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Allura 23

Arches. Whorls. Creases. A Maze of Lines. Loops. Forks. Pathways. Living in the suburbs of L.A., she has turned into a clone of the latest thing. She lives where superficial is the inner soul. Where trying to be someone else is the norm. Where uniqueness can only safely be expressed in a fashion statement. Where her fiery red hair is a flaw that needs to be changed and forgotten. Trying to be someone else’s ideal is a tiring life long act. She begs the world to let her off of the stage. She begins to cry in her hands and notices that there is something that sets her apart in her little corner of the world. They can not be copied or altered. She can leave her unique stamp, imprint, and mark wherever she goes. Her fingerprints tell her, no matter how hard she tries, that she can never truly be anything else but herself.

I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears.

“What do you think that is?” “Well, Todo we aren’t in Texas anymore.” Ella laughs and says,” But really, what is that? The sun is in my eyes.” The Texas sun is blinding and the air is heavy with humidity. The clouds move as fast as the San Marcos River roiling through the man made pathways. There is not an open spot on the grassy hill, and the sounds of faded conversations fill our ears with the nonsense of college students trying too hard to impress each other. “I think that it is looking at us,” Ryan says in a whisper with a questioning tone. As our shadows pass over it, its pleading eyes began to open. Glazed over and too weak to move, it felt our presence. Its legs quiver as it looks up at us with pure pathetic eyes. The thoughts cross our minds that it is given to fly. It is using its last breath to grasp our attention or anyone else who might give a damn. Ryan looks over to it and says,” You alright there little buddy?” Ella answers with a sigh and says,” I actually think that it’s dieing. I can’t believe that no one else has noticed.” Ryan says bluntly, “Oh, I think that people noticed. They probably didn’t care.” Its pink bare skin and some bone are exposed. Its neck is completely mangled with no sympathy. To say the least, its tortured end of life is disturbing to witness and drawing near. Realizing that we are its last hope not to be forgotten, we decided to notify the park service. “Sorry guys, I don’t know if there is too much we can do to save it. I mean it’s just a vulture. If it was exotic or rare we would have a better chance.” Reluctantly he says, “But I’ll go ahead and give the animal shelter a ring and, uh, see what we can do for yall. Thanks for letting me know. Um, in the mean time I’ll cover it with a trashcan because I don’t want anyone to be disturbed. You know what I mean?” As they began to walk away Ella lightened the mood by saying, “ Well, I guess not all birds are created equal either.” Ryan answered, “Yeah, I agree with you.

It was his first day on the job, the manager told him while he was sitting in his confined cubicle that there were a few occupational hazards he should keep in mind while on the job. He didn’t listen. He was far too busy staring at the provocatively dressed receptionist a little ways down the hall. He figured an occupational hazard isn’t something he needed to worry about, and rightfully so, he was just an accountant. His day consisted of pointless number punching day in and day out. He couldn’t stand being there, and the first day had yet to even finish, the clock ticked as slow as it ever had before. Retirement was the only thing on his mind, “One day,” he thought, “one day…” Meanwhile, a man is atop the Empire State Building meticulously checking and maintaining all the electrical gauges. It’s his first day on the job as well, he listened very closely to the occupational hazards for his kind of work. He feared his first climb for weeks, and cautiously made every move making sure it was the right one. He prayed to his god he’d come out of the ordeal alive and well, all he could wait for was his paycheck. When the second day comes around, only one man is still breathing. Turns out cubicles are more dangerous then you’d think… Occupational hazards seem to have a dark sense of humor of its own, a sense of humor only It understands.

The oxygen machine bubbled on as we allowed ourselves to be drowned in the silence of the hospital room. A tear rolled down my father’s cheek while my grandmother continued to gently sway her nails back and forth across his back like she did years before – like he’s done to me. Then my extraneous thoughts meandered their way back into my head like usual. It dawned on me that that would be among the last moments I spend with her. I realize how lucky I am to have been there. My grandma has always said that she loves New York, having only gone but a handful of times in the entirety of her life. She has also loved seeing her son perform, listening to beautiful music, and other forms of art. Married at 18, and having a child soon thereafter, she never got to experience the things that could bring her as much joy as her family. I will always wonder if she lived without regret. I looked down at her hand – discolored, weakened and wrinkled. I could just hold it in my young and hearty hand with time to spend written all over it effortlessly. We could join as a crossroads of relatives and of diversity - her at the ending of her life, and me very much at the beginning of mine. Because of my mother and father’s education, as well as my own, I stand here now with more opportunity than she received in all of her years combined. I will always wonder if she lived without regret. “But,” she says, “It’ll just take time for it to get better.” Hope, even then. She let out one of her light laughs that just roll their way out into the space of your ears. It’s comforting to feel that from her. We all gave a slight chuckle, but we knew that it would not get better. It had been said many times just that day that we’ll have to sacrifice her quality of life for it to be sustained. Going to visit her was one of the most powerful and important times in my life. I learned firsthand the circle of life. When you’re there and you know that the days your loved has left are vastly outnumbered by that he or she has lived, you accept it. You have always known that it would happen, no matter how fucking painful it is and how completely powerless you are over the situation. It’s just life and that’s all it will ever be – from birth to death. It’s all we, as humans here on this planet will ever really know in the concrete. Have faith, but be content. Look forward to a better time, but know that there is always a now. There will be a time to say goodbye to everyone you’ve ever met. Take it, and be grateful.

A light laughter floats upwards. A brunette holds a handful of cut straws. A group of girls shy away before reaching out to claim their own. They all pull one of the neon plastic tubes out of the cluster, and I reluctantly follow suit. My reluctance doesn’t result of fear, but a faintly disinterest in the proceedings. The Walk, like most of Patty’s designs, is the result of a night of light drinking and the need to always have some new idea that everyone else will just think wildly entertaining. “Annalise, you drew the short straw.” “I,” the sentence is started before I glance down to compare the length of my own straw to that of everyone else’s’. “I suppose I did.” A light shrug falls off my shoulders. The whole game seems silly to me, and I’m not worried to have lost the draw. Patty walks to the sofa where her purse sits to pull out a long strip of cloth. “Blindfold time, Annalise.” Rebecca takes the length of blue cotton off her hands and closes the distance between us with a few awkward steps. I turn my back to her and tie my hair in a ponytail. The other girls watch with interest. This is the first time I have actively participated in any of the games that didn’t involve drinking. Everything goes dark as the knot cinches at the back of my head. “Can you see anything?” Patricia asks the question, presumably from her previous position at the other side of the room, and I simply shake my head in response. “Then let’s go. Unless you’re afraid of the dark.” A biting retort reaches my lips and I hold it down, reminding myself that these aren’t the girls from my previous school. As far as I know, it a friendly taunt, and not a subtle way to intimidate me. In an attempt to just be friendly a smile spreads across my lips and I shake my head. “Not afraid of the dark, but maybe this will be different.” Someone, most likely Tracy, judging by the small size of the hand grasping my elbow, guides me towards the door. “Just count to twenty, and then walk.” Tracy’s voice sounds by my ear and I inwardly congratulate myself on my excellent guess. The 6 girls take off in different directions, footsteps giving away their positions at first, but quickly fading away until I’m left with just the numbers sounding in my head. I count slowly, determined to play this silly game with as much seriousness as I can muster. If I am being completely honest, The Walk seems mostly like an initiation into this new group. The fact that we drew straws is my only consolation that this wasn’t some form of twisted setup. Once again I remind myself that these girls are followers of Patty’s whims, and not the gossiping malicious one I left behind when I transferred. A deep breath fills my lungs with the cool fall air, and I can almost feel the full moon shining down. Of course, that’s all in my imagination, but without my vision it’s running wild. I take the first step off the porch and slowly walk forward. A rustle of leaves to my right catches my attention and I quickly turn my head in that direction, tripping a bit as I do so. Obviously my brain has forgotten that I’m blindfolded. The uncertainty of the situation nags at my anxiety, but I take another deep breath to calm myself. “It’s just a game.” An inner mantra begins repeating itself, but is quickly abandoned as I struggle to figure out what’s going on around me without eyes. A scream dashes through the air, ending as quickly as it began .It was convincing, but I know better. “That’s really funny, girls. Scream all you want, I’m not scared.” There’s no response to my announcement, and I smile widely. So that’s how they want to play this. I should have known that a simple walk through the woods wasn’t all Patty had planned for whoever drew the short straw. Another scream, much like the first, cuts through the air. It’s followed by the sound of a person crashing through the forest. The smile remains spread across my face as I keep walking, these girl’s are going above and beyond to scare me. “Patty, oh my god, Patty!” Rebecca’s distressed voice reaches my ears, and for the first time I a m a little bit worried. More screams and the sound of running fill the air until I can’t even hear the leaves under my own feet. “Annalise, take off your blindfold, there’s someone-“ the sentence is torn short by another scream. I know the rules though. The blindfold must stay in place until someone comes to you and pulls it off, signaling that I have successfully completed the walk. I don’t even reach upwards, determined not to fall for their tricks. The screaming eventually quiets down, one girl at a time and I struggle to keep my footing and my breath. At some point I started running. My legs and arms burn with scrapes and cuts from the branches I had encountered. I hadn’t realized how scared I actually was until I stopped running and realized that the only sound was that of a light fall breeze, creeping through the trees. “Patty?” No response. “Patty, this isn’t funny anymore. Can I take off the blindfold?” Still no response. I know that I’ll never hear the end of it for chickening out, but that doesn’t matter anymore. A deep fear gripped me, as irrational as it was, and I need to see what was happening around me, I need to be reminded that this was just a game. My finger pulls at the knot holding the blindfold on and it eventually falls to the ground at my feet. I blink several times, getting used to seeing again as someone approaches me from the left. I turn to see Emily, the quietest of Patty’s followers, covered in blood with a knife in one hand, and Rebecca’s head in the other. A twisted smile. A knife covered in blood. A terrified girl running away through the woods.

Chat Transcript 09/17/2012 G: Hey there! R: Hi, What's up? G: Marry me? R: nope G: :-( R: Are you gonna do that every time we talk? G: of course! R: ha R: you're funny G: ...and cute G: ...and a good cook R: yes G: and quite romantic G: and a good dad G: and sexy... did I forget sexy? G: and I have a nice voice R: Don't forget how modest you are G: Oh! I forgot that one! I'm the most modest man on earth! R: that's right! G: I'm so humble that they tried to crown me king of humility G: ...only... G: I was too humble to accept R: haha! G: See! I make you laugh! R: Quite a lot right now, actually :-) G: Think about it... a life with me would be full of laughter and romance and good food! R: Are you trying to romance me with this? G: Hmm, I don't know... is it working? R: ... R: I'm starting to think you have a quota to fill.. that you must propose to me at least once every single day R: you seem to be doing that G: Well, if you ever say yes, imagine how romantic it would be to tell our children: G: "He proposed to me every day for 2 years, until I finally said yes, on Sept 17th, 2012!" R: lol, you wish! G: *obviously!* G: The kids will say, "why did you keep asking, Daddy?" G: And I'll say, "Because, once you meet an angel, you'd be a fool to not do everything on your power to win her heart' G: Then they'll say, "why did you say yes, mommy?" R: and just what will I say, in this hypothetical future? G: You'll say, "I said yes because he told us about this day, with my perfect children and my handsome, romantic husband. And I knew that was the future I wanted, and now it's come true, more perfect than I could ever imagine." G: And then I'll kiss you deeply G: And our children will say "ewww" G: And it will still be romantic as always G: Then we'll tuck them in together, and go out to our porch with a glass of wine and watch the stars, wrapped in eachother's arms R: aww R: ok, that was seriously cute G: :-) R: We also have to put Nanny back in the dog house R: and make sure the windows are closed. R: Then it'll be a good night G: Lol... of course G: ... G: Tell the truth, you liked that one even better than my sunset-horseback-picnic-proposal scenario from last week.

She left for a reason. Leanna calmly reminded herself of the simple truth that she seemingly couldn’t wrap her head around. It was even written across her mirror in whiteboard marker. “You left for a reason” The words mocked her every morning when she brushed her teeth and every night when she took out her contacts. Of course she left for a reason, and she didn’t just leave, she left. Leanna moved to a different city, found a new job, spent time with new friends. The only thing in her life that wasn’t new was the fact that she thought about Anthony all day. Two months wasn’t enough time to make it all okay. But Leanna hoped more than she bothered to admit that if she spent enough time pretending that she didn’t believe in love, eventually she would forget that she had ever felt love in the first place. Nowadays she didn’t believe in anything. Her nights bled into her days. If Leanna were to look back at the previous four months, she would find an endless parade of bartenders pouring rum and faceless men leaving her apartment. She wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t sad. And sometimes, she often told herself, not being sad is enough. She was restless. Leanna didn’t know what more she should want, and she didn’t bother looking. A new quote made its way onto her mirror. “Love is a lie.” She scoffed at the few who bothered to disagree with her. There was no part of her that missed Anthony, which seemed to prove her new eternal truth was fact. How could something that faded so quickly possibly have been real in the first place? Leanna charmed men with her indifference, and sent them packing when they told her how much she meant to them. There was no place for sentiment in her life, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it. Occasionally people would tell her there was more to living. Allegedly a life without emotion wasn’t much of a life at all. She gave them the same expression generally reserved for hopeless romantics. She met a writer. He drank more than she did, and enjoyed the sex just as much. They spent their days together and usually their nights. His words filled her life and enchanted her in a way she had forgotten. She read every book he lent her, usually more than once. Stories he’d written, and sometimes even his diary, filled her spare time. With every word he wrote, she told herself more firmly that she adored him. His stories ran through her thoughts, and one day she replaced the echo of a mantra written across her mirror. “Wanderlust” They took trips together to vineyards and breweries and distant state parks where they spent the weekend camping. She still wasn’t happy, but when she was lost in books, the days bled into weeks into months. She was certain she’d never leave so long as he kept writing. The writer struggled to keep her attention, but his stories grew stale. Trying to tame the girl was a full time job, and often his typewriter went days without a glance. His adoration of her stole his imagination. No longer were his dreams filled with astronauts, tigers, and foreign lands. He thought only of her. The magic was broken when he proposed. She remembered she didn’t believe in love and she laughed. She reminded him that he hadn’t written anything in weeks, and she walked out the door. The writer was devastated. He phoned a friend in a different city and left that night. He had bought a white board marker on the trip to his new city, and a new typewriter. Richard vowed never to fall in love again. His first order of business in the new apartment was to write on his bathroom mirror. “Get your shit together.” The simple sentence, written in his slanting print seemed to laugh at him. For the amount of joy the words took in watching him piece his life together he might as well have written, “Schadenfreude.” Richard struggled to start writing once more, and to that effect he took up drinking as a second profession. Many a night Richard would stumble home and barely pull off his shoes before falling into bed. Every morning he brushed the taste of stale cigarettes and lonely women off his teeth before pouring a glass of whiskey and sitting down at the typewriter. His best work was a result of those months. Publishers asked about his books, and girls fawned over his stories. Richard was always cautious of girls who loved his work. After the last girl, he took the ability to even read off his list of deal breakers. He was alone, and he liked it that way. Richard’s liver protested at the whiskey he drank. He ignored its complaints and changed nothing about his life. If he was going to die, Richard was determined to die the death of an artist. He silently proved his point by smoking twice as many cigarettes and drinking twice as much whiskey. The only love in his life was his typewriter. When sat in front of it, he often forgot there was a world outside of his cramped apartment. His books had sold well and he could’ve left, but Richard never did. He stared at the new mantra written across his mirror. “Art is Pain.” He remembered the girl who had loved his words. He wrote about her. Occasionally he contemplated sending her a copy of his most recent novel, but never did. Richard was alone. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t sad. Sometimes it’s enough to just not be sad.

The Wizard Michael shared a low bed in his attic room with his black acoustic guitar. His friends sat in bean-bag chairs around a coffee table in front of him. They passed a smoking bowl among themselves. Light from the sun outside came through the closed window, hitting the smoke which lingered in the air. The entire room was covered in a light haze. An air conditioner at the other end of the room rattled, keeping the room from substantially over heating. A television set on mute sat in the room, but no one was focusing on it. He wore a dull red plaid shirt, cargo shorts, and plain brown sneakers. On his bed next to him lay the acoustic guitar, which he now only played when he was high. On the wall was an orange Chudley Cannons poster.] He held his own packed glass bowl in his left hand, and a yellow Bic lighter in his right. The inside of the bowl was covered in a thin amber layer of cooked residue; he needed to get around to cleaning it. He lit the lighter, staring at the yellow flame. He wasn’t in a rush to start smoking. He absentmindedly moved the Bic, no longer lit, through the fingers on his right hand. He listened intently to the music playing, paying no attention to the others in the room. He lied back against the bed, staring straight up. Focusing intently on the pale glow-in-the-dark stars barely visible against the white-wash ceiling, he realised that he had yet to eat breakfast. He remembered waking up. He looked outside, and saw the sun, well past noon, linger in the sky. He estimated about 3:00, maybe 3:30. It was the first day of summer. Thinking about the final he took yesterday, he frowned. It wasn’t that he had bombed it, but rather that he had passed it without any deal of effort. He hadn’t even reviewed his notes. Hell, he hadn’t studied for that class all year. It wasn’t that he was a bad student, or even that he relished doing poorly in school, as he noted some kids his age did. He was simply not challenged. Certainly he wasn’t the most organized kid. He decided that this was the root of his problems. His disorganized mannerisms must have been perceived by his teachers as a lack of substantial intelligence. He had missed the cutoff for honors tracking, and even if he desired now to move up, he would be at a hopeless disadvantage, being far behind in the curriculum by the honors standard. He wished someone had pushed him. His parents must have bought into the teachers conclusions of mediocrity. They had accepted him as mediocre, and maybe were a little disappointed, but not surprised. They hadn’t been special either. He turned to look at his friends. The bowl lay on its side on the coffee table. A thin stream of smoke rose from it. His friends were discussing the latest Jersey Shore. He hated that show. He looked back up at the ceiling. Perhaps he really was mediocre, and this self-denial was just his coping mechanism with not being special, his only defense against his belief in not being worth anything. But this was a lie. He knew, deep down that he, at least at some point, had not been average, was not as worthless as he came across. He thought about his long lost love for reading. He had read and reread every Harry Potter book, had finished each of them for the first time within a week of their release. He turned to the bookshelf next to the TV. He could make out most of the series on the shelf, but it was hard to read the lettering through the smoke. That wasn’t savant level, but at least that was something. More important to him, however, was the emotion connected with his hours spent face down in a hard-cover. They represented his childhood, a reckless one inspired by Calvin and Hobbes comics and the Dangerous Book for Boys which had taught him almost everything he knew about anything important. But this childhood seemed long gone. In some ways, it had been pushed aside against his will, through homework and social obligations. But in other ways, his present reality was the result of his own decisions. He sustained to his friends that he didn’t cry at the end of the last Harry Potter movie. His hand rested on the guitar which lay at his side. He plucked at the strings with no particular song in mind. He used to practice everyday. He would ride his bike to his lessons, and then come home and teach himself even more from the internet. He still played it every now and then, but only absentmindedly, not with the vigor of before. His teacher had told him that he was a talented musician. Now he was only average. He told himself to relax, to pass these thoughts out of his mind. But he was always relaxed he thought to himself, high or not. This annoyed him. It wasn’t that he felt guilty about relaxing, but he felt bad that he had nothing to relax from. He picked up the bowl again, held it in his left hand, and sparked the lighter. But he didn’t bring the flame down to the bowl. He lifted his thumb and let the flame die. The word “average” interested him. He thought it odd that a word which by definition described the majority of people could have such a negative connotation. “We should do something today,” he suggested to his friends. His words were met with giggling. “I don’t think my brain has control over my toes, so I don’t think I’m walking anywhere.” “I was thinking about doing something today,” he said sincerely. “You know, like REALLY doing something.” “What, like driving to Taco Bell?” The speaker nudged the other friend, who was zoned out eyes glued to the TV. It was tuned to the cooking channel were Rachael Ray was preparing a cake. Michael rolled his eyes at his friends. “Nah man. Something exciting, something you don’t get to do everyday.” “Like watching a movie!” His friend reached for the remote, turning the television off of mute. He flipped through the channels, stopping at ABC Family. The fourth Harry Potter movie was on. Michael watched as Harry dove around the quidditch pitch on his broomstick. Michael picked up the bowl again. He lit the lighter, held it to the bowl, and inhaled.

.Running Away Through WINTER. Years after being cheated off of in Chemistry, I spy you as I am drenched in Neon Paint. Suffocated to sleep by the left over stench of your recent smoke. Flattered by your Love Day date proposition, But I (run, run, runnnnn) hit the books instead. Days in the Children’s Psych hospital, you were once too similar to them, priceless. .Learning Through SPRING. You spy me across the SXSW crowd, And hold my hand all the way to the “safety” of an alleyway. A kiss goodbye as you pick up some Brits. You teach me so much. Nocturnal animals chirp from the Bridge. A trip to your Water job where you were fired, And a run through the Park with your wolf. You gave my leftovers from your Birthday Dinner to a homeless man. Learning that you care. And Learning that I was…not very nice. .Longing Through SUMMER. Thoughts of him faded into thoughts of you. Belgium, Turkey, Germany, France, But I lost the souvenir that I handpicked for you. Angelic voicemail on my 22nd, And a late night Visit as you return from pyramid building. PSYCHO NEIGHBOR (!) makes me long for you, as you begin to slip away. Music and Movies and Ice-Cream, Oh my! .Missing You Through FALL. “Tea Time” is the password. Pinky swear over a heap of beans and rice. 11:11 pm. The best time for me to move on.

​My name is Chris Smith. I am 15 years old and I live in the middle of a forest in Kansas. I am home schooled by my mom, and my dad is a business man in a town nearby. He leaves for work early and gets home late so I rarely see him. I am an only child and my best friend Taylor lives about a mile away. My favorite part about living in a forest is my shed.. I go there all the time, and it is filled with my favorite things. ​Last night, my mom told me about a man who killed a lot of people in a town not far from where my dad works. His name was Damien, but people usually called him Zarius. He lived there in the 1800s and he was caught and executed 6 years after the murders and that was the end of the story. ​Today, when I woke up, I felt a little strange. I was very tired, despite sleeping for more than usual, and my whole body felt numb. Then, I felt as if something was pulling me towards the shed. It felt like there was something I needed to see. It felt like, fate was puling me to it. ​I walked to it, and it felt suspicious. As I got closer, my need to go in it grew exponentially. There was a strange light coming from it. I walked in to see what was going on. ​When I walked in, I felt something. I lost all control of my body and I couldn't move. It was completely black and I felt lonely, as if all in the world was slowly leaving me. After a few minutes, I was unconscious. I couldn't see or feel, rather than seeing and feeling the nothingness that surrounded me. ​Suddenly, I woke up. I had no idea where I was or what time it is. There was the dim light of the darkness, so I knew I was seeing actual things. And, I could feel. I felt the wet floor under me and I could hear dripping. ​I got up and looked around. Nothing gave me any clue to where I was. I heard a noise at the end of the corridor. I grabbed a piece of wood and waited. I saw a silhouette of what seemed like a man. I yelled “Hello” but rather than responding, it made a groaning sound. I heard the wet footsteps of his running and shortly after, it turned it's lantern on. It came around the corner and I got a good look at it. ​It had the basic shape of a human, but it was still very deformed. It had a very ugly face and no eyes. It looked as if there was an “x” stitched where it's eyes should be. It had no nose and it didn't seem like it had ears or hair. ​It walked towards me. I tried to stay still but I wanted to run. Just as I was about to book it, I heard a loud thump. The monster hit the ground and I lay there, confused and tired. Just then I lost consciousness. ​I woke up in a big room filled with candles and lanterns. As I sat up and tried to orientate myself, I hear footsteps. I jumped up, only to hear a woman's voice. ​“Whoa, calm down buddy” she said. “We felt a newcomer so we went to check it out, I guess we were a little too late.” ​“Where am I- Where are we? What is this place?” I asked, nervously. ​“It's not what it is, it's what it isn't. It may not be very believable, but we are in another universe. Now I know this isn't the kind of news someone can expect to hear on a peaceful Saturday morning, but yes, it is true” ​“Will we ever get out?” ​“We can only hope” She said, as she walked away, motioning me to come. ​I walked with her. We walked past a few other people. I didn't know where we were going, but for some reason, I felt safe. It was reassuring to be away from those “things”. For now, at least. ​Speaking of which, I've heard they're called “walkers”. I heard a loud crash come from the other side of the room. I saw a shadow, only it was floating. It was very interesting. ​I heard someone yell “Run! It's the others!”. I ran with the group and I could see the destruction behind me. There was no stopping now, I had to run. ​As I was running, I noticed how fast I was going. I ran past everybody and I couldn't see where everyone was. I still heard them yelling in the distance. I looked around. It looked strangely familiar even though I was fairly certain I haven't been there before. ​After standing there for a moment I heard small footsteps. It wasn't the same footsteps I heard before, it wasn't trudging and it didn't sound as heavy. It also sounded faster.

I wrote this really quickly; I don't write ever. This is my first ever try at writing any kind of story/narrative (or whatever it may actually be. Just take whatever you will from it, I guess. He would sit here and let his mind wander. His lantern flickered lightly, the soft glow was a welcoming contrast from the dark abyss that surrounded him. The trees of the forest became endless, fading into crooked silhouettes. He laid his back against the cold tombstone and eased his gaze, his mind began to drift to a different place where he wouldn't have to remember the situation at hand. The sound of the creatures roaming mindlessly about was masked by the peaceful howl of the wind. For hours he sat motionless, his eyes had become well adjusted to the dark. He couldn't recall the last time he saw the sun; it was suicide to travel in daylight. But that wouldn't matter anymore. He was drained, the strength to travel east like he had planned was gone. One last look at his torso drenched in blood, the pain was dull now. This tombstone provided comfort; the wind had become still and silent. The sky began to fade into a violet hue, the air was warm and inviting. The lantern had long since faded away. The faint sound of footsteps wandering aimlessly, crackling the dead leaves and branches underneath them could be heard. He knew soon they would come, though his heart would not race, it was too comfortable here. His eyes began to close, his mind focused on nothing but his senses; the grass he laid upon was inviting, his body was warm, and he did not move an inch more.

The plan was to take three friends, and our motorcycles to the summit of Mt. Washington New Hampshire. The planning began in a bar, only this hair brained idea seemed to stick with me more then anyone else. Over beers, me and two friends were thinking of destinations that we could ride our motorcycles to. Being in New Hampshire, ten minutes out of the city and you are in motorcycle heaven. Twisty roads along all the best scenery possible; farms, forrests, and winding roads that follow riversides for hours. The plan was to ride up to Mt. Washington, New Hampshires' tallest peak. A date was chosen about two Sarurdays away. Over the next two weeks we would plan our route, our stops and where to stop for lunch. Plans have a way of falling apart. Commitments from friends, especially commitments made at the bar, have a way of falling through. For this trip I would be on my own. The Saturday morning came, and I sprang out of bed ready for for action. I had my bike a 2006 Honda CBR 600rr, ready to go and recently tuned. I ate a hurried breakfast too excited to get on the road and begin my adventure. I left and jumped onto the highway, a quick blast to get the blood flowing. Merging into traffic with the throttle wide open, shifting through gears up into sixth. Looking down I was suprised to see my speed. It didn't feel like I was going that fast. Easing up on the throttle and asimulating with the flow of the traffic around me, I took a deep breath and settled into the seat. The first leg of the journey was about an hour of highway. (this is a classic new hampshire coloquialism: in reference to distance, give the travel time rather then the mileage.) Legal highway riding is usually uneventful. The corners are usually mild, the engine noise is very consistent, it can almost place the rider into a lull or meditative state. You can completely forget everything. The everyday problems of your life are trivial. You aren't quite completely focused but not quite in a trance like state. This can be dangerous because you are travelling on a vehicle that you are actively balancing, at 70 mph. The actual reality is that any small mistake could kill you or leave you seriously injured. That is why the best highway rides are uneventful. I arrived in Lincoln New Hampshire, and merged onto Route 112, also known as the Kancamangus Highway. (kank-a-mangus) This is where the real motorcycling begins. In the heart of the White Mountains, the motorcycle is free at last. Twisting turns through untouched forrest keep you sharp and alert. The air is sweet, and smells different then city air. Climbing hills with banking turns, the CBR was made for this. The hills peak quickly and just a quickly as I reach the top I am descending in the opposite direction. Constantly working the controls, just to stay on the road, takes all your focus and attention. Racing up the hills are simple enough crack the throttle open and hang on, as I reach the apex of a hill I can feel my stomach lift for a moment as the road quickly turns, I feel as though I'm going too fast to hold my line. Trusting my tires and my technique, I stay on the gas and look as far down the road as I can see. Descending hills with turns at speed is equally challenging. I make a wise decision to downshift, the engine revs up and I lose a bit of speed and gain a bit more time before the corner. I take an intentionally wide entrance to the turn, and as I lean in I can see the corner opens up into a long downhill straightaway. I open the gas all the way and let the bike stay in the lower gear until the engine crescendos. At the base of Mt. Washington there is a small field and a small shack. Its two dollars to take the auto road to the top. The man in the booth gives me a sticker "this motorcycle climbed Mt. washington" Thats a bit premature, I thought, but I accepted it and pulled over just past the shack. I got off my bike and stretched my legs. You can't see the summit from here but you can tell this mountain is quite steep. Meandering around I see a plaque. Travis Pastrana next to a Subaru, world record ascent, very quick time , forget the time but he looked happy. I mounted back onto my bike and began my ascent. I was suprised the road was paved. The road is nice and there are lots of trees, every now and then in the trees would be a clearing, and I could see how much altitude I was gaining. At this point the riding was very mellow. The road was paved but with very old pavement. There were cracks and potholes everywhere. I was taking in the scenery and enjoying the ascent. needing to keep my speed well below 30. Cars would wave me past, I guess figuring I was more nimble then they were amongst the bumps and holes. As I made my way above the treeline, the pavement ends. It is replaced by a smooth dirt road. It is easy to ride on even on a sportbike. The views are spectacular even before the summit. I can see the nearby mountains, and their peaks, a sea of green forrest in painted variance that is impossible to capture. As the dirt road continues upward wrapping up the sides of the mountain, the colors around me change from green to brown. Gone are the trees and pavement, replaced by basketball sized rocks, jagged and sharp lining the road. Peering over the edge quickly makes me wish I hadnt. It is a long way down, a mistake would surely be fatal. Roads below look pencil thin, cars on then look like they could be crushed if you were to step on them. When I do reach the top, I am surely the only motorcycle, and an out of place one at that. Most of the other vehicles are four wheel drive SUVs and dirt splattered subaru outbacks. My CBR is next to spotless and looks very bright. I park the bike and find a rock to put under my kickstand. Up a small staircase to the mount washington weather center the wind picks up. Mt. Wahington is one of the windiest places on earth. Even on a mild day down below, the temperature, is easily 30 degrees cooler at the summit, and the wind is constant. The wind pushes around 30 mph, and gusts to 50 every minute or so. There is a large concrete structure at the top. Inside the building are some historic photos, black and whites of some tough looking men who built the road to the summit. Also cheesy t-shirts of a tourist hanging onto a flag pole being blown horizontal by the world record wind. I left empty handed from the gift shop and went back outside. I took one more long look out from the top. Annother plaque indicated that on a clear day, you can see skyscrapers in Boston, some 200 miles away. I made my way back to my bike and started her up, and turnded it around. From there I began a long and winding road home.

An Hour The bird on the wall squawked once. It had flung itself into the stagnant air for a moment, pausing only long enough to cry its chord, then vanished into its nest once more. It fell silent. Everything was silent. The hallways were silent, no longer begging for the soft steps for which they had once longed. The door frame was cut and marked to varying degrees, with names and numbers scrawled in caring script. The kitchen was calm, the measured dripping of the faucet's tears had long since dried into apathy. The living room lacked its own eponymous nature, its couches and chairs tired and layered in heavy, gray lethargy. Out front, the pumps were dry and thirsty, pleading for a drink, a drink inevitably denied by the cracked dirt of the stone well. An old wooden bucket, moldy with maturity, lay still and silent, in mimicry of the world it knew. The house was empty. The silence broke all at once, and rain fell swiftly, sure and confident the land it softened would give no resistance. The land had long since been claimed by the rain and had resigned itself to its domain. As the rain descended, the sun melted away, unable to compete with the storm. A once great entity reduced to flaming rubble on the horizon, still emitting light, faintly, however unnecessary light happened to be. It would have been hard to breathe, the trees had long since been uprooted or toppled. They no longer had the will to breathe life into the world, and the world too was too weary to sustain it. And thus the trees fell, and with them, the world held its breath. The cracked dirt drank quickly, and cried, parched for more. The thirst was unquenchable, the more there was, the less it seemed. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the Earth tried to cry, but the tears refused to flow. It feared the rain had forever ended, as it had once breathed in excess, now it craved the winds cool embrace. The sun shone again. This time brighter than before. Had someone cared to look, a wooden clock shaped like a house could be seen on the wall, preparing to sing the hour. The dry ground had since decayed and warm methane breezes would often flow, dragging along streams of blood red dust, a parade for the emptiness. A window gave out, and the dust found the inside of the house becoming desert. And then the wind gave out and the dust settled permanently in it's new home. The last wind had come, and gone, and with it, had blown the last flame in the sky. The bird cried twice in darkness.

Small waves lapped against the next contestant as she bobbed in the water. The game was called “Don’t shit a brick.” The goal was to see who could doggy paddle the longest while holding a brick. Juvenile, sure. Was it fun? You’re damn right it was. Jennifer had cried out with glee when she first entered the water, then her face squished in like a sponge when she was handed the brick. She momentarily grimaced as the red, clay brick scraped against her inner thigh. But she managed to hold onto it surrounded by the vibrantly colored speedboats of her classmates. Her red and blue bikini top was fastened tight around her neck, but the grasping texture of the brick threatened to expose her sun shaded breasts to the boys leaning off the sides of their boats, cheering wildly like she was crossing the finish line with each minor stroke. The coldness of Lake Holshire had sucked my breath away earlier in the afternoon, when the first round of tubing had begun. The coldness could be seen on Jennifer’s face, in the way she gasped for air and kept her eyes focused on one spot in the sky. Maybe if we had brought more than one brick, the contestant would have felt better about dropping it to the mossy bottom below. As it were, Jennifer struggled with the weight and the beers she had drank earlier. She managed to keep herself afloat as someone yelled, “She looks like she’s shitting a brick!” The three speedboats all had their engines killed and their anchor points tethered, leaving a triangular opening in the water. As Jennifer struggled with her clay weight, the boats sloshed and shimmied so that Jennifer was no longer in the center of the triangle, but closer to Davis’ boat, a shining red and black beast that could hit sixty miles an hour without blinking. I yelled to Davis, “Get her out, man. She’s finished.” He didn’t even look at me, but kept staring down at the top of her breasts that glistened just above the surface of the water. In the afternoon sun, the water was a navy blue, like the oppressive folds of storm clouds about to spit rain. Davis was now laying on the edge of his Mastiff, as he called the red and black racer, urging Jennifer to just give up and take her top off. She didn’t need to be weighed down by it. Her faux laugh filled her mouth with Lake water, which she spit out with squinting eyes. “Shut up, Dave,” was all she managed to mouth before slipping under water. Davis turned to Trev, “Did you hear what she said?” He didn’t see her submerge into the triangle of darkness, like a pole searching for the bottom of Lake Holshire. The water rippled outwards where the crown of her head had gone under, breaking symmetry on the side of the Mastiff. One, two, three seconds pass. No sign of her. She’s not coming up. I search the black water to see if I can find her, but cannot. I glance at the others. There’s more than a dozen people and not one of them seems concerned that Jennifer has just taken the plunge to death. She’s a caught bobber and no one wants to reel her in. Alcohol does dumb shit to people. I dive in, momentarily wondering if I should have jumped in feet first rather than swan dive into the water. But I don’t hit her. I open my eyes and am amazed at how bright it is underwater. The boats cast long shadows down a corridor of the lake, but there’s wide expanses receiving bright sunlight now. I can see Jennifer with her eyes closed about ten feet below. She is drifting there like a person caught between a dream and waking. She’s let go of the brick but her hands still hold it near her chest. Something in the water brushes against my eyelids causing them to close momentarily. I fear she’ll be dead when I get her in my arms. Will she drift away when I’m back? I reach her, grab her underneath her arms and start kicking for the surface. I can see the long angular shadows from the boats spread wider and wider, until I’m panting above the dark expanse of the black triangle.

When he opened the door to his dimly-lit room, she was waiting for him, carefully placed upon the cluttered desk in the corner. He didn't need to ask why she was there: she had come to cure him of his nocturnal writer's block. After all, the relationship between an author and his work is never truly finished. It was nothing more now than second nature to both of them. He knew how to evoke the desired response with little else but a pen running along the edges of her body, and he could navigate the lines upon her fair skin with ease. She was more than familiar with his touch, the way one hand gently held her down as he wrote, the way his other hand glided passionately across every page. Their plot was ever-moving, a perennial prose of inspired adjectives and parts of speech. It was his words, but they rolled effortlessly off her tongue. She was an unfinished script he could never quite abandon. She was unedited, unrehearsed, blank in all the right places. She was the type of run-on sentence he didn't mind reading, the kind of fragment he yearned to complete. Every period, every comma, any painful punctuation was torture; pausing in any way meant one second longer in which he wasn't discovering new ways of expressing his vision. She loved being composed, and baby, he was good at fiction. Chapter by chapter, he took her, scribbling consonants and vowels in an effort to please her, calling forth fantasies of far-away lands and forgotten realms. She reacted with scratches of poetry ravaging his back, spilling forth read text in an epiphany of exclamation points, twisting beneath book covers. They didn't make love, they created it between the sheets of paper. A night of verses, hours of calligraphy across her lips, and they both collapsed in exhaustion upon an unpolished manuscript. The story was not quite finished, but they were far too weakened to move. She lingered near him, but eventually relinquished her hold upon him and his artistic mind. Before she departed, she whispered into his ear, “To be continued.” He smiled, knowing it was true, and placed the work in progress back inside his notebook.

