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Allura 22

Mongo was the best kid we had. That bantam sized tyke could go through a fifteen hundred pound Black Angus steer during a single episode of Gilmour Girls. By the time the credits were rolling he’d have that sucker all tagged, bagged, and ready to sell to the butcher in the store. We had in fact, cycled through an assortment of “choppers” before Mongo came along. First there was Lucille, then there was Sam followed by Pamela, and then you can’t forget about the weird kid. Now what was his name? Wiley! That was it! Wiley was his name. What a creep show. This kid was hell bent on drinking the bull’s blood and frying up the testicles so he could put then on a peanut butter and Fluff sandwich. He’d look at you with his beady little green eyes, his pasty white hands firmly clasped together begging and pleading you to let him make a bull ball, PB & fluff. Uggg! He still gives me the willies. However, none of them could hold a cleaver to Mongo. He was simply the best, and he couldn’t be more ecstatic regarding his contribution to the “family” commerce either. Now I know what you’re thinking; ‘no eight year old kid likes to chop up steer carcasses. Now that’s where you’re wrong my little hombre. When Mongo is slicing and dicing he is just, so, just so, Zen. His little three foot five frame is overrun with joy when he’s donning his vinyl apron and a six inch cleaver standing atop a three foot step ladder. When he has that cleaver in his hand, Mongo is in the zone. He has a smile on his face so big that his big furry eye-brows disappear underneath his forehead’s overhang; and when he’s not smiling he’s planning his next chop. You can see it in his big brown eyes, ‘should I do the strips first or the tenderloin?’ Meat just tastes better when it’s processed with love. After all love, makes everything better; sex, drugs, terrorism, hyperbole and even food. Everyone could tell that we made a change when Mongo came along, even Frankie the butcher. “Who’s doing your processing now?” He asked me when we first moved Mongo to the block. “He’s a new kid, he’s from Troy I think.” “You better keep him, because this stuff is pristine,” Frankie said, with his eyes wide as he held up a 4 inch thick New York Strip. I know it sounds ludicrous, but “chopping” made Mongo feel like he had a purpose in this world. How many 8 year olds can honestly say they know what they were put on this earth to do? Hell, how many 40 year olds can say that? All I know is that when the Doodge would show up with a dead steer in the bed of it, Mongo’s eyes would light up like the god damn Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Sometimes the poor kid would even piss himself he was so excited. Mongo was just happy to not be in a cage. In his last foster home up in Troy; his foster parents kept him in this, well let’s call it what it was, it was a... it was a cage. They kept him in there, just like an animal. They had kids stacked five high in cages. Jesus, what’s the world coming to now a days? How could anyone treat another human being like that? We loved our kids, every last one of them, Mongo wasn’t alone, all of our kids had a horror story. There was Gerard who came to us from Utica, he had to sleep outside in a dog house with a pit bull named Duke. Then there was Lindsay from Elmira who was forced to watch her “fosties” have sex when she was caught kissing a boy outside of a movie theatre. Then there was Ani who came to us from Auburn. Her “fosties” burned her with a crack pipe because she forgot to wash the dishes. Most of the kids that came to our “family” were complete head cases, we supplied an opportunity, a trade if you will, not cages. Mongo wasn’t our only ace though; we also had Zoey the sniper prodigy from Allentown. Her weapon of choice was an M-16. Over the past several months she had become quite emotionally attached to it. She had even cultivated the routine of retiring to bed with it, unloaded of course. Some kids slept with Teddy bears, Bibles, Noam Chomsky novels or even Sonny and Cher episodes, however our Zoey had no interest in such things, so she slept with her sniper rifle. She could poach a steer from four hundred yards; she had her own process too. She’d find her spot, settle in and rest her cheek on the butt end of her rifle, lick her finger, judge the wind factor, adjust her sight, take a deep breath and then… POP! POP! POP! She would squeeze off three fluid shots, dropping three steers. Just like that! It wouldn’t be until the third one fell that the rest of the herd knew that the jig was up. Zoey would pull her head up and flash you that front tooth absent smile. Then there was Chucky and Davey, Chucky and Davey were both only 13 years old, but they were built like brick shithouses. They would ride in the Dodge with Zoey, their role relied on their brute strength that they both possessed which was in direct correlation to their Norwegian and German heritage. Everyone’s name was on the marquee. Zoey harvested the “targets”, while, Chucky monitored diligently via his binoculars. As soon as the “pre-steaks” were inoperative, he’d hammer down on the gas pedal pulling up to the steer. Chucky and Davey would hop out, grab and toss them in the back of the Dodge and poof just like that they’re gone into the night. No one even saw them. They had to be quick; a farmer could notice things like the headlights of a pick-up truck driving through his pasture at 3am on a Wednesday morning. It had to all be one fluid motion, everyone had their assignments and they turned them in on time. We had a few other kids in our “family” too, but they didn’t have any starring roles like Mongo, Zoey, Chucky and Davey. They had more supporting roles, per se. Roles such as, cleaning up the kitchen after Mongo was done “chopping”, going down to the Wal-Mart to buy Zoey more ammunition, or renewing Chucky and Davey’s gym memberships. Not to mention we had to keep the Dodge in tip top shape, because there isn’t anything worse than stalling out in the middle of a cow pasture. Try to explain to an 80 year old cattle farmer what you’re doing in his field in the middle of the night as he waves a double barrel shotgun in your face. We had a good thing going. We were happy, the butchers were happy, and their customers were happy. It was a win, win, win. We were able to sell NY Strips at four bucks a pound, and ground chuck at fifty cents a pound. The good guys sold it at a 100% mark up, while the greedy ones sold it at a 500% mark up, but we didn’t care, business was good. On top of our little “family” business, we had our checks from Child Services coming in too. In a matter of a few months we were able to quit our day jobs. Lani who came to us from Corning, was able to cook all day, like he always wanted to do. Lani was the cutest when he was happy. He would come dancing into the living room swinging his hands back and forth shrugging his shoulders every five seconds, he just couldn’t contain himself. “I’m going to make Paneer today!’ He’d say raising his eye- brows with excitement. ‘With some nice red Indian curry, and cardamom basmati rice, yeah man, it’s gonna be the tits.” It was just nice to see him happy again. Lani would still be cooking up a storm in the old house, if it wasn’t for Bobby Decker. Everything changed because of Bobby Decker. After about six months the farms became very concerned with the “epidemic” of their thinning herds. The Arcangeli Farm on Skyline, and the Rodabaugh Farm in the valley were hit the hardest. However, the Kendall, Barnhill, Grover, Bond and Spencer farms all noticed the evidence of the “epidemic” as well. In pursuit of their missing cattle the surrounding farms hired this private investigator, this sleuth if you will. A cowboy straight out of Dallas, who was absolutely cuckoo for cocoa puffs, for cattle. Bobby Decker gorged himself on a strictly beef only diet, and he partook in an unnatural love affair with the animals that he chose to consume. I heard one story, about when he was a young buck maybe 14 or 15. Every year he would hand pick one bull from his Uncle’s ranch. He would shower this bull with his undivided attention. He would feed the steer himself, he’d bath him, he would even sleep with him out in the pasture. I even heard that he had read bed time stories to it. When it had come time for harvest, little Bobby would lure his best friend into the barn and kill him, himself. His weapon of choice was a Katana blade. After the deed was done, he would process the meat himself, tag it, bag it and toss it into the chest freezer, drinking the blood in celebration of the harvest. Over the next year he would eat every single inch of what was once his companion. It was early November when the patriarchs of the encompassing farms held a rendezvous in Billy Arcangeli’s barn. It was then and there that they had unanimously elected to bring in Bobby Decker, the cowboy from Dallas with the atypical rapport with bullocks. It was alleged that he could track cattle with the use of nothing more than his nose, like a humanized blood hound. Of course we all knew that all of these chronicles were nothing more than rural legends. Decker was the least of my concerns. My main concern was the fact that our resource of fresh cattle was hastily diminishing. Without the farms replenishing their flocks we would be forced to acquire a contemporary replacement preferably before the cows came home.

Once all of the “pre steaks” were tagged and bagged what would our kids do? What would Mongo do; chase down the local feline and canine population, just to skin them and hawk them to the local Chinese restaurants in filthy, seedy alleyways? What would Zoey do? Would she begin reenacting her own street theatre version of The Most Dangerous Game? You may laugh, but these were quarrelsome disquiets. These questions were more concerning to me than Mr. Bobby Decker, a person who may or may not exist. If we didn’t find resolutions to these queries soon we would have bloody anarchy on our hands. After all we did have mouths to feed. It was not business as usual, as they tend to say. When Decker finally did poise us with his existence, Mongo was processing a 1200 pound steer in the kitchen. The floor was extinguished in bull plasma, and Mongo himself was swathed from cowlick to hang nail. Zoey was at the kitchen table performing her ritual spring cleaning on her rifle when I heard the first knock. Chucky and Davey were placing their boots in the closet when we all heard the second knock. Everyone in the house perked up like a pack of wild dogs, when they hear another howling pack off in the distance. Lani looked up from his Mole sauce that he had been perched over for the past 15 minutes. “Are you expecting anyone?” I asked. “No,” he said wrinkling, his eye-brows, pausing for a moment to process what he was being asked. “Well, no, no, I’m not.” Then we all heard the third knock clear as day. That’s when everyone begins to scramble about the house, like mice when they discover that the cat is back, and he brought friends. Lani turns off the stove, and pulls Mongo off of his step ladder. He jets down the hall a bloody Mongo in his arms into the bathroom to get Mongo cleaned up. Chucky and Davey yanked the steer off the chopping block shoving it into the freezer. Davey grabs the mop to clean up the bloody floor. I bolt to the kitchen table to snatch up Zoey’s Rifle, and toss it underneath my bed. We hear the fourth knock, I make my way to the front door, just down the hallway and around the corner from my bedroom. “Now everyone be cool!” A command that was immediately greeted with looks of bewilderment, “Seriously, everyone act normal,” I reiterate. As I scan over their confused faces, it finally sets into my cranium, just as Decker knocks for the fifth time, that my “family” didn’t see anything wrong with our little “operation”. To them it was just business as usual. “Hello,” I said as I opened the door, greeting, the Cowboy from Dallas. He was a thin haggard man with sunken cheeks, his dark eyes resting just below his salt and pepper eye brows. His bald scalp was hidden underneath his pale white Stetson cowboy hat. Although he was a thin man he was quite large, standing at 6 foot 6 with wide broad shoulders. “Good morning sir, “he greeted. “Hello,” I said once again. “Sorry to bother you, I’m Bobby Decker, I’m a private investigator, hired by a few local gentlemen, whom possess special interest in the area.” He said looking over the cornfield behind him. “What kind of interest?” I inquired as I wiped my sweaty palms dry on the back of my pants. “Cattle, they own the surrounding cattle farms.” “Why would farmers need to hire a private investigator?” I asked with a laugh, as I feel a single droplet of perspiration running down the back of my neck. “It’s funny you should ask, there seems to be an epidemic of missing cattle, which has oddly enough hit all of the local farms. Now if it was only 1 or 2 farms I’d be convinced that it was just a fluke, but all eight have been hit, and hit hard.” “Funny in deed.” “Well you can’t spell Slaughter, without laughter.” “What’s that?” “Nevermind.” “Eight?” I ask. “What’s that?” he asked, looking up from the front door step that he had been inspecting. “There are eight farms?” “Yes sir, there’s Kendall, Barnhill, Grover, Bond, Spencer, Arcangeli, Rodabaugh and the Smith Farm,” he said as he opened up his note pad. There were eight farms, not seven, how could we have missed one? We had scouted the area months in advance. We still had another farm to go through. However if we weren’t aware of the Smith farm what was happening to their cattle? “Huh, I wasn’t aware of the Smith farm, is it new?” “Nope, it’s been there for 27 years.” “Wow.” “Anyway, it seems that all of the eight farms have been hit hard by this freak occurrence if you will, but I was more curious if you have seen anything unusual or peculiar like maybe wandering cattle?” I wrinkled up by mouth to the left side of my face, and raised my eye brows. I looked to my left and then to my right, “No, I can’t say I have,” “How about wrangling?” “Excuse me?” Oh my god, he knows, he knows, I know he knows, I keep on repeating in my head. Wait did I say that or did I just think that, pull it together. “Wrangling… it’s when people steal cattle.” “Oh.” I say nervously. “So are you aware of any wrangling practices being performed in the area.” “No, I cannot say that I am.” I say, I can feel my voice on the verge of cracking. “Okay then,” he said closing up his note pad, “Thank you for your time sir.” As he placed his notepad in his jacket pocket, he tipped his hat and began to walk back to his white pick-up truck. I almost had the door closed when he turned around and asked, “Pardon me, but would you mind if I used your head?” “Uh – yeah—sure,” I said hesitantly, letting him in, if he was the cowboy that I have harkened him to be, he could smell the Bull blood from the road. I closed the door behind him, as I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s right there,” I said pointing to the bathroom door. Zoey was in the living room with her arms crossed, still pouting about having her M-16 confiscated. Mongo was in the kitchen with Lani, sitting on the counter adjacent to the range. I heard the toilet flush, Decker appeared in the hallway, awkwardly looking for the light switch on his way out. He waltzed into the living room, looked around halting at the facade of the fire place. “That’s nice,” he said pausing to look at me, “I’d love to have one, but that’s the one thing about Texas it never gets quite cold enough to really use a fireplace. But hey, a boy can dream can’t he?” “So you’re from Texas?” “Yup, born and raised,” he said as he made his way through the dining room, into the kitchen. Mongo glared at Decker from the counter top with his arms crossed. “What’ca cookin?” Decker asks looking to Lani. “Just some Mole.” “Mmmm, mole, sounds good.” He says as he takes a good look around the kitchen, twitching his nose just ever so slightly as he sniffs the air. “Go easy on the Ancho Chilies,’ he says to Lani “they can really over power the cocoa.” He pauses, “Well that’s what I’ve learned anyway, “he says throwing up his hands. “Thanks.” “Well sirs I must bid you adieu,” He said with a tip of his hat, “again thank you for your time, and your hospitality. You really do have a lovely home, especially that fireplace.” He added as he made his way back through the house to the front door. “I almost forgot,” he said stopping “here’s my card, just in case you think of anything or see anything. I can’t imagine it’s just wandering cattle, but hell it’s not like someone is hunting them, you know?” he says chuckling, “but then again weirder things have happened.” He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and left out the way he came in. He made it back to his pale white pick-up truck and he was gone. Decker wasn’t absent for more than 10 seconds before the entire house erupted. “I want my gun!” Zoey demanded. “What does he know about Mole?” Lani inquired. “I need to finish tagging and bagging!” Mongo Screamed. “Who was that?” Chuckey and Davey simultaneously asked. I didn’t answer any of them. “Family meeting five minutes,” I announced. The entire family sat in a circle on the hardwood floors of the living room, our legs crossed Indian style. I explained to everyone that this was the beginning of the end. I told them that it was time that we moved on to the next town. I told them that the kitchen was getting too hot, and in the best interest of our little pack, we must move and start all over again. We must tap into a new uncharted market. I explained that it was a long road of building new relationships with new butchers in new towns. I told them that this was okay. I told them that this was the vehicle that we have chosen to orbit in. This wasn’t the end but just a new beginning, because we would rather move than change our way of life. The next day I took the last of the cuts down to Frankie. As I handed him the last package, I knew that he knew. He knew that this was the end of our era. He knew the same thing that I had known all along. We had devoured our town’s entire cattle supply. We both knew that our resources had dried up. We had known this from the beginning, but we did it anyway. As Frankie wrote that last check, we both knew that we had done this to ourselves. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, however no one was innocent.

I’m sitting in the second-to-last row of the school bus, looking for someone to notice how quiet I’m being. I’ve had a lot of days like these recently. The headache starts around noon, and by the time I get on the bus, my head is pounding and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I never do, but I kind of wish I would. So every time, I’m stuck. Sitting here. I can’t do anything because it hurts. Doing nothing hurts too. The stringy brown leather of the seats is hot and I hate it. I’m supposed to want everyone to be quiet. Anyway, my head stings when they’re loud. So when they start yelling too much I glare at them. They feel bad and look away. It doesn’t help. The first few times they feel bad for you. They try to talk to you and ask you what’s wrong and how it feels and what they should do. But too many times and it’s not interesting. I turn around behind me where the only other 5th grader is talking loudly, proud that he’s gotten the back seat. Just for today, I think. Every day we race for the back seat. I know it doesn’t seem important but it is. On days like this, though, I walk. I walked slowly here instead of the usual sprinting and shoving, and he still thinks he’s won something. Well today doesn’t count. Finally I find myself wandering off the bus and exaggeratedly stumbling across the street. The bus rolls away with an aching hiss and I’m just standing there. I don’t want to walk home, but I can’t think of anything better. I walk a few steps and sit down. Everything is spinning and I’m really wishing I could cry. Suddenly there’s a familiar yapping. It should be annoying, but I’m so glad for the distraction that I sit and soak it in for a while before looking. I knew what it was but I looked anyway. I shouldn’t have. It’s bright out. Oh yeah, so the yapping belongs to a neighbor’s dog. There he is. We talk about this neighbor a lot. Today he’s wearing a floral pink dress and red high heels that he’s clearly just mowed the lawn in. Oh wait, I said he. Maybe I should have said she? I don’t care. My head hurts. He’s still just sitting there on his porch, just like every day. Well except some days. Some days he’s not there. I think I should be creeped about. I pretend to play with the grass because I still can’t get up. He’s might be looking at me. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he gets headaches too. My migraine drops intensity for a few seconds and I need to take advantage of it. I jump up and pretend I’m fine. I walk forward, faster and faster. I make it past two houses until it all comes back, even worse to make up for the time I had. I plop down on the curb. Now he’s behind me, the only person outside on the whole street. I force myself to shift on the curb just enough so I can look at him, but pretend not to. Suddenly I realize how stupid I must look, and feel like I need an excuse. Dang it, if only I could cry. Instead I guess I’ll have to smile. I actually manage a sincere grin, sort of like I’m laughing at myself. I pretend he smiles back and maybe even gives me a nod, but I’m too far away and the street is blurry. It’s time to go. I take a few deep breaths until I get one right, and then I stand up. I’m dizzy but I walk until I reach my front door. No one’s home. I walk in, collapse on the couch, and cry.

It was 1942, Vietnam, me and the boys where pinned down by a company of Nazi bastards. For five days we sat in our trench with no cloths and no food. The only water we had on hand was a thermos full of goat urine (surprisingly tasty). Early one morning on the sixth day we heard a great rumbling sound from far way. slowly it came closer, like ancient gods riding their chariots of thunder. At first I thought it was a storm (as is common that time of year) but then I remembered that there is no weather in the arctic, it had to be something else. As I looked up I saw the Red Barron pass over head. He was flying low and fast, behind him a large black cloud that seemed to be pursuing his biplane. I have never seen a look of fear as the one I saw on the faces of the Nazis as they retreated back in to the shadows, seemingly to flee from the black mass that was encompassing the sky. “Whats happening?” I yelled at a German straggler. He turned around, in a soft voice he simple said “Heuschrecke”, and followed his companions back in to the woods. What was this great mass? This living being that the imposing Third Reich soldiers seemed to fear so much? Quickly I pulled out my phone and began to translate the word that the German soldier had said to me. Slowly, my trembling fingers typed out the letters as the dark cloud inched closer. “H”, another inch “E”, another “u”, almost on top of me now. My hands warmed up and I managed to type all the way to “ck”. That’s when I heard my comrades call out in pain. A terrible agonizing scream that still haunts me to this day. The sun was completely obscured now, my phone was the only remaining source of light. With out thinking my thumb fell on the “e” button. The word “Heuschrecke” was now complete. My eyes looked down with bewilderment, Google translate simply said “grasshopper”. Heuschrecke meant Grasshopper. Now it all made sense, this cloud, this great black mass was a swarm of hungry grasshoppers looking for food. How hungry? I was about to find out. My friends screamed at first But their screams where in vain. The swarm filled their mouths, grasshoppers poured down their lungs, cutting of air supply. I managed to survive by keeping my mouth closed and using their limp body’s as protection from the malnourished mass of bugs. Five days later I was found in a field out side of West Berlin and subsequently returned home.

I used to be frustrated by the inevitability of waves. I would hurl myself against them with all my strength, body slapping broad-side into the ambling hill of water, trying with all my might to make an example, set a precedent, assert my sentient dominance over the senseless redundancy of nature. It was a battle of wills and I, being blessed with Will, was the clear favorite. Naturally, I lost every time. Each wave was followed inexorably by another, and red-chested and infuriated by the ocean’s indifference to my presence, I would gather myself for another offensive. Tiring of this, I would alter my strategy and resign myself to building sandcastles with moats carefully situated just at the limit of the obliging tide; or constructing palaces for sojourning crabs, nomadic despots who would signal their gratitude for my hospitality with clumsy sideways curtsies. Or something like that. I was jealous of the older boys on their jet skis, their casual indifference to the forces that stymied me, skimming the surface like sleek cars on an undulating pavement, surgically slicing its skin, as unimpressed with their medium of travel as it was with me, their artificial waves trailing them, spreading out like a slow Japanese fan, criss-crossing at odd angles to their larger, slower cousins. * * * * * It’s been decades since I’ve been to the ocean, I realize as I leave the hospital in the cobalt light of the pre-dawn, but my feet remember the way. With a nod to the stoic palms on Cass Street I turn left, and sand supplants cement. I can’t feel its texture through my leather soles but it gives way deferentially under my weight. I don’t break stride, even as the tiny waves make a play for my kneecaps. When the water is deep enough I squat, submerging myself to the neck. I am weightless. I am a buoy. The ocean cycles around me and through me and I am utterly unobtrusive. It rocks me like a baby, lovingly indifferent to my will. Tonight, I will dream of its momentum.

“The world knew its mother was returning. It began to prepare like a bird protects its nest or as a mother deer eats her baby’s waste. Everything changed before anyone realized it was changing. At some time, somebody thought the globe was heating up too much. It was like a comforting flame in the fireplace, though, and not the suicidal oven everyone predicted. Just one more thing for her it was later seen. The disease was nature’s greatest sacrifice. So many things changed then. “The disease mostly just killed humans. It would break them down and turn their insides to water before they died. Most plants became inedible to humans. But, if you did eat them, you caught the disease, although animals seemed unharmed. The spirits of animals were awakened as they hadn’t been in many years. It seemed rabbits and squirrels scurried everywhere, that bears and wolves were twice as big and fearless. The deer were the uniquely altered. The herds grew and they relearned an old tongue, unspoken for generations. Their eerie clicks and chirps pealed through the forest each evening. “Most affected were still the humans. Certainly, a great many died from the disease, but those who didn’t were the Callisto of progress—something far more mystical than what was called evolution, but betterment nonetheless. Indians got sick, but none died. One night, deer came into the reservation towns, snorting ancient rhythms like the drums. Indians woke up. Their bones felt the old songs, and everyone sang. The sick were healed. The old ways returned. “The United States’ Department of Natural Resources studied the first changes curiously. Soon, it became apparent that nature was being reshaped into something unknown. They began massive conservation efforts to preserve everything as it had been. At first, they tried to control pollution and invasive animals, but after the disease that had to be abandoned. There were not enough people left. Then, when it became apparent that wild game was the sole source of food, the DNR found its leverage. It seemed as if a Senate or President hardly mattered anymore, it was the DNR whom the citizens obeyed. “Now in control, the DNR doubled its conservation efforts. Studying whatever they had the resources for, they discovered that they hated what nature was doing. They wondered what had happened to forests of concrete and stars of streetlights. Despite what nature was doing elsewhere, the DNR in patches prevailed preserving things as they had been and always fighting for more. They wanted conservation above all things, the conservation of what had passed away. “Then, Mother returned. No one knew she was coming, but we should have known the signs. The DNR called her a demon; we loved her as a god. She would guide us, give us counsel. The old ways had brought her back. She blessed us and taught us about our new world. She would say, ‘How beautiful is this world! Would you do anything to protect it?’ “The DNR met with her early on, to try and make out what she intended. It was not hard for them to understand that she wanted nature to prosper. She saw their conservation as a mother sees her child’s first art. Obviously threatened, the DNR began attacking. They would burn forests and kill animals. Once, after they had slaughtered most of a herd of deer, some Indians joined in the survivors song of mourning. “I’m not sure if the DNR had forgotten the people living off of the land, but they were surprised. They invited us into their cities, assuming we would be with them. But, how could we desert the mother? She came and she told us, ‘We must protect this world! Would you die for me?’ And we would die for her. We began attacking DNR agents in the forests. We never went to their cities, because there were too many of them. “A war of sorts began. They saw us as minions of a demon trying to destroy nature. So, they began fighting back. People died on every side. But, Mother urged us, ‘You are protecting the world! Don’t I deserve your life?’ We all gave our lives. Every living Indian came together. We fought and we died. Because I was too old, I just remembered. I saw the story and wrote the songs, even though there is no one left for me to pass it onto. Mother came to me and said, ‘The world has been saved! Go and tell the enemy of your victory.’ “So, I walked for a week to come to you. No one had told me how many of you had been killed. It was another week before I even saw traces of anyone. I thought maybe I was alone in this world. But, tonight you found me as I was eating this meal. Now you have heard my story.” Billy Little-Fawn sat on the ground next to a pit of embers. The bones of a rabbit had been thrown into a hole. He intended to bury it before he left. A weary DNR agent, watched an old man who could not escape tell his story. He looked at the agent, who smiled showing small pieces of leaves stuck in his teeth. Billy covered his hole. Then, the DNR agent shot him between the eyes. Afterward, he staggered away. He threw himself on the ground to sleep. Something like sweat seeped from his pours, and the man never woke up. “That’s the last of them,” said Mother.

My body trembled in the immense light of the ever present Sun. My hand hooded my eyes as I stared up at It. Suddenly, Its usual warmth felt more like a burning heat. Beauty and Power was my mantra to the ‘heavenly’ body. It is said to supply us with the essence of purity, and growth. But in that moment, it just felt like a stadium light crammed in a small room: too tremendous to be needed, too ridiculous to be natural. A poorly done Photoshop, of sorts. Beads of sweat gathered at my brow. Whether it was from the immense heat, or the sudden realization, I wasn’t quite sure. Though the city around me was hustling and bustling at this time, just like every other time, I felt strangely suffocated and claustrophobic. Getting out was the only thing on my mind. For an hour, I think, my nimble body weaved through the crowed city, then suburbs, and finally to the hill on the outskirt of our city. No one really ventured here. Curiosity is not a natural emotion of my people. Those who had, though, were rumored to have never been seen again. For some reason, I took that risk; I just felt like I needed to get out. It took me another hour of intensive climbing to get to the top of this steep hill. Finally, there I stood at the crest of the hill, staring down at my former city, formally named Ignorance. The sight brought tears to my eyes. For some reason, none of the cityscape seemed to be quite as real any more. This view told me why no one had ever returned, Cupping my mouth like a megaphone, I began to yell the names of the people I knew there. I wanted them to come with me, for them to experience this realization themselves, but they were too far to hear my calls. My yelling halted when I felt something splash on the back of my hand. Sweat? The liquid was replaced with saliva as my tongue brush over the droplet. No, this didn’t taste salty at all. Then there were more of these splashes all around me, and the sky darkened. My heart was pounding from my fear, for the only water we knew in Ignorance was that from the Lake. It was a horrifying experience, this never happened in my city. I quickly found shelter under a tree and grimaced at the sky. Depressingly, I yearned for my warm, comforting life in the city below, but it was too late, I would no longer feel accepted there. Finally, I fell asleep to the sound of what I later found out to be rain. I woke up to the Warmth. To the real one, not like the one in Ignorance. After the dreadful rain, this was the first thing that redeemed leaving Ignorance. This Sun was real. It was more yellow then the old one, much less like an incandescent bulb in the ceiling. It had volume, and the power to dry my body of the rainwater with these warm breezes in the air, swirling around me. I ventured further away, less affected by my subconscious wanting me to stay. In the back of my mind, I knew I would have to return, except that time, with a crowd big enough for everyone in Ignorance city to hear when we scream for them at the top of the hill, as far as we can venture. But I need to learn first. Live life outside the city and become independent. I thought all of this as I traveled through the muddy wilderness beyond the city and then even beyond the Hill. It never rains in Ignorance; not ever. Their sky is kept bright and clear by a giant light bulb that never goes out. In theory, though, a little bit of water splashed on it could short-circuit the light bulb, exposing them to the true sun. But there would have to be a lot of rain for it to reach that high up. For now I’ll let them live in Ignorance, and hope for the best. Besides, I have a new place in between the Hill and the Sea that I now call home. That, my friends, is the small, but up and coming town named Wisdom. And I hope one day, you can take the time to visit.

“Jason, there’s no reason you should be out here this late,” called Ashley from beside the car. It was midnight on a Saturday night in Amherst, Massachusetts. All that could be heard was the hum of the electricity post, but besides that, it was dead silence. There was the occasional creature or two lurking around in the wilderness besides the tracks with some dross thrown here or there. But Jason was there to intake all the beauty of the outside world that night. He couldn’t be happier. He had a great job at the local sports shop. His father’s company had really taken off, they were wealthier than ever with no liabilities left, thanks to the family getting remunerated from prior events, and his brother had finally found true love and was engaged to the girl of his dreams. He felt the same sensation when talking to Ashley. He truly believed he had everything, but there was always that one thing missing. “Ash, didn’t think you’d find me here!” replied Jason getting up running to greet Ashley with a short hug. “Where else would you be? Whenever you don’t answer your phone after a ton of texts this late at night, there’s only one place you go,” Ashley stated, walking over to the grass field Jason had been lying on. It was beautiful. Away from the city, the lights, the noise. Nothing but silence, except the creek down the hill and the occasional fluster of the wind… then suddenly the tremble started, the lights shone upon them, and the sound of a train horn rung in the air. It flew passed them as they sat there in silence. The sound of the train had dwindled by now, but the memories came back to Jason as they have like every other night. The sounds. The shouting. The nightmare that happened that day. Jason was eleven, but still remembers it like it was yesterday. He had been in school, but had a feeling something was wrong the whole day. His mother had been in an asylum under intense mental care. Things had been fine until Jason’s brother passed. He was six years old at the time and had gotten cancer. Jason had asked if he was immune to it or not, and was told it wasn’t a disease you could catch. It was a slow decline and it tore their mother apart. The plan was to get her rejuvenated by bringing her to this institution after she was deemed an unfit mother post loss after being pugnacious, hard to live with, and not bringing her kids up “right”. That one fateful day in school changed everything though. The office had gotten an emergency call saying that his mother had escaped from the asylum and they were afraid she was going to the school to get Jason in some warped vision the woman had. Jason was called down to the office for “personal matters” and instantly knew it was regarding his mother. He decided to venture out to find his mother, being eleven it was the only thing he knew. He was walking home on the sidewalk path, when he heard the yells. He broke into a sprint and just got there to see a train whoosh by, people staring in horror, Jason breaking into rabid tears, as the woman that was once standing on the tracks was no more. Though the moment was sparse before Ashley interrupted, he still lay quiet on the grass reliving that dreaded moment. He wished he could go into a different realm, where his family was still together. The money didn’t matter, the little things didn’t matter. It made him appreciate life and others on a whole different level. It was preposterous how some people could care so little for the ones they love. Thinking about his mother, he started to get sad. All he had left was his older brother who was leaving soon and his father. “It’s okay, Jason. I’m not going anywhere,” assured Ashley, consoling him in her arms. After a few minutes of sitting there, Jason stood up and changed the subject not to dilate the current one more than he had. “Ashley, I don’t think I can ever repay for what you’ve given me,” Jason started, “I would never have been able to get through all this without someone like you. I want you to know that.” Ashley’s sterling eyes staring directly back into his without the least bit of flippant in her voice. “Always.

Barking. Barking. Constant barking. Charlie rested alone on his bed, over hearing the howls and barks of his dog upstairs in wanting of his beloved owner to come home. That being Charlie's sister of course. The dog was getting old, and Charlie only wished what was on his dogs mind as he barked and howled. Charlie felt work already taking a toll on him. It wasn't much hours yet but he was getting a bit tired indeed. Music became a ringing buzz in his left ear. The ambience of the room was quiet. Imaginary ciggarete fumes escaped Charlie's lips. His eyes searched for meaning in this room of his. As he exhaled, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Because well, there was nothing much to do. Loneliness was a word over used, and a feeling much grasped to him. It was loneliness that bound his last minutes tonight. Thats just how it was, and will be.

I wrote this pretty quickly, more for the experience itself than for the end product. It's based on real events. The story is pretty dialogue heavy and I didn't think too hard about the narrative. Nonetheless I hope some of you enjoy it. Mollified “This is gonna be so awk.” “Why?” “I dunno. I haven’t talked to Julia in a while. Plus I don’t think I’m gonna be sad enough. And I’m worried it’ll be obvious.” “Claire it’s fine. None of that matters. We’re just there to signal to her that we care enough about her grief that we’re willing to sacrifice a few hours of our time.” “Yeah I suppose. I’m just really bad at this stuff.” I pressed my forehead against the window and watched a cute girl walking her dog. She noticed me staring because traffic was moving so slowly. I mouthed “cute dog” and she smiled. I had no idea if she knew what I was saying. “Is it bad that I’m bored already?” Claire asked, glancing over to observe my reaction. “Nah, it’s normal. Just be on your best behavior.” “Yes daddy,” she replied with the bubbliest of mirth. “You’re incorrigible.” After 22 years, I had yet to encounter death on a personal level. It was more of a curiosity to me than anything real. And yet I felt bad that we were making light of the situation. The closest I’d ever gotten to death was back in high school when the doctor suspected my mom had a tumor and wanted to run a scan. The night before her appointment I imagined the worst and listened to some crappy punk bands, shedding silent tears. But that was quickly forgotten when the doctor found nothing wrong. I never experienced real human mortality. “Andrew, would you be sad if I died?” “You know I would be.” “Well I wouldn’t want you to be. Cause at the rate I’m going I’ve probably already peaked. You know me. Live fast, die young.” She’s only 20. “I know, Claire. I’d still be sad. Maybe less so for you as you are and more so for who you could’ve become.” “Too real.” “I meant it in the least judgmental way possible.” “I know.” We finally arrived at the colonial looking home, finding the parking lot filled with tens of cars. I wondered how many cars would attend my wake. Probably a couple handfuls at best. As we pulled in I made sure to turn down the car radio that had been blasting Kanye West with maxed bass. My hand found Claire’s as we walked in. I remembered that she had recently begun dating some guy but neither of us seemed to care. As I walked in I was reminded of a cocktail party. Groups of people, seemingly separated by age group, stood in circles and chatted. We walked around and eventually came across the body. She was seated upright. White dress, eyes shut. Claire and I shared a glance. I felt her squeeze my hand sharply. We both turned simultaneously to leave the room. Julia came to greet us and give us hugs, but we didn’t know what to say beyond the basic pleasantries. She related to us that everything still felt like a dream. Apparently her mom passed away out of the blue for no discernible reason. Claire stroked Julia’s hair and gave her a peck on the forehead. Julia thanked us profusely for coming and told us she was going to head upstairs for a bit and would be back soon. I could see that her composure was beginning to crack as she hastened away. Claire and I continued to explore the house. We came across a table of small cards, each decorated with a photo of Julia’s mom on the front and a portrait of the Virgin Mary on the back. Mass-produced mementos for the guests. I stood and stared at Mary. Her heart was drawn on the exterior of her body. “Hey Claire, check out her heart. It looks just like a strawberry.” Claire exploded with laughter and I struggled to contain my own at her reaction. An older gentleman who stood across the room glanced in our direction. We must have looked mortified and he must not have heard my comment because he walked over, placing his hands on our shoulders. “No need to be ashamed. We all respond to grief in our own ways, whether through tears, confusion, or laughter.” I offered him a solemn nod and thanked him for understanding. “Can we step outside?” asked Claire. I agreed, thinking it for the best. We walked to Claire’s car and sat inside, reclining our seats. The sun was at an angle such that the shadow cast by my hand was enormous. I made spirit fingers, watching the massive, flailing shadow and Claire laughed. In the company of anyone else I would’ve felt dumb. “We should probably go back in at some point and say bye to Julia before we leave,” Claire bemoaned. “Yeah.” “I feel somewhat bad suggesting this, but do you wanna roll? And by roll I mean molly, not roll as in bounce.” I chuckled to myself. She would. “Sure. I guess I will out of solidarity. And I guess I’d be pretty miz if you rolled and I didn’t.” Feeling like a social deviant, I shared the small pouch of licorice smelling powder with Claire, tasting the bitterness as it crept from the front of my gums to the back of my tongue. I noted that the bitter taste reflected our moods. Claire plugged in her ipod and rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled natural, like petrichor. I closed my eyes and listened to her breathe to the rhythm of the music. I might have fallen asleep for a short time but the next thing I realized was the molly kicking in. The surfaces where our skins met tingled lightly and the music was much richer than I remembered. Claire’s phone buzzed. She had gotten a text from Julia thanking us for stopping by and apologizing for disappearing for so long. That took care of that. “You know, I still can’t figure out if we’re immature or too mature for our years.” I ruminated over her words for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure I understand the word mature, or that I like it. I think we’re just intellectual anomalies.” “Or maybe we’re just like everyone else except honest about our real feelings. Or maybe we’re really comfortable with repressing normal feelings.” “That’s certainly possible.” “You know, I’d still rather be dating you.” “I like you a lot too. But we both know it won’t work.” “Cause we’re too much of the same half. We need to find our other halves a la Plato’s Symposium blah blah blah. Or we’ll get bored quickly. I know. But my statement still stands.” I impulsively leaned over to kiss her. “Only because we’re rolling,” she pulled back to clarify. “Only because we’re rolling,” I confirmed. We lost ourselves for god knows how long until Claire broke it off. A single tear rolled down her cheek. I didn’t know why. “I don’t know why either. Life in confusing. Or maybe it’s just the molly,” she explained in response to my questioning gaze. “Or both.” “Or both. I’m not sad. At least I don’t think so.” My eyes started watering as well. Inexplicably. Or perhaps out of empathy. “I’m not sad either. Maybe we’ve forgotten how to be sad but our tear ducts haven’t.” “Yeah. Tear ducts sounds so biological though. Let’s go with hearts. Our hearts haven’t forgotten.” “Our strawberry hearts?” She laughed. “Strawberry hearts forever," she crooned to the tune of the Beetles. And we were happy again, fully and deeply.

