too constantly while I wrote this. Figured I'd throw it up on Reddit and see what people thought. Enjoy.)) It’s amazing how quickly four lives can come to an end. One second you’re there, the next you’re gone. I’m sitting in this hotel bedroom, a smoking VP-70 shaking in my fingers, the slide still secured back to reveal the empty chamber. The flashes of gunfire are still imprinted on my retinas. The bitter smell of cordite slithers into my nostrils. The sound of police sirens is the only sound now, a distant drone compared to the deafening blasts that broke the night silence only seconds—or minutes—earlier. Every sense seems to be sharpened. The adrenaline coursing through my body is starting to dissipate, yet I still feel a certain…. numbness. I was lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, just trying to get some rest before the trip in the morning. I was a few hundred miles out of the city by then, but I had only just lost the tail Ciprioni had sent after me, though I’d almost gotten lost myself in the process. I really wanted things to be different for Ciprioni and me. I thought I could be the exception. The one who got off clean just because I was his friend. I couldn’t have been more wrong, and by this point, I knew I wasn’t going to survive the night if I saw that car again. That was just the way it had to be though. When the feds came knocking, it was either play ball or go back inside. Saying you were between a rock and a hard place would have been an understatement. I was between a pissed off Sicilian with half the city in his pocket and a pissed off police force with evidence to bring him down. And guess who their key witness was? Guess who wasn’t eligible for witness protection? I did a lot of bad things for Ciprioni. I suppose they just didn’t think I deserved any help. Let the criminals kill the criminals and leave them to their work. I glanced over at the digital clock on the table next to me. One A.M. and not a sound. It was finally safe to fall asleep. Easier said than done. I clicked on the bed lamp to try and read a book, but my mind wouldn’t focus. It could have been that the light was burning my eyes. It was probably because the book was about a witness trying to out run the New York mob. Poor choice of books to bring along. I thought about turning on the T.V., but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself that the noises I was hearing were just the building settling and not the hit crew sneaking in through the window. So I just sat in the hotel room. Waiting for the whatever lay ahead of me. By 1:30, my body was finally shutting down, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that sleeping now would be a very bad idea. I should have kept going I told myself. I should have driven until I hit Santa’s workshop. Canada wasn’t far enough. Plus, they knew where I grew up. They were my friends. They knew everything about me. Including the fact that I have no family in the world aside from Montreal. How selfish. I was just going to show up on my parent’s doorstep. “Hey mom, the mob’s after me, mind if I crash here for a few days?” Headlights My time is up I pulled the curtain back as slightly as I could. The car that had pulled into the lot was just the one I was expecting. The blue Chevy Impala that I used to ride in with the same passengers. Funny. Now I’m just another contract to them. I turned off the lamp, but there were only three cars in the lot; mine, theirs, and the lady at the front desk. They saw the light go out. They knew where I was. Jumping back from the window, I grabbed the VP-70 I had stashed in one of the dresser drawers and slowly pulled back the slide. Click. A round popped into the chamber. And I waited. The soft tinking of steps coming up the stairs was getting louder. A shadow flew past the window. Two silhouettes, backlit by the wall lamps in the hall, crept out from the right. I lined up my sights and sucked down as much air as my lungs would take. Somebody was tinkering with the locks. I swapped targets and aimed right above the door handle. When I heard the dull click of the lock giving, I pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in my hands and immediately I moved on to the next target. Bullets flew through glass from both sides of the window. I fired at one of the shadows and his arms flailed backwards, the SPAS shotgun in his hands going off and obliterating the bedlamp behind me. Somebody jumped out from the right side of the shattered window. pop-pop. He went down, a stream of blood exploding from his neck. Two rounds hissed past as the last shooter blind-fired from behind the wall. I put three into the wall, hoping they would penetrate, but when he turned out of his cover, his sights trained on me, his eyes full of hatred, terror, regret, and the million other emotions that accompanied the high of combat. I barely managed to get my last shot off just as he fired. Seven seconds. Eighteen rounds. Four lives. I slumped down on the hotel bed and just sat, never dropping the smoking pistol from my left hand. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but it mustn’t have been long before the police showed up. I checked the clock one last time. It’s two A.M. The guns still warm. I pull my right hand away from my chest to examine the slick, blackish-red liquid gushing out of me. My senses, sharpened from the burst of adrenaline, begin to fade. Everything starts to blur as the sound of police shouting and people running disappears from existence. I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again. It’s two A.M. and I can finally sleep.

He sat comfortably in his chair, as his mind began to wander. A deep breath and a long drawn out sigh crept out of him. It's one of those sighs after a long day of work, or a long run. The ones where the world around you disappears for a moment and all of your thoughts take a break. The feeling of bliss is too short to truly remember and ultimately end up reminding you of how far you really are from it. After these brief seconds were up, the world that he had since forgotten was beginning to slowly creep back in. This happened in no striking or dramatic way, but he was beginning his decent back into the world. Thoughts of his dog, his house, this chair, or that itch he had not cared about moments ago suddenly filled his mind. None of this was immediately pleasant or unpleasant, but he could certainly feel which way it was going to go. Almost automatically he closed his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair, and let out a word, "Man...". There was no faking it now. He was far removed from that brief period of apathy just moments ago. The break had ended and he and his mind were back again. He missed that moment more than anything.

From a typed letter, recovered at an estate sale... Dear Daddy, I've never written a letter to you before and so I don't exactly know what to say. I hope that this letter finds you. I have missed you so much for all of these years. I'm a grown man now, 35 years old. I think about you every day and I would like to meet you. Mom lied to me about you and up until 2 years ago I didn't know the truth. She told me that you just left, and that she didn't know where you were. I still cry for the dad that I never had. I love you as much as I can, considering that I don't know you. Yet. You have to love me, I'm your son. I can't imagine life without my daughter. I'm sorry that mom put you through so much hell. I guess that she thought that she was protecting me. I need to hug you and tell you that I still love you. Nothing can ever change that. Please write or call. I've waited long enough, please don't make me wait much longer. P.S. My daughter will be three in January. Edit: Let me know if I should continue the story I recovered in the paper trail...

Viktor sneaked inside the remnants of a collapsed parking garage just in time. Two Toxins walked by, talking loudly, boasting about their 'accomplishments,' such as beating up a defenceless twelve-year-old. Cowards. But with Tox in command, and his private army of Toxins patrolling the streets, this was the way of the world. Viktor himself had been recruited as a Toxin. He was plucked from the street and had to start training under strict surveillance. After the first round, he received an 'E' rating, meaning he had the build, speed and intelligence to train for the elite squad, Tox' personal guards. This also meant the surveillance measured were slacked. Within a week Viktor had crafted a knife of a piece of bent metal and some charred wood, held it to a guards' throat and ran of. That's why he had to be so careful to stay out of sight. The wisest thing would be to hide, to run off into the woods and never go back. But Viktor knew he was the only one capable of overthrowing the reign of the maniac Tox had become. He had seen an inside view of the guarding system. He was lean, swift and bright. He could craft a weapon out of nearly anything. Most importantly, he wasn't afraid of some blood on his hands. It's not as if he walks through the street randomly cutting out young boys' gobs, like some of the Toxins do. But he wasn't one to let harm come upon himself and he wielded his knife in any way necessary. When the Toxins were gone, Viktor crept out of hiding and continued his path. At seventeen, he was one of the oldest boys still alive. When the collision drew near, it was decided that all fifteen-year-olds would live. They were old enough to take care of themselves and eventually reproduce, but young enough to adapt and create government in the new world. When all the fifteen-year-olds were saved, the remainder of places in the bunkers was distributed to anyone between twelve and eighteen. Viktor had been lucky, unlike many. The silence was pierced by a shuffling sound and Viktor turned with a start. There was no one there, except a rat gnawing on something that looked suspiciously much like human flesh. Irritated by the distraction, Viktor threw one of his knifes. The rat let out a shriek as it was skewered, then dropped dead. It tumbled off of the beam it was crawling over, into the basement of the garage. It was a shame to lose that knife, but Viktor was happy. In the end, he would only need one. Tox' lair was in sight and his training, carried out all alone in the woods, proved solid. He stowed away his other weapons and starting creeping along the final mile.