“Please” he said, this time whispering. Tightening my grip, I carried on through the disconsolate woods, forcing his weakened body to follow. The shadows that had taken over the gaps in the trees seemed more intense than ever, and the stillness that occupied them only emphasised the near silence being picked up by my ears. My free hand reached out ahead, feeling out for the familiar path of branches that had so often guided me this way. Despite having been interrupted by my presence many times, the little life that the woods displayed refused to show any signs of wear, only doing me favours as our tracks were swallowed up the minute we passed through. The short journey always seemed to be way longer among the darkened hours of the clock cycle, although I had never been able to decipher why. A sudden slope in the ground indicated me of our arrival. I could sense the gush of hope flood through him as my grasp faltered, yet his realisation kicked in a few seconds late as my other hand pushed him down to the ground. “Don’t. Move.” My unyielding voice instructed him with the tools to his ‘survival’. Taking a step back, I stole a moment to observe his actions. As I looked harder, I began subconsciously comparing the almost lifeless body before me, to myself. Only now, did I notice the resemblance. The greasy black hair, long enough to pass as a woman’s, clung protectively to our oddly proportioned faces. Both of us modelled the same pair of deeply sunken eyes, too small for our faces, and they made it impossible for us ever to appear happy, not that they would have gotten much use out of that function. We both had slightly similar builds; however he was noticeably smaller and weaker than me. It was this factor that I had taken advantage of. Realising I was hesitating; I got straight back into action. The only thing wasting time would gain me is more chance of being caught, and that was definitely something that I did not want. Wrestling it from my otherwise empty pocket, I could see the shine of the metal reflecting off of the tears rapidly forming in his eyes. He knew what was coming. I waited for the signal. A whole hour was crushed into two seconds as my ready reflexes waited for the cry. He trembled. I waited. What was he doing? I began to feel my anger -with a definite mix of anxiety- build up… I wasn’t used to change, they had all reacted the same. Yet within another instant my fears were ruptured with the shrill sounds of his voice box, and my anger quickly deflated. There it was, there was my signal. Almost controlling itself, as if the constant repeated action had given it its own memory, the blade (smaller than you would imagine, yet the efficiency still remained) cut the sound out of the air, taking chunks of his throat with it. A spark shot up my spine, shocking my mouth into the malicious smile that serenaded the last few moments of this man’s memory. His body turned limp. “Now you are free,” I whispered.

There she sat, across the table, with those shadowy pools of mud looking me over. She was a stranger, yet in that dark room, I felt we were one in the same. “Let’s play a game shall we?” she said with a sandpapered voice, broken down by countless cigarettes and what sounded like battery acid. Her familiarity with me was unsettling, like a cold hand on my shoulder. “What’s this game called?” I said, inflating my voice beyond capacity. “It doesn’t have one.” “Well how do you win?” “You don’t.” “Then why play?” “To figure some things out.” I was more confused than when I entered the room, yet was more comfortable with her. Her tattered clothes and boots suited her as a dress and heels on a night out in the city. Her voice even became more pleasing, more like a hum of a record player than channel surfing a sea of static. She roles two dice over to me. They cut the heavy silence like a pair of rabid dogs, landing in my lap. “What are these symbols?” “You tell me, they’re your dice.” I drop the stones on the table, they come up with a stopwatch and a knife. “So who do you want to kill?” “I don’t want to kill anyone!” Oh, now this girl knows what they mean? I move to get up, there’s nothing for me here. “What are you waiting for?” “What do you mean? I’m waiting for some answers you are not providing.” I move towards the door, maybe I’ll find my answers out there. “You are waiting for something that’s going to hurt, aren’t you?” I felt the weight of my feet plunge into the ground. Shackles around my ankles chained me to the floor, numbing growing up my legs. “Or are you waiting for something to heal?” I sit down. “Who are you?” She nods at the dice, willing me to continue this cycle. A flag and a star. “You don’t strike me as a patriotic man” “I’m not.” “Then what are you so proud of you need to claim so ferverously?” I took a minute to respond, looking at her, looking at myself. Not finding anything in my studies. I’m not really proud of anything, but don’t want to show her that she’s getting anywhere. “Why aren’t you playing this game?” I said with a snap. “I am.” “Why aren’t you answering then?” “I am. You just aren’t listening.” “Fine. I’ll listen, now you roll them.” I slam the dice down in front of her, not really understanding my anger fully. I guess I haven’t felt this vulnerable in a while. She looks at them, and then up at me with such a piercing glare, the cold numbing has turned to radiant heat. She picked up the dice and rolled. The dice seemed to clatter around for an eternity before coming to a peaceful rest. A telescope and a mirror. “Oh, so are you supposed to tell me who I am? Are you supposed to be my tired old subconscious, willing me to find myself?” The heat of my sarcasm is palpable, as I find myself growing more comfortably into her role, the enforcer. Her sharp glare softens, as the pools of mud saturate. She seemed for the first time, at a loss for words, paralyzed. “I am nothing like you. I am not your cliché subconscious. I am so distant and disillusioned I can’t care for anything, can’t claim anything to be proud of. I sit and wait for everyday to end so I don’t feel this numbing anymore. You haven’t learned anything because you haven’t been listening. I’m trying to help you. This game isn’t for winning, but you don’t have to lose either.” She got up and headed towards the door. I wanted to say something. I wanted to alleviate her sorrows, tell her things weren’t all that bad. I didn’t though, wrought with a paralyzing guilt, and stricken with immense sadness. As she walked out of the threshold, I heard the door close on my cell, cutting me off from the outside world. As I sit in silence, I hear the faint click of the lock behind me. I smile a slight crack and look down at the dice. They stare back at me intently, with a glowing presence. I reach down and grab them for a minute, before laying them down again. I have some questions first, some listening to do.

For my son Alexander Once upon a time there lived a large bear in a cave, deep in a dark forest. The bear only came out when he was hungry and needed to eat. He did not have any friends because he ate everything he came across, if he could catch it. One day the bear woke up extra hungry, which made him rather grumpy. He left his cave to find the thickest fog that he had ever seen. It was so thick he could not even see his paw in front of his face. Since he was hungry he decided to find food just by sniffing in the air. He sniffed here and he sniffed there hoping to find someone that was also out in the very thick fog. Suddenly he smelled something most delicious, it smelled sweet, it was something he had not tried before. Usually the bear dined mostly on the furry little creature he found around him, anything from a possum to slow to get away or sometimes even a cute little bunny. But this smelled very different, the bear sniffed again. “What is that wonderful smell coming from?” he thought aloud to the fog. He strained his eyes to see, but it was no use. Finally he decided to just bite right into it and that turned out to be a very bad idea! In one big bite the bear had bitten right into a Blackberry bush and his mouth and lips were covered in thorns! “Ouch!” He cried trying to brush them off with big paws but it was no use, they were stuck tight. The bear continued to cry loudly into the fog. All of the animals in the forest heard his great cries, and trembled with fear. They figured the big bear was just out hunting again. The cries continued for a few minutes and nearby a friendly squirrel sat up and listened. “That crazy bear,” he thought to himself, “what could he be up to?” After a few minutes of listening to the moans and cries the friendly Squirrels curiosity got the best of him. I must know what’s going on, he thought. So off thought the fog went the little squirrel following the sound of the Bears cries. The fog was so thick that the squirrel could not tell how far the crying bear was, and soon bumped right into him. The big bear swung around and swooped up the squirrel before he had a chance to run. The squirrel was terrified and thought for sure the bear was going to eat him. He closed his eyes and waited to be gobbled up. But nothing happened and he opened his eyes finding himself face to face with the great bear. Then squirrel noticed the large tears running down from bear’s eyes. “Oh my, what is the matter?” Squirrel asked. The bear pointed to his mouth with his free paw and started crying harder. That is when squirrel noticed the thorns stuck in the bear’s lips. “Is that what all this fuss is about?” The bear nodded yes. “If I help you, do you promise not to eat me?” Squirrel asked. The bear nodded yes again. The squirrel felt sorry for the bear, because he too has had this happen to him once, so slowly and carefully he removed the thorns. Once the squirrel had removed all the thorns from the bear’s lips, the bear carefully opened his mouth to reveal even more thorns. “OH my” said Squirrel and set to work on those too. Once squirrel had finished getting out all the thorns, the bear quietly mumbled, “Thank you.” The bear had never said that to anyone before, he was used to doing everything himself. “You’re welcome. May I go now, like you promised?” asked the squirrel. Yes nodded the bear slowly, his mouth still too painful to speak. Bear opened his paw and squirrel hoped out onto the ground, He disappeared into the fog in a flash. Bear sat quietly on the dirt floor and for the first time in his life, he felt very alone. “I could show you how to pick the berries without getting the thorns,” he heard from the fog,” if you want me to.” said the voice. Bear shook his head yes, even though the thorns hurt very badly, he had never tasted anything so good. Squirrel stepped out of the fog. “It’s really very simple once you get the hang of it.” Squirrel smiled up at his new friend. The bear and the squirrel sat together as the fog slowly lifted. Bear spent the rest of the day learning from Squirrel, and he soon knew how to pick berries without getting poked. From that day on Bear never ate anymore furry little creatures, he was always too full of berries.

--Prologue-- I never wanted this... I thought by leaving Earth I could escape the shitty lot in life I had, but boy was I wrong. I’ve been hopping from colony to colony to for about a year now. First I tried to find some work on several lunar colonies, to no avail. Then I hitched a ride out to Mars on the little credit I had left. I was able to scrape enough money to get to Ceres, where I found work for one of the science research teams there. I really enjoyed Ceres, I could have stayed there for quite a while, but just like everything else that’s ever gone right for me, it was crushed. An experiment involving a miniscule amount of anti-matter while I was off-duty completely destroyed our lab, putting me out of work, thankfully I had made enough off of my research to finally get me to Jupiter. That’s where I’m headed now, to a Jovian Platform, one devoted to science and discovery, one where I will strive. --The Seventh Column-- “The Seventh Column will be departing in 10 standard minutes.” announced the robotic voice of the loudspeaker, though I could hardly hear it. It’s loud here on Mars, far different than Ceres, where it was quiet and peaceful. I had to return to Mars to find a ship that could take me to Jupiter, big ships like that never stop at Ceres. The Seventh Column was the cheapest ride I could find, well within my tight budget of 6 billion credits. I already had a job waiting for me on the Jovian Platform Scipio, a well paying job researching anti-matter physics, just like on Ceres. The only difference is that Scipio has real funding, with much better equipment than I could’ve dreamed of on Ceres. “The Seventh Column will be departing in 5 standard minutes.”came from the loudspeaker as I checked and made sure I had everything, when I heard footsteps. I was on a fairly empty flight, with plenty of room for everyone to stay away from each other. There was no reason for anyone to be near me, and judging by the number of footsteps, this was a group of people. I looked up, and three men were standing in front of me. Rugged, worn by space travel, they had probably never seen the light of Earth. “Are you Isav Re’e?” asked the man on my right, who stood slightly behind the man in the center, who was clearly the leader. “Yes, that I am.” I said. “Why?” This wasn’t looking good, they were using one of my old aliases. “We’ve been looking for you... You were stupid to come back here.” said the man on my left, who I began to recognize. The tattoo on the right side of his neck gave him away, it was the symbol of the male, with a dot in the center. He was from the Maln Clan, who I worked for briefly before I left Mars the first time. I left on not so pleasant terms, too. “Shuttup, Ronin.” said the center man. “Look, Young, we don’t want a mess here. Come with us peacefully and we’ll make sure you aren’t hurt. If you don’t comply then... I can’t guarantee your safety.” I was in a bind, I had less than five minutes so if I left I’d miss the flight, and lose my job on Jupiter, but if I tried to stay, these guys would drag me out by force. I needed to act quickly. “Alright, just let me get my things, I’ve got a bag in the back.” I lied. I got up and started walking to the cargo bay, where no-one was stationed. “Alright, just hurry up, we don’t got all day.” said Ronin, as they began to follow me back. They had taken the bait, now I just had to reel them in. I did some quick mental predictions and chose the one with the best chances. I reached up and grabbed a large bag, and as I pulled it down I slammed it into Ronin’s face, knocking him out instantly. I dove behind a shelf and grabbed another bag, this one a little smaller, perfect to use with one hand. I waited for the other two to round the corner until I threw the bag at the other cronnie while I tripped the leader. As soon as his head hit the ground I slammed my fist upwards into his nose, killing him. I did the same to Ronin and the other one, and stuffed their bodies in a small nook of an access corridor. I got back to my seat as two crew members were coming towards me. They were asking all the passengers about something, tickets I guess. I was still trying to process what had just happened, when they approached me. “Excuse me sir, have you seen these three men on the ship?” the crewman, whose I.D. badge read Aman, showed me a Holopane with the image of the three men who attacked me. My face went hot, my head started spinning, but I was able to compose myself. “No, why?” I replied. “They requested to come see someone on the ship, but we didn’t see them come out.” said the second man, whose I.D. badge read Czevk. “Can’t you check the surveillance to see if they did come out?” “Afraid not, cameras broken. That’s why we’re asking the passengers. Everyone else said they saw them, but you didn’t, correct?” said Czevk. “That’s right, sir.” I replied, I was starting to sweat. “Alright, well, I guess they didn’t come this far back. They’re probably hiding somewhere up front.” said Aman. “Maybe they slipped by you and you didn’t notice. You guys were preparing to set off right?” “Yeah, that’s true...” said Aman looking over at Czevk. “Ah, fuck it, let’s go. I’m ready to get out of here.” He looked back at me, “Thanks for co-operating, Mr.?” “Young. Dr. Isais Carson Young.” I replied. “Thank you, Dr. Young.” said Aman, who then walked off with Czevk. “We apologize for the wait, The Seventh Column will now be departing from Docking Bay 823.B heading for Jupiter’s Orbital Station.” announced the loudspeaker as the ship began to hum. I had grown accustomed to the feeling over the past two years, but it never ceased to please me. It calmed me down so much it was amusing. Nothing like soaring through the vacuum of space at the speed of light to soothe the nerves.

Upon arriving at the school I was groggy. Not much sleep last night. I was at an elementary school serving as security. Today there was going to be a demonstration for the kids on military might and air superiority, as a way to get young kids excited for the military. They're trying to grab 'em while they're young I guess, influence 'em now and over the years that's what they'll want to do or so they hope. The school was located next to a mountain that the military had barred off to the public. Convenient enough there was a base not far from the school. The mountain was off limits to civilians since an accident occurred there involving military personal and the story was that some chemicals leaked out, so no one was allowed to enter it. Today however was going to be an exciting demonstration of what one of the airforce’s top-of-the-line jets could do. They were going to blow up a bus. Jets weren't actually going to do anything as explosives had already been planted and were set to go off as the jets approached for a realistic effect. I was standing with my back next to a pillar just outside the school fences with some kids next to me eagerly awaiting the big event. The military had brought in some tanks but we were told they wouldn't be firing, they were just for show and so most of the kids weren't as exited for them. I figured there would be a speaker giving some talk on how great these new jets were. That was the whole point right? As we waited our attention was gathered to some General Pierce, who just told us two jets would fly by once to let us know they were preparing to “fire” and then on their second approach would fire at the bus, afterwards they would come around and land for the kids to ask them questions. This is where I came in. I'm here to make sure the kids don't rush mob the guy, don't know why they would but that's what I'm being paid for. After Pierce said his few words he left with what seemed like more protection than anything else. Don't know what that was about except that his ego is probably through the roof. The jets made their first pass and the kids cheered and then got quite and awaited their next one. Then on their second pass, before they flew over the bus it exploded and all the kids cheered once again. Military personnel went to the bus and began to extinguish the fire and gather debris from the explosion. The jets begin to land and the first one landed outside of the school fences next to me. I didn't like the idea of the pilot landing and standing near me, all I could think was that he would end up making some crack comment how I'm what happens when you don't join the military. After landing the pilot came out and greeted the kids. He told them to gather behind me and sit on the ground so that he could see all of them, and to raise their hands when they had a question. Everyone rose their hand as soon as they sat. As he began listening to their questions and answering them I went to spit out some gum I was chewing on and accidentally got it on the pilot's uniform. “My bad man” I said, but he just looked at me as if he didn't know why I was apologizing. The kids were kind enough to point out what I had done and he just gave me a look of disapproval. I'm sure in his head he was calling me an asshole. He started talking again telling the kids how great it was flying a jet, how cool it was and some such nonsense. I was aggravated by the whole thing. I guess it was my fault for being security at some school. He kept talking about the perks of being in the military and not just the airforce. It was then that people starting shouting. I looked around and saw it was the cleanup crew near the bus. The were running from the mountain and just then I heard gunshots. Someone was shooting and I had no inclination as to who or where it was coming from. I immediately told the kids to return to the classrooms. As quickly as the shootings began, the tanks rolled up and began firing on the mountain. What the hell was going on? I looked and saw that there were men emerging from the somewhere in the mountain. They were wearing black uniforms and looked like part of the military but why would they be shooting each other? I had no idea. The pilot went to his jet and tried to lift off but their was something wrong with it. He got out and I heard him communicating with someone, his superiors I guess. They had remotely disabled the jets as there was an immediate no fly order given over the area. The pilot was upset and he displayed it. He pulled out a rifle from a compartment on the jet began to head toward the mountain. I asked him what he was doing and he just looked at me and kept going. I don't know why but I followed him. He told me one the way to wherever we were headed that I needed to go back. I told him I wasn't going anywhere, I wanted to find out what was going on. As we got closer I noticed there were shipping containers scattered about near what appeared to be the entrance to the mountain. They were covered with rock and camouflaged netting colored just like the mountain. Inside it looked like there was some installation. I had no idea what it was. People began to open fire on us as and we took cover behind one of the containers. He handed me a pistol along with a few clips and asked me if I knew how to use it. I had previous training and told him so. As the men got closer we shot them one after another but I knew we both would run out of ammo soon. We got lucky as two of them had somehow snuck past us and made their way behind the containers we had been using for cover. I only noticed them because I had just reloaded and after shooting them my heart was pounding. This was scary. I picked up their guns and they looked almost exactly like the rifle that the pilot had but there was something different about them but I couldn't put my finger on it. The pilot told me he was planning on heading inside. I didn't know why and he told me to stay here. I told him he was crazy but that if he was going to go in I was heading in there with him, that I couldn't let him go in alone. I must be crazy too. He had his orders just like the men in the tanks had theirs. They were still firing on the mountain and it could only mean that they were ordered to fire until given the order to recede. I had my orders too. We noticed that men stopped exiting the facility as we got closer and I told him it could be some kind of ambush. He agreed and we proceeded with caution. Entering the facility we found men ripped apart. Their bodies were scattered about and neither of us had any idea what was did this, only that they were slaughtered. There was gunfire coming from down one of the halls. Just a few shots from a pistol I imagine. It stopped just as quickly as it started. We crept over to the one of the consoles located in the center of the room and the pilot started reading the displays. I wasn't sure what he was looking for and he didn't say when I asked him. Shortly after some of the same men we were firing upon began to rush into the area from one of the halls. They were retreating from something. Five of them kept firing down the hall and only hid behind the corners when they needed to reload. Some switch was activated and a doorway leading into the hall was closing, but slowly. Two of them were struck with something and fell to the ground. As one of them began to reload he saw us and yelled out to “get the hell out” while we still can. The other three didn't last long and each of them were each struck as the door finally closed. Only the one that yelled out to us seemed to be alive. I rushed over to him to find out what the hell was going on. There was something on the other side of the door, I could hear screeching and something clawing at the door. It sounded pissed. I asked the guy what the fuck was going on. He told me “there isn't much time. You need to leave...You need to get out...get out before...before...”. That was it, that was the last thing he said before he died. When I looked back to the pilot he was still on the console. I took a moment to just look around the room. There was shipping containers in here as well, some surrounding the console. After looking more closely at the containers there appeared to be burn marks as well as giant scratch marks on the edges of each. What the fuck. I didn't know and I continued to look around. There were a total of fourteen halls, and as it stood twelve of them were closed. The two that were open were on the opposite side of the room that the men just came from. Side by side and both of them went in opposite directions after a few yards. This pilot was still concerned about his mission and I didn't even know his name. I asked him and he just said it didn't matter, the only thing that did now was sealing the facility. I asked him why and he didn't say. He managed to get the right door to close. Damn did it close slow. I kept looking at both the last two doors expecting some horrific monster to appear but nothing did. The pilot had a grim look on his face and told me I needed to head back to his jet and bring back something just in case. I asked him about the other pilot and he assured me he was already dead. My head was turned only for a few moments but it was enough time for something to shoot out before the door completely sealed and hit the pilot. He fell to the ground and within seconds some sort of poison began working through his body. He wasn't in any pain other than the area he was it that I could tell. I tried to have him hang on to me as I carried him but I knew it wouldn't work. I laid him against the side of one of the containers and brought him his rifle. I asked him what I needed from the jet and through slurred words he told me there was a belt in a compartment inside the jet. He mumbled something like “I can't believe it” and I told him I would be right back. I exited the installation and entered chaos. There were flying creatures all around. They were massive, some looked like the size of SUV's. More of the military had shown up and were firing at both the aerial creatures and the ones attacking them from the ground. I could see them out in the distance and had no idea what they were. They were in different shapes and sizes, the biggest the size of two men it seemed. I had no idea what they were and didn't care to find out. My path to the jet looked clear and so I made my way there. I thought about the kids and how they were doing. I could only imagine. I managed to make it to the jet without any trouble and I found the belt. It wasn't sure what I thought it would be but what it was was some sort of device. On the belt there were seven shells, a bit taller than a regular soda can and each one in bold red leaders read “Primed”. I didn't know what they would do but I had a good idea. I looked around and up at the sky. I figured I wouldn't another chance to see it. I headed back to where I left the pilot and found a man tending his wounds. He told me he had been poisoned, something I already knew, and that he would be unable to stand on his for awhile. I asked him if he could help carry him out and we began to lift him. Just then something struck the man and he fell, yelling in agony. I turned and saw this creature that had what appeared to have giant curved blades for arms hissing at us. I hesitated for a moment but I shot and killed it. The man was bleeding out and didn't say anything. He just looked at me if wanting to say sorry. I tried not to think about what I had just seen and asked the pilot if he could manage to make it out with me. He nodded and as I lifted him up he told me I would need to set the timer on one of the shells. As we stood we heard noises coming from the last hallway and turned to see creatures emerging it. We were quickly surrounded with them gnarling and growling at us. I set the pilot down and he told me to take one of the shells off and throw it on the ground. I assumed we would be dead after so I asked the pilot his name. “Landers, Christoff Landers”. I told him mine. Lance Taylor. As the creatures approached us I lifted one of the shells off the belt and rose it high, the rushed as I threw it down.

My mom tells me I have an affinity for cold weather. I was born on the Winter Solstice, which is the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. Being four days before Christmas, I was raised to only expect one gift for the combination of the holiday and the day of my birth. I think this indirectly led me to be a less wanting individual while also making me more humble. At the ripe old age of seven I was delivered the information that I had flawed DNA. I was diagnosed with a form of Muscular Dystrophy as well as a heart condition called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Me being fresh out of toddler-hood didn't fully appreciate the magnitude of this discovery. I couldn't figure out why this was the emotional equivalent of a brick to the face for my parents. I remember my thinking that holding my breath during the doctor's examination had somehow ruined the results but as my mother assured me, this was not the case. Somewhere around my eleventh birthday, my brother and I were called to attention by our parents who informed us that they had fallen out of love and were thusly getting a divorce. This was not unexpected by either of us and after inquiring about living arrangements, the matter as settled. Though I am admittedly guilty of using this for sympathy in my teenage years, it's never really caused me genuine sadness. It is as obvious now as it was then that my parents are two very different individuals. This taught me that however much two people want and try to stay together, it is not guaranteed to work. About thirteen years into my life I committed credit card fraud. I took my mother's Visa and used it to buy ten dollars worth of trading cards, all of this unbeknownst to her. Of course when the package arrived and I was not the one to claim it, my scheme was rather quickly uncovered. I am not proud of this but I am proud of learning the repercussions of stealing early on. I was restricted from using the internet for a year following this incident. Within this year I discovered a love for reading and writing, prose or otherwise. September, 2006; I was fifteen and three-quarters. The first day of my sophomore year of high school was also the first day I used a wheelchair full-time. I had no difficulty with it whatsoever. All of my peers were helpful and I enjoyed my classes, IT and Drama most of all. I was prepared to be a social outcast but was never treated that way. I was voted most likely to be a stand-up comedian. Unintended but cruel irony nonetheless. I laugh about it to this day. I moved to Corona with my best friend in July of 2009 after we had graduated high school. Circumstances disallowed him to stay and I needed a room-mate. My father volunteered and here I am three years later. Through struggling with physical therapy and reading all I can, here I am: a man of value but not one of success.

There's a little neglected drag of cobble half a mile up from the banks of Possible's stream, where the eddies gurgle rapturous and wide making glee faces at men that dangle their little heads over the edge of possible's bridge. The little cobble streets that bob and teeter like a broad with a gut full of beer have become otiose, wringing not person, other than the cheese maker of hungry french memories. Horny lads, feet clicking, cluck, cluck, as they sauntered sheepishly in the evening, searching for a lass to loosen their wallets for. The new age saunterers in their barely worn pea-coats, pry grimaces from the cheese maker. The sound of flats and flimsy conversation bouncing off the old street and into the cheese maker's ears. He hated them. The cheese maker had lived alone since his wife had died 8 years ago. I would see him now and then as he stopped in the diner I worked at and had a cup of coffee. Nobody really knew his name. Nobody really cared enough to inquire. His presence seemed to go unnoticed as he strolled through town. Maybe he likes it that way. I called him the cheese maker because that had been his profession. He owned a small farm outside of town that he had purchased after returning home from WWII. His sons ran the farm now and they routinely delivered the cheese and milk we used in the diner. They had booted their father out into a nursing home. I learned all of this because they would engage in small talk with my manager who was an old childhood friend of theirs. I can't tell you exactly why I had become so infatuated with his life story. I would get off work and walk past his nursing home. Sometimes I would see him out and about, smoking a cigar outside a grocery store, or rummaging through a thrift store. I never had the audacity to approach him. It's been a few weeks since I last seen him, sipping on his coffee. I wondered where he had been. What he had been doing since he left the diner. I finished my shift without one sight of him. As I was walking home, I heard a yelling sound coming from the yard of the nursing home. I moved in closer to get a look. It was the cheese maker and another elderly man yelling back and forth at each over the white picket fence built around the nursing home. "You filthy fucking rat!" stammered the cheese maker. "Don't call me a rat, you goddamn wrinkled shit." I hid behind a tree and listened as best I could. "She loved me, Chester. She was married to me. She had my children." said the cheese maker. "You only stole her from me! She was going to marry me, if I hadn't thrown my ring into that goddamn stream!" yelled chester in fury. "I go to her grave every morning. And you, the guy she married won't even bother to visit her!" "FUCK YOU, CHESTER, FUCK YOU, you sniveling little fuck." The cheese maker picked up a rock from the ground and hurled it at chester. The rock missed chester and landed in the street behind him. By this time, the care taker's had come out and were ushering the cheese maker, who was mumbling curses, back to the house. Chester inched his way down the sidewalk past me. He had a cane in his left hand and leaned half his body on it as he walked. He didn't see me and I passed him and went home. I was so fascinated. The two men, in this perpetual state of conflict all over a woman that had passed away years ago. A few weeks had passed since their last quarrel. I couldn't pacify my intrigue. The sullen moments at work and the blandness of the regular social interactions between people left me craving their passion, their hatred. I began cutting by the nursing home more and more often. Checking to see if they would be there yet again, like a rerun of an old show. Then one day he appeared. The cheese maker himself. He waddled into the diner and sat in his regular spot and ordered a black coffee with two sugars. I brought it out to him. He didn't look at me. He stared straight out the window, almost as though he was expecting someone to walk in. He finished his coffee and left. Chester had died that day. I read it in the obituary later that night. He had a bad heart they said. I thought this was ironic. I went to the burial. I stood in the back away from everyone else. I took a cigarette out and puffed on it. I looked over to my left and noticed the cheese maker walk up beside me. "You got another one of those?" he asked motioning towards my pocket. "Yeah, sure." I handed him a cigarette and we both stood there silently.

John was a simple carpenter almost since birth. Well, not quiet. You see, he was a Harvard educated lawyer too. But you get me drift. When he grew up, he became a truck driver. The hours were tough, they were long, and they weren't good for him. He did not like the hours of driving a truck. He liked being a carpenter. So he built thing in the back of his massive, huge truck, a model which you must custom order, in advance, and it look a while to get. He would build thing but he didn't have much time as a truck driver, he hated his hours. He loved nails. His friends called him The Nail. Why did they call him that? Good question: he drove a truck and hated the hours, but he love carpentry. A carpenter once befriended his mom. "The nail is the binder of all, what holds together all we build. And you must be a nail in life, too, son, you must hold people together. That's what carpenters do." He reflected on various famous people with the last name "carpenter." There were several. He was a nail to no one. And he had a hang nail, like on the first episode of E.R. But this story isn't about E.R. and if you wanted to watch E.R do that. But he was done with his wife. Time to murder her. Build her a coffin with his carpentry skills. Spruce. The best wood. It was done before he knew it. He drove down the road in a car. "It is what it is" he thought. He swerved right and pulled into her mansion. "This is what the lawyers got her huh?", he thought. It's because he wanted to be an astronaut. "We're out of mayonnaise", a sweet, innocent, lovely voice rang out. It was his daughter. That's right he thought. They turned around in their car, using the steering wheel. They light the parking lot in the car. They turned right in the car and headed towards right of where they were. "It is what it is dad" said the girl. Damn she was smart. "I almost didn't leave" said dad. She furrowed his brow at him. "But mayonnaise is the nail of a sandwich" he said with conviction. "I know dad" nodded the girl. "And I'm the tomato." The truck sped off. There was no nail in its tires. And it wasn't made out of wood, even though he was a carpenter, which would be ridiculous.

The water-planet Earth has on its surface vast dry terrains named deserts—geographical areas characterized by a severe lack of moisture that strongly discourages plant habitation. One such region, cartographically referenceable as the Country—abstract divisions of Earth; largely having political merit— Africa, saw the unlikely existence of an unyielding plant. It was the only tree around as far as one could see ; an anomaly disturbing the horizon. Humans within its locality made use of it in navigation and thus it held sentimental value. It was later termed “The lonely tree”. The following is a short anecdote about this tree written by a human born many decades after the death of the tree: *The lonely tree that existed in Africa is now widely known and celebrated for unclear reasons. As far as I can tell, people are always looking for and finding such things they claim to be inspired by. Anyway, this tree was somewhat special and more valuable than most trees because it was useful as the sole landmark of the region. One day a drunken truck driver ran it over , destroying it beyond regrowth . The death of their only landmark soured the mood of the people who had become fond of passing by it , perhaps even admiring its unlikely growth. But they moved on and accepted the unfortunate conclusion of a finite natural phenomenon.* *Upon discovery of this tale by tourists , the tree was given new life via literary and digital recordings of its history. The history of the tree was deemed to have inspirational and sentimental value by sporadic tale spreaders. They expressed their wishes to have witnessed the tree in its glory despite knowing little about the geographical region , the people who resided there , or how they survived there . A page for this tree even got dedicated on Wikipedia so others may easily find out about it and long for moments past when it stood alone in the African desert . Eventually people sharing this view assembled and put up a metal monument at the location where it once stood; a true testament to their collective communication and desire.* *The future generations of the local population may ask about the origins of such a contraption in the middle of an otherwise flat desert.* *Eventually it may become accepted as the lonely tree in the middle of the desert. A later day may see a drunken vehicle operator destroying it*.

Glorious. Fresh. Beautiful to look at from an open window or a porch. Sitting there, behind an open window or on a porch, letting the scent of the creosote hold the nose, taking in the drops of refracted light winking at the pupil, hearing the muffled thuds of rain obeying gravity. The kind of scene writers describe when their protagonist is reflecting on their fictional life. Suddenly, it's too beautiful to appreciate from underneath a sloped roof. It is to be experienced. A chair is left to cool. Clothing sticks to the skin. Hair begins to dampen. A walk is committed to. It's lovely. The scent and the beauty act as motivators outweighing the feeling of being cold. A notion arrives at the mind: what good is beauty without any spur? Children are derived from labor pains. Prestige is derived from work. The vista is derived from the climb. The walk continues. Some way into the walk, the notion begins to act as the motivator . The scent and the beauty have grown familiar; they no longer drive the commitment. Cold, the once vibrant gait is bartered for a slower one. Pain has taken hold of the body. Regret occurs. These, the pain and regret, are the motivators. What good is beauty without any spur? Freezing and wet, the legs act on their own. It is no longer a walk; it is a march of endurance. The notion is interrogated by existential questioners armed with logic and common sense. tl;dr "Why the fuck did I walk out here.

I've been doing some short story writing exercises. The other day I chose to write brief stories based on the name of a song I just listened to. I gave myself one page in my journal to write the whole story. This one is based on Winter Song by The Head and the Heart. Winter Song He counted to fifteen fifteen times and now the winter song will always be fifteen minutes too long. The season has come fifteen minutes too early and the symphony has lost their rhythm. Their fingers are frozen and their toes shatter. There’s no hope now, the winter song will always be fifteen minutes too long. My husband will surely leave. He will give up on the orchestra, first the woodwinds, then the percussion with a rata-tat-tat and then the horns who blare their way into the storm. I will sit here and write in my book as the percussion marches by, rattling the window panes, and off they will go to be eaten by wolves. And the wolves will rata-tat-tat until they get taken by disease and then the roaches and the birds will carry the rata-tat-tat to the end of the world and to the end of time and the winter song will always be fifteen minutes too long.

A baroque chair crashed and splintered on the jutting rocks visible from the jetty on which I stood. Where the fuck did that come from? The cushions rested in sea foam and eventually sank; the legs, as far as I know, never sank. I turned to my friend Reagan, "where the fuck did that come from?" He was just as confused and eager to answer. It had probably fallen of a luxury liner or, more likely, a freighter. I was satisfied with that answer, but I like to believe the sea assembled the chair herself. I kept the ridiculous notion to myself. I didn't say anything to Reagan for several minutes; even as he started walking toward the shore. He looked upset, so I didn't follow or try to stop him. I don't care that much. The jetty's where I stayed for an hour or two. Watching the ornately carved legs travel -- never sinking. I walked back to my apartment thinking about the creation of that chair -- animated coral plating intertwined reeds of seaweed and adopting a cherry hue for my perception of of an expensive chair being exploded by stone. Sponges being enveloped by the flesh of deceased octopi heir to patterns so intricate, a fabric should be their only desirable fate. My nose was bleeding, and I probably seemed excitable. I let the blood drip down my cheap, white crew-neck. I lit a cigarette to distract myself from enjoying anything.

"Let me ask you guys a question. I want to hear someone describe their passion for philosophy - what is it that drives you towards this stuff? Is it some shortcoming in your upbringing, a childhood problem that caused you to ask questions before your mind could handle the gravity of them? Maybe it's the literary aspect. You've already given up the idea that you could write something meaningful, so it's now a fascination with the great minds and their various works? Or perhaps you're genuinely ambitious and expect to contribute? Your belief in your genius is still in tact, your mind capable of ideas eye-opening and profound enough to be worth the time of future generations? I need to know that passion is real. Show me, let me feel it." The room was silent. Professor Stewart was wise enough to remain silent as well, his lips curled in anticipation. Who would respond to this speech? The task was no easy one. A communication to a person who articulated this question, in this tone of voice, required meeting him on the same level. The response must be from someone who is also awake; any other reply would only communicate that the question hadn't been heard. What's required for participation in a college classroom is a grasp of the English language; what's required for participation in this discussion is a grasp of human emotion.

I had this dream. It must’ve been the 1950’s, or some time earlier. I wasn't sure how I got there, but I knew that I wasn’t in my body, and that I wasn’t driving my car. We had the top down and were speeding down an old country two-lane road. The prettiest girl in the world was sitting in my passenger seat. She was sitting cross-legged, facing me, with the wind blowing her gorgeous golden-brown hair all over the place. She was laughing. I could never forget that perfect smile. The orange light from the setting sun caused a glisten in her eyes. I loved the way that I couldn’t keep my focus whenever I was around her. What was peculiar about this was that I felt as if it happened all in one instant, but at the same time it felt like hours. I guess this is how love is supposed to feel. She screamed with delight. She loved feeling free. I didn’t know where I was driving, but she didn’t care. It doesn’t matter where you are when you’re with the most beautiful girl on Earth. I managed to break the allure of her hazel-green eyes to check the road. Nothing. Just the open road, a warm sunset, and the girl of my dreams sitting next to me. Or so I thought. I don’t know what happened but the car suddenly flipped over. Everything was silent. I can’t clearly recall what happened but I remembered that her once-gorgeous golden-brown hair was soiled with blood and that her hazel-green eyes were filled with tears at one point. But, she never cried. The worst part was that I couldn’t save her. I reached for her but could never touch her. I called for her but she never answered. The last thing I saw was that glisten fade from her eyes. I don’t know if I ended up surviving, but it didn’t matter. All I knew was that I had robbed the world of the prettiest girl that it had ever seen. I could never forgive myself.

I can see them. They are usually fluttering around, some watching, some writing on their tablets. I always wonder what they are writing about; news, faces, people? What they see, or what we missed? I do not know, nope. I do not. And they move fast, really fast. Oh, and that one is smiling at me. I like it when they smile, it makes me feel warm and safe inside. They have very pretty smiles. Describe them? Oh no, I couldn't, I shouldn't even try. They are the most amazing colors. Gold, red, blue, yes. And then some I have never seen in my life. Strange, swirling colors, like the color of joy. I do not know the color, but that's what color his robe is right now. They are big and strong, and small and unassuming, all at once. A living contradiction; yup, that's what they are. At least, I think they are alive. Do angels live? I'd like to think so. Nothing so beautiful could possibly be dead. The other ones might be, though. I do not like them, no, not a bit. They scare me, very dark and eerie. They look like giant bats, always there, clinging to people. They are horribly, horribly ugly, with leather wings and distorted faces. Even scarier is when they pretend to be beautiful people. I am glad that they can't hide their flicking tail, or else no one would be able to tell the difference. When they smile, it's an evil, wicked smile. Sometimes they chase me. I run as fast as I can, but they are much faster. They make horrible faces and laugh like hyenas, and I scream and swing my arms and legs until they get bored and go away. But they don't like the beautiful ones. That's why I stay near them, yup, that's why. I like to be where there are a lot of them, especially when they start singing. It's more beautiful than any choir I've ever heard before. They like to hang aroun the zoo. Always a lot of them there, and at the hospital near here. I don't have the money to go to the hospital though. Sometimes they help me, and point to a good spot to find food or a blanket, or a warm place to sleep at night. Yes, I like the beautiful ones a lot. There are a whole bunch of them up ahead. They are all crowed around a building, fluttering around the roof and walls. Oh, good! I always like to find more spots where they hang out. They are almost covering the building, and I can't wait to go inside. That one is shaking his head at me. Why? I won't stay long, won't cause any trouble. Sometimes that bothers people, but I won't do that. I just want to go inside... What happened? Oh no, this is wrong, this is very wrong. There aren't any beautiful ones in here at all. They are all looking in the windows and the skylight. But the ugly ones are everywhere, everywhere I look. They are crawling all over people sitting on the cushioned benches. There is a man up front talking to them. No, wait, it's not a man; it's one of the uglies. I almost missed his tail. That was close. None of the people are scared. Can't they see the uglies? Maybe they are used to it. I am really scared. Maybe if I stand really still and quiet, they won't see me. The uglies begin hissing and smiling at me, and I'm afraid they are going to start chasing me. The people are lookinig back at me now too. They frown and glare, scooting further and further away. But I won't hurt them; it's the uglies they should be worried about. Can they really not see them? I just want to find more beautiful ones. I run back outside. The same beautiful one who shook his head at me earlier, he smiles at me, then looks in again. The colors have changed again. His robe is the color of sadness. He looks so very sad, and I start to cry.