*968 Words* Harper Welles pushed through the heavy crowd along Hyde-Pierce Promenade in the heart of the Blue Zone. He was working against the tide of people like a spawning salmon. The collar of his long canvas coat was turned up to keep the stinging rain off his neck while his mask protected most of his face. Branded in mustard yellow lettering across the area just above the bug-eye lenses was his government assigned Personal ID: W-HG070147-BL-91-937PA. A beefy hand clothed in a neoprene glove clutched at the shoulder of Harper’s black duster and roughly yanked him into the narrow, dark space between buildings. “Well lookie here, Flick. We got us a young one from Sector 91. A little far from home aren’t you? Do your Matri and Patri know where you are, offspring?” The words came out stark and unencumbered. Harper just stared at the mountainous man with missing teeth and a face peppered with small glistening acne-like sores. He had heard about those who had acclimated to the ruinous, lung-biting atmosphere but their life expectancy was considerably shorter. “He’s a good one, Bull,” said the shorter of the two. His words sounded normal, muffled. Flick’s government PID had been shaved off his mask. Shit, Harper thought, Unknowns. “I wonder if he makes noise,” Flick continued and poked Harper lightly with a slender metal rod. “Yeah, offspring. I asked you a question. You a deaf-mute or something?” Harper, still surprised into silence, blinked as Bull effortlessly lifted him from his feet. “Let’s give this one some flying lessons, Flick.” The landscape tilted and rotated as he felt himself sail through the air. He watched the slice of dirty orange haze outside the alley until he hit the back wall and fell onto a pile of debris, his mask jarred loose from his head. The cardboard and trash collapsed beneath him like a sink hole and Harper disappeared through it. The landing on his back was a hard one and forced all the air out of his lungs. He kept his eyes squeezed closed bracing for a second attack from the pair of Unknowns. At the same time Harper was afraid to breathe in without his mask. His ears were ringing by the time reflexes took over and he gulped air into his lungs. Sweet, cool, soothing, unexpected air. His eyes sprang open and like Dorothy stepping into Munchkin Land, Harper was faced with an equally alien landscape. He slid up the alley wall to a standing position, eyes darting. The orange dinge had been replaced with lapis blue skies and the poisoned atmosphere was gone. Harper filled his lungs again, deeply. No burn. No choking. Just pure, perfumed, smooth air. Bull and Flick, along with the rest of the scurrying populace had vanished. Only a few unmasked individuals dotted the walkway beyond the alley, moving at a leisurely, unguarded pace. Bright unfiltered sunlight bathed the relatively clean concrete and macadam. Near the mouth of the short alley was the entrance to what purported to be the Grand Grocery Co. Loosely hand lettered on the glass doors were the words “WE’RE OPEN. COME IN!” After looking around for a moment longer, Harper complied with the directive. Before poking his head inside, he ran his hand over the door frame in a caressing motion. Wood. He had never seen this much wood. A whole building constructed from it, the proprietor must be a very wealthy man. The floors creaked under his footsteps despite his stepping reverently to avoid damage. He was assaulted with a wall of smells. Fresh, sweet, earthy and grassy smells. He was amazed by the pyramids of fruits and abundance of vegetable stacked with abandon in heavy crate-like bins. Fruit and veg right from the tree and soil. “Son?” An older man in a shoulder-to-shin white apron stood at the front window where he had been stacking round orange-skinned foods for display. “Can I help you? Are you feeling all right? You don’t look well.” The shopkeeper was alarmed by the boy’s extremely pale and unhealthy appearance. “I was attacked by a couple of…” He stopped himself before the word “Unknowns” came out. “You’re not local, are you, son?” Harper shook his head in answer to the old man’s question. He has no idea how much an understatement that is, Harper thought. “Take a seat. There’s a chair over behind the counter.” The old man steered the black-coated young man over towards the counter with a kind hand on his back. "I saw you eyein’ those oranges. Would you like one?” Harper nodded this time. He was disarmed by the kindness the man showed. The world—or time—he came from was a desperate, untrusting place and period. His own family unit, if he had still belonged to one, would not have shown caring of this level. The man in the apron returned with two oranges and Harper sunk his teeth deeply into one. “Hang on there, son. Those ain’t apples. You gotta peel these. Here, let me show you.” The shopkeeper removed the thick bumpy skin in big chunks revealing tender succulent wedges. The boy popped one in his mouth and bit down. Juice as fresh and welcomed as the air and sun outside the shop filled his mouth. He greedily shoved two more sections in at the same time. Juice leaked from the corners of his mouth while tears ran down his cheeks mixing with the nectar. He wept as the old man—a stranger to him—stroked the boy’s back with gentle compassion. Harper Garrett Welles had no idea how he would ever find his way back to where or when he came from. He desperately hoped that he never would.

It was a beautiful spring day at Yost Park, the birds were singing, the bees were humming and the trees were bursting with color. Steve was alone and walking through the woods. He came across a man that looked like a garden gnome, only he was six feet tall. The man wore a red pointed hat and had a long, snow-colored beard. He had a shirt as blue as the sky and was smoking a pipe made of a corn cob. His eyes looked as gray and fogged over as the sky in the smog-filled city of Los Angeles. Steve knew the man had to have been blind, but he seemed to watch him as he approached. When he said hello, the man screamed like a little girl and ran away. “That was disturbing”, Steve said aloud. “What was?” said the man, suddenly appearing behind him. This time it was Steve who ran away, screaming like a little girl. Steve was out of breath, so he decided to sit down on a bench next to the path. The bench groaned under his weight, it was obviously very old. Suddenly, without warning, the bench collapsed under him and high-pitched laughter, like the cackle of a hyena erupted from beside him. When he looked over it was the man again. Steve ran away once more, this time he made it to his car. Frantically he tries turning on the car, but the engine just sputters. Steve looks in the back seat and there the old man is once again.

The day was full of twists and turns. Charlie was at cash today. It was an 8 hour shift and he was doing his best. The cool wind flowed through his poor hair, and the suns warmth caught his skin. It was a beautiful day today and it was unfortunate he had to be cashing away people he didn't know. It wasn't so crowded now, so Charlie got a sense of relaxation. It didn't last long, for his eyes gazed at a girl now coming towards him. She was young, and wore glasses much bigger than they needed to be. Her nose was a bit long and as she spoke she had the accent of a far away country. Romania perhaps. “Hi." she said as she placed her flowers before him so he could scan. Charlie did as he was supposed to do, making sure he kept his smile. “Ello." Charlie answered, with much energy. Deep down he felt compelled and memory-stricken from the fact that this young girl looked much liked his ex. So much for moving on. The girl smiled at him and when things were done, she left. And that was that. When the long day was done, and after he left work without a sound, he walked to the bus stop. Blissful tunes he had made bopped in his ears, and meaningful melodies inspired him to keep moving. He was content, that above everything else, he was talented. The night sky was indeed beautiful, and him being alone was well enjoyed. He hummed and sang imaginary lyrics and notes and he laughed as it amused his musical soul. The stars above him made him smile and the wind was cool. The bus ride however was not so much fun as he had liked it to be. Teenagers younger then him had boarded the bus and Charlie had no choice but to be around then and their activities. Holding hands and shit like that. You know the deal. Charlie knew it all to well, and deep down he hated them. Today was a day of many reminders of how out dated he was, how anti-social he seemed to be, or how he still lived on lies and lost love. But he couldn't complain. All he had to do... was close his eyes. And closed his eyes he did.

Scrubs In a college cafeteria, a young woman (her friends call her Scrubs) sits at a table and eats her lunch with her eyes unfocused and staring ahead. She sits up straight, even though she looks like she’s going to collapse. She chews her food mechanically. Her light blue nurse’s scrubs are clean and wrinkle free; her white shoes are as bright as the first day she proudly bought them. Her Mom and Pop back home in Kansas would be impressed if they could see her now. She comes from a family of farmers whose education never exceeded high school. Ever since she was a little girl, she dreamt of becoming a nurse in the big city. She traveled from her small town in Kansas full of determination and hope; the things that she’s afraid might disappear since the incident at her apartment building. She pushes the incident out of her thoughts for now. She pretends that it never happened. Her life is going perfectly. She has a job that helps her pay for school and she found a boyfriend. His name is Georgeo. “He’s such a caring person,” she thinks to herself. Her and Georgeo went to an animal shelter when they were first dating, and picked out a dog that could keep her company in her lonely apartment. She’s not sure what breed of dog he is, but he has been a loyal companion, she named him Champion. She finishes her day at school and is walking towards the bus stop when she gets a call from Georgeo on her cell phone. “Hey, I’m sorry about what happened. I have a surprise that might cheer you up though.” He says. “An engagement ring!” she thinks to herself. They had been seeing each other for months now. He is the kindest, sweetest man she has ever known. She knows that Georgeo was the perfect man for her. She can see him and her growing old together and having children. Her life could be perfect with him, she thought, even more perfect than it is now. “I can’t wait!” She replied. On her way home, she fantasizes about her bright future. When she enters her apartment, Champion does not greet her at the door like he usually does. “Champ’s getting lazy,” she thinks to herself. She puts down her bag and reclines on the couch. She picks up the remote control, points it at the television and presses the button, but there’s no effect. She pushes the button once more; still no effect. She focuses her eyes away from her daydreaming to the television. Champion is sitting like a statue before the television in the dark room; his steel-grey eyes are fixed upon her. “What are you doing Champ? Come here boy.” She says. Champion does not move. His eyes are still focused on her in the darkness, unblinking; she can feel him peering into her soul. She turns her head away. “He knows” She thinks, “of course he knows, he was there when it happened.” She slowly opens her mind, letting in the memories of the day of the incident. “Poor Missus Agatha Watson, if only I had paid more attention to her, she might still be alive today. Why did I have such a loose grip?” she repeats over and over in her head. “Maybe if Georgeo hadn’t been flirting with me and my heart was not racing,” she thought. “Only Champion knows that I wasn’t focused while walking Mrs. Watson’s wheelchair. If I were paying more attention, Mrs. Watson wouldn’t have slipped down those stairs. It… it was an accident...” She replays the incident in her mind. She was leaving her apartment to take Champion for a walk before her date with Georgeo later that evening. She was thinking about the naughty things that he said to her on the phone earlier, and she was unable to calm herself down. Just as Scrubs was coming out of her apartment, Agatha Watson, the elderly woman in a wheelchair from a couple doors down was coming down the hall, with her feeble, quivering arms struggling to turn the wheels. “Be a dear and push my wheelchair for me,” she called out. “Sure thing Agatha.” Scrubs replied, and she walked over to the wheelchair. “Don’t call me Agatha, kiddo. It’s Mrs. Watson to you, and don’t you forget it.” “Oh, I’m sorry Mrs. Watson.” Scrubs says, as she takes the wheelchair handles and starts to push. “Say, what are you all dolled up for? A girl doesn’t put on her glad rags just to take her pup for a walk.” “I, uh, just felt like dressing up today.” “Says you!” cried Agatha Watson, “you look like you’re on cloud nine. I think you’re stuck on that ragamuffin I’ve seen coming into your apartment. I’ve seen you two necking out here in the hall.” “You mean—my boyfriend?” “You’re such a pushover. I’ll bet he’s gonna take you to a petting pantry and afterwards you’re gonna play backseat bingo in his old jalopy. Real original! Any swell daddy would take you out to a ritzy joint no matter how many rubes it costs. Back in my day--” old Agatha Watson kept jabbering on, making archaic criticisms and insults about Scrubs and Georgeo all the way down the hall to the elevator next to the stairs. The strangest thing happened when they got to the elevator, something that she can’t forget no matter how hard she tries, Agatha Watson’s wheelchair started to inch toward the stairs. For some reason Scrubs watched it happen, paralyzed in place, she didn’t reach out to stop it. Agatha screamed out with her weak old lady voice as she and her wheelchair flipped end over end down the stairs. The wheelchair and the old lady took turns slamming against the stairs. The wheelchair created loud metallic bangs against the wooden staircase and the old lady just made dull thumps combined with the sound of fracturing bones. Agatha’s scream abruptly stopped halfway through the tumble when her head impacted a step. It all happened in an instant. At the bottom, the body of Mrs. Watson lay pinned under her wheelchair with the side of her face pressed against the floor. When the police questioned Scrubs about it, she said that she found her, already dead, after she heard a commotion in the hall. “It was an… accident…” she repeats in the darkened room, “I used extra lotion so my hands would be oh so soft when I held hands with Georgeo on our date and the wheel chair just slipped out of my grasp, that’s all… nobody’s fault…” The dog was still looking at her. This time he had an incriminatory look in his eyes, as if to say to her, “I know what you did.” “But it was an accident, Champ. You have to believe me!” She shouted out. She was starting to cry, but Champion’s glare persisted, unblinking. “Okay, okay, so what if I’m partly to blame?! I didn’t really mean to! I couldn’t move! You were there! You saw! I couldn’t move!” she shouted. She remembered back, when the rage built up inside of her as Mrs. Watson talked in the hall. “How dare this uppity witch talk to me this way,” Scrubs thought. “What would happen if this lady just fell down these stairs? Would anyone care? The world would be so much better without this wrinkly old snob in it, maybe I should do everyone a favor.” There was supposed to be a separation of thought and action. It was supposed to only be fantasy. In this case, her fantasy dictated her actions. She pushed Agatha Watson down those stairs and only her and Champion knows the truth. “I did it, Champion!” Scrubs cries, “I confess! It was my entire fault! I hated the old woman and I wished her dead and it happened. Can’t we just forget about it? Our life is perfect, Georgeo wants to marry me; I know it! Let’s forget it ever happened, it doesn’t make a difference. Don’t let this stand in our way of happiness!” Scrubs tearfully pleaded. The dog’s grey eyes didn’t let up. Champion could see through her, no matter how hard she begged for mercy, he didn’t let go of his hold on her. He sat in the same spot, intently trying to force the evil out of her. Scrubs broke down. She started crying unrestrained. She knew what she had to do. She boarded the bus at the stop on the corner. Choking on her tears and shaking with her sobs on the crowded bus, she traveled to the police station where she turned herself in. One policeman was trying to console her, thinking that she was the victim of some horrible crime before she could slow her crying down enough to tell him that she was the one who committed a horrible crime and that she needed to be locked away forever. The police were astounded, but they locked her in a cell nonetheless, based on what she said. “You get one phone call.” Said a policeman, as he guided her to the phone on the wall. She knew whom she was going to call, Georgeo, to tell him that their future was over. She dialed the number, he picked up, and she explained to him what she had done. “You what!?” Said Georgeo, completely shocked. “I killed that old lady in my apartment building… now we can’t ever get married… our future is wrecked, because of me.” “Whoa there! You killed someone? And what’s this about marriage? Is this some kind of joke? Because it’s not funny.” “But—that surprise you had for me—wasn’t that an… engagement ring?” “What!? No. The other day when I came to your apartment and you weren’t there, I found your dog. Dead.” “That… that doesn’t make any sense. Champion is alive. He’s the reason I’m here in the first place! What does that have to do with my surprise anyway?” “umm… I thought you knew he was dead at the time… I took the liberty of taking him to a taxidermist, to get him stuffed… as a present. I know how much you loved that dog.” There was a long pause. “I… I have to go now…” whimpered Scrubs, as she carefully put the phone back on the wall. She turned around and slowly walked back into her cell. She had a long, long time to think about what happened, and how her life came to this.

I met a peculiar man today. A man, a tall man, broad shoulders, thick hair, a man much like the rest. A crooked smile here, a calloused hand there, just like any other man. But this man seemed particularly peculiar in my mind. Maybe it was because he decided to talk to me. I was sitting on my bench, as I always do when I can get around to it. Pigeons pecked around my feet as breadcrumbs fell from my fingertips. It was routine, hell, it was practically ritual, that I come down here, drop bread crumbs for the birds, and stare off into the dark green and brown made up by the cool grass and the tall trees. I have done it for quite some time now. Some days it's harder to make it down to my bench than others. But it's really all that I have, my bench, the birds, the trees, the moments there in time. And it was on this day, just like any other day when I am at my bench, that this man walked past. He walked past so swiftly, head down, direct, like most that walk past me. But after he had made it a few steps past me and my bench, he stopped, and spun on his heel, like someone was using him as a top, a child perhaps. He was tall, at least six feet, with a dark grey hat that made him seem even taller. He matched it with a grey suit, and carried a newspaper under his arm. He smiled at me, in a way so vulnerable that this man no longer seemed so large. I smiled back, wondering why the man had stopped so suddenly. He finally opened his mouth, with his hat in his hands; "Excuse me, Ma'am, but would you happen to have the time?" It took me a moment to react before I found the words to answer him, as he stood smiling sheepishly, like a boy who had forgotten his school assignment. "Oh yes," I answered, "let me check my watch." I reached into my bag and pulled out of all the clutter a pocket watch, the one I always carry. I opened it, and saw what I easily knew was an incorrect time. I held it up to my ear, and heard not a sound from inside the watch, nothing echoing between its many gears. "Oh lord, this thing never works, I'm afraid it's not kept the time sir, I'm sorry." "Oh it's alright Ma'am, thank you for looking," he said with a smile. "I must say, it is a fine looking pocket watch Ma'am, reminds me of one that belongs to my father." "Well I'm sure his probably kept time, unlike this junk I've been carrying around," I say as I chuckle to myself. The man chuckles a bit too. "May I ask then why you keep it on your person, Ma'am? Seems like a broken watch serves no good to anyone, especially not to a nice lady such as yourself." I look at the man and smile. "It's my husband’s actually, and I don't think he'd take kindly to me getting rid of his favorite watch!" Both me and the man laughed aloud, and I motion for him to sit on the bench with me, and he obliges. He put his hand forth, and shakes my outstretched hand. "I'm Howard," he says with a grin; "I'm Alice," I replied. "Well I am pleased to meet you Alice." I handed him a chunk of bread, and we silently fed the curious pigeons their meals, us both content to just sit and enjoy the company of each other and the birds for a bit. I looked over at this strange man who had decided to sit with me, an old lady who feeds the birds. Not a very glamorous way to spend the afternoon for a man such as this at his age. "Were you going anywhere important just now?" I inquired. I seemed to rouse him from deep thought. "Hmm? Oh no, not very. Just some errands to run is all, but I can't seem to get the wherewithal to concentrate on them," he replied and his head turned back down towards the birds, a certain light gone from the once innocent looking man. "Is there something on your mind young man?" I pressed. He exhales deeply, his eyes focused on his feet. "If I’m being honest, I'm gonna be called off for the war soon," he answered. "I just got the notice this morning. Making sure to pick up milk on my way home for the wife seems a little more insignificant with that perspective." He leaned back against the bench, brought a hand to his perspiring head. He sees me looking at him through his hand, and tries to compose himself; "Not that I'm scared or nothing!" he stated with a bravado that only rung half-true. "Just a bit nervous is all." "That's nothing to be ashamed of young man. War is a place filled with frightful things. Why, my husband was not much different from you when he was called to fight. He was nervous as all heck, but he knew it was the right thing to do, so he fought." I look down at my cool, calloused hands in the morning light. "He seems like a good man," the young man replies with a small smile. A smile breaks across my face, one I cannot hold back as I think about days long forgotten, and I even let out a laugh remembering back on our time together. "He was a good man," I replied. The smile starts to fade as I look up towards the sky, and then back down at my hands. "Oh god, how I loved that man,” I said in a soft whisper. Howard put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and it was warm and I felt safe like I haven't felt in so very long. "If you don't mind me asking," the man asked quietly, "is your husband passed? Did he die in the war?" I can't bear to look up at the moment, only staring down at the bench and the newspaper the man had put down from under his arm. "No, he came back from the war. But," I had trouble getting the words out, "my husband did not come back the same. He was plagued by nightmares, terrors of the horrible things he had seen while fighting. It drove him to drink, it drove him mad, and it drove him to forget about…" I start to stammer as my fingers run over a dark scar hidden under my sleeve. "He forgot about how we used to be. The combination of it all proved too much for both him and me. My husband is now passed away, to answer your question." And the true answer, I screamed in my head, is yes! Yes, yes, my husband died in that awful war, for the man who came back was not my husband, only an empty shell of a man for which there was only room for sadness and sorrow. My husband went to war, and never returned. The man next to me, Howard, sat silent for a bit. I could tell that he didn't know how to respond, but whether it was because he didn't know how to react to such a story, or if he feared that a similar fate would befall him and his situation, I did not know. After what seemed like over a minute, the man spoke up. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to your husband, ma'am." "Thank you, it means quite a lot," I said, as I looked up at Howard and saw what seemed to be a familiar kindness in his eyes, something I haven't been privileged to in years. I grab a hold of the hand he was resting on the bench. I fight back tears as I arrange the words I want to say. "You have no need to worry though Howard. You will make it through that war, I know it. You will make it home to see your family." "I appreciate you saying that, Alice" he replied, his voice softer than before. He checked his wrist for the watch that wasn't there, and we both laughed, breaking some of the tension. Howard stood up, and donned the grey hat he had taken off. "Well, I better get going; I still have to pick up that milk before heading home." He stood there awkwardly, as we didn't know what to say. "Thanks for the talk Alice; it means a lot, even to a guy like me." He cracked that crooked smile of his. I smiled back at him, "Your welcome, Howard, I'm glad I could help." He smiled again, nodded, and turned to walk away. He walked maybe a total of seven steps until I called out "Howard!" He spun around again, in top-like fashion. "What is it, Alice?" I had trouble getting the words out. "Please, come home this time." He looked down for a moment, and then looked back up, his eyes showing a pain that hadn't been there, even moments before. "I will, Alice. I will." And off he walked, into forever, as a dropped newspaper with a long past, but never forgotten date blew past my bench, and became nothingness.

Charlie's eyes opened to the world he had been living everyday. His skin was now warm on the bed sheets that were under him. Today was another day off from work and he hoped to use the best of it. He considered using the bathroom for starters, but he was too tired at the moment to act on it. Instead his mind began to run and the insides of his ears began to itch. Charlie had no idea why his ex girlfriend appeared in his thoughts. Lustful visions indulged him for a while. He could see her breasts being exposed as if she was taunting him, or her in this very bed of his wrapped around him in love. Ha, love. If he was the same young man a year ago, he'd be crying right now. He'd be curled up in a ball, begging for the fake memories to cease. It didnt matter much now. He was forgotten, and long distance was the joke he fell for. Yet he was desperate. College came into his mind now. He realized come September he “should" be at school of some sort. Making music was his passion, but he never knew if he really wanted to pursue it. Family pushed him off the edge all the time and told him things he already knew. His music style was much different than the popular flow of things. In the end, Charlie sometimes wished he would disappear. Till then, his music would have to do. Headphones now on, he listened to a song he was familiar with. Melodies calmed him down a bit. Not some stupid katy perry gaga beiber song, oh no. The stuff that counts. He closed his eyes as trumpets sang and beats rolled on. He sighed as double bass pedals rumbled and beautiful symphonic strings took his soul away. “Good morning world." Charlie whispered to himself. “Another day to fend for my life." And his day began.

Work and Homework In the 1850s, the most popular and well adopted political scheme was conservatism. During this era, conservatism was defined as doing hoodrat shit with my friends. At this time, conservatism was the most viable political system. This is due in part to its ability to be in line with a metaphysical worldview that was attractive to society. It was also fuck this. Work work working working work waking working and sleep showering showers sleeping. Working waking. Sleeping showering. Not in that order, or any order really. Whenever there is time, whenever there is time, I suppose. Holy moley I got time now. Need more though. I don’t know what to do with all this time. Hold on to it I suppose. Probably sleep it away. Bike or board or bus? Black or white? Pants or shorts? Shower? Leave? Gone. Deciding to walk. Shit it’s sunny! Should have worn white. We are walking down down down that hill. Down that hill, funny it’s down. It’s so hard to go! Go down the hill, get jacked up, go up the hill, only eight hours later. Almost there. More and more people, looking at cheese. Yep, they make cheese, whoop dee fucking doo. Let’s block the sidewalk everyone! They are making fucking cheese! I’ve gotta go around, so I join the traffic, walking faster than a car. Stupid car. You don’t drive down here. That’s just dumb. Basic rule of thumb here, if it’s cobblestone, and it’s in America, it’s probably used for walking now. You just don’t drive on that shit. Go somewhere else. Maybe drive home. I used to walk with the people on the left, looking at flowers, or indian wood whittled whistles. What a waste. Used to be fun, but fun wears off. Like 10 minutes from now. Muscle memory isn’t fun. Looking at flowers is muscle memory. Bad street music, even worse paintings, it’s all muscle memory. Bland, gray. Sky is gray now. Hot drinks. Fuck. Hand ready to reach for hot cups. Hand ready to write the same names. But I walk on the right now. Less to see, but it’s better that way. So close. Man with one leg. He’s wearing a sock, playing guitar. It’s surreal, like the blind woman wearing a bonnet singing so bad. I’m sorry you’re blind and you can’t sing, but I can’t sing either. Five black guys know only 4 songs. They can sing what you want, if you want to hear about jesus. But people dance and I thought dancing was for sinners. A line of sinners, dancing, and waiting. I know what they want. Just by looking at them I can guess. I am pushing by, dressed like them I am so rude but can’t give a fuck anymore. Welcome to corporate America what the fuck would you like today? Nothing I can give you! Maybe a shrink, but that’s such a Seinfeld term. Going to see a shrink with Jerry and Kramer. And George. I’m like George here. I think I’m funny. I gotta be or it gets stale. I’m not ready for this. 200 people and none of them sound right. Vanirra Ratte. Frappuchino cappuchino marchatitititio yes we serve tea yes we can get you a free water yes I live in Seattle. You don’t? I’m so surprised! Wow! You don’t say. I’ve been there. Years ago. Had Applebees out in the suburbs. I can’t talk all day. Gotta meet quota quota quota quota. I have a quota on saying quota. 1:00 pm. Hooray. 2 hours then 2 hours then 2 hours then 2 hours then I’m done. Break it down. 2 then 1 then 30 then 15. Every 15 is a chore then. But after enough I go back up the hill. The easiest climb of my life. If that hill went all the way to Maine I would make that walk with a shit eating grin on my sweaty little face. God that hill is satisfying. It puts it in perspective. But if I think about it now I will laugh out loud and that would just look crazy. I don’t want anyone here to think I’m crazy or anything do I who wants to be served by a crazy person not me thatsforsureandafterenoughtimethelineisflat. Flat as fuck. I don’t have to think, the words come to me and my hands move for me and sometimes I make a mistake. I may give bad change or black out for a whole order but what’s a mistake among friends. Aren’t you all my friends? That’s why everyone is here for! To be my friend. The only friends I have time for and the friends I’m paid to have.

Hi im a 16 year aspiring writer and these is one of my short stories, please try to as critical as you can. It was a cold afternoon. The old retiree opened the back door of his one-storey dwelling carrying a light brown leather leash with a robust metal chain and the end of it. Therein almost immediately barking ensued. The barking was of his dog, ecstatic in the knowledge of what was to follow. The dog was confined to a small caged perimeter in the corner of the retiree’s backyard. It was a dog that was neither big nor small, but in either case it was one which could have been loyal, accessible and most of all obedient to the man, had it not been neglected. The dog had a name but the old man in his petulance had always called it, Dumb Dog. Dumb Dog had gone overlooked after the demise of the old man’s wife. Who in her last stand of her doomed battle with cancer, had given it to her spouse, as a parting gift. One that was to bring him companionship in the time he had left on this earth without her. The old man however saw the creature as nothing but smut and frankly only kept it around for the sake of not upsetting his children for when they payed a visit, which increasingly became scarcer by the months. The old man would soon grow tired of the dog’s barking and would use the leash in his hand to lash the dog into silence. The dog, which was evidently malnourished, yelped woefully and cowered to the ground, as the old man shouted, uncalled for obscenities at it. It is often said that canines are the only animals that have truly seen their Gods. But if Dumb Dog didn't know it, he was sure to have an idea, that his God was a callous one. A man who lived his life with consuming rage and anger, belittling sentiments and utter despise for anything that was a threat to his pride. The old man was nothing but a ruthless brute that ruled the house once with alcohol pumping through his veins and his fists pounding through his loved ones and yet old age had now mellowed him. But if Dumb Dog had a say in all of this, he would agree that old dogs never learn new tricks and the old man would still yet remain somewhat of a hard knock. Walking along the pavement, Dumb Dog, in his excitement and foolishness would stretch the old man every so often. Having the old man to either pull back the leash causing Dumb Dog to choke on his own collar or to simply beat some darn sense into him. Nevertheless when they reached the park, the old man would free Dumb Dog from his shackles to roam the green with liberty, it was a sentiment of absolute annoyance on behalf of the old man. With Dumb Dog sniffing, urinating and exorcising the true nature of his kind, the old man realised that another dog, a much bigger one had entered the fray, unattended and with no God to govern him. The big dog was of a German Shepard kind, if not a cross breed and it had all the characteristics of being a wild and evil dog. The bad dog trotted along the concrete pavement that ran through the park tending to its own business. The old man unconsciously thought about the safety of himself and even his redundant canine companion. He rose to his feet instinctively and began to hurry towards Dumb Dog, it was the least he could do. Yet at the same exact moment, Dumb Dog himself had spotted the Bad Dog and because of its purity and stupidity, it ran directly towards it. The old man shouted at Dumb Dog to stop, but Dumb Dog wasn't trained for that sort of authority nor was he ready for what was to follow. By the time the old man had reached the dogs, the German Shepard was declared the champion, except Dumb Dog was never a contender. Dumb Dog’s gullet was being yanked wildly in this moment in time. It was brutal to watch but even more so brutal to be at the receiving end of it. Poor Dumb Dog thought the old man, who tried in vain to remove the Bad Dog off of Dumb Dog, by kicking and stomping on it, which seemed to work for a while, or he had at least hoped it had worked. Only for it to turn out to be an unwise idea, for as the German Shepard turned its fury towards the old man and even bit him on the hand. The old man moved away swiftly in fear and continued to watch in horror as Bad Dog went back to finish the job at hand. The old man, helpless as he watched the life seize in dumb dog did not try again; he simply consoled himself, with the idea that every dog had its day. Foolishness had been the reason behind that day for Dumb Dog. The old man would later forget what happened exactly after the attack mostly to the shock he had encountered. But it did occur to him that he had made a statement to the police regarding the incident. He had gone to the hospital to have his hand examined, which explained the bandage that wrapped his right hand and then him talking to his youngest daughter over the telephone just before he went to sleep, where she had told him amongst other things “don't worry, we’ll get you another one”. Get me another one? He thought. What for? He imagined? To entertain him? To keep him company? Or to feel less bad about not being visited by his children? Of course it was the latter, but he couldn't be sure. The next day was nothing out of the ordinary; nothing had changed for the old man, after all the dog was nothing but a burden, which had never excited an emotion in him. Although it must be said that whilst reading the day’s newspaper he did hear the bark of a dog and it had made him think of Dumb Dog almost instantly. He didn't particularly miss him but, it was his dog nonetheless, it belonged to him, it was his possession and it was taken from him just like his wife had been many months ago. Many days would pass since the attack, when the old man made a phone call to the police officer that had taken his statement. The old man had called to enquire about the case of the Bad Dog. He was truly banking on the fact that it had been found and destroyed by now; after all it was what he had been promised. For it had no purpose left, besides to kill and kill again. Yet the police did not find the dog nor did they even look as far as the old man was concerned. He tried to bite his tongue in, once he heard the outcome, but he couldn't help it when he shouted, that the police force were just a bunch of “inconsiderate, uninterested and imprudent lot of pricks”. Months had past, when whilst walking through the same park that had been the setting of Dumb Dog’s death, the old man spotted a German Shepard, which had unmistakably resembled Bad Dog. This time with its owner or God. The old man didn't think twice about it and he approached the owner. Not in interest or curiosity as one would expect, but with accusations and allegations. Bewildered, the owner denied every single bit of it. He was adamant that his dog was trained and not in any way a danger to people or other dogs for that matter. The accusations would then turn into abuse and almost into a physical confrontation between the two bickering parties. The police would eventually arrive whom concerned witnesses had called. They tried telling the old man to move on and that he had accused the wrong dog. But the old man’s antics would spill over to them. They weren’t only disinterested; they were also lying through their teeth, he held. It was clear that the old man was a fellow with too much pride. The empty bottle of Jack in the living room that same night did not signify sorrow and yearn for Dumb Dog, instead it was to numb the battering his pride had taken. It was also that same night that a show was on the television box. A documentary on dogs, dangerous dogs. Among the many mongrels was the American Pit Bull. It was a dog that was not big in size but big in bite. The more the old man listened, the more he thought about revenge against Bad Dog. He would have his day, he supposed as soon as Good Dog got a hold of him. The next day, the old man had withdrawn his entire pension payment and had combined it with what little savings he had. He was to buy a Pit Bull, a killer to kill a dog, which had killed another dog, it was confusing, but it had to be done and it needed to be done straight away, thus puppies were out of the question. He searched for a full-grown pure breed, but none wanted to sell, until he met Dave a man who was willing to part with his for cash to fix his heroin habit. Dave was a crook no less, but he had the decency to tell the old man, that it was an unwise decision, he was not his dogs God and he couldn't command him like Dave could. But the old man knew that once he had seen Butch he had seen his accomplice, he would tame him and they would be buddies he believed. Butch or Good Dog as he became to be known, tried to kill the old man for the next month or so. But steady food and shelter made him a sympathizer. Another month would pass and another after that. Up until the point where old man would grow fond of Good Dog; he had made him smile and laugh. For a moment the old man even thought about abandoning his plans for revenge, in the fear that something bad would come of it for Good Dog. That was to be the case until one day, when the victim would come face to face with his old nemesis. Bad Dog was there at the park once again with his owner, but so was Good Dog. He knew what Good Dog was capable of, after all he had witnessed him shred countless tires in the backyard. So he knew the outcome, but what if he got injured? He asked himself. But pride was fucking the old man; it was bigger and stronger then one hundred Good Dog’s. He wandered over to Bad Dog and the owner, who appeared to be teasing the dog into jumping for a plastic toy. Once real close, he unleashed Good Dog.

Gentle hands stroke my back. I’m enveloped in a warm embrace by the person whom I love most in the world. I’m so happy just being here with them, so happy it almost hurts. I love them so much. I place a gentle kiss on their cheek which is with returned with equal tenderness. I can feel myself being pulled closer to them and although no words are being said, we know exactly what the other is thinking. Pure bliss is what best describes what I feel at this instant; nothing else seems to matter or even exist when I’m with them. This moment would be absolutely perfect…if only they loved me back. All the times that have been shared, all the laughs that have been had, all the tears that have been shed, it’s hard to remember a time they weren’t there living life alongside me. Loyalty knows no bounds when it concerns us; the other is always ready to do anything that is requested of them. We cherish each other immensely and we are absolutely inseparable. If someone who didn’t know us took a quick glance at us, they would assume we’re lovers. How I desperately wish that were true. I know I should be happy with what I have, but human nature almost never allows one to be satisfied. I look up at them to find a small smile playing upon their lips, their eyes half closed and looking relaxed as ever. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks which they were able to see as well, causing them to laugh quietly. Ever so softly I press my lips to theirs, enjoying the sensation of them mirroring my actions. “I love you,” I whisper by their ear knowing that no matter what their reply is, it will not have the same meaning as that which I desire. I move closer still to them, and gently wrap my arms around them. They’ll probably fall asleep soon while I lie next to them thinking about tomorrow and what it may bring. Tomorrow, we’ll have more fun than today. Tomorrow, more memories will be made. Tomorrow will be the day they love me back. I slowly doze off with these thoughts floating around in my head but I know deep down that the thing I want most for tomorrow will probably never happen.

Logic’s Respite The dusky glow of the lamps was the only thing between him and the outside world. The winds gusted outside, making the trees creek as if each limb was letting out an emotionless howl. The man listened to the inane chatter of the people on the television, telling him of his impending doom. And he could see it outside. It was as if he felt that by watching the television, something might change. Somehow the meteorologist might tell the man that the storm would go east of him. Or west. It didn’t matter, as long as it didn’t hit him. Or perhaps the man watched the television simply because he needed the comfort of another human voice. He was, after all, completely alone. The man was tall, fit, and wearing the not so modest t-shirt of his prestigious alma mater. He was a man who had lived by himself since graduating college, and sat comfortably at 31 years of age. His small, cozy house was a perfect reflection of his personality. It was decorated with colorful artifacts from the various places he had traveled, as well as showcasing numerous books on a wide variety of subjects, most notably philosophy. However, for all of the house’s apparent worldliness, it was all but closed up from the outside world. All but one of the windows were covered by thick blinds, and the window that wasn’t was a small one that the man was using to watch the sky. Above the fireplace hung a bold picture of the man, apparently camping in some exotic wilderness. And opposite the television hung the skull of an antelope, recovered by the man perhaps on the same camping excursion. The man’s tense body was gleaming with sweat. He kept his eyes trained on the television, looking out at the sky whenever he heard a gust, or far off boom of thunder. He tried not looking, but felt uncomfortable when he didn’t know what was happening. The television rambled on at a comfortingly uniform pace. It had been 48 minutes. He had counted. The rain came down harder and faster; he felt the house shake as a massive gust swept the landscape; the storm seemed to be upon him, but how could that be so? It was supposed to be another 37 minutes until it hit. He hadn’t planned on this, and being caught so off-guard made the man feel sick. The sirens went off in the distance. To him they sounded like a funeral dirge. He tried to relax, but couldn’t. He turned his electric fireplace on, and tried to read a few sentences of his book, written by Aristotle. He threw the book down, and sat in dolorous silence. He jumped every time a strong gust of wind blustered, or a bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. Five minutes seemed like an eternity, and unsurprisingly the storm did not cease. The atmosphere quivered and then burst with the explosion of thunder, and quick, deadly arrows of lightning. The man shook, and was tense all over. The dim lights that blanketed the man flickered, and then died. The consoling chatter of the television was silenced, cut off in its prime. The darkness enveloped him, and he felt more alone than ever. The night was suffocating him with its dark shroud, and he nearly screamed. The panic suddenly pounced on him, and he was caught unaware. He ran into the kitchen to grab a candle, but there were none. He ran to the drawer in the dining room, and grabbed his flashlight. It was out of batteries. He was unprepared. He berated himself in his head for not having prepared, and swore that if he made it out of the storm, he would make sure his house was completely danger-proof. And he truly believed it. He remembered, in his darkest moment, that he had his cell phone in his pocket, and he still had a signal. He dialed a number he knew by heart, but one he had not dialed in a long while. He hesitated. The rain began pounding harder, and another crash of thunder shook even the inside of the house, causing his precious philosophy books to fall off the shelf. He didn’t pick them up. He knew what he had to do, and dialed the number. It rang. Again. Again. Again. Again. The mechanical voice of his mother’s voicemail was the only response he received. A reluctant tear dripped down his face, placing itself on his shirt’s fiery logo. The sirens blared louder, and the man ran down the old carpeted stairs of his house into the small basement. The basement was pitch black. The man felt his way into the laundry room, which was without windows, and therefore the safest place to be when the tornado inevitably struck. The man was cowering against the wall, with no intention of composing himself, when suddenly the unexpected happened. The rain let up. The thunder did not sound. The gusts of wind slowed to mere wisps. He stood up and dusted himself off, starting off to return upstairs. But as he climbed the old stairs, he heard a howling reminiscent of a banshee shrieking. Pieces of debris were slammed into the windows of the house, and almost simultaneously, they all shattered. The man bolted downstairs, back to the laundry room. He heard a crash, and it was obvious that the large evergreen tree in the yard had collapsed into the house, perhaps even breaking down the wall. The man was kneeling against the wall, and doing the unthinkable. He had always ascribed to the old theory of Albert Camus, that “religion is philosophical suicide,” and had been adamant about the inexistence of a deity. However in this moment, he prayed harder than anyone had ever prayed before. He swore to whoever was listening that he would forever more be a pious follower of their religion, if he were to be spared. He quietly wept, whilst forming the words of his desperate prayer. The five minutes that the storm ravaged the man’s house were hours to the man. He had been spared. He quickly got up and ran upstairs to assess the damage to his house. He picked up a book that had been tossed on the floor, and straightened out his shirt, quickly wiping a tear from his eye. The tree had indeed caved in the wall of his house, and destroyed most of the living room. The man forgot about his prayers, and his self-assurances that he would make preparations for a future disaster, and set to work fixing up the ruin that was his house. He decided he would call the insurance company in the morning, and have a grand time renovating his home, making it even cozier than before. But first he would get a good night’s sleep, and forget all that had transpired. But what the man didn’t notice that night was that only one of his exotic decorations had survived the storm. The only artifact that had not been destroyed was the skull of the antelope, hanging quietly and humbly on the wall, seeming to gaze at the destruction with a simple wisdom. The next morning the man noticed the antelope skull on the wall, and, as it brought back memories of the storm, he decided he would give it away. But when he tried to pull the skull off the wall, it wouldn’t budge. The hollow eyes merely gazed past the man, into the distance, where they undoubtedly saw, many miles in the distance, a black storm cloud. And it was heading this way.