She stood, so still beside the window that anybody walking past would have thought she was a statue. She watched the world amble by, lazily gliding along as if nothing bad ever happened in this city, nothing ever made anybody hurt. It came boiling up inside her, a rage so intense she felt her heart was on fire, how could this happen to her?! Why was she the only one who seemed to have real emotions? Two weeks before this moment, Valerie had been sitting on the underground, making her way around sharp bends, bumps and jolts until the train slid from one stop to the next, her stomach getting tighter with each rock of the carriage and nausea waving over her with each rise and fall of the tunnel. The approach into Mile End Station went on forever, what was supposed to last around one minute felt like an hour. When she stood up the waves of fear swept over her. She hesitated. James grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, “Come on Val, we’ll miss our appointment.” She shook her head as though coming round from a trance, and stepped off the train following a thousand other people, like ants marching to their nest with armfuls of food. Breaking through the hordes the winter ice stung her eyes, caught in her throat and tickled her petite round nose. Her blonde curls bounced as she walked as if they had some kind of false optimism, buther curvy, petite body screamed, ‘YOU DON’T WANT TO DO THIS!’ The voice inside her drowning to a whisper when she saw the hospital. Her stomach tightened, the building, emblazoned in what once seemed regal gold lettering, became sinister and overwhelming. ‘THE ROYAL LONDON HOSPITAL’ Valerie didn’t want to do it, she’d convinced herself that she could go without knowing, and live happily ever after, maybe it would happen, but James and she both knew that it wasn’t the truth. Inside there was a small coffee machine, and a few other tearful couples, a few smiling with relief, it was as though they were segregated. All happy people to the left, all the sad to the right, and dead ahead the door, that hid the room she dreaded so much. She wanted to run away. Valerie sat in the waiting room feeling numb, she looked at James, he seemed so vulnerable yet so strong all at once, this struck at her curiosity and she found herself staring at him, watching how his face held that fake smile, how his body language showed how uncomfortable he was, in that moment she knew he felt exactly the same as she did. At least that’s what she thought at the time. A smiley nurse walked out of the office behind her, “Mr and Mrs Slant?” The optimism she heard in that nurse’s voice filled her with hope and she prayed to the very bottom of her heart that it was good news. “I’m so sorry,” Those three little words, made Valerie numb. A burning hot poker had pierced her heart and her fat hot tears almost burnt as they traced their way through the powder on her face. Churning the words over in her mind, seeing a lifetime of memories that hadn’t even happened yet, Valerie thought to herself ‘well fuck your I’m so sorry, how would you know?’ In a single moment she had found out that she would never be a mother, she would never smell the fragrance of her new born, never hold her own flesh and blood to her skin, or be able to laugh when her baby was sick down daddy’s shirt, even see her child go to school, talk to her teenager about relationships, or even wear a big floppy hat at her babies’ wedding.The news hit her full force as if somebody had repeatedly slapped her around the face. Two days later, lying in bed she rolled over to find James’s side of the bed cold, a note on his pillow read; ‘I can’t do this, I can’t be without a family.’ Not even a sorry, no goodbye, not even a thought that she might feel that way too. Of course, he could do something about it and he had done just that, he’d left her on her own, to be a lonely spinster, baron and useless. That whole few days played over and over in her mind, like a reel of film that just never ended. The banging on the door startled her out of the trance. She came to and realized she had been standing at the window for well over an hour, people walking past must have thought she was crazy. She sighed and dragged herself to the door and positioned herself behind the peephole. Annabelle. Valerie had only opened the door a few inches when her mad little, but then again not so little, sister burst in. “I’m going to Cornwall for a few days!” Annabelle squealed with excitement. “That’s nice,” Standard reply number one. Valerie had switched off, using a set of replies that made it seem like she was listening. She really didn’t want to see anyone right now, she was certain her body language screamed that. Her little sister, ‘Annie’ as she called her rattled on and on about this village they used to go to on holiday. “…and you’re coming with me. That’s final” “Oh.” Out came standard replynumber two. “Oh? What does that mean? are you coming or not?!” Annabelle asked, a tone of agitation in her voice. “Sure.” Standard Reply Number Three. “You’ll come? I’m so excited we will have to get packing and then book a …” Annie went off again on a tangent, Valerie needed to be anywhere but here right now, in her modern, white walled, height of fashion, perfect little palace. Except it wasn’t a palace for Valerie any more, it was anything but that for her, she saw it more like a prison, or even a shrine, to the children she would never have. *I am going to have to post in parts as the story is fairly long, please read them and give them a chance?? thanks reddit :)* EDIT:Will post Part 2 tomorrow and add a link, also spelling, and explanation of parts.

Dying is like stretching. Not the stretching that you would experience if you were being sucked into a black hole or any other different interpretation you have of “stretching”, but just stretching. The type of thing you would do when you get home from your blue collar – or white collar or no collar – job. When you sit down in your chair at the end of long, fucking day and just relax. That feeling is unexplainable. The sudden rush of orgasmic goodness for that split second when you stretch feels so goddamn good. Well I guess the feeling is kind of explainable, but in the technical science way, the inorganic way. It’s just not the same. If you want that feeling more you can take chemicals to give it to you. Heroin can give it to you, hydrocodone can give it to you, oxycodone can also, there are a much of fucking ways to feel that feeling, but the simplest way is to just stretch. Just move your lazy fucking arms and you will be dying. Or at least feel like it. You want to be dying, trust me, it feels good. Not for a little bit either, but for an eternity or whatever the fuck this is. It’s a long ass time and I wish I would have known earlier how fucking overrated “living” was. The reason I put it as “living” is because most of the people in the world aren’t living. Living is feeling. Going paycheck to paycheck at some shitty job you hate, with a boss you hate, with coworkers you hate, and then going home to a spouse that isn’t the same as you once married. They aren’t “lively” enough. Soon you will sit down and turn on some bullshit TV show and watch it. You can say that you won’t, but you will. I promise. None of this is living. It is “living”. It is bullshit. In the average human’s day, the only time they will actually live is when they stretch. That feeling of goodness is life. It is your temporary escape from shitty corporate life for one second at a time. That is all you get. Well, now that I’ve gotten that shitty little diatribe out of the way I guess I can go ahead and tell you that I am standing on the top of the Bank of America Plaza building with a gun to my head. I want to stretch now. Living is great and stretching is great. My standing here has made me realize one thing more than all; Atlanta really has a beautiful skyline. At the moment it is around sunset and I can see the warm glow of the city lights beginning to overpower the sun. I look down from the edge and see the street below me. I see the passing Cadillac’s and Lexus’s and even the occasional Porsche. Seems fitting I guess, since I am in the banking district. All of society’s money is poured into the pockets of executive so that they can buy a new Cadillac Escalade with full leather seating and a paint finish that is so inky black that it absorbs all light. It absorbs the goodness of the world – light – and vomits out a color so dark and unforgiving that you are almost attracted to it. The total absence of light is normal and beautiful in that one moment when you gaze into the side of that new Escalade. The streetlights are growing stronger. I am still standing here on the ledge of the roof of the Bank of America Plaza with a gun to my head. I want to stretch. It has now gone from dusk to ink in the sky. I have been standing here a long time. A fucking long time. I need to stretch. I see the ants walking below me. A sea of color that is illuminated by streetlights and Cadillac’s and Lexus’s and Porsche’s. It is beautiful. Although the Bank of America Plaza is tall, I can still make out an outline of many of the ants below me. I see different races, different genders, and different personalities. One older white ant crosses a street without looking and is nearly hit by an inky black Escalade. A younger black ant shouts something that I can’t quite make out, but it clearly gets a response from the white ant. This white ant was clearly just saved from the horrors of the inky black Escalade, but was instead shouting angrily over to the younger looking black ant. I am not sure why he was shouting or what he was shouting about, but I wasn’t curious. I am starting to get tired. I have been standing on the ledge of the roof of the Bank of America Plaza with a gun to my head for around 3 hours now. I have done nothing. I must stretch. Why would I stretch when I have a gun to my head and I am on the ledge of the Bank of America Plaza in Atlanta with ants below me and streetlights and inky black Escalade’s and Porsche’s and Lexus’s? I have no need for the gun. It is a revolver, and a beautiful one at that. This revolver has been loaded with 3 bullets by me. That means that there is a 50% chance that with one pull of the hairpin trigger - that is sheer silver and not inky black like the Escalade’s below – I can stretch. I would love to stretch right about now. Maybe someone else can stretch today also. I toss the half-full revolver with the sheer-silver, hairpin trigger down. Off the ledge of the Bank of America Plaza onto the vast hordes of ants below, onto the inky black Escalade’s and Porsche’s and Lexus’s below, onto the old white ant and young black ant, and onto the lights, the streetlights specifically. I expect a gunshot. A 50% chance is beautiful. I wait for the gunshot that would have let one of the ants stretch. I never hear the gunshot. No one stretches. Fuck. I stretch. And I don’t feel anything. Not a goddamn feeling. But I am still here. EDIT: This is right around 1000 words if you are wondering. Any criticisms would be great as I just wrote this in about 30 minutes or less.