I had this dream. I was sitting, nervously waiting in some sort of office room with too many chairs. I knew that I was outside of a conference room, though. The room had a fairly simple setup. There was a secretary scribbling something on a notepad, a fake plastic fern in the corner, and a plain black-and-white clock up on the wall. I was nervously rehearsing my answers for the interview that I knew that I was about to go to. I don’t remember what my answers were. I was just ready to tell the interviewers what they wanted to hear. I became aware that the clock’s ticking was quite loud. A pepper-haired man stuck his head out of the conference room door and said “We’re ready for you now. Come on in.” He went back into the room but left the door open. I followed the man into the room and looked around. Outside the window, off in the distance, I could see the sparkling ocean. It looked so peaceful. Someone’s bike reflector flashed in the sun and caused me to blink. I looked in front of me and saw the pepper-haired man sitting across the table with two men that were sitting to his right and to his left. To his right, there was a slim, tall man with nice blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a suit and had a welcoming smile. To his left, there was a tall, fat man with long greasy hair. He wore glasses, a wrinkled polo shirt, and had a sense of arrogance about him. I donned a fake smile, shook their hands, and took my seat across from the three men. My heart was no longer pounding. I was relaxed and confident. “So, tell me, why do you want to come to our school?” the blonde man asked. “Yea, what makes us so special?” the fat man followed up. This was a typical interview question, but for some reason it made me pause. This was the point of no-return. My response would change my life forever. ... I thought about my entire life up until this moment: One time when I was only six years old, I remembered stubbing my toe while opening a door. I looked down at my foot, saw blood, and immediately panicked. I sat down and cried until my mother came to clean it up for me. She told me that there was no reason cry, because I had to be strong. I remembered the sense of duty I had to show no weakness. No more than a year later, when I was seven, my mother first told me about college. She told me that I could be anything that I wanted to be in life. I was a winner, better than the rest. However, she told me that I must always be happy. Live your life for you, and nobody else. Only you have to deal with the decisions you make. When I was nine, I was first told that I needed glasses. I remember trying on those black plastic frames at the optometrist’s office and wondering if I would look like this for the rest of my life. Later that day, I was inspecting my appearance in the bathroom mirror at home when my mother came in to talk to me. She told me that I could never be a pilot, because of my new glasses. Maybe this meant that I couldn’t be whatever I wanted to be in life. I remembered playing “Truth or Dare” when I was twelve at Brittany Winter’s birthday party. I was dared to kiss the most popular girl in school, and I did it. I spent that night lying next to her, being careful not to touch, and worrying the entire night what would happen if my mother found out what I had done. When I was thirteen, I first stole beer from my friend’s father. As I was throwing up, I remembered wondering what would happen if she saw me then. This was not a part of the path to success. When I was fifteen, I made my first drug deal. As I sat there waiting with my Ziploc bag in my pocket, constantly looking over my shoulder for the police, I realized that I was more afraid of my mother driving by and asking me what I was doing standing on the street corner by myself. I remembered deciding at sixteen that there was more money in becoming a doctor. From there, I told myself what I wanted to hear and said that my chief motivation was to “help people.” From then on, there was nothing stopping me from going to medical school. After all, I was the best. I was the smartest, most clever, and physically fit person around. I was the one for the job. ... It was then that I realized I had been staring at my feet for some while. I looked up at the men to see all three of their faces unpatiently waiting for a reply. The pepper-haired man re-iterated their questions: “So, son, why do you want to come here?” I thought about this question for a while and wondered how I managed to find myself sitting in that chair. I realized that I wasn’t happy. I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what I was doing with my life. I have never felt so lost. I finally lifted my head and looked the pepper-haired man right in the eyes. I slowly stood up and said “I don’t.

I know a girl who lives in a house with some friends of mine, I can't tell you her real name but we'll call her Mary. Smooth pale skin, almost white, and short brown hair, long slender arms and fingers and a neck like a length of PVC pipe. She's beautiful in the same way that the alien girl from the Fifth Element is beautiful, kind of fucked up but still sexy. I've been round at the house a few times, my sister lives there with one guy studying pharmacy and another guy I knew in school. I'm sitting with my sister and old mate, the pharmacy guy is in his room probably jacking it over Skyrim. Mary pops into the kitchen and sees us, says hello, and then disappears into her own bedroom. She's watching documentaries. She's shy. “That Mary” I say to Daniel, “She's pretty cute. She's a real cutie-pie.” “Yeah she's great. She's a smart cookie, but got some weird shit going on though. Really fucked up shit.” He shakes his head. My sister looks ominously at Daniel and me. My sister is a really good girl. “I don't think we should talk about Mary.” she says to us, decisively like she's holding a gun under the table pointed at our junk. “She's having a hard time at the moment.” Daniel sucks on a beer and rubs his jaw. There's some disgusting blond facial hair clinging to his cheeks, chin and neck. It looks like sparse pubic hair on a tight scrot. I told him these exact words because I'm his mate but he ignored me. He thinks he looks like Tim Rogers. He doesn't heed the warning look from my sister. “It's been hectic here man,” he tells me. “All kinds of people trying to get in to talk to Mary. People in suits and-” my sister cuts him off. “Daniel, the last thing Mary needs is more people causing a fuss about it! Just drop it!” I'm pretty interested now because it sounds like personal dramas, and there's a chance we'll get talking about Mary's pert breasts or maybe she's having sex with a woman these days. I dig stuff like that. “What's the story?” I ask Daniel. We ignore my sister's complaints. “All these people have been showing up, trying to get information about Mary, medical people and lawyers and shit. I don't know who they are. Anyway they're all trying to get their hands on Mary because she laid an egg the other week.” He shrugs his shoulders innocently. This is too much for my sister. “FUCK Daniel! You don't even know what happened yourself, don't talk about this stuff, it's absolutely nothing to do with us, not to mention just plain rude when Mary can probably hear us talking about her!” “Wait, what do you mean she laid an egg?” I ask Daniel. “Mary can't hear us from her room, relax.” He says to my sister, then turns to me with a blank expression on his face. “She laid a fucking egg man, I don't know. She went in to the hospital and they helped her deliver an egg.” “What, like a chicken egg?” “No it was a bit bigger.” My sister gets up with a resigned look on her face and shuts the door between the kitchen and the hallway, then pours a vodka and tops it up with ice and soda water. She has it pretty strong. She gives up trying to stop Daniel talking about Mary's egg. I'm still not getting it at this point. “Was it like a duck egg or a goose egg or something? Is that some sex thing that people do?” “No, no they don't know what it was. They've never seen an egg like it before. Nobody could identify it, they had bird scientists and all sorts of people on the case.” “They're called ornithologists,” my sister corrects him like she's slapping a child. “They called them in when Mary couldn't explain the egg and ran some tests on it. From what we've heard it didn't match anything that we know about.” She sips her drink sadly. I can tell she's worried about Mary. She's a good girl, my sister. Daniel is rolling a joint but he's not very good at it. He keeps spilling chop all over the table in front of him, then picking it up bit by bit. He continues the story. “Anyway the doctors let Mary go home because there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her, but she's been recommended counselling and some other therapy and shit just in case.” He licks the paper he's holding and rolls it thoughtfully. “The strangest part is that Mary asked for the egg back. She kept it.” We sit in silence for about twenty seconds, digesting this information. My sister has just started to speak when the door opens and Mary comes in. She seems oblivious to our conversation and goes to the refrigerator and gets out a bowl of leftover fettuccine carbonara. “Hey how is university going?” I ask her, more to break the tension than from any real interest. I know that she is studying to be a nurse and that she hasn't made many friends at school. I feel sort of sorry for her in a way, I know she's intelligent but she seems sort of lonely as well. Plus, she's got an egg now. Mary puts the bowl in the microwave. “Uni is fine,” she tells me distractedly. “I go on placement next month, I'm a little bit worried about it but it will probably be very interseting.” The conversation falls flat like a cool kid tripping over a box of VHS tapes. Mary is standing behind Daniel who sits facing me. He silently mouths the sentence “ask her about the egg” with his eyebrows raised. My sister starts to offer Mary a drink but she declines. “What are you watching in your room? A documentary?” I ask her, trying to remain tactful in spite of Daniel's suggestions. “Can we see your egg?” He spurts out before she can answer me. He's like the conversational equivalent of premature ejaculation at a funeral. We're all in stunned silence, I'm on the verge of giddy laughter. My sister punches Daniel right in the solar plexus, hard. “Why are you a dick?” She practically shouts at him. That punch winded him though and he just keels over in his chair gasping and looks up at me with irrepressible mirth in his eyes. She's right though, he is a dick. Mary turns to the sink silently, I think she's probably going to cry. My sister is shaking her head in her hands. The microwave beeps loudly. That carbonara smells fantastic. My sister gets up and puts her arm around Mary but the girl darts out of the embrace and flits through the open door. “Mary, wait!” My sister calls after her and turns to leave. She throws a baleful glare in our direction before she exits. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That hurt.” Daniel wheezes after her. When he can breathe again he leans back and gets the bowl of carbonara out of the microwave. “I've seen the egg, you know.” He tells me. I'm pretty interested. “I had to sneak into her room because she won't let it out of her sight. She was asleep and it was resting on a pile of her clean laundry.” “You're pretty disgusting man.” I tell him. He just shrugs. He puts the poorly rolled joint between his lips and lights it. “It's a nice looking egg.” He says.

Looking at the records of the past only reminds you of how much worse things have gotten as you have grown, the sad truth. We must move on, If we live in the PAST we stay in the PAST. Change isn't always bad, even if it feels that way. I realize that I currently haven't even been alive long enough to back up what i'm trying so desperately hard to explain. In the dayS where everyone was so innocent, when cutting in the lunch line was a crime punishable by social exile, assisted by the loss of friends that you, in the PAST believed to be your "bestest friend ever". Little did you know that your bestest friend ever will theoretically love and hate you for the next six years of your life. Then eventually they move away leaving you to the place that you dread calling home. The girls, they think they like you. Once they see you crack under emmense pressure (which at this point won't even be personally discovered for at least another decade), you are left for your other best friend that promptly took the travelers spot on your friends list. Then after the two dreaded years that could be correctly titled "The Intro to the not so fantastic four" you enter the forementioned not so fantastic four. The next four years of your life will determine you. A quote from the movie, "Trainspotting" which fits with such precise accuracy describes this personal judgement day, "Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television." This is not the full quote, but quite a brilliant bit of it. This describes the dreaded four in nearly every way. What if you don't choose these things though? well there is one more choice. Addiction. Now I, by no means succumb to the peer pressure, I am still what some would call a "good boy" decent grades, active in extracurricular activities, plenty of friends, and no children. My choice is life. Even though the current times tell me that happiness in the future starts with happiness in the childhood, It just isn't possible. If you take the road which is, sadly more traveled in my environment, you take risks. Risks that could end your life before you could choose it, risks that could take your friends list, and destroy it. These risks are the most dangerous things you will ever deal with until this point. The way most see it "Choose life early, live life happily. Choose something risky, well at least you had a good time." Thats not always true, some have life chosen by those preceding them. Those are often the worst of the lot. Not the experts that have been at the lowest possible low since adolescence. Freedom of choice is, PARENTS, is key to the choice of life. If you take your core personality and ponder it, you may realize that this terrible time, Is not even the beginning. Your Family, So-called Friends, hobbies, and religious beliefs are the only things that matter if you choose life. Being the only truly important factors doesn't mean they are easily maintained. Thats where your early life affects you. To maintain "life" you need to mimic the activities of the stereotypical "good boy/girl". Thats what determines how you are taken in by society. They could take you in with the other thirty-nine good boy/girls or, they could cling on to the fact that you made a single choice pertaining to the category of addiction. One sign of change, and you aren't accepted by the all so real council of life. You then, dont get to choose a job, or career. This is where you stand, at the very bottom. Right next to the people you refered to as trash. The choice of life is a very delicate one. If you spend to much time doing what you are told, then your childhood is nothing. What stories will you have to tell the family that you thought you chose? Then again, If you don't choose life early on, you don't make it because you aren't seen worthy by the council of life, but really, why should they accept newcomers so late? You felt so strongly against life, at the time it mattered, that you no longer get the freedom of decision. No life, no job, no family, no compact disk players or electrical tin can openers. Only what you chose in your early days.

I knew something wasn’t right. I feebly attempted avoiding the trip by messaging her that all of the buses were full. Three hours later she convinced me to meet her. Chuseok is a crazy time in Korea. I had such a fucking headache. Four Belgian beers at home along with a rapid six at the neighborhood bar had left an unusually severe reminder of two days ago. However, intrigue and the recalled scent of vaginas past spurred me forward. It wasn’t going to be easy. The day before the harvest moon is a hectic holiday of travel. I knew my destination and no direct route exists for the carless. After her convincing message I lied and told her I was eating lunch. I would be at the train station in thirty minutes. I popped my last two Tylenol and got lost in the shower. Exactly twenty seven minutes later she called. Following my third lie I hastily packed a backpack and headed toward Mungyeong City. The absolutely stunning sweater I was wearing was too great a contrast for my pale face and swollen sinuses. The taxi ride to the station was a peaceful sort of denial. My body wasn’t ready for this. Being forty years old still hasn’t taught me to quit chasing tail. The pounding on the left side of my head wasn’t going away. Onboard the Mugunghwa train to Daejeon I utilized the magical smartphone to learn what travel options I had while responding to increasingly frequent progress checks from her. I could catch a taxi to the bus station and depart around four or I could catch a taxi to the other train station in Daejeon and travel a greater distance and arrive around the same time. I should have taken the train. The bus station served as a serendipitous hangover triage. I passed a pharmacy and restocked on Tylenol and was allotted twenty minutes to smoke two glorious Marlboro Lights. The bus served as dynamic, roaming battlefield which was caused damage more powerful than acetaminophen could dampen. A manual transmission beauty with barely enough power to climb the mountains of central Korea along with the brakes to ensure a speedy descent carried me to Mungyeong. It was driven by a man who screamed profanity and muted the names of the small bus terminals we entered with no regard to their pitted gravel lots nor the damage he was doing to the clutch. Jeomchon Terminal services the quaint town of Mungyeong. A very attractive woman was waiting one step from the bus door when I arrived. Simultaneously she went for a hug and I reached across her body and gave a light tap to her upper arm. Our first face to face moment was complete with all of the awkwardness one could hope for when a woman with an agenda and a hypocrite meet. She ushered me to her new white Volkswagen, a vehicle which signified she was or came from wealth, and along the way mentioned several times she had a boyfriend. The conversation during the ride to my love motel was proof that I was with an unstable female. Sixty thousand won later we rode the elevator to the top floor and entered room 501. In retrospect, that is when I should have fucked her. Instead I continued listening to her relationship issues and learned how diligent of an internet stalker she was. It seemed logical for her to propose dinner. We descended and the VW carried us to a place to eat meat. The first fall chill was piercing me as the alcohol poison refused to release its chokehold on my desire to live. When the time came to order drinks my companion informed me that she did not like to drink. Like any good vagina chaser, I downplayed my penchant for alcohol and forewent the hair of the dog in favor of Coca Cola. The meat provided sustenance and tasted very much like leather. My body had decided keeping my vital organs functional was of greater import than wasting fuel on such trivial things as taste buds. Not even raw garlic could provide a sense of flavor. Still inwardly shivering from the cold I did my best to remain composed. The conversation remained on track and I learned her boyfriend was in Busan with his parents. This made her hurt, angry, and enabled the psychotic within her. Ten minutes into the meal two friends of her boyfriend miraculously arrived at an adjacent table. Her cellular phone was in her hand immediately. Two of her friends were needed for backup. This was important. This was vital. With the same fervor as she requested travel updates from me she communicated with her friends. They needed to be here NOW. Something was amiss. She wondered aloud whether the invaders would contact her boyfriend. I wondered aloud how big a character I was in her drama. To this she laughed; much too dramatically. Soon after two kind men joined our dinner. One was a violinist and the other a classical guitar instructor. While she was speaking to the invasive table I promptly asked for confirmation that she was crazy. This was given quickly but confirmation of her psychosis was unsure. Thankfully these gentleman ordered beer and social custom allowed the only true healing power to enter my system. I drank slowly and eventually stepped over the patio railing for a cigarette. I kept my back to the action and stared out into a field. Every puff seemed more rewarding. Upon return to my table I could not miss a shiny white guitar case propped up against the railing. Naturally I sat down on a rock and tried to open the case. The instructor aided me and I was offered a nice guitar. I was able to successfully tune five strings. It is always the G string that takes a little bit of time. The overeager instructor was very anxious to show off his high tech electric tuner. He quickly and annoyingly arranged his guitar into perfect scientific pitch. We had already discussed my lack of recent practice at dinner. Still, this guitar seemed an oasis to the current state of bullshit I was mired in. I tweaked the tuning on the guitar and surprisingly successfully navigated the first dozen or so measures of Ponce’s sixth prelude. Five minutes later it was evident that I would be unable to sustain anything but the first few measures of anything. The instrument sounded nice. Suddenly, my quest seemed attainable. The time had come for a change in venue. I felt stronger but the chill inside me held firm. For whatever reason I had been teasing my native female partner in scheme and continued to do so. I prodded her about her age and it was settled that she was in her late thirties. The VW provided us the privacy to flirt properly. I enjoyed the ride. Eventually we arrived at a bar which contained two additional male members to our party. I hate draft beer. It lacks substance. I hate Korean beer. It lacks everything. Our table for six was prepared with six mugs and sixty four ounces of hair that should grow on no dog. The conversation and mood at the table created a vortex of boredom. I rightly assumed that challenging the army guy of the bunch to arm wrestling would liven the night up. He was left handed and it was suggested we have two matches. If either man lost both he would have to drain two glasses of Cass Draft. I watched the man guzzle down his two doses and thanked my parents for creating me with long forearms. Things livened up. People began smiling and four pitchers later I convinced my desire it was time to leave. We entered her car and she refused to give life to the motor. Once again I was told tales of her boyfriend’s infidelity. She was fixated on a particular story in which she was administering a blowjob. Upon hearing the words ‘sucking his cock’ repeatedly in English I believed the trip was going to have a happy ending. She drove past the hotel and wanted to show me her apartment. By this time the alcohol had masked my chills. We soon entered a spotless, obsessively clean set of rooms. I was impressed with her home. Plant life abounded with very little access to the sun. We sat on the floor together staring at guppies swimming in a large piece of pottery. I was completely impressed with her at this point. I should have fucked her right there and then. We had previously agreed that I would stay in her city for a couple of days. After all of the boyfriend talk I figured it was up to her to make a move. Besides, she seemed to really like the hotel room and maybe she planned on following me up. Wrong. She simply dropped me off and I failed to find the words to invite her to my room. We agreed to meet me for brunch in the morning. The next morning I was awoken by my phone around ten. Without hesitation she informed me her boyfriend had invited her to Busan and that she would be leaving. I simply hung up the phone. My super pimp room had a computer and I quickly searched for train connections to get me out of Mungyeong. Bingo, a train was leaving in a half an hour. I messaged her for help getting to the station quickly and she obliged. I assumed she would just drop me off at the station. Quite the opposite ensued. My mysterious madam certainly enjoys the drama she creates. She latched on to my arm as if I was an escort and walked with me to the platform. Her grip was a desperate, tears were welling in her eyes, and I was convinced it was wise to propose the promised brunch. Her response was deflection. I then realized without doubt that leaving was obviously the best thing for all parties and shared with her the appropriate advice of self respect. As the train approached she embraced me with sincere force and looked totally lost. She remained on the platform peering into the windows and our eyes said the final goodbye.

I think it was after I entered the door that I realized I wasn’t in a reality I could cope with. For some odd reason I felt as if I hadn’t gone through the door, yet I clearly remember going through it. The door which was of a matter I couldn’t quite piece together. It seemed to be a dark-ish kind of colouring. Yet, somehow, it seemed to eat up all the light around it. As if it was darkness incarnate. The moment I opened the door I knew it had been a mistake and that I shouldn’t have fed my curiosity. Something goaded me to go through it, though. After I went through the door, my perception was altered. I knew nothing would be what it had been previously. The reality I had once known had forever shifted. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to cope with this new reality once I left the door. The door seemed to exist on another plane, not quite the same plane of existence I had been in my entire life. I knew once I returned no one would believe the things I saw, the horrors that lived in the door. When I first started traveling the infinite expanses of my mind I had stumbled upon a great many of things, none quite like this door. When I first saw it I thought that it had led nowhere and much to my horror this door did in fact lead nowhere. I think the door led me into itself, which in turn created a portal that would never close. It seemed that whenever I dosed off, that same portal starts to suck me back in. Tilting the very fabric of my physical world, the equilibrium I had once known was now ever shifting. I began to regret my decision to travel through the door. I began to wonder if the saying that curiosity killed the cat was meant for people like me and that cat was a code word for sanity. The line in which people call the line of time began overlapping itself in my world. I began to wonder if time still existed in my reality. Things began to become a blur, it wasn’t the kind of blur you can fix with glasses. This kind of blur was a blur that wasn’t really there, yet somehow I saw it and it made everything fuzzy. I began to wonder how many times I could enter the door and return. How long would it be before I lost my way back? The sanity I had once held so dear to me was now just a figment of my own imagination, much like the door. The door, by all technicalities didn’t exist, but who says something needs to exist for it to be made a reality.

Quiet. You're walking down the stairs. One feet at a time. Awaiting some sort of sound but nothing. You're downstairs now. You look around. Suddenly you see the lifeless body on the ground. Peacefully in a fetal position as it always was. Not radiating any kind of life. Time slows down, you're trying with all your willpower not to believe it. Mind rushing off, claiming yourself to be an idiot because the lack of respiration or noise doesn't explain anything. One foot. Then another. Thats it. Closer, closer. See! You saw a glimpse of life! On your knees. No, it was just your chest bumping too hard on your ribcage and shaking your body. Hands on. Cold. Nothing. You clench your fists and your teeth as a tear drops down. You hear its sharp thump as it hits the ground. Suddenly you hit the ground yourself. Chest thumping hard, trying to breathe. Nope. Nothing. There isn't anything left anymore. Your vision starts to blur. Head becoming more aloof. You cant decipher if this is real or not. You remember the great times you had. All the joyous moments. You curl up. Draining. You are in shock. You feel at peace. Eyes closed. You give your last breath. Consciousness and dream have melded into one. Nothingness awaits. Last heart beats thumping away. You hear footsteps on the stairs. One feet at a time. You are gone. a little short story I wrote yesterday. Hope you guys enjoy.

I just stumbled upon this subreddit and I'm sure this story has been told in some shape or form, but here's my version of it. My junior year at university, I took a pizza delivery job in a small town in central New Jersey. The owner, my boss, was straight off the plane from Italy; he had become a fixture in the neighborhood as the standard by which everyone judged their Italian food, supplementing the palate-appealing pizzas and appetizers with a little home grown Sicilian charm. He was only a businessman to the extent he was a pizzaman, with his passion for casually conversing with customers as he cooked calzones and pizzas propped up only by his need to make a living. For years he ran that restaurant, coming to know everyone in the town - from the cops who wanted a slice between cutting tickets, to the regulars who just didn't feel like cooking after a hard days work, to the creeps and villains alike. So it's Thursday, one of the busier nights, and the phone rings. I answer it and begin to take the order. I had only been working at the restaurant for about two weeks, and was unfamiliar with the area but finally catching on to how it worked. "[Our Restaurant], this is [me], how may I help you." "Hi, yes." Says a scratchy voice on the other side of the phone. "I'd like to order one large plain pizza." A cough rang out of the end of the sentence. It was a woman. Old, more than likely, probably trying to squeeze in a slice or two before her last episode of Murder She Wrote before bed. "Great." I said, as I followed the textbook script informing her it would cost $18.12 and would be ready in 30 minutes, mindlessly jotting down her address and phone number. "Excellent I'm looking forward to it... when are you getting here sir, are you the one who's going to make the delivery?" An odd inquiry I thought, but perhaps just a polite gesture of concern and amicability that still exists among older generations. "Yes, ma'am, shouldn't be too long." "Great, see you soon sweetheart." *click* I collected the ticket and walked it over behind the black and white tile counter, submitting the order to the already backed up docket of orders. My boss hadn't paid any particular attention to me as I slipped it in the order-rail pursuant to practice - Thursdays were always this busy, and he didn't want to lose concentration between kneading the dough and covering it with sauce and cheese. He looked up at the ticket as he always did to see what, if anything, special he had to prepare for a potentially different order, this time staring for a few seconds longer than he usually did. He glanced back down at the dough, a with a smirk forming on his face. "This is a good one." he said, peering at me over his glasses with dough being pressed roughly between his knuckles and the cold tile counter. I paid no mind to it and went about my business, serving the customers in the restaurant and taking more orders. Thirty minutes passed, and he handed me the single box of pizza with the heater bag. I drove to the address. It was part of an apartment complex with the doors to the apartments on the outside, duplexes with a main door opening up to a staircase that led to the second floor apartment and the first floor apartment door immediately to the left. I rang the doorbell and waited outside the main door, examining the various contents and decor of the house - a green wreath, withered from the cold, stared me back in the face. That's when it hit me. My ruminations were interrupted by the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke, filling my nostrils and my lungs like an unrelenting wave. Before I could register the overpowering scent, the door opened, and a figure stood leaning against the door frame. She was short, maybe 5'4", and I couldn't make out anything about her face because it was dark out and the light behind her was temporarily blinding me. She dragged her cigarette without breaking posture, leaning on the frame with one elbow tucked under the other in front of her waist. "Well hello." I recognized the scratchy voice I heard on the phone, but face-to-face, it was different - it was sultry, or at least the best attempt at sultriness that an older woman's voice box would allow. Smoke exited her mouth as she tilted her head, beckoning for me to come inside. As my eyes adjusted to the indoor lights, I could make out that she was wearing a robe. Blue. Sapphire Blue. With pink clouds sewn on the cotton, peppering the garment in a random pattern. "Just put the pizza on that table over there." I did as instructed. "I'm going to the kitchen to get your money baby." For a second I thought about what she had just said - did I hear that correctly? The self-questioning I put myself through was abruptly halted as she emerged from the kitchen, with the living room light finally illuminating her front enough for me to make our her features. 75, minimum, with great posture for such age. Her face was straddled with wrinkles and her walk was of casual demeanor, staring me down with two eyes that matched her gown. She got close to me, grabbed my palm and softly plopped a $20 bill and closed my hand, not letting go. What I thought was happening was actually happening. She pushed me backwards, her fragile, pruny hands pressing against my sternum in the direction of the door. I turned around with the pizza heater sleeve and hurried out the front, failing to give the usual gesture that implied a $1.88 tip is bullshit, caught between a mix of feeling petrified and how fucking hilarious this story is going to be to tell my roommates when I get back home. I nearly ran outside down the two stairs that led to the sidewalk, noticing that a silhoutte was stalking me, cast taller than I against the sidewalk in front of me. I turned around. "Next time," she said, leaning in a similar manner against the frame she was when she answered the door, smoke billowing out of her nostrils as she stared at me like prey, "I'll have to order the sausage pizza." She winked, and slammed the door shut. They say that when you're in shock you cannot really register anything. I drove back to the restaurant, unable to even engage in my favorite activity of flipping through the radio stations and expressing discontent at awful cocktail of commercials and shitty music DJs try to peddle to listeners; I ran the line through my head over and over. "Sausage Pizza." I walked through the door and my boss started laughing hysterically as if he had a sense of clairvoyance that allowed him to witness the situation that happened only a few miles away. "Have fun?" My boss continued to laugh, adjusting his glasses. "Did she ask for the extra sausage?" I had repressed that memory until coming across this subreddit, and I'm sure it's happened to one of you guys before. But I hope you enjoyed hearing it as much as I did telling it.

I sit here watching her go about her day, unaware of my monstrous thoughts. How I long to wrap my fingers around her neck. Or maybe I would hide underneath her covers until she gets home from school, peek my eyes out from under the blanket and watch her set her Dora the Explorer backpack on her toy covered floor. Then, as she sits on her Disney princess chair, coloring pinks and purples, I will leap out like a ninja, not being seen or heard until I want her to see and hear me. But, I am trapped in this cage. She mocks me with her baby talk. Her voice a high-pitched whine equivalent to the shrieks of rusted swings in which children like her swing on at their schools. She says I’m cute. Even what she calls me, Daisy, humiliates me. Emasculates me. If I could, I would show her how cute I really am, when my nails draw blood across her chubby cheeks. How cute I can be when her blonde hair is wet and curled from tears as she cries out for her mommy. Still, to her I am a friend, appealing in every way, as a true predator is. She wouldn’t be my first victim. Abby with her long, straight, dark hair always a mess, was my first. She was six years old and more of a tomboy than my current girl Hannah. Her mother tried to dress her in floral dresses with her hair pulled back in pony tails on top of her head, but that lasted about five minutes until a temper tantrum and tears led to jeans and her hair in her face. I never did care for Abby. “Princess,” shrieked Abby. To this child I was Princess. A name and a concept I loathe. She grabbed me with her chocolate covered fingers. Chocolate from a Hershey bar given to her by her mother after giving up pleading with her to eat cereal instead. “At school today we are going to make turkeys for Thanksgiving. My friend Ashley says that she has seen a real live turkey before but I don’t believe her.” I tried to drown out her squeaky voice and insignificant details of her life. My hands pushed against her hands but my efforts to squirm free were useless. I could smell the sweetness of the chocolate mixed with her sweaty hands. Abby was disgusting. Why anyone would want to have children I will never understand. A part of you that’s less than half your size but controls you and takes you for granted. Abby was too young to be thankful for her mother but without her she would be vulnerable, an easy victim for any predator. “Abby the school bus is here,” her mother called out from downstairs in the kitchen. In haste she tossed me back into the cage. My back hitting the water bottle. She ignored my hurt cries and grabbed her backpack and tromped down the stairs. One day, Abby’s mom had just finished cleaning my cage and when she placed me back in, she left the cover cracked. A visible separation of freedom or confinement. Separate. I could relate to that. A line drawn in my mind dividing reason and empathy. I sometimes wonder why I am like this. Some people say that it’s fucked up childhood experiences that shape one into an emotionless monster. I suppose that could be so. When I was young, the first boy I lived with, Patrick, failed to separate my father from my mother and siblings. I watched my father eat my brother and sister alive. My father would’ve gotten me as well if he hadn’t already been filled up on his own flesh and blood. It took two days for the Patrick’s mother to realize what had happened and find the tiny bodies buried in saw dust. I guess to spare Patrick of the massacre that had taken place his mother decided to dispose of the evidence. I watched in the corner of the cage as she picked up the stiff bodies of my siblings with tissue paper and walked into the bathroom. I couldn’t see what happened; only the blue paint on the wall and his mother’s pedicured blackish-purple toenails. But I heard the plunks of objects being submerged and the harsh swish of water. My mother and I were placed in one cage and my father in another and we were taken back to the store from which we came. While Abby was at school I had escaped. But before I could leave she needed to get what she deserved. I knew her habits: homework, dinner, a bath and bed. I sat on her windowsill, blending in with the brown teddy bears and unicorns which were far more innocent than me. I watched as her mom tucked her in and Abby listened attentively as she was read a princess story. Every young girl loves princesses. They long to grow up and find their Prince Charming who will sweep them off their feet and save the day. Well Abby, Prince Charming isn’t here and instead of accepting a role of submissiveness and helplessness, perhaps you should have better prepared yourself for a situation such as this. As her mother left and shut the door and she buried her face in her pillow, I jumped off the ledge and buried my fur in her face. It startled her and she jerked her head violently back and forth, her hair slapping me in the face- a weapon I did not account for. “Mom,” Abby screamed. My little hands struggled to grab her neck. My nails barely broke skin. I thought about biting her nose but before I could she pushed me off of the bed and onto the floor. In her feetie-pajamas she rolled out of bed and stumbled through the dark room towards the door. “Mom,” Abby cried again. Her breathing became raspy and as she tried to yell again only a whisper came out in between the wheezing of her breaths. She fell to the floor. The light from a nightlight illuminated her face. I stared her in the eyes as she looked at me, terrified. Warmness filled my stomach as I watched her struggle to breath. A feeling I expect one would feel when getting a hug, or seeing a loved one; but not a feeling I have ever experienced before that night. Her mother and father ran into the room. Abby’s eyes were still locked on me as they tried to figure out was wrong. Her father kicked me away and I scurried under a dresser. Soon sirens from ambulances filled the house. Abby was assessed and calmed down and after deciding it was only a minor asthma attack she was released and spent the night in her parent’s room protected between her mother and father. The next morning Abby’s mom searched the room before finding me in the closet. “You evil fucking hamster,” she said almost growling in a hushed voice. Someone finally knew my secret, my urges. She grabbed me and squeezed me hard as she threw me back into the cage. As we drove in silence in the car I knew I was going back to the pet store, but I don’t blame them for being uncomfortable with having someone like me around. That’s when Hannah came into my life. Her nose pressed up against the glass of my cage in the pet store “Mommy, I want that one.” By “that one” I’m sure she didn’t mean the one who can feel nothing towards anyone, who will never love her when she cuddles him and who can only exhibit faked emotions and forced normal behaviors. I suppose Hannah isn’t half bad for a human. She does want me to live a normal life, have friends, exercise, enjoy myself. First, she introduced me to Boots. I attempted to have a healthy relationship with Boots. He was a bigger hamster, and all black with a white splotch on his chest. But he was always eating my portion of the food. “Boots, I do not mind sharing my home with you, but I would appreciate it if you would share the food equally,” I explained to him. I have become good at hiding who I really am from the time spent at the pet store as well as the many months spent pretending to be a normal pet. “Hey, Daisy, how about you mind your own god damn business,” said Boots. He looked at me and laughed-snorting a little in the process. Well, after all this is a hamster eat hamster world and Darwin would appreciate my applying of the concept survival of the fittest. A few days later I was walking around the cage but stopped by the wheel with my back turned to Boots. “Hey, you actually left me a food pellet over here by the wheel? Thank you. I appreciate your generosity,” I said sarcastically. “What?” asked Boots. “Well I was just saying that I had you all wrong Boots. You are a great guy.” Boots squinted his eyes and shook his head. “What the hell, you are weird.” He walked over to the wheel and I pushed him down lodging his head between the wires of the wheel. “You know what you have done to deserve this Boots,” I said, gently rocking the wheel back and forth causing pressure to build up and release around his throat. He began to speak but a quick spin on the wheel snapped his neck for Boots and that was the last time he bothered me. After that there was Delilah. It was exciting to have a woman with me. The companionship was great at first, but then she started accusing me of not paying enough attention. Stuck together day after day in a cage, I don’t know how I she could have thought I was neglecting her. “I don’t understand why you treat me like this. You never let me in. If you won’t try to make me happy maybe I should find someone who will,” she complained, her voice almost as annoying as the little girl’s that claim me. It was the same argument every time. “Delilah,” I said. “You know I care about you. I’m sorry I can’t show it but you know I do.” “You never say the right things, you just say something that makes you look like you aren’t the bad guy and I am overreacting but I’m not. I’m sick of this.” I was sick of it too. Obviously my expression of emotions wasn’t as mastered as I had though. But she had to go. And when we went for a stroll in our hamster balls- her pink, mine red- and hers just happened to roll down a flight of stairs no one expected me of nudging it. Hannah is no more threatening than me. Misunderstood sometimes, when she does things that hurt me, just as every child I have ever known has. Some days she doesn’t even acknowledge I’m there. Sometimes she forgets to feed me or pets too hard. Maybe she doesn’t know she’s hurting me or maybe she is too young to understand, just as I can’t understand relationships, or trust or love. I could keep this girl around. Maybe it would be good for me. Every normal hamster wants a child to take care of it. Not a life lived on some store shelf in a crowded cage until you get mean and they isolate you in your own cage. Then you get old and no one will want to love you, your fur dull in color, appeal lost forever. So then they feed you to the snakes. I’m not saying a snake can’t be outsmarted, but the concept isn’t a pleasant one. Maybe I can be normal, forget my past and try not to hurt every living thing that comes in contact with me. Or maybe I am too hopeful and being this way isn’t a choice, but a disease that that darkens your mind. Until I figure this out, I’m going to sit here watching Hannah, watching you, as an unsuspected predator.

Her feet burn as she walks down the pavement. Her hands rest upon her very pregnant stomach and her shirt that was stained from dirt and sweat. Sarah runs her toes through the puddle of blood that had collected by a sewer run off to soothe her sore feet. She lowers her head and watches her feet as she passes the little boy that is screaming under the stop sign, his body is covered in scabs and blisters. Amongst the screaming of the demons that soar like vultures in the ashy sky, which would occasionally mutilate a person with its claws or tackle them and rip their flesh with their rows of tiny pointed teeth, she stares at Bryson’s house across the street. Gene and Tommy are sitting in a dying maple tree on a September afternoon. Hey, Tommy. Look at that girl down there,” Gene says as he nudges Tommy in the ribs. Tommy is busy staring at the green circles of fungi on the rotting park bench below them. “Huh,” he responds. “What do you think she’s doing,” Tommy asks after realizing he heard the question. “I don’t know. She’s been staring at that house for two days now. Heh. I still can’t believe that sky, sure is something,” Gene says. “Like the way the red sun clashes with the grey sky and how the orange horizon looks like it’s dripping down the sky.” The two watch her standing in the street, her reflection looking just as scared as her in the broken windows of an abandoned building. A few leaves fall from the maple tree only adding to the chaos. “Not many of them around anymore are there Gene,” Tommy asks. Gene shakes his head. “No, not really. The rays from the conceding sun beam down on Gene and Tommy’s glistening black backs. When the world was supposed the end in December, it didn’t really. But it was the end of how things used to be and the beginning of something new. On the twenty-first, some were saved-those who believed and those who were forgiven. Some were asked to stay behind- angels to act as warriors against the demons. Bryson was chosen because of his strength and his heart. No one knew why children were left behind, or husbands and wives who attended church every Sunday. Months of uncertainly passed until March when the asteroids hit, damaging all the power lines and many homes. And this month, September, was when the demons appeared. But those who were left were not in total gloom, for they were given a second chance. To prove themselves through their struggles and conquer the evil that had overtaken their lives. The angels that stayed and fought represented hope for mankind, that God had not totally given up faith in man and that in their struggles and they could find rebirth and washed pure in the blood and tears of Christ. Sarah finally moves and makes her way further down the road. She walks past a yellow house, it’s siding smeared in charcoal covered ashes and notices through the big glass window a woman can be seen in the kitchen making dinner. Her husband and three children sit around the dinner table. The littlest girl with her hair in a pony tail grabs her fathers hand and with the other hand waves to her mother to come to the table. They bow their heads and pray. She continues walking. “She’s getting awfully close. I think she’s finally going to go inside,” Gene says excitedly cocking his head to the side to better watch her with his round black eye. She walks up the steps of the house of interest, taking a deep breath causing her chest to rise and she knocks on the door. It creaks as it slowly swings open. She looks inside, his brown hair can be seen off the side of the couch as he lays motionless. She slowly walks inside, turning to face him. She looks at his face, his solid black eyes lifeless and his massive wings rested peacefully on his back. She screams and turns away running down the steps, leaving the door open just as it was. “Did you hear that,” Tommy asks. Sarah runs down the street, tears streaming down her face. She trips on the stairs of the deck of her house and falls and she lays there sobbing. She rolls over to her side, clutching where her unborn child rests inside of her. Gene and Tommy watch two old men in rocking chairs crack open beers, rifles sitting in their laps. Intrigued by the cackling of their voices they listen as the men relay stories about how they weren’t going to let anyone take them until they were damn well ready. One of the men raises his gun and shoots and a hovering demon, bringing Gene and Tommy’s attention back into focus. “Hey, where’d that girl go,” Gene asks. From inside her house, clamor can be heard as she rummages through drawers and closets, emptying their contents on the dusty floor. A gunshot echoes through the trees and the startled blackbirds fly away.