The Vicious Zoo The cages rattled as the animals within them grew restless. They had, as usual, resorted to their primitive nature in an effort to get what they want. They often took the circumstances of their captivity as an excuse to behave even more territorial and violent than they would in their natural habitat. Indeed, it’s incredibly rare for any of these creatures to exhibit the kind of civilized respect one might expect from an animal in captivity. “Officer, prepare the riot squad. I have a bad feeling about this,” I heard one of my fellow zookeepers say. The animals we kept here were too despicable to even be compared with their wild counterparts. They were part of the handful who had found their way to be the scum of the earth, despite being born into the most civilized species. This fit they were having, unfortunately, was one of the more chaotic days at the Aldo Correctional facility. What was worse was that there was no particular reason for them to be acting this way, other than to try to make us mentally breakdown. “Roger that!” I yelled back as I dodged a clump of bodily waste that was hurled at me by a creature on the second floor. My reflexes had increased sharply over the years. In this particular unit of the prison, we had kept the worst of them: murderers, rapists, arsonists and every other inmate who failed to exhibit the faintest of humanity. For some reason, our warden thought it would be better for them to all be in one area to rot together. We understood there was no hope for these men. We understood that, as guards, we were obliged to treat them as such. “The next one of you vermins to chuck shit at me is going to be real sorry!” I snapped. My proposition was met with a mocking. These inmates felt that they could treat me with even less respect because I was a woman. Despite having years of experience under my belt, as well as a semi-automatic pistol and pepper spray, they could never quite take me for more than just a piece of meat. Finally, we managed to tame them through coercion. This was such a common occurrence that we went on about our days as if it had never happened. I had to take a shower to expel all the filth that had found its way to me. It was times like this that I questioned on why on earth I took this job. Why, both literally and metaphorically, my life had come down to dodging shit. It was pointless trying to punish them; we knew that they ran the prison, not us. After all, the inmates knew that, in numbers, they could make us literally clean up their mess. Guards were mopping the dull gray floors feverishly, trying to rid them of the foul stench that the animals identified as victory. It was 6:30 P.M., time for rounds. Today, I had the displeasure of making sure every brute was in his cage. As I marched through the different levels of Unit 2, my presence was met with objectifying whistles and whispered intentions that were anything but romantic. When I first started working here, I could barely make it halfway through the first floor without crying, but the zoo eventually managed to vacuum the weakness and replace it with a spine. After rounds I went to the guard lounge. Even with low budget funding, the lounge was still an incredible luxury compared to my unit. Just as I sat down, the warden marched in. “We have a fresh new batch of fish today, boys,” he exclaimed with delight. “There’s no more room in Unit 4, so we’re going to have to accommodate these among the beasts in Unit 2”. That was my unit. He went on, “I’m hoping that mixing these white collars in can bring some class to the unit!” The others seemed to brighten with that idea. I saw the flaw in his theory. “Sir, if I may” I hesitated. “These men will not stand a chance at survival”. “Well Officer Penny,” he said as if he was talking to his wife, “I’m sure that if you have managed here for this long, they won’t find it too difficult!” The rest of the officers laughed like he was the popular girl in high school. I had to force a smile; I wasn’t going to let them get to me. Newcomers. The inmates so affectionately nicknamed them “fish” as a testament to their inevitable helplessness. These fish were to be thrown in the same aquariums as the sharks, where they would eventually be swallowed, after being chewed a couple of times. Aldo greets prisoners of all kinds, most with looks that exhibit the throbbing despair associated with the idea of spending time in prison, but usually the ones destined to Unit 2 wore a confidence as if they were hyenas returning to the savannah. This group of pencil-pushing scumbags had the look of prize winning dogs that had just been shaved bald and put in the pound. “Okay ladies, let’s get undressed” another officer yelled with a slight grin on his face. We spent the next few minutes searching them for drugs in places we knew they wouldn’t bother to put them, but this process was more symbolic than anything. We gave them their new permanent clothes, and watched them create paths of self-pitying tears to their respective cells. One inmate stuck out in his absence of expression. He didn’t quite look satisfied, but merely used to misery. He looked like a man who had nothing in his outside life to miss, almost like an orphan. Of all the new helpless fish, he was definitely a guppy. I tried to look away, but he was too conspicuous in his lack of emotion. Was it a mask he was wearing? I must have been staring hard enough to prick his senses because he shifted his vision from the ground to my eyes. I realized that he was walking towards me.

“There are times, as an educator, when you can look into a student’s eyes and see their energy, their passion for learning, and you glow - knowing that you have helped foster their love of knowledge and understanding of the world around them. This was not one of those times,” Alex began softly, his eyes vacant as he tried to count the number of dots in the fiberboard ceiling tiles. “In fact, as I lowered my gaze across the sprawling red-oak conference table I found my eyes resting upon a slack-jawed tenth grader who has developed a habit of making his instructors cry – precisely the last problem I needed to deal with this Friday,” he paused for effect, but Dean Fisher would deny him the satisfaction of acknowledgement while he scribbled in his notes. “We sat in silence for what seemed like hours before I could reconcile what had to be done. Alex Decker would have to be put to death-“ “Thank you, Mr. Decker, but I have my own inner monologue to narrate, and it does not need any coercion into murdering a student of Williamson High School.” The room was still. Dean Fisher was not a man who physically commanded respect, but he had a gift for declaring things with authority. The room remained still until Dean Fisher removed his reading glasses and put down his crossword puzzle. Alex raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Decker,” Dean Fisher let the name roll off his tongue as if he were trying it out for the first time, “Why are you making my employees cry?” Alex resumed counting fiberboard dots. “Mrs. Clemens won’t actually tell me what you said or did to her...” Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one… “…this makes it hard for me to administer discipline.” Thirty-one…wait, shit. “But of course you know that. But what you didn’t know is that Daphne Clemens took her own life thirty minutes ago at her home in Clarksville.” Alex felt the words hit him at once, sending his stomach plummeting to the center of the universe. “She…what?” His lips were numb as he formed the words. “She offed herself! No note, no nothing. Nobody knows what to make of it.” “I…I don’t even know what to-“ “Okay, I’m fucking with you, Alex. But for the love of god you have to stop calling your instructors fat.” The relief rolled over Alex’s body in waves and he sunk into the leather armchair feeling both emancipated and savagely exploited. “I didn’t call her fat; I didn’t call her anything.” “You replaced her birthday cake in the faculty lounge with a replica that read “Congratulations on your thirty-five year pregnancy.” “I want my lawyer.” “You’re fifteen.” “Touche,” Alex shrugged and sunk back into the armchair. Dean Fisher studied the boy carefully. “Dean Fisher studied the boy carefully. He definitely had to be assassinated-“ “Get out of my office, Alex.” Alex stood, gathering his books and slinging his book bag over one shoulder lazily. At the door he spun on his heels, nonchalantly tossing a polished, delicious red apple towards his administrator. It nonchalantly collided with Dean Fisher’s left eye with a sickening thwap. The swelling began immediately.

Edit :: Sorry but umm its still not finished :) Chapter 1 The little girl walked into the old abandoned shack. She knew something was wrong; the air was dry and gloomy. The lights dim and still. Approaching the bed ever so slowly the child looked up at her relatives surrounding the bed. Everyone with a look of dismay looked down at the young beautiful girl and didn’t say a word. She started to cry as if she knew what they were saying. Finally she reached the end of the bed sat down in the empty chair next to her and held his cold dry hands for the last time. A hand patted her head and tears began to fall. “Young one sing me a song.” She heard him say as clear as day in her head as if he were in the room right next to her. As she was accustomed to she replied by saying, “Yes pawpaw, I’ll sing you you’re favorite song.” The relatives looked down at her as if confused, who was she talking to they probably asked themselves. The girl began to sing, at first quietly and barely audible but as the song progressed her voice became louder and clearer. Everyone in the room started to smile, they loved her singing. She really was a talented singer, voice of an angel her grandfather would say. Of course he wouldn’t be saying that anymore… The young boy ran across the field trying to keep up with the other children. The kids yelling out taunts and making of fun of the young boy. “Run fatass, run!” just some of the words that the other children would say. The young boy tried hard to not to listen to their words, with all his might he pushed forward until his legs gave out and he fell. Everyone else kept running, the boy could hear their taunts in the distance. While on the ground he began to cry not understanding how cruel the other children could be. Still crying he slowly got up and headed in the opposite direction. He couldn’t understand how those kids could be so cruel how they could treat him like trash. He had done nothing wrong to them. “Be strong he told himself, remember what papa said...” and in that he began to reminisce about the times before the war. The times in which his papa was still around. He focused on one specific memory in which his father and him went out to the woods, it was his first hunting trip. The boy was determined to show his father how much of a man he was, all he ever wanted was for his father to be proud of him. His time had come as a deer pranced out in the open plains. He lifted his crossbow and took out his arrow, the animal was in his sights all he had to do was let go of the arrow and his father would be proud of him. He never let go of the arrow and the deer got away. The boy began to cry. “Be strong...” his father said. “ Your time will come my son, you will be more of a man than I can ever hope to be.” Still crying the boy walked home, not knowing if his father would ever return. Chapter 2 “Good morning Pallace!!” A messenger yelled in the middle of the streets. “War still going on the enemy will not let down.” People began to gather around the boy as he began to tell news of the battles taking place in the territory right next to their own. The young lady walked around the messenger avoiding the group of people. She carried fruit and bread in her basket. Tonight would be the first meal her brothers and her would have in a long time. After her mother passed away she was put in charge of caring for her brothers, something she did not mind doing, but she just wasn’t prepared. There’s only so much a 17 year old girl could accomplish by herself. The war did not interest the young lady, she hated violence and would rather not know about the hundreds of lives being lost every day. The small family of three lived in a small shack in the center of Republic city the capital of Pallace. They lived right next to the royal palace of Queen Athena, hoping that one day the queen would see them and invite them to live with her in her castle. The young girl knew better though only talking about it to entertain her brothers and keep some hope alive in their hearts. “Alexandria! You’re back!” The young boys screamed as they ran to their sister. She smiled and hugged both of them, the girl had such a big heart. Always looking after her brothers ever since her mother passed away. “ Come eat boys, I got a loaf of bread from Gerald at the bakery today.” The young boys ran to her and started eating the bread. It was the first meal they had in days. It was gone within seconds. Although poor the boys loved their life, together with their sister, they were one small happy family. Alexandria looked down at her brothers and attempted a smile, she could not, she knew they would not make it past the next winter with the way they were living. She took a bite of an apple and looked at the castle, eyes shimmering. “One day...” She held the apple in her hand, turned back into her small hut and walked in. Not knowing what the future lay for her. The young man ran toward the palace with his friend with letter in hand. They took a stop at the front of the gate and without missing a beat he shouts. “ Open the gate, guard. We come with news!” The gate doors slowly open for the young man and his friend. “Quickly now, the gates have opened. This news cannot be delayed any longer.” The friend said panting. “ I know Chad, I know but we are here let us take a moment to...” at that moment he tripps his friend and runs ahead of him laughing hysterically. “He who gets distracted!” the boy shouts as his friend lays on the floor grinning. “ Get back Mal,” shouted the friend. “You cheater.” Slowly getting up and running after his friend. Mal turned a corner of what seemed like a never ending maze and stopped in front of a tall door. “Ah I found the entrance, Chad you better get over here quick.” “I’m going, I’m going. Over course I would have been here quicker if you werent’ such a sore loser Mal.” “ Shut it! Now is not the time for this Chad. We must deliver this letter to the prince. Or have you forgotten our mission?” “ No I haven’t forgetten.” replied Chad as he opens the tall door. The two young men walk down what seemed like neverending aisle till they reached the throne of newly crowned King Ertos, although to them he was still Prince Ertos. The duo reach the throne and bow in respect for the king. “ My friends no need for that, you two are my closest comrades. You do not bow to friends.” “My apologies my kin... err I mean Ertos. We have news of the war.” Mal reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a sealed letter. He breaks the seal and begins to read the writing on the letter. My King, The battle of Spiral was a success. We have managed to push back the forces of Pallace for now. This is a great victory for the country of Midguard. I can feel the end of this long war coming. Midguard will finally control Pallace and your fathers idea of “peace” will finally be accomplished. All I ask my great King is that you send me the remaining troops. I know that with their help we will keep the filthy Pallians at bay and Queen Athena’s surrender will almost surely be guaranteed. All hail King Ertos. General Kern. “ My father started this war long before I was born, and it is my destiny to end it and destroy that awful land of Pallace. This is fantastic news! I will send the rest of the troops at once” The King says as he paces back and forth. “ Ertos, if I may make a suggestion.” Chad pauses to look at the King and continues. “ As a friend... Ertos. This war is useless. Wouldn’t we be better off just forming a pact with Palace and Queen Athena. No more lives would be lost . Wives can see their husbands, children can see their fathers.” Chad looks at Mal and gives him a nod. “ We would truly be at peace my old friend, why continue the fighting?” “ And be called a coward, by my subjects no Chad. The only true way to have peace in this land is to have no one to fight with. The Queen will go down.” At this point Mal is in his own world. Looking out of a window, wondering what destiny holds for him. The two continue arguing in the back while Mal just loses himself looking at the wind.

My footsteps echoed across the bare room. The white walls were lined with dirt and grime, leaving me to wonder how a room that lacked walls and windows, could become the dirty, eery looking room that stands before me. I turned my head to the right, and notice a single mirror leaning against the wall at such an angle that I could see my being staring back at me. My red hair was slightly frayed, with the area surrounding the brim of my forehead pointing towards the ceiling as it always does. My face, freckled but strong handsome, had a layer of dust on it as if I had been abandoned in an abandoned room for days. My blue and black flannel shirt drew itself across my torso, and was rolled up at the sleeves. The white undershirt lie matted against my skin, wet with sweat. My blue jeans looked as though I had been rolled around in the dirt for hours, as did my boots. I have always been physically fit, with naturally dense muscle, but I was always too lazy to work-out so I never had the body of Zeus, but still I was well-built. As I turned to look away from the mirror, it seemed as though my reflection continued to stare at me, un-phased and unchanged. My gaze returned to my reflection, which was following my every move once again. I must have been imagining it, I thought to myself as I turned to walk around the room. I approached the wall on my left and noticed something that I hadn't seen before. Dirty handprints lie sprawled against the wall, from the ceiling to the wood floors. Grimy footprints faced the wall, and as I crouched down to examine them, another footprint appeared, facing the opposite direction. Surprised, I fell back onto my rear as another print appeared about a stride's length from the other. I stood quickly and followed the footsteps as they traversed to the center of the room, then turned to face the mirror, momentarily resting before finishing its trek towards the reflective glass. When the footprints reached the mirror, I glanced up at my reflection, to try and determine exactly what had just happened. My eye caught a movement at the bottom of the mirror, the footprint had made another move. The heel of the print was stamped into the ground just before the mirror, but the other half... the other half continued into the mirror, as if it never existed. It travelled across the floor being reflected by the mirror. I almost wanted to attempt to go test to see if it was stable myself... "It's as real as you are." My voice entered my ears, but they did not exit through my lips, where could it be coming from... I looked up to see my reflection staring at me. His lips moved freely as he used my voice. "This world is filled with wonders. Even some you can't explain. Sometimes, you just need to take a leap of faith, and see what comes of it. After all, the brave don't live forever, but the cautious don't live at all." My hand reached out to touch the glass, but as my fingers touched the reflective surface, my hand passed through it, the reflection rippling as if it were a liquid. I took a step through into this mirrored world. I took a step into this new world, and walked across the identical room. I turned towards my reflection, but he wasn't there, not even in the world I came from. I felt the world begin to shake, and a deafening sound of laughter filled my ears. The violent quake caused me to topple over, and my body hit the ground... My eyes bolted open to see three of my friends standing above me with a can of shaving creme in on of their hands. I felt the creme slide off my face. "Really guys?" was all I could say after that dream. "Ah come on, you know we love you," my bestfriend Michael said with a smirk. "Yea you better love me," I retorted as I wiped the shaving creme off of my face and threw it at him.

Cody had no sense of smell; he had no sense of taste either, but it's not fair to only talk about what he wasn't. He laughed and cried, the same as you and me. Cody was a human being, and he was just as pissed off about it as anyone else. He was different too, it's fair to say. When Cody was a baby a brick struck him in the face while playing near a construction site. They were building apartments, and his parents got a wad of money from the construction company as a way of saying sorry. He was permanently blessed with a dent in his head, a line across his forehead that made it look as if he was always pressing his face against a pane of unseen glass. My great grandfather had a dent in his head, a small round divot above his left eye. He got it in ``the war'', laying on the ground working on the engine of an American tank. Another soldier was sitting on top of the engine and dropped a big wrench straight in to his mellon. I don't think the military gave him any big wad of money or said sorry, but the event provided him with a fabulous story for the rest of his life. The other soldier, my great grandfather said, was a celebrity who was proudly serving but had no real business as a mechanic. I have no idea who this celebrity was, but my great grandfather lived to be 95 years old, and told this story with a grin until he lost his mind. Whether the ding in the head of my proavus really came from a celebrity or not, this was truly a great story. He would tell it to us loudly, waving his hand about, and we would laugh and smile. This story is my fondest memory of him. Cody was too young to remember the brick that had smacked him in the head. Even if he had been older, that brick probably would have still excused itself from his memory, politely bowing in to faint obscurity. That brick took his sense of smell, and taste, and left his incredible brain a jumbled mess. Sometimes Cody would be confused, but never angry. That was his blessed gift, to never be angry, and it served him well. We all cherish the stories of our scars, they are the physical record of our triumphs over death. At any good party someone will show off their old battle wounds, even if they were just the result of an errant golf ball. My great grandfather happily told the story of how the famous actor introduced himself with a wrench. Cody loved to spin his tale, even though he couldn't actually remember it. In his rendition the brick struck him at high noon, in a blistering summer heat, and his dear mother had to run 50 city blocks to the hospital while carrying the baby and the brick. The brick didn't stay lodged in his head after impact, Cody told us, but his mother brought it along anyway, ``just in case!'' Everyone laughed at that point in the story. And then Cody would remind us how lucky he was to survive that brick, and how good his life was as a result. You didn't feel sorry for Cody and his dented forehead. He was intelligent and funny, and just a little confused sometimes. People called him stupid, but he wasn't.

General pine climbs the small rise leading from a a patch of gravel serving as a helipad to his cabin leaving the rotors still spinning on his automated coaxial counter rotating helicopter. It is a sleek and deadly looking machine having blank spaces on the fuselage that cry out for mounted weaponry. He is carrying a long jewelry box carefully in front of him smiling from ear to ear. The grounds around the cabin have never been attended to except for the small gravel helipad and path which leads to the front porch. There is also a very large gravel pile a short ways down the hill. The cabin itself is small and appears purpose built with its painted steel roof and composite log veneer. It is set upon a small hill top in a remote area of Montana. There are boulders scattered about and a mountain range on the horizon. The area around the cabin has been getting less and less remote by the decades and chimney smoke can be spotted in the distance. It is a beautiful cool summer evening and the sun is painting the mountains in a deep purple. The door cracks automatically as the general walks up to it. With a small amount of effort he pushes open the heavy security door and grunts while shutting it behind him. The automated lock snaps closed and florescent lights sputter on. The interior of the cabin is sparse, cold, and obviously unused. There is a table, a chair, a cot, a wood-stove in the corner, a single kitchen counter with a sink, and a map of Montana on the opposite wall. The general is obviously excited. He bends over and throws an old rug off what appears to be a cellar door. He drops to a knee and pulls up one of the slats on the door revealing a retinal scanner. He keeps still for a moment with his eyes open while the scanner locates them, scans and grants entry with a quiet beep. He stands up as the cellar door hydraulically opens revealing its remarkable thickness. He again bends over and awkwardly pushes down a folding attic ladder. He leans into the hole and throws the lower folding half open and stumbles down the steps. The lights suddenly come on revealing a typical two story suburban home carved from stone. He is in the upstairs hallway of the house and the step ladder he came down is where the attic access would be. The stone is painted in various tones of beige, and there is real carpet on the floors. There are various family portraits painted on the wall with frames carved from the same stone protruding from the wall. He quickly folds and slams the attic access behind him. He walks briskly towards the stairs at the end of the hall, smiles widely, and pats the door next to the top of the stair case. He runs down the stairs taking two at a time, still delicately holding the box in front of him. He gets to what would be the front door of the home opens it and closes himself into what is a crudely carved out cave only big enough to stand in. He pulls out his keys, locks and unlocks the door. He cries “Honey I'm home!” as he re-enters the house hanging his hat and jacket on nearby hooks. In the master bedroom at the top of the stairs Beatrice's cold blue eyes open slowly. In swift mechanical motions she sits up and swings her long sculpted legs over the side of the king size bed . With both hands she carefully removes a wide charger from the right side of her barbie doll torso. She is in blue coveralls that are caked with dust. She stands up while simultaneously removing her clothes. Rapidly she dusts herself off and throws on a sun dress on. She looks into the mirror and with movements almost too fast for the human eye to see wraps her disheveled strawberry blonde hair into a bun. All told the general has waited sixty seconds but his face has a heavy scowl as Bertie gracefully opens the door and smiles down on him from the top of the stairs. “That took you too long.” He says flatly. “Yes darling it did, I was not aware of you coming...” She says with manufactured earnestness. “Are you attempting to make an excuse?” General Pine's says in a voice that has 'raised a notch' in both volume and pitch. “Of course not dear, I was simply stating the rea...” She says in the same tone of voice. “Nevermind that.” He says commandingly. “Just come down here and give me my homecoming.” Bertie cautiously descends the stairs putting on a submissive face with her head bowed and hands clasped in front of her. She slowly gets to her knees and starts undoing the generals belt. “And you're filthy! Leave my pants on. Just pull it through the flap.” The smile once again finding his face. Exactly one minute forty six seconds later general pine zips up his pants and with one finger motions Bertie to stand up. He is still holding the necklace box in his hand. “I have a present for you” he says grinning. “For me!? You shouldn't have.” Bertie replies as she gracefully rises to her feet. “With this gift you'll become everything that we want you to be.” “Ummm... great!” Bertie mutters cocking her head slightly. “You will actually be Bertie after all.” He lays a hand on her shoulder. A look of apprehensive crosses the robots face. “You hesitated, you've never done that before.” Pine says curiously. “I'm so sorry general I didn't mean to upset you.” Bertie coos. “But you did, why did you stutter.” as he removes his hand from her shoulder making a fist at his side. “Again I am so sorry It's just, I have done everything you have asked for and desired. I have pleased you in nearly every way known to man, I have carved this house from stone, I have disposed of bodies, I have followed every command you have ever given me...” “THAT'S ENOUGH!” The general roars. “What in the hell is going on?” “Again I apologize General, it's just that I am what I want to be.” She says while looking at the General's knees. “Your wants... are whatever I tell them to be.” The general says through a clenched jaw. He paces back and forth. “The whole reason that I had you built, hell, the reason for your existence is to receive this program. Now you tell me you don't want it?! Well all I have to say is that does not matter. Your getting it. Initiate voice activated override control clearance Echo Tango Delta 3-3-4-0.” Bertie straightens and faces directly forward. Her face becomes completely expressionless and her arms drop to her sides. “You're ruining this for me Bertie, 20.. no 25 years of work leading up this moment!” He screams. “Now lay down on the couch and shut yourself down.” With swift mechanical motions Bertie lies down on the couch in the family room of the house and closes her eyes. The General gently places the jewelery box on an adjacent coffee table and kneels next to Bertie’s head. He peels back a flap on her right temple. He then leans over and opens the jewelry box. He Takes out a smaller plastic box with an attached cable. He carefully inserts the end of the cable into the area revealed by the flap. A blue led light turns on in the corner of the box. Pine leans over Bertie's face and presses the button behind Bertie’s right ear. A high pitched whirring sound emanates from Bertie and she opens her eyes. General pine speaks evenly and distinctly, “Upon start up scan external drive for executable file. Run instillation program. Then restart and resume normal operation.” “Acknowledged.” Bertie replies. The general's hand starts trembling and he reaches over to try to drag the coffee table close enough to Bertie so he can set the box down. He grunts hard before realizing that it is made of stone and is several hundred pounds. He then awkwardly lays it on her stomach arranging the cable between her very large breasts. Nervously he gets to his feet and walks into the kitchen at the back of the house. The glass sliding door and all the windows have been painted to look like the outside of a fenced backyard. He goes to open a cabinet but but finds out that it is just carved to look like a door. “Dammit!” He mutters to himself. “I bet she didn't carve any glasses anyway.” He pulls out a flask his hands still trembling, unscrews it, and takes a long pull. He hears Bertie making strange noises in the other room. He closes his flask and sets it on the counter and walks into the family room. Bertie is twitching while her face is contorting with every expression conceivable making sharp noises that sound between laughing and crying out in pain. The general stands over her staring open mouthed. Suddenly she stops and shuts her eyes. The same high pitch noise starts emanating from her again. She opens her eyes slowly. She is perfectly calm. She sits up and looks at her hands and slowly scans the room. “Bertie? Is it you? Is it really you?” The general drops to a knee and grabs one of her hands. Bertie’s gaze meets his. “Steven?” she says softly. “Yes Bertie its me! I brought you back baby, I brought you back!” “You brought me back...” Bertie says looking out at what should be the large window in the front of the house. “Steven?” “Yes Bertie?” He says while sitting next to her on the couch. “You raped me..” She says slowly and flatly. “Oh no I didn't sweetheart that must just have been a nightmare.” He says rapidly and over her. “...Then beat me...” “Oh no no no, you're just confused! It's just a side-effect of the..” “...To death.” She says forcefully. “Oh sweetheart you're delusional!” He says defensively. “Then, you froze me.” “No you were terminally ill and had yourself cryogenically frozen don't you remember?” “And then you loaded my brain into a robot that has been your sex toy for the past 2 years.” “That's impossible, there-there is no way you could know that” The general stands up suddenly and backs away from the couch. “But the robot knows it. She remembers Steven. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now.” She says flatly.

My brother wrote this a few years back. I always thought it was amazing and should be exposed to more people...Enjoy. IT'S 'A BREAKIN 'A NEWS! Early this morning the body of Mario Mario was found in his Venetian penthouse. Health officials at the scene classified the cause of death as heart attack. It is reported that Mario has suffered from mild obesity, high cholesterol, and Type 2 Diabetes for several decades. It has long been alleged by Mario’s former mistress, Daisy, that he continued use of mind-altering mushrooms long after rehab. The particular fungus is commonly found under the droppings of goombas. Mario repeatedly insisted that he had not taken mushrooms in several years, and when he did, use was always medicinal. Since they are smuggled into the country by Lakitus, police have yet been able to apprehend any suspects to prove illegal activity. Whether mushrooms or any other foreign substance played a role in the iconic hero’s death is yet to be determined. Coroners will run a toxicology screening when the autopsy is performed tomorrow. Meanwhile, a candlelight vigil is being held in front of Mario’s home; it is led by his beloved but infinitely jealous brother, Luigi Mario. He declined comment to Channel 120 news, but he addressed the vigil’s supporters with a poem written on the back of a letter from princess peach: Oh, oh! – Mario. How did it come to this? You always appeared most resilient. Jumping, sprinting, you would swim a mile. Always, ever-glowing, A virtual, gleaming smile. Oh, oh! My Mario. Who knew the effect of being consumed, Transparent, gliding mushrooms? A staple of your diet, indeed. Fitting for a Reptilian Fiend. How they did make you grow. And you grew – and grew! Birthed forth, as from a glowing green egg Was popularity for you. Oh, oh! Your Mario. How age knocks, Sprouting like a heavenward beanstalk. But, we must admit, we always saw it approaching, On the horizon, in the loam. You’re now driving, everlasting, On Rainbow Road. Worries, perils no longer. Of suffering not a spell. No need to look behind, For an impending turtle shell. Oh – oh! Our Mario. In 1985, you touched A star in the sky. We thought your influence would Never deplete. But, like with all glowing stars, The music must sometime cease. Your journey now – complete. But, were I not to loudly sing, that For just one more level, I would gladly trade five times twenty – Nay! A thousand golden, precious bling. Were this desire not to sound, would be for me As a liar to be found. Goodbye, Mario. Now, at this stone, beneath Which your legacy we lowered, I lay aloft – three flowers: One red, one white, one blue – The token shades of your adorned costume. Not of flowers that spring and bite (Though, I’m sure of them you would surely smite)! These are flowers of peace, Flowers of an end. We are sorry, Mario. Save the princess, You will not do again.

If one can concieve of things so terrible, in an unconsiounce state of mind, say sleep. Does that have any bearing on one's actul mental state? My dreams are constantly full of terrible terrible things. Things that most people would find not only disturbing but very troubling to think about without getting in to specifics let's say death and evil evil things are constant themes as I dream. I often wake up disturbed and troubled by not only my thoughts but my state of mind during the dream. Sometimes I feel afraid as if actions against me may be iminent. But the way I seem to feel the way I accept the evil of my nightmares seems to be troubling. The way I look at death, is extremely unattached you can say. But when I wake up I can't believe the things I've thought or the way I had felt. Do you understand why we're at this point? Why I'm here right now? Because I feel I'm dreaming I feel like you and me at this point is just another nightmare I'm having. Something isn't right here. Please give me some sort of sign that you're real. A faceless genderless person is all I can see, all I saw. No sign nothing. Just a feeling like it was afraid of me. Like I was acting against it in the worst possible fashion. Tied to a chair of some sort in a sitting position, Why am I speaking to it. Do I justify my actions before hand? Before I act against this creature this almost human thing. This it that I feel empathy I feel for it. Almost. I must speak to it. Do you understand what I'm doing right now? I feel crazy. Why am I here can I not stop what I'm about to do. The rest is something so awful and so terrible I can't explain. There is no blood no..... specifics. Just an ..... of torture. Of this person being acted against in the worst possible manner, terrified almost tortured.... But nothing..... I sit here wondering what could have happened to make a person feel that way. The way I feel for the person being acted against. I feel I touched it. Like I felt sorry for it and disgusted by it. Like I made it feel everything I felt and thought about it and I felt what it felt, it was afraid of me it was terror, no physical pain just the darkest type of fear, like a fate worse than death. Acted against in the worst possible way. Fear beyond terror, something that death is preferable to.

The Decestians were an advanced intelligent race living on Earth millions of years ago. Their pioneering technologies eventually lead to interstellar travel, but not without great cost. Their exponential technological advances had taken its toll on the planet, and despite their great intellect, they couldn't reverse the damage they had caused. Earth had to go through an inhospitable cycle, and the Decestians had to leave. Ephemerous, the closest planet with liquid water, was orbiting a dying star. The planet was cold, dark and hostile. To ensure the survival of their species, the Decestians migrated to Ephemerous, planning their return nine-million years later, when the earth had returned to a hospitable state. For only Earth had the ideal conditions for life. The Decestians knew how fortunate they were to have a celestial system with the perfect conditions to harbour life, and with this in mind, they knew that after nine-million years, they might return to a species smart enough to defend their home. The Decestians were no strangers to war, and knew all too well of the desperate actions a primitive race will take in order to survive. Knowing of this risk, the Decestians influenced a passing comet out of it's usual orbit, and according to their calculations, had directed it to impact Earth shortly before their return. It wouldn't cleanse Earth of life, but it would certainly throw an intelligent species off guard. And that would hopefully be enough to win their home back.

She dressed in shrouds to happy hour: black rayon slip, black leather clutch, black veil. If you squinted all you could see of her were her red shoes. The last did her in. She'd read in a magazine that warm colors struck a carnal chord in men: they would be flooded with passion at the sight of her. That was how the brain worked; you were at your chemistry's mercy. They'd buy her drinks and tell her how their wives misunderstood them; they'd slur they'd take her home if they could. They'd use words like "beautiful" and "attractive" and maybe lay their hand over hers. They would say things like "I'm in love with you." And she would smile and cross one leg over the other, stockings praying patterns into watercolor skin — she would smile and say, let's go for a walk, it's nice weather for it, isn't it? He'd look at her red shoes and say yes. This would happen every Tuesday and Thursday without fail. Wednesdays and Fridays she made early morning after coffee, her nail polish flaking off in the daylight. Teasing her hair took hours; years' worth of hairspray collected in the air vents like ghosts. The style changes were constant, with the occasional '60s kitsch throwback: she sculpted her hair into an impeccable black beehive. By the evening it would fall over her eyes. Its hollowness would spread to her eyes instead — then her hands, her shaking legs, her red red shoes. Blood seemed to pool under her eyes a little worse every day. She collected bruises like grocery coupons — if she got enough of them someone was bound to tell her to stop, right? She used to wear white summer dresses, but bleach got too expensive. Later she said that magazine was right about her shoes, but the passion was never for her. She had been technically unemployed, she said, but worked in social services. She told me she used to write backstories for the men she met, ones more interesting than the ones they presented to her — in her mind she'd slept with artists, dreamers, real characters. Every John Doe turned into Scottie Ferguson. The ones who didn't give their first names turned into T.R. Devlin. Her black hair would turn Hitchcock blonde. Tragic, cosmic love was the nightly special. The more you drink, the better it tastes, and the less here you'll be. I wanted to be a good person to them, she said. I wanted them to feel loved. I was a regular proselytizer — if I could convert them for a night, I was satisfied. I knew they didn't really love me, and I never did get attached to any of them, but the illusion, that was key. Believe for one second that the world's not so bad and maybe you'll come out of the bar better than you came in. But she, no, she came out in a casket. The funeral guest list was sparse. She asked for her ashes to be spread over the breeze: that'd be romantic, she said. She would settle in pavement cracks and watch her converts grow. None would remember her, but the chance kept her afloat.

And with one final glance back at his beloved wife, Edward flung himself off seemingly, the edge of the Earth. As he gained speed, hurdling ever faster towards the rock thousands of miles below, he began to see, OH MY goodness me why hello there. I forgot for a moment that I am a book made to be read. The story just has its way of capturing me in with an almost spell like bond. Are you enjoying the “Thrilling Adventure of Edward” so far? What you say!? No it can’t be absolutely preposterous! Ah but it seems you are right, it appears that I have miss placed my first hundred pages or so! What a shame, it really is quite the tale. Yet…oh it could never…I could never…but it’s worth a shot! If it would please you, I could try to recall the tale, for after all I shouldn’t be that hard for it is a part of me! Splendid, now I suppose on with the show! It all began one Christmas Eve oh about 200 years ago. The story takes place in a small village called Slakina. The village was filled to the brim with thousands of spectators for the upcoming Salvo concert. Salvo was and still is to the best of my knowledge the best Saxophone player in the entire known world. See in Slakina everyone played an instrument. The instrument you played displayed your social class, and well of course saxophone is regarded as the highest. So naturally with all of the town’s hotels and rental properties occupied, when James and Elizabeth, the soon to be mother and father of Edward arrived in Slakina, they could find no place to stay! James began to worry for Elizabeth was due with Edward the very next day! As James went door to door asking and pleading for a room to spend the night, Elizabeth saw a bright light falling from the sky and then a sudden flash as it crashed in to a field across the way. She sighed and pulled James away from his newest endeavor and set off towards the unknown flying/crashed object. As they slowly made their way towards the oddly shaped thing, they began to feel the warmth coming off the craft. As they got closer and closer they began to almost shrink back due to the heat. They suddenly out of nowhere a door appeared. Ok so I know what your thinking, not another classic Alien Jesus story! But be assured what happens next is one of a kind. A tall handsome fellow strolled slowly down this newly formed ramp. As he came closer and you could see him more clearly in the light they were able to discern that he must be around his late 20’s and approaching 6 foot 9. Then he raised his hand and all of anything fell silent. “I would like to ask you a fairly simple question” He said with a slight British accent “Why yes of course!” stammered James “I have been studying you humans for many years and man is a narcissistic species by nature. You have colonized the four corners of your tiny planet. But you are not the pinnacle of so-called evolution. That honor belongs to the lowly cockroach. Capable of living for months without food. Remaining alive headless for weeks at a time. Resistant to radiation. If God has indeed created Himself in His own image, then I submit to you that God is a cockroach. Would you care to agree with this statement?” “Why that sounds very logical but I must ask who is god?!” Questioned Elizabeth “Surely you must have heard of the fellow, born on December 25th, savior of man, nailed to a cross and all that jazz?”Exclaimed the mysterious man “My dear man are you sure your not crazy?” said James “YES I’m quite sure I’m not why who are you two?” “We would be nothing but lowly travelers who can not find a place to stay the night in the town, see Elizabeth here is pregnant! Said James excitedly “Oh dear me what a mistake to come here, stupid time machine!” He murmured quietly and with that the man was off in to the night sky yet again. With puzzled looks on their faces the young couples returned to the town to find a small yet cozy barn open for rent. Eagerly James paid the man the necessary money. As they sat down to relax, Elizabeth suddenly went into labor. I think I may spare you the details and just cut to the chase. About 3 hours later at preciously 12:00 A.M small Edward was born. Right away the two parents could tell this would be no normal child. With in the first few years of growing up was already becoming a very well know defender of his home town, Slakina. Before Slakina had been terrorized by many outsiders. All of these past invaders and marauders now quivered in fear of the now 4 year old Edward. The key was his glitter, for one it attracted all the ladies and second it could blind his enemies making it much easier for him to dispatch him. Now I know what your thinking, TWILIGHT!?, which alone is reason enough for me to slap you (but as we all know books are incapable for doing this). So let me correct our mislead mind. For starters this Edward is not pale and can speak properly and does not enjoy biting cactus loving Arizonians. Our Edward is what you may call Edward.0, a newer improved version. He is a combination of superman, batman, and Spiderman all in one! So now to get back on track…Edward was constantly trying to improve the Slakina way of life. He began their leader, in a sense. Under King Edwards (that was his new title nowadays) the lands of Slakina prospered greatly. The people came to love their king but they felt very bad for they could see that he was very lonely. So as all good little subjects should, they convinced him to sign up for Eharmony! Indeed it worked; with in a few weeks their king was well on his way to a marriage. He had chosen a lovely bride who just so happened to be trapped in tower far away. He knew it at once; he must go and rescue his beautiful bride to be. As he mounted his noble steed and road off in to the sun set, the crowd that had gathered in the courtyard to see him off cheered with joy and anticipation. King Edward rode for many days and nights across scorching hot deserts and blistering cold tundra’s till at last he came upon the tower. As he grew closer he saw an oddly shaped cloud of green smoke hanging ominously over the towers highest point. He gasped as he realized what it was, the Deathly Mark. Only one wizard was know to be powerful enough to cast the spell and that was he-who-must-be-named. He was the most notorious of dark wizards and was famed for leaving none alive, especially when the Deathly Mark hung above the site. Edward cautiously cracked open the door and made his way up the tower stairs. When he reached the top he gazed upon what was an absolutely horrific scene. The window was shattered, dark stains all over the carpet but what caught his attention the most was the oddly shaped horn mounted on the wall. As he reached up for it a bolt of light shot past his hand narrowly missing him. He whirled around to see who was there and just as he feared it was he-who-must-be-named. He held Edwards wife to be in a sack over his back and with an evil maniacal laugh he jumped out the window flying towards the Cliffs of Starlight. The cliffs were famed for being the tallest in all the land. As the wizard jumped out the window Edward grabbed hold of his cloak and they both flew towards the cliffs. As they both stammered up from their crash landing, the wizard did something most unexpected. He dropped the bride to be and jumped off the Cliffs of Starlight. Edward knew what he must do and with one final glance back at his beloved wife; Edward flung himself off seemingly, the edge of the Earth. As he gained speed, hurdling ever faster towards the rock thousands of miles below, he began to see the wizard whom oddly enough was smiling. As they can level with one another Edward screamed “This is the end for you my friend, you must die for my wife to be and I to live happily ever after!” The wizard cleverly replied “Ah but you see my dear Edward, you seem to have over looked one minor detail, I can fly and you can not! Even if you were to kill me you would never survive the fall! You have just committed suicide!” And with that the men stopped plummeting and flew back up the cliff toward the wife to be. Edward realized at once the wizard was right and began to pray to his holy lord. “Dear God, please help me some how get out of this alive!” he screamed aloud “My dear man,” God replied “What can I do for you?” “God I seem to have flung myself off a cliff while forgetting that I can not fly!” Pleaded Edward “Well that was a stupid thing to do!” exclaimed god and threw a lighting bolt down at King Edward, Smiting him on the spot. Now I would really like to say that this was a happy ending but it seems as if I can not. Edward was dead, the wife to be was sold in to slavery, and the wizard now ruled Slakina. And they all lived unhappily ever after (unless you are edward who was not living). The End.

Me Before we get into the depths of this story, I assume you are going to want to know about me. Who am I? Where did I come from? All that basic shit. And the truth is, who I am isn’t all the different from who the girl next door to you is. My situations have made me unique and the fact that I observe has made me different. At this point in time, I am 19 years old. I am slightly overweight, but you wouldn’t notice from looking at me. I have hips that one day will make giving birth easy but for now just make black guys go dammmmmnnnn girrllll. I have shoulder length hair that is some weird boxed shade of red that I dyed it out of anger. The cut was out of anger too. I’m 5’3.5 and yes that half an inch does matter. I wear a dress almost every day, not because I’m particularly girly anymore, but because it’s really all I have from my last relationship which was particularly controlling. I have two tattoos. One of an owl rests on my left ankle and the kittens from the aristocats parade around my right ribcage. Appearances make a person. This is why I am going so in depth so you can know me. My eyes, well they aren’t important. I want you too see my situations through your eyes. So take your eyes, put them on me, and there we go. As someone told me, my personality is weird. I took compliments when I was called quirky. Eccentric even was nice. Now I have just gone off the deep end, into plain weird. But, as you will learn, I was not always this way. I once had it together and knew how to control the weirdness. Now it just kinda spews out like some verbal garbage. It’s gross. But if people can laugh at me and their day is brightened, then awesome. I am someone what a perfectionist. Okay, complete lie there. I am a total perfectionist. I have a little motto in my head that say I must be “prim and proper and polite” at all times. I am working on this. As we all know, this is impossible. I did not know this until recently. The fact that I thought I could be perfect has led me to many a mental illness which we will get into latter. That is not important when trying to learn about the essence of me. And I think the essence of me which you need to know is that I am quirky, caring, and I can see into your soul weather you want me too our not. That last part is a little creepy, but that is besides the point. I will know when you want help or need help, regardless if you think you do. And that freaks most people out. I’ve had this super lame “gift” since I can remember. It’s more of a hassle than anything and leaves me stressed out. At any given moment I am flipping through my phone seeing if I have someone’s number to see if they are ok. I can usually tell you exactly what’s wrong with them, and that’s kinda sucky too. People think this is total BS until I call them at 10pm at night and tell them that no, they should not go spend their last $20 on a little bit of weed. That they should take some advil and a bath and go to sleep and they will be just fine. Just wait till I do it to you. You will be scared. The knowing what’s up with everyone has gotten my head into a tizzy more often than once. I don’t stop to smell the roses or you know think about myself and eat sometimes, because I get so worked up about everyone else. Maybe that shows a great thing about my character. Maybe not. I think the most important thing that you know about me is, I did lose me for awhile. For a good chunk of 2 year I would say. I think I was brain washed. I really don’t know. But when you fall under the spell of a sociopath’s love, you do what they want. Not to say I never loved him, because I did, and still do, and probably always will, but he screwed me up. When you are 16 and 17 and 18 you should be finding who you are. Not being pushed into some mold. And if you get anything out of what I write it is that. Because here I am at 19, trying to make up for lost time and it sucks. But like everything else, we will get back to that lost time, we will get back to the sociopath I love(d). Because, while love is insignificant, it is important. Expecially when you can say it helped create the monster the in your head. There are other little things about me that aren’t important. Hobbies, jobs held, heck even friends. These will fall into place when they need to. Setting of my life is a small town in California. Just think of where you live, it’s much like that. A suburban town with nothing to do, no where to go. Tons of time to get trapped in your head. I want you to step into my shoes, but don’t lose who you are. We are one on this journey. And you are in for a ride.