And there she was, a woman in black. Shedding tears of dark ink that sorrow the mind and confuse the memories and recaps of her past, just to slap her back to the future. In doubt of life and in a neverending loop of pain. What did the woman in black want? Love. All she ever wanted was love and all she ever got was the illusions and dreams of what her life would be next to him; and now those dreams are shards of glass on the ground and the illusions have turned into nightmares. The poison that ran through her veins was going to be her dead as it was his, but that bloody fiend she loved was her curse and all that matters now is the grains of salt vanishing through a thin crystal. What have i done wrong to deserve this? She could ask herself; but there was no simple answer. It was love the syringe and passion the lure to her doom. The woman in black saw his face one last time in the coffin and all the good memories vanished. High school prom. The weekend at the river. Uncle Marcy's wedding. All gone. For the woman in black's life was perfect until she found out of the affairs of her husband. Fifteen years of a happy marriage now in doubt, sorrow and deception. What was true and what was false? She could not help to think of herself as a lie. "I am a lie. My life is a lie." That was the important of honesty. That reminded her of her vows at their wedding. His smile. The happiest day of her life and the day the grim reaper set her up with a demon. "Can I just blame it on him? did i not try hard enough?" Who cares. she certainly didnt because she was a young woman poisoned by the allure of his life and death. The woman in black was young, charming and inteligent at one point; But now all she was mad her sick. A walking infection, a timing bomb, a dirty whore. She did not belong in this world anymore and she knew it, people treated her different and she needed pills everyday. a pale white women in a black dress. Her tiny limbs and her thin hair depressed her and made her hate the mirrors. The Happy family pictures break her heart. "I could've had that. I did, even if it was false and sick." She was a joke and she knew it. Scum. She found out she was going to be a mother; and got maternity absence from the Law office she worked at. But it just took her a couple of weeks to start feeling more nauseous than usual. her husband have had high fevers so they went to the doctor, scared for the baby's health. After losing her child, she was hospitalized for a couple of days, but her husband was as well. The doctor told them that they were HIV positive and that their immune systems are not functioning as well as a healthy person. " Healthy person". she kept saying to herself for months after given release from the medical center. She despised this healthy people she saw on the streets now, she alienated herself from them and was disgusted by how they live their healthy and plentiful lifes. "I was one of them, I was healthy. I had it all." She slid a black rose in between the man who cursed her's arms and kissed his forehead one last time. Honeymoon at Hawaii. The night at the roof with the wine. Playing Scrabble and making up silly words. The last of her memories vanished with the rose on his hands, and the woman in black shed one last tear for that 'what could've been' and the deceit she had for a life.

On a rooftop during sunset, a young lady stood at the edge staring down at the people. Her eyes were green, her skin smooth and sleek, and her hair milky brown. She wore a dark red coat, dark blue jeans and black leather boots. She looked at the sun with tears in her eyes. She smiled while admiring the reflection from the windows, then looked back down at the people passing by. She stretched her arms out to the sides, closed her eyes and leaned forwards. As she was about to fall, someone grabbed her wrist. Hanging from a 45° angle, she opened her eyes and looked down. Her vision became blurry, her heart felt like it wanted to get out, and her head pounding. She looked back to see who was stopping her. A young man with dark brown hair and brown eyes looked at her. He wore a dark winter jacket with fur on his hood, black jeans, and military boots. On his back he had a backpack halfway closed with books showing. His eyes was not filled with fear nor confusion, but calm and filled with curiosity. Not a word was spoken, but she felt like he was asking why she would make this kind of decision. She looked away in shame. His grip tightened. She looked at him smiling. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she nodded He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath before looking back up. He let her go, and she swayed goodbye. As she was falling, she saw his mouth move. "I love..." She managed to see before he was swallowed by darkness. He put his backpack down on the ground and pulled out a blue rose. He sat down on the ledge and looked at it, admiring its beauty. He stretched it out where she dangled just moments ago, and as a tear rolled down his cheek, he dropped it.

LINK: I don't have cats or a . I write stories. I spent most of the last month working on this one. I thought some redditors would like it, so I wanted to share it with you. (I created a new account so my real identity isn't linked to my comments in spacedicks.) (jk.) If you're into this sort of thing, there's a with my thoughts on the story, including influences--I mention comic books, my first girlfriend, and Frankenstein--and my process. There's even the which I wrote my first semester in an MFA program if you want to see what 2 years of an MFA will get you. (Hopefully vast improvement.) There's no ads on my blog or on Asymptote, for that matter, so the only thing I get out of this is readers and your enjoyment.

“Are you alright?” The voice seemed distant. “Are you alright?” The voice repeated, this time it seemed much closer. I slowly opened my eyes. The sun was coming up, it was blinding, and it really hurt in the eyes. I had an awful tang of blood and puke in the back of my throat. My sight started coming back, at first it was all very dizzy and confusion. Where was I anyway and why was this man talking to me? “You can’t sleep it out here, go home and clean yourself up. You got blood on your shirt boy”. I could finally locate the voice; it came from a man dressed all in whites. He seemed to be wearing a white coat, maybe he was a baker. I think there was flour on the coat. My surroundings started becoming clearer; I seemed to be lying in a small backyard on a wooden bench. No wonder my back hurt so badly… And my head – my head hurt so badly that I felt it could explode any second. How much did I drink last night? How in the world did I end up in a baker’s backyard and why was my shirt covered in blood? Thousand thought went through my skull. “Get out of here I said!” a belligerent remark, the baker started getting really grouchy. I tried sitting up, there was a sting of pain in my left ribs. Had I been in a fight last night? Why couldn’t I remember anything? Small flashbacks containing a glimpse of last night showed themselves for my inner eye. Noise, screams and blood. Glimpse of a skinhead punching me, why had I been fighting a skinhead? I lifted the shirt up; there were no wounds to be found. The only lesion was a huge bruise on the ribs. It had to be the skinhead’s blood then. I finally pulled myself together, and tried standing up. My legs were unstable and I became completely disoriented, my vision started fading into black. I felt back down on the bench. My senses regained their strength. Tried one more time and got up without losing my balance completely this time. I started walking slowly out the backyard, without ever saying a word to the baker. “Boy, you forgot your phone” He said. I looked back; he stood there holding an old Sony Ericsson, it was a phone alright, but it wasn’t mine. Where was my phone, I couldn’t feel it in my pocket, searched it quickly with my right hand. It wasn’t there. Well it was probably me who had left the black Sony Ericsson here, and maybe it could put some light on last night’s endeavours. So I went and fetched it from the baker, thanked him and walked towards the street. A red Citroën C3 passed by, they turned their head, but who wouldn’t when you see a boy covered in blood at six in the morning, besides from that car the street was abandoned. I didn’t recognize the exact street, but I figured I had to be closed to the club we were at last night. I felt sick, had a rising urge to vomit. I started walking down the street in direction I thought I lived. Pulled up the phone and started going through last sent messages. [4:45] {Where are you, help? Some dude punched me, pushed him into the wall. Hit it with head. Blood everywhere} How I had managed to write anything readable in my condition was a mystery. And more import, what had happened to that skinhead, had I killed him? I skimmed through the next text. [4.54] {I think he's okay, could not call ambulance. His friends came after me.} [4.55] {I hid in a yard, can you help me?} There were no incoming messages. Who had I addressed these texts to anyway; I couldn’t have any numbers in this stolen phone. I looked at the number, I had clearly tried to dial my friend Peter, but the number was one figure too short... What a fool I’d been. Guess I fell asleep while hiding in the yard. I started feeling dizzy again. I had to put my hand against the wall to keep myself from falling. Oh God, I will never drink again I thought to myself, but it seemed that I had said that before and look how it turned out. Just an ordinary Saturday in my ordinary life.