I woke up sweating. Not from fear, mind you. It was actually hot. This all seems normal, albeit annoying, until I remember having enlisted in the Defense. Let me clarify. The Defense is the people of earth's representative military. They fight earth's wars all across the galaxy. I'm surprised I didn't remember joining. After all, I went through seven years of training to get in! Enough of this. I shake my head. The heat means something is seriously wrong. Heat meant that the cold sleep chamber was malfunctioning. I was lucky, then. Cold sleep malfunction kills most people, dispensing too much anesthetic, flooding the chamber with emergency coolant at random, or skewing the temperature, literally roasting the inhabitant as they sleep. I'm getting distracted again! I should check my system for chemicals. The monitor says everything normal. Good. "Disengage pod," I command. Nothing happens. "Disengage pod," I state again, louder. It responds this time. My pod slides out with a cool hiss, exposing me to the even warmer interior of the sleep bay. At least life support is working. Inspecting the other pods, I seem to be the only one out of two hundred who managed to regain consciousness. It really hits me after I close the last pod. I'm alone, seventeen parsecs from te nearest colony. I kick off from the far wall, and drift back to my pod. I slide back under the dark ceiling of the chamber silently. Then the last life form on the ship closes his eyes, And dies.

"My best friend was telling me last night about his amazing new discovery: some guy on the Internet was telling everyone how to easily make lucid dreams. The trick was to lay still on your bed, for up to half an hour, concentrating on staying awake. Your body would then fall asleep, but not your mind. Interested, he'd tried and told me how great it was, being half in reality and half in a dream. The same night, I tried to find a comfortable enough position on my bed, but ended up on my back. I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts in resisting sleep. Soon I started aching, wasn't comfortable anymore. Still, it'd been probably over ten minutes and I lacked the motivation to start all over again. Five minutes passed, then ten. It was at least fifteen later that I realised my body couldn't move anymore. It felt weird, like being paralysed. My imagination started running, and the panic became overwhelming: what if someone broke into my apartment and I just couldn't move? What if I was just dead? My friend hadn't told me anything about paralysis. Did he hide that, or was there a problem? I was still panicking when I heard steps. My mind was running wild, in contrast to my body that only let me move or close my eyes. Two men in white entered my room and my heart nearly stopped; as one flicked the light switch, I realised I was lying on a hospital bed. All sorts of machines were wired to my arms, and I pictured myself from the point of view of my visitors: a seemingly lifeless body, miserable on its bed. **No**. I wasn't lifeless, my eyes were moving! But then, they started talking to each other. "- For how long has he been there?, said the first one. - More than a week. His brain stopped functioning on the impact. His family wants us to let him go, they believe we're preventing him from finding peace." "I am going to **die**", I thought. Killed in my dream. My friends would find me days later, and forget about me in a minute. I never achieved the social life I had hoped for. I was going to die before I even truly lived. "- What about his eyes? He seems to react to our conversation." **Yes**. "- Just the remains of his nervous system. That's what kept him alive until he got here, actually." I wanted to shout at them! "You can't just do this to me, treat me like a corpse! I want to live, this is a mistake!" Not a single word came out of my mouth. So I gave up and kept listening, my eyes shaky from the adrenaline rush. "- Let me just check him for a minute before I give you the permission to do it.", said the first one. I didn't allow myself to hope, and kept thinking about my short sad life. It really was a miserable way to leave, I had always hoped for better. The doctor checked my pulse, breath, and did other things I didn't see. At some point I heard him whisper to my ear "I hope we're not making a mistake. If we are, I'm sorry." My brain went hysterical after this one; hadn't it been for the paralysis, I would've burst out laughing. But I stood as still as I had been for the past few minutes, and permission to kill me was granted. This doctor had just sentenced me to death. A button was pushed, and the last thing I heard was the place and time of my death. I slowly regained control of my body, which was sweaty, thirsty, hungry and still under the effect of the huge adrenaline rush. First thing tomorrow, I'll punch my best friend in the face. " Thanks for reading my first short story here and please report any mistakes because my first language is French and I want to learn.

I’m in the mood for Chinese; I park the car and quickly notice it’s a busy night. I walk in, there’s a lot of movement circling the restaurant. It’s my turn up; I make my order and quickly take a seat. I was calm on the walk from my car here but now I’m even more calm. My phone’s been disconnected for months now, so… there are no interruptions. I become intensely observant, but of nothing in particular. I’m still, floating in outer space. Everything seems to be happening at the same time, all in conjunction. There’s a loud silence, I’m speechless but not in awe. I’ve been here before but never at this moment. *I wrote it. Someone please tell me what type of literature it is as well as feedback.

There are times when I think about how Paul Tibbets did it. The man who flew the *Enola Gay* toward Hiroshima must have thought on what he was about to do. Did pulling the lever to open the bomb doors take him more than once? Did his hands shake? After all, he would end the war. More lives would be saved if many died sooner rather than later. I have not read interviews, no more than a short biographical paragraph containing an anecdote on how his wife thought the physicists in the Manhattan Project were plumbers. I am afraid I will be disturbed by what I find. Times were different then, maybe dehumanizing propaganda made it easier for him. Maybe he rested soundly knowing he had defeated evil. That is a luxury one does not have in civil war. I marched into the lobby with the case in hand. It was a bulky thing, not like a normal briefcase that one swings about while strutting to work. I held it out from my body. When starting this assignment my shoulder would ache from carrying it but after these few months I was used to it. The ache of my arm blurred into the routine. Pick up the case, ride the transport, ignore the randomly chosen route, go through security and deliver the case, then wait to return it. That’s just how this will go, like every other day of the past few months. Eyes open and scanning the lobby, back straight, chin up. The leather of my shined shoes squeaking as I stepped up to the security checkpoint. “Lieutenant Palmer for Office 51.” I said, holding my badge forward. The man behind the desk acknowledged my clearance. I handed the case to him and he placed it to the side of the scanner. The case was never scanned, never opened by anyone but the men in Office 51 and the general I took it back to. I stepped into the scanner and the man behind the desk could see everything; the medals on my uniform, the writing on the to-do list in my pocket, the scar tissue going from the small of my back deep toward my spine from shrapnel, and the dead man switch surgically integrated into my left. If I was killed or activated the switch the case would be destroyed along with its contents and anyone who may have hijacked it. The war between Earth and the Seceded Colonies was in full swing. There were many colony sympathizers and agents that had come to Earth before the civilian traffic was cut off. Riots, sabotage and assassinations sprouted in the cities like weeds through the cracks of asphalt. Security was tight. “You’re clear Lieutenant.” I stepped through the other side of the scanner and grasped the case firmly, lifting it up from the table and balancing the awkward load. Eyes forward and chin up, I marched down my usual path away from the main elevators to the back of the building where two men guarded a secluded door with a 51 written on it in humble white paint. One man nodded to me and opened the door. I stepped through to the elevator behind it. After entering a combination of codes into the keypad on the far wall of the elevator began its long lurching ride down into the bunker below the building, Office 51. My fingertips itched when the keypad had taken my DNA sample. There were no cameras in the elevator. They didn’t want records of what came in and out of here. Not much time. I quickly dropped the case on the floor, threw off my cap and tore off the tight and starched uniform coat. *Stop shaking, you knew there was no turning back.* I had opened the case earlier on the drive over to place the items inside, in the secluded passenger section of the transport. After a breath and a very quick prayer I pressed my thumb to the reader on top of the case. They had complete confidence in me. I had reason to hate the colonies; my parents were killed in the riots leading up to the war. Decorated, wounded in combat, comrades lost. My loyalty was without question. But I couldn’t continue to ignore what was happening in Office 51. It took me too long to catch on to what they were doing. I am no physicist, but overtime I began to piece together snippets of conversation I shouldn’t have overheard and documents that I shouldn’t have seen out of the corner of my eye. They printed things that were so sensitive no computer’s security could be trusted. Inside Office 51 they were making a doomsday weapon, a planet-buster. The war was going so poorly that the Earth regime would hold the lives of tens of billions hostage, after making an example of the Colonies’ capital first. I could not allow it, not more mass murder. I pulled out the pistol I had stashed earlier in the case and chambered a round. My fingers felt numb. The elevator chimed and the door slid open, slowly. Every day for the last few months it had seemed to open more quickly. Too many heartbeats filled the gap of time. A guard was posted by the elevator, the same spot every day. Cameron was standing there today. The slide of my pistol rotated back and then forward, soundlessly expelling a smoking shell and replacing it. I marched out of the elevator. A door around the corner was cracked open, men were laughing inside. I kicked the case into the small room where the physicists were working and raced back to the elevator. Crouching in the corner I tapped out the sequence on my thumb to activate the switch. Pointer, middle, pointer, ring finger.

It was perhaps a sad thing to say that Sam was used to his friends dying. He has grown to know people who met unfortunate ends, like the man who seized in two inches of water while running a bath for his kid. He had not had that much to drink, but Sam patiently answered the questions of police officers who asked him how many beers he had drank that day and how long the man had been face down in the tub before he was found. “Listen, I just thought he got caught up in the bathroom or something. The water stopped running and he didn’t ask me to get him another beer or say anything for a while,” he said. “And then I see him face down in the tub and thought that I should probably call 911.” He rubs his hand over the smooth surface of his scalp and tries to smile through a grimace as he looks at me. I am younger and he thinks that I have not seen death. A year later the man handed the phone to another friend before leaving the scene of another death in the morning. “Listen, I’m not doing this again,” He said to the woman. A blue-lipped man who seemed to be asleep in the recliner in the corner, now absent of his lover, a half-awake woman across the room with shivers. “I saw him and said, ‘oh, I think he’s dead’ and I left because I just didn’t want to talk to the police again. I just wanted to leave and they made me stay to answer all these questions.” His eyes dart in different directions and he finally stands from the squat he was pressing on the floor with his knees. He speaks as if he doesn’t understand how they could have had questions. “I had to wait while they spoke to me and to his mom and then to me again.” He watches me as I rise to meet him and shrugs more words off of his shoulders. His fingers dig into the coarse forest of his beard, which is still ginger despite his age. His eyes are bright and endearing. If he had not told us that he’d been in college when we all were born, we would not have thought it. “I did glass blowing but you know the economy—no one wants that anymore.” His clothes are always clean and fashionable; he has a penchant for what is unspoiled. His hands are not ragged despite years of making art. He has no tattoos and he is always impeccably groomed. “I think they’re cool, but they’re just not for me.” He tells me this because I mention that the design on his shirt is almost like the tattoo on my back. His glasses are never smudged and he owns his own bowling shoes. We invite him out with us and he says that he would love to come, especially if each beer is only a dollar like we tell him it is on Wednesday nights. In class, he holds a ten-for-a-dollar pen in one hand and a bright yellow highlighter clutched in the other. He leans forward on his elbows every class and we can tell that he wants to know; he sits on the edge of his seat. We tell him that we can help him study if he needs it and we know he does because of the expressions that cross his normally un-lined face when he receives his test grades. He asks if we have started the research paper and we say no. “I haven’t either,” and he sighs. Sam does not ask for help. Sam tells me that he shaves his head because after his hair began to grow again it was black and curly and he didn’t feel like himself, but I can see that his arms have grown strong like tree roots from the time between his last chemo treatment and now and I think that it must be nice. It must be nice to watch your body transform into something so strong. We all wonder how often Sam must shave his head because there is never a sprinkling of hair there. “I did the whole cancer thing when I was younger,” he said casually to an entire class full of strangers. We wondered if the reason his head was so smooth was because he was not finished with it yet. I tell him later, “I know that’s awful,” when he mentions to me what it was like to be sick all of the time. “It was awful for me and I wasn’t even the one going through chemotherapy.” He looks at me with what I think are knowing eyes and I would like to hold his hand. For just a second. He watches as I read the grotesque book in my hands that speaks about disease and squints every now and then. He watches as I stifle retch after gag. It is just a book. “What kind of coffee is that?” He asks during the first week of classes before I know him. I tell him that it is awful coffee, but it is just the regular black shit that is cheap and caffeinated. He nods when I say, “I hear that flavored coffees have a few of the same ingredients as a cigarette, but I smoke anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” He takes the fedora from his head and places it gently on the notebook because then the professor enters the room. When he turns in his seat to look at me beside him, we are eye-level. When he leans on his elbows, his body inching further from the blank white wall behind him, it is like he is taller. Sometimes on nice days, we expect him to sprout wings into that space and fly into the heavens, past the fluorescent hallway lights and into the unspoiled, cloudless sky.

Picture – Anthony Pantaleo “Enrique! Don’t you ever go missing again!” She patted his hair and spun in the town circle, embracing the boy. The old men talking in the corner near the chess boards watched the grandmother spinning the child and turned back to their loud conversations. “You scared me to death! We need to get going back to the house and board up the windows!” She shook the boy in her arms and stared cross-eyed at him, touching his hair with her dirty hands. “I will meet you back at the house, I’m going to warn the others, get back quickly and gather the nails.” Smiling in spite of himself, the boy turned to run off, and the grandmother grabbed his shoulder back around, fumbling in her pocket with the other hand. “Here, a peppermint for my boy, and another for the road.” Smiling crookedly, she thrust her hand out and dropped the two candies into his waiting hands, his eyes large. Spinning quickly, the grandmother shuffled quickly out of the square, swinging her bum leg as the eyes in the square followed her every move. Sighing and popping a candy into his mouth, the boy walked back over to his grandfather, who was sitting at one of the chessboards. “Not getting any better, is she?” Moving the rook two blocks left as he twitched his head towards his grandson. “Guess not.” Giving his grandfather the other candy, he sucked on his own peppermint while glancing at the game. “You would think after all this time she would straighten out, bad things happen like that during war, Nico.” Noting the sad tone in his voice and sucking hard on the peppermint candy, Nico thought of the mad lady and all the times he had gotten candy from her, always one for the road. She was somewhat of a town legend; she had lost her whole family, including her first and only grandchild, during the war. “Can’t be long now, it’s a wonder she’s lasted this long, we’ll all definitely miss her oil and famous tomatoes.” Sucking on his own candy and clacking it on his teeth, Nico’s grandfather made another move on the chessboard. “Enrique! Don’t you ever go missing again!” They heard the yell from another block.

I met an old man dying on a train. When you hear something like that, you prepare yourself for the inevitable moral conclusion that will come at the end of the story. You settle in to your comfortable chair, and you begin to wait patiently for the praiseworthy denouement. Well, let’s hear some truth. I met an old man dying on a train. He didn’t say much of anything when I sat down across from him. Maybe he made an odd noise that old people are prone to make, I honestly wasn’t paying much attention. The room was hot and stuffy - and normally I’m alright with a little bit of heat and humidity - but for once - I noticed. I noticed the way his breathing was labored, shallow on the inhale and weezy on the exhale. I noticed the way sweat collected around the sides of his neck, tracing beady lines down his deathly pale, wrinkly, blotched skin. I noticed when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of being young again. How when he closed his eyes, our roles were reversed and he was staring at me in my debilitated condition, silently judging my existence as a matter of my condition. The train came to a screeching halt. I would say I smelled burning rubber - but that’s impossible because trains don’t work like that. I smelled my own mortality, right then, I think. When I walked away, I didn't look behind me, not for *one* second.

My eyes slam open as I get woken up by the thud of bootheels on the front porch. My temples pound as I half fall out of bed and struggle to my feet. The door buzzer goes as I dump myself into a pair of jeans. " Minute " I croak, my mouth desert dry. I get to the door and crack it open. Bold as brass behind the screen door stands the mailman. " Package for ya son " he says softly with a New England slant. I open the screen door and sign for the delivery; a pair of shoes I'd ordered yesterday, or a week ago. Mailman just keeps standing there, smiling a smile that gets a little too close to his ears. I recognize this man, but I know he hasn't brought my mail before. I can't put my finger on it. About 6"6 with a farmers tan and a smile to put Willem Dafoe to shame, he's not exactly hard to miss. I surrender the battle and just chalk it up to one of those things. I suddenly realise if I look anything like I feel, I must look like roadkill. He seems to notice this with some sort of comedic sympathy. " Getting closer now I see " he comments, still smiling. I don't even try to make heads or tails of this, just mumble a thank you and slouch back inside. I don't make it to the kitchen counter before I half collapse, feeling like I'm getting a lobotomy with a railway spike. "Christ what time was I out till last night?" I think hard, and I can't remember anything, even from the day before. "Must have been a real barn burner." I claw some aspirin out of the medicine cabinet. I swallow three with water from the tap. My hands are shaking and my spit tastes like gasoline. I can feel the cold sweats starting at the base of my spine. I pop another aspirin and stare at the bottle. Full. I swear it was almost empty when I took it out. "Fuck it!" I go to lie back down in bed and realise I don't even know what time it is. Looking out the window I peg it at around two in the afternoon. I crawl back into bed and pull the curtains. I close my eyes for what feels like seconds and then decide to check the time. 9:17pm. " Fuck! " I must have passed straight out. I open the curtains back up. Broad daylight, the sun hasn't moved an inch. " The hell . . " Red spots appear on my denim thigh and I put my fingers to my nose and pull them away soaked in blood. I put my head in my hands and take a minute to try and calm down. That's when I hear the footsteps on the porch.

I was going to go into work at about 9:30 to handle some critical stuff, so that wasn't going to be easy. I get ready and leave my house to go to work and start my car. The car is incapable of anything more than an initial tease like it's going to operate before hopelessly dying with no chance at resuscitation. So... got home the other night with almost no gas in the tank. I was like... "it'll be ok... I'll just fill it up tomorrow." **The time is 9:45 am.** Sweet. I take inventory. I have a gas can. I have two legs. I have a bike... a girls bike... not mine... but I can use it. No gun. For a while I just contemplate my options. I walk around deciding whether or not I can siphon some gas out of a non-working car that we have. Unfortunately since I'm not a big fan of enemas and I have no lawn, I don't just happen to have a length of hose available to put into the other car's gas tank. So I decide to head to the gas station on foot. **The time is now 10:15 am.** Apparently, however, while I was walking around looking for some kind of a hose, I'd misplaced my keys. So began the saga I like to call, "Idiot wonders around in the casual shit storm he presently summoned." I spent the better part of an hour cursing god and looking for my keys with my mental stability rapidly edging on "machete death rampage". I cover every inch of my house and the outdoors and my car probably 3 times before remember that while taking a crap I had hung them on some fire extinguisher that sits next to the shitter... I suppose it's good to have a fire extinguisher next to the toilet... ya know, where the fires are. Uhm... where was I? Oh yes... I find my keys. **The time is now 11:00 am.** So the nearest gas station is about a mile away. I leave my place dressed as I was. No bike because... well I don't really know why not, I think I just like pain. Girls bike be-damned, being called a pussy would have been heaven compared to the bataan death march of a trip I didn't yet know I was about to endure. So I get to the gas station. I set down the gas can. Pull out the wallet. No credit card. No cash. Sweet. **The time is now 11:20 am.** I contemplate going home, laying down and sobbing myself to sleep. Literally. This is not a joke. (that doesn't mean it isn't funny, but you're still an asshole for laughing) Failure. Sweet failure. It's something that apparently I'm very good at. Ok other options? Sobbing myself to sleep seems much too pedestrian (har har) for this situation, so next option is to walk to the bank. Worst case scenario: my bank has closed my account and I go home to fail at committing suicide. Ok... To the bank. It's about 2 miles away. I trudge my way there. The decision to wear flip flops now begins to seem like a bit of a problem. Why didn't I take the girl bike? I would be happier with a pink fucking basket and a skirt than to walk another foot with flip flops chaffing like a new prison bunkmate just out of a 5 month stretch in solitary. I make it to the bank. I make it to the gas station. I make it home. **The time is now 12:30 pm.** I'm sunburned. I've lost a considerable amount of skin from my feet. It's a good thing that I didn't have that gun. **Make it to work by 1 pm.

The River Since I was young I had always found closure in the river next to my home. I would always go and camp by the riverside whenever I had the chance. The feeling was like no other to get away from the business of life and relax in the stillness that nature had to offer. I recall one time I went camping. The day started off like every other day, I woke up in my one man tent to the comfort of my Colman sleeping bag. The crisp, morning air scorched my nostrils as I slowly rose from my slumber. I exited my tent and stood still in my camp listening to the slow, rhythmic splashes of the river. The sound put my mind into a trance as I tried to shake the sleepiness that the morning brings. While standing still I heard the giggling of a group of girls. An early morning tubing brigade was in the making. One could tell just by looking at this group that this was not their first time around the bend. There were about four of them, each with their individual coolers that were probably not filled with pop and bottled water. Knowing the history of the Crow Wing River I assumed that these girls were going to slowly float down to the bridge trying to catch an early morning buzz. With each empty beer they would gossip about boys and try to one up each other with their “personal” experiences. I had to chuckle softly to myself, thinking of what those girls were going to talk about, and knowing that I was going to join them on the river in the hours to come. I turned my back to the river and headed for my cooler, trying to find something to cure my morning hunger. I opened the lid and found six beers, a loaf of wheat bread, some venison steaks, and a freezer bag of premade pancakes. I pulled out the pancakes and opened the bag. A brief smell of stale bread brushed my nose, but I was too hungry to care. I sat in my folding chair as I ate my breakfast. While I sat and ate, I listened to the music of the woods. The birds were singing their good morning song, the trees creaking to the light wind that wisped over the land. I ate half of the bag of pancakes and threw the rest into the woods so the birds could have breakfast as well. I started to clean up my camp a bit and get ready for the day’s activities. I had planned on tubing the river that day, and that is what I was going to do. I retrieved my tube from the back of my car and took out the cold Bud Light’s that were in my cooler. Being only sixteen at the time I was at risk of getting caught, but the area was so remote that there was only a slight chance. I made my way down to the river, slowly wading in to check the water. The water was cold, but not shockingly cold. I was only knee deep in the water and I threw my tube in. With beer in hand I submerged my body underneath the water. There was a momentary pain in my trunks, but it went away fast as my whole body was chilled. I came up next to my tube and climbed in. The sun was beaming down on my body and it felt good on my freshly chilled skin. I started rowing with my hands trying to find the right spot in the river where I could just sit and let the current do all the work. I made my way down the river, sipping on my beer and lost in my thoughts. My mind started running with all of my life’s stresses, school, grades, football and girls. I, not knowingly, entered the first of many bends in the river and became stuck on the edge. On one side there was a forest filled with brush and on the other was a small meadow where deer were known to bed. I was brought back from my thoughts as I was stuck for a short while. When I looked up I was presented with a picturesque scene. A faun was jumping around in the meadow, happy to be alive. I could tell it was young from the spots it still had. The faun seemed to have not a care in the world, rolling in the grass that grew thick in the meadow. I slowly pushed off from the shore, still looking at this being full of life. I quietly passed by the faun, yet midway through I had to cough. The noise shook the little deer and its ears perked up. The faun found my position in the river and I froze solid, trying not to make it run away. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. As I slowly moved with the river I lost contact with the faun, but heard it resume frolicking in its meadow. I started to think of the faun, how it didn’t scare when it saw me, how it found me nonthreatening and how its will to play was greater than its will to run. I pondered our meeting while the river swept me away. The faun was stricken with fear when it saw me, yet it overcame that fear so it could play and be happy. I was transfixed by this topic until the river brought me to a group of five children; all of them not older then thirteen. They were swinging from a rope tied onto a tree that grew over the river. They were taking turns grabbing onto the rope and swinging into the water. Nothing could break their happiness. They were laughing as each one hit the water and came up with a huge grin. As I watched I thought how lucky they were, to be young and not care about the stresses that I had to endure. All they knew was that swinging off the rope into the river was fun and that is all they needed to know. I made my way farther down the river still thinking about the faun and the children when I came across a tree that had fallen into the river. I put my hands in the water and maneuvered around the fallen tree. As I passed I started wondering how that could be, how the tree was so tall and scraping the sky one day and the next it was dead in the water. The idea hit me that all trees do is stay stationary in one spot all of their life, waiting for death to fall upon them. They wait and watch as the world around them bustles with life, not able to do anything about it. They wait for their roots to give out and just the right amount of wind to push them over. All they can do is sit and wait for their demise. The current then took me farther down the river and I could see my destination. My destination was Mary Brown Bridge. The bridge was covered in graffiti from each graduating class of the surrounding schools. As I came closer I could hear the slurred yelling from the group of girls that left before me. They were standing on the side of the bridge jumping into the river like it was their job. After each one would jump they would whoop and holler, while they took another chug of beer. I made it to the bank of the bridge and slowly rose from my tube, I didn’t realize how much I had actually drunk on the river, and I stumbled my way up onto the bridge. The girls noticed my presence and beckoned me to join them in their end of float fun. As I walked to the side of the bridge fear overcame my body. The risk of drowning subdued me from jumping as I placed my hands on the wall and looked down at the water. The river was high this year so the current was really strong, especially under the bridge. My legs started to buckle in fear as the girls provoked me to jump. I started thinking about the children that didn’t care if they got hurt jumping into the river; they were having too much fun. I thought of the faun and how it overcame its fear so it could frolic around, not caring who was watching. I thought about how the tree stood still its whole life, and then died without any accomplishments, how it was alive one day and gone the next. The risk of drowning started to die down and courage arose within me. Life is too short to not take risks, to not have fun. I then got up on the edge of the bridge, the girls started to cheer, and I jumped.

Wicker Basket Warriors In the year of 1812, there was a man floating down the Swiggle river in the fall. He noticed a man on the bank who was picking leaves outta of the water with his tooth. The guy floating down the river was floating in a one man canoe. His name was Buck Chunker, a man of remarkable power. Nomes Chomper was the name of the guy picking the leaves out of the water with his one tooth. They aired high fived to each other with great ambition. “What are you doing out here Nomes Chomper?” asked Buck Chunker. “Imma tryin’ to tickle mah gums!”, said Nomes Chomper. “Daggum, that seems mighty difficult to do with one toof!” Stated Buck.“ You making fun of the way I talk?” As one leaf was dangling from Nomes Chomper face. “It seemed harder than two icicles in a snow storm” exclaimed Buck Chunker. “It aint too bad Buck, you just have to hook it with your special toof!”. “Speakin of which whattana, whattana, whattana, whattana…. “ Nomes began to stutter and starting pointing off into the distance. After breaking his stutter he exclaims, “Whattana, Whattana, you seem offly lonely in that one man canoe”. “Whooyeee that is all ye can fit in a one man canoe, Nomes. I been fishin for unicorn fish, the wonderbread fish!” belched Chunker. As Buck was saying that, a strange noise came from a tree. As a tree branch snapped you could see the silhouette of a man falling down and screaming “sweet gypsy kite” as the man splashed into the river. The way he entered the water caused such a loud rockous twelve trees became dragons and flew off. The bellowing of the splash caused Buck and Nomes to fear cannon fire. Nomes reached for a pebble and places it on his head. Nomes special ability was camouflage, as he could use nature to hide from any danger. They had feared the sound of cannon fire because a battle had recently just broke out between the Americans and the Red Coats at Slip Dizzy Rock. Buck looked over to where he last seen Nomes and he was very perplexed that the man that was standing there had vanished. Being heavily distracted from what just happened Buck floated down the river towards the noise with great curiosity. Buck did not use a paddle to float down the river, however he used his abnormal hand size to power through rip currents. As he floated towards the sound, he recognized the sound of someone groaning injured. “OHHHHHHHH, that kinda hurt” said a balloon faced man with scarecrow clothes. Buck paddled by to check on this wondering stranger. The guy looked up at Buck and said, “at’ll be the last time I walk that far on that limb gain”. “Well who be you, tall timbering stranger? And why were up in dat tree up der?” questions Buck. As Buck was finishing his question ,a box of thin mint girl scout cookies hits Buck in the shoulder. Miles responded, “I was trying to clear my rear! But, as I bent over the branch snapped and I flew faster than a jack-rabbit on opium.” In the midst of deep conversation sounds erupted from the pebbles of the river and mysteriously appeared Nomes Chomper. Nomes picked up the cookies and said, “I ain’t had one of these in years!”. Miles quickly responds by throwing a rock and knocked the cookies out of his hand. “you you almost knocked out my toof” paniced Nomes. The balloon faced man said, “you don’t wanna eat that. Those special delicious cookies were used to clean my bottom. Them cookies were butt treats.” Nomes stood there confused, mouth wide open, trying to understand what Miles meant. The dusk sky made the scene almost majestic with the way that the leaves fell onto the surface of the river. The approaching darkness became more frightening though when the sound of falling leaves was broken up with the pops and cracks of gun fire off in the distance. Nomes broke the silence by saying “Ya’ll don’t want to head that direction. It ain’t nothin’ but trouble over there. I just came from it, thanks to them redcoats havin us surrounded on three sides.” Buck and Miles looked at Nomes and told him to lead the way since he knew where not to go. Nomes responds to this surprised leadership role he was given with excitement. He says, “I know this woman just downriver, but we gots to be careful ‘cuz of Indians and redcoats got patrols out here.” They began to gather what little they had on them and headed down the banks of the river to the woman’s house. After a few hundred yards, Buck grabs ahold of Miles and palm-faced him followed up by “I’m sick of smellin’ your dingle berry.” He pushed Miles to the ground behind him to convince him to be last in this line. They continue to sneak their way down the remainder of the river, nearly being caught by both Indian and redcoat patrols due to Buck’s flipper like feet slapping the ground as he walked. After walking through the darkness for many hours, they come upon a shack in a field that was lit solely by the moon. Nomes looks back to the new-found posse and lets them know that this is the safe house of the woman known as Big Red. He stops the others on the edge of the wood line and says, “I gotta go up there alone and let me convince her to let us stay here. I’ll give ya’ll a signal to let ya know you’re good to come on up.” He then indicates the signal by placing his hand into his armpit and making a sound like a chubby frog eating kettle corn. Nomes disappeared to the front of this shack for a few short minutes. He came back to the field and gave them the signal to let know that she was alright with harboring them. The two that were in the woods moved swiftly across the field and up to the home. They were greeted by a woman at the door with hair as red as Norwegian crawl-dog munchin’ on sloppy joes. They expressed their gratitude for her generosity, very much appreciative of safe sleeping quarters. She showed them into the cellar where she insured that they would remain safe and hidden. As they began to settle in, Big Red came in carrying hay for someone to sleep on, a warm quilt for another, and a sheep so fat it looked like a Puerto Rican mosquito after sucking on Buck’s thumb for the third person. Miles quickly yelled “DIBS!” pointing towards the fluffy sheep. Nomes and Buck agreed that neither wanted to be so selfish so they manned up and decided to share the hay and warm quilt with dancing fairy’s shucking oysters imprinted on it. Miles unashamedly cuddle up with the sheep. After a few moments of all of them restlessly tossing and turning Nomes unexpectedly cut on the latern put a pebble on his head and said “ I can’t stop thinking about that beared lady from the carnival screaming “ I’ll scallop your mustache!” pointing at a sloppily dressed british officer in the middle of the fighting at slip dizzy.” As Nomes proclaimed this, the three men bursted into laughter and conversation drifted off into the midst of night.

They do not tell you where you are going until you are there. They make us march miles for weeks, without the slightest hint about the terror that awaits. We leave with around one hundred thousand men, but arrive with only ten thousand. They do not die, but they are engineers and workers that stay behind at certain locations to build a road to the place we are going, to make it easier the next time around. “Hold!” The Centurion yells loudly. He is a big, powerful man, who has led many victories. He strode forth on his horse, inspecting the path ahead. He had glistening silver armor, covering a red tunic. His helmet is the classic helmet of a Roman Centurion. “March!” I do not know what he thought was there, but it must be all okay now. A little on up the path, there was a very loud crashing noise to out right. He held his hand up in the “hold” position, not yelling it in case there was something there, and it had not spotted us yet. He then made the “line” signal, in which we all simultaneously turned to the right, and one man would put his shield against the ground and hold his spear to the right of it, while the other man would put his shield on a forty five degree inward angle on top of it. Like the slither of a snake in the grass, they came straight up behind us.

I was a close friend of Ben Harper's for about 10 years, from playing legos, to shooting tin cans, to racing cars. I was there for him after his parents died, about to take him in until his aunt decided to stop being a bitch and let him live with her. Ben was never right after his parents died, but I could never put a finger on what exactly happened. It was like his mind was wrapped in a foggy black abyss, wrestling with itself, closing out everything he ever had. He went from constant chatter, to silent reluctance, and from soccer practices to therapy sessions. But one thing was for certain, Ben Harper was always my good friend. As kids, we were always playing cops and robbers. I was always a cop, alongside our good friend Dennis, and Peter was always the first to volunteer himself to be the robber, most likely because he was always so damn good at it. He'd sneak by with a certain level of stealth that made you think his feet weren't even on the ground. Even thinking about it now...I'd say Peter's exceptional skills in cops and robbers is what has turned me and Dennis into such great cops. Always taking in the smallest details, always analyzing multiple times. Peter was a great catalyst to our career success. But one day in our sophomore year of highschool, Peter came to my house, unannounced. He asked if he could come in, his head tilted to the ground, hands shaking. He didn't walk in right away, but stood like a statue in an exhibit. “Can I come in...?” Slightly monotone. Something was wrong. “Yeah dude, you alright?” He walked right passed me, sat on the couch his head in between his legs, cradled by his trembling hands. “My fucking aunt dude...” Peter's aunt was a bitch, everyone knew that. She treated Peter like a 6 year old, making him come home for dinner, making sure he was inside at night. I think she's part of the reason why he's fucked up, in fact, I'm almost sure of it. When I bring it up all he says is, “Dude, you have no idea...” I ask Peter what happened. He gets up, pacing, running a hand through his wild hair. “I get home, and there are boxes in my room. She gives me this smartass smirk that she's done my whole fucking life and just says, 'Be packed by next week. We're moving.'” He's reliving the moment as he explains it. I've never seen him this mad. I don't know what to say. “Fuck, dude.” “I'm losing it Tony, I'm really. Fucking. losing it.” He slams his hands on the wooden table as he says it. I keep trying to calm him down, but the brewing rage inside of him just keeps a continuous boil. I tell him maybe he could live with me for a while, to which his face turns blank. His rage turns to fear. “Do you know what she would do to me?” You're right, I don't...What the fuck happens at Peter's when no one is around? I tell him to get in the car, and I drive off. I pick up Dennis, and we head to the shooting range. Peter shot consistent bulls-eyes that night. That was one of the last memories I have of him, until he was gone. Dennis and I stayed close throughout our college years. We went to NYU together, were in the same frat, and lived together the whole four years. We tried to keep in touch with Peter as much as possible, but it was rough. He moved from New Jersey to Minnesota, and was going to college, but I don't think he ever told me what he was going for. Apparently his aunt restricted how much he could talk to people, so he could never talk for long. We eventually fell out of contact, but I hope he was at least living at college and moved out. *That fucking bitch.

I saw her again last night. Her visits have gotten more and more infrequent as time passes. Before this past night it had been 6 days, 13 hours, and 42 minutes since our last encounter. I was drunk. I spend most of my time in an alcohol-induced stupor these days. A fist smashed my door several times, yanking me from my whiskey nirvana. After a brief but brutal fight with gravity and the floor, I managed to navigate my way to the knocking sound. But I was cautious. It could have been another one of my "friends" claiming they were there to help me. I'm too smart for them. All they want to do is strip away my life-preserving elixir, the one thing getting me through every morning and every night. My mud brown orbs peep through the eye-hole and meet a pair of Caribbean blue eyes. Her eyes. It's hard for me to recollect what happened next but I remember flinging open the door with such force it's a mystery the hinges didn't come undone. Then she's in my arms, bringing me warmth greater than Hell but everything in this moment is so perfect that I know we must be in a place even higher than Heaven. Strawberries. That's what her hair smells like. I had almost forgotten. Immediately I curse my memory and fight back tears of frustration. But before I have the chance to cry, she leans in and whispers, "I miss you, darling" and I melt into a sweet, steaming pile of yearning. Our eyes meld into a navy black mess. I hate my own eyes for dirtying the beauty of this union. That old, tangled knot in my chest returns. It slowly expands and I know it's going to explode soon so I go for the only cure I know. My lips seek the warmth of her lips. Instead they meet a finger, stiff and icy. She shakes her head, wearing the same kind of smile a mother does when her three year old son asks for the meaning behind "you'll be a big brother soon". The rest of the night was a blur of love. Hours dripped into hours. At some point the alcohol and strawberries took their toll. She didn't visit my dreams that night and when I awoke to the light of the morning she was gone. The knot in my chest unwound and sunk back into its bottomless void. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and stared out at the blindingly bright sun. Though it stung, it helped bring back a bit of glowing comfort. I finished my drink and grabbed my car keys. For once I actually had a destination in mind. The drive was uneventful. The sun hid behind a shield of clouds and did not return for the rest of the day. On the way there I stopped at a farmer's market and picked up a bouquet of forget-me-nots. They had been her favorite flowers. I placed the forget-me-nots on the cold stone and stared at nothing for three hours in somber silence. Then I drove home, opened a new bottle of Jack Daniels, and drank myself into another coma. As I drifted into death I promised to spend tomorrow the same way. And the day after that. And the day after that. And that was how my life would be spent from now. I don't need anything or anyone other than my alcohol and the occasional visit from her. Maybe if I take one more shot than I did the night before I can see her again. And maybe next time she won't leave once the sun rises. And maybe we'll be together forever, like those two stupidly innocent children promised each other underneath the thousand year old oak tree in that field of gold forever ago. Maybe.