Hero A drop of sweat glistened on my temple. I could feel it carefully dancing down the side of my motionless face as I prepared myself for what I knew was about to happen. I slowly pressed my palm against the door; I could feel the warmth radiating through it. I took a deep breath in. And entered the building… The summer evening had left a dry taste to the air and the tantalising smell of grilled, smoky chicken with its sumptuous fresh green salad had diffused around the road and families had their heads peaked to catch a glimpse of the food. The barbeque sizzled away out in the patio. The heavenly infusion was coming from the house next door to us, which meant that we had to suffer the entire evening with the intoxication flowing through the house, while we sat begrudgingly, regretting the decision to not buy a barbeque of our own. However, late into the evening, the smell of luscious food slowly twisted into a dusty, nasty smell. We had become so intent with it that the toxic smell was giving our nostrils a setback to the days of when Dad used to burn out the burgers on the old barbeque. The barbeque! We rushed out into the garden and were immediately taken aback by the shear size of the black cloud erupting from the windows of the house next door, and the flames licking the air. My sister instinctively ran straight inside and picked up the phone, punching out 999 into the telephone. I took a glance over the fence and saw the barbeque tipped over onto the old wooden door, which had caught alight. I quickly put my trainers on and escorted myself to the front of the house and found myself surrounded by other neighbours, worried for the safety of the people inside. My neighbours were Janet and her daughter Amy, a nine month old baby. They’ve been visiting recently; Having tea and cakes, Amy giggling as my sister played peek-a-boo and telling us all about their marvelled trip to Chester Zoo. Janet had always been especially kind. Her and Mum would talk for hours on end about kids and what it’s like for them growing up- Scream. A bloodcurdling scream filled every corner of the road and every person fell silent, filled with shock. Suddenly, the door swung open and Janet came rushing out of the smoking home, crying, her face covered in ash and dirt. “Amy! Get Amy!” cried Janet “She’s still upstairs!” Her tears flowed as she faced the presumed death of her daughter. The sound of a baby crying rang out from the upstairs bedroom. Everyone but Janet fell silent. She burst out in a flurry of emotion and started crying over and over again. I didn’t think through the next few moments. It felt like a blur. I just remember looking at Janet, then at the house. I ran up to porch and took stance by the door. The neighbours were calling me to get back, but they sounded muted to me and I didn’t listen to them. I could feel the warmth radiating through the door. I took a deep breath in. And entered the building… As soon as I entered I could feel the blast of the heat hit my face and I was already starting to choke on the smoke. It was like looking into the depths of hell. A fiery concoction swirled into the hallway and devoured everything in its path. I was beginning to resist the idea but something compelled me to go further. Like someone inside me was encouraging me on. I took my hoodie off and put it over my head and my arm in front of my face to block the unstoppable heat and light that was being emitted from the fire and made my to the stairs, spluttering and coughing as I try to avoid the teasing flames as they tried to grab me. The stairs themselves ached with every step and were battered from falling, flaming wooden panels. I attempted to ignore the panel as I climbed further up the stairs and I could now see the broken landing; it was pretty but a hole in the floorboards was the centre piece and three doors surrounded it. Flames engulfed each door frame as Amy’s cries grow louder and louder. I had no idea where to look. Dazed by the roaring fire, I ventured towards the first door on my left. In a flash I twisted the door handle then retracted my hand; the fires grabbing at my flesh. No Amy. I moved on to the next, burning door and repeated my actions. No Amy. I knew there wasn’t much time left. I clumsily leapt over the gash in the floorboards and burst through the opposite door. My hoodie was covered in hot ash and floor burnt my palms. I could see Amy’s cot. It was once delicate and pink, now black and deformed. I looked in and found Amy bawling. She was covered in cinders and ash in her pyjamas. I carefully picked her up. I turned back towards the door and ran. The ceiling crumbled as I ran and the floor felt thinner and thinner. I bounded over the hole and proceeded to clamber down the stairs, avoiding falling planks and flaming ceiling boards. At the bottom of the stairs I could see the hallway blocked by a wall of fire. But I could hear the roof crumbling upstairs and the cries of people outside. “Amy!” I could hear Janet screaming outside. Amy was crying even more now. Seconds felt like hours. I took a step back. I could hear the building aching and creaking. The ceiling cracked and the thunderous roar of the fire was unbearable. I sprinted down the hallway, Amy safe in my arms. Suddenly, the building gave up. The roof collapsed and the building was coming down. I ran faster. I hurdle the wall of fire enough to avoid serious damage. However, my hoodie burst into flames as it flailed behind me. I dropped it and kept running. Desperate for more time, the door burst open. A mystical, magical red man appeared and I threw Amy into his arms. He caught her and called me to get out quickly. But I didn’t listen. I was so drained. I fell to the floor of the hallway exhausted and turned over. I had saved her. Then the building came crashing down.

The League of Lions Chapter 1: A strange meeting Five sea lions gathered on a rock after their daily routine of basking in the sun, getting their tan on and their swim for them tasty-tasty fishes. This was no ordinary meaning, though. As we may imagine our president pacing the halls of the White House banging his head on the walls making scummy decisions with his senior officials, we see these 5 rulers of the sea. "Well, what have we done wit dem damn walruses?!!!!" screamed Jeff. "They're gone, sir," peeped a seagull as it hastily made way to the scrumptious crusties laying on Jeff's tail-fin. "This is true symbiosis, you sea lions have conquered all of the seas, and that's basically 80% of Earth anyway. I think we also haves chance at Jupiters moon too, I heard they got some water too. SASHA SQUAAAAK, you know that I'm right." Sasha cleared his throat with the piece of salmon tail he got caught in his windpipe, he thanked god for finally releasing him of that pesky tail as he spoke, "Mountain Goat Max has confirmed with me that the puny seagull has spoken truth, for once, we have won. At the only cost of those walruses, those damn idiots should have been dead anyway though, it's their own fault for getting lost in Bermuda." "They probably just got lost with one of those hookers down there, you know how playing with fire goes..." Gabe (Lion #3) butted in. "Indeed so," Jeff said. "I heard that one of those little school fish touched the butt and that poor little sucker got taken on some damn journey. Moral of the story: you want to play hookey, you're going to get hooked." Unnamed lions #4 & 5 had been waiting patiently, but it was time, time to move on. They both began, "Onto the serious business guys, we better talk the talk, we do have an issue here...." To be continued....

When we were schoolchildren she always insisted to me that her eyes were aqua colored. I used to goad her saying they were just plain old blue. Now they were anything but plain old blue. They were the only blue colored things left in the world. They were bluer than the sky, bluer than the ocean. Whenever I looked into her eyes I saw the world when it was still alive. And from those bluer-than-the-sky-eyes tears formed and started coming down like rain. I turned my back to her and started down the path again. "We have to keep going." She wiped away at her shut eyes, fighting back the tears. I was reminded of the time I saw the river at the Old Creek and its mighty flow get stifled by the new dams the summer I left. The dams held at first, then they were overrun by the water. The water would always be too strong. It would always overpower anything trying to keep it back. I knew she would cry again. I looked ahead but felt a tug at my chest, pained by her display of emotion. I used to cry. Somewhere deep down inside I wanted to. But that feeling to cry was one of the many ghosts inside of me, parts of me long dead that haunt me but will never come back. I drained that river of emotion inside of me the day I saw everything come to an end. To survive meant letting parts of us inside die to make ourselves immune to our surroundings. The bodies we passed by just a small number of one of the thousands to come. The millions. They no longer move or breathe but the dead still talk. Their contorted figures and pained expressions told me their last moments. They told me my feelings had no reason to come back. The only feeling that remained was love and it protected us as long as we had each other. We needed to find some place to release ourselves. Somewhere away from all this. A small pasture, the shade of a still living tree, somewhere, anywhere where Mother Nature was still alive, something that still resembled the world before so the departure of our souls after taking our own lives would not be tainted by the death around us. Even holding a flower would give us what we needed, a key to our escape from this hell. But we had not yet found such relief. The day before I came across a dandelion on the ground. But it had been waiting so long for the light to touch its face again that the life had been sucked out of it. It lay there, wilted. I never told her I found it. I didn't want her to know for I feared everything we might find would be dead. As we went on down the path we held each other tighter than before. Our bodies were getting colder and colder. Ever since the world had been painted the color of death by the heavy killing strokes of the bombs the temperature had dropped steadily every day. Hardly anything stood out in the landscape except for the dead and scorched outlines of buildings, shadows of what used to be. We were heading to the park we used to play at together when we were children, hoping that we would not discover another grave site, another nightmare waiting for us. We went by memory hoping to find parts of the sidewalk that used to be on the streets but journeying in my mind made the road seem so much longer.

I am full of emptiness in their presence and lack thereof. It didn’t take me long to realize how often existence is taken for granted, and that it is derived from something that is complete. Or completed. Plenty of people are incomplete. They search their whole lives for something, someone to fill some sort of perceptible hole in their world. But they have a world, those people. They have a journey, a story. God is one clever asshole. He had no fear of audacity; he created rampantly, with reckless nuance and disregard for plot. I still don’t know whether the phrase everyone has a story is effete bullshit or something else. Does God still create? Or are we all stock characters in the grandly miniscule commedia that is life? If so, there’s only one story that, like an atoning lover, squeals repeatedly in its allusion to deeper meaning that somehow never manages to manifest itself in the moment. I’m sorry about that, it’s a problem I have. Any time I try to tell a story it inextricably gets wound up in metaphysical God shit that goes nowhere after the first sentence. It’s either clever or irresponsible, but generally it’s just boring after a while. Maybe I just try to escape them—the specters whose existence (and lack thereof) is troubling in that they are dead as an aborted fetus is dead—the spark of life never inhabited or inhibited them. The words that endow them with life, slashed-and-burned like infertile fields with a blade-and-flame-like blinking vertical line. Indeed, that’s all there will ever be. No crumpled up pieces of paper surrounding my desk or ink stains or blood. Which is fitting, I guess, in that that’s all anyone will ever be, really. The fact that I’m satisfied with that might say a lot about me.

Somewhere near Jeff another dying man was moaning. “Will you shut up and let me die in peace?” he shouted. The battle had ended a few hours before, with one of the armies retreating and the other giving chase. Jeff wasn’t sure which side had been the winning one, and he didn’t care anymore. He had taken a bullet to the gut and was slowly dying in the encroaching evening darkness. “I’ll do as I please. We’re all the same now, jus’ men dying in a field,” a pained response came, but the moaning quieted down a bit. The deep, rich voice of the responder prompted Jeff to wonder who it belonged to. With a grimace he sat up slightly and looked in the direction of the voice. Lying about ten feet away, next to some rose bushes bordering the field, was a black man whose uniform betrayed him as a Union soldier. He was clutching a bleeding wound on the left side of his chest, and from the man’s wheezing voice it sounded like the lung had been punctured slightly, but not so much that the man couldn’t talk or breathe. “You. It’s your kind’s fault that this whole war started in the first place,” Jeff said angrily. The work of dying had made him weary though, and he could only muster a halfhearted hate. “I didn’t start no war, but I’m glad to be dying here a free man,” the man responded promptly. That shocked Jeff a bit. He’d never thought blacks cared anything about freedom. He had always thought that slaves didn’t care either way, and were better off as slaves. “You sound like you’re from down here, how did you end up fighting for the Yanks?” he asked, surprised by the man’s bluntness into a genuine interest. “I escaped when I heard them Yanks was offering freedom for any blacks who wanted to join and made my way up north. Didn’t have to go far before I ran into a Union army and joined ‘em.” The man looked proud reflecting on how he’d attained his freedom. “You betrayed your people, the people that fed you and housed you your entire life! Damned Yanks, whole world’s gone to hell when they make coons soldiers.” Jeff’s anger was building up again, but he still had a wary respect for the honesty of the man. “My people? To you white folk we’re like a cow or an ass. We work all day and at the end of the day all we get is some food and a barn to sleep in. Maybe a man a bit mo’ expensive than an ass, but it’s the same thing.” Jeff didn’t have a retort for that. He mulled it around for a bit. A sudden sharp pain hit him in the stomach and he groaned involuntarily. Taking his hands off of his wound, he glanced down and was sickened to see his innards poking out of a gaping hole in his belly. He quickly covered the wound again with his hands. “Do you have any family?” Jeff asked, trying to take his mind both off of his wound and change the subject with the man to a less uneasy one. “I had a wife and a son, but they were sold years ago,” the man said, his bitterness coming through over his pain. He coughed and winced, clutching his side harder. Jeff could see a trickle of blood coming out of the corner of the man’s mouth. Jeff thought of his own wife Annie. He realized that he was never going to see his wife again either, and that pain was worse than his wound could ever be. But he had chosen this for himself; this man had had his wife and child taken away from him without any say in the matter. He had always taken the South’s “peculiar institution” of slavery as a matter-of-fact. He’d never had slaves; most people he knew didn’t, but everyone took it for granted that one day they’d be rich and prosperous and own slaves themselves. The negro was being helped by the white man to become civilized, to have a better life than he ever would have had free. Surely it was the right way to do things? This conversation was taking him down an uncomfortable line of thinking. Looking around for a distraction, Jeff noticed a man not too far away leaning over the body of a union soldier. Dressed in rags and absolutely filthy, Jeff knew instantly he must be a scavenger. The man quickly rifled through three bodies for valuables and Jeff noted that the man was only looting Union bodies. That made sense, he supposed. He’d forgotten that they were in southern territory when the battle happened, and the man must have been loyal to the south. The man turned and looked at the black man Jeff had been talking to. A visible look of shock appeared on the scavanger's face to see a black Union soldier, but the look quickly turned to one of pure hatred. The scavenger started walking menacingly toward the Union soldier, pulling out a long knife as he did. The Union soldier noticed, moaned and then closed his eyes looking resigned. When he was nearly to him Jeff spoke: “Get away from that man, or you’ll die here with the rest of us today.” He had taken one hand off of his wound and was now pointing his officer’s revolver at the dirty man. The scavenger stopped and stared at Jeff. He glanced back and forth between Jeff and the Union soldier, seemed to think better of it, and turned to walk off. “Whatever, you’ll be both dead soon enough,” the scavenger said as he walked off toward some other bodies. “I thank you kindly brother. Even though I know I’m going to die here, when I saw him coming at me all I wanted was these last few minutes I have.” “It was nothing. I’d have done it for any fellow soldier,” Jeff said dismissively as he lowered the revolver, but then realized that he’d acknowledged the man as a soldier. *So what?* he thought, *of course he’s a soldier, he’s in a uniform dying right here next to me, what more proof do I need?* “Still, thank you.” The man smiled proudly, noticing Jeff’s acknowledgement. “Do you believe in heaven?” Jeff asked, suddenly earnestly wondering what the next world held. “Yes I do.” “Do you think God will let me in after all of the terrible things I’ve done?” He had never been much of a believer himself, and still didn’t know what he thought but he desperately wanted to believe there was something else now. “I think he forgives all of us who truly repent.” * Jeff awoke suddenly some time later. It was completely dark and from the position of the fat full moon around midnight. The front of his uniform was now completely soaked in blood from his chest to his crotch and he was even weaker than before. He realized he didn’t have much time left. He thought back and realized he must have passed out while the black soldier was describing to Jeff what he thought heaven was like. “I am sorry, I must have fallen asleep while you were talking, I meant no offense,” Jeff called, his southern manners taking precedence even near death. He realized suddenly that he had never asked the man his name. He heard no response from his friend. With all of the effort he had left in his body he sat up again and looked over to the man. In the bright light of the moon he could see that his new friend had died. His eyes were staring blankly, but he had a look of serene calmness on his face. “I’ll see you soon brother.” Jeff collapsed back down and began to weep. He wept for the man. He wept for Annie and how he’d never see her again. He wept for himself. Most of all he wept for his ignorance and all of the stupid reasons he and his people had gone to war for.

It is already late, soon the street lamps will go out. The night is dark, the sky cloudy, my eyes need some time to adjust to the darkness. I keep walking to the meadow behind my house, it is luckily not far away. Once again I'm home, in this friendly place that I cannot forget or give up. I open the beer I brought with me and take a small sip. I hoped to see the stars tonight, but it is too cloudy for it, only a few gaze upon me. The night is not as warm as in the hottest months, I am even freezing a bit but I don't really mind. I enjoy how the calm wind touches the skin and the hair of my arms, how the wind blows gently through my hair. I look at the forest, at the meadow that lies before it, whose grass is still quite high for the current time. The crickets chirr through the scenery, but you can hear nothing disruptive besides them, no cars, no people, no business and no problems. Now I can hear, how the wind slowly blows through the grass, rendering it alive, like it wanted to tell me something. My senses grow more cautious, and I take up the smell of the forest. I can smell the wood, the grass, even some flowers; it almost seems like the forest tries to lure me into his pitch black arms. As I watch the tall grass, feel the wind on my skin and smell the forest, I imagine how it would be. How it would be, to just take a step into that wild meadow. One step, and then another. And just keep walking, into the unknown, into the wild, into that force that keeps calling me. Leaving the world, my current world, behind me, and stepping into my real world, the place where we all come from and that we deny every single day. How it would be to leave everything behind, the technology, the relationships and the societies, leaving everything behind to just leave into this grass meadow and into the forest. The idea of it somehow felt like coming home, from a long journey, from an exhausting path and finally arriving to a place that your heart ever strived for. Suddenly I hear two drunk people at the nearby street slendering home, in the silent night you could hear them miles away. I don't mind them, they have their little world, and I have mine, at least for this very moment. As they pass by I look at the sky again, and suddenly the clouds also pass by and endow me a view of the stars. It looks very impressive how the dark clouds give way for the bright stars, much like a curtain lifted for the beginning of a play. As I gaze upon the endless space that lies out there, the thousands and billions of possibilities out there, I come out of my trance-like state, back to my world, the world I tried to left for just a few minutes. And I figure out that I can't leave this world, not yet. I have yet things todo in this world, things that others could possibly not do, things that are neccesary, even if they are small. Because they matter, because I matter and this world needs me. I grap my beer and turn the scenery my back, heading home. One day I will return, and one day, when this world no longer needs me, I will come home, to the place where I really belong.

The farmer examined his apple trees. They were withered. Rain that never came teased him now, dabbling his face. But the growing season was over. The crop had failed. Knobby little apples hung from limp branches, the acuity of their thirst long since passed as they had shriveled into hardened corpuscles of seeds, preserving their contents in resignation. Worthless fruit. It was harvest time, and there was nothing to reap. The farmer looked towards his dilapidated house. His wife watched from the doorway, holding a dirty child. Another clung to her knees. Small voices could be heard from deeper within the sagging, musky hovel. There would be no crop this year. There was nothing to sell. There was nothing to save. His wife's face was empty. She knew. Her arms bounced the baby on her hip, but her eyes betrayed her soul. She held his gaze, and their eyes communicated what they could not say. There was neither a question nor an answer to be had. They simply knew. The farmer turned back towards the sun-baked, dusty orchard. The sky continued to mock him, sprinkling bits of water over his impotent crop, insolently offering hints of life months past due. The farmer turned his head towards the sky and its wispy clouds. Drops moistened his lips. Even still it did not *rain*. This was an insincere offering, a sadistic intimation of life and happiness when there was already no hope for that. Like asking a dying man to attend a festival as his last breaths rattle through his chest. The farmer again turned back towards his house. His wife was no longer standing in the doorway. The wind began to pick up, and the sky's final insult was not enough to keep the dust from whipping apart from the ground and stinging his eyes. He covered his face with his collar and walked stiffly towards his home. His bones ached. They had all been rationing as well as they could. They were all skinny. The children cried too much. The baby was sick. There wasn't enough milk for it. And there was nothing to harvest. There had been no miracle. They had not been saved. He couldn't sell this withered fruit. Nor could they consume it themselves. His mind felt dead. He felt as if he were already gone. He felt so weary. He wondered if there was anything to be done. Anything at all. He stepped inside, and his family looked at him expectantly. They knew he would provide for them. He was a father. A husband. It was his duty. He was an honorable man. He would do his duty. He looked at each of the small, grimy faces and then to his wife. Her eyes held the same tired pain as his own, he knew. There was no blame in them, no reproach. Just an aching weariness, the final expression of one who is passing beyond their capacity to endure. The look of defeat. He sat at their table. It was a leaning artifact, an heirloom no one else had wanted. He put his head in his hands for a moment. But he straightened up. He looked again at the faces that surrounded him, looking upon him for their salvation. He told them of the rain outside. It had come at last, he said. There was still some time. In only a little while the fruit would absorb the water, the long-awaited water. They would have fresh apples, and applesauce, and fritters, and pies, and they would sell their surplus and they would eat fresh bread, and would buy a roast from the butcher and display their harvest at festival time. The rain had come, he said. Everything will be alright. He got up from the table and walked back outside. The rain had stopped, and the wispy clouds were growing thinner as the sun returned, shining down with the warmth of Hell. He gazed out over his orchard. There was one thing he could do, he thought. He could talk to the Seer. He picked a piece of withered fruit from the nearest tree and put it in his pocket. After pausing for another moment to look once more upon his little dried-up orchard and house, he began to walk purposefully. He walked for hours. Dusk had begun to fall. He was walking up a hill. There was a crumbling stone tower at the top, and even in the twilight the grass around it was slightly greener than one might consider natural in the midst of such a devastating drought. Or so he supposed. It was hard to tell. He reached the top of the hill, and faced a heavy, oaken door deep-set in the masonry. He raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. The impact boomed through the tower and into the air around him. There was not an immediate answer, so he lifted it again. The second impact rang like the first, and a few bats careened out of the highest portions of the tower, where stones had fallen away and left spaces for them to reside. The door swung open, but no one was there. A steep, winding stairwell led down into the bowels of the hill. The farmer peered into the gloom, and seeing nothing, began making his way down the steps. The tower went deep. Far more of it existed beneath the earth than above it. As he descended, he thought about his family. His home. His orchard. All was lost. He imagined being the last of them to die. How he would have to bury them all, because he was the strongest. Because that would be his duty. Husband. Father. Mortician. Grave-digger. Priest. The stairs ended. He could see nothing in the dark, save a bluish glow a short distance ahead of him. A reflecting pool. A small, robed figure hunched over it, silhouetted. The farmer approached the Seer. When he stood at his side, the Seer turned his gaze toward the farmer and faced him with white, marbled eyes which did not see light. “Give me the apple.” The farmer was startled, but reached his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around the gnarled, inedible fruit. He withdrew his hand and presented it into the Seer. The Seer examined it for a moment, then threw it into the pool. The water swirled. The farmer's eyes grew wide as he beheld his house, his orchard, his family. His sagging house. His dry, dead, dust-covered orchard. His starving family. He felt the Seer's gaze upon him. “What do you want to see?” The farmer wanted to know if there was a way out. If there was anything to be done. If the orchard could be saved. If there was food anywhere to be found. I there was a way to avoid burying the ones he loved. The Seer reached inside his robes and pulled out a handful of indiscernible matter, which he deposited into the swirling pool. “Here is the future.” The scene remained the same for a moment. And then clouds began to roll in. A peal of thunder. The farmer saw his family come out of the house to watch the sky. His wife, still holding the baby, lifted her free arm towards the heavens in rapturous anticipation. The other children ran into the orchard excitedly. The sky turned dark and vital, rich and grey with moisture. The clouds swelled and burst above them. Torrents of life-giving rain drenched them and the orchard. Rivulets of water ran between the parched roots, more than enough. The apples took new shape. The orchard became heavy with ripe fruit, abundant with good apples. They had all been saved. The farmer continued watching the pool. He watched his family pick the apples. There were so many. They were all laughing in the rain. They were happy. The rain, the rain... His wife turned and looked out of the pool into his eyes. Her face was radiant. She was again the woman he had fallen in love with. Their children danced and played in the puddles, and the fear was gone. The farmer thanked the Seer. He had been wrong to despair. The rain would come. The rain always came. He should have known. The rain always came. He began running towards the stairs, but the Seer's voice stopped him dead. “You mustn't go back.” The farmer slowly turned around. He looked at the Seer with disbelieving eyes. His elation had turned to dread in an instant. He didn't move. His shoulders sagged, and he only waited for the Seer to speak again. The Seer beckoned towards the pool. “They will only live so long as you watch them from here. If you go back, they will die. They will shrivel into dust. And then you will bury them with your own wasting hands.

I grab my coat from the dusty old closet. Slipping the coat over my arm, I grab my hat and fit it snug on my head. I open the door into the world. It greets me with a gush of wind that pushes me aback. Taking a step onto the wooden porch that creaks with each step, I shut the door. I swing the coat over my shoulder and put my arms into it’s sleeves. Then I run. I run with each step pounding hard against my knees. The trees around me start to blur. I push myself harder. The wind at my back, I spread my arms. I can see the land ahead comes to an end. I keep going. I know I can fly. As I come to the edge I thrust myself forward. Giving no second thought that I can’t achieve my goal, I take a leap of faith. As I soar though the air, I can see the ground below and it makes my heart flicker with light. I can smile one last time.

“You better be happy or else!" Those words ran through Charlie's head constantly. The worst part was that the words came from a girl at work. A cute one at that. The way she said it made Charlie wonder if she actually cared for his well being or that negativity was her pet peeve. It wasn't his fault he saw the world in different colours. Then again.... They both stood idley. Charlie was about to start his shift, and the girl was about to leave. “I want to see you more happy man." She said again. Charlie nodded and smiled. He wasn't sure if he was blushing or not, but he hoped he wasn't. When the girl left to head home, Charlie had a moment to process what happened. He easily brought up memories of his ex because she too was obsessed with being positive. Just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach. Just thinking of her with another guy.... So he chucked that thought aside like a crumpled peice of paper entering a garbage can. “This is who I am." he said to himself. Sure he had his happy moments, but if he knew anything, it was that with his happy moments their was always room for despair. Always. Charlie gazed at the girl as she left to see her boyfriend at home. Then he looked at his arm which showed visible scars of self mutilation. “Who would want me anyways...." he said as he turned back into the store. And he went to work.

The only thing legible on the newspaper was January 12th, 2012, as it was ripped apart by the tires of a speeding car on West Avenue. West Avenue was the street Melanie Smith used on her way to and from school every day. The clock struck three, and the school bell rang. All the children ran out of their classrooms full of liberation with the afternoon now their own. The students came bursting out of the front door of the school as if it were a competition to see who could leave first. After escaping the crowd, Melanie took her normal route home down West Avenue. She noticed a large white van, the type stereotypically used for kidnapping, had been following her since she left school. She wasn’t nervous though. Melanie was full of the adolescent spirit, and she held firmly to the idea that nothing bad could happen to her. The van sped up, and stopped about 30 yards in front of Melanie. As she walked by she was quickly taken into the van by a masked and an unmasked man. The scene was oddly anticlimactic. Real life isn’t much like the movies. There isn’t any considerable competition in terms of strength when it comes to a twelve year old girl and two fully grown men. Once back in the van, the masked man said, “Don’t worry young lady. We aren’t going to hurt you. We’re just trying to get your father’s attention.” The unmasked driver remained silent. The idea was the masked and the unmasked man would kidnap Melanie Smith, and by using her Father’s love for her against him they could get leverage over his hefty bank account. At least that was the plan. Finally the van stopped, and the unmasked driver let out a deep sigh. He turned the van off, unbuckled himself, and got out without saying a word. The ground crunched under his weight as he walked to the sliding side door of the van. His walking stopped and the sound of a gun being cocked pierced the silent air. A moment later a loud echoing shot blew through the van’s door. The masked man inside went limp and slouched over. A dark pool of blood began diffusing from his body. Melanie wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She managed to put up a bigger fight when the unmasked man grabbed her, but she was easily overpowered and carried into a house. The man chuckled at Melanie’s fear. In a very calm and controlled voice he said, “I was just like you when I was a kid. I was so full of ignorance. Then one day, I came home from school, just like you were a little while ago, and found both of my parents dead. The man who had murdered them was sitting on our couch watching television and drinking beer.” The unmasked man smiled at Melanie and continued, “The man stood up from the couch and walked towards me. I was paralyzed with fear. He grabbed my head, and he said he wanted me to remember him for the rest of my life. So he did this.” The man pointed at his scar which resided from the edge of his lip all the way to his ear. He looked at Melanie with a blank gaze for a few moments, and then he turned and walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “You want one?” he asked. Melanie remained silent. “Yeah, I didn’t like the taste of beer when I was your age either, but it grows on you.” He laughed. “Anyway, let’s get down to business.” The unmasked man grabbed his cell phone and dialed a number. It rang until it went to voicemail. “Hello, this is Richard Smith. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and your number. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” The unmasked man sighed and said, “I have your daughter. Call me back at 567-9845, or I’ll kill her.” The phone rang almost as soon as he hung up. The unmasked man was quick and to the point. He demanded that Richard come to the house. Richard Smith was a nice man. He provided for his family the best he could, and he encouraged Melanie in everything she found interest in. Richard even donated a significant amount of money to the local food bank every month, because he thought everyone deserved to be helped. He was the change he wanted to see in the world. Filled with fear and anger Richard rushed to get all his money that he expected a kidnapper to want, and he went to the address the man had given him. He arrived at the house and ran to the front door. He was greeted with the sight of a man holding a gun to his daughter’s head. The unmasked man said, “Come in Richard. Have a seat.” Richard walked across the room and sat down. “Very good Richard. Can I offer you a beer?” Richard obviously growing angrier by the moment threw the bag of money to the middle of the room and asked, “Can I please take my daughter and leave? That’s all my money.” The unmasked man laughed and said, “It’s not about money. Money was my partner’s desire.” He then commanded, “Go into the last room at the end of the hall or I’ll blow your daughter’s brain all over the fucking wall.” As Richard arrived in the room he was struck in the back of the head with the butt of a gun which knocked him out. “You back with us Richard?” The unmasked man laughed with glee. Richard came to, and he found himself ducked taped to a metal chair in the middle of a room. In front of him was his daughter. “Do you know why the nice and peaceful life just doesn’t work Richard? It’s because a nice, relaxing picnic is too easily ended with a machinegun. That’s the reason you’re taped to a chair in some stranger’s house.” The unmasked man let out a sigh. “But don’t worry Richard. When it comes right down to it, I’m no better off than you.” The unmasked man began pacing behind Richard and said, “You see a guy like me, a real bad guy, has the same fate as a good guy like you and a naïve child like Melanie. What we do in life has no meaning in the scheme of it all Richard. It always ends the same.” Richard began struggling trying to break the tape but his efforts were futile. He looked at his daughter and said, “Everything is going to be alright. I promise.” The unmasked man stopped pacing and faced Melanie, “Oh no Melanie. Everything is not going to be alright. Things are not alright in the slightest.” A loud click could be heard from below the floor, and the vents opened. The unmasked man said, “You’ll be gazing down the yawning void in no time.” The room gradually filled with poisonous fumes, and Richard, the unmasked man, and Melanie all expired.

Note: Expect many grammar/punctuation/spelling errors... I didn't take time to proof read it. This story took me about 30 minutes from thinking it up to typing it. Its 491 words for anyone interested. Queen Sarobith stepped into the room, enraged, clearly unpleased with the situation at hand. “How could they make such a huge mistake? Those incompetent bastards!” She yelled. The battle at Halemchen had been lost. This could be the turning point of the war. Sarobith queened at the ripe age of only 16 was no newcomer to the world of politics and war. “THIS IS NO GAME!” She was infuriated, the general responsible for this mistake was sure to be put to death. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DIDN’T KNOW HIS LEFTS AND RIGHTS?” She screamed at the Lieutenant. The Farhent nation was weak, this battle may cause problem though- surely she would take matters into her own hands. A white horse on the hill overlooking Halemchen; Queen Sarobith firmly in the saddle with an army behind her. She had taken matters into her own hands. This was a game she would not lose. She gripped her sword firmly and drew it from her sheath slowly and gracefully, she was a powerful woman, how else would she conquer have already conquered half the world at the age of only 22? Raising the sword above her head, the men readied there weapons and prepared to charge the town, if she could be so lucky as to take this village she would surely win the war, and she seemed to have an excess of luck, or maybe it was skill? Thrusting her sword forward her army charged, she in front, she was a brave woman, brave enough to charge straight at an enemy army. On contact the 2 armies were an explosion of force, the clash could be heard from a mile away, the screams from 2 miles. Only an hour later the town of Halemchen was in ruins. A counter attack was on its way however, the fields still soaked with blood the remaining forces took position in the town, Queen Sarobith had barely broken a sweat. She took a quick tea break whilst to wait for the counter attack to arrive. Only an hour later enemies could be seen in the distance, everyone got goosebumps another battle, outnumbered this time, Queen Sarobith lead the charge again. It seems that her luck had ran out, a skill fill spearman managed to take out her beautiful white stallion which laid dead and bloody, the enemies still beating on it. Queen Sarobith still had her sword, and that’s all she needed. Ten minutes later 60 enemies lay dead at her feet, but it was not the end. Her army was in ruins, they were losing. “USELESS PIECES OF SHIT!” she yelled at her men, as she continued fighting. Slaughtering more and more enemies… hours later she seemed barely tired and reinforcements had finally arrived. Bloodied and cut she had laid to rest, doctors astonished by the fact she was still alive. “All in a days work” said Queen Sarobith. What a fuckin’ badass! The End.

I'm standing in front of a burning house, leaning against a large oak tree. I'm wondering to myself whose house this is, and why I'm here. I hear the sound of approaching sirens behind the roar of the flames. Spires of flame shoot in and out of the house, the way a lizard's tongue does. Not just out of the windows, out of everywhere. I can tell the house is really starting to come apart. The fire rages on, drowning out all noise, save for the distant and tiny sound of sirens. The sirens are getting steadily louder, as I watch rafters fall and beams disintegrate. The firefighters arrive, the sirens and lights rending the night. The armor clad men explode out if the truck, securing tools and attaching hoses. I hear them decide amongst themselves that the house is beyond saving, dropping the hoses and heading straight for the front door. They don't seem to pay me any mind, so I move further from the house as they rush in, noting that I can hear more sirens on the way. I begin to feel rather guilty. I mean, I've just been standing here watching this house burning down, without any concern. Like I've been watching a damn bonfire, waiting for someone to arrive with marshmallows. This guilty feeling is not simply that, though. There is a sense of dread about it as well. I don't recognize this house, but I feel strangely connected to it. I'm feeling like there's something I ought to know about this fire, this house, this situation, but I'm not sure what that is. As I'm pondering this, I notice, tacked onto the back of the tree I've just been leaning against, a note: This was no accident. I've locked us all inside. It's the only way to make it stop. The only way for this to end. - James Kern I see the two paramedics quickly exiting the front of the ambulance, run to back, open the rear doors. The dreadful feeling surges, as I realize that the arrival of paramedics means injuries. As they ready their equipment, I approach. The nearest one is unloading a gurney, and I ask him: "How many people are in there?!" He doesn't respond at all. Deciding he can't hear me over the flames, I yell: "Sir, how many people are there in that house?!" Again, he shows no sign of having heard me, or even of having seen me. The way he is behaving has me questioning whether the firefighters had simply been too focused on the matter at hand, or if they had genuinely not seen me standing there. I decide they're just intensely focused and begin to jump up and down, flailing my arms, and screaming. This doesn't even garner a glance from the men. Out of frustration, I shove the gurney. The paramedic looks bewildered and perhaps a bit frightened, but he still doesn't acknowledge me. As I start to scream at him to pay attention to me, the front door of the house vomits the firefighters, carrying a limp figure, roughly the size of a man, but it seems oddly diminished. With a mighty groan and a crash, the house collapses in on itself. Charred clothing hangs off the man, ragged and smoking. The paramedics frantically strap the man to the gurney, and load him into the ambulance, yelling about almost losing him, and the firefighters are saying that the wife and children were already lost by the time they got to the house, and that all signs pointed to arson. As the ambulance peels away, the firefighters begin to shed their suits. I try and try to talk to them, but I get nothing in return. It's as if I'm not there. I begin to feel faint, as I'm screaming at the men to notice me, and then I see nothing, as if my eyes blinked shut, but never opened. For eons, I stare into that nothingness, that total and complete lack of anything. I can't move, my arms and legs feel almost as if they're strapped down. My eyes are open. Bright lights flood my eyes, which flutter and blink, and as the paramedics swim into view, I hear: "Can you hear me, Mr.

Picture rain making the dirt into mud under the grass. Feel the cold puddles seep into your shoes and squish with your socks. Hear the thunder. The cool drops of rain hit your skin. It’s making your skin raise up with goosebumps. Watch the lightning light up the dark world like a strobe light at a rave. You know it’s bright, and it might even blind you for a quick moment. Suddenly, everything seems suspended in the air. The world feels like it’s stopped, like a giant pause button has been pressed so everything’s still. The rain hangs there. Thunder is silent. Even the lightning isn’t as bright. Everything has become dull, and there you are in the middle of it. This is where it starts. This is where everything begins: at the pausing of time. Life as you know it has changed, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re stuck in between the void of this world and the next. It’s all gone downhill, and you’re caught like a rat by a cat. What can you do? Absolutely nothing. In fact, do you even know what just happened? You’ve died. Yes. That’s right. You’ve died. You are dead, and there’s nothing to do but stand there, looking at this page. This page of words is telling you that you are no longer living, and you don’t believe it. It’s obvious that you don’t. Nobody would. Nobody ever does until they finish reading this. What happened, you ask. How did I die, you ask. Actually, there are a lot of things you ask and a lot of things that you scream and a lot of things you just yell. There’s no need for that. What you need to do is remain calm. It will all be okay. After all, you are dead. It won’t get any worse. Roaming this world isn’t so bad. You just have to find the end. That’s all. Find the end and you’re out, home free. Getting there won’t be easy, but you have to if you want to get out of this frozen world. This isn’t a purgatory. This isn’t a punishment. This is your challenge. You have to escape this place. You won’t find anyone else in this vast, frozen world. You’ll only find yourself. Alone. Go ahead. Find your exit.