Ted was in the living room, throwing plates and cups, cursing loudly. I was sitting with Jim in the den, the windows were covered, but we wouldn't be able to see anything even if they weren't. The cold was creeping in now, my veins felt like ice, Jim was shivering next to me. "Some fucking vacation," he whispered, his warm deep voice was startling, "just our fucking luck." I tucked my legs underneath me, "Yesterday was nice," I said, surprised at how low and dry my voice sounded, there hadn't been much to talk about. We looked at each other, sharing the universe through our eyes, then he stood up to talk to Ted. I sat alone in the cold, waiting for it to end. *(I think this part needs work) Ted and Jim had been friends since first grade, I met up with them when I was 12, a chubby girl with grass stained knees and bright purple braces. They were perfect partners, they complimented each other in ways I never thought possible. Ted was loud, brash and brave, he was territorial and headstrong, but once he loved someone, he would protect them to the end of the world. Jim on the other hand, was soft spoken and intellectual, he preferred reading books in his room, or walking late at night; he was very hard to be friends with and chose people as one would choose their last meal. When they were together, it was as if every question in the universe was being answered, every problem being solved, and every unspoken love was being heard. After the rough transition to middle school, we were inseparable, we walked to school in the morning, we walked home afterwards, hell, Ted and I even got our first jobs together. Of course, three people can't share everything. Jim was my first love, my first kiss, the first person to make me consider that I could have a soul mate.* He was the person I would love with such intensity that it would never work; forever after that first kiss, we smiled at each other, we dreamt of each other but our hearts ached each time, because we knew our love would destroy the stars. Four years after high school, I married Ted. After we graduated, we both went to UCLA, he went for Business, I went for Linguistics but we still found time to be together. We video chatted with Jim every Thursday, he was accepted to New York University with a full scholarship. The day before he left, on a cold winter night, he took me to the field behind his family farm, and I lost my virginity. We lay on his blanket, with blades of grass softly stroking our bodies, and he whispered love in my ear. My heart went with him to New York, and he knew it. Ted kissed me suddenly on a similar cold winter night, he pulled away, embarrassed, "I have always wanted to do that," he said, in a shaky voice, and touched my cheek, his thick fingers were warm and reminded me of Jim's slender, cold fingers. Jim was Ted's best man, he told me before the wedding that he was writing a story about me, "there's something about your eyes that makes my soul sing," he told me, "I should be your husband," it was a quiet whisper, he draped it along my neck, and sent it down my spine; he placed a simple silver ring in my hand, and went to Ted. Immediately I slipped it on, and for a moment, everything felt right. Teds vows were sweet, ornate and emotional, he teared up and spoke in that same shaky voice. My heart was beating, and Jim's ring was burning on my finger, my vows were delicate, articulate and systematic. I was ashamed of the absence of love; afterwards Ted boasted that the love was palpable. Jim's best man speech was beautiful, it sounded like fairy dust, he spoke about love, and soulmates, his eyes burned into me and my heart didn't stop racing for days afterwards. This was our annual gathering, Jim was still single, still perfect, still everything I could never have. Ted was still enamored of me, his eyes followed me everywhere I went, and his voice still shook sometimes, in the cold of the night when he spoke to me. We rented a small cabin in Colorado, in a mountain town I had never heard of, Ted and Jim loved to ski, and at night they took me around the city. This night, our last night, we stayed in and drank, the vodka gave us ideas of warmth and grandeur. I sat with Jim on the couch, and Ted sat across from us on the loveseat, the noise of the fire speaking to us was the only thing we heard. The snowstorm came as quietly as the fight. The back door began banging loudly, so I went to close and latch it, scolding the boys for forgetting to close it, although we all knew it was probably my fault. When I came back with a new bottle of vodka, Ted was red in the face, and talking to Jim, "you know I've always wished I was you," he slurred, his voice was shaking even through the vodka. Jim smiled, his perfect, cruel smile, "Really, Teddy? And why is that?" his deep voice seemed only enhanced by the alcohol, and Ted felt his power. "You know why, you fucking know why!" he slumped into the chair, his body melting into the seams, he looked so tired. I walked in and offered one of my famous mixed drinks, trying to ease the tension, trying to avoid all confrontation. The boys were quiet, my boys didn't respond to me. I wondered if they could hear my heart, or if they wondered why I was short of breath, or why my hands were shaking. I walked over to Ted, and knelt next to him, I put my hand to his face, and his eyes closed. He put his forehead to mine, and with his same, shaky voice, the one he proposed to me with, the one he confessed his mediocre love with, he asked me why I couldn't have chosen him. There was a loud wailing of wind, and a huge thud, and Ted jumped up, his territorial instinct kicking in, he grabbed me, kissed my face and sat me in the chair. He ran out to check what was happening, and Jim and I sat in silence, I knew he was watching me, I could feel his eyes burning into me, hotter than the fire. "I can't find anyone that I don't compare to you," he said suddenly, my heart again began that incessant beating, so fast it echoed in my ears, a warmth spread through my body, "not now," I said, the sadness in my voice was terrifying. Ted came back, "we're snowed in" he said simply, the shaking was gone, his voice was strong and commandeering again. We sat in silence for a while and the cold started to sink in, "what does this mean?" They both started reassuring me, promising to keep me safe. After the noise was done, Jim said, "I would never let anything bad happen to you," those words, or maybe the sound of Jim's voice rekindled Teds anger. He rushed over to me, far quicker than I thought possible and tugged me over to Jim. He shook my right arm in Jim's face, "Who the fuck," he shouted, as I stood by limply, a rag doll caught in a story line, "gives his best friends wife a ring on their wedding day?" The silence was harsher than the cold, my head was spinning because of the alcohol and the guilt. Ted grabbed the ring, threw me onto Jim and ran into the other room. Ted was in the living room, throwing plates and cups, cursing loudly. I was sitting with Jim in the den, the windows were covered, but we wouldn't be able to see anything even if they weren't. The cold was creeping in now, my veins felt like ice, Jim was shivering next to me. "Some fucking vacation," he whispered, his warm deep voice was startling, "just our fucking luck." I tucked my legs underneath me, "Yesterday was nice," I said, surprised at how low and dry my voice sounded, there hadn't been much to talk about. We looked at each other, sharing the universe through our eyes, then he stood up to talk to Ted. I sat alone in the cold, waiting for it to end. The boys came back, Ted sat next to me on the couch, and Jim sat on the loveseat. I waited for my heart to calm down, before I made three mixed drinks; we drank for the rest night. All we had for kindling was three copies of Playboy from 1955 and a year old copy of Glamour magazine. The silence was a relief.

The man, who was known as Jim, woke up. He had a terrible headache. He tried to bring his hand to his forehead. Stuck. He tried again but nothing happened, as if he were tied up. He groaned and tried to focus on the situation. Damn, his head hurt. He looked at his body in shock, he was strapped in, lying on his back in a slightly tilted angle on the back seat of a car. Of course, he had been sent out to follow three apparent mafiosi but he'd somehow managed to get strapped shut back here, by probably one of them, with simple seat belts. Where was that bastard? He moved his head around in the small angle that he was able to. He was gone, they had crashed. He couldn't look outside from here. He tried to move, but the crash had only strapped him in tighter, the seat belts wouldn't stretch anymore. Had they just forgot about him? He tried to move more. A sudden pinch in his left hand. He swore. Painfully tilting his head, he looked at it. A small shard of glass stuck out. He looked around a little better. All the windows were broken and a long stick of hard metal stuck out between the two front seats. Also, there were many tiny holes in the back seat, what a waste of a car. He moved, more vigorously, not minding the pain the various glass shards cost him. “Hey!” He shouted. “Help!” But no response, instead a smell of fire. Jim's eyes widened and he looked at the front of the car. The car was tilted so that he could see it. The hood was gone and the engine was wrecked. He knew how they were supposed to work and this one was missing a lot of pieces, yet it was still running with an annoying slap slap slap sound. Worse, what was left of the turbine was on fire. Right next to the gas tank and spreading. This is bad, Jim thought, terrible. He twisted and turned as far as he could, panicking. His life depended on it, the glass sticking out of his legs and torso were suddenly insignificant. Finally, the seat belt closest to his head snapped. New hope arose, he could now move his arms again. If he got out, he could tell Mr. Y what had happened. He sat upright and brought his hands to the seat belt around his waist. He swore again. It wouldn't come loose. He was already crying from the smoke in the cabin. He poked his head as far through the window behind him as he could. “Help! Anybody!” He yelled, but there was nothing. Nothing but fire and car wrecks along the long way to Turin. He heard a hissing noise, like a serpent, and he looked back at the engine. His pupils dilated.

Charles stumbles up the stairs mumbling complaints about his bad leg, the broken elevator and his good for nothing landlord who had procrastinated in fixing it. The leg that had carried him up the stairs solo now throbbed with agony of strain. Standing on the last platform before his floor he sweat and began hopping and tossing his body up each step. At last he reaches the flat floor and dramatically throws his hands in the air and rejoices for the flat ground he could now swagger upon. Charles opens the door to find a pair of shoes he hadn’t seen in a while. “At least she had the dignity to let me know she is here” he thought. He flipped the main room’s light on and immediately noticed one of the bulbs was out, “Just one more thing” he said aloud to nobody. Charles turned to find both the mother of his child and his sweet innocent Chloe sitting in a chair placed in the center of the room. It was unfair she had brought her now, at this time of night. Sharon was dressed in red and the dim light sketched her eyes with red. “The Devil in flesh” he thought. Even though he smelled of sweat and alcohol Chloe approached and hugged her father. He hated himself at that moment, for not being a better father; for not doing more with his life, his time, for not being sober. She looked up at him smiling and stood hugging his waist. They stood like that for a moment, “How was your day” he wanted to say. But his moment was lost when Sharon stood and approached the little girl. Gently yet sternly she said “Daddy and I are going to have to talk now ok? Why don’t you go try to sleep?” Chloe turned and said “Night daddy.” And ran to the part of his home he dedicated to her privacy. Once she was out of earshot the apparently tender and loving mother turned into the biblical creature she reminded him of. With malice in her voice she said “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t said a word outside of the shout you gave outside and the mumble you made when you came in.” “Whaz it got to do with me and you?” He said, not completely understanding why he had said it. His eyes swam over her mocking smile and suddenly she had her hand out and was speaking. He realized she was demanding money and something about the car. He sobered up pretty fast at that moment and said “That’s mine thank you, there’s a few things you can’t get your greedy hands on that’s mine, and my daughter and my car are completely beyond you.” Her face reddened matching her choice of clothing and suddenly she was ablaze full of anger and hate. “It’s our daughter actually!”, she screamed he had been blown away by how loud she suddenly got. “and she is more mine than yours simply because I birthed her you snotty, drunken, imbecile.” She raised her hand and smacked him square in the face making it more of a palm punch and less of a smack. In a flash of drunken stupor and adrenaline he threw his arm up and caught her in chin. She flailed her arms and screamed loudly as she stumbled over the chair, luckily the floor caught her. He heard a sad sound that made his heart drop, he heard crying. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t even trying to..” he was cut off as she turned and said to him with dry eyes “Look what you’ve done now you idiot”. He turned and let his heart break. She stood huddled against the frame of the door crying and frightened, of him.