His birthday was tomorrow and no matter how deep he dug, he couldn't seem to find a single emotion to help him figure how he felt about this. Nothing. A trait that had followed him for as long as he could remember. A trait pointed out to him by others as a weakness. He felt nothing for this either. He always found that he was gifted with his lack of emotion. He found it to be more of a strength. No sissy cry-baby nonsense ever held him back from his day-to-day. Nope. Whatever. Fuck 'em all. What did they know anyway? He wondered when the last time he had any kind of emotional outburst even was. Nothing. Tomorrow was the dawning of a new year though. "What's the fuckin difference?" he quietly thought to himself through a wrinkled brow upon his seemingly focused stare as he gazed out over the courtyard from the edge of his third floor balcony, stale flavored smoke slowly trickling up his face from the corners of his mouth, fingers unconsciously fiddling the semi-hard erection through the hole in the pocket of his old jeans. The same pair of jeans he had kept over the years as a reminder of his own inner strength. A reminder of the bad habits of yesteryear that he had kicked all by himself long ago. No lame ass meetings for this guy. Fuck no. Meetings are for emotional homos anyway. He sure did miss that lifestyle though. Boy, did he miss it. The excitement of that high always had a way of helping him get in touch with those evasive emotions of his. Those same emotions that people yelled at him for not having now. That same high that people looked down on him for having then. What's worse? Having people look down on you for doing what you want to do, or having them yell at you for doing what you think they want of you incorrectly? It didn't matter. He didn't want to go back to that sick and sordid past of his, but this snail's pace present didn't seem anymore intriguing. Not even in the face of death itself could he bring himself to feel a twisted look of sadness or even muster up a single tear. Fuck it. "Aah, what's the fuckin' use anyway?" he muttered out loud to himself as he loosened the knot and removed the 50-foot safety-orange extension cord from his neck. Not today. Not in front of all these neighbors. It was bad enough that he had been secretly fondling his penis just a few yards above a bunch of kids playing in the courtyard. He didn't need to interrupt their games with offing himself. Not today. He may not feel emotions, but he still knows the difference between right & wrong. Not gonna traumatize any kids today. No, sir. Not today. Might as well go inside, ruin another Hot Pocket, draw the shades, and finish off this semi alone in the dark. Best to whack this groundhog while it's seein' its shadow anyhow. Could be 6 more weeks before another bloom. Best to appreciate little things when opportunity erects itself. Doesn't happen like it used to. Besides, what else is an almost 30 year-old emotionless dildo salesman gonna do on the day before his birthday? Suicide's for emotional homos anyway.

Chapter 1 I was sprinting through the mansion, running from that... Thing... That was chasing me. I hid in the closet, with the hopes of it not finding me... But, I ran out of my previous luck, it ripped open the closet door and then it happened. Game over. I exit the game and got off my computer, so I could get myself a Coke. While on my way out my room and to the kitchen, I began hearing a... Scratching noise, coming from in the walls. I ignored it, hence, after playing Horror Survival games, I get paranoid. As I opened the fridge, I quickly noticed, and regretted it horribly. I forgot to go to the corner store and buy Coke. I sighed, closed the fridge door, and returned to my room. The scratching had stopped, fortunately. I turned off my computer and went to bed... I woke up to the sound of my alarm, "Mondays... How I hate you.", I said, while struggling to drag myself out of bed. When I got up, it instantly struck me, it was Saturday. I slapped the off button of the alarm, and went to my computer. I kicked the button and it came to life, I left the room and went to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. The scratching, it started again. "GO AWAY!" I shouted at the walls, but that only made it worse... It got louder. I forgot about the coffee, I just sprinted out of my apartment as fast as I could, now all I wanted was to spend a few nights at a friend's house. As I was walking down the hallway to exit the building, the scratching followed... I began screaming to the top of my lungs while running out of the building and down the streets. People thought I was crazy, but I didn't care, I just wanted the scratching to stop. When I arrived to my friend's house, I knocked on the door, and no answer. Then I remembered, it was 6:23 AM, clearly he wouldn't be up by then. I walked to the back of his house and grabbed his spare key that he always hid underneath his plant, then I then unlocked the door and walked in. I walked into his kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a can of Coke, I was too lazy to go buy some of my own. Then I started hearing footsteps, coming down the stairs... My friend peaked his head out of the corner, and he looked rather shocked. "What the hell are you doing here so early?" said Andy, while scratching his head. "Oh... Sorry, there's been a rat infestation in my apartment and I needed somewhere to stay.", Andy nodded for me to sit on his couch, and for three hours we watched TV, but then he started asking a bunch of questions. "So, if you were here at 6:23 AM, how come I've been getting messages from you on my laptop at around 7:00 AM?" I sat there, shocked... I forgot to turn off my computer, and I lived alone. I instantly told him I had to go check my apartment and I left his home. When I entered that apartment, it was a mess... My tables, flipped, my fridge had it's contents spilled onto the floor, my pictures were shattered... It was rather horrible. I called the police and told them there may be a possible intruder, and sure enough, moments later a police vehicle stopped at the sidewalk and two police officers exit the vehicle. They entered my apartment, searched the place for any broken windows, and found nothing. They went to ask for witnesses by speaking to my neighbors, and I could hear them faintly... "Good morning, madam, did you see any...." "Oh, officer, he's been acting rather crazy lately...." "Alright, thank you for your time..." The officer entered my apartment, once more, and began giving me a lecture about prank calling the police... He thought I was lying?! I told him exactly everything I know, and when I told him about staying at Andy's, he seemed to get uncomfortable. He simply told me he didn't want to receive calls from me again, and then he left. I didn't even want to stay in that apartment anymore, as soon as the officer left I did too.

She sat at the edge of her hospital bed looking out to the misty morning rolling over the city. She watched the birds roll and play with the wind that came off of the sea; she did this every morning. It had been hard for her these past few weeks, ever intensive treatments or experimental drugs, she was fighting but losing her stamina. She got up slowly cringing at the feel of the chilled floor on her bare feet. She supported herself with the iv, she found it sad that she was so young but she needed help just to walk down the hall. She was on her usual morning stroll around the hospital to see if there was any new excitement this morning. She noticed her favorite nurse and gave her a wave but she looked right past her with very sad look on her face. This wasn’t uncommon some mornings, they were always busy. She walked to one of her favorite hallways, it was her favorite because of the pattern on the carpet in this section of the hospital. Also it was one of the most used hallways in the hospital and from here she could sit in one of the big couches and watch people as they came or left. She loved watching people leave, walking out into the morning daylight, she was envious. It was then that she noticed the kind looking elderly man sitting contently alone on one of the couches, it looked as though he was pondering something with a happy gaze on his face. She didn’t know what it was but there was something about this kindly looking old man that seemed so familiar to her, and so she decided to make a friend this morning. She loved talking to new people and hearing their stories of why they were there, Sometimes she comforted, sometimes she waited with people expecting new family members. Those were her favorite, seeing the joy on the family's faces when they got to see a new baby; she hadn’t felt that kind of joy ever. As she approached the old man he broke his stare into the distance and greeted her with a kind warm smile. “What’s your name my dear?” he asked with a slightly trembling deep voice as she sat down next to him. “Katherine, but my friends just call me Kathy. You can call me Kathy.” she said so sure of herself, though she appeared so weak. “Ahhh Katherine, what a beautiful name. You know I had a daughter named Katherine, she was so beautiful.” he replied giving the young girl a slight wink. She giggled at this, “So what brings you here today mister?” “Ahh, just visiting someone. I was waiting for them to come get me, you see I can’t walk that well anymore.” He said with a slight grin showing in his eyes. “Well...” Katherine coughed slightly “Well, I can’t walk that well either so that makes both of us!” She smiled at the old man. “What is your favorite animal Kathy?” The old man asked softly. “Well any type of bird really.” She responded with happiness in her weak voice. “Have I got a story for you.” Said the old man. He told her all about birds and it was the most amazing story she had ever heard. He told about his time as a pilot, flying so fast and gracefully with the birds, rolling and playing on the currents of winds. She was entranced. He told her about his time paragliding, “Sometimes it was as if I had wings, just like the birds.” he told her. They talked for hours it seemed but no one came to meet the old man. “Well I’ve taken up enough of you time mister I really should get back to my bed.” Kathy started to get up. “Do you have time for just one more story Kathy?” The old man asked. “Well I guess just one more.” She sat back again getting comfortable. “Well this one is about a strong young girl. She was so beautiful, but she had such a horrible illness.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice. “She fought for so long, but she got so tired.” Kathy saw a tear rolling down the old man’s face. She looked away and noticed her parents rushing into the hospital through the big glass doors tears in their eyes. She got up as fast as she could calling to them, but they just kept on walking to the elevators and got in. She turned around to the old man confused and said “What’s going on mister?” They can’t hear you sweetie, that’s why I’m here. It was then that she knew exactly who he was, she knew he’d seemed familiar. “But why did you make me fight, why did you make me feel all that pain? Why would you do that to me?” She was becoming upset. Another tear rolled down his face. “My sweet Kathy, all the pain you felt I felt doubly, I tried to let you fight it, I really did. You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever watched over, I wanted you to win, but some fights we just can’t. Please, understand I was always with you, I was always holding you through the worst of it.” There was pain in his voice. She walked back to him and wiped the tears from his face, she was walking more stable now. “It’s okay, I know it’s time.” With this the old man slowly stood up. “I have and will always love you so very much Kathy, you are always so strong.” The wrinkles had faded from his face now as he stood up. “Would you like to go for a nice walk Kathy?” The man inquired. “Only if you’ll tell me those wonderful stories again.” She said with a smile. “Come, I’ll show you.” He took her hand and they walked through the big glass doors together, into the beautiful morning light.

I stare down at my arm. It’s so pale and unblemished. I slowly lift up my razor blade. I can feel it’s cold anticipation, ready to tear my skin apart, which is exactly what it’s going to do. I drag it across my flesh in a long slow drag. I watch as the warm crimson spreads. My arm, my clothes, -nothing remains dry. Why do I do this to myself? I keep saying that I’m going to stop. Suddenly there is a knock at my door. I panic. I wrap a dirty cloth around my arm and run into the hotel closet. “Get out here right now you little bitch.” I can already tell who it is from their voice. My drug dealer. As I’m crouching in the closet I try to slow my breathing, but my heart jumps when the door is kicked in. There’s a tiny hole in the closet door, and I lean forward to put my eye to it. I can see he’s brought company. They’ve moved into another area of my hotel room, possibly the kitchen. I close my eyes as I strain to hear them, but by the time I open my eyes I’m too late. I feel a searing hot rod force its way into the back of my skull. I can’t stop screaming, and that attracts the rest of the men. I have no choice but to obey. I come out of the closet quietly while they tie me up. I try to remain calm, but I falter as the boss begins to talk. “Guess what Sabrina? I woke up today and I found all my drugs and money gone. You’re the last person I’ve sold to in days. What did you do with them? I have no idea what he’s talking about. He’s probably high right now. But then I suddenly remember something. The razor blade on my bed. At the current moment they have me tied up, lying face down on the floor. I look up at him and use my most innocent voice. “I didn’t do it, but I know who did. But right now I’m a little uncomfortable. You can keep me tied up, but please let me lie down on the bed. “ “Why should I care if you’re comfortable or not?” “Because otherwise I’m going to say a thing.” “I guess I’ll just have to beat it outta ya.” I smile a cocky grin. “You already poked out one of my eyes and I haven’t said anything yet.” I hear him curse under his breath as he throws me onto the bed. Within seconds I find the razor blade and start to cut at the rope that imprisons me. I’m done quickly and he doesn’t even notice. “Quite stalling and tell me something already.” “Oh, I’ll tell you something.” “what’s that?” “you’re going to die.” I throw my razor, quick and sleek, and watch as his red crimson spills out. His goonies have seen enough, and bolt for the door. They think they’re going to get away, but they’re not. I grab the two closest things on the end table next to my bed, a pen and a vase. I sprint out my door and quickly catch them in the parking garage. The first assailant makes the mistake of turning around to look at me, and I smash the vase into his face, sending a million shards of glass into his eyes, flesh, and even mouth. I grab a piece before it hits the ground and I kill him like I did his boss, by slicing his throat. This whole time his buddy has just been standing there, watching me kill him. Once his friend is done it’s only me and him, and he has my full attention. I take my pen and jab it into his right eye, just like the one that got damaged on my own face less than five minutes ago. I quickly pluck the pen back out and sink it into his heart, and let his body drop. I don’t care about the mess, let the staff clean it up.

Damn. Now I really didn't see this happening. Of all the things to happen at this bland school and this is the shit that happens. Wow. I guess I'm getting a bit carried, let me start from the beginning. My school, Jefferson Middle School, is rather boring, nothing really exciting happens here except the occasional girl drama that usally goes like, "Brian likes me! Not you, skany hoe!" And ends in a matter of three days. I'm usually quiet, if you were to call me "popular girl," you would be wrong but calling me a "nerd" wouldn't be right either. I was just sort of there. I had my friends and that's all I needed. That's where this story starts. With my friend, Daniel. Daniel was a pretty intresting boy. All acceralted classes, loved video games and comics, and wasn't bad looking at all. Over the first year of middle school, Daniel and I became pretty close. Hanging out after school and learning about eachother. It was pretty nice. Daniel loved life and he wasn't afraid to show it. If he had something to say, oh would he say it, but he was never disrespectful about it. He was always being a gentlemen. People always said shit about him. "Oh! Did you hear about Daniel? I heard he was sucking cock in the bathroom!" "Daniel the fag!" "Daniel should go burn in fucking hell with all the other fags that enjoy buttsex!" Get the trend here? They kept on saying he was gay, over and over. Through messages on Facebook, notes, or even writing on bathroom walls, which is very cliche. There have been times where I have asked if he was gay and I would get the same answer every time. "Do you think I am?" Over and over, he never changed it. Daniel was really proud and he felt as if he shouldn't state if he were gay or not and I really admire that about him. 8th grade started and I assumed that the gay jokes would have gotten old by now, but they didn't. They actual got worse. More people started calling him a "fag, dick-sucker," and spreading rumors that I don't even wanna remember. I noticed a change in Daniel, he wasn't as outgoing, didn't speak his mind, became less quite, less proud. I tried helping him, I really did but it never worked. He seemed to just become more depressed. Those kids never noticed either, they just attacked him more and more, getting more ruthless with each insult. This drama was lasting way more than three days and I wasn't sure what would happen. Shit even got worsed. That's when I heard the intercom come on one day during class. "Students, I am sad to announce that our student, Daniel Rigsbee, has died yesterday." They didn't tell us how he died, but we all knew. He killed himself. The voice of the principal announcing his death was so fucking emotionless, it made it seem as if Daniel was some character in a movie that died. Everyone was silent. I was filled with anger. Those ruthless bastards did this. They didn't know when to stop. The minute the bell rang, I sprinted to his house asking if it was true was they said today. His father simply nodded and beckoned me in. He said that there was a note left in his room directed to me and "bitches." I walked to his room, feeling as if I was going to puke. I found the note, all directed in rainbows, colors, and smiley faces. It made me sick. I opened the note with nervoness and read. "Dear Juno and the son of bitches at school. Let me make this clear. I am not fucking gay. I am as straight as the pole your mom dances on. I should not have to tell people this, it's my life and you shouldn't be butting in. Pun intended. You caused this and I hope you feel great. You did it! You've killed me! I'm not gonna say that this wasn't your guys' fault because fuck that. It totally was. I hope you live with that burden that you killed me for your whole life. Juno, I hope you live a great life and don't cry over me, you didn't cause this. You are amazing and don't let people do what they did to me to you. I would punch their neck. (: Bye, Daniel-Not fucking gay-Rigsbee What the fuck? That wasn't sad at all. This was the Daniel that I knew. He killed himself because he was done of the shit. I don't think he felt sorry or anything. I don't even know. As I turned to leave, I found something else. It was another note reading, "I hope this was exciting enough for you, Juno. I am a coward. I wasn't gonna deal with this anymore. They didn't win, remerber that. I won. They get to deal with my death. -Daniel" Fucking. Daniel.

Getting out of the car was probably the hardest thing of the funeral that day. Stepping out and seeing all of those men in uniform, civilians in black and the patriot riders doing their biker thing. The door opened and I my family all got out but I sat there. They didn't even notice that I hadn't got out until they sat down in the seats next to the grave. Everyone was starring at me. I felt no sadness, no remorse, nothing. I literally felt nothing. I didn't even want to be there. I just wanted to go home and sleep. The pastor looked at me waiting for me to get out of the car. I just closed the door and sat there in the back of the limo not looking at anyone. The pastor leaned forward to the microphone and said, "Sometimes these things are harder on others. Poor Michael is probably having a hard time with this." I rolled down the window and yelled so everyone could hear me, "I just want to fucking go home and sleep. I don't even want to be here!" I rolled the window back up and looked at my parents. They didn't react. They just sat there expressionless. They've been crying for days now. I'm not surprised. When you have a son that dies in Afghanistan for a bullshit reason what else can you do? I waited in the back of the car until the funeral was over. I even turned on the TV in the back and there was actual live news coverage of the funeral in the local news. I kept trying to point myself out but they never showed the limo. Mom and dad and Ally got back in the car and we drove back home where the reception was being held. I waited in my room for my friends to get there. I didn't want to talk to anyone at the party. The entire time they'd be like, "How are you?" "Are you okay?" "Do you want to talk?" and I'd tell them, "I'm fine. I just want to be left alone for now." I really was fine. I just wanted to sleep..

"My lungs burn, and my heart pounds as death itself bites at my ankles. I should be dead right now. Why aren’t I? Oh right, I’m none other than Cordella Motorian, of course. Universally famous explorer, voyager, expeditionist, however you want to dress it up. And this is nothing but another one of my adventures. Now let’s cut to the chase. (Pun intended.) At this point I’m beginning to regret stealing all that treasure from the natives. Four muscular men sporting grass skirts and head-dresses continue to pursue me through the thick, tropical forest. Sweat beads down my forehead, my traditional leather jacket and cargo pants wasn’t exactly a fit choice for the weather. Still, I leap over root after root, slice vine after vine, desperately needing a way out of this. If I don’t find bullets for my revolver, I’m done for. After what must be a couple miles of running, I have some distance between me and the natives. But they’ll be caught up any moment. Thinking fast, I grab a few vines and tie together a thick rope. I tightly tie it around a nearby boulder, and begin climbing a thick tree, shaped like a Y. With a little struggle, I use the notch in the tree, pulling the vine to hoist the boulder into the air. I’ve successfully created a makeshift pulley, with time to spare. I jump off of the tree, still holding the vine, and knot the end to a stump. The men’s chants and cries get closer, and I can hear their footsteps stomping through the soil. After a silent countdown in my head, my knife comes down on the vine, and with a crash, three of four men are crushed underneath the boulder. The last comes charging forward. After sheathing my knife, I’m ready for a confrontation. He seems to be unfazed by the death of his three friends, surprisingly. I was hoping on that, my plan was to catch him by surprise, but no matter. He lunges his spear forward, and I send it downwards with a high kick, quickly following up with a punch to the face. He doesn’t even flinch. His spear comes slicing again, and I have to jump backwards to avoid my throat being cut open. Odd, these natives usually have more honor than to go for a cheap shot like the throat. Guess he was a little more mad about his friends than I thought. He throws away his spear and draws a machete previously sheathed in the back of his skirt. We begin a dance, him mirroring every one of my steps, standing low to the ground like a snare waiting for prey. I’m scanning every possible opportunity for a strike, with my fists at the ready in front of my chest. He gets impatient and slices for my neck again. I duck, and land a slice on the side of his torso, to which he responds with a low growl. He throws a hit with the butt of his machete, which I block with my forearm, and I go for a stab in the chest. But now he’s faked me out, and he draws a smaller knife from his hip, and swiftly sticks the blade through--" “Hey! Get yer head out of that book, Elizabeth. Ya oughta know better by now.”, Otto scolds, knocking one of my favourite of Cordella Motorian’s books out of my hands. “And if yer gonna read in my shop, read something, I dunno, not written by a shameless fraud. Mr. Hallmond wants his bike fixed by Monday, by th’ way.” Begrudgingly, I stand out of my seat, and walk over to my workbench. Working for Otto in Nimbia City’s repair shop isn’t challenging work, but it’s still tedious. This has to be the sixth time Hallmond has busted his bike, all the same problem. A manufacturing bug, of the Headland Solstice Propeller Bike, where the rudder would get stuck every so often. These things were recalled years ago, but Hallmond’s too cheap to buy a new one. It’s got a ton of other problems too, his rusty chains, the warped propellors, but I don’t get paid for that. The real reason I even work here is Otto himself. It’s not as if he needs the extra hand, he’s pretty well capable for his age. He’s a short, round old man, but strong as an ox. Kinda looks like one too. I wouldn’t even call him my boss, more like a less professional babysitter. My parents hire him to build the famous inventions they design, and I’m stuck around to watch. So he puts me to work. I tighten up the screws, and fix up a couple of other problems, and Mr. Hallmond’s bike is ready two days early. I call out to Otto, “You know, we should just teach Mr. Hallmond to fix his own bike, eh?”. “Oh no, no, no. Sell a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, and ya just ruined a perfect business opportunity.”, he calls back. That’s the kind of stuff I love Otto for, he’s stock full of pseudo-wisdom, I could listen to him for hours. “I was talking to yer mother earlier.”, Otto says, coming over to talk to me. “That’s unfortunate.”, I mutter. “She wants ya to come along for dinner with Captain Samuels, of the Royal Guard? Ya know the one.”, he responds, clearly not liking the fact himself. “Talk ta her later, I don’t know th’ details.”. An alarm goes off in the back, marking the end of my shift. “Well, pleasure to see you as always, Otto, but I’ll be off.”, I say, slipping on my beaten-up leather jacket. He silently dismisses me with an absent minded wave. I clock out, as the repair shops’ garage doors open. Sunlight strikes my eyelids, leaving a stinging pain after hours at the workbench, er, the desk where I read. I slip my flight goggles off of the top of my untidy blonde hair, and onto my eyes and step out into the Sky City of Nimbia. A perplexing city of huge bronze skyscrapers, suspended in the air with a combination of jets and propellers, rotating at amazing speeds. It might seem like a tangled mess of steel bridges, connecting building after building, but the city actually forms a perfect hexagon. Virgus Tower, home of parliament, visible from almost anywhere in the city, marks the exact center of the city. Though we’re not unique. We’re one of many Sky Cities, such as Cirria, Cumula, and-- Well, you get the point. Nimbia floats above Tirus Forest, which is in fact, the setting of Cordella’s book “The Tirus Tyrant”, the one I was reading in the shop. Spoiler: She gets hauled back to the Native’s camp, where she escapes and makes off with even more treasure. Genius, I know. Cordella’s something of an idol to me, if you hadn’t noticed. Running off, and living on the surface? Yeah, that’s always been a fantasy of mine. Steal treasure from whoever I wanted. Instead, I’m stuck up here, repairing Mr. Hallmond’s bike every week, having parents that couldn’t care less what I do, (unless it involves anything I like, of course). But I’m getting off track. I stick my keys into the ignition of my plane, and hear the familiar sound of the propeller starting to spin. This biplane was a gift from Otto, the first thing he ever taught me to fix. He wanted to start from the most complex, and work down. Some more wisdom, I guess. This thing’s packed with the most powerful engine on the market, top of the line wings, and topped off with two red leather seats and a kicking stereo. Otto originally wanted to put a turret in the back seat, but my Mother wouldn’t have it. But still, my plane is what makes the work all worth it. Wind forces my hair behind me, as I soar around the city. No boundaries, no limits but the sky itself. Here, I’m free to do what I want. Before I’m in the air for nearly enough time for my own liking, I arrive home. After parking in a nearby hangar, I take the elevator up to my room. Presidential suite of Horus Hotel, a building owned by my parents. Did I mention they have buckets of money? Well, they move around a lot, so I’m left in this building. Easier than buying me my own place, right? I’m exhausted, so I flop onto my bed, and stick my face in another book. Cordella Motorian and The Desert Destroyer. I don’t particularly like this one, she spends too much time describing almost starving to death, walking 50 miles of sand. Not enough action in my opinion. She eventually gets around to a battle with a rogue miner, who steals a bunch of equipment and threatens to destroy his whole facility. You can’t really blame her for not enough action though, because all her books are taken from personal experience. Asking her for more action is asking her to lie. The sound of high heels daintily stomps down the hallway, and my Mother storms in. She begins to yell at me, and immediately I tune out. Probably nagging about Otto’s daily report, and I catch her mentioning the grease stains on my face. I’ve been told I have an attractive face, but I don’t really care. I’m just your standard bushy blonde hair, brown eyed, freckled girl. I snap out of my daze, and Mom’s pulling a fancy blue dress out of my closet, nothing compared to what she’s wearing. She apparently wants me to wear this blue one for dinner tomorrow night, with that captain fellow. She continues lecturing me, “The Captain wants your father and I to design some new weaponry for the Guard, mainly planes and other vehicles. We’ll be discussing this over dinner tomorrow night. So, when you get back from work, you’re going to wash all the dirt I know is going to be on your face. Then you’ll wear this, Sue designed it specifically for this dinner.. This is something big for us, and you’re not going to mess this one up. You remember what happened with Vice President Bloom? None of that. Now get some sleep.”. She walks out, probably going to go work some more with my Dad. I can’t believe her, this dress is probably the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. All filled with frilly flowers and curves. Probably goes down to my ankles too. Why do I even have to go to this thing? Wouldn’t they be better off without me? I mean, with Bloom, he left that night with a broken arm. Um, that’s a long story. Well, I oughta know better by now. This is usually how it is, and I don’t think it’s going to change anytime soon. Unless some miracle falls out of the sky, I’m going to keep on repairing Hallmond’s bike every week, and getting pushed around by my parents. I like to keep low expectations on these things, that way no matter what, everything’s a surprise.

"It's time to begin! This is it..." The lyrics pounded in my head as I stuck my head out the window feeling the wind in my hair. I breathed in smelling the world around me. I feel amazing. Brilliant, infinite, every word in the book. This is where I belong, traveling around, seeing the world. I have grabbed my two best friends, Jr and Katie and have set off for adventure. Don't ask me why, I'm still trying to figure that out myself. Jr seems content with doing this, he's always said that he wanted to see what's outside of this town and Katie...well Katie will take any excuse to get out of her hell of a home. Parents arguing, little sisters being manics, the minute I proposed this idea, she was on bored. This was our time. We were ready. And holy shit, we were scared. It's four weeks after we have left and we have had some major highs and lows. At of this time, we have brought Katie's cousin, Ty along with us. He said he's coming to "protect us," but I know that he just wants out. He's quite the mystery. We started out in California and we're are still in California. It's talking longer than we thought. We have just entered San Fransisco and I'm in Heaven. I love it here. The smell, the sounds, the sights. I knew that going on this trip wasn't a mistake. We were stopping at every thing that seemed interesting and there was a lot. Pier 39, curvy streets, and spy shops. Yes. Spy shops. Katie and Ty are having the time of their lives. I've never seem Katie hold a smile for that long and Ty just looks like a new person. This really is changing us Seven weeks in and we're in Colorado. This is when shit really started going down. Jr got sick and couldn't drive so Ty had to take the wheel and Katie started to bicker with Ty and I had to help Jr not puke. (We're in a trailer home.) We were in some random town that I don't even know the name and everyone was feeling the heat. Katie was laying down and Ty came up and started to scream her down for not telling her. "I can't fucking believe that you didn't tell me! I had to call your mom! How could you keep this from me? Is that why you were so aggravated with me?" "Ty. Drop it. It's nothing." She responded, with her voice shaking. "What's nothing?" I said, fearing the answer. "Katie is doing drugs-" "I was doing drugs, dumbass!" Katie interrupted him. "Oh! And she's having withdraw! Isn't that just fucking great!?" Katie looked ashamed and I was just shocked. Katie was such a innocent girl. Always flinching at the word of anything dirty or illegal but here she is doing drugs. "Um..Umm.." I was stuttering so bad, "We'll deal with it later. We need to get to New York." "Okay." They both agreed, Katie seeming relieved while Ty still seemed furious. In the back of the trailer I heard Jr yell, "CAN YOU SOME OF BITCHES SHUT UP?" I wasn't sure if he was being serious or just trying to break the tension Weeks and weeks past. The times we ran out of gas: Too many to count. Times Jr puked: 7. Times I had to pull Ty and Katie apart before they got into a full brawl: 3. But here it was. New York. Throughout all four of our lives, we have wanted to see this city and we were...amazed. Everyone seemed so busy, so important. We seemed so small compared to the skyscrapers. I started to have this anxious feeling in my stomach and I couldn't help but marvel at the crowds of people. It was all so huge. We rolled in and we blasted the music, we pulled our windows down and started to blast, "We are Young" by Fun. We felt amazing. We felt alive. We felt infinite. This was our time and we would fucking make it.

I wrote this about one of my good friends, and he finds it to be humorous too. I didn't use his real name in the story for obvious reasons. This is also located on r/Writing It's been apart of me since... Well, ever since I was old enough to understand what masturbation was, and now it was gone. I first understood what masturbation was and how to do it by the time I was seven. Then by the time I was eight I had already managed to obtain at least five Brazzers accounts along with a subscription to Playboy. That is when it really took off – my addiction to porn. Masturbation was almost synonymous with pornography for me. At first I only masturbated at night time when no one could hear me. However, by the time I was ten years old I was already watching porn and masturbating twice a day – once in the morning, and once at night. Pornography had consumed my life, driving away the few friends I had. I had never even told anyone; we were ten years old they would have shunned me. Maybe it was the way I looked at my female teachers and fellow classmates, or how it always look as if I had a tiny pencil sticking out of my pants? By the time I was fifteen I masturbated between 5 and 10 times a day. My penis was purple by the time I got out of school, but I still went on to masturbate two more times before I went to bed. Once I got to high-school, I couldn't control my self. There was so much ass everywhere I had to masturbate during school. It was simple how I pulled it off; we had eight minutes in between classes, and it took two minutes to go to my locker then make it to my next class in time. That meant I had an extra six minutes to rub one off before I went to my next class. No one still ever wanted to talk to me – probably because I was constantly sweating, and my hands were sticky. Then it happened – I got caught watching porn. It was a relatively normal day; I had just got home and I had just turned on my computer so I could fap once more. Once powered on, I opened up Google Chrome in Incognito mode any proceeded to navigate to Brazzers and login. Normally I would have just clicked a video and started going to town, but there was something wrong. There was a strange feeling in the air, so, I just waited a little while before starting. Growing impatient, I just went ahead and clicked a video and starting going to town. Then right as soon as I started to climax, my muscles starting to spasm, and my starting to moan the actress' name of whom I was watching. When suddenly my mom walked in. In that instant it hit me, I forgot to lock my door, but I had done it so many time how could I just 'forget'? In the heat of the moment, I asked my mother if “She wanted to join”. I was instantly disgusted; how could I ask my mom that? “Turn that fucking shit off and put your pants back on! Your father will speak with you when he gets home!” she replied, as she closed the door with a disheartening look on her face. I knew what was going to happen – I was going to get grounded. Dad was going to come home and yell at me then take my computer and Playboys. My whole world would collapse without pornography. After coming to this heart breaking realization I rubbed one off one last time; then walked into my bathroom grabbed a bottle of Clorox chugged it, then hung myself.

…and as he lay there against the wall, resting on a bed of pillows on the cold floor of a tiny bathroom, he knew it was time. The rain beat steadily against the thin roof, like four thousand tiny hooves of a thousand tiny horses. Or at least that’s how it sounded from the bed in the room below. He’d always liked the rain; there was a sort of natural, chaotic peace that resonated in him. It was the sound of home. It was 1.37am on Wednesday and just like the week before and the week before that he couldn’t sleep. The dog across the road was barking again, always at this time, always on a Wednesday. He rose from the bed and approached the window. Unsurprisingly there he was, the drunk. The same drunk that stopped to throw rocks at the dog every Wednesday. What a wonderful display of millions of years of evolution and thousands of years of culture. He returned to his bed because he didn’t want to watch it again, there are only so many times you can watch a man get mauled by a dog. Thursdays had been hard recently, it’s difficult to concentrate on uninteresting things when you haven’t slept properly and don’t care to begin with. He rose from his cubicle chair and headed towards the break room. On his left was the coward, who watched her son get beaten on a daily basis. On his right was the boring man who was slowly siphoning company funds into his own private bank account and just ahead was the new one. He didn’t know her secret yet. The break room was a dull affair, bland coffee, cheap tea and chipped mugs. The mistress was there, her whip wasn’t. She was one of the few people he liked, at least her secret didn’t hurt anyone… Friday, that day most people look forward to because the weekends near, but he didn’t. The weekend was no different, he just worked on personal things; shelves that needed repaired, chairs that needed sat in. You know the stuff. The new girl was there today, she seemed like the hard working type. He wondered what she was hiding. Monday, he awoke again to the sound of rain and looking out the window he saw the new girl. It was her dog apparently. They smiled at each other at work. The drove home just behind each other but they both just got on with it, like everyone always does. And then it was Wednesday again, it was 12.23am when the barking started. The drunk was early tonight, maybe one less drink, maybe a new more heavy handed bouncer. Either way maybe this meant he’d get a decent night’s sleep. The dog went quiet, and then the screaming started. Maybe this time the dog would finish him off. Thursday was unusual this week. He’d slept well. He even had time to get a paper, he noticed new girl wasn’t there but the rest of them were. He sipped the shit coffee and began to flick through the paper. There she was, he wouldn’t be finding out her secret. Not from her. Strangled by a drunk, no witnesses but a confession and all for a good night’s sleep. The rain beat steadily against the thin roof, like four thousand tiny hooves of a thousand tiny horses and as he lay there against the wall, resting on a bed of pillows on the cold floor of a tiny bathroom, he knew it was time. The paper was calling.

This was an exercise for a creative writing class I did a while back. We had to emulate a famous author/poet and describe how to make something. I won't say who I emulated, but I do hope it reads well. Critique is also welcomed. **Freezer Tray Popsicles** * 1. Your favorite fruit juice * 2. Freezer Tray * 3. Freezer * 4. Seran Wrap * 5. Popsicle sticks/Toothpicks **Preparation** Take your favorite fruit juice and pour it into the tray. Tightly cover the top of the tray with seran wrap. After making sure the wrap is completely covering the freezer tray, insert toothpicks/Popsicle sticks into the center of each “cube.” Put in the freezer for an hour or two, and voila, you’ve got popsicles. TRUE! Neverous, very, very horrifically nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? This state had sharpened my senses, not erased nor dulled them. Above all was the sense of taste acute. I could taste all things in the heaven and in the earth. I’ve tasted many things in heaven, and even more in hell. How then am I mad? Hark, and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell the whole story. I know not why the idea entered my brain, but perhaps it was the dreadfully sweet and deathly chilling taste that haunted me for a fortnight. There was no passion nor was there reason for spite, but I think it was his charm. YES! It was this. Whenever I heard him speak the words,” OH YEA!” my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, I made up my mind to rid myself of the man, at least for a while. This is my point. You fancy me mad. Mad thirsty men know nothing. But you should’ve seen how wisely I proceeded—with that caution—with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I trekked out to the nearest shopkeep and bought my tools, one by one to avoid suspicion. Nightly, I’d peek my head into the refrigerator, making sure the poor fool was sleeping. Would a madman come during daylight, to be once again tortured by his cries of “OH YEA!”? Upon the eighth and final night, I peeked in as I had always done, to see the man sleeping peacefully, knowing full good and well that he’d not cry a sound soon enough. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph; what with the plan I’d made, and I chuckled at the idea that I’d finally won. Perhaps he heard me, causing him to toss and turn in his sleep. Now, you may think that I turned back, but no, the insides were still pitch black as the switch had not been switched to shed light upon my devious mayhem. Suddenly an itch took hold, and whilst I went to silence the demon, the door had opened full swing, and the man sprang out of bed and cried, ”OH YEA!” I’d enough of his dastardly cries, and rather than hide, I sprang into action. I grabbed my freezer tray and lay it on the counter, and with the speed of light flooding my hands, I grabbed him by the handle and hastily poured his sweet blood into the tray. He began to groan “Oh~!” but before he could, I sealed his doom with the see-through fate of Seran wrap. Muffled, I could hear him still; the sound haunted me, so I grabbed the nearest toothpicks and proceeded to bury them into the blood of the evil bastard. I had won. My hands stained with his crimson blood, I stowed him away in the freezer, to let his blood chill. For a while, things were peaceful. I could sleep at night without a sound, and go throughout my day without the cursed words leaving his tongue. Yet if you still deem me mad, you will think so no longer, when I describe how the tale unfolds. After a few hours, my flatmates returned and were looking to quench their thirst with a nice glass of Kool Aid. I smiled, for what had I to fear? The fiendish soul dwelled about no longer. They searched the refrigerator to no avail, and had politely asked where he might’ve gone. I bade them search the trash can and even the container he was stored in. Clean. My manner had convinced them. I was at ease. Until I could hear his ghastly call once more. “OH YEA!” Rang throughout my mind, not my ears, and as each second grew, and as my flatmates decided to trek out to find one more, and as my heart began to pulsate with the ever chilling dread of the deed I’d committed, my mind just wanted them gone.

It's been abnormally cold out. Not the kind of cold that makes you long for an insulated winter jacket, the kind of cold that slowly forces your joints to stiffen and submit. The chord nearly slips from his perspiring hand. His heart triples in speed. He feels it again. The emotion. The one that consumes him. Drove him here. It's like a mute person speaking for the first time, but the joy that came from communication is dashed because they're only able to mumble gibberish for they haven't grasped how to control their newly birthed vocal chords. Or a person thats never laid eyes on the ocean but is dead set that they'll one day live their fantasy life by the sea. He's brimming with smug amusement for thinking of such an apt analogy. The feeling is tarnished with the all consuming always present emotion of hate. Hate for oneself. And in this lapse of diligence he forgets what he holds. Panic. This time the chord carelessly slips through his hands like so many other important things he was once trusted to protect. Shock, horror and above all else regret. He didn't mean to. He was only testing himself. Testing the world. Proving a point. Spitting in the face of his shame, only to have shame's ugly face lick that spit off and sneer defiantly. All of this thought in the brief expanse that was less then the second it took for the cinder block at the end of the chord to pull his feet out from under him. He doesn't scream. He doesn't reach for the ledge. He only sighs his last exasperated sigh as he committed his last mistake to add to the tally that was all his life had really ever been.