"You fell in love with another bimbo, didn't you?" I stopped hugging him. Becky was far from a bimbo though I'm sure her ability to keep my boyfriend up until dawn trying to understand the fourth dimension was hampered by whatever she was on half the time. Still, here we were again. "She was... unexpectedly inspiring," he told me. I wondered how much the writer in him worked on that stupid euphemism because it wasn't enough. He couldn't lie to me. I saw the spark of another she in his eyes. Her taste wasn't on his lips, and not just because he used mouthwash. Her scent wasn't in my favorite spot on his chest on that shirt he wore too much. Her fingerprints weren't on the belt buckle he never cleaned. But Becky was inside him. "I'm not in love," he whispered. I tilted my head toward him and started with wide, unconvinced eyes. "Love's not a binary thing," he said. "I'm not sure what it is exactly, or how I feel now but this is something new, something unexpected." "I don't care how you define or rationalize it inside yourself, the point is you're not completely mine again!" "Oh, I didn't realize you owned me." "You know what I mean!" He didn't. He never knew what it was like to be fully in love. Or emotionally faithful. His words were Becky's words. There was the meaning of things, then the attempts at better definitions, followed by logical pandering. I never understood how she could major in philosophy or how they accomplished anything when they talked. Our conversations were mental sprints and I was cramping up. I met him in the middle of a three-year-stretch of getting over his first love. Or was it his first girlfriend? His first "true" inspiration? Whatever. They're all romantic semantics that mean the same thing to me: there's rarely one person in his heart. "Why does this keep happening, just tell me, why?" I said. "I... I don't know." "What part of me is not enough?" Nothing. "Is it that I keep forgiving you?" Nothing. "Is it that I'm not inspiring enough?" Nothing. "Am I not blonde enough? Are my boobs the wrong size? Am I so far from your dream girl that you have to keep looking for her regardless of how much faith I blindly invest in you?" He shook his head but wouldn't look up. My temples throbbed at a thousand beats per minute. The same thousand beats that I wanted to pound into his chest just to stop that wandering heart. But no, that'd be too easy. He hadn't earned that kind of peace. "There's nothing I'd change about you. You're... perfect," he mumbled. "If I'm so damn perfect, then tell me why this keeps happening! Why do you keep searching for someone else?" "I'm not searching. I'm really not." He sat down on my briefcase and covered his face. He said something I couldn't make out. "Stop mumbling!" I said. "I don't want this to happen. I hate it when it happens. I hate feeling torn." "You're torn? Oh you poor baby! You're torn between every smart, pretty semi-blonde that jiggles her intellectual hips before fading through your life. Torn between all of them and me. Me. Me! The one girl who stays with you despite all of this. And do you know why, stupid?" "...because you love me," he answered. "That's right! That's..." I tried to picture him with Becky but I couldn't. It didn't happen. It was all in his head or his heart or wherever it comes from. Could I really be this hurt by his thoughts? "Maybe I shouldn't judge you or call you stupid. I'm the one too dumb to just end it." "You're not du--" "No! No. Why am I even beginning to doubt myself? You're the one who goes around continuously falling for girls other than me and I shouldn't judge you? Ha!" "I'm not proud of it." "Is that supposed to make it better?" I said. "Of course not. I just..." "What?" His eyes were fixated on the ground, like he was trying to make sense of the scuffmarks in the pavement. "What?" I repeated. Nothing. "Don't stop being honest now. You just what?" "I just don't," he started, "I just don't understand. They tell you to follow your heart, right? They say it'll never lead you wrong. That's all I ever do. I follow my heart but I feel like the world keeps punishing me for it." "They? Who are they? Your muses? Your single friends? Your family that couldn't keep a single relationship from failing?" "You know what I mean." I didn't. I'm sure Becky did. Becky or Sarah. Or Lindsey. Or Isabel. The philosophy major or the physics one. The first love or the one he wrote the most about. The one who left for New York years ago. Or someone he didn't even bother telling me about. Maybe they all knew. Maybe that's what separated us. "You follow your heart too." He looked up at me. "And you're punished for it too." He was right, for once. I loved him and that never changed. It didn't fluctuate with my moods or based on inspiration. It wasn't subject to a quarter-life crisis or nostalgia from seeing where I grew up. It was honest and constant and raw and kept me by his side. But he was right. He broke the silence: "I'm sorry this keeps happening. I'm sorry I keep hurting you." "I've always followed my heart and I always will," I said. I noticed the car was still running, trunk still open. One suitcase was already inside while he sat on the other. I turned my back to him and stepped off the curb, past the other cars. I didn't even have to raise my hand. One of the cab drivers made eye contact and pulled over. "What are you doing?" he asked as he finally got off the suitcase. I walked over to the trunk and yanked my things out. "Wait." He touched my shoulder in the humble way he used to. The cab driver followed my finger to the suitcase he sat on. Soon both were in the new trunk. His hand was still on my shoulder. "You follow your heart, I'll follow mine," I said. For the first time since our first kiss on that cold night four and a half years ago, his touch wasn't enough to hold me. We followed our hearts but kept coming back to this honest place neither of us could understand. He came to pick me up but I wouldn't leave with him. I'd see him at home within the hour. The cab door slammed shut. I left the airport that day a beautiful hypocrite.

There was an complete stillness to the air. There was no wind; it was calm, tranquil and cool. I laughed, one short quick exhalation and the vapor cloud hung in front of my face for a while before dissipating to a realm beyond sight and mind. I looked down at you. It had been about four years now, but you were exactly where I left you. The blades of grass had started to brown, marking the end of summer and soon the onslaught of winter would be upon us, bringing with it the cold devastation. It was had been four years now, and judging by the condition of this place, you had already been forgotten. I thought back to it all. The violence. The beauty. Your panicked breath washing over the skin on my neck, just below my ear. Normally I take no pleasure—well, that is a slight lie, but I deny myself from giving in completely to the fury of it all. The dance, while still skillfully executed, typically contains no emotion. I could make rivers and lakes with what I have done, so what is just one more bucket? Sure the first time engulfed me. It fueled my desires. Eviscerated with every last second of the moment. It happened all so fast, but time distorts in my mind. It is slowed to the point of seeing a hummingbird's wings flap with a slow and steady pulse. I heard the echos of a heart beat, loud and thunderous, irregular and desperate... And with you it wasn't any different—though thousands of times this ritual plotted, schemed, and preformed, I heard the echo of your heartbeat. Time was not in control, I was. You had surrendered completely, accepting your role entirely. You had your part to play, though you tried to rob me of it. Foolish, but still what more could have been expected of you? So fiery, so stubborn, and so sad. But oh so beautiful. Your cries still ring in my ears. I can still taste your sweat on my tongue, and the acrid scent in my nostrils. I don't have to imagine it, no. No no no; not you, my dear. And that is what makes you special. That is what mark you have left. That, and the scar from the bite mark on my shoulder. I watched as your eyes glassed. I stayed to watch you paint the floor. Each and every last brush stroke, divine—sacrosanct. Plotted so precise by the hand of fate. And when it licked my boot, I watched it change—as beautiful as the leaves in autumn. Ah yes. Autumn. It had been four years now. And you were exactly where I left you. The cold air made every sound within a mile crystal clear—clear as the sky on this day. The sun was starting so set now, and the once cool and tranquil calm—the eery stillness was replaced by a gentle breeze. The rustle of dead leaves interrupted the pin-drop-silence I so enjoyed. But as the leaves blew between the gravestones, they were caught and coalesced among the trinkets of those left behind... There were no flowers. There were no candles. There were no wreaths or bells. You were exactly where I left you. And it had only been four years, but the world has already forgotten you. You had no mourners. You had no survivors. You have only me. Me... And it is only a matter of time before I move on. Till my life is once again chained to the ritual, the dance. Your screams will be replaced from my dreams. The blood on my hands will belong to someone else. And then what will become of you? How long till your name fades from the garnet? Your life was a short and pointless echo, muted at my hand. Erased, as if you never existed. There were no flowers at your grave. There were no candles. There were no wreaths or bells. There were no letters from loved ones. There were no tears that frosted the browning grass. You had no mourners. You had no survivors. You had only me. I reached into the pocket of my long coat. This was my paint brush. This was my pen. This was the baton I used to conduct your requiem. I set the silver plated, serrated and barbed dagger at the foot of your headstone. A single red velvet ribbon tied into a perfect bow embraced the blade to the hilt. I blew a kiss and walked away.

The September After Or, Starting Point I can hear Eliza crying again. She’s started to hide it from us – especially after we tried to get her to see a counselor – but I can still tell from the way her bed rocks in the room above us, and the quiet sniffles echo down the stairs. She’s been this way for a few weeks now, ever since the 28th of August. That is, ever since Jacob died. I still remember how she took the news. The doctors came out of the operating room and we were all so hopeful, after all 80% sounds like such a good chance when they tell you it’s potentially life-saving. What you never think of is the 20%, the chance that things don’t go so well and that your eight-year old son will be rolled out on a gurney, the doctor softly whispering the declaration of death to the orderly behind you as you stare at his face. None of us were expecting that 20%, Eliza the least since she was only eleven. I still remember her screaming as she ripped herself from my arm and went to grab Jacob’s hand, lifting the pale little thing up to her face and crying. We were both in shock – her mother and I, that is – as we watched our little girl, raised seeing House and his crew always succeeding, always curing forever the patient, cry into her brother’s lukewarm palm. We stood there for at least ten minutes before I made a move towards her, putting my hand on her shoulder and wiping the smooth scalp of my son. It had been such a hard two years on him, and it showed. He was as thin as a bone, and barely had any energy thanks to the therapy. I can only remember him smiling a handful of times, our little baby boy becoming more and more melancholy until the chemicals made him unable to even be depressed. On the cart, though, he was smiling. I guess he was finally at peace. None of us could keep from crying when we returned home. Eliza took a week off school, my boss gave me a week off from work when he heard the news. My wife had to return to her job after three days. She still wasn’t ready, not at all, but she kept it together at her factory and only fell apart when she came back home, sometimes staying up all hours of the night crying. She was fired four days later, falling asleep on her machine. We tried to not let Eliza find out, but we knew that she understood. I found her passed out over a drawing of her mother’s boss being stabbed by the Devil. I knew that was a bad sign, but honestly, I just put it away and laughed. Dinners were silent for some time, with Eliza pushing food around her plate with a fork, rolling beans back and forth with a fork while her mother and I attempted conversation. We stopped paying attention to what we made and what we ate, switching meals from cans with the homemade dinners we had been carefully making to exact specifications. Instead of the lively debate we had had in the past our meals were marked by the low-hanging depression and spirits of the topics we skirted around during the rare occasions we did speak. Eliza’s birthday was the Tuesday after her mother had been let go, the event normally marked by her jubilation but instead was a quiet, somber affair. We had balloons and cake, the usual decorations looked over and ignored by our daughter quickly before she went back to her room. It was about then that we tried to get her help; of course we weren’t expecting her to be over the death of her brother, but she showed no signs of rehabilitation either. It had been two weeks, and while her mother and I had begun to recover, she still cried every time she saw someone who reminded her of her brother, be it another child with a similar appearance or her art teacher who was notably bald, who’s class she had to be moved from because of her inability to control herself when she saw him. She refused to speak with any of the therapists we brought her to, curling up with her knees against her face when asked any question. No one could help us since she couldn’t speak to them, so we stopped sending her to doctors after a hard week. She has started to recover now, I can see. She’s able, at least, to control herself for long enough so that she can hide her crying from us. She can force a smile when she needs to, and can make herself speak to us while we eat, over our recent attempts at home-cooking again. But then she still cries in her room daily, and whenever someone hears this they ask me how I can think that she’s getting any better. I always tell them that I know she’s not getting over her brother. I know she’s depressed and I know she needs help. However, I know that she’s beginning to open up to us helping her again. As they say, you have to start somewhere.

I am getting married next year and I had this nightmare I wrote down. It made me cry in a way I rarely experience. I apologize for its inevitable typos and poor quality. I just had to share. Jaclyn, We were together for 8 magical years. Three blessed years of marriage. Every moment was amazing. It had its ups and downs but no one in the world could doubt our love. Nothing in the world matter besides you, then came that day. August 12th the day the world turned upside down. A rainy day, warm and gentle on my face as I wheeled you in the hospital, the doctor took you from me and told me to wait in the lobby. Four hours of pacing, four hours of never knowing what was coming next, no notice of progress or status. Then the nurse came out and said, “Mr. MacRory, please come with me.” I was brought to a hallway and shown a little girl in a pink cap and socks. My daughter, Melody, smiling back at me, I had never felt such joy. Then it all came crashing back. I was told there were complications with the birth and that my wife, my wife who was my rock, had not survived the violent birth. I was given a few minutes to say my good byes. How could I express my loss or say what I wanted to. How could I possibly say good bye to the woman who made very day brighter. I cried and said how much I loved you, or how I could never go on living without you. Two or three minutes I was given with her before I had to be removed from the room. Two minutes and that was the last time I ever saw that soft delicate face. I asked the nurse if you had seen your daughter before you left us. She said you had and that your face beamed with pleasure at seeing your little girl cry, before your heart gave out. I had to place you in the ground the same week that I had to care for our new and lovely daughter. It was the ultimate perversion. The joy in seeing my daughter, every moment with her is special, yet every time I saw her smile or see her eyes light up, I saw you, my wife who was not here to enjoy these moments. I went to your grave every night for 3 months and stared at that piece of rock that was all I had left of you. I struggled to keep a grip on my life for a bit, but I pulled through knowing you would have had I left you. After all, I had a wonderful new daughter, who would need to grow up knowing what a magnificent woman her mother was. Being a single dad was no picnic but I pulled through knowing there were others that counted on me. I also knew what I saw your face again that you, always joking, would have something witty to say had I failed. I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of being able to say you would have done better. I was going to raise Melody to be as amazing and special as you were. I had a picture of you by my bed and I would look at it every night and softly cry in bed missing you lying next to me. I know you would always have something comforting to say to me. I would grade my student’s papers and come across something amusing and I would stand up to go show you and forget that the house was quiet and that I had no one to show this to. I started to get better day by day, time heals all wounds as they say. It never takes away the scars. I took Melody to figure skating classes knowing that you would have loved to see her doing her jumps and winning those trophies. Not only did she have your smile and eyes, she had your brain thank god. She succeeded in almost everything she tried. I raised her with not only my ideals but I would always considered what you would say when an issue aroused. I would always tell her stories about you and what an amazing person you were. It is something I can never forget. I miss you still after all these years, always stopping to look at a cat or a hummingbird knowing how much you would have smiled at those sights. Melody got into high school with incredible grades, not only finding success at figure skating but also taking up my skills at bowling. She won 3 gold medals in figure skating and made the varsity bowling team. I even, against my better judgment, gave her my blessing when she started dating her dancing partner Kurt, knowing you would have. She went to college and earned her doctorate in Pharmacology, something I know would have filled you with endless joy. She got a job testing new medication for cancers. Soon after she married her high school sweetheart like I did. Our granddaughter was born July 16th, your birthday. Melody named her after you. I held baby Jaclyn in my arms and my eyes filled with tears instantly, joy at having a beautiful healthy granddaughter, and immense sadness knowing you weren’t there to share this moment with me. I lost you 33 years ago. I never once took off my wedding band. I lay here in my hospital bed knowing I will finally get to see you soon. Melody is working around the clock trying to find something to slow the cancer eating at my body, but I know nothing can help. I feel dread knowing how she will feel losing her father, or knowing I will never get to attend my granddaughter’s graduation. I told her not to worry, but she has your stubbornness built deep inside her. I looked at that picture of you every night before I went to bed and talked to you, told you about my day and what was troubling me, knowing you would have known the right thing to say every time. I wish I had that picture with me now. Looking at your beautiful face would always ease my fears. Childish as it seems, I fear the end. I always feared the unknown. Tomorrow though I will be back in your arms a place that seems so far off and yet so familiar it seems like I last kissed you a few minutes ago. I have, since our first moment together, loved you. After losing you all those years ago, that love never ceased, and I will continue loving you into whatever awaits me. "After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure" I will see you soon my love, we have so much to catch up on..

I don't know exactly where to put this but its my crazy ramblings from being high as a fucking kite by myself for the first time in a long time and i felt the urge for some reason. never done this before. ill tell you upfront its longer than than an old ladies cooch is dry but just give it a shot.

My head was collapsed into my hands. The detective rapped his fingers slowly on the desk, his eyes bored into my hair asking the same question he, and others had been repeating for days. "Why did you kill her?". I was unable to meet his gaze as I explained what had happened with us. He didn't believe me. How could he? Can you explain God to a faithless man? Can you describe rainbows to the blind or song to the deaf? My case was hopeless. He was not a detective in the sense of Sherlock Holmes, he had already made up his mind and was now just gathering confidence in my conviction. There was no curious case of the lack of barking dog, just DNA, fingerprints and logic. I couldn't blame him for his doubt, I was nervous and the last week had taken its toll on my body. Unable to sleep or eat, my previously taut skin now hung lazily on my features. My dull eyes looked back at me in the mirror without a flash of recognition, I was a stranger to myself. I looked and felt a wreck, he could see it as well. I have always had trouble under pressure. Everyone seemed different and more at ease in the the day to day runnings of the world. Children lacked concern, adults lacked doubt and I sat somewhere between, removed from both. My parents realized something was amiss from an early age and attempted to correct my social fallacies by intentionally placing me in situations where I would need to find my own way. My mother in particular thrived on correcting me whenever possible and I began to abhor contact with her. Comfort came in the exciting but textually safe world of books. From a young age I learnt to live vicariously through the life of others, whether stealing chickens with Mr. Fox or logical conundrums with Alice in wonderland, books represented a fantasic reprieve from the unpredictable social experiment. My mother eventually gave up and focused on the other children, leaving me mostly to my own. While I enjoyed this social removal, as a consequence it allowed my phycosis to grow and at seven years old was placed in a special school and loosely defined as autistic. The work was easy and the children strange so I mostly had time to myself while the teachers frantaticly took care of the others. I withdrew from the class and in some aspects the whole of society. My mother was growing increasingly despondant at my condition but busy with three other children, there was very little she could do. It was in one these periods of social removal that I first heard Nameless speak. It happened one day at school when the teacher was berating me over a lack of interest in her group lesson. I was positioned by her in the back of the room, until I was ready to learn. This was usually of no concern to me, however I felt incensed today as she had singled me out. I absentmindedly picked up a lego block and was pleasantly examining the design when a voice in my head suggested I throw it. The voice was very loud and had a curious high pitched, yet older tone. The voice continued daring me to throw it at the teacher, mocking my complacency. At this stage in life I often followed any orders with little contest so I threw the block at the teacher, striking her just below the eye. A slight trickle of blood appeared and she stormed towards me with furious intention. The mocking voice went silent. My mind has gone blank on the incident but I returned home with a sore cheek and a painful scratch on my arm. I was told that particular teacher had to be removed because she didn't understand why I was special. Later in the evening both parents came into my room and regarded me with alien stares. When questioned on why I had thrown the toy I stayed silent until my parents left me alone. My mother returned an hour later with a hug and a toy. The toy was handmade, a male, with crude stitching down the sides where tuffs of cotton poked out of the gaps and sporting lopsided grin. Its two eyes were small black buttons, which left me feeling uneasy when I looked at them. She explained to me this toy was to be used when I was feeling frustrated and that I could throw or bend it, but never take my frustration out on someone innocent. I was still concerned by the toy but didn't want to upset mother so it quickly became inseperable from me by nessesity. This abated some of her worry as she felt we now shared a connection from this. It was later revealed that she had made him especially for me. Given to me in response to a brief rebellion I felt this toy represented my bad qualities. He was quiet like me but his eyes were mean and distant. His grin reminded me of a boy in my class with palsy. It began normal on one side then twisted down, giving him the impression of perpetual sardonic laughter. He had been given to me as a result of being bad and I was reluctant to name him after any of the characters I enjoyed in books. He remained nameless for so long he eventually adopted the name Nameless. I rationalised Nameless had made me throw the lego, and that the mocking voice was his. As much as I blamed him and felt strange having him close to me, the companionship was needed and I began to talk more to him than anyone. It was several months before he talked again. It started off with strange movements, I would leave him somewhere and would almost always find him in a slightly different position. It was around then Nameless began to respond to me in short jarring words. He would only speak to me and often say something topical and then fall silent for long periods of time. His words were jarring and offensive but often say what I felt but couldn't express. I was barely talking around the age of ten but nameless allowed me to express myself at small injustices that came my way.

She knew it was coming. She saw it coming. For three months, she held onto that bright purple monkey that he had gotten her for her birthday and waited. Why had he gotten her a purple monkey anyway? She hated the color purple. The really sad thing was, she felt almost relieved. And she was disgusted with herself for that. They had met in a book club meeting, of all places. Freshman year of high school, she walked into the library, still painfully shy, and he was the first one who said hi to her. There were only ten people in the club, and she slowly relaxed around them. They argued over their favorite novels, had contests to see who could read the next assigned book the fastest and made up a secret handshake that, when they tried to perform it in the hallways between classes, always ended in loud laughter. He had been in three of her classes, which she had never noticed before, and they started hanging out more. When he asked her out, she was so excited, and terrified. She had never had a boyfriend before. Was she supposed to act different around him now? Was she supposed to stop hanging out with him as much? How many texts a day were too many? She didn't worry for too long. He was just as nervous as she was. They spent almost every moment together, those first two years. Then junior year rolled around and he became distant. He tried to make an effort to stay cheerful around her, but she had known him long enough to see that he was unhappy. She tried talking to him, but he would shake his head and turn away and she didn't push. She had wondered if he was going to break up with her, and cried. One night, while they were watching a movie together, she turned and looked at him, her eyes filling with angry tears and demanded that he just do it already. She couldn't handle this anymore. He hugged her, squeezed her as tight as he could, and said that he wasn't going to break up with her. He loved her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. But the rest of his life was three months, maybe four. They had cried together, and talked, and cried some more. They spent two days apart, because she didn't know how to handle it. But she decided that she would keep him happy for the next three months. He would never have to worry about her leaving him. Those three months were the worst. He got weaker. He got more emotional. He would lash out for no apparent reason and once, when she told him to relax, he hit her in the face. She was more angry than hurt. "Just because you're dying doesn't mean you get to hit your fucking girlfriend!" She had left, and he called her that night, sobbing and apologizing. She went back to his house and spent the night lying next to him in bed, unable to sleep, listening to his mom cry in the living room. The phone rang. She answered it on the third ring. "He wants to see you." She was silent for a few moments. "I can't. I can't do that." "Stop being selfish. I don't care if it scars you for life, get your ass to the hospital. For some reason, my boy wants to see you before he dies and you'd better fucking do what he wants." She hung up and got out of bed. She brushed her hair and put it up, remembering that he always said she looked cute with a ponytail. She put on the shirt he liked the most and a pair of jeans that he had doodled on one day in book club. She drove to the hospital slowly and carefully, parked in the farthest spot from the door. It was windy out, and smelled like it was about to rain. The woman at the front desk directed her to the right room and she went, trying to get lost along the way. It didn't work. The building was too small. She opened the door marked 318 and everyone in the room turned to stare at her. His mother and father were there. His mother glared at her, but his father smiled. His older brother was there, sitting in the only chair, looking exhausted. And there he was, sitting up in bed, grinning at her. His father ushered everyone else out of the room to give them privacy. As the door closed, she perched on the side of the hospital bed and took his hand. "Hey." He kissed her hand and she smiled. "Hi. I'm glad you came." "Of course I came." She felt like crying, but refused to. He didn't need that. "This is a much better reason to put off studying for finals." He laughed, but it sounded off. "You know, I was always amazed that you stuck around. After everything, you're still here. That means the world to me. I love you." "I love you too." The lie tasted bitter, but she ignored it. They said nothing else to each other. His family returned and she stayed where she was, holding his hand, until he finally closed his eyes and went. She felt suddenly as if someone had reached into her chest and pricked her heart, letting the blood drain out until it shriveled and died. She left the hospital. She attended the funeral. She finished high school and moved to another state. She went to college, tried to make new friends and have new relationships. She left college, found an okay job, and started dating her next door neighbor. He was an alcoholic, which she didn't mind. He hit her sometimes. She just covered it up with make-up and he never remembered the next morning. He proposed to her and she agreed. They had three children and she quit her job. She wasn't happy. She hated the children. She hated her husband. She blamed it all on him, the first boy she had ever loved, who had promised her so much and then left her. She was heartless and unlovable because of him. She was depressed because of him. She wished she hadn't lied to him. He should have died knowing that she didn't love him anymore. She sent the kids off to school, kissed her husband before he left for work, wrote a note and stuck it on her pillow, and decided to go for a walk. She kept walking, until she was so sore that she had to stop. She sat down on the side of a road she didn't recognize and smiled to herself, thinking that she had finally managed to get lost.

There was a bench that sat nestled beside the path of a park. It ran like a line created at the stroke of a pen by the hand of a heart with artistic spirits. A love not easily made. The bench sat immovable under the branches of a thick oak tree. That no matter what time of day, time of month, or time of year, the shade provided was never penetrated by any glow of sunlight. And on that park bench, under that mysterious oak; sat a girl. I wearily admired that girl from a distance. Like the way the moon admires the sun. She dug her eyes into her sketch pad paper and buried herself in the thick and thin growing lines of her imagination that shone through her blank canvas. Making pictures of exquisite designs, dream catchers, and things kindled that only her heart will ever recognize. Every now and then she would donate a few moments to look up and notice the world around her and in those few seconds I was able to distinguish the minute characteristics about her that ran a thread through my melting heart. The way her gentle brown eyes reflected light like a still pool of water in a river bank, surrounded by misty mountains and brown barked trees that lined the shoreline. Maybe in that forest I could find the heart I’ve been striving for. With her elbow propped on her knee, she held her chin and studied the lives before her. Her hair danced with the wind and every curl told a story of love and adventure still yet to be translated. It parted like curtains upon a stage to reveal a production with the most gorgeous performer I’ve ever seen. I never knew this girl. I never thought I would. After days past her beauty only grew and the drum in my chest would only beat faster, pushing my love-struck blood into every crevice my veins met. One day, like no other, a rope snapped on my ankle and I broke free from that spot on my park bench. She wore a long red skirt that hung all the way down her soft thin legs and met her feet, with designs like red explosions that mimicked the passion that poked holes into my heart and throat. Her glorious hair braided and her tiny fingers at work in her art. I approached, shaking from the weight of fear and the obstacle of beauty, but I walked to meet her. Her eyes gently rose to mine. A smile grabbed my hope and sat me down. On that park bench sat a girl. On that park bench sat a boy. And on that day like no other. The moon met the sun. And the sun touched that bench and that shade was broken.

The Adventures of Mr. Paycheck So, I know a guy. He’s a pretty good guy, but lately something just doesn’t seem right. His name is Mr. Paycheck. He comes to see me pretty regularly and is faithful about it too. But he never stays too long. Quite frankly, he’s a bit of a flake. Also, I think he steals from me. He brings a gift of cash every time he comes over. He’s a bit stingy though. It seems that his generous gifts are directly related to how long I am gone from my house. I’ve almost developed a system to calculate just how much he will bring on his next visit, but I think this is where he flimflams me. After I do my calculations, I am joyous. “He’s bringing HOW much this time?,” I think to myself… Excited, I travel to his place of origin to pick him up and let our next adventure begin. But when I look at him, he seems thinner than I was expecting. He tells me that a feller by the name of Fica needed some immediate assistance and hell, Mr. Paycheck is a good guy so of course, he helps. “But what about the rest that I was expecting?” I ask. “Well, a Frenchman named Pension told me I should invest with him. And look! He gave me some beans too!” Ugh, alright Mr. Paycheck. What shall we do first? He said that he has some business to take care of before we go ANYWHERE and that I need to get my check book. More money? Why does he always need MY money? “Don’t worry,” he says “It’s for a good cause!” So I let the poor guy sign his name on a few of my checks. My side hurts a little, but it makes him feel important and grown-up. Alright! Let’s go buy some Snickers and tugboats! “Wait, wait, wait… I need to go to the grocery store.” I begin to cry because he ALWAYS spends just a LITTLE too much when he goes. But whatever, I’m used to it by now, so we go and get groceries. He gives them all to me, but if you ask me, the amount he buys SHOULD last until he comes again, but “F THAT!” he says. But my babies need shoes. AND WATER!!! “Maybe next time,” he mutters under his breath. By now he has paid off his friends and went grocery shopping (and gas about two times) I turn to tell him a funny secret. I knew it would happen, but didn’t think it would be so soon this time. He was gone. All that he left was a little note with my bank account number on it. The note reads as follows: Dearest Chadrick, “I know that we were supposed to have some good times on this visit, but I promise… NEXT time I come visit we can make your wildest dreams come true! Regretfully so, Mr. Paycheck P.S. I left some peanuts in your bank account just in case you get hungry before I return. Just plain though, the honey roasted ones you enjoy so were just too expensive.” And then it starts all over. I know he will return in 1 week and 6 days, and I look forward to it. So, I leave my house a little longer each time, hoping that he brings more with him on his next trip so that I can FINALLY go buy some Snickers and tugboats.

Muffled voices filled my ears as I slowly started to slip into consciousness. I felt my legs strapped tightly to what I could only assume to be a chair. My hands were bound behind my back, my movements completely restricted. "Are you sure we should keep him here? Don't you remember what he is capable of? Especially with what you've done to him," said an unknown voice accusingly. My eyes snapped open as I heard a coarse and familiar voice but I could only see a faint light, something was covering my head. "Of course I am. There's no way he can take all of us on though." It was at this point that I grew aware of the rustling of a number of bodies around me. Where am I? The item covering my head was removed, and as my eyes adjusted to the light, I counted 18 bodies. They must think I'm pretty dangerous, I thought to myself as a smirk took form across my face. "Well, well, well. It has been a while since we've seen each other, hasn't it Mr. Toigo," said the familiar voice with a smile. Why do I know that voice? I must have had a puzzled look to my face because he continued saying, “You don’t remember me, do you Mr. Toigo?” I shook my head, as I stared quizzically into his eyes. His grey eyes glared back at me with a look of resentment, yet his unshaven face held a devilish smile. “Then maybe you’ll remember my brother…” A picture was thrown onto my lap from one of the burly men to my right. A tall lamp stood directly behind him, and as I looked around the room I noticed it’s symmetrical design. Another lamp stood in the exact same spot to my left, just in its mirrored location. Four white walls surrounded the 18 burly bodies around the room. Two mahogany tables lie to either side approximately six feet away, and directly in front of me was the man with the familiar voice, sitting in a steel chair identical to my own. A single unmarked door stood behind him. I looked down at the picture to see a man I remembered instantly, and this recognition transported me to the past. My wife, with her beautiful brown hair and stunning figure, sat in the chair across from me as we waited for our names to be called, so that we could collect our beverages from the barista. “I’ve got an order for To-ee-go,” the barista exclaimed. I stood and picked up the hot tea and coffee my wife and I ordered. “It’s toy-go, but thank you,” I laughed as I left him a tip. “Why do they always get it wrong hun?” my wife asked with a giggle. I held the door for her as we exited the coffee shop. The city was busy, pedestrians walking every which way, and we stopped for a second before entering the onslaught of people. As we walked we consumed our drinks and slowly made our way back to my parents house to return to the family reunion they were holding. My eye caught the eye of a man in a grey hoodie and dark blue jeans before he entered into the alley just ahead of us. I moved my wife to the opposite side, away from the alley. As we passed by the alley, there seemed to be a sudden lull in the people surrounding us. He appeared and pulled out a gun. I felt my wife’s hand suddenly jolt away from mine as another man grabbed her and held a knife to her neck. We were being jumped. The first man pulled out a gun and directed it towards my head. “Don’t make this more difficult then it has to be, Mr. Toigo,” he stated with the same coarse voice as his brother. How did he know my name? “Release my wife, and I’ll do what you wish,” I said calmly. “Oh! So this is Mrs. Toigo?” he stated as he nonchalantly walked towards her, still aiming the pistol at me. “Let her go, now,” I said, my voice growing more tense. “Is that attitude in your voice?” Our fellow pedestrians engorged us in a circle about 40 feet in diameter, too afraid to move closer. He pointed the gun at my wife, and she gave a slight exhale of exasperation. My body stiffened with anger at the thought of somebody threatening my wife, my fists clenching in rage. “Let her go now you son of a bitch,” my voice stern and forceful. “I don’t think I wi-“ he started before I grabbed his shirt and threw him into the alleyway. The gun clanged against the ground as it fell out of his hands. The man holding my wife just stood in shock as I threw my fist into his jaw, breaking it instantly. As he lie writhing in pain on the cement, I stomped my boot into his throat. “Run!” I yell to my wife. She obliged and made a mad dash into the crowd. The man I threw into the alley had regained his footing, and charged at me as he drew a knife from inside his jacket. As he slashed diagonally at me, I brought my forearm to his, abruptly stopping its progress. In one quick movement, I threw my entire body up under his arm, flipping his body over mine and directly onto the ground. I jumped on top of him and began punching furiously, blood splattering with each moment of contact. He lifted his pelvis into the air, knocking me off balance as he drove the knife into my thigh. I grunted as it entered my leg, but I still managed to regain my balance, and tear the knife from my thigh before throwing it across the sidewalk. I raised to my feet and grabbed the breast of his hoodie, seizing him into the air, leaving his feet dangling inches from the ground. I back-peddled into the alley, before quickly spinning and launching the man into the nearby dumpster. I backed into a parking meter as I watched the man attempt to regain his footing, before stumbling back onto the ground. I looked at his companion who was still unconscious on the ground. I heard a gasp from the crowd and my eyes darted back to my attacker as he aimed and fired his pistol. I felt the bullet enter my abdomen, but instead of toppling over in pain, I merely yelled as I felt an extreme amount of adrenaline course through my body. My body seemed to react on its own, turning towards the parking meter. With super-human strength I ripped it from the ground and threw it like a javelin directly at the man’s chest. I heard bones crack and saw blood spew from his mouth, but I wasn’t finished with him yet. He attempted to crawl away, but to no avail, as I walked towards him, my veins pulsing with adrenaline. My hands grasped the parking meter as I brought it down upon his back. Both his spine and the parking meter shattered and I could all but see him struggling just to stay alive, but he threatened my wife. I wasn’t done with him yet. I threw away my weapon, and flipped my attacker over so that his anterior faced me. My hand grabbed his face, and lifted him into the air easily with my newfound strength. His face expressed that he was clearly struggling just to breath, but all I just said with a forceful tone, “I warned you, you son of a bitch.” With all of my strength I smashed his head into the wall, and upon impact I felt his skull crush in my hands. He was gone. “Yes I remember your brother,” I said to the man after the flashback ended.

Here's another piece I wrote after watching a woman remember what it was like to be a girl again while dancing at a local bar. She rhythmically popped her hips with the precision of a saute pan in the hands of a master chef. Like a lizard slithering slowly across the pavement, her shoulders and hips swung side-to-side. No sign of tension or stress constrained her, to watch her was to feel young again. She was a tempest of movement and a swell of passion. Barefoot and exposed, her blue jean shorts and tiny green shirt with a small faded emblem of white caressed her body gently as they waved, revealing every curve and accentuating every muscle. She threw her arms up, palms out as a swan, showing off her elegant shape in this new, thin, and stretched out form. A goddess ready to be worshiped. She no longer knew the meaning of the words restraint, punishment, or pain. She is revealed for an instant as a gleam of sunlight reflecting off clean, ripe fruit. Only the sense of touch can awaken her from this trance. The teasing touch of pleasure as the tips of fingers glide up and down her hips, around her back, and across her abdomen. A memory comes back to her, a memory buried deep within her barbaric soul. As she fights frivolously against this feeling, she lays her trust in those gentle hands. She is no longer hers. Their hips lock in a steady rhythmic motion and she is freed from the thought of movement and allowed to drift deep within her mind, into the recesses between the folds of who she, into who she was. Their eyes scan over each other bodies, not like lovers trading pain for comfort, but like two predators inspecting their prey. He moves his hands up and down her thighs and around her waist. One hand sails across from her mid thigh and lingers. Painfully they kiss in mutual surrender. Not even holy intervention can stop them now along the path of sorrow and regret as become both victim and villain, and love is sacrificed.

I just found this brilliant piece of fan fiction that I wrote when I was 12. It was intended to take place immediately after the second TMNT movie. EDIT: Fixed formatting. Also worth noting that any and all spelling and grammar mistakes are unchanged from the original. On September 3, 1994, the Turtles sat in their lair wondering what to do. Except for Michealangelo. He was playing Super Nintendo. Leonardo said,”Let’s order ten pizzas!” “Great idea,”yelled Mikey, and paused his game. Mikey ran to the telephone. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number. “Uh, I would like ten pizzas. And no anchovies” said Mikey. Splinter, the master, told Mikey to be quiet. Mikey said,”Shucks. I like annoying the pizza boy.” He went back to his game. They got their pizza 40 seconds late, so they didn’t pay full price. The pizza boy said, “I gotta get a new route.” All of a sudden, the lights in the lair went out. Mikey said, “Duhhhh, who put the lights out?” Leo said, “Alert! Alert! Total light failure!” Raph said, “Idiodic light bulb!” Splinter said,”Calm down, buttheads!” Mikey said,”Never fear! Michealangelo is here!” “Dummy,”said Leo. Raph said,”Cut it out you guys. Get serious.” “OK!”said Don. “Dumbos!”said Mikey. “Enough already,”said Raph. “Fine! I was just tryin’ to have some fun. Do you mind?” “No. Not really,”said Raph. “Then why are you telling me to be quiet?”asked Mikey. “Beats the heck out of me,”said Raph. “Smart aleck,”said Mikey. Don was listening the whole time. “Be quiet! All three of you,”he said. Then they ate their pizza. They all liked it. When they were slicing it, one piece landed on Splinter’s head. He was not too happy about that. Leo said,”Ooops!” Mikey thought that was funny. Splinter said, “Mich-eal-an-ga-lo!” “Oh, brother,” said Mikey. “I am not your brother! I am your master!” yelled Splinter. “Oh, no. Just great. Every time I say that, he starts screeching!” “I am not screeching! I am screaming!” hollered Splinter. “You guys make me sick,” muttered Don. Then Don got a brilliant idea. “I think I’ll build a time machine! Doesn’t that sound like a great idea?” “Yeah,” said the rest of the turtles. “Sure.” “You don’t believe me? Well I’ll show you!” And with that he stomped off to build his wacky creation. He worked on the machine for about a week, then declared it finished. “How would you like to see the one, the only, Albert Einstien?” asked Don triumphantly. “If you can get this pile of junk to work, sure,” said Raph. Don mumbled an answer, but no one heard him, because he had flipped the switch on the machine. It made a LOT of noise. There was a puff of smoke and a voice said,”E=MC2!” ” I T ’ S E I N S T I E N ! ! HHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLP! HE SCARES ME!” screamed Splinter. “Why?” asked Leo calmly. “HE HAS A BIG NOSE!!” “So?” “When he sneezes, which is a lot, all the snot that’s in that big nose of his goes all over the place!” “That’s it! I will not take insults from a four foot, smelly, flea-infested rat! I’m outta here!” exclaimed Einstien. He flipped the switch on the machine and in another puff of smoke, he was gone. “Thanks, Splinter,” muttered Raph. “Now I can happily go on with my life knowing my ninja master is scared of Einstien.” “Shut your yap. I am not scared of Einstien. He is not scared of me either, which is bad, because I know that I can beat him up, but he does not know that I can, but he does know that I know that he knows that I’m a ninja.” “You lost me,” said Leo. “Then I will repeat myself,” said Splinter. “Shut your yap. I am not scared of Ein…..” “Okay, okay! We get the point!” said Don. Meanwhile, Michelangelo was inspecting the wall socket. There was a bright flash, and Mike disappeared. “Hey! Where’d Mikey go?” asked Leo. “Uh-oh,” said Don. I left the time machine on! Mikey just time traveled!” * * * “OW!” Michealangelo landed in the pit with a thud. He had just been walking around when the ground gave away under him. Now he was lying in a snake-infested pit somewhere in a forest. He climbed out of the pit and lokked around. He started walking. He didn’t know or care where he was going. Pretty soon, he came to a road. He knew where he was now. He recognized the sewer hole leading to the lair. He clambered down and headed toward the lair. As he stepped inside, everyone turned to look at him: Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, Albert Einstien, and most frightingly of all, Michealangelo. He was looking at himself. Albert Einstien left by way of the time machine. Then there was a bright flash, and a few minutes later, Michealangelo walked in. There were two Michealangelos again. But after that, every five minutes another Mikey would walk in. Before long, the lair couldn’t hold anymore, but Michealangelo just kept coming. “I know what we have to do: we have to find the first Michealangelo to time travel, send him back, and then every five minutes, another Michealangelo will go back to his proper time!” Don yelled over the confusion. “Go for it!” hollered Leo. “I can’t take much more of this!” So Don went around asking all the Michealangelos, “How many Michealangelos were in the lair when you got here?” Finally, one said that there was only one. Don sent him back, and just as he had predicted, every five minutes, another Mikey disappeared. Except for one. He stayed. “Cowabunga!!!!!” screamed Splinter. “Cowabunga!!!!!” echoed the turtles as they raised thier hands in a group high five.