As my eyes open, blinded by the light coming from the window, I drag myself from the cozy warmth of my bed and stagger to the bathroom. When I get to the bathroom I splash some water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. I look like I have been dragged through hell and back. As I’m looking in the mirror, I notice a shadow from behind the shower curtain. “Jason? Is that you?” No reply. I approach the curtain and throw it aside. Standing in the shower is my roommate, his eyes bloodshot and swollen and teeth blackened from years of smoking and poor hygiene. Then I smelt and saw something terrible. His body had begun to rot away from his bones. My eyes widened as I realized what had happened. He had been infected. It was at that moment that I knew I was in trouble. I flee from the bathroom in a terrified frenzy, slamming the door behind me, and run to my room where I frantically get dressed and grab the survival kit I keep in the wardrobe. Hearing the noises coming from the bathroom, I leave the house and walk out onto the empty street. With nothing but my backpack filled with food and ammunition, my trusty sawn-off shotgun and my ever faithful baseball bat, I start walking away from my house, hearing it burn behind me. After hours of walking, I finally get to the Pine Hills shopping Centre, as I enter the centre, I can feel the eyes of hundreds of people staring at me. My heart begins to pound and I can feel my adrenalin rising as I see that everyone is rotting away before my eyes. I panic and pull out my shotgun and begin to let loose. With each shot fired, I see mangled bodies drop to the floor, but each dead body that falls is replaced by multiple living ones. As the infected start surrounding me, I decide that it is time that I got out of here, so without thinking I run down the corridor, only to find that the infected are coming at me from both directions. I draw my baseball bat from my back pack and make a mad dash for the exit, bodies crumpling in my wake. I finally make it outside, but I don’t stop running, I can’t stop, I have to get away from here. After what feels like hours, I have to stop running and rest. Taking the last sip from my water bottle, I notice that it’s starting to get dark and that I need to sleep. After walking for about an hour, I find a house that looks deserted and decide to seek refuge in its walls. Warily I enter the house and walk to the nearest room, to my surprise there is a king sized bed with clean covers and a small fridge next to it. Looking in the fridge I find an unlabeled bottle of liquid, I open it and am instantly hit with a wave of sensory delights. I smile to myself and take a swig of the bottles contents, its warmth travelling through my body and making my fingertips tingle. After emptying the bottle down my throat, I fall asleep. Woken by the blinding light, I think I am home in my own bed, only to find that three large men in white uniforms are shining torches in my eyes. Ignoring my efforts to escape, they drag me almost effortlessly to their van and throw me into the back, my head hitting the steel seat inside and knocking me unconscious. Once again by bright lights, I find myself strapped to a cold steel table in a white room. I can just hear the men in white talking from outside the door. “According to his driver’s license, this guy’s name is Mitchell Cameron, He’s a Iraq veteran from Pine Hills, that little town a few miles away..” said the first man in white. “I thought he looked familiar!” exclaimed the second man, “he was in the news a few months ago, apparently he had some sort of mental breakdown and set fire to his girlfriend’s dog.” Hearing this sends me into a panic. I can feel the straps loosening as I struggle against them. After hours of struggling, I am free. I leave the white room, only to find myself in a white corridor, feeling extremely disoriented, I stumble down the corridor just to find myself at a dead end. I turn and see the three men in white at the other end of the corridor, one holding a large syringe and the others holding stun guns. I run at them. They yell “Sir you are having a mental breakdown! Please stop so we can help you!” but I know better, I can tell they are lying. As I get closer I see their rotting bodies and prepare myself for a fight. Unarmed, I am defenseless and outnumbered. The men pin me to the ground with ease and inject me with the purple liquid in the syringe. The room starts to spin and go black. After what feels like years of sleep, I finally wake up, Strapped to the table once again. I can hear voices from the corridor. “Mitchell Cameron was found in a young couple’s house last night and has been charged with the murders of 83 men, women and children in yesterday’s Pine Mall Massacre. He is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress and will remain here in the Northwood mental asylum until further notice.” Not believing the lies of the infected scum, I free myself from my restraints, but instead of attempting to run down the corridor again, I have no other option but to find a different means of escape. I tip the table on its side and tie one of the restraints onto its leg. I then slip the loop around my neck and take my final breath.

There is a bachelor. I do not know his name, nor what he does, or even what he looks like. I imagine him to be the sort of man who sits in a faded red high-backed chair while smoking out of a rather intricately detailed pipe. He would be wearing a leisure suit, of course; very dignified, certainly reminiscent of the old English types. He might live in a Brownstone. He probably lives in a Brownstone. The inside of his study (of course he has a study) is wood paneled, stained by smoke, comfortable, shabbily expensive. There are probably a couple of ferns which he often neglects to water. A wall of shelves, full of books he means to read, but cannot seem to find the time, what with all the things being printed in the newspaper every day. The newspapers are fascinating lately, and go well with pipe tobacco and brandy. He shakes his head and mumbles about the incompetence of the Leaders, and how they are ruining the government with their irresponsible taxes. I can’t imagine him working. He must have some sort of occupation, of course, but that isn’t important. Is he a professor? A salesman? Maybe even a sort of writer, a half-hearted writer-in-name-only whose real source of income is the inherited wealth of a late aunt. Perhaps he is the fool whose ill-advised investment returned far more than anyone could ever have expected. It does not matter. He pays to have his laundry picked up and washed. He typically eats once a day, usually ordered in, and supplements his food with alcohol. He keeps himself very clean, showering in the morning. He shaves on Saturdays. He has used the same cologne for a long time. He owns five suits. He owns two pairs of dress shoes. He does not exercise, although he was a fine athlete in his youth. He prefers so have a brandy, smoke his pipe, and read the newspaper. The bachelor leaves his study, and there is a woman waiting in the foyer. She's no longer young and has a weary look around her eyes. Her face would have been beautiful in her youth, but now the lines sag around her eyes and mouth in the way that typifies a life lived absent of smiles. She's dressed well, and upon seeing the bachelor her tired eyes faintly spark. The bachelor gives her a tight-lipped smile. "Shall we go, then?" "Yes." He takes her by the arm and they walk out of the house. They hail a cab, and it takes them to a rather upscale Italian restaurant. He pays the fare, and opens the door for her as they enter. They have reservations and are seated quickly. The bachelor orders a bottle of wine as they wait for their first course. His eyes flit around the room, taking in the atmosphere while they make small talk. Her eyes follow his. The wine arrives, and they both drink a glass. Then another. The conversation has begun to flow more easily. "Do you see those two over there, the man with jowls like a basset hound?" He asks. "Yes, he certainly is funny-looking." "I shouldn't wonder if he's rather wealthy. His companion is far younger and better looking than he is." "Perhaps it is his daughter." "Doubtful. Don't you see what she is wearing?" "I suppose." Their first course arrives. The conversation lags again. A third glass of wine is poured for each. The bachelor consumes his food vigorously, smacking his lips and scattering crumbs about his place. He approves of the bread, he says. It has a nice crust and a fluffy interior. Quite good, he says. The woman carefully butters her own before eating half of it, endowing the remainder upon her plate. The bachelor's attention is now focused primarily on what occupies his plate. The woman is less interested. Her gaze returns to the basset-hound man and his companion. Her shoulders are bare and smooth, her face still young and attractive without looking childish. A woman any man would be proud to be with. The basset-hound man says something to her quietly, with a twinkling eye, and she laughs. The next course arrives. The bachelor pours himself another glass of wine, but the woman's glass has hardly been touched since the last pouring. The bachelor is enjoying himself. The Bistecca Fiorentina is perfect, he says. Are you not enjoying your Tortellini? Why aren't you eating? "I don't know. Just not hungry, I guess." "Did you already eat today?" "No. Not much." The bachelor returns to his steak. The wine has reddened his cheeks, and his smile lags slightly behind the conversation. His eyes are unfocused as he concentrates on the ecstasy of his meal. He's nearly finished with his plate. His gaze turns again to the other diners. Across the room, a young couple enters. They are in love. The young woman hangs by an arm, his smile flashes. The bachelor guides the second-to-last piece of steak into his mouth. "I remember when I was young." He chews his food thoughtfully. "The girls…" "Yes. They're a lovely couple." "Do you think they'll stick?" "It's hard to say." "But just looking at them, what do you think?" "They look happy." The woman takes a bite of her food. She finishes her glass of wine, then pours another. The lights are becoming more ambient now, the faces more attractive. The bachelor's face breaks into a roguish smile. There you go, he says. It's good, isn't it? The wine? The Tortellini? I'm glad we came. Yes, she says. It's a nice place. The decor is in good taste. They finish their meal and walk outside. They hail another cab and take it to the cinema. The bachelor buys their tickets and leads her to their seats. It's a comedy, and they laugh heartily. The wine is still in them. They exit the theatre in good spirits, chatting, and hail another cab. It takes them back to the brownstone, and they enter. The bachelor gives her a kiss on the cheek and heads for his study and his pipe. She walks down the hallway to her room, where she lies down on her bed and lets the air out of her body, hoping sleep comes quickly tonight as her tears deepen the lines across her cheeks.