One. Chop. Chop. Chop. Sunday morning cooking in this tiny prep kitchen. Chop. I wonder what it would feel like to chop through my finger. Chop. Hm. The cute barista is running around, brewing double chocolate mocha chai tea latte frapps and I am just here dicing onions. It’s funny how ambiance is abandoned when it comes to kitchens. The whole tea house is gorgeous, soft lighting, beautiful paintings, and middle eastern furniture all laid out immaculately. All you have to do to realize that is just humans making your food is go past the counter and look at the dirty dishes, burnt pans and sweaty cooks. Despite this, people like seeing their food being made, so they have a window where you can see me. Chopping. Chop. Chop. Chop. People walk into the store; I look. For some reason I can’t look away. My eyes fall upon a porcelain doll of a girl. She has more makeup showing then skin. Attached to her is a leech of a man. Cocky, looks like a dick. For some reason, I can’t stop staring. Looking at them is making me think so much for some reason and I just can’t get back to chopping. The dick looks over at me a few times. They don’t want any fucking tea, so they leave. As they are going out of the door, the dick turns around and sticks his thin-little-middle finger up at me. Chop. I set down my knife and walk outside to join the couple. I don’t really remember what happened, I just went red. Just kidding I punched the dick in the face. He fell hard. I walk back inside to my little shitty kitchen, his girlfriend is screaming and has her fancy cell phone out. I go to my station. Chop. My manager walks over and starts talking at me. Chop. The girl comes in and starts screaming. Chop. I keep dicing onions like I am supposed to. Chop. Everyone is staring, and the whole place is quiet save for the screams of my boss and the girl. Chop. Chop. Fuck. My hands are yanked behind my back and my knife falls to the floor. “You have the right to remain silent…” I can feel the moisture in my ear as the cop grunts my Miranda rights. I am in a police car. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I should have never gone into the fucking tea shop with her. Fuck. The ground is cold and my face is throbbing. People are staring, I hate it when people stare. Fuck. I have never been hit before in my life. This shit hurts, he hit me right in my eye. Wow. A cop car pulled up, this guy is screwed! Two cops come out, the fat one comes over to patch me up and ask me what happened, the skinny one goes inside to get that freak. I hope he likes prison. Why the fuck was he even staring at me at all. When I go to hang out with my boys later, they treat me different. I always used to knock em around, but now they keep hitting me. What the fuck. Is it the black eye? That fucking freak ruined me. I go to my favorite bar and as I walk out I flip off the bartender. He comes out and kicks my ass. When the cops come everyone says I attacked him. When I walk back home from the bar people push me out of the way. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I go out the next morning for a run and I see some losers speeding by on their fixie bikes. I flip them off. They turn around and start coming after me. Fuck. This hurts, I think they broke my arm. I go the hospital. The doctor obviously thinks I am a piece of shit. I start mocking him. He doesn’t react.. I show him my middle finger and tell him I think there is something wrong with it. He doesn’t react. I hit that fucker in the face. He reacts. The cops come. I am in a police car. Fuck. I get to the jail, sit down and hang my head. What the fuck happened to me, what is going on with my life, I don’t get it. I look over and some other guy is hanging his head too. I have been in this holding cell for 2 days. Fuck. All I do is sit on this bench and go over and over what happened. The jail is thick with the scent of regret. The heavy metal bars lurch open. Someone walks in. I don’t even look at him. HEY! It’s the fucker who hit me! I say “why were you even staring at me in the first place man”. He looks up and says, “I thought I recognized you from grade school. Jonah?”. Its Jake. Oh my God. Jake and Jonah hug in a cold jail cell.

I don't usually drink alone in bars, but the idea seemed great. Ever since she left, the urge was steadily building. Nothing else I did felt like a proper ending. She lingered. So one night I went out, alone, to a bar, aiming at becoming the idea. I sat and ordered my drink. The experience was nothing like the idea. Quietly wasting away, the first twenty minutes or so were horrendous. Then he sat down- at least I think he did. I don't remember, maybe he was already there. I do remember the first thing he said: "How's your beer?" My beer was excellent- I had become an expert on my beer. Sit alone for twenty minutes (or more?) sipping your beer, and you will be quite primed to describe said beer. So I did. And he listened. It was not a very interesting description. That's how we got to talking. We talked about where we were, the bar itself, and we talked about our beers. We joked about the news, and the weather, then exchanged tiny best-of's we'd gathered from our lives. Best jokes heard, best one-liners, best pranks. Best tricks, best stories. We shared and drank some more, and we never asked the other his name. We didn't talk about what we did, or who we were. We talked about what we thought. There is a difference. The night was long, and in a way it was tiring. It was also a release. Hours later, as the sun started to rise, I thought it prudent to finally get my friend's name. Which is when he suddenly plopped down his final glass, and as if reading my mind, said "No need for names." We'd gotten into sync with one another. Hours of intense conversation will do that. Then he stretched, got up, and put on his hat. He said something to me then, and I don't think I'll forget it. He said, "You know something? I'm not what a lot of people would consider successful, but I love Time. Time and death. I love time, because it means even someone like me is a traveler." He paused to throw on his scarf. Then he continued, "You know, I had a physics teacher once, and he explained how space and time are cut from the same cloth- fact, they are the same cloth. You and me, we sat here, and we drank, and we talked, and the whole time we traveled. Time keeps you moving, even when it seems like you aren't." He put on his jacket. I asked him, "And death?" He stopped, his hands in his sleeves, and said "Death is always the end of the line. So it 's the journey that matters. Without death, we'd think the destination was the point." That was the last thing he said to me. I said "goodbye" to him, and as was my habit, "good luck." too. Then I went home and slept, and maybe dreamed, perhaps about how far I'd come from who I'd been.

Hoping to get some feedback on a short story, thanks Reddit!: Kevin wonders what he's supposed to say. There must be a manual on this somewhere, a guidebook for men in this situation. As he unwraps the frozen pizza and sets the oven, he watches Laura collapse on the sofa, pick up the remote, the emptiness in her face. She stares at the black television screen. He tries to think of something to talk about, something that isn't the thing. He decides on a topic. “I'm making a pizza,” he says. Nothing. Again, “Would you like some?” He wonders how long this will last, this silence. The doctor did not warn him about this, in fact they'd had no time alone, no time for Kevin to ask him, man to man, what he is supposed to talk about with her, how long she will be like this, what signs to look for should it turn serious. Kevin wishes now that he had insisted they step out of the room so his questions could be answered. In the moment, though, he'd been blindsided by his own grief, he certainly had not been expecting it, and now he finds himself feeling a bit resentful of Laura, that she cannot look at him, and he wants to tell her that it had been part of him, too. But Laura, her eyes now focused on the remote control in her hands, knows Kevin will never understand. She can admit, of course, that he must be in some kind of pain, but maybe not, he is in the kitchen now, cooking a pizza like nothing is wrong. And what had he said to her, on the ride home? “We can try again in a few weeks.” Laura could not think about that, and she had wondered how her husband could be so insensitive. Though the doctor told her it was highly unlikely, Laura knew she had felt the thing die. Standing, rising from the bed that morning, a slight pain in her side, insignificant, she would have thought nothing of it, except. The blood didn't come until hours later, but some part of Laura was expecting it, had felt the pain and then later, the drip in her underwear, had wondered for just a minute if she were getting her period. The doctor had said the pain was probably unrelated, a muscle cramp, she must've slept wrong, but she was unconvinced. She'd felt it die – does Kevin know what it's like to carry that? Having put the pizza in the oven, Kevin sits now at the kitchen table, pulling the daily newspaper from its plastic wrap, scanning the headlines. The silence is maddening. She hasn't turned the television on. He thinks about the calls they should make, to his parents and hers. He does not want to hear their cries of sympathy, their packaged responses, “Everything's going to be okay,” “Time will heal this.” Perhaps even secrets, from one mother or the other, “It happened to me, too, you know.” Of course, it happens all the time. Kevin is sure he read that somewhere, it happens more than people think, life goes on. He knows marriages survive this sort of thing, that the silence is only temporary, but his is not just any marriage and his wife is not like other wives. Laura, the beauty he'd met eight years ago, in college, the dancer. Such strength in the way she moved, he remembers. It had been the thing that first attracted him. Only after they began dating did she reveal the truth in who she was. Her dancing, in a sense, had been a sort of mask for her and a deceit for Kevin and the other men who came before. Inside, she was entirely vulnerable and painfully sensitive. Kevin remembers something he said during their first fight, though now he can't remember what the fight had been about - “It's nothing personal.” And her reaction, such anger, “I hate that phrase! It's always personal!” He hears Laura rise from the couch – finally, some movement – and a drawer opens. He stands and peeks into the living room, she can't see him, and she is standing at the bookshelf, fidgeting with something, and as Kevin watches her, he notices that her body hasn't changed in all the years he's known her, still so lean and strong. She turns toward the sofa, and Kevin strains to see what she has done, and finally, with a flicker in the corner of his eye, he sees it, she's lit a candle. Laura knows he's watching her, listening. It is the thing she loves most about Kevin and still the thing that drives her most crazy, that he is so attentive. She loves, too, that he cannot be fooled, that at times, he seems to see through her. When she met Kevin, she'd been waiting for a man like him. Laura so willingly engaged in the charades, wanting to appear independent and determined and feminist, like the dancers in some of her classes, yet while trying to convince, she was begging to be discovered. When Kevin held her for the first time, she remembers, it was like a quiet resignation, a peaceful surrender. She let go of the games and expectations, and just was. Brilliantly free, feeling safe and protected and, to be honest, feminine. The down side in that liberation, and there is always a down side, is that often Kevin expects her to be weak. She imagines that while being with him had made her feel, for the first time, like a true woman, it also made him feel like a man. To protect her has become a part of his identity, certainly a part of their identity together, as a married couple. She'd wondered before what might make him vulnerable, had observed him closely as they sat in movie theaters watching tearjerkers, looking for a sign of emotion. She's ashamed to admit that once she'd even fantasized about his father's funeral, wondering if that might be the thing that would make him cry. She'd imagined taking his face in her hands as the tears came, kissing the spots where they landed, holding his big, muscular body in her tiny one, as he shuddered with the sobs. It makes her angry to think about the thing that is happening now, the thing they aren't talking about, because Kevin expects her to be weak, and she feels weak, and she is not sure which came first. The refrigerator opens, and Kevin grabs a beer. He checks on the pizza. There is a card hanging on the refrigerator door, it came with the flowers Laura's parents sent after learning they were pregnant. It says, “We can't wait for the new addition to our family! All the best as you begin your journey as parents. Love, Mom & Dad.” Kevin contemplates throwing it away. He walks into the living room, and is struck by how beautiful his wife is, how she has always seemed, though hard for him to admit, more beautiful in her pain. He'd noticed earlier, too, when he found her in the bathroom, sitting in front of the toilet, and he'd had the thought that she must've vomited, remembers distinctly saying to himself, it's to be expected. But as he approached, she looked up at him, and he'd seen the glassy eyes, the tears that had gathered around them, they made her blue eyes look like crystal, and she was not hysterical, Laura was rarely dramatic, but then he'd looked down, into the toilet, and seen not vomit but blood. Kevin is standing now, she senses him behind the sofa, and seconds later, feels his fingers in her hair. “Babe?” he says quietly. She throws her head back, the whisper feels warm, she wants more. He leans over and kisses her ear, and she is just feeling it, she tells her mind to stop working, closes her eyes and summons blackness behind them. Kevin tries to remember the last time they made love because they needed to, wanted to. In the last few months, it's been so intentional, scheduled, even. For one purpose, to make a baby. He wants her now, and as he kisses her face, he slides his hands down her body, over her breasts. He hears her wince and he pulls them away. The doctor had been clear. Six weeks. Rest. Then, try again. Laura doesn't want to try anymore. She, like her husband, feels like something was taken from them, the minute they began having sex to conceive. Kevin is sitting next to her now, and she can see his desire, is both thankful for and disgusted by it. Kevin is feeling something strange, unfamiliar, something that perhaps he's felt before but always contained. The emotion now seems to be choking him, it is everywhere, in his bones, even. Perhaps it is the memory that comes to him, the memory of the last time they made love for the pleasure of it, it was the night Laura showed him the pregnancy test. It had been celebratory, fun. After Laura came, he remembers, she'd burst into laughter, so hard she cried, and through her smile, she'd whispered, “I love you.” Kevin had been thinking, there is nothing better than this. It's Laura, finally, who breaks the silence. “I'm going to take a bath,” she says, and stands, heads for the stairs. He tries to tell her he loves her, but this thing is choking him. Instead, he watches her climb the steps until she disappears. He cries only for a minute, and only to himself, and wonders more about how long this will last, and if things will be different in the morning. The oven timer sounds, and Kevin realizes he's not hungry, and never was.

Roland crouched behind a large boulder and peered over the edge to survey the landscape. On the other side of the highway, two dirty, good-for-nothing bandits stood behind a rusting tractor trailer. Here they’d wait for people to pass by so they could chase after them and beat them to death with lead pipes. These bandits were all the same --mindless savages with only one motivation: kill. Unfortunately for them, Roland was not the kind of traveler they could mess with. He decided to introduce a new motivation: fear. He sighted down his worn rifle, through the steel scope that he had duct taped on and calibrated fucking up the good-for-nothing brainless cronies of these good-for-nothing, brainless bandits. He wasn’t looking for a head shot just yet. He aimed for the shoulder of the bandit with the bigger lead pipe. The gun let out the same roar Roland had heard thousands of times before and the Bandits dominant arm flew off in a strangely physics-defying direction. It spun manically through the air and eventually landed somewhere in front of the truck, still grasping the lead pipe. Blood flowed from the bandit’s stump in such great quantities that it seemed to indicate that God’s primary creative urge was the glorification of violence. The other bandit stared blankly at his now one-armed companion. Roland pulled the trigger again. This time, the one-armed bandit’s head exploded like dynamite. An eyeball bounced off the other bandit’s head, optical nerve trailing behind like the tail of a sperm attempting to impregnate his brain with violence. Naturally, the now-traumatized bandit number two attempted to take off. Roland probably smiled. He pulled the trigger again and the second bandit’s head exploded. That never really gets old. My pocket buzzed. I paused the game and put down the controller. The text from Chris read: “Wanna smoke and go to mickey-d’s?” Yes, yes I do. I arrived at Chris’s at about 11:30. We smoked and then jumped into the car and drove out into greater Bellefonte. We decided to take the long route, because we have shit-all to do anyway, and driving high is one of my favorite things, especially late at night like this. It always feels like I’m in a video game, except the consequences for mistakes are terrifyingly real. One redeeming quality of Bellefonte is the multitude of tiny back roads through the woods. These are great for night driving because they’re fucking frightening. Leaves crunch under the car tires, trees claw at the roof, and the moon and stars silhouette the mountains like an impending tidal wave. A glance into the rearview mirror reveals solid blackness. In the silence of the town outskirts, it’s pretty easy to imagine a Texas Chainsaw Massacre scenario somewhere nearby. Otherwise though, Bellefonte sucks. Most relevantly, there is no McDonald’s in the town. You have to drive down the road a ways, practically to State College, to find one. In any other town I would consider an absence of McDonald’s to be utopian -- but not in the town I live in! Sometimes you just have to have a McDouble or two. God should add that to the Ten Commandments. However, if you like antiquing more than eating cheeseburgers, Bellefonte is home to probably twenty antique stores. The town itself is pretty much a giant antique, disconnected from everything except its past. Fucking Bellefonte. I only live here because I’ve always lived here, and I suppose I like the quiet sometimes. I lived with my parents on the other side of town until very recently when they kicked me out of the house. “This town is fucking miserable” my mother had told me kindly and honestly as I sat on the couch in her basement playing Xbox “and now that your Dad is retiring we’re getting the hell out of here.” “I’ll come with. I can find another job.” I had told her. My mother just stared at me, in that way she always does: how did she mess up her poor baby so bad? I got the message. So now I live here in a tiny apartment in Bellefonte, working for Beavertown Block Company, laying concrete and sitting on my worthless college degree that I got from the University down the street. It could be worse. I could be doing whatever you’re supposed to do with a Business Degree. It’s not all bad though. For one, I’m about to get two McDoubles, a medium fry and a Coke for just over four dollars at the McDonald’s that’s too far away. Second, I’m pretty high, and third, I’m with a good friend. At least I wasn’t born in sub-Saharan Africa. “So what do you think about all this China shit?” Chris suddenly asked with a mouth full of the genius stoner delight called the McGangBang -- a monstrosity composed of a McChicken smushed between the two patties and buns of a McDouble, all for a little over two dollars. “I’m honestly a little scared.” “China won’t attack us. They’d have to be retarded. Dude we have so many nukes.” I retorted. Chris glanced out the window as if he expected a Chinese bomb to suddenly drop on this central Pennsylvania McDonald’s location, thereby crippling the American forces’ main supply of Happy Meals. “But dude, they said on CNN today that China has moved a bunch of its aircraft carriers near the West Coast.” “It’s all probably posturing.” I said, taking delight in the fact that I used a college-level word. “Dude you’re delusional. Shit’s for real man. They’re so pissed about the North Korea thing.” No, he was delusional. He smoked too much. I decided to end the conversation and just eat my burger. Besides, nobody would risk all-out war in the modern age. War is a phantom of what it once was -- stealth bombers, drones gunning down civilians in Iraq and North Korea – there are hardly ever any real battles, or at least anything that another government could get explicitly mad about. ‘Sorry about your civilians, but there was a terrorist like, totally right there.’ is pretty much official government policy for every powerful state. Nobody is dumb enough to start dropping bombs. War has become subtle. In fact, just the other day I heard a CNN Special Report tell the story of a village in Central China, west of Yushu. As the journalist described it, the town’s residents had reported that their crops mysteriously died overnight, and within a day there was no evidence left that plant life had existed there. All that remained was furrowed ground. Furthermore, the journalist stated that, since that time, some of the residents had “switched bodies.” The residents referred to it as a switching of “souls”, but the journalist believed that “souls” probably translated to “bodies.” In summary, the journalist described it as “similar to the plot of Freaky Friday, a 2003 film, except with multiple people experiencing switching.” The Chinese government denied the claims, stating that the residents had been attempting to gain political power and privilege by convincing the government they had rediscovered secret, ancient powers. The CNN journalist, however, believed that something much stranger was at work. Unfortunately, she could not begin to speculate at what it might be. “Probably aliens” I responded sarcastically to myself. We finished up our McDoubles and headed back to town. As our headlights revealed the beginning of Bellefonte, I noticed that there was less activity than usual, even for late at night. The silence was absolute. The surrounding mountains blocked out the rest of the world. A dense fog obscured everything except Bellefonte’s skeleton. Tonight, Bellefonte was lifeless, except for me and Chris, high and mighty. After I’d dropped off Chris and returned home, I sat down on my couch to spend some more time as my digital alter ego. For a few moments, I thought to myself that it would actually be really cool to live through a nuclear apocalypse. I’ve never really been a fan of the faux-Darwinism we call real life in capitalism anyway. Besides, nobody would directly nuke this shit-hole. The worst case scenario would be the nuking of the nearby University, but that would be survivable and is probably really unlikely anyway. Furthermore, Chris is full of shit. The world is full of shit. I decided to take a moment to see what the hell Chris was talking about with this whole China thing. I flicked the TV on, but found only static. I flipped through some more channels, all of which were the same thing. “Fucking Windstream.” I said aloud. I turned on the xbox. The gun was in Roland’s hand in the blink of an eye, as if God had designed it to be there. The bad guy’s head exploded as if it was his destiny. Justice.

The view was beautiful. The white foam of the waves crashing on the far away land, the small boats floating by, powered by their engines and battling against the storm. The wind was ripping at my coat, the collar of my small spring jacket fanning out and slapping me in the face. My hands were gripping onto the railing, white knuckle, ignoring the stabbing pain of the cold from the metal. The cars behind me were roaring on, ignoring everything that was happining around them. They were trying to get home in time to their wives and settle in for dinner before the storm potentially cut the power. Their little kids so happy to see their daddy or mummy. Every now and again someone would walk by, looking at me with a look of puzzlement and confused as they considered what I could possibly be up to. One woman stopped and gave me a card with her number on it, saying if I needed a call to call her. I merely laughed and said I wasn't going to jump, I was just admiring the breathtaking view. A police officer stopped at one point, flashing his lights and hitting the siren, causing my skin to jump. The officer clasped his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was going to jump. I feigned happiness, promising I wouldn't. His name was Officer Medel, or Danny as he wanted me to call him. He waved his partner off, telling him to drive around and he'd call him when he was ready. He leaned against the railing, pulling his jacket up to prevent his skin from touching the freezing metal. After a few moments of silence I spoke up. "The view is truly stunning, isn't it?" Danny nodded, his face stern and hard. "You're going to jump, aren't you?" I paused. I didn't want to lie. I didn't want to have to pretend anymore. I looked away from him, and back out to the open water where a water-taxi was struggling against the stronger waves. "I'm considering it." "Why? Out of all the beautiful vistas such as this, spread across the world and beyond, why would you ever want to jump and leave it all behind?" I was unsure how to respond. I opened my mouth more than once, trying to explain, but never able to find the right words. After a moment, he clasped a hand on my shoulder, squeezed, and started to walk away. He stopped a moment, turning back, and saying "Just keep considering. Be wary of the choice you're going to make." The rain started soon. Pelting hard rain, smashing into the metal beams of the bridge and making a sound that emulated a basic instrument. I couldn't help but smile. He was right. The world was certainly beaitful, and there was so much to offer but it still wasn't enough. I swing both legs over the railing, making sure the watertight baggie was zipped in my pocket, and let go of the railing. As I was falling I heard the dancing sound of the metal and closed my eyes.

So I wrote this two years ago for a creative writing class. My grade was good, but I want to know what you guys think. I'll have more if you like it. The Shadowlands My world is dark, my mind is broken. Time flows endlessly like the sand under my feet. I wandered here seeking death, only to find pain. My memories are gone, my purpose is an end. An end to this cursed life I now live. The reason for my curse is long forgotten, and I wander through the shadows, damned to immortality. My body, scarred and aging, has long since become a prison. I journeyed here as a young man, leaving behind my wife, my son, my village. Once wealthy, I now possess only my clothing, the tattered and cracking leather a facsimile of my skin. This place holds no food, no water, and no shelter from the wind and the dust. This is the Shadowlands, the Dark Sands, the Realm of The Damned. A vast desert, full of coarse sand, howling wind, and eternal night. No living creature prowls among the dunes, no plant sprouts from the sand. The sky is as dry as the earth, offering no water to slake my thirst. The only other inhabitants of this place are the dustlights. Shining clouds of light, always in the distance, they are the one thing that gives me hope. The hope is false, for those cursed lanterns of the desert are enchanting on sight, only to leave you in this horrible place when you get near. Their magic is powerful, and no logic can exist in their presence. The purest joy on sight, their cruel illusion fades once they disappear, leaving me to my crueler fate. I wandered here for weeks, years, maybe even decades. Time has no passage here. The moon always hovers directly above, a guide to no man. I do not know how long I’ve wandered, only that my skin is withered and leathery upon my bones. I’ve become an old man since I’ve come here, turned into a hermit by fate. My throat stays parched, my stomach empty, my lungs fill with the dust of the desert. Yet I cannot die. My curse is cruel, my fate is torture. What I’d give to return to my family, my beloved wife and son. They have probably long forgotten the man who left them all those ages ago, in the past time. Any memories that do remain would be of a man who abandoned them, walked out of their lives, surrendering them to the world. I remember not their faces, their voices, not even their names. I only remember that I loved them. ******************** I climb yet another dune in this endless sea of sand. All I see are more dunes, even higher than the one underneath my feet. In every direction they are taller, leaving me in their shadows no matter how high I climb. I hold onto the hope that one day I’ll conquer the highest dunes, to see a world of life and light stretched out before me. I dream of leaving their shadows, and casting my own shadow upon them. This dream is weak, beaten out of me by time. These sands, imbued with an ancient magic, always raise the landscape above me, keeping me in the shadow of giants. The moon watches over like a cruel phantom, watching and judging, but not changing my fate. Its power overcomes me; I sway in its pale light. The world goes dark. I awake at the bottom of the dune, buried in sand. How I wish that could be my final grave, the end to my merciless existence. I stand up, watching the sand flow from the cracks in my skin, a macabre hourglass that tells no time. The dunes tower over me, like mountains over a field mouse. The moon watches on. As I struggle upon the shifting sands of the next great hill, I feel elation. With that elation comes a gnawing sense of dread. The only source of happiness in this wicked place is the dustlights, those shining beacons of false hope. I gaze upwards, and upon the crest of the dune, I see it. Shimmering in the eternal night, it shines with a holy light, beckoning me closer. I feel a new strength as I surge towards the shining sphere of fog. I struggle to climb the dune, the sand giving away beneath my feet. I summit the hill, looking up to see the dustlight upon the next. Sprinting down the slope, I tumble. Sand catches on my clothing and hair as I roll downhill. I get back to my feet at the bottom, and begin to ascend towards the light. I run, sand flying out behind me. I can almost see the inner source of the light’s power; can almost see past the haze into its depths. When I finally rise to the summit, the light is gone. I’ve exerted myself beyond my capacities. The shadows take me. I awake to darkness. Not the dark of night, but the deep blackness of blindness. I can see nothing. The moon is gone, that heavenly judge of the damned. I feel sand around me; feel the grit against my skin. I have gone blind. This seems like a sweet mercy, taking away the endless vistas of desert. My blindness makes me immune to the dustlights, for without my sight, I cannot witness their power. I would feel elation if this put an end to my fruitless efforts to die, if this was the veil of death. But it is not so, for I can still feel the cool sand of the desert, the grains brushing against my cheek. I begin to feel the hunger and thirst that I always feel, yet had been able to ignore for all this time. I feel as though I’ll go mad without water, my throat burns as if I had taken a deep breath of smoke into my lungs. My stomach feels as though it is eating me from within. I scream out, pleading for mercy from this desert, from my curse, from the moon, that supreme ruler of the night. I begin to cry, but not tears of water, for my body holds none. I cry tears of blood. I cannot see them, but I taste their salty, metallic taste as they run into my mouth. This must surely be the end, I plead that it be the end. I feel the fingers of madness take hold upon my mind. Probing, squeezing, they penetrate deeper. I surrender my consciousness to the pain. I awake to a thrilling elation, complete happiness filling my body. I feel no pain, no sadness. My hunger and thirst are gone, replaced by pure joy. I laugh to the heavens, a high shriek of mania. I open my eyes, and a bright light surrounds me. I still lay upon the sand, but a shining dome covers me. I sense that this dome is made of the dustlights, but my happiness will allow no negativity. The light and joy are driving me mad, insane giggles pouring from my mouth like a waterfall. I tear at my clothes, standing up and dancing around in this feeling. Laughter flies from my mouth like birds spooked from a tree. I feel a pressing around me, and the dome grows smaller. I feel as though my mind will break from my body, my mania fleeing this prison. I’m on the verge of madness. With one last howl of insane joy, I collapse. I fall back to the sand, waiting for the phantoms of unconsciousness to cover me. They do not come. I lay upon the sand, staring at the light. My body has collapsed, trapping me inside. As I gaze upwards, the dome expands. I can feel the happiness drain away, my sanity dripping back in. The dome grows to gigantic proportions, an atmosphere of dustlights surrounding me. I am lying there, unable to move, when it pierces me. A thin ray of light stabs through my heart like a burning sword. More follow, threatening to rip apart my mind and body. I feel their raw power invading my very being. I start to feel new emotions, emotions not felt in this damned existence. I feel proud, confident, comfortable, and safe. Memories flood back into me. I remember old acquaintances, friends and family. I remember my home, my village. I remember walking its streets, remember its name. It was Carahil. I remember walking through it in the autumn, arm in arm with my wife. I remember her name. Cecilia. I remember her amber eyes, golden hair. I can see her soft skin, her delicate features. I remember my son, his eager eyes, and his excitement at learning of the many treasures of the world. I remember his name. His name was Samuel. He was eight. I remember the love I had for them; remember summer nights spent with them in the fields, watching the stars. I remember that autumn, the autumn of my damnation. The memories flood back. I scream. I suddenly remember more, I remember that Cecilia was with child. She was carrying what would be our second child. She was hoping for a little girl, the daughter she always dreamed of. She wanted to be a good mother, taking care of herself as she had with Samuel. She stayed at home, at our beautiful house on the hill outside the village, while I went into town to do business. It was a cool autumn day, and I had gone to buy food for the coming months. I took our wagon, leaving Samuel to take care of his mother. I spent around four hours bartering, conversing, and learning of the local news. It was dusk when I headed home, the wagon creaking towards the sunset. I arrived back home, led the horses back into their stalls, and stored the wagon. I walked into the house to fetch Samuel to help me carry goods into the house. The house was silent when I arrived. I walked through the kitchen, calling their names. I walked down the hallway, and still no answer. Finally, I arrived at our bedroom. In the middle of the bed, among the bloodstained sheets, lay Cecilia. She was unconscious, the blood still wet. I rushed to her side, attempted to wake her up. She opened her eyes slightly, moved her mouth, but no words came out. I rushed into the spare room, ripping off the fresh sheets, brought them to her. I attempted to stop the bleeding. Tears ran down my face. As I attempted to bring her back, Samuel walked in. He called out his mother’s name, announced his arrival. I rushed into the hall, yelled at him to run to the village and fetch the doctor. He questioned me as to why, and I roared for him to get a doctor. He left, and I sat next to Cecilia, crying and praying. A few hours later the doctor steps quietly out of the bedroom, a somber look on his face. He informs me that Cecilia will survive, but she is weak. Our second child, however, is lost. I let out a great sob, sliding down the wall, my head on my knees. The doctor gives me instructions for her care and then departs. Samuel is in his room sleeping, his run exhausted him. I go into the kitchen, and pull a bottle from the shelf. Gulping deeply, I feel the warm numbing sensation that I resisted for so long. I promised Cecilia I would never drink once I was a father. I broke that promise on that autumn night. An hour later, the house is quiet and dark. My body is numb from the alcohol, but my mind feels sharper. Samuel, my beloved son, betrayed me. I told him to watch over his mother, and he left to frolic in the woods and meadows. We lost our second child because he left his mother to play. I feel a deep rage, an uncontrollable anger. I get up from the table, stumbling down the hall. I approach his room and open the door. He lies there sleeping, and I stagger to his bedside. I stand over him, and then raise an open hand. I bring it down on his peaceful face. I strike him again, then again. Three times total. He never moves. Then I lift him from the bed and throw him against the wall. He lies there, motionless. I know that he is dead, can feel it in my blood. I leave his room, walking to the next. There lies Cecilia, my darling, my love. I stand by her bedside, grasping the bottle left by the doctor. In it lies a clear greenish liquid. I uncork the bottle, jamming her mouth open and forcing the medicine down her throat. I don’t want her to have to live with the death of her two children. She wakes up, struggling weakly. I hold her down, waiting for the stillness to come. It does, and I stagger outside. Kneeling on the grass, I curse the world, my son, my wife. I curse the moon, that great observer, for not aiding me. I sense it communicating with me, trying to pass a message. I feel my mind go black. My consciousness slips away. ******************** I awake in the desert, the dustlights are gone. The moon has returned. I bleed from my mouth, my nose, my ears and my eyes. Blood flowing, crimson life draining from me. I lie there motionless, and then feel movement come back. I stand, blood streaming down my skin. I am not dying, I am perfectly conscious of the pain. I look to the moon, and I know. I know why I have been cursed, I know why I am not allowed to die, and I know why I am forced to wander these cursed wastes. I know that my prior wanderings were merciful. For now I know. The knowledge of my deeds does not fade. It is seared deep in my mind. I know that I will live forever with this knowledge, with this guilt. I know that I will wander in anguish through this desert, among these endless sand and dunes, for millennia. I know the dustlights won’t return, that their purpose is fulfilled. I know that this torture is eternal. I know that I will live forever in the Shadowlands, the Dark Sands, the Realm of The Damned. I know that I am cursed to immortality in the eternal night.

In spite of the distance and the obstacles in between, the man could still hear muffled voices coming from outside. The sounds reach through the door, having already gone past the thick blue curtain that he will soon pass. The man rubs his hands together, and mutters to himself, that he will not cry, he will not cry, he will not cry. He paces inside the waiting room. So quiet, but considering the walls, there must be thousands of them watching. He sits down on the small chair provided, then immediately gets up and resumes pacing. He knows some of the ones outside want to see him fail. He can imagine their cutting words- so casually cruel, they will grab hold of anything at all, his hair, his weight, whatever it takes to reduce him. So he says to himself: a giant attracts many stones. There is a round mirror on the wall, in front of the man's inhaler, his lucky dice and the baseball cap he's worn to every game since he was thirteen years old. He tries to avoid his reflection. Even back when he was thirteen he took it more seriously than the others. Over a decade of people telling him he wasn't good enough. Countless memories of mockery and naysayers. Oh god what are they saying outside? He wonders if she's there- I mean no chance, he rebukes himself for daring to hope. Too late, the flame catches, and it's igniting- that enthusiastic voice inside himself says: She's there. She'll be watching, even if she doesn't understand. Besides they may mock him, sure, they always have. But they aren't up here. And also, some of them will cheer. A lot of them will cheer. The man punches his hand, once, twice, three times. The same old sweat on his forehead. Music plays inside his mind- old tunes, like the sound of horns. Battle songs. His heart is racing, chest bursting, the fear is cackling now. He goes towards the door of the trailer, puts one clammy hand on the steel knob and turns. Sound rushes past him, fills the empty place he's leaving. This is it, this is the point. This is everything he's ever wanted. He approaches the velvet wall. The curtain is there, soft beneath his clammy hand- big and blue, and behind that the spectators. He waits. He's got to wait for his turn now. The fear grabs at his gut, and pummels him with questions- what if's. What if you forget the build. What if you're too slow. What if you slip and what if you choke. There are no two ways around it, he either clenches hard, somewhere inside, and lets the doubts have their moment, or he finds some kind of inspiration to override the niggling fears. He is a samurai preparing for battle. The voice that led him all the way here says: In order to win you must be prepared to die. Everyone told him it was just a game. He always knew it wasn't just a game. It was The Game. He's died so many times, and he's always felt it. The man is prepared. Now, thousands of people outside sit on the edge of their plastic chairs, hoping or cursing him. And all smiling with anticipation. His name is called, through the velvet curtain. Not the name his parents gave him but the one he defined, the one he chose, the one that people know, even if they've never seen his face, when his name comes up on the screen they know. They call his name. The curtain begins to part so slowly, and for a moment the entire thing overwhelms him. He never dared to dream, as he spent so many sleepless nights training, that one day he would be here, at the top. A history of insults, of self-doubt, of tears that no one thought were worthy of shedding and finally.... Big bright white stars on his face. He resists the urge to bring up an arm. They told him during the rehearsal that there would be a glare. The what if's stop. The fear settles, coils, hardens into that adrenaline moment, that sheer edge. That's his blade- concentration, skill, and courage. He walks towards his seat. An ocean of cheers vibrate around him, flowing like a cape. All that he's worked for, and still, it isn't enough. He's not the best yet. Not unless he wins. He takes his seat in front of the computer. Puts on his headphones and gives his mouse a few clicks. He couldn't explain to most people how the game works. The voice says: Just like cricket. Or ice hockey. Or shogi. The man couldn't easily explain about last hitting, or micro, or good opening strategy. He couldn't tell a layperson exactly what he was about to do- only someone that played might understand. And yet as the crowd began to coil, into silence, and wait, he realized that right now, for these few minutes, he shared a moment with champions. With anyone that's ever had to contend with the exhilaration and the final challenge. For a moment he was kin to boxers, gladiators, olympians and chess masters. With anyone that has had to measure a lifetime against one opponent. The man's opponent takes his seat, receives his share of cheers. His opponent is the only reflection worth comparing himself to. The man imagines she's watching, and even if she does not understand the game, she'll understand what this is like- the moments before. He nods, and types: GL HF. The rules are different. The game is different. The feelings have always been the same. He smiles, feeling the phantom hands of winners on his shoulder. In front of thousands, with his headphones on he mouths: Let's dance.

Along these red brick walls of Strangeways I stand facing my own mortality. Inside these walls that swallow up the pieces which society deems unworthy I stare into the abyss knowing, not believing my bereavement. Beside me stand two other inmates that have decided my fate. In a just world these men would become law abiding doctors or lawyers but instead they had to fight and kill in order to survive. These men will never know of a normal life outside these walls. Inside this black hole that swallows you up never to be seen again, this is a normal life in all its glory. This is not justice or a solution but a quick fix so normal people can sleep at night knowing their ethical crimes go unpunished. They say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. This is your brain looking through all your memories trying to find a way out of the current situation. No memories flashed before my eyes. I knew there was no way out of this when I lost that court case all those years ago. As I looked into the eyes of the men next to me I saw nothing. No morals and no regrets for their wrong doings. Yet even though I was facing down certain death it was looking into those cold empty eyes that truly and utterly scared me.

Stay alive; that was the goal. Stay alive long enough for History to remember you… What if I can’t make it that long? What if this rifle I carry becomes too much for me? I shoved those questions into the back of my mind, vigorously, as if slamming a drawer shut in hurriedness. My mother told me to get out, get out of the house and don’t look back, that she and my sister would endure the raids on the homes of our village. I don’t know why they couldn’t keep with me, why they couldn’t follow me through the valleys and mountains I’ve traversed in these past few weeks… Maybe they lost hope? Maybe they didn’t want to wage war with life any longer… But I am alone now, just a boy and his gun on the run for his life. I had one magazine and a bullet in the chamber, enough to get me through to a new home… or another soldier, you never know out here. But they were after me, The Tyrants, my mother would call them; an organization bent on taking over this entire country. We were just another check in the tallies, our small mining town on the side of a mountain, far off from anywhere. They still wanted us anyway, just for land… Just for land. I lay prone in a bush covered in thorns under a downed tree, the needles piercing through my clothing as I watched the enemy militia sit around a small fire, ranting on about how their Commanding Officer doesn’t give enough food in their daily rations. I could hear my stomach growl in anger at them as I longed for their steaming cups of coffee with a buttered biscuit. My mouth watered from the aroma they gave… But maybe that was just my senses going into over drive. My eyes drooped with weariness, and sank lower and lower with every breath of frozen winter air I took. I thought they were weighed down with lead, and I couldn’t hold them open anymore… The sky seemed to hold a dark blue hue, fading to light as it touched the horizon. I looked upon the floor, vertical lines seeming to span on forever. I saw two figures in close, one seemed familiar to me. In her hand she held a page, smeared in illegible writings that only her eye could read. Her head hung low, a tear dripping from the corner of her eye, a creek of one drop. Before her was another woman, but of strange stature, a bouquet of flowers a-many color, but with the grey of steel mixed in with the fibers, showing her tense visage. “Why did he have to die mother?” The first woman asked the other, a tremble in her voice, easily comparable to a warble in the voice of an anxious public speaker. “Every person has a role to fill in life, he has done his, my child, and God needs him no longer.” I tried to rush to the both of them, as fast as my weary legs would bear, but my soles seemed to fill with lead, and my feet were encased in stone. The stone seemed to multiply particle by particle around me, panic rising in my blood like bubbles in a boiling pot. By the time it covered my face, I was absorbed in a dark unlike no other, it was a compressed abyss that seemed to never end, like a nightmare that you can’t escape. My sight was restored, oddly, but it seemed dark, every color muffled to its lightest degree. I saw the women still standing there, the first woman now with a rush of tears pouring down her pink pastel cheeks. The woman with her flowery head comforted her to the best extent she could, trying to put on a dance for the crying girl. I opened my mouth and tried to scream, but I seemed heavier, bulkier than normal, weighed down by my own body. I couldn’t utter a sound, it was as if my vocal cords had frozen, maybe they turned to stone themselves. A bright light figure appeared before my frame, slender and tall like an un-bruised birch. “Shh…” He muttered before waving his slim fingers before my eyes, making my shift to black again… I shuttered awake, the queer sense that the dream left behind made my bones rattle under my skin. The soldiers now slept around their dying fire, snoring so loud, it could over power a truck horn. I sighed quietly, relief flowing through my body a wave at a time. “I wonder what that could have meant?” I questioned myself as I pulled my tattered body out of the shrub little by little. The snow crunched as I wiggled out from under the downed tree, to make my get away from these pigs-of-soldiers. But before I could manage to pull myself up and make a break, and hand pushed my back into the ice glazed snow, the water from the melted bits coursing in through the tears in my dress. It rolled my over to face a completely bright man, slim and tall, just like the one in the dream.