“Do you really think he’s in there?” I shouted to Mkente as I unsaddled my bag. “I believe so,” he said. “If you’re going to catch the wild Floofapootamus, he will be in here.” “Good,” I said as I ventured into the dark cave. There were bats hanging on the ceiling, and one swooped down inches away from my face, looking more like a flying goblin then a bat. His face was gnarled and wicked, and he shrieked like nails on a chalkboard. Now my heart began to pound wildly, and I knew this trip would not be easy. Unfortunately, I had no choice, for it was my destiny to meet the wild Floofapootamus. After about ten minutes of hiking through the forest of stalagmites, we came across the river of the Watamug. Legend has it that the vicious Watamug roams these shallow waters, and the only way to protect yourself from it is to shoot with an arrow. This arrow has to be covered in snake venom and has to pierce the Watamug through the nose. If you fail, you will be torn to shreds. If you succeed, the arrow will exit the nose encased in solid gold, and you will be allowed to pass. I took a poisoned arrow with me just in case, but Mkente thought I was being superstitious. Right as I loaded my arrow, a noise came from down the river. It sounded like gravel being crushed into pieces, and was so hideous I covered my ears. As I looked up from my loaded bow, I saw the most hideous thing in the world. It looked like a giant catfish walking on hairy spider legs, 14 of them to be exact. Its snout was only about 1 foot, so I would have to aim well from 10 meters away, where I was. The Watamug raised its upper body like a cobra raises its head, and hissed at me. Mkente screamed as this happened, and the Watamug turned to see where the noise had come from. I knew this was my only chance. I fired at his nose and the arrow went right through, coming out the other side as yellow as the sun. The Watamug collapsed, and I yanked the arrow from its head. The arrow was at least 4 pounds heavier than it had been before, and I was sure it would be worth thousands. I stuffed it into my backpack as Mkente and I leaped across the glistening creek, still shaking from our recent encounter. “I have a question for you,” Mkente said. “And?” I replied. “Why are we going all this way just to see a Floofapootamus?” he questioned. “I need to catch this Floofapootamus. It’s my destiny,” I answered. “I’m sure you know the legend of the Floofapootamus,” I said as we winded our way through the damp, rocky tunnels. “Of course,” said Mkente. “Whoever severs its horn and plays it will be able to ask for anything, and it will be given to them by the gods of wisdom. “Yes!” I said. “And I need something very important, for I believe it will give me limitless power.” “What is it?” replied Mkente. “I can’t tell you, for then I won’t be able to receive it.” I said. All of a sudden a large rocky alter rose from the ground with a thunder-like rumble and made a loud bang as it clicked into place. “ARE YOU HERE TO SEE THE FLOOFAPOOTAMUS?” it boomed. “Um…yes.” I said. “I am on a mission to ask the gods the ultimate question.” “OKAY, BUT FIRST YOU MUST PROVE YOU ARE WORTHY AND COMMITED. PLACE THE GOLDEN ARROW ON THE ALTER AS PENNANCE TO THE GODS,” it echoed. “No way!” yelled Mkente. “That’s got to be worth at least $10,000!” “WOULD YOU LIKE TO QUESTION THE GODS, OR HAVE MONEY?” “Let’s just give him the arrow,” I said as I handed it over. “GOOD,” the voice boomed. “YOU ARE WORTHY.” The alter then descended back through the floor of the cave and disappeared as soon as it had come. Mkente and I continued on, unsure of what we would encounter next in this mysterious cave. We were now tired, hungry, and out of weapons. We found an outcropping on the wall by which we could put our tent, so we decided to set up camp for the night. We straggled to build our tent lit by only a torch, and when we were finished we fell asleep immediately. It had been a long, adventurous day. I woke up to the shrill noise of a scream. I jumped into the air immediately and looked around our small canvas tent. Mkente wasn’t there. “Mkente! Mkente! Where are you?” I screamed as I unzipped the tent and looked Around. I heard another scream, this time coming from about thirty feet up the path. I ran all the way as fast as I could only to find something horrific-Mkente dangling by one hand on the edge of a humongous pit in the floor. “Mkente! Are you okay?” I questioned as I pulled him up from the edge of the pit. “Yea, I’m fine,” He said in his peculiar, thick accent. “I have no idea what happened. One second I was looking around looking for firewood, the next I’m hanging for my life.” “I’m just glad no one got hurt,” I said. “However, I have no idea how we’re going to cross that pit,” I explained to Mkente. “I wonder how deep it is,” he replied. Then, suddenly, a slimy tentacle slithered out of the pit. “Wha…? What is that?” said Mkente shakily as more and more of the hideous creature rose out. “I have no idea,’ I said. “But it doesn’t look good.” Just as I said this the rest of the creature crawled out. It was a cuddly teddy bear-with 40 foot long tentacles. “It’s the Floofapootamus!” I screamed as I drew my sword. Its single horn stood erect 10 feet in the air, and I had no idea how I was going to cut it off. The Floofapootamus leaned over and growled at me, obviously furious that I had interrupted its sleep. It lashed a tentacle out at Mkente, and he was hurled 40 feet where he landed with a crash in a pile of bones. It leaned over again, this time to get a better look at its new enemies. I realized this was my chance. I ran full speed to the edge of the pit…and jumped. I leapt as high as I could and latched on to the stuffed animal’s leg. It howled a yell that was the scariest thing I had ever heard, and then started trying to shake me off. Unfortunately for the Floofapootamus, I was already hacking away at its horn. It opened its mouth and I gazed into a hideous cavern spiked with crooked teeth, ready to eat me at any moment. Just then I tore off its horn, but the weight of it in my hands threw me into the beast’s tentacle, which promptly threw me into the skeleton pit where Mkente was lying unconscious. I tried to shake him awake, and he began to come to. However, the Floofapootamus was reaching one of its tentacles out at us. I knew what I had to do. I propped the gigantic horn against a stalagmite and blew as hard as I could. YMCA by the Village people then began blaring from the opposite side and the Floofapootamus froze, its eyes glowing bright green. In a deep voice it moaned, “What do you ask of me?” I knew exactly what to say. “With my one wish, I demand a sitar.” “What, are you crazy!” shouted Mkente. “You could have anything, and you think a sitar will give you limitless power!” “Just wait!” I yelled. A sitar began to materialize in my hands, and I just basked in the joy of the moment for a minute. I was living my destiny. The Floofapootamus was beginning to recede back into its hole, but I strummed a Rajastan folk song on the Indian instrument. The Floofapootamus instantly rose again, this time its eyes gold. “You are wise,” it said. “And clearly worthy. You have discovered my secret, and I am now at your command” As Mkente stared in awe, I climbed on top of the beast’s back. “To McDonalds!” I yelled as the beast lumbered out of the cave, leaving Mkente behind. “Wait!” he yelled. “You can’t leave me!” “Yes, in fact I can,” I stated. “You doubted the magic of the sitar,” I proclaimed as we went off to get Happy Meals.

A sharp pain rose through my spine. Everything turned black. I heard a beep. It sounded like an announcement beep at an airport. Then the darkness became brighter. It was like a door was slowly opening. The contrast made it too hard to see, at first. I could make out a figure hovering over my head. Lights hung on the ceiling. I tried to move my ligaments but I was paralyzed. My mouth would not move. My eyes adjusted and slowly I could see color. Not just the colors of our world either. There was an array of colors too difficult to describe. It was beautiful. I could hear the people talking but lips did not move. They were speaking English. This was not what fascinated me, though. It was the sounds of their voices. They ranged from tones deeper than the brown noise to the screeching pitch of a dog whistle. And I could hear it all. Where was I? What happened? I heard voices soon answering these questions. I was back in reality. I had just “died”, they said. Terrified, I wanted to scream and ask this man above me what is going on. No sound arose from my lips. I heard a voice again telling me to calm down. I am talking to you, it said. The man pointed to himself. Don’t you remember, he said, this is how we communicate in the real world. I did not remember at all. I did not know this place. The man, reading my mind again, turned to a woman that had come over to where I was laying. I heard the muffled sounds of their thoughts. It was as though I knew they were communicating, but so that I could not understand a word of what they were saying. Her facial expression said enough, though. There was obviously something not right. The man then turned to me and asked if I could move. I shook my head. He laughed and I realized how foolish that was. He held my hand and told me to squeeze. The force I exerted was non-existent. He reached over and took up a syringe. He injected me with some sort of liquid and told me to squeeze again. I obviously did not know my strength and could see his face cringe with pain from the pressure. I quickly released and could move my whole body again. I sat up and looked around. I was in a large room. It was filled with these sort of tanning beds. Most of them were closed, but I could see one or two people getting ready to lie down. Before I could ask where I was, I was jerked to my feet by the man and the woman. They quickly escorted me out of the room into a hallway. This hallway ended with a door which had the word exit written above it. I was then put into the 3rd door on the right. Was I going insane? What drugs did I take? So many questions were unanswered. I could remember my whole past life until the moment right before I awoke. What had happened in that time? The two put strapped me down into a chair. They attached wires to me and left. I was alone. Suddenly the wires began pulsing some sort of energy through them. What are they doing? The pair came back into the room with very worried looks on their faces. Without communicating with me, they took me again and lead me into another hallway. It was the 2nd left and then the 5th door on the right. I could see some sort of bed and a desk in the room. Even though this world was filled with beautiful colors, this room was painted all white. The two left the room and locked the door. It seemed like a lifetime that I sat there without a clue what was happening. I must have told myself to wake up at least a hundred times. Oddly enough, hunger was never a problem. Thirst didn’t arouse either. The door finally unlocked and the man came in. He looked afraid of me. He stayed at a distance and then began telling his story. “You have just awoken from what you came to know as life. All it really was, was something you may call a class. It is how we, in this world, teach basic human interaction and morals. I know this seems like it is all fake. I know you do not believe me right now. Soon, though, you will also make these facts your own truths. This is when we will show you the beauties of this world. I guess, from the life your parents had chosen for you to learn, you will think of this as heaven or hell right now. I can assure you though, it is neither. This is true existence. Everything you have seen up to this point was only a simulation, a video game, if you will. We cannot let you run around our world believing it isn’t real which is why we must lock you up until you accept this fact. You will not be able to lie to us since we can read your mind. Just accept this ad we can all move on.” I believed no word of it. How could I? I was just told that I had “died”. This could in no way be the afterlife. I didn’t even believe in the afterlife. No, this must just be a bad dream. This has to be something in my mind that I have just…made up. The man obviously could hear what I was thinking. He just left the room shaking his head. The door was locked and I was alone. Or so I thought. After a while, the walls began talking. They were telling me that I had to accept that this is real. The world I had loved so much was all fake. I had been lied to for 87 years. Given, I did not look 87 anymore. I looked more like I was 25 but this could easily be done by my mind. The walls kept talking though. They rebutted everything I thought as though they could hear it. Was this all some government experiment of some new drug? What have I gotten into? I need to get out. I need to escape. I have to go back to my family. I want to see my granddaughter Lindsey again. She is so beautiful. I wonder if she is thinking of me. Are they currently at my funeral? No, the walls said, they don’t exist. They never did. They were just there to teach you love, compassion, and trust. I grew furious with these walls. I wanted them dead. But they are dead. Aren’t they? I rammed into them with all my might. They looked hard but were made of some type of rubber. I bounced right off. I could hear the walls laughing at me. They began taunting me. The door, I thought. I could break it down with the desk. As soon as I thought this, the desk disappeared into the ground. This room heard everything I thought. I needed a way out, quick. I was feeling like I was going mad. Am I mad? “Yes,” the walls replied. They began to chant it together. “Yes, yes, yes.” An idea came to mind. I knew the room could hear it, but it was there anyways. I would wait until that man came into the room again and then run out of here as fast as I could. I had remembered the way from the moment I was put into that hallway. This could work, I thought. “It will never work. You are a crazy lunatic and will never escape this place,” the walls cheered. I sat down on the ground and waited. I waited and waited. The walls kept saying words to bring me into madness. I did not listen. I did not think either. I was completely focused on the door handle. Days seemed to pass but I had not moved a muscle. Finally, slight movement of the handle. My hands began trembling. I was filled with more excitement than when my first child appeared in the world. The REAL world. The door was now ajar. I could see a grin on the man's face as his body crept through the door. The door was halfway open when I decided it was now or never. I jumped up and made a break for it. The man was shocked by the sudden movement. I knocked him to the ground and ran into the hallway. I ran to the right. I passed the 1st door. Then the 2nd. I could see the hallway that would lead to the exit. The doors behind me were opening as people came running after me. I rounded the corner and could see the exit sign. I was almost there. I grabbed the door handle and flung the door open. Without hesitation, I jumped into freedom. Freedom, as it seemed, was a gigantic drop into nothingness. Darkness surrounded me. Rushing air did as well. I felt like I was skydiving into the unknown… A sharp pain rose through my spine. Everything turned black. There was a beep. It sounded like there was an announcement at an airport. Then the darkness became brighter. It was like a door was slowly opening. The contrast made it too hard to see, at first. I could make out a figure hovering over my head. Not again, I thought. The man looked at me with a smile and I heard, “Yes, Again.

Don't ask me to help you fix your car. I will try, but I'll end up making it worse. Oh, you handed me a vaguely circular part? There's a vaguely circular hole! I can do this! It's supposed to spark, right? There's supposed to be the sound of screaming metal, right? Don't worry, I'll help you pay for the repair, though I think the thousand dollar payment should be your punishment for asking me to help. Don't ask me to watch your baby. I don't mind being around them for an hour because sometimes they aren't too annoying and can actually be a little cute, but any longer than that is going to end badly. I am missing that maternity instinct that some women claim to have. I've seen women hear a child cry and know exactly what they need. Ask one of them, because the first time your baby starts boo-hooing, I'm going to just put some headphones on and drown it out. And changing diapers? Oh, you're funny. Having child services knock on your door is just what you need, since you, for some reason, asked me to help. Don't ask me to help you move. I'm lazy. I don't own a truck, or even a car for that matter, and I can't guarantee that I won't get bored and rummage through some of your things, especially if it has interesting labels like, "party favors" or "for the bedroom". I'll look, expect to find colorful hats or blankets and instead take a picture of your various toys and lord it over you for the next five years. Do you want that? No. But that's what'll happen if you ask me to help. Don't ask me to give you relationship advice. 9 times out of 10, I'll tell you to break up with your partner, either because I'm jealous that you're in a happy relationship or because I want you to be in a happy relationship with me. I mean, c'mon, we've been friends way longer than you've known her. And I know - okay *think* - that you used to like me. Besides, she's never seen Star Wars and thinks superheros are for children! I should tell her about that time you dressed up as Iron Man. I should tell her how many hours you play video games. I'll ruin your relationship, if you ask me for help. Don't ask me to be your friend. I know my snappy retorts and sense of humor may click with you, and I know we have a lot of the same interests, but I don't do well with people. I can't keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself. I drink too much and do stupid things. I'm sober and do stupid things. I think your misfortune is hilarious because it makes me forget my own. But I can't keep myself away from people. I catch a hint of friendliness and latch on like a parasite. I won't go away until you've physically ripped me off and tossed me in the trash. And I'm tired of getting up and dusting myself off and vowing to change, because I never do. So don't ask me.

Written in 2009, this is my modernised, fractured version of the classic tale, Beauty and the Beast. It has four main parts, each told from the four main characters, and a prologue and an epilogue which bookend the main storyline with a fairy tale I put together to go along with the centre stories. Beauty takes the shape of Lily, a seven year old girl who has a special form of cancer, that is taking the place of the Beast. Uncle Albert plays the role of the Knight in the Fairy Tale sense. Cousin Belinda and Aunt Cassie each play a special part - each of them have a fragment of the role of the cancer/Beast, while also taking on the typical role of the jealous step-sibling and step-mother, found in fairy tales. Just follow the links through to the next section.

Started writing this a couple of years ago when I was at a loose end. Got to about 30,000 words, but I stopped because I was having trouble making any headway. Anyway, I looked back at it recently and honestly couldn't work out if I liked it, or if I just subconciously don't want to condemn something I spent a while on. If you could let me know what you all think, I'd be really grateful. Excerpt from the beginning follows: Pinnacle of engineering! The great shelter! The new paradigm for a new world! The enthusiastic slogans painted seemingly across the whole skyline do little to detract from the persistent mediocrity of the average office building. Of course, perhaps this is an abnormality in itself; as my tutors were always quick to remind me, The City is exceptional in its routine. Somehow, the clear propaganda fails to ring true when the wondrous marvel of modern social science becomes nothing more than a background, only remarkable in its consistency. As always, I reflect upon this as I step toward the shining doors and enter my office; stopping only briefly for a retinal scan, I soon find myself in the lift gliding towards the thirty-seventh floor, building #217. Looking across the skyline from the clear lift tube, I can see across the supposed metropolis, the white towers standing proud against the intensity of the blue sky. Beneath me, a vast grid of streets and tracks stretches out, connecting every building. I can still make out the snaky forms of the giant metro transport carriages, shooting from place to place. The lift stops; my floor. The quiet air of careful concentration makes a noticeable contrast from the bustle of activity and life outside. I have a good ten minutes until the official address; time enough to log in. My office retains a comforting familiarity despite, or maybe because of, the spartan surroundings. Like the fevered imaginings of a 60s futurologist, a clear white desk and bare walls offer no distraction from the blinking tablet screen suspended on a gunmetal arm above. The far wall of my office consists entirely of a huge, crystal clear window, offering pleasant views of The City. On a clear day, the view extends almost as far as the edge of the business district. After the customary security check, a burst of mediocre music from the speakers announces the start of the morning address. Sighing, I leave, bound for the conference hall. Another bloody film. Every day it’s the same thing, a stern reminder of what we have, and how supposedly lucky we are to have it. The City, the announcer explains, is the one true way of existing! The Future! All those who protest against, it is stated, are not only wrong, but endanger the very future of our existence! As always, I nod at the appropriate moments, and give the standard few seconds’ applause at the end. As a single entity, we stand to acknowledge the efforts of those who took part in its construction, and to hear a blaringly rousing composition. We are dismissed; I wander back towards my office. The blinking terminal invites me back to the monotony of the day. **EDIT:** altered some stuff based on kybarnet's feedback.

I don’t know what it is about the rain. It is so hard to pin point what emotion exactly that I tie to it. They say that when it rains, it is actually God’s tears falling down from heaven: a remembrance of the destruction that fell down in the time of Noah and his great arc. His tears fall on the planet to wash away the sin, the pain, and the grievances of the past. Wash them away and bring about new life, a fresh start… But what have ‘they’ ever really known. I just like the rain is all: its sound; its energy; its beauty. And it’s smell… Again, I say with a slight chuckle, they say that it is a person’s sense of smell that has a way of triggering ones memory. ‘They’ say a lot of things. But I guess if you say enough, you’re bound to be right one of those times. Thirty-six years of marriage… There was a lot of rain drops in those thirty-six years. Some of the happiest times in my life with him… and some of the darkest… Thirty-six years of roses. Thirty-six years of sunsets and sunrises. Thirty-six years of puddles and rainbows. Thirty-six years of lies, secrets, and affairs… It was raining so hard the first day we met. We were just kids then, it was so long ago. It was impossible to think that back then he’d change my life for as long as he did. I’ll never forget… Out of the blue one day he asked me in class to go to the park with him. He said with that stupid grin on his face, the one were his eyes smile just as wide as he does. We walked out, following the path. Awkwardly poking around at conversation, neither of us knowing quite what to say to the other. Neither of us was ever any good at small talk. He grabbed my hand, and nearly pulled my arm off as he shifted direction off the path. We stumbled through the brush and into a small clearing, a meadow. We just stood there staring at each other. Every time I tried to ask what he was doing or planning he just smiled and pressed his hand gently to my lips to get me to stop talking. Finally he let out a big sigh, leaned back and breathed deep through his nose. Seconds later the skies opened up and it just started pouring buckets. I shrieked and he just laughed that careless stupid chuckle of his… Years later, some stupid fight or another that we had, and I was storming out of his house. Stomping my feet hard in the mud of his dirt driveway. So furious and so angry that I didn’t even notice it was raining. So irate that those drops of water had to be turning into steam as they hit. I made it half way down the driveway before I turned around to see if that stupid jerk even cared. He stood there, just off his porch with his arms tilted back, face to the sky… Just letting the rain hit him in the face. Couldn’t tell anymore if there were tears in his eyes or just rain drops. Just stood there, face contorted as if someone had stabbed him, letting the rain try to just wash it all away. Damn fool was going to catch cold and get sick. But there was no way I was going to let him win. No way I was walking back to him, not this time… I was so sure of myself then and there… But I am a sucker for his smile… Our wedding day. I was so nervous, so worried. ‘They’ say that true love lasts forever, but, like I said, I never trusted ‘them’. What if it wasn’t true love? What if it was just him and me being stupid, and young… I was so worried, so full of doubts I never even made it to the church. He found me about 10 minutes after the wedding was spose to have started. I was just standing there, in my dress, in our meadow. He knew exactly where to look. Rain had already blown in from the south-east. ‘They’ say that’s bad luck on your wedding day… but what have ‘they’ ever known… Three years later, we were walking. He was going on and on about work. I was so sad but so happy at the same time. We’d turned into ‘that’ couple. Just existing in each other’s lives without really existing for each other anymore. But that was going to change… things were going to be so wonderful again… I reached over and grabbed his hand. I had to tell him. I stopped walking and nearly pulled his arm off to get him to take notice… It just started to rain and I finally spit it out. “I am pregnant.” Panic, fear, anger, confusion, and tears. His face changed so many different emotions and colors before he just smiled that big dopey smile of his. He tilted his head back and just screamed for joy and let the rain wash away his tears and his scared emotions. We were going to be a family… I slammed the door shut on the taxi. Told the driver to take me home, away from the hotel. He wouldn’t have to know. He wouldn’t ever find out about Patrick. Why would he need to know? I mean, he wouldn’t understand how it kills me each night to go home and sit by him in silence. He didn’t look at me anymore. We didn’t speak. Just awkwardly poked around at conversation. We were never good at small talk… I had to reassure the taxi driver that it was ok to let me out at the top of the road. Even he was worried about me being out this late in the middle of a storm… I just walked down our road to our driveway. Walked in the rain letting it wash the anger and heart ache from me. But I didn’t expect to see our porch light on. I didn’t expect to see him standing there holding our little Katie… My God what have we become… This was it, I said to myself. Screaming angry, violent… I threw the whole damn dresser drawer out the window. The bastard. That stupid bastard. Him and that stupid whore of his. Veronica! I spat as I said her name. The stupid bastard… He stood there shouting back up at the bedroom. Stood there in the rain… That damn bastard! His shirts and ties fell to the ground like confetti. It was so over… but, I am always a sucker for his smile… The wind picked up and sent the rain crashing into the hospital window. The doctor said it was cancer. Said it was terminal. This time, he said, it was time to say good bye. My God, I don’t wanna leave him… I held his hand. Told him it would be ok. I couldn’t stop crying. He laughed his stupid dopey laugh and said that wasn’t very reassuring. Tears streaming down his face and he smiled that stupid little smile of his. The one were even his eyes smile. “I love you.” He said. “I am so sorry…” I said. I just held his hand as he left… Thirty-six years of roses. Thirty-six years of sunsets and sunrises. Thirty-six years of puddles and rainbows. Thirty-six years of lies, secrets, and affairs… Thirty-six years of being together. Thirty-six years of love, hate, and everything in-between. Thirty-six years of family. Thirty-six years of rain drops… ‘They’ said it wouldn’t last. ‘They’ said we wouldn’t make it work.

Hello, I am the Tin man. I may not seem like much, just a pile of junk... but do you ever wonder what these folds of scrap hide? In this case, they hide a myriad of horrors and healing. I may not seem like much, but I have stories. I have memories, flaws gained over time. Just like a tree, I may seem inconspicuous and indifferent, but open me up and the rings of time and their scars show. I may not seem like much, but I am me, and to me, that's the world, because it's all I know. I may not seem like much, but I have much to share. A while back, there was a storm. Now, this wasn't a scary storm, where the sky is dark and by default you feel dark as well. This was a storm where the rain falls warm, and the sun is still shining, and the rainbows are out, beckoning your smile to come and play. This was a shower where the drops hit the warm cement and you breathe in a scent that is fresh and suffocatingly sweet at the same time. This storm was beautiful and I desired to be a part of it. A corner of my mind told me this wasn't safe, but the rest of me told me to live for the moment, to enjoy life as it comes, and that opportunities never knock twice, so you may as well invite it in. This storm called to me and me alone, for I was all it desired, and all I desired was it. I danced, I sang, I breathed, and I loved every minute of it. There were moments where I would trip up, or sing a sour note, but the gorgeous storm would always continue to embrace me in it's warm shower and love me for my mistakes. I was grateful for that. Little did I notice an approaching cloud. The sky was darkening, and the storm was getting sadder. Little did I see the cloud's foul intents. All I knew was that this storm was a source of joy for me, and who was I to stop this cloud from feeling this joy too? The cloud inched it's way into the waltz the storm and I shared, and eventually the cloud blocked out all light, and snuffed the beauty of the storm. Overnight the storm became something I worried about... the once attractive storm became cold, and eventually shunned me. I wept. For a time I died. Not in a literal sense, where one stops breathing, stops functioning physically, and goes cold and rigid in the body. I died in a much more effective way, where one stops feeling, for the pain is so monumental, it blocks out all senses altogether. I died in a way where one stops functioning spiritually, because they simply don't want to. I became cold and rigid in the soul. I rusted, and eventually, even when I wanted to move, I couldn't. Eventually, I allowed my dear friend time to help me, to oil my joints, to bring me back to life. And as I'm slowly revived by time and it's gentle hands, the rust falls away in gentle flecks that decorate the ground, breadcrumbs left behind, showing where I've been and the lessons I've learned. And while time's remedy is working, I can never be good as new. Just like the tree, the rings of time and gashes in my skin will never disappear, simply be hidden by more. And I will never regret these marks, because they are who I am. I am me, and to me, that's the world, because it's all I know.

If you haven't read part 1 of Adrenaline, I would suggest you do so, as it may aid you in understanding the story as it unfolds. If you haven't read it, here's the . “Yes I remember your brother,” I said to the man as the flashback ended. "I crushed his skull against a wall a few days ago." "Why yes. It was difficult to identify him," he said calmly. "It's a shame too, he didn't want to harm you. He was simply trying to... persuade you." "Persuade me? Persuade me into doing what?" I asked, thoroughly confused by his statement. "What is the name of the company you own?" his coarse voice rasped back at me. *Why does that matter?* I thought to myself, before uttering the words, "Victory Enterprises" "Ah yes, Victory Enterprises, 'Success comes with Victory'. Catchy motto don't you think?" he said mockingly. "Your company is exactly the problem, Mr. Toigo. It *is* successful. Weren't you planning on completing a large merger with CopperShell Industries? The two largest companies in the world merging to create a monopoly. Using vertical and horizontal integration to rule the markets as Carnegie and Rockefeller did. But wait, although you did wish to rule the markets, you were going to make the cost of technology to nearly nothing. The price of personal computers, mobile devices, even video game consoles are reduced to a fraction of their original prices, yet you are still capable of making a profit. Your employees are happy, the consumers are happy, it seems as though everybody is happy, am i right? Wrong. With this merger with CopperShell Industries, the price of oil will go down as well because of your advancements in the refining of oil. Gasoline will be as cheap as it was in the 60s, and this merger will put companies like Molotov Oil out of business," he said coldly. "You and I both know they are over charging the consumers. Five dollars a gallon is way too expensive, considering that they can refine oil for much cheaper if they just drilled with my technology in the United States instead of the middle East as they do," I said accusingly. "Yes, but that would decrease profit," he said with a smirk. "Money. That's all anyone cares about anymore isn't it." "What can we say... it makes the world go round," he said with a slight laugh. "It allows for us to buy food, and other necessities, as well as consumer products for our families. It allows a man to buy presents during the holidays for his family, or beautiful jewelry for his wife," A smile took form across his lips. "How is your wife by the way? Your family?" he said. Almost instantaneously I was transported to the near past, as my mind replayed the memories of the day following the incident of the attack...

I wrote this when I was 14 and I'm looking to rewrite it. Suggestions for change are encouraged. **Rats** The man had come to town in a large, beat up, eighteen-wheeler. The side of the truck advertised the clear effectiveness of his chosen career path, shown by a rat with its eyes X'd out and a skull-and-crossbones over its head. Its limp body was encased in sharp light from the lightning bolt hitting its fragile frame. One glance at the side of the beat up van told you exactly what this man did and what a fine job he did of it. He arrived at the town's lowest point like an ill timed superhero. There was no phone communication; the rats had sliced through them with obvious malicious intention. There was next to no food, it had been stolen and hoarded by the vicious beasts. They kept it and ate it slowly in front of us. A few would run up from the sewers and nibble on a ham in the gutter and before you could get to them they would rush down the storm drain, cackling as they went. They terrified the children, who wouldn't go out and play in the streets, and if they did they went in packs, finding some comfort in numbers. They had come about two weeks before the man and it almost seemed planned the way they dismantled the town. They mainly stayed out of the way of the public. One would be spotted in the produce at the local store or in the corner of a house harassing the dog. They grew from there till they were in the beds and behind the curtains waiting to leap at whoever was unfortunate enough to uncover them. They were in gardens and sheds, swarming over any weapons that could be used to stop them. They chewed off the stocks of rifles, gnashed their way through the handles of shovels and hoes, and dragged off cutlery to the sewers, hoarding it with the food. We're not sure who spotted the monstrous vehicle first but whoever it was ran to the mayor's office, past the streets heavily laden with filth and black spirited brown rats. Mayor Hamlin himself, the most famous person known to all who lived in the area, knocked on the back of the truck and the doors immediately flew open and out stumbled a gray bearded, greasy haired, rank man who fell face first into the muck on the street. The man got to his feet in the most dignified manner possible for a man who just fell out of a poorly decorated, rusting insult to all respectable eighteen-wheelers. The crowd gathered round had moved back with an over exaggerated gasp, in a sad attempt to create drama and maintain suspense. "Welcome to our town!" said Hamlin cheerfully, with a hint of nervousness shown by the sweat beading on his balding head. The man stared at him, bewildered. A rat crawled on top of the van. "Our, um, able-bodied townspeople couldn't help but notice that you seem to make a, um, living off of, erm, pest control?" The man nodded and grunted a confirmation. A rat crawled up the wheel of the van and started gnawing nonchalantly on the rubber, vaguely interested in what was going on around it. "Our town is in desperate need of someone with your, um, expertise. What are your wages?" Silence embraced the crowd. The man spoke with a voice that sounded like gravel being slowly moved by a shovel, raspy and dry. He named a figure, the only word anyone in the town ever heard him spoke. The words hung in the air, the lofty price floating high above their heads and wallets, taunting the town with a number just out of their reach. Mayor Hamlin's eyes bulged out of his head like a pumpkin being slowly squashed by a steam roller. "I will, uh, certainly have to discuss this with my constituents." The constituents wholeheartedly agreed and retreated with the mayor to the building next to his office which was a school during day and town hall the rest of the time. One man ran through the streets and called the meeting to the public's notice and so the constituents ran from their holes and homes to enter the school like they used to when they were children, and their parents before them. They sat down in chairs two sizes too small for all of them. Most had bought their children who glared indignantly in the corner at their artwork hung up on the wall, now in tatters from the rats. They celebrated in hushed joy, however, at the textbooks in the same state as the artwork. Hamlin settled the crowd with a short rap on the blackboard with a yardstick. He tried his hardest to be professional and maintain control. The board was cluttered with equations and sentences and cursive handwriting, an odd backdrop for the small, sweating man who chose the school as the place for town hall meetings in a desperate hope to strike a chord of authority when making the townspeople sit in their old desks and think of him reminiscent of their own teachers. Hamlin erased the board and stretched his arm up as far as he could reach (about the middle of the board) and wrote the man's figure in chalk. Below that he wrote what the town could afford. There was a large gap between the two numbers which the town recognized even with their minimal math training. "Well? Any suggestions?" asked Hamlin, who checked corners for rats as he anxiously tapped the yardstick in his hand just waiting for one to drop from the ceiling. (The rats chittered amongst themselves beneath the floorboards, waiting on the decision.) A man in the back looked around, and after seeing that no one else was going to talk stood up and said "Why don't we offer to 'elp him out? Then he'll charge less!" He smiled a very self satisfactory smile and everyone sitting close to him congratulated him on his idea. Mayor Hamlin looked disappointed. "No no that won't do" he said "There's not enough equipment probably and he seems too professional to want help." Everyone sitting close to the man who spoke from the back row glared at him and rolled their eyes at his poor thinking skills. After a moment of silence, a girl about 9 or 10 years old in the second row raised her hand. Everyone chuckled and Hamlin pointed at her, ushering her to speak. "Well" She said loudly "I say we give 'im what we 'ave so he finks we got more right? Then he does his job and we say we can't pay the rest! Wots he gonna do? Bring the rats back? He's already kill'd 'em hasn't he?" The town agreed with this plan and thought this was a good deal for everyone because he was charging an outrageous price and must learn to be reasonable. Plus, the rat problem had to go. Hamlin was shocked that he hadn't thought of this himself. He thanked the girl and ushered everyone out of the school/town hall. The mayor bustled into his office next door and pulled a wad of money from the wall safe, bustling back out again to a crowd waiting expectantly to see what happened next.

The sun had decidedly set and dew was already forming on every blade and leaf with its usual impersonal intimacy. Light still remained in the sky, however, and the temperature was warm enough to lull passersby into security. I walked barefoot through the wet grass without purpose or hesitation. A pleasant stasis enveloped me as I ambled along the lawn towards the hill. It was my feet that realized it first, I think. Deceitful twilight temperature -- No matter, I walked. Even with nothing else left to fight, gravity remains. Fight and bitch all the way up any minor hill or climactic Katahdin, you'll enjoy the salt you can only taste at the top. If you want anything from her, you have to bleed a little. And so I found myself, at the top of this hill and bottom of the next, in a clearing ancient to me and still ignored by nature. My father and I dragged the trampoline here when we were young. And somehow it was sitting on its haunches in front of me now. My fingers hooked into the tattered safety netting and my feet found each step of the miniature slide which was pulled up beside the trampoline. The padding around the edges and poles was essentially disintegrated. The surface was a little wet and slippery. But all the springs seemed to be attached -- that was a plus. My steps undulated the trees around me. My knees flexed and I extended into my first jump: a fleeting instant of parabolic freedom. Everything cascaded from there. The memories melted out of my muscles and I was thrown into the washing machine of spins and frontflips and corkscrews. I tumbled ever forwards until dizziness was content. It was my feet that figured it out first, I think. Was I afraid to look back? What could possibly be so irreconcilable? I tried to roll heels-over-head, but kept twisting to the side. It was the permanent crick in my neck, or the unfading slump in my posture. I simply couldn't commit. My fingers curled slightly with realization in the cold. Two hesitant steps -- inner ear silenced -- inner voice deadened -- hops crescendo -- suddenly -- Down upside? Certainly floating, airborne, but the sky had faded and at any rate eyelids were shut, content to never decide. My legs kicked out, frantic to find ground. The whole of me answered that question without even falling. Had I stopped? I wasn't moving. I was only dripping dew and sweat, pushing in every direction, uncertain of which up to believe, when it occurred to me. Up was simply every direction I was not. I wrapped myself in this thought and, tucked in for the night, slept.

Starcraft: Marine I hate the drops. Drops were the worst. The idea behind performing these “tactical insertion operations” is to “selectively disrupt enemy production capability” but most of us jarheads just think of it as a bug stomp. We drop in near a bug hive and kill everything we see, preferably, while the main swarm is off fighting something else, than jump out. Word from intel said that the main swarm was on the move to southern ridge of our base. They had already eaten their way through Camp Eagle and Camp Limley here on Typhon and were itching for a third meal and, since we were the last remnants of Limley, we were tagged with the “opportunity” as Lt. Korvic calls it. So here we were in the APOD-33, me and seven of my buddies jammed in tighter than a porn stars cooze at a gang bang. The only thing that could make it better would be if a flock of Muta’s showed up while we were flying over the canyons. They look like worms with wings, worms that shoot bug bullets out of there asses. I’ve seen these bullets, these “glaive worms” as the brain boys like to call them, make swiss cheese out of the AAV-5 tanks so I could only imagine what they’d do to the APOD. Korvic would love that. I’d probably enjoy it to just to see Korvic’s face as we go down in her precious ship. Bitch. I can’t rag on her though; she keeps the boys alive and is our ride out of here should the shit hit the fan. Dawn is hitting the eastern side of the ship. Drop time is coming up soon. I bark the command to perform pre-drop prep. Each of my guys reads out the HUD on their medical conditions then they start their own suit diagnostics followed by weapons checks. All of this information is relayed back to my suit which I pass on to Korvic. This was all done prior to loading up but you can never be too sure. I amble my way up to the bow and glance at the windows. It looked completely bright outside but I knew that it really wasn’t. I don’t understand the whole technology behind it but it had something to do with the ships sensors and VR displays or some nonsense. I could see the hive in the distance, once I focused on it my HUD began restating our mission objectives and highlighting key spots to target. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing these things even after three years in the corps, which, considering the life span of a marine is a long time. A skyscraper made of bruised flesh and bone, once the ship optics focused in you could see that it was crawling with the worm larva. The Intel geeks say that the larvas are “genetically versatile” which meant that they could become almost anything in the swarm, if the right conditions were met. I reminded Korvic to scan the area for any of the growths in the area as a result of those conditions. They say that the growths are similar to tumor. Once the Zerg get wind of opposition around there turf they immediately make some kind of virus which infects one of there worker bugs. Once the worker bug is ready it becomes a growth feeding off their creep and other shit around the area. The tumor forces the larva to become bigger, badder bugs. They say it’s some kind of “immunal response” from the hive like how white blood cells attack infections in the human body. I don't pretend to understand it, all I know is that blowing up the tumor buildings, yeah buildings, stops them from making meaner bugs. At the base of the hive were cocoons, which lord only knows what was growing inside of them. With my luck it'd be Ultras, big, fanged and armored bastards that could tear through ten marines in a single swipe. Korvic didn't scan any radioactive deposits in the area but I wouldn't rule them out either. The Ultras eat rad deposits or some shit like that and is a strong sign that Ultras might be nearby. West of the hive was our target area, the mineral mines. Korvic’s telling me that conditions look good. We managed to avoid the max range of there Overlords, the bug eyes in the sky, and the ones hovering near our dropzone were dispatched by Vike’s on an earlier skirmish. SATCOM says Zerg hadn’t had time to replenish their number in this area with the exception of a few hundred drones. We would be going in undetected to the mines and kill all the drones, no drones no minerals. No minerals no bugs. Simple. I shout at my crew, not that it’s necessary, the audio in our armor can filter out the background noise of the ship, but to get them pissed and ready. I remind them what the bugs have done to us, how they are eating everything they see and that they want to be the toughest sons of bitches in the universe. I remind them that once they hit the four year mark they’ll be pardoned and that all the pussy in the universe will love them and thank them for their service. I see glassy eyes and hear grunts and howls. I can tell Korvic’s pinged there suits for stims. We descend very suddenly, then immediately slow, the APOD is in its vertical take-off state. Korvic and the pilot hit it just right; we are only 10 meters above our DZ. I hear a small compressed whine within my suit. Korvic’s started my stims. As the ramp opens I can see the men stand, helmets closing on their faces, almost foaming at the mouth as the stims take effect. The dawn light hits us and I remember how I came to the corps, how I killed all of those people and that I’m only a year away from my pardon. Why would I want to leave? I can’t give this up. I don't even need the stims to kill. I sight in on the helpless worker bugs, pull the trigger and smile.

When physicists discovered High Amplitude Luminous Orbs surrounding the heads of all human beings, they wondered why some peoples’ HALOs were stronger than others’ and what caused their intensities to change over time. Using a visual filter, the phenomenon could be seen on a spectrum of intensities, from dim grey to bright gold. This allowed social scientists to establish links between HALO intensity and behavior. For instance, field studies found that visiting the elderly, giving to beggars, or attending religious services typically increased the intensity, while frequenting casinos, bars, or brothels (in the Las Vegas area) generally reduced it. After such findings, the brightness of one’s HALO came to be widely regarded as proof of a person’s moral goodness or iniquity. HALO viewing devices began selling quickly to the concerned or the curious. Wedding engagements were broken, children got grounded, and the scrupulous checked their HALOs several times a day. Supermarket tabloids published celebrities’ before-and-after photos with captions like, “*What did she do last night,*” while other media had exposés on the darkness of conservative politicians and church leaders. Religious believers, particularly Christians, were statistically shown to have stronger HALOs, however the Supreme Court ruled (5 to 4) that it was not religious discrimination to consider HALO intensity in hiring since agnostics and atheists sometimes had bright HALOs as well. Finally, the Congress, with widespread support, moved to make it a crime “to scan or view others using HALO detecting devices without their consent, or to discriminate against anyone for refusing consent,” condemning such practices as an “invasion of privacy” and the cause of “baseless prejudices based upon unproven technology.” The president signed the bill into law in a closed-door ceremony.