Seventh grade was a complicated period of my life. I was basically a Freudian therapist's sloppy wet dream. With the early age of the internet at my disposal and a rapidly developing lust with no sexual outlet (due to the fact that my mother fixed my hair for me in the morning and that's just not what a girl's looking for in her first sex partner) rivaling that of a serial rapist, a sixth sense had evolved in me that could sniff out pornography like a fucking hunting dog. My brother and I had a tradition of spending every Saturday night at my grandmother's. Legos. Mystery Science Theater 3000. Breakfast. Yard Sales. It was kind of a big deal. Just the most fun. The next morning, she'd make her way to the local grocery store to shop for breakfast acquisitions for the three of us. I'd had some suspicions about my grandmother's fast and loose nature in her younger years from fleeting comments that she'd made (referring to a series of wigs in her bedroom as 'bar bait' for instance). Therefore, I figured that a woman with such an insatiable sexual appetite must have a healthy collection of pornography at any age. A thorough search of her closet was called for while she was out, and I enlisted my brother as a lookout. What we discovered in my 60-year-old grandmother's closet can't be described using traditional vernacular. It was the holy grail of pornography. El Dorado. The joy that swept through us surely beared some semblance to the elation that the team discovering King Tut's tomb had felt. Over the course of two months, I took every last fucking piece. Smuggled it out of her house VHS by VHS in the gay little blue "Going To Grandma's!" suitcase I'd bring along for our sleepovers. Which is also not what a girl's looking for in her first sex partner. Needless to say, we pulled the wool over her eyes pretty hardcore and I maintain a small pang of guilt because of it. But shit, bitch. It was an entire closet of hardcore pornography. What was I to do? I learned some really disturbing things about my grandmother from that experience. Memories that I can't erase. Aside from the fact that it was largely porn from the 70's and 80's, which is essentially just grainy shots of matted clumps of fur bouncing off one another (explosively impressive mustaches buried in a jungle of pubic hair), her collection was alarmingly heavy in the hermaphrodite respect, which I wanted no part of. I was weird. But not that weird. I don't judge. Hey, I'm into some weird stuff, too. Must be genetic. She was also holding a lot of interracial gems too which was curious because she'd always been, well, kind of a racist. In a really sweet, older lady kind of way though. So I started selling the porn I didn't want and gradually became the Larry Flynt of my middle school. I kind of made bank for a seventh grader with no vehicle or job, not gonna lie. Money I used entirely on 90's PC adventure games, perpetuating a cycle of social exclusion. On that infamous day in question, the memory of which still haunts me, the father of one of my high profile clients discovered his son's lunch money purchases in his backpack one day. Some pretty fucking ball-slapping filth. He always wanted the worst of the worst. His dad turned up the heat on him and he squealed like a pig, revealing his dirty, dirty source. Imagine that! It turns out to be the pale, chubby weirdo wearing shirts that are too big for him. I was being profiled, I'm sure of it. I was thrown to the academic wolves and forced to confess to my parents that I'd been smuggling interracial 70's hermaphrodite porn from my grandmother's trailer for months and peddling it during passing periods. That's a difficult one to live down. I should probably be on some kind of public listing for it, really.

Beaten and broken, the man walked through the desert, without meaning, without purpose. He seemed, lost, confused, demented beyond repair. Surrounded by a shroud of emptiness, his whole world had been shattered, everything he knew consumed by the vile darkness that had somehow found its way to his planet. He didn't know how long ago it had happened, the destruction of his world. It felt like mere moments ago in his mind, but the few pieces of sanity remaining within him reminded him that it could have been years for all he knew. With his sense of purpose gone, so was his sense of time. The images were fresh in his mind, reliving the devastation time and time again. The thick darkness that over shadowed the world, a darkness so deep that even the 2 suns revolving around the planet could pierce. And from the darkness, the creatures that had descended upon them....fierce, mindless, fearless, countless hordes of vile abominations destroying anything in sight. One such creature happened upon the mans family. The man, while powerful, was no match for the dark. The last image that his sanity allows him is fending off the creature....then a darkness, the taste of blood in his mouth....the cries of panic and dismembering of his family from the fiendish monster. And the blood...everywhere blood....the screams....and then nothing..... He then awoke in the strange place on his world that he wanders to this day and has wandered ever since that day. Where everything that he held dear....his meaning, his purpose was decimated by the nothingness. Everyday was the same to him. He had not felt the mortal desires in the years or days or minutes it had been since that first day. He had not felt hunger, nor thirst or anything else resembling humanity. Nothing allowed him the peace of death, although something inside him seemed to tell him that on his world, there would be no peace in death. Nor, oddly enough, he had not felt the pangs of loss that most people would have associated with losing absolutely everything. The man, wandering hopelessly, had no where to go, and had no idea why he was going there. Everyday was the same to him. Everyday was the same, he felt nothing...everyday...save for today. This day, unknown minutes, seconds, moments later, pain beset the man. Today, he felt as if he had not eaten in years, his stomach ached for nourishment, his throat felt dry and gasped for relief. His legs, after regaining feeling, could not carry the man through his wanderings any longer, gave way, causing the man to fall to the earth. Worst yet, as if to ail him further, his soul began to weigh him down, and he felt the cries and pain of an entire world besiege his being, as if the pain of the world cried from within him. His body filled with remorse for the untold millions of deaths that he felt, as non existent tears filled his eyes. His body could not produce any. His heart mourned for the souls lost within the dark purgatory that destroyed his home. "I can make all your pain go away, mortal. Wash your desires and pain away, with but a nod of your head and your request, the anguish will be purged from your body...." Startled by the forbodeing* voice, the mand tried to life his grief stricken head to confirm its source, but could not. Instead, he tried to ask with a dry mouth " Who...who is....this? What is....happening?" But nothing came to from his efforts. "Think of me as your savior, the only one that can save you from the endless years of torment, knowing no peace without me, and knowing no light with me...." The man barely understood what the voice was saying, other than that he wanted, no, needed, the pain to subside, and it seemed this was his only way out. To stop the pain, stop the greiving, stop feeling again.... And so, our champion tiredly lifted his head, looked dejectedly into the darkness surronding him, not at all realizing he no longer seemed to be on his own broken world, but instead what seemed to be nothingness. The man quietly whispered with heavy heart, his body beaten and broken " Take...the pain...away... I beg of y-you...." He could feel the darkness pulse with a sense of satisfaction at his response while he waited for what would happen next. The man felt a dark hand reach deep within himself that started to pick away at his soul..... stripping away his memories, feeling them being plucked from his mind one at a time. His friends...his family...his children....everything, being purged from his mind, quite painfuly. He felt his very being being taken from his body, making him less and less human every second that went by since his response. At the same time, during this painful transition, he felt a sense of reliefe, serinity of you will, of the greif being lifted up and out of his body, the cries of the millions being deafend just an iota at a time...his desire for food, sleep, water also being removed from his body. After who knows how long, the man allowed a brief smile to spread across his face.... ...only for that smile to curl into a scowl of disatisfaction at the burning sensation began filling his body. His veins seemed to fill with knives flowing through his blood stream, cuting everything vein and nerve along the way. What felt like liquid fire filled his mind as it purged the final pieces of his memories from his being. He felt as if he could rip is own flesh off from his body just to relieve the pressure. But no such relief came to the man. His mouth felt a thirst ten times than that felt mere seconds ago, his hunger grew in such a manner that he felt as if his stomach would eat its way out of him just to fill itself. And even if that wasn't enough for the pain stricken man. He felt and grief and sorrow of the millions of deaths of his home decend upon him, as if all the creatures of this world were somehow bound to him and were slowly, just as his memory was, being ripped from his body one by one, each one more painful than the last. As the pain worsened, silent screams of anguish began to escape his lips, the dark essence coursing throughout him, rapeing him from within of his humanity. A grim realization came over the man as he had realized what he had done. The tranistion, or, mutation rather, reached a painful climax, tearing into the man like a tempest of a thousand hells, ripping his soul asunder, pulling his flesh from his bones. As the final portion of the transformation began, the man was allowed to see who he had aggreed to save save him, and upon gazing into the darkness at the face of the purgatory he was in, the man was filled with utter horror. "There is no turning back now my child....you are now apart of my darkness. My. Nothing." And with that, a final surge of dark essence filled the man with a burning, emptyness greater than all the rest. With his final ounce of humanity, the man bellowed forth a blood letting scream, to the fill the ears of no one....and as the scream echoed through the darkness and faded away, the broken and beaten world was left in silence, devoid of all life, with no one left to wander its wastelands any longer......