It was the third summer since the war ended and the Cloud had broken, ending the tyranny of a winter that had lasted decades. The warmth on Lauriel’s face lifted her spirits. Her garden was finally returning to an approximation of its former glory; rose bushes breathing color into a space that for so long had been a gray wasteland. Her favorite vine was growing, too, not yet more than a few buds at the base of the lattice she’d put up earlier that week. She would teach it to weave as it grew. A baby’s cry broke through her serenity, and Lauriel smiled; *I must teach you to grow too, little one. You will have a whole new world to weave through.* The pristine click of the garden gate filled the air with something Lauriel ascribed to coziness. She couldn’t say the same for the old street lamp out front. The road it had once faintly illuminated was gone, reclaimed by the earth. A testament to the strength of our makers, she thought as she turned and started to climb the porch stairs. Lauriel didn’t notice the rain as it fell at the base of the lamp post; or the puddle the rain formed as it pooled and ran off an unseen edge. Even as she turned back briefly, on the thought of having heard something peculiar, she did not see it. The rain had by then flickered and vanished; much the same as the light from the bulb above.

This is the kind of day that makes me want to take a cold shower and dress nice. This way I can go into town. As I stroll down the street no one will suspect what I'm up to. I casually slip into a dark alley and crouch down. I watch the streets, sizing up every stranger that walks by. When I spot a worthy victim I pounce and knock them out. I then discretely drag them into my deserted alley. I take my ball-gag and restraint devices out of my brief-case. I wait for my victim to wake up so I can see the fear in their eyes. They will wake up to me standing naked above them, smiling maliciously. I then go to work, abandoning all human restraints. I defile their body, stripping them of their innocence as I appease my sexual desires. After I finish I let them think about what just happened for a good minute. After a minute has transpired, I whisper softly in her ear, "Thus it is that in war the victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won, whereas he who is destined to defeat first fights and afterwards looks for victory." As they look at me in confusion, I take out the rest of the tools I will need for the final phase of my plan. First, I gently run my tongue from their belly button to the big toe of their right foot. This will weaken their defense. I then strip the flesh from their arms and legs, for use in my custom clothing line . Afterwards, while my victim is screaming in agony, I take my bone-saw and proceed to cut through their sternum. OH the lovely buzz of this beautiful machine going to work. Due to the removal of their heart, my victims tend to die during this. Well that's no fun. I'm bored with my victim by now. I briskly remove their skull, scraping their worthless brains out of the inside. With these wonderful trophies finally harvested, I inconspicuously walk back to my house. Hakunah Matata. What a wonderful phrase.

Oh God. It happened again. Oh God. I was coming out the book store, and the wind was cold, even though the sun was shining everywhere. It was one of those days. And there was no one around. Not even one of those tubby security guards that zip around on campus golf carts. I was alone, and I felt it, all the way down. I ought to be wearing a jacket, I woefully pondered. And I began my walk back to my car. Past old bits of Fort Brown and the newer monuments of higher learning. The walkways wore a crunchy coat of browning leaves that hid all the cracks and the windows from the science building dazzled in the mid-morning sun and the fountain with all the pennies was as green as ever. And still, there was nobody. Until I heard the birds. You know when birds seem to explode out of nowhere in a violent cacophonous blur of squawks and coos and skees, creating a whirwind of black and blue and green and white feathers that swirls around and around? And you know when those feathers seem to take shape, like you could almost see some monstrous hand reaching for you to steal away your soul? Yeah, that probably didn’t happen. But I could hear birds. How long had they been chirping? And where was I going? I hadn’t parked over… Where had I parked? I couldn’t remember how I had gotten there. Or the walk to the book store. Or what I had done there. My hands were empty, as well as my pockets. *Shit.* I thought to myself. *This isn’t- shit. Oh, shit.* And when I remembered what happens next I thought, *Oh! Shit!* What would a sane person have done in this situation, I wonder now, having experienced what these past few days have inflicted. I suppose they wouldn’t be very sane if they did, now then, would they? So what did I do? I went looking for her, of course. I ran, without thinking up anything close to a plan. I didn’t know where she was, but I sure knew where she wasn’t. I ran past that stupid fountain, the stupid windows, and the stupid leaves. Past the poorly stuccoed Student Union and across a lawn that was way too big to be practical. I ran to the bridge that spanned the campus resaca. And there she was. Naked as always. Even in that reality, my circulatory system had been unprepared for my gallant sprint. That’s probably why I didn’t immediately swell up, and why, when I failed to stop without tripping to the ground, I could only lay there and breathe heavily. A lot of things were in pain, but I’m a man, so I sat up after a while and I didn’t even cry. Not even a little. Oh, God. Oh, sweet merciful sensory system. She came and sat next to me. I felt her arms wrap around me. It was her. It was her touch and her smell and that little freckle mole thing on her shoulder she used to get embarrassed about. It was her and she was holding me again. I looked into her eyes and began to bawl. She squeezed me to stop. She said I always do that, like I’m going to just get over these reunions overnight. Overday. I collected myself and things happened and, without a word, we walked hand in hand around the paths and plants and flowers and fountains. We came back to the resaca to sit by the water’s edge. And then we talked about everything. We reminisced on that time we went to Houston in grade school and I made her throw up at that restaurant and that time last year when I put a fake spider in the shower. We talked about the lunch we had last week and got into that argument over avacado again. I asked her what Hell was like, to which she answered with that snort thing she does when I ask stupid questions. I wanted to know, though. With both hands, I pulled her face to mine. This was the beautiful face of the smartest and funniest person I've ever known. I looked past the tears and asked: What became of this brain when I was awake? She rolled her reddening eyes, scoffed, breathed hard, looked away again, looked down, and repeated until I bumped her forehead with mine. She swallowed audibly and told me. She went into really awful detail. You know when you don’t exist anymore, and everything you ever were is wiped away clean, and you are nothing, and you are now going to be nothing for the rest of forever? Well, its a shitty feeling. I reacted to this sadness by grabbing her with all my body, pulling her down to the grass, and laying there for as much of forever as I could greedily hold on to. The sky stood still for a second, confused by my drastic intentions. But I’m a stupid boy, and when she sprang the universe back into motion with a suggestion to go swimming, I sat straight up in my bed where I had fallen asleep after my classes. My throat hurts and my arms ache from a flu, and my sheets are sweaty and gross. I ask again: How would a sane man react to this? Chalk it up to the delusions of cough syrup? Maybe turn on the TV and try to forget it, move on like everyone says? Or perhaps do something really stupid like swallow the rest of the cough syrup and end up spending a weird couple of hours in the restroom chatting with the shampoo and conditioner? Well I came here to write this down. I know this isn’t the first time this has happened, but I can’t remember any details of the previous dreams. Look, I need to do something and the cough syrup idea was a bust. So I’ll write these dreams here. Fuck you if you don’t want to read it. I need this and I need her again. She isn’t just some delusion and I’m not crazy. Am I crazy? I need some sleep. Like you wouldn’t believe.

Okay, before you starting reading, please note that this is the first time I have ever wrote a creative writing piece. The reason behind this are my horrible English language skills. I'm not a native speaker, and a horrible non-native one. Please note that my sorry excuse of a story is incomplete and I'm posting it simply to get feedback on my grammar and my story-telling skills. Adam leapt over the shrub, a few white-out roses caught in his folded jeans cuffs, but he wasn't paying attention to details--it wasn't the time to pay attention. He managed to land awkwardly on his feet, almost crumpling. The impact was more than he could manage under normal circumstances, only that they weren't normal--he had been shot squarely through his left thigh, and his arms were trembling, enfolded under her back. "Don't leave me now," he glanced over her face--expressionless--and looked back up, surveying the land before him; looking for a place to hide and take shelter before those arseholes could do any more damage. Luck hadn't left them after all, as he had otherwise thought. A deep, misty forest lay ahead of them, glimmering with greenish light, the colour of poison. Without thinking, he ran for it, losing himself in the grove of trees. The sky roared with chillingly profound thunder--it had started to drizzle. He could make out her face from the lightening flickering across the sky, filtering through the leaves. She was perfectly immobile, her eyes close shut, her brows relaxed.

                                                       A Girl I Met Once “It’s like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert, but I’m holding you closer than most.” – Ron Pope, *Drop in the Ocean*      You waltzed right in, without knocking or announcing your entry, without waiting for permission, without a care at all. I was eating a quick dinner and had changed just before you arrived, just in case you ended up being someone I wanted to impress. I had heard so much about you that I was fairly confident we would hit it off, and even though I assumed you were straight, I wanted to be friends with you before I even met you.      Rewind. I had been working at Chili’s that night. Abby told me earlier that she’d finally convinced you to come down with her for the party, so I was looking forward to going and meeting you. When I got off work, I drove straight home, changed into a striped v-neck t-shirt that I bought a few weeks earlier in the little boys’ section at Marshall’s because I look good in it, and threw some breaded chicken into the microwave. I texted Abby to let her know she could come pick me up, since she’d offered and this way I could drink and wouldn’t have to worry about driving. I was a little bit nervous about this, because I knew about the crush Abby had on me and I didn’t want to lead her on – I wasn’t interested in the least – but I felt pretty sure that she knew where I stood. Turns out, I was wrong, but that’ll come into play later on.      So, she arrives. She pulls into my driveway, gives a little knock at the door, and I let her in. She’s typical Abby – a little nervous, a little awkward, but nice and sweet and all the rest of those generic things that everyone says about everyone else. Anyway, as I was collecting my alcohol to bring to the party (green apple Smirnoff) and trying to devour my dinner, Abby let slip that you were waiting in the car. “Tell her to come in!” was obviously my reaction to that. So, she did.      And that’s where this story began. You danced in with your twinkling eyes, you’re indescribable smile, and the giggliest hello. I melted. Right there, that was when you had me. You just came right in, like you owned the place, like we had been friends so long we were practically family… And then we were introduced. Abby scolded you for just coming in without knocking or anything and I can’t remember if I said anything more than that it was totally okay, but I really liked that you did that. I liked the way you commanded the room. I liked how light your command was, too – how it felt more like a plea, or a wish from a fairy or a princess in one of those Disney movies we watched as kids – lovely and pure, as you are. And I especially like that you seemed so comfortable – it made me feel comfortable (which isn’t something I’m used to in the presence of such a pretty girl).      Immediately I knew you were going to cause problems for me, because somehow you were already in my head. I literally took a second to say to myself (silently, of course), “she’s straight, she’s Abby’s cousin, she’s not interested – don’t even try.” “No, bad ~~dog~~ girl.” I was doing well, too! I even caught myself a couple of times and pulled back. I wanted to flirt so badly, but I kept it in.      Soon, I finished eating, grabbed my stuff, and we piled into Abby’s car to go back to her house where the party was already going on. We didn’t say a whole lot to each other in the car, but you were happy and smiley and so pretty and way too cool for me, so naturally I was totally captivated.      When we arrived at the party, we went in and I was introduced to a few of Abby’s friends and some people who I guess were her roommates. One girl who became my beer pong partner (secretly, as we were setting up for pong, I was hoping you’d ask to play so I could ask you to be my partner) introduced herself to me as Diamond Princess. I started calling her DP for short and, as it turns out, those are her real actual initials. That’s not important to the story; I just thought it was funny.      Pong went on forever and we just wanted it to end, so the other team tricked DP into thinking we won just so we could stop playing. The whole time you were playing with the music and talking to Abby and, most importantly, dancing. When I watched you dance, the rest of the party was on pause. Everything stopped – it was just you and the music. You smiled and laughed and your eyes sparkled. Abby was right when she said you were more yourself that night than she’d seen in a long time. Obviously I couldn’t have known that then, because I had never met you before, and I probably can’t even know that now, because that’s the only night I met you, but I believe it because of how alive you seemed. More full of life than anyone else at the party. Hard to believe you tried to off yourself the very next day. Forget social work; you should pursue a career in acting.      We finally finished pong and gave up the table for someone else to play, and I moved to stand closer to the stage so I could watch you dance more. Abby found her way over and joked with me about how, regardless of whether you’re singing the right words or not, you love to sing along to every song. I thought that was just the cutest thing. That song Some Nights by FUN came on the iPod while we were down there – you continued dancing and we all sang along (or, you know, tried to). I had forgotten about that until you brought it up via text a few days later, when you said “Every time Some Nights comes on I think about us hanging out in the basement.” Now it’s a memory I hold onto, and when I hear Some Nights on the radio or on someone’s iPod, it makes me think of you and I feel closer to you for just those four minutes and thirty-seven seconds even though we can’t talk anymore.      Anyway, after that song we kind of all made our way upstairs. I really only went up there because you did, and I wanted to be wherever you were. I hope I wasn’t too obvious. The next thing I remember is when a bunch of us decided to play cards. We didn’t know what to play, and we went back and forth for a while, but we ended up on Egyptian Rat Screw – you know, that game where you each put down a card on your turn and you slap the pile on doubles and sandwiches. I wanted you to play so badly. You were sitting on the couch not far from me, and I was sitting on the floor somewhat facing you, stealing glances as often as I could manage. I didn’t win the game, and I couldn’t convince you to play with us, but it was fun anyway. And I was content just knowing you were there. Until you weren’t.      About halfway through the game, you got up and went outside. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, but Abby got all concerned when you were walking out. She was practically mothering you the whole night. I guess, considering the circumstances, it was totally understandable, but I remember thinking she should probably ease up on you a little bit. I doubt that it would have changed anything, though. Anyway, you said you were going outside to call your roommate. Well, you said “to make a phone call” and Abby had to drag out of you who you were calling.      You didn’t tell me until a few days later, via text, that you were calling your roommate to convince you not to make moves with me, because both of you knew about the crush Abby had on me. After you were outside talking on the phone, you only came back in for about a minute before you went to bed. It was at that point that I was over the party and was ready to go home. If you weren’t there, I didn’t really care to hang out any longer. But I stuck it out for a few more minutes so it wouldn’t be too obvious, and because I didn’t want to hurt Abby’s feelings.      Side note: as I’m writing this outside the coffee shop Holy Grounds (Catholic University loves its bible puns) in the student center at school, I see your cousin walking in the doors. I immediately feel a rush of emotions: nervous, awkward, hesitant, and then also all of the things that you make me feel. What feelings do I have about you? Well, whatever they are, they’re strong. Stronger than they should be, I know. The mix of feelings that make me so drawn to you with the ones that make me so avoidant of Abby at the same time is confusing to say the least.      So you go into Abby’s room to supposedly go to bed (whether or not that’s really what you did, I will never know) and I start thinking of an exit strategy. It wasn’t hard to think of one. “I think I’m about ready for bed, whenever you’re ready to get me out of here.” That’s not an exact quote, but probably extremely close to whatever it is I did say. Abby was ready then, and we got up and I said my goodbyes to everyone I met at the party, save you. I told myself I was going to go knock on the door and give you a hug and say it was nice to finally meet you and then leave. I was sure I was going to do it. As I stood up, I even got butterflies because going in to say bye to you made me so nervous. Actually, it was just interacting with you that made me nervous. As you already know, I didn’t do that. I didn’t work up the courage to go in and say goodnight to you. And I’ve been kicking myself for not going in there ever since.      It’s probably for the best that we weren’t alone together at the end of the night, though. Even for the 30 seconds it would have taken to say goodnight. We were both so attracted to each other and you were my entire focus – I wouldn’t have even thought about it before saying something that crossed a line or even kissing you in my drunken stupor if I started to get a vibe from you. But you were good; I didn’t get a vibe at all. I had no idea you were interested in the least. You hiding away probably had a lot to do with that. That was the only chance I’ve had so far, and probably the only chance I am going to get, to kiss you. Or hug you. Or see your smile one last time.      I would say that I strongly regret not going into that room to see you before I left that night, but honestly it’s a stupid thing to regret. As much as I would have, and I hope you would have, enjoyed it, Abby would’ve found out what happened and you would’ve felt guilty. You told me that if we had kissed then, you probably would’ve tried to kill yourself that night instead of the night after. I don’t think I could have handled that. So I’m glad it didn’t happen. I’m still upset I missed out on a chance to kiss you, though.      That was the last time I saw you. That was the only time I saw you.

I barely noticed them. One was kneeling on top of the other, messily swinging his fists and almost missing the boy beneath him. Rain had begun to fall, but living in Vietnam for two years made me no stranger to its presence. This time around, I welcomed it; the day had been a particularly humid one. I marched past them, trying not to get in their way. I began to wonder how I was going to deal with my English homework and had all but left the two boys behind until I began to hear sobbing. It wasn’t a sound typically heard in Vietnamese street fights, as it was a sign of weakness. I turned around and looked into the face of the beaten boy. His swollen eyes leaked tears, and he was bent over, clutching his stomach in pain. He was small. Too small to be getting himself into fights. Then I began to remember. It was a bright, cold winter day in the middle of December. I remember walking back to my classroom after a particularly vigorous fifth grade recess. As I walked I heard the sound of a sobbing boy and punches beating skin. I burst into the scene, where a group of kids had already formed a semicircle around the sight, too engrossed in the violence to take any action. I called over two of my friends, and together we pushed our way through to the fight. We found a boy named Mark on top of another; his name was Eric. They were both on the ground, and Mark had his knees on Eric’s chest. With one hand he choked Eric and with the other he repeatedly hit him. One of my friends restrained Mark, and the other helped me to run Eric to the nurse’s office. I remember so well Eric’s lurid face in the cold sunlight of that winter day. Bruises, blood, and mixed with tears. They flowed down his cheeks and their salt ran into his wounds, making him sob.Liquid pain ran down his face and darkened the pavement below us, but when I walked back that way after school, they had all but disappeared. I remembered all of this as I watched, through the haze of the Vietnamese rain, the small boy with the pain slathered across his body. Uncontrollable tears surged through the small gap that was all that you could see of his eyes. Long after his assailant had left him on the ground he stayed on the pavement, and though he was almost invisible through the rain, I knew he was crying. Eventually, he struggled into a sitting position, and his eyes locked onto mine. Instantly, I realized that he knew who his silent spectator was. I wanted to go to him. I wanted to tell him that he was going to be fine, and that I would bring him home with me and we would get him food and then call his parents and then send him to the hospital, and that we would wait outside and that I was sorry that I didn’t step in to save him from his humiliation and pain and if there was anything I could do to put everything right I would do it on the spot. But I couldn’t. Though every nerve in my body burned and screamed for me to go and do what was right, I found myself rooted to the earth. I couldn’t communicate to him the depths of my sympathy. There was no point. He already knew that nothing would change the fact that I had done nothing but stand and watch him suffer. I couldn’t bear the shame of admitting to him that I was a coward. So I walked away.

Darth Vader smoked cigarettes. Up there in space without anyone to talk to, he had nothing but time. The life he never lived floated by the 4-foot thick window bleeding out of focus with the smoke that twisted around until it hung in a solid mass that floated away too. Wouldn’t it be nice to have more than galactic domination? Not the universe per say, but perhaps that family he’d mistakenly "killed". He had never truly met his son. Did he even know that his father was Darth Vader, would he ever believe such a fact? And that’s why the cigarettes plugged the burning flare of holes in his clouded suit of woe. No, everything happens one way and couldn’t possible happen any other. For the pain of his everyday life, he did exceptionally well. He was slow now, but it wasn’t because of smoking. Everyday when he would return to his hibernation chamber, the droids would clean his armor and lungs. But not like that matter, the air filter on his mask almost let in nothing but clean air. So why cigarettes he’d ask himself? Because it was space and it was his fucking choice. It was his legacy, to look stupid by himself to himself with a cigarette when he wasn’t throttling rebels. Fuckit. Maybe he should learn an instrument. The organ would be ideal. As the Captain of the ship and second in command of the Empire, that seemed about right. But until then, he could only wish and pretend. Nobody knew what he was thinking when he was not in battle or a cut scene. That was nice and kept him extremely intimidating. No one but his droids had ever seen his scrap book or his cigarettes. Surely that would cause some unease as to his true power. Though it would be eternally unmatched, the fact that he had a journals full of pictures of cats and cute animals might do some unintended damage if let into the wrong hands. But he was not worried; everyone was terrified of him already. Underneath it all, he was as human as anyone. He was just simply doing his job; fear and intimidation of the entire universe. But every now and then, the guilty pleasures would leak through like a joyful memory of his childhood watching the two suns set, or his adolescence with the Queen. Their nights out on the plains of Naboo. How different things could be. Had he listen or not listened to Palpatine was unimportant now. Things ran their course the way they were supposed to. He thought of how ridiculous everyone would have considered George Lucas if Darth Sidious and himself were friendly. The legacy of his would not be as immortal. But enough with deep thought, it was almost time to invade Kashyyyk with the 501st. He must redirect his thoughts to the importance of this upcoming victory they had planned. Maybe this battle would yield something more than bloodshed…he had a strange feeling it somehow would.

As the clock struck twelve, cheers from the ports of New Providence carried over the sea to the nearby islands just off British Honduras. 1662 had just begun and the Western sailors and immigrants of the Bahamas, were merry for the first time since they’d left England. Each of the islands that were now not just home to the indigenous peoples of the Bahamas, were now also lightly populated with immigrants from Shanghai, resulting in this being the first time many of the Englishmen had ever seen fireworks. Bursts of light erupted from each island, whether it be occupied by the British Navy or pirates, almost signalling a 24 hour truce to each other. After the last of the fireworks had exploded, everyone slowly started to retire. Silence and peace fell over the port in New Providence, and life was for the living. Or so it would have seemed to any spectator at the scene. A few miles due West of the port just outside Nassau, a tall-ship broke through the horizon. The sails had been torn and weathered in a storm, the hull was teaming with crabs and sea creatures that had got washed in through the growing leaks and holes in the side of the ship. The craft was in terrible shape, though it was obvious it had once been a proud asset to the Spanish fleet. As the ship rocked back and forth, the loose cannon balls did the same as the ship approached the harbour. A column of seagulls neared the port at the same rate of the vessel, clearly picking at something on the top deck. As dawn broke and the sun illuminated the waters, one watchman was able to spot with his telescope, saw the Spanish flag and immediately went to ring the alarm bell. However before he did, he thought he noticed something odd about this particular craft. None of the cannons were primed to shoot, despite the port being well within range. As the vessel got closer and closer he was able to make out what was attracting the seagulls; they seemed to be swarming around the remainder of the crew, who despite standing up and stumbling about, looked less than alive. Through the narrow circle with which he inspected the ship, he could see the crew members almost crawling along the floor, unable to balance themselves. Drunk probably. As the ship approached the port, the watchman finally rang the alarm bell, and his commanding officers ordered a few rescue boats to be sent to the ship and recover any survivors. As the rowing boats approached the ship, the water damage to the craft became very apparent. They climbed up the side of the ship to inspect the crew. Once up, none of the rescue team could see or find any of the crew; only some pained groaning coming from the shadows made them think there was anyone still on board. A young crewman named George was amongst the rescue party that was sent out that morning. He had made several friends in New Providence, and was planning a family with his fiancé who until six hours ago had been his girlfriend. He only reached the second deck before one of the Risen took a chunk out of his upper arm. The impact of mouth to flesh made the lower jaw of the Risen man separate from the rest of his skull and fall onto the sodden wood, where George now lay; shivering, alone and in agonising pain. There he lay until he finally rose. Nobody who went to investigate that ship ever returned to port. Human at least.

"Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children. “Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed—the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed—but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin—much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street. He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination. In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time—tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful—but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that. It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation. The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window. “Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room. “Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat. The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers—even the kitchen pantry!—looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will. He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really. “What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets. “I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer. “What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man. “You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak. “I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.” The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing. “You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!” He took a few minutes to quickly—and most ineffectively—ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before. “Shit… shit…” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl. “That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!” “Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money… liar…” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor. His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess… Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess! It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived. Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it. Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack. “Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that. The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there. Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.

Fifteen days after the collapse, the remaining miners aboveground had given up hope, for themselves and for their trapped compatriots. Operations planetside had ground to a halt as they frantically sought to excavate the miners left five miles below the surface of the planet, but with no minerals coming in -- the combined talent of the prospecting team was stuck below as well, so new shafts could not be dug -- the Jobarsky corporation's outpost on barren Iagma could only sustain their drilling for three more days. The peculiar astronomy of Iagma meant that this part of the planet would go dark shortly afterwards, and stay that way for weeks -- a mere claw of darkness clutching at the life trespassing here. After a respite of four more sunlit days, the long sleek carapace of polar winter, a years-long veil, would come upon the miners in full force, exacting the full sentence for their crime; they were Hypnos and Thanatos, respectively. An evacuation would come in the days after the first darkness, Hypnos, and take all the miners it could with it. However, the orbital vessel, whose between-voyage life support systems ran on solar energy, could egress its orbit of Iagma no later than the start of Thanatos, or it would not escape the penumbra of Iagma until too late, and the miners would freeze inside their ship. On the sixteenth day, one of the engineers at the outpost proposed, out of desperation, loading a few of the prospectors from the backup consciousness database, something only done in the case of death to consult the deceased on their wishes -- otherwise, the backup consciousnesses went straight to the renewal labs. The machines could simulate homeostatic conditions on the brain and the interactions of neurons, though in the process, altering the conscious state of the stored persona; when the deceased was restored, the simulated stimulation of their brain would be committed to memory as if it had happened. The experience of almost complete olfactory and tactile sensory deprivation [those two senses required too much computing power to simulate in real time] could prove traumatic to the individual being restored, when recalling the memory. But at a time like this, the risk, though more present than usual, had to be overlooked. The prospectors were loaded and simulated, and given the data they needed; within the hour, the digging equipment was being redirected to mineral and gas-rich deposits in the rocks of Iagma. One day after that, the outpost had enough fuel to sustain the miners and their life support throughout Hypnos. Far below the surface of the planet -- five miles below -- the coleopteromorphs work tirelessly to prepare for the long winter. Winter, however, is not so much a measure of whether it is warm or cold, light or dark; it is always warm and always dark. But the blood of the coleopteromorphs remembers a time when fearsome dromaiforms roamed the surface, and every winter, the coleopteromorphs would come to the surface and confront the dromaiforms, biting and pincing and slashing and being kicked and crushed, until chitin and bone laid in great heaps upon the landscape, and the soft insides of both animals seeped into the cool dirt. Now, the last of the dromaiforms has vanished. Dirt has turned to crumbling clay and rocks, and all that remain are the hard shells and the skeletons, relics of battles fought too long ago. Only the blood remembers, and boils over every winter; coleopteromorphs turn on one another and skirmish, nay, wage war over the meagerest of resources. Workers furiously gather old bone, to be incorporated into the diets of the warriors, so that their shells grow strong. With the collapse of the tunnels, and the trapping of the workers and their gathered bone on the other side, this colony of coleopteromorphs would be destroyed in the coming winter: no bone, weak shells; weak shells, weak warriors; weak warriors, we are destroyed. However, some of the aliens were trapped inside our tunnels during the collapse, and upon dissection of one of their dead, we determined that they indeed possess bone. It is, therefore, in our interests to keep them alive and breed them. If this fails, we may need to replicate them by other means. This should not be necessary. Upon each alien specimen's death, the bones will be collected and incorporated into the warrior diets -- the number of dead we have found in the collapse should suffice for our survival throughout the long winter, and extensive population of our colony with these creatures should serve to create a sustainable form of chitin mineralization. We will resume digging in the summer. There will be no rescue until this time. Repeat: there will be no rescue. Late day seventeen, a security officer found a tunnel leading downwards into the planet. An investigative team was deployed and found that the tunnel had caved in, similarly to the mineshaft more than a fortnight earlier. More importantly, a great number of the insectoid creatures known to inhabit the depths of the planet were found in this tunnel, some of which were still alive. Two of these creatures were, after a brief scuffle which eventually involved the use of the morphine one of the medical officers on the investigative team was carrying, taken back to the outpost for analysis. No living specimens had been produced before this time. Early day eighteen, the sun had almost set. The result of the analysis was that these insectoids, incredibly enough, produced hydrocarbons resembling fuel in the presence of excess food. These hydrocarbons could be extracted without killing the creature, so it was in the mining team's best interest to capture these creatures, keep them alive, and breed them. If this had failed, they may have needed to replicate them through genetic sampling and DNA recombination. This was not necessary. These alien specimens would go on to be used as a renewable fuel source for the Jobarsky mining corporation, deployable on any planet with a thin atmosphere, rocky soil, and cool temperatures. The number of these insectoids they were able to recover was sufficient to provide auxiliary heating and lighting throughout Hypnos. A more extensive population of other planets with these creatures could nearly match the fuel production of a Jobarsky team, which would continue their mining operations in the Iagman summer. There could be and would be no rescue for the trapped miners until this time. Repeat: there would be no rescue.

Hey guys, thanks for reading; I am still adding onto this story, this is only the first part. The horizon gleamed with a sterility usually reserved for more dire and artificial moments. I said her name twice and then once more: “Isabella, Isabella, Isabella.” We had walked at least a mile under the shade of trees and now rested on a sandy perch elongated on the shore of the Chattahoochee. With a gentle nudge she awoke; “Isabella! I thought that you would never open your eyes!” The sunlight was receding behind the brown trees across the river and the nip in the air made the fabric on Isabella’s dress stiffen and crinkle. Each time I touched her she would breathe sharply and then promptly smile as if she was anticipating something. I knew little of seduction, for I was bred into a modest life with people who suspected that there were no better things than what they had already been presented with. My families prominence had dispelled the need for convention- we were of a fortunate lineage and we lived properly but still on terms that we created for ourselves. The afternoon’s wake had crashed long before we had wound up together beneath the spruce and I was starting to wonder what forces were at play. I stood up and offered her my hand. “We should go before it gets too dark-I’m not as familiar with this side of the river.” I could smell the cedar that my father had cut into logs burning on the other side of the river; I was certain the estate was farther away. My Mother would always worry when I was gone for too long, but I was incensed with a desire that I had never felt before. I stood and brushed off the red and yellow leaves that had torn as I was lying on them. I offered her my hand as she still remained silent; I wished to get inside of her mind, feel her desire, swim in her thoughts- as if by doing so would make her existence even more real; surely there was a sequence of words to un-muddle her mind. She looked up at me and smiled. The right strap on her purple sundress had fallen down her shoulder and her high cheekbones rose in such a way that made her eyes squint slightly. “Come, and lie back down- we have at least thirty minutes of sunlight left.” I didn’t want to refuse her, so I laid back down resting my head on a log that had been softened by rain. She rested her head on my chest, and I picked bits of leaf out of her long blonde hair. We both lied still for a while and enjoyed the dusk, and listened to the birds sing beneath an ethereal moon that was starting to appear in the still light, late afternoon. After a few moments she looked up at me: “Do you believe in god?” I didn’t know what to say to her; somehow my mind’s recesses had become filled at that moment and I was unable to ponder an answer. I quipped back nervously: “Sometimes.” I looked away from her and back to the darkening sky. She continued speaking: “I’m just curios. That’s all. Sometimes I don’t believe in him. I remember sitting next to my mother as she died. The hospital didn’t smell at all by the way- it was like they cleaned the death out of the air and made everything neat and they even had a cafeteria! How can you serve food in a place where people are dying all the time? Anyways, I always believed in god; my Mom raised me like that-even as I sat there and watched her die, and watched the tubes pump life into her, I still believed. She had barely enough strength to say anything, but she did say one thing. Before she died, she looked at me and said: even if there’s no heaven, I’ll be with you. No heaven? I thought she was crazy. How could there be no heaven? The next few weeks I thought about what she said over and over, and I still don’t know what to make of it. “I chuckled nervously and said something ridiculous like “yeah well that sure is something” “You’re adorable,” she said, and kissed my cheek. She stood up and I felt a light relief from my chest. She stood in front of me and started to dance. I said: “how can you dance with no music?” She didn’t respond as she did a twirl; I could see beneath her dress as she twirled in the still night air. She stopped and looked at me seriously. Her right strap was still caressing her shoulder. She looked at me for a while and then slowly took her right hand and let her left strap slide down her shoulder and her whole dress came sliding off of her. It was the first time I had seen her nude; she was beautiful. She was so bold and still so very youthful and I didn’t know what to make of anything so I just sat there amazed. She walked over to me slowly: “What about right now?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Do you believe in God right now?” Without responding I stood up and kissed her right there on that sandy perch by the Chattahoochee- right there in front of all the birds and crickets, and maybe even in front of god. We steadily made our way to the ground.

10/23/12: I have made the conscious decision to kill myself on November 1st, 2012. I know that most people who know me will not approve of this but there's no other way out of this. I live in a shitty home, have a shitty job and have a shitty life. I have no money whatsoever, my parents are dead, my brother lives in Wyoming, I have nothing to lose. I've never been much afraid of dying or death, but learning you have an inoperable brain tumor the size of a small lemon is a pretty scary thing to hear. I guess it all just puts a new perspective on life to most people but not me. This was just my luck. Now I'm going to have to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills. Well... they're not going to get it. I went in to Facey Urgent Care about a week ago trying to solve why I've been having these massive migraines for the past month or so. I get at least four a week. They don't make me vomit or anything, It's just pressure and pain for hours on end. My doctor referred me to a friend of his at Henry Mayo Hospital just around the corner for the next week to get an MRI to see what was going on. I went there and sat in the waiting room for almost an hour before my name was called. They had me sit in a cold secondary waiting room when a man came in and sat next to me. He looked familiar to me but I couldn't exactly put my finger on it. He sat there silently looking at a pamphlet about cancer support groups. Now, I'm not one to talk to strangers but I had to know where I had seen this guy from. I asked him if I had met him before and he said no but he introduced himself to me. His name is John. He was really nice. He told me that he's been in Chemo Therapy for about a month now and has a brain tumor. I told him I've been having headaches and he told me it's probably nothing. It actually felt comforting to hear him say that... A nurse called me back and I got undressed and into a gown and sat on this table in front of this big machine. After wards I got dressed and was called into the doctors office where he told me the news. As soon as I heard it, "You have cancer.", everything went silent. The doctor continued to talk to me but I couldn't hear anything. I went back out looking for John but couldn't find him. I asked the nurse where he went and she asked for which patient and I told her John. "We get many patients named John. Sorry hun." I was actually sad. I came home, sat on my computer and here I am now. I know what I'm going to do. I know what it's going to cause. But it's my choice and I'm happy with that. I'll be updating either tomorrow or the next day for anyone who cares to read a dying mans last words. EDIT: Just found out my first Chemo session is tomorrow.