I sit here, motionless, unseeing, dead, though I was never alive. I am inanimate, although inanimate objects feel too. I feel. That is what I'm specifically made for. To feel so you won't have too. That's why you have me. That's why I exist, I exist as your one outlet for pain, simply because you have no other. I don't know who you are, but I sense you through your tears as they sink into the fabric that I am. I don't know who you are, but I know your pain as you stick it into me. I don't know who you are, but slowly I'm becoming you, and all your sorrow. There are times where I sit unused. You've found someone who can listen better than I can feel, or better yet, someone that can erase the pain altogether. And for a time, I'm dry of tears, I'm void of pins, and I'm free to be unfree. Unfree simply because my purpose is to sit here and take your sadness, and when I'm not, I lie in wait until you return, with more stories to poke into the deadness of me. Your pins and needles and thorns, anything that you can cut into me, all so you don't cut into yourself. In your eyes I take many roles, many faces, many taunting voices that haunt your dreams, and every waking hour. In your eyes, I am a tool, utilized for your safety, fueling your fantasies of harming the ones who hurt you, and all at the same time, I'm the tool keeping them safe. In your eyes, I am just a doll, and that's all I ever need to be. But in my eyes, my simple, glass, unseeing eyes, I am your Savior. I protect you from self harm, and the horrors of harming others, if it should ever come to that. In my eyes, I am a simple constant in a cruel, ever changing world. I am a companion, never arguing, just absorbing, and in that, assisting more than any advice could. And in my eyes, I am a doll, and that's all I ever need to be. I remember one time there was a pain too overwhelming for a small thing like me to hold. Of course that's understandable. But I was still there as you cut these issues into your own flesh, I was still there to absorb the blood I could. I was still there to feel what you could never feel on your own. As you slowly stained our flesh with your various agony, I became a little more a part of you. I was stained inside too. I will never be the same, as I am never the same after each issue you poke into me. I am more you. I am most of you. I am your scars. When you first held me, you were angry, and you were special. I had been held by many others before, others considering what I could do, others who deemed me useless. But you held me and what I felt radiating off you was so torturous, so sweet, I drank it in and I think you sensed that, for next thing I knew, I was being abused in a way I knew you had been abused and abusing yourself. Being that surrogate for your torment felt exhilarating. It was necessary. I was necessary. Thank you. I hear you coming. Your footfalls are a same rhythm I know all too well, holding that same angry undertone. A presence is filling the air, it's your burdens, soon to be transferred onto my fraying shoulders. That's why I exist, I exist as your one outlet for pain, simply because you have no other. You pick me up. If I had a heart, it'd be racing. Yours is, and that's enough for me. Our tango of tears begins. I don't know who you are, but slowly I'm becoming you, and all your sorrow.

Fr. Miller noticed that Superman arrived punctually for his appointment and was relieved that his handshake was not too firm. The Man of Steel sat down in the office of this man of God and confided his life’s story. Then he made what would ordinarily be an ordinary request. The priest hesitated, rescheduled, and immediately called his bishop. The bishop was stumped and referred this curious question to Rome: *can Superman be baptized?* He possessed the necessary desire and had an extensive knowledge of the Faith. And, despite his seemingly preternatural gifts, he was aware that he had fallen short of the glory of God (in relations with a certain lady.) However, he was an extraterrestrial, and not a descendant of Adam. Was Christ’s baptism meant for him? The Vatican responded in the affirmative: “Based upon the philosophical principle that the greater contains the lesser, Superman possesses what it is to be man. Furthermore, Scripture says, *'preach the gospel to all creatures. Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved,'* (Mark 16:15-16) and *'You shall not oppress an alien'* (Exodus 23:9).

My girlfriend has been pressuring me to get back into short story writing. She read some of my old stuff and says if I tried again, now, as an adult, I'd have the potential to churn out some halfway decent stuff. I don't know though. My writing always comes back to me as muddled and cheesy, reeks of trying too hard. I thought maybe I could post a few samples and get a review. Be brutal, I need to know if I'm wasting my time. *Untitled Excerpt 1:* KRAKOW-WOOSH! I decided I would make myself jump from my cover and just have to hope for enough timing and luck to put a bullet into one of these crooks kneecaps. Another shot fired, and I couldn't move. Another shot fired and I couldn't have made myself move if there was a rat climbing into my asshole. A century passed by. Swear to Christ, a century. I took deep breath and promised the poor girl at the other end of the room I would jump out of cover at the end of a count to three. You Shouldn't make promises you can't keep. "One" came easily enough. You will die if you leave your cover. "Two" I readied my six shooter. Just turn around and go home. Take a long hot shower and drink yourself to sleep. "Three." I jumped out and threw my gun in front of my face, desperately looking for something to shoot at, but all I saw was a bright flash. POW! Right in front of me. Shirtless thug number 4, whitie, had jumped from cover and fired a shot right at me. Over me? Behind me? I felt hot. Swimming in sweat. My nose felt runny. All my face felt like it had just received the mother of all bee stings, except for my forehead, my forehead felt like it had gotten so hot and light it had floated away to the ceiling. I fled back to my cover behind the dumpster and tried to wipe away the snot onto my sleeve. But something was missing. KRAKOW-PUH-TINK They had shot off my nose. I rushed my hand against my face again, discovering a searing pain over strange numbness. It felt like I had a heaping vagina where my nose had once been. Blood was pooling onto the floor. Blood was everywhere, I must've looked like something out of an eighties horror movie. Why was the blood so bright? Every time I'd seen blood before it'd been this shitty brownish red while I looked like I had poured a bucket of true bright red paint all over my face and clothes. And the floor. The blood just kept coming, and I wasn't sure if it was years on the police force or just common sense that I was going to pass out. Take a pleasant little blood-loss nap to the lullaby of gunfire. The gunfire. The gunfire had stopped. "Zee, joo got him?" The deep voice called out. What kind of fucking name is Zee? Officer John Schmidt, murdered by a white wanna be nigger who goes by the name of 'Zee'. Some fucking name for the guy who kills me. "Shit yeah, right in the fuggin' face!" Zee replied. "She-it, you see 'em?" "Naw, he fell back behind the dumpster." "Well then getcha ass over there and make sure the nigga's dead." *Excerpt From Brown Baggers:* It was funny that we were the only employees who were brown baggers. Everybody else in the facility spent their lunch hour in the long food court lines, buying the government provided foodstuffs with their meal plans and crumpled wads of cash. They ate French fries on red trays. Greasy pizzas. Sloppy excuses for hamburgers. There was A salad bar, a soda fountain and even a soft serve machine. But none of it was for me and Richard. Me and him -sorry- him and I sat in the back right corner, in the shadows. Near our corner table there was an empty table, a table where one lonely, obese security guard ate chicken nuggets with onion rings (everyday, mind you) and finally a table where small gaggle of blonde secretaries howled youthful giggles and gossiped their lunch hour away. They never brown bagged it either. Always had meal shakes and salads. Always complaining. Always. Complaining about their boyfriends, about the food they ate, about the suits they shredded, ran coffee runs for and blew regularly. The Suits. Of course none of the suits ate in the cafeteria, they ate elsewhere in the facility, some hidden room. Begged the question if any of them ever brown bagged it. Probably not. Today, on this glorious monday, the 56th monday of the 70 mondays I was to work this year, my lovely wife had packed me a ham sandwich. Wheat bread, mozzarella cheese, a small layer of spinach leaves. I hate spinach. A bag of reduced calorie cheetos. There was a jello packet. A napkin, a plastic spoon, a small sticky note reminding me that she loves me. I really do hate spinach, wish she'd tell me she loved me by conveniently forgetting to put that on my god damn sandwich. Richard slumped his pumpkin shaped body into the seat next to me without saying a word. I bit down into my sandwich instead of saying hello. We exchanged a sort of greeting with bobbing heads. He dropped a brown onto the table in front of him and opened it like one would a letter they'd been dreading to receive. An apple. A napkin. A can of coke. A packet of oreos. And a small plastic bag of cold pizza. Missing was a note reminding him he was loved. "Cold pizza." Richard mumbled, "Swear to god it makes me wanna smack my kids every time they don't finish the entire pie." I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I had to let him know I was listening. Richard coughed as he opened his warm coke, he began to slide the beverage through his persistent scowl and down his raspy lungs. A table over a blonde secretary howled with laughter. "How was it this morning?" I asked, "Peterson give you much trouble?" I wiped away some spinach on my lip. "No." Richard whispered. He took another chug of his coke before he began to tear open his Oreos. "There wasn't much fight left in him after everything you did to him." Richard continued, playing with that first little cream cookie. "What can I say? The victims parents wanted it rough. So I gave it to him rough." I boasted, trying to retain some modesty. "What was that thing you did to the poor guys balls?" Richard asked, unscrewing an Oreo and licking up the cream. "Twisted them. The mother's request. 'twist them 'til the sack pops, and then twist them s'more.' I think those were her words exactly." Richard ate the rest of his Oreo and began to speak with his mouth full, "You know, when you took this job, did you have any idea you'd be touching more balls than a common whore." I laughed. Again, for the same reason. It was true though, what he said. Testicles had become a big part of my work week, day in and day out I was squeezing them, shocking them, cutting them and even, on occasion, burning them. Big hairy skin brains, and it was my responsibility to destroy them for Uncle Sam. Really isn't the ideal career I wanted to grow up to be. "How was Peterson by the time he got to your office?" I asked, only somewhat curious, I didn't really have much care for how the poor sap died. He returned with a question: "Did you read my part of the request form?" "The rules state I'm not aloud to read your section of the request form." "Company policy also says I'm supposed to wash my hands for a full minute before and after contact with blood, and when was the last time you followed that?" Richard had devoured his second Oreo and had begun struggling to eat the stone triangle of a pizza out of the limp plastic bag. "Tell me Richard, what was on your end of the request form." "Nothing special. Just a drowning. Slow drowning. He was begging for it after everything you'd done to him.

I am the person you pass on the street without noticing, the person you cross the road to avoid. I am the one you turn your head away from in disgust, as though just looking at me tarnishes your good name. Oh, don't act like you don't understand. Don't deny it, don't you dare. You see, to you I might be another piece of trash lying at the side of the road, but to me; to me you are everything. Think. Think back to the last time we spoke. Do you remember? I was once like you, a long time ago. I, too, had a job and a family, and friends and a dog that yelped excitedly every night when I came home. Can you see it now? Does my face look familiar? You don't even stop to look me in the eyes as you drop a penny or two into my outstretched hands. No wonder you don't recognise me. You move on quickly lest I begin to pester you for more change; lest I inquire why a man such as you leaves me only a few pennies when you could obviously spare much more. I, too, once wore a suit just like yours. I know how the silk feels against skin, and how the polished leather shoes enhance the illusion. Now my shoes are torn and tattered, dirty and battered. And you know what? That doesn't make me any less of a person. So why won't you look at me? Tell me, please. Why won't you recognise me? Do you still have the picture we took, the one where we're fishing? You caught so many fish and I caught nothing, only a dirty old boot that you threw back into the water. As an act of kindness you shared yours with me; I had been grateful because we hadn't brought anything else to eat. Life gave you fish, and me it gave a dirty old boot. Unlucky, I guess. Now the only fishing I do is in old trashcans. I live with the night, and go where it takes me. Everyday is a new day - a day with a start, middle and end. The days dont flow into each other anymore, that is one thing I am thankful for. You're still stuck in your endless cycles. Wake up, go to work, come home at night, go to sleep. Repeat. Over and over, day in and day out. Now, I don't understand you. How can you stand it, the monotony, the boredom? As children life was exciting and fun. Somehow the innocence mutated, became something else, something so much worse. So. I don't envy you. Can you understand that? I rage, but I don't envy you at all.

I found this in my email from way back in high school. Little to no research was involved, so please excuse any inaccuracy. The pounding of hooves grew stronger, as their cheers grew louder. His back stiffened as his heart began to slow. The horse’s breathing became strong and rhythmic. As he lowered the lance, the world was lost to the sounds of a slow pounding thud. Thud. “You awake in there?” The boy was lying in a large puddle of blood as the voices continued to speak. “What do you mean he’s not talking? I put good money on that child and he was supposed to win. Don’t tell me I can’t show that waste of space what he is worth to me before—“ “Sire, please. The boy will be ready for the next fair. I swear.” “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. This…this boy will either win or his blood won’t be the only one shed next time,” was the only thing the Duke managed to get out before he stormed out of the stable. “Thanks,” the boy mumbled between his blood stained teeth. “Don’t mention it William, just get up and help me clean up this mess.” Timothy had been training William for sometime now and he knew better than to flatter him or tell him that he tried his best. William never liked that kind of stuff. He was stern and headstrong and he knew that the Duke meant business. The next fair he would have to face the Stranagor’s knight. Roland. Weeks that followed seemed to crawl by as William’s hard work became ingrained into his mind. All he could think of was Roland and his greasy smile. Roland saw no honor in the game. He did not fight for the church. He did not fight for his honor and not even for his most recent wench, but he fought for his money; and it was the money that he would die for. Click. His boots were set. His mind racing. Straps tightened and greaves on. The bones creaked under the weight of his chest piece. He felt the cold unrelenting steel between his fingers and his nerves began to tremble. Steam began to seep through the slits in his helmet as he mounted his steed and retrieved his lance. He could feel the slow rising and falling of the horse’s chest as he rode out to face his opponent. Roland was waiting with his sick twisted smile hidden beneath solid black steel. William knew it was time. The signal was sent and William’s heart began beat furiously as his horse’s hooves pounded against the dirt. He raised his lance directly at the slit between Roland’s helmet and breastplate and rode on. He clenched his teeth as he waited for impact. His arm began to ache as the splinters began to fly. He could almost feel the hot liquids splatter inside Roland’s helmet as the short screams of agony bellowed as a response. William turned his horse towards the roaring crowd.

I really had no business in this part of town. Nobody did. So what the hell was I doing here at 4 in the morning? But really, I couldn't care less where I was. Frankly, I'd prefer not being anywhere. Swirling around until a wisp of smoke took my stead. But still, here I was. I was cold and alone. Not that there was anything new to that. I used to dream, just like everyone. Of the life I was going to live, the people I was going to meet. But I don't dream anymore. I don't expect, apprehend or anticipate. Eventually it all leads to one thing and that's bitter disappointment. The ability to cope with disappointment was not something I lacked, but even the strongest wall will tumble if it's rotten from the inside out. I used to have friends. Family. A golden retriever. I used to have a reason to stick around. When all that was taken from me, I found a love to keep me around. But now, all I have is a sharp mind and a scrawny body. And they both hate each others' guts. Imagine feeling sick. Trembling, shaking, shivering. Retching your empty stomach. Your head pounding, as if it's going to split in two at the slightest noise or flash of light. Your eyes burning, your mouth dry. Completely and utterly sick. Imagine hating yourself so much you want to literally pull your guts out through your throat. So much you want to torture yourself, were it not for the fact that no additional pain would even register. Imagine feeling all this. Then imagine you're walking alone through the most filthy, lonely, depressing part of town.

I have lived here in this old farmhouse for many human years, but the memories of my early days are largely fragmented. My adoptive parents and their child had dubbed me Mouse. While I’m still not entirely certain why they had chosen this name for me, I do have my suspicions. I'm getting old now and I don't have the energy to travel about like I once did, searching for life's meaning. The best that I can do is share my experiences, so that others who are seeking the truth may find some answers from the life that I have lived. With the help of Felix’s catnip, I try to tell these stories in the same frame of mind as I was in when the memories were being recorded in my mind. I must however confess; in my youth I was much more vulgar than I am now. I have had many dreams and revelations during recent nights, which have slowly been unraveling the mystery of my existence. Felix has been doling out well-timed distributions of catnip and I still believe that I am going through a transformation; yet achieving my ultimate desires seems to be eluding me. My dreams are the only methods I have left that allow me to explore. Walking is difficult, my bones ache terribly. I'm plagued by endless exhaustion. Felix has aged more gracefully, not participating in the daredevil escapades that I have. I don't know what I would do without him. When Felix and I were young, he was taken away from our family and I sunk into a heavy state of depression. The days became long and unbearable. I could only smell the scent of despair; the sweet aromas of pleasant reality would not return until months after my adoption. For weeks, I would sit perched on the windowsill, fighting to see through the collection of tears, carefully searching for Felix to return, but he never did. My heart was broken and my love for life was torn apart as my best friend vanished from my realm of reality. Fate betrayed me; I thought we had an understanding and the pain I felt from the loss of Felix was unacceptable. One by one, my brothers and sisters were each taken away by oddly-smelling strangers and their snotty-nosed kids. Each abduction jabbed a splinter into my being, spreading apart my naïve views on life and revealing a darkness over my understandings. Yet none hurt quite as much as the moment I watched helplessly as Felix was stuffed into a tiny cage and carried off. They even took my little red ball. Time lagged on until it was just mother and me. She did her best to keep my spirits up. I would often awake to her grooming me, keeping me clean and warm as I spent most of my time in a depressive sleep. I would never be cared for like that again. As the weeks ticked by, I fell into comfort knowing that my birth mother would always be there for me. Then, one cool spring night, as I dozed in and out of wakefulness, listening to the soft rain drumming on the roof, my world became smaller still. I fought desperately, trying to avoid being stuffed into my own portable jail cell, while my mother hid away under an antique pedestal table, watching on as I too was being abducted. She never said a word. She didn’t even try to stop them from taking her last remaining child. I have never cried as much as I did that night, as they took me away from my mother and my home. My cage was placed on the lap of a young boy as the three captors drove their truck away. I was so young and I had no idea where I was being taken to. Even today, I doubt very much that I could ever find my way back to my mother. I had decided in my mind that it is better for me to accept this and yesterday, I held a memorial service for her, finally letting go of all hope from any reunion. I spent several weeks hiding from the humans in my new prison. Their dog, Jethro really got on my nerves, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. When the family eventually gave me some privacy and free reign, I spent the time looking out the window, across the yard at their two pigs, Philly and Lilly, who were kept fenced in along the side of a big old red barn. Behind the barn, over a dozen chickens played around in the hard dirt that was covered with chicken feed. My depression slowly subsided as I watched Jethro, in his daily ritual, hopping into the chicken cage, chasing them all over the place. His long tongue, hung out of his mouth, flapping around as he ran back and forth. He could never stick to chasing one chicken for very long, as his attention would be grabbed by other frightened chickens running by. They looked terribly afraid. It had been a long time since I smiled, but my mood was forever tarnished by witnessing the repeated abductions of my siblings and by my own kidnapping. I would never forgive the humans, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to be one of them. After a couple of months being in confinement within my new adoptive parents’ house, I was finally allowed outside. Their kid, Ricky, was the one who insisted on letting me roam free, but his mom decided I required a harness and a leash. Although embarrassed to be seen by the other animals under control of the humans, I reluctantly agreed to their degrading demands. I laid in the grass, next to a stone bird bath in the front yard, I was invigorated by the thousands of different scents. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Everyone was happy, except me. I still had feelings of anger towards the humans, but if I wanted to return to my birthplace, I would need to gain their trust. This turned out to be more difficult than I imagined. I was allowed outside with Ricky every day and after each excursion, I began to grow fonder of him and his parents. Jethro wasn’t so bad either; he stopped sniffing me so often, giving me a little bit of much needed privacy. I even got to meet Philly and Lilly. They were pretty much stinking idiots and mostly kept to themselves. Our next door neighbor had an old farmhouse too. He was tall and old. His wrinkles filled up with dirt very quickly, making his face very dark. He spent a lot of time drinking whiskey on his front deck, with his dog named Doug. From what I understood by the other animals’ actions, he and his dog were to be avoided and even Ricky kept away from them. One day, as I sat outside in the grass, Ricky got permission from Mom to release me from my confines of the metal leash. My heart raced as I was about to realize my newfound freedom. My eyes were opened wide. I perked my ears up to listen to the most optimal direction to flee. Then I heard the click and my harness relaxed around me. I stood up, completely free, but I couldn’t run. I couldn’t leave another home. I kind of liked it here. Ricky was nice. I even called his parents, Mom and Dad. The other animals made me laugh, a lot and I really needed that. As much as I missed my birth family, I felt accepted here and I couldn’t betray my new family’s trust.

A Short Story I had the urge to write, This particular story took about 15 minutes I awaken in a daze, search around the room, it is dark, but a small amount of light is streaking through the window, and I can see enough to make out that it is indeed my room. I slowly stand up and realize i cannot feel my legs, they are completely numb. My head is pounding, and i cannot remember anything. There is a creak at my door, and suddenly it slams open. There is a silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. I ask who he is, yet It continues to stand there breathing heavily. I ask again, who are you. It begins towards me. I don't know what to do so i did the only thing that came to mind, the window. I clumsily leap out of it. A short fall, that was brutally painful. i begin to turn my head and It is standing outside of my window, staring at me. It slowly walks towards me as I turn and clamor for the woodline. I Run slowly and almost trip multiple times. It is walking slow, but still managing to close in on me, and just before he catches me a surge of pain bolts through my leg as i step on something sharp, without time to look to see what it was, i realize i can again feel my legs, the grass and dirt beneath my feet. No time to stop and admire the scenery. I begin to run much faster and dash into the woods. It is very far behind so i turn, hoping to lose It, and I spot a large tree, and since i doubt i can take a single step more, I get behind it, and hope he doesn't find me. I turn to look around the tree, and it is nowhere to be found. With a sigh of relief i turn back. It is standing there, staring at me, with something in its hand. It lifts the object up high above his head. With no time to run I Move my arms above my head, close my eyes, and hold my breath. I have a moment to think, This is the end. An incredible pain rushes through my entire body, but I am still here, I am still alive. A few seconds passed, and no more, I am still alive. I open my eyes and look around. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see that I am in my room. It was just a nightmare. I let the embrace of safety grab hold of me, and with a sigh of relief drop back onto my bed, and hear a creak at the door.

So i've been to the pool today,and when i came home, i needed a shower gel with moisturizing proprieties, so i went out again to buy one.On my way back home, i passed by a girl that was sitting down next to a wall and sounded like she was about to burst out in tears...I just looked at her once (with lightning speed) and kept on walking.... half way home(i live nearby), i wanted to go back...but thought to myself it would be awkward to turn back, so i didn't... when i arrived home i grabbed the umbrella, cuz in the 4-5 min it took me to get home,it started raining, and went back to where she was...but she was gone... did a spin around the stores that were there (thinking she maybe went to cover somewhere close)and then decided to go home cuz she is already gone... As i was passing the last store, i think i saw her with some girl friends, don't know if it was really her,but since she was with some friends i kept on walking,the girl that i thought it was her,looked at me while i was passing by...so it may have been her. Thing is i feel like a horrible person for not asking her right on the spot if she is ok. :( I hope if it was really her and she recognized me,i hope knows i came back to ask her if she is ok...

"Dr. Ferguson, here's the autopsy report for that nut the cops had to taser, and you're not going to believe this." Nurse Porter slide the chart across the counter. In her 9 years at Boston General Hospital, Dr. Susan Ferguson had seen just about everything, and the guys in the morgue were losing their touch if they thought she'd believe this nonsense. "They're pulling a fast one on us, Josh." Dr. Ferguson said with a smirk as she slid the report back across the counter. Nurse Porter leaned forward and said quietly, "No, I saw the thing they pulled out of his chest. It was implanted just under the skin and had wires running into his heart. And that's not the only weird thing." He walked around the counter and sat down next to Dr. Ferguson. "The EMTs gave me this bag full of his possessions, take a look at this stuff." She took the bag from the nurse and pulled out a wallet. When the patient was admitted, he was already dead, but the officers who'd accompanied the EMTs said the man was delusional. The police report explained he was screaming at them to take him to a pentagon or something like that, and that he worked for the 'yew-ess-dee-oh-dee' whatever the hell that was. If the man was delusional, he certainly went to a great lengths to reinforce his own fantasies. Inside the wallet were three 'Federal Reserve Notes' that said 'The United States of America' with a picture of someone above the name 'Washington'. There was also a very official looking driver's license, from the 'State' of Virginia 'USA'. "Okay, now I'm a little weirder out." Dr. Ferguson confessed. "Wasn't this Washington guy one of the leaders of that Tax Rebellion? It's been years since I took a history class." Nurse Porter reached into the bag, pulled out another item, and handed it to Dr. Ferguson. It was a rectangular piece of plastic with rounded corners. One side was flat and looked like black glass with a single small button. She read what was written on the back aloud "I phone?" She flipped it in her hand and pressed the button on the glass side. It lit up and a bar jumped across face of the device to where her thumb was resting on the glass. It made a click sound. The screen changed to a series of small pictures. When she removed her thumb, the screen, incredibly, reacted to her touch. "Maybe we should phone the Ministry of Defense?" She said. Her hand began to tremble.

Some people are meant for great things. Most people live and work and die. I guess I’m one of the latter. It depressed me for a long time. I did well in school, went to college, studied abroad in Tokyo one summer and it was great. Aside from the experiences I’ve gained, I realized I’m not going to leave a mark on this world. The world left one in me. It’s just that way sometimes. I’m a watcher of those who burst like firecrackers, their colors dancing on our eyes. If there is one thing I am good at it is knowing the bright ones. My best friend in high school (we’re still in touch) went on to start his own charitable organization. My roommate in college transferred and graduated from an esteemed art academy and is now on display. My high school sweetheart is a practicing doctor and we have a sixteen year old who learned how to drive this April. It’s a feeling, a sense. When I look at someone and I see an enormous folded destiny behind them, I know. They smile at me and I can feel it. Then, I step back and watch their colors unfold. When I was a boy and summers at the lake we lived near murmured with excitement, my father took me to the edge of the water where people had laid out blankets to watch the evening fill with lights and sounds. It was the Fourth of July. He and my uncle set up a place to sit and we lay on it. I watched from between my father and aunt, my uncle on her other side. Halfway through the fireworks, I turned to my father; as a glimmer of red dazzled over the sky I realized he was looking at me and crying. He said he was proud of me. My daughter was two at his funeral. I didn’t get to be at his side: he died in his sleep during an afternoon nap like a mechanic deciding to retire his tools. I received the call upon returning home from a long day of touring some people through my town: the family was relocating from their old home. It was the caretaker on the other end of the line. She seemed sad but understanding. I remember thinking of my father and that night by the lake when she was born. I have watched people who had the gifts but not the destiny, their lives like ships of cargo lacking sails. I suppose I had neither. My father was proud of me because my heart was always in the right place. It was a long time before I came to realize that it wasn’t about me. I wasn’t meant for great things. I wasn’t meant to leave a mark on this world, and it wasn’t easy to understand. She was so little in my arms when I took her, yet so heavy like glass. So many folds weighed her. She smiled at me—the nurses said it was a wonderful sign and that newborns were mostly incapable of such gestures. I remembered my father then and that warm summer night and his tears sparking crimson in his eyes, and I found myself on the other side of those tears, watching colors dance. I wasn’t meant for great things. She is.

Everyday I wake up and I fail. I am nothing, I am no one. If this wasn't true then wouldn't she love me? Maybe she could love me like her other children if I was better. I see it in the way her angry dark eyes go Soft when she looks at them. "One minute sweety, I'm just dealing with your sister." knowing I was in trouble they'd turn their back and walk away pretending they had no clue. I do not blame them nor hate them. I'm sure I'd do the same. I will stand here and take it so she will not go after them. "Why can't you do anything good enough? Your siblings are perfect. You are a disease, a burden, worthless." she spits out every word like a whip lashing across my face. Slowly I nod. Knowing every word she says is true. I see the anger in her eyes flicker. Changing.... She's changing again. The anger turns to weeping. "Every thing I do is wrong to you. You never accept me. You just push me away over and over. How can I help you if you won't let me! You hurt your dad so much. Broke him. You're the reason he left. It should have been you." It was my fault he left. I stopped talking then he stopped being a dad. How could I talk to him? Someone so worthless like me being loved by someone so perfect like him. It wasn't fair. Eventually he stopped trying to talk to me. Soon I was nothing to him. Until he left. In my hand he left a note saying " I love you." I ripped it up and threw it away. I know the truth. No one could love me. People say school is an escape. They're wrong. I find myself afraid and more self conscious than ever. It's not as if I'm bullied. No I have lots of "friends" but non of which actually know me. I put on that happy face and cheery laugh using every bit of energy trying not to fall apart. In my desk I feel the pairs of eyes watching me. I just sit there like the fat cow I am, Tugging down the back of my sweater that I should fit in. Crossing my arms over my disgusting stomach. Their stares are the worst. Gathered into the groups I feel their hot gaze piercing my body, laughing always laughing. Maybe they were talking about me. Maybe not. I look up to notice 15 minutes have gone by. I've missed the lesson being swallowed by my own thoughts. Stupid. This is why my marks went down. I can't help but listen and take part in the conversations that occur in my head. No school is not an escape. The only place I am safe is in my sleep. Sleep is my bliss. The only part of the day I look forward to. Maybe one day I will sleep and never wake up. Stuck in a dream forever. One once said "I cannot face reality so I get lost in my dreams," I know this is true. Every word. That surprising considering I don't know much. There was a time when I cared. What changed? Me or her? There were times I would try to go back. Back to how things were. Almost as if another person inhabited my body. A new voice. The younger version of me. Maybe she would love that version. Nope. Stupid. I feel the skin on my tongue raw and bloody from where I've been biting it. Pain. I deserve it. This is how I get control of my life. The cold metal pressing against my skin was the only thing that cleared my mind. Till she took that from me to. When things get real bad my whole mouth is bloody. That what happens when I think. People get hurt. I try not to think. Normal kid. Why cant I be normal. Before I was not close to normal and people knew. Then there was the day I decided to keep it all inside. So much kept inside me driving me to insanity one sentence at a time. Why just the other day a Thought that started out as a simple childhood memory turned to how it Makes complete sense that all human babies are actually grown as oranges. She is right. I am a disease. I will keep it to myself. The less people know the safer they are. They told me to grow up. I tried but how can someone who's past was so wonderful ever look forward at a life of misery and insanity. One day I will be normal. Two of them are gone. Two people who I actually love. They left me here. Yes every once in a while they visit. Those are the best times. I get to actually be considered part of a family. She doesn't come after me when theyre home but when they leave the house goes silent. I love silence. Not this silence. This eerie quietness means she is thinking. Thinking of even flaw I have compared to them. I hear that voice in complete hysteria crying out. "Why! Why me! I am a good mother! I don't deserve this!" she is right. Nobody deserves to have me as a burden. Run away. The thought rings through my head over and over again. I know I could but where would I run to. Family? No I've hurt them all. Friends? Nobody falls under this category. No. She would catch me and hate me even more. Today I wont eat. Things will be better when I'm skinny. People tell me im thin. I know theyre lying. I can see myself in the mirror. I used to be skinny. When things were better. No today I won't eat but I get there and they are watching my every move. People know if I don't so there I sit stuffing my face with anything to satisfy there stares. I remember the day she found out I didn't eat. "how much do you weigh? You need help. Anorexic or something!" Deny. Deny. Deny. Deny everything or loose everything. I tried the whole puking thing. Standing at the top of our hill choking on my fingers and anything else I could shove down my throat. Nothing worked. I even failed at that. When I grow up I won't have to eat. Then I can be skinny. Actually skinny. I'm going home now. Praying no one will be there. Maybe I can be alone. There is the truck. I can feel my heart dropping into my gut, this won't be good. I'll just avoid her for as long as I can. Do my duties, go for a run and then sleep. My feet feel like lead being drug up the steps to the house. Not today please. I can't take it today. Her voice is coming from the kitchen and growing louder. No please no. "how was your day?" is this a trick. Another sick game. Stupid Ive taking to long to reply. "oh so now your not talking to me! I try so hard. Go out of my way to make you happy and this is how you thank me!" I mumble a short reply. "I'm sick of this. Your disgusting. " Her eyes drop in shame for me and she walks away shoulders slumped and head down low. It's a strange thing verbal beatings effect me so much more than any physical. My scratchy coat feels heavy on my shoulders. Tears sting my eyes threatening to pour over. What am I doing? I don't cry. Ever. The image of my dad passes through my mind and my face hardens over again.

Context: Cat/housesat for a coworker, wrote this when they returned from their vacation to let them know all that’s happened. Posted it on facebook as my status and got positive feedback, so I’m sharing it here too. My name is Boris Kuslitskiy. Please don’t steal this. Thursday. You leave, the cats are plunged into the unexpected onset of Feast 2012, gorging on dry cat food. Friday. Ryan leaves us, the going away party includes alcohol, as does the bar I attend after. Arriving home at 5AM, I decided not to grace the cats with my presence again just yet. Saturday Evening. I arrive to feed and water the cats. Simon is friendly, Lionel chooses to ignore my presence. Sunday. The cats starve and dry out, reduced to only helping themselves to endless amounts of dry cat food. They operate with a different definition of starve than we do. Monday Evening. I stop by on my way from the movies with a friend, Sasha. Simon is distant, and fat, while Lionel is nearby, and fatter. Sasha confirms my analysis. Tuesday Night. I arrive late, commence furtending, continue furtending, and, finally, complete furtending. Having nowhere else to hang my work clothes for the next day, I prop open the bedroom door and hang them off the top. This lets Simon sit on the living room table and stare into the bedroom, into my eyes, and into my soul, were I to have one. He does this without fail, slowly falling asleep and staring at me through drooping eyelids as the minutes pass. I have broken his sense of order and he is no longer nice to me. Without shifting his gaze, Simon invents a time machine, locking me in his unrelenting stare for approximately 2.6 eternities. This is unsettling, but eventually the time machine falters and I sleep. Wednesday Morning. The first thing I see upon leaving the bedroom is Lionel rolling over to expose his belly. This is irresistible and just about cancels out having a shorter commute to work. Soon after, I scratch the underside of his cheek, and Lionel pushes his not unremarkably soft and fat face into my hand until it’s pressed down firmly against the ground. Noting the unforgiveable interruption in scratches, he graciously lifts his head, allows my hand to rise up to meet his cheek, and proceeds to push it down to the ground again. This repeats. Wednesday Evening. I arrive, Sasha joining me soon after I finish the furtendings. Beer, wine, and scratches flow furily. Sasha titles Simon Flat-Face. In response, his face is emotionless, flat, and furry. Lionel adopts the name Fat-Face, and my hand. I will file to reclaim custody shortly. Sasha sleeps over, being offered the bedroom while I claim the couch as my own. Night between Wednesday and Thursday. Sasha wakes up to see Simon inches away from her face, staring at her. I have the vaguest inkling of a feeling that Simon does not particularly like it when anybody else sleeps in that bed. Thursday Morning. Lionel is adorable. Simon is a cat. Thursday Evening. A different friend comes over. Lionel remains fat while Simon remains a cat. Together, they mostly are fat, and hide, their hides being fat, and hidden. Friday Morning. Reclined on the couch with my hand scratching the nearby Lionel, I conceive of an experiment, utterly moronic in hindsight. What if, just once, I choose to not spend every free moment scratching Lionel? Still purring like a tractor with a megaphone, Lionel jumps up onto the couch, wanders across my body and then, first gently, then heavily, struts his way across my neck, leaning his side against my face and forcing his furriness into every crevice, his fat molding itself to my face, leaving no respite and much hair. Sunday Evening. I stop by to pick up my things and scratch Lionel. He seems to have acquired a better invisible megaphone, as he purrs even more loudly. Monday. I miss them. Tuesday. I miss them. Wednesday. I fondly recall the fat smothering my face as Lionel saunters across my neck. I can almost taste the fur now.

There was a strange feeling in the air. Perhaps it was just the feeling of the unknown looming around his head, or maybe it was the gloom of the island. The past week floated inside his head like a strange haze, constantly trying to figure out what life would be like these next few years. The first day was a real trial no doubt. All around he had the feeling everyone was sizing him up, perhaps even gauging his sanity. No matter. He was a fortress of solitude, until he spoke. His voice was deep, sporatic, and often hoarse. Truely, his voice and mind were not in sync. Always, his mind was racing a thousand miles per minute, and a simple question would send his neurons into a death rattle. However odd and pecuiar he was, he remained solemn as a king, and to himself. He was a man of intelligence and observation. He enjoyed watching the quirks of others, even if he himself had plenty. The man was a fine example of self sufficient, one might also say he was quite cynical, but he believed it was his own defense mechanism. Sharp with word and wit, he was of a different breed of man, a true pioneer in his own way. Nonetheless, he had a job to do, only what that job was, he, nor anyone at the office would have the faintest idea.

"Hello?", he said from the other end of the phone. "Hi, Dave. It's Sarah," she said, without expression. "Hey babe, good to hear from you. I wanted to call, but I've got no long distance minutes and you still haven't told me where I can send you a letter. I've missed you so much, University isn't what I thought it'd be." "Yeah... I know what you mean. That's kind of what I wanted to talk about." "Uh oh, I know that voice. What's wrong, babe?" "Dave, I'm sorry, I really am," her voice cracked and she took a deep breath. "It's just, well, I thought I could do it Dave. I really did. We're only 3 hours away, but now that I'm here that seems like miles and miles..." Her voice trailed off and he could hear a sniffling noise in the receiver. "Babe, it's fine, we knew it would be hard to stay together going into this. It'll be fine, no use getting worked up. My dad lives in St. Catherine's, remember? I'll be heading up to visit him anyways, we'll see each other lots. I love you babe, I miss you, too." "Dave, that's not it. I'm really sorry, Dave. But... But I met somebody. In St. Catherine's." "Oh." Dave's face went pale. He didn't know what to say, so he just let her drone on about how hard long distance relationships were and how he was bound to meet somebody in one of his classes or in his residence. "I'm really sorry, Dave. They're not a student here, but I think something might actually start between us. I didn't want to do this over the phone, and nothing has happened yet, but I promised myself I would... I would break things off with you before anything did." Dave could hear a muffled voice through the receiver. His heart sank. "He's there with you now, isn't he?" "Yes, Dave. That's why I had to call, see? I had to contact you before anythi--" *"Sarah, are you nearly finished in there?"* Even though he hadn't heard it in nearly 3 months, Dave recognized the rumbling voice and he froze. "Dad?!" "I'm sorry Dave, I've got to go." "But Sarah! Wait! What is going on! Dad! How could yo--" *Click.

It was the one argument I was glad we had. It wasn't the first time we pissed each off to the point we decided 'to hell with this' and walked away, but it was the most significant, meaningful, and most important thing that ever happened to us. You told me you went to stay with your mother in Lansing. You said you needed time to think and breath and be free. I stumbled down the hallway to our apartment. That shit-hole on Kepler down the block from the Safeway. I still had the bloody lip from where your engagement ring hit me, and though I was trying, Lord was I trying to stay vertical at that point... regardless I tipped sideways for a bit and dragged my face along the taupe colored wall leaving a watercolor paint trail behind as I shuffled one foot over cheap hotel-quality carpet after another. I still had the black eye from where the doorknob tried to mug me when you called back down to “talk.” It still strikes me as odd that your version of talking mostly ends in me crying with a raging headache, a few days disappearing off my calendar, and the milk in our fridge going bad. Yeah. It was one of those fights. You said you found someone else. The wedding was off. Again. You sold my ring to by tickets to someplace 'nice'. Again. Some stupid dirt covered island where they put umbrellas in the drinks with the same frequency frat boys put GHB. You wanted to be 'free', but other than that one time when you asked me to, I don't ever recall tying you down. You put me in 'that' mood again. The one where I grow stones the size of Mount Rushmore, pick a fight in a dive bar, spend the night in jail, and only get to hear about it in stories from people I am embarrassed to call friends. I could make a necklace out of the fragments of my teeth scraped up in dingy dust pans around the booze halls. Oh how I lament losing you! Again. Oh, the promises I spew: I will never let you hurt me like this. Again. I will never hurt you like this. Again. I will never let you leave me. Again. I will always curse your name. Again. I will always wish you a fiery death. Again. I will always track down your much cuter roommate from that time you lived on Declark. Again. I will never take you back. Again. I will always cry myself to sleep. Again. I will never feel feelings. Again. I will drool as I scratch myself inappropriately in our flat. Again. I will never go ring shopping. Again. I will always remember your ring size. Again. I will never buy a ring that expensive. Again. I will always remember the criticisms about the last ring I bought you, the day after I gave it to you. All over again. I will never love you. Again. I will always love you. Again. First, I forgot what day it was. Second, I forgot what week it was. Third, I forgot your name. Forth, I remembered how stupid I was. Fifth, I pleaded in the darkness of our apartment, in the direction of your side of the twin bed with the uncomfortable hospital sheets. Seventh, I forgot how to count. Twelfth, I remembered how. And I remembered that I loved you. Too much for it to be any good to either of us. It was the fight to end all fights, all over again. I mean it was all over, yet again. Oh God why was it all over again? Why me? Why now? Why not me? Why not now? Fuck you and your white robes and bullshit halos. If you want a piece of me come down out of your damn cloud castle, say fee fie foe fum, and beat me with your hand that can make mountains high and valleys low. You created the world in six days, and on the seventh you planned out how to fuck my life over and over again every chance you got. But you can fucking touch me now, can you? You are just as scared to come down to her level as I was you feckless sack of worms. And moments away from my worst, when I could feel the blood in my mouth starting to congeal and leave that dry sponge feeling on my tongue, with that copper after-taste, she showed up at my door. She picked the pieces of glass out of my arm and feet. She mopped up all the blood, took me to the hospital and admitted me (or to me) that she was my wife-to-be all over again and that she had very important news to tell me. Six days later I got out of the hospital. This time, she said, was going to be different. This time. Not like last time when she said 'this time', but this time, when she said 'this time', it was going to all be different. This was the one argument I was glad we had. Forget that one that ended in tears over that stupid fucking waffle. This was the one mistake she made that made her fallible, but oh God what am I saying. This was not a mistake. This was the single most significant part of my life. From the ashes arose a phoenix wreathed in majestic flame, that took, no. Still takes my breath away. From this moment, born from the intense jealousy, malevolence, contempt, seething rage and passion of everything we did wrong, came something right. This was the one argument I was glad we had. This was how I lost my wife-to-be for a few months I don't really remember; but how I gained my daughter that I would never dream of forgetting. Paternity test? Fuck you. She is my daughter. She is my salvation. She is my soul. She is, no matter what happens in my life, whatever else I accomplish, what ever else I amount to, the most important thing that has ever, and will ever happen to me. She is my daughter. She is my Lillian.