Everything was falling apart; the walls were melting, the roofs were blown away, the ground was littered with decaying wood and the scent of burning flesh. The scene was devastating for all those who would come across it in the near future – though I didn’t suspect that anyone would vacation here anytime soon. I just sat there dumbfounded, and staring at the destroyed surroundings that vaguely resembled the life I had just yesterday. However fate was cruel, and so were the Angels. As I sat there on the verge of tears there was a noise. It was a soft, faint wailing coming from somewhere nearby. I could almost pinpoint the direction but the noise was far too quiet for me to be exact, so I just started walking in the approximate area of the sad sound. The noise stopped and I was about to turn around and start looking elsewhere until it started again. Maybe I shouldn’t say it started *again*. This noise was so completely different than the soft cries I heard just moments ago. This sound was terrifying and ear-piercing, and it almost seemed to be saying *hurry, why is it taking so long for you to find me?* Suddenly all my senses were sharp and strong and now the location of the loud, urgent sound became obvious. I rushed over to a pile of wood that had somehow managed to escape unburned, but torn beyond repair. I moved the top wooden plank and a bright lighted shined up at my unsuspecting face. This light was violet and warm. It reminded me of the caring embrace of a loved family member after not having seen each other for a long period of time. “What in the world…” I trailed off as the light shone brighter and started to move. It began to stir and shift as if it were some living creature that the light had created, and as it turns out, it was. A little silver feline with a black tipped tail emerged, and when it was completely free it jumped off of the pile of rubble and sat on the packed dirt. It looked at me simply, as if it hadn’t just come out of a floating ball of purple light. I turned my attention back to the light – and rightly so for it began to move, rising upwards until it was at eye level with me. Out of nowhere, and without any warning signs, the light flared up to what I had to assume was full brightness, and then started fading until it had fully disappeared. Totally stunned and unsure of how to proceed, I turned to the little silver cat who was still staring at me as if it were expecting something. This was all too weird so I had decided to start walking. I didn’t have anywhere to go and I didn’t even know which direction was north, but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to be anywhere but here. Everyone I knew and everything I cherished had been blown to smithereens. I walked through a puddle, and heard something splash through it, a few paces behind me. With liquid rimming my eyes I turned around and furiously stomped my way over to the fragile looking animal that was no more than five feet away from me. With each footstep a cloud of dust surrounded my feet, and when I came to a stop, the dust settled. “What do you want from me, huh?” I practically screamed at the cat. “I can’t feed you or take care of you. I don’t even know what you are! So stop following me!” I had to stop, take a breath, and wipe away the tears that had fallen without my permission. I knew that the poor cat had nothing to do with the current circumstances of my village or myself but I needed someone or something to blame, something to scream at. *I just need someone to tell me that this feeling won’t last forever and that things will go back to normal soon*, I thought. “So basically you want someone to lie to you,” the cat responded in a somewhat uninterested fashion. “That’s not what I mea—” I stopped abruptly. That cat just *responded* to me. What’s more, it responded to my *thoughts*. It took everything I had not to pass out right then and there; I even grabbed my stomach thinking that I was definitely going to lose my lunch. “Oh stop being a wuss,” it mumbled under its breath. “My name is Sinister and I am one of the most highly respected female felines in the Kingdom. My head was spinning out of control; I had lost my tongue, and my ability to move and everything seemed so far away. I was too confused, too stunned by all of this that I couldn’t function in the slightest. “What’s wrong?” Sinister asked chuckling to herself. “Cat got your tongue?” Somehow that tasteless joke was what triggered my body to start again, though I was still a little shaky. “I’m dreaming,” I said softly. “That’s all.” “Oh, c’mon,” she chimed, “A dream? That’s so cliché. No dear, I’m real, and so are the Angels who sent me.” “Angels?” my head perked up. Finally something familiar, something I knew, although it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. The Angels are evil. *They bombed my village*, I thought angrily. “No, no, no,” she shook her head furiously. “You better be careful what you think dear, they hear it all.” I turned and started walking again. I didn’t care what ‘they’ heard, I was angry and broken and I would think whatever I wanted. Besides it would be indecent to look into others thoughts. “The Angels who sent me are the real Angels,” Sinister continued. “The ‘Angels’ here are nothing but humans with unique powers that create chaos and destruction and pass themselves off as immortals. It wasn’t a bad idea, only now the real Angels are upset.” For the umpteenth time today I was completely lost. The real Angels? There’s only one group of Angels, they ruled this place, and they’re evil. I thought I was so sure about this fact, so why did I suddenly doubt what I knew? I sat down on the hard ground and leaned on the side of a house that now, literally, only had one side. “Listen, that purple ball of light wasn’t just light, it was power,” she said quickly, obviously taking advantage of the doubt that she most definitely read in my thoughts. “I came out of it but I’m not the only thing it was carrying. They gave you a gift.” “No, they gave me a talking, mind-reading cat,” I threw back at her. “They gave you an *intelligent*, talking, mind-reading cat,” she corrected. “And that’s not all they gave you. I said the light was power, don’t you want to know where that power disappeared to?” I didn’t. I really didn’t want to know any more than I already did. This was far too much for me to handle alone – but who would I tell? Nothing was normal anymore, so maybe it would be better to adapt. I was also a little curious. I shook my head. “Where did it go?” I asked, clearly not actually wanting an answer. “The power went into you,” she said softly as if not to break the thin layer of calm that I wrapped around myself, and she was right to do so. I froze, also afraid of disturbing not only my mask of calm but my sanity which was currently hanging in the balance. *Power?* I thought, *but why?* At this the cat flicked her tail and gave me a smile that made me understand exactly why they called her Sinister, “For revenge of course.

A man sits on a bench, staring out at the lake. Death appears, sitting next to him, enjoying the sunset. The man turns, asking "So it must be my time, eh?" Death shakes his head, replying "Nah, sometimes it's just nice to enjoy some company." "Fair enough." ... ... ... "So what happens in the afterlife?" "How am I supposed to know? I'm Death, not God." "So God exists?" "I don't know. I suppose you could call me a force of nature." "Oh. That is disappointing." "Tell me about it. I wonder sometimes why I exist." ... ... ... "I mean, just because I embody humanity's greatest fear doesn't make me a bad guy, does it?" "I suppose not, we all have our jobs." "Exactly. I didn't ask to be stuck with this, it's just my place." "So, you have emotions?" "I don't know. You can't really describe emotions to someone who doesn't feel them, can you?" "So you don't?" "No." "Oh." ... ... ... "You get lonely, don't you?" "Yeah, I don't get out much. Aside from taking those who are ready to go." "How does that work?" "Hard to explain. I exist everywhere at once. Every time something dies, I'm there." "So, I'm just speaking to a fragment of your being?" "I suppose...There a problem with that?" "No." ... ... ... "Do you exist outside Earth?" "Yes, I exist throughout the universe, and beyond." "That's a bit hard to swallow." "Well, humans don't cope with the idea as well as the other species that populate the universe." "Oh. Are we inferior?" "In some ways, yes. But I'll let you in on a little secret." "What?" "No other species in the universe has your capacity, your potential for greatness." ... ... ... "How so?" "I have seen the death's of your greatest heroes. I watched the Americans die at the Alamo. I'v-" "How was that?" "Well, rather depressing to watch, but I'm not allowed to take sides." "Oh." "But as I was saying, Humanity is truly one of the most unique species I've encountered." "Really?" "No other species in the galaxy continues to fight on when all hope is lost." "You'd think that'd be universal." "Yeah." ... ... ... "Can you take me with you?" "You mean, kill you?" "Not exactly. I want to roam the cosmos, see all the universe holds." "No one I've revealed myself to has ever asked..." "So?" "I don't know. I wouldn't be as lonely." "And?" "But what about your family? Your children and wife?" "They can live without me. It happens all the time, people die." "I suppose they do." ... ... ... "It really wouldn't be fair. No one else has gotten to cheat Death like this." "I'm not cheating, I'm joining." "What's the phrase? If you can't beat em' join em'?" "Something like that." "I suppose you could join me." "Really?" "Yes. But in order to come with me, you have to die." "Oh." ... ... ... "I think I'd like to go quietly." "Everyone does." "I'll tell you what. When that sun rises, your physical body will waste away, and we'll roam the universe forever." "Sounds like a damn fine time to me." "Nothing to do now but wait." ... ... ... ... ... ... "Am I dead yet?" "No." "Oh." "Now you are." "That wasn't that bad." "It isn't. Humans completely overblow it." "What now?" "I suppose we go now." ... ... ... Across the world, a woman sits on a bench, watching the lake. Death appears, sitting next to her, joined by a man. The woman turns, asking "Is it my time?" "No." "Oh." "Who is he?" "A friend." "Oh." ... ... ...

opinions and critics are welcome With a cynical look on my face, I’m ready to prowl but have no direction. There’s something wrong with this bitch in heat, less than a month and she’s done wrong almost twice. What’s going through her head? Nobody knows. Is she alone? There is no sign of a significant presence. With a libido that’s nearly unstoppable happiness seems almost unachievable. Can she escape? Will she escape? Misery loves company, maybe I’ll be sucked in too. The silence……I can’t take the silence. I want angry noises inside my head, I want calming beats in my heart, and I want numb-ness from all the bull shit and wonder aimlessly. I run from everything jaded and calculated; for some time I ran from myself, now I can’t find my way back. There she is again; she doesn’t know what she wants, yet seeks help from her imagination and reality. With insanity lurking in her shadow why doesn’t she join it? Can she be hiding hope? Confiding in dreams? Believing in nothing tangible, she blindingly seeks opportunity and wonders into sugar coated disasters that can break her down but seems to give her strength once it’s swallowed. Behind her sarcastic smirk and appearance hide ugly truths, there only visible through vulnerable eyes; the likes of which nobody has ever seen and will never hear. As easily as she can appear she can easily disappears without a trace she seems almost ghost like, how I envy her. How I wish I could fly for almost all possible reasons. Though she is not seen her presence can be felt and is on the lips of those she’s touched and has a thin line of contact with, though It feels like she only knows their name and appearance. As I roam through the trees and streets of this city she is nowhere to be seen yet I catch glimpses of her, I feel the surge of emotions; the hurt, confusion, laughter, longing, peacefulness and so much more. Who is she? Maybe if I linger she might join me. Though I feel inpatient lying under the sun, perhaps I’ll catch her under the shade of a tree; with a single glance I claim more information about her.

Hey Reddit. I am with a team in London starting a new short story magazine this summer called 'Flick Fiction' that will be available in many London coffee shops by the end of August. The original idea behind it is to bring short stories and recreational reading to the public and have it written by the public, earning up to £500 per story published by us. We are discussing having a website where anybody can submit their work, (stories poetry and prose,) and rate/share content. There is a possibility that we may have a pay scheme for the regular online users who are good at sifting through online content and giving indicating reviews towards their favorite content, based on their activity. We will then Publish daily, those stories which are most popular.

I'm posting this in a moment of weakness. Please sympathize with me and don't be a jerk. And yes their are some stupid parts. I'm a freshman and high school. I thin it's not half bad. The Fake Relationship ​The wind pressed against my face. It was 6:30 in the evening and I was praying on the forward of the ship. The sun was setting now, leaving a wonderful streak of red and light pink. We had embarked four days ago and I had enjoyed the cruise with a host of new friends. Caitie, a beautiful blond, was the first of many teenagers my age that I spent my days with. She had a step-sister, Lexie, and they were both from Witicha, Kansas. After I had finished my prayer, I laid against the glass that protected the miniature golf course from the powerful wind. The best nights to pray were the nights where the ship was traveling directly into the wind. Physics where against me, but I broke the equilibrium and stood face first in to a wonderful stream of cooling air. Ecstasy, The cruise ship I was traveling on, had thirteen decks with a mixture of staterooms, restaurants, shops, and clubs for many different age groups; Because of my age, I was placed into the high school teen's club. I checked the time- 7:08-, I began my walk down stairs to meet up with Emily, a short, brown-haired sixteen year old. Emily had a later eating time then myself so we arranged a time to meet up and go to the teen's club. I walked down two fleets of stairs and came to the grand entrance where I boarded the ship. The grand entrance had two main elevators and two secondary elevators, but I never used them because they were much to slow. Luckily, I had taken the time on the first day to learn where everything on the ship was and where the corridors went. When I approached Emily, she was wearing tan shorts and a tank top over her bikini. ​"Hey! How was dinner?", I asked. ​"It was pretty good," She had a high pitched voice that for some reason was not annoying to listen to. The conversation we had was pointless, but if everything in our life had to have meaning it would be pointless. I checked the time again- a habit I had made to check if it was a dream or not- and it was 8:34. By this time, a large number of people had walked into the club and began socializing and enjoying the latest songs. Then, Zulay began passing along white tee shirts to everybody in the room and placed a tub of markers on a table for every to sign each other's shirts. I picked up a maker immediately began signing people's shirts. Caitie, who 'hated' me, wrote, "I freakin' hate you" all over the front of my shirt. I laughed. Later on in the night, I handed my shirt to Emily who wrote half a paragraph about how she would miss me and I should never stop talking to her. The smile on her face was genuine and made me believe with every strain of muscle in my heart that she meant every single word; so, we continued on with the night like every other teenager, with our heart in the moment. ​"I'm going to go back to my stateroom. I have to fly home tomorrow and hurry to my cheerleading completion." Every word from her mouth seemed to slow time and at the thought that tomorrow morning will be the last time I see her my heart turned to stone. ​"oh, It's alright. Hey. Um before you go what's your number so I can talk to you later." The nervousness grow in my voice as I said the last few words. She gave me her number and as I typed in the last few numbers she had already left the room. I hurried out of the club to joined her. We walked downstairs and to her stateroom. I said good night as if it was the last time I would see her. After this, I went to my room and feel asleep. ​The next day, I woke and found myself already missing her, but I had hope because I had her cell phone number so after today I could text her often. So I lived that day as a normal day before the embankment, texting friends and listening to music on the two hour ride home. ​A few days later, I felt like it was time to continue my relationship with Emily; so, I texted her. She responded a few minutes later and I had a conversation with her, but she wasn't talking like she was on the cruise. She used one-word answers and never sent more than three words in a text, but I disregarded it. ​June 16, half a month after my last conversation with Emily and I had not had a reply. I wasn't sure what to think of the situation so I forced it out of my mind. But, the festering idea that she had forgotten about me still remained. I couldn't let such an amazing person out of my life; so, I tried again. My phone went off, I had high hopes but it was Callie. She told me that she was going to drink with some 'friends.' I persuaded her not to, but it was set in her heart that she wanted to; so, I franticly texted Emily and explained the situation and how she always had good ideas and solutions for problems.To my surprise, I got a reply and I read the words slowly dissecting every single one. She sounded friendly, but it was only words on a screen. She expressed her concern and what she would have done. Most of which, I had already did. After a few more text messages about Callie, I said, "It would be nice if we talked every now and again." So, we did and it was so wonderful reconnecting with her. I remembered the five wonderful days with her and the level of reality I felt when I was with her. It was getting late so I said good night and how it was nice to reconnect. I had hoped that this would be the new beginning for our relationship, but she had other plans. The next day, I texted hoping we could talk some more like last night. She did not. ​This struck me like a car slamming into a 18 Wheeler. I had no hope about reconnecting anymore; because, my idea that she had forgotten me for whatever reason was true and she just wanted me gone. And then I remembered, It was a small detail but an important one. She had said that the jacket she was wearing was her boyfriends. All emotion left me. I felt nothing, not rage nor tears. I just felt empty so I went to bed. ​The next morning, I still felt nothing, but I was inspired. So I wrote onto a notepad, "I dream about you every now and again. Even after you rejected me. I can't help my subconscious. You're too deep for me to forget you. Nor do I want to forget. I dream about you every now and again. When I do, it's always comforting. You give me hope about how you forgot me, but I'm dead and gone to you. Please don't make me beg; the only outcome I want is you accepting that I should be in your life. But what is your reason now? Or better yet. Is it you who fail to accept me in your life? Or is it him." Unlike an English paper, The words just flowed from my mind. I recalled the events in my head, The true was that I had been blind to the reality that not everyone you meet is who they really are. Some people will lie to you and will make you believe they care for you, but to her I was just a flirt.

­He looked at the TV screen without focusing his eyes and then closed them. His brain melted. He pictured himself working towards something he cared about in a place where he was happy. The vision evaporated as his current surroundings interrupted. He was lying on the couch in his mother's house watching Law & Order at 4am. The sound was muted (he wanted to smash the TV once he realized he'd been watching commercials without thinking) and his mother was asleep in the next room. For a brief moment, sleep tugged at his eyelids. Shrugging it off he did some quick math and calculated he'd only been awake for eleven hours. Executive producer: Dick Wolf. He wondered how old this Dick Wolf guy was by now. He wondered how they got the early 90's episodes into high-definition. Did they keep the original cuts on film? Another commercial. Another few minutes of thought. He stared at his feet. Suddenly the silence was broken by all the sounds he'd been tuning out. The fan running in his mom's room, crickets, the external hard drive by the TV clicking away. He found himself appreciating the free time, though not without a peppering of guilt. For the last five years he'd been complaining how little time he had to do what he wanted. Moving back to his hometown was supposed to be a distraction-free zone for him to get some serious work done. It was, in fact, so distraction-free that he found himself creating distractions to break up the monotony. An online dating site. His old purple Gameboy. He was on the verge of deleting his dating profile—after one lukewarm date and no replies from the few girls he thought pretty, his curiosity and excitement had faded and a slight feeling of embarrassment and rejection started creeping. He knew he was no Warren Beatty-circa-1967 but no Warren Beatty-circa-now either. He knew if he could talk to a girl in person he could be charming and funny. In the world of online dating your face is really your password. Get it wrong, and the game's over before it starts. To hell with that. As far as the Gameboy, he'd gotten halfway through Pokemon Silver and couldn't justify putting in another 40 hours. Not right now. The show was back on. Another episode was starting. He unmuted it. CHUNG CHUNG. Sometime well after sunrise, he was lying in bed with every intention of going to sleep. The light coming in between the slats in the blinds was dealt with by putting a pillow vertically against them. It was always in these moments that his brain would shift into overdrive, compelling him to reach for his smartphone every few minutes to check a fact or satisfy a new curiosity or unanswered question. Tonight he was wondering how glue worked. He was surprised he'd never thought about it before. He came up with a theory on his own, and was then pleased as it lined up fairly well with what Cecil Adams had to say. He pictured the surfaces of everything as being as jagged as a craggy mountain range at a molecular level, no matter how smooth they appeared. And that the glue must somehow, while it's still liquid, find its way into the crevices and then harden. It would be the same principle as sticking your hand into a pile of hay and grabbing a fistful. It was too late to try analogizing Van der Waal's forces. He fell asleep.