“Don’t get me wrong, it had to be done. The man had to die; he would have destroyed the world, even if he wore that mask to fool his audience… Everyone loved him, but didn’t know of his true intentions.” Many years had passed since the great civil war. Countries collapsed, governments going into anarchy. It was a disaster, and no one knew how to reverse it. How could anyone fix this mess? It’s too much for one person alone to handle. But one man had a plan, a plan to turn all of the disaster around for the better of the world. There would be no competition either; no one else knew how to revoke the attention of the people. This man was to give a speech, outside the city of Arcadia in the hills of the Father, televised to the entire world to get a glimpse of this savior. Although the entire world had faith in him, to save the world from the point of no return, there was a small group of souls, people who knew the truth of this man. They were known as “The Resistance” an organization bent on taking this man from his throne over the people. The Savior protested that The Resistance were only terrorists; here to frighten the everyday soul into believing of the coming end. But The Resistance knew the truth, they knew the Savior’s true motives, to fool the world into his doing, so he can gain power, and live a life of luxury with the rest of “his world” as his slaves. How do they know of this? Well, 30 years before the war, the human race took its first steps in time travel. They built a machine capable of sending messages across time, to prevent crises from occurring, such as diseases, dictators, natural disasters. It was kept as a piece of property owned by the UN, but since the civil war, it had been confirmed to be MIA. The Resistance had acquired it before the rest of the world powers could even think to keep it under wraps. Merely minutes before taking hold of the machine, they received a message from themselves, many years after he took his throne. Their suspicions were confirmed when The Savior’s name was in the message, saying “ELIMINATE AT ALL COSTS.” The day had come, the hour that the world would be saved—or doomed. The man wore black suit with a calm demeanor, hard eyes and showing his determination for this—this one moment that will put him in power. He spent hours practicing the speech, running it over again and again, burning every error until there wasn’t a blemish left in his presentation. The scene he was presenting in was elegant too, on a hill top facing the masses with the sun setting behind him. This will surely win the hearts of all. He held his papers in his hands, reading over each line again and again. He stood on the podium constructed on the hill top, watching people from many nations flood around him. He was confident, almost too confident for the task at hand. But power like that isn’t bestowed in everyone, maybe he had the right to be. The grass covered hill was now covered in a carpet of people, many bringing lawn chairs, others sitting on the sun warmed grass, others standing, applauding the savior on his perch. He cast a radiant smile that beamed like the sun over the viewers, even into the lenses of the cameras, sending the picture of his glow all the way to the audience at home. “Good evening, one and all. It is my pleasure to stand before you all today, all of the old, the weak, the weary, and give light of hope for a new future to all of us here on planet Earth today.” Cheers from the audience echoed around the hills that encased them all, like echoes of time bringing back the cheers of many other grand speeches given at this very spot. “We all know of our state, war torn, the feeling of insecurity, we can’t even look our friend in the eye anymore without a flavor of doubt in our mouths. But here tonight, I would like to put a rest to those fears, so we may live in peaceful existence, like we had before the Great War.” The cheers were let out again, whistles flying through there air like released turtle doves, finding their lovers, and soaring up and on into the sky. In the empty city, two men lay on a building top, like a father watching his sleeping baby; they observe their target with hardened eyes through telescopes. One man scribbled down on a small piece of paper calculations shot out by his tablet computer, the other adjusting his rifle’s scope to pinpoint perfection. “We can’t miss this shot, Buck.” “I got that memo when they gave us the file, Luci.” Buck adjusted the dial on the rifle’s scope mere millimeters, growling in anguish at himself as he made an almost unseen error in his fingers. “What’s the distance?” “2 miles, give or take 50 yards.” “Wind velocity?” “Wind’s commin’ right for us, at about 15 miles an hour.” “Damn… That’s going to be a hard shot to hit, two miles? We’re gonna break a record if we pull this off.” “Don’t say if, rifles have a way of bending their barrels if you don’t have faith in them.” “Lucifer, what kind of BS did the Colonel tell you when he was in one of his “Gin and Rum” trances?” “They do! Like the time I didn’t think I could hit that 900 meter target that George bet me to hit, I didn’t have faith, and it missed.” “Just like the time you couldn’t get the cherry in the cup a single time in a row.” “Still more than you, son.” “Alright you win that one.” He placed a hand on the magazine and slid it under the rifle, reaching his gloved hands for the two legs of the bi-pod, pulling the feet down, resting them on the parapet. Buck took a single telescope and pressed his eye to the dirty lens, watching the speaking figure of the man; shout his pleas to the crowd. “We better make this soon, we’re already behind schedule.” Lucifer took a knee and looked over his data again, looking out into the glowing sunset that painted over the horizon. “Just to think, we’re the ones about to save the world from the worst of all dictators.” “Something we can put on our resumes when if we get home.” “Life has the same concept of faith as rifle’s do, Buck. No such thing as an ‘if’ in the speech of a confident man.” “Alright, enough blabber, I’m ready.” “Pop the scope covers then, let’s save the world.” The Savior was in his prime, the crowd stood and applauded loudly for his ideas to revert the world. His hands flourished about, painting a beautiful picture of perfect government. All the audience thought was, ‘Why haven’t we done this sooner?’ They rejoiced for this man. But soon he stopped, regaining his breath from all of his rants. “Under me, there will be no war, no destruction that we have seen to our brothers and sisters, such as in the United States, where the country was terribly burned by the atomic war there. Under me we will live in harmony, our world will flourish, and humanity—WILL—RISE—AGAIN!!!” The earth shook with the rumbling of applause, the audience had decided this man will lead them to a new day, a new golden age for the human race. The Audience began to chant, “Long Live the Savior!” Over and over—again and again. It was certain, he had won their vote. But the churning thoughts inside the Savior’s mind began to bubble onto his skin. He smiled a little, the thoughts in his head taking over, his true dreams being envisioned. Those who were close enough on the top of the hill could see them, the—Illustrations to say the least, like paintings printed over and over to make a scene. They showed mass slaughters, men being whipped with shards of glass, covered in the blood of those tormented by those teeth, and a man on his forehead sitting in a golden throne encrusted with jewels of many colors. It was a scale of the Savior, sitting with a smug look on his face, a smirk as he watched unseen slaves bend their backs in determination, writhing with the stress put upon them. “What is the matter? You all look like you’ve seen a monster!” “We’re looking at one is why.” One audience member piped. The Savior looked at his skin, the pictures flowed from story of gore, death, and conquering like a movie without a plot, nothing but to shock the viewers into disbelief. “It’s not what you think—,” But more and more flourished over his skin, telling tales of more and more carnages upon his flesh. But as the audience began to recede, calling up judgments to the falling king, “Was this your true plan for us?” “You can’t keep a truth from the people forever!” Soon it was like a runoff of water in spring, people returning home to the city. “You can’t leave!” He called, the images growing more and more vivid, “I am your ruler! You chanted my name!” His teeth grew to pointed tips, sharp as knives heated with hate and greed, His eyes glowing red with his new found power, “I—AM—YOUR—GOD!” A wave of unfathomable energy passed over the crowd, changing their perspectives, losing all sense of logic. “Long live The Savior!” The entire crowd called as one, bowing to this man. “Buck take the shot, before it’s too late!” Lucifer hollered, at the man, who still laid prone, crosshair aligned with The Savior’s head. Buck paused and withdrew his eye from the scope. “Why should I listen to you, Old man? How do you know The Resistance is right about The Savior?” He looked at Buck with a look of shock, “You never believed did you?” Lucifer drew his revolver slowly from his side. “Long live The Savior.” He mumbled, going to his knees. “What was that?” Lucifer asked, about to aim down his gun’s sight. “LONG LIVE THE SAVIOR,” he chanted louder whipping his knuckle across the old man’s face. “What the hell are you doing?!” “LONG—LIVE—THE—SAVIOR!” With a final kick, he sent Lucifer off the building side, to the doomed streets of the city below; to the floor of the doomed world they will now inhabit.

The Woes of the Smitten Rick Thorn, as nervous as an Altar Boy, went up the dark and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Emporium Street, and inspected the name on each of the doors until he found the one he wanted. He pushed open the door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table and a rocking chair. On one of the dirty walls were a couple of shelves, containing about a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking chair, reading a newspaper. Rick, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. “Sit down, Mr. Thorn,” said the old man very politely. “I am glad to make your acquaintance… but I must ask now, for I will simply collapse if I hold it in any more. Is it true that you have a certain mixture, that has, um, extraordinary effects?” “Mr. Thorn,” replied the old man, “my stock is not very large. I don’t deal with normal narcotics like pain relievers, anti-depressants, and anti-histamines. I think nothing I sell has the effects which could precisely be described as ordinary.” “Well, here’s the thing…” began Rick. “Here, for example,” interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. “Here is a liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.” “Do you mean it is a poison?” cried Rick, very much horrified. “Call it a glove-cleaner if you like,” said the old man indifferently. “Maybe it cleans gloves. I don’t know- I have never tried. One might call it a life cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.” “I want nothing of the sort,” said Rick. “Oh, that’s probably for the best,” said the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoon, which is enough, I ask twenty thousand dollars. Never less.” “I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive,” said Rick apprehensively. “Oh dear, no,” said the old man. “It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have twenty thousand dollars. Otherwise, they would not need a love potion.” “I am glad to hear that,” said Rick. “I look at it like this,” the old man contemplated. “Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.” “So,” said Rick. “You really do sell love potions?” “If I did not sell love potions,” said the old man, reaching for another vial, “I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential.” “And these potions,” said Rick. “They are not, just, um…” “Oh no,” said the old man. “Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it.” “Dear me!” said Rick, attempting a look of scientific detachment. “How very interesting!” “But consider the spiritual side,” said the old man. “I do, indeed,” responded Rick. “For indifference, she will substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady- its flavor is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails- and she will change forever. She will want nothing but solitude with you.” “I can hardly believe it,” said Rick. “She is so fond of parties and other people!” "She will not like them any more,” said the old man. “She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet.” “She will actually be jealous?” cried Rick in a rapture. “Of me?” “Yes, she will want nothing but you. You will be her sole interest in life.” “Wonderful!” “She will want to know all you do. All that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad.” “This is love!” “Yes, how carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to stand when you could sit, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified, and think that you have been killed.” “I can hardly imagine a Diana like that!” cried Rick, overwhelmed with joy. “You will not have to use your imagination. And, by the way, since there are always impulses, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you.” “That will not happen,” said Rick fervently. “Of course not. But, if you did, you need not worry. She will never divorce you. She will never even be angry at you.” “And how much is this wonderful mixture?” asked Rick. “It is not as dear as the glove cleaner. No, that is twenty thousand dollars. One has to be older than you to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.” “But the love potion?” “Oh, that,” said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, taking out a tiny, rather dirty looking vial. “That is just a dollar.” “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” said Rick, watching him fill it. “I like to oblige. Then, customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are, You will find it very effective.” “Thank you again,” said Rick. “Good-bye.” “Au revoir (until we meet again).

Not all the water in the rough rude sea can wash the balm off an anointed king. -William Shakespeare, Richard II When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me. The Great King who started it all. The Apostate King who betrayed us. The Savior King who rescued us from the depths of Hell. The Kings of Old, the Kings of New. Kings who achieved much, Kings who achieved little. And Kings who were murdered. When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me, and why they were here. Some war heroes, some because they carried the Royal Bloodline. And some because they knew how to kill. When I sit on this chair, I think of the others who sat before me, and how they looked down at the subjects below him. Some saw power for himself, some saw nothing but poverty and hunger. And one saw himself. When the doors to my chamber opened, I was startled awake. I was in a heavy sleep. The first thing I saw when I woke was the bright colors on your cap. My eyes focused some more, and I saw you being dragged to me. It was then when I realized who you were- you were my Jester. But why were you being dragged? You were perfectly able to walk yourself. A voice foreign to me echoed across the room. “Your Majesty. This scoundrel has been caught plotting against the King. He planned to stab you in the chest while entertaining you, and claim the throne for himself.” I looked at your low hanging head, your droopy eyelids. “Is this true?” Miserably, you looked up at me. “Yes.” When I sit on this chair, I think of others who will sit here. Kings with potential. Kings with hatred. Kings who have Royal Blood, Kings who don’t. And Kings who failed. You see, I do not deserve to be King. I was a blacksmith, no Royal Blood, no power at all. One day, the Queen was caught consorting with one of the townsfolk. They were both publicly impaled. After a few months, the King got lonely. He went searching for a new Queen. He chose my beloved wife. They came to our house, with their swords and shields. They beat me, and took her. She lasted only 6 days. On the 6th night, she stuck a sword through her chest. I started making tools. Not swords, as they are challenging, and take long, but heavy blunt objects and primitive shields. I started to gather a little militia. It was all individual. Anyone who was in the militia was asked specifically by me. If they found me, I would be hung. Then, the day came. The anniversary of her death. The Kingdom had forgotten, but we had not. We stormed the castle, leaving but 10 guards to recount the story. It was a brutal, viscous battle, with over 30 of our own dead. But we won. I killed the King. And I took his place. I ask, “Tell me, Jester, what did I do to you?” You rise. “Every day, every night, I am summoned here. You make me dance, sing, rhyme. And what do you do? Sit on that throne, not entertained. “Being a Jester has caused me nothing but pain and humiliation. My friends and wife all left me. I cannot get real work. So I stay here, juggling and balancing, all for your delight. And you sit there, bored. “Every breath, every action, every moment in my life has lead to this. You crush me under your foot. And you don’t even get any satisfaction from it.” I think of my wife. “Guards!” I bellow. “Leave!” They march out of the chamber. I unlock your shackles and handcuffs. You look surprised and confused, but nothing is said. I pull out my sword. You look frightened. You think I am going to harm you. I hand it to you. “Do what you want.” A dark look shadows across your face.

The advertisement’s subtitles scrolled across the screen in time with the voice, Demetri could imagine a little ball bouncing across them in time with the speaker. His voice was like warm velvet, full of all the intonations and expression to imbue it with a feeling of altruistic concern, as if it were some great fatherly deity looking down upon its children and asking them if they were all right, did they want anything from the store? Was school going okay for them? It was a question Demetri could imagine coming from a doctor too, the voice wasn’t simply prone to philosophical musings, no this was a question about a symptom. Are you hot? Are you cold? Where does it hurt? Can you feel this? *Are you really happy?* The symptom was unhappiness, not merely limited to true melancholic depression, nor the more colloquial ‘blues,’ no, the advertisement called out to everyone who simply wasn’t happy all of the time. The advertisement called out to the entirety of the human race. Unhappiness was a symptom of the sickness that was the human condition, and Elysia was the cure. Elysia,a serum that was cheap, efficient, and ultimately accessible by all. It cornered a market that had existed for eternity, a market that in itself contained all others; vacations, travelling, dining out, film, entertainment, all of them fell in comparison. If the generally accepted goal of life was to be happy, and one could be happy simply by buying, and charging, an eRing™, eBracelet™, or for the truly opulent, the eNecklace™, then what was the point of anything else? What was the point of anything at all? The eccessories™ were just the tools for the medication, a mixture of needless and electrical pulses that influenced the body’s blood flow in conjunction with the added Elysia substance to create, inspire, evoke, engineer, happiness. *Are you really happy?* It came in varying degrees, depending on the eccessory™ you used as well as the potency, or ‘mix,’ of Elysia that you bought. Demetri liked all of the mixes (as did everyone of course, how could they not, it was happiness), but his recent favourites included Warm Summer Picnic™, First Kiss™, and Hugs on a Cold Day™ . He had saved up enough recently to purchase his own eNecklace™ but had not yet accumulated enough money to try the recently released Happily Married™. But that didn’t matter, because he was happy, fulfilled even, whatever that meant. Work didn’t tire or stress him, he was happy to do it so he did. He wasn’t a particularly attractive man, but he wasn’t unattractive either, so as long as he was wearing his eNecklace™ women knew they would be happy with him. ‘The most attractive quality to have is a truly happy smile,’ the advertisement proclaimed, and it was true, all people wanted was to be happy, what else mattered? And a smile meant you were happy, right? In the last few years there had been very few technological advances outside of anything directly related to Elysia, Demetri wondered if there was any point. Wasn’t this the pinnacle of human civilisation, being happy? He imagined the Elysia-Deity staring at a computer screen with the words “GAME OVER: YOU WIN” scrolling across it in the same way the words “Everything is easier when you’re happy, try new ‘Won the Lottery™’ today!” scrolled across the electronic billboard above him, Demetri smiled happily, that mix had been a good one. *Are you really happy?* If Demetri wasn’t so happy he’d be frustrated hearing that question so often. Of course he was happy, he’d just taken a 6 hour dosage of First Kiss™ and was strolling happily, hands in his pockets, towards a pretty woman he’d made quite inviting eye contact with. It occurred to him that he couldn’t actually remember his first kiss. Why was he thinking that? What did it matter? He shrugged off the thought, letting it fall from his mind like a damp and heavy coat. Yet still it lay, clumped and crumpled there, on the floor of his consciousness. Come on, it couldn’t be so hard to remember something like that. A feeling he was so used to these days… Lost in his mind, Demetri stumbled on the sidewalk, his idle hands too slow to catch himself and protect his smiling face. He heard a series of cracks as his jaw crashed against the footpath and left a lovely half-skid of blood as he lifted himself up. *Are you really happy?* He pulled himself up and tried to wipe the red spittle from his face, but instead it just smeared across his cheek, he got the odd feeling that it must look like a long crimson smile. It hurt. Their first fight had been in a park, they’d yelled and she’d tried to walk away and he’d caught her and held her. Their first kiss had been there too, it had been raining and she’d been cold. And there, nestled against him, she’d looked up and kissed him.. It had been a year or so before she’d gotten cancer. Cancer was hardly an issue now though, the suffering were given free Elysia, what more could they want, they died happily? Demetri’s stomach tightened, his chest heaved slightly. He didn’t want to think about her, the long hours he’d spent by her side in the hospital. The moments and feelings they had shared. No, that wasn’t happy. No. No. No. *Are you really happy?* In his head, the deity-doctor seemed to sound concerned, almost frustrated, with Demetri’s lack of answer. What did it matter that she had died? He was happy, everyone in the whole world was so fucking happy all the time, what did it matter. No. No. He just wanted to be happy, and then he felt it hit him. A dark wave of nostalgia, fear, anger, pain, frustration, boredom, cold, weakness. And love. A wave from an ocean so deep, and thick with restrained thoughts and memories. Feelings from the time his mother had told him his hamster had ‘run away,’ feelings from the time his friend Derrick had joined the ‘cool’ kids, feelings like his mother crying when she only had to make one cup of tea in the morning. Feelings like a soft kiss in the rain. Like the rain they washed over him, feelings that affected him, feelings that were different. Feelings that made and unmade him, created him and destroyed him, defined and erased him. Feelings that were real. *Are you really happy?* And like rain they fell to the ground in front of him, like rain they slid and dripped and stayed. And then they were gone. His consciousness writhed in frustration for but a moment, stretching, reaching for any vestiges of the pain. But it was gone. Demetri blinked. He stared at the smooth concrete in front of him. The scrape of blood was slowly coalescing with a few soft, small drops around it. *Are you really happy?* Of course he was.

No ones talking. Out of the car, towards the doors, it has the air of familiarity but at once completely new. Ushered to a small room, the furniture is old but comfortable, I look at my mother her eyes glisten with tears newly forming her face a map of those already shed. I'm confused, no one is talking, just glancing worriedly at each other. But mostly at her, why? What answers could my mother have to this unasked but shared question. I feel her hands on my head and some of the clouds in my mind clear, I look towards her and feel warmth flow through me as her eyes meet mine. Its okay to cry. Words I know she spoke but the situation has dulled my senses, has wadded my ears with a foreign feeling like that of being underwater but still being able to breath. Like hearing but not listening, like the chaos of a waterfall contained in the stillness of a crystalline lake. The door opens and another presence that is at once familiar and alien pulls my mother into the hall. The room is changing the waterfall is coming closer to the surface of the lake, the change is palpable, its pulling at my skin and rushing by my ears. She reenters the room. She speaks a few words and the universe cracks, all of the chaos that was restrained is let go. Wails of anguish crescendo from those also present in the room, a swirl of bodies moves like a blur around me. But my eyes and attention are locked onto my mother, whose words moved through me like the finest steel. A wound that was deep but also unfeeling, her warm gaze takes me and she pulls me into her embrace and I feel the chaos still. Tears stream down my face and she tightens her hold on me and I feel loved and sheltered. Come with me. She takes me by the hand and leads me down a hallway. I feel a closeness in my chest I know this hallway leads somewhere terrifying, somewhere that I will not be able to come back from. I look to my mother and feel a mix of fear and trust, a confusing ordeal of whether or not to continue paces through my mind. Her loving eyes take me forward, cautiously I take in my surroundings blurs of whites and the feeling of a cold sterility that grips my core. A set of doors looms ahead of me a fear grows deep within my belly as this cold passage way looms above me, a set of double doors with windows I am unable to see through. She bends down and kisses me, takes me into her embrace and tells me to be brave. The doors open I enter the room, a cold sense of awe sets upon me as the strange machines and tubes assault my youthful curiosity. Until my gaze is drawn to the center of the room to a blue man laying on a table with a tube jutting out of his mouth. His features drawn and coloured, his hair tousled and wet, my eyes begin to haze as realization begins to set in. The widows peak, the sandy blonde hair, the trimmed moustache. This strange blue man was not so strange, gone where the piercing blue eyes, gone was the hearty laughter, gone was the dutiful police man, gone was the wayward son, gone was the reckless husband… but most of all gone was my Dad.

Once, a bear ventured outside of his den. He had been hearing such strange sounds, and he was intrigued as to discover the source. As he journeyed through the woods that were his home, a strange green glow filtered from above the tallest trees. The bear knew these woods intimately, yet it would seem his knowledge was still not complete, as he stumbled and fell into a freshly created pit. Darkness engulfed the bear, but he did not give his hope to the wind. Upon inspection, he discovered a small hole on the walls of the pit. Fleeting though it may be, he decided to venture into this hole. What awaited him, no bear had known before. A strange, strange thing was before him. Was it water? It reflected and moved as if it was, light dancing all around. Reaching out to touch, the bear found himself… simply, no more. **Pt. II: The Elder Ressurection** The bear saw nothing but blackness. He floated through nothingness. Where was he? His memory was clouded; he remembered reaching out toward the strange, shimmering light. What was this? He saw the same light, taunting him, tantalizingly out of reach. Yet, he extended his paw in a feeble attempt at making contact. Then, as suddenly as he been swept into this strange realm, he was back in his woodland home. But, no, it could not be his beautiful home. The trees were burning, the forest floor was set ablaze. He did not understand the aberrant course of events that were unfolding. A tall tree crashed down next to the bear, crushing him beneath the burning timber. He knew that this chapter in life was at its end, but was not yet resigned to his fate. With his last bit of strength, the bear looked up. What he saw was a strange sight indeed; a tall creature who strode upon two legs was approaching. What was this outlandish being? The bear would never know, as the last sound he heard was a loud crack, and then all was silent and dark once more.

**because it is punishing** Running is poetry, I told her. It is the gravel licking your ankles, valleys sinking into clover dew, fog atop the summit. It is expressions of all that is within human magnificence; puny yet calling out that we are significant, we are changing, we can feel. Exhaustion precedes strength. Each beaten step is there to feel glorious. You like to run because you want to feel golden. I like to run because it is punishing, she said. There are two moments after the bloodbath. One is senseless awe, the simultaneous a soulful emptiness. They are entwined as brother and sister, she and I, conjoined as a hairpin twin. I am skin glowing, lean muscle, sinews gentle and strong. She is all angles. The labor may be endured, simply because we both know: there is no other way. I’ve been hearing there is, I told her. It’s not like old times anymore, I said. (The wind caught my words and whistled back softly, a chorus like the breaking of small waves on the most weathered pebbles, dirty charcoal: We are young, but we are more weary than the destinies that weigh on our fathers and the clouding cataract that tempers our mothers. We should stand tall to be fearsome, but no, we are aching.) She smiled and she lit up, bullseye track marks. Twins, I whispered. They were mine, all mine. The delivery, she said, it will be hell.

“…damaged goods.” The words seem to escape your lips before you can even realize what you’re saying, but that only makes it worse. You’re always so censored, so guarded, so hearing these words that you let slip out is a glimpse into your true feelings. The ones I never get to see, but so desperately want to. As soon as the phrase rolls off of your tongue a pained look appears in your eyes, and for a moment you seem to regret it.<br> “Did you think about that for two days before you said it?” You have a two-day rule; if you have something to say you’ll think about it for two days to see if you really want to say it. I suppose it’s the smart thing to do, but I always believed life is about living in the moment and saying and doing whatever’s on your mind at a given moment. You are always so composed, calculating your every move and interaction. You and I could not be any more opposite. And yet, you and I could not be any more in love. At least, until the events of tonight left us and our love broken and tangled like those split ends in my hair, and I’m reminded that I’m due for a haircut. I wait for your response, half expecting you to apologize and take it back. I know you better, though, you’d never lose your cool in front of me. “If I hadn’t considered it for so long, I wouldn’t have said it.” As always, you won’t back down or, God forbid, admit you were wrong. Somehow, you escape the general rule that all humans make mistakes. In the unlikely event you do fuck something up, you can always find a way around it, a way to make it look like a carefully planned accident. I smile at you, and I can tell it throws you off. You’re so used to me getting upset, yelling, crying – anything but staying calm. “You’re so fucking pathetic.” I laugh quietly to myself, not listening for your response. I’m not finished. “Your pride, your ego, is too fucking huge…is it even possible for you to admit you’ve made a mistake? Is it? Or is that too much to ask? For you to admit you’re a goddamn imperfect human being?” “I told you, I’ve been thinking that for a while now.” “Oh yeah? Have you?” I can feel my unruffled demeanor beginning to unravel. You frustrate me so badly sometimes, I turn into a person I hardly even know. It’s not like me to lose control, to shout at the people I love and to break down – but you manage to bring it out in me. “If you’d thought about that for more than two seconds, you should know that is a terrible thing to say to someone. Especially someone you’re supposed to love.” I finally look up to meet your eyes. They’re as cold as ever, and I can’t seem to detect an ounce of emotion in them. “Why wouldn’t I say it, if that’s what I think?” I swear to God, your stubbornness only increases my urge to hit you. But I don’t, because unlike you, I try not to hurt the people I love. “Because it’s fucking inconsiderate!” I know my voice level is getting increasingly higher, but I don’t care. You said such mean things, and I don’t care. “You do not call a person ‘damaged goods.’ Especially when it wasn’t their fault.” “Why not?” You raise your voice to compete with mine, and that stoic exterior is slowly slipping away. “You hurt yourself, I don’t care. Some guy fucked you, I don’t care. You’re damaged goods, but I got over that!” That’s it. I have the overwhelming urge to slap you, but I know you’d deal it back ten times worse. My fingernails dig so deeply into my palms I worry the skin is going to break. Tears of frustration are brimming at my eyes, and keeping them back is getting harder by the second. I’m not even sure what to say to you, and I know that any words are going to send me over the edge and into an ocean of tears. How dare you say that. How fucking dare you. You’re acting like I wanted all this to happen. You’re making it sound like, at fourteen years old, I wanted some older guy to force himself upon me. Like I wanted to hate myself and hurt myself for years over it. And now you’re trying to tell me that you’re the one who ‘got over it’? I’m pretty sure I had much more ‘getting over it’ to do than you did. “This isn’t love.” The three words pass my lips almost without my consent, and come out barely above a whisper. I hear you ask me to reiterate, but I’m too lost in my own mind to pay attention to you. “This isn’t love,” I murmur again, and the phrase keeps repeating itself in my head. Love doesn’t hurt, at least not like this. Love doesn’t play games, hold grudges. You are beautiful, and I wanted this to be love so badly that I convinced myself that it was. But it isn’t, and that’s become more and more of an inescapable truth. I get off your bed. I will no longer refer to it as ‘our’ bed, because it isn’t. I hear you standing up to come after me, and I smirk sardonically to myself. For once, you put aside your pride. Too bad it came too late. I walk fast, but you’re faster, and you grab my arm and whirl me around. You seem angry, which is amusing since I’m the one who just got insulted. “Where do you think you’re going?” “I’m leaving you.” “No you aren’t.” For a moment, I stop resisting to look at you, and shake my head. Maybe if you had asked nicely, I’d have stayed. Maybe if you didn’t act like I was just your property, some object you could do as you please with. Maybe if you’d admitted you were hurt instead of getting angry, I’d have stayed. But you didn’t. You didn’t do any of that. I jerk my arm away from you. “Don’t touch me.” Those words seem to get to you, and suddenly you appear to have a change of heart. I turn away and continue walking, hardly interested in whatever apology or sob story you have to offer this time. “No, I didn’t mean it, don’t leave…I can fix you.” The comment stops me, and I turn to face you one last time. There is nothing you can say now to save yourself. I consider myself to be a forgiving person, but the things you’ve said and done to me are unforgiveable. I almost pity you, and how you think you can ‘fix’ me. How you think you’re some savoir, God’s greatest gift to the planet. I think that you honestly believe you are all those things, and the sad reality is that you aren’t. Sadder even, is that you’re too blind to realize it. “No, you can’t.” You begin to say something, but I cut you off. “You can’t fix something that isn’t broken.

Basically two men talking about which is more cruel--a death sentence or life imprisonment. So, they made a bet. One of them, the younger, would be "imprisoned" in one of the older, richer man's properties / houses. The deal was for several years (or was it decades?). Through the years the improsoned man read books and bettered himself, while the rich man continued on with his life. When the time was near to release the imprisoned man, the rich man was getting nervous. His wealth wasn't as great as before and (I believe) he would have to pay the imprisoned man a great deal. However, just before his release, the imprisoned man "escaped" and left a note saying he didn't have to be paid. He has gained a lot of wisdom and this was a lot more than what money can bring. Does anyone know the title of this short story? I would like to read it again, if anyone can tell me what it is.

I sent this as a text message to a friend around 11 one night, hence the good night at the end, she said I should publish it, this is close enough. Warning, the following text is meant to be funny, but is a true story. My worst nightmare just came true. There I was, all ready to go to bed, all i had left to do was brush my hair. As I was brushing my hair, I turned around and saw the most horrible thing. It was one of those giant centipedes. There he was, just sitting there, in the 1/2 inch gap between my door frame and the wall. I was scared. I could never squish them cause I could feel their guts explode and it felt weird. So here I was, at 11 p.m. I was at a loss for words. Then I remembered seeing my dad's light on not 15 minutes earlier. I opened my door in the hopes that he was still awake. His light was off. I was on my own. There was no way I could go to sleep knowing he was there. I had to muster up the strength to kill him. I stood there nearly 10 minutes contemplating my actions. I grabbed a notepad that I use to squash bugs. I thought about if he would be one if the smart ones that would run away as soon as he saw a shadow. I guess he wasn't smart. I finally garnered up the courage, and pressed the notepad against the wall. He fell to the ground, albeit a few legs short. He crawled to the corner. I used this opportunity to squash him once and for all, or so I hoped. He wasn't quite dead yet. I could hear his unattached legs moving on the paper. I quickly scooped him up and put him in the trash. Making sure to squash him once more for good measure. So there you have it. I conquered my worst nightmare. What an amazing story it was. Now good night my dear readers. And may you never have to face such a terrible horror.

This piece was originally written in Swedish. I Found this english translation somewhere online a few years ago. It is the most powerful story I have ever read, and it moves me so very deeply each and every time read it. And I hope you will take the time to read it today. Something is always lost in translation, but not too much I hope. *Stig Dagerman - To kill a child* It is a fine day and the sun rests over the plain. Soon the bells shall sound, for it is sunday. Between a pair of wheat fields two youths have found a path that they've never trod before and in the plain's three villages the windowpanes are shining. Men shave in front of the mirrors on the kitchen tables and women slice bread for the coffee and children sit on the floors buttoning their jackets. It is the happy morning of an evil day, for this day a child shall be killed in the third village by a happy man. As yet the child sits on the floor and buttons its jacket and the man who is shaving says that today they shall take a boat trip down the river and the woman softly sings and serves the freshly sliced bread on a blue plate. There falls no shadow over the kitchen and yet the man who shall kill the child stands by a red gas pump in the first village. It is a happy man who looks into the camera and in the glass he sees a small blue car and beside the car a young girl who laughs. While the girl laughs and the man takes the beatiful picture the gas salesman tightens the lid on the gas tank and say they will have a fine day. The girl sits down in the car and the man who shall kill a child takes his wallet out of his pocket and say they shall go to the sea and by the sea they'll rent a boat and row far, far out. Through the open windows the girl in the front seat hears what the man is saying, she closes her eyes and when she does so she sees the sea and the man next to her in the boat. He's not an evil man, he's content and happy and before he gets into the car he stands for a moment in front of the radiator which shines in the sun and he enjoys the shine and the smell of gas and bird-cherries. There falls no shadow over the car and the shining fender has no dents and it is not red with blood. But at the same time as the man in the car in the first village slams shut the door to his left and starts the car the woman in the kitchen in the third village opens her cupboard and finds no sugar. The child who has barely had time to button its jacket and tied its shoes stands on his knees on the couch and sees the river winding its way between the trees and the black little boat that lies pulled up on the grass. The man who shall lose his child is finished shaving and is folding his mirror. On the table stands the cups of coffee, the bread, the cream and the flies. It is only the sugar which is lacking and the mother tells her child to run to Larson's and borrow a few lumps. And while the child opens the door the man shouts after it to hurry, because the boat waits on the beach and they shall row further out than they ever have rowed. When the child then runs through the garden it thinks all the time about the river and the boat and the fish who are swimming and nobody whispers to it that it has eight minutes to live and that the boat shall remain where it rests all day and many days thereafter. It's not far to Larson's, it's only across the road and while the child runs across the road the little blue car enters the second village. It's a small village with small red houses and newly awake people who sit in their kitchens with their coffee cups raised and watch the car drive by on the other side of the hedge with a large cloud of dust trailing behind it. It goes very fast and the man in the car sees the apple trees and the freshly tarred telephone poles glimpse by like grey shadows. Summer flows through the windows, they race out of the village, they lie in the middle of the road nice and secure and alone - as yet. It's good to drive all alone on a soft, broad road and out on the plain it goes even better. The man is happy and strong and with his right elbow he feels his woman's body. He is not an evil man. He's hurrying to the sea. He couldn't hurt a wasp, and yet he shall soon kill a child. While they rush towards the third village the girl again closes her eyes and plays that she won't open them until they can see the sea and she dreams in harmony with the the soft bumps of the car about how serene it will be. For so uncaring is life constructed that a minute before a happy man kills a child he is still happy and a minute before a woman screams with fear she can close her eyes and dream of the sea and the last minute of a child's life this child's parents can sit in the kitchen and wait for sugar and speak of their child's white teeth and about a rowing boat and the child itself can close a gate and start walking across a road with a few lumps of sugar wrapped in white paper in its right hand and this entire last minute nothing see except a long, shiny river and a broad boat with silent oars. Afterwards it is all too late. Afterwards a blue car stands on the road and a screaming woman removes her hand from her mouth and the hand is bleeding. Afterwards a man opens a car's door and tries to stand upright although he has a hole of horror inside himself. Afterwards a few lumps of sugar lie randomly scattered in blood and gravel and a child lies unmoving on its belly with its face tightly pressed against the ground. Afterwards two pale-faced people who have not yet had their coffee run out of a gate and see a sight on the road that they shall never forget. For it is not true that time heals all wounds. Time does not heal a dead child's wound and and it heals very poorly the pain of a mother who has forgot to buy sugar and sends her child across the road to borrow some and just as poorly does it heal the grief of the once happy man who has killed it. For he who has killed a child does not go to the sea. He who has killed a child goes quietly home and beside him he has a silent woman with her hand bandaged and in all the villages they pass they see not one happy person. All the shadows are very dark and when they part it is still under silence and the man who has killed the child knows that this silence is his enemy and that he will need years of his life to defeat it by shouting that it wasn't his fault. But he knows that is a lie and in his nights' dreams he shall instead wish his life back so he could make this single minute different. But so uncaring is life against the man who has killed a child that everyting after is too late. This was written in 1948. It was created for The Swedish National Society for Road Safety, to raise awareness about road safety and it was an attempt to lower the speed of traffic on Swedish roads.

I traveled around the world to browse underground markets to buy and sell rare animals and mystical creatures. I currently held two in my inventory - a miniature giraffe and a gnome. I was also well known among the wealthy as I would help them buy these breathing gems for them to keep as pets. My current trip had one purpose - to negotiate a deal to purchase a young elephant for the Kardashian family. This elephant was special. At 5 feet tall, it had trunks for each leg, making it look more like an octopus on land. In a pool house in Beverly Hills, I sat across the owner of the elephant, arguing over terms of the sale. The fat Kardashian then barged in in a panic, crying her eyes out because her boyfriend, Russell Brand, had been kidnapped. I didn't care, but was pissed that it got in the way of my deal. Hoping it would help my commission, I volunteered to help find Russell. Then, there I was, driving their Hummer all over L.A. We stopped at a gas station. I insisted to pump gas while they all went inside. Suddenly, a red truck sped through the station and, from the bed, two men in black ski masks tossed over a 4' by 4' metal plate, engraved in Arabic, and peeled out. As soon as the smoke from their exhaust cleared everyone began to slowly crowd the mysterious plate. The middle eastern cashier shoved through the crowd and fixed his glasses as he read it. He translated it for us. "We have your infidel. We will not negotiate or return him to you. There's no amount of money that will buy away the pleasure of watching him suffer." The police came and an investigative team drove the the Kardashian family to their headquarters while I stayed behind, realizing I had no idea where I was at this remote gas station. Dusk was approaching, and across a mesquite field I could see a square building with an empty parking lot which lights were just turned on. I don't know how or why I was lured into it, but as I approached the building, I just knew it was a museum about Islamic expansion. I entered and was greeted by the curator, an old Arab man. He guided me through his many exhibits, standing before each one as he further explained how Islam was the seed of western civilization. He then led me into a wing where they dealt with those that defiled the name of the Prophet. I cannot rationalize why I kept walking along without fear for my safety, but I followed anyway. I was in awe. There were flat screens along walls with crowds of 4 or 5 young students in lab coats in front of each one, alternating their heads between tilting them upward to listen and downward to turn the pages in the pad they were writing copiously in. I pardoned myself from the curator and stood behind one crowd to watch what they were learning. The video showed how starved, naked women are skinned. It was a controlled and relaxed demonstration, starting with hanging them upside down, cleanly severing their jugular and draining them of their blood. The demonstrator calmly explained that doing this would avoid bruising and helped preserve their skin color. He would then dislocate her jaw, force his arm half-forearm-deep into her throat, and jerked it out with intestines following behind. After removing the rest of her organs, they'd remove the skin and muscle from the bones. The students looked on with a fixed curious gaze, devoid of any sympathy, jotting their notes. This wing was full of such demonstrations, displays of devices, history of techniques, and so on. I joined the curator again and kept walking along and noticed that tourists were starting to walk in, curiously looking around as if what they were seeing weren't human beings in utter pain. As the Arab curator explained the mechanics of one of the devices he invented, his face was interrupted by his own excitement as he just remembered that his latest technique would be demonstrated live that evening. It would be the first time a human spider would be created. Inspired by 'The Human Centipede,' he wanted to push the envelope by creating a beast: to one torso as the centerpiece (arms and head attached), he'd attach two hips on each side, with legs attached, knees bent upward. The head and arms would still function and the nervous systems of all five bodies would be merged. He asked if I wanted to see who had been chosen to be the center piece and, entranced by all of this, I agreed. He then lead me into a dark room that I later realized was a stable. He turned the light on to shine on a scrawny man clothed only in hay. It was Russell Brand. Russell awakened and rushed to the bars of the door, reaching his arm through them towards me, beginning me to let him out. If only he knew the monster he was doomed to become. The human inside me knew that he needed to be saved, but the money-driven rare animal trader inside drooled at the idea of how much a Human Spider would be worth in the market. I sighed and smiled, patted the old curator on the back and said, "I'd love to stay and observe the demonstration." Russell's eyes teared up as he watched what he thought was a sensible human being turn into an idle observer of his impending transformation. We walked away, back into the torture wing of the museum and it was now filled with more lay tourists. As the tourists noticed the curator was present, they welcomed him with cheers and applause. He politely excused himself from me and like a celebrity he was welcomed into the crowd with pats and handshakes. They were in love with him. Two white elderly women, with rosaries around their necks, begged him to be part of his experiments. He quickly yanked the rosaries from their necks and stood coldly in front of them, offended. The crowd was silenced. The women turned towards each other and started to giggle which later broke out into laughter. They fell onto their knees and began to undress themselves, still giddy and laughing. The curator reached into one of his displays and took out an antique knife. He held it above his head and rotated in place to be sure the audience could see what he had chosen. The women excitedly stretched out their throats, almost eager for the legend to slash their necks, as if it was an autograph. They still giggled while gurgling on their blood after receiving his autograph. As the gurgling and the sound of naked flesh slapping the cold tiles of their jerking arms subsided, the crowd erupted in cheer and elation.

Two children were sitting on a sidewalk in front of a suburb house, talking and drawing chalk pictures of clouds on the cement. One was using blue chalk, drawing a cloud with a smile, while the other was using red chalk, drawing a big red cloud that floated above a family of three standing beside a tiny house with a smiling sun overlooking them. Meanwhile, the real clouds above the children began to turn a shade of gray. The children heard thunder in the distance. A raindrop fell on the sidewalk next to one of the children, a boy. He didn't notice. A few more drops fell, one landing on the nose of the other child, a girl. The girl laughed, ​"It's starting to rain!", she said. ​"But what about our pictures?", her friend asked, a fearful tone in his voice, "they'll wash away!" ​"Don't worry", said the little girl, "They'll still be in your head!" ​ ​The rain started falling harder, and as the little boy watched, his chalk drawing began to melt away into a shapeless puddle. As the girl ran off down the street, laughing in the rain, a tear fell down the boys cheek and mixed with the rain falling on his face.