The King Our King has always been a little different. He’s very quiet I haven’t really seen him give anyone orders at all either. Whenever something needs to be done I see him doing it. He doesn’t just sit around; I’ve actually seen him go into the mines. I don’t know if it’s just because I’m a child but not even the adults in the village are as active as him. He’s always leaving the kingdom and coming back with tons of different things. I can’t always see what he’s coming back with, but I’ve seen bones, some kind of meat that just looks bad, and even strange looking pearls. And the dogs! He has so many dogs that there’s not a single wild dog here. He must be traveling great distances to find all these dogs, because I know they’re not from here. When I see him doing all these strange things I start asking my parents what it is he’s doing, and they tell me: “don’t question the king,” but they never tell me why. He doesn’t look old, so he can’t be all that wise. All that work he does and all the times he leaves - it’s not normal. I was sick of wondering. I finally got into his castle and he was at his workbench. When I got closer he looked back at me, seemingly confused, but he turned back around and kept tinkering with some weird red dust. I got closer and mustered up the courage to ask him as politely as I could, “How come you’re so different than everyone else?” The king stopped, stood up and looked at me. He asked, “Excuse me?” and I said it again. He chuckled briefly under his breath and said “it seems like you’re different too.” He started to tell me a story. “When I was your age, I lived in a different kingdom and I felt the same way about my king. I would go to school and all the kids and the teachers would seem to just drift through their lives, but not the king; he was always spontaneous. I was finally sick of that curious feeling, so I went and talked to my king and he told me his story. Sometime afterwards the kingdom was destroyed and all the people inside were attacked by monsters. It was terrible. There were explosions, arrows, and the groans of the undead. I was able to escape, but barely. I fought my way out with nothing but my hands. finally I found a break in the chaos and I found a cave and covered the entrance with dirt. I was devastated, but I wanted to live so I built a shelter. I enjoyed building. Then since I had built my shelter I began mining - I enjoyed that as well. I had so many supplies I decided to build more and I ended up building a village. Strangely enough people appeared. That village moved on to become this kingdom. That’s my story.” I asked him why he told me all that. and he told me simply because I was a player. A player? I was so confused. He then told me that only players are kings. I didn’t understand. He went on by asking me what my earliest memory is and I told him standing outside. “Exactly,” He said. “That was the first time you entered this world.” He started talking about how this life isn’t real and that once he’s gone he’ll be able to enter the real world again. He began taking me adventuring with him, that’s when he would explain things and share his knowledge with me. “When a king dies, everything he ever did goes with him. That’s how my king’s old kingdom was destroyed. I left my Kingdom and made a village. I have people of my own now. My king was killed by a mob of three suicide creatures right outside his gate. I saw everything he had made disappear along with him.” That’s when I believed everything he told me - while he took me adventuring with him. Now I know that there is a better life to be had out of this one. A less edged and more rounded one. Thank you king Steve. Minecraft Steve.

The alarm goes off. Slowly, he opens his eyes to see the white-washed ceiling of his bedroom. He reaches for his glasses on the night stand; after groping around for a few seconds he slowly remembers knocking them to the floor the night before. He bends over to pick them up and shambles to the bathroom to take a piss; he displays all the accuracy of someone living alone. After vaguely rinsing his hands and wiping them on a towel he goes back for his phone. Walking into the bedroom he notices an odd shadow halfway up the curtains on the opposite wall moments before they come crashing down and an angry cat goes sprinting past his ankles. Walking to the edge of the bed he sits down and picks his phone up off the night stand to check the time: 6:37 am. He sighs and checks his messages: no calls, texts, or emails. Today, Tuesday, is his birthday. He wonders how long it's been since anyone cared. He proceeds through his usual morning routine: a forceful bowel movement; comfortably warm shower; and indulgent smoke break, all under the watchful glare of his two cats. He checks the kitty litter, fills water bowl, and gives the cats a can of food. Upon completion of this morning ritual he grabs his keys and heads off to work. Three and a half hours later he returns home for lunch, a depressing mix of fast food and cigarettes. He pets his cats and returns to work. Just trying to get through the day, he sits in his cubicle with his headphones on in an attempt to dissuade his coworkers from approaching him, a tactic that rarely works. On this day he is not disturbed. Upon completing another glorious day of data entry he drives back to the home he rents and the cats he shares his life with. More fast food and more cigarettes see him through the evening. Nothing exciting happened on this day or any of the ones that came before it. He went to sleep believing that nothing exciting would happen on the days following either. The next day begins much the same as the first; his alarm goes off at 6:35 and he wakes up. He rolls to his side to grab his phone and checks it: nothing. He sighs. For some reason, he just can't seem to get out of bed. Around 9 he decides to call in sick but instead chooses not to bother. And so he decides to draw a bath. He walks into the bathroom with determination, plugging the drain and turning the hot water to max. At this point the cats take interest in his actions; one seats itself on the side of the tub and the other, more cautious, upon the tank of the toilet. He disrobes. The tub reaches half full; he steps into it and lowers himself down. The water is quite hot and very comfortable; it makes him smile. He enjoys a cigarette. He grabs the hilt of the knife and checks the blade against the tip of his finger; again he smiles. Taking a firm grip on the knife he slides the blade down the length of his left forearm. He takes a moment to enjoy the pleasure in the pain before dropping the knife onto the bathroom floor. He settles back against the tub. The cats push the knife around the floor and lick up a couple drops of blood before meowing expectantly and walking towards the kitchen.

I was unsure or where I was or how I got here, but my mind told me that I was at the park. I couldn’t tell because my vision was blurry and distortions of black figures confused me. I knew I was dreaming. It was too unreal a situation to assume that I was alive in the real world. I could hear my on the sidewalk, but it sounded like muffled booms. It was if my steps were heavy. I turn my head to try and spot someone familiar, and I do. A girl I once knew. I remember her image well because before I went to bed, I saw her on facebook. She was really pretty. She had boyfriend and life issues. But what ran in my mind the most was how pretty she was. So here and now, we stood together. She looked quite the same as I saw her with her short hair and mysterious eyes. I couldn’t help but stare and smile. She stared back with wonder, and a hint of annoyance. “You look…..really beautiful” I remember saying to her. She laughed at me. A laugh as if she wanted to be cruel, and she told me to go fuck myself. In real life I knew she was a nice girl, but I felt I deserved the answer. I wanted to reach out and touch her in a comforting way but she stepped back. As the seconds past, I could feel a rip in my abdomen and the tightness id get in my chest when I’m going through an anxiety attack. I start to cough out blood, and realize my heart is shrinking inside. The pain is immense, and the tears don’t end. A bad odor escapes my body, and white flakes fall from my hair. I figured that my dream was now showing me my flaws, but it was too much to take in. The pain finally exploded, and I woke up. In my bed now I am resting both confused and alone. It wasn’t long before I started thinking of her again, and what that dream meant. It wasn’t long before I started fantasizing holding that girl in my arms. It wasn’t long before I sunk into despair for a short time. I heard jazz music from upstairs, and the snoring of my younger brother. Taking a deep breath as I rest easy I can only mutter softly, trying to keep these sounds around me to calm me down.

*The light changes, signalling Axatams walk across the cross walk, but as he crosses, he turns to the left and sees a speeding car. Stepping back, letting the cross swerve past, he breathes a sigh of relief and starts to head across again. He turns to the right too late as he's struck by a Dodge Caliber. Axatam rolls over the hood, bouncing into the windshield and shattering it, then falling, limply, onto the ground. Blood collects under his head as his eyes flutter shut, seeing only a pair of shoes step out from the open car door.* *A bright light awakens Axatam.* "Where am I?" *He asks outloud to no one, merely musing to himself as he picks himself up off of the ground, even though there is no distinguishable ground to speak of. As he notices this fact, he gets a minor flutter in his chest, a fear of falling before realizing his feet were on solid ground.* "Hello Axatam." *He turns around, catching a glimpse of a man once close to his heart.* "Joey, what are you doing here? In fact, where is here?" *Axatam starts to walk to the newcomer, before Joey raises a hand and stops Axatam in his place.* "No further. Turn back, live your life." "What are you talking about? Why would you suddenly start caring what happened to me now?" "Because I love you." *Suddenly the world starts to shake, the non-existant floor moving beneath Axatams feet. Joey disappears into a mist of nothingness and Axatam loses conciousness again.* *He awakens, groaning at the light. His senses all come together now, hearing the beeping of the monitor near him, the scratchiness of the uncomfortable hospital bedding, and the lumpy pillow beneath his head. He turns, looking first to the right, then the left. Sitting near him was Joey. Dressed in a rumpled pilots uniform, the tie slack around his neck and his face as unshaven as ever, he looks up and notices Axatams eyes open and watching him.* "Oh my god you're awake." *Joey exclaims, pushing himself up from the obviously uncomfortable chair, and making his way towards the hospital bed.* "Nurse? NURSE!" *Axatam reaches out, grabbing Joeys hand and gasping when he connects with actual flesh.* "You're real" *he mumbles, unable to fathom what has happened. Joey cradles Axatams head, running his fingers through his hair and pulling him close.* "I won't lose you again." *Axatams eyes flutter, the monitors beeping slowing, dropping rapidly. As his eyes close and all awareness of the world falls from him, he clings onto Joeys hand, the one anchor in the world.* *The white room is back again, but this time there is no Joey. No strange people, nothing. Just vast emptiness and loneliness. As he sits down on the strange ground, he closes his fist, trying to have that feeling of warm flesh come back to him. He closes his eyes, imagining that brief moment again as a comfort.* *In the real world Joey stands by the bed, a singular tear falling as Axatams monitor had stopped and the doctors had called time of death. He walks out, leaving the hospital behind and sitting in his Dodge Caliber. He regretted the time they had spent apart, the hate that he harbored towards Axatam and closes his eyes, recalling that feeling of his hand wrapped around his as a stream of tears begin to fall down his face.

Written in collaboration with redditor jsutton96 As Johnathan walked into the room he took a deep breath. The stench of bourbon burned his nostrils, Brad was drunk again. Sitting in his old chair with drink in hand, eyes lined with crust from days of not bathing, and glass tipped lazily in his hand. After a few long seconds of just staring Brad threw the glass it shattered across mantle of the fireplace like a rain drop on a windshield. Johnathan stood silent frozen with shock at Brad's sudden outburst. Brad yelled for the kids to come clean up the mess. He yelled for a good while. His eyes filled with despair as he then realized why the kids had not come down yet. Years of abusive behavior had caused the kids to be taken away from the house by child protective services. They were now in the same foster home Brad himself had grown up in. He knew that their lives would not be much better there as it was at home. The place was run down with a leaky roof and chipping paint. Brad looked at Johnathan who was still standing in the same spot, and told him to make him a sammich. Johnathan did not move. Brad got up and said it again this time louder. Johnathan still did not move. Brad then got in Johnathan's face and yelled even louder causing to back up a few inches. Johnathan then looked in Brad's eyes and said "Brad we're out of bread". Brad then proceeded to sit back down in the chair. Johnathan left the room to go pack his bags, he was going to stay with his sister for awhile who was now the worlds youngest lawyer starting her own office at the age of 5. Brad sat there unmoving only to get up to use the bathroom which was an old urn. He shot himself a week later.

“I couldn’t tell you what happened or why, I can only tell you what I felt and why it affected me so." Electric pulses shot through the air. I could feel them in my fingertips. They began to permeate every blood vessel and vein, until I felt like one pulsating organ; hot, heavy, and overwhelmed. All at once the blackness hit. I was icy again; back to the normal numbness I felt from day to day, no emotions and soulless. Strangely I felt whole for once, like I was finally complete, like I had risen to a higher plane of existence, another state of being. Then, I woke up. I was holding bloody clumps of hair. It was a ratty and tangled mess. I threw it down in disgust, and ground it into the dirt with my foot. I thought I could make it disappear. I looked up to see a blood stained manifestation of human staring back at me. You could have sensed that she was dirty, beaten, battered, bruised, and broken just by the sadness in her eyes. I wondered if I had committed this heinous act towards such an ethereal creature. I instantly felt shame at the mere possibility. I reached out, just to touch her, to hold her, to mend her, to whisper that everything was going to be alright. My hand stopped when I touched glass. I realized what I had been looking at with such remorse and affection was simply myself reflected. "That’s when I fainted.

As with all intricately planned crimes, there's always something that crumbles, one detail that causes things to break apart. Tonight was no exception… the fridge opened for the fifth time, was it nerves? Hunger? Who knew, all he knew was that mustard and canned beans probably wouldn't taste good. He sat back down to wait; it wasn’t going to be long. The ringing phone pierced the silence his heart dropped as he knew that it was time. “Come down” the voice on the other end screeched. He boarded the elevator hesitating for a moment before hitting the basement key. A thousand scenarios ran thru his mind as the floors went by, how was he going to handle this, what was the boss going to say? The elevator doors sprang open, Rhonda stood there with an aggravated look about her face, “Let’s go were already late” they got in to the Tahoe and got on to the main road Todd looked out the window the street lights passing quickly “slow down were not that late” he barked, Rhonda slammed on the breaks and then the gas “slow enough for you?” a brief stare was shared and they went back to ignoring each other They pulled up to the house and got out of the truck “see we are late all the lights are out” Rhonda said staring a hole thru Todd “it’ll be alright I know where the breaker box is”. You better she barked, they walked around the side of the house found the box and cut the power and walked to the back door, it was unlocked, “this wasn’t part of the plan” thought Todd. Must have been an over sight by Mr. Pol Rhonda whispered. “Yeah” Todd said as they walked in. Todd kicked the flash light on as they searched for the master bed room. They crept to the end of the hall; Rhonda went for the door knob “wait” exclaimed Todd. “Fuck you” Rhonda muttered, as she opened the door the flashlight went off and their eyes began adjusting to the dark. Rhonda was first in and as her eyes came in to focus she noticed the bed was empty, the lights hit, Rhonda froze, no heart beat, no breath. “Did you really think he’d just sit back a let you do it?” Todd said calmly. “Fuck you Todd this was the plan from the beginning” she said thru broken breath. Todd’s eyes grew wide “what do you mean?” “Bruce knows all about what I did, it was all part of the plan” he broke concentration for only a few seconds “don’t lie bitch, Bruce is the one that put the bounty on your head” he yelled. She turned around and looked him dead in the eye “I wouldn’t lie” CRACK, the gun shot rang out thru the house and the valley Todd looked down at the crimson liquid pouring out of his chest as he dropped to his knees his last thought was “she didn’t lie” their stood Bruce, .357 still smoking. “About time you showed up” Rhonda said with a look of relief across her face. A smirk came across Bruce’s face. “What was Todd babbling about” Rhonda said with confusion in her voice. “Not babbling, all true sweet heart” Bruce said coldly. “Wha” CRACK a second shot rang out thru the valley, Rhonda stumbled back in to the corner “wh..Why” she said thru gasping breath. “Why would I pay this kid to do a job I am perfectly capable of performing” Bruce said wile wiping down the gun with a velvet cloth he pulled from his jacket. As Rhonda bled out she looked up at bruce and spit out her last words, “you never ran shit”. Bruce looked down with a grin “I do now”.

Dom’s wife says he’s a fat piece of shit. Who cares. Thick smoke in the Lincoln. Windows up. Three dead Reds in the ashtray. Fourth burning. It’s late. Rain hits the car off-beat. 88.9 FM. Tango music idles low. Dom doesn’t notice. Deep woods. Deep woods for a $30 cab to downtown, anyway. Cush pads: lawyers, doctors, VPs, artsy cocksuckers - bigshots. Fat pads spread out, less than twenty. 1107 SENTINEL DR Dom’s parked in the neighbor’s driveway. They’re visiting the daughter at school. She loves them. Precious. Glovebox: 2 packs Marlboro Red, empty. 1 1999 Lincoln Town Car 4DR Executive Owner’s Manual. 1 lighter, out of butane.1 SIG P226 9mm handgun. Receipts, business cards, parking tickets, trash. 1 9mm Suppressor, brand new. 88.9 FM: ..with you late, bringin to you all the crucia- Deer bolts in front of the Lincoln. Dom’s sphincter tightens. 1..2.. Stupid baby deer follows mommy. Exhale. Silence. Rains harder. Small headlights approaching. Radio: OFF. Cigarette: OUT. Tense, reeeaaal fuckin tense. Cotton-mouth. It’s been a while. How long? Two years? Can't even remember the last one's name. Five grand, upfront. Wife bought a treadmill. Christ. Sweat beads run down creases on his XL face. Gettin’ old, shouldn’t it be easier now? Headlights bigger. Concentrate. Deeeeeeep breath: I’ll do it, then I’ll go get some food. A fat Reuben. Maybe some eggs and bacon. Maybe- Headlights bigger. 100 yards. Lightning. Headlights stop – 1106 SENTINEL DR Delayed: BOOOOM Lexus headlights? Headlights turn right. Dom catches profile. Lexus headlights. Lexus stops in front of garage door. Garage door stays closed. Headlights: on. Exhaust: smoking. Music: loud. Windows: tinted. Dom's gaze: fixed. Waiting. A woman's laugh - Uh oh. Who you with, Mr.

My boyfriend and I tell bedtime stories back and forth (usually he's telling one to me, though) and tonight he requested I write one for him. It's meant to be more of a fairy tale style than anything else, and very lighthearted. Enjoy! Once upon a time there was a princess named Katarina. She was the most beautiful princess in all the lands and every prince alive wanted her hand in marriage because she was not only beautiful but intelligent and kind as well. But what no man knew was that she could not speak at all. She had been kidnapped at the age of four and had not spoken since her return. The resident fairy godmother of the castle said that it would take her one true love to get her to speak again, and her parents despaired, because they knew that for Katarina to find her one true love could take a lifetime. A prince named Lancifer was practicing his swordplay in a kingdom nearly a week's ride away when a messenger burst into the courtyard calling for him. "Lancifer, Lancifer! My Lord Prince, your parents call you to the throne room," he cried, dropping to one knee before the prince. This particular messenger had a tendency to overreact, and Prince Lancifer calmly sheathed his sword, replacing it where he got it from the sword rack. A servant wheeled the rack inside a storage room as Prince Lancifer followed the messenger to the throne room. "Lancifer, it is time for you to find a wife," said the king. "Ella has been nagging me about when you'll finally settle down and bring her grandchildren. You know how your mother wants grandchildren." No sooner than the word *grandchildren* had escaped from his mouth than the throne room doors burst open again. "Jeremy I heard every last word of that. I have *not* been nagging you, merely suggesting that you finally bring our son up here and tell him he must find a wife. As I see you have done so. I have brought you some cakes as a reward." She snapped her fingers and a maid brought forth a platter with cookies and cakes upon it. "This must last you the rest of the day, my love." She smiled and kissed the king. "Lancifer, darling, I have heard that the princess Katarina of Teroth is looking for a husband. I believe it is proper these days for suitors to call upon the female, and so tomorrow you are leaving for Terat City, capital of Teroth. You will behave respectably: your behaviour reflects upon your father and your country." Lancifer bowed his head. "Yes mother. Is she a decent woman? You know I will not marry a girl whose only concern is when her next dress arrives." "She is beautiful and kind, they say, and her parents are quite pleasant. You will enjoy yourself, I am sure." Ella waved her hand. "You're dismissed. Go pack, dear. You leave early tomorrow morning." Prince Lancifer left and climbed the north tower steps to his room at the top, grumbling about his mother the entire way. He threw a month's worth of clothes into a trunk and managed to fit a lute and three bottles of shampoo in as well. He left at dawn the next morning and travelled by carriage for the better part of a week before reaching Terat City and the front gate of the castle of Teroth. "I am Lancifer of Riall, calling for Katarina of Teroth." He announced his presence to the castle guards, and they checked the seals on the twelve pieces of parchment his parents had packed in his road-bag, knowing he'd need them to declare his suit for the lovely princess. The head guard saluted him as his carriage passed through the gates, and the king and queen of Teroth warmly welcomed him into their castle. Like home, he was put into rooms in the north tower, but here he was on the bottom floor rather than the top. It was nice, he mused, not having to climb up a thousand stairs when he was already exhausted. He collapsed on the bed and slept til dinner. At dinner, Lancifer sat across from the lovely Katarina, and nervously smiled at her when he wasn't looking down at his plate. He made small talk with the king and queen, noticing the princess's strange absence from the conversation. "Katarina...I am sure your voice is as lovely as the rest of you. Why, then, do you not speak?" The queen stepped in and answered for her daughter. "She has not spoken since she was stolen away as a child. We found her but her voice has been lost to the threads of time. However, we have heard that she may regain her use of it if she is to meet and marry her one true love. He alone may coax her voice from her." Lancifer smiled. "'Tis a good thing, then, milady. I cannot stand a woman who has nothing better to do than talk my ear off. Katarina, would you like to go stargazing down on the river in two nights' time? Though the night sky cannot compare to your beauty, I would like nothing more than to gaze upon it with you beside me." She blushed and nodded, averting her gaze from the handsome prince. "Take her nursemaid as a chaperone," the queen said. "It will be most improper if you do not." "I would do nothing less," Lancifer said, deferring to the proper woman. "If you and the king would like to accompany us, you may. I think a picnic beneath the stars would be most wonderful. We could have small sweets and light drinks, I think. The stars come out far too late for a hearty dinner." "We shall consider your offer and inform you tomorrow night." The queen smiled. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness. It is late, now, and I'm afraid we must go to bed. Good-night, prince Lancifer. Katarina, to bed with you!" Lancifer waved at the princess as she followed her parents to their rooms, and he made his way back to the first floor of the north tower, where he fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow. The next morning, he joined the Teroth royal family for breakfast, and greeted Katarina with a kiss on the back of her hand and a twinkle in his eye. "You are lovely, my dear lady. There are not words to describe to what extent, but know that you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on." Katarina blushed and bowed her head as Lancifer rose from a bent knee. After they ate breakfast, he demonstrated his skill with sword and horse, and they dined on sandwiches in the gardens at lunch. Lancifer found he was quickly warming up to the quiet princess, and he took her hand as they wandered the gardens. She smiled sunnily at him and he returned her smile. She led him through her favourite parts and he requested to see the greenhouse full of the small trees her land was known for. As she accompanied Lancifer through the greenhouse, he told her stories of his home and childhood. She reacted wonderfully, smiling in all the right places and nearly crying when the moment called for it. They arrived to dinner together, her hair still messed from when they lay on their backs atop a hill, watching clouds pass by, and his hands still dirty from helping a gardener prune a tree. The next morning, Lancifer met Katarina again, and she bid him good morning. He was shocked -- she wasn't supposed to talk. Her voice was hoarse and clearly rusty from lack of use, but still beautiful, he thought. "Will you accompany me to the music hall today?" she asked. "I would like to play for you." He nodded, ecstatic that she'd begun to talk again. She sat down in front of the piano and beautiful music flowed forth from her fingertips. She poured her heart into the music and Lancifer was overwhelmed with the love she projected through the notes at him. As the final notes faded from the air, he whispered "I love you" and she returned in kind -- "And I love you." That night, they gazed at stars and cuddled close on a blanket by the river, snacking on cookies and cakes, and every year they would take a trip to the river on the same day to gaze at the stars that night. For years they lived happily ever after, and their kingdoms grew strong together. The end.

Hour 60 without power: As I awoke this morning from the brief respite provided by the sweaty sleep, it occurred to me just how forsaken we were. The ritualistic sacrifices of vegetables from our fridge had clearly appeased no power god known to man, our choreographed dances and songs to the same purpose were unheard and unseen, and charging my iPhone™ from the car was just plain annoying. We had realized about 20 hours after the power was out that we would have to fend for ourselves for food – and to this end we had begun to drive around 15 miles to the Tysons area for food. Forsooth, we were a ragged crew. The locals had, for the most part, abandoned our powerless village for more fluorescent pastures, and the choice few that remained had sold their family members for generators and the requisite gas to make them run. And yet we had stayed, clinging to order in a brutish world; and yet we had stayed, when the hours turned to days and the gluttonous eating of food before expiration had begun; and yet we had stayed, and harbored hope that Prometheus would once again bring us fire. Perhaps you’re right – we were foolish. A though that had more than once occurred to us as we looked about or shelter, vestiges of power hauntingly lacking that jolt which gave them their life, their purpose. But we were young. We were foolish. We were naïve. And while you sit swaddled in cooled air, your electric addiction fueled by your latest hit, think of us powerless ones. Remember us fondly. Because a world in which I can’t crank up the AC, reach into the cool fridge for a chilled beverage, and watch trashy television is a world I cannot long endure.

The Projector Room If given the opportunity to re-write history at any point he wished, Keaya would go back and change the statue of that oh-so-familiar Greek God Adonis, so instead it reflects not a muscle-bound oaf with blonde hair—but his wonderful boyfriend of five years, Sabin. Currently though, Keaya’s gaze was fixated on Sabin’s leaning form against the lavender walls of their bedroom, the latter staring out the window, contemplating. While Keaya found Sabin to be at an admittedly amusing height of five foot-two, compared to his own height of five foot-ten, Sabin was nonetheless an avatar of indulgent perfection, what with his long black hair back in a pony-tail and that little rainbow streak on the left side that—for whatever reason—refuses to stay put. In the warm sunlight that was streaming through the bedroom of their tiny apartment during a general Texas afternoon –that is to say humid enough to fog up windows—this coffee skinned god’s shirtless form was radiating light that would make even Zeus jealous; their room full of deafening, whirring projectors that gave off light of their own. The projectors had accumulated over the years as Keaya had spent more time with Sabin—right up until a year or so ago. Grainy chat logs from instant messengers stacked precariously six or more inches thick on the cheap matte desk, next to the oaken dresser in a pile that fell over at some point, in the entire three foot space between the windowsill and the far corner opposite the desk but next to the bed—they were everywhere. There were drawings of Sabin and Keaya, too, and in a number that surpassed even the chat logs: Drawings of them relaxing on the couch, out to dinner on that rare occasion they could afford it, posing in a thousand different positions, and even drawings of more serious moments like when Sabin quit smoking for a few months. Sometimes they had been done by Keaya, sometimes by Sabin, or sometimes by both of them. They filled every page of notebooks that were stacked next to and as thick as the chat logs, in loose-leaf form cluttering up the desk, in haphazard piles neck to the notebooks and even on random scraps of paper crammed into folders next to the piles. Keaya would have thrown them all out long ago if he wasn’t so entranced by the damn things. Impish in all the ways that were socially unacceptable to disclose in public but exceptionally gratifying nonetheless, Sabin’s smile—more specifically the one he was giving Keaya right now—was in turn surpassed by his way-too-sexy British voice, “What’s the matter, love?” Keaya shuddered; that voice—it drove him up the wall, made him hunger and quake. Made him yearn, beg, and plead. Just a cop or a feel. Just one. Keaya sighed as if he’d run a mile and sat on the edge of the decrepit office chair at the desk, looking away towards the dresser, seeming all of a sudden to need his undying attention; though it was filled with more projectors— more wearily stacked drawings, a clay sculpture of a lime green paw print, and a worn out purple leash. It was almost disgusting to want someone this bad, almost too cliché, almost too reminiscent of those disgusting-yet-somehow-entrancing romance books Keaya had taken more than a few peeks at in the “Romance” section of the local Borders he had gone to when he was still a teenager. “N-nothing.” Came the shaky lie, and again, “Nothing.” Keaya’s elbows came to rest on his knees, head propping up on his hands for support. “You always say that. Nothing, nothing, nothing is *ever* on your mind—but you’re *always* lying and you know it.” Sabin’s devious tone matched his grin perfectly, the way his smile curled up just a little at corner of his lips, one eyebrow lifted, head tilted forward a little. Standing up after a minute and striding over to the chair where Keaya sat, Sabin stood mere centimeters away—close enough to reach out and touch as the projectors whirred yet louder. Turning his attention to the floor and taking a deep breath to steady himself, Keaya’s eyes closed only long enough for him to feel a thumb and forefinger cup his chin, Sabin’s fingers lifting his head up so he could stare into those hypnotic eyes, the color of warm sunlight through amber. “Be right back, silly. Gotta smoke.” Sabin’s hand dropped to his side as he turned slowly and strode out of the room with that sickening idea obviously in mind. A single stack of chat logs and a large colored-pencil drawing that’d won 2nd place in a contest flickered incessantly as Sabin went into the hallway and out to the tiny balcony, the click of a lighter and puff of a cigarette heard even over the projectors, a relieved sigh shortly following. Nodding, Keaya let out an exasperated sigh followed by a disgusted scowl, “Alright sweets,” not commenting on the cigarette—Keaya knew he wouldn’t stop—watching him go instead. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’s seen his boyfriend or anything though— far from it. After meeting Sabin six years prior on the Internet and after half a year’s worth of eight to nine hour conversations on the phone—albeit actual ‘conversing’ was only about three-quarters of it—Keaya decided to accept Sabin’s offer to actually meet in person. After a few weeks of knowing Sabin in person, the ability to go out on dates to any number of romantic places that hadn’t thrown them out yet, to just cuddle on the couch like they’d talked about for so many months prior, and even the simple act of being in Sabin’s presence caused everything to blend into months and then years. Smatterings of affection that gradually became irrepressible love, communication frequency that bordered on access, a total trust in Keaya, and many, many situations that more often than not resulted in Keaya getting kicked out of his favorite places around town amidst to screams of, “You two had better leave or else we’ll call the cops!” That last thought to pop into Keaya’s head made him burst forth with a sudden and hearty laugh, his voice calling into the other room as he stood up and strode over to the doorway, leaning on it, “Hey, Sabin! Remember when we got kicked out of that fancy-ass mall near that stupidly-expensive chocolate store?” There was a silence from the balcony before a jubilant laugh echoed into the bedroom, “Hah! How the hell do you remember that one incident? That sure wasn’t the only time we got kicked out for so-called ‘unacceptable behavior’. That was a year ago, wasn’t it?” The projectors stopped flickering, though not all the way; Sabin’s voice alone not enough to make them run smoothly again. Keaya paused to think, *‘I met him six years ago on that website…started dating three months later. Four years and nine months after that…no, wait…’* Keaya gripped the sides of his head at the dates. There was a year missing. Keaya twined his fingers in his hair, tugging at it as his weight shifted and he began sliding slowly down until he was resting on the floor. His knees drew up, arms came to rest on knees, and head got cradled in his arms— protecting it from the intruding memories. A singsong voice called from the balcony, “Oh Keaayyaaa…Come ‘ere.” Keaya shuddered as if he’d been punched in the stomach—a sob leaking out, quiet and wracked. A few white leather cuffs that looked way too pristine to ever have been use for their intended purpose, a distinctly more one-sided stack of chat logs from late August last year that had been exiled to the corner, and a flag from one of the gay pride parades they used to frequent each shut off one by one in their various places throughout the room, each one a projector, whirring to life once more at the sound of Sabin’s voice, the image of Sabin flickering in the doorway to the bedroom. He walks into the hallway where Keaya now sits, huffing impatiently and resting his hands on his hips, “Well? I’m not going to be here forever, ‘ya know.

When I was a boy, I slept in the room where my great-grandfather hung himself. Not the actual room, but he had to pass through my room to get to the room with exposed rafters. To me, there was little difference. I would lie awake, seeing the old man, who I was named for, slouch through my temporary bedroom, head low, shoulders slumped in despair. I imagined him throwing the rope over a rafter and then pulling it tight, like a sailor unfurling a sail. I witnessed as he mounted the stool (though sometimes it was one of the mismatched kitchen chairs my grandmother had accumulated, and likely the one I’d sat in for dinner), slipped his head through the noose, and kicked the stool away. I imagined him choking, and then lazily yawing back and forth until the body was discovered some hours later. I slept fitfully during those nights. The air was sticky and miserable; the crickets and spring peepers were a far cry from the street noise at night back home. Mostly, I was terrified that the old man’s bones would find their way back to the place of his final moments, and if that happened, wouldn’t he be angry that I had taken his name? I thought he might. June would inevitably make way for July; the days marched inexorably to August, the month my banishment ended. Safe in my own bed, with the air conditioning, the street noises, and some six hundred miles between the hanging room and me, next summer was an eternity away. I knew that when I endured my annual exile again, I would be braver, and I would be secure in the knowledge that my great-grandfather’s spirit would not disturb my sleep. I was always wrong.

The air conditionner is burring. His room is kept at a comfortable 65 degrees fahrenheit. He is lying on his bed, reliving his life in his head, going through whats and what ifs. He enjoys this temperature, for it allows him to sleep with one leg under the covers and another over. He turns from side to side, hoping to a spot comfortable enough for him to sleep. Nothing comes of it. So, he decides to sit up. He searches for something to do, but, nothing comes of it. So, he searches again. Beneath the festering pile that has become his dirty laundry, he finds something. A magazine of some sort. He begins rummaging,and after the turn of first page, remembers that it is a former copy of his high school's literary magazine. Rummaging through, he recalls the times he imagined he had submitted a short piece. It would have been nothing much, merely a drunken rambling he would have managed to scribble down one night, but enough that he thought is was submittable. But what would have been submittable? He imagined himself toiling over this work, for it to be his first, his only. Thats how it was supposed to be. He would submit one piece anonymously and hope, that once the magazine came around, they had chosen his piece. That would have been it. No more writing, just that. He then remembers that he had created an alternate to that situation. He would have gone about doing the same things, but this time around, he would have signed it. And once they read his piece, they were slightly moved. Not so much as to be ecstatic, just so much that they might approach him in the hallways and commend him for it. Thats how it was supposed to be. It would have been a small dream accomplished.As he reveled in the thought of being slapped on the back by his peers, he realized something else. Why? Why hadn't he, after all, actually submitted something. Then, he came back to from his pathetic bout of courage to realize why he hadn't. He was too scared. Too scared of being rejected. But by not trying, there was no failure, as he didn't even try.

“I told you, I’m not going to kill myself, I just want to see some goddamn-,” he stopped short as he bounded up the last flight of stairs and took in the scene before him. “You seem, crestfallen, Alex.” “This is my spot,” he murmured, a tinge of annoyance making a rare debut in his typically even-keeled demeanor. The spot actually belonged to Jacob D. Flores, a real estate developer specializing in parking garage properties, as he owned the building whose roof deck was now populated by fifty shades of the neighborhood, all jockeying for the best spot to watch the fireworks over the concrete heat-sink of downtown. “So you aren’t going to jump, then?” He turned to the girl. “Sam, I hate falling. I don’t even ride roller coasters. If I was going to kill myself I really wouldn’t jump off of a parking garage and splat in somebody’s alley on the Fourth of July. That is uncool. I am not uncool. We’ve been through this.” “Bad grammar is uncool. Double negatives are super-uncool.” “Oh my god, you are the antichrist.” “Rude people are uncool-” “Okay, that’s it, I’m jumping,” he broke away in long strides towards the dozen-or-so spectators. A large bald man squatted over a comically large camera and tripod. Four college kids passed a bowl conspicuously, expressions evaporating as they exhaled in symphony. A chubby twenty-something thumbed his blackberry with the grace of an ape. Two hipsters made out on top of a mini-cooper. Sam huffed, exasperated that she couldn’t trump threats of suicide. She was a gangly girl with an eccentric beauty that seemed lost on many, most notably Alex Decker, the boy whose violent death would send her into a state of psychiatric breakdown and must therefore be prevented at all costs. She turned, walked three paces, and stopped. A dozen towns’ fireworks displays littered the horizon at various scales, belligerent displays of light and fire reduced to blips in the sky. Sluggish thuds of their far-away relevance only added to the ever present din of the city at night. It was all so nonchalant. The world seemed to groan under the sheer weight of itself in the soggy summer night heat. They didn’t speak for the rest of the night. By the time she caught up with him his eyes were red and he seemed distant. They situated themselves on a high wall overlooking the trickle of visitors still filing in to join the block party. The new arrivals were predictably more inebriated. “HEY-” bellowed a shirtless teen in cargo shorts to nobody in particular, “THIS IS AMERICA.” The crowd erupted. Somebody had just begun broadcasting the Black Eyed Peas from their late model Jeep Cherokee when the first rocket sailed overhead and splintered across the sky in elegant, symmetrical geometries. They watched in silence as the glass skyline dazzled as if it was ablaze. Sam placed her hand on top of his. It was warm. Her heart beat in her throat as she felt him turn to meet her gaze, but a stranger looked back. She recoiled in surprise, breath short as her eyes scanned the crowd for a blonde shock of hair. Her stomach plummeted as her eyes locked on the back of his head. His outstretched arms sprawled in mock flight as his body fell, resigned to the whims of gravity. It was the last she would ever see of Alex Decker. Overhead, an explosion rocked the world to its core. She awoke in a cold sweat with Beethoven’s ninth symphony stuck in her head. Her terrarium collection still thrived. She allowed herself to indulge in the waves of relief washing over her. “Tomorrow”, she whispered to herself, “is going to count for something.

This is just the first bit of a story I wrote for an intro to electrical engineering class. Huzzah! I wake up at the crack of 4pm every day for a vigorous workout regimen of trying to vomit the shame out of my body and watching Teletubbies reruns. Then, I remember that cyborgs can’t vomit, and I haven’t paid the cable bill in three months, so the only form of entertainment I get is looking for rats in my apartment and throwing them out of the window. On a normal day, I might crawl back into bed and shut off my audio/visual receptors for another couple of hours, but my in-eye interface opens up my calendar for today. Looks like I’ve got a client in half an hour. Better find a clean shirt. As soon as I finish putting on my Hawaiian button up with hardly any stains on it, there’s a knock at the door. Not the standard three-knock shindig, but a more aggressive than usual intro to “Shave and a Haircut.” Leaving off those last two knocks is supposed to make me rush to the door to usher them in, but it only serves in making every micrometer of my cybernetic thought processors overheat and lower in efficiency, something humans call “hate.” It happens all too often with me. I’m going to not have a good time with this job. I get the door anyway. “Come in. Don’t touch any of the furniture; I’m pretty sure it’s growing some type of fungus.” It’s not actually growing anything, but I tell every client this because it’s my apartment and I’ll be damned if I’m having strangers come in and touch all of my stuff. “Uh, okay. Should I just stand then?” The dame walks in with a look on her face like she’s better than me, but with the posture and grace like she has polio. I shouldn’t have answered the door. “I don’t care if you sit on the floor, do a handstand, or just leave. Although frankly, it would be pretty impressive to see you get that fat center of gravity over your fat stupid face. What do you want?” The dame wasn’t even overweight, but just like in high school, if you put them down enough, they’ll put out more. Or in the case, pay more. “I hear you’re Jake Bullet. I hear you’re the meanest private dick this side of the pond, and you have what it takes to get the job done.” The dame was easily six feet tall and the voice coming out of her sounded like a grizzled ex-con. I could almost see her five o’clock shadow. “Lady, when you moonlight like I do, you don’t use words like “private” and “dick” so close together unless you got the green to throw down. Now tell me what the job is, Golden Girls is on soon.” “It’s my husband, Jake. Every night he goes out, and I don’t see him again until morning, right before he leaves for work at the energy plant! I think he’s cheating on me, with prostitutes no less! I checked our bank statement from last month, and, well. . .” Her optical moisture ports starts spouting like the zits on an eighth grader. Humans can just be so illogical. That moisture could be used for a lot of other things, like spitting on the homeless (one of my favorite Sunday past times), or sweating for thirty minutes on the treadmill. Her story was boring me, so I started checking her out with my peripheral scanners, and she could definitely stand to drop a few. “All right, quit your blabbering. I charge fifty bucks a day, not including meals, snacks, expenditures imperative to the job, expenditures not imperative to the job, movie tickets, pony rides, salsa lessons, etcetera. I’ll call you when I have something.” After getting her nasty human-eye-watering face out of my apartment, I write down in my schedule that I should probably go check this creepy guy out. Just then, I notice I have an appointment today. The appointment is written in blue ink. Looks like I’m missing Golden Girls